“A plague upon this London! I shall have no luck in it.”
“Your town’s a damned good-for-nothing town,
I wish Î never had come into it.”
The West indian.
In one of those half-forgotten modes of transport, a sailing packet, denominated the Eclipse, I departed from the Pigeon House, and with a fair and steady breeze landed at Holyhead, after a short passage of nine hours. In those days this feat was accounted respectable; for in their transits from the emerald isle to the land of shopkeepers, it was no uncommon circumstance for ill-starred gentlemen to pass so many days and nights at sea, as to induce a belief that, in mistake, they had booked themselves in the Flying Dutchman, and consequently, had the pleasing prospect of sailing to eternity. I was still further fortunate in securing a seat in the London mail. In due time I reached the modern Babylon, transferred my person and effects from the White Horse Cellar to a Bond-street hotel, and there, for a limited period, established my household gods.
At this memorable epoch of my history, my first visit to the great metropolis, life in London was very different to what it is at present. Theatres were frequented by the upper classes, and Vauxhall was in all its glory. An English singer was then listened to; it was not considered disreputable to keep a native servant; and without loss of caste, a lady might submit her head to the curling irons of an artiste, who had been actually born and indoctrinated within sound of Bow bell. The clubs were few and exclusive. People resided in lodgings and hotels adapted to their ranks and pockets; in their mode of life a gentlemanly consistency was maintained: and a man who in noontide was the occupant of an edifice, erected with the costly expense formerly bestowed upon a palace, would not, on an alarm of fire at midnight, have been unkennelled from the back attic of a stay-maker, tenanted for the moderate consideration of three shillings and sixpence, “paid weekly and in advance.” Indeed, a sort of John Bullish principle pervaded society at large. If men staked large sums on questionable events, it was generally expected that they would pay, should their speculations prove unfortunate. The guards were frequently relieved to music not Rossini’s. Tailors who had never seen the Palais Royale, received instructions in bookkeeping from divers of the nobility; and a bootmaker—tell it not in Gath—was considered absolutely fashionable, albeit the unhappy man was afflicted with the desperate patronymic of O’Shaughnessy.
Indeed, at this period of English history, when young and old France were about to retire before Lord Wellington, the tone of society was anti-continental. The aristocracy conversed in their native tongue; meats, as Heaven sent them, might be seen frequently at the table of a peer; and there was a vulgar prejudice against being poisoned, even though the artiste were warranted true Parisien. Saltations, happily unremembered, but bearing as it is believed, a distant affinity to the vulgar affair now termed contre-danse, were extensively perpetrated; and persons engaged in the same, instead of being elegantly paralytic, moved as if their limbs were controllable. Then, the refinement of the valse was undiscovered; and if a cavalier ventured to clasp a lady in his arms—Lombard-street to a China orange!—he would have been kicked by husband, father, or brother, out of the room incontinently.
Assisted by my father’s letter, the great object of my journey was happily accomplished. Within three weeks the exchange I sought for was effected; and I was in due form gazetted to a lieutenancy in an old regiment cantoned for the winter on the Agueda.
At the time I visited the capital, the position a stranger held in society was generally estimated by the quarter he inhabited; and before I started from Dublin, I took counsel touching “the whereabouts” of a suitable abode. Mr. Pryme recommended some place with a “man’s head,” in a lane near Crutched Friars; while Captain Forester, a castle aid-de-camp, denounced the same, declaring it to be only a place fit for a bagman, and recommended Long’s or Stevens’s. Well! it was seventeen years since Mr. Pryme had been in town, and probably Crutched Friars was not as fashionable now as it might have been formerly. Captain Forester infested London every season, and consequently Captain Forester must be right. To Bond-street accordingly I drove. Alas, how blindly people speculate upon events! Had I driven to the “man’s head” in Crutched Friars, I should have been safer by a hundred—“and no mistake.”
The intervals between my visits to the Horse Guards were occupied in exploring the capital from Tyburn Turnpike to Tower Hill; and by singular good fortune, I formed an acquaintance with a gentleman to whom London and all its wonders were familiar. He kindly undertook to play bear-leader for the nonce and under the guidance of Colonel Santonier, I traversed “the mighty mass of brick, and stone, and mortar,” even from Dan to Beersheba.
