He looked at the note of hand which he had received that night, and which bore the signature of Marston—for, in compliance with the suggestion of Mrs. Fitzhardinge, the infatuated Charles Hatfield had signed the document with the name to which he believed himself to be entitled.
The first sensations of the miser, as he fixed his eyes on the “promise to pay” at a specific date the sum of one thousand guineas, were of pleasure: for he calculated the profit he had derived from the transaction—and he flattered himself that he had gained seventy guineas in a single hour.
“And with so little trouble, too,” he muttered to himself.
But, in the next moment, a gloomy shade began to cross his countenance: for the thought stole upon him that perhaps he had acted too precipitately—that the women might have forged a number of papers to delude him—that, after all, there might be no such person in existence as Charles Hatfield, or Viscount Marston.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed emphatically, as he endeavoured to banish these unpleasant reflections from his mind; “it is all right—and I am a fool thus to yield to misgivings. Why should not Tom Rain be the rightful Earl of Ellingham? Things more strange and improbable have occurred in this world. And if he be really the elder brother of the nobleman now bearing the title, why should he not have a son who is the heir to that title and likewise to the estates? Yes—yes: it is all feasible enough! Besides, amongst those papers were the marriage certificate of the late Earl and Octavia Manners—and the baptismal certificate of their child. Well, then—granting that there is a Charles Hatfield,—or, in other words, a Viscount Marston,—what is less extraordinary than that so beautiful a creature as this Miss Fitzhardinge should have captivated the young noble? She is a splendid girl—a very splendid girl! Even in the plain garb which she wore this evening—a sort of disguise, no doubt—she looked truly bewitching. What eyes!—what a profile!—what teeth!—what hair! Ah! I wish that I was a young man now—that I had not these sixty-five winters on my head: I would even yet endeavour to rival Viscount Marston! But, no—no: that were impossible! These young girls are smitten with titles more than with money: and, on my honour, Miss Fitzhardinge will become the rank of Viscountess full well. She has the dignity—the stateliness—and yet the grace and elegance of a woman of fashion! All this, doubtless, must be the work of nature: for where could she have become familiar with the manners and customs of the drawing-room? Ah! was not that a noise?”
And the miser, hastily shutting up his cash-box, started to his feet.
He listened—but all was still!
“A false alarm,” he murmured to himself—and resumed his seat.
But the incident had completely disturbed the current of his thoughts which were flowing into a more voluptuous channel than for years and years they had done,—the beauty of Perdita having made a deep impression upon the mind of the miser, and for a few minutes weaned away his attention from the hitherto all-absorbing gold that he worshipped so devotedly.
And now that alarm,—whether false or real, we cannot as yet determine,—recalled his errant thoughts to the one engrossing subject: and carefully depositing his cash-box in the safe, he next secured the safe itself.
Then, having placed the key in his pocket, he took the candle in his hand, and once more inspected the street-door—the shutters in the front-room—and the bolt of the back-gate.
He descended into the kitchen,—that kitchen which no domestic occupied, and the hearth of which so seldom sparkled or shone with blazing coal or wood,—a cursed hearth which, even in the very midst of summer, seemed cheerless and cold! The area that gave light to the kitchen-window was strongly barred over: the window itself was likewise barred;—and the door opening into the area was well secured with bolts and chains.
All these multiplied precautions were duly inspected by the miser. Forgotten now was the image of Perdita:—gold—gold—his gold,—this was the one absorbing idea!
No—not the only one: for with the thought of possessing gold is ever associated the dread of losing it;—and at this moment the man’s mind was a prey to vague fears—undefined alarms—gloomy misgivings.
He did not like that noise which he had heard:—it haunted him like a spectre;—it was something that weighed upon his soul like lead.
He felt—he knew that he was really alone in that house,—aye, and that the house was lonely in situation likewise: for he could not count for aid, in case of need, on the elderly widow next door and her two or three poor female lodgers. Thus, the fact that there was a house adjoining did not detract from the sense of utter loneliness awakened in his mind respecting his own abode.
But were not the bolts secure—the chains fastened—the bars all firm and strong? Oh! he had not spared his money to obtain the best iron and the best work when those precautions were adopted: and, since he had become a miser, he had never paid a bill so cheerfully as that which the defences of his dwelling had incurred.
Yes:—the bolts were secure—the chains were well fastened—and the bars were all firm and strong;—and yet Percival was not at ease in his mind.
That unknown, unaccountable noise had alarmed him. It was a noise the nature of which he could scarcely explain to himself,—nor whether it had occurred inside or outside the house: no—nor whether it were the creaking of timber—or the shaking of the shutters—or the sound of a human voice speaking low, hoarse, and in a disguised tone.
Having convinced himself that all was secure in the kitchen and the little scullery at the back, Percival once more ascended to his back parlour. He looked at his watch, and found it was half an hour past midnight:—still he felt no inclination to sleep! Vague and oppressive fears continued to haunt him;—and the more he essayed to wrestle with his reflections, the more intolerable did they become,—till at last horrible ideas were forced upon his imagination,—of how misers had been murdered for their gold—how their blood had been poured out even on the very treasure-chests to which they clung with desperate tenacity while the blows of the assassins rained down upon their heads!
