“You have lost no time in settling yourself thus far, at all events,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “But proceed: you have more yet to explain to me.”
“Only to observe that your aid is now required, mother, to help me to that brilliant position which I am determined to reach, and the attainment of which will render us independent for the remainder of our days.”
“My aid and assistance you shall have, Laura—aye, and effectually too,” returned the old woman, with difficulty concealing the joy and triumph which she experienced on finding herself thus again appealed to as a means to work out a grand design: “but a fortnight’s delay will not prejudice your scheme. You will not lose one particle of your beauty in that time: on the contrary, you will recover your wonted hues of health—for your cheeks are somewhat pale this evening, and there is a blueish tint around your eyes. Doubtless,” she added, with a slightly malicious grin, “Charles Hatfield was a husband to you in everything save the indissoluble bonds!”
“No,” replied Laura, with an effrontery so cool, so complete, that, had the old woman been questioning her daughter on suspicion only, and not on a verified certainty, she would have been satisfied with that laconic, but emphatic negative.
“Ah! then your maudlin sentimentalism did not render you altogether pliant and docile to the impetuous passions of that handsome young man?” she observed.
“Believing that we were to be married,” answered Laura, “I necessarily refrained from compromising myself in his estimation. But wherefore these questions, mother?”—and again the fine large eyes of the young woman were fixed searchingly on Mrs. Mortimer’s countenance.
“I had no particular motive in putting those queries,” was the response, apparently delivered off hand, but in reality well weighed and measured, as was every word that the artful old creature uttered upon this occasion. “I was merely curious to learn whether your prudence or your naturally voluptuous temperament had prevailed in the strong wrestle that must have taken place between those feelings, while you were travelling and dwelling alone with a handsome young man whom you almost adored.”
“Not quite alone, mother,” exclaimed Laura, impatiently. “Rosalie was with us.”
“Oh! the French lady’s maid, who is so shrewd in disposition, and who manifests such an admirable capacity for intrigue!” cried the old woman, unable to resist the opportunity of bantering her daughter a little, in revenge for the cool insults which she herself had received at the hands of that daughter during the last few days of their sojourn in England.
“Mother, have you sought me out only to revive a certain bitterness of feeling which you so recently studied to provoke between us!” demanded Laura, her countenance flushing with indignation; and when she had ceased speaking, she bit her under-lip with her pearly teeth.
“No, no: we will not dispute,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “But you must admit that I warned you not to dream of marriage with that Charles Hatfield; and, had you followed my advice, and stayed in London, you might have retained him as a lover——”
“Let us not talk of the past,” interrupted Laura, with an imperiousness of manner which warned her mother not to provoke her farther. “The present is assured, and we are at least independent; but the future is before us—and there is the sphere in which my hopes are soaring.”
“To return, then, to the point whence I ere now diverged,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, “I will repeat my assertion that one fortnight’s delay will not mar your plans. On the contrary, you will obtain physical rest after the fatigues of travelling, and mental composure after the excitement of recent occurrences. Your charms will be enhanced, and you will thereby become the more irresistible. This fortnight’s interval I require for my own purposes, as just now explained to you; and, whatever be the result of my search after Torrens, I pledge myself that, if alive and in health, I will return to you in the evening of the fourteenth day from the present date.”
“Agreed!” exclaimed Laura. “You purpose, therefore, to retrace your way to London!”
“Such is my intention. A night’s rest will be sufficient to recruit my strength,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and to-morrow morning I shall depart.”
“Now let us thoroughly understand each other, and in no way act without a previous constitution and agreement,” said Laura. “You are about to return to the English metropolis, and it may happen that you will encounter Charles Hatfield. It is my wish that you avoid him—that you do not appear even to notice him; and, for the same reasons which urge me to give you this recommendation, I must request that you attempt no extortion with his father—that you will not seek to render available or profitable the knowledge you possess of the private affairs of that family. Were you to act contrary to my wishes in this respect, you would only mar the projects which I have formed to ensure the eventual gratification of my vengeance.”
