Beauchamp; or, The Error.

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  "You said just now, doctor," observed Beauchamp as they strolledthrough the park, "that Ned Hayward particularly interested you. I amglad of it, for he did so with me from the first, without my wellknowing why; and we are always glad to find a prepossession whichsavours perhaps a little of weakness, kept in countenance by othersfor whom we have a respect."

  "You mistake altogether, young gentleman," replied the doctor, withthe dry spirit upon him. "In my case it is no prepossession; neitherdid he interest me from the first. I generally can give a reason forwhat I feel. I am no being of impulses. Indeed," he continued, morediscursively, "I was any thing but prepossessed in Captain Hayward'sfavour. I knew he had been brought up in the army, under the judiciousauspices of Sir John Slingsby. That dear girl, Isabella, told me that,from what she could remember of him, he was a gay, lively, rattlingfellow. Sir John called him the best fellow that ever lived, and Iknow tolerably well what that means. The reason, then, why heinterested me very soon, was because he disappointed me. For half anhour after I first saw him, I thought he was just what I expected--aman constitutionally lively, gay from want of thought, good-humouredfrom want of feeling; having some talents, but no judgment; actingright occasionally by impulse, but not by principle."

  "You did him great injustice," said Beauchamp, warmly.

  "I know I did," replied the clergyman, "but not long. A thousandlittle traits showed me that, under the shining and rippling surfaceof the lake, there were deep, still waters. The singular delicacy andjudgment with which he treated that business of the scandalous attackupon Mrs. Clifford's carriage; the kindly skill with which he led SirJohn away from the subject, when he found that it distressed poorMary; his conduct towards the poacher and his boy; his moderation andhis gentleness in some cases, and his vigour and resolution in others,soon set all preconceived opinions to rights. He has one fault,however, which is both a very great and a very common one--he concealshis good qualities from the eyes of others. This is a great wrong tosociety. If all good and honest men would but show themselves as theyreally are, they would stare vice out of countenance; and if eventhose who are not altogether what we wish, would show the good that isin them, and conceal the bad, they would put vice and folly out offashion; for I do believe that there are far more good men, and even agreater amount of good qualities amongst those who are partly bad,than the world knows any thing about. So you see I am not amisanthrope."

  "I never suspected you of being so, my dear doctor," said Beauchamp;"if I had I should not have attempted to create an interest for myselfin you."

  "Ay! then, you had an interested motive in coming up every other dayto my little rectory, just at the time that Isabella Slingsby visitedher poor and her schools!" cried Dr. Miles, laughing; "but Iunderstand it--I understand it all, my noble lord--there is not such athing as a purely disinterested man upon earth: the difference issimply the sort of interest men seek to serve--some are filthyinterests, such as avarice, ambition, ostentation, even gluttony--howI have seen men fawn upon the givers of good dinners! Then there aremaudlin interests, such as love and its et ceteras; and then, again,there are the generous interests; but I am afraid I must class thoseyou sought to serve in such friendly visitations amongst the maudlinones--is it not so?"

  "Not exactly," answered Beauchamp; "for if you remember, my goodfriend, you will find that I came up to your house at the same hour,and as often, before I saw Miss Slingsby there, as afterwards.Moreover, during the whole time I did so come before I was introducedto her father, I never had a thought of offering her my hand, how muchsoever I might admire and esteem her."

  Dr. Miles turned round, and looked at his companion, steadily, for amoment or two.

  "I do not know what to make of you," he said, at length.

  "I will tell you," replied Beauchamp, with a sad smile, "for I do notbelieve any one could divine the causes which have led me to act asomewhat unusual, if not eccentric, part, without knowing events whichtook place many years ago. I told you once that I wished to make youmy father confessor. I had not time then to finish all I had to say;but my intention has been still the same, and it is now necessary, forMiss Slingsby's sake, that I should execute it: we shall have time ingoing over, and I will make my story short. You are probably awarethat I was an only son, my father having never married after mymother's death, my mother having survived my birth only a few hours.My father was a man of very keen sensibilities, proud of his name, hisstation, and his family--proud of their having been all honourable,and not one spot of reproach having ever rested on his lineage. He wastoo partially fond of me, too, as the only pledge of love left him byone for whom he sorrowed with a grief that unnerved his mind, andimpaired his corporeal health. I was brought up at home, under acareful tutor, for my father had great objections, partly just, partlyI believe unjust, towards schools. At home I was a good deal spoiled,and had too frequently my own way, till I was sent to college, where Ifirst learned something of the world, but, alas! not much, and I havehad harder lessons since. The first of these was the most severe. Mycousin, Captain Moreton, was ten years older than myself; but he hadnot yet shown his character fully. My father and myself knew nothingof it; for though he paid us an annual visit for a week or two, thegreater part of his time was spent either here or in Scotland, wherehe had a grand-aunt who doted upon him. One year, when I was justtwenty, while he was on a shooting-party at our house in October, heasked me to go down with him in the following summer, to shoot grouseat old Miss Moreton's. I acceded readily; and my father as willinglygave his consent. We set out on the twenty-fifth of July, and I wasreceived with all sorts of Scotch hospitality at Miss Moreton's house.There were many persons there at dinner, and amongst the rest a MissCharlotte Hay--"

