CXIX. THE EXAMINATION OF MR. FRANK CURTIS…

CXIX. THE EXAMINATION OF MR. FRANK CURTIS

Captain O’Blunderbuss surveyed his friend with a degree of admiration amounting almost to envy, as the latter leapt nimbly into the box; but when the two Commissioners inflicted upon the Insolvent the simultaneous long stare which seemed to form a portion of the judicial proceedings, the gallant officer fixed upon those learned functionaries a look of the most ferocious menace,--muttering at the same time something about the “punching of heads.” As for Mr. Frank Curtis, he returned the stare of the Commissioners in so deliberately impudent and yet good-humoured a manner that it was quite evident the physiognomical discrimination of the bench was at least for once completely set at naught. In plain terms, the Commissioners did not know what the deuce to make of the young gentleman.

“I appear for the Insolvent, sir,” said one of the learned counsel, Mr. Cadgerbreef by name.

“And I attend for an opposing creditor, sir,” observed Mr. Bulliwell.

The Clerk of the Court handed up the schedule to the Commissioners, who occupied some minutes in looking over it, the document being somewhat a lengthy one.

“I see you have got upwards of a hundred and fifty creditors, Insolvent,” said Mr. Commissioner Sneesby, fixing his eyes severely upon the youthful candidate for the process of white-washing.

“Be Jasus! and my frind’s a jintleman--every inch of him!” cried Captain O’Blunderbuss: “and no jintleman could think of petitioning the Court with less than a hunthred and fifty creditors.”

The whole Court was struck with dismay--the bench being perfectly aghast--at this interruption; while the captain stood as dauntless and menacing as if he seriously contemplated the challenging of Commissioners, learned counsel, lawyers, and all. Even the usher was so astounded by his conduct that he forgot to bawl out his usual noisy cry for silence.

“Who is this person?” enquired Mr. Commissioner Sneesby, turning towards his brother-judge, as if the latter knew any better than himself.

“Person, be Jasus! Don’t call me a person,” vociferated the gallant gentleman, stamping his martial foot heavily upon the floor. “Is it me name ye’d be afther finding out? If so, I’ll hand ye my car-r-d--and you’ll find that I’m Capthain O’Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park, Connemar-r-ra, Ir-r-reland!” added the Insolvent’s bosom-friend, rattling the r in such an appalling manner that it seemed as if a waggon laden with iron bars was passing through the Court.

“Turn him out!” exclaimed Mr. Commissioner Sneesby.

“Be Jasus! and it’ll take tin of ye to do that!” ejaculated the captain, taking so firm and dauntless a stand that he appeared literally nailed to the ground. “But we’ll make a compromise, if ye plaze--and that is, I’ll hould my tongue.”

“You had better, sir,” said the Commissioner: then, perceiving that none of the officials seemed inclined to assail the impregnable front which the ferocious Irishman presented, he thought it prudent to pass over the interruption and continue the business before the Court. “Who attends to oppose?” he accordingly demanded.

“Me!” ejaculated a little, dapper-looking, flashily-dressed person, elbowing his way through the crowd behind the barristers’ seats, and getting his glossy beaver smashed flat as an opera hat in the desperate struggle: indeed, what with the smell of onions from one man and tobacco from another,--what with the squeezing, and pushing, and crushing--the treading on toes, and the danger of having one’s coat slit up the back or one’s pocket picked,--it is no easy nor pleasant matter to transform oneself into a human wedge to be applied to such a stubborn, compact mass as a multitude in a Court of Justice.

At last, however, the little man succeeded in reaching the witness-box,--but not without being compelled to smart under the disagreeable conviction that the studied elegance of his toilette was entirely marred--his shirt-frill tumbled, his white waistcoat soiled through contact with a coal-heaver, and all the polish trodden off his boots.

Adjusting himself as well as he could in the box, he made a profound bow to the bench, simpered in a familiar fashion towards his counsel, glanced complacently at the attorneys, and then turned a look of indignant contempt upon the Insolvent,--so that the little gentleman’s transitions from excruciating politeness to extreme hauteur were very interesting indeed.

“Your name is Kicksey Fopperton, I believe?” said Mr. Bulliwell, the opposing creditor’s own counsel, specially retained and fee’d for the purpose of getting Mr. Frank Curtis remanded during as lengthened a period as possible.

“That is my name, sir,” was the answer, delivered with a bland smile and a half bow.

“What are you, Mr. Fopperton?”

“A tailor by trade, sir;”--for persons of Mr. Fopperton’s calling never describe themselves briefly as “tailors,” but always as “tailors by trade.”

“A tailor by trade,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell. “And you carry on business----”

“In Regent Street, sir,” replied Mr. Fopperton, glancing towards the bench to notice what effect such a fashionable address had produced upon the Commissioners: but one was dozing, and the other seemed to be looking at nothing--just as horses appear when they are standing idle.

“In Regent Street,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell. “And I believe the Insolvent called upon you, and ordered clothes to a considerable amount?”

“I have supplied him for the last three years,” answered Mr. Fopperton, “and never yet saw the colour of his money.”

“You never yet saw the colour of his money. But he has seen the colour of yours, though?”

“I have discounted bills for him to the amount of a thousand pounds.”

“To the amount of a thousand pounds. Now, on what pretence--or rather, under what circumstances did the Insolvent introduce himself to you?” inquired Mr. Bulliwell.

“He drove up to my door in a dashing gig, sir,” answered Mr. Fopperton, “leapt down, rushed in, and enquired if his friend the Archbishop of Canterbury had been waiting there for him? I assured him that his Grace had not visited the shop, to my knowledge, in all his life. ‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Curtis; ‘I must have made a mistake, then! But don’t you make the leather breeches which his Grace wears when he goes out hunting?’ I replied that I never made leather breeches at all. ‘Nor galligaskins?’ said Mr. Curtis. ‘Nor galligaskins, sir,’ I said. ‘Then blow me tight’ says he, ‘I have come to the wrong shop. My intimate and particular friend the Archbishop of York----‘. I suggested ‘Canterbury,’--‘Canterbury I meant!’ exclaimed Mr. Curtis: ‘his Grace promised to introduce me to his own tailor; and here have I been promising introductions likewise to Lord Pumpleby and the Marquis of Dublin, and a whole lot of my fashionable friends. There is a perfect rage all on a sudden to employ his Grace’s tailor!’--I was struck by all this fine-sounding talk, and handed Mr. Curtis my card. ‘Egad!’ said he, laughing, ‘I’ve a precious good mind to have a lark, and pit you against his Grace’s tailor. My eyes! what fun it would be!’”

“And it ended by the Insolvent actually putting you in competition with the imaginary tailor which he had conjured up?” enquired Mr. Bulliwell.

“Just so, sir,” returned Mr. Fopperton “and though I heard sometime afterwards that Mr. Curtis received a handsome income from his uncle Sir Christopher Blunt, yet I never got a sixpence.”

“Be Jasus! Sir Christopher-r is a regular ould screw!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“Eh?--what?” cried the Commissioners, the one awaking from his nap and the other from his obliviousness.

“Is it afther distur-r-bing ye I’ve been again?” demanded the gallant gentleman: “then, be the holy poker-r! I ask your pardon--and I’ll hould my pace!”

With these words the captain put his arms akimbo--pursed up his mouth in a most extraordinary fashion--and stood as still as a post and as demure as a methodist parson, to the huge delight of the unwashed audience.

“It appears,” said Mr. Bulliwell, resuming his examination of the opposing creditor, “that the Insolvent obtained clothes to the amount of four hundred pounds, and cash to the amount of a thousand?”

Mr. Fopperton bowed an assent.

“And you have every reason to believe that he only talked about the Archbishop’s tailor and his noble acquaintances, in order to throw dust into your eyes?”

“To make a fool of me, sir,” cried Mr. Kicksey Fopperton.

“To make a fool of you,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell.

“And an ass of me, sir!” ejaculated the tailor, with increasing warmth.

“And an ass of you,” echoed the learned counsel.

“Yes, sir--and to make a stupid old owl of me!” vociferated Mr. Fopperton.

“A stupid old owl of you,” still repeated Mr. Bulliwell, in the most matter-of-fact style possible: then, perceiving that his client had exhausted alike his self-reproaching epithets and his breath, the learned counsel sate down.

Thereupon up rose Mr. Cadgerbreef, who had been retained for the defence of the Insolvent; and as he pulled his gown over his shoulders and prepared to cross-examine the opposing creditor, Captain O’Blunderbuss turned partially round, and forming an arch with his hand on one side of his mouth, said, in a pretty loud tone however, “Be Jasus! and if ye don’t make mince mate of him, it’s meself that’ll skin him alive!”

The learned counsel nodded his head in a significant manner, as much as to say, “Just wait a moment--and you shall see how I’ll serve him;”--and the gallant captain appeared satisfied with the tacit promise thus conveyed.

“Now, Mr. Fopperton,” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef, who was considered to be particularly skilful in badgering and baiting an opposing creditor, “you’ll be so kind as to remember that you are upon your oath:” and the learned counsel glanced towards the bench, as much as to intimate that the Commissioners were keeping a sharp look out on him, the opposing creditor aforesaid, and would send him to Newgate without remorse at the least symptom of perjury that might transpire.

Mr. Fopperton cast his eyes timidly in the same direction; and it was no doubt some satisfaction to him to observe that the sleepy Commissioner was fast asleep, and that the other was just going off into a doze.

“Well, Mr. Fopperton,” exclaimed Mr. Cadgerbreef, in a very loud and very overbearing tone, “so you have come to oppose the Insolvent’s discharge--have you? Now answer me this question: have you ever been in that box yourself?” pointing at the same time in a resolute and determined manner towards the place occupied by Mr. Curtis.

“Am I bound to answer that question?” asked Mr. Fopperton, becoming considerably crest-fallen all on a sudden, and appealing meekly to his own counsel.

“I am afraid you must,” returned Mr. Bulliwell.

“Well, then,sir--I have had the misfortune to pass through this Court,” said the fashionable tailor, his countenance growing excessively blank.

“You have been insolvent,” exclaimed Mr. Cadgerbreef. “Now, sir, how often have you petitioned the Court and been discharged from your liabilities through the proceedings of this Court?”

“Really, sir--I--I----” stammered the West-End tailor, becoming awfully red in the face.

“Shall I repeat the question, sir?” demanded the learned counsel, affecting a politeness that was even more galling than his severity had been.

“You had better answer, Mr. Fopperton,” said Mr. Bulliwell.

“I can’t say--that is--not exactly----”

“Oh! very well--then we shall see!” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef, taking up a pen, dipping it deep into the ink, and making believe that he was about to take down the answers to be given to his questions--so as to catch the opposing creditor out perjuring himself if possible: “will you swear, Mr. Fopperton, that you have not been insolvent seven times?”

“Yes, sir--I will swear to that,” returned the tailor with alacrity.

“You will swear. Well--will you swear that you have not been insolvent five times?”

“Yes, sir--I will swear to that too.”

“You will swear to that, too. Now mind what you’re about, Mr. Fopperton: take care what you say,” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef, in a tone of awful menace. “Will you swear that you have not been insolvent three times?”

“No, sir--I--I can’t swear to that,” answered the tailor, looking very miserable.

“You can’t swear to that. Now, can you deny it?” “No, sir--I cannot,” said Mr. Fopperton.

“You cannot,” repeated Mr. Cadgerbreef, casting a glance at Captain O’Blunderbuss, which seemed to say, “I have him now!”--then, again addressing himself to the opposing creditor, he exclaimed in a domineering, browbeating manner, “Take care what you are about, Mr. Fopperton;--and now tell me whether you have not been bankrupt, as well as insolvent, several times.”

“No--only once bankrupt,” cried Mr. Fopperton, impatiently.

“Well--once bankrupt--and enough too, when coupled with three insolvencies!” said the learned gentleman, in a tone which very significantly implied his belief that the opposing creditor was the greatest scoundrel in the universe. “And pray how much have you ever paid in the shape of dividend, sir?”

“I really can’t say at this moment: I----”

“Oh! you can’t--can’t you!” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef: “then I’ll see if I can refresh your memory;”--and, taking out of his pocket a letter from some friend or relation, he pretended to examine it with very great attention, as if it contained some damning testimony relative to Mr. Fopperton’s dealings--although, in reality, it had no more connexion with him or his affairs than with the man in the moon.

“I think I recollect now, sir,” said the West-End tailor, getting frightened: “I--I----”

“Well, sir--can you answer my question?” demanded Mr. Cadgerbreef, laying his fore-finger on the letter in a marked and formal manner, just as if he were pointing to the very paragraph which furnished all requisite information respecting the tailor. “I will repeat it again for you: how much have you ever paid, collectively and under all your numerous insolvencies and frequent bankruptcies, in the shape of dividend?”

“Two-pence three farthings in the pound, sir,” answered Mr. Fopperton, in a low tone.

“Speak out, sir!” vociferated the learned counsel, although he heard perfectly well what had been said. “Two-pence three farthings in the pound,” exclaimed the unfortunate Snip, who already repented most bitterly that, by coming to oppose Mr. Frank Curtis, he had fallen into the hands of Mr. Cadgerbreef.

“Two-pence three farthings in the pound,” repeated this learned gentleman, tossing up his head as if in unmitigated abhorrence at such awful villainy. “And pray, sir, what was the aggregate of liabilities under all your innumerable insolvencies and your equally numberless bankruptcies?”

“I never was bankrupt more than once, sir,” mournfully and imploringly remonstrated the tailor, now worked up to a frightful pitch of nervousness and misery.

“Don’t shirk my question, sir!” exclaimed the barrister, sternly. “How much did all your liabilities--”

“Thirty thousand pounds, sir,” hastily cried Mr. Fopperton, anticipating the repetition of the query on the part of the learned gentleman.

“Be Jasus! and he’s a complete villain!” said Captain O’Blunderbuss, in such a loud tone that both the Commissioners woke up: whereupon the gallant officer affected to be seized with a sudden inclination to gaze up abstractedly at the sky-light, just for all the world as if he were quite innocent of any fresh interruption.

“Now, Mr. Fopperton,” exclaimed Mr. Cadgerbreef, seeing that the Commissioners were all attention just at this moment, and taking a skilful advantage of the circumstance, “under your numerous insolvencies and frequent bankruptcies--don’t interrupt me, sir--you have paid two-pence three farthings in the pound, on aggregate liabilities amounting to thirty thousand pounds. The Court will be pleased to notice these facts. And yet, Mr. Fopperton, we find you discounting a thousand pounds’ worth of bills for my client, the Insolvent. The Court will again please to take a note of this fact.”

Of course the Commissioners could not help making--or at least affecting to make the memoranda suggested by the learned counsel: so the sleepy one scrawled a zig-zag line across his note-book, and the other hit off a rapid sketch of Captain O’Blunderbuss’s face, Mr. Commissioner Sneesby being very proficient in that style of drawing. The two functionaries then laid down their pens, and looked as solemn and serious as if they had actually and positively taken the notes in the most business-like manner possible.

“Now, sir,” continued Mr. Cadgerbreef, once more turning to the opposing creditor, “will you tell the Court how much hard cash you gave the Insolvent for his acceptance of one thousand pounds?”

“Really, sir, the occurrence is so long ago--I--I----”

“Will you swear, man, that you gave him two hundred pounds?” demanded the learned counsel, impatiently.

“Yes, sir--I will,” was the instantaneous answer.

“Will you swear that you gave him four hundred?”--and Mr. Cadgerbreef dipped his pen into the ink with an air of awful determination.

“Why--no--I can’t exactly----” stammered the tailor, every instant becoming more and more nervous.

“Will you swear that you gave him three hundred and twenty pounds in hard cash for that bill?” demanded Mr. Cadgerbreef.

“That was just what I did pay in money,” replied Mr. Fopperton, in a hesitating manner.

“That was just what you did pay. Now tell the earned Commissioners what else you gave the Insolvent for that bill.”

“There was three hundred and twenty in cash--and four hundred and twenty in wines, pictures, and other objects of value----”

“Come--that only gives us seven hundred and forty,” cried the barrister: “how do you make up the rest?”

“A hundred pounds discount, sir--and----”

“A hundred pounds discount. Well--what next?”

“Sixty pounds commission, sir--and----”

“Sixty pounds commission. You have still another hundred to account for, Mr. Fopperton,” said the learned counsel, sharply. “Come--about that other hundred? and mind what you tell the Commissioners.”

“Well, sir--the hundred pounds was for bonus,” answered the fashionable tailor.

“That will do, sir: you may stand down,” said Mr. Cadgerbreef, looking significantly at the learned Commissioners, with a view of impressing it on their minds that he had just succeeded in fully unmasking a most awful rogue.

Mr. Bulliwell now rose and made a very furious speech against the Insolvent; so that a stranger unacquainted with the practice of English Courts of Justice, would have fancied that the learned counsel had some bitter and deadly motive of personal hatred against the young gentleman;--whereas all that apparent venom--that seeming spite--that assumed virulence--and that fierce eloquence were purchased by Mr. Kicksey Fopperton for a couple of guineas. The speech was cheap--yes, very cheap, when we take into consideration the almost excruciating pains that the learned gentleman took to get Frank Curtis remanded to prison for six months. So much perspiration--such frantic gesticulation--and such impassioned declamation were well worth the money; and if it did Mr. Bulliwell good to earn his two guineas on such terms, it must have been equally satisfactory to Mr. Kicksey Fopperton to obtain so good a two guineas’ worth.

During the delivery of this oration, Captain O’Blunderbuss could scarcely contain his fury: as insulting epithet after epithet poured from the lips of Mr. Bulliwell, who was always more eloquent when conducting an opposition than when arguing a defence, the gallant Irishman literally foamed at the mouth;--and it was only in the hope of Mr. Cadgerbreef’s ability to mend the business, that he succeeded in controlling his passion. At length Mr. Bulliwell sate down; and the captain muttered in a pretty audible tone, “Blood and thunther! he shall repint of this as long as he lives, if my frind is sent back to the Binch!”

Mr. Cadgerbreef rose to defend his client, Frank Curtis; and as the best means of making that young gentleman appear white was to represent the opposing creditor as particularly black, the learned counsel forthwith began to depict Mr. Kicksey Fopperton’s character in such sable dyes that the unfortunate tailor soon found himself held up to execration as a species of moral blackamoor. In fact, the poor little man was stunned--astounded--paralysed by the vituperative eloquence of Mr. Cadgerbreef; and as the learned counsel proceeded to denounce his “numerous insolvencies” and “his frequent bankruptcies” as proofs of unmitigated depravity,--as he dwelt upon the features of the bill-transaction, and spoke with loathing of the discount, with disgust of the commission, and with perfect horror of the bonus,--Mr. Fopperton began to say to himself, “Well, upon my word, I begin to fear that I am indeed a most unprincipled scoundrel: but the fact was never brought home to me so forcibly before!”

In the meantime Captain O’Blunderbuss was in perfect ecstacies: he forgot all that Mr. Bulliwell had said, in listening to the counter-declamation of Mr. Cadgerbreef;--and his delight was expressed in frequent ejaculatory outbursts, such as “Be Jasus, and there ye have him!” but which passed comparatively unnoticed amidst the thundering din of the learned counsel’s torrent of words. As for Mr. Frank Curtis, he had cared little for the violent assault made upon him by Mr. Bulliwell; but he was immensely pleased at the slaughterous attack effected by Mr. Cadgerbreef on the dismayed and horrified tailor.

The defence being concluded, the two learned Commissioners consulted with each other in whispers; and when they had exchanged a few remarks having no more reference to the case before them than to the affairs of the Chinese Empire, Mr. Commissioner Sneesby proceeded to deliver the judgment of the Court.

Looking as awfully solemn as possible, he said, “Insolvent, it is perfectly clear that you have run a career of extravagance and folly which must be summarily checked. While enjoying a handsome allowance from your worthy uncle, you contracted numerous debts in a most reckless manner; and it is probable that Sir Christopher Blunt withdrew that allowance in consequence of your spendthrift habits. Insolvent, the Court is of opinion that you cannot be allowed your freedom again until you shall have passed a certain time in confinement, both as a punishment for the past and as a warning for the future. The judgment of the Court is, therefore, that you be remanded at the suit of your opposing creditor, Mr. Fopperton, for the space of five calendar months from the date of your vesting order.”

“Thin bad luck to ye, ye slapy-headed ould scoundrels!” vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“Holloa, there!” cried the usher, unable to pass over such a flagrant breach of decorum as this, in spite of the awe with which the terrible Irishman inspired him; and, springing towards the captain, the official clutched him by the collar--while, to use the words of the newspaper reporter, “the most tremendous sensation pervaded the Court.”

But Gorman O’Blunderbuss was not the man to be thus assailed with impunity; and, knocking down the usher with one hand and Mr. Kicksey Fopperton on the top of him with the other, he made a desperate rush from the tribunal, no opposition being offered to his exit.

A few minutes afterwards he was joined at the public-house over the way by his friend Frank Curtis and the tipstaff who had charge of the latter; and the three worthies, following the example of the pious Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks, drank spirits-and-water until they were compelled to return to the King’s Bench in a hackney-coach.

CXX. THE LAPSE OF NINETEEN YEARS

How easy is it to record upon paper the sweeping words--“Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences just related:”--how easy is it with a few moments’ manipulation of the pen to leap over a period embracing almost the fifth part of a century!

Nineteen years!--a few short syllables--a drop of ink--a scrap of paper--and a minute’s trouble,--these are all that the novelist needs to enable him to pass by the deeds of nineteen years!

