Paul Clifford : or, Hurrah for the road. A romance of old times

Front matter

No. 1.] Nos. 2, 3 and 4, are Presented, Gratis, with this number. [Price Id. HURRAH FOR THE ROAD LONDON : E. LLOYD, SALISBUBY-SQUAEE, AND ALL BOOKiELLEI ici — ■ I ) PAUL CLIFFORD; OR, HURRAH FOR THE ROAD. A ROMANCE OF OLD TIMES- EY THE AUTHOR OF '•GENTLEMAN JACK," "CLAUDE DUVAL," "TOM XING," Etc, Eic, LONDON : riTULlSllSD BY B. LLOl'D, SALISBURY-SQUARE, ELEST-STREET. JII.CCCL1II, P R • E F A C E. Tub unprecedented popularity of the Romance ot "Paul Clif ford; ok, Hurrah for the Road," renders the prefixing of a pre face to the work in its complete form almost an uncalled for task. Tbe author, however, did not feel that it would be well for him to part company with readers who had followed him for so many weeks wi'.hout at least an acknowledgment of the great favour with which they have been pleased to receive this work.

Many of the incidents are strictly true, and pains have been taken that the lermination of thc career of the infamous Jonathan Wild should be historical)' correct. Koa that the days of h'ghwajmen have departed for ever from this countiy, it is presumed that such a record as this of tiir.es past wt 1 erer be found interetting and worthy of attentive pernsa1. London, 1853. No. 1. or, HURRAH FOR THE ROAD. A ROMANCE. IT THE ADTHOa 07 " GZXTLEHAX JACK. her as I and others know her. Before you, she speaks low and soft, and seems so kind ;' but when you are not in hearing, she uses dreadful words, and " " Peace— peace, Paul ! Do you want to break my heart at this time, when I am only just faintly hovering between life and death? Oh you cruel — cruel boy, you know that her name is not now M:u tindale ; lt is the same as yours, Paul. You know that she is my wife, and a kinder, better woman' Ok, Paul, Paul, you will find that she is your best friend !"

Chapter I. The Death Op

A FATHER.-— THE DIS- CARDED ORPHAN,*— A BIGHT ADVEN TURE IN LONDON.— THE OLD MAN- SION AT ISLINGTON. '• Come hither, boy. Nearer— nearer still. Paul, I am dying. Nay, do not weep, but I feel that I am dying now ; and you will soon, my poor Paul, be an orphan in the wide world, with, I fear, none to love you." "Father!— father!" _" "Hush, my boy — hush! Calm your self. It is in the natural order of events of this world, when the old die off, and leave their place ifl life for tbe young and able. The sire should die before the son. You, Paul, ore the last of our race." " You are, father, my best friend, and you have ever been such ; but now if you are going from me " "And I am, Paul." "Oh.no — do not say that, father. I think you speak stronger than you did yesterday. You will yet live. I know vou will.

It will be so good of God to leave you yet awhile with me. Do not think of dying; you must not ! Oh, no —no — no !" " No, no, father, you will live yet ! jou must live yet ! I am only fifteen, you know, father, and what shall I do without you ? Oh, no — no, you must not die and leave your poor Paul !" There was a silence of some few mi nutes' duration in the chamber of death. During that sHeuce the rain could be heard pattering against the window panes of the room, and ever and anon the small flickering fire that was in the grate sent up a fitful light. There was one candle upon a little table near to the bedside, and the face of the dying man was pinched and hollow. " Where's your mother, Paul P" "In thc grave, father." " Oh, Paul, Paul, you know who I mean." The boy wrung Lis hands in a passion of giief, and the old man sfretched forth one of his meager arms, and placed his trembling Land upon the head of Paul.

"My blessing, and tbe blessing of Heaven. Paul, be with you for ever ai.d ever ! What's that ?— what's that P" A lumbering noise overhead startled them both. " It's >he, father; she is at ycur iron box.* " No— no— I have left her all, and with but one condition, aud that is, that she should be kind to you, Paul, aud provide for you well ; she is, no doubt, below, overcome with grief, poor thing, to think that I am so bad. Thieves, Paul, thieves are in the house ! There — there is the noise again !" "I will see, father." " Yes, father, I do know ; but she is not my mother, and 1 will not call her so. You married Mis. Martindale, father, hut that did not make her my mother ; nnd she is not kind enough to be called a friend. Ob, father, you do not know "No— no, don't leave me— don't ! — Hush 1— I hear footsteps coming !— Yes, one— two— three — four ! — yes yes!"