  "Why do you stop?" asked Dr. Miles.

  "A Miss Charlotte Hay," continued Beauchamp, with an evident effort,"a very beautiful person, and highly accomplished. She was some fouror five years older than myself, I believe, affecting a romantic styleof thought, feeling, and language. She was beautiful, I have said; buthers was not the style of beauty I admired, and at first I took butlittle notice of her. She sang well, however, and before the firstevening was over, we had talked a good deal--the more, perhaps, as Ifound that most of the ladies present, though of no very high station,nor particularly refined manners, did not seem to love herconversation. It appeared to me that she was superior to them; andwhen I found that, though of good family, her fortune was extremelylimited, and that she had resided with old Miss Moreton for some time,as something between a friend and a companion, I fancied I understoodthe coldness I observed on the part of more wealthy people. Many dayspassed over, during which she certainly endeavoured to attract andcaptivate me. I was in general somewhat on my guard; but I was thenyoung, inexperienced, vain, romantic; and though I never dreamed ofmaking her my wife, yet I trifled away many an hour by her side,feeling passion growing upon me--mark, I say passion, not love; forthere was much that prevented me from respecting her enough to loveher--a display of her person, a carelessness of proprieties, anoccasional gleam of perverted principle, that no art could hide. Onceor twice, too, I caught a smile passing between her and my cousinMoreton, which I did not like, and whenever that occurred it recalledme to myself; but, with weak facility, I fell back again till the dayof my departure approached. Two or three days before the timeappointed--on the eleventh of August, which was my twenty-firstbirth-day--Miss Moreton declared she would have a party of herneighbours to celebrate the event. None of the higher and morerespectable gentry were invited, or, if they were, they did not come.There were a good many deep-drinking lairds, and some of their wivesand daughters, somewhat stiff in their graver, and hoydenish in theirmerrier, moments. It is one of those days that the heart longs foryears to blot out for ever. I gave way to the high spirits which werethen habitual to me. I drank deep--deeper than I had ever before done.I suffered my brain to be troubled--I know not that there were notunfair means used to effect it--but at all events, I was n
ot myself. Irecollect personally little that passed; but I have since heard that Iwas called upon to choose a wife for the afternoon. I was told it wasthe custom of the country, on such occasions, so to do in sport; andthat I fixed, at once, upon this artful girl--in the presence of manywitnesses, I called her wife and she called me husband. The eveningpassed over; I drank more wine at supper, and the next morning I foundmyself married--for the infamous fraud they called a marriage. Inhorror and dismay, I burst away from the wretched woman who had lentherself to such a base transaction. I sent off my servant at once forhorses to my carriage--I cast Moreton from me, who attempted to stopand reason with me, as he called it, representing that what had takenplace was a full and sufficient marriage, according to the code ofScotland, for that public consent was all that was required by theirlaw."

  "Or by the law of God either," replied Dr. Miles, "but it must be freeand intelligent consent."

  "I travelled night and day," continued Beauchamp, rapidly, "till I hadreached my father's house and thrown myself at his feet. I told himall--I extenuated, concealed nothing; and I shall never forget eitherhis kindness or his distress of mind. Instant steps were taken toascertain the exact position in which I stood; and the result wasfatal to my hopes of happiness and peace; for not only did he findthat I was entangled past recall, but that the character of the womanherself was such as might be expected from her having been a party toso disgraceful a scheme. She had been blighted by scandal before shetook up her residence in the house where I found her. Miss Moreton inher dotage, yielded herself blindly to my cousin's guidance; and therewas more than a suspicion that he had made his aunt's protection aveil to screen his own paramour."