Oh! this very power compels us to look with suspicion upon the utility of our own avocations,--to reflect how far removed from the natural is even the most natural of the works of fiction,--and to feel the nothingness of all the efforts of the imagination when placed in contrast with the stern and stubborn facts of the real world!

For though the novelist, exercising a despotic power over the offspring of his fancy, may dispose of years--aye, even of centuries, with a dash of his pen,--yet of Time, as the universe actually experiences its march, not one instant can he stay--not one instant accelerate.

Great Kings, who have proclaimed themselves demigods and compelled the millions to abase themselves round their mighty thrones,--at whose awful nod whole nations have trembled as if at the frown of Olympian Jove, and whose impatient stamp on the marble pavement of their palaces has seemed to shake the earth to its very centre,--proud and haughty monarchs such as these have been powerless in the hands of Time as infants in the grasp of a Giant. Though heads would fall at their command, yet not a hair of their own could they prevent from turning gray: though at their beck whole provinces were de-populated, yet not a single moment could they add to their own lives!

TIME is a sovereign more potent than all the imperial rulers that ever wore the Tyrian purple,--stronger than the bravest warriors that ever led conquering armies over desolated lands,--less easy to be moved to mercy than the fiercest tyrants that ever grasped earthly sceptres.

To those who, being in misery, look forward to the certain happiness that already gleams upon them with orient flickerings from the distance, Time is slow--oh! so slow, that his feet seem heavy with iron weights and his wings with lead:--but to those who, being as yet happy, behold unmistakeable auguries of approaching affliction, Time is rapid--oh! so rapid, that his feet appear to glide glancingly along like those of a sportive boy in pursuit of a butterfly, and his wings are as light and buoyant as the fleetest of birds.

The wicked man, stretched upon the bed of death, cries out, “Oh! for leisure to repent!”--but Time disregardeth his agonising prayer, and saith, “Die!” The invalid, racked with excruciating pains, and wearied of an existence which knows no relief from suffering, exclaims, “Oh! that death would snatch me away!”--but Time accordeth not the shrieking aspiration, and saith, “Live on!”

Passionless and without feeling though he be, Time shows caprices in which the giddiest and most wilful girl would be ashamed to indulge,--sparing where he ought to slay--slaying where he ought to spare: insensible to all motives, incompetent to form designs, he appears to act with a method of contradictions and on a system of studied irregularities.

* * * * *

“Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the preceding chapters!”--Such is the sweeping assertion which we have now to make.

Nineteen years!--how much joy had been experienced, how much misery felt, during that interval: what vast changes had taken place over the whole earth!

In these islands that period was marked with the names of three sovereigns:--George the Fourth--William the Fourth--Victoria.

The debaucheries, vices, and profligacies of George lessened the value of Monarchy even in the eyes of its stanchest supporters: the utter incompetency, weakness, and even downright silliness of William reduced it to a still greater discount;--and the accession of Victoria proclaimed the grand fact that Monarchy is a farce, since a mere school-girl can be put up as the throned puppet of the Punch-and-Judy show of Royalty.

During nineteen years, then, did the value of Monarchy experience a rapid and signal decline: and, though it still endures, it is hastening with whirlwind speed to total annihilation. Men are becoming too wise to maintain a throne which may either be filled by a voluptuary, a fool, or a doll: they see something radically and flagrantly bad in an institution which is fraught with such frightful contingencies;--and they look forward to a convenient moment and a proper opportunity to effect, by moral means, and without violence, a complete change. The throne is worm-eaten--its velvet is in holes and covered with dust: and no earthly power can repair the wood nor patch up the cloth. It is old--ricketty--and good-for-nothing; and the magisterial seat of a President, elected by the nation at large, must displace it. Monarchy falling, will drag down the ancient Aristocracy along with it; and the twenty-six millions of these realms all starting fair together on a principle of universal equality, those who succeed in reaching the goals of VIRTUE and TALENT will constitute and form a new Aristocracy.

* * * * *

Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the preceding chapters; and it was now the summer of 1846.

The July sun gave forth a heat of intense sultriness; and not a breath of air fanned the stifling streets of the West-End, nor agitated the green foliage of St. James’s Park. Nevertheless all that fashionable quarter of London which lies within the immediate vicinity of the old palace that gives its name to the park just mentioned, presented a bustling and animated appearance; for Queen Victoria was to hold a grand reception at noon that day.

Pall Mall was thronged with well-dressed persons of both sexes;--and the windows and balconies in that thoroughfare were crowded with elegantly-attired ladies and gentlemen, who were either the occupants of the houses at the casements of which they were thus stationed, or had hired seats at the shops where the cupidity of the proprietors turned to advantage the curiosity of the public.

It was evident, then, that the reception to be holden this day was of no ordinary character, and that some great or illustrious personage was expected to attend the royal levee. For, amongst the thousands that thronged the streets, an immense anxiety to secure the best places prevailed; and in all quarters was the eager question asked--“But is it certain that the Prince will come this way?”

We must pause for a few minutes to notice a group occupying the balcony of the drawing-room windows at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. This group consisted of six persons--three gentlemen, and three ladies.

The first of the three gentlemen was a fine, handsome, noble-looking man of about forty-five years of age--with a countenance indicating feelings of the most lofty honour, great generosity, and a splendid intellect. This was the Earl of Ellingham.

Near him stood an old and venerable gentleman, whose years were verging fast to three-score-and-ten, but whose small, restless, sparkling eyes beamed with the fires of genius, and whose compressed lips showed that although he had consented to become a spectator of the gay scene about to take place, his thoughts frequently wandered to subjects of a more serious kind and more congenial to his nature. This was Sir John Lascelles--the most eminent physician of the age, and who had received the honour of knighthood in recompense for the great services which he had rendered to the art of medicine.

The third gentleman was about twenty-five years of age. Tall, handsome, well-formed, and genteel in appearance, he seemed a fit and suitable companion for the lovely girl who leant upon his arm, and of whom we shall speak more fully anon. The fine young man at present alluded to, was called by the name of Charles Hatfield: but in the former portion of this work he was known, when a little boy, to the reader as Charley Watts.

The first of the three ladies was about thirty-seven years of age; and her beauty, in the finest, chastest, and most elevated Hebrew style, was admirably preserved. The lapse of years had only matured her charms, and not impaired them: time had touched not the pearly whiteness of her teeth, nor dimmed the brilliant lustre of her large dark eyes. Her hair was still of the deepest and glossiest jet,--silken and luxuriant, as when we first described it in the fourth chapter of our narrative:--for she of whom we are speaking now, was Esther, Countess of Ellingham.

Conversing with the noble Jewess--for she clung to the faith of her forefathers--was a lady whose style of beauty was of that magnificent and voluptuous kind which sets the beholder at naught in his calculations and conjectures relative to the age of the object of his admiration;--for though forty-four years had passed over the head of Lady Hatfield, she was still endowed with a loveliness that, though matured, seemed to have known only the lapse of summers and never to have passed through the snowy storms of as many winters.

And now we must speak more in detail of that charming girl to whom we alluded ere now, and who was leaning on the arm of Lady Hatfield’s son. Ravishingly beautiful was this young creature of seventeen--with the aquiline countenance of her mother, and the Saxon complexion of her father. Yes--lovely indeed was Lady Frances Ellingham, the only issue of the alliance which took place between the Earl and Esther one year after the murder of Tamar, and consequently eighteen years previous to the period of which we are now writing. Much of the description which we gave of Esther in the opening of our tale, would apply to the charms of her daughter, whose forehead was high, broad, and intelligent,--whose mouth was small, and revealing in smiles teeth white as orient pearls,--whose eyes were large and dark,--and whose figure was tall, sylph-like, and graceful. But Lady Frances Ellingham’s hair, though dark, was several shades less jetty than that of her mother; and her complexion was delicately clear, with a slight tinge of rich carnation appearing beneath the dazzling purity of the skin.

Such was the interesting group of six persons stationed in the balcony of the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion. But while they are awaiting the presence of the illustrious individual who is expected to pass through Pall Mall to the Queen’s levee at St. James’s palace, we will place on record a few short facts that will render less obscure to our readers the interval of nineteen years over which we have thought fit to leap in our narrative.

For a long--long time after the murder of Tamar, Tom Rain appeared inaccessible to consolation: but at last his naturally strong mind and vigorous intellect began to exercise their energies--the former to combat against the deep and depressing sense of affliction--and the latter to teach him the necessity of putting forth all his powers in the struggle, not only on account of the inutility of repinings, but likewise for the sake of those who were interested in him. It was, however, chiefly on the occasion of Lord Ellingham’s marriage with Esther de Medina, that Rainford perceptibly rallied; for it did his generous heart good to behold the happiness of his half-brother. As time wore on, Tom Rain recovered much of his former cheerfulness; and after the lapse of three years from the date of Tamar’s death, he began to listen with attention, if not with interest, to the representations made to him by the Earl, urging him to the performance of a duty which it was now in his power to fulfil. Arthur reminded him of Georgiana Hatfield’s generous conduct in obtaining the royal pardon,--he assured Rainford that her ladyship no longer thought of him with abhorrence and aversion, but would cheerfully bestow her hand on the father of her child,--and the nobleman moreover advised the alliance on the ground that the boy would then dwell with both his parents. The death of Mr. de Medina, which happened about that time, delayed the negociations thus commenced; but at the expiration of a year the proposal was revived, and the necessary arrangements were speedily adjusted. In fine, it was settled that Rainford should abandon the name by which he had hitherto been known, and assume that of Hatfield,--that the boy should be thenceforth called in the same manner, but should be brought up in the belief that he was Rainford’s nephew,--and that after the marriage, which was to be solemnized in the most private manner possible, the wedded pair should proceed to the continent, and there reside for some years. All these arrangements were duly carried out. Rainford--whom we shall henceforth call by his wife’s name--became the husband of Lady Georgiana Hatfield;--and, taking with them their child, who was represented to be their nephew, they forthwith repaired to Italy, where they dwelt for nearly fifteen years. Thus, on their return to London, only a few weeks before the date up to which we have now brought the incidents of our tale, all the stirring circumstances once associated with the name of Tom Rain were pretty well forgotten; and none, save those few who were in the secret, suspected that the pleasant, gentlemanly, good-natured Mr. Hatfield was identical with the individual who nineteen years previously had filled all England with his fame.

While we have been thus digressing, the sensation amongst the crowds in Pall Mall has increased;--for the carriages of several eminent or illustrious personages have passed along in their way to the royal levee.

In the balcony at the Earl of Ellingham’s drawing-room window, a degree of curiosity and excitement prevailed which certainly could not have been aroused on the part of the intelligent individuals there assembled, by the mere display of gorgeous equipages. Let us see whether the conversation passing in that balcony will throw any light upon the subject.

“Well,” exclaimed Sir John Lascelles, almost in a petulant tone, “I wonder how much longer your cynosure of attraction will be before he makes his appearance? Truly, it was worth while for my friend Ellingham here, to drag me away from my experiments in order to catch a glimpse of a foreign Prince----”

“Nay, doctor,” interrupted the Earl, smiling: “It was precisely because this illustrious Prince is not a foreigner--but an Englishman by birth and a true Briton in his noble heart--that I thought you would be pleased to join those who are desirous to behold a youthful hero whose name occupies so memorable a page in history.”

“Well, well,” said the physician, somewhat more mildly: “I will have patience--and since you assure us that the object of all curiosity is indeed an Englishman----”

“Surely you can neither doubt the fact, nor be ignorant of his great achievements, doctor?” exclaimed the Earl. “But if you wish to receive positive assurances as to his Royal Highness’s English parentage, Lady Hatfield will satisfy you.”

“Yes--truly,” observed Georgiana. “When we were staying in Italy, we not only became as it were eye-witnesses of the great Revolution which was conducted to so signally triumphant an issue by the young hero of whom you are speaking; but we subsequently had the honour of forming the acquaintance of his Royal Highness and that of his Princess, who is as amiable as she is beautiful.”

“And now that the Prince has come to visit his native land once more,” said Charles Hatfield, his eyes flashing the fires of that enthusiasm which filled his soul, “the people assemble in crowds to do honour to their illustrious fellow-countryman. Oh! how delicious must his feelings be, when he reflects that as an obscure individual he once moved, unnoticed and unknown, amidst the mazes of this great city,--and that by his own brilliant merits he has raised himself to that pinnacle of rank and glory which renders him the admiration of the myriads now assembled to welcome his presence.”

“Well spoken, my dear Charles,” exclaimed Lady Hatfield. “Look up and down the street--it is literally paved and walled with human faces! In the balconies on either side of this house--and opposite too--I recognise many ladies and peers of the highest rank. Yes--Charles, you are right: the feelings of the Prince must indeed be joyous when he reflects that this vast congregation of all classes has gathered to do honour to the fellow-countryman of whom they are so justly proud.”

“History teems with examples of bold, bad, and ambitious men usurping power and decorating themselves with lofty titles,” continued Charles, addressing himself partly to Lady Hatfield and partly to the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham: “but in the present instance we have a young Englishman, of generous soul, enlightened opinions, and even rigorous rectitude of conduct, raising himself from nothing as it were and acquiring the proudest titular distinctions. For what a glorious elevation was it from plain Mr. Richard Markham to His Royal Highness Field-Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-Apparent to the Grand-Ducal Throne!”

Scarcely had Charles Hatfield enunciated these sounding titles in a tone which afforded full evidence of the enthusiasm that filled his soul as he thought of the splendid career of Richard Markham,[1] when far-off shouts of welcome and of joy suddenly reached the ears of the group on the balcony:--then those sounds came nearer and nearer, as the crowd took up the cries from the direction where they commenced;--and never was Royalty saluted with a more cordial greeting than that which now welcomed the hero of Castelcicala.

“Long live the Prince of Montoni! God save Richard Markham!” were the words sent up by thousands and thousands of voices to the blue arch of heaven.

In a short time a handsome carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses, came in sight of the spectators in the balcony; and nothing could now exceed the enthusiasm of Charles Hatfield, as he once more beheld the object of his heroic idolatry--that fine young Prince whom he had so often admired and envied when in the vast square of the ducal palace of Montoni his Royal Highness reviewed the garrison of the Castelcicalan capital.

The Prince, who was accompanied in his carriage by two aides-de-camp, wore the uniform of his high military rank: his breast was covered with Orders; and in his hand he carried his plumed hat, which he had removed from his brow through respect to the generous British public from whom he now received so enthusiastic a welcome.

His Royal Highness was in the prime and glory of his manhood. He was thirty years of age: his dark hair, which he wore rather long and which curled naturally, enclosed a forehead that appeared to be the seat of genius of the highest order;--and his fine black eyes were bright with the fire of intelligence and the animation of complete happiness. His magnificent uniform set off his symmetrical and graceful figure to its fullest advantage; and he acknowledged with affability and modest condescension the demonstrations of joy and welcome which marked his progress.

As his equipage passed opposite the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, his eyes were attracted to the balcony; and, recognising Lady Hatfield and the enthusiastic Charles, he bowed to them in a manner which testified the pleasure he experienced at again beholding those whose acquaintance he had formed in the ducal capital of Castelcicala.

“He is certainly a very fine young man,” said Sir John Lascelles. “I have seldom seen a countenance so expressive of vast mental resources:” then, after a short pause, the worthy physician added, “I would give much for a cast of his head.”

The Earl was about to make some reply, when his own name was suddenly shouted forth by a voice in the street: and that name, taken up by tongue after tongue, was echoed by thousands of individuals who were delighted to associate the stanch friend of the industrious classes of England with their enthusiastic welcomings of the royal champion of constitutional freedom in Italy.

“Long live the Marshal-Prince of Montoni! three cheers for the Earl of Ellingham!” were now the cries that made the very welkin ring; and these shouts were prolonged for some time, until the carriage of his Royal Highness turned into the court-yard of St. James’s palace, and the Earl on his side withdrew from the balcony.

“You sigh, Charles?” said Lady Frances Ellingham, in a low and somewhat anxious tone, and speaking apart to him whom she believed to be Lady Hatfield’s nephew.

“I was only thinking, dear Fanny,” answered the young gentleman, “that much and earnestly as I may strive to elevate myself, it will never be my good fortune to have such opportunities as the Prince of Montoni found for distinguishing his name and acquiring on immense reputation.”

“Are you envious of him, Charles?” enquired the beautiful maiden, in a somewhat reproachful tone. “I thought that you recked not for titles and high rank----”

“No--not when they are hereditary,” hastily replied Charles Hatfield: “and this assurance I have often given you in secret--because I should not like to make such an observation before your noble father, whose title is hereditary. But I admire--yes, and I envy too, the honours which a great man acquires by his own merits! Do you imagine that the English people would have assembled in vast crowds to hail and welcome one of their own royal Dukes? No, indeed! And yet they seem as if they could not testify their joy in too lively a manner, when the Prince of Montoni appears amongst them.”

While this little dialogue was taking place in one part of the spacious drawing-room at the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion, the nobleman himself was conversing with his wife and Lady Hatfield in another--the entire group having withdrawn from the balcony, and Sir John Lascelles having quitted the apartment.

“Yes,” said the Earl, in answer to a question put to him by Lady Hatfield; “I have understood that the Prince proposes to stay some weeks in London. The Princess Isabella has not accompanied him--her royal parents, the Grand Duke Alberto and the Grand Duchess, being loth to part with her. The Prince has taken up his abode--at least, so states the morning newspaper--at Markham Place, the house where he was born and where all his youth and a portion of his manhood were passed. Accordingly, as you desire, Georgiana, I will call upon his Royal Highness to-morrow; and I will request him to accept of an entertainment at this mansion.”

“How did it occur,” enquired the Countess of Ellingham, “that Thomas was not with us just now to behold the progress of the Prince to St. James’s?”

“You know, dear Esther,” answered Lady Hatfield, “that my husband loves privacy and seclusion, and especially avoids appearing in crowded places. He fears to be recognised,” she added, sinking her voice so as to be inaudible to Charles and Lady Frances, who were at the opposite end of the apartment: “and he is perhaps right--although so many years have elapsed since those occurrences----”

“To which we will not refer,” interrupted Lord Ellingham, hastily. “How very seriously the young people appear to be conversing together,” he added, glancing towards Charles Hatfield and Lady Frances.

“Charles has imbibed certain romantic ideas and hopes of distinguishing himself in the world,” observed Georgiana; “and I think it right to encourage such noble--such generous aspirations. But your charming daughter is evidently remonstrating with him upon some point: and yet the two cousins appear to be much attached to each other,” she added, with rather an anxious look at the Earl, as if she were uncertain how he might receive the observation, into which she threw a degree of significancy.

“You have mentioned a circumstance which gives me much pleasure--nay, not only myself, but likewise my dearest Esther,” said the nobleman. “We have already adopted it as the basis of many happy plans for the future----”

“Yes,” observed the Countess of Ellingham, emphatically: “an alliance between Charles and our beloved daughter, would prove a source of felicity and satisfaction to us all.”

“Arthur--and you, too, dear Esther,” murmured Lady Hatfield, in a tone indicative of deep emotions, “I thank you for these assurances. All my earthly ambition--my sole hope, would be accomplished on the day that such an union took place. Alas! poor boy--it is distressing--Oh! it is distressing to be compelled to veil from him the real secret of his parentage--to hear him at times question me relative to his parents--his supposed parents, who are represented to be no more! Yes--and it is cruel, too, to be forced to deceive him--to hear him call me his aunt--I, who am his mother!”

“Georgiana--dearest Georgiana, do not thus afflict yourself!” murmured Esther, pressing Lady Hatfield’s hand in a tender manner, and speaking in a tone of consolation and sweet sympathy.

But almost at the same instant a piercing scream burst from Georgiana’s lips; and she fell senseless into the arms of the Countess of Ellingham--while the Earl, turning mechanically and hastily round, beheld Charles standing close behind him,--pale--astounded--petrified! For the young man had advanced unperceived--and his tread unheard on the thick, soft carpet--towards the group formed by Lady Hatfield, the nobleman, and the Countess: and his ears had caught these words--“to hear him call me aunt--I, who am his mother!”

For a few instants he stood motionless--amazed and stupefied by what he had heard:--but, suddenly recovering the power of movement and yielding to the ineffable sensations which were excited in his breast, he sprang forward--and catching his still insensible parent in his arms, he cried, “Oh! my dearest mother--my beloved, my adored mother--open your eyes--look upon me----”

“His mother!” exclaimed Lady Frances, overwhelmed with surprise, and unable, in the innocence of her virgin heart, to form even the slightest notion that might serve as a clue to what was still so deep a mystery to her.

“Yes--my dearest Fanny,” said the Earl, hastily drawing his daughter aside and speaking to her in a low and rapid tone: “Charles is indeed the son--and not the nephew--of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana. But reasons of an imperious necessity--reasons which you are too young to comprehend, and too discreet to enquire into----”

“My dear father, I seek to know no more than it may please you to tell me,” interrupted the young lady, with a decision as amiable as it was dutiful and re-assuring: “and my behaviour shall henceforth be as if I had not been accidentally made the spectatress of this scene.”

“You are my own beloved--darling daughter!” exclaimed the Earl enthusiastically, as he pressed his lips to the pure and chaste forehead of the charming countenance that was upturned so lovingly towards his own.

By this time Lady Hatfield had been recovered through the kind attentions of Esther; and, awaking to consciousness, she clasped her son to her bosom, murmuring in a faint tone and broken voice, “Now you have learnt my secret, Charles--a secret which--But another time--another time, you shall know all! Oh! Charles--I feel so much happiness and so much sorrow--strangely blended--at this moment----”

“Compose yourself, dearest--dearest parent!” exclaimed the young man, his tears flowing freely. “I now know that you are my mother--and I care to know nothing more! Never--never shall I question you concerning the past: the enjoyment of the present, and the hope which gilds the future--these are enough for me!”