The door of the room opened, and a tall robust female entered the chamber. Her tread was heavy, and there was anything but a sympathetic look in her face as she approached the bed. The old man looked at her calmly. "Well— well," he said, "you will be good to Paul ?" "Oh, yes, that's all settled," she said, in rather a thick voice; "I will look after Paul ; but I want the key of the iron box." soul of having left you to the mercy of that woman. Hark ! she is at the old box again." A lumbering noise above sufficientlv attested to the truth of this last remark of the old man's. " Let her, father. Let her," said the boy; " and do not— oh, do not ask me to open the window. The cold air will come streaming in, and the rain, too, and both will kill you." "A pen, Paul ! A pen, nd ink, and paper ! Oh, my son, if you ever in all your life disobeyed me, correct the fault oy doing my bidding now !"

The terrified lad, tremblingly, brought, from a side table a writing case, and laid it on the bed. The old man gave a faint cry— "The key of— the— iron box ? My box? My box?" " To be sure. What can it matter to you now P— Oh, no doubt, it is among these." As she spoke, she darted at a bunch of keys that were slightly showing them selves from under the old man's pillow, and possessing herself of them, sue left the room. " Oh, father," he said, " do not think of me. Think only of yourself. Have you not often told me how you came to the great city a poor lad, without a friend or a groat in all the world, and yet you did well, and grew rich !" " Quick — quick ! Open the window, and call out for help. We want the help of some honest hearts and clear heads to be witnesses to what I am about to do.

I command you, Paul, to do it. Would you have me die with your disobedience at my heart ? Would you have that thought through life ?" •i ob no— no, father ! I will— 1 will." Paul went to the window. It was an old French casement. He dashed open one half of it, and the moment that he did so, the rain and the wind burst into the room with a vehemence that would not be resisted, and dashed to and fro the curtains of the bed. " There, father,* said Paul. " There ! What do you think now of her ? Is sbe much overcome by grief for you ? Oh, my poor— poor father !" The dying man sat up in his bed. "Paul— Paul, the scales are falling off my eyes, and now I see what! did not see and would not believe. My poor boy, I will not leave you to the mercy of that woman. She does not love you as she always pretended to me that she did.

Ah, now I see it all plainly, my child, and I feel that I must have been mad— quite mad, ever to believe in her protestations. She thinks — she knows that I am dying, and she throws off the mask and shows her real features. Oh, Heaven forgive me !" "Help! Help!" cried Paul. "Help! Whoever is passing, I pray you to stop at this door, in mercy !" " Hilloa, my lad," said a voice from the street. "What is the matter? I will come in." *' Nay, father, think nothing of it,'' said Paul, sobbing, and clasping the old man's hands in both his own. " Let her have all, but do not you accuse yourself at a time like this. I shall yet do well — quite well, father. Indeed I shall." - " Do so—do so. Father, here is some one, shall 1 admit him ? A man answers me from the street.*' ■' Yes— yes. God bless you, Paul !"

The boy hastened from the room, but he had first dashed shut (Le half of the window that lie had opened. To reach the street-door was the work of a moment ; and when he opened it, a tall man, enveloped in a faded cloak, and with a slouched hat pulled far over his brows, appeared. "No — no. A pen— paper— quick, my boy, quick ! Throw up the window and call in the passers-by. I will yet, while the strength is left me, make ano ther will. Oh quick, Paul ! For the love of Heaven, do not let me leave the world with the grievous sin upon my TAUL CLIFFORD; OR, She shook so that she could hardly hold the candle sufficiently still to keep r it. alight, and it was quite evident from her language that she wanted to pro , pitiate Paul ; but she sedulously kept her gaze from the bed. Paul went up to her and snatched the li"ht from her hands.

He rushed to the beaside. One glance upon the face of his father was enough. "He is dead!" he cried. "He has left me ! Father-father ! oh, fathei !' The stranger look the light from him, and led him to a seat, upon wbich he gently placed him, and then he looked steadfastly npon the face of the dead. " Here arc marks,* he said. " Then you did it," cried Mrs. Martindale. "They are your finger marks upon the old man's throat." The stranger turned a calm, full gaze upon her, as he said, with a terrible distinctriess— " What is it, my lad ?" he said. "AVhy did you call for help from tlie window ?" "Cornein — Come in, sir. My poor father is dying. He wishes for some one to whom he can appeal as a witness. Come in. Oh, pray follow me." «* Lead on." There was an abrupt tone of command about the stranger which sounded as if he were oue accustomed to emergencies . and to take the lead in them.