  "What did you do? what did you do?" asked Dr. Miles, with moreeagerness than he usually displayed; "it was a hard case, indeed."

  "I went abroad immediately," replied Beauchamp, "for my father exactedfrom me a solemn promise, never to live with or to see if it could beavoided, the woman who had thus become my wife. He used strong andbitter, but just terms in speaking of her. 'He could not survive thethought,' he said, 'that the children of a prostitute should succeedto the title of a family without stain.' My promise was givenwillingly, for I will confess that hate and indignation and disgustrendered her very idea odious to me. My father remained in England forsome months, promising to make such arrangements regarding money--thebase object of the whole conspiracy--that I should never be troubledany more. He added tenderly, and sadly, though gravely and firmly,that farther he could do nothing; for that I must bear theconsequences of one great error in a solitary and companionless life.In consideration of a promise on the woman's part never to molest me,nor to take my name, he settled upon her the sum of a thousand perannum. During my father's life I heard no more of her; but when hehimself joined me in Italy, I could see but too plainly how grief andbitter disappointment had undermined a constitution already shaken. Hedid not long survive, and all that I have myself undergone has beenlittle, compared with the thought, that the consequences of my ownfolly served to shorten the days of my kind good parent."

  "But what became of the woman?" demanded Dr. Miles. "You surely havehad tidings of her since."

  "Within a month after my father's death," replied Beauchamp, "Ireceived from her one of the most artful letters that woman everwrote, claiming to be received as my wife. But I will not trouble youwith the details. Threats succeeded to blandishments, and I treatedthese with contempt as I had the others with coldness. Then commenceda new system of persecution; she followed me, attempted to fix herselfupon me. Once she arrived at an inn in the Tyrol as I was getting intomy carriage, and declared before the people round that she was myabandoned wife. I answered not a word, but ordered the door to beclosed, and the postillions to drive on. Then came applications for anincreased annuity, but I would not yield one step, knowing that itwould but lead to others, and in the end to free myself from every dayannoyance I took the name of Beauchamp, hurried on to the East,directed my agent to conceal my address from every one, and forseveral years wandered far and wide. At length the tidings reached methat the annuity which had at first been punctually demanded, had notbeen applied for. A report, too, reached my lawyer's ears that she haddied in Paris. Still I would not return to claim my rank lest thereshould be some deep scheme at work, and I continued in India and Syriafor two years longer. The annuity remained unclaimed. I knew that shehad expensive habits and no means, and I ventured back. I passed a fewmonths in London without resuming my own name; but the noise andbustle of the great city wearied me, and I came hither. Inquiries inthe mean time had been made, somewhat languidly, perhaps, to ascertainthe fate of this unhappy woman; but here I saw Isabella Slingsby, andthose inquiries have been since pursued rapidly and strictly. Everyanswer tended to one result, and four days ago I received a letterfrom my solicitor, informing me that there can be no doubt of herdemise. I will show it to you hereafter, but therein he says that hereffects in Paris had been publicly sold, as those of a persondeceased, to pay the claims of her maid, who had brought forwardsufficient proofs to satisfy the police that her mistress had died inItaly. The girl herself could not be found, but the lawyers considerthis fact, coupled with the total cessation of claims for the annuity,as proving the death of Charlotte Hay, and removing all doubt thatthis bitter bond is cancelled for ever."

  "That is clear, that is clear," said Dr. Miles, who at this moment waspausing with his companion at a stile, "and now, I suppose, it is handand heart for Isabella Slingsby."

  "Assuredly," said Beauchamp, "but she must be informed of all this;and it is not a tale for me to tell."

  "Will you have the kindness, Sir," said a voice from the other side ofthe hedge, as Beauchamp put his foot upon the first step of the stile,"to keep on that side and go out by the gate at the corner."

  "Oh, is that you in the ditch, Stephen?" said Beauchamp, "very well,my good man; one way is as good as the other."

  "I am watching something here, Sir," said the gamekeeper, In a lowvoice, "and if you come over, you'll disturb the thing."

  Beauchamp nodded, and went on in the way he directed; and DoctorMiles, who had been meditating, replied to what he had said justbefore the interruption of the gamekeeper.

  "But who else can do it? Sir John is unfit. Me, you would have? Humph!It is not a pleasant story for even an old gentleman to tell to ayoung lady."

  "Yet she must know it," answered Beauchamp; "I will--I can have noconcealment from her."

  "Assuredly, there you are right," replied Doctor Miles, "and I am surethe dear girl will value your sincerity properly."