“I have listened to you with attention,” said the old woman, “because I would not irritate you by interruption. The counsel you have given me was, however, quite unnecessary. My sole object in visiting London is connected with Torrens; and were I to behold Charles Hatfield at a distance, I should avoid him rather than throw myself in his way. His father I know not even by sight. Besides, according to the tacit understanding which appeared to establish itself between you and me just now, we are mutually to forbear from interfering in each other’s special affairs; and on this basis, good feelings will permanently exist between us. On my return to Paris, fourteen days hence, I shall devote myself to the object which you have in view; and rest assured that, ere long, some wealthy, amorous, and docile nobleman—English or French, no matter which—shall be languishing at your feet.”
“Yes—it is for you to find out the individual to be enchained; and it will then be for me to enchain him,” cried Laura, her countenance lighting up with the glow of anticipated triumph.
The mother and daughter thus made their arrangements, and settled their plans in an amicable fashion; and the former, after passing the night at the handsome lodgings which Laura occupied, set out in the morning on her journey back to London.
We must here pause, for a brief space, to explain the sentiments and motives that respectively influenced these designing women during the lengthy discourse above recorded.
We have already stated, that even before Mrs. Mortimer found herself in the presence of her daughter, her suspicions and her curiosity were excited by two or three mysterious though trivial incidents that occurred; and she had not been many minutes in Laura’s company, before she acquired the certainty that the young woman intended to conceal the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield. Mrs. Mortimer at first fancied that this desire arose from shame on the part of Laura, whose pride might naturally revolt from the idea of avowing that, in her eagerness to secure the hand of a nobleman, she had only linked herself indissolubly to a simple commoner, of illegitimate birth, and entirely dependent on his father. But, as the conversation embraced ampler details, and exhibited views more positive and minute, Mrs. Mortimer perceived that Laura was not influenced by wounded pride and shame only in concealing the fact of her marriage; but that, as she contemplated another matrimonial alliance, as soon as an opportunity for an eligible match should present itself she was unwilling to allow her mother to attain the knowledge of a secret that would place her so completely in that mother’s power.
And Mrs. Mortimer had accurately read the thoughts and motives that were uppermost in Laura’s mind. For, imagining from the observations made, and the questions put by her mother, that the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield was indeed unknown to the old woman, she resolved to cherish so important—so precious a secret. Well aware of the despotic character and arbitrary disposition of her parent, Laura chose to place herself as little as possible at the mercy of one who sought to rule with a rod of iron, and who was unscrupulous and resolute to a degree in adopting any means that might establish her sway over those whom she aspired to controul.
“No—no,” thought Laura within herself: “my secret is safe—I am well assured of that;—and my mother shall not penetrate it! The lips of Rosalie, who alone could reveal it to her now, are sealed by rich bribes. For such a secret in my mother’s keeping would reduce me to the condition of her slave! I should not dare to contract another marriage; because her exigences would be backed by a menace of exposure, and a prosecution for bigamy: and by means of the terrorism which she would thus exercise over me, I should become a mere puppet in her hands—not daring to assert a will of my own!”
On the other hand, Mrs. Mortimer’s thoughts ran thus:—“Laura believes me to be ignorant of her marriage, and my dissimulation shall confirm her in that belief. Yes—I will act so as to lull her into complete security on this point. It would be of no use to me now to proclaim my knowledge of the fact that the marriage has taken place; because, at present, she requires my services, and will be civil and courteous to me of her own accord. But when once I shall have helped her to a wealthy and titled husband, and when my aid shall no longer be required, then she will re-assert her sway and attempt to thrust me aside as a mere cypher! But she shall find herself mistaken; and the secret that I thus treasure up must prove the talisman to give me despotic controul over herself, her husband, her household,—aye, and her purse! Yes—yes: she may marry now, without any opposition from me. For, whereas in the former case her marriage would indeed have reduced me to the condition of a miserable dependant, a new alliance will invest me with the power of a despot. Ah! daughter—daughter, you have at length over-reached yourself.”
