CXLVII. THE CAPTAIN’S LUDICROUS ADVENTURE…

CXLVII. THE CAPTAIN’S LUDICROUS ADVENTURE

Mr. Curtis arose at a very early hour--at least for him,--it being only eight o’clock when he sallied forth with the intention of seeking Mr. Bubbleton Styles, on whose purse he contemplated as deep an inroad as that gentleman’s circumstances would permit.

But before he quitted the house, he partook of breakfast, and likewise carried in some tea and toast to his friend the captain, who was compelled, “under painful circumstances,” as Frank observed, to keep his bed for an hour or two. The gallant officer charged his companion and ally to return without delay--the prudence of shifting their quarters as soon as convenient, being strongly suggested by the enquiries instituted regarding them on the preceding evening.

Having disposed of his breakfast. Captain O’Blunderbuss turned himself round in his bed and took a nap--in which luxurious state of light and dreamy repose he remained for upwards of an hour, when he was suddenly awakened by a low, sneaking, suspicious kind of double knock at the street-door.

He started up in bed; and, as he hastily collected his scattered ideas, the affair of Rumrigg and Kaysay flashed to his mind.

Leaping from his couch as a chesnut bounces from a shovel on the fire, Captain O’Blunderbuss pulled on his stockings, thrust his feet into his slippers, and stole out upon the landing, where he held his breath and listened attentively.

At that very instant the servant-girl, who invariably kept people waiting at the door as long as possible, answered the summons; and the captain overheard the following colloquy.

“Is the genelmen at home, my dear?” asked a rough, harsh, grating voice.

“Oh! you’re the one that stopped and spoke to me last evening,” responded the girl.

“Just so: but it was o’ny to make a few civil enquiries consarning your missus’s lodgers. I ’spose they’re at home; and so me and my friend will just walk up, my dear--‘cause our business is partickler.”

“Well, then, it ain’t of no use to go up now,” said the servant-girl: “for Mr. Curtis has gone out, and the captain isn’t out of bed--leastways, he hasn’t left his room yet; and he brekfusted there.”

“Never mind, my dear,” persisted the man with the hoarse voice: “we’ll just walk up and pay our respeks to the captain, who is a wery nice genelman no doubt.”

From this conversation the gallant officer learnt that there were two persons enquiring for him, although one only appeared to speak in the matter. His worst suspicions were confirmed: they were bailiffs, come to arrest him on the cognovit given jointly by himself and his inseparable friend Mr. Francis Curtis to those astute gentlemen, Messrs. Rumrigg and Kaysay.

What was to be done? He must dress himself in all possible haste, and fight his way desperately out of the house!

This was his first idea.

But it was so easy to think of dressing--and so difficult to carry the scheme into execution: for, alas! the gallant officer’s unmentionables were at the tailor’s; and he knew that Frank possessed not a second pair!

What, then, was to be done?

Should he surrender himself into the hands of the officers, and be borne ignominiously to Whitecross Street? The thought was ridiculous with such a man as Captain O’Blunderbuss!

Locking his own door, and taking the key with him, he scud up to the top storey, and sought refuge in the bed-chamber of Mrs. Rudd, who, he felt assured, had gone out to market as usual--otherwise she would have been certain to emerge from her parlour below and join in the conversation which had taken place between the bailiffs and the servant-girl.

The captain’s first thought, in thus flying to his landlady’s bed-chamber, was merely to seek refuge there, and leave the officers to suppose that he had gone out. It struck him that they would knock at his door--would force open that door on not receiving any answer--and would then conclude that he really was not at home. In the meantime he should have leisure to decide upon the best means of ultimately avoiding the bailiffs altogether.

But scarcely had he entered Mrs. Rudd’s room when a new and truly magnificent idea suggested itself--or rather, was suggested by the fact that an open cupboard revealed the worthy landlady’s best silk gown, while upon a chest of drawers stood the good woman’s Sunday bonnet, to which she had been putting a new ribband that very morning before she went out. The bonnet, which was of fine straw and of a large shape, was provided with an ample blue gauze veil; for Mrs. Rudd liked to be smart on the Sabbath--if it were only to compete with her female neighbours who attended the “ministry” of the Reverend Emanuel Flummery.

The appearance of the two articles of dress just specified, determined the gallant officer how to act; and his arrangements were made with almost lightning speed.

The reader will recollect that he had no clothes at the moment to put off before he put others on--he having sought the landlady’s room in his shirt, stockings, and slippers. To slip into the silk dress was therefore the work of an instant: to assume the Leghorn bonnet was an affair accomplished with equal speed;--and to ransack the widow’s drawers for a shawl was a matter scarcely occupying ten seconds. Then, drawing the veil in thick folds over his moustachioed and whiskered countenance with one hand, and grasping Mrs. Rudd’s parasol in the other, Captain O’Blunderbuss took a hasty survey of himself in the glass, and was perfectly satisfied with the result.

We have before stated that Mrs. Rudd was very tall, starch, and prim; and the reader is aware that Captain O’Blunderbuss was no dwarf--neither was he particularly stout. Thus, although he certainly appeared a very colossal woman, he might still pass as one at a pinch--and surely need was never more pinching than on the present occasion. At all events he was resolved to make the attempt; and the exciting nature of the incident was just of the kind which he particularly relished--though, perhaps, he would rather have had the fun without the danger of the thing.

In the meantime he had not been in a state of ignorance of what was passing on the landing of the floor below; for the bailiffs, having ascended to that height, stopped at his own chamber door, at which they knocked. But receiving no answer, the one with the hoarse voice exclaimed, “Captain O’Blunderbuss, I’ve got a message for you wery particklar from a friend of your’n.”

Still there was no response; and the man, addressing himself to the servant-girl, asked her if she were sure that the captain was at home.

“I’m certain he is,” was the reply; “because he’s sent out his--his--trousers to be mended, and is lying a-bed till they come back.”

“But mayn’t he have another pair?” demanded the bailiff.

“I don’t b’lieve he have,” said the girl: “leastways, I never see more than one either on or off him.”

“Then the captain is at home,” growled the sheriff’s-officer; “and we must do our dooty, Tom.”

These last words were evidently addressed by the speaker to his companion; and the captain comprehended that the forcing of the door would be the next step. Nor was he wrong in his conjecture;--for, before the servant girl could divine the intention of the two men, they had effected an entrance into the chamber which the gallant officer had only quitted three minutes previously.

The captain, who had been listening at the door of Mrs. Rudd’s own bed-room, now partly descended the stairs, and again stood still to listen--his proceedings being conducted as noiselessly and cautiously as possible.

“Well--I’m blowed if he’s here!” exclaimed the bailiff with the hoarse voice.

“No more than a cat,” returned his companion.

“How’s this, my dear?” continued the first speaker: “have you been a-making fools on us?”

“No,” answered the girl sharply: “I thought the captain was here--but he ain’t. So I s’pose he’s gone out without my hearing or seeing him. But now you’ve broke the lock of the door and must pay for it--or else missus will blow me up finely when she comes home from market.”

“Then she is at market,” said Captain O’Blunderbuss to himself, his hopes becoming more elated by the assurance thus conveyed to him through the servant-girl’s remark to the bailiffs.

“Pay for it, indeed!” growled the one with the hoarse voice. “That won’t suit our books neither. S’pose we fix the lock on agin in such a way that it won’t be knowed as how we ever busted the door open at all?”

“Well--do what you like; but make haste about it, ’cause missus is sure to come home in a minit or two--leastways if she’s raly out; for I didn’t see her go. But I s’pose she is--or else she’d have been down afore this to know what all the row’s about.”

“We’ll see to it, my dear,” observed the hoarse-speaking bailiff. “But I say, Tom--here’s the captain’s cap, and coat, and veskitt. Bless’d if I believe he’s gone out arter all! Let’s search t’other rooms: this gal is a-playing tricks with us.”

“Come into Mr. Curtis’s chamber and see,” exclaimed the juvenile servant; and the captain heard the party pursuing their domiciliary visit in the quarter alluded to. “Well, now?” said the girl, with a derisive laugh: “is he there? Oh! ah! you may look under the bed! Why don’t you search the drawers--or get up the chimley and look out on the tiles?”

“Don’t be sarsy, my dear,” growled the bailiff. “Come--here’s a shillin’ for you. Now tell us the truth--ain’t the captain somewhere in the house?”

“Yes--I’m sure he be,” returned the girl; “’cause his breeches is gone to be mended, and his coat and wescutt and cap is in his own room--and I know he ain’t got two suits of clothes. Besides,” she added, sinking her voice to a tone of mysterious confidence--though not so low as to be inaudible to the gallant officer on the stairs above, “his bluchers is down stairs to be blacked--and I’ll swear he ain’t got two pair of them.”

“Then he is in the house,” said the bailiff. “Now, Tom, I tell’ee what we must do. You stay here, and me and the gal will just toddle down stairs and look in the kitchen, and scullery, and sich-like places.”

“Oh! but you must put the lock right first,” exclaimed the girl; “for if missus--Lor! here she is!” added the affrighted servant, in a hurried whisper.

The fact was that the captain, by some awkward and unintentional movement, at that very instant rustled the silk gown loud enough for the sound to catch the ears of the girl and the bailiffs; and he was about to curse his folly, when, finding that all had suddenly become still on the floor below, it instantly struck him that the juvenile servant had imposed silence on the officers for fear her mistress should stop to enquire the cause of their presence and thereby notice the damaged lock.

He was perfectly correct in his conjecture: and, perceiving that the sudden stillness remained unbroken, he boldly descended the stairs--imitating as well as he could the measured walk of the sanctimonious landlady, and treading with feminine lightness in his slippers.

On reaching the landing--the dreaded landing whence opened the room where the officers were concealed with the servant girl--Captain O’Blunderbuss felt a violent inclination to make a precipitate rush down the remainder of the stairs to the bottom: but, fearing that such a proceeding would only lead to his capture, as it was certain to excite an instantaneous suspicion of the truth and a vigorous pursuit in consequence, he pursued his way with measured tread, taking good care to rustle the silk dress as much as possible.

The landing of the first floor was gained in safety: he was descending the last flight--and his escape appeared certain,--when a loud double knock at the front-door echoed through the dwelling.

For an instant the gallant officer was staggered: but a second thought convinced him that it was not his landlady’s knock--and he sped boldly on.

Drawing his veil as closely as possible over his countenance, and tucking the parasol under his arm for the moment, he opened the front-door.

The visitor was the Rev. Mr. Emanuel Flummery.

“Ah! my dear madam,” said that pious man, stepping into the passage with all the unceremonious ease of a familiar friend, and not at the instant noticing the extraordinary height of the person whom he thus addressed; “I looked in just to ask you how you were--and--and,” he added, sinking his voice to a low whisper, “for the purpose of tasting in your arms a renewal of those favours which you yesterday----”

But to the ineffable wonderment of the reverend gentleman, the fictitious Mrs. Rudd dealt him such a sudden and violent blow with a heavy clenched fist, just between his two eyes, that he was floored on the spot; and the captain seizing the front-door key, darted out of the house.

Banging the door behind him, the gallant officer locked it, and marched away with a haste and a manliness of step which, had any one been passing at the time, would have betrayed his real sex in a moment.

Suddenly, however, it struck him that he was playing a female character; and, instantly relaxing his speed, he assumed a gait so mincing, affected, and fantastic, that his appearance was most comical and ludicrous.

He put up the parasol, and held it so as to screen his countenance, over which he likewise kept the blue gauze veil in many folds; and, in this manner, the gallant gentleman pursued his way half round the Square--not daring to take precipitately to his heels, yet fearful every instant of hearing a hue and cry raised behind him.

“Lauk-a-daisy me!” cried a female voice, suddenly breaking upon the captain’s ears, and speaking close by.

“Be Jasus! mim--and is it yourself?” ejaculated the gallant gentleman, stopping short: “because it’s me that’s afther being Misthress Rudd just at the prisint spaking!”

“You Mrs. Rudd!” exclaimed the infuriated landlady. “Here--murder--thieves----”

“Hould, mim!” said the captain, in a tone so ferocious that it silenced the woman in an instant: “if ye’re afther raising an alarm, mim, I’ll bethray ye to all the wor-r-ld for having bestowed your favours yesterday on that spalpeen of a methodist parson--that will I, Misthress Rudd, and bad luck to ye!”

The landlady was thunderstruck--astounded.

“So now, mim, just walk on quietly to your own house, of which I hereby prisint ye with the kay,” continued the captain; “and mind ye don’t look once behind ye until ye reach your own door--and I’ll sind your toggery back again this evening--and you’ll be sure to give mine to the missinger that brings yours, paying likewise for my throusers, mim. And bewar-r-r, mim,” added the gallant gentleman, with a terrific rattling of the r’s, “how ye bethray me in any way--if ye valley the sacret of your indecent proceedings with the methodist parson.”

Thus speaking, the captain handed the bewildered Mrs. Rudd the key of her house, and hurried on.

From the moment that he had quitted the dwelling until the termination of this scene, scarcely three minutes had elapsed: but the captain was well aware that the bailiffs would not be much longer before they discovered his flight, as the Rev. Mr. Flummery, whom he had so unceremoniously knocked down in the passage, would speedily and inevitably give them such information as would open their eyes to the real truth of all the recent proceedings.

Accordingly, the gallant gentleman’s object was to get away from Charterhouse Square within the shortest space of time possible; and the moment he parted from Mrs. Rudd he struck into the Charter House itself, under the impression that there was a thoroughfare in this direction.

But before he turned under the gloomy archway of that monastic establishment, he looked round and beheld the landlady still standing on the spot where he had left her--motionless, and apparently petrified with horror and astonishment at the threats which he had held out. Her back was, however, turned towards him,--and he therefore felt more at ease in his mind as he entered the Charter House.

“Who do you want, mem?” said the porter, as he emanated from his crib.

But Captain O’Blunderbuss affected not to hear the challenge, and passed on--adopting that mincing affectation of gait which we have before noticed, and which made him appear such a comical figure.

“Well, I’m blowed if I ever see sich a o’oman!” mattered the porter to himself, as he returned to his lodge. “Vonderful giantesses ain’t nothink to her. And her petticuts--my eye! ain’t ’em short too? But she hasn’t a wery bad leg neither--though her stockins might be a trifle or so cleaner.”

The captain continued his way,--still shading his head with the parasol--still keeping the veil closely folded over his countenance,--but not the less able to reconnoitre the place in which he now found himself for the first time in his life.

He beheld a wide, open space, laid out in grass plats, bordered and intersected by gravel walks, and surrounded by low continuous buildings, of uniform architecture and cloistral appearance.

Here and there were scattered groups of old men--collected in knots of threes and fours, and apparently basking in the summer sun, which warmed their frames so attenuated and chilled by age. They did not appear happy--scarcely comfortable or contented;--and could the captain have overheard the remarks which they mumbled and muttered to each other, he would have found that they loathed and detested--hated and abhorred the monastic gloom, the rigid discipline, and the monotonous course of life to which necessity had consigned them.

When the gallant officer made his appearance in this enclosure, his strange and ludicrous figure instantly attracted the notice of the various groups alluded to; and the old fellows began to wonder whom the tall, stately-looking dame was about to honour with a visit.

But by this time Captain O’Blunderbuss had arrived at the unpleasant conviction that there was no thoroughfare either into Goswell Street or Wilderness Row; and he once more found himself, as he subsequently observed, “in a divil of a pother.”

The reader is, however, well aware that our gallant friend was not precisely the man to turn back and surrender to his enemies, who, he felt assured, must by this time be instituting an active search after him in the vicinity--even if they had not become aware that he had sought refuge in the Charter House.

What was to be done?

Nothing--save to enlist some kind inmate of the establishment in his interests;--and on this proceeding he at once decided.

From an upper window he beheld a good-natured, red, round, jolly face looking forth, the casement being open;--and a rapid glance showed the captain the staircase that led to the particular room in which the proprietor of that face must be.

He accordingly walked on with the steady pace and apparent ease of a person who had the assurance of knowing his--or should we not rather say her--way;--and entering the building, he ascended the stairs, until he reached a door on which was a brass-plate bearing the name of MR. SCALES.

Without any ceremony, the captain walked into the room; and the gentleman with the red face, turning away from the window, began to contemplate his supposed visitress with the most profound amazement.

But how much was this surprise enhanced, when the apparent lady threw down the parasol, exclaiming in a voice of singularly masculine power, “Bad luck to ye! ye damned spalpeen of an umbrilla!”--and then immediately afterwards raised a veil which revealed a face embellished with a fierce pair of moustachios and a very decent pair of whiskers--to say nothing of a certain ferociousness of expression and a weather-beaten complexion, which added to the unfeminine appearance of the whole countenance.

“What the deuce does all this mean?” demanded the Brother of the Charter House, at length recovering the use of his tongue, and with difficulty subduing an inclination to laugh;--for he was a jolly old bird, as his face denoted, and doubtless fancied that some masquerading amusement was in progress.

“What does it mane!” ejaculated the gallant officer; “why, just this, me frind--that I’m no more a woman than ye are yourself--but it’s Capthain O’Bluntherbuss I am, of Bluntherbuss Park, ould Ireland. The shiriff’s people are afther me--and I ’scaped ’em in this toggery. So now it’s your own precious aid and assistance I want--and, be the pow-r-rs! ye’ll not repint of any kindness ye may show to a genthleman in timporary difficulties.”

Mr. Scales--for such was indeed the name of the red-faced Brother whose hospitality and aid the captain thus sought--now burst out laughing in good earnest; and the gallant officer laughed too--for he dared not show any ill-feeling on the score of his new friend’s merriment. Besides, that very merriment seemed to augur a willingness to render the assistance demanded: and therefore the two laughed in concert very heartily and for upwards of a couple of minutes.

At last Mr. Scales’s mirth subsided into a low chuckle, until it became altogether extinct so far as its vocal expression was concerned;--and then he enquired in what manner he could render his aid to Captain O’Blunderbuss.

The gallant gentleman very frankly revealed to him his real position: namely, that he had been compelled to beat a precipitate retreat from his lodgings, where he had left his cap, coat, waistcoat, and boots,--that his breeches were at the tailor’s,--that he had nothing on but his landlady’s garments, barring his own shirt, stockings, and slippers,--that he had not a penny in his pocket, nor indeed any pocket at all as he then stood equipped,--and that he was most anxious to get into the City, where he could obtain funds in a minute.

Mr. Scales indulged in another laugh, and then proceeded to comment on the statement which had been made to him.

“I have got a couple of sovereigns in my pocket,” he began, “and don’t mind advancing them for your service if they will do any good.”

“Faith! and they’ll pay the landlady and the tailor!” ejaculated the captain, quite delighted at the prospect just held out.

“Very well,” said Mr. Scales. “Then we can recover your clothes for you. But how will it be if the officers are in the house, and, seeing your landlady give me the garments, should follow me?”

“Be Jasus! and Misthress Rudd is complately in my power-r!” cried Captain O’Blunderbuss:--“just tell her that if she don’t manage the thing slily for ye, that I’ll split upon her and the Riverind Mr. Eminuel Flummery--and she’ll turn as make and as mild as a lamb. But I must be afther sinding her back her own toggery.”

“I’ve got a large band-box in my little bed-room adjoining,” said Mr. Scales; “and I don’t mind carrying out the gown and the bonnet and shawl in it. Never do things by halves--that’s my motto. In the meantime, you can put on my dressing-gown:--I am sorry my own clothes would be much too small for you--or else----”

“Oh! be Jasus! and I’d sooner get back my own,” cried the captain. “I niver should dar-r to prisint myself in any other toggery to my frind in the City.”

“Well and good: you can step into my bed-room and undress yourself,” said Mr. Scales; “and I’ll be off as soon as you are ready.”

“And them ould fogeys down stairs in the yard,” observed the captain,--“they’ll be afther quistioning ye, my frind, about the tall lady in the black silk gown that’s a foot and a half too shor-r-t for her.”

“Oh! leave them to me,” said the good-natured Brother of the Charter House: “I’ll tell them it’s my sister. Bless your soul, they’re all purblind, and never will have noticed any thing peculiar in your dress. It’s the nurses that I most fear--the charwomen of the establishment, I mean;--for if any of them saw you----”

“I didn’t observe one of them, my dear frind,” interrupted the captain. “But we’ve niver a ha’porth of time to lose--and so I’ll be afther getting out of this infer-r-nal silk gown and Lighorn bonnet.”

From the moderate-sized, but lofty and airy apartment in which this colloquy took place, the captain passed into a little chamber only just large enough to contain a bed, a chest of drawers, and a toilette-table: and there he speedily extricated himself from the feminine apparel, all of which he thrust pell-mell into the band-box which his friend had pointed out to him for the purpose. He then wrapped himself in Mr. Scales’s dressing-gown; and this being done, he gave the good-natured Brother the necessary instructions how to proceed with regard to the landlady and the tailor.

Having tied a string round the band-box, so as to carry it the more conveniently, and likewise with a better appearance of negligent ease, Mr. Scales now set out on his mission--previously enjoining the captain to keep the door carefully locked until his return, and mentioning a signal by which his knock at the door might be known, so that the gallant officer should not incur the danger of admitting any other person. The moment the martial gentleman was left to himself, he advanced straight up to the cupboard, which he unceremoniously opened; and, to his huge delight, perceived a bottle containing a fluid which was unmistakeably of that alcoholic species so widely known under the denomination of gin. The captain took a long draught of the raw spirit, and, much refreshed, sate down to await his new friend’s return.

A quarter of an hour passed, during which he calculated the chances of eventual escape from the bailiffs.