The Colonel was an emigrant who, for political opinions, had been exiled from “la belle France.” He was a royalist connected with half the nobility of the ancient regime, his address was good, his disposition plastic and companionable. He had seen the world extensively, and therefore was the better qualified to introduce a neophyte like me upon the stage of life. On quitting his native country he had been accompanied by his sister. She was young, pretty, and accomplished; and, as the Colonel declared, “the most artless being in the world.” I never saw relatives more attached. They never met or parted without a kiss; and yet, one thing struck me as remarkable, there was not the slightest family likeness between them.
Is it surprising that an acquaintance so valuable and agreeable, ripened into a friendship of such ardour that Damon and Pythias might have been jealous? Most of my time was spent in the society of the Colonel and his fair sister; and as I had jobbed a buggy, sometimes I drove my friend about town, or exhibited Mademoiselle Adelaide in Rotten Row. Santonier had few acquaintances, and when I had Madame by my side, I often remarked that very impudent looks were directed towards the lady. Once, too, when we were brought to a dead halt by the break-down of a coal-waggon, I heard a fashionable scoundrel observe to his companion as they passed—“Lord, Frank, what a flat that spoon is!” Flat!—spoon! Hang it,—neither term surely could apply to me!
I think, had it lasted only another week, our friendship would have been registered in heaven. We dined here and there, made short excursions out of town, our amicable arrangements were perfect—for Monsieur Santonier placed such implicit confidence in my honour and discretion, that Adelaide was considered in perfect security when with me. She, sweet girl, was so inartificial that she even owned she felt herself minus a heart,—and had I been consigned to the gallows, I verily believe the Colonel would have borne me company, and requested to be accommodated with another rope.
It was probably a delicate sensitiveness respecting Adelaide, which made Santonier so very particular as to those who should be admitted to his house. With one exception, I was an exclusive visitor; for in Jermyn-street I never met any person but a nice old gentleman with green spectacles and a bald head, called the Baron Francheti; and every night he added himself to the party. We had coffee, played cards, and Adelaide was my partner, although, sweet girl, I was literally her ruin. I held bad hands, introduced spades when I should lead diamonds, of course we always lost, Adelaide never murmured, but handed the money to the Baron without a reflection on my unskilful play. What could I do? Nothing but present an indemnity in the morning; and she graciously approved the taste of my selection, and condescended to accept the offering.
On the day I was gazetted, in company with some other aspirants for military glory, we dined together to celebrate our promotion, and, as became soldiers of promise, got drunk afterwards. Some managed to reach their hotels, some stopped short in divers watch-houses; while I, under the guidance of the star of love, headed my course instinctively to my lady’s bower in Jermyn-street. As usual, the family party were at home. We played; for I remember something about overturning a lamp upon the card cloth. In a short time I dropped off the chair, was trundled home in a coach, put to bed, and remained in deep repose, until daylight and a thundering head-ache brought their pleasant reminiscences. I looked to the table: no property was there, except a couple of shillings and an empty note-case. Before I had gone to dinner, I changed my last fifty, and stocked my pocket-book with the produce. A pleasant position! Out of two hundred pounds advanced me by the Quaker, not a sous left, and the hotel bill and half my appointments still unpaid!
I never had known a pecuniary difficulty before. What was to be done? In London, and without a guinea! Should I write to my father, and tell him that before I had been three months upon the world, I had despised his admonitions, contracted debts, and gambled away the means given me to discharge them? I had only to own the truth, and I should be immediately relieved—but to me, how bitter would be the humiliation—to him, how painful the disclosure! Hours passed: I cursed my folly; but still I could devise no plan to remedy it; and my brain was teeming with wild expedients, when a tap was heard at the door, and in glided my London Palinurus, the Colonel. In his look there was nothing consolatory, for the expression of his countenance was gloomy, as if he had been “performing” at a funeral. He sate down at my bed-side, took my hand in his, looked unutterable things, and then, in a broken voice, inquired tenderly after his “dear friend’s health.”
“My health, Colonel, is not affected, beyond a drunken head-ache; but on my conduct I cannot look back without self-reproach and shame.”
The brother of Adelaide shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then delivered himself of a speech, which seemed intended rather to be exculpatory of himself, than consolatory to me. According to his account, I would play madly on, Adelaide in despair quitted the room, he remonstrated—all to no purpose; for the demon of play had entered into me, and play I would. I lost the contents of my pocket-book, and “the leetle note of hand to the Baron.”
“Note of hand to the Baron!” I exclaimed, springing bolt upright in the bed.
It was absolutely true; for a billet was brought me at the moment by the waiter, in which the nice old gentleman affectionately requested “to know how I had rested the preceding night, with a casual inquiry at what bank my note for £120 should be presented?”
