CHAPTER XXXV.
How quietly one sits down to tell events in a tale like this, whichmade a vast sensation at the time they happened. One reason, Ibelieve, why half the romances and almost all the histories in theworld are so exceedingly dull, is, that the people who write them donot believe that the things they record actually happened--no, noteven in their histories. They have a faint idea that it may have beenso--some notion that such matters did very likely take place; but notthat firm conviction, that deep and life-like impression of thetransactions which they relate, that gives vivid identity to thenarrative. There is always a doubt about history, which hangs roundand fetters the mind of the writer, and is even increased by theaccuracy of his research. There is some link in the evidence wanting,some apparent partiality in the contemporary chronicler, someprejudice on the part of the near teller of the tale, which casts asuspicion over all. We cannot cross-examine men who died a thousandyears ago, and we sit down and ask with Pilate, "What is truth?" Theromance-writer has a great advantage. He has the truth within himself.All the witnesses are there in his own bosom. Experience supplies thefacts which observation has collected, and imagination arrays andadorns them. In fact, I believe that philosophically speaking, aromance is much truer than a history. If it be not it will produce butlittle effect upon the mind of the reader. The author, however, mustnot sit down to write it coolly, as a mere matter of composition. Hemust believe it, he must feel it, he must think of nothing but tellingthe truth--aye, reader, the truth of the creatures of his ownimagination. It must be all truth to him, and he must give that truthto the world. As they act, think, speak, in his own mind, so must theyact, think, and speak to the public; and according to his own powersof imagining the truth, regarding certain characters, so will he tella truthful tale or a mere cold fiction.
All the events which had taken place in Tarningham Park caused lessbustle, though, perhaps, more profound sensations amongst the inmatesof Sir John Slingsby's house than they did in the town andneighbourhood. How Mrs. Atterbury of the Golden Star--it was ahosier's shop--did marvel at all that had occurred! and how MissHenrietta Julia Thomlinson, the dress-maker, did first shudder at thethought of Sir John Slingsby's total ruin, and then rejoice with aglow of joy at the idea of Miss Slingsby's marriage to a peer _of therealm_. Then, again, there was a little blear-eyed woman with whitecheeks, slightly marked with the small-pox, and a sharp nose of red,who went about the town with an alarm bell in her mouth, spreading allmanner of stories regarding Sir John Slingsby and the whole of thefamily at Tarningham Park. Miss Slingsby was actually sold, she said,and the money given had gone to clear the baronet of a part of hisincumbrances; but she hinted that there was a heavy load behind anddeclared decidedly that she should not like to have money out uponsuch security. This lady proved an invaluable ally to Mr. Wharton; forthat gentleman did not stomach his disappointment comfortably. Helooked upon himself as very much ill-treated inasmuch as he had notbeen permitted to fleece Sir John Slingsby down to the skin. He madehis own tale good, however, quietly, assured every body thatnotwithstanding his own heavy claim, and the great likelihood thatthere had existed of his losing many thousands of pounds, he shouldnever have thought of proceeding against his poor friend if he had notheard that Mr. Wittingham had determined to arrest him for that heavydebt. A person calling himself Lord Lenham, he said, had come to SirJohn's assistance, indeed, but he much feared that no assistance wouldavail; and perhaps Miss Slingsby, though she was such a cunningman[oe]uverer, might find herself mistaken, for there was somethingsuspicious, very suspicious, about some parts of the affair. He didnot wish to say any thing unpleasant, but there was somethingsuspicious, very suspicious, and people might mark his words if theyliked.
People did mark his words; and all set to work to inquire what thesuspicious circumstances were, so that what between inquiries andanswers, and hints, and inuendoes, and suspicions, and surmises, andgossiping suggestions, and doubtful anecdotes, and pure lies, thelittle town of Tarningham was kept in a state of most exceedingchatter and bustle for several days and all day long, except at thefeeding time, when the streets returned to their silent tranquillity,and not a soul was to be seen but poor little deformed Billy Lamb,first carrying out his tray of foaming tankards, and then plodding upthe hill with a packet of letters and newspapers. As it is a fine day,and those large heavy floating clouds give frequently a pleasantshade, I do not see why we should not follow him up to ChandleighHeath. How quick the little fellow's long, disproportioned legs carryhis small round turkey-shaped body. But Billy Lamb must be going tovisit his mother after he has fulfilled his errand, or he would notwalk so fast this warm noontide. It is a round of six miles, yet hewill do it in an hour and a quarter. On my life he is already on theheath. One can hardly keep up with him; and now he is at the cottagegarden-gate. What strange things poetical ideas are! and how unlikereality! The poetical idea of a cottage, for instance, is rarely verylike truth. We take it and cover it with roses and surround it withflowering shrubs. That may be all very well, for there are suchcottages; but then we strip it of all coarse attributes of life; wetake away the evils of poverty, and vulgarity, and vice, and leave itnothing but content, and natural refinement, and calm innocence. It isneither the scene of struggles against fortune, cold, fireless,cheerless, often foodless, with want, smoke, and a dozen of children,nor the prim false rosewood, bad pianoforted abode of retiredslopsellerism, nor the snug-embowered, back lane residence of the keptmistress. There is no misery and repining there, no bad English andgin-and-water, no quiet cabriolets and small tigers, black eyes,ringlets, flutter, finery, and falsehood. It is all love androses--quarter of an acre of Paradise with a small house upon it. Suchis the poetical idea of a cottage.
