“It was a fine summer morning, and the clock was striking eight just as Julia and little Harry were sitting down to breakfast, when the old housekeeper entered to inform her mistress that a woman by the name of Porter desired to speak to her without delay;—for you most remember that the housekeeper was entirely ignorant of the transaction which so nearly concerned Lady Caroline Jerningham, and to some extent involved Miss Murray, at least as an accessory, in the mysterious business. Mrs. Porter was instantly admitted into the parlour; and when she appeared, and the housekeeper had retired, Julia approached her in an agitated manner and with an enquiring look,—for it struck her that this visit—the first which the woman had ever paid to the house since that night when the infant was entrusted to her—augured something unpleasant. In her excitement she forgot the presence of her brother Harry—whom the woman herself likewise overlooked; and, to the anxious glance darted upon her, Mrs. Porter verbally replied by exclaiming, ‘Oh! Miss, the dear child has been suddenly taken dangerously ill!’—‘The child dangerously ill!’ repeated Julia, who had learnt to love the infant almost as much as if it were her own: ‘I will accompany you directly;’ and, hurrying from the room, she presently reappeared with her bonnet and shawl. Then, noticing Harry, it flashed to her mind that he had overheard what had been said: but a second thought told her that more harm would be done by attempting to explain away any impression that might have been made upon his mind, than by leaving the matter as it then stood;—and, having merely observed to him that she should return shortly, Julia hastened away in company with Mrs. Porter. Harry finished his breakfast, not thinking much of the few words which had caught his ears, but which he could not rightly understand; and, as it was holiday-time, he was about to repair to play in the garden at the back of the house, when a double knock at the front door made him hasten to the window. Perceiving that the visitor was the Marquis, he ran to give him admittance; and the nobleman entered the parlour. ‘Where is your sister, Harry?’ he asked, caressing the boy in a kind manner.—‘She is gone out, my lord,’ was the reply.—‘This early!’ exclaimed the Marquis; ‘and I had promised myself the pleasure of breakfasting with you both. The morning was so fine, and as I am a very early riser, I rode out as far as the turnpike, and have sent my horse back with the groom.’—The nobleman spoke this rather in a musing tone, than actually addressing himself to the boy; and, after a pause, he observed, ‘I suppose your sister will not be long?’—‘I do not know, my lord,’ answered Harry. ‘A woman came just as we were sitting down to breakfast, and Julia seemed much vexed at what she told her.’—‘I hope that nothing disagreeable has occurred?’ cried the Marquis, in a tone of alarm.—‘The woman, whose name is Porter, informed Julia that the child was dangerously ill,’ responded Harry; ‘and then they went away together.’—‘Oh! I understand,’ said the Marquis: ‘the child of some poor woman named Porter is unwell, and your sister has gone to see it.’—‘No, my lord, I don’t think the child is Mrs. Porter’s,’ returned Harry, ingenuously, and with boyish communicativeness; ’for I have often called at her cottage with Julia, and I have heard Mr. Porter say that his wife’s own baby died last winter.’—‘And Julia has often called there?’ exclaimed the Marquis, a horrible suspicion suddenly arising in his mind.—‘Very often indeed,’ answered Harry, totally unconscious of the tremendous amount of mischief he was occasioning. ‘When we have been out walking together, we have come round that way, and stopped at the cottage; and then I have waited in the kitchen with Mr. Porter, who used to give me cakes or marbles, while Julia went up stairs with Mrs. Porter.’—‘And did you ever see the child?’ asked the nobleman, assuming as much composure as he could possibly call to his aid.—‘No; Julia never told me a word about it.’—‘And how did you first hear of it?’—‘Just now, when Mrs. Porter rushed in and said that the child was ill’—‘And was Julia very, very sorry?’ demanded the Marquis.—‘Oh! yes, indeed!’ cried the boy, who saw nothing strange nor unusual in the nobleman’s tone or manner, and regarded this dialogue as mere chit-chat.—‘And whereabout is Mrs. Porter’s cottage?’ asked Wilmington, in whose bosom a perfect hell was now raging.—‘Shall I show your lordship the way?’ said Harry. The nobleman nodded his head affirmatively; and the little fellow hastened to fetch his cap. They then proceeded in silence until they came within sight of the cottage, which Harry pointed out.—‘You may now go home again,’ said the Marquis; and Harry obeyed the hint, still totally unsuspicious of the harm which his candid garrulity had accomplished.
“The nobleman, when thus left alone, could no longer restrain the emotions which agitated within him. Turning aside from the path leading towards the cottage, he rushed into the fields, exclaiming aloud, ‘Just heavens! on what an abyss was I hovering! But can such diabolical perfidy exist on the part of one so young? Oh! yes—it is too apparent; and my mother was right when she counselled me never to bestow my hand on a woman moving in a sphere beneath my own!’—Having thus given vent to his excited feelings, Wilmington grew more composed; and he now approached the cottage. The door stood open; and, entering without any ceremony, he saw a woman at the same instant descend from a staircase. ‘Is your name Porter?’ he enquired, speaking in as mild a tone as possible.—‘Yes, sir,’ she answered.—‘And it is here that a child who has been, as it were, abandoned by its unnatural mother, is lying dangerously ill?’ he said, fixing his eyes keenly upon the woman’s countenance.—‘Thank God, the dear innocent is better!’ exclaimed Mrs. Porter, taken completely off her guard, and even entertaining a suspicion that the gentleman himself might be the father of her nursling.—‘Now, confess every thing,’ cried the Marquis, ’or it will be the worse for you! Was it not Miss Murray who engaged your services——’.—‘No, sir: it was the surgeon who attended the lady in her confinement,’ interrupted Mrs. Porter, terrified by the stern tone which her querist had suddenly adopted; ’but it was at Miss Murray’s house——’.—‘Enough! enough!’ ejaculated. Wilmington; and he hurried away from the cottage.