If they had not discovered the trick which was played them, before the captain had entered the Charter House, there was every prospect in his favour; because he felt assured that Mrs. Rudd, even if she had seen him take refuge there, would not dare to betray him.

But if, on the other hand, they had ascertained the whole truth while he was as yet outside the Charter House gates, then they had most probably rushed to the windows and obtained a glimpse of his person in the Square.

And yet, recurring to the chances that were favourable to him, he reasoned that when the noise attendant upon knocking down the methodist minister had reached the ears of the officers, some time would then be lost in receiving explanations from that reverend gentleman, and in vain attempts to open the door--until Mrs. Rudd’s return with the key; and in the interim his place of concealment would have been gained, and would remain unsuspected by the bailiffs.

On the other hand, once more, what if the officers had not waited for Mrs. Rudd’s return at all, but had leapt out of the ground-floor windows?

“Oh! bad luck to the pro and con!” ejaculated the captain aloud. “I’m safe here--and that’s enough. For if the spalpeens had suspicted that I am here, they’d have been afther me long ago!”

Rising from his seat, he crept cautiously up to the window and took a survey of the enclosures through which he had passed a short time before; and this reconnoitring process was highly satisfactory. The old Brothers were lounging about as he had just now beheld them; and not a shadow of a sheriff’s-officer was to be seen.

Highly delighted by the hopeful assurances which the aspect of things thus conveyed to his mind, Captain O’Blunderbuss paid another visit to the cupboard, and regaled himself with another refreshing draught from the gin-bottle--after which potation, he smacked his lips in approval of the alcoholic beverage, and resumed his seat and his meditations.

The latter continued for another quarter of an hour; at the expiration whereof the gallant gentleman paid his respects a third time to the cupboard; and scarcely had he closed the door of that commodious recess, when the concerted signal was given, announcing his friend’s return.

As Mr. Scales entered the room, a glance showed the captain that his friend had succeeded in his mission; for the red countenance wore a triumphant smile, and the band-box had not come back empty.

“Be Jasus! and you’re a thrump!” exclaimed the gallant Irishman, as he marked these indications of success. “But what news of them bastes of the airth----”

“Oh! you’re all safe, my dear fellow,” interrupted Mr. Scales, wiping the perspiration off his rubicund countenance. “The clothes are in the box--the landlady is intimidated, and therefore in your interests--and the bailiffs have got entirely on a wrong scent. In fact, they had left the house before I got there: but there’s no doubt they’re waiting about in the neighbourhood--and therefore it will be better for you to remain here until dark, if you possibly can. I will give you a bit of dinner--and may be a glass of grog----”

“Potheen--rale potheen!” ejaculated the captain, viewing with supreme satisfaction the present prospect of affairs.

“Well--whiskey, if you prefer it,” said the obliging Mr. Scales. “At all events we’ll have a jolly afternoon of it, and drink to our better acquaintance.”

“Betther acquaintance!” cried the Irishman, who, in spite of his adventurous kind of existence, possessed many of the truly generous qualities of his much maligned and deeply injured fellow-countrymen; “betther acquainted we can’t become, my frind: for when a man has done all he could for another, and that other a tothal stranger to him, I mane to say it makes them inthimate at once. And, be Jasus! Misther Scales, if ye’ve an inimy in the whole wor-r-ld, tell me his name and give me his address, and it’s Capthain O’Bluntherbuss that’ll be afther paying him a morning visit, sinding up his car-r-d, and then skinning him alive!”

Mr. Scales expressed his gratitude for these demonstrations of friendship, but assured the gallant gentleman that he had no enemy whom he wished to undergo the process of flaying at that particular time.

The captain now entered the little bed-room, and hastily equipped himself in his own clothing--the breeches, which the good-natured Brother had paid for at the tailor’s, being neatly mended: so that the Irishman speedily re-appeared in the semi-military garb which became him rather more suitably than the habiliments of Mrs. Rudd.

CXLVIII. THE CHARTER HOUSE

Captain O’Blunderbuss, having made himself thus far comfortable, wrote a note to Curtis, which Mr. Scales despatched by a messenger to Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in the City;--for the Irishman calculated that if Curtis should return to the lodgings in Charterhouse Square before the said note reached him, he would, on hearing the adventures of the morning, retrace his way to Crosby Hall Chambers--there to await either the presence of the captain, or at least some communication from him. This arrangement appeared to be far more prudent than to trust Mrs. Rudd with either letter or message announcing the place where the captain was concealed.

The note being written, and the messenger despatched with it, Mr. Scales proposed a luncheon of bread and cheese and porter, as it was only eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and he intended to order dinner for half-past two. A “nurse,” as the charwoman was called, making her appearance about this time, the refreshments above mentioned were duly procured; and Mr. Scales intimated to his attendant that he should not dine in the common hall that day, but would entertain his friend with steaks and potatoes in his own apartment.

When the captain and the worthy Brother were again alone together, they fell into a conversation upon the establishment to which the latter belonged and in which the former had found so hospitable a refuge.

“Ye seem to have a comfortable berth of it, my frind,” observed the martial gentleman, after burying his countenance for nearly a minute in a pewter-pot.

“Well, the fact is,” returned Mr. Scales, “I manage to make myself happy, because I am naturally of a gay and lively disposition, and I have a great many friends who come to see me. Moreover, I have a few pounds coming in from a snug little annuity--and therefore I can afford those luxuries which the others have no chance of obtaining. But if it weren’t for these circumstances, captain,” added Mr. Scales, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper, “I should never be able to endure the place.”

“Not endure the place!” repeated the captain, who manifested unfeigned surprise at the observation. “Be the holy poker-r-r! and it sames a broth of a place, it does!”

“Ah! it’s all very well for people out of doors to be told of the existence of the charity,” resumed the Brother; “and how it gives an asylum to eighty poor men, who are widowers and past fifty years of age: but it’s the discipline, my dear sir--the interior discipline,--and then the manner in which we are treated by the authorities of the establishment!”

“Then there’s abuses in the Charter-r-r House as well as elsewhere?” said the captain, interrogatively. “Blood and thunther! where the divil aren’t there abuses, if this same is the case?”

“No where, when the Church has any influence in the matter,” returned Mr. Scales. “But I will explain myself more fully. This institution, you must know, was founded for the purpose of affording an asylum to poor and deserving men, chiefly of the literary or learned professions. But will you believe it? There’s scarcely a literary man in the place; and the only one of any repute at all is Mr. Valcrieff, the celebrated dramatic author. The patrons put in their old and worn-out butlers or lacqueys;--but this would not matter, so long as worthy, deserving, and respectable characters were nominated--which is not the case----”

“Then you have some quare characters among ye, I’ll be afther guessing?” exclaimed the captain.

“We have indeed, my friend,” responded Mr. Scales; “and that is what I chiefly complain of. For instance, we’ve lately had a certain Colonel Tickner thrust upon us--but who is no more a Colonel than I am. A short time ago he called himself Major Tickner--and a little while before that, he was Captain Tickner. So, you perceive, he rises rapidly--and I have no doubt he will be a General next week.”

“A Ginral, be Jasus!” cried Captain O’Blunderbuss. “It’s thrue I might have been one myself by this time, if I’d only stuck to the service: but I’ll swear by the holy poker-r, that your Colonel Tickner is nothing more nor less than an imposthor--a vile imposthor,--and it’s meself that’ll unmask him.”

The gallant gentleman deemed it necessary to fly into a passion relative to the pretences of the self-styled Colonel Tickner to a high military rank; inasmuch as such a display of indignation on his part at the assumption of another, seemed to justify his own right to the honourable grade of Captain.

“Well, it is shameful for men to pretend to be what they are not,” observed Mr. Scales. “This Colonel Tickner sometimes bores me with his company; and it is not at all improbable that he may look in after dinner. If so, we will have some rare fun with him.”

“If he dar-r-rs to have any of his impudence to me,” cried the captain, looking particularly ferocious at the moment, “I’ll trate him as I trated a French dhragoon at Water-r-r-loo. ‘Come hither, ye spalpeen, and let me cut ye down to the middle!’ says I.--‘Oui, Monsieur,’ says he; and on he comes with a rush.--‘Blood and thunther!’ says I, ‘is it fighting ye mane, when I’ve as good as taken ye prisoner before-hand?’--and griping him by the throat, I throttled him, sir, in less time than ye’d be in tossing off a thimblefull of potheen. But pray go on telling me about the Charter House, my frind--and let’s hear all your little gravances. Ye were spaking of the discipline of the place just now;--and sure it’s meself that knows what discipline ought to be.”

“Ah! my dear sir, the discipline of the Army and that of the Church are two very different things,” said Mr. Scales. “We’re eighty Poor Brothers in this establishment; and every night the curfew rings--eighty strokes of the bell! When one dies, there are only seventy-nine strokes until the vacancy is filled up;--and you may believe me when I tell you that there is something horrid in sitting in one’s lonely room of a dark wintry night, and counting the bell to see whether a Brother has not died since we all met in the common hall in the afternoon. For there are some very, very old men here; and old men go off, you know, like the snuff of a candle. Then, when one does die, and we hear the bell stop at seventy-nine, it sends the blood all cold and icelike to the heart--and a shudder creeps over the frame, from head to foot,--for there’s no saying whose turn it may be next. Ah! captain, it may seem but a trifling thing to you--a very trifling and paltry thing, this tolling of the curfew-bell: but I can assure you that to us, who are pent up here, it is no such trivial matter. For, in the deep, deep silence of this cloistral building, the dreary, dull, monotonous tolling of that bell suddenly arouses the most painful thoughts,--thoughts of approaching death, and coffins, and shrouds, and new-made graves, and all the sombre ceremony of funerals. But to hear that bell toll one less,--to know that a Brother has succumbed to the icy hand of the destroyer--to feel that there is a gap in our fraternity--a vacancy in our association,--even though we may not have loved--perhaps not even respected the individual who is gone,--still to have forced open us, by the deep-toned monitor, the conviction that he is gone,--this--this is terrible in our cloistral loneliness!”

The captain made no observation; but he evidently listened with profound attention;--and Mr. Scales, warming in his subject, went on.

“I told you just now that I am naturally of a gay and cheerful disposition, and that I can make myself happy under most circumstances. But when I am alone here of an evening, and listen to the curfew-bell, I--yes, I also am seized with a cold shuddering, and my blood creeps with an ice-chill in my veins. And if I hear the strokes stop at seventy-nine, it suddenly appears to me that a shape, dim, shadowy, and wrapped in a shroud, flits past me;--and I cast my eyes around--almost dreading lest the pale and ghastly spectre of the deceased Brother should be standing behind my chair. And, when there is one lying dead in the Charter House, I feel afraid at night--and sleep visits not my pillow. I do not believe in ghosts--at least, I do not believe in them when it is day-time; but in the deep, silent, and dark night,--yes, then I believe in them--and I tremble! Oh! you can form no idea of the horrors endured in this place while the curfew-bell tolls: for if it give forth a single note less than the eighty, then every one shudderingly says within himself--aye, and in the solitude of his own chamber--‘Who knows but that it may be my turn next?’ Is it not cruel, then, to maintain that monastic custom of ringing the nightly bell,--to alarm weak and trembling old men, whose intellects are attenuated by the weight of years, and whose imaginations are so susceptible of all influences likely to engender the gloomiest forebodings: for such is the case with the great majority of the Poor Brothers of the Charter House.”

The captain made a brief remark to show that he was listening with deep attention--as indeed he was; and Mr. Scales proceeded in the following manner:--

“Yes--the greater portion of the Poor Brothers are very infirm old men, who need companionship to enliven them, and little attentions to cheer them, and indulgences to render their existence tolerable. But every morning,--summer and winter--hot or cold--sunshine above, or snow knee-deep below,--they must all turn out at an early hour from their warm beds; and while still fasting, must repair to the chapel to attend prayers. And in the performance of this duty, which is rigidly enforced by fine, we are compelled to wear long, dark cloaks, so that when thus muffled up we appear to be a procession of monks, each wrapped in his cowl! Here again you may observe that there is no harm in the custom;--but you must remember that there is a vast difference between what one does spontaneously, and what he is forced by a rigid, inexorable discipline to do. The fact that these poor old men are thus compelled to wear the badge of monastic pauperism is the iron that enters into their souls. They have been compelled by their necessities to accept an asylum in this place--and they feel that they are treated as paupers. Their old age, which the world without believes to be passing in a serene and tranquil happiness here, unruffled by mundane cares, is rendered miserable and wretched by a thousand little vexatious points of discipline which make up an aggregate sum of tremendous ecclesiastical oppression. In the deep silence of the night--the awful silence that reigns throughout this pile,--and in the solitude of his gloomy apartment,--each of those poor old creatures broods upon what he deems to be his wrongs;--and you need not be surprised when I tell you that they are often driven to the very verge of despair--or to the threshold of madness! Ah! and it is not only the curfew-bell--nor the compulsory attendance at chapel--nor the long, dark cowls,--it is not all this alone,” continued the Brother, now speaking with solemn earnestness;--“but it is that we are watched by spies--watched in all our movements within or without the walls,--watched to be caught tripping, be it never so lightly--in order that we may be punished--or perhaps expelled, to make room for some one whom the Master or any other authority is anxious to provide for. The surgeon is a spy upon us--the porter is a spy upon us--all the nurses are spies upon us; and what is worse,” added Mr. Scales, now sinking his voice to an ominous whisper, and bending his head forward so as almost to reach the captain’s ear with his lips,--“and what is worse,” he repeated, bitterly but still in that low tone,--“we are spies upon each other!”

Captain O’Blunderbuss started, and surveyed his new friend with astonishment.

“I do not mean to say that I am a spy upon the rest,--nor will I assert that we are all spies with regard to each other,” resumed Mr. Scales: “but this I declare--that there are many inmates of the place who do enact the part of spies against their fellows. Some wish to curry favour with the Master, Archdeacon Hale--others carry their tittle-tattle to the surgeon;--some gossip of their Brethren to the manciple, or steward--others endeavour to worm themselves into the good graces of even the cook;--and all the nurses, with scarcely an exception, are the spies of the matron. I tell you, sir, that there is a monstrous system of supervision and espionnage in existence within these walls;--and one Brother cannot talk as a friend to another--because he is afraid that he may be all the time making revelations to an individual who will betray him! We have no confidence in each other--we are all afraid of one another. There is not such a thing as a good-natured chat and harmless conversation in the Charter House. If you make the most common-place observation upon things the most indifferent, Brother Gray, or Brother Jones, or Brother Jenkins will shake his head knowingly, as if he saw something covert and mysteriously significant at the bottom of the remark. But wherefore does such a state of things prevail in the Charter House, you will enquire;--and perhaps you will observe that if the Brethren enact the part of spies upon each other, they alone are to blame for making themselves miserable. Pause, however--and reflect that it is all the fault of the authorities. They encourage this contemptible tittle-tattle--they show favour to the poor silly old dotards who carry them tidings of all the complaints, expressions of discontent, or occasional instances of convivial excess which occur on the part of the rest. These spies are favoured by the authorities: the others know it, and become spies themselves;--and thus they all spy upon each other, even as the Jesuits do in obedience to the rules of their Order. Oh! the mean and contemptible littleness of mind which such a state of things engenders! I am sick--disgusted, Captain O’Blunderbuss, when I think of it.”

“Be Jasus! and well you may be, my dear frind!” cried the gallant gentleman. “But who is the governor, d’ye say?”

“Archdeacon Hale is the Master, as he is called--Archdeacon Hale, the notorious pluralist who fattens upon the loaves and fishes of the Church, without ever having done a single thing to render him deserving of such fine preferment and such large emoluments. He it is who presides over this Protestant monkery,--who enforces in the nineteenth century the grinding discipline of the sixteenth,--who moves the whole machinery of espionnage, and rules us as a mitred abbot was wont to sway his Romish brotherhood. If a gentleman, reduced by adversity, once enters those walls as an inmate, he must resign himself to the treatment of a pauper. The authorities look upon us in that light; and the servants behave to us accordingly. The very porter will sometimes call us by our Christian or surnames, without the prefatory Mister. If the surgeon visit us, it is evident that he considers himself to be doing us a great favour--just as you may suppose that the medical man belonging to an Union of Parishes behaves towards the pauper invalids requiring his services. Should the Matron have occasion to call upon us, it is with all the airs of a fine lady--she who curtseys and does not dare sit down in the presence of the Archdeacon’s wife! The manciple, or steward, is likewise a great man;--and woe to the Poor Brother who does not receive him with all possible respect. The nurses attend upon us in a slovenly, negligent manner; and we dare not complain nor remonstrate--for we know that they are spies ready to report us for every incautious word that we may utter, or even to invent charges against us. It was but the other day that one of the inmates--a poor old man of nearly seventy--did venture to complain of the shameful neglect which he experienced at the hands of his nurse. What was the consequence? She made a counter-charge, to the effect that he had taken liberties with her! The woman’s statement--her unsupported statement was believed in preference to the denial and the complaint of the old man, and he was expelled the Charter House for six months--turned out upon the wide world to live how he could, or die as he might![10] Oh! you have no idea of the tremendous tyranny that is perpetrated within these walls, where all is so silent and all appears to be so serene and tranquil! A short time ago a Brother, driven to despair by the horrors of the place, went away--took an obscure lodging--and put an end to his life by means of poison. The authorities hushed up the matter as well as they could--prevented the interference of the Coroner--and had the man buried within three days from the moment of his self-destruction.[11] These are all facts, sir--stubborn facts; and the public should know them. Yes--the public should learn that there are eighty old men dwelling in a monastic institution in the very heart of London--enduring a discipline as severe, and subject to a system as despotic and oppressive as in the olden times and in those very cloistral establishments which Henry the Eighth destroyed! The public should be informed that then eighty old men are the victims of ecclesiastical tyranny, and that they are compelled to endure neglect and even insult at the hands of the very servants who are so liberally paid to attend upon them.”

“Be the power-r-s! it’s a bur-r-ning shame!” cried Captain O’Blunderbuss: “and what’s worse of all, is that it’s the parsons who are your governors and by consequence your opprissors in this establisment. Bad luck to ’em, say I!”

“A good parson is a most estimable, as well as a most necessary character in society,” said Mr. Scales; “and this every sensible man must admit. But an intolerant, illiberal, tyrannical parson is the greatest curse that can be inflicted upon a community. Such is our case--such is our misfortune. We have half-a-dozen parsons belonging to the institution; and their main object is to get all the loaves and fishes to themselves. Though they rule us with a rod of iron, they do not mind breaking the regulations themselves. For instance, if a Poor Brother remains away from chapel without the surgeon’s leave, or returns home a little after hours in the evening, he is reported and fined--fined out of the beggarly pittance of seven pounds ten shillings a quarter allowed him to purchase tea, sugar, milk, and the many other necessaries which the establishment does not supply. But though the regulations specify in distinct terms that the Master is to reside constantly upon the premises, he laughs at the enactments, and passes weeks or months together in the country. No fine--no punishment for him! Who would dare to talk of calling the Very Reverend Archdeacon Hale over the coals? But who does not hesitate to kick Poor Brother Gray, or Poor Brother Jones, or Poor Brother Scales from pillar to post, and from post to pillar, if he be caught tripping in the slightest degree?”

“Jist now, me frind,” exclaimed Captain O’Blunderbuss, looking particularly fierce, “ye assured me that ye hadn’t an inimy in the wor-r-ld: but it sames pritty clare to me that I must be afther punching the head of your Archdeacon--or manciple--or porter--or some one, jist to revinge your wrongs and create a little sinsation for the Poor Brothers, as ye call yourselves.”

“My dear fellow, do nothing mad or rash!” cried Mr. Scales, positively believing at the moment that the formidable Irishman was about to declare war against the authorities of the institution, and that he would experimentalise with his fists upon the first of those functionaries who might chance to come in his way. “All that I have been telling you is sacred between you and me;--and as a man of honour, I must appeal to you----”

“Be Jasus! and if it’s to me honour-r-r ye appale,” interrupted the captain, slapping his left breast with the palm of his right hand, “I’ll not brathe a wor-rd to a sowl that I’m acquainted with any gravances at all, at all. But, remember, if the time should come when ye may feel inclined to administher a thrilling dhrubbing or so to any of thim spalpeens of whom we’ve been talking----”

“Hush!” cried Mr. Scale?, suddenly: “some one is ascending the stairs. Let us pretend to be speaking on matters quite indifferent.”

“With all my heart!” said the captain: and, elevating his voice for the behoof of the person who was approaching the room from the stairs, he exclaimed, “Yes--’tis a very fine mornin’, Misther Scales--a very fine mornin’ indeed!”--just as if, in the natural course of things, he would have made, after a visit of nearly three hours, the remark with which a conversation is usually commenced.

Mr. Scales burst out laughing at this display of his new friend’s ingenuity; and the captain laughed heartily likewise--though he knew not precisely at what.

In the midst of this cachinnation, the door opened, and the nurse, or charwoman, entered to lay the cloth for dinner.

CXLIX. A STRANGE NARRATIVE

The nurse was a tall, middle-aged, powerfully-built woman, with brawny arms, and a countenance that indicated a slight affection for an occasional drop of “something short.” In fact, it was observed by the Brethren on whom she waited, that she never looked sulky when requested to repair to the public-house to order any thing in the shape of beer or spirits; but if entrusted with an errand of another kind--such as the purchase of half a quire of writing-paper or a stick of sealing-wax--it was a very great chance if she would be seen any more until the next day. Her manners were of the free-and-easy school; and she was accustomed to address the Poor Brothers in a half-pitying, half-patronising style, as if they were patients in a hospital or in the infirmary of a debtors’ gaol. If wearied, she would unhesitatingly seat herself without being asked, and glide imperceptibly into a familiar kind of discourse, while wiping the perspiration from her rubicund face with her blue checked cotton apron; and if it were in the cold weather, she would wait upon her masters with a black bonnet, like an inverted japan coal scuttle, on her head--the propriety of leaving the tegumentary article in the passage outside, never for a moment striking the ingenuous and simple-minded creature.