And such was indeed the case; for so well did Mrs. Mortimer play her part of deep dissimulation, that Laura felt convinced her secret was safe, and that the circumstance of her marriage was totally unsuspected. And it was as much to confirm the young woman in this belief, as for the purpose of slyly bantering her, that the mother questioned her as to the point to which her connexion with Charles Hatfield had reached, and astutely placed in juxta-position her daughter’s prudence on the one hand, and voluptuousness of temperament on the other. Thus Laura was completely duped, while secretly triumphing in the belief that it was her parent who was deceived!
We must, however, observe, that the two women, under present circumstances, felt dependent on each other in many and important respects; and this mutual necessity rendered them easy to come to terms and settle their affairs upon an amicable basis.
On the one hand, Mrs. Mortimer relied upon her daughter for pecuniary supplies; and this very circumstance prompted her to undertake the journey to London in the hope of finding Torrens, and extorting from him the treasure of which, as she believed, he had plundered Percival. The possession of a few thousands of pounds, added to her knowledge of Laura’s secret, would place her in a condition of complete independence; and that independence she would labour hard to achieve for herself. But she might fail—and then she would again be compelled to fall back on the resources of her daughter. Thus, for the present at least, she was in a state of dependence—and it was by no means certain that her visit to London would change her condition in this respect.
On the other hand, Laura was dependent on her mother for aid in carrying out her ambitious views. Ignorant of the French language as she was, she could not hope to succeed by herself alone; and, in intrigues which required so much delicacy of management, she could not rely solely on a lady’s-maid. The assistance of her mother was therefore necessary; for she reflected that the astute old woman who had succeeded in inducing Charles Hatfield to accompany her to the lodgings in Suffolk-street, could not fall to lead some wealthy and amorous noble within the influence of her daughter’s syren-charms in the Rue Monthabor.
We have now explained the exact position in which these two designing women were placed with regard to each other; and we must request our readers to bear in mind all the observations which we have just recorded, inasmuch as they afford a clue to the motives of many transactions to be hereafter narrated.
For the history of Laura is, as it were, only just commenced; and the most startling, exciting, and surprising incidents of her career have yet to be told.
She was a woman of whom it may be well said, “We ne’er shall look upon her like again!”
But the delineation of such a character as this Perdita—or Laura, as we are henceforth to call her—has the advantage of throwing into glorious contrast the virtues, amenities, and endearing qualities of woman generally,—inasmuch as she is a grand and almost unique exception, proving the rule which asserts the excellent qualities of her sex.
It was about five o’clock in the evening of the second day after the incidents just related, that the Earl of Ellingham received a note, the address of which was written in a feigned hand, and with the word “private” marked in the corner.
The messenger, who left it at the mansion in Pall-mall, had departed immediately his errand was discharged, and without waiting for any reply.
Lord Ellingham happened to be alone in the library when the missive was placed in his hands, and on opening it he recognised the writing of his half-brother; for the address only was disguised—a precaution adopted in case the letter should be observed by the ladies before it reached the hands of the earl.
The contents convoyed a brief intimation that Mr. Hatfield had returned to London with his son, and that they had put up temporarily at the Trafalgar Hotel, Spring-gardens, where the presence of the nobleman was anxiously expected.
Thither the earl accordingly repaired, and a waiter conducted him to an apartment, in which he was received by his half-brother alone—the father having deemed it prudent that the son should not be present while the necessary explanations were being given.
The meeting between the nobleman and Mr. Hatfield was cordial, and even affectionate: how different from that of the mother and daughter in Paris, as described in the preceding chapter!
“You have recovered your son, Thomas,” said the earl; “and under any circumstances I congratulate you. The fact that he has returned to London with you convinces me that the paternal authority is once more recognised.”