“In the meantime Julia had returned home, having assured herself that the child was out of danger; and as she retraced her way by means of a bye-path, it happened that she did not encounter her brother and the marquis. But little Harry was light of foot; and he, having been dismissed by the nobleman in the way above stated, reached the front door at the same instant as his sister. She was surprised to find that he had been out—still more so when she learnt that Lord Wilmington had called so early. But a frightful sensation seized upon her, when Harry ingenuously observed that the nobleman had taken him to lead the way to the cottage. Subduing her emotions, however, as well as she could, she proceeded to question her brother; and in a short time she ascertained all that had passed between him and the Marquis. Each answer that he gave—each detail that he mentioned, increased the horrible fears which now oppressed her; and, at last—comprehending the full extent of her misfortune,—perceiving the nature of the suspicions which were sure to have seized upon her intended husband,—she uttered a piercing cry, pressed her hands in anguish to her throbbing brow, and exclaimed in a piercing tone, ‘Oh! Harry, Harry, you know not what you have done!’—The boy was frightened; and, darting towards his sister, he threw his arms around her neck, imploring her to forgive him if he had acted improperly. Even in the midst of her bitter, bitter anguish, she could not find it in her heart to continue angry with her little brother, who had not wantonly nor wickedly inflicted this appalling injury upon her; and, assuming an appearance of calmness, she became the consoler. In the depth of misery there is a crisis that makes even despair the immediate precursor of hope; and Julia began to reason to herself that all might not be so dark as she had feared. But while she was thus endeavouring to persuade her inmost soul to render itself accessible to consolation, a note was put into her hand by the housekeeper. She glanced at the address which was hurriedly—almost illegibly written, and the ink of which was scarcely dry,—so that she knew it had been penned somewhere in the neighbourhood. With trembling hands she tore it open; and her strength and mental energy sustained her sufficiently to permit the entire perusal of the letter. Its contents ran thus:—‘I have discovered your frailty, your guilt, your hypocrisy, just in time to save myself from an alliance which would have brought dishonour on my name, and heaped endless miseries on my head. I shall not attempt to reproach you at any length for your conduct towards me: my generous confidence has been met by the blackest duplicity—the most diabolical ingratitude; and your conscience will punish you more—oh! far more severely than any words that I may address to you. Neither shall I adopt the mean and petty revenge of exposing you: but if you ever dare to boast that you were once engaged to be married to the Marquis of Wilmington, then shall I consider that it would be a sin to spare you.’
“The letter dropped from Julia’s hand; and, with a wild shriek, she fell senseless on the floor. The housekeeper administered restoratives, while little Harry, who was himself a prey to the liveliest grief he had ever yet known, hurried to fetch the surgeon. It was the same medical man who had attended upon Lady Caroline Jerningham; and he was prompt in repairing to a house where his former services had been so liberally rewarded. Julia had somewhat recovered in the meantime; but he pronounced her to be in a dangerous state—and, indeed, she seemed quite unconscious of every thing that was passing around her. She was conveyed to her chamber,—medicine was prescribed,—and the surgeon recommended the housekeeper not to leave her mistress alone more than was absolutely necessary, inasmuch as he feared that her brain was affected. Little Harry was inconsolable at his sister’s illness—the more especially that he reproached himself with having been the cause of it all; though how he had done the harm he could not by any means understand. Seated by Julia’s bed-side, he fixed his tearful eyes on her pale countenance, as she slumbered uneasily; and when hours had passed, and evening came, and still she awoke not, he was afraid that she was dead. The housekeeper, however, assured him to the contrary; and then he bent softly over his sister, to whom the surgeon had administered an opiate, and gently kissed her lips. She murmured a name—it was his own name—and opened her eyes. Complete consciousness returned in a few minutes; and as she rapidly surveyed her misfortune and calculated its extent, she shuddered at the idea of even attempting to meet it with resignation. But for that little brother’s sake—the sake of him whom she had found bending over her, and whose name was the first that her lips breathed on her waking,—for his sake she nerved herself to wage war with the world once more. Though a word of explanation—the mere revelation of Lady Caroline’s secret would at once restore her to that position so full of hope which she had occupied in the morning,—still her generous heart would not allow her to betray her friend. No: she would sooner pine away and go down to an early grave, heart-broken and spirit-crushed, than proclaim to the Marquis the secret of his noble sister’s dishonour!