If this excellent woman had any special failing,--besides such little faults as drunkenness, inattention, slovenliness, cool impudence, and deep hypocrisy,--it was a propensity to gossip and a love of scandal. If she were only carrying a pail down the stairs, and met another nurse with a pail coming up the stairs, they must both set down their pails on the landing, and stop to have a quarter of an hour’s chat on the affairs of their respective masters. Then one would whisper how Poor Brother Smith was the meanest skin-flint on the face of the earth; and the other would declare that it was impossible for him to be worse than Poor Brother Webb, who was always complaining and yet never gave her even so much as a drop of gin;--and in this manner the two women would unburthen their minds, to the sad waste of their time and the neglect of those whom they were well paid to render comfortable. But Mrs. Pitkin--for that was the name of the nurse who waited on Mr. Scales and the other gentlemen living in the chambers opening from the same staircase,--Mrs. Pitkin, we say, was a more inveterate gossip than any other charwoman in the place; and, as a matter of course, when she had no trifling truths to retail or make much of, she deliberately and coolly invented a pack of lies, purporting to be the most recent sayings and doings of her masters. The consequence was, that a great deal of mischief resulted at times from these playful exercises of Mrs. Pitkin’s imaginative qualities; and more than one poor Brother was looked upon as an habitual drunkard, or as a sad old fellow amongst the women, without any other ground for the entertainment of such an opinion than the mysterious whispers of Mrs. Pitkin.

Well, it was this same Mrs. Pitkin who made her appearance, as already described, to lay Mr. Scales’s cloth and get the dinner ready.

“What o’clock is it, nurse?” asked Mr. Scales suspiciously.

“Only a little after two,” she replied: but scarcely were the words uttered, when the Charter House bell proclaimed the hour of three. “Well, I’m sure!” she cried, affecting the profoundest astonishment; “I never could have believed it were so late. Deary me! deary me! But it’s all through that disagreeable Mr. Yapp, who would have his cupboard washed out this morning--though I told him it wasn’t near six months since he had it done last.”

“Well--where have you put the potatoes to boil?” demanded Mr. Scales.

“The taturs, sir? Lor, sir--did you order taturs?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, now pretending to seem more astounded than ever. “Well, I’m sure I thought as how you said you’d have your chops without any weggitables at all!”

“Chops!” repeated Mr. Scales, now waxing positively wroth: “I ordered steaks----”

“Steeks!” cried the woman, holding up her hands as if in amazement. “Why--how could I ever have misunderstood you so? But it’s no matter--I can just as well get steeks as chops; and one don’t take much longer cooking than another.”

“Then, am I to understand that you have as yet got neither chops nor steaks?” asked Mr. Scales, subduing his anger as much as possible.

“Lor, sir! how could I go to the butcher’s when there’s three of my masters is inwalids and dines in their own rooms to-day? But I’ll be off at once--and you shall have dinner in a jiffey, I can promise you!”

Thus speaking, the woman walked lazily out of the room; and when the door was closed behind her, Mr. Scales, turning to the captain, said; “Now you perceive how we Poor Brothers are waited upon by these nurses. You heard me give her specific orders to have a steak and potatoes ready for us at two. She comes in at three, and has totally forgotten all about the dinner--for that is the English of it. And yet I dare not complain against her: I dare not even speak harshly to the woman’s face. But should you not imagine that, after her neglectful conduct, she would make all possible haste to get the meal ready? No such thing! Look there,” continued Mr. Scales, motioning Captain O’Blunderbuss to the window: “she has fallen in with another nurse, and they are stopping to have a gossip. Now they are going out together; and before we shall see Mrs. Pitkin again, she will have paid a tolerably long visit with her companion to the bar of the Fox and Anchor.”

“Be Jasus! and shall I be afther her, my dear frind?” demanded Captain O’Blunderbuss, rushing towards the door.

“It is useless,” said Mr. Scales, holding him back: “we must have patience. But do you see that old man, standing apart from the rest----”

“And laning on a stick?” cried the captain.

“The same,” returned the good-natured and communicative Brother. “Observe how pensive--how melancholy he seems! That is Brother Johnson--late Alderman and once Lord Mayor of London.”

“Be Jasus! and I ricollict!” exclaimed the captain: “’tis the hero of the Romford Bank affair.”

“Precisely so,” responded Mr. Scales. “And now do you perceive that short, stout, elderly gentleman, leaning on the arm of a friend from outside----”

“He walks as if he was blind,” interrupted the captain.

“And blind he unfortunately is,” said Mr. Scales: “but not irremediably so. There is every prospect that, with care and good medical advice, he will recover his sight. He is a man who has made some noise in the world--but with high honour to himself: in a word, he is Valcrieff, the celebrated dramatic author.”

“And a most rispictable-looking gintleman he is,” observed the captain. “I’ve laughed many times at his farces, and little thought I should iver have the pleasure of seeing the writer-r himself, even at a disthance.”

“There is one inmate of this establishment,” said Mr. Scales, quitting the window and returning to his seat--an example followed by the gallant officer,--“there is one inmate whose early history is very peculiar; and the most extraordinary circumstance connected with the matter is that he believes the events of his younger days to be entirely unknown and unsuspected within these walls. I should not point him out to you, even were he amongst the loungers in the court at this moment: neither shall I mention his name--or rather the name by which he is here known. But I may state that thirty years ago I knew him by the name of Macpherson. We met in Paris, shortly after the peace--and he was living, with a beautiful French woman as his mistress, in very handsome apartments. Her name was Augustine; and she certainly was the most lovely creature I ever saw in my life. Macpherson adored her; and while he believed that she worshipped him in return, her infidelity was notorious amongst all his friends. He had succeeded to a small fortune, by the death of an uncle; and, on visiting Paris, had fallen in with this young lady, whose charms immediately enthralled him. She was a banker’s cast-off mistress, and was glad to ensnare a handsome English gentleman in her meshes. Her extravagance was unbounded; and in less than a year Macpherson’s resources were completely exhausted. It would appear that Augustine at that period introduced to him a Frenchman whose real name was Legrand, but whom she passed off as her brother. This Legrand was elegant in manners and agreeable in conversation, as well as handsome in person; but he was unprincipled, dissipated, and of broken fortunes. From all I subsequently learnt, and from the knowledge I had of Macpherson’s character, I feel convinced that Legrand made my English friend his dupe and victim; and that Macpherson was entirely innocent of any intentional complicity. Certain however it is that one morning I was thunder-struck by the tidings that Macpherson had been arrested on a charge of forgery. I hastened to him in prison; and he declared most solemnly that he was guiltless. It was true that he had negotiated the instrument which was discovered to be fictitious: but he assured me that Legrand had induced him to do so. The examination before the Judge of Instruction led to the arrest of Legrand; and it was confidently hoped by Macpherson and his friends that the real truth would transpire at the trial. But when the case came on, Augustine--the faithless, treacherous, ungrateful Augustine--gave such evidence as entirely to exonerate Legrand and fix all the guilt upon Macpherson. She committed perjury; but her tale was believed,--for it was consistent, though false--delivered with plausibility, though based on the most damnable deceit. In fact, the vile woman sacrificed the Englishman whom she had ruined and never loved, to the French paramour whom she had passed off as her brother; and Macpherson, being pronounced guilty, was condemned to be exposed and branded upon a scaffold on the Place de Grêve, and to be afterwards imprisoned for a period of five years at the galleys at Brest. Myself and another English gentleman drew up a memorial to the King, setting forth a variety of circumstances in favour of Macpherson, and imploring the royal mercy on behalf of our unhappy fellow-countryman. Louis the Eighteenth referred the petition to the Judges who had condemned Macpherson, and as they stated that they had taken every thing into consideration when they pronounced his punishment, the Minister of Justice and Grace could not hold out to the petitioners any hopes of a commutation of the sentence. We had endeavoured to obtain the remission of that portion of the sentence which condemned Macpherson to be publicly exposed and marked with a red hot iron--but, alas! this indignity could not be spared the unhappy sufferer. Well, the fatal morning arrived, when this dread public ceremony was to take place. Macpherson rose early, and devoted unusual care to his toilet. His countenance was ghastly pale--his eyes were fixed,--his lips compressed. He did all he could to appear calm, and endeavoured to meet his punishment with firmness. But to be condemned for an offence of which he was innocent;--to see the fairest years of his youth destined to be passed in a horrible state of servitude;--to know that he was about to be branded with an infamous mark, which he would carry with him to the grave,--all this must have been beyond human endurance. Had he been really guilty, his sufferings would not have been so acute;--had he deserved his punishment, he would have bowed to those destinies which he would have thus prepared for himself. But he was innocent--innocent; and the world did not know it:--only a few faithful friends consoled him by the assurance that they believed in his innocence. On the fatal morning which was to consummate his disgrace, I visited him early; but when I found him so apparently resigned and calm, I did not offer those consolations which I would otherwise have tendered, and which were all I had now to offer.

“It was about eleven o’clock, in the forenoon,” continued Mr. Scales, “when Macpherson was summoned to the lobby of the prison. Two gendarmes were waiting there to conduct him to the Place de Grêve, where he was to remain exposed for two hours, and then be marked. He resigned himself to their custody, and, accompanied by myself, proceeded towards the great square where the hideous ceremony was to be performed. Immense crowds were collected in all the avenues leading to the Place, which was itself thronged to excess. Two lines of soldiers kept a pathway clear for the march of the prisoner up to the foot of the scaffold. He did not cast his eyes downwards:--nor did he glance to the right or to the left; but he kept them fixed upon the scaffold towards which he was advancing. He ascended the ladder with a firm step, accompanied only by the gendarmes; for I was compelled to remain below. The moment he appeared upon the platform, a tremendous shout arose from the thousands and thousands of spectators assembled to witness his punishment; but no indignity of a violent nature was offered to him. He cast a hurried and anxious glance around: the whole square seemed literally paved with human faces, which were continued up every street communicating with the Grêve, as far as he could see. The quay behind him, the bridges, the windows and roofs of all the houses, and even the towers of Nôtre Dame and the parapet of the Hotel-de-Ville were crowded with human countenances. Macpherson remained exposed for two hours, seated upon a chair on the scaffold, while the populace, with hyena-yells and laughter, were contemplating him as if he were a wild beast which they delighted to see, but of which they were afraid. The idea, whether this penalty were deserved or not, never entered the head of one single individual in that vast multitude;--all that they cared about was the man and his punishment--and both were there! At the expiration of the two hours, the crowd suddenly opened, and the public executioner, attended by his two sons, appeared at the foot of the scaffold. One of the lads carried a small iron pot, at the bottom of which there was a grating: in this vessel was a bright fire of red hot cinders and charcoal. The other boy carried an iron implement in his hand. It was like a very small shovel, with a tolerably long handle. The three wretches ascended the ladder, and the shouts and the hootings of the mob recommenced with increased violence as the public functionary bowed jocosely to Macpherson. A horrible laugh issued from those who stood nearest, and who comprehended the fashion of the executioner’s salute. This individual then arranged his paraphernalia in a convenient manner. He placed the brazier close to the convict’s chair, and put the shovel-looking implement into the fire. He next proceeded to inform Macpherson that he must take off his coat and other vestments from his left shoulder. The prisoner obeyed mechanically. He doffed his coat and his waistcoat on the left side; and the executioner instantly cut a large square piece out of his shirt, just above the left shoulder-blade, immediately above the curve of the shoulder. The most breathless suspense now prevailed; and not a cry--not a murmur was heard throughout the dense masses of people wedged together around. ‘Take courage, my boy,’ said the executioner, half ironically and half in pity; ‘it will only be the affair of a few moments.’ I heard him make these remarks--for I was close by the scaffold. He then proceeded to strap the convict tightly down in his chair, confined his arms and legs, and twisted the cords in such a manner around his body and the back of the seat that he was rendered as motionless and powerless as if he were a statue. Ten minutes elapsed, and the thick part of the iron was by that time red hot. This was the crowning moment of the whole day’s amusement--an amusement provided by the law that forbade bull-baits and punishes cruelty to animals! The executioner stooped down, seized the iron, and applied it to Macpherson’s flesh--to that bare part which the square cut out of the shirt had left exposed. The iron hissed on the young man’s shoulder; and a fearful yell escaped his lips. The iron remained upon the flesh for two or three instants: the sufferer writhed in agony; but only that one loud, long, and piercing cry escaped his lips. The implement was withdrawn;--one of the executioner’s sons placed a cup-full of water to the convict’s lips, and thus saved him from fainting in the chair. The cords were then unbound,--the young man’s dress was adjusted,--and the gendarmes told him that they were ready to convey him back to prison. As he passed through the dense multitude that had witnessed his punishment, he now hung down his head--abashed and ashamed. Even had he not felt the smart of the burn upon his back, the knowledge that he was branded with the mark of infamy would have been sufficient thus to humble and subdue him. Women held up their children to gaze upon him as he passed along;--he heard an old father bid his son take warning from the example he had just witnessed; and as he emerged from the crowd, and entered a comparatively deserted street, on his way back to prison, he caught the following words which were uttered, with a laugh, by one spectator to another,--‘Oh! there’s the man who has just been marked!’--‘Marked! eh--and with a scar that he would carry to his grave!’ thought I, shuddering from head to foot. He returned to the prison of La Force; and the moment he entered the lobby, he fell into my arms; for I had walked by his side from the Place de Grêve. The courage of the man now failed him altogether; and he burst into a violent passion of grief. The tears flowed in torrents from his eyes; his breast heaved convulsively. I endeavoured in vain to console him; and then I thought it best to allow his agony to have full vent, and he would feel relieved. The truth of this opinion was speedily confirmed; and, when Macpherson dried his tears, he exclaimed, ‘Now that the first bitterness of my career of misery is over, I feel nerved and resigned to encounter the ills which heaven has in store for me.’--‘My dear friend,’ I said, ‘you must yet hope for many happy years: the term of your incarceration will soon pass away, and you will then hasten to England, where friends will be prepared to receive you with open arms, and enable you to forget the sorrows that will then be over!’--‘Alas!’ he cried--and the words still ring in my ears,--‘how can I forget all this degradation and infamy? How can I ever again appear in the great world, every member of which will have read my trial, and many of whom have this day seen me writhing beneath the hot iron in the hands of the public executioner? Even supposing my innocence be eventually proved, and that all moral infamy be separated from my name, who will remove the scar from my shoulder? who will not remember that for five years I shall have herded with the refuse of mankind? who will believe that, even if guiltless I went to the galleys, uncontaminated I have been released from them? What father will entrust his daughter to the convict? what mother will consent to the union of her child with a man who has been publicly marked upon the scaffold? what brother would allow his sister, pure and chaste, to link herself to one whose outset in life has been so horribly characterised as mine? And lastly, lastly,’ added he, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, and clenching his fists and grinding his teeth as he spoke,--‘and lastly, who can remove the deep, deep scar from my heart, even should there be a physician skilful enough to efface the one upon my shoulder?’--I was then compelled to take leave of him; and, on the following day, he was removed to Bicêtre, and lodged with the other convicts who were about to travel the same road together. He now found that his situation was wretched indeed. Compelled to associate with men who had been guilty of the most horrible crimes, and who gloried in their infamy, his ears were offended with their obscene conversation and their fearful blasphemies; and he was ill-treated by his fellow prisoners, because he would not laugh at their jokes or join in their revolting discourse. If he threatened to complain, he was reviled and mocked. But I shall hasten to the end of my story--or at least to this part of it. The day for the departure of the Chain of Galley-Slaves arrived; and I took leave of my unfortunate friend. He was conducted to Brest, where he worked on the port for a short time; and then, on account of his good conduct, he was made a clerk in the office of the Governor. This was the last account I heard of him while he was at the Galleys; for just at that period the death of a distant relative called me to England, and the inheritance of some property was accompanied with the condition that I should change my name to that of the individual whose fortune thus devolved upon me.

“Six years had passed,” continued Mr. Scales,--“six years since the events which I have just related to you, when accident enabled me to obtain a complete assurance of that which I had all along fully believed,--namely, the innocence of Macpherson respecting the forgery. I was passing down Aldersgate Street late one evening, when a sudden shower began to fall; and I entered a gate-way for protection, having no umbrella with me, and there being no hackney-coach stand near. Almost immediately afterwards, a gentleman in a cloak took refuge in the same place; but as I was standing farther in the gate-way than he, and as it was pitch dark there, we did not observe each other’s countenance. Presently he stepped out into the street to see if the rain continued; and I noticed that he was accosted by a female, dressed in gaudy attire, and who murmured something to him in French, to which he did not however pay immediate attention. But an exclamation from her lips--an exclamation of surprise, which was instantly followed by the mention of his name--aroused him from his reverie. He gazed at the female who thus appeared to recognise him; and, by the light of the adjacent lamp, the well-known but somewhat altered countenance of Augustine was revealed to him and myself at the same time. Amazement rooted me to the spot, and compelled me to become a listener. ‘What, Augustine!’ cried Macpherson--for he it was: and all the while my presence was unsuspected.--‘Yes, Augustine--that is my name!’ said the young lady, somewhat flippantly, ‘But what are you doing in London?’ she asked immediately afterwards, and in an altered tone.--‘How can you ask me, Augustine, after my present pursuits or my future prospects, when you were the principal agent in consummating my ruin in Paris?’ demanded Macpherson. ‘Oh! you know not the serious injury--the irreparable injury which you have inflicted upon me. All my hopes, all my endeavours, have one after another been defeated and destroyed by the consequences of that fatal period. My life is a series of misfortunes, of strugglings against adversity, of ups and downs, of long intervals of misery, with short and distant gleams of happiness; and this career of sorrows and disappointments, was prepared and marked out by the infernal schemes of yourself and Legrand. Oh! inauspicious was the day on which I first became acquainted with you and the miscreant whom you represented to be your brother?’--‘And will you believe me when I assure you that I have never known a moment’s peace since the fatal moment when I bore false evidence against you in the French tribunal?’ exclaimed Augustine emphatically. ‘I was compelled to take that step, although repugnant to my feelings; for I had not then lost all principle,’ she added mournfully. ‘Legrand possessed such power over me; and I also knew that he was as capable of sacrificing me as well as yourself to his own interests, if I did not fall into his views. That false step on my part has reduced me to my present state of degradation; I became reckless and ceased to sustain even the appearance of respectability which I had observed while I was living with you. Legrand was killed in a quarrel at a gambling-house; and I then became the mistress of----.’--‘Oh! distract me not with a catalogue of your vices, Augustine,’ exclaimed Macpherson, interrupting her recital. ‘Can I sympathise with you, who have caused my ruin? can I commiserate with one whom, were I vindictive, I should crush beneath my heel? Oh! could you speak to me of the means of redeeming my character, which is lost--innocent though I am, as well you know,--could you give me back my peace of mind, my self-respect, my confidence in myself, the esteem and respect of men, and the enjoyment of an unsullied name,--could you efface the mark from my shoulder, Augustine, and wipe from my memory the dread impression of the exposure in the Place de Grêve with the five long years’ sojourn at the galleys,--could you do all this, Augustine, I would throw myself at your feet, I would forgive you the wrongs I have endured, I would almost worship you!’--‘There is something which may yet be done,’ said Augustine, after a long pause, ‘which would partially remedy the evil, and which would at all events prove my contrition for the part that I enacted in the matter.’--‘And what is it that you propose?’ demanded Macpherson: ’to what do you allude?’--‘I would willingly make a confession which would establish your innocence, and so far retrieve your character in the eyes of the world,’ said Augustine.--‘But the world reviles me, and cries shame upon me, without waiting to ask itself if I am really guilty!’ returned Macpherson, bitterly.--‘The thinking portion of the community,’ began the frail woman earnestly, ‘will ever----’.--‘That is a mere idle phrase, Augustine,’ interrupted Macpherson. ‘There is no thinking portion, as a complete section, of any community. Ask any individual singly and alone, if he would scorn and shun a man who had endured an infamous punishment, but who was innocent of the crime attributed to him, and he would launch forth into an eulogium of the liberality of his own views, and indulge in a tirade against the narrow-mindedness of his neighbours. He would say, “Prove your innocence, and I will be your friend.” So would reply every one whom you thus questioned individually. But take all those persons together--assemble them in one room--invite them all to a banquet--and then introduce amongst them the man concerning whom they had singly expressed so much liberality of opinion; and collectively they would scorn--they would shun him,--they would hunt him from their company--they would expel him as if he were infected with a pestilence! Where, then, is the thinking portion of society? of what men is it composed? who can separate the section from the mass? Talk no more of proving my innocence, but let me now ask you a question relative to your own position.’--‘My position!’ repeated the young woman bitterly; ‘oh! I feel its degradation so thoroughly, that it appears to me as if every body must see and appreciate it also! My shame clings to me, like a mass of dingy cobwebs to a wall: I cannot shake it off; I cannot divest myself of the sense of its utter loathsomeness; for if I seek to brush it away with one hand, it clings to the other. I dare not go to church to seek the comforts of religion:--a prayer in my mouth would be pollution;--I dare not even implore heaven to change my condition, so thoroughly degraded am I in my own estimation! And there are some of us--and when I say of us, you will fully comprehend to what sad sisterhood I belong--who are young, beautiful, and even educated; and from their lips--their red and inviting lips--issue imprecations and blasphemies at all hours. But I am not so bad as that;--nor do I drink as they do! God only knows, however, to what abyss I may fall!’--With these words the wretched creature hurried away in one direction, while Macpherson slowly pursued his path in another. I did not think it right to follow him; for I fancied from the tenour of his bitter outpourings to Augustine, that he wished to be forgotten by the world, and pass as a stranger in the mighty city. Well, years and years elapsed; and misfortunes overtook me. I lost all my property save a very small annuity--a mere pittance insufficient to keep body and soul together;--and through the interest of a friend I obtained a berth in the Charter House. To my surprise I found, on my entrance, that Macpherson was already a Brother;--and thus, after a separation of five-and-twenty years--for it is five years ago that I came hither--our destinies cast us into the same asylum. But, though I recognised him, he knew not me. You must remember that I had changed my name, and my personal appearance had undergone an immense alteration; and therefore it was not singular that he should fail to perceive in me the friend who had consoled him in his misfortunes at Paris in 1816. I have never revealed myself to him within these walls--and never shall. It would doubtless embitter his sorrowful existence were he aware that his secret was known to a living soul in the establishment which his necessities have compelled him to make his home, and from which he will remove to no other abode--save the tomb. Here, then, we dwell--he brooding over the undying sorrow that fills his heart,--I not daring to call him friend and console him.”