Of all these things he thought; and his brain appeared to whirl. He cast his eyes around: objects of terror seemed to encounter them in all directions—for his fevered, excited imagination conjured up the most horrifying phantoms.
Suddenly taking his head as it were in his hands, and pressing it violently, he exclaimed aloud. “Perdition take this cowardly nervousness! What have I to fear to-night—more than any other? I need rest—repose—slumber;—and when I awake in the morning, I shall laugh at myself for the absurd terrors to which I have yielded now!”
Taking the light in his hand, he was about to quit the room and seek his chamber up stairs, when a sound, as of the back door slowly opening, fell upon his ears;—and so great was the alarm with which this circumstance filled him,—striking him as it were with a sudden paralysis,—that he let the candle fall upon the floor—and the light was immediately extinguished.
Then there was the rush of a man up the stairs leading from the back door to the parlour;—and in another moment Percival was assailed in the dark, and in a desperate manner. A heavy blow, as with a bludgeon, felled him to the ground,—not quite stunning him, but so far depriving him of his physical energies that he could not even cry out. But he grasped the murderer by the throat; and a short struggle ensued. The assassin, however, was armed with the determination, if not with the strength, of a demon;—and, dashing the miser back on the floor again with all his force, he seized the bludgeon and wielded it with such fearful effect, that in a few instants the victim lay motionless and silent beneath him!
This fearful crime was accomplished in the dark; and yet the murderer appeared not to be afraid—nor to lose his presence of mind. It would also seem that he was acquainted with the nook where the miser’s gold was concealed: yes—even circumstances more minute still were known to him. For, stooping down, and passing his hand over the corpse, he felt in the very pocket where Percival had placed the key of the cupboard enclosing the iron safe;—and then, groping his way to that cupboard, he opened it,—opened likewise the iron safe,—and drew forth the tin case containing the miser’s gold and bank-notes. Breaking open the lid of the box, the miscreant secured all the coin, notes, and papers about his person, and then stole away from the dwelling by means of the back-gate, which he closed behind him.
At half-past seven o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Dyer knocked at the door of the miser’s house, and was somewhat surprised when, five minutes having elapsed, her summons remained unanswered.
“Perhaps he has over-slept himself,” she muttered to herself: “I will come back again presently;”—and the woman returned to her own abode.
But something like a misgiving had stolen into her mind,—a vague and indefinable fear—a presentiment against which she could not wrestle. A gloom had fallen on her spirits: she was in that humour when people who are in any way superstitious, expect bad news. Not that she had heard any noise in the course of the night, or that she had any motive for suspicion:—the feeling that oppressed her was excited by no accountable and intelligible cause,—unless, indeed, it were that during the five or six years she had waited upon Mr. Percival, this was the very first occasion on which she had failed to find him already up and dressed, and ready to admit her at a stipulated hour.
Having performed a few domestic duties in her own house—but in a strange manner, as if she scarcely knew what she was doing,—Mrs. Dyer returned to the miser’s front-door, at which she knocked again.
But again there was no response: all was silent.
The widow-woman was now seriously alarmed; and, hastening back into her dwelling, she informed her female lodgers that she could not make Mr. Percival hear next door, and was afraid something had happened. The three women, to whom these observations were addressed, accompanied her to the miser’s house; and as all within was still silent as the grave, they proceeded round to the back-door with the intention of looking in through the window shutters, which, as we have before stated, were perforated with many heart-holes. But Mrs. Dyer first happened to try the back-gate, and, to her surprise, found it unfastened. She and the other women then entered the house; and their attention, now rendered keen by dark suspicions, was immediately attracted to the fact that the part of the door-post into which the bolt of the back-gate fitted, had been cut away, from the outside, in such a manner that it was an easy affair to slide back the bolt. The females beheld this ominous appearance with dismay;—but how shuddering were the looks of deep apprehension which they rapidly and silently exchanged, when they likewise noticed an old piece of iron still sticking in the lock,—a sure indication of that lock having been picked, also from the outside!
Had either one of the women now manifested the least hesitation to proceed, the others would have gladly followed the example to retreat. But, huddling all together—and in deep silence—they slowly ascended the stairs leading to the back parlour.
The door of this room was half open; and as the widow endeavoured to push it farther back still, it was stopped by something that evidently was not a table nor a chair,—no—nor aught made of wood.
The women slowly entered the parlour:—and then their tongues were suddenly loosened—and piercing shrieks burst from their lips. For the prismatic light which streamed through the heart-holes of the closed shutters, played on the smashed, gory, and disfigured countenance of the murdered man!
Terror for a few minutes rooted to the spot the spectatresses of this horrible spectacle:—and, clinging—hanging to each other, they remained gazing, in terror and dismay, on the remains of him whom they had all seen alive and in health on the preceding day!