“It was about seven o’clock in the evening of this dreadful day that a hasty and impatient double-knock at the front door was heard; and a few moments afterwards Lady Caroline Jerningham was ushered into the chamber where Julia was lying. The moment she entered, the patient made a signal for the housekeeper and little Harry to withdraw; and when the two friends were alone together, a most affecting scene took place. It appeared that the marquis had that afternoon written a letter to his sister, of which the following were the enigmatical contents:—‘I am almost heart-broken, my dearest Caroline, and cannot see you at present. I shall retire into the country for a few weeks—perhaps months—to hide my grief from every eye, and endeavour to regain somewhat of that mental composure which has been almost completely wrecked this day. Julia is unworthy of my love and of your friendship: what the proof of this may be, ask not—seek not to learn;—but I charge you to visit her no more. Your afflicted brother,’ &c.—On the receipt of this note, Lady Caroline, who could not help suspecting that this suddenly wrought change in the sentiments of the Marquis arose from some fearful misunderstanding or some partial discovery respecting the child, had hastened, almost distracted and a prey to intolerable suspense, to Julia’s abode; and there she was shocked to find her generous-hearted friend stretched upon a bed of sickness. Embracing each other affectionately, they gave mutual explanations; and Lady Caroline perceived that her worst fears were confirmed. The Marquis had indeed made a discovery relative to the infant; but he was deceived with regard to its maternity. And now who can describe the admiration which Lady Caroline experienced for the character of her friend, when she learnt that the poor girl would rather lie under the dread suspicion of the Marquis—rather resign all her brilliant prospects, and see her heart’s fondest affections blighted,—rather, in fact, resign herself to immolation than betray her whose secret she deemed so sacred!
“‘No—no!’ exclaimed the fair patrician, throwing herself upon Julia’s bosom, and weeping plenteously; ’this may not be! Never can I permit you, noble-hearted girl, to endure infamy, reproach, and wretchedness for my sake! I will at once follow my brother into the country, throw myself at his feet, confess all, and bring him back to you!’—‘And then what will become of you, Caroline?’ asked Julia, mingling her tears with those of her friend.’—‘Oh! I shall retire from the world, and bury myself, with my innocent babe, in some solitude—in some far-off village, perhaps, where, under a feigned name, I may escape the world’s scorn for this fatal weakness which has caused so much misery!’—and, as she spoke, Lady Caroline’s voice indicated the most acute anguish of heart. ‘Unless,’ she added, her tone suddenly becoming hoarse and hollow, and her manner unnaturally subdued,—‘unless, indeed, my brother, in the first ebullition of his rage should stretch me dead at his feet; and that is the most probable result!’—‘Then, dearest Caroline,’ exclaimed Julia, speaking in a tone of mingled alarm and earnest entreaty, ‘for heaven’s sake renounce this mad project! Do not think of seeking your brother and thus exposing yourself to his rage. I owe you a deep, deep debt of gratitude; and now let me pay it by enduring that weight of suspicion against which I may haply bear up, but which would crush and overwhelm you. For never, never can I forget that when I appeared, full of terror and trembling, with the spoilt dress in your mother’s presence, your looks gave me encouragement, and your kind words reassured me. Then, when I was leaving your dwelling without the means of even procuring a loaf for my dear little brother and myself, you put gold into my hand. Oh! dear lady, these are manifestations of generosity which never can be forgotten; and, noble as you are by name, you are nobler in heart. It will be my joy—my pride to screen you, who have proved so kind a friend to me; and there is no sacrifice that I am unprepared to make in order to save you from unhappiness and shame!’—‘It is an angel that speaks!’ murmured Lady Caroline, overpowered by this generosity on the part of Julia Murray. ‘But nothing, nothing,’ she continued, with reviving energy, and after a few moments’ pause, ‘shall induce me to yield to your desire. I recognise all that is great and noble in your conduct; and so long as I remain possessed of intellect and memory, I shall pray night and morning for the Almighty to bless you, my dearest Julia. I have been frail, and I must bear the consequences. Seek not to wean me from this intention: I should never know a happy moment, were I to permit you to become the victim of my shame!’9—‘One word!’ exclaimed Miss Murray, after a minute’s profound reflection: ‘I will no longer urge you to act contrary to your heart’s dictates; but promise me that you will not take a single step towards revealing every thing to your brother and exculpating me, until four-and-twenty hours shall have elapsed. During that interval we shall both have time for serious and calm meditation; and no advantage will result from precipitate haste.’—‘Yes; I make you this promise, Julia,’ returned Lady Caroline; ‘on the condition that when we meet again to-morrow evening, it shall not be to argue whether I am to confess or not, but in what manner the confession can be most suitably and safely made.’—‘Agreed!’ cried Miss Murray: ‘and to-morrow evening, at seven o’clock, you will visit me again?’—‘I will,’ answered Lady Caroline Jerningham; and she then took her leave of her friend, whom she embraced with the warmth of the most sincere affection.