At this moment the clock struck four, an hour had elapsed since Mrs. Pitkin had departed with a promise to return “in a jiffey;”--and she now reappeared, her countenance much flushed, and her breath exhaling the strongest perfume of the juniper berry.

She however had her excuse: the matron had sent for her on particular business!

“If so, it must have been at the Fox and Anchor,” muttered Mr. Scales: but perceiving that she had brought up a cooked steak in a covered dish, he suffered himself to be appeased by the prospect of dinner;--and it was agreed both by himself and the captain to dispense with potatoes, Mrs. Pitkin having again quite forgotten that they were ordered.

The repast was now served up; and it must be taken as a proof of contrition for previous neglect on the part of the worthy woman, that when she sallied forth for the beer and spirits she only remained a short half-hour away--it being usually calculated in the Charter House that a commission which one might perform for himself in five minutes, occupies a nurse exactly fifty-five to accomplish.

At last Mr. Scales and the captain were enabled to make themselves comfortable; and when the dinner-things were cleared away, hot-water was speedily procured by the aid of a batchelor’s kettle. The poteen was first-rate;--the two gentlemen were in excellent spirits; and the hilarity of the evening was soon increased by the arrival of Mr. Frank Curtis, who had duly received his friend’s letter at Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in the City.

CL. THE COLONEL AND THE CAPTAIN

The captain related to Frank all the numerous and varied incidents which had occurred during the forenoon of that eventful day; and the listener not unfrequently burst into shouts of laughter, as the gallant gentleman described the most ludicrous part of his adventures--we mean the little episode of the escape from the sheriff’s-officers in Mrs. Rudd’s garments.

Frank, in his turn, gave his gallant friend a hurried but significant intimation that Mr. Bubbleton Styles had “come down” with ten sovereigns--a figure of speech implying that the City gentleman had advanced that amount for the special behoof of Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis.

The first use the Irishman made of this subsidy, was then and there--fairly and cheerfully--to refund to Mr. Scales the monies advanced by the worthy Brother in the morning; and this little arrangement increased the good feelings of that gentleman towards his new friends, and enhanced the harmony of the evening.

By degrees, as the good liquor produced its exhilarating effect, the captain began to talk magniloquently of his Irish estates, “which were unfor-rtunately locked up in Chancery,”--Mr. Curtis told a great many wonderful stories of his intimacy with Princesses and Duchesses, “when he was in France,”--and Mr. Scales related a number of interesting anecdotes connected with the Charter House, and which had a signal advantage over the narratives of his companions, inasmuch as the former were all true, and the latter all false.

In the midst of the conviviality a knock at the door was heard; and on Mr. Scales exclaiming “Come in,” the invitation was obeyed by a gentleman who was immediately introduced to the captain and Frank Curtis as Colonel Tickner.

The new-comer, who was an inmate of the Charter House, was a man of middle height, and was much older than he thought fit to appear to be; for by the aid of false teeth, a handsome wig, and whiskers well dyed, he was enabled to pass himself off as “just over fifty”--whereas his years had certainly numbered a good fifteen in addition to the amount specified. He was well dressed, and had rather an imposing exterior: but there was an unpleasant expression about the eyes, and in the lines around the mouth, which gave his countenance a sinister aspect, and denoted low canning, duplicity, and artfulness.

“Sit down, colonel,” said Mr. Scales, when the ceremony of introduction had taken place; “and mix a glass for yourself. I told the captain you were sure to come--and he was most anxious to see you; for I know that military men are particularly fond of meeting each other.”

This remark was made with a sly touch of satire, Mr. Scales glancing the while at the captain, as much as to say, “Now the ice is broken, and you can unmask him;”--for as sincerely as the worthy Brother did not believe Tickner to be a military man at all, so in proportion was he convinced that O’Blunderbuss was.

The colonel looked uneasy for a moment, while the captain, whose natural impudence was increased by his potations, put a bold face upon the matter, and eyed Tickner with lurking ferocity.

“And pray, sir, in what rig’ment had you the honour-r-r to ser-r-rve?” demanded the Irishman at length, with a menacing reverberation of the ominous r’s.

“Oh! in several,” returned the colonel, mixing his toddy without raising his eyes. “Might I ask the same question of you, captain?”

“Be Jasus! and ye may ask, sure enough, my frind,” exclaimed O’Blunderbuss: “but it would be more polite on your par-r-t if you was afther answering my quaries first;--and thin it’s meself that’ll give ye my whole pidigree from the beginning to the ind of that same.”

“I should beg to observe, sir,” said the colonel, stirring up his liquor, on which he still kept his eyes fixed, “that it would be more in accordance with the rules of military etiquette if you were to give the first explanations--seeing that I have the honour to hold a higher rank than yourself in her Majesty’s service.”

“And, be the holy poker-r!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss, flying into a passion: “that remains to be proved! There’s many a discharged cor-r-poral that dubs himself colonel, to my knowledge.”

“And there’s many a discharged cad to an omnibus that calls himself----”

But Colonel Tickner suddenly stopped short: for Captain O’Blunderbuss started from his seat, and, grasping the poker, exclaimed, “Be this holy insthrument, I shall be afther daling ye a gintle tap on the head, my frind, if ye dar-r to utther a wor-r-rd derogatory to my honour-r-r!”

Colonel Tickner stared in ghastly silence at the ferocious Irishman; and to add to the dismay of the former, Frank Curtis, who relished the proceeding hugely, whispered hastily in his ear, “For God’s sake, don’t provoke him! He’s the most terrible duellist in all London; he shot the Duke of Boulogne last year in Paris!”

“I really----did not----in fact, it was very far from my intentions----” stammered the discomfited colonel, casting a glance toward the door, to ascertain if there were any possibility of escape: but, alas! that was out of the question.

“Nothing but a mating, or the most abjict apology will suffice!” vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss, perceiving that he had completely over-awed his antagonist. “Frank, my frind, run over to our lodgings and fetch my pisthols--in the box covered with green baize, you know--and, be the power-rs! we’ll fight it out across the table, each houlding the ind of a handkerchief:--that is to say, with Mr. Scales’ lave and, per-r-mission.”

“Oh! I shan’t interfere,” said the red-faced Brother enjoying the scene as much as Mr. Frank Curtis, who rose from his chair as if to depart for the purpose of executing the little commission respecting the pistols.

“Really, gentlemen,” stammered Colonel Tickner, glancing in bewilderment and dismay from one to the other: “I--I am sure--I did not----”

“Did ye mane to insult me?” demanded the captain, brandishing the poker, while his aspect seemed to acquire increased ferocity every moment.

“No--no--certainly not,” responded the colonel, catching at the hope of extricating himself from the deadly perils which appeared to hem him in around.

“And ye acknowledge yourself to be a liar and a scounthrel?” vociferated the terrible Gorman O’Blunderbuss.

“Why, my dear sir--as for that----”

“Don’t ‘dear sir-r’ me!” interrupted the Irishman, fiercely, “Acknowledge yourself to be a liar and a scounthrel--and on my part I shall be ready to acknowledge in retur-r-n that ye’ve made such an apology as a gintleman ought under the circumstances.”

“Oh! yes--mutual concessions,” observed Frank with a wink at Mr. Scales, who could scarcely keep, his countenance through a violent inclination to laugh.

“A liar and a scounthrel!” repeated the captain, as he advanced in a threatening manner towards the wretched victim of this egregious bullyism.

“Well, my dear sir--if it will satisfy you--and, as your friend observes, on the principle of mutual concessions--I--I----”

“Out with it, man!” roared the captain: “don’t keep us waiting all day--for the hot wather is getting could----”

“You’d better not provoke him any more,” whispered Frank: “or I shall be compelled to run and fetch the pistols--unless you prefer having your brains dashed out with the poker.”

“Oh! murder! ejaculated the miserable Tickner, turning deadly pale at the awful alternative suggested: “give me time to breathe, Captain O’Blunderbuss----”

“Not a moment!” cried the ferocious gentleman thus appealed to: “I must have complate satisfaction before ye brathe another puff!”

“Well, then--I admit that I--I am--what you said,” returned the colonel.

“Repate the words! A liar and a scounthrel!”

“A liar and--and--a scoundrel,” echoed the humbled and trembling wretch, wishing that the floor would open and swallow him up--or that any other equally improbable casualty might occur, so long as it should remove him from the presence of the ferocious Irishman.

“Ye hear his wor-rds, my frinds?” cried the captain: “he declar-rs himself to be a liar and a scounthrel. And now, as a man of honour-r, I confiss myself completely satisfied. The apology is most handsome--and such as reflicts the highest credit on him as a gintleman. Give me your hand, sir-r!”

The colonel diffidently extended the member thus demanded; and the gallant Irishman shook it with such hearty good will, that its owner winced and writhed with the pain of the iron pressure.

“And now we’ll spake no more on milithary matthers,” said Gorman O’Blunderbuss; “but dhrink potheen at our aise, and converse on all kinds of things.”

By this little arrangement the captain got rid of the necessity of giving any explanation relative to his own military career; and Colonel Tickner, speedily forgetting the deep humiliation to which the bullying character of the Irishman and his own craven spirit had subjected him, paid his respects with so much earnestness to the whiskey, that Frank was soon compelled to sally forth and procure another bottle--Mrs. Pitkin having returned to her own domicile under the plea of being “very ill,” which in plain English meant “very drunk.”

The conviviality was maintained until half-past ten, when Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis rose to take their leave of Mr. Scales and the colonel. But before they departed, the Irishman renewed his expressions of gratitude and his protestations of friendship to the worthy Brother who had manifested so much kindness towards him;--and, highly delighted with their evening’s entertainment, the two “inseparables” walked off arm-in-arm together.

Now how gloomy--how truly monastic appeared the Charter House, as they traversed the spacious court, bounded by the low, uniform ranges of buildings. Most of the windows were dark; but here and there a flickering light was gleaming--feeble and faint as the spirit of the old man for whose long lonely hours even that poor candle was a species of companion.

In spite of the natural liveliness of the two friends’ dispositions--in spite of the whiskey they had imbibed--they shuddered as the aspect of the place, in the more than semi-obscurity of the starlight, seemed cold and cheerless to the view,--aye, and struck so to their very hearts.

Their footsteps raised echoes which sounded hollow and gloomy, as if coming from the midst of tombs; and if they paused for a moment, the silence was so deep--so profound, it seemed impossible that the place was in the very midst of the mightiest metropolis in the world.

The feelings of the two friends were such, that they could not have uttered a ribald word nor given vent to a jest or a laugh, as they traversed an enclosure where the stillness was so awful and the cloistral aspect of the scene so coldly, sternly monastic.

Had their way lay through a vast cathedral, at the silent midnight hour, they could not have experienced a sense of more painful oppression; nor would a deeper gloom have fallen upon their spirits.

It was a great relief when the porter closed the wicket of the massive gates behind them;--and as they hastily skirted Charterhouse Square--keeping a good look-out for fear of unpleasant prowlers in that region--the captain whispered to his companion, “Well, Frank--and, be Jasus! I’d sooner be knocked about the wor-r-ld as you and I are at times, me boy, than take up my quar-r-ters altogether in that place. It’s all very pritty, no doubt, while one has his frinds with him; but whin they’re gone, Frank, it strikes me that the loneliness becomes tin thousand times more lonely.”

“I’m just of the same opinion, captain,” returned Mr. Curtis. “And now where shall we put up for the night?”

“Be the power-rs! and we’ve cash in our pockets--aad it’s afther pathronising some tavern we’ll be until the morning, whin we’ll take fresh lodgings,” exclaimed the gallant gentleman, his naturally good spirits reviving, as he found himself safe in Aldersgate Street, and no suspicious-looking characters dodging him in the rear.

CLI. THE CALM.--THE TEMPEST

Return we now to Charles Hatfield and Perdita.

The gorgeous lustre of a Parisian summer morning streamed through the muslin curtains of a handsome chamber in the hotel at which they had taken up their abode: and the glory of that sun-light shone upon the nuptial couch, where the newly-wedded pair still slept.

The night of bliss had passed; and, wearied with love’s dalliance, they had fallen into a deep slumber, the dreams of which were soft and voluptuous, and gave no forewarning of a coming storm.

The long, luxuriant, deep brown hair of Perdita flowed over the snowy whiteness of the pillow; and the dark, thick, slightly curling fringes of the closed eye-lids reposed on cheeks flashed with the ecstatic nature of her visions.

A gentle smile played upon her moist lips of richest red,--a smile that subdued the expression of resoluteness which her countenance was wont to wear, and gave an indescribable charm of serenity and sweetness to features usually indicative of such strong passions and such fierce desires.

But those passions were now lulled to rest: those desires were for the time assuaged;--and happiness filled the soul of the sleeping woman.

One fine, white, and robust arm lay outside the coverlid: the other supported the head, or rather half embraced the neck of her young and handsome husband.

The sunbeams seemed to kiss her flowing hair,--seemed to play with the exquisitely modelled arm that lay completely exposed,--seemed also to revel in the treasures of her naked bosom, so firm, so rounded, and so regularly heaving.

Sleep likewise sealed the eyes of Charles Hatfield: smiles likewise played open his lips;--and his countenance appeared a perfect specimen of god-like beauty incarnate in man.

Yes: they were a handsome pair;--and so far there was a remarkable fitness in their union--but in naught beside!

In perfect happiness had they sunk into the profound slumber which still enwrapped them;--for, on the one side, Charles Hatfield had become possessed of that woman of glorious loveliness who had enchanted--captivated--enthralled his very soul;--and, on the other, Perdita believed herself to have gained the title of Vicountess Marston already, and to have that of Countess of Ellingham in perspective.

It was nine o’clock in the morning--the morning succeeding the bridal night: and thus were the newly-wedded pair still sleeping in the nuptial couch.

Presently the door opened, and Rosalie entered the room,--Rosalie, naturally so gay, blythe, and full of spirits--but now with a cloud upon her brow, and evident anxiety in her manner.

Advancing towards the bed, she paused--gazed for a few moments upon the sleepers--and murmured to herself in French, “How handsome and how serenely happy they appear to be! What a pity it is to awake them!”--then, after another short pause, she said hurriedly, “And yet it must be--for the stranger is imperative.”

Thus speaking, she touched Charles Hatfield gently on the arm; and he woke up, with a start. But Rosalie immediately put her finger to her lip to enjoin silence; and the young man, now completely aroused, surveyed her with mingled surprise and anger,--surprise at her mysterious behaviour, and anger at her intrusion.

“Hush!” she said, in a low but emphatic tone. “A gentleman insists upon seeing you--and, as his manner is so curious, I thought I had better awake you first, sir,” she added, glancing significantly towards her mistress, who still slept on.

“A gentleman!” repeated Charles, a suspicion--almost a certainty of the real truth flashing to his mind: “describe him!”--and he also spoke in a whisper, though with emphasis.

Rosalie gave a hurried sketch of the individual who so imperiously demanded an immediate interview with her master; and Charles found that his conjecture was correct--too correct, indeed!

“Go to him--and say that I shall be with him in five minutes,” he observed, in a tone expressive of deep vexation;--and Rosalie retired.

Charles immediately rose from the couch, but without awaking Perdita; and, having hastily slipped on some clothing, he proceeded to the sitting-room belonging to the suite of apartments which he had hired at the hotel.

He now found himself face to face with his father!

Mr. Hatfield was pacing the parlour in an agitated manner, when the young man entered;--his countenance was very pale, and wore an expression of deep care: indeed, Charles was shocked when his parent, turning round to accost him, thus presented to his view an aspect so profoundly wretched--so eloquently woe-begone.

The young man, during the few minutes which had intervened from the time that Rosalie quitted his bed-chamber until the instant when he repaired to the sitting-room, had nerved himself with all his energy--braced himself with all his courage--mustered all his resolution, to undergo what he knew must prove a painful trial; for he expected accusations of disobedience and ingratitude--reproaches for unmanly conduct towards Lady Frances Ellingham,--in fine, a repetition of those scenes which had bitterly occurred at the Earl’s mansion in Pall Mall, and which, characterised by so much misconception as they had been, had materially tended to diminish the authority of the father and the respect of the son.

Yes: he had made up his mind to bear upbraidings and encounter the most painful remonstrances;--he had even resolved to recriminate in the old style--reproaching his father for the wrongs which he imagined himself to have sustained at his hands relative to the secrets attendant upon his birth and social position. But when he beheld the expression of deep care and the ashy pallor which sate upon that father’s countenance, his rebellious heart softened--his stern resolves gave way--his better feelings once more stirred within him;--and all on a sudden it struck him that there must be some reason for his parent’s altered appearance, of a nature more grave--more serious, than the mere grief which this runaway match could possibly occasion.

The thought that evil had happened to his mother flashed to his mind;--and in an instant all his imaginary wrongs were forgotten.

“Father--dear father,” he exclaimed, in a tone of earnest appeal; “keep me not in suspense! My mother----”

“Is as well, I hope, as under circumstances she can possibly be,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a hollow and sombre tone.

“Thank God!” cried Charles, fervently.

“Is it possible that you still love your mother?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, whose countenance brightened up in the faintest degree, but in a manner as sickly as if the gleam of a dying lamp fell upon the rigid features of a corpse.

“Is it possible that you can ask me the question?” exclaimed the young man. “Oh! you know that I love my mother--my dear mother,” he repeated, as a thousand proofs of her affection for him suddenly rose up in his mind--rapidly as the spell of an enchanter might cause flowers to appear upon the surface of a stern and arid waste. “And you, my father,” he continued, taking his parent’s hand, and pressing it to his lips, “I love you also--in spite of what you may suppose to be my disobedient conduct!”

“No--no--you love me not!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, hastily withdrawing his hand which for a few moments he had abandoned to his son: “else never would you have acted thus. But tell me, Charles--tell me,--for I did not condescend to question your flippant French servant,--tell me--have I come too late to save you?--are you married to that young woman----”

“If you mean, father, whether Perdita Fitzhardinge is now my wife,” began Charles, drawing himself up proudly, and speaking in a resolute--almost indignant tone,--“I----”

“Perdita Fitzhardinge!” repeated the unhappy man, staggering as if from a sudden blow dealt by an invisible hand: “oh! then ’tis indeed she--and all my worst fears are confirmed! Villiers was right--and those officers were right also!”

“What mean you, father!” demanded Charles, now seriously alarmed--though knowing not what to think. “You speak of a young lady of ravishing beauty--elegant manners--spotless character----”

“Charles Hatfield, is she your wife?” asked the parent, now advancing close up to the young man, and pressing his arm so violently with the strong spasm which convulsed his fingers that Charles winced and almost cried out through the pain inflicted; for his arm felt as if it were grasped by fingers of iron!

“Yes, father--I am proud to inform you,” he said, again assuming an air of noble independence,--“I am proud to inform you----”

“Fool--madman--senseless idiot!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his rage suddenly bursting forth with such volcanic fury that his son fell back in terror and dismay and eyed his father as if he thought that he must be insane: “you know not what you have done--the misery, the wretchedness you have prepared for yourself--the ashes you are heaping upon your own head--the infamy and disgrace you have brought down upon yourself and all connected with you----”

“Father--father!” cried Charles, now becoming full of wrath in his turn: “you exceed the license which belongs to a parent even when the son is in his nonage! Remember that you are alluding to the marriage which I have thought fit to contract----”

“A marriage which will embitter the remainder of your days, sir,” retorted Mr. Hatfield, turning sharply round upon his son, and speaking with almost savage rage.

“This is unworthy of you--and I shall hear no more,” said Charles, in a haughty tone and with a dignified manner, as he made for the door.

“Stop, sir!” cried Mr. Hatfield, rushing after him and detaining him forcibly by the arm: “we may not part thus----”

“Speak not evil, then, of my wife!” exclaimed Charles, turning round, and darting on his sire a look of superb defiance.

“Your wife!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, his manly voice suddenly assuming the almost shrieking tone of a wild hysterical laugh: “your wife!” he said, now echoing his own words. “Oh! my God, that I should hear you call that woman--that vile, profligate woman, by the sacred name----

“Father!” ejaculated Charles Hatfield, now goaded to desperation, and raising his arm in a menacing manner: “forbear--forbear, I say,” he continued in a hoarse, thick voice,--“or, by the heaven above us! I shall strike even you!”