Not the remotest terror or alarm was in his voice or manner ; and his calm and cool cou rage iuspired the boy with a sort of respect from the moment that he heaid the voice of the stranger. Paul weDt up I he stairs at great speed, but all was dark above. The sudden shutting of thc window had puffed out the only light that had been in th« dying man's chamber, and the fire had burnt down, so as to be red and dull, and to cast but a faiut and shadowy radiance into the room. " Woman, I said nothing about a throat or finger marks. It was yoar conscience, in Ihe fulness of its guilt, that spoke those words. This is a muider !" '• What is the meaning of all this ?* said the stranger. " Are you in the dark, boy ?" " For a moment, sir, only for a moment. I will get a light directly. Father — father, how are you now ?"

Paul wailed for an answer, but no thing broke the profound stillness of the rojni but thc dashing of thc rain against the closed window. Then, clasping his hands lo. ether, the boy uttered a cry of de spair, as he said— ' Oh, God, he is dead — he is dead !* " Be calm," said the stranger. " Who is dead ?" "A murder !" cried Paul. ''A mur der ! OL, God, do not say that. No no ! He was dying, he said that he was dying. I cannot think that even she could be so wicked. Besides, sir, I was only out of the room to let you into the house." " Very good," said the stranger, as Le wrapped his cloak more carefully around him. " Goad night, my lad. I think I shall know you again. Shall you know me?" Paul sLook Lis Lead, and the stranger approached Lini, keepiug Lis back to wards Mrs. Martindale. He listed a mass of the long hair from off Lis fore- Lead, and showed Paul the mark of a scar from some severe wound.

" My father— my poor father !" " Get a light. Never grieve for tLe dead, boy. Give to the living as many t»ars as you please. TLe dead are happy. Get a light, and I will talk to you." Sobbing and dashing Lis Lands together, poor Paul stumbled about tLe room to find tLe candlestick wliich he had Lad once in Lis Lands, and then dropped as the conviction that his father was no more had crossed Lis mind. But before he could find it, a broad gleam of i light shot into the room from the land- : ing, and Mrs. Martindale made her ap- ' pearance, carrying a lighted candle. "What is all this uproar ?' she said. "What arc you about, Paul, my child? Who is fliis stranger f" " You will know that again ?'' " Yes, oh, yes." " Very good. When I meet yon at any time, I will be a friend to you, for I like your face ; and about your tones and looks there is a noble frank ness that I like the more on account of its rarity.

Good night. AVhat's your name?'' " Paul Clifford." " Very good. I shall recollect that." The stranger stalked from the room, and aa he passed Mrs. Martindalc, h« ; whispered something that seemed com pounded only of one word, but it had such an effect upon her, that she uttered a loud shriek, and fell upon the landing place close to the door of what now was the chamber of death. In another mo ment the stranger was gone. Paul wept bitterly, and tossed his arms to and fro in the agony of his grief. It was the first time he had known what it was to see pass away from him to the tomb one whom he loved ; for when his mother went from him he was too young to feel as he now felt atthe loss of his last surviving parent ; but he was not long permitted to indulge his giief undisturbed, for Mrs. Martindale, as Paul would call her, although she was truly his father's second wife, rose, and approaching him, sshe caught him by the throat, and while her face was black with passion, and her voice became hoarse and gut tural, she cried— * "Welp — wretch!

Tell me who is that man f poor father said he had left all to you. I will take his word that it is so; and as it is so, I will not be beholden to you for a crust of bread, but I will leave this house at once." Mrs. Martindale clapped her hands together, and burst iuto a wild kind of laugh, as she said — *• Capital — capital ! I could not have desired it. better. Go at once, aud may ill luck go with you. I only hope you may come to some bad end, as I have no doubt you will. You had better go aud turn highwayman, as oue of your family did before you, and was hanged at Tyburn." " Perhaps you will go there yet," said Paul. " Recollect what the stranger said to you. You wil! hear of that again." a££«U-_. With a yell of frantic rage, she dashed the door of the room shut, and locked it oa the outside in a moment. . " Take your hands off me, Mrs. Mar tindale."