“On the following day, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, a letter, addressed to Lady Caroline Jerningham, was delivered at the mansion in Hanover Square by a porter, who hurried away the moment he had placed it in the servant’s hands. The contents of this note ran as follow:—‘Dearest Caroline, it is useless for you to call this evening at the house which I have occupied for so many months, and which was purchased by your excellent brother’s money. I shall no longer be the occupant of that house, when this note reaches you. My mind is made up to endure every thing for your sake; and I therefore this day withdraw myself, in company with Harry, into a retirement and an obscurity whither you cannot follow me. It will therefore be unnecessary and ridiculous—I may almost say wicked—for you to make any revelations to your brother. By sacrificing yourself, you would confer no benefit upon me; as nothing shall induce me to alter the plans I have formed respecting the future. Retain profoundly secret all those circumstances the confession of which can have no useful result; and think sometimes of me—for I shall often, often think of you, my well-beloved friend,—although we may never, never meet again!’—This letter, on which were the traces of weeping, produced a stupefying sensation on the part of Lady Caroline. Was it possible that Julia, in the zeal of her ardent friendship, had outwitted the fair patrician, and had won the generous game at which they were playing? No wonder that Miss Murray had requested Caroline to suspend all proceedings for twenty-four hours: in that time, the noble-hearted girl had consummated the sacrifice of herself! And now nothing could exceed the sincerity and the depth of that grief which seized upon the lady: for an hour after she received the note, she was as one demented; and her confidential maid experienced the utmost difficulty in restraining her from manifestations of feeling which would have excited the strangest suspicions in the household. At length, when she had grown comparatively calm, Lady Caroline, attended by her maid, repaired to Camden Town; but there they only beheld those appearances which corroborated the statements contained in Julia’s letter. For the house was shut up; and, on enquiry being made of a neighbour, it was ascertained that Miss Murray, her servant, and her little brother had taken their departure soon after mid-day, although, according to the same authority, the young milliner was evidently suffering from indisposition. The fair patrician’s last hope of seeing her friend and weaning her from her intention, was thus destroyed; and the poignancy of her grief was renewed. She proceeded to Mrs. Porter’s cottage, where she learnt that Julia had called in the morning to assure herself of the child’s convalescence and imprint upon its little countenance a farewell kiss. This touching instance of Julia’s goodness of heart moved Lady Caroline to tears; and she reproached herself bitterly for having been the cause of all her friend’s present sorrows.
“There, however, appeared to be a remedy which might yet be adopted; and to this measure did the lady make up her mind. She resolved, in fact, to write to her brother without delay, inform him of every thing, and urge him to lose no time in discovering the retreat of Julia, that justice—full and ample justice—might be done to her. Accordingly, on the following morning she penned a long letter to the Marquis of Wilmington, imploring him to forgive her for the dishonour she had brought upon the family, and drawing such a picture of Julia’s generosity in sacrificing herself for a friend, that she wept long and plentifully over the pages as she perused them. When this epistle had been despatched to the post, Caroline’s heart felt easier; and she said to herself, ‘Even if my brother should wreak the bitterest vengeance upon me, I can endure his resentment with resignation; for I now have the consciousness of performing a sacred and solemn duty.’—The Dowager-Marchioness, in the meantime, had been suffering through indisposition which confined her much to her chamber; and she did not therefore perceive any particular variations in the manner and aspect of her daughter.
“Two days after Lady Caroline Jerningham’s letter had been sent, the Marquis of Wilmington arrived in London; and, hastening to Hanover Square, he obtained an immediate interview with his sister. Pale, trembling, and unable to endure his glance, she awaited in torturing suspense the first words that should issue from his lips; and never was relief from agonising feelings more welcome or more complete, than when the Marquis, taking his sister’s hand, said in a gentle though mournful voice, ‘Caroline, I am not come to reproach you—much less to add to your afflictions by the heartless cruelty and absurd inutility of an exposure. No: I give you all my sympathy; and I thank you most sincerely for having confessed every thing, that you might restore your friend to my favour.’—Lady Caroline threw herself into her brother’s arms, and wept upon his breast; but when the emotions attendant upon this meeting had somewhat subsided, the Marquis said, ‘Heaven be thanked that Julia is innocent! Deeply, deeply as I deplore the sad circumstances involved in your revelation, Caroline, yet it is a relief to know that she—that poor, suffering, wrongly suspected girl—is worthy of all my love! And if I before loved her—if I before esteemed and admired her as the pattern of every thing great and noble, generous and amiable in Woman,—Oh! now what strength have those sentiments acquired! No time must be lost in finding her out; and this moment shall I enter upon the search.’—The Marquis then took a hasty leave of his sister, and in the first instance repaired to Mr. Richardson to consult him upon the subject. Without in any way compromising his sister, the Marquis related enough to let the worthy lawyer know that Julia had been unjustly suspected—that her innocence was completely established, and that he now longed to find out her retreat, with the view to make her the fullest possible reparation. Mr. Richardson then stated that three days previously a porter had called on him, bringing the key of the house at Camden Town, with an intimation that Miss Murray surrendered up the tenement to its proprietor, with all the furniture it contained,—in fact, in the same condition as when the property was made over to her. A tear stole into the eye of the Marquis, as he received this proof of Julia’s strict integrity; and Mr. Richardson advised that an advertisement, drawn up in a manner calculated to strike Miss Murray’s comprehension, but ambiguous to the public generally, should be kept standing in the Times and other widely circulated newspapers until her retreat should have been discovered. The Marquis approved of this plan; and, leaving his solicitor to execute it, he departed from the office to pursue his search elsewhere. He now proceeded to Camden Town, and (having the key with him) entered the house; but delicacy forbade him to penetrate into any other rooms save the parlours; and there he found not a letter nor a scrap of paper that might afford any clue to the place whither Julia had retired. His heart was heavy—his grief was profound; and frequent sighs rent his manly breast as he repaired to the cottage where the child—his sister’s child—dwelt under the care of Mrs. Porter. His strange manner on his previous visit did not obtain for him a very welcome reception at the hands of that female; but when she found that he spoke kindly and inquired anxiously concerning the infant, her reserve began to dissipate, and she at last thought him a very agreeable gentleman. The child was brought to him, and he kissed it affectionately. An allusion which Mrs. Porter happened to make to Miss Murray, enabled the Marquis to turn the conversation upon that loved being who seemed lost to him; and now he heard the warmest and sincerest praises uttered in regard to her; but not a syllable affording a trace of her present abode. In fact, it was very evident that Mrs. Porter was as ignorant as himself in that respect; and still was it with a heavy heart that the nobleman turned away to prosecute his search elsewhere.