“Listen--listen, Charles--for God’s sake, have patience!” cried Mr. Hatfield, the thought now flashing to his mind that in his ungovernable passion he had dealt only in epithets and averments as yet unintelligible to his son--whereas he should at once have revealed facts, terrible and startling, crushing and overwhelming though they might be.

“I will hear you, father,” said the young man, now speaking in a tone of dogged sullenness “but again I warn you not to provoke me beyond the power of endurance.”

“No--no--I will not anger you, my son,” rejoined the unhappy parent, becoming comparatively calm and even mournful in his manner and aspect; “for, alas! I have tidings to reveal to you which will pierce like a dagger to your heart’s core. The woman whom you have wedded as your wife----”

“Again that contemptuous name of ‘the woman!’” ejaculated Charles, fire flashing from his eyes.

“Patience!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, firmly: “that woman has deceived you--duped you--entangled you, heaven alone knows how! to your utter undoing--for she is the profligate and abandoned daughter of a vile and tainted wretch--a returned transport!”

“’Tis false--false as hell!” thundered Charles, the workings of his countenance rendering him, handsome though he naturally was, hideous and horrible to behold.

“’Tis true--’tis true!” cried Mr. Hatfield, as if catching up the terrible emphasis with which his son had spoken. “Perdita Slingsby--for that is her name--is a wanton, beauteous though she may be: and it was but two days ago that I accidentally heard the full narrative of her profligacies in Sydney, from two officers quartered at Dover.”

When the dreadful accusation that his wife was a wanton had fallen upon the young man’s ears, his boiling rage was on the point of bursting forth, with all the violence of language and clenched fist, against the author of his being: but when the allusion to the officers at Dover immediately followed, the scene on the Parade suddenly flashed to his memory, and a faintness--a sensation of sickness came over him,--and he staggered to a sofa, on which he sank as if exhausted and overcome.

“Father--father,” he murmured, horrible suspicions now rising up one after another, with lightning speed, in his soul: “your words are terrible--they will kill me! And yet,” he added, in a firmer tone,as a ray of hope gleamed in upon his darkening thoughts,--“I am a fool to believe this tale! No--no--it is impossible! Perdita is pure and virtuous--and there is some dreadful mistake in all this.”

But even as he uttered these words, a secret voice seemed to whisper in his ears that he was only catching at a straw, and that he was in reality drowning in the ocean of truth which was pouring in with such sweeping rapidity and overwhelming might upon him.

“There is no mistake, my son,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice of profound melancholy. “Would to heaven that there were!” he added, with such deep conviction of the misery which his words implied, that all hope perished suddenly in the breast of his son. “You have become the prey to two designing women: for I heard terrible things at Dover, I can assure you! The officers to whom I ere now alluded, had recognised Perdita leaning on your arm----”

“Yes--yes: I see it all now!” exclaimed Charles, covering his face with his hands, and pressing his fingers with almost frantic violence against his throbbing brows.

“And those officers--with sorrow and grief do I tell you all this--had themselves shared the favours of Perdita in Sydney; and as for the mother of the abandoned girl--know you what has become of her?” suddenly demanded Mr. Hatfield.

“No: we missed her at Dover--just as we had embarked on board the French steam-ship----”

“Then you are doomed to receive another dreadful shock, my poor boy,” continued Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of deep commiseration: “for Mrs. Slingsby--or Mrs. Fitzhardinge--or whatever she calls herself--was arrested at Dover, in consequence of a communication made by electric telegraph from London----”

“Arrested!” cried Charles, his amazement for a moment becoming stronger even than his deep--deep grief.

“Yes--arrested on suspicion of being concerned in a murder of an atrocious character at Pentonville!” added Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn and impressive tone.

“Merciful God!” ejaculated the young man, clasping his hands together as if in mortal agony: “surely I have fallen in with fiends in female disguise. But Perdita--Perdita,” he cried, the lingering remnants of affection causing him to hope that he was destined to hear nothing more terrible of her than the revelations which had already crushed him as it were to the very dust: “she at least, father, is unsuspected in this dreadful affair?”

“The old woman who is suspected, and whose countenance was seen by a witness as she issued from the house of the murdered man,--that old woman, who is no doubt Mrs. Slingsby, was accompanied by another and younger female----”

“Tell me no more, father!” almost yelled forth Charles Hatfield, literally writhing on the sofa, as if with the poignant anguish of a wound in a vital part.

“Compose yourself, my dear son--if it be possible,” said the disconsolate parent: “for I have many other things to tell you,--other dreams to destroy,--dreams equally as bright as the hallucinations which you had entertained relative to this wicked and hypocritical Perdita. But first I ought to observe that there appears to be no direct evidence to fix the murder of Mr. Percival----”

“Percival!” repeated Charles, another and still more dreadful pang shooting through his heart: “tell me--Percival did you say?--Percival--a money-lender----”

“The same,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “for I last evening read the entire account of the murder in an English paper which I saw at the hotel where I have put up.”

“Then is the horrible surmise too true--too accurate,” said Charles, in a hollow tone, while his face grew ghastly once more; “and it must have been these demons in female shape who caused his death. But on what night, father,” he demanded with abrupt impatience, “did the murder take place?”

“The night before you quitted London,” was the answer.

“Ah! then it is clear--clear--clear, beyond all possibility of doubt!” exclaimed Charles. “Yes--it was on the night in question that my note of hand was discounted by that same Percival--for Perdita has since told me that such was the name of the money-lender,” he continued, in his soul-harrowing musings.

“You have been raising money, then, Charles?” said Mr. Hatfield. “But that is a miserable--a contemptible trifle compared to all the rest! May I however ask you on what security--or on what prospects--you have obtained a loan and given a promissory note?”

“Father, henceforth there must be no secrets between us!” returned the young man, becoming respectful, submissive, and even imploring in his tone and demeanour. “The dreadful revelations of this morning have destroyed all that egotistical confidence in myself and my own wisdom----”

“Yes, Charles,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand and speaking in a kind, commiserating tone; “you have been too susceptible to first impressions--you have formed hasty opinions--you have grasped at shadows--you have revelled in delicious hopes and pleasing aspirations, without ever pausing to reflect that the very foundation-stone of all this castle-building was a mere delusion.”

“I do not comprehend you, father,” said the young man, now surveying his parent with profound surprise: “unless, indeed, you allude to the destruction of all the bright visions which I have conjured up respecting the false--the wicked--the abandoned Perdita.”

“No, my dear son--I am now seeking to direct the conversation into another channel,” responded Mr. Hatfield, with solemn emphasis; “for, alas! I can too well divine the deplorable error which you have adopted and cherished as a substantial truth.”

“An error, father!” repeated Charles, still completely mystified.

“Yes--an error of the most afflicting nature,--afflicting to you--afflicting to me--afflicting to your mother also,” added Mr. Hatfield, his voice becoming low and melancholy. “In a word, Charles, you believe yourself to be that which you are not--your ambition has blinded you--your pride has led you into the most fatal misconceptions----”

“Father, you allude to my birth!” exclaimed the young man, starting as he spoke. “Oh! is there any delusion in my recently formed opinions in that respect?”

Mr. Hatfield rose--and paced the room for a few moments: the whelming tide of recollections of the past was now combined with that of the sorrows of the present and the fears for the future;--and his emotions were so powerful, that his voice was choked--his faculty of speech was for the time suffocated by ineffable feelings.

“Father--keep me not in suspense, I implore you!” said Charles, rising from the sofa and accosting his parent. “I am nerved now to hear any thing and every thing, however terrible, in relation to myself! Only keep me not in suspense, I beseech--I implore you!”

“Alas! my dear boy,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, turning towards him with tearful eyes,--“if I tell you all connected with your birth--I--I shall unmask myself--I shall stand revealed before you as a monster whom you must henceforth loathe and detest.”

“No--no,” cried Charles, now throwing himself into his father’s arms and embracing him tenderly: “for the fatal difficulties--the cruel embarrassments, in which I have plunged myself by my accursed folly--my insane infatuation,--all these convince me that I need a kind friend and adviser--and in you, my dearest father, I shall find both!”

“Your language--your altered manner--your affection determine me to throw myself upon your mercy, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a low and profoundly mournful tone; “yes,--’tis the strange--the unnatural spectacle of a father imploring a son to forgive him--the father--the stain and the stigma which mark that son’s birth!”

“Holy God! have I heard aright?” ejaculated Charles, pressing his hand to his brow;--and, staggering back, he sank on the sofa,--not in a swoon--not in a state of insensibility,--but stunned and stupefied, as it were--and yet retaining a maddening consciousness of all!

“Yes,” continued his father, speaking in a sepulchral, unearthly tone, and averting his head,--“you are, alas! illegitimate, my dear boy; and the hopes--the aspirations, which I know you have formed, are all baseless visions!”

“And yet,” cried Charles, again starting suddenly from his seat, “you assured me--emphatically assured me, that my mother was pure--innocent--stainless;--and it was this averment that led me, in connexion with the discovery which I lately made of other great secrets,--it was this declaration on your part, I say, which led me to form those hopes--indulge in those aspirations!”

“Oh! my God--it is now that I am to appear as a monster in your eyes, Charles!” exclaimed the wretched father, in a voice of bitter anguish: “and yet to guard against all future misconceptions, since past ones have wrought such deplorable mischief--I must reveal every thing to you! Yes--your mother was stainless--was pure--was innocent;--and I--villain, miscreant that I was--I forcibly took from her that jewel of chastity----”

“Enough--enough!” almost shrieked forth Charles Hatfield, extending his hands imploringly: “utter not another word--I understand you too well already!”

“And you have read the history of my past life, Charles--is it not so?” asked the unhappy parent. “Yes--yes: I know you have read--in the Annual Register--the frightful narrative----”

“Father,” said the young man, rising, and grasping the hands of his sire: “you must not blush in the presence of your son! Once for all, let me state that I do know every thing;--and now let the past--so far as it regards yourself--be buried in oblivion. My impertinent curiosity first led me to make those researches into mysteries which I should never have sought to penetrate;--and the knowledge I accidentally acquired, led me to form hopes which have exercised a fatal influence upon me! I discovered that you were the real Earl of Ellingham; and, deeming myself to be your legitimately born son, I conceived that you had wronged me by keeping me in darkness in respect to the title which I fancied to be my own,--in respect, also, to the higher title to which I believed myself to be the heir! Now--now, I can no longer blame you for having observed so much mystery: Oh! no--on the contrary, I have rewarded all your kindness towards me, with the blackest ingratitude.”

“We will pardon and forgive each other,” said Mr. Hatfield, solemnly: “you shall pardon and forgive me for the stigma that attaches itself to your birth--you shall likewise pardon me your mother’s wrongs, even as she herself has long, long since pardoned me: and I, on my part, will think no more of all that you have lately done--save to extricate you from the cruel embarrassments in which by your hasty conduct, your imprudence, and your misconceptions, you have become involved. In a word, I will be to you as a kind friend and adviser;--and if henceforth I may not hope for your affection--at least I may reckon upon your gratitude.”

“Yes--both, both!” cried Charles Hatfield, again embracing his father tenderly. “Oh! how wicked--how criminal I have been! A veil has fallen from my eyes--my soul has lost its dogged obstinacy--and I now perceive how ungrateful I have been to my dear mother and yourself. But if it be not too late to repair the past,” he continued, retreating a few paces, and addressing his parent with a tone and manner of solemn earnestness,--“if it be not too late to regain my mother’s love and yours also,--oh! then the remainder of my life shall be wholly and solely devoted to that one object! Yes--I will reinstate myself in your esteem--I will prove by years of affection and obedience how bitter is my remorse and how sincere is my repentance for the follies and indiscretions of a few weeks! But in the meantime, father--in the meantime, how am I to act towards the vile--the guilty woman, whom I lately loved so madly?”

“Where is she at present?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, profoundly touched by the contrition and altered feelings now manifested by his son.

“I left her asleep in a chamber belonging to this suite,” was the reply. “Oh! I dare not meet her again--for I fear that I should spring upon her like a tiger, and sacrifice her to my resentment! For all my affection has now turned to a bitter--burning hatred,--a hatred against herself and her more vile mother; and I am astounded when I reflect how completely I have been deluded by them. It appears to me a dream--a vision! I can scarcely bring myself to conceive that I could possibly have been so insensate--so mad--so blind--so besotted! Oh! I could dash my head against the wall, to punish myself for this atrocious folly!”

And the young man struck his clenched fists forcibly against his forehead.

“Compose yourself--in the name of God! compose yourself,” said his parent, rushing in upon him and restraining him from the commission of farther violence. “Give not way to despair, my dear son--meet your misfortune with courage----”

“Oh! it is easy thus to recommend patience and endurance,” exclaimed Charles, bitterly: “but think how cruelly I have been deceived! I was fascinated as by the eyes of a serpent;--the magic of her charms, the melody of her voice, the sophistry of her tongue, and the excitement of her caresses, threw spells of an irresistible nature upon me: I was enchanted--held captive in silken chains--dazzled by the almost superhuman beauty of that prodigy of deceit and wantonness! I was not allowed time for reflection--suspicion had no leisure to rise up in my bosom, much less to fix its habitation there;--for I was whirled along, as in a delirious dream, from the first instant that I met that woman until the instant when your revelations of this morning dispelled the entire illusion. The artfulness of that designing creature sustained a constant elysian excitement in my soul: a perpetual succession of insidious wiles, of apparent proofs of deep tenderness, and of caresses that would enthral the heart of a saint,--such--such was the magic course in which I was hurried madly along. Endowed with a wondrous presence of mind, she had a ready answer for every question that I put to her--even to the explanation of her singular name;--and, with a guile as profound as it was ravishing--with an artfulness as deep as it was calculated to enchant and captivate--she invested the history of her early days with a mystery which only increased my admiration, and made her appear more interesting in my eyes.”

“You cannot wonder, then, that you were so completely deceived, my poor boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, who had listened with great, though mournful interest to the eloquent delineation of causes and effects which the impassioned language of the young man had so graphically shaped. “But as for the designing creature’s name, I heard its origin from the officers whom I met at Dover. She is called Perdita, or ‘The Lost One,’ because she was born in Newgate--and her mother, in the moment of repentance for her own crimes, gave her that appellation as a memorial and a warning----”

“Heavens!” ejaculated Charles; “and I believed the specious--the plausible explanation which the artful girl gave me relative to her name! Oh! she is made up of deceit: the world has never known her equal in that respect. I have read of Circe, with her spells--and of the Syrens, with their perilous allurements;--I have read also of those Mermaids--with the heads and busts of beauteous women, and with the tails of monsters--and whose melting looks and ravishing songs enticed sailors to their coasts, only to fall victims to these unnatural devourers of human flesh:--but all these wonders of heathen mythology are surpassed by this modern Circe--this Syren of the nineteenth century--this Mermaid who preys, not on mortal flesh, but upon immortal souls!”

There was a terrible earnestness in the tone and manner of Charles, as he gave utterance to these words:--and his father perceived that the heart of the young man was painfully lacerated by the conviction of Perdita’s tremendous duplicity.

“Yes,” resumed Charles,--and Mr. Hatfield allowed him to speak on, knowing that feelings so powerfully excited as his had been and still were, must have a proper vent, in order that the soul might regain something approaching to the equilibrium of calmness:--“yes,” exclaimed the young man, passionately,--“she, whom I believed to be the mirror in which all excellent qualities were reflected, is the embodiment of every possible vice--every earthly iniquity. Oh! what a splendid personification of SIN would she make for the painter or the architect! But it must be a bold pencil or a powerful pen that could do justice to her,--aye, and a man deeply read in the mysteries of human life, to pourtray her character with accuracy! And that character I can read now;--and I know her to be a creature who has studied sensuality, with all the ardour of a glowing temperament--with all the vivid sensibility that could enhance the joys of amorous enchantment! Oh! mine was an idolatry such as a rapt enthusiasm pays, in its blind belief, to the Spirit of Evil, conceiving it to be the source of every virtue! Fatal mistake--deplorable error: shall I ever surmount the terrible consequences?”

“Yes--by taking courage, following my counsel, and placing me in full possession of all the minutest details of this distressing and perplexing case,” said Mr. Hatfield, assuming the part of a comforter, now that the indignation of his son had in some degree expended itself in those passionate outpourings which we have endeavoured to describe.

“Oh! fear not, my beloved father--my only friend,” cried Charles, warmly,--“fear not that I shall now conceal aught from you! I have obeyed the impulses of my own wrongheadedness--and I am suffering terribly in consequence: I have followed the dictates of my own wilfulness--and I have gone lamentably astray! The result is that I have no more confidence in myself: from the pinnacle of that proud independence which I sought to assume, I am dashed down into a state of childish helplessness. If you abandon me--I should not have courage even to attempt to extricate myself from this maze of embarrassments in which I am so cruelly involved: I should resign myself to my fate--I should sink into despair!”

“Cheer up, my beloved son--and think not for a moment of these dreadful alternatives,” said Mr. Hatfield: “but answer me a few questions, and I shall then know better how to act. Did you not find certain papers in a secret recess in the Earl’s library----”

“Yes--and those papers are safe,” replied Charles: “at least--Perdita has them secure in her writing-desk, and we will make her surrender them presently.”

“As her husband--alas! that I should have to speak of you as such,--you may break open that desk and take them by force,” said Mr. Hatfield! “Does the young woman know their contents?”

“Unfortunately she does,” was the mournful answer.

“And her mother----”

“Is equally well acquainted with them,” said Charles. “Even to save you a pang,--and heaven knows I would now do much to spare you any additional uneasiness,--I will not deceive nor mislead you in a single detail.”

“No--this is not a time nor a case for trifling, Charles,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “Then both these women know who I am?” he added, in a low and hoarse voice.

“Oh! my God!” cried Charles, giving vent to his deep vexation and obeying the impulse of his self-accusing spirit: “to what humiliations have I not exposed you, my dearest father? Can you--will you ever forgive me for all this?”

“Have we not had much to pardon--much to explain, on either side, already?” asked Mr. Hatfield, his voice now regaining its mildness--a mildness that was, however, mournfully subdued. “Well, then, my dear boy, give not way to these self-reproaches; for if I be anxious to obtain a certain knowledge of the full extent of these evils, it is only with the view of falling into no error and committing no oversight in extricating both yourself and me from the embarrassments that surround us. To return, then, to the immediate subject of our discourse--those women know all?”

“All--every thing,” replied Charles. “In that blind infatuation----”

“Compose yourself, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice slightly indicative of paternal authority. “Respecting the promissory note you gave the money-lender Percival----”

“Oh! now I shrink indeed from telling you the truth,” interrupted Charles, his countenance glowing with shame and confusion; “and yet--faithful to my promise--I will not mislead you. The note of hand to which you allude was signed--Viscount Marston!”

“If I recollect aright,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the account of the murder, as reported in the newspapers, states distinctly that no papers nor documents of any kind were found in the victim’s house--the tin-box, in which such things were probably kept, having been emptied of its contents. The assassin or assassins, then, whoever they may be, possessed themselves of all the poor man’s papers--and your note doubtless amongst the rest. In this case, we shall probably never hear of it again. But--knowing the two women as you do--can you believe that they were the murderesses?”

“No--I cannot think it!” exclaimed Charles. “What motive could they have had? Certainly not to recover my promissory note, since they believed me to be the heir to immense wealth;--and as they no doubt fancied that their connexion with me would place ample resources at their command, they were not likely to peril their lives by killing the man for the sake of the money which he might have had in the house. Besides, when I saw them on the following morning, there was no confusion--nothing on their part to denote that they had so recently committed a horrible crime; and, depraved--wicked--unscrupulous as they evidently are, I cannot bring myself to imagine that they could meet me with calm and unruffled countenances, only a few hours after having accomplished a midnight murder.”

“Let us hope that they are indeed innocent,” said Mr. Hatfield solemnly. “And now I will explain to you the manner in which I propose to deal with this Perdita.”

The interest and attention of Charles redoubled, if possible, as his father uttered these words.

“Thank heaven,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I possess wealth; and by means of gold, every thing can be accomplished with such mercenary adventuresses as these. Perdita shall receive a handsome sum of ready money, and a suitable income allowed her so long as she shall consent to dwell upon the continent, take any other name than that which you have unfortunately given her, and never more molest you.”

But scarcely had Mr. Hatfield uttered these words,--and before his son had time to offer a single comment upon the proposed plan to be adopted,--the door opened, and Perdita entered the room.

CLII. THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE SON’S WIFE

The magnificent creature whom Mr. Hatfield now beheld for the first time, had perhaps never shone to greater advantage than on the present occasion.

She was absolutely dazzling--radiant--supernally grand, in all the glory of her queen-like beauty.

A French cambric wrapper, worked, and trimmed with costly lace, enveloped her form--fitting loosely, yet defining all the rich contours of her voluptuous shape;--and, though--having risen hurriedly almost immediately after awakening--she had no stays on, the natural firmness of her bust maintained its rounded proportions without any artificial support.

We have before said that her early initiation in a career of wantonness and the licentious course which she had pursued in Australia, had marred nothing of the first freshness of youth in respect to her;--and thus, though her wrapper was so far open at the bosom as to show that the glowing orbs of snowy whiteness were unsustained by the usual article of apparel, their contours were of virgin roundness.