Such, however, was by no means the sort of cottage, the garden-gate ofwhich was now approached by Billy Lamb. It had been built by a coarse,vulgar man, was inhabited by an arrant scoundrel; and there the arrantscoundrel was walking in his small domain with the lady whom we havemore than once mentioned. He looked sharply round when he heard thegarden-gate squeak; but was perfectly composed at the sight of thelittle pot-boy. The letters and papers he took, and looked at thecovers, and then, with an indifferent air, asked,
"Well, my lad, what news is stirring in your little town?"
"Not much, Sir," said Billy Lamb; "only about the marriage of the lordand Miss Slingsby."
The lady's eyes flashed unpleasantly, and her companion inquired,
"Well, what about that?"
"Nothing, Sir, but that it is to be on Monday week, they say," repliedBilly Lamb; "and all the people are as busy as possible about it, sometalking, and others working hard to get all ready; for Miss Isabellawill have every thing she can made in Tarningham."
"D--d badly made they will be," answered the gentleman; "and what isthe lord about?"
"Oh, nothing that I know of, Sir," rejoined the pot-boy, "only all hispeople and things are coming down, carriages and horses, and that. Theyard is quite full of them."
"And so it is to be on Monday week, is it?" rejoined Captain Moreton:"well, the sooner, the better."
"Yes, yes," cried the lady, "and he may have guests at his marriagethat he does not expect."
She spoke with an ungovernable burst of feeling, before her malecompanion could stop her; and the boy suddenly raised his clear,intelligent eyes to her countenance, discovering there legible tracesof all the furious passions that were at work in her bosom.
"Oh, yes," cried Moreton, endeavouring to give another turn to herindiscreet words, and pressing her arm tight as a hint to hold hertongue; "doubtless the whole town and neighbourhood will be there tosee."
"Oh, dear, yes, Sir," answered Billy Lamb; "though they say they wishit to be quite private. Good morning, Sir," and he walked away with acareless air, closing the garden-gate behind him.
"Ha, ha, ha!" exclaimed the worthy captain, laughing aloud; "this iscapital, Charlotte. You see our trout has bit at the fly."
"And I have got the hook
in his jaws," said the lady, bitterly.
"Yes," rejoined Captain Moreton; "and it is now high time that weshould consider, how we may play our fish to be best advantage. Firstof all, of course, the marriage must take place, or he will slip offyour hook, my fair lady; but after that comes the game; and I think itwould be much better to make no great noise even afterwards, but togive him proof positive of your existence; and, by working upon hisapprehensions, and laying him under contribution, we may drain him dryas hay."
"I will have revenge," cried the lady, fiercely; "I care for noughtelse, but I will have revenge; I will make him a public scoff and ascorn; I will torture him in a court of justice; I will break hisproud heart under the world's contempt--try not to stop me, Moreton,for I will have revenge. You think of nothing but money; but vengeancewill be sweeter to me, than all the gold of earth."
"There are different sorts of revenge," answered Moreton, quietly;"and, depend upon it, that which I propose is much more terrible. Oncehe is married, and quietly informed that you are still living, thinkwhat pleasant tortures he would undergo, year after year, as long asyou pleased. You would stand behind him like an unseen, but not unfeltfate, shadowing his whole existence with a dark cloud. Every hour hewould live in terror of discovery, and shame, and punishment. He wouldnever see a stranger, or receive a letter, without the hasty fearsrising up in his heart. He would picture to himself the breaking up ofall his domestic joys; he would see 'bastard' written on the face ofevery child; and his heart would wither and shrivel up, I tell you,like a fallen leaf in the autumn. Sleep would be banished from hisbed; appetite from his table; cheerfulness from his hearth; peace fromhis whole life. Even the sweet cup of love itself would turn to poisonon his lips; and our vengeance would be permanent, perpetual,undecaying. This is the sort of revenge for me!"
