Chapter LXIII: Conclusion

Methinks if ye would know
How visitations of calamity
Affect the pious soul, ’tis shown ye there!
Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky,
Sailing alone, doth cross in her career
The rolling moon! I watch’d it as it came,
And dream’d the deep opake would blot her beams;
But, melting as a wreath of snow, it hangs
In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes
The orb with richer beauties than her own,
Then passing, leaves her in her light serene.

SOUTHEY’_s Roderick_.

Ellen remained in the house till the last duties had been performed. The funeral of poor Cresford was conducted without pomp or show, and she then returned, with her restored George and Caroline, to her own cottage.

She put his children in the deepest mourning. For herself, she also wore deep mourning; but she did not dress herself in weeds: she felt, under all the circumstances, that it would be a mockery.

She had not written to Algernon to inform him of Cresford’s death. She had felt a superstitious horror when his wedding-ring was committed to the flames; and the last parting scenes with Cresford had to her feelings sanctioned and confirmed anew her first union, so that at the moment when she was free to give herself for ever to Algernon, she felt herself more severed from him than she had ever yet done.

She knew not where he was; she had not allowed him to correspond with her; and though she felt it was scarcely kind not to be the first to inform him of the event, she had not courage to write to tell him she was free. She had never believed the rumours which had arisen from his frequent visits to Coverdale Park: she had been so sure of his devotion, that she would have felt guilty of ingratitude towards him, if she had allowed them to give her any uneasiness: yet now, for the first time, the recollection of the report would recur to her mind. It was possible, just possible, there might have been some foundation for it. She had heard, she had read a thousand times, that while there was hope, man might remain faithful; but that it was woman and woman only who could live a life of hopeless devotion. She should have no right to complain, if he had at length looked elsewhere for domestic bliss. He would still have been true and kind to her, beyond what she had any right to expect.

As she did not write at first, from a feeling of delicacy towards the memory of Cresford, she now felt unwilling to do so from the shrinking sensitiveness which had always formed a leading feature in her character.

She was not long, however, kept in suspense. Algernon had been in Scotland at the time, and more than a week elapsed before he learned the event. He instantly returned to London. He there found that Ellen was at her cottage, and he followed as fast as four horses could carry him.

She was startled from a reverie of much hope, mixed with a little fear and wonder, by the clatter of a carriage at her door. Her heart leaped within her; she doubted not who it was, and in two seconds she found herself pressed to Algernon’s bosom.

She did not, this time, insist upon two years of widowhood; but consented, at the end of one month, to be privately re-married.

They agreed to renew those vows, to which their hearts had so strictly adhered, at Longbury Church, and to Mr. Allenham’s they speedily removed: Captain Wareham and Matilda followed, and Henry arrived from London.

It was late in the month of October. The party had gathered round a cheerful, blazing fire, on the evening preceding the ceremony. It was long since they had met together with feelings of peace and happiness, such as they now experienced, although in some of the party it was happiness chastened and subdued by all they had previously endured.

Algernon’s eyes were fixed on Ellen with an expression of holy love, which bordered on veneration. Matilda remarked upon his steady gaze, and told him he would put Ellen quite out of countenance.

“I was thinking,” he replied, “that if she had not been as virtuous as she is beautiful, as pure as she is kind, as firm as she is affectionate, if she had listened to me, when I wished to fly to America, we should never have known this hour of unalloyed happiness.”

“Well,” answered the lively Matilda, “those thoughts were very respectful, and respectable thoughts. I cannot find any fault with them!”

Ellen smiled through the tears of virtuous gratification which Algernon’s words had called forth.

“It is quite a comfort to see you smile, Ellen,” said Caroline; “I thought I should never have seen those white teeth again! And when do you mean to curl your hair? I long to see your glossy black ringlets! Do not you, Mr. Hamilton? Do not you miss the ringlets very much?”

“I miss nothing!” replied Algernon; “Ellen is once more my Ellen. I have scarcely looked to see how she dressed herself.”

“Now that is what I call true love,” exclaimed Matilda; “Algernon does not look at Ellen’s beauty. Ellen is Ellen, and that is enough for him. You all call me proud and difficult, but when any man like Algernon loves me as Algernon loves Ellen, then I will love him as Ellen loves Algernon.”

“Do you give this as a proof you are not difficult, Matilda?” replied Ellen, smiling almost gaily: “there are not Algernons to be met with every day!”

“Then I will stay and take care of you, papa. You know you would not manage at all well without me! you would have nobody to scold! and, what is more, there would be nobody to scold you,” she added, playfully tapping her father on the cheek.

“I will tell you what, Matilda,” replied Captain Wareham, who was too happy to be angry, “you must keep down this same spirit of your’s, or nobody will put you to the trial.”

Matilda looked archly at Caroline, as if Caroline and she knew something that disproved Captain Wareham’s prognostics.

The marriage was to take place early in the morning, as they meant to reach Belhanger the same day. The children had been already sent there, that they might be ready to greet them on their arrival.

Before eight o’clock the whole party walked quietly up the hill to the church.

There Mr. Allenham again pronounced over them the nuptial benediction. They both repeated after him, clearly, distinctly, and fervently, each word of their vow; and with a delightful but sober certainty of waking bliss, of assured happiness, the small party wound their way down again to the parsonage.

It was a fine October morning, and the sun was quickly dispersing the vapours which still hung in the low grounds.

The valley had, half an hour before, appeared almost like a lake, as they looked down on the mist below. The trees, the spires, the knolls of higher ground were gradually emerging, and in a few minutes all was clear and joyous, dancing in the morning sunshine. The robin redbreast sung cheerily from the dewy hedges, which were still bright in their rich autumn livery.

“All Nature smiles upon us, Ellen,” whispered Algernon: “So the clouds of our early life are dispersed! All before us is bright and serene.”

THE END.

LONDON:
SPOTTISWOODE and SHAW,
New-street-Square.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

Perceived typographical errors have been changed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.