“He had learnt from his sister that Julia, her little brother, and the old housekeeper had taken their departure together in a hackney-coach; and he concluded that the vehicle was hired from some stand in the neighbourhood. Behold, then, this rich and well-born peer visiting all the stations of cabs and coaches in the vicinity, and pursuing his enquiries amongst a class of men whom his liberality alone succeeded in divesting of their habitual insolence. But still all his endeavours to solve the painful mystery were fruitless; and, after a weary day’s researches, he returned home, exhausted in physical energy and worn down by mental depression, to his magnificent house in Belgrave Square. His reliance was now in the advertisements which were to be inserted in the newspapers; but even this hope was almost stifled within him by the reminiscence that Julia seldom read the public journals. Day after day passed—weeks glided by—these had swollen into months in the lapse of time—and winter returned;—but still no trace of Julia! In the interval, matters of importance had occurred in respect to Lady Caroline Jerningham. The child had died in a fit of convulsions, to which it was subject, and in spite of the tender care of Mrs. Porter and the attentions of the medical man: the remains of the infant were interred in the churchyard of Old Saint Pancras; and the Porters, who were well rewarded for their kindness to the child from the moment of its birth until that of its death, still remain in ignorance of the real name and the rank of its mother. Not many weeks after the removal from this earthly sphere of the evidence of Lady Caroline’s frailty, Lord Hartley returned home from abroad; and his first act, on arriving in London, was to hasten to Hanover Square. His heart had remained constant to Lady Caroline; and he now boldly claimed her hand of the Marchioness, who received him most graciously, there being, in the Dowager’s eyes, a vast deal of difference between the noble and wealthy Baron Hartley of Hartley, and the poor Lieutenant Quentin of His Majesty’s Ship The Tremendous. The Morning Post accordingly announced the ‘approaching marriage in high life;’ and the ceremony took place in November, 1835,—precisely one year after the date of the commencement of our tale.
“Thus Lady Caroline Jerningham became Lady Hartley: she was united to the object of her affection;—but her happiness was not complete. Every day—every hour did she think of poor Julia Murray; and her husband, to whom she had confided every thing, shared in her deep anxiety to obtain a clue to that excellent young woman. The Marquis of Wilmington had put into execution every means which human ingenuity could devise to procure that clue: but all to no effect; and he now gave himself up to despair. His health began to fail him; and his appearance speedily grew much altered. Vainly did his sister endeavour to console him: she also required solace, and almost in respect to the same cause,—for if the one mourned the loss of an intended bride, the other deplored that of a dear friend!
“I said that the incident of my tale had brought me down to the month of November, 1835; and it now becomes necessary to make some mention of Julia Murray. It was a night of pouring rain and gushing wind, as on that when she first encountered the Marquis of Wilmington; and the unhappy young woman was seated in a miserable garret in some street near Covent Garden Market. The cheerless chamber was almost completely denuded of furniture; and the little that was in it, belonged not to her. Not a spark of fire appeared in the hearth;—the cupboard door was opened, but no food was seen on the shelves;—and the candle that shed a fitful light around the bare, damp walls, was every moment in danger of being extinguished by the cold draught from the ill-closed window. Leaning her head upon her hand, and her elbow on the table, Julia sate, gazing down on the upturned countenance of her brother who occupied a stool at her feet. Pale and wan were their faces: gone was the bloom of health from the cheeks of the once happy, beauteous boy,—gone, too, was the delicate tinge of carnation that had been wont to enhance the loveliness of his sister. Misery was in that garret—misery for two—misery for that almost heart-broken young woman and that affectionate, grateful boy. The want of needle-work and illness had plunged Julia into the direst poverty: she could have borne it all had she been by herself—borne it almost without repining;—but when she looked on the pale face of her little brother, saw that he was famishing for want, and knew also that he endeavoured to conceal his hunger from her for fear of increasing her grief,—oh! it was this—it was this that crushed and overwhelmed her! She glanced around: there was not an article of clothing that could be now spared to pledge, save her scanty shawl—and then how could she go abroad to ask for needlework without it? Heavens! twelve hours had the boy already fasted—twenty-four hours had elapsed since Julia had tasted a morsel of food;—for she had almost forced the last crust into his mouth! And now how many hours more must elapse ere a chance might present itself to afford them a meal? And if no work could be obtained, what were they to do? What, indeed!