“My poor boy!” murmured Lady Hatfield, straining him to her breast: “I feel as if an immense weight were taken from my mind--I seem to drink of a purer source of happiness than I have ever yet known----Oh! why did I ever hesitate to tell thee that thou wast my son!”

And again she pressed him closer and closer still to her bosom, covering his brow and cheeks with kisses; while tears flowed from the eyes of the Countess and of Lady Frances at the touching spectacle--and the Earl turned aside to conceal his emotions.

CXXI. MR. HATFIELD

In the meantime Sir John Lascelles had repaired to the library in the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion; and there he found, as he had anticipated, his friend Mr. Hatfield--late Tom Rain.

This individual was now in his fiftieth year; and he was much changed by time as well as by art. He still possessed the fine teeth which caused the beholder to forget the somewhat coarse thickness of the lips;--but the laugh that came from those lips, when he was in a happy mood, was more subdued and quiet than when the reader first made his acquaintance many years previously to the present date. Though never inclined to corpulency, he had nevertheless become thinner: yet his form was still upright, muscular, and well-knit. In his calm moments, especially when he was alone, a slight shade of melancholy appeared upon his countenance;--and he even sighed at times as he thought upon the past

These were the changes which the lapse of years had effected in regard to him; and the appliances of art rendered it still more difficult to recognise in the Mr. Hatfield of 1846 the rollicking Tom Rain of 1827. For his hair and whiskers were dyed a very dark hue; and his attire was a plain suit of black.

Was he happy? Yes--to a certain extent, in spite of the shade of melancholy and the occasional sighs. His was a disposition originally so gay and joyous, that it could not be completely subdued--only mellowed down. Years of rigorous integrity--boundless charity--never-failing philanthropy--and innumerable good deeds, had established in his mind a confidence that the errors of his early life were fully expiated;--and so complacently could he look upon the present, that he no longer reproached himself for the past.

This was the usual tenour of his mind: but, as we have already hinted, there were now and then moody intervals in which thought became painful. These were, however, of no frequent occurrence;--and, thus--on the whole--we may assert that Mr. Hatfield was happy.

The conduct of Lady Georgiana towards him, from the moment of their union, had been of an affectionate and touching nature. She studied to enact the part of the tender wife--the sincere friend--and the amiable woman: and she succeeded fully. Espousing him at first solely on account of their child, she soon began to like her husband--next to admire him--eventually to love him. She found him to be possessed of numerous good qualities--noble and generous feelings--and sentiments far more refined than she could possibly have anticipated. The terms on which he lived with her, therefore, aided in insuring his happiness; and the fine principles as well as handsome appearance of their son, were a source of profound delight to them both.

Mr. de Medina had died possessed of great wealth--one half of which was bequeathed to Mr. Hatfield. This amount, joined to Lady Hatfield’s fortune, rendered them very wealthy; and their riches were almost doubled by the demise of Sir Ralph Walsingham, Georgiana’s uncle, who left them all his fine estates. Thus their income might be calculated at thirty thousand a-year; and no inconsiderable portion of this splendid revenue was devoted to humane and charitable purposes.

When Sir John Lascelles entered the library, as above stated, Mr. Hatfield hastened to welcome him with all the affectionate assiduity of a son receiving a visit from a kind and venerable parent; and the worthy physician evidently experienced a greater elasticity of feeling towards Mr. Hatfield than to any other friend whom he possessed on earth. The one never could forget that he owed his life to the science of the doctor: the other looked on Hatfield as a person whom he had actually restored to the world, and as a living proof of the triumph which had crowned long years of research in respect to a particular study.

“My dear friend,” said Sir John Lascelles, when they were both seated, “I have just witnessed a spectacle that I must candidly admit to have been very gratifying. The English are a most generous-hearted people, and are quick also in the appreciation of sterling merit. The Earl’s name was just now coupled with the shouts of applause that welcomed the Prince of Montoni.”

“I am rejoiced to hear these tidings,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “Indeed, it struck me, as the sounds of the myriad voices reached my ears in the seclusion of this room, remote though it be from the apartment whence you have just come,--it struck me, I say, that I heard my brother’s name mentioned. For nineteen years has Arthur now struggled in the interests of the middle and industrious classes: session after session has he passed in review the miseries and the wrongs endured by the sons and daughters of toil;--and what has he experienced from the several Administrations which have succeeded each other during that period? Though Whigs and Tories have held the reins of power in their turns, the treatment received by my brother has been uniformly the same. The most strenuous opposition to all his grand proposals has been offered; and when some trifling point has been conceded, ’twas as if a boon were conferred instead of an act of justice done. But although Arthur has thus failed in inducing the Government to adopt large and comprehensive measures for the relief, benefit, and elevation of the industrious classes, he has at least succeeded in giving such an impetus to Liberal sentiments out of doors--beyond the walls of the Senate-house--that he has taught millions to think, who never thought before, upon their political condition. Though baffled in the Legislative Assembly--though thwarted by the old school of aristocracy, and the supporters of those vile abuses which are summed up in the phrase ‘the landed interest’--though opposed with unmitigated hostility by the worshippers of ‘the wisdom of our ancestors,’--nevertheless, Arthur has returned undaunted to the charge. Never disheartened--never cast down--always courageous in the People’s Cause, he has fearlessly exposed the rottenness of our antiquated institutions, and mercilessly torn away the veil from our worn-out systems. The millions recognise and appreciate his conscientious--his unwearied strivings in their behalf; and they adore him as their champion. Unassuming--honest--and free from all selfishness as he is, it must nevertheless have been a proud moment for my brother when he heard his name associated ere now with that of the illustrious Prince who achieved the liberation of Castelcicala beneath the walls of Montoni.”

“The gratitude of the industrious classes is the most welcome reward that a well-intentioned and a true patriot can possibly experience,” observed Sir John Lascelles. “The Earl certainly seemed pleased with the high but merited compliment thus paid to him--although not for one minute did he seek it, when he appeared at the balcony; for I noticed that he rather endeavoured to conceal himself behind the window-curtain. But speaking of the Prince--he is a very handsome young man.”

“The Castelcicalans absolutely worship him,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and they look upon him as in every way fitted to succeed the Grand Duke Alberto, whenever death shall snatch away that great and enlightened sovereign from the throne.”

“It was in the Castelcicalan capital that poor Jacob Smith breathed his last--was it not?” enquired the physician.

“Yes--in the suburbs of Montoni,” answered Mr. Hatfield. “As you are well aware, the poor youth never recovered the shock which he sustained on learning that he owed his being to that dreadful man--Benjamin Bones; and the horrible way in which that remorseless wretch died, augmented the weight of the fearful blow caused by that discovery. Jacob scarcely ever rallied--scarcely ever held up his head afterwards: the only gleam of happiness which he knew was afforded by the good tidings that we received relative to the Bunces--and even that was insufficient to sustain his drooping spirit. He languished away--for six years he pined in sorrow, accessible to no consolation that travelling, change of scenery, or our attentions could impart. It was several years before the Great Revolution, which, conducted by Richard Markham, gave freedom to Castelcicala and raised up that hero to a princely rank,--it was some years before this glorious era, that Jacob Smith--for he always retained that name--breathed his last. We buried him in a picturesque cemetery on the banks of the river Ferretti; and a cross--according to the custom of that Catholic country--was placed to mark his last home.”

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed the doctor. “He was always sickly--and the discovery of his hideous parentage was too much for so weak a constitution. And now let us turn to another subject:--have you received the letters which you expected concerning the various individuals----”

“I know to whom you allude,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield; “and I have now before me,” he added, glancing at several letters, “the correspondence relating to those persons. Timothy Splint still remains the occupant of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States; and the last nineteen years of his existence have proved the sincere penitence which he feels for the crimes of his earlier days. He possesses a competency--if not positive wealth. By his marriage with the daughter of a neighbouring settler, he has a numerous family; and he brings up his children in the ways of morality and virtue. Indeed, I am well aware that he has lived to bless the period when he went through the ordeal of the subterranean dungeon.”

“You prophesied that he would!” exclaimed Sir John Lascelles. “Yes--those were the very words which you used when speaking of him to me nineteen years ago. I recollect them perfectly;--for age has not impaired my memory, thank heaven!”

“I now come to Joshua Pedler,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, “You will remember, my dear doctor, that this man and his wife Matilda were appointed to the charge of the Eddystone Light-house. There they remained for six or seven years--as indeed I wrote to you to this effect a long time ago----”

“Yes--and then you sent them out as emigrants to Canada,” interrupted Sir John Lascelles; “and they continued to do well. What say your last accounts concerning them?”

“They are still happy--contented--and prosperous,” answered Mr. Hatfield. “Their shop at Quebec thrives admirably; and they have managed to put by several hundred pounds. Pedler says that the sweetest bread he has ever eaten in his life, has been that which he has earned by his honest toils. I have reason to feel convinced, moreover, that he is kind and good towards his wife, and that his only regret is their not having any children.”

“And the Bunces are still living in St. Peter’s-Port, after having acquired a competency in the Island of Sark?” enquired the physician.

“Yes--they are still in the capital of Guernsey,” was the response. “Bunce tells me in his letter that his wife’s health does not improve; in fact, she doubtless received a cruel shock when she heard of the death of Jacob Smith--for it had been her hope that he might some day take up his abode with her and her husband--a hope which she however nourished in secret.”

“Bunce himself has never learnt the real parentage of Jacob, I believe?” said the physician. “Indeed, I remember you told me the other day that his wife, always bearing in mind the injunctions you conveyed to her through Mrs. Harding, had retained as a profound secret her former illicit connexion with Benjamin Bones.”

“Yes--it was useless to make a revelation which would only have troubled their domestic peace,” said Mr. Hatfield. “Harding divined the hope that the woman had formed relative to Jacob--and in his letters he communicated his ideas to me. But even if death had spared Jacob, he would not have quitted me--no, not though it were to dwell with his own mother!”

“And Jeffreys?” asked the physician: “what of him?”

“He is well pleased that he removed last summer from Hackney to Liverpool. The money he had saved during a period of eighteen years at his shop in the London suburb, enabled him to take a very handsome establishment in the great commercial town in the north; and he is carrying on a large and flourishing business.”

“Thus, in every instance, save that of Old Death, have you succeeded in reclaiming those wicked people whose reform you took in hand,” said Sir John Lascelles. “Tidmarsh died tranquilly in his bed in the Island of Alderney--and the others still exist, worthy members of society.”

With these words the physician rose and took his leave; and almost immediately after he had quitted the library, the Earl of Ellingham entered, closing the door behind him with the caution of one who has some important or mysterious communication to make.

“Arthur, you have evil tidings for me?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, advancing towards his noble half-brother.

“Nay--they can scarcely be called evil, Thomas,” was the reply: “and yet--’twould perhaps have been better----”

“Speak! Keep me not in suspense,” interrupted the other.

“Charles--your son----”

“Ah! he has discovered his parentage!” cried Hatfield. “Yes--I am sure that this is the circumstance which you came to communicate;”--and he walked twice up and down the room in an agitated manner: then, suddenly turning towards his brother, he said, “How did this occur, Arthur?”

The Earl related the incident just as it had taken place, not forgetting the short but impressive dialogue which he had with his own daughter, Lady Frances, respecting the sudden and accidental revelation of the secret of Charles Hatfield’s birth.

“After all, I am not sorry that this has so happened,” observed the nobleman’s half-brother. “Sooner or later the truth must have been confided to my son--my dear son;--and since the secret may still be preserved in respect to the world and to those whom we would not wish to become acquainted with it----”

“Sir John Lascelles himself does not even suspect it,” interrupted Arthur. “It is known but to our immediate family--and Georgiana’s honour is as safe as ever it was. The breath of scandal cannot reach it.”

“Thanks, my dear brother--a thousand thanks for this assurance!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “And now let my son come hither to embrace me as his father:--but, Arthur,” he added, sinking his voice to a low and solemn tune, “let him not enquire into the motives which induced his parents to envelop his birth in mystery. Enjoin him to forbear from any attempt to gratify his curiosity in that respect!”

“I hope--indeed, I believe that you have no painful ordeal of such a nature to apprehend,” replied the Earl of Ellingham; and having thus spoken, he quitted the library.

Two minutes elapsed, during which Mr. Hatfield once more paced the apartment in an agitated manner: for, knowing the fine spirit of his son, he trembled lest it should be checked or even broken by the mortifying suspicion that he was illegitimate!

“A falsehood is abhorrent to me,” he thought within himself: “and yet--if he should question me respecting his birth--I dare not avow the truth! I must not confess to my own son that his being resulted from an atrocious outrage perpetrated by myself:--nor must I permit him to suspect the honour of his mother! Silence on my part, I now perceive, would engender such suspicion in respect to her; and she must not lose one particle of the dignity of virtue in the eyes of her own offspring! Alas! painful position!--and, Oh! with what foolish and short-sighted haste did I ere now affirm that I was not sorry for the discovery which he had made!”

At this moment the door opened, and Charles sprang forward into his father’s arms, which were extended to receive him.

For some minutes they remained silent--each too profoundly the prey to ineffable emotions to give utterance to a syllable.

“I am proud--I am rejoiced to be able to call you by the sacred name of Father!” at length exclaimed Charles, speaking with the abrupt loosening of the tongue which was caused by a sudden impulse. “But are you--are you well pleased that accident should have thus revealed to me----”

“Charles--my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, summoning all his firmness to his aid, “you must be aware that weighty reasons--the weightiest reasons--could alone have induced your mother and myself to practise a deception towards you and the world in respect to the degree of relationship in which you really stood with regard to us. Is it sufficient for you to know at last that you are our son?--or do you demand of me an explanation wherefore you must still pass as our nephew?”

“Oh! then Lord Ellingham spoke truly as he brought me hither just now!” cried Charles, in a tone of vexation: then, in another moment brightening up, he added feelingly, “But by what right do I dare to question the conduct of parents who have ever treated me so kindly? No--my dear father--I seek not any explanation at your hands--I am content to obey your wishes in all things.”

“Generous youth!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “Though you must pass as my nephew, Charles, yet in all respects shall you continue to be treated as my son! You are doubtless aware that I am rich--very rich;--and all that your mother and myself possess is bequeathed to you.”

“One word, father--only one word!” cried Charles. “I have an ardent longing to ask a single question--and yet I dare not--no--I cannot tutor my lips to frame the words----”

“Speak!” said, Mr. Hatfield, emphatically: “I can almost divine the question you hesitate to put to me.”

“Ah! my dear father--I would rather know the truth at once than remain in suspense, a prey to a thousand wild conjectures--the truth regarding one point--and only one!” repeated the young man, in an earnest and imploring tone. “And imagine not,” he continued, speaking with increased warmth and rapidity, “that I should ever look less lovingly or less respectfully upon my dear mother--if----”

“Set that suspicion at rest, my son,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn manner. “Your mother has ever been an angel of innocence and purity! As God is my judge she has never been guilty of weakness or frailty--no--never--never!” he added emphatically.

“And therefore no stigma is upon my birth?” asked Charles, his heart palpitating--or rather fluttering violently, as he awaited the response.

“None!” replied his father, with an effort which was, however, unnoticed by the young man in the excitement of his own feelings.

“God be thanked!” exclaimed he, wringing Mr. Hatfield’s hand in gratitude for this assurance. “And now I seek to learn no more.”

CXXII. TWO OF THE READER’S OLD FRIENDS

Bucklersbury--a tortuous street, leading from Cheapside to Walbrook--abounds in dining-rooms, where for fifteen pence the “City man” can procure a meal somewhat on the “cheap and nasty” principle. There’s ten-pence for a plate of meat, cut off a joint--two-pence, a pint of porter--a penny, potatoes--a penny, bread--and a penny the waiter.

The moment a person enters one of these establishments and seats himself at a table, a waiter with a dirty apron to his waist, and a ditto napkin over his arm, rushes up, and gabbles through the bill-of-fare, just in the same rapid and unintelligible manner as an oath is administered to a juryman or a witness in a court of justice.

It was while the preceding scenes were taking place at the West End of London, that two gentlemen lounged into a dining-room in Bucklersbury, and took their places, facing each other, at one of the numerous little tables that were spread with dirty cloths and strewn in a random fashion with knives, forks, salt-sellars, pepper-boxes, and vinegar-cruets,--all in preparation for the afternoon’s process of “feeding.”

Scarcely had the two gentlemen thus brought themselves to an anchor, when the waiter darted up to them as if the necessity of speed were a matter of life or death;--and, heedless whether the visitors were attending to him or not, the domestic functionary hurried over the list of delicacies at that moment in readiness in the kitchen.

“Roast beef--biled beef--roast leg of pork--biled leg of pork and pease pudding--fillet of veal and ’am--beef steak pie--biled leg of mutton and caper sarse--greens--colliflowers--and taturs. Give your orders, gentle-men.”

But were the rapidity of the waiter’s utterance properly represented in print, his repetition of the bill-of-fare would more properly stand thus:--

“Roast beef biled beef roast leg of pork biled leg of pork and pease pudding fillet of veal and ’am beefsteak pie biled leg of mutton and caper sarse greens colliflowers and taturs give your orders gentle-men!”

“Well--what shall we have, old fellow?” said the younger gentleman of the two to his companion.

“Be Jasus! ’an it’s afther boiled leg of por-r-rk and paze pudding that I am, my frind!” was the emphatic reply, delivered with a ferocious look at the waiter as much as to let that individual know that he had better not have any of his nonsense--although nothing was farther from the poor devil’s thoughts at the moment.

“Very good, sir!” cried the waiter. “Biled pork and pease pudding!” he shouted out for the behoof of the young lady within the bar at the remote end of the room.

“And the same for me,” said the Irishman’s companion.

“Same for gentle-man!” bawled the waiter, again addressing himself to the young lady just alluded to. “Ale or stout, gentle-men?”

“Porther--a pint!” exclaimed the ferocious Hibernian.

“Pale ale for me,” intimated his friend.

“Pint of porter and pint palale for gentle-men!” vociferated the waiter. “Weggitubles--bread?” he next demanded.

“No bread--greens!” ejaculated the Irishman.

“Bread and potatoes for me,” said his companion.

“One bread--one greens--one taturs--for gentle-men!” cried the waiter, thus conveying his last instructions to the young lady who officiated at the bar; and the said young lady sent each fresh order down a pipe communicating with the kitchen--her own voice being as affected and her manner as lackadaisical as the waiter was natural, rapid, and bustling.

But before the various luxuries thus commanded were hoisted from the kitchen to the bar by means of the moveable dumb-waiter that worked up and down between the two places just mentioned,--we must pause to inform our readers--if indeed they have not already suspected the fact--that the two visitors to the dining-establishment in Bucklersbury, were our old friends Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Francis Curtis!

The gallant Irishman had now numbered sixty-four years; and although the lapse of time had rendered his head completely bald, and turned his whiskers and moustachios to a bright silver, the ferocity of his aspect remained unaltered, and his fiery disposition was unsubdued. He was still the terrible Captain O’Blunderbuss--ready to exchange shots with any one and on all occasions--and more devoted to poteen than ever. His form was as erect as when in the prime of life; and his military coat, all frogged and braided, was buttoned over an ample chest that no stoop had contracted. The captain had grown somewhat stouter than when we took leave of him nineteen years previously to our present date; but his physical strength seemed to have remained unimpaired.

Frank Curtis was now forty-three. He also had “filled out,” as the phrase is; but his countenance, in fattening, had lost nothing of its ignoble expression of self-sufficiency and impudent conceit; and his manner was as flippant as ever. Neither had he laid aside any portion of his mendacious habits, but had rather added thereto by varying the style of his boastings and the nature of his lies. He continued to dress in a flashy way--delighting in a hat of strange appearance, and in a waistcoat concentrating in a yard of stuff all the colours which have existence and name upon earth.

We must however admit--for the truth cannot be blinked in this respect--that there was a certain air of seediness about both the captain and Mr. Frank Curtis, which neither the bullying insolence of the former nor the impertinent self-sufficiency of the latter could altogether throw into the shade. It was evident that they had lost the confidence of their tailors and hatters--and even of their washerwomen;--for their garments might have been less thread-bare, and their wristbands a trifle cleaner. We say “wristbands,” because those were the only portions of their shirts which met the eye--the captain’s frogged coat and Mr. Curtis’s faded double-breasted waistcoat being each buttoned up to its owner’s throat.

“Waiter-r!” vociferated the gallant officer, when about a minute and a half had elapsed from the time that the orders had been given for the repast.

“Yes, sir--coming, sir,” cried the functionary thus addressed, as he hurried away in quite another direction.

“Be Jasus!” ejaculated the captain, thumping his fist so vigorously down upon the table that the pepper box danced the polka with the mustard-pot, and the knives and forks performed a pas de quatre. “Is that boiled por-r-rk and paze pudding afther coming to-day at all, at all?”

“Just coming, sir!” said the waiter, under no excitement whatever, though in an immense bustle--for waiters always remain cool and imperturbable when most in a hurry.

“If it don’t come in sivin seconds, ye villain,” thundered the captain, “I’ll skin ye alive!”

“Very good, sir,” said the waiter, as he hastened to attend upon some new-comers.

“The beauty of the French eating-houses is that the moment you order things they appear on the table by magic,” observed Frank Curtis, in a tone loud enough to let every one present know that he had been in France. “When I was in Paris--on that secret mission from the English Government, you know, captain-----”

“Be Jasus! and I remimber quite well,” exclaimed the gallant officer. “’Twas at the same time that I wint to offer my swor-r-d and services to the Imperor of the Tur-r-rks--the Sulthan, I mane.”