At length the female who was nearest to the door seemed suddenly to recover the use of her limbs; and, with another ejaculation of horror, she fled precipitately,—her companions following her with a haste which seemed to indicate that they were afraid lest the murdered man should stretch forth his hand and clutch the hindermost by the garments.
Oh! what terrors are inspired by the cold—inanimate—powerless remains of mortality! And yet men of the strongest minds have had their fears in this respect;—and heroes who would have faced a serried rank bristling with bayonets, or hunted the savage tiger in the jungles of Hindoostan, have feared to remain alone with the corpse of a fellow-creature!
Full soon was the dreadful rumour spread throughout the neighbourhood that the miser Percival had been murdered during the night;—and the police were speedily upon the spot.
The dead body indeed presented a hideous spectacle to the view:—the countenance was so disfigured as to defy recognition;—and the skull was fractured in several places. By the side of the corpse lay a heavy stake; and, as it was covered with blood, and some of the hair from the murdered man’s head was sticking to it, there was no difficulty in pronouncing it to have been the weapon used by the assassin. The candlestick was found on the floor close by;—the cupboard and the iron safe were open;—and the tin-box, emptied of its contents, was stumbled over by one of the officers.
Not the slightest suspicion could possibly be attached to the widow-woman or her lodgers occupying the adjacent house;—but they were necessarily questioned by the inspector, with a view to elicit any particulars that might aid the officers of justice in sifting the most mysterious and horrible affair.
Mrs. Dyer stated that she had heard no disturbance during the night; and her lodgers all made a similar declaration.
“I passed the evening with a neighbour,” said the widow, naming the friend at whose house she had supped; “and I returned home about half-past eleven o’clock. Mr. Percival was at that moment taking leave of some visitors at his own door: and——Oh! I remember now,” exclaimed Mrs. Dyer, a sudden thought striking her,—“there were two women—one apparently young, if I might judge by the hasty glimpse I caught of her figure—for I did not see her face, as she was standing by the gate opening into the road——”
“And the other woman?” demanded the inspector.
“Was old and very ugly,” returned the widow. “I saw her countenance plainly enough; for the light which Mr. Percival held, streamed full upon it;—and I thought at the moment that I had never in my life beheld such a repulsive—horrible-looking creature. I was really frightened—there was something so unpleasant in her looks.”
“And was any man with them?” enquired the officer.
“No: the two women were alone. They took leave of Mr. Percival, and, I suppose, went away. At all events, I know that he closed his door just at the same moment that I shut mine. I said ‘Good night’ to him: and that was the last time I saw the poor gentleman alive.”
“It is highly important,” observed the inspector, “that we should find out these two women of whom you speak—as they were, to all appearances, the last persons who were with the deceased?”
Mrs. Dyer then gave as accurate a description as she could of the personal appearance of the old woman whose countenance had struck her as being so repulsive and sinister;—and the inspector, having left a couple of officers on the premises where the crime had been committed, departed to acquaint the Coroner with the dreadful occurrence.
While the discovery of the assassination of the old miser was being made in Pentonville, as just related, a scene of some interest occurred simultaneously at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, in Pall Mall.
Charles Hatfield had risen early, after having passed a restless night; and, his toilette being completed, he was just meditating—unpleasantly meditating on the demeanour that it was proper for him to assume at the breakfast-table,—when the door opened, and his father entered the chamber.
The young man had not encountered his parents since the dispute of the preceding morning: he had purposely avoided them throughout the day—not appearing at the dinner-table, and absenting himself likewise from the usual family meeting at the supper-hour. He therefore felt himself somewhat disagreeably situated,—being totally unprepared to meet his father, and having decided on no definite course to pursue with regard to him.
“My dear son,” said Mr. Hatfield, approaching and taking the young man’s hand, “it is necessary that we should have an immediate explanation. I allude to the occurrences of yesterday morning; and I regret that you should have adopted the unusual course of absenting yourself throughout the day——”
“I returned home between seven and eight last evening,” interrupted Charles, hastily, but not disrespectfully.
“I am aware of it,” said Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes upon his son in a penetrating manner. “But you only remained in the house a few minutes;—and, having visited your chamber, you hurried away again. Were you afraid to encounter your parents? Remember, Charles, if you felt that your conduct of the morning had been undutiful and improper—nay, I will even say cruel, towards us—yet a single word expressive of contrition would have made us open our arms to receive you.”
“You denounce my behaviour as cruel towards you,” exclaimed Charles: “but did you not first provoke me, father?—did you not call me harsh names? And if, in return, I complained of what I considered to be the unnatural conduct of my parents toward me——”
“Wherefore thus pertinaciously endeavour to penetrate into those secrets which, for good and salutary reasons, your parents keep concealed from you?” demanded Mr. Hatfield: “for I presume that you allude to the fact of our still desiring that you should pass as our nephew.”
“You have assured me that I am legitimate—that there is no stigma upon my birth,” cried Charles;—“then wherefore not acknowledge me as your son? You claim from me the duty of a son—and yet you deny me the title! And again I must remind you, father, that to an accident alone am I indebted for the knowledge of my birth!”