“In the midst of all these bitter—harrowing reflections, a thought—or rather a reminiscence flashed to Julia’s mind;—but it was only to plunge her more deeply into the abyss of woe, and not to solace her. Just one year had elapsed since she had first met the Marquis of Wilmington,—just one year, day for day: and through how many vicissitudes had she and her darling brother passed in that period! They had known prosperity and happiness: they had also experienced the bitterest misery, and yet they had not deserved the vengeance of heaven: but, then, those whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth! Still pure and guileless—still innocent and artless, Julia Murray’s principles had remained unshaken by the rude contest which she had been compelled to endure with the world’s ills; and her brother was still the same affectionate, good, endearing boy as when I first introduced you to him. Oh! it was cruel—it was cruel that they should suffer thus—those poor orphans who had never injured a living soul, who clung to each other so tenderly, and who night and morning put up their prayers to the Almighty that He would be pleased to change their wretched, wretched lot. But, alas! those supplications—so sincere, so earnest, so respectful and adoring towards the Majesty of Heaven—remained apparently unheard; and on the particular night to which allusion has been made, do we find that sister and brother on the verge of perishing through sheer destitution!
“‘Harry,’ said Julia, after a long pause, ‘are you not very hungry?’—‘Not very, dear sister,’ he returned, while tears started into his eyes.—‘Oh! my darling boy, you are starving!’ she cried frantically, as she strained him to her breast: then, growing more composed, she said, ‘But this must not be! Here, Harry, take this shawl over to that shop which you see opposite, give it to any one whom you may see behind the counter, and you will receive some money and a small card in exchange. Then go to the baker’s and buy a loaf; and return as quickly as you can.’—The boy hesitated; and at length said, ‘But, Julia dear, what will you do without your shawl? You cannot go out.’—‘And you cannot starve,’ she returned hastily; as she almost thrust him, but not harshly, out of the room. Then, when the door closed behind him, she reseated herself, and burst into an agony of tears. It was the first time she had ever sent Harry to the pawnbroker—the first time she had ever allowed him to go out into the streets alone after dusk. And this was not all that pained her: Oh! she was oppressed with the most direful apprehensions—for now she was indeed a prisoner in that wretched garret—she could not go out to seek for work, and work would not be brought to her. And again, and again, and again—for the thousandth time that day—did she ask herself what was to be done, and what was to become of them? While she was wrapt up in these harrowing reflections, she heard certain well-known—too well-known steps ascending the stairs; and now she felt that even the crushing amount of misery which already weighed upon her, was not complete. The door was thrown open; and a stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had evidently been drinking, walked unceremoniously into the chamber. ‘Now, Miss,’ she cried, almost ferociously, ‘are you going to pay me the three weeks’ rent that’s due? If not, be so kind as to tramp, and make room for them as will pay; ‘cos I’ve a respectable married couple which is ready to take the place this very night.’—‘If you will wait a few minutes,’ answered Julia, in a faint tone, ‘I will pay you as much as I can.’—‘Come, that won’t do for me,’ vociferated the woman: ‘I see your brother go out with your shawl, and I know what’s what. But if you’re obliged to spout your things to pay a trifle this week, how will you be able to pay any at all next Saturday, much less cash up altogether?’—‘Heavens! have patience, my dear madam, and I will endeavour to pay you all, as soon as possible!’ said the poor young woman, reduced to despair.—‘Patience, indeed!’ repeated the landlady, contemptuously: ‘and who will have patience with me? There is the Taxes will call on Monday morning; and the Water Rate has been put off till he’s tired of coming near the place. So I can’t and won’t wait no longer for such a beggar as you.’—At this goading insolence Julia’s grief redoubled.—‘Oh! crying won’t pay no bills,’ ejaculated the inhuman landlady. ‘And now I think on it, I’ll just look at the bed-clothes and see that you haven’t pawned none of the blankets!’—‘I would sooner starve—aye, and see my brother perish through want also, than commit such an act!’ cried Julia, starting to her feet, while her indignation actually tended to mitigate the acuteness of her grief. ‘Well, I ’spose you’re honest,’ said the woman, somewhat ashamed of herself: ‘but I must have my money to-night all the same; if not, you and your brother had better turn out at once.’—‘I repeat that it is impossible for me to pay you all I owe this evening,’ exclaimed poor Julia, now condescending to the adoption of a tone of appeal; ‘and I implore you not to drive me and that dear boy homeless into the streets.’—‘A pretty gal like you need never want money,’ said the woman, fixing a meaning look upon the unhappy dress-maker; ‘and if you would only take my advice——.’—‘Begone,’ cried Julia in a voice so penetrating that it seemed to thrill through the brain of the vile wretch who was about to develope the most infamous resources to the view of that pure-minded girl—‘Begone, indeed!’ repeated the woman, recovering her insolence: ‘that’s a pretty thing to say to me, that you owe money to. However, once more I tell you that I will be paid to-night; or else, when my husband comes home from the public-house, off you’ll bundle!’—Thus speaking, the wretch bounced out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind her.