“Yes—he is here—in an adjacent room, Arthur,” replied Mr. Hatfield. “I thought it prudent, for many reasons, to send for you privately, and consult you before I ventured to take him back to his mother’s presence. Indeed I know not, after all that has occurred, whether you will permit him to cross your threshold again—whether you can ever forgive him.”
“He is your son, Thomas, and that is sufficient,” interrupted the generous, noble-hearted earl. “Whatever he may have done, I promise to pardon him: however gravely he may have erred, I will yield him my forgiveness. Nay, more—I will undertake to promise the same for my wife, who you know is not a woman that harbours rancour.”
“The amiable, the excellent Esther! Oh! no, no—she would not refuse pardon or sympathy to a living soul!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “And you, my generous brother—my never-failing friend—how can I sufficiently thank you for these assurances which you give me, and which so materially tend to lighten the sorrow that weighs upon my heart! I have suffered and undergone much during the few days of my absence from London.”
“But you have recovered your son,” hastily interrupted the earl, pressing his half-brother’s hand with a fervour that was indeed consolatory; “and I am sure that, although his errors may have been great, he has not committed any thing dishonourable. He may have been self-willed—rebellious against the paternal authority—ungrateful—unmindful of those who wish him well; he may have yielded himself up to the wiles of an infamous woman——”
“All that has he assuredly done, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a melancholy tone; “and more still! For, as you yourself suspected on that day when we made so many distressing discoveries in the library, he found out who I was—who I am,—he believed himself to be my legitimate son—he even raised money by the name of Viscount Marston—he dared to contemplate measures to force me to assume your title, and claim your estates; and he would have sacrificed you—me—his mother—the countess—aye, and the amiable, excellent Frances—he would have sacrificed us all,” added Mr. Hatfield, profoundly excited, “to his inordinate ambition! Now, my dear Arthur,” he asked, in a milder and more measured tone—“now, can you forgive my son all this?”
“Yes—and more—ten thousand times more!” ejaculated the earl, emphatically. “Had he possessed the right to accomplish all he devised—aye, had he carried out his designs to the very end—even then, Thomas, would I have forgiven him for your sake.”
“It is a god—an angel who speaks thus; and not a mere human being!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, embracing his half-brother with an enthusiasm and a fervour amounting almost to a worship. “Oh! why are not all men like you?—the world would then know not animosity, nor rancour, nor strife; and earth would be heaven!”
“Thomas, Thomas,” cried the earl, reproachfully, “attach not too much importance to a feeling on my part which you yourself would show under similar circumstances! But let us speak of your son. He has erred, and you have forgiven him—you, his father, who are the most deeply wounded by his temporary ingratitude, have pardoned him and taken him again to your heart. Shall not I, then, who look upon him in the light of a nephew—shall not I, an uncle, forgive and forget what a father can pardon and obliterate from his memory? Yes—and I will even find extenuating circumstances in his favour: I will search out and conjure up excuses for him! Endowed with an enthusiastic disposition—an ardent longing to render himself conspicuous in the world—a fervid craving to earn distinction and acquire a proud name,—he paused not to reflect whether it were well to shine with an adventitious lustre, or to win for himself and by himself the glory that should encircle his brow. The splendid career of the Prince of Montoni dazzled—nay, almost blinded him; and while he contemplated the eminence on which that illustrious personage stands, he forgot that his Royal Highness obtained not rank and power by hereditary right, but by his great deeds, his steady perseverance in the course of rectitude, and his ennobling virtues. While filled with lofty aspirations, your son suddenly made the discovery of certain family secrets which appeared to place a title within his reach. Ah! pardon him if he stretched out his hand to grasp the visionary coronet,—pardon him, I say—and wonder not if in the eagerness of his desire to clutch the dreamy bauble, he thrust parents, relatives, and friends rudely aside.”