‘For a time I could not believe the evidence of my eyes, but read the Baron’s billet again and again. At last, I began to fancy I had been duped. In a moment, a flood of light poured upon my mind, a thousand trifles were recollected, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.
The Colonel remarked a change of countenance that threatened an explosion, and, pleading a forgotten engagement, he took a hurried leave.
I rose, dressed, wrote twenty letters, and tore them; then ordered my gig, drove down two streets, and returned. I passed a miserable day—ate no dinner—drank brandy and water extensively; and retired to a private room, in a frame of mind which a demon might find pity for, to write letters. Write letters! Pshaw! merely blot paper.
Twilight fell—my brain was half on fire—I rejected candles—the gloom of evening was best suited for the bitter musings of a mind like mine. I gazed from the window, objects passed, but I saw none of them. I heard the door open—a figure stood beside me. I looked carelessly up—it was Adelaide. In thought I was connecting her agency with the villany of her brother and the Baron—proofs against her appeared strong, and I had set her down a guilty thing. No wonder that I received her coldly; and my frigid civility semed to wound her more than actual rudeness.
“You are changed,” said the Colonel’s sister: “had I visited you once, my reception would have been very different.”
“It might,” I said, coldly. “I did not then believe that the Colonel was a scoundrel, the Baron a rogue, and yourself—”
“What?” she inquired.
“Why—a very convenient associate.”
“I can remain here but a few minutes. The errand is urgent—the time short.” She took a small packet from her bosom, where it had been concealed, laid it on the table, and then proceeded. “To a certain extent, I admit your charges. The statement of your being-plundered is correct, and the description of the plunderers is true; the Colonel was a fencing-master first, a cheat and thief afterwards. The Baron, I believe, a swindler from his cradle. Of me—ask not what I was—know what I am—a fallen woman—one who, in the common course of crime, has sunk by degrees, and at last, at twenty-one, become the confederate of thieves and ruffians. Oh Heaven! if women only knew what fearful penalties hang upon one lapse from virtue, how few would fall!”
She wept. The tears were irresistible.
“Adelaide,” I said, “you must forgive me. I have been severe—my losses have annoyed me. What is that parcel you desire me to take?”
“Your watch—I purloined it.”
“Good Heaven! impossible!”
“No, no, O’Halloran—it was only to secure it. Hear me—a few minutes, and we part for ever. I am a woman—a lost one—but still my heart is not altogether callous. I saw you—you were young and unsuspicious, and became an easy victim. I watched the course of spoliation—you imagined that I lost money, and generously made me a recompense. Am I forgiven?” she added. “And must I leave thee?”
“Not on my account, I trust,” responded a voice, deep as that of Lablache, at our elbow.
We started—Adelaide hurried from the room—I remained, so did the stranger—Mr. Hartley!
“Stockwell. So, so, you seem disordered, Mr. Belcour.
Belcour. Disordered, sir!
Why did I ever quit the soil in which I grew?”
The West Indian.
For a minute the father of Isidora and I preserved a dignified silence. The stern displeasure his countenance evinced was not encouraging, and I looked the silliest young gentleman imaginable. The contretemps of this evening visit was most provoking. I had never done the sentimental in my life but twice, and on both occasions Mr. Hartley had managed to drop in. Turning his dark and searching eye on mine, he drily inquired, “Whether it would be considered an impertinence on his part, if he asked who the lady might be whom he had very unintentionally put to flight?”
I mentioned her name, not forgetting to announce also the nobility of her descent; but had it been in direct line from Charlemagne or the Conqueror, it would not have propitiated Mr. Hartley, if one could form any opinion from the inauspicious “humph!” with which he received the intelligence.
“And, my good sir, how long have you known this interesting personage?” he continued.
“Since my arrival in London,” I replied.
“A marvellous short time to ripen friendship to such full maturity! And what event might have called forth that storm of sobs and kisses which I so unluckily interrupted?”
A contemptuous sneer accompanied the inquiry that stung my pride, and I answered warmly, that “I considered that he had neither authority nor interest to pry into matters with which he was wholly unconcerned.”
“No right, certainly,” he observed, “excepting that which former services may be fairly supposed to warrant.”
“Mr. Hartley,” I replied, “I freely admit that I am indebted to you for hospitality, and also for deliverance from a disagreeable, and possibly a dangerous restraint; but surely one who rigidly interdicts inquiry into aught connected with himself, should also respect the secrets of another.”