Chapter II

, " How dare you keep on calling me Martindale, when you know my name is as much Clifford as yours is, and per haps more, too, for all I know ? How dare you ?" She shook him violently ; but animated by sudden passion, the boy extricated himself from her grasp, and in a scream ing voice he cried— " My poor father did not die thinking you other than what you are— a most wicked and unkind person ! He loathed you with his dying thoughts ; and if he had lived another hour, he would have made me master here. He would, vile woman, he would !" THE OLD HACKNEI-COACH.— A STRANGE SIGHT FOR PAUL. Of a surety Pau! had not the least idea of what mysterious word it was that the stranger Lad so appalled Lis mother-in-law with; but at the moment it had just occurred to him to say wLat he did for the purpose of alarming Ler.

He did not quite expect that the result would have been to lock him up with thc dead. " Father— father," he said, " have you really left me ?" All was still. He approached the bed, and touched one of the co'd hands. He kissed it. " Ah, indeed, Le would? Well, my little master, and then wLat would you have done P" " Good-by," said Pau). He' felt choking wilh Lis grief, but he went to the window and flung open the one half of it again. " This is now no Lome for me," Le said. " She will murder me if I stay here, and if she did not, I hate her and the place too, now. I will go off and take my chance in thc world ; others Lave done so, and so will I. It is a bad night to begin in. I wish that man had no! gone off so quickly. He might Lave befriended me. What an ugly scar that ' "Turned you out of the house."

" A good thought. I will turn you out of it, you little viper." " You may spare yourself the (rouble of trying it." You might hurt yourself," said the boy, as he took up a knife that lay upon the table- " I warn you, Mrs. Martindale, not to lay Lands npon me again. You will cut your fingers if you do ; and I should not have said what 1 have if I had not intended going. My PA*L CLIFFORD; OR, 6 fortune was to get as far away from his father's house as possible, he set off running at full speed ; but if the pace he went at had no other effect, it certainly kept down the great grief that was struggling and fighting for utterance in the boy's breast ; and as he ran on, he cared not whither, so that he got far away, he thus communed with him self— "I was fifteen only last month, and here I am homeless and friendless.

It is trne, that I ha7e three shillings and sixpence— <at least, I think so ; and that will keop roe from downright starving for a little while, but only a little while. We never saw any relations. Other people have uncles, and aunts, and cousins, and all that sort of thing ; but I have none— none. And no friends ever visited us of late years either ; and that was very odd, for my poor father once saw many ; so that in all London I don't know a soul who would say ' Ah, Paul, I am glad to see you !'" Another choking sob came np to the throat of the poor outcast, (tad he found tbat he could no longer contend agains the feeling of deep despair that was creeping over him. He staggered to the nearest door-step, and clasping both his hands over his face, and resting them upon his knees, he sat and wept as though his heart were breaking.

And the rain poured down upon him all the while, and the wind whistled round him, and not a soul came near him in his trouble and agony of grief. But after all, Paul was getting better. Sooner or later those tears— affection's tribute to the memory of the deadwere seen to come ; and it was a happy thing that they had come and were going ; for as they trickled through his fingers, poor Paul's heart got all the lighter, and finally he was able to draw a long breath and to look up and glance around him, and wonder what part of the town he was in— for he had not the least idea of where he had run to in the .agony of his spirit when he left his father's house. was on his head. Father— father, egood by!" The balcony on which the French window opened, was not above twelve feet from the street. Paul had many a time left the house by dropping from it, and climbed into it by the aid of its up right trellis-work, that reached to the ground ; and what he had done often for sport, he now prepared to do in earnest and with no wish or hope of returning.

The rain had thoroughly soaked the wood and wire work, but the place was so familiar to Paul that he had no difficulty in the desent. He was half way down when a flash of light came on his eyes, and looking up, he saw Mrs. Mar tindale, as he would call her, standing in the balcony, with a light in one hand, and something in the other which he could not at the moment make out ; but he was soon assured of what it was. "Thieves — thieves!" said she, and she sired a pistol at Paul. It was one of a pair that were always kept loaded for the protection of the house, and hung in one of the bedrooms. ■ - "Thank you," said Paul. "It was lucky I took the bullets out of the pistols long ago to make dumps of." '• Take that, you little brute. I will say I mistook you for a thief, if there is any disturbance about it."

"All's right," said Paul, as he dropped safely into the street. •' You and I will meet some other time, Mrs. Martindale, I dare say, and then I may be able to say more to you than I do now. Good by, old house — good-by, father.* Something touched the feet of Paul, and be gave a sudden start, but in a moment ne knew that it was a cat that was a great favourite and pet of his. He caught the creature in his arms, and ran off with it, saying — " You shan't stop either, puss. We will be off together ;" but the cat was rather alarmed, and after scrambling on to Paul's head, she made a flying leap to the ground, and scampered back home again. •' Very well," said Paul, " if you don't like to leave the old place, you can go back to it. I will seek my for tune all alone. There's nobody iu all the world to care about me now."

