University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXIII.

My next move was to Russel Square, No 48, where Dr.
Armstrong lived. I was lucky enough to find him at home. He
had called with my note, according to my desire, and immediately
after receiving it; but the lady would not suffer him to
see her; she would see nobody, the servant said, being very
ill, and trying to get some sleep. I went away, said the docter,
with a design to see you; but was prevented by a variety
of circumstances, and I took another opportunity of calling
on the lady. But the house was already shut up, and all that
I know of her is, that a fee has been left here which I do
not choose to receive, with the respectful compliments of Mrs.
M— E—who being attended by her own physician has only
to thank me for my obliging promptitude, &c. &c. &c.

M. E., M. E.—allow me to see the note if you please;
It will be a great relief to me to know that she is able to
write.

Certainly, said he.

But the hand-writing was not hers. And here it might be
well for me to stop; for if I were to write for ever, it would
be impossible to give a true idea of the perplexity and grief
that pursued me day after day, that pursue me still on account
of that mysterious woman. I would go on a pilgrimage
to the ends of the earth—I would journey the world over
to see her again, as I saw her at the Isle-of-Wight.1 I would
give—but no—I have begun the story and it must be told
now, and what is more, it must be told in such a way, that
those who hear it shall go with me step by step, through the

labyrinth, out of which I am now laboring to extricate myself
as I never labored before.

A week passed over, and as I heard nothing from her, from
Edwards, nor from any body else, relating to either of them,
and as I could not throw off the trouble that was changing
me hour by hour, and making me peevish in spite of all I
could do, I determined to lay every thing else aside for a
week or two, and give up my whole time, if necessary, to the
investigation of the affair. I saw the landlord; but he could
give me no satisfaction. All that he knew was, that he had
been well treated by a gentlemanly man, who after engaging
his house for half a year and paying for it in advance, went
away long before the time had expired, and leaving the furniture
in the best possible order, and every part of the house
in capital condition. Others might say what they liked, but
he should say from that circumstance alone, if there were
nothing else in their favor, that they were well brought up. As
for the wife, he never saw her but once—but that was enough
to satisfy him that she was a gentlewoman, every inch of
her—no leaning her head against the new paper, no shuffling
about over the carpets, no dragging of chairs, and sofas, and
tables, every thing was lifted up and carried in a lady-like
way where she was; that any body could see, by the sofa
she occupied all the time she was there. Why bless you—
't was as good as new, and quite smooth when she left it. And
as for the man—he was a gentleman too, though rather uppish
if any thing, but he liked him all the better for that.

Why so—

It showed he had good blood in his veins, or ought to
have.

True—did he refer to any body when he took your
house?

Ay, to a banker in Great Berners street, describing the
very individual whom I saw at the cottage, and who on the
night of the arrest had offered to bail Edwards.

Enough, I will go to him, said I.

He is out of town Sir, just now. I wanted to see him two
or three days ago, about this very affair, and I was told that
he would be absent for three weeks.

For three weeks, thought I. Then will I see some one
else of the party; Sir George, or Mr. Barry, or that blockhead
of a major; but where were they to be found? At
—'s Hotel to be sure; and away I posted to —'s Hotel,
where I had the satisfaction to hear that nobody knew
either Sir George, or Mr. Barry, or that blockhead of a major.
They had never met there till about a week before one
of the party was taken up, nobody knew what for, while they
were engaged at what would never have been permitted in
the house, if it had been known—very high play. Their
behaviour had always been proper enough, said the principal
waiter, eyeing me as he spoke, but no one of the party would
ever be permitted to play under that roof again, till the matter
was cleared up.

I had nothing more to say—nothing more to do; my
search was at an end; I had come to a full stop. I knew
this, and yet I could not give up the inquiry, nor the hope
that something would come of it; until at the end of two weeks,
finding that my health was impaired, that I could neither eat
nor sleep, that my hair was falling off with a fever of the
mind; that I was growing nervous, actually nervous, and that a
preternatural anxiety had got possession of me, which I knew
would be fatal, if I did not make a desperate and a speedy effort,
I determined to throw up my books and go into the country
for a while. There was much to see, and how could I employ
my time better than by seeing it, under circumstances

which, whatever else they did, were pretty sure to make me
happier and healthier. I could not be worse---for I had begun
to feel what I had never felt before and what I hope never to
feel again, a dread of the future. I could not bear the idea
of living to old age; time was getting too heavy and the
days too long for me. I could not work—perhaps I might
play.

But no—no—I mistook the remedy; for after journeying
east, west, north, and south, till I was weary—tired of the
large trees, the blue water and the deep green earth, tired of
the very sky, and fatigued with perpetual change, I discovered
that when the heart is too full for work it is much too full
for play; that when the spirit is overcharged and vexed and
sore, it is no time to go abroad for joy, or to move in the
pathway of strangers—a bitter truth to know after solitude
has worn us to the grave; but still, the sooner we know it
the better; for if we are unhappy it may drive us to the only
refuge below for the unhappy—occupation. If there be no
hope in solitude, no hope in the great over-crowded thoroughfares
of life, there may be hope, there is hope in steady
and useful occupation. We have but to persevere for a few
days, and that which was a labor, will become a joy to the
heart.