“Just so,” said Frank. “Well--as I was going to tell you----”

“Two biled pork--two pease pudding--for gentle-men,” cried the waiter at this juncture, as he set the plates upon the table. “One--bread--one greens--one taturs--for gentle-men.”

The captain and Mr. Curtis fell to work upon the delicacies thus placed before them; and after an interval of silence, during which the boiled pork and et ceteras disappeared with astonishing rapidity, the latter leaning across the table, said in a low whisper, “It was a deuced lucky thing that I met my friend Styles just now; for if he hadn’t lent me this sovereign, we might have gone without dinner as well as without breakfast.”

“Be Jasus! and that’s thrue enough, Frank!” returned the gallant officer, likewise in sotto voce. “Where did ye appint to mate Misther Styles again this afternoon?”

“At a nice quiet little public that I know of--where there’s a good parlour and capital spirits,” answered Mr. Curtis.

“Ah! the thrue potheen--the rale cratur!” said the captain. “Well that’s a blissing, at all evints! And, be Jasus! I hope your frind Misther Styles will be after putting us up to do a something, as he suggisted--for, be the power-r-rs! Frank, it’s hard work looking about for the sinews of war-r-r!”

“Styles is a splendid fellow, captain,” replied Mr. Curtis, smacking his lips after his last glass of pale ale--or “palale,” as the waiter denominated it. “Why, God bless you! It was him who got up the London and Paris Balloon Conveyance Company, with Parachute Branches to Dover and Calais.”

“And how came it to fail?” demanded the gallant officer.

“Simply because it was never meant to succeed,” answered Frank, in a matter-of-fact way. “The object was to make money by showing the balloons and parachutes that were to be used in the business; and the press took up the affair quite seriously. As long as curiosity was kept alive, Styles cleared upwards of five guineas a-day by the admissions at a shilling a head. Ah! he’s a clever fellow--a deuced clever fellow, I can tell you. But it’s pretty near time we went to meet him: for, though he hasn’t any thing particular to do at present, he always pretends to be in a hurry, and never waits one minute over the hour for an appointment:--that’s the way he has got himself the character of a man of punctuality and business-habits.”

“Waiter-r!” vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“Coming, sir!” cried the functionary thus adjured: then, rushing up to the table, he said interrogatively, “Cheese, gentle-men?”

“No. What’s to pay?” demanded Curtis.

The waiter enumerated the items in a rapid manner and mentioned the amount, which was forthwith discharged by Frank, who ostentatiously threw down a sovereign as if he had plenty more of the same kind of coin in his pocket. On receiving his change, he gave the waiter sixpence--a specimen of liberality which induced that discriminating personage to disregard all the other demands made at the moment upon his services, until he had duly escorted the two gentlemen to the door.

Upon quitting the dining-rooms, Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis proceeded arm-in-arm into Cheapside; and, on catching a glimpse of the clock of Bow Church, the latter gentleman said, “We are in lots of time. It’s only half-past two--and we’re to meet Styles at three at a public in Fleet Street. So we needn’t gallop along as if a troop of sheriffs’ officers were at our heels.”

“Be Jasus! d’ye remember what fine fun we had with the snaking scoundrels up in Baker Street?” cried the gallant officer. “Why--it must be upwards of twenty years ago--or nineteen at the laste!”

“Yes--and do you remember what larks we had in the Bench too, during the time that the sleepy old Commissioners remanded me for?” said Curtis.

“Be the holy poker-r! and I’ve forgotten nothing of all that same!” ejaculated the captain. “But it was a sad blow to ye, my frind, when Sir Christopher-r died without laving ye a single sixpence!”

“I can’t bear to think of it, captain--although a dozen years or more have passed since then. But who do you think I saw the other day, riding in her carriage just as if she had been a lady all her life?”

“Be Jasus! and ye mane Sir Christopher’s wife that was!” exclaimed the gallant officer. “Had she got the fine stout livery-servant standing up behind as usual?”

“Yes--and young Blunt was inside,” added Curtis. “He’s as like the stout footman as ever a lad was to a middle-aged man in this world--the same pudding face--sandy hair--stupid-looking eyes----”

“Now be the power-rs! I think you’re too hard upon the footman, Frank!” interrupted the captain. “He’s not such an ugly fellow as you would be afther making him out. I don’t say, for insthance, that he’s so handsome as you, my dear frind--or yet so well made as me, Frank----”

“Very far from it, captain,” cried Mr. Curtis. “I don’t think that we’re the worst looking chaps in Cheapside at this moment. That’s exactly what Styles said to us this morning. ‘I want a couple of genteel fellows like you,’ says he, ‘to join me in something that I have in hand.’”

“We’re the very boys to co-operate with him, Frank!” exclaimed the captain: “and what’s more, you and me can play into ache-other’s hands. ’Tisn’t for nothing that we’ve been frinds for the last twinty years.”

“In which time we’ve seen many ups and downs, captain,” observed Frank,--“had many a good dinner, and gone many a time without one--spent many a guinea, and seen many a day when we didn’t know where the devil to get a shilling----”

“Be the power-rs! and had many a rar-r lar-r-rk into the bargin!” said Captain O’Blunderbuss. “D’ye renumber our gitting into the station-house the night afther your dear wife left ye to jine the old gintleman that fell in love with her, and----”

“And who was kind enough to take her off my hands, children and all!” exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily. “Ah! that was a glorious business--that was--I mean, old Shipley relieving me of my dear spouse and the five responsibilities.”

“And didn’t I conduct the bargin for ye?” demanded the captain. “Didn’t I make him pony down a thousand pounds to prevint an action of crim. con.? Be the potheen of ould Ireland--I did that same business as nate and clane as iver such a thing was setthled in this wor-r-rld!”

“True enough, captain,” said Frank. “But it’s just on the stroke of three, I declare!” he exclaimed, glancing up at Saint Bride’s, which they were now passing. “How we must have dawdled along! I wish you wouldn’t loiter to stare at the gals so, captain,” he added, laughing.

“Be Jasus! and it’s yourself, Frank, that ogles all the lasses that we mate,” cried the captain, throwing back an insinuation that was intended as a friendly compliment. “But which is the place, me boy?”

“Here,” said Curtis, turning into a public-house in Fleet Street just as the clock struck three.

CXXIII. A MAN OF BUSINESS

Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a gentleman of about fifty years of age. Short, thin, dapper, and active,--with a high, bald forehead, and small restless, twinging eyes,--he seemed a perfect man of business--an impression that was enhanced by a certain sly knowingness which he had assumed years before, and which was now habitual to him. He was uneducated and ignorant: but he had studied the manner in which well-instructed persons spoke--he compared their language with his own--and he had actually weeded his style of speech of the solecisms and grammatical errors that originally characterised it. He had not, however, been able to improve himself in spelling, with equal facility; and therefore he took care never to write a letter. He always had some plausible excuse for throwing this duty in business matters upon some other person more competent than himself.

Astute and cunning, he forebore from touching on topics which he did not understand: but if the conversation did turn, in spite of his endeavours to the contrary, on subjects whereof he was ignorant, he so artfully managed his observations that even those who knew him well were far from suspecting that he was otherwise than profoundly acquainted with the matter under discussion. Every body thought him a very shrewd fellow;--and he had a habit of looking so knowing and critical when any one was speaking, that his opinion, when subsequently delivered, was received with respect and deemed an authority.

The reader may therefore perceive that Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a thorough man of the world. He took care never to commit himself. In small money transactions he was always regular and correct: he therefore escaped the imputation of meanness, and actually acquired at a cheap rate the denomination of “an honourable character.” The consequence was, that when he failed--which was very often indeed--in large transactions, he was considered merely as “a spirited but unsuccessful speculator,”--never as a dishonest person.

He had an office in the City: but were any of his friends to ask, “What is Styles?” the answer would be a vague generality--such as, “Oh! he is a City man, you know--engaged in business and all that!”--a reply leaving the enquirer just as wise as he was before. And yet, at his office, there were all the symptoms and evidence of “business,”--a letter-box at the door--a clerk engaged in writing at the desk--a pile of letters here, and a heap of account-books there--samples of many kinds of goods on the mantel and shelves--mysterious-looking bales and hampers on the floor--files covered with dingy papers, looking like invoices and bills of lading--and the words Bills for Acceptance labelled over a slit in the board-work that enclosed the desk. Thus the place had a very business-like aspect: and yet no one could define what was the precise nature of the business carried on there.

But we have travelled to Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in Crosby Hall Chambers; whereas Mr. Bubbleton Styles himself is just now in a tavern-parlour in Fleet Street.

The clock had just begun to strike three as Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis entered the public-house: and by the time they reached the aforesaid parlour it was six seconds past three.

There sate Mr. Bubbleton Styles--with his silver watch in his hand, and gazing at the Dutch clock over the mantel-piece, as if he were anxiously comparing the two dials, and found himself much put out because there happened to be a slight difference between them.

“If I thought it was my watch that was wrong,” he said aloud, apparently in a musing manner, but really because he caught a glimpse of the entrance of Curtis and Blunderbuss at the moment, and he never lost an opportunity of impressing even his best friends with an idea of his punctuality,--“if I thought it was my watch that was wrong, I would trample it to pieces beneath my heel.”

“No--don’t do that, old fellow!” exclaimed Frank, advancing towards him. “Much better give it to me!”

“I would not do any thing so prejudicial to a friend as present him with a watch that went irregularly,” returned Mr. Styles, in a solemn tone. “But the fault is not with my watch, I am convinced: it lies with that rascally old clock. However, you are only six seconds after your time: I should have allowed you the full minute--and then I should have waited no longer. Come, sit down, Curtis--Captain O’Blunderbuss, sit down; I have just one hour to devote to you. As the clock strikes four, I must be off. What will you take?”

“Potheen for me, if ye plaze,” said the gallant officer.

“Brandy for me,” observed Frank.

“And wine-and-water for me,” added Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “I never take spirits until after supper.”

The various beverages required, were immediately ordered and supplied; and the three gentlemen proceeded to business, the parlour at the tavern--or rather public-house--being occupied only by themselves at the moment.

“Well, old fellow,” said Mr. Frank Curtis, addressing himself to Mr. Styles, “what good thing can you put us up to?”

“A speculation that will enrich us all three,” replied the gentleman thus appealed to. “I do not mind telling you that I have been rather unfortunate lately in one or two enterprises--and I want something to set me square again. I have a few bills coming due in a couple or three months, and would not have them dishonoured on any account. Thank God! however, I have no paltry debts--no mean milk-scores--no peddling affairs. I always avoid them. Still I must make a bold stroke for the sake of my larger transactions;--and I presume that neither of you are averse to earning a little money easily and speedily.”

“Arrah! and be Jasus! that’s the most wilcome thing ye could be afther saying to me, my frind!” exclaimed the captain, surveying the speculator with deep admiration.

“Now,” continued Mr. Styles, “I have been thinking that we three can work the oracle well together--and I propose----”

“What?” demanded Mr. Curtis, anxiously.

“Hould your tongue--and have patience, Frank!” ejaculated the gallant officer. “It shall be your turn to spake prisintly. Well, sir--and what is it, thin, that ye’re afther proposing!”

“A Railway!” returned Mr. Bubbleton Styles.

“Divil a betther idea could ye have formed!” cried the captain, enthusiastically.

“Glorious!” exclaimed Curtis, in an equally impassioned tone of approval.

“Don’t be excited--take things calmly--in a business-like way,” said Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “It is now twenty minutes past three: we have forty minutes more to converse upon the subject. Much may be done in that time. Here,” continued the speculator, drawing a skeleton-map of England from his pocket, and spreading it on the table; “you see this line drawn almost longitudinally from one end of Great Britain to the other? Well--that is my projected Railway. You perceive, we start from Beachy Head in Sussex--right on, as straight as we can go, to Cape Wrath on the northern coast of Scotland. Of course we avoid as much as possible placing any portion of our line in competition with railways already existing; but we shall have Branches to all the principal cities and manufacturing towns, and Single Lines wherever they may be asked for.”

“Capital, be Jasus!” exclaimed the Hibernian officer, unable to restrain the exuberance of his delight at this magnificent scheme. “And be what title d’ye mane to call this purty little bantling of yours, Misther Styles?”

“The Grand British Longitudinal Railway,” answered the speculator, in a measured and emphatic manner.

The captain was so elated by the grandeur and vast comprehensiveness of this denomination, that he rang the bell with furious excitement, and ordered the waiter to replenish the glasses.

“Now,” continued Mr. Bubbleton Styles, “having expounded my views, it is necessary to take into consideration the mode of procedure. Of course I am the promoter of the scheme; and to-morrow I shall register it. This will only cost five pounds--and then the thing is secured to us. ‘Provisionally Registered, pursuant to 7 and 8 Victoria, cap. 110;’--and so forth. Capital £8,000,000, in 400,000 shares of £20 each. Deposit, £2 2s. per share. You, Frank, must be the Secretary; and you, captain, Consulting Engineer.”

“Is it an Ingineer ye’d be afther making of me in my ould age?” cried the gallant officer: “for, be the power-rs! I’ve forgot more than I ever knew of that same!”

“Oh! the place will be quite a sinecure--good pay and nothing to do,” said Mr. Styles. “We shall have a regular Engineer, as a matter of course; but it will look business-like to speak in the prospectus of having ‘secured the valuable services of that eminent Military Engineer, Captain O’Blunderbuss, of Blunderbuss Park, Ireland; who, having surveyed the whole of the proposed line, in concert with the Company’s Civil Engineer, has reported most favourably of the scheme, and has offered suggestions which will produce a saving to the Company of nearly half a million sterling in the progress of the works.’ This is the way to manage business, gentlemen,” added Mr. Styles, glancing in a satisfied manner at his two companions, one after the other: then, looking at his watch, he exclaimed, “Just ten minutes more to stay--and I must be off! Now, we have settled that I am to be Promoter--you, Curtis, are to be Secretary--and you, captain, Consulting Engineer. This evening I will draw up the prospectus: we must have about thirty good names for the Provisional Committee--and by to-morrow afternoon the document will be printed and ready.”

“You will not have time to call on the people to ask them to let you put down their names?” said Frank Curtis, conceiving at the moment that his friend was going a trifle too fast.

“Nonsense, my dear fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles: “I know that I can take the liberty of using the names of at least half of my intended Provisional Committee-men; and the others will not think of contradicting the prospectus, when they see that we have got Mr. Podgson as chairman.”

“What--Podgson!” cried Mr. Curtis, almost wild with joy and surprise. “You don’t mean to say that you’ve got Podgson?”

“Not yet,” answered the speculator, with his characteristic coolness: “but I shall have him by this time to-morrow.”

“I thought that you had not spoken of your scheme to a soul before you met me and the captain this morning----”

“Neither had I--and Podgson is totally unaware at this moment that such a project is in existence,” interrupted Mr. Styles, calmly and deliberately. “But I know how to deal with him: I have read his character from a distance;--and, although I have never yet exchanged a word with him in my life, depend upon it I shall hook him as our chairman before I am twenty-four hours older. Three minutes more!” cried the speculator: then, as if to make the most of the hundred and eighty seconds at his disposal, Mr. Styles closed the present interview in the following business-like and highly gratifying manner:--“You are both as shabby as you well can be; and you must obtain new clothes as soon as possible. Here is a ten-pound note for each of you. Moreover you must get respectable lodgings at once; and you can give a reference to me. To-morrow, at three o’clock punctually, there will be chops and sherry in readiness at my office--and I shall expect you both. Not a moment before three, remember--because you will be interrupting me: and if you’re a moment after, I shall decline any farther transactions with you. So good bye--I haven’t time to shake hands.”

Thus speaking, Mr. Styles rushed from the room, it being four o’clock to an instant;--and it is perhaps as well to observe that this perfect man of business had only made an appointment with his friends at the public-house in Fleet Street, because he had another gentleman to meet in the neighbourhood at six minutes past four.

CXXIV. CHARLES HATFIELD

It was past midnight; and in only one chamber throughout the Earl of Ellingham’s spacious mansion was a light still burning.

In that chamber Charles Hatfield was pacing to and fro--his mind filled with thoughts of so bewildering, exciting, and painful a nature, that he felt the inutility of endeavouring to escape from them by retiring to his couch.

This young man of twenty-five years of age,--so handsome, so intelligent, and with the certainly of inheriting vast riches,--possessing the most brilliant worldly prospects, and knowing himself to be the object of his parents’ devoted affection--entertaining, too, a profound love for the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham, and having every reason to hope that his passion was reciprocated,--this young man, with so many advantages in respect to position, and so many sources of felicity within his view,--Charles Hatfield was restless and unhappy.

The striking incident which had marked the day--the sudden discovery that those whom he had hitherto looked upon as his uncle and his aunt, were in reality his parents,--the assurance which he had received respecting the honour of his mother and the legitimacy of his birth,--then the mysterious fact that his parentage was still to remain a secret to the world,--all these circumstances combined to torment him with doubts and misgivings--to excite his curiosity to a painful degree--and to animate him with an ardent longing to penetrate into all that was so obscure and suspicious.

It was true that he had promised his mother never to question her relative to a subject that might be disagreeable to her;--for the moment, too, he had been satisfied with the assurances of his legitimacy which he had received from the lips of his father. But when he found himself alone in his own bed-chamber--surrounded by the stillness of night--he could no longer check the natural current of his reflections:--the deep silence in which the mansion was enveloped--the secluded position of his apartment--and the slightly romantic turn of his mind,--all united to give an impulse to thoughts which were so intimately associated with subjects of mysterious and strange import.

Then, many circumstances, remembered in connexion with his early boyhood, but until now never before pondered upon with serious attention,--recollections, hitherto vague and disjointed,--gradually assumed a more intelligible aspect to his mental contemplation:--memory exerted herself with all her energy, to fill up blanks and bring vividly forward those reminiscences that until this moment had been like dim and misty vapours floating before the mind’s eye:--he fixed his gaze intently on the past, until the feeblest glimmerings assumed a bolder and more comprehensible light;--and by degrees the confusion of his ideas relative to his early being, yielded to something like order--so that he became enabled to fit incidents into their proper places, and even make some accurate calculations with regard to the dates of particular occurrences.

In a word, a light had streamed in upon his soul--illuminating many of the hitherto unexplored cells of his memory,--giving significancy to recollections on which he had never before paused to ponder, and investing with importance various reminiscences that had not until this period engaged his serious attention.

Naturally of a happy--cheerful disposition,--and intent on soaring aspirations relative to the future, rather than on speculations and wanderings connected with the past,--he had never until now been struck with certain facts which, though having a dwelling-place in his memory, had failed to occupy his meditations or excite any thing like suspicions in his mind.

But the incident of the day had set him to work, in the silence of his chamber and the depth of night, to call forth all those sleeping reminiscences--examine them one by one--connect them together--make them up as well as he could into a continuous history--and from the aggregate deduce a variety of truths intimately regarding himself.

All this was not done through any disrespect for his mother or his father--any change of fueling in reference to them. No:--he loved them the more tenderly--the more fervently, now that he knew they were his parents, and not mere relations. But if he fell into the train of thought in which we now find him engaged, it was that he could no more help yielding to that current of reflections than a child could avoid being carried whirlingly along the rapids of the Canadian stream which had engulphed it.

And now let us see into what connected form the meditations and recollections of Charles Hatfield had settled themselves?

Seating himself at the table, on which he leant his elbows, and supporting his head on his hands, in which he buried his face, he pondered in the ensuing manner:--

“My earliest remembrances carry me back to a period when I must have been about five years old; and then I was accustomed to call a good woman whose name was Watts, my mother. But she died--I forget precisely under what circumstances; and then, when I was nearly six, I was taken care of by a gentleman named Rainford. Yes--and he had a beautiful wife named Tamar;--and this Tamar was the sister of the Countess of Ellingham. Mr. Rainford and Tamar were very kind to me, I remember well; but I was not with them long. And now there is so much confusion in my thoughts--so much bewilderment in my reminiscences touching that particular period in my life, that I scarcely know how to render my ideas continuously accurate. I fully recollect, however, that he whom I grew accustomed to call by the endearing name of ‘father’ although I knew that he was not my father--I mean this Mr. Rainford,--I recollect, I say, that he was absent for some weeks, and that I pined after him. Then Tamar would reassure me with promises of his return--but I remember that she used to weep very much--oh! very much! One day she put on black clothes--and she was going to dress me in mourning also; but she cried bitterly, and threw the dark garments away. Next I recollect being taken to the house of Mr. de Medina, where I saw Esther for the first time--that Esther who is now Countess of Ellingham. The happiness I experienced that day dwells in my mind; for I recollect as well as if it were but yesterday, that all Tamar’s sorrow had suddenly disappeared, and that she gave me the most earnest promises that I should soon see Mr. Rainford again.[2] And I did behold him again soon--but it was at some town in France, whither I was taken by Mr. de Medina and his two daughters.[3] Then we all travelled in a post-chaise and four--and we repaired to Paris, where I remember that the Earl of Ellingham and Jacob Smith joined us.[4] Next we went to Havre-de-Grace--I remember it was that town, because I have seen it since; and there Mr. de Medina, Esther, and the Earl of Ellingham left us--Mr. Rainford, Tamar, Jacob Smith, and myself going on board of a ship.[5] We were not very long at sea, but the next incident which I remember was travelling alone with Tamar to London, where we took up our abode at the country-seat of Mr. de Medina.[6] That was at Finchley. We never went out, I remember--but kept close to our own room, Esther and Mr. de Medina frequently visiting us. How long we lived in this manner I cannot recollect: but now my mind settles with horror on the never-to-be-forgotten lamentation which, child as I was, struck horror to my soul as it echoed through the dwelling! For Mr. de Medina and Esther had suddenly learnt that Tamar--the good, kind Tamar--who had been absent a considerable time that day, was foully and brutally murdered. Oh! how I cried--how bitterly I wept: but if I asked any questions--which I must naturally suppose that I did--they were not answered, or were answered vaguely. Yes--all particulars were carefully kept from me;--and this was doubtless nothing more than a mere matter of prudence--for I was but a child of between six and seven! Mr. Rainford now came back to live at Finchley; but how unhappy he was! I remember well one evening--a very few days only after the dreadful death of her whom I was wont to call ‘my mamma’--that Mr. Rainford, after a long conversation in whispers with Lord Ellingham, suddenly turned towards me--caught me up in his arms--and covered me with kisses. Yes--that incident has ever remained indelibly impressed upon my memory![7] It was followed very soon by Tamar’s funeral; and almost immediately afterwards I was sent to a school at a great distance--for I remember that Mr. de Medina and Esther themselves took me there, and that we travelled all day in a post-chaise. Ah! and now I recollect too--yes--it flashes to my mind, that before they left me they charged me never to mention the name of Rainford at the school;--for my own name was at that time Charles Watts. For three years did I remain there, Mr. de Medina and Esther frequently visiting me, even after she had become the Countess of Ellingham. Every six months I went home to Finchley for the holidays, and found Mr. Rainford always staying at Mr. de Medina’s house, and always ready to receive me with kindness. Then Mr. de Medina died; and we all went into mourning for him. I returned to school for another year; and when between ten and eleven I was suddenly sent for home--that is, to the manor-house at Finchley, which Mr. Rainford had continued to occupy after Mr. de Medina’s death. But instead of meeting Mr. Rainford, as I had expected, I was taken into the presence of a gentleman and a lady, neither of whom I had ever beheld before. These were Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana!”