“I would ask you, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a serious and impressive tone, “what all this has to do with the proposal of marriage that you made to Lady Frances Ellingham: for it was on this point that our dispute commenced yesterday morning. Am I to suppose that my son, being unwilling to contract an alliance so honourable to him, seeks other grounds whereon to base his design of flying in the face of his parents?—am I to conclude that, being resolved to thwart us in this—our dearest hope, you seize upon another and ignoble pretext to justify your rebellion against us!”
“No—ten thousand times No!” exclaimed the young man, cruelly hurt by these suspicions. “In first place, I do not love Lady Frances Ellingham otherwise than as a brother may love a sister——”
“Because,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes sternly upon his son,—“because you have formed some connexion of which you are ashamed——”
“Ah!” cried Charles, starting violently. “Has my father acted the spy upon me?”
“Listen,” said Mr. Hatfield, to whose countenance the indignant blood rushed as his son thus insolently addressed him: but he chose to controul his feelings—and he succeeded: “listen, Charles—and then decide whether you ought to judge me so harshly. Your conduct of yesterday morning towards your mother and myself was of such an extraordinary—unaccountable—distressing nature, that you cannot blame me if I resolved to discover the motives that had actuated you. In this determination I was fixed by your protracted absence throughout the day—your stealthy return in the evening—your short visit to your own chamber—your avoidance of all the inmates of this house—and your hasty and also stealthy departure again. I confess, then, that I followed you last evening——”
“You followed me, father?” repeated Charles, in a low, hoarse, and hollow voice.
“Yes—I followed you to Suffolk Street,” continued Mr. Hatfield, with a firmness and a cool determination of tone and manner which he hoped would overawe the rebellious young man: “and, on inquiry in the neighbourhood, I learnt that at the house which you entered, dwells a very beautiful young lady. Now, I give you my honour, Charles, that I asked no more—was told no more than this one fact. I have no desire to become acquainted with the liaisons of my son:—indeed, I know that young men will be—what shall we call it?—-gay, if you will. All I wished to ascertain was whether there were any grounds for supposing that you had formed a connexion which you may believe to have love for its basis, and which induced you yesterday morning to refuse the fulfilment of your own offer to Lady Frances Ellingham.”
“Father,” said Charles Hatfield, scarcely able to restrain an outburst of indignation, reproach, and bitter recrimination,—in which, had he allowed that torrent of feelings to force a vent, all that he knew of his family and their secrets would have been revealed, or rather proclaimed, in no measured terms;—“father,” he said, fortunately subduing the evil promptings of the moment,—“I have listened to you with attention—though not without impatience. Yesterday you reviled me—you heaped bitter reproaches upon me—you menaced me with disinheritance: then, in the evening, you enacted the spy upon my actions—you watched me—you followed me——”
“It was my duty—and a most painful one, I can assure you,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, alarmed by the strange—the ominous coldness that characterised his son’s tone and manner.
“Your duty!” ejaculated Charles, now speaking with an indignation that burst forth in frightful contrast with the unnatural tranquillity on which it so abruptly broke; “and wherefore have you not performed your duty in all things? Duty, indeed! But know, father, that there are other duties to fulfil than merely playing the part of a spy on your son’s actions:—there are such duties as giving him his proper name—allowing him to assume his just rights—and placing him in that social position which he ought to occupy! You menace me with the loss of fortune, father?—Oh! you know how vain and ridiculous is this threat—and how it aggravates the wickedness of all your former conduct towards me! I am no longer a child to be held in leading-strings—no longer a silly sentimentalist who, through maudlin and mawkish feelings of a false delicacy, will consent to have my nearest and dearest interests trampled upon—my privileges altogether withheld—my rights cruelly denied me! You have played the mysterious too long,—you have enacted the cruel and unnatural until endurance has become impossible;—and now you would assume the part of the absolute dictator—expecting to find me still a pliant, docile, grovelling slave,—without spirit—without courage—without even the common feelings of a man! But you are mistaken, father:—and if I have thus been driven to tell you my mind, you have only yourself to reproach, for so distressing—so painful a scene!”
Thus speaking,—and before his father had so far recovered from the amazement into which this volley of words threw him, as to be able even to stretch out a hand to retain him,—Charles seized his hat, and rushed from the room.
In less than a minute the front-door of the house closed behind him; and he hurried on, like one demented, to Suffolk Street.
But before we accompany him thither, we must pause to explain the effect which this scene had upon his father.
Indeed, Mr. Hatfield was struck with an astonishment so profound—a bewilderment so complete, that his heart seemed as if it were numbed against pain. He could not comprehend the drift of Charles’s passionate address,—otherwise than by supposing that the young man required to be recognised as a son, and not as a nephew. For it did not—as, in fact, it could not—for a single moment enter Mr. Hatfield’s head that Charles had discovered all the occurrences of former years, and that he had thence drawn the false and fatal inference that he—this same infatuated young man—was the heir to the proud title and vast estates of the Earldom of Ellingham. He therefore saw in his son’s conduct only the rebellious spirit of an individual who, having formed a connexion of which he was most likely ashamed and which he knew to be improper, endeavoured to meet his parents’ reproaches with recriminations, and seize upon the least shadow of an excuse or pretext for resisting the paternal authority.