"It does not suit me!" cried the lady; "It does not suit me; I willhave it at once; I will see him crushed and withering; I will feast myeyes upon his misery. No, no; such slow, silent vengeance for thecold-blooded and the calm. I tell you, you shall not stop me," shecontinued, fiercely, seeing that he listened to her with a degree ofchilling tranquillity, which she did not love. "You may take whatcourse you will; but I will take mine."
"Excellent!" said Captain Moreton, sneeringly; "excellent, my gentleCharlotte; but let me just hint, that we must act together. You can donothing without me; I can stop it all at a word. Pray, recollect alittle hint I gave you the other night; and now, that the moment iscome for drawing the greatest advantages from that, which we have beenso long labouring to attain, do not drive me to spoil all your plans,by attempting to spoil mine."
"Ha!" said the lady; "ha!" but she proceeded no further; and, sinkinginto herself, walked up and down musingly for several minutes, at theend of which time she began to hum snatches of an Italian song.Captain Moreton, who knew well her variable humours, thought that themood was changed; but he was mistaken. He had planted that, of whichhe was to reap the fruit ere long.
In the meantime, the boy Billy Lamb, having closed, as we have said,the garden-gate, lingered for a moment, and then took his way acrossthe common in the direction of Stephen Gimlet's house, which was atthe distance of about a mile and a half. He went at a quick pace, buttwo or three times he stopped, and thought deeply. He was an observingboy, and saw and heard more than people imagined. He was a boy of verystrong feelings also, and he had conceived a strong affection forBeauchamp, which made any thing that affected that gentleman a matterof deep interest to him. Thus, the first time he stopped he repeatedto himself the incautious words the lady had uttered, syllable forsyllable. "He may have guests at his marriage he does not expect,"said the boy, meditating. "She looked mighty fierce too. I wonder whatshe meant? No good, I'm sure, by the way her eyes went."
He then walked on again about half a mile further; and this time itwas a narrow lane he halted in. "You see, our trout has bit at thefly!" repeated Billy Lamb, evidently showing that he had heard a part,at least, of what had passed after he left the garden; "that trout hetalked of must be Mr. Beauchamp--that's to say, the lord. I can't makeit out. I'll tell Stephen: he seems to know a good deal about themall; or that good, kind Captain Hayward. He's a great friend of thislord's, and will let him know; for they mean him harm, or I ammistaken."
When he reached Stephen Gimlet's cottage, however, and opened thedoor, he found the outer room only tenanted by the little boy, who wasstanding upon a stool, looking over the pages of a large, old Bible,illustrated with some grotesque engravings, in which Adam and Eve,very naked, indeed, the serpent, with a human head in large curls,very much like that of a Chancery barrister; the same personage, inthe conventional form of a satyr, together with a number of angels;and Noah's ark with all its beasts figured conspicuously.
In turning his head sharply round to see who it was that came in, thechild let fall the leaves that were in his hand upon those opposite;and instantly out flew an old time-stained scrip of paper, which madea gyration in the air before it reached the floor. The boy instantlydarted after it, and picked it up before Billy Lamb could see what itwas. The pot-boy would then have taken it out of his hand; but theother would not give it up, saying, with a screaming tone,
"No, no, no! it is granny's;" and the same moment the voice of WidowLamb was heard from the inner room, demanding,
"Who have you got with you there, child?"
"It is I, mother," answered the deformed boy. "Is Stephen in? I wantto speak with him."
"No, my poor William," answered the old lady, coming forth, andembracing her son; "he has been out a long while."
"Then, is Captain Hayward upstairs?" asked the youth.
"He is out too," answered the widow. "He was out yesterday for thefirst time, and to-day we have had a grand party here, all the ladiesin the carriage, and Mr. Beauchamp walking. Mrs. Clifford came sokindly to ask after me, and so they persuaded Captain Hayward to goout with them. That is to say, Captain Hayward and Miss Mary, and MissSlingsby with my Lord Lenham. They've gone all up to the hall; Mrs.Clifford in the carriage, and the rest on foot; and I should notwonder, Bill, if Captain Hayward did not come back here again?"
"That is unfortunate!" exclaimed Billy Lamb; "I wanted so much tospeak with him, or Stephen."
"Why, what is the matter, my dear boy?" said his mother; "if you willtell me what it is, I will let Stephen know when he comes back."
"Why, the matter is this, mother," answered the deformed boy, "Stephenwas asking me a great deal the other day about the gentleman who hasgot the cottage on Chandleigh Heath, and what his name is. Now, I havefound out his name, and it is Captain Moreton."