Here the young man paused in his meditations, as if to fix all his powers of thought with as much intensity as possible upon that era of his life whence dated at it were a new existence. But his ideas came rushing in upon his soul with such overwhelming force, as literally to hurry him along; and, obedient to the current of continuous and self-linking reflections, he thus proceeded in that silent history which he was repeating to himself:--

“And what were my first impressions on entering into the presence of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana? I scarcely know now--for I remember that the lady snatched me to her bosom--folded me in a fond embrace--covered me with kisses--and even wept over me. It was the first time I had ever seen her, to my recollection. Mr. Hatfield then embraced me in his turn, and with as much fervour as if he had been the Mr. Rainford whom I had expected to meet and to behold! I was then, as I just now reckoned, between ten and eleven when all this happened; and it struck me--I recollect it well--that there was a considerable likeness between Mr. Rainford and Mr. Hatfield:--but then Mr. Rainford had light hair, and Mr. Hatfield black,--Mr. Rainford had reddish whiskers, and those of Mr. Hatfield were dark as jet. Yes: those were my ideas at the time; but I suppose that they were the offspring of a delusion. Nevertheless, when I call to mind the features of that Mr. Rainford who was so good to me in my infancy, it even seems now that I can recollect a resemblance between them and the countenance of my own father such as it now is. Still, this is most probably mere fancy;--and I wish to arrive at truths, not indulge in idle speculations. Well, then--to go back to that interview,--that first interview between myself and those who have since turned out to be my parents,--I can call to mind each look they bestowed upon me--each word they uttered. They told me that they were my uncle and my aunt--that they were rich, and intended to have me to live with them altogether thenceforth, and be recognised as their heir--that Mr. Rainford had gone upon a long, long voyage to settle in a far-off land, whence perhaps he should never return--and that they would supply the place of the parents whom I had lost in my infancy and of the generous friend who had thus quitted his native shores for ever! There was so much in the voice--manner--and language of Mr. Hatfield which reminded me of Mr. Rainford, that this circumstance materially consoled me for the deprivation of my long-loved protector; and I was moreover just at that age when kindness, handsome clothes, indulgence, and the change of scene which immediately followed, were fully calculated to attach me to those who gave me so many enjoyments. Thus, I am afraid that I was ungrateful to the memory of Mr. Rainford--by loving Mr. Hatfield too soon and too well,--for I could not then suspect that he was my father;--no--nor did I ever until the truth burst so suddenly on me this day! But, ah! it was nature which prompted that feeling;--and I remember well how joyous and happy I was when told, on the occasion of that first interview, that thenceforth I must bear the name of Hatfield!”

Here he paused again, as if in doubt whether he had omitted any detail, reminiscence, or incident which should constitute a link in the narrative that he was endeavouring, in his progressive thoughts, to render as complete as possible;--and solemnly--profoundly interesting would it have been for a human observer, himself unobserved, to have contemplated that fine and handsome young man, thus devoting the hours when others slept to the task of tracing, by memorial efforts, his career from the days of infancy to the present moment! But no eye beheld him save that of Him who beholdeth all things, and who sleepeth never!

“Scarcely had I thus been taken into the care of Mr. and Lady Georgiana Hatfield,”--it was thus he proceeded in his continuous meditations,--“when we repaired to the Continent. Having travelled through France, we crossed the Alps, and entered the delicious land of Italy. The Sardinian States were traversed by us in that leisurely manner which allowed us to view every thing worthy of inspection;--for some weeks we stayed at Florence, the capital of the beauteous Grand Duchy of Tuscany;--thence we journeyed to Rome,--and for several months did we sojourn in the Eternal City. But the health of a young man who was with us, and whose name was Jacob Smith, required a change of climate. Mr. Hatfield was deeply attached to this youth, who, on his side, treated my father with the utmost deference and devotedness. The Roman physicians recommended the genial air of Montoni; and we accordingly removed to the sovereign city of Castelcicala. But Jacob Smith appeared to have some secret sorrow preying upon him; and he pined away before our very eyes. Yes--he had a secret source of grief: for I remember well now, that one night he uttered dreadful screams and ejaculations in his sleep, which awoke and alarmed me--for I slept in the next room to him. I recollect that I rushed in, fearful lest his chamber had caught on fire; and that before I could arouse him, he shrieked forth in thrilling tones--‘Old Death--Benjamin Bones--my father! No--no!’--Poor fellow, he died soon afterwards; and I wept much--for he was always kind and good to me! But that ejaculation of ‘Old Death--Benjamin Bones!’ even then seemed to touch some chord within my soul, as if awaking a long dormant but vague reminiscence: and now again, that name of Benjamin Bones--that frightful appellation of Old Death,--Oh! they do not seem so unfamiliar to me as if I had never heard them mentioned but that once, and by the lips of Jacob Smith. Were not those names, in fact, in some way associated with recollections of a much earlier date? Did I never hear those names pronounced in my earliest boyhood? It appears to me that I did; and yet I vainly--oh! how vainly endeavour to plunge my eager glances through the mist--the dense, dark mist, which envelopes that idea,--reducing the thought to a suspicion so dim and vague that I dare not adopt it as a link in this history of mine! And yet why does the name of Old Death produce a kind of shuddering within me, as if the influence of a very early recollection still partially remained? Wherefore does the appellation of Benjamin Bones seem more familiar to me, than I can possibly conceive a reason for? There are moments when I appear to obtain the least glimmering--the least scintillation of a light at the remote profundity of this mystery,--a light which for an instant seems to promise an elucidation of all I wish to know in that respect, and then becomes suddenly extinguished--leaving me in a deeper and darker uncertainty than before!”

Charles Hatfield pressed his hands violently to his forehead, as if to awaken recollections that slumbered too soundly to be otherwise aroused: but he could not conjure up nor evoke a single idea that was calculated to throw any light on the obscurity which enveloped every thing in his mind respecting the two names, the utterance whereof thrilled to his very soul.

“What means that horrible phrase--Old Death?” he asked himself a hundred times: “and is it in any way connected with the name of Benjamin Bones? Is the phrase a name itself likewise? and if so, are Old Death and Benjamin Bones one and the same person? Why should those names produce upon me a disagreeable effect, as if I suddenly came in contact with a loathsome snake? I know not:--and yet it is so! The more I ponder upon that night when poor Jacob Smith shrieked out in his sleep--the more vivid do my recollections become concerning the horror that convulsed him, and the piercing--tense anguish which marked his tone! Oh! then, there must have been something dreadful--appalling--terrible in the associations which the names of Old Death and Benjamin Bones conjured up in the young man’s mind at the time; and this Benjamin Bones must have been a bad--a very bad person. But wherefore do I say ‘must have been?’ May he not be alive now? In a word--what do I know of him? Nothing! nothing! And yet--and yet, something seems to tell me that I did know more of him once than I do now! Perhaps, when I was a child, I heard evil things said of him,--things which have long since fled from my mind, leaving only a general and very faint impression behind--and that impression unfavourable to the object of it. Let me not then dwell longer on this point of my narrative--that narrative which I seek to compile from the myriads of ideas that until this night have been all scattered in my brain--never concentrated and reduced to order until now! Yes--from that chaos of memories, I have succeeded in rescuing reminiscences and thoughts sufficient to form a somewhat continuous and connected history;--and heaven must guide me, if its will so be, sooner or later to clear up all that is still obscure, and gratify my craving--ardent curiosity unto the fullest extent! But wherefore am I devoured with this burning desire to know all that there may be to know relative to myself? Alas! ’tis in my nature: the incident of the day just past has suddenly aroused that curiosity within me--for I feel, I have an innate conviction that there is a mystery attached to my birth, the elucidation of which must some day or another have a powerful influence upon my destinies! And oh! if it should prove that I am pursuing investigations which must end in stamping me with the stigma of illegitimacy, and bringing to light the dishonour of my mother----But, no--no! this cannot be! My father would not otherwise have given me the solemn assurance that my mother is an angel of innocence and purity, and never has been guilty of weakness or frailty!”

Again he paused: and now he arose from his seat, and paced the room for several minutes--agitated by the fear that he was militating against the wishes, or perhaps even the interests, of kind parents, by venturing to give full rein to the impetuous curiosity that had seized upon him. And yet--as ere now observed--he could not restrain the ardour of that sentiment, which, more powerful than himself, engulphed him in its onward, eddying influence.

Resuming his seat,--resuming likewise his meditative attitude,--and with his countenance again buried in his hands,--the young man took up the chain of his thoughts from that point where he had suddenly broken off to reflect on the secret and mysterious influence which the words Old Death and Benjamin Bones produced upon him.

“I reached in my mental narrative that epoch when poor Jacob Smith died. I was then about thirteen--a little more than thirteen; and I mourned sincerely for him. Frequently did I visit his grave in the beautiful cemetery where he was buried; and often--often as I wandered on the bank of the clear and broad Ferretti, down to whose chrystal margin that cemetery stretched,--often did I marvel who that departed youth was--and what secret tie might have linked him to Mr. Hatfield! Years passed rapidly away,--years unmarked by any incident on which my mind need pause to ponder: I grew up--happy, gay, and seldom thinking of the past. The bright and shining future--decked with all the glorious and golden hues which a sanguine imagination could devise--was ever the topic of my thoughts. Oh! well do I recollect that when between eighteen and nineteen years of age, I began to comprehend the affairs of the great world--to study well the political condition of nations--and to observe that the State of Castelcicala languished under the tyranny of the Grand Duke Angelo. Then I longed to become a hero--to have an army at my command--to achieve the independence, not only of Castelcicala, but of all Italy. These aspirations continued until I became an enthusiast in the cause of freedom; and though of English birth, yet deeply--sincerely did I sympathise with the generous-hearted Castelcicalans, when the treachery and despotism of the Grand Duke Angelo called a mighty Austrian army into the State, to besiege and overawe the capital! But Providence suddenly sent a champion to rescue a fine country and a noble people from the power of the invaders. No Castelcicalan native--no Italian patriot watched the career of Richard Markham with so much anxiety, such burning hope, and such deep suspense as I! When I heard those persons who were his best-wishers in their hearts, shake their heads and declare that the Constitutional Cause could not possibly succeed with so youthful a leader and such slender resources, I thought otherwise:--yes--I thought otherwise--because I wished otherwise. Then as victory after victory marked the progress of the hero--Estella, Piacere, and Abrantani giving their names to the triumphs of the Constitutional Army,--I longed--Oh! I longed to fly into the presence of the conqueror, and implore him to permit me to wield a sword in the same cause. But we were then prisoners as it were within the walls of Montoni, which was besieged by the Austrians; and while all was dismay--confusion--and terror around, I alone seemed to entertain a conviction as to the result. Nor was I mistaken: the Constitutional Army, under the command of Richard Markham, advanced to raise the siege--and beneath the walls of Montoni was fought the most sanguinary action of modern times. From morning’s dawn till the evening, lasted that terrific encounter;--but at eight o’clock on that evening the capital was delivered. Yet why should I now dwell on all these incidents,--why detail to myself all that followed?--the flight of the Grand Duke Angelo--the accession of Alberto to the ducal throne--and the subsequent arrival of Richard Markham, then Prince of Montoni, to settle with his lovely wife, the Princess Isabella, in the capital of the State which owed so much to him! Never--never shall I forget the exuberant joy which greeted his return to Montoni; and to render that day the more remarkable, the Grand Duke, his father-in-law, had convoked for the first time the Chambers of Senators and Deputies, instituted by the new Constitution previously promulgated! And the first act of those Chambers was to recognise the Prince as heir-apparent to the throne; while the Grand Duke appointed him Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army--that army which he had led to conquest and to glory! It was a joyous and a memorable day for me when Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana, having left their cards at the palace, received an invitation to a ball given by the Grand Duke and Duchess to celebrate the arrival of their son-in-law and beauteous daughter;--for I was permitted to accompany those whom I at that time believed to be my uncle and my aunt. Then did I find myself in the presence of Royalty for the first time; and I was agreeably disappointed and surprised to discover that condescension, affability, and great kindness of manner were fully compatible with the loftiest rank,--for such was the bearing of the Grand Duke Alberto and his Duchess, as well as of the Prince and Princess of Montoni. From that time forth I have become almost a worshipper of his Royal Highness the Prince,--an enthusiastic admirer of his genius, his character, and his glorious achievements:--to me he appears unrivalled as a warrior, faultless as a statesman, and estimable as a man,--endowed with every virtue--every qualification that can ennoble him not only as an individual who created rank and honours for himself by his high merits, but who is also the most splendid specimen of Nature’s aristocracy that the world has ever yet seen!”

The young man raised his head as he reached this climax in his thoughts; and as the light of the lamp beamed upon his countenance, it was reflected in eyes brilliant with enthusiasm and with the glow excited by a heart swelling with the loftiest aspirations.

“Oh! shall I ever be able to raise myself to eminence?” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together, as if in earnest appeal to heaven: “may I hope ever to make for myself a name which the whole world shall pronounce with respect and admiration? But first--first,” he continued, still speaking aloud and in an excited tone,--“I must satisfy this ardent curiosity which has seized upon me! Wherefore all these dreadful mysteries?--wherefore do not my parents acknowledge me as their son, if I be really legitimate?--why am I still to pass as their nephew? Are they ashamed of me?--have I ever done aught to bring disgrace upon their name? No--no: and they gave me that name--their own name of Hatfield, and of their own accord! But who was the good woman, Sarah Watts, that I used to call by the title of mother?--why was I entrusted in my infancy to her care?--for what motive was it that my parents never took charge of me until I was upwards of ten years of age?--and who was that kind and generous Mr. Rainford that I loved so much, and whom I have not now heard of for many long--long years? Oh! I must find the solutions of all these mysteries--the answers to all these questions! Yes:--whatever be the result,--whatever be the consequences, I must tear away the veil which conceals so much of the past from my view!”

Charles Hatfield rose from his chair as he pronounced these last words with strong emphasis; and, beginning to pace the room in an agitated manner, he was repeating his impassioned determination to clear up all that was at present obscure and dark, when a remorse struck to his soul--producing a sensation that made him reel and stagger!

For had not he said to Lady Georgiana but a few hours previously--“I now know that you art my mother--and I care to know nothing more! Never--never shall I question you concerning the past: the enjoyment of the present, and the hope which gilds the future--these are enough for me!”

And had not he said to his sire--“By what right do I dare to question the conduct of parents who have ever treated me to kindly? No--my dear father--I seek not any explanation at your hands--I am content to obey your wishes in all things.”

Charles Hatfield was a young man of fine principles and noble feelings; and the solemn nature of those assurances, striking with suddenness and force upon his mind, filled him with bitter regret that he should have ever thought of violating such sacred pledges.

“No--no!” he exclaimed in an impassioned manner,--“I will not play so vile a part towards my parents--I will not render myself so little in my own estimation! Let me endeavour, rather, to fly from my thoughts--to crush, subdue, stifle this wicked curiosity which has seized upon me--let me indeed be contented with the happiness of the present and the hopes of the future, and not seek to tear away the veil that conceals the past! The secrets of my parents must be solemnly preserved from violation by my profane hands:--how dare I--presumptuous and wilful young man that I am,--how dare I institute a search into the private matters and histories of the authors of my being?”

Then--enraged and indignant with himself, in one sense, and satisfied with the timeous decision to which he had come in another--Charles Hatfield hastened to retire to his bed, where the exhaustion and fatigue of long and painful thought soon sealed his eyelids in slumber.

But will he succeed in crushing the sentiments of curiosity which have been awakened within him?--or is he already preparing the way, by this night’s long meditation, for a vast amount of sorrow to fall upon and be endured by many?

CXXV. THE PROJECTED RAILWAY COMPANY

It was striking ten by all the clocks at the West End, on the morning of the day following the incidents which have occupied the five preceding chapters, when a cab drove with insane speed along a fashionable street, in that district of the metropolis just alluded to; and having stopped at the door of the best house in the said street, out leapt Mr. Bubbleton Styles, with a large roll of papers in his hand.

“I told you that you would not do it by ten o’clock,” said this gentleman, addressing the reproach, accompanied by an angry look, to the cab-man.

“Not done it by ten, sir!” exclaimed the astonished and indignant driver: “vy, it’s on’y jest a-finished strikin’ by every blessed clock in this here part o’ the town.”

“Just finished striking!” cried Mr. Styles, pulling out his watch: “it’s a minute and a quarter past ten, I tell you. Here’s your fare.”

“Two bob, all the vay from Crosby Chambers!” growled the man, turning the money over and over in a discontented fashion in the palm of his hand: “come, come--that von’t jest do, if you please, sir. You promised me three bob if I brought you here by ten----”

“And you did not fulfil the bargain,” sharply interrupted Mr. Styles, as he hurried up the steps of the large house and knocked at the door, which was immediately opened by a servant in such a splendid--outrageously splendid livery--that no other indication was required to distinguish the mansion of a parvenu--or, in other words, a vulgar upstart. “Is Mr. Podgson at home?” demanded Mr. Styles.

“Yes, sir. Walk in, sir. What name, sir?” were the hurried phrases which came from the domestic’s lips.

“Vell, ain’t ye a-going to pay us the extra bob, you gent?” cried the cab-man, as he mounted sulkily to his seat and drew a sack round his knees although it was in the middle of summer--so strong is the force of habit.

Mr. Styles deigned no reply to this derogatory adjuration; but, having given his card to the servant, he entered the great man’s great house--while the cab drove away at a pace which seemed to intimate that the horse had become as sulky as its master.

The hall was very magnificent: but every thing was new. The statues--the vases--the marble pillars--the gilding on the doors that opened into the ground-floor apartments--even to the liveries of the servants lounging about,--all was new! Mr. Styles was shown into a small parlour, where the pictures--the mirrors--the mantle ornaments--the furniture--the carpet--the hangings,--every thing there was likewise new. The paint scarcely seemed to have dried, nor the putty in the window-frames to have hardened.

In a few minutes the domestic, who had left Mr. Styles alone during that interval, returned with the intimation that Mr. Podgson would see him at once; and the railway projector was forthwith conducted up a wide and handsome marble stair-case--through a splendidly furnished ante-room--into a sumptuous apartment, where the great man was seated at a table covered with railway plans, letters, maps, newspapers, visitors’ cards, and Acts of Parliament, all scattered about in a confusion that had been admirably well studied and purposely arranged.

The impression of the newness of every thing in the mansion was strengthened in the mind of Mr. Bubbleton Styles at every pace which he had taken from the hall-door into the room where he now found himself. It appeared as if Mr. Podgson--or Mr. Podgson’s wife--or both, had endeavoured to the utmost of human power to crowd the apartments, the stair-cases, the landings, and, in fact, every nook and corner, with as many evidences of wealth as possible. Fine paintings by old masters, set in bran new glittering frames, were hung in the very worst lights, and without the least regard to their relative styles, colouring, or subjects. Each room had two or three time-pieces in it; and as they were not in accordance with respect to the hour, Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s ideas of precision and punctuality received a severe shock when he heard ten o’clock proclaimed half-a-dozen different times during the first twenty minutes which elapsed after he first set foot in the mansion. In a word, the entire aspect of the house was a reflection of the vulgar, untasteful, and self-sufficient minds of the “stuck-up people” who, having grown suddenly rich, did not know how to render their dwelling elegant and comfortable without making it gaudy and ridiculously ostentatious in its appointments.

Mr. Podgson was a short, stout, thick-set man, with an enormous stomach, a very wide back, and little stumpy legs. His head seemed to be stuck on his shoulders without the intervening aid of any neck at all; and his features were coarsely ugly, and totally inexpressive of even the slightest spark of intelligence. His tongue appeared to be much too large for his mouth, his speech being remarkably disagreeable: indeed, his free utterance seemed to be impeded as if he were always sucking a large lollipop, or had an enormous quid of tobacco stuck in his cheek. When he walked, it was with the most ungainly waddle that can possibly be conceived; and his clothes, though no doubt made by a fashionable tailor, sate upon him just as if they had been thrown on with a pitch-fork. Had this man been invested with regal robes,--had he arrayed himself in the Tyrian purple which Rome’s Emperors were wont to wear,--he could not have looked otherwise than a low vulgarian,--which he was!