“The generosity which prompts you to extenuate his grievous faults shall not be cooled nor marred by any opposite opinion on my part,” said Mr. Hatfield. “And, my God! is he not my son?—and have I not already—yes, already—while we were still in Paris—promised to forgive him every thing. But when I think of all the misery his insane ambition would have brought upon you and yours——”
“Oh! the loss of title and wealth would not interfere with my happiness, Thomas,” interrupted the earl, smiling.
“And that loss you cannot now sustain—no—never, never!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, impetuously; “and I thank God that I am enabled to give you this assurance! For the papers—the fatal papers—the family documents, are all burnt—burnt with my own hand, and in the presence of that young man who dared to take them from the secret recess where you had deposited them.”
“Ere now you called me generous, Thomas,” said the earl,—“and for the performance of a common Christian duty—I mean, the forgiveness of one who has offended and who is penitent. But you, my brother—what generosity have you not shown towards me,—yes—and for years—long years;—and now, to crown it all, you have destroyed those evidences which would make you great at any moment. Oh! as the world’s ambition goes, and as human hearts are constituted, your generosity outvalues mine as immeasurably as the boundless Pacific exceeds the stagnant puddle in the street!”
And, as the earl spoke these words with an enthusiasm and a sincerity that came from the inmost recesses of his heart, he dashed away a tear.
Then, as if suddenly animated by the same sentiment—a sentiment of mutual regard, devotion, and admiration,—the half-brothers grasped each other’s hands; and the pressure was long and fervid—a profound silence reigning between them the while,—for, men of years and worldly experience though they were, their souls’ emotions were deeply stirred and their finest feelings were aroused.
“I have not yet told you all—perhaps scarcely even the worst, relative to my unfortunate son,” said Mr. Hatfield, after a long pause. “That vile woman of whom Villiers spoke—that Perdita Slingsby—or Torrens—or Fitzhardinge—whichever her name may be——”
“Ah! I understand you already,” interrupted the earl, in a tone of deep commiseration: “the artful creature has inveigled your son into a hasty marriage. Is it not so?”
“Alas! it is too true, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield; and he then proceeded to narrate to his brother all that had occurred during his absence from London,—the accident near Greenwich—the adventure with the officers at Dover—the interview with his son in Paris—the negotiations with Perdita—and the terms which he had finally settled with that designing woman.
“Oh! that you had been one day earlier,” exclaimed Lord Ellingham; “and this odious marriage would not have occurred. It is lamentable indeed, Thomas—and the more so, in consequence of the hopes that I had founded on the attachment which until lately existed between Charles and my daughter.”
“Ah! it is that—it is that which cuts me to the very soul!” cried Mr. Hatfield, with exceeding bitterness of tone and manner.
“And yet there is hope—there is hope for us yet!” exclaimed the earl, who, after pacing the room in deep thought for a few minutes, turned suddenly towards his half-brother.
“Hope do you say?” demanded the latter, his countenance brightening up—though he could not as yet conjecture, much less perceive the source whence the gleam of hope could possibly emanate.
“Yes—hope,” repeated the earl emphatically, but sinking his voice almost to a whisper, as if he were afraid that the very walls should hear the words he was uttering. “Did not that woman tell you she should contract another marriage——”
“She assuredly intimated as much,” answered Mr. Hatfield; “and by her words and manner I have no doubt that the intention was uppermost in her mind.”
“And from the knowledge which we now possess of her character,” added the earl, “we may rest satisfied that she will not refuse the first good offer that presents itself. Well, then—on the day that she contracts another marriage, Charles may consider himself absolved from the alliance which he so unhappily formed.”
“Ah! I comprehend you, my dear Arthur!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his heart already feeling lighter. “But the legal tie will still exist,” he added an instant afterwards, his voice again becoming solemn and mournful.