When reflection thus diminished the wonderment which Mr. Hatfield experienced at the behaviour of the young man, pain and sorrow succeeded that first feeling. Indeed, the unhappy father was cruelly embarrassed: he knew not how to act. Charles was of that age when,—even did circumstances permit Mr. Hatfield to acknowledge that he really was his son,—no legal authority could be exercised, nor constraint practised; and he felt assured that any farther attempt to interfere with him in the connexion which he had formed, would only aggravate the irritability of the wrong-headed young man.
Then again, it was impossible to abandon him thus to courses which might hurry him on to utter ruin;—and moreover, the Lady Frances Ellingham had been so cruelly trifled with, that an explanation with her parents became absolutely necessary.
Now was it that Mr. Hatfield cursed the hour when he had been induced to leave Italy, and return to England on this visit to his half-brother—a visit which the Earl had by letter urged him to pay, and to which he had assented in full confidence of the complete safety of the step.
Bewildered with the variety of his conflicting thoughts, and feeling the necessity as well as recognising the propriety of consulting the Earl, Mr. Hatfield repaired to the library, whence he despatched a message to the nobleman requesting his lordship to join him there as speedily as possible:—for it still wanted upwards of half-an-hour to the usual breakfast time.
The Earl of Ellingham was just issuing from his chamber when the message was delivered to him; and, immediately apprehending some evil news, he hastened to the library, where he found his half-brother pacing up and down in an agitated manner.
Mr. Hatfield, without any disguise, hesitation, or circumlocution, immediately unfolded to the Earl all that had taken place, both on that and the preceding day, in respect to Charles;—and Arthur listened with emotions of mingled pain, astonishment, and apprehension.
“Much as it would have delighted me,” he at length observed, “to witness the union of my daughter and your son, Thomas, I cannot for a moment recommend that the young man’s inclinations should be forced. Such an union seemed necessary—almost imperiously necessary under the peculiar circumstances in which we are placed. While you, the elder brother, renounce the title which is your just right—I, the younger one, have long borne it and bear it still;—though, heaven knows that I value it indeed but little——However,” added the Earl, interrupting himself hastily,—“I was about to observe that, situated as we thus are, it appears but natural and proper that your son should receive a positive and acknowledged admission into the family by means of an alliance with my daughter. And she, poor girl—she loves him,” continued the nobleman, his voice faltering; “and he has acted unwisely—to use no harsher term—in declaring an attachment which he does not feel, and making a proposal which he cannot accomplish.”
“I am at a loss how to act!” said Mr. Hatfield. “My God!” he cried, in a tone expressive of deep feeling, “am I ever to be the means of giving annoyance and vexation to you, my dear Arthur,—you, who have been so kind and generous a friend to me?”
“Not on this account must you distress yourself, Thomas,” returned the Earl, emphatically: “you are not responsible for the wayward humours of your son. But surely this sudden manifestation of a rebellious disposition on his part, cannot arise wholly and solely from the connexion which you believe him to have formed. Have you enquired concerning the character of the women—the mother and daughter—whom he visits in Suffolk-street?”
“No: I contented myself with ascertaining that at the house which I saw him enter, there is a young lady of very extraordinary beauty.”
“And are you convinced that Charles has learnt nothing relative to the events of former years—nothing calculated to diminish——”
“I understand you, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield, seeing that his half-brother hesitated: “you would ask whether I have any reason to believe that he has learnt aught which may have a tendency to diminish the respect he had until within these two days past maintained towards his parents? On this head I am of course unable to answer you positively: but my impression is that he is as much as ever in the dark relative to the dread occurrences of the past. Indeed, how can he have possibly learnt a single fact——”
“May not the discovery that he is your son, and not your nephew, have induced him to seek for farther information?” enquired the Earl of Ellingham. “May not some sentiment of ardent curiosity have been awakened within him——”
“But where could he address himself to this task of raising the veil from the mysteries of by-gone years—even if he have the slightest ground to suspect that such mysteries do exist?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, interrupting the Earl. “To what source could he repair for the means of elucidation?”
“I know not: and yet—I am now impressed with suspicions of a most unpleasant nature,” observed the Earl. “It is very essential that some immediate step should be taken to redeem this fine young man from a career of error—perhaps of depravity——”
“Oh! yes—yes!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “My God! if the sins of the father be in this case visited upon the son, life will become intolerable to me!—Rather would I at once have a full and complete understanding with Charles,—tell him all—yes, all,—reveal to him who I really am—open to him the means of a complete retrospection, embracing all my sad history,—and then throw myself on his mercy—imploring him at least to have pity upon his innocent mother, if not on me who am so guilty!”