We shall not pause for a moment to give any account of the rise of Mr. Podgson from obscurity to that renown which the sudden acquisition of great wealth established for him. Having sprung from the people, he turned against the people when he became a rich man. His property enabled him to purchase a borough; and the instant he found himself in Parliament, he joined the Protectionists--the bitter enemies of the popular cause!

Had this man taken his place amongst the Liberals, we should not have remembered his physical ugliness and his immense vulgarity of manners: we should have admired and esteemed him. But he to associate with aristocrats,--to squeeze that squat, podgy form amongst the “exquisites” and the “exclusives” of the West End,--to affect the most refined notions, and ape every thing fashionable,--for him to do all this----Oh! it is really too ridiculous--too ludicrous--too absurd to permit us to keep our countenance when we think of it!

Persons cannot help being naturally vulgar, any more than they can help being ugly: but the vulgar should not thrust themselves into those scenes and spheres where they are certain to stand out in most ignoble prominency, thereby forcing on all beholders the effect of the ludicrous contrast;--neither should the ugly adopt such an awful swagger and assume an air of such insufferable self-complacency as to render themselves most disagreeably remarkable and conspicuous.

Mr. Podgson had acquired his immense wealth by railway speculations; and the disgusting sycophants who invariably attach themselves to rich men with weak minds, had nonsensically dubbed him the Railway Lion! Had they called him the Railway Elephant, in allusion to his unwieldy proportions--or the Railway Bear, in reference to his manners--or the Railway Donkey, in respect to his intelligence,--they would have been more faithful to truth. But the Railway Lion he was;--and it was now in the presence of this tremendous animal that Mr. Bubbleton Styles stood.

Without rising from his chair, Mr. Podgson, M.P., waved his hand with all the majesty of a stage-monarch; and as this gesticulation was intended to be a fashionable--no, a dignified mode of desiring Mr. Bubbleton Styles to be seated, Mr. Bubbleton Styles seated himself accordingly.

Mr. Podgson then stared very hard at his visitor; and this was the Railway Lion’s method of intimating that he was “all attention.”

“I believe, sir,” said Mr. Styles, in a very polite and courteous manner--but without any thing like cringing servility,--“I believe, sir, that you last night received a letter from Alderman Tripes----”

“Oh! ah!” exclaimed Mr. Podgson, in his thick voice: “I remember! My very particular and intimate friend, Mr. Alderman Tripes, assures me in his communication that you have a famous project on the tappy----”

Mr. Podgson meant tapis--but could not precisely achieve the correct pronunciation.

“And that project I shall have much pleasure in submitting to you, sir,” added Mr. Styles, proceeding to unfold the large roll of papers which he had brought with him.

“Well--I don’t mind--that is, to obleege you, I’ll just look over them,” said Mr. Podgson, in an indifferent--careless way. “But,” he added, glancing at the elegant watch which he drew with affected negligence from his waistcoat pocket, “I’ve got an appointment at a quarter to eleven--and I must be punctual to the rendy-woo.”

Mr. Styles assured the great man that he would not detain him a moment beyond the time named for the rendez-vous; and, spreading his plans and maps upon the table, the small speculator began to explain his objects and views to the large capitalist.

“Who’s the engineer?” enquired the latter: then, looking at the corner of the plan, and perceiving the name, he cried, “Oh! Dummerley--eh? Well--he’s a good man--a very good man! I was talking to Lord Noodleton the other day about him--Lord Noodleton and me are intimate friends, you know--very intimate----”

“His lordship has reason to be proud of your friendship, sir,” observed Mr. Styles, adroitly availing himself of the opportunity to pay a compliment.

“Hem! well--Noodleton does seem grateful,” said, the Railway Lion, glancing complacently at one of his boots. “But, about this spec of yours, Mr. Styles? Shall you have a good list of Provisional Committee?”

“First-rate, sir--especially if you will condescend to head it,” returned the small speculator with a bow to the great one.

“Well--we shall see!” exclaimed Mr. Podgson. “But first as to the probability of success? Let me just make a calculation or two--nothing is done without calculations; and I’m rayther quick at figures. Now, your capital is £8,000,000 in 400,000 shares. Good! Deposit, £2 2_s._ per share. Good again! But about the expenses and receipts--the outlay and the incomings, on which we may reckon with certainty? Let me see--twice two’s four--and twice four’s eight--and nine times nine’s eighty one--and eleven times eleven’s a hundred and twenty one--that gives us five hundred thousand there--then there’s two hundred thousand here----Well!” cried the great man, suddenly interrupting himself in the midst of calculations which, though they were as unintelligible as the Chinese language to Mr. Styles, it is to be hoped were a trifle more comprehensive to the gentleman who was making them in a musing, half-whispering tone, and counting mysteriously on his fingers at the same time:--“well!” he cried, suddenly desisting from the arithmetical process with the satisfied air of a man who had arrived at a conviction by means of the most subtle considerations,--“well, I do think it will succeed, Mr. Styles--and I----I----”

“Will condescend to become our Chairman, Mr. Podgson?” said the other, finishing the sentence which the Railway Lion’s extreme modesty and sensitive bashfulness had left thus incomplete. “I am well aware, sir,--and the public are well aware likewise--that you have entered into the grand affairs of the Railway World with no interested motive,--that you never took a single share with the idea of making it a means of gain! No--sir--your views have been wholly and solely to benefit your fellow countrymen. Indeed, you yourself have proclaimed as much in your place in the House of Commons--and the civilised world echoes with the mighty truth! You are a benefactor, sir--a philanthropist--a patriot; and no sordid ideas ever influenced you! It is upon this ground, and on this ground only,--without even venturing to hint that there will be five thousand shares reserved for the Chairman and Provisional Committee-men, and that they are certain to rise to a high premium the moment they are issued,--without daring to mention such a thing in your presence, sir--but relying solely on your known readiness to countenance every fair--legitimate--and honourable undertaking which promises to benefit our fellow-men and produce fifty per cent. profits,--’tis upon these grounds, Mr. Podgson, that I solicit you to become the Chairman of the Grand British Longitudinal Railway!”

Mr. Styles narrowly watched the effect which this magniloquent oration produced upon the Railway Lion; and as he beheld the fat, ignoble, vulgar countenance of that stupendous animal slowly expanding with satisfaction, he knew that he was as sure of nailing Mr. Podgson for a Chairman, as he was sure of seeing Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis in the afternoon at three o’clock to partake of chops and sherry at Crosby Hall Chambers.

Nor was Mr. Bubbleton Styles mistaken. In as dignified a manner as it was in his nature to assume, and in as good English as it was in his power to employ, the great Mr. Podgson gave his assent to the proposition; and Mr. Styles was already in the midst of a set speech of thanks, when a pompous-looking livery-servant entered the room.

“Well, Thomas--what now?” demanded Mr. Podgson.

“Please, sir,” answered the domestic, whose countenance denoted offended dignity and wounded pride, “there’s a troublesome gentleman down below who says he must and will have a hinterview with you, sir----”

“Must and will!” ejaculated the Railway Lion, sinking back in his chair with an amazement which could not have been greater had some one rushed in to tell him that the Chinese had invaded England and made a Mandarin Lord Mayor of London.

“Yes, sir--must and will!” groaned the horrified domestic.

“Well--I never heard such impudence in my life!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, affecting the deepest indignation--a little piece of hypocrisy which completely won the Railway Lion’s heart.

“And does this person--for you was wrong to call him a gentleman, John,” said Mr. Podgson, somewhat recovering from his stupefaction,--“does this person, who must and will see me--me, John--me, Mr. Styles,--does this person, I say, give his name or business?”

“Please, sir, he gave me his card,” returned the flunkey; “and here it be.”

The high and mighty Railway Lion took the pasteboard between the tips of his thumb and fore-finger; and having glanced at it, he tossed it with sublime scorn into a waste-paper basket, exclaiming in his rough, disagreeable voice, “Mr. Clarence Villiers--eh? Well--I suppose I’d better see him. Don’t move, Mr. Styles: you shall just see how I’ll serve the insolent fellow that must and will have an interview with ME!”

The domestic retreated without turning his back upon his master,--or, in other words, stepped backwards to the door, as if he were quitting the presence of Royalty; and Mr. Styles again vented his well-affected indignation and surprise that “people should be so bold and inconsiderate as to obtrude themselves into the presence of Mr. Podgson in such a manner.”

“Bold and inconsiderate!” repeated the Railway Lion. “It is owdacious and intolerable.”

“Shameful!” cried Mr. Styles.

“Perfectly insupportable!” vociferated Mr. Podgson.

“Monstrous in the extreme!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, actually working himself up into a passion.

“But I’ll put a stop to it!” continued the Railway Lion, dealing a tremendous blow with his clenched fist upon the table: “I’ll bring in a Bill next Session, Mr. Styles, to protect public men from insolent intrusion!”

“It will serve the scoundrels quite right, my dear sir,” responded the small speculator, approvingly.

“By Gad! I’ll pay the reskels off for it!” exclaimed the mighty man, who could command hundreds of thousands of pounds, but not the minutest fraction of his temper.

The door now opened again; and the pompous domestic, whose countenance was expressive of deep indignation, ushered in the reader’s old friend--Mr. Clarence Villiers,--now a fine, handsome man, in the prime of life.

“Well, sir--and what do you want?” demanded Mr. Podgson, with all the overbearing insolence of a contemptible parvenu.

“In the first place, sir,” replied Clarence, speaking in a firm but gentlemanly tone, and glancing towards the servant who lingered near the door, “I must take the liberty of advising you to recommend your lacquey, to treat at least with respect, if not with courtesy, those persons whom business may bring to your house; for I can assure you that it required no ordinary forbearance on my part to restrain my hand from laying this cane across his shoulders.”

“What, sir--you dare, sir----” stammered Mr. Podgson, his vast, ignoble countenance becoming the colour of scarlet.

“I dare chastise any one who is insolent to me, be he who or what he may, sir,” answered Villiers, in a very significant way, and in so determined a tone, too, that the pompous domestic evaporated and the Railway Lion was struck speechless with amazement--for he felt as if he were literally bearded in his den! “Being myself a gentleman by birth and education, and I hope in manners and conduct, I am accustomed to treat my equals with courtesy and my inferiors with kindness; and I will tolerate insult from neither. But enough of that subject, Mr. Podgson,” continued Villiers: “the object of my visit is soon explained. For many years I have enjoyed a confidential situation in the service of the Earl of Ellingham----”

“Oh! I really beg your pardon, Mr. Villiers!” exclaimed the Railway Lion, with a start as if the piles of a voltaic battery had suddenly been applied to his unwieldy carcase. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Lord Ellingham--or else----But pray take a chair, Mr. Villiers.”

“Thank you, sir--I would rather stand,” answered Clarence, in a cold--almost contemptuous tone; for he saw full well that this sudden politeness was not paid to himself, but to his connexion with aristocracy. “Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Podgson, I returned from the country by the Western Provinces Railway; and I was most anxious to reach London at the usual hour for the arrival of that particular train, inasmuch as the business which I had in hand for my noble employer was urgent and pressing. Conceive, then, my annoyance when the train stopped for three quarters of an hour at a midway station--and without any substantial reason. I remonstrated with the persons on duty at that station: I even alighted, and saw the clerk. Several other gentlemen, whose time was likewise precious, joined me in my endeavours to prevent farther delay,--but all in vain! And the excuse was--that the train had to wait for a basket of fruit, for Mrs. Podgson, the lady of the Chairman of the Company! Now, sir, with all possible respect for the fair sex, I submit to you that it is too bad----”

“And pray,sir,” interrupted the mighty Railway Lion, flying into a furious passion, “why should not my wife receive her fruit in time? By Gad! sir--the train should have waited an hour for it, had it been necessary; and it would have been as much as the situations of the guard and engineer were worth to have continued the journey without that basket!”

“Then you mean me to understand, sir,” said Villiers, in a calm and gentlemanly tone which contrasted strongly with the insolent, overbearing manner of the purse-proud vulgarian-upstart,--“you mean me to understand that you approve of the conduct of your underlings in delaying a train containing upwards of a hundred persons, to most of whom time was precious, for the sake of a basket of fruit!”

“Approve of it!” cried the Railway Lion, astonished that any doubt should exist upon the point: “why--I ordered it! sir!”

“Then all I can say in comment upon such improper conduct is--that if the Government and the Legislature have permitted Companies to grasp these tremendous monopolies in order to use them as instruments of private convenience, without the slightest regard to the time or feelings of the public,--then, I for one,” continued Clarence Villiers emphatically, “protest against so atrocious a despotism; and I begin to be ashamed of my own country, when I find it becoming the scene of a petty tyranny that would raise an outcry even in Russia or Austria.”

“Oh! ho! the shoe pinches there--does it,” cried Mr. Podgson, in the vulgar triumph effected by wealth over the popular interests. “I tell you what, sir--and I shall not attempt to disguise the matter:--we monopolists, as you call us, have got the railways in our own hands--and we mean to keep ’em--aye, and to do with ’em just as we like! Do you know how many hundred miles of railway I’ve got under my control? Ask the first person you happen to meet--and you’ll be sure to find out. Well--do you think I won’t use my rights and privileges,--I may almost say prerogatives--eh, Mr. Styles?”

“Oh! decidedly, my dear sir,” exclaimed that gentleman, approvingly.

“Well,” resumed the Railway Lion,--“do you think I won’t use my prerogatives as I choose and fancy? If Mrs. Podgson wants even so trifling a thing as a new-laid egg from any particular station, the train shall wait for it. Talk to me about people’s time--what the devil do I care for it? People must put up with things as they find ’em. They can’t help themselves: we’ve knocked all the coaches off the roads--and you have no alternative but to go with us. But perhaps, when a train is late at starting, or when it is kept as it was yesterday, some of you knowing gentlemen will be after taking a post-chaise at the Company’s expense? I’d just advise you to do it! You’d have to sue us for the amount--and we’d ruin you in return. To recover five guineas you should have to pay as many hundreds in law costs. Why, sir--it is perfect madness to think of fighting great Public Companies;--and we’ll let the people know it too.”

Having arrived at this liberal and enlightened determination, the Railway Lion ceased through sheer exhaustion,--the volubility of passionate declamation not suiting his guttural voice.

“Although, sir, I obtain at your hands no satisfaction for the infamous delay to which the train was subjected yesterday,” said Mr. Villiers, who had listened with calm and gentlemanly attention to the furious mouthings of the upstart,--“I am nevertheless pleased that I should have taken the trouble to call upon you in reference to the matter. I have learnt a lesson which I had not expected. I find that the sudden acquisition of wealth is calculated to set a man who rises from the People, against the People; and that monopoly is a more tremendous engine of oppression in the hands of narrow-minded and self-sufficient persons than even its greatest haters could have conceived. I do not envy you your riches, sir--nor your sovereign sway over many miles of railroad--no, nor even the title with which a fulsome and contemptible flattery has invested you:--for the poorest mechanic who does his duty towards his fellow-creatures, is a worthier and more estimable being than you.”

With these words--uttered not savagely, but in a tone of firm and measured reproach--Clarence Villiers retired from the presence of the Railway Lion, who appeared for the moment to have had “a calf’s skin” thrown about “his recreant limbs,” so astounded and amazed was he at the language which his visitor had dared to address to him.

“This is the most atrocious proceeding I ever knew in the whole course of my life!” at length exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, who in reality had been much amused by the scene.

“I suppose that the riff-raff--as I always call the People--will be telling us next that railways are public property!” cried Mr. Podgson: “but we’ll show ’em the difference--eh, Mr. Styles?--won’t we, Mr. Styles?”

And the Railway Lion condescendingly thrust his fingers in a jocular way into the small speculator’s ribs;--and then the great man and the little man had a hearty laugh together--that of the former being in the boisterous “ho! ho! ho!” style, and that of the latter in the more respectful and submissive “he! he! he!” fashion.

Having got upon this very comfortable and pleasant understanding together, Mr. Podgson and Mr. Styles chatted for about a quarter of an hour respecting the new railway scheme: and the latter took his departure, highly delighted with the reception he had experienced and the success of his visit.

Punctually as the clock struck three that afternoon, did Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis present themselves at the office in Crosby Hall Chambers; and as the third stroke was proclaimed by the churches in the neighbourhood, they entered the speculator’s private room, where that gentleman was seated at the table with his watch in his hand.

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Styles, returning the watch to his pocket: “this is business-like--and I am well pleased. The chops, you perceive, are smoking hot--the sherry, I know, is first-rate.”

Thus speaking, he did the honours of the table and the two guests did honour to the meal. The chops speedily disappeared--so did a bottle of wine; and a second was already opened before a word had been uttered on business matters.

“Now, gentlemen,” at length cried Mr. Styles; “I will give you a toast. Here’s the health of our Chairman--the Railway Lion!”

“No! you don’t mean to say----” ejaculated Mr. Curtis.

“Hould your tongue, Frank--and let Misther Sthyles say whatever he chooses!” exclaimed the captain. “Dhrink the toast, man--and that’s all about it!”

“I can assure you, gentlemen,” continued the promoter of the new concern, “that I have fulfilled the promise which I made you yesterday. Podgson is ours!”

“Hooray!” vociferated Frank Curtis.

“Hur-rah-ah!” thundered Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“It is indeed a subject for gratulation,” said Mr. Styles, “The next point I wish to speak to you about is the prospectus, a proof of which I have received from the printer. It would have been all ready for issue by this time, only my interview with the Railway Lion was prolonged far beyond the hour at which I had expected to be back in the City again;--and you may be sure that I was in no hurry when engaged with him,” added Mr. Bubbleton Styles, smiling significantly. “Here, you see,” he continued, displaying the proof of the flaming prospectus which he had drawn up,--“here is the glorious document. It is sufficient to set the very Thames on fire. Never were such magnificent promises--never such brilliant hopes held out! And look--thirty-two names of the most eminent Aldermen, merchants, Common Councilmen, and gentlemen----”

“Why--half of them have got F.R.S. to the end of their names!” ejaculated Frank Curtis: “what the deuce does that mean? And, by Jove!” he cried, now completely beside himself with astonishment,--“this is strange! Here’s the ‘Secretary, Francis Curtis, Esq., F.R.S., M.A., M.S.L.S., &c. &c.’ My dear friend Styles----”

“Patience--patience, Frank,” said that gentleman, with bland complacency. “Those initials stand for various honorary distinctions which give respectability to the name. For instance, you are represented as being a Fellow of the Royal Society, a Master of Arts, and a Member of Several Learned Societies. God bless you, my dear fellow! even the very et ceteras have their weight in a Railway Prospectus.”

“But I am nothing of all that you describe!” ejaculated Frank Curtis, surveying Mr. Styles with an expression of amazement that was quite ludicrous.

“I am well aware of that,” answered the City gentleman, coolly: “neither are half the Aldermen or Common-Councilmen F.R.S.’s or any thing else--unless it is A.S.S.’s. But no Railway scheme can be got up without this kind of gammon--for that is precisely the word; and an Alderman who would send a poor devil to the treadmill for obtaining goods under false pretences if he only represented himself as Jones instead of Noakes, will himself assume any honorary distinction that is calculated to gull the public. Look at Alderman Higgs Higgs, for example’s sake! Glance over the list of different Railway schemes--and amongst the Provisional Committee-men belonging to each you will see ‘Higgs Higgs, Esq., Alderman, F.R.S., &c. &c.’ Even that consummate ass, Alderman Sun, has dubbed himself in a similar fashion;--and therefore I see no reason why Frank Curtis, Esq., or Captain Gorman O’Blunderbuss, should not be an F.R.S. likewise.”

This explanation was highly satisfactory to the two gentlemen last mentioned; and on the strength of it they drank bumpers to the success of the projected enterprise.

“I have duly registered the Company,” observed Mr. Styles; “and I have had an interview with Dummerley, the Engineer, this afternoon! Oh! I can assure you that I have not been idle. Dummerley is ready to swear that he has surveyed the whole line from the south of England to the north of Scotland----”

“But how is that possible?” demanded Frank, again lost in astonishment: for, crafty and cunning as he was in petty trickeries, he was altogether bewildered in the mazes of colossal swindles. “You only thought of the plan a few days ago--and Dummerley would not have even had time to travel the whole distance there and back post haste--much less to survey it leisurely.”

“You are quite green in these matters, Frank,” observed Mr. Styles.

“Green!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss: “be Jasus! the Imerald Isle itself isn’t so green as my frind Frank in cer-r-r-tain respicts. But it’s afther enlightening him ye are, Misther Sthyles--and he’ll be all the betther for the taching.”

“Dummerley is a regular good fellow, I can assure you,” resumed the promoter. “‘You will be the Engineer,’ said I to him this afternoon: ‘I told Podgson that you would.’--‘Most certainly,’ he replied.--‘And in case the Bill should be opposed in Committee, you will be ready to swear that you particularly surveyed the part of the line relative to which objections may be raised?’--‘Oh! of course,’ was his answer.--‘And you will also swear that your plans are perfectly correct?’--‘As a matter of course,’ he again replied.--‘Well, then,’ said I, ‘here’s a five pound note for you; and now fall to work as hard as you can to get all the plans up in such a business-like way that they may look legitimate.’--Dummerley accordingly took himself off as happy as a prince; and thus every thing goes on completely in our favour. But it is now three minutes to five; and at five precisely I step into the Hackney omnibus at the Flower-Pot,” added Mr. Styles, looking at his watch for the hundredth time during the last quarter of an hour.