  "She can but say that I committed a great error," answered Beauchamp,"and for that error I have been punished by long years of bitterness."

  "Well, well, I will do my best," answered the rector; "but make yourproposal first, and refer her to me for the story of your life. I willdeal in generals--I will not go into details. That you can dohereafter if you like."

  Thus conversing they walked on, and soon after reached the cottage ofStephen Gimlet, where they found Ned Hayward beginning to feel relieffrom the operation which the surgeon had performed in the morning.Beauchamp returned to him the sum which he had received from MissSlingsby in the morning, saying, that he had found no necessity forusing it, and Doctor Miles sat down by him, and talked with cheerfulkindness for about a quarter of an hour. Was it tact and a clearperception of people's hearts that led the worthy clergyman to selectMary Clifford for one of the subjects of his discourse, and to enlargeupon her high qualities? At all events he succeeded in raising CaptainHayward's spirits ere he set out again upon his way homeward.

  When he descended he found Gimlet, the gamekeeper, seated with WidowLamb, and the man, as he opened the door, apologised for havingstopped the rector and Mr. Beauchamp at the stile, but did not statein what he had been so busily engaged. As soon, however, as DoctorMiles was gone, Ste Gimlet resumed his conversation with Mrs. Lamb,and it was a low-toned and eager one. From time to time the old ladybowed her head, saying,
"Yes;" but she added nothing to themonosyllable for some time. At length, however, in answer to somethingthat her son-in-law said, she exclaimed,

  "No, Stephen, do not speak with him about it. I tried it this morning,and it had a terrible effect upon him. It seemed to change himaltogether, and made him, so kind and gentle as he is, quite fierceand sharp. Speak with his friend, Captain Hayward; for neither you norI can know what all this may mean. But above all, watch well, for itis clear they are about no good, and tell me always what you hear andsee, for I cannot help thinking that I know more of these matters thanthe young lord does himself--a bitter bond, did he call it? Well, itmay be a bond for the annuity you heard him talk of; but then why doesshe not claim it? There must be some object, Stephen."

  The good old lady's consideration of the subject was prevented at thatmoment from proceeding further by the entrance of her son Billy Lamb,who came up and kissed her affectionately. The lad was somewhat pale,and there was an air of fatigue in his small pinched, but intelligentcountenance, which made his mother hold him to her heart with afeeling of painful anxiety. Oh! how the affections of a parent twinethemselves round a suffering child! Every care, every labour, everypainful apprehension that he causes us seems but a new bond to bindour love the more strongly to him. The attachment that is dewed withtears and hardened with the cold air of sorrow and fear, is ever themore hardy plant.

  "Sit down, Bill," said Stephen Gimlet, kindly, "you look tired, mylad. I will get you a draught of beer."

  "I cannot wait, Ste," answered the pot-boy, "for I must be back asquick as I can; but I can look in to see mother for a minute every daynow. The gentleman who has got the little lone cottage on the edge ofChandliegh Heath, gives me half-a-crown a week to bring up his lettersand newspapers, and I take the time when all the folks are at dinnerin our house."

  "And get no dinner yourself, poor Bill," said Stephen Gimlet; "cut hima slice of the cold bacon, mother, and a hunch of bread. He can eat itas he goes. I'll run and draw him a draught of beer. It won't keep youa minute, Bill, and help you on too."

  He waited for no reply, but ran with a jug in his hand to the outhousewhere his beer-barrel stood. When he came back the boy drank eagerly,kissed the old lady again, and then set out with the bread and baconin his hand; but Stephen Gimlet walked out with him, and after theyhad taken a few steps, he asked,

  "Who is it, Bill, has got the cottage?"

  "I don't know," answered the lad. "A tall, strong man he is, withlarge whiskers all the way under his chin, a little grayish. He met melast night when I took up a parcel from Mr. ---- to Burton's Inn, andasked if I came that way every day. I said I did not, but could comeif he wanted any thing."

  "But you must know his name if you get his letters, Bill?" saidGimlet.

  "No, I do not, but I soon can," answered the deformed youth. "He tookme into the cottage, and made the lady give him some paper and a penand ink, and wrote a note to the postmaster, and gave me a half-crown,and said I should have the same every week. The postmaster wrapped upthe letters and things in a bit of paper, and I did not think to lookin; but I can soon find out if you want to know."

  "No," answered Stephen Gimlet, drily, "I know already. Well, Bill,good bye, I must go about my work," and so they parted.