Her dark brown hair had been hastily gathered up in two massive bands, silken and glossy, and serving as a frame to set off the height and width of the fine forehead, which rose above brows arching majestically, and almost meeting between the temples.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed with a carnation hue;--her large grey eyes shone brilliantly, and appeared to give a halo of light to her whole countenance;--her moist red lips, parted with a smile of happiness and satisfaction, revealed the teeth so perfectly regular and of such pearly whiteness;--and her neck arched proudly and with swan-like grace.

One arm hung negligently, but slightly rounded, by her side: the other, thrown across her form just above the waist, kept the folds of the wrapper together;--and from beneath the skirt of that elegant, tasteful garment, of almost gauzy lightness and transparency, peeped forth the beautifully-modelled ankles in their flesh-coloured silk stockings, and the charming feet in their embroidered slippers of pale blue satin.

Though, as we have before stated, she was not above the middle height, yet there was something truly regal and commanding in her deportment--something more than graceful and less than imperious in her carriage, and, altogether, she appeared a being to whom it would not be idolatrous to kneel.

On the contrary,--prejudiced and naturally inveterate as he was against her, Mr. Hatfield could well comprehend, even at the first glance which he threw upon her, how a young man of enthusiastic disposition and keen sensibility might love that enchanting creature with a devotion amounting to a worship.

The apartment was large and beautifully furnished,--the uncarpetted floor of oak was polished almost to mirror-like brightness,--vast looking-glasses, set in splendid frames, were suspended to the walls,--a massive or-molu time-piece and handsome porcelain vases filled with flowers freshly gathered that morning, stood on the mantel,--and through the casements, which reached from the ceiling to the floor, and which were only partially shaded by muslin curtains, flowed the gorgeous lustre of the cloudless sun, so that the room seemed filled with a transparent and impalpable haze of gold-dust.

Thus the whole aspect of that large and lofty apartment was magnificent and rich, bright and joyous;--and, had the minds of the father and son at the instant been in a different mood, they would have felt thrilled with admiration and delight at the presence of the magnificent creature who now entered an atmosphere so congenially glorious and sunny.

It seemed as if the beauteous being herself were surrounded with a golden halo,--as if the perfume of the freshly gathered flowers were the delicious fragrance of her breath,--as if the delicate feet and ankles bore her glancingly along a polished surface which she scarcely appeared to touch; while the immense mirrors multiplied the voluptuous form, as though other and kindred houris were moving about in attendance on their queen.

The effulgence of the warm sun played on her shining hair, as if a glory sate on that exquisitely shaped head,--gave additional brightness to the eyes that flashed with the natural fire of joy,--and rendered the fine and faultless countenance radiant and dazzling in its surpassing beauty.

Were that a room in a palatial dwelling,--were it an empress making her appearance,--and were the two men courtiers awaiting her presence, the effect could not have been more grand--more striking,--and the courtiers would have fallen on their knees in mute adoration of a being that seemed almost divine!

But, alas! circumstances marred all those fine effects which the transcendant charms of a lovely woman might have produced;--for the soul of this woman corresponded not with her captivating exterior,--it was dark and hideous--inspiring horrible thoughts, and suggesting ideas of a nature so sinister, sombre, and gloomy, as to throw into the shade all the glory of the outward loveliness.

But, unsuspicious of the storm which was about to explode against her, Perdita entered that room;--and the influence of a night of love and voluptuousness and of elysian dreams lingered upon her countenance in the smile that it wore.

She had slept for nearly an hour after Charles Hatfield had risen so noiselessly from her side in the nuptial couch;--and when she at length awoke, she imagined that her young husband had been unwilling to disturb her when he himself arose. Nevertheless, she determined to seek him ere she passed through the routine of the toilette;--and hastily fastening up her hair, and assuming a slight apparel, she had proceeded to the sitting-room where she supposed him to be.

And there indeed he was: but not alone!

Still, when Perdita, on first entering the apartment, beheld another person with him whom she sought, she had no suspicion of the real truth, but imagined it must be some friend who had found out her husband’s residence in Paris and had perhaps called to congratulate him on his bridal.

Thus was it that her countenance wore that delicious expression of pleasure and satisfaction, as she advanced towards Charles and that other;--and it was not until she was within a few paces of them, that she observed the foreboding looks which they cast upon her--even the aversion and the hate with which they both regarded her!

Then she stopped suddenly short, her countenance undergoing an immediate change--the smile disappearing, and giving place to an expression of proud defiance and haughty contempt; though she was still unconscious of the nature of the storm that she saw lowering so ominously.

“Charles, who is this person?” she demanded, indicating Mr. Hatfield with a movement of the head, accompanied by a slight inflection of the whole form--a gesture which would have become a queen.

“My father,” answered the young man quietly;--and he turned away towards the mantel-piece.

For an instant Perdita seemed shocked by this announcement;--but in the next moment, as the thought swept across her brain that it was impossible for Mr. Hatfield to know aught seriously detrimental to her character, she crossed the room in a majestic manner, and, laying her long tapered fingers gently upon her husband’s arm, said, “Is it possible that the remonstrances of your father should have induced you to repent of this alliance,--you, who have sworn to love and cherish me in spite of parents and all the world beside?”

“When a man discovers that he has taken a reptile to his bosom,” said Charles, the words hissing through his almost set teeth, “he flings it away from him. He ought to crush it beneath his heel!”

The last sentence was added after a moment’s pause, and ere Perdita, who was astounded at the tone, and manner, and words of her husband, had regained the power of utterance so as to enable her lips to shape a comment or a reply.

“Is it to me that this insulting allusion applies?” she demanded at length--her countenance becoming ashy pale, and her lips quivering with the rage which she still sought to subdue.

“It is to you that I addressed myself,” exclaimed Charles, now turning round and confronting the woman whom he had lately loved with such madness, and whom he now loathed with such savage aversion. “Vile--polluted--wanton thing,” he cried, unabashed--undismayed by the lightning glances that flashed from her wildly dilating orbs: “the mask is torn from your face as the film from my eyes--and I am no longer your dupe, though, alas! I am perhaps still your victim! I know all--all--every thing,--the depravity of your past life--the hypocrisy of your present course:--all--all is now revealed to me. Your evil fame has followed you from beyond the seas;--it overtook you on the Marine Parade at Dover;--and it now attaches itself for ever to your steps, in the capital of France. Oh! my God--how cruelly, how miserably have I been deceived!”

And the young man darted a glance of savage hatred upon the woman who, pale and motionless as a marble statue, seemed petrified by the crushing truths that fell upon her ears.

Meantime Mr. Hatfield stood aloof, with folded arms--listening to the words that his son addressed to Perdita, and marking their effect.

“That you were born in Newgate--of a woman condemned to death for felony, and then reprieved,--this was no fault of yours,” continued Charles, in a slow and measured tone--for he sought as much as possible to prevent a violent outburst of the rage that boiled within him:--“that the mystic name of Perdita, or ‘The Lost One,’ should have proved prophetic of your after life, you also could not help;--and that, amongst the felonry of New South Wales, you should have become polluted--contaminated--and indeed lost, was perhaps a fate for which you are rather to be pitied than blamed. But here all sympathy ceases for you! Wherefore, on your arrival in England, did you seek me out to become your victim?--wherefore did your wretched mother dog my footsteps--accost me--ensnare me into a discourse to which she imparted a mysterious interest--and then lead me into your presence? Why did you open the battery of all your meretricious charms upon me?--why cast your spells around me--wean my affections from an estimable young lady who is white as snow compared with the blackness of your soul--and lead me on until the crowning act of ruin was accomplished yesterday in the Chapel of the British Embassy?”

“I have heard you with patience--and if you possess the generosity of a man and an Englishman, you will give me an equal share of your attention,” said Perdita, who, during her husband’s address, had recovered all her wonted presence of mind--though her heart was wounded in its very core. “It is true that I was born in Newgate--that I deceived you respecting the origin of my Christian name--and that I escaped not the contamination of a far-off clime into which my sad destinies threw me. But when my mother, for reasons which I think she made satisfactorily apparent to you, sought an interview with you,--and when that circumstance introduced us to each other, did you not proffer me your friendship of your own accord?--did you not next assure me that this sentiment had changed to the feeling of love?--did you not implore me, almost on your knees, to become your wife at the altar--I, who in the first instance had proposed and agreed to become your mistress only? And then you dare to speak of our marriage as the crowning act of you ruin,--that marriage on which you yourself so imploringly--so earnestly--so solemnly insisted?”

“Oh! yes--because I deemed you pure and virtuous!” exclaimed Charles, almost gnashing his teeth as the words of Perdita reminded him of all the arts which she had practised to ensnare him--all the sophistry she had used to make herself appear in his eyes every thing that she was not.

“Was it to be supposed,” she asked, impatiently and haughtily,--that shameless Perdita--“was it to be supposed that I would reveal to you the incidents of my past life? And yet, even if I had, I do firmly and sincerely believe that you would still have made me your wife!”

“No--never, never!” cried Charles, his voice and manner expressing loathing, abhorrence, and indignation. “But let us not bandy words thus. I have intelligence which--lost and depraved as you are, and vilely as you have treated me--I nevertheless grieve to have to convey to you,--for I cannot, even in my anger and hate, forget that you are a woman.”

“And that intelligence?” demanded Perdita, suffering not her countenance nor her manner to betray the deep curiosity and the suspense which her husband’s words had suddenly excited within her bosom.

“The intelligence regards your mother, and explains her mysterious disappearance at Dover,” continued Charles, who, as well as his father, now intensely watched the young woman’s countenance.

“Speak on!” she said, not a muscle of her face betraying any emotion:--and still she stood motionless and statue-like.

“Your mother was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival, the money-lender whom you represented to me as the discounter of my promissory note;”--and, as Charles uttered these words in slow and measured tones, he maintained his eyes fixed upon the pale but unchanging features of his wife.

“Then my mother has been accused of that whereof she is innocent,” said Perdita, in a voice so firm and resolute, yet devoid of passion, that her hearers felt convinced she was practising no artifice now. “It is true that Percival discounted your note: I myself received the money--and you can doubtless give your father a satisfactory explanation relative to the expenditure of the portion that is gone. If Percival have indeed met his death by violent means, it was not by the hands of two weak women that he fell.”

“Thank heaven! this crime at least cannot, then, be attributed to you,” said Charles. “There must be enough upon your conscience without that!”

“And have you nothing wherewith to reproach yourself?” demanded Perdita, still maintaining that majesty of demeanour which, with her now marble-like features, her motionless attitude, and her fine form enveloped in drapery that fell in classic plaits and graceful folds around her, gave her the air of a statue of Diana the Huntress or of Juno Queen of Heaven. “Have you inflicted no injury upon me?” she asked. “Yes--yes: and I will convince you that your conduct has been far from blameless in that respect. You loved me--loved me almost from the first instant that you beheld me. Yours was not a tranquil--serene--and sickly sensation: it was a fury--a wild passion--a delirium--a species of hurricane of the strongest, most fervent emotions. I was all--every thing to you: parents--family--friends,--Oh! you cared for none of these in comparison with me. The holiest ties you would have broken--the most sacred bonds you would have snapped--the most solemn obligations you would have violated, sooner than have resigned your hope of possessing me! All this is true--and you know it. Your love amounted to a madness--a frenzy, capable of the most unheard-of sacrifices, and as likely to hurry you into the most desperate extremes. For had I provoked your jealousy, you would have murdered me: had I fled and abandoned you, you would have pined to death--or committed suicide. In fine, yours was no common love--no ordinary affection. Poets never dreamt and novelists never depicted a love so boundless--so absorbing--so immense as yours. And what could result from such a love as this! The consequence was inevitable;--and that consequence was that I, who had never loved before, received into my soul a transfusion of the spirit that animated you. You were so happy in your love, that my imagination doubtless longed to revel in the same paradise which you had created for yourself;--and I was taught by you to love as profoundly and as well. In a word, you ensnared my heart--you obtained a hold upon my affections; and, as there is a living God above us! I swear that when you led me to the altar, you loved me not better than I loved you. And this love which I experienced for you, would have made me a good wife--a sincere friend--a conscientious adviser. I should have entered upon a new existence; and my soul would have become purified. True it is that I gave to the marriage-bed a body that was polluted and unchaste: but I gave also a heart that was wholly and solely thine;--and from the instant that our hands were united by the minister of God, it would have proved as impossible for me to have played the wanton with another as that the infant child should harbour thoughts of villainy and murder. Now you have learnt the antecedents of my life--and your love is suddenly changed into hatred. But did you not take me for better or worse?--did you not wed me, because you loved me!--did you not espouse me for myself alone! Oh! you should pity me for the past--and cherish me at present and for the future: and your conscience tells you thus much even now!”

Charles Hatfield, who had listened with deep and solemn interest,--for his soul was absolutely enchained by this strange display of natural eloquence,--now shook his head impatiently.

“No! Then mark how fatal your love will have proved to me,” exclaimed Perdita. “You cast me off--you put me away from you;--and yet you cannot give me back the heart which you have ensnared. Wherefore--wherefore did you bring to bear upon me the influence of your ardent love, unless you were prepared to make every sacrifice unto the end? I am young--I am beautiful--and I might gain a high and a proud position by means of marriage: but, no--I am chained to you--and you are intent upon discarding me! Now reflect well on the probable consequences of this proceeding on your part,” continued Perdita, her melodious voice gathering energy, and a tinge of rose-bud hue appearing on her cheeks and gradually deepening into a flush,--while her eyes shone with a lustre that gave an almost unearthly radiance to her entire countenance: “reflect well, I say,” she repeated, “on the probable consequences of the resolution which you have taken. As your wife, and dwelling with you as such, I should have clung to you--loved you with unceasing devotion--exerted all my powers to retain your esteem. Nay, more--in time I should have won your good opinion by my actions--as I had already secured it by my words. Amongst the entire community of women, there would have been none more exemplary than I;--and thus your love would have proved a saving influence--valuable to society at large, and blessed by the Almighty Ruler whom you worship. But how changed are these prospects! You are prepared to discard me--to thrust me away from your presence--to push me out into the great world, where I must battle for myself. There I shall find my circumstances terribly---fearfully altered from what they were before your lips whispered the delicious but fatal tale of love in mine ears. For if I retain your name, I thereby proclaim myself a divorced wife: if I pass myself off as an unmarried young lady, I shall not dare to accept proposals for an alliance, be it never so advantageous--because the fear of a prosecution for bigamy would hang over my head. Will you, then, forgive me for the past, and receive me as an affectionate wife and reformed woman to your arms?--or will you send me forth, an outcast--with ruined hopes, blighted prospects, and a damaged character?”

Gradually, as she approached the end of this speech, Perdita had suffered her voice to lose its energy and its firmness, and grow tender, pathetic, and mournful--until at the close of her appeal, it became tremulously plaintive and profoundly touching,--while her form simultaneously relaxed from its statue-like rigidity--the head slightly inclining, the body bending in the least degree forward, and the hands joining as the last words fell from her lips.

For an instant Charles was about to yield to the appeal commenced with a dignity so well assumed, and terminated with a tenderness so well affected; but, at the critical moment, Mr. Hatfield, who had hitherto remained a mute spectator of this extraordinary scene, stepped forward, exclaiming, “No--no; a compromise of such a nature is impossible! Charles, the sophistry is indeed most specious--but the peril is likewise tremendous!”

“Yes--yes,” cried the young man, instantly recovering his presence of mind: “I told you, father, that she was a Circe--a Syren,--and now you have ample proofs of the assertion.”

While he was yet speaking, the appearance of Perdita underwent a rapid and signal change. She suddenly seemed to throw off the air of a suppliant, as if she were discarding a mean garment that was unbecoming and abhorrent: her cheeks acquired a deeper flush, her eyes a more dazzling brilliancy;--the blue veins in her forehead grew more clearly traceable--her nostrils dilated--her lips wreathed into an expression of sovereign disdain--and her entire form appeared to expand into more majestic proportions.

A moment before she had seemed a voluptuous beauty, in the melting softness of an appeal for pardon at love’s shrine: now she stood in the presence of the father and son,--proud--haughty--and magnificent as Juno,--and armed with authority to wield the lightning-shafts and the thunderbolts of Jove.

“Let us think of peace no more,” she exclaimed: “but war--terrible war,--war to the knife! Cast me off--thrust me from you--denounce me as the wanton Perdita--proclaim me to be born of a felon, and to have first seen the light in Newgate,--do all this if you will: I shall not the less remain your wife, Charles--and, as your wife, I am ennobled,--I bear the proud title of Viscountess Marston!”

“Miserable woman,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “you deceive yourself--even as Charles has been by himself deceived! For know that he is illegitimate----”

“’Tis false! you would delude--you would mislead me!” exclaimed Perdita, who, in spite of the tone of confidence in which she uttered these ejaculations, was painfully affected by the revelation that had elicited them.

“It is true--too true!” cried Charles, with a bitterness that carried conviction to the mind of Perdita.

“Then if I cannot proclaim myself to be Viscountess Marston,” she said, concealing with a desperate and painful effort the shock which she had just experienced,--“I can still have my revenge against you both;--for if my mother were a felon, Charles, your father was the same--if I were born in Newgate, the author of your being has passed through the hands of the public executioner!”

“Fiend--wretch!” ejaculated the young man, springing forward as if about to dash her on the floor and trample her under foot.

But the hand of his father suddenly grasped him as in an iron vice, and held him back; and all the while Perdita had maintained her ground--shrinking not a step, retreating not a pace.

“Coward!” she exclaimed, in a tone of ineffable contempt, as she kept her eyes--her large, shining grey eyes--fixed with disdain upon him whom she had lately loved so fervently and so well.

“Charles--Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an imploring voice, as he held his son firmly by both arms,--“merit not by your actions that infamous woman’s reproaches. I was prepared for what she dared to address to me----”

“Oh! my dear father, this is terrible!” murmured the young man, who felt a faintness coming over him, as the words which Perdita had spoken concerning his parent still rang in his ears, and as he observed the deadly pallor which had spread over that parent’s countenance.

“Compose yourself, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, conducting him to a seat: then, turning round and accosting Perdita, he exclaimed, “Madam, let us treat this most unpleasant affair as a purely business-matter: in short, let us effect an arrangement which may be proper and suitable for both parties--the basis being the immediate separation of yourself and my son.”

“Yes--I have no longer any objection to offer to that proposal,” said Perdita; “for after his attempt to strike me, I despise even more than I hate him.”

“And just now,” exclaimed the young man, starting from his seat, “you declared that I possessed your heart. Oh! I am rejoiced that you have admitted your hatred towards me--because I have thereby received another proof of your boundless duplicity.”

Perdita smiled scornfully--but deigned no reply.

“Leave the affair in my hands, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an authoritative tone: then, observing with satisfaction that his son returned to his seat, the father addressed himself once more to Perdita, who remained standing near the mantel. “Madam,” he continued, “you have already heard that the bright hopes in which your husband had indulged, and the golden visions which he had conjured up, are all destroyed by the revelation which I have this morning made to him,--the revelation of the one fatal secret--his illegitimacy! Instead, then, of being Viscount Marston at present and Earl of Ellingham in perspective, he is still plain and simple Charles Hatfield--and so he is likely to remain. By consequence, you, madam, are Mrs. Hatfield--and not Viscountess Marston now, nor with any chance of becoming Countess of Ellingham. If you require proofs of what I am now telling you, I can exhibit them at once;--for, knowing beforehand the nature of the delusions in which my son had cradled his fancy, and the necessity of destroying them, I set out on this journey provided with several papers of importance. For instance,” continued Mr. Hatfield, taking forth his pocket-book; “here is the certificate of my marriage with Lady Georgiana Hatfield--and you may at once perceive by the date how impossible it is that our son could have been born in wedlock.”

While thus speaking, Mr. Hatfield had sunk his voice to the lowest audible whisper--so that Perdita alone heard him: for the revelation he was making was of a most painful nature, although rendered imperatively necessary under the circumstances.

Perdita glanced rapidly over the certificate, and bit her lip with a vexation she could no longer conceal;--for that document effectually set at rest the question of her husband’s legitimacy or illegitimacy; and she indeed found that instead of gaining a noble title by marriage, she had formed an alliance with an obscure young man who was dependant on his parents for even a morsel of bread.

“It now remains for you to decide whether you choose to proclaim yourself, wherever you go, to be the wife of Mr. Charles Hatfield;--or whether you will think fit to resume your maiden name--or any other that may suit your purposes--and maintain a strict silence henceforth relative to this most unfortunate alliance.”

Thus spoke Mr. Hatfield;--and Perdita appeared to be plunged in deep thought for a few minutes.

“And what are the conditions you annex to those alternatives?” she asked at length, fixing her eyes, which now shone with a subdued and sombre lustre, in a penetrating manner upon Mr. Hatfield’s countenance--as if she would there read the reply to her question even before his lips could frame it.

“If you proclaim yourself my son’s wife,” said he, meeting her look firmly and speaking resolutely, “I shall spare no expense in bringing the whole transaction before the proper tribunals in England, with the ultimate view of enabling him to obtain a divorce; and in this case I should not allow you one single farthing--no, not even to save you from starvation.”

“And have you not reflected,” asked Perdita, in a tone and with a gesture indicative of superb disdain,--“have you not reflected that a judicial investigation must inevitably lay bare all the tremendous secrets connected with yourself and family?--for you cannot suppose, that if you commence the part of a persecutor against me, I shall evince any forbearance towards you! No--it would be, as I said just now, a terrible warfare--a warfare to the very death,--and in which human ingenuity would rack itself to discover and set in motion all possible means of a fearful vengeance.”

“I have weighed all this,” said Mr. Hatfield, calmly; “and I have resolved to dare exposure of every kind--nay, to sacrifice myself, if necessary--in order to save my son.”