“I acknowledge the justice of your remark,” said my quondam host; “and the noble demoiselle, who hangs upon the neck of the acquaintance of a fortnight, discharging volleys of sighs, ‘hot as a furnace,’ shall remain incognita. You own yourself indebted to me for former obligations; you have now a power of returning them; and I come here to ask a favour.”
“It is granted, sir,” I replied, warmly, “even before ‘tis known.”
“Stop, stop,” he returned; “it is a request that is too frequently refused.”
“Name it, sir.”
“It is the loan of money I solicit. The period brief; the repayment certain.”
I felt my face redden, and could not find words to answer.
“Before I name the sum that I would borrow,” pursued Mr. Hartley, without appearing to notice my confusion, “and as the loan must be regulated by the state of your own finances, let me inquire what money you brought to town. Men coming to London are generally well provided.”
What a question from a stranger! Surely I should resent it as impertinent. But no—the man appeared gifted with some influence that bent me to his will—and I muttered, that when I embarked for England my purse had contained two hundred pounds.
“Faith, not a bad supply. Could you with convenience spare me half?”
I groaned, and shook my head. .
“Fifty, then?”
Another and a more desponding shake.
“Well, be it forty. No answer. Thirty—twenty—ten! No answer yet? Then is my request refused? So much for the lip-gratitude of Mr. Hector O’Halloran!”
I thought my brain would madden, as the humiliating position to which my folly had reduced me, was thus rudely exposed by this tormenting supplicant. I tried to speak—‘twas useless; words would not come. Another minute passed—and Mr. Hartley’s eyes were turned on mine, as if he would have read the secret agony of spirit which his importunity had caused.
“Well,” continued he, “should I solicit five paltry pounds—would that small assistance be refused?”
The question was torturous. My voice at last found utterance. I raised my eyes, and looked full at Mr. Hartley. How well that look betrayed my secret sufferings—the bitterest a man can know—those of self-contempt and conscious humiliation!
“Had I hundreds, Mr. Hartley, they should be placed freely at your disposal, and I should feel too proud in having the power of convincing you that I have not forgotten kindnesses. I want the means—for on yonder table lies all the money I am master of.”
“What!” he exclaimed, “only a few shillings left of two hundred pounds?”
“‘Tis true, by Heaven!”
“Then, sir, are you lower than the wretch who asks for alms upon the road-side. You are a pauper by vice; he a beggar through misfortune. Listen, boy, and learn how deep is your degradation. A man to whom you were indebted for good services seeks your assistance, and whatever might have been your wishes to render it, folly has placed the means beyond your reach; and, to a noble spirit, how painful is the inability of returning a former obligation! And for what did you deprive yourself of the power of being generous? To lavish money upon knaves and gamblers—or, still more wretched infatuation,—to win the heartless smiles of beauty?”
He paused, as if to observe the effect of his reproof, and one glance attested its influence. In my agitated countenance the inward workings of the breast were visible; for I had never felt the agony of conscious shame and self-reproach till now. No wonder that under such feelings, this singular personage elicited step by step, every particular touching my connexion with Santonier and his confederates. There are times when men feel their positions so intolerable, that, with despairing recklessness, they court no concealment, but place their offendings in their worst light. Such feelings were mine; and, undeterred by the strongly-expressed scorn and displeasure of Mr. Hartley, I brought the confessions of my folly to a close.
“My words have pained you?—it is all the better,” continued my stern monitor, “as it affords reasonable ground for hoping that the error lies in the head, and not in the heart. Vice has no blush; and, when the cheek reddens at the recollection of past imprudence, it may be expected that future follies will be eschewed. But how could you have been plundered so unsuspectingly? I only marvel that the veriest novice ever loosed upon a vicious town, could not in one day’s acquaintance have detected the barefaced swindling of your noble friends.”
“You seem to know them?” I inquired.
“Yes; and for that profitable knowledge I own myself indebted to Mr. Hector O’Halloran.”
“To me, sir?” I exclaimed.
“Ay, sir, to you.—Have you forgotten my letter? and have I not apprised you that every action of your life is under the strictest surveillance? With all your movements, from the very night you entered London, I have been acquainted; and it is not wonderful that I should take some interest in ascertaining who were the intimate associates of a man, whose fortunes are to be made or marred by me.”