"Have nought to do with him, Bill!" cried the widow; "have nought todo with him! He is a base villain, and has ruined all who have had anyconnexion with him."
"Why, I have nought to do with him, mother," answered Billy Lamb, "butcarrying him up his letters and newspapers; but I heard somethingthere to-day that I thought Stephen might like to know; for I am surehe and the lady he has with him are plotting things to hurt this lord,who was so kind to poor Ste."
"Ha! what did you hear?" asked the old lady, "that concerns me morethan Stephen, for I know more about that lady."
"She does not seem a very sweet one," answered the boy; "for when Itold the captain about Lord Lenham going to be married to Sir John'sdaughter, she looked as if she had a great inclination to scratchsomebody's eyes out."
"Going to be married to Sir John's daughter!" exclaimed Widow Lamb."Bill, are you sure that's true?"
"Quite sure. Haven't you heard of it?" said the boy. "All the peoplein Tarningham know it quite well; and a quantity of things areordered."
Widow Lamb mused gravely for several minutes; and then, shaking herhead, said in a low voice, as if to herself:
"I begin to understand. Well, what more did you hear, Billy?"
"Why, after a little talk," said the boy, "when they heard that themarriage was to be on Monday-week, the lady cried out, 'He will haveguests at his wedding that he does not
expect!' and her eyes lookedjust like two live coals. She did not say much more; for the captaintried to stop her; but, as soon I had got through the garden-gate, Iheard him laugh quite heartily, and say out loud, 'This is capital,Charlotte; you see our trout has bit at the fly.'"
"And so, they have been angling for him, have they?" said Widow Lamb;"what more, my boy?"
"Why, I did not like to stop and listen, mother," said the poordeformed boy; "but I thought it could not be all right; and,therefore, I made up my mind that I would tell Stephen, or CaptainHayward, or somebody; for that Mr. Beauchamp, who has turned out alord, was always very kind to me when he was at the inn, and gave memany a shilling; and I should not like to do them any harm, if I canstop it; and I could see they were wonderfully bitter against him, bythe way of that lady and her husband."
"He is not her husband," said Widow Lamb, with a scoff; "but thatmatters not, Bill; you are a good boy, and have done quite right; and,perhaps, it may save much mischief; so that will be a comfort to you,my son. I'll tell Stephen all about it, when he comes back; and we'lltalk the thing over together this very night, and see what can bedone. It is strange, very strange, Billy, how things turn out in thisworld. Great people do not always know, when they do a kind action topoor people and humble people like ourselves, that they may be helpingthose, who will have the best means of helping them again. Now, fromwhat you have told me, Bill, I may have the means of helping this goodlord from getting himself into a terrible scrape. I am sure he doesnot know all, my boy; I am sure a great number of things have beenconcealed from him; and your telling me may set it all to rights."
"Well, that's pleasant," answered the deformed boy. "It makes one verylightsome, mother, to feel that one has been able to do any thing toserve so good a gentleman; and so I shall go home quite gay."
"That you may, Bill," replied his mother; "but bring me up news of anything you may hear; for you can't tell what may be of consequence, andwhat may not."
The boy promised to obey, and went away whistling one of the peculiarmelodies, of which he was so fond; in which, though the air was gay,there was ever an occasional tone of sadness, perhaps proceeding froma profound, though concealed, impression of melancholy regarding hiscorporeal infirmities.
It was late in the evening before Stephen Gimlet returned; but thenWidow Lamb entered into instant consultation with him upon what shehad heard; and their conference lasted far on into the night.
The next morning early the gamekeeper got his breakfast, and thenputting on his hat, said,
"Now, I'll go, Goody Lamb. I shall be very awkward about it, I daresay, but I don't mind; for he will find out in the end, that it is forhis own good I talk to him about such disagreeable things. So, heregoes."
"You had better wait awhile, Stephen," said the widow; "most likelyhe is not up yet; for it is not seven o'clock."
"It will be well nigh eight before I am there," answered StephenGimlet, "and I can wait at the house till he is ready."
Thus saying, he walked away, and trudged on over the fields till hecame into Tarningham Park, by the road which leads over the hill justabove the house. He did not follow the carriage-drive, however, buttook the shorter path through the chestnut-trees, and in about tenminutes, after entering the gates, saw the house. There was atravelling-carriage standing before the hall-door, which was at thedistance of a quarter of a mile, and hardly had Stephen Gimlet's eyesrested on it for an instant, when a servant got up behind, and thepost-boy laid his whip light over his horses. The carriage rolled on,and the gamekeeper followed it with his eyes, with a feeling ofmisgiving; but he pursued his way to the house notwithstanding, andentering by the offices, asked the first servant he met, if he couldspeak for a moment with Lord Lenham.