“Julia wrung her hands in despair; and again she asked herself those unanswerable questions—What would become of them? and what was to be done? At this moment, when her brain appeared to reel and reason was rocking on its throne, the sounds of hasty steps ascending the stairs met her ear, and she heard Harry’s voice exclaim, ‘Up higher still—to the very top!’ And up those hasty footsteps came:—good heavens! were fresh miseries in store for her? But scarcely had this thought traversed poor Julia’s imagination, when some one darted into the room—and as she was sinking on the floor, through terror, want, and exhaustion, she was received in the arms of the Marquis of Wilmington!—‘Julia, dearest Julia!’ he cried, in an impassioned tone, as he strained the insensible form of his beloved one to his breast: and that voice, sounding on her ear as if heard in the midst of a dream, recalled her to herself;—and opening her eyes slowly, she encountered the tender looks that were bent upon her.—‘Is it possible!’ she exclaimed, tearing herself from the nobleman’s embrace: ‘your lordship here?’—‘Yes: here to implore your pardon for the past; to declare to you how profound is the regret and how bitter the remorse I have experienced for the unfeeling haste with which I judged you on the barest suspicion; and to offer you my hand, Julia,’ added the Marquis, ‘if you will now condescend to accept it!’—But I need not pause to describe in detail the discourse which now ensued: suffice it to say that the nobleman gave the fullest explanation of all that had occurred since he had last seen Julia—how his sister had confessed her frailty, and thus cleared up the suspicion which had so unfortunately fallen upon Julia—how the child had died—how Lady Caroline had married Lord Hartley—and how every possible search had been made for so many long, weary months, after Miss Murray. It must be added that the Marquis, in his almost ceaseless wanderings about the metropolis in the prosecution of that search, happened on this memorable evening to pass through the very neighbourhood where Julia resided; and as Harry emerged from the pawnbroker’s shop, the light flashed full upon the little fellow’s countenance, which, in spite of its altered appearance, was immediately recognised by the Marquis.
“But little more remains to be told. A messenger was instantly despatched to Hartley House with a note from Lord Wilmington; and in less than an hour his sister Caroline, accompanied by her faithful lady’s maid, who had charge of a box full of clothes, arrived in her carriage at the door of the house where Julia occupied the miserable garret! Affecting indeed was the meeting between the two friends; and while the Marquis took Harry away with him to the nearest ready-made clothes’ shop to equip the boy from head to foot in new apparel, Lady Hartley hastily made such a change in Julia’s appearance, by means of the contents of the box before alluded to, that when his lordship returned he was charmed to see that, though pale, she was still eminently beautiful. In the meantime the rumour had spread throughout the house how a great nobleman and a great lady had come to take the poor dress-maker away in their carriage; and now the vile woman who only an hour before had menaced Julia with ejectment—who had insulted her by offering to search the few miserable things in the room to see if any had been made away with—and who had hinted at an infamous proposal from which the young creature’s soul recoiled in horror and loathing,—that same detestable wretch was now most assiduous in offering the use of her parlour and rendering herself so officiously busy, that Lady Hartley was forced to order her in a peremptory manner to retire. In fine, all necessary preparations being made so that Julia and her brother might appear in a becoming way at the splendid mansion whither they were now about to repair, the happy party entered the carriage, which drove straight to Hartley House, where Caroline’s husband received Julia and Harry in the kindest possible manner.
“Thus was the aspect of affairs signally changed; and from the cold, cheerless garret, where want stared them in the face, were the sister and brother suddenly wafted into the very bosom of luxury, comfort, and happiness. Virtue met with its reward, after the many trials to which it had been subjected, and the numerous temptations it had triumphantly passed through. Mr. Richardson, the lawyer, was overjoyed when the Marquis called upon him next morning and related all that had happened; and the instant his lordship had taken his departure, the worthy solicitor hastened to Hanover Square, resolved, if possible, to accomplish a certain project which he had in view. Presenting himself to the Dowager-Marchioness, he argued with her upon the inutility and injustice, the folly and the cruelty of her opposition to an alliance which so nearly regarded her son’s happiness; and he dilated so warmly upon the good qualities of Julia Murray, that her ladyship, who had at first heard him with impatience, began to listen attentively. In a word, Mr. Richardson succeeded in persuading the Marchioness to have the credit of assenting to an union which she had not the power to prevent; and the policy of this step at last triumphed over her other repugnances. She accordingly rang the bell, ordered the carriage, and proceeded with the lawyer to Hartley House, where her presence augmented the happiness already experienced beneath that roof. Thus nothing was now wanting to complete the felicity of all those in whom, I hope, you are interested; and it was astonishing how speedily the bloom came back to the countenance of Julia, and the ruddy hues of health to the cheeks of little Harry.
“Six weeks after the discovery of the orphans in their wretched garret, Julia became the Marchioness of Wilmington. Happy—happy was that bridal, and beautiful was the blushing bride—so beautiful that a stranger would not have suspected the privations and miseries which she had undergone. And, as if heaven, in its justice, were determined to afford a signal proof that though it can chasten, it can also reward as fully—from the day that this union took place, Julia and her brother have not known a care. Possessing the power to do good, the Marchioness of Wilmington has been enabled to soothe many an afflicted heart; and her experience of the past has taught her that the severest misery is that which pines unseen and hides itself in garrets—not that which obtrudes itself, in the shape of mendicity, upon the public eye. Her secret charities are therefore boundless; and the elevation of such a woman to rank and the possession of immense wealth, has proved beneficial to thousands. I must not forget to observe that the housekeeper who had accompanied her on her departure from Camden Town, and who had subsequently returned home, at Julia’s request, to her friends, once more became an attendant in the household of the mistress whom she loved; and every one who had in any way shown kindness to my heroine when she was but the humble dress-maker, was sought out and liberally rewarded, by her whose heart had undergone no change although she had become the Marchioness of Wilmington.”