I could not keep away after I came to the knowledge of
this truth; and so I lost no time in returning to my studies.
To-morrow—five weeks to-morrow, said I, as I sat on a little
stone-bridge that crossed the river — at — three of
which I have spent here, I hardly know why, I hardly know
how, here in the very neighborhood of — where she was
born. Every body knew her, and every body speaks well
of her, and yet nobody knows, not even her own mother,
where she is, nor whether she is alive or dead. I have been
to the cottage, I have been to the sea-shore, I have trod

again every step of the way that we ever trod together, I have
pursued her as the North-American savage would pursue his
prey, and I have no hope now that I shall ever see her again.
Five weeks to-morrow! To-morrow I will be where I was, before
that woman crossed my path—on my way over the sea;
or to-morrow, I will return to my studies and forget her—if it
be possible. I drew out my watch, there was time for
either. Liverpool was not far off, and I might be at sea before
the morrow was over; London was not far off, and I
might be at work, before the sun rose again. But wherefore
at sea? Shall I give up and go back after all that I have endured,
because of a beautiful woman? Shall I forego my
birthright for ever, my proud hope, and the high station that I
have struck for, day after day and year after year, because
of that, which they who best know me, would not believe to
be capable of turning me aside for so much as an hour? No—
no—I will do what is more worthy of her. I will go back to the
great business of life. It may be in my power to do much
good—I will try to do it. I will try to be a man, the recollection
of whose love, wherever she may be, and whatever she
may be, will be a comfort to her. I started up—so proud,
and so happy, and so eager to begin! with my heart and my
lips running over! Five weeks to-morrow! said I—it is now
early in the day: one more stroll into the woods there,
one more look at the river while it passes underneath the
little window of the summer-house, where I have stood by
the hour, agitated with a hope that I am sorry for now, and
ashamed of—a superstitious hope which would be unintelligible
to the happy; one more look at the smooth dark water
she told me of, where the tear-drop fell, and though my
heart should break for it, I will go away from this neighbourhood
for ever before the sun sets.

I did so. Before the sun set I was on my way back to
town. That I might keep my vow the better, I took a postchaise,

after getting as far as I could by the coach, and arrived
on the morrow just before the clock struck eight. I had
been asleep for two or three hours, when a heavy bell, connected
in some way or other with a dream I had, awoke me.
It was several minutes before I could recollect myself; the
carriage had stopped, the morning was very dull and thick,
and there was a heavy roar about me for a good while after
I awoke, which I could not imagine the cause of; it appeared
to be growing louder and louder, and was like the roar of
the sea. After a minute or two, the great bell sounded
again so near me and with a sound so unlike any thing I ever
heard in my life, that I started broad awake, and calling out
to the boy, asked him what he was stopping for.

Can't move sir; wedged up sir—no help for it now sir,
till the job is over; whoa there, whoa!

Stop stop—what 's the matter! said I, tearing away the
curtain from the glass and looking through it as well as
the moisture would allow me. There appeared to be a great
multitude on every side of the carriage, most of whom had
their hats off, though the fog was like a heavy dew. Who
are these people? what are they doing here?

Before he could reply there was a great rush among the
crowd, cries and shrieks, and before they had subsided one
universal groan.

There—there—that 's he! cried some one who stood upon
the wheel of the carriage.

That 's he—that 's he—there they come, cried several others,
who appeared to be on the top of the carriage.

Poor fellow—poor fellow!—God bless you! God bless
you! cried several more, just as the boy let down the window
and called out to me to look, look! and I should see 'em better
nor if I was outside, or on the top of the coach.

Where are we? How long have we been here? said I.

Above an hour.

How did you get over the chain? cried a bystander.

What chain—I saw no chain.

Here a man rode up on horseback, and ordered the people
off the carriage, with an air of authority.

I shuddered at his look, and began to have some idea of the
dreadful truth, for I could see huge walls before me, with heavy
fetters and bars hung up in festoons over the arched gate-way.
Drive on drive on! I cried---I see where we are now! Drive
on I say---or let me escape.

Lord Sir—there they go!

I could not help looking out—for there was no other way
to look; nor could I help seeing right before me, within a
few yards of the carriage, when I did look out, preparations
for putting a fellow-creature to death. I was terror struck—
fascinated with fear—and though I withdrew my head and
shut my eyes, and stopped my ears before I drew my breath,
I had time to see the figure and shape of the man who was
about to die—time to feel what I would not feel again for
the wealth of a kingdom, for they were the figure and shape
of a man that I knew—of the man that I saw at the cottage—
time to hear the multitude speak his name, as if—Oh God!
as if they were no parties to the dreadful work—time to hear
that he was to die for forgery, though heaven and earth had
been moved in his behalf.