“No—no, Thomas: this humiliation may not be!” ejaculated the Earl. “For if, as you believe, your son has at present no suspicion of the past, it would be madness to make unnecessary revelations.”
“I am bewildered—cruelly perplexed: I know not how to act!” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Oh! if I were confident that he has no such suspicions—that he has learnt or surmised nothing calculated to diminish the respect due to his mother and myself——”
“How can he have fathomed the obscurity which hangs over your former life?” demanded the Earl. “And as to supposing that he could, by any possible means, obtain even the shadow of an idea of your real birth and parentage——”
“No: for the papers—those important papers which I gave you years ago, and which I requested you to destroy,—those papers, I say,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, “could alone make such important revelations to my son: and, thank heaven! they are not in existence.”
“My dear brother,” returned the Earl of Ellingham, taking Mr. Hatfield’s hand, and speaking in a very serious tone, “I most frankly and honestly inform you that those papers have not been destroyed. At the same time, they have been kept in a place of perfect security—a secret recess known only to myself——”
“And wherefore were not such dangerous documents burnt—annihilated!” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a reproachful tone.
“I dared not perform a deed which would argue so much selfishness on my part,” replied the Earl of Ellingham, now speaking with a strong emphasis—the result and impulse of his generous, lofty, honourable feelings. “So long as those papers remain in existence, you, my dear brother, can at any moment say to me, ‘I repent of the step which I took in renouncing my just rights and privileges; and I now claim them:’—and should you at any time thus address me, it would only be for me to produce the papers that establish your claims.”
“Oh! Arthur, you are generous—even to a fault!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “You know—or, at least, I again assure you for the hundredth time, that not for worlds would I heap disgrace on a noble name by daring to assume it! Merciful heavens! shall the coronet which becomes you so well, be snatched from your brows, and transferred to those of——”
“Hush! Thomas—hush! this excitement is most unnecessary,” interrupted the Earl. “You must not blame me for the motives which induced me to keep the documents;—and now—if you will have them restored to you——”
“Yes—yes: give them to me, Arthur,” cried Mr. Hatfield, resolving to destroy the papers without farther delay.
“You claim them—they are yours—and they shall at once be returned into your hands,” said the nobleman. “But I conjure you to act not hastily nor rashly——”
“Fear nothing, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “but give me the papers! There is no time to lose—the ladies will be waiting for us at the breakfast-table——”
“True!” ejaculated the Earl: and, approaching that shelf at the back of which the secret recess was formed, he said, “Once every year have I inspected this well concealed depository: once every year have I assured myself that the precious documents were safe;—and on those occasions, I have cleansed them of the dust which even accumulates in a place that is almost hermetically sealed.”
As the Earl thus spoke, he took down from the shelf the books which stood immediately before the recess; and Mr. Hatfield, receiving the volumes in his hands, placed them upon the table. While performing this simple and almost mechanical act, his eyes were suddenly attracted to the name and date of one of the books;—and his looks were rivetted, as it were, on the words—“Annual Register, 1827.”
For the nature of the volume and the date of the year whose incidents it recorded, suddenly revived the poignancy of many bitter recollections, the sharpness of which had been somewhat blunted by time: and it was in a moment of strange nervousness—or idiosyncratic excitement, that he opened the book which thus had aroused those painful memories.
An ejaculation of horror—irrepressible horror—escaped his lips: for he had lighted on the very page which contained the account of his Execution at Horsemonger Lane:—and at the very same instant a cry of mingled amazement and alarm burst from the Earl of Ellingham.
“Oh! is this a mere accident?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “or a warning——”
“Merciful heaven—the papers!” ejaculated the nobleman.
“A warning that my son has seen this?” added the unhappy father, almost distracted with the idea.
“Some miscreant has done this!” cried the Earl, stamping his foot with rage: and it was seldom that he thus gave way to his passion.
The brothers turned towards each other—exchanging hasty glances of mutual and anxious enquiry.
“The papers are gone!” said the Earl, clasping his hands in despair.
“Gone!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, staggering as if struck by a sudden blow. “And this book—this book,” he faltered, in a faint tone, “was in the immediate vicinity of the recess! He who took the papers—might have read also—in that volume—the terrible account——”
Mr. Hatfield could say no more: overpowered by his feelings, he sank exhausted on the nearest seat.
The Earl glanced at the open page which his half-brother had indicated; and, observing the nature of the statement there recorded, he instantly comprehended the cause of Mr. Hatfield’s emotions, and also of the suspicions which had suddenly seized upon him.
“Yes—yes: this book has been read lately,” said Arthur, in an excited and hurried manner: “behold! the corners of the covers have been recently injured. Oh! my God! what does all this mean?”
It will be recollected that on the memorable night when Charles Hatfield pursued his successful researches in the library, he had hurled away from him, in his rage and almost maddening grief, the volume that made such strange—such appalling revelations: and the violence of the action had so far injured the book, as to bend and graze the corners of the binding,—the marks of the injury remaining clearly visible, and the white interior of the leather being laid bare, and thus proving how recently the work had been used.