Frank Curtis and Captain O’Blunderbuss took the hint and their departure; and the promoter of a scheme for raising millions treated himself with a six-penny ride in an omnibus as far as Cambridge Heath Gate, in which suburban quarter this great man resided in a six-roomed house, including the kitchens.

CXXVI. ELUCIDATIONS

At the conclusion of the hundred and twenty-fourth chapter we asked whether Charles Hatfield would succeed in crushing the sentiments of curiosity that had been awakened within him?

Alas! no--it was impossible!

His better feelings, aroused by the startling remembrance of the assurances he had respectively given his father and mother, had for a few hours triumphed over that insatiable longing to penetrate into the mysteries of the past:--but when he again found himself alone in his chamber, in the silence of night, he could not subdue the thoughts which forced themselves upon him, and which were all connected with those mysteries.

Thus was it that we again find him pacing his chamber while others slept,--pacing up and down in an agitated and excited manner, and maintaining a desperate struggle within his own soul.

For the irresistible temptation which beset him, was to ponder once more and deeply on the incidents of his early days, and to endeavour to retrieve from the abysses of his memory any other recollections that might be slumbering there. For the sake of the pledge given to his mother--for the sake of the assurance made to his father, he strove,--yes--sincerely, ardently he strove--to vanquish that temptation: yet he could not--human nature possessed not so grand a power;--he might have ruled his actions by his will--but his thoughts defied all controul.

Yielding, therefore, at length to their current, he was whirled along by the same eddying tide of reflections which had swept him through so considerable a portion of the preceding night;--and now the efforts of memory--by one of those superhuman strainings which, while they seem as if they must break the very fibres of the brain, also appear to evoke a sudden flash from the depth of some profound cerebral cell,--those powerful and painful efforts in a moment, as it were, established a connexion between the name of Benjamin Bones and the murder of Tamar!

Yes: Charles Hatfield suddenly became aware that the name and the incident were in some way associated:--and he necessarily supposed that, in his childhood, he had heard facts mentioned which had created that impression at the time, but the nature of which he could not now for the life of him recall to memory. This impression was probably vague even at the period when it was engendered; because Charles recollected full well that the utmost caution was adopted by those around him not to discourse upon the particulars of the foul murder in his presence, nor even to respond otherwise than evasively to the questions he put,--he being a mere child at the time.

As the young gentleman paced up and down, his mind labouring with the new reminiscence which had arisen within, it suddenly struck him that there were means of informing himself of all and every detail of that murder, whereof he at present entertained only a vague and general impression of its atrocity. His long absence on the continent had prevented him from ever, even accidentally, falling in with an English book of criminal annals, or a file of English newspapers, to which he might have referred, had the thought struck him so to do. But now what was to restrain him from making those searches which would throw every light on an occurrence of such fearful interest?

Scarcely was this idea conceived, when the means of instantaneously carrying it into execution suggested itself. For Charles Hatfield remembered that in the well-stored library of the mansion he had observed a complete set of the Annual Register, from the very origin of that useful work until the most recent date of its publication!

And now he trembled from head to foot--he literally gasped for breath, at the thought of being enabled to tear away the veil of mystery from at least one incident which was so materially connected with his childhood: for Tamar had been as a mother to him during the few months that he was in her care!

There was in his soul a deep and yet undefined presentiment that he stood on the threshold of strange discoveries--that important revelations were about to be made to him;--and, without being superstitious, he bent to the influence of this solemn but dim forecasting--this awe-inspiring but vague prescience.

Taking the lamp in his hand, he stole gently from his chamber--descended the wide and handsome staircase--traversed a long corridor, in the niches of which stood beautiful specimens of sculpture--and entered the spacious library.

On each side of the door was a marble statue as large as life; and the young man started--but only for a moment--as the white and motionless effigies stood out suddenly as if it were from the deep darkness which the lamp illumined. It was not that he had forgotten such statues were there--nor that he was positively frightened at their appearance:--but his soul was influenced by one of those presentiments which are of themselves superstitions in character--and moreover he was on the point of seeking information relative to the details of a foul and horrible murder.

Instantly recovering himself, and blushing at his fears, he advanced into the library, closing the door carefully behind him: then, approaching a particular range of shelves, he reached down the Annual Register for the year 1827.

In less than a minute he was seated at the table, with the book opened at the proper place before him;--and greedily--Oh! how greedily he plunged as it were into its contents.

But--great heavens!--why starts he thus? What discovery has he made?--what revelation has been afforded him?

He learns, with a frightful sinking of the heart, that Rainford was a highwayman--that he had been executed at Horsemonger Lane Gaol--that he had been resuscitated by some means or another with which the writer was unacquainted--that he had reappeared in London in the disguise of a Blackamoor--and that he had received the royal pardon for all his crimes. These details were incidentally given in the course of the narrative of the foul murder of Tamar, who was represented to have been Rainford’s wife;--and now also Charles Hatfield discovered how terrific was the connexion between the name of Benjamin Bones and the assassination of that ill-fated daughter of Israel. Yes--and he perceived, too, that Benjamin Bones and Old Death were one and the same individual;--and he shuddered from head to foot as he perused--nay, almost rushed through the details of the crime which had been committed nineteen years previously in the subterranean cells belonging to a house in Red Lion Street, Clerkenwell!

But Charles Hatfield is not satisfied with what he has already devoured--for we can scarcely use the word read:--his curiosity to know more has become insatiable;--and guided by the hints and the observations occurring in the narrative of the murder, he refers to an earlier page in that volume, in order to obtain a full and complete insight into the trial and condemnation of Rainford--that Rainford whom he had loved so well!

The whole particulars were given in detail and with accuracy,--the robbery of Sir Christopher Blunt--the capture of Rainford by Dykes and his myrmidons in Lock’s Fields--the trial--the condemnation--and the execution!

Charles read--read on with horrified feelings which often threatened to get the better of him;--but there was one point in the evidence which rivetted his attention. Dykes, the officer, in explaining the mode in which the highwayman had been taken into custody, used these words:--“When I and my people gained admittance into the house in Brandon Street, the prisoner was in bed with his mistress, a Jewess.”

“Then,” thought Charles Hatfield immediately, “Tamar was not his wife! Ah! that is clear enough--although the narrative of the murder would imply otherwise. But the only inference that can be drawn from this discrepancy, is that the reporter of the assassination was delicately and judiciously sparing of the feelings of the Medina family--whereas, in the former case, it was absolutely necessary to record the evidence just as it was given. Poor Tamar!--no wonder that thy name is never mentioned now by those who once knew thee--no wonder that even thy very sister, the Countess of Ellingham, seems to have forgotten thee!”

Thus, Charles Hatfield suddenly adopted the belief that Tamar was not Rainford’s wife. Neither, indeed, was she at the time when Rainford was arrested by Mr. Dykes; and it never struck the young man that the matrimonial ceremony might have been performed between the period of Rainford’s resuscitation and the murder of the Jewish lady. For when the nuptial blessing was performed in Paris, Charles--being then a mere boy--was not present at the proceedings which took place as privately as possible in the British Ambassador’s Chapel. As for his suspicion that the Countess of Ellingham was ashamed to breathe the name of Tamar,--Oh! the reader may judge how erroneous was that belief! In her heart of hearts did the generous Esther treasure the image of that dearly-beloved sister;--and if neither herself nor her noble husband ever breathed her name, it was through kind feelings towards Mr. Hatfield and motives of delicacy in respect to Georgiana. But Charles, being as yet ignorant that his father and Rainford were one and the same person, could not possibly suspect the necessity for the exercise of such kind feelings on the one hand or such delicacy on the other.

“And thus,” murmured Charles to himself, as he closed the book which had made such marvellous and horrifying revelations,--“and thus Thomas Rainford was a highwayman! The good--kind-hearted--generous man who loved me, was a felon--a criminal: he passed through the hands of the public executioner! Oh! my God--what dreadful things have I this night learnt!” he exclaimed aloud, pressing his hand to his forehead. “But how came this Thomas Rainford to have the care of me?--how was it that my parents could have left me so long in his hands--or at his disposal? Oh! no wonder--no wonder that Mr. de Medina and Esther should have charged me, when first they left me at school, never to mention the name of Rainford! And now how many gaps in the earliest portion of my reminiscences are filled up,--that absence of Mr. Rainford for several weeks, during which period I pined after him--that constant weeping of Tamar--then the removal to Mr. de Medina’s house, and the sudden revival of joy which Tamar experienced there. But--a highwayman--a felon--a criminal! Oh! what awful mysteries envelop all this matter still! For the Earl of Ellingham was intimate with Rainford--and it was said, I remember, that at Mr. de Medina’s death he left to this same Rainford a large fortune. A fortune to whom?--to the seducer of his daughter--to one who had passed through the hands of the public executioner! And Lord Ellingham was intimate with the man who seduced the sister of his intended wife;--and Esther was friendly likewise with him who ruined that sister. Gracious God! all this is most unaccountable--so unaccountable, that I am lost and bewildered! But most mysterious--ten thousand times the most mysterious of all these incidents, is that one grand fact to which I cannot but recur,--how could my parents have left me in the care of a highwayman! ’Tis true that he received the royal pardon: but that pardon----Ah! the Register says that it was procured through the interest of Lady Hatfield--that Dykes, an officer of justice, was present at the time when that lady announced----Just heavens! a light breaks in upon my soul----Oh! no--no----and yet that resemblance----May God have mercy upon me!”

And the young man, groaning bitterly--bitterly, in the anguish of his spirit, fell back in his chair--covering his face with his hands.

Yes--a light had indeed broken in upon him, elucidating a terrible mystery in a terrible manner! Lady Georgiana Hatfield had procured the royal pardon:--Lady Georgiana Hatfield must therefore have had strong reasons thus to exert herself in behalf of a convicted felon, who had passed through the hands of the hangman, but had been recalled to life and restored to the world in some wondrous manner. But of what nature were those potent reasons? Naturally did it strike Charles Hatfield that love must have been the cause;--and when he recollected the resemblance which existed between his own father and that Thomas Rainford who had once been his friend and protector, it flashed to his mind that he in whom Lady Hatfield had shown such tender interest--even to the compromising of her fair fame in the eyes of the world,--he for whom she had so far stepped aside from the precise course of female delicacy as to implore the royal pardon,--he it must be who was her husband!

Yes--yes: it was now as clear as the sun at noon-day:--Mr. Hatfield and Thomas Rainford were one and the same individual,--and he--Charles Hatfield--was the son of a highwayman who had been tried--convicted--and ushered through all the ignominious ordeal of the scaffold!

For several minutes the young man sat motionless--crushed, stupefied, astounded by the appalling truth which he had elicited from his fatal investigations into the past:--for several minutes it must have been a mere balancing of chances whether he should awake from that dreadful reverie to the light of reason once more, or suddenly start up a howling, hopeless maniac!

But this latter condition was not to be his frightful doom. By degrees--by very slow degrees, he recovered so much of his self-possession and composure as to be enabled to look his misfortune in the face, and even fall into additional reflections on the subject.

“Yes--Thomas Rainford and Mr. Hatfield are the same individual--and he is my father! It was but little more than nineteen years ago when the trial and the ordeal of the gallows took place--and I am twenty-five! Was my mother--was Lady Hatfield my father’s wife at that time? In other words--am I legitimate? ‘As God is my judge,’ said my father yesterday, ‘she has never been guilty of weakness or frailty.’ Then what am I to believe? That my father and my mother were married privately in an honourable manner--and that I was the offspring of that lawful union;--then, that my father deserted my mother, and became enamoured of Tamar, whom he took as his mistress;--and, lastly, that after Tamar’s death, my parents were reunited! This--this must be the truth--and therefore my father deceived me not when he so emphatically proclaimed my mother’s virtue and my legitimacy. But--Oh! my God!--well might he have said that the weightiest reasons had alone induced him and my mother to practise a deception towards myself and the world in respect to the degree of relationship in which I really stood with regard to them! Yes--for the world perhaps dates the marriage of my parents only from the time when they were reunited a few years after Tamar’s death:--and hence the necessity of calling me their nephew! I understand it all now--Oh! yes, I understand it all too well! I am legitimate--but I am the son of a highwayman: my God! how bitterly--bitterly is my curiosity punished this night!”

And now the young man sobbed as if his heart would break.

Whither had flown his dreams of ambition?--where now were his hopes of emulating the career of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Montoni?

“The son of a highwayman!”--these were the words that fell ten times in a minute from his tongue:--that was the idea which now sate, dominant and all-absorbing, but like a leaden weight, upon his soul.

And did he loathe his father?--did he curse the author of his being?

No--no: a thousand times, no! Deep--profound--immeasurable was the pity which he entertained for his sire;--and if he loathed any thing, it was his own existence--if he cursed aught, it was his own being!

For, oh! terrible indeed was it for that fine young man, of lofty principles, generous nature, and soaring aspirations,--terrible was it for him to receive a blow so sudden--a shock so rude--a rebuff so awful!

Better--better far had it been for him to remain in ignorance of his parentage,--still to have looked on Mr. Hatfield as his uncle, and on Lady Georgiana as his aunt,--rather than have learnt a secret which only prompted him to fathom collateral mysteries and clear up associated doubts! For the result of those researches was the elucidation which had flashed on him with almost lightning effect,--blasting--searing scorching!

“Accursed book!” he suddenly exclaimed, hurling the Annual Register across the apartment, as if the volume were a living thing, and endowed with human feelings, so as to be susceptible of the venting influence of his rage.

But in the next moment he reflected that no trace of an untimely or mysterious visit to that library must remain,--that none must suspect his pryings or his researches: for not for worlds--no, not for worlds--would he have his father or mother know that he had made the discoveries which characterised this memorable night! He accordingly rose from his seat--raised the volume from the floor--and turned to the book-case to replace it.

This act, so simple in itself, was destined to lead to a circumstance thenceforth influencing the entire destiny of Charles Hatfield: for as he thrust the volume back into the place on the shelf whence he had taken it, he heard a sharp abrupt sound, like the click of a lock.

He was in that humour when every incident, however trivial, was calculated to assume an importance in his imagination; and, standing on a chair, he proceeded to examine the wainscotting at the back of the shelves--for which purpose he removed several of the books. To his surprise, he observed a small aperture formed by the opening of a sliding panel, and which revealed a recess in the wall of about a foot square,--the violence with which, in his excitement, he had thrust the book on the shelf, having acted on the secret spring whereby the panel was fastened.

Under ordinary circumstances, Charles Hatfield would have immediately closed the recess, in which he beheld a small leathern case and a packet of letters,--in the same way as he would have abstained from reading a manuscript lying on a desk or evidently left about through inadvertence. But, on the present occasion, he was not his own master:--his honourable feelings were triumphed over by emotions of the most painful nature;--and it was impossible, in this state of mind, that he should avoid catching at any circumstance savouring of mystery,--every such circumstance apparently linking itself with his own concerns.

Thus, obedient to an impulse which he could not controul, he seized the leathern case and the documents as if they were a glorious prize; and, returning to his seat, proceeded to examine them.

The leathern case contained a roll of letters, and other documents tied round with a piece of riband so faded that it was impossible to determine what its colour might have originally been. The writing in the papers was, however, still completely legible--the leathern case, and the total absence of damp in the little recess, having preserved them for a period of half a century!

Wrapped round the roll of papers in the case, was a letter, addressed to the Earl of Ellingham; and it instantaneously struck Charles that it was in the handwriting of his father--Mr. Hatfield! By the comparative darkness of the ink, it was of a far more recent period than the documents which it accompanied;--but the precise time when it was written did not immediately appear, no date being attached to it.

Without pausing to reflect upon the impropriety of violating the sanctity of correspondence concealed with so much precaution in a secret recess,--but carried away by the influence of those feelings which we have above attempted to describe,--Charles Hatfield devoured the contents of this letter; and though they are already familiar to the reader, yet for the purposes of our narrative we quote them again:--

“I have sent you the papers, my dear brother--for so I shall make bold to call you still,--to convince you that I did not forge an idle tale when we met last. Whatever your motive for abandoning me in my last hour may be, I entertain no ill feeling towards you: on the contrary, I hope that God may prosper you, and give you long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility of dispute.

“I had promised to leave behind me a written narrative of my chequered and eventful history for your perusal: but--need I explain wherefore I have not fulfilled this promise?

“T. R.”

“His brother--his dear brother!” gasped Charles Hatfield, as the letter dropped from his hands; but his eyes remained intently fixed upon it: “his brother!” he repeated. “My God! then am I the nephew of the Earl of Ellingham?--am I the cousin of Lady Frances, whom I already love so well? But----gracious heavens!” he ejaculated, as another and still more thrilling idea flashed to his mind: “if Mr. Hatfield be indeed the brother of the Earl of Ellingham--as he assuredly is,--then is he the elder brother! And if the elder brother, he himself should be the bearer of the title--and I--I should be a Viscount! But--ah! perhaps my father is the illegitimate offspring of the late Earl--and that this is the reason wherefore the family honours and estates have devolved upon the younger brother! And yet--what mean these words?--‘give you long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility of dispute!’ Oh! here again is some dreadful mystery: just heavens! what a fated--doomed family is ours! Doubt--uncertainty--secrecy characterise all its history:--at least the experience of the last two days would lead me so to believe!”

At this moment the young man’s eyes fell upon the roll of paper which he had taken from the leathern case: and with feverish impatience--yet still with care, inasmuch as the documents were as fragile with old age as tinder--he proceeded to examine them.

And, oh! how deep--how intense suddenly became the interest with which he now perused the diary and the letters of the unfortunate Octavia Manners! His excitement was stilled--his impatience was subdued: a deadly pallor succeeded the hectic flush upon his cheeks;--still and motionless sate he, his eyes devouring the contents of those important papers!

The frightful treachery of Old Death towards his half-sister, the beautiful but ill-fated Octavia, was revealed step by step;--but there was likewise an elucidation which touched a chord that thrilled to the inmost recesses of young Hatfield’s heart,--and this was the fact that Octavia was wedded by the late Earl of Ellingham previous to the birth of the child! Yes--there was the marriage-certificate: there, too, was the certificate of the child’s baptism;--and that child was therefore, at its very birth, the heir to the proud title and the entailed estates of a mighty Earldom!

Here let us pause for a few moments to afford an explanation which now becomes necessary.

If the reader will refer to the forty-seventh chapter of this narrative, he will find recorded so much of the history of poor Octavia Manners as Arthur himself was acquainted with. In relating that history to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, Arthur had stated that Octavia fled away from her vile half-brother’s house the very day after her disgrace was consummated. “For several months no trace was discovered of her: it was feared she had committed suicide.” During that interval the first Countess of Ellingham died. At length the Earl (Arthur’s father) accidentally discovered that Octavia was living, and that she was in a way to become a mother. “He hastened to the miserable garret which she occupied, and found her in the most abject state of poverty--endeavouring to earn a subsistence with her needle.” All his affection for her revived, with renewed vigour; and his heart smote him with remorse for the appalling treachery which he had perpetrated towards her. He saw her ruined in health, character, and spirits,--ruined by him,--still surpassingly beautiful, but only a wreck of what she once was;--he saw all this--and he was horror-struck at the effects of his crime! He threw himself on his knees--he offered her every possible reparation which it was in his power to make;--and then--for the sake of the child which she bore in her bosom--she said, “If you would prove your contrition, my lord--if you would impart one single gleam of hope, however faint, to my goal--you will make me your wife! It is not for myself that I demand this boon at your hands,--for a boon it becomes when the violater espouses the violated,--yes, a boon in the estimation of the world, though only an act of justice in the eyes of God! No--it is not for myself; ’tis for our child! Think not that I--the sister of the marine-store dealer--shall ever assume the name or adopt the rank of Countess of Ellingham! Let our union be secret--only let it take place at once, so that our child may be legitimate!” Thus spoke Octavia Manners on that occasion; and the Earl of Ellingham, her violater, consented to all that she asked. They were married with so much privacy that even Miranda--the faithful gipsy girl who had formed so strong an attachment to Octavia--remained ignorant of the important occurrence. But the very next day Octavia fled! No affection had she for the noble who had ruined her--who had been the cause of her severance from the object of her first and only love: she had only asked him to marry her for the sake of the honour of their child’s parentage--and, the ceremony being performed, she withdrew herself into the strictest solitude and obscurity, to brood over her woes and sufferings in secret!

Such was the substance of that portion of Octavia’s own diary which revealed to Charles Hatfield the fact that the injured girl was indeed the Countess of Ellingham when her child was born! And that child’s career could be traced--yes, satisfactorily traced--step by step, by means of the papers which the young man had taken from the leathern case, and the packet of letters that he had likewise found in the recess;--and it was evident, beyond the least possibility of doubt, that the individual whom the world had known as Thomas Rainford, and whom it now knew as Mr. Hatfield,--it was clear, even beyond the remotest ground of suspicion to the contrary, that this individual was the rightful Earl of Ellingham!

Recollect, too, reader, that Charles Hatfield had become firmly impressed with the belief that he was the legitimate offspring of his parents;--and now, therefore, conceive the wild enthusiasm of his delight, when he came to the conclusion that he was in reality a Viscount by present rank, and had an Earldom in the perspective!

Forgotten was the fact that had ere now stunned and stupefied him,--the fact that his father was the notorious highwayman, Thomas Rainford:--he thought of that no more, in the delirium of his rapture at the idea of having a noble title within his reach. But had he not, on the previous day, assured Lady Frances Ellingham that he envied only the greatness which had made itself, and not that which was obtained by the accident of birth? Yes: and at the time he conscientiously believed that he spoke his own thoughts correctly. Now, however, that the temptation appeared to be within his reach, it possessed charms and attractions of irresistible power!