A wretched oil lamp at some distance off, m it flickered in the breeze, and as the rain poured down the sides of its glass, was the only means by which he could see dimly about him. A garden wall, on the top of whioh grew some Poor Paul gave a gasping sort of sob, as he made this sad remark ; and then, as if the best thing in the world to find his dingy ivy, was close behind the lamp, and it did not shed sufficient light for Paul to see to the end of that wail either way. The doorstep upon which he sat, seemed to be that of a large house. "Where am I?" said Paul. "I think it must be somewhere about Islington, for I seem as if I could smell the damp trees in the gardens, and I do think I came that way." As he spoke, he heard a rumbling sound, .and lie bent his ear down to lis ten. It was the approach of a hackney coach that made tLe mimic tliunder, and presently iu tLe distance he could see it coming on like a great black cloud.

A shriek burst upou the night air, and Paul sprang to his feet. "What was that— what was that?* he said. "Here once already to-uight some body has aimed at my life with a pistol, and now some one else is going to try and put me out of the world with a sword. Oh, father — father, if you could only know what I am suffering — your poor Paul!" The flash of a lantern came right into the doorway, but the portico over it was supported by four columns, and Paul succeeded in squeezing his slender anatomy right behind one of them near to the door, where one would hardly have supposed there was room for a cat to stand upright in. The man passed on ; and now Paul felt almost petrified by suddenly hearing one of the sweetest voices that had ever chimed upon his ears, crying— •' Oh, spare me — spare me !

Have mercy upon me, aud let me go. What have I done, that 1 should be thus treated? God will reward you if you let me go. Help — oh, help ! Pather !" " She has a father !" gasped Paul, as he extricated himself from tbe column, and was about to rush out ; but the idea of how little he could do against two or three men stayed him. He felt that it was not by sacrificing his life, probably, that he could be of service to that young girl, for such she evidently was, by her voice. " I say, Bishop," cried a voice, " I can't mauage her. Come here and open the door in the wall. Where's Mother Malines, I wonder? Come here, will you ? 1 think she has fainted now, or something of that sort." There was a flashing of the lantern now, and the banging of a door, and in a few moments more the hackney-coach moved leisurely away, and all was pro foundly still.

The little oil-lamp alone continued to shed its faint radiance upon the wall, and the dark-leaved ivy that protruded over its coping-stone. Paul rubbed his eyes. " It wasn't a dream!" he said. " Oh, no— no ! Nothing like it. What could it all mean ? What ought I to do f " While he spoke, he crossed the road way, and feeling along the ivy-mantled wall, he at length came to the door which, no doubt, had opened to admit the men and their young prisoner — that hapless girl, who had called for help when none was near which at that Poor Paul then shook his head, and began to fancy that it must be some thing wrong in his brains that had made him fancy that such a sound came upon the night aim for everything seemed to be so preternaturally still after it, that he could nardly make himself believe that such a sound bad startled him in reality.

" I only hope I am not going mad,'' he said. " I would rather hear thit cry again thau think that." The hackney-coach came lumbering on; and, to the surprise of Paul, it stopped at the wall where the ivy grew, and not very far from the dismal oil lamp tli it kept winking at the world in so odd a manner. Paul drew himself back right into the deep shadow of the doorway he was in, and jamming himself into a corner, his slight figure was com pletely out of sight. He heard a man's voice say— " Don't smother her !" " Oh, no — no," said another, " but we cannot have that squalling. Who would have thought it P and of such a chicken, too 1 But she won't do it again." " Hush— hush," said the other voice. " Bring her ont at once. Is Sir Wil loughby here 1" " Not yet, I take it.— Ring the bell." "Yes— yes.

I'll do .all that. You take your lantern, and look about, that there are no spies upon the watch. Run any one through that you see." "Thi is pleasant,* thought Paul. I moment felt power enough to aid her. There was a large lock upon the door, and below it, close to the wall, were a couple of heavy pieces of sustaining limner. " Well," said Paul, as he gathered himself to his feet, "they can but kill me, aud then poor father and I will meet again sooner than I or he expected. I will have a look at the girl, aud I'll sec, too, if I can't do something to get her out of this place ; for one thing is quite clear, and that is, that she dou't come here with her own consent." " Why," said Paul, speaking in a shivering whisper, " it's just like going up stairs to get on top of this wall, aud it would be easy enough to drop down on the other side.