“The book has been read very lately,” murmured Mr. Hatfield, in a musing tone; “and the papers have perhaps been stolen lately—-”
“Yes,” exclaimed the Earl: “for not a month has elapsed since I inspected that recess and found them safe.”
“Then who could have done this?” cried Mr. Hatfield, starting from his seat, in a sudden access of excitement which was accompanied by a return of moral and physical energy. “Oh! is it possible that Charles is the author of all that seems so mysterious? Has he searched for the records of my earlier life?—has he by accident discovered and purloined those papers—those fatal papers?”
“Yes—it must be he!” exclaimed the Earl: “for did you not tell me that he spoke of claims—and rights—and privileges unjustly withheld,—and that be has harped upon what he termed the unnatural conduct of his parents in concealing from him the secret of his birth? Thomas—my dear Thomas,” continued Lord Ellingham, speaking in a lower—more measured—and more impressive tone, “I can see it all! That young man has found out who you are: be has learnt that you are the rightful heir to the honours and estates which I enjoy;—and, believing himself to be your legitimate son—according to the assurance that you were forced, for your wife’s sake, to give him—the deluded, deceived Charles Hatfield fancies himself to be the lawful heir to the Earldom!”
“You have divined the truth, Arthur!” cried Mr. Hatfield, his heart wrung to its very core by all the maddening fears and torturing reflections which were thus suddenly excited within him. “Oh! what dreadful embarrassments—what frightful complications, will this misapprehension entail on my unhappy son—on you—on me—on all who are connected with us!”
“There is not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Lord Ellingham. “We must hasten after this infatuated young man——”
At that moment the door opened; and Clarence Villiers entered the library,—the Earl having requested him on the previous day to visit him at the hour when, true to the appointment, he thus made his appearance.
Villiers, perceiving at the first glance, that something unusual was agitating Lord Ellingham and Mr. Hatfield, was about to retire, when the Earl, beckoning him to advance, turned hastily round to his half-brother, and said in a hurried whisper, “We will entrust this matter to Villiers: he will conduct it with less excitement than you and I; and, as he knows your secret——”
“Yes:—but all he does know is that the Mr. Hatfield of to-day is identical with the Thomas Rainford of former times,” interrupted the Earl’s half-brother, also speaking in a low and hasty tone: “remember—he is unacquainted with aught of our family secrets—ignorant of the parentage of Charles——”
“Neither is it necessary that he should be made acquainted with all these facts,” interrupted Arthur:—“but leave the matter to me.” Then, turning towards Clarence, he said, “My dear Mr. Villiers, you come most opportunely to render us an important service. We have every reason to believe that Charles has formed an improper connexion with a young female of great beauty, residing with her mother in very handsome lodgings in Suffolk Street: we likewise conclude that he is there at this present moment. Hasten thither, my good friend—demand an immediate interview with Charles—and tell him that certain discoveries have been made at home, in which he is deeply interested. In a word, compel him to accompany you away from the designing women who have doubtless entangled him in their meshes——”
“Nay: let us not judge hastily,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “remember—I have heard nothing against the characters of these ladies; and it may be a virtuous and honest affection, after all, that renders Charles a visitor at their house. Let Mr. Villiers, then, act with circumspection—and behave with the strictest courtesy towards these ladies, should he encounter them.”
“Yes—but under any circumstances you must persuade Charles to return with you immediately to this house,” said the Earl. “Mr. Hatfield will acquaint you with the precise address of the lodgings in Suffolk Street——”
The Earl’s half-brother mentioned the number of the dwelling to which he had traced his son on the preceding evening;—adding, “The name of the ladies is Fitzhardinge—and I heard that the daughter bears the singular denomination of Perdita.”
“Perdita!” cried Villiers, starting violently. “Oh! if this be the case——unhappy, lost Charles Hatfield!”
“Good heavens! what mean you?” demanded the wretched father, rendered terribly anxious by those ominous words that fell on his ears like a death-knell.
“Two ladies—mother and daughter—dwelling together—and the girl named Perdita,” mused Clarence Villiers, not immediately heeding the earnest appeal of Mr. Hatfield: “yes—yes—it must be they!—my aunt—my wretched, wretched aunt who has returned from transportation—and her profligate but beauteous daughter!”
“Do you mean that Mrs. Slingsby who—years ago—you know to what I allude?” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a hurried tone, as he grasped Clarence violently by the wrist.
“Yes—I do mean that bad woman!” exclaimed Villiers, who had now become painfully excited in his turn: “and I regret—Oh! I regret to say that she has brought over to England her daughter, whom report mentions as an angel of beauty and a demon in profligacy——”
“My God! Mr. Villiers—save Charles—save my Charles from these incarnate fiends!” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Or I myself——”
And he was rushing to the door of the library, when the Earl held him back, saying, “No, Thomas—you must not go in this excited state: let Villiers take the affair in hand.”
Mr. Hatfield fell back into a seat, a prey to the most painful—the most agonising emotions; while Clarence hurriedly departed to execute the commission entrusted to him.