What a strange gentleman this Mr. Hartley was! He seemed to have selected me as a sort of shuttlecock wherewith to amuse himself at his own discretion, while with my future fortunes he modestly announced a determination, in Yankee parlance, to “go the whole hog.” Strange that I should passively submit to be thus painfully hectored by a stranger; and, with every inclination, want moral courage to rebel! The man was a mystery—he appeared to have a perfect knowledge of my actions, added to the gift of ubiquity. Did I ask an impertinent question, or perpetrate a kiss, he was sure to be close at my elbow. Was it not devilish hard, that a man could not commit his fooleries—as Sir Lucius O’Trigger wished to fight—“in peace and quietness?” and, when he had lost his last guinea, that a gentleman should drop in, to deliver himself of an admonition first, and require the loan of a hundred afterwards? I had got myself into “a regular fix,”—and that seemed the signal for Mr. Hartley to appear at the moment when I wished him “five fathom under the Rialto.”
One thing was indisputable—I had been sadly fooled. Circumstances smooth down misfortunes; and I have heard that men, who would be driven to desperation at being cheated by a thimble-rigger, feel it only an agreeable kind of sorrow in being swindled by a peer.—I wished to find out the real character of my plunderers; and it would be an unspeakable satisfaction to be certain that I had been “cleaned out” by the descendants of some “baron bold” who had tilted on the field of Agincourt, or at Pavia “lost every thing but honour.” Adelaide had described them as low-born swindlers, but she might be mistaken. Timidly, therefore, I hazarded the inquiry, whether “Mr. Hartley knew the exact circle of society which Santonier and his companions appertained to?”
“That question,” replied Mr. Hartley, “is a puzzler; for in every grade, from the highest to the lowest, you will find distinctions. The colonel’s birth may be as noble as he insinuates it to be. He was an enfant trouvé, and in time, the foundling rose to be a valet. In the Revolution, his master lost his head, and Santonier his place; he next became a professional gambler; ‘a master of fence’ afterwards—and lastly, the chevalier d’industrie reached the climax of rascality, and acted as a double spy. The old gentleman, in green spectacles, has been all his life attaché to ‘a hell.’ The lady’s history can only be learned at the Palais Royal—and I doubt whether it would repay the trouble of a research. Although the struggle may be painful, still it is best to prepare you for the trial, a warrant from the Alien Office has directed your amiable acquaintances to withdraw—and before to-morrow’s sun rises, the Santoniers will have departed. An hour since the Colonel and I had a satisfactory conversation. This money he requested me to deliver to you.” (Here Mr. Hartley gave me some bank notes.) “And, as to this security, it is now mine—and may I inquire, are you prepared to discharge it?”
I took the writing,—it was a promissory note bearing my signature, and covenanting to pay “one hundred-and fifty pounds at sight!”
“Are you prepared to discharge this honourable engagement?” he demanded, with affected seriousness.
I shook my head.
“Then we may as well cancel it at once;” and as he spoke he tore the paper to pieces.
“Said I not well, when I told you, that on me the colour of your future life depended? Remember this second deliverance—one, to which a week’s imprisonment in the haunt of drunken outlaws were a mere nothing. But no more of this; we have other matters now to occupy us. I want you for an hour or two.”
He took his hat—desired me to follow him. I felt myself a mere puppet in his hands—bowed assent—and we left the hotel together.
And where was Isidora? The question was often on my lips; but my companion was a gentleman of such explosive temperament, that I dare not hazard the inquiry. He called a coach—I stepped in after him, obedient as a poodle—and, according to order, honest Jarvey rumbled his “leathern conveniency” to some caravanserai in the city, as much excluded from the Court Circular as Mr. Pryme’s favourite hostelrie—the house with “the man’s head” in Crutched Friars.
As we rolled along the streets Mr. Hartley’s manner assumed a different tone, for he talked to me with the familiarity of old acquaintanceship, and never for a moment recurred to my recent peccadillos. We spoke of the engrossing subjects of the day, and on every topic he displayed that peculiar knowledge, which one who has been long intimate with mankind only can acquire. Keen and correct as his observations were, they seemed to be those of a man who had quarrelled with the world; and, inexperienced as I was, I set him down to be one whose past career had been unfortunate, or whose future prospects were gloomy and uncertain.
When we entered the hotel Mr. Hartley led the way to the apartments he occupied. They were situated at the extremity of a long corridor, and isolated from the other chambers of the inn. In an ante-room my old acquaintance Dominique was seated. Although his fanciful dress was discarded for a plain blue livery, I easily recognised my sable friend; and the negro’s intelligent countenance brightened as he saw me, and offered a silent welcome. His master introduced me into a drawing-room, desired me to be seated, apologized for a short absence, and left me to myself.