Let me pass over what followed. I could not bear to
think of the frightful possibility which the death of poor
Fontleroy obtruded upon my mind. If he was a forger,
what were they who appeared so inferior to him? Could
this be the authorship they meant? If so, how heartless
their behavior! how treacherous their levity! If he were
worthy of such a death, he who had occupied so high a place

in good society; he who whenever I saw him and wherever
I saw him, had appeared to such advantage over all that I saw
him with, if nothing could save him, what was to become of
poor Edwards? If there were no hope for the man, who
but a little time before, the very last evening I saw them
together, had been permitted to go free, while Edwards went
away before him, as it were under the ban of society, what
hope could there be for Edwards?

I grew sick with terror, giddy with a strange fear. I
thought of my own escape, of the beautiful woman, of the
wretch who betrayed her husband, of all that I have related
here and of much that I want courage to speak of now.

But I returned to my studies, fearful that if I inquired
further, I should learn the issue of what I trembled to think
of; and lose the only hope I now had left. Month after
month passed over, and I had begun to be cheerful. I never
trusted myself to speak of my adventure; to be idle for a
day, nor even to look at the papers which now lie before me.
I had begun to sleep as I did in my youth—I no longer
dreamed of the cottage and the sea-shore, the summer-house,
the bridge, or the cliff. But one day, as I stood in the
square at Somerset-House, happening to turn my head, I
saw the tall man with the scar in the cheek, who it appeared
to me was chargeable with whatever had happened to poor
Edwards. For a moment or two, I could not have spoken
loud enough to be heard, if it had been to save my life; but
afraid of losing the only opportunity I might ever have, an
opportunity that I had languished for, of telling him to his
teeth what I thought of him, and what she had thought of him,
the poor credulous wife, whom he would have sacrificed over
and over again, if he had had the power, I pursued him and
put myself before him; and signified to him that I had something
to say as soon as I could speak.

The moment he saw me, he stopped with a look of surprise,
and putting his hand into his bosom appeared to be
griping after what I felt sure was a knife or a pistol.

As soon as I had got my breath, I lowered my voice to a
very quiet pitch—one that I never use till I am ready to put
my life at stake, and after a brief apology began to relate so
much of the story told me by Mary P—as concerned her
faith in his word, long after she was married to another, and
her high opinion of his probity; and I was just going to add a
few little remarks of my own, to show that I, who knew mankind
better, had always a very bad opinion of his behavior;
but before I came to this part of my speech he put me out
with a bow and a grave smile, which provoked me beyond
measure.

I am very happy to meet with you, said he; I have been
looking for you.

You have---here is my card.

Much obliged to you; this, I take it, is your real name?

It is—while I am here.

I wish I had known it a few weeks ago—I had a message
for you.

A message for me!

He drew out a memorandum-book, opened it, and produced
a letter as he spoke. I have a letter in which you are interested;
I have been very anxious to see you, but as I had
not your address, and knew not where to obtain it, for the
lady herself could not furnish me with it, I have not been able
to find you.

Ah—I know that hand-writing!

I dare say you do; she speaks of you, as if next to her
husband, there was nobody on earth for whom she cared so
much. Here—here—read it---folding down the top of the

first page as he spoke---you may read all but the date and
address.

I read the letter; and as I read it, such was the joy that
came over me, such was the sorrow I felt for having outraged
a lofty nature, that upon my word, I was ready to
kneel down at his feet, and beg him to forgive me. I do
not remember the words—I have no copy of the letter—
it was not intended for me—but I remember that I saw in it
all the proof I could have prayed for, touching herself---her
husband---this man who had saved her husband's life and
restored him to her love, and I may add of her affection for
me.

But where are they now? said I.

He shook his head.

You mean to let me know, of course?

No.

No!

I am afraid she cares a little too much for you.

Sir!

And you a little too much for her! She says you would'nt
mind the voyage, if you knew where she was.

The voyage, hey?

Yes, poor girl! and being aware of that, she has begged
me to do nothing which may lead either to a renewal of your
acquaintance, or to so much as a correspondence by letter.
You are a little piqued I see.

Piqued—I—oh no, not in the least—no---no—no.

Yes you are. But you are to know that she has only
written me once, and that although the letter she wrote then
was more to you than to me, she promises never to write me
again. And what is more, she begs you to send your address.

I gave her my address at the door, that morning.

So you thought, and so I told her; but the paper you
speak of did not contain your address, or you would have
been told that day, what I now tell you in her name, that
she refused to see you from a fear which—but enough—
you have done more than I, toward making her happy, and
therefore it is that she will never see you again.

A pretty reward!

So it is.

But how am I to know, after I have left you, that she is
happy? That voyage you spoke of—I understand you, I
suppose; Botany Bay or Van Diemen's Land, eh?

Botany Bay!

Yes---gone there, eh?

No indeed.

Where then?

To America---the United States of North America.

Gracious God! you don't say so, then I shall see her
again!