The Earl now addressed himself to the task of consoling his unfortunate brother-in-law;—and he had just succeeded in inducing Mr. Hatfield to assume as composed a demeanour as possible, preparatory to their joint appearance at the breakfast-table, when Clarence Villiers rushed into the room.
Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed since his departure;—and this speedy return, together with his agitated manner, raised new alarms in the breasts of the Earl and Mr. Hatfield.
“They are gone—fled—all three together!” cried Villiers, throwing himself exhausted on an ottoman, and panting for breath.
“Gone!” repeated the miserable father, surveying Clarence with eyes that stared wildly and unnaturally.
“Yes—gone!” said Villiers. “Ten minutes before I reached Suffolk Street, my aunt, her daughter, and Mr. Charles departed in a post-chaise, which had been sent for apparently in consequence of some sudden plan: for the people of the house were previously unacquainted with the intention of their lodgers thus to leave so abruptly.”
“But where was the chaise hired? and which road has it taken?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, now manifesting an energy and determination that proved his readiness to meet the emergency and adopt measures to pursue the fugitives.
“I sought for that information in vain,” returned Clarence Villiers. “It appears that my aunt herself went out to order the post-chaise; and that care was taken not to allow the people of the house any opportunity to converse with the post-boys. The rent and other liabilities were all duly paid; and the landlady of the lodgings accordingly makes no complaint of the women who have quitted her abode.”
“What course do you intend to adopt?” hastily demanded the Earl, turning to his half-brother.
“Order me your best horse to be saddled forthwith,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and I will proceed in pursuit of the runaways. ’Tis ten to one that I will obtain some trace of them. Perhaps Mr. Villiers will likewise mount horse, and take the northern road.”
“While I shall do the same, and pursue a westerly direction,” observed the Earl.
“Good: for it was my intention to choose the route towards Dover,” added Mr. Hatfield. “And now one word more, Arthur,” he continued, the moment Villiers had left the room to give the necessary orders respecting the horses: “as it is probable that we may recover and reclaim my self-willed son—and as, in that case, penitence on his part might induce you to forgive this absurd freak, so that the result may yet be favourable to our nearest and dearest wishes,—under all these circumstances, I say, suffer not Frances to learn aught disparaging to his character.”
“I understand you, Thomas,” exclaimed the Earl, wringing his half-brother’s hand in token of cordial assent to this proposition. “I will even speak as warily and cautiously as I may to my wife;—while, on your side——”
“Oh! I must tell every thing to Georgiana,” said Mr. Hatfield: “suspense and uncertainty would be intolerable to her. I shall now seek her for the purpose of making a hasty but most sad communication: and then away in pursuit of the ingrate!”
A quarter of an hour afterwards, the Earl of Ellingham, Mr. Hatfield, and Clarence Villiers—all three equipped for their journeys—repaired to the nobleman’s stables in the immediate vicinity of the mansion;—and thence they speedily issued forth, well mounted, and each taking a separate direction.
Upon breaking away from the presence of his father, in the manner already described, Charles Hatfield hurried to the house in Suffolk Street; and bursting into the room where Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita were seated at breakfast, he exclaimed, “I have at length thrown off all allegiance to my parents;—and I must now act wholly and solely for my own interests.”
“Not altogether for your own, Charles—dear Charles,” said Perdita, fixing upon him a plaintive and half-reproachful look, which made her appear ravishingly beautiful in his eyes.
“No—not altogether for myself will I act,” he cried, embracing her tenderly: “but for thee also, my angel—yes, for thee whom I love—adore—worship!”
“What has occurred this morning to render your lordship thus agitated?” enquired Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“Oh! a quarrel with my father,” exclaimed Charles, who, in the enthusiasm of his blind devotion to Perdita, had forgotten the old woman’s presence. “He has played the part of a spy upon me—he has followed me to your door—he knows that I visit you—and he will doubtless endeavour to cause a breach between us!”
“Let us depart hence—now—at a moment’s warning!” cried Perdita. “We have ample funds for the purpose. Last night a money-lender discounted your note, Charles: and I have the proceeds safe in my own keeping.”
“Fortune favours us, then!” said the infatuated young man. “Yes—we will depart without delay: we will hasten to some retired place where we can deliberate, fearless of interruption, on the course which it will now be necessary for me to pursue.”
“I will hasten to order a past-chaise,” observed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “This task had better be performed by myself—so that we may leave behind us no trace of the route we shall have taken.”
“Thanks—a thousand thanks, my dear madam!” cried Charles: then, when the old woman had left the room, he caught Perdita in his arms and pressing her fondly to his bosom, said, “My parents are resolved to force me into a marriage with Lady Frances Ellingham—they would separate me from you——”
“Oh! Charles—were such a destiny in store for me,” said Perdita, affecting to be melted to tears, “I should not be able to bear up against the misfortune. For on you are all my hopes now fixed,—to you have I given my heart—irrevocably given it;—and were you the veriest mendicant on the face of the earth, I would never cease to love you as now I love!”