“And now for the conditions annexed to the second alternative?” said Perdita, maintaining a remarkable coolness and self-possession, although in the secret recesses of her soul she harboured the conviction that the triumph was as yet on the other side, and that she must end by accepting the best terms she could obtain.

“If you will sign a paper, undertaking never to represent yourself as my son’s wife,” said Mr. Hatfield,--“never to molest him in any way--never to return to England, but to fix your abode in some continental state,--and lastly, that you will retain inviolably secret not only the fact of this most inauspicious marriage, but likewise all matters connected with myself and family,--if you affix your name to such a document,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I will immediately pay you the sum of one thousand pounds, and I will allow you five hundred pounds a year so long as the convention shall be duly kept on your part.”

“And should you happen to die before me?” said Perdita, her manner now being of that cold, passionless nature which rendered it impossible for Mr. Hatfield to conjecture what sort of an impression his alternatives and their conditions had made upon her mind: “for you must remember,” she added, “that such an event is to be reckoned upon in the common course of nature.”

“Granted,” was the prompt reply. “My will shall contain a clause enjoining and empowering my executors to continue the payment of your income, from a fund especially sunk for the purpose, so long as your conduct shall be in accordance with the conditions stipulated.”

“And am I to understand that if I leave your son unmolested, I shall remain unmolested also!” demanded Perdita.

“I scarcely comprehend you,” said Mr. Hatfield, evidently perplexed.

“I mean,” replied Perdita, in a slow and measured tone, so that her words could not be misapprehended nor their sense mistaken,--“I mean that if I go forth into the world again as Miss Fitzhardinge, or Miss Fitzgerald, or any other name I may choose to take,--and if, receiving a suitable offer of marriage, I contract such an alliance,--I mean, then, to ask whether I may calculate upon acting thus with impunity at your hands?”

“My God! what interest can I have to molest you in any way?” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Would to heaven that you could both of you sign a paper effectually emancipating you from any claim on each other in respect to this accursed--this miserable marriage.”

“You are now speaking with unnecessary excitement, sir, after having reproved your son for the same fault--and also after having yourself proposed to discuss this matter in a purely business-like manner,” said Perdita, her lip curling slightly with an expression of scornful triumph.

“True, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield, who, throughout this dialogue--since his son had remained seated apart--had treated Perdita with a perfect though frigid courtesy: “I was in error to give way to any intemperance of tone or manner--and I ask your pardon. You have now heard all that I have to propose----”

“And I accept the conditions,” she said. “Indeed, I shall be happy for this scene to terminate as speedily as possible.”

“A few minutes’ more will suffice, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “If you will have the kindness to provide me with writing-materials, I shall not be compelled to intrude on you much longer.”

Perdita bowed slightly: and quitted the room,--not in haste--but with stately demeanour and measured tread, as if she were merely a consenting party to a business-transaction, and not a vanquished one on whom conditions had been imposed.

The moment the door closed behind her, Mr. Hatfield said to his son, “That woman is indeed a prodigy of beauty, and a very demon at heart. What an angelic creature would she have been were she as pure and virtuous as she is lovely!”

“Ah! my dear father,” returned Charles, who appeared to be completely spirit-broken and overwhelmed by the terrible occurrences and revelations of this memorable morning,--“you can now comprehend, perhaps,--at least to some extent,--the nature of that infatuation which I experienced in respect to this singular being. The world has never seen her equal for beauty and for wickedness.”

“The sooner you are removed from the sphere of her fatal influence, the better,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “When she re-appears, do you quit the room, and hasten as much as possible your preparations to depart with me.”

“Fear not, my dear father,” responded Charles, “that I shall, of my own accord, interpose any delay. But the papers--she will surrender them----”

“As a matter of course. You may have observed,” added the parent, “that, in spite of her haughty coldness, she was subdued and vanquished.”

At this instant the door opened, and Perdita returned, bearing her writing-desk in her hands.

Her countenance, though flushed, and thus presenting a striking contrast to its colourless appearance some time before, gave no indication of the nature of her feelings: impossible was it to judge of the emotions that might occupy her bosom, by that which is wont to be denominated the mirror of the soul.

Her step was still measured and stately, while her attitude was graceful; and, as she advanced towards the table--passing through the golden flood of lustre that filled the room--the waving of her white drapes; gave an additional charm to the undulating nature of her motion.

From beneath her richly fringed lids, while affecting to keep her eyes half bent downward as if on the rose-wood desk which she carried, she darted a rapid glance at Mr. Hatfield--and then her look dwelt the least thing more lingeringly on her husband, who had risen from his seat and was leaning on the mantel.

By a natural effect of curiosity,--perhaps also in obedience to a last remaining particle of that immense love which he had so lately borne her,--Charles Hatfield likewise glanced towards her from beneath his half-closed lids, and also while he wished to appear as if fixing his gaze downward:--thus their looks met--unavoidably met,--and the blood rushed to the countenance of the young man, as he felt overwhelmed with shame, and bitterly indignant with himself, for having given way to this momentary proof of weakness.

On the other hand, a smile of triumph,--though faint, and perceptible only to her husband--not to his father, who saw not with eyes that had once looked love towards her,--curled the rich red lips of Perdita; and she thought within herself, “Even in the bitterness of your hate, the power of my charms revives a spark, albeit an evanescent one, of the fires that were wont to burn within your breast in adoration of me!”

All this dumb show--this mute expression of the strangest, and yet the most natural feelings on either side, occupied but a few moments;--and then, as Perdita placed the desk upon the table, Charles turned to quit the room.

“Here are writing materials, sir,” she said to Mr. Hatfield, not choosing to appear to notice the departure of her husband; for all the pride of this extraordinary woman was aroused to a degree which in a being of lesser energy would have been totally incompatible with the frightful exposure that had been made of her depravity and deceit.

But the consciousness of possessing the loveliness of an Angel rose superior to the shame of being proved to be endowed with the profligacy of a Demon: the knowledge that she was so pre-eminently beautiful was for her a triumph and a glory which, in her estimation, threw into the shade the certainty of her wantonness and guile;--she flattered herself and fancied that, even were her true character revealed in its proper colours to all the world, the darkness of her soul would be absorbed and rendered invisible by the transcendant brilliancy of her outward charms.

Thus, even in the presence of the husband to whom she was unmasked, and of the indignant father who had unmasked her, the pride of her loveliness enabled her to maintain that haughty demeanour which we have explained;--for it was not Perdita who was likely to melt into tears--to supplicate for mercy--to acknowledge shame or remorse--or to kneel to those whom she now looked upon as her enemies. Unless, indeed, she had some grand object to accomplish, or some important end to gain;--and then she could veil her pride beneath an assumption of all the passions--all the emotions--and all the tender feelings which she might deem it expedient to affect.

To return to the thread of our narrative.

“Here are writing materials, sir,” she remarked, as she placed the desk upon the table: then, drawing a chair near, she seated herself in a calm and dignified manner, and with all the appearance of one who knew and felt that she had important business in hand.

Mr. Hatfield bowed--seated himself likewise--and proceeded to draw up a document including the conditions which he had already specified, and which the lady had agreed to.

While he was writing, Perdita kept her eyes fixed upon him, as if she could tell by the movement of the pen the very words it was forming, as the hand which held it travelled rapidly over the paper.

At length the document was finished; and Mr. Hatfield presented it to Perdita for her perusal. While she was engaged in reading it, he drew forth his pocket-book, and counted thence ten notes, each of a hundred pounds, upon the table.

“I have no objection to offer to this deed,” said Perdita, taking up the pen to sign it.

“Here is the amount promised,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and I will now give you an undertaking relative to the payment of the income which I have promised you.”

Perdita bowed coldly; and he immediately drew up the second paper.

“I must now request you to give me up all the private documents which my son placed in your hands for safe keeping,” observed Mr. Hatfield.

“They are in the upper part of that desk--and you can take them,” said Perdita, without the least hesitation; for she was naturally prepared for this demand, and had no object to serve in refusing it.

She then signed her undertaking, while Mr. Hatfield possessed himself of the documents and looked them carefully over to ascertain that none were missing.

Having satisfied himself on this head, he gave Perdita the money and the undertaking which he had prepared; and thus terminated this strange business.

“I have now a few observations to make,” said Perdita; “but they are not of a nature to revive any unpleasant discussion. They concern matters entirely personal to myself. Although I have declared--and emphatically declare again--that my mother is innocent of the crime on suspicion of which you inform me that she has been arrested, the judicial investigation will naturally lead to a most unpleasant exposure of her name. It is therefore probable that my interests and views may be served by a change of my name--as I shall not of course bear that which the marriage-ceremony of yesterday gave to me. Should I adopt such a course, I will acquaint you by letter with the fact----”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” said Mr. Hatfield; “but I shall seek not to become acquainted with any particulars that may hereafter concern you. Every quarter you can draw upon me, through any banker, in any part of the world where you may happen to be; and you are at liberty to use any name you may think fit--save one. I shall know that the draft is yours; and you may rest assured that it will be duly honoured.”

“Then we have now no more to say to each other,” observed Perdita, rising from her seat, and mechanically drawing the muslin wrapper around her, in such a manner that it displayed all the full proportions of her fine figure.

Mr. Hatfield bowed a negative,--then immediately added, “But perhaps you will have no objection, madam, to remain here until my son shall have made his preparations for departure?”

“Oh! certainly.” cried the young woman, her lip curling haughtily. “Think not, sir, that I shall condescend to use any arts in order to win him back to me;--although well aware am I that if I chose to do so, I should speedily behold him languishing at my feet.”

Scarcely were these words uttered, when Rosalie entered the room, and addressing herself to Mr. Hatfield, said, “My master, sir, is waiting for you below.”

The abigail, who was evidently at a loss to comprehend the nature of all that was going on,--though she saw enough to convince her that something very uncommon and unusual was taking place,--retired as soon as she had delivered this message;--and Mr. Hatfield, as he glanced towards Perdita while bowing to take his leave, observed that her countenance had again grown marble-like with pallor.

For now that the conviction that Charles was really gone was forced upon her mind, a pang of regret struck to her heart,--regret to lose one--the first--whom she had ever really loved;--and for a few instants she felt as if all her affection for him had suddenly revived with tenfold violence.

But this weakness on her part was speedily dissipated: her pride resumed its empire,--and she remembered likewise that her connexion with him had not only put her in possession of a large sum of ready money, but had likewise assured her of a handsome annual income for the remainder of her days.

Thus, almost before Mr. Hatfield had reached the room-door, the colour had returned to her cheeks,--and her countenance became radiant with triumph,--for she murmured to herself, as she contrasted her present position with that in which she had first set foot on European soil, “It is my beauty that has done all this!”

CLIII. FATHER AND SON

Mr. Hatfield found his son waiting for him in the coffee-room; and, entering the citadine, or one-horse hackney-coach, in which the former had arrived, they proceeded to the hotel at which he had put up, and which was in the Place Vendôme.

It was now past eleven o’clock; for the incidents related in the two preceding chapters, had occupied two full hours:--and, during that interval, how many revelations had been made--what changes of feeling effected--what new emotions engendered--what bright visions destroyed!

Yet such is human life;--and two minutes, instead of two hours, are often sufficient to hurl down the finest fabrics of happiness which the imagination has ever built up in the realms of fancy or the sphere of reality.

On arriving at the hotel in the Place Vendôme, the father and son repaired to the apartment occupied by the former; and Charles threw himself on a sofa, as if exhausted and overwhelmed by the terrible excitement he had undergone that morning.

Mr. Hatfield related to him all that had passed between Perdita and himself after the young man had quitted the room; and Charles was rejoiced,--if rejoiced he could be in the midst of the strange thoughts and reminiscences which crowded upon him,--to learn that the family papers were secure in his father’s possession.

“And those papers shall no longer be a source of alarm and embarrassment to those whom they so deeply regard,” said Mr. Hatfield, when he had brought his brief narrative to a conclusion: then, ringing the bell, he ordered the waiter who answered the summons to bring him a lighted candle.

This command was speedily obeyed; and when the domestic had retired, Mr. Hatfield, having thrown all the documents upon the hearth, set them alight. While they were consuming,--those precious papers, which were worth an Earldom to him, did he choose to avail himself of the proofs which they contained,--both himself and his son watched them with a fixed gaze, but with different emotions. For Charles sighed as he thought of the bright dreams which the perusal of those papers had so lately excited in his imagination; and Mr. Hatfield experienced an indescribable relief in witnessing their destruction.

“Now,” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph, “no living soul can dispute my brother’s right to the rank which he bears and the estates which he possesses! Nor think, Charles,” he added, turning to his son, and speaking in a calmer and more measured voice,--“think not that it costs me a pang thus to dispose of these papers. The flame has died away--naught save a heap of tinder remains--and I have willingly and cheerfully resigned the power of ever doing mischief, or being made the instrument of wrong, towards a brother to whom I owe so much. But enough of this: and now tell me, Charles, in details as ample as you can bring your mind to endure, the whole particulars of your unfortunate connexion with these women, in order to convince me that nothing more remains to be accomplished to rid ourselves completely of them. For you must remember that though we have managed to dispose of the daughter, the mother still possesses a knowledge of many secrets which we would not have revealed.”

Charles immediately complied with his father’s request, and narrated how Mrs. Fitzhardinge had accosted him in the street,--how she had spoken mysteriously, and thereby induced him to accompany her to Suffolk Street,--how he had there found himself in the presence of Perdita,--and how Mrs. Fitzhardinge on a subsequent occasion mentioned certain family matters evincing her knowledge of special secrets which she alleged to have been revealed to her by the gipsy Miranda.

“Then it was not from your lips that she first learnt the circumstances connected with myself!” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.

“No: she particularly mentioned the gipsy as her authority for all she knew and alluded to,” was the reply.

“But the gipsy was unaware of the fact of my mother’s marriage with the late Earl of Ellingham,” observed Mr. Hatfield; “and consequently she was ignorant of the legitimacy of my birth and the rights belonging to me thereupon.”

“Oh! now a light breaks in upon my mind!” exclaimed Charles. “I remember that she was surprised when I told her that I was a young nobleman, as I did then really believe myself to be; and I likewise recollect that she afterwards spoke to me in a manner which, while pretending a full and perfect acquaintance with all our family affairs, led me to give answers which were doubtless revelations of secrets to her. But all this did not strike me at the time: now, however, that the film has been removed from my eyes, I behold things in a clearer and truer light.”

“Yes--and I also can understand this matter,” said Mr. Hatfield, after a few moments’ deep thought “On their return to England, these women must have fallen in with Miranda: from her lips they heard enough to put them in possession of secrets which they doubtless intended to use for the purpose of extorting money from me through you. Then your infatuation in respect to the daughter, led you to speak to the mother in such a random, inconsiderate manner as to make her more fully aware of our family’s position. Thus, while affecting to know all, she drew from you those details which filled up the chapters that were wanting in the history as Miranda originally told it. Yes--this must be the truth and the explanation of the whole affair;--and now it remains for us to hasten to England without delay, and, in case the old woman shall be relieved from the charge at present existing against her, purchase her secrecy and her exile in the same way as we have arranged with her daughter.”

“But how can I face my mother?” asked Charles, in a tone expressive of the deepest grief: “how meet the Earl of Ellingham, whom I have sought to injure--and Lady Frances, to whom I have conducted myself in so scandalous a manner?”

“Now you recognise the impropriety of your behaviour towards her!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “Oh! I am rejoiced to perceive that your heart is open to impressions of such a saving nature!”

“The incidents of this day have made me an altered man,” said Charles, emphatically.

“Then am I almost happy that they have occurred!” cried his father. “The teachings have been bitter--bitter indeed, my poor boy; but the results may constitute an ample recompense alike to yourself and your parents. We have recovered a son--you have acquired an experience ten thousand times more valuable than the best precepts ever inculcated by mortal tongue.”

“Oh! this is true--most true, father!” exclaimed Charles. “But you have not answered the questions--the painful questions--which I have put to you.”

“First, then, with regard to your mother,” responded Mr. Hatfield, “you know that she will receive you with open arms. In respect to the Earl, he must be told all--every thing; and you may count upon his generosity. But it is with reference to Lady Frances Ellingham, who loves you--from whom the causes of your flight have been carefully concealed--and who cannot be informed of your sad connexion with a profligate woman,--Oh! it is in regard to her, that I know not how to act--that I am bewildered--cruelly embarrassed!”

“Remember, my dear father,” said Charles, in a tone of deep humility, “that henceforth I shall do your bidding in all things. You have but to speak--and I obey.”

“Think not, my dear son,” answered Mr. Hatfield, “that I shall claim of you a deference incompatible with your age and social position--or that I shall attempt to exercise an authority that may seem to have borrowed any taint of severity from the experience of the past. No: but I shall counsel and advise you as a friend--and in your best interest shall I ever speak. On our arrival in London, we will not return immediately to Pall Mall; but we will repair to an hotel, whence I will send privately for the Earl; and his advice will assist me in respect to the course to be observed towards his amiable daughter. And now, Charles, do you feel yourself capable of commencing at once our journey homeward?--or are you too much exhausted----”

“No--no: let us depart from Paris without delay!” exclaimed the young man. “I have no longer any object in remaining here.”

Mr. Hatfield rang the bell; and a waiter made his appearance.

“A chaise-and-four as speedily as possible,” was the laconic command given; “and you must have our passports backed for Boulogne or Calais.”

The domestic bowed and withdrew.

Two hours afterwards the father and son were seated together in the chaise, which was rolling rapidly along the road to Saint Denis.

“I will now give you some account of the adventures which I experienced in pursuit of you,” said Mr. Hatfield, who felt that the silence previously existing between himself and Charles was growing painful: for they had not uttered a word from the moment they entered the vehicle until Mr. Hatfield now spoke--an interval of nearly half-an-hour.

“I shall be pleased to hear them,” observed the young man, anxious to divert his thoughts from the painful topics that were naturally occupying them: “for I must confess that I am at a loss to conjecture how you happened to fall in with the officers at Dover, and how you were enabled to trace me to the hotel where you this morning found me.”

“The explanation of all this is readily given,” said Mr. Hatfield; and as the chaise was rolling along the unpaved part of the road, there was no effort necessary to make his voice audible. “I shall commence with the incidents of the morning on which you quitted London in company with the two females whose pernicious influence has worked so much mischief. You remember that a most painful interview took place between yourself and me in the library, and that you burst away--perhaps just at the moment when explanations might have arisen to convince you of the futility of your ambitious hopes and golden visions in respect to birth and title. Shortly after you thus left me, the Earl entered the room; and a conversation which took place, led to the mention of the secret papers. He sought for them in the recess to which he had consigned them--and they were gone. At the same moment I obtained the conviction that the Annual Register for a certain year, and containing a certain dreadful narrative, had been lately read. Then a light broke in upon the Earl and myself; and we penetrated the motives of the strange conduct you had recently observed towards your parents. At this juncture, Mr. Clarence Villiers made his appearance; and, on consulting him, we learnt to our dismay that the women who passed under the name Fitzhardinge were his aunt and cousin,--Mrs. Slingsby, who was transported years ago for forgery--and Perdita, her illegitimate child, born in Newgate, a few weeks previous to her departure. You may conceive the anguish which we endured when we found that you had become connected with such women; and Villiers hastened to Suffolk Street to obtain an interview with you.”

“Would to God that he had succeeded in finding me--that my departure with those wretches had been only delayed a few minutes!” cried Charles, still a prey to the most harrowing feelings.

“Alas! you had already fled,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “and when Villiers returned to communicate this fact, an instantaneous pursuit was resolved upon. Clarence took one road--the Earl another--and I chose the road to Dover. I was mounted on a good horse, and must have inevitably overtaken you before you had proceeded many miles, when, on turning an angle of the road, I suddenly encountered a light chaise-cart that was turning the corner at a furious rate. The shock was violent; and I was hurled from my horse with such force that I was stunned by the fall. When I recovered my senses I was lying on a bed at a small road-side tavern; and a candle was burning in the room. It was night: hours had elapsed since the accident which had occurred; and during that long interval I had remained senseless--unconscious of all that was passing. A surgeon had been sent for from Greenwich, near which place the accident occurred; and he was an ignorant quack who had adopted no effective measures to recover me. But nature had at length asserted her empire in that where medical mismanagement had necessarily failed to produce any good result; and I recovered my powers of thought--only to experience the bitterest anguish at the delay that had taken place. Ill and suffering as I was, I endeavoured to rise, with the determination of pursuing my journey; but this was impossible. For in the first place I was too much exhausted to leave the couch on which I was thus helplessly stretched; and, secondly, I learnt, to my increased annoyance, that my horse was injured in a serious manner. To be brief, I resigned myself to the necessity of at least remaining a few hours longer in that place; and a deep sleep came over me. In the morning I awoke, much refreshed, though still suffering from the pain of the severe contusions that I had received. All hope of continuing my journey on horseback was destroyed; and I accordingly procured a post-chaise in which I hastened on to Dover. There I arrived in the afternoon; and by accident I put up at the same hotel where you and your female companions had stopped. On inquiring I heard that yourself and the young lady had departed for Calais in the morning, and that the old one had been arrested on her way to the port, in consequence of a communication received by electric telegraph from London. No steam vessel was to leave for France until the following day; and I was therefore compelled to wait patiently at the hotel. Patiently, indeed! No--that was impossible;--for all these delays were maddening, under the circumstances. But I will not dwell at unnecessary length on any portion of my narrative--much less upon the nature of the feelings which I experienced at that time. In the evening I dined in the coffee-room--if the mere mockery of sitting down to table and eating nothing can be called dining; and, while I was thus seated at a repast which I did not touch, I was suddenly interested in a conversation which was taking place between two officers who were discussing a bottle of wine at an adjacent table.”