How strange—during our long interview and drive, not a word of Isidora!—I had once asked simply if she were well, and he had replied in the affirmative so briefly, that it seemed to preclude any further inquiries touching his fair daughter. I examined the apartment—no tokens of female occupancy presented themselves—it was like the common-place chamber of every inn, and only remarkable for the numerous trunks and boxes it contained; and to judge from the extent of the baggage, the traveller to whom it appertained was preparing for a final flitting. The various packages had Mr. Hartley’s name attached; and hence, I concluded that to Ireland he had bidden a long farewell. But brief space was permitted for solitary fancyings: the door opened,—my quondam host entered accompanied by a lady,—and one look told me that she was Isidora.
When I advanced and took her hand, she coloured to the brow, but still my reception was a kind one. Meeting under different circumstances, we both felt less embarrassment than when I had been first presented to her; and I thought I could perceive something in Mr. Hartley’s manner, which appeared to give encouragement to our closer intimacy. Occasionally he alluded to my last escapade in dry sarcastic observations, only intelligible to ourselves; but his manner satisfied me, that however foolish I might have appeared, still I had not fallen in his estimation. Supper ended, Isidora withdrew; we parted with “a fair good night;” and Mr. Hartley and I were left alone.
My host looked at the door to see that it was closed, then filled his glass, and pushed the flask across to me.
“Hector,” he commenced.
I started; for it was the first time he had ever addressed me without prefixing a formal mister to my name.
“I perceive,” he continued, “that you are surprised to hear me speak to you with little ceremony. Did you but know the secret history of him who sits beside you, that wonder would be removed. The time for that is yet to come; and you must expect my confidence only as circumstances may require, and your own conduct shall deserve it. I told you that your fortunes were controlled by me; and on that assurance you may place the firmest reliance. Listen, and you may learn much concerning your own family—more than you have yet known—and, afterwards, I will explain the reason that made me thus communicative.”
I bowed, and remained a silent listener.
“You had an uncle. He was thrown upon the world unwisely when a boy, left to his own guidance, and subjected to more temptation than youth can conquer. Need I tell you, who have learned the lesson practically, how easily intimacies are formed, which, when unchecked, prove ruinous? By the ill-judging liberality of his father, young Clifford obtained the means to follow the bent of his inclination. His temper was ardent—his passions strong—he had no friend to counsel—no Mentor to direct—his life became a whirlwind of dissipation—and with rapid strides he hurried to destruction. Too late, the film was removed from his parent’s eyes; and unfortunately, the steps he took to stay that course of folly in his child, which himself had first encouraged, were injudicious. Money was suddenly withheld; could the wild youth’s career be thus arrested? No; false villains surrounded him, who pointed out easy means by which a large supply was raised, only, when obtained, to be wasted upon knaves, or lavished with reckless prodigality on those whose beauty had been their bane. Oh! woman—thou art a blessing or a curse—and as both, this withered heart has proved thee!”
Mr. Hartley sprang from his chair—strode aeross the room—stopped at the window—and then, as if he had subdued a violent outbreak of secret feeling, he resumed his seat and thus continued:
“A vicious career soon finds its termination. The mode by which young Clifford had hitherto obtained supplies at last became unavailing, and criminal means were cautiously proposed by his villanous confederates. From these the youth recoiled with horror—his guardian angel had not yet deserted him; and, like another prodigal, he half determined to fall at his father’s feet, and ask him to bless and pardon. That blessing was ready had he sought it—but the moment of penitence had passed. One, with an angel form and demon heart, had thrown her spells around him; and all that remained of moral principle, she, the foul temptress, gradually extinguished. In a desperate emergency young Clifford committed forgery, affixing to securities of immense amount, his father’s name. In due time the criminal act was discovered, and to the agonized parent one alternative alone was left—to pay an enormous sum to the villains who had demoralized him, or denounce his child a felon, and consign him to a felon’s doom. He sacrificed the money. Did the mischief end there? No;—the misguided young man was now the victim of a gang of swindlers—the puppet of a coldblooded courtesan. Deeper and deeper they involved him, and at last, when their own detection was impending, they made him a scapegoat to their safety, and denounced their dupe for crimes which they had themselves committed, and of which he, poor wretch, was guiltless.
“The fallen have no friends; and your uncle was obliged to evade the penalty which the law would have then exacted, by abandoning the country of his birth, to seek ignominious safety in a foreign land. There—he lived and died—a nameless fugitive. Heaven knows in what misery the remnant of his few and evil days were passed,—or, when the hour of deliverance came, under what fearful circumstances death claimed a willing victim.”
