“Ah, you always were a gentle, forgiving creature!” answered Mrs. Allenham. CHAPTER XI. See the poor captive from his dungeon break, Where long he pined, and hail the light of day, With eyes that in the broad effulgence ache, With smiles that ’mid deep lines of anguish play! How eagerly he meets the morning gale With lab’ring lungs that each sweet breath would seize! How fondly views the hill, the plain, the vale, Green meadows, brooks, fields, flowers, and waving trees! And, “Gods!” he cries, “how dear is liberty! Is there in Heaven’s large gift a boon beside? The world is mine, and all the good I see!” But soon, too soon, his raptures wild subside, And sighing sad, “Not Freedom’s self to me Is sweet,” he cries, “if one to share it be denied.” _Unpublished Poems._ The next day Henry was obliged to return to London: indeed, he wished to be upon the spot, in case of Mr. Cresford’s arrival; and Ellen was, on the same account, equally anxious he should depart. Mrs. Allenham made several attempts to learn from Ellen the particulars of her separation; but Ellen assured her the subject was at present too painful to dwell upon; and they remained together in melancholy calmness not unmixed with _gêne_, for Caroline was somewhat hurt at Ellen’s reserve. She had one conversation with her father, in which he was all kindness and sympathy, and she now sat down to a task which she deemed one of absolute necessity, although of the utmost difficulty, namely, to write to Mr. Cresford a letter which should meet him on his arrival in London, and convey to him the dreadful intelligence, which sooner or later, must reach him. It was as follows:— “I know not how to address you, and I dread lest you should have heard from some other quarter all that has occurred, and may cast aside the letter of one whom you deem untrue to you, without reading her own statement of the facts. “Believe me, when I swear by every thing we hold most sacred, that the first communication I received from you, from the time I read the official account of your death in the public newspapers, was the letter I received last month, dated from Gratz. I had then for two years believed myself the wife of Mr. Hamilton. “As I write these words, my spirit quails at the effect I know they must produce on you; my heart bleeds for the pain I am inflicting on you; for, indeed, I do justice to the strength of your affection for me, and I grieve to be thus the cause of anguish to one who loves me! It is a cruel return for all the fidelity you have preserved to me; but you must know the truth, and I had rather you should learn it from me, than from common report—from the busy tongue of slander.