“Oh! I ought to have perceived that there was something mysterious and wrong in that adventure upon the Marine Parade!” cried Charles, literally savage with himself at his blindness and folly. “But I was so completely infatuated by that artful, designing creature----”

“I must implore you to compose yourself,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in an earnest but kind tone: “for if I am now relating to you all that occurred to me, it is only that you may become acquainted with everything, and have nothing left behind as a cause for future excitement. Therefore I will be explicit with you respecting the substance of the conversation which was passing between those officers in the manner I have described. Indeed, you may conceive my astonishment when I overheard one of them mention the name of Perdita; for that is by no means a common one--and perhaps this woman is the only being on the face of the earth who bears it. I accordingly listened--and in a short time the whole adventure which had taken place on the Parade the evening before, became known to me. Then I addressed myself to the two officers, stating that I had overheard their remarks, apologising for my rudeness in listening, but excusing myself on the ground that the young gentleman whom they had seen with Perdita was nearly allied to me, and that I was, in fact, in pursuit of him. They assured me that no apology was necessary; and I joined them in conversation. Then was it that I learnt a dreadful tale of female depravity; for it appears that Perdita became indeed the ‘Lost One’ at a very early age, and that her favours were distributed in Sydney to any good-looking young man who might happen to please her fancy.”

“Vile--detested Perdita!” ejaculated Charles, almost gnashing his teeth with rage.

“Yes--you must know her character fully, my poor boy,” said Mr. Hatfield; “for fear that she should ever again endeavour to exercise her syren influence upon you.”

“Oh, such an attempt would be utter madness on her part!” cried Charles, now speaking with every symptom of the deepest indignation and even loathing. “But what more said the officers whom you thus singularly encountered?”

“It appears,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “that Perdita was not thoroughly depraved in the sense in which we allude to an unfortunate woman who plies her hideous trade for bread. No--she bartered not her charms for gold. Indeed, though very poor, she would scarcely ever receive any recompense from her favourites--unless delicately conveyed in the form of presents. But money she never took: her pride revolted at that,--and it was purely through the wantonness of her disposition and the burning ardour of her temperament that she plunged headlong into a career of licentiousness.”

“And I to have fallen the victim to such a polluted wretch!” exclaimed the young man.

“At Sydney,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “she was looked upon as a species of prodigy. Endowed with an intellect as powerful as her beauty was great, and possessing extraordinary natural abilities, she listened with eagerness to the conversation of those officers and other gentlemen who became her favourites, and treasured up all the information she could thus acquire. She was also fond of reading the newspapers sent from England, and all works treating of the mother-country and the principal nations of Europe; and thus she gleaned a vast amount of miscellaneous knowledge, fitting her to become a woman of the world. With singular facility, too, she studied and appropriated the gentility of gait, demeanour, and manners which she observed in her superiors; and the very bearing of the ladies in Sydney, as they walked abroad, was noted and adopted by her. Thus even in her poverty, to which she clung rather than surrender up her independence by becoming a wife or a kept mistress--for she might have been either--even in her poverty, I say, there was an air of lofty pride and calm hauteur about her, which would have led a stranger to fancy that she had sprung from an aristocratic stock, whose family fortunes had decayed. Moreover, her spirit was indomitable and fiery; and she knew full well how to avenge an insult. Did she receive overtures from any one who was displeasing to her, she would reject them with scorn; and, if possible, she would punish the adventurous suitor, in one way or another, for his insolence in addressing her. It was her delight at times to throw around herself--her deeds--her words--and even her entire character, a veil of mystery, and to affect an eccentricity of habits and a singularity of manner which made many ignorant and credulous people imagine that she was a being of no common order. Amongst those who might be properly styled her equals, she was reserved, cold, and distant; and even to those whom, in the same sense, we may denominate her superiors, she demeaned herself condescendingly, as if conferring a favour on them by her presence. In her amours, she maintained this singular pride, as if she were a Catherine of Russia, inviting her lovers to her arms, but never yielding to an invitation that might come from them. In a word, this Perdita was looked upon as the most remarkable, and at the same time the most unintelligible--the most incomprehensible character at Sydney; and even the most respectable persons were anxious to have her pointed out to them, when they walked abroad. Endowed with such a splendid intellect--possessed of such rare and almost superhuman loveliness--robing herself, as it were, in mystery--and evincing so proud a spirit, as well as such an aptitude for the self-appropriation of the refinements and the etiquette of genteel breeding,--it cannot be wondered at if Perdita should have been regarded in no common light by the inhabitants of the penal settlement. But from all I have now told you, Charles, it is easy for you to comprehend how dangerous is the character of such a woman--how completely she must be the mistress of every art in the school of hypocrisy, guile, and deceit; and if I have been thus elaborate in my details respecting her--if I have thus minutely recapitulated all that I learnt from the two officers at Dover--it is simply to place you more effectually upon your guard with reference to that syren----”

“I have already said,” interrupted Charles, speaking with the vehemence of sincerity and of deep conviction, “that never--never could she resume her empire over me! Oh! my dear father, the lesson has been too terrible not to have served as a warning; and sooner would I seek the embrace of a hideous serpent, than suffer myself to be allured back to the arms of Perdita. And--oh!” ejaculated the young man, a sudden reminiscence flashing to his mind, “I should have taken warning, days and days ago; for I recollect a fearful dream which I had, and which I must now look upon as providential! Madman that I was to neglect so solemn a foreshadowing of the truth!”

“Compose yourself, Charles,” cried Mr. Hatfield; “and now let me finish my narrative. I had reached that point which related to my accidental interview with the officers at Dover, where I was compelled to pass the night--a night of cruel and torturing suspense! Next morning, I crossed to Calais, and there I obtained a trace of you at Dessin’s hotel. Without delay I took a post-chaise, and hurried on in pursuit. I reached Paris at five last evening, and put up at the hotel whence we started just now. But I had not any time to lose, for I felt convinced that you intended to marry Perdita. I accordingly hurried off to the British Embassy, either to know the worst, if the worst were indeed already accomplished--or to take any measures I could to anticipate the ceremony, in case it should not have been as yet performed. But I could not obtain any satisfactory intelligence; no one to whom I addressed myself was able to state whether certain persons whom I described had been married during the day or not. I drove to the dwelling of the chaplain--but he had gone a few miles into the country. I found out the abode of his clerk--but this official was likewise from home. Almost distracted, I sped to the Prefecture of Police to ascertain if it were possible to discover your address in Paris, knowing that the landlords of all hotels are under the necessity of making daily returns of the names of their lodgers to the proper authorities. But I found the Prefecture closed for the night; and I returned, exhausted with fatigue and disconsolate in mind, to the hotel. Summoning the commissionaire, I gave him the necessary instructions to make particular inquiries at the Prefecture, the moment that establishment should open in the morning. This he promised to do, and I retired to bed--but not to rest!”

“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed Charles, seizing his parent’s hand, and pressing it with fervour to his lips, “how can you ever pardon me for all the uneasiness I have occasioned you?--and if you can, how shall I hope to receive the forgiveness of my mother, when she learns all the sorrow you have endured on my account?”

“It is not, perhaps, necessary that your mother should be made acquainted with every thing,” observed Mr. Hatfield, emphatically: “but all this will depend upon circumstances--especially on the results of our previous and private interview with Lord Ellingham. As for you and me, Charles, we have already forgiven each other every thing,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn tone. “And now my narrative has reached its conclusion,” he added; “for shortly after eight o’clock this morning, the commissionaire came and informed me that he had discovered the hotel where you were residing. You know the rest.”

Charles sighed, but made no answer, and the journey was continued for a long time in profound silence.

CLIV. MRS. FITZHARDINGE

Return we now to Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whom the officers of justice had arrested at Dover, on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival, the miser.

The old woman, when made acquainted with the cause of her apprehension, was completely thunder-struck; for, in truth, she had not even heard until that moment of the dreadful deed which had taken place. But the Dover constables who took her into custody, and who were in plain clothes, insisted upon her accompanying them to London; and, yielding to the imperious necessity with as good a grace as possible, Mrs. Fitzhardinge cherished that consolation that her innocence must inevitably become apparent when the case should undergo a magisterial investigation.

For a variety of reasons, she made no mention of her daughter and Charles, who, she doubted not, had embarked in safety; neither did she volunteer any explanations relative to her acquaintance with Mr. Percival, or the business which she had with him on the night when, as it appeared, the murder was committed. She had already in her life passed through the ordeal of arrest--examination at a police-court--committal--trial--and condemnation--aye, and expiation also; and she was well aware that unseasonable garrulity, or explanatory remarks inconsiderately volunteered, seldom benefit even the innocent person when unjustly accused. She accordingly shrouded herself, or, rather, took refuge in a complete silence, from which the officers did not seek to draw her, as they all proceeded together by railway to London.

On their arrival in the metropolis at a somewhat late hour in the afternoon, Mrs. Fitzhardinge was consigned to Clerkenwell prison, where she passed the night; and at ten o’clock on the following morning she was removed in a cab to Marylebone police-court, to undergo an examination relative to the serious charge existing against her.

The prisoner, who had retained counsel in her behalf, and made other arrangements for her defence, appeared perfectly cool and collected; and although the sinister expression of her countenance might have told somewhat in her disfavour, in the estimation of common observers, yet, to the eye of the experienced magistrate, it spoke not of guilt in this instance. Nevertheless, that very experience which he possessed taught him not to judge either way by outward appearances; and he therefore prepared himself to give the matter the most searching investigation.

The first witness examined was Mrs. Dyer, who deposed as follows:--“I occupy a house adjoining that of the deceased. At half-past eleven o’clock on the night in question, I returned home from the dwelling of a friend in the neighbourhood, and saw deceased at his door, taking leave of two females. He had a light in his hand. One of the women, who seemed by her figure and general appearance to be young, was at the garden-gate; and I could not see her countenance. The light which the deceased carried fell fully upon the face of the other female; and I therefore obtained a good view of her. The prisoner at the bar is the female alluded to.”

Mrs. Dyer then narrated how she and her lodgers had discovered the murder on the ensuing morning; but these details are already known to the reader.

The inspector of police who had the case in hand, was next examined, and his deposition was to the following effect:--“In consequence of the information I received from Mrs. Dyer, immediately after the murder was discovered, I instituted certain inquiries, and ascertained, in the course of the morning, that an old and a young woman had taken a cab in the neighbourhood of the Angel at Islington, on the previous night, which was the one in question. They drove to Suffolk-street, Pall Mall, where the young lady paid the driver his fare from a heavy and well-filled purse. The driver gave me a description of the elder female; and that description tallied with the one already given by Mrs. Dyer. I thereupon repaired to Suffolk-street, and learnt that the two women had taken their departure in a post-chaise, between nine and ten o’clock that morning. This was the morning after the murder. Previous to their departure, they were joined by a young gentleman who went away with them. He had called on several occasions at the lodgings; and his name was----”

Here the magistrate interposed, and said that it might not be necessary to mention this name publicly, as there was nothing to implicate the gentleman referred to.

The inspector accordingly proceeded thus:--“The chaise was sent for in a great hurry, and its destination was unknown to the landlady and servants of the house. No previous intimation of the intended departure of the lodgers had been given. They settled all their liabilities before they left. The prisoner at the bar paid the rent and other little matters owing; but did not display any large sum of money. Having ascertained all these particulars, I sent a description of the elder female to the various railways having electric telegraphs; and the prisoner at the bar was apprehended at Dover, in consequence of the information thus conveyed.”

Upon being cross-examined by the learned gentleman for the defence, the inspector fairly and impartially deposed as follows:--“The stake with which the murder was evidently perpetrated, was found by the side of the corpse. It was taken from a piece of unenclosed waste ground at the back of the house. I believe this to be the fact, because I have discovered a hole from which a stake had most likely been taken; and the stake now produced fits that hole. I also discovered marks of footsteps between the back door of the house and the spot where the stake had been pulled up. Those marks are of a man’s boots. The soil of some part of the waste ground is moist and damp. There are marks on the window-ledge of the back parlour, as if some one with dirty boots or shoes had clambered up and stood there. The shutters have numerous heart-holes in them, so that a person standing up on the ledge, outside the window could see into the back parlour. I discovered no traces of any female footsteps on the waste ground neither are there two descriptions of marks. They are all produced by the same sized boots. The door-post of the back gate was cut away from the outside. Whoever did it must have known the precise place where the bolt fitted into the door-post in the inside. The cutting away rendered it easy to force back the bolt with the fingers. The work of cutting was performed, I should say, with a knife--most probably a pocket or clasp-knife. It must have taken half an hour at the least to accomplish; and the hand that did it must have been tolerably strong. There are marks of footsteps, indicated in the same manner as those on the window-ledge, up the stairs from the back door to the back parlour. The lock of the back door so often alluded to, was picked from the outside.”

The inspector’s evidence terminated here; and the counsel for Mrs. Fitzhardinge recalled Mrs. Dyer.

“Will you state, as accurately as you can, the hour when you returned home on the night of the murder?” he asked.

“Half-past eleven, sir,” was the answer.

“That will do,” said the learned gentleman, who forthwith proceeded to call the driver of the cab which Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita had taken on the night in question. “At what hour,” he demanded, “did the prisoner and the young lady who accompanied her hire your vehicle?”

“It was twelve o’clock,” replied the man. “I am sure it was precisely midnight, because I had just left a public-house when I was hailed by the ladies.”

This witness was ordered to stand down; and the landlady of the house in Suffolk-street was called next. She deposed that she was sitting up for her lodgers on the night in question, and that they reached home at twenty minutes to one. She was certain as to the correctness of her statement, because she looked at the clock in the passage as she passed by to let the ladies in. There was nothing confused in their manner. She attended them to the door of their bed-chamber, and did not observe that their shoes were at all soiled with damp clay. She was convinced that they did not leave the house again that night. The ladies had always appeared to have plenty of money from the very day they entered her dwelling.

The learned counsel then proceeded to address the magistrate on behalf of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. He began by remarking on the meagre nature of the evidence against her--the mere fact that she and the young lady who was with her, and who was her daughter, were the last persons seen in the company of the murdered man;--and he complained bitterly that his client should have been arrested--ignominiously brought back to London--and forced through the ordeal of a public examination on such a shallow pretence. Every circumstance, adduced that morning--every feature of the evidence, tended only to exculpate the prisoner at the bar. In the first place, it was clear, from the testimony recorded, that the prisoner and her daughter had quitted the house of the deceased at half-past eleven--had taken a cab at the Angel at midnight--and had driven straight home, reaching Suffolk-street at twenty minutes to one. Now the distance from the scene of the murder to the Angel would require rapid walking for two females to accomplish in half an hour, and leave not an instant to accomplish the crime before they set out, much less to cut away the door-post, ransack the deceased’s boxes, and so forth. From the Angel they were traced home, and they did not leave the house again that night. Now, the evidence of the inspector of police tended, to show incontestibly that the murder had been perpetrated by a man. He (the learned counsel) was instructed to state that Mrs. Fitzhardinge and her daughter had called upon Mr. Percival for the purpose of obtaining the discount of a bill; that he did discount the document, and that he left his cash-box open on the table during the negotiation. It was presumable that some man, who probably knew the premises well, had clambered up against the back-window, had beheld the cash-box and its contents, and, during the night, had perpetrated the bloody deed. The speedy departure of the prisoner, her daughter, and the gentleman who had been alluded to, on the morning following that night of the crime, was occasioned by the fact that the young people contemplated a matrimonial alliance unknown to the gentleman’s parents; and the means of travelling having been procured by the discount already mentioned, there was no necessity to delay the departure for Paris any longer. This was the simple and plain explanation of the suddenly undertaken journey and the precipitate decampment from Suffolk-street. But the ladies did not act as if they had committed a crime, nor their male companion as if he had been an accomplice in one; for they travelled by post-chaise instead of by rail, to Dover; and there they waited quietly until the steam-packet left next morning, instead of hiring some small craft, as they might have done, to waft them across, the same night of their arrival, to Calais. Again, if the prisoner and her daughter had even entertained such a fearful idea as that of depriving the miser of his life for the sake of his gold, they would have had a better opportunity of carrying it into execution while alone with him in his back parlour, than by the roundabout manner suggested by the nature of the charge against Mrs. Fitzhardinge. During the short time the two ladies had dwelt at the lodgings in Suffolk-street they had not been embarrassed for want of funds; nor even when they sought the aid of the discounter was their need so pressing, much less was it of that desperate nature which could alone prompt to such a dreadful alternative as murder. The reason why the assistance of the deceased was sought at all, could be readily explained by the avowal that the bill to be discounted was not a security which any other class of money-lenders would entertain: it was the promissory note of a young gentleman raising cash upon his expectations, and therefore of a character suiting only the purposes of a discounter who took an amount of interest proportionate to the risk which he ran. In conclusion, the learned gentleman insisted that there was not a shadow of evidence against his client.

The magistrate acquiesced in this view of the case, and discharged Mrs. Fitzhardinge forthwith. She was, however, compelled to repair from the Marylebone Police-court to the tavern where the coroner was holding an adjourned inquest upon the body; but the result of her examination before the magistrate being communicated to that functionary, she was not detained on his authority. A verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown” was returned, and the old woman once more found herself at liberty.

The evidence given by the inspector of police at the Marylebone court, and repeated in the presence of the coroner, had excited certain suspicions in the mind of Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and the more she pondered upon the subject--the more she reflected upon the occurrences at Percival’s house on the night of the murder, and the details of the manner in which the deed itself must have been accomplished, the more confident did she become that she could name the assassin.

Had circumstances permitted, she would have remained in London to ferret out the individual whom she thus associated with the crime: but she could not now spare the time; for she was anxious to proceed, without delay, to Paris, and join her daughter and Charles Hatfield, who, she had no doubt, had reached that capital in safety.

Her examination at the police-court, and her attendance at the inquest, had however consumed the entire day; and she therefore waited until the next morning, when she departed by the first train for Folkestone, at which town she arrived in time to embark on board a steamer for Boulogne.

In order that we may accurately show the precise time when Mrs. Fitzhardinge reached Paris, we must request our readers to observe, that on the same day that Charles and Perdita crossed the water to Calais, the old woman was borne back to London by the constables: on the following day, while they were journeying towards the French capital, she was undergoing the examination already recorded;--on the third day, when they were married at the British Ambassador’s chapel, she was hastening to join them;--and it was, therefore, in the after-part of the fourth day, being the one on which the separation of Charles and her daughter had occurred, that Mrs. Fitzhardinge entered Paris in the diligence, or stage-coach--thoroughly wearied out by the fatigue, annoyance, and excitement she had lately undergone.

The old woman repaired to an hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of the office where the coach stopped; and, having changed her apparel, drove forthwith in a hackney vehicle to the British Embassy: for it must be remembered that she was entirely ignorant of every thing that had taken place in respect to her daughter and Charles since she had been separated from them, and knew not where they had put up in Paris. Indeed, she even had her misgivings whether they were in the French capital at all, or whether they might not have set out upon some tour immediately after their marriage; for that they were already united in matrimonial bonds, she had no doubt. That they had returned to Dover to look for her, she did not flatter herself; inasmuch as she had latterly seen enough of Perdita’s altered disposition to be fully aware that all maternal authority or filial affection were matters which the young lady was more inclined to treat with contempt than with serious consideration. But Mrs. Fitzhardinge was resolved not to be thrust aside without an effort to regain the maternal authority: as for the filial affection, her soul--tanned, hardened, rendered rough and inaccessible, and with all its best feelings irremediably blunted by the incidents of her stormy life--her soul, we say, experienced but a slight pang at the idea of having to renounce that devotedness which it is usually a mother’s joy and delight to receive at the hands of a daughter.

No; the aim of this vile intriguing woman was merely the re-establishment of her former ascendancy over her daughter,--by fair means or by foul--by conciliation or intimidation--by ministering to her vanity and her pride, or by working on her fears--by rendering herself necessary to her, or by reducing her to subjection through a course of studied despotism and tyranny. Her imagination pictured the voluptuous and impassioned Perdita clinging to her young husband as to something which had become necessary to her very existence, and from which it were death to part; and she chuckled within herself, as she muttered between her lips,--“The girl would have this marriage; and it shall be made in my hands a means to subdue her! For in her tenderest moments--when reading love in his eyes, and looking love with her own,--when wrapt in Elysian dreams and visions of ineffable bliss--then will I steal near her, and whisper in her ear, ‘Perdita, you must yield to me in all things; or with a word--a single word--will I betray you to that fond, confiding fool; I will blast all your happiness, and he shall cast thee away from him as a loathsome and polluted thing!’”

With such agreeable musings as these did Mrs. Fitzhardinge while away the half-hour which the hackney-coach occupied in driving her from the hotel to the British Embassy. It was now five o’clock in the evening, and she fortunately found the chaplain’s clerk in an office to which the gate-porter directed her to proceed. From the official to whom she was thus referred, she learnt that Charles Hatfield and Perdita Fitzhardinge were united in matrimonial bonds on the previous day; and an inspection of the register, for which she paid a small fee, enabled her to ascertain the address they had given as their place of abode in the French capital.

Satisfied with these results, Mrs. Fitzhardinge returned to the vehicle, and ordered the coachman to drive her to an hotel which she named, and which was the one mentioned in the register. We should observe that the old woman spoke French with fluency; and thus she had no difficulty in making herself understood in the gay city of Paris.