Mr. Hartley paused; the story of my unfortunate relative had affected me, and I expressed strong sympathy for the offender.
“Well,” continued he, “it is probable that his punishment was greater than his crime; but of that none but himself could tell. To proceed:—from the moment young Clifford quitted England, his father, by a mental exertion that almost appeal’s incredible, seemed to forget that he had ever had a son, and centered all his hopes and his affections in the child still spared him; and your mother became the object that he lived for. There, too, it was decreed that his hopes and plans should be disappointed. He had resolved to ally her nobly; but his air-built castle was levelled to the earth. She eloped with a soldier of fortune; and worse still, in the estimation of one so deeply bigoted to his own faith, the husband she had selected was a Protestant.
“As he had banished from his heart the memory of a guilty son, so, also, he appears to have forgotten that a daughter, whose sole offence was love, has often sued for pardon, and sued in vain. Dead, apparently, to human passions, and wrapped in gloomy reveries of religion without any thing of its charities, he mistakes ascetic indifference for submission to that Will which rules the fate of mortals. In every thing he is directed by his confessor, and report affirms that he has bequeathed his fortune and estates to the uses of the Church of Rome. I have heard that you bear a striking likeness to your mother. Could you but meet this cold old man, possibly some spark of kindred love might still be latent in the heart, and in the living child, he might happily be forced to recollect the long-estranged mother. But to obtain that meeting is the difficulty. Surrounded by priests and spies, your very name, if known, would bar you from his presence. I have taken measures to ascertain what are the old man’s habits, and how an interview might be accomplished. The experiment may fail—but still it is worth the trial.
“Why have I enlarged on what you knew partially already?—the fall of William Clifford. Only to show, by startling truths, that imprudence is too generally the path to crime; and that your career, unless arrested as it was by me, might have ended fatally as your uncle’s did.”
“Never!” I exclaimed, passionately; “a fool I might be—a villain, never.”
“And so thought young Clifford once—but no more of this. I feel convinced that your fancy for play and dangerous acquaintances is ended.”
“Indeed, Mr. Hartley, I see my folly in its true colours.”
“And now for bed,” he replied. “You to your hotel, and I to my chamber. Let me see you early to-morrow. Should business have called me from home, you will find Isidora, and her sable genius, Dominique.”
“You never travel far without your black attendant,” I remarked.
“He never leaves us; and for twenty years, amidst all its storm and sunshine, he has followed my fortunes with devoted fidelity. Next to that of my child, the greatest loss Heaven could inflict would be to take from me that faithful negro. He comes.—Show Mr. O’Halloran down stairs.—Once more, good night.” He shook me warmly by the hand. “One word more, friend Hector,” he added with a smile; “you need not lose time in a visit to Jermyn-street—the birds have flown!”
It was past midnight, if you could believe the watchman; and as I walked slowly westward, and thought on the events of the few last hours, I doubted their actual reality. The strange and quick succession in which they followed, seemed like the wanderings of a dream. A second time had I been delivered from a critical position by a person, two months ago a stranger—and yet one, who appeared to have dropped upon the earth, for the especial purpose of looking after me. I slept—many a vision passed “in shadowy review.”—but one, more brilliant than the rest, was ever before “my mind’s eye.”—Mr. Hartley, the genius of my good fortune, and Isidora, its bright reward.
I have said already, that the destinies of my foster-brother and myself were intimately united. Mark Antony left my father’s house to join me in Dublin—the hand of fate had interposed—and on this eventful night, while I reposed at Stevens’s, my alter ego was “taking his rest” in a back attic, two pair up, in a ramification of the Seven Dials—a safe and agreeable domicile, to which his friend, the ratcatcher, had introduced him. A cheaper lodging might have been certainly obtained; but this was quiet and select. From slates to cellar there were but seven families in the house—“and the beauty of it was,” as Shemus Rhua remarked with triumphant satisfaction, “every soul of them was Irish.”
“My father, the deacon, wrought him his first hose. Odd, I’m thinking deacon Threeplie, the rape-spinner, will twist him his last cravat. Ay, ay, puir Robin is in a fair way o’ being hanged.”—Rob Roy.
After the “sweet sorrow” of parting with the cantatrice, the fosterer and his companion, as if striving to leave care behind, pushed forward vigorously on the road; and at sunset, the steeple of the village where they had determined to remain for the night, was visible from the high ground they were crossing. Never were fellow-travellers in more opposite moods; Mark Antony, melancholy as “a lover’s lute”—the ratcatcher,
“Brisk as a bee, light as a fairy.”