Recalling to mind the sounding titles of the object of his admiration and heroic worship, he began to fancy that the Right Honourable the Earl of Ellingham was not comparatively so very insignificant, even when uttered after the swelling appellations of His Royal Highness Field Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-apparent to the Grand Ducal Throne.

Suddenly, as it were, we behold the young man, whose sentiments were so noble and generous while he deemed himself to be a mere civilian having every exertion to make in order to rise to eminence,--suddenly we behold him seized with an insatiable ambition, now that a coronet appeared to be actually within his reach.

But did he contemplate the immediate adoption of measures to force his father to wrest the title and estates of the Earldom from Arthur? We know not all that passed through the mind of Charles Hatfield on this fatal night:--we can, however, aver that having fully perused the valuable documents which had made to him such important revelations, he did not restore them to the secret recess where he had found them, but secured them about his own person.

Previously to quitting the library, he closed the sliding panel, and replaced the Annual Register in such a manner that the shelf did not appear to have been disturbed.

The west-end clocks were striking three, and the light of a July morning was streaming through the windows of the mansion, when Charles Hatfield retired to his own chamber. His first care was to consign to his writing-desk the documents and letters which he now considered to be the arbiters of his destiny; and, this being performed, he sought his couch.

But slumber would not visit his eyes:--myriads of conflicting ideas were in his brain. He felt that he had to play the hypocrite--to keep a bridle on his tongue--to control every look, and measure every word, until the time should come for proclaiming all he knew. For the present he would not distress his parents by allowing them even to suspect that the things which they considered to be such profound secrets, were no longer so to him. No:--he would endeavour to appear the same gay--frank--confiding--affectionate Charles Hatfield that he hitherto had been!

These were amongst the principal reflections which chased sleep from his pillow until long past four o’clock;--and when at length his heavy lids were weighed down through sheer exhaustion of the mental and physical energies, his slumber was agitated with wild and varying visions, and he awoke unrefreshed, and still suffering with the fatigue of his long vigil.

CXXVII. THE WANDERERS

The night on which Charles Hatfield made the important discoveries detailed in the preceding chapter, was marked by other events of a scarcely less interesting nature.

It was about eleven o’clock--the weather was intensely warm--and not a breath of air agitated the foliage on the way-side, as two females toiled slowly and painfully along the high road between Dartford and Shooter’s Hill.

One was a hideous old harridan whose years could not have been less than sixty-two or sixty-three; and yet, though her form--once tall, symmetrical, and on a large scale--was bowed with age and sufferings, she still possessed considerable physical energy. The countenance was weather-beaten and tanned to such an extreme that, had she been dressed in male attire, no delicacy nor feminine cast of features would have betrayed her real sex: her short grizzled locks were confined by an old kerchief wound round her head in a gipsy fashion;--and her garb denoted the utmost penury and distress. Not only did she leave upon the mind the disagreeable impression of revolting ugliness;--but her look was sinister and repulsive. The wrinkles beneath her eyes and about her closely compressed lips, bespoke a ferocious and determined character,--a soul resolute and nerved to every evil purpose;--and the acute observer might also mark in that countenance traces of those stormy and impetuous passions which had influenced her earlier years.

Her companion was a young woman of about nineteen; and though she was dressed almost as wretchedly as the old harridan, yet how different was the form which those rags covered! For her figure, though full even to a maturity beyond her years, was exquisitely modelled,--a waist not ridiculously small, but still small enough to develop in all their voluptuous proportions the swelling hips and fine bust. Clothed in stockings covered with darns, and shod with large clumsy shoes, were limbs and feet that for symmetry might have been envied by a queen;--and, as if anxious in the depths of her penury to preserve her charms as completely as possible, she wore an old pair of gloves upon her beautifully sculptured hands. Then her face, though sun-burnt was of a beauty which event an anchorite must have turned to admire,--yet a beauty of a bold and masculine style, and stamping her rather as a very handsome than as a very lovely woman. Her features were of the Roman cast,--the strong facial aquiline denoting a voluptuous and profoundly sensual disposition;--her fine large grey eyes looked boldly and wantonly from beneath dark brows majestically arched and almost meeting between the temples, and above which rose the high, straight, wide forehead, crowned with intelligence. Her hair was of a dark brown and singularly luxuriant, glossy, and silken;--and it was evident that not even the bitter miseries of poverty rendered her indifferent to the care which that glorious covering required to maintain its splendour unimpaired. Her mouth was small,--the upper lip thin--the lower one fuller, but not pouting;--her teeth, the least thing large, were nevertheless perfectly regular and of pearly whiteness;--and her chin was prominent, but well rounded. The general expression of her countenance was indicative of strong passions and fierce desires--great resolution of purpose--and something approaching even to a resolute sternness of purpose, amounting almost to implacability. She was not above the middle height; and her carriage was more commanding than graceful:--at the same time, it would have struck a beholder that were she attired in a befitting manner, her gait and gestures would have been characterised by nothing positively inelegant.

The reader will perceive that great, in many respects, was the contrast between the mother and daughter--for in such close relationship did the two females stand to each other: but in some points there was a marked resemblance. For instance, the countenances of both indicated strong passions and indomitable resolution;--both were totally devoid of all moral principle, though they could simulate the sanctity of anchorites to suit their purposes or serve their interests;--and both could be implacable enemies, while friendship was a mere name with them at which their lips would curl into a sneer.

In spite of her natural energies and the somewhat substantial remains of physical strength, the old woman dragged herself slowly and painfully along the road towards London; while her daughter exhibited scarcely less evident symptoms of fatigue--approaching almost to total exhaustion.

“Perdita,” said the harridan, suddenly breaking a silence that had been of long duration,--“Perdita,” she repeated, “we cannot reach London this night: it will be impossible,--I feel it will be impossible.”

“Then we must lie down by the road-side and perish with hunger,” answered the young woman, who bore, it seemed, the singular Christian name of Perdita.

We have above spoken of contrasts and resemblances in respect to these two females, who are destined to play no unimportant part in the forthcoming chapters of our narrative;--but we must pause to observe that it would be impossible to conceive a greater discrepancy in tones than that which marked the voices of mother and daughter.

The voice of the old woman was masculine--hoarse--disagreeable--and grating to the ear; and although she spoke the English language with the most grammatical punctuality, and there was nothing positively vulgar in her manner of speech, yet the impression it seemed calculated to produce upon a stranger was singularly unpleasant. On the other hand, the whole sphere of harmony has known nothing more melodious than the voice of Perdita,--a voice which was capable of many modulations, each characterised by a charm peculiar to itself; for whether she were speaking in indignation--or in softness,--in outbursting passion--or in dogged ill-humour,--still were the tones of that voice metallic, rich, and flowing.

“The heartless wretches!” exclaimed the old woman, again breaking an interval of silence,--“to thrust us on shore at Deal with only a shilling in our pockets!”

“This is not the least hardship we have ever endured, mother,” said Perdita, rather in a tone of remonstrance than consolation. “For my part, I have scarcely ever seen any thing but privation and misery----”

“You ungrateful wretch!” ejaculated the harridan, furiously. “When I had but a morsel of bread to give you, did I ever take a portion for myself! For you, Perdita,” she continued, speaking in a milder and even more tender tone,--“for you I have gone through sufferings unknown and unheard of in this country,--for you have I toiled beneath the scorching South Australian sun of summer, and amidst the noisome damps of a South Australian winter! Yes--for years and years have I toiled on--toiled on, that your beauty might not be impaired by want or privation,--at least that you might endure as little want and privation as possible.”

“Well--well,” cried the young woman, somewhat softened by her mother’s words; “don’t let us look back to the past. We are now in England--and you say that we are not many miles from London. Good! We will endeavour to sustain each other’s courage and strength to reach the fine city where you hope to change our rags into silks and satins, and fill our empty pockets with gold.”

“Yes--and you shall see whether I have deceived you, Perdita!” exclaimed the harridan, in a tone partaking of enthusiasm. “Nearly nineteen years have elapsed since I last saw the mighty metropolis; and, unless its people be much changed, there is a fortune to be made by an experienced woman and a beautiful girl, leagued together.”

“And you are the experienced woman, mother?” said Perdita, actually seeking a compliment--for inordinate vanity was amongst her failings.

“Yes--and you are the beautiful girl--and you know it,” returned the old harridan. “Being of accord as we are together, it is impossible that we can fail to accomplish our grand designs. Why was it that I implored you not to accept the offers of marriage which needy settlers made you in New South Wales? Because your charms can command thousands of pounds in London; whereas, in that frightful colony, all you could have hoped to gain was what is termed ‘a comfortable position.’ And to one possessing your notions--your pride--your strong passions--your soaring disposition,--aye, and to one endowed with your loveliness too,--a mere home is not sufficient. You require luxuries--although you have never yet tasted them,--fine clothes--although you have never yet worn them,--a splendid equipage, although you have never yet known the use of one! It was for this that I brought you to England,--it was for this that I besought you to contract no marriage in the colony,--it was for this that I conjured you to abstain from any connexion that might become permanent!”

“I am well aware of your motives, mother,” said Perdita. “In a word,” she added, with a strange mixture of pride and irony, “you considered my beauty to be more marketable in London than in New South Wales. And after all that you have told me of the English people and England’s capital, I am inclined to believe that you have not misled me. But supposing that I contract some splendid marriage in London--that I find my way into the highest circles--and that I become the belle of the great city,--will there not be the constant risk--the ever imminent chance of falling in with the officers of some of those regiments which have returned from Sydney or Botany Bay----”

“I see now that you scarcely understand me--that we do not altogether comprehend each other!” interrupted the old woman, impatiently. “There is no need for you to count only on the chance of making a good match: ’tis indeed far more probable that you may ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family, and fortune,--or some old voluptuary of immense wealth,--and there is more to be gained as the mistress of one of these, than as a wife. Do not marry, Perdita--do not dream of marriage: remain independent--and the moment you have ruined one lover, you can take another. There--that is plain speaking; and now do you comprehend me?”

“Perfectly,” answered the young woman: then, under the influence of the wanton thoughts which rushed to her imagination, she said, “Yes--I comprehend you, and I confess that your views now become more suitable to mine. I could not chain myself to one individual, with any hope of being faithful to him:--love is a passion which will never obtain over me that influence which it so often exercises over the weak, the simple-minded, or the infatuated.”

“Be not too confident on that point, Perdita,” said the old woman. “In Sydney and Botany Bay your amours were only the result of a warm temperament;--for carefully as I watched over you----”

“Now, mother, let us have no moral teachings from your lips!” exclaimed the young woman, in an imperious and authoritative tone; “for had you been so very immaculate yourself, I should never have beheld the light of day, neither would you have passed some eighteen or nineteen years of your life in a penal colony. And such a colony as it is! Why--let a pretty girl be hemmed in by all the precautions which a parent can imagine, circumstances must inevitably lead her astray in South Australia! And you,--you, who know all this so well,--can you wonder if I were seduced at the early age of thirteen, and if from that period until your pardon arrived and we embarked to return home, I have not failed to indulge my fancy without hesitation? On the one side I obeyed your instructions,--I accepted no offer of marriage, and lived with no man permanently as his mistress: but, on the other, I hesitated not to intrigue with the gayest and most dashing officers----”

“Enough! enough!” ejaculated the mother, who, bad as she herself was, felt a cold chill come over her at this open, audacious, and unblushing avowal of her daughter’s depravity,--a depravity that was not however unknown, either in circumstances or extent, to the old woman. “Give me your arm, Perdita--assist me to mount this hill,--for I am ready to drop. There! you are a good girl! Ah! Perdita--I was once young and beautiful as you are now,--well-formed too, and elegant in carriage! I was a lady in every sense of the word--as far as outward appearance and manners went. But now--oh! how altered I am! My toothless mouth was once filled with pearls as white as yours--my bust was as voluptuous and as firm--my figure was as upright--my feet and ankles as delicate--and my step as light! Ah! that was many--many years ago, Perdita!”

“Shall you not be glad, mother, to visit London again?” demanded the young woman.

“Yes--for ’tis the only city in the world where adventuresses like ourselves--beggars, I may say--are certain to succeed. Oh! you have no idea of what a pandemonium is the great metropolis of England!” exclaimed the harridan, with strange emphasis. “’Tis a furnace in which millions of passions, interests, and ideas are ever boiling--boiling madly and as if in rage: ’tis a scene of immense iniquity and of boundless luxury--of wondrous intrigues and ineffable enjoyments.”

“Oh! how I long to plunge headlong into that fine city!” cried Perdita. “It is a vortex that will suit my disposition well.”

“Aye--and play your cards as I shall prompt,” observed her mother; “and you will speedily be the mistress of all the pleasures which London can afford. But, oh! I am ready to drop with weariness--I am dying with hunger and thirst, Perdita: and not a penny have we to purchase a morsel of bread----”

“I see a strong light yonder--there, mother--in that bye-lane,” said the young woman. “Shall we repair in that direction--perhaps it may be a hospitable cottage----”

“No: ’tis a gipsy’s encampment--I can distinguish the cart and the tent,” interrupted the old wretch. “But the gipsy race are good and generous; and they will not refuse us a morsel of bread and a cup of water.”

The two wanderers accordingly proceeded towards the strong light which Perdita had first discovered, and which proved to be, as her mother had surmised, the fire of a gipsy encampment situate in a bye-lane. As they approached, they observed a female form crouching over the blazing faggots, in spite of the intense sultriness of the weather, and apparently watching with attention a huge cauldron that was suspended above the fire in the usual gipsy fashion. When Perdita and her mother drew nearer still, they obtained a more perfect view of that female, whose countenance was thrown out in strong relief by the lurid flame; and they now perceived that she was a very old woman, bent down with the weight of years, but having nothing in her appearance of that weird-like character which so generally marks gipsy women of advanced age. She seemed to be all alone in the encampment at the time;--and her attitude, which had at first struck the wanderers as being that of a person watching the culinary process, now assumed a more thoughtful and serious character.

“Good dame,” said Perdita, “we are sinking with fatigue and famishing through want; and we crave your hospitality.”

“Ah! a woman as old as myself doubtless?” exclaimed the gipsy-crone, surveying Perdita’s mother with attention. “Come--sit down--you are welcome--you are welcome! I am all by myself for the present: my people have gone to a short distance--on business of their own--but that is of no matter to you. Young woman,” she continued, addressing herself to Perdita, “you are strong and active: I was once so myself! Ascend into the cart--you will find wooden bowls and spoons--and help yourselves to the contents of the pot. There will be enough for my people when they come back.”

The old gipsy spoke in so strange--vague--and peculiar a manner that the wanderers were both impressed with the idea that she must be in her dotage; and the rapid look of intelligence which passed between mother and daughter, showed that they had simultaneously entertained the same idea. Perdita, however, hastened to obey the directions which she had received; and, returning with the utensils, she and her mother commenced a hearty meal upon the broth and soddened poultry and meat which the cauldron contained.

While the two wanderers were thus employed, the old gipsy began rocking herself to and fro, and uttering her thoughts aloud. First she addressed herself to her guests: then, by degrees forgetting their presence, and becoming more and more enshrouded in the mists of her own failing mind, she still continued her musings in an audible tone.

“An old woman and a young one--eh?--then you are doubtless mother and daughter? Ah! I wish that I had a daughter so comely to look upon as yourself, my pretty dear;--but I should not like her to be quite so bold in her demeanour as yourself. You are very lovely: and yet methinks you are scarcely as virtuous as you are beautiful. Oh! now the red blood mantles in your cheeks: but do not take offence. ’Twere a sorry deed on my part to offer insult to those who share my hospitality. Yes--I wish that I had a daughter, who would love me in my old age. My own people neglect me: they leave me alone--alone--for many long hours together;--and then I have no other companions but my own thoughts. And strange companions are they at times, I can assure you. Let me see--what was I thinking of when you came up? Oh! I remember now:--yes--I remember now. Fifty years ago--no--it was about forty-nine, I nursed a male child,--the child of Octavia Manners and the Earl of Ellingham. I do not mean this present Earl:--no--no--’twas the late Earl. The child had a peculiar mark on the right arm: ’twas near the shoulder. Then I was turned away by the dead Octavia’s half-brother, Benjamin Bones--a horrible man, who knew no pity. But the child again fell in my way--Egyptia had it in keeping. Ah! I loved that child--I would have adopted it as my own. For seven years did I retain the boy with me--the dear boy, whom methinks I see now. But, the wretches--they sent him away: they lost him in Winchester--cast him off purposely on the wide world. Oh! how I regretted that dear, flaxen-headed boy! They told me he was dead--and I mourned for him. Years and years passed away: heaven only knows how many--I cannot stop to count them now. But it must have been twenty or twenty-one years ago that I met the flaxen-haired boy. Boy! no--no--he was a man--a fine, dashing, jovial, rollicking man;--yes--and, woe is me--a highway robber!”

By this time the two wanderers, who had not lost a single word of all that the gipsy crone was thus uttering aloud in her musings, became interested in the wild, yet still connected history which she was relating,--a history that was revealed by the development of her own thoughts and reminiscences, and which she seemed to experience a “pleasing pain” in reciting. But it was the elder of the two listeners--Perdita’s mother--who paid the deepest and most particular attention to the crone’s audible meditations, and who seemed to experience a presentiment that they were furnishing a subject which might be turned to her own and her daughter’s advantage.

“Yes--yes,” continued the old gipsy, “we met in Hampshire--and circumstances revealed him to me. The mark on the arm then proved that it was indeed he! I told him the history of his birth--and he expressed his intention to visit London and seek to recover from Old Death--that was the villain Benjamin Bones--the money of which he had been plundered. Alas! poor Tom Rain--you went to the great city to meet your doom! You were captured--you were tried--you were cast for death--and you were hanged on the roof of Horsemonger Lane gaol. Yes--I saw it all with my own eyes: for I was amidst the crowd--drawn thither by God alone can tell what strange infatuation! And if in the deep anguish that rent my heart, there was a single gleam of joy--a single gleam, however faint--’twas to mark how boldly you died, my brave Tom Rain! Died--died!” exclaimed the old gipsy, now speaking with thrilling emphasis: “no--no--you did not die! Methought, however, as did the rest of the multitude, that you were indeed no more: and for years--for many years--for nineteen years have I held that same belief. And during that interval, oft--oft have I thought of thee,--thought of thee as once I knew thee, Tom Rain--a flaxen-headed boy, and before thou didst bear that name of Rainford! Yes--I have thought of thee--aye, and wept bitterly, bitterly. But--am I dreaming--am I becoming crazy?--or is it indeed true that ten days ago, when in London, I saw thee--yes, thee--alive and in the full enjoyment of health and wealth? Ah! I recollect--’twas not a dream: no--no--I saw thee,--and I recognised thee, too, disguised though thou wert. For not even the hair dyed black--nor the change effected by time--nor the plain and unassuming garb,--no--naught could deceive me, Tom Rain, in respect to you! I beheld you in a carriage, with your half-brother the Earl of Ellingham, and with a fine young man whose countenance was of glorious beauty.”

These words suddenly made Perdita as attentive and interested a listener as her mother, both having by this time finished their hearty meal.

“Yes--a young man divinely handsome,” continued the gipsy-crone, rocking herself to and fro; “with a countenance that would ensnare any young female heart! And I made enquiries--and I learnt that my Tom Rain was now Mr. Hatfield, and that this young man was his nephew. Oh! I know it was Tom Rain: but how came he thus alive?--by what means was he resuscitated?--who snatched him from the grave? No--no--I am not a drivelling fool--a dreaming idiot, as my people said: I know full well that it was he--I could not be mistaken;--and yet, ’tis impossible to say how he was snatched from death! He is married, too--married to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, whose name he has taken. And they are now all dwelling together at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall. I longed to go thither and tell Tom Rain--no, Mr. Hatfield, I mean--that I had recognised him,--tell him that in me he beheld the Miranda whom he once knew: but my people laughed at me--they told me that I was in my dotage--that I was dreaming,--I, who have intellects as keen as ever--and sight so sharp that I knew my dearly-beloved Tom Rain in spite of his dyed hair and his changed aspect! Then my people forced me away with them;--but they cannot prevent me from thinking of Tom Rain as much and as often as I choose!”

The gipsy-crone ceased; and now she seemed to become suddenly aware again that she was not alone. But not reflecting that she had been speaking aloud the whole time, and that her two guests had overheard every syllable she had uttered, she turned towards them, making some remark of a perfectly indifferent character. It was easy to perceive that the poor old creature was half demented, in spite of her self-gratulation on the keenness of her intellects: but Perdita’s mother was sharp and far-seeing enough to know that many important truths were evidently commingled with the gipsy’s rhapsodical reminiscences.

“You have journeyed far to-day?” said Miranda--for such indeed was the crone’s name.

“Many miles,” replied Perdita’s mother: “but now that we are refreshed through your kindness, we shall push more speedily on to London.”

“Ah! you are taking that pretty child of yours to the great city, which we gipsies abhor and never visit unless on urgent occasions,” observed Miranda. “What is your name, young woman?”

“Perdita,” was the answer.

“Perdita!” repeated the gipsy. “That is a strange name. We have singular names amongst our race: but I never before heard so remarkable a one as that which you bear. What does it mean?”

“Have names any meaning at all?” demanded Perdita’s mother, in a tone of impatience. “But, come, daughter--let us thank this good woman, and be off!”

The gipsy was however again rocking herself to and fro before the fire, and seemed to have relapsed into her profound reverie, save that this time she did not give audible utterance to her musings. She was however so much absorbed in thought that she did not hear the thanks that were tendered by the wanderers, nor mark their departure.