It must not be supposed that this long tale was related without an interval of rest. When it broke off at the end of the hundred and forty-second chapter, the travellers were just on the point of entering Rochester, where they lunched; and, after this brief halt, they pursued their journey, Charles resuming the thread of his narrative, to which Perdita listened with deep interest.
The young woman experienced an ineffable pleasure in drinking in with her ears the rich tones of her lover’s voice; and the pathetic nature of his story increased the tenderness which she felt for him. She, who had defied the influence of the blind deity, was wounded by his shaft; and the more she saw of Charles Hatfield, the less selfish became her passion—the more sincere her attachment.
Mrs. Fitzhardinge read, with a keen eye, all that was passing in her daughter’s mind; and there were moments when she could scarcely restrain her rage at the idea that Perdita had succeeded so skilfully in throwing her into the back-ground. But the old woman resolved to abide her time—in the hope that circumstances might yet enable her to resume her sway, and compel the enamoured couple to bend to the dictates of her will.
The journey was pursued in safety, and in freedom from any unpleasant interruption, until the post-chaise entered the town of Dover. Then the travellers were to pass the night; and thence they were to embark on the ensuing morning for Calais.
They took up their quarters at an hotel, where an excellent dinner was provided; and in the evening Charles Hatfield and Perdita rambled together upon the beach, Mrs. Fitzhardinge remaining at the inn on the plea of fatigue, but in reality because her daughter made her a private sign to intimate that her company was not needed.
It was a summer evening of surpassing loveliness: the sea was calm and tranquil in its mighty bed, agitated only at its margin when wavelets, so small that they might almost be denominated ripples, murmured on the beach;—and the western horizon was gorgeous with purple, and orange, and gold—the swathing robes of the setting sun.
There were many ladies and gentlemen walking on the Marine Parade, and enjoying the freshness of the air after the oppressive heat of the sultry day. Amongst the loungers, several officers belonging to the garrison were conspicuous by their scarlet coats; and giddy, silly young ladies of sixteen or seventeen felt themselves supremely happy if they could only secure the attentions of these military beaux.
Here and there were long seats, painted green, and occupied by ladies, their male companions standing in lounging attitudes; and the conversation that occupied these groups was for the most part of a frivolous nature,—for people at watering places only seek to kill time, and not to use it for intellectual purposes.
On one of the benches just alluded to, was placed a middle-aged mamma with her three marriageable daughters, who were pretty, chatty, agreeable girls, according to the general meaning of the epithets: at all events, whenever Mrs. Matson appeared on the Parade with the three Misses Matson, the officers were sure to steal away from other groups or parties in order to join the new-comers—to the immense gratification of the objects of this preference, and to the huge mortification of the Jones’s, the Smiths, the Jenkins, the Greens, and the Browns.
“Were you at Lady Noakes’s last evening, Captain Phinnikin?” enquired the eldest Miss Matson of a gallant officer of some four or five and twenty, who was lounging near her.
“No—not I, faith!” was the reply given in a drawling tone, as if the gallant officer aforesaid were a martyr to that dreadful malady termed ennui. “Lady Noakes’s parties are such slow affairs—I have quite abjured them. Besides,” he added, suddenly recollecting that this was an excellent opportunity to throw in a compliment, “I knew you weren’t to be there.”
“Oh! dear, no!” exclaimed Miss Julia Matson—the second of the marriageable sisters: “one does meet such strange people at her ladyship’s, that we really could not think of accepting the invitation.”
“Well, but you must recollect, my dear,” observed Mrs. Matson, in a tone which seemed to be of mild reproof, “that poor dear Lady Noakes is only the widow of a brewer who was mayor of Deal or Sandwich, I forget which, and was knighted by William the Fourth for taking up some address to his Majesty.”
“That’s all!” said Miss Anna-Maria Matson, the third sister: “and therefore I am sure no one need be surprised that Lady Noakes is glad to fill her rooms with any body she can get.”
“Well, I was there last night,” observed another young officer—a lieutenant in the same regiment with Captain Phinnikin, and who formed one of the group at present occupying our attention: “and I must say that the supper was excellent.”
“Oh! but, Mr. Pink,” exclaimed the eldest Miss Matson, reproachfully, “it is so very easy to give a good supper—but not so easy to make the evening agreeable.”
“Granted!” rejoined the lieutenant: “and I must candidly admit that no parties are so agreeable as those at your house.”
“Flatterer!” cried Miss Matson, with a sweet smile. “I suppose the Browns were at her ladyship’s last night.”
“Oh! certainly. You meet them every where.”
“And, faith! Miss Amelia Brown is a deuced pleasant girl—deuced pleasant,” observed Captain Phinnikin.
“Well, I really never could see any thing particular in her,” said the eldest Miss Matson. “Besides—you know what her grandfather is?” she added, sinking her voice to a confidential tone, and hastily glancing around to assure herself that the object of her remark was not nigh enough to overhear her.
“’Pon my honour, I never heard!” responded Captain Phinnikin.
“They do say—but mind, I will not assert it on my own authority,” continued Miss Matson,—“at the same time, I believe it is pretty well ascertained——”
“Oh! certainly—beyond all doubt,” exclaimed Miss Julia, tossing her head contemptuously.