And yet the matter might have been easily accounted for—the one had parted with a mistress—no wonder, therefore, that he, poor fellow, was sad enough; the other was levanting from a wife—consequently he was merry, “and small blame to him,” as they say in Ireland.
“Well, upon my conscience, Mark, astore,” * said Shemus Rhua, breaking a silence of five minutes, “ye’re a pleasant companion this evening, if a man didn’t care what he said.”
The fosterer answered with a sigh.
“Why,” continued the ratcatcher, “were you married, like myself, you couldn’t be much more miserable. Arrah! what the plague has come over ye, man? Can’t ye take things asy like me? Hav’n’t I left an affectionate wife behind?—and ye see I bear it like a Christian. I was once in love myself, and, as the sergeant’s song goes, found nothing for it but whisky. So, there’s a bridge, and here’s the cruiskeeine; we’ll sit down upon the wall for a while, take a drop to kill grief, and just inquire afterwards, where the devil we are going to.”
As he spoke, the worthy captain unclosed his goat-skin knapsack—produced a flask and capacious drinking-cup, supplied the latter sparingly from the stream, completing it amply from the cruiskeeine—and after swallowing the larger moiety himself, he transferred “love’s panacea” to his desponding comrade.
“That’s the thing,” exclaimed Shemus Rhua, as the fosterer emptied the horn; “and now, Mr. O’Toole, will you tell me where I’m bound for?”
“Upon my soul,” returned the fosterer, “I don’t know where I’m going to myself—nor do I care.”
“There’s two of us so,” observed the captain.
“I think I’ll head towards England,” said the fosterer.
“Well,” returned the captain, “I’ll go there too.”
“Push on to London afterwards, and try an Irishman’s luck.5,
“Right,” exclaimed the ratcatcher; “and I’ll stick to you like a bur.”
“But what could you do there, copteeine?’
“Ask me rather what could I not do! Are there any brats, rats, pointers, or old women to be found?”
“Enough of all, no doubt, Master Shemus.”
“Then leave Shemus Rhua alone to make out life.”
“‘Well, captain, if you will venture, we’ll share the purse while it holds a shilling—and when the last is gone—why, it’s only mounting the cockade.”
“For a gentleman like me,” returned the ratcatcher with a smile, “who had the honour to hold a commission, it would be beneath him to enlist; but, mona-sin-dhoul! wherever you go, Mark, I’ll follow like your shadow.”
“Come along,” said the fosterer, “night is falling, and the road, they say, is unsafe after dark. They robbed the mail last week.”
“They’ll not rob us,” returned the ratcatcher. “‘Where hard blows and light purses are only to be got, people who understand their business, never trouble themselves with such customers.”
“Well, Shemus, you know best; for you’re foully belied, if there was a handier gentleman out in ninety-eight.”
“I never robbed, if robbing you can call it,” returned the captain, “but twice; and if every thing I did besides sate as light upon my conscience, the devil a knee I need crook to Father McShane.”
“And who did you rob?” inquired the ratcatcher’s companion.
“A miser, and the king-God bless his majesty! I should have spared him-for he’s a daeent ould gentleman, or my head would have been on a spike at Castlebar!” *
“Well, Shemus, let us hear both exploits.”
“When I robbed the king, it was only taking saddle-bags from an honest tax-gatherer, whom I chanced to meet ‘accidentally on purpose’ one winter’s evening at the deer-park wall of Cloghanteeley—The man was drunk, the horse tired, and I took care of the silver—only that, forgetting the owner’s name, I never knew where to return it afterwards.”
“So much for the king,” observed the fosterer; “and now, gallant captain, for the miser.”
“I’ll tell ye that,” replied the ratcatcher.
“It was late in the winter, the year after the French, ** and Christmas Eve, into the bargain. Well, there was to be a cake *** at Croneeinbeg and as I was then fond of a dance, I set out after dark for the village. Before I got half-way, who should I meet but Mary Connor. She was the natest girl within thirty miles, and had been only married a bare fortnight. I heard her sob as I came up, and when I bid her the time of the day, she couldn’t answer, the poor cratur, for the grief was fairly choking her. ‘Death an’ nous,’ says I, ‘Mary darling, has any thing happened to yourself or the man that owns ye?’
“‘Nothing,’ says she, ‘copteeine avourneeine, **** only we’re both fairly ruined.’ ‘Ruined?’ said I. ‘Och hone! it’s God’s truth,’ says she-and between tears and sobs the poor girl managed to tell me her misfortune.”