"That you can't, Ste," answered the man, "for he has just gone off toLondon. He will not be down for a week either, they say; and thencomes the wedding, my lad, so that you have a poor chance of talkingwith him till the honeymoon is over."
Stephen Gimlet looked down perplexed; and then, after a moment'sthought, he said, "Ay, there is to be a wedding, is there? I heardsomething about it. He is a kind good gentleman as ever lived, and Ihope he may be very happy."
"I dare say he will now," said the footman, "for our young lady is fitto be the wife of a king, that she is. But as one marriage made himvery unhappy, for a long time, it is but fit that another should cureit."
"Then do you mean to say he has been married before?" asked thegamekeeper.
"Ay, that he has," replied the servant, "none of our people, not evenSir John's gentleman, nor any one, knew a word about it till I foundit out. I'll tell you how it was, Ste. The day before yesterdaymorning the butler says to me, 'I wish, Harrison, you'd just clearaway the breakfast things for I've got the gout in my hand'--he hasalways got the gout, you know, by drinking so much ale, besides wine.Well, when I went into the breakfast-room after they were all gone, Isaw that the door into the library was a little ajar; but I took nonotice, and Dr. Miles and Sir John went on talking there and did nothear me at all in t'other room. I could not tell all they said; but Imade out that my Lord Lenham had been married a long time ago, butthat the lady had turned out a bad un, and that they had lived apartfor many years, till the other day my lord heard from Paris she wasdead, and then he proposed to Miss Isabella. Dr. Miles said somethingabout not hurrying the marriage, but the jolly old barrownight saidthat was all stuff, that he would have a wedding before a fortnightwas over, and he'd broach two pipes of port and fuddle half thecounty."
"And when is it to be then?" asked Stephen Gimlet; but the man's replyonly confirmed what he had heard before, and with by no means a wellsatisfied countenance, the gamekeeper took his way across the parkagain, murmuring to himself as soon as he got out into the open air,"Goody Lamb was right! They've cheated him into believing she is dead.That is clear. There is some devilish foul work going on; and how tomanage I don't know. At all events I'll go back and talk to the oldwoman, for she has a mighty clear head of her own."
As he walked on he saw our friend Ned Hayward strolling slowly alongat a distance, and he felt a strong inclination to go up and tell himall he had been going to tell Beauchamp; but then he reflected that hehad no right to divulge what he knew of the latter gentleman's secretsto another who might not be fully in his confidence. Besides, NedHayward was not alone. There was the flutter of a lady's garmentsbeside him, and he seemed in earnest conversation with his faircompanion. They were not indeed walking arm-in-arm together, but theywere very close to one another, and as Stephen Gimlet pausedconsidering, he saw the lady's head frequently raised for a moment asif to look in her companion's face, and then bent down again as ifgazing on the ground.
The gamekeeper judged from these indications that they wereparticularly engaged, and would not like to be disturbed, and takingthat with other motives for not going near them, he walked back to hisown cottage where he found Widow Lamb with her large Bible open beforeher.
Gimlet's story was soon told, and his mother-in-law seemed as puzzledas he did for a time. He then suggested for her consideration whetherit might not be as well to convey the intelligence they possessed toCaptain Hayward or Sir John Slingsby; but Widow Lamb exclaimed, atonce,
"No, Stephen, no! we might make mischief with the intention of doinggood. We must wait. He will come back before the marriage-day and youmust see him then. I will go up with you and talk to him myself; for Ihave much to say that I will only say to himself."
"But suppose we should not be able to see him?" said Stephen Gimlet,"or if any thing should prevent his coming till the very day?"
"Then, I suppose we must speak to some one else," replied hisstep-mother, "but do not be afraid, Stephen. Leave it all to me."
Stephen Gimlet was afraid, however; for he was one of thoseunfortunate eager people who when they take the interests of anotherto heart are never satisfied till they see those interests perfectlysecure. He had all his life, too, been accustomed to manage everything for himself, to rely upon no
one, to trust to his own mind andhis own exertions for the accomplishment of every thing he desired. Itis an unlucky habit which makes people very uneasy when once theycontract it, which trebles both their anxieties and their labours; forthere is not above one-third, in ordinary circumstances, of any thingthat a man requires to do which can be done by his own hands, in thecomplicated state of society in which we live; but still StephenGimlet had that habit, and like an old coachman, he was not easy whenthe reins were in the hands of another.
Beauchamp; or, The Error. Page 36