“The law is an unnatural—a vile—and a miserable one, which would for ever exclude either that woman or your son from the portals of the matrimonial temple!” said the earl, speaking with impassioned emphasis, though still in a subdued tone, “Charles has discarded her—and she has consented never more to molest him. Already, then, are they severed in a moral point of view. But should that woman contract another marriage—take unto herself another husband—and thereby prove that her severance from the young man whom she ensnared and inveigled, is complete,—should she adopt the initiative in that respect, it would be a despicable fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation on the part of any one to say to Charles Hatfield, ‘You must never know matrimonial happiness: but you must remain in your present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of your days!’ It were inhuman—base—and unnatural thus to address your son, when once the woman herself shall have ratified by her actions that compact which her words and her signature have already sanctioned. Were a father to consult me under such circumstances, and ask my advice whether he should bestow his daughter on a young man situated as your son will then be,—my counsel would be entirely in the affirmative. Can you therefore suppose for a moment that I shall shrink from acting in accordance with the advice I should assuredly give to another man who is likewise a father? No—no! If then, in the course of time, this Perdita shall contract a new marriage,—and if your son manifest, as I hope and believe he will do, contrition for the past—if his conduct be such as to afford sure guarantees for the future—and if his attachment for Frances should revive, as I am certain that hers, poor girl! will continue unimpaired,—under all these circumstances, Thomas, I should not consider myself justified in stamping the unhappiness of that pair by refusing my consent to their union.”
“Most solemnly do I assure you, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, “that, as an impartial person, and supposing I were disinterested in the matter, I should view it precisely in the same light: but I should not have dared to express those sentiments before you, had you not been the first to give utterance to them.”
“It is, after all, the mere common-sense aspect of the question,” said the earl. “A young man is inveigled into a marriage with a woman whom he looks upon as an angel of purity; and in a few hours he discovers her to be a demon of pollution. They separate upon positive and written conditions. The tribunals would take cognizance of the affair, and grant a legal divorce were they appealed to: but a private arrangement is deemed preferable to a public scandal. Well, the woman marries again—and every remaining shadow of claim which she might still have had upon the individual whom she had entrapped and deluded, ceases at once. The complete snapping of the bond—the total severance of the tie, is her own doing. It is true that the law may proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one: but morality revolts against such an unnatural averment. These are my solemn convictions;—and, were I to ponder upon them for a hundred years, I should not waver one tittle in my belief.”
“There is more injustice committed by a false morality—more unhappiness inflicted by a ridiculous fastidiousness, than the world generally would believe,” observed Mr. Hatfield.
“Yes—and there is another consideration which weighs with me, Thomas!” exclaimed the earl, turning once more, and now with a smiling countenance, towards his half-brother. “You have shewn so much generosity towards me—you have annihilated documents which ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have prized and availed themselves of—and you have exhibited so much noble feeling in all your actions respecting myself and our family honour, that I consider myself bound to effect the union of my daughter and your son, if it be practicable. This, then, I propose—that the unfortunate marriage of Charles shall be kept a profound secret, and that he shall leave England for a short time, so that active employment may completely and radically wean his mind from any lingering attachment that he may entertain for the polluted Perdita. With regard to this latter suggestion I have a project which I will presently explain to you. Respecting the maintenance of the secret of his unhappy marriage, I should recommend its propriety even were there no ulterior considerations of the nature already stated. For of what avail can it be to distress my wife or yours—much less my daughter—by a revelation of the sad circumstance? In any case, Frances would not be permitted to learn that secret; and I should be loth indeed to afflict Lady Ellingham by the narration of such a history.”
“And you may be wall assured, Arthur,” observed Mr. Hatfield, “that it would prove no pleasant task for me to inform Lady Georgiana that her son, by his mad ambition and his fatal misconceptions, had compelled me to make known to him the fact of his illegitimacy. Neither should I wish to distress her by unfolding to her the secret of this most miserable marriage.”
“It is fortunate that we were so guarded with our wives on that morning when we made such alarming discoveries in the library,” observed Lord Ellingham: “it is a subject for self-congratulation that we merely intimated the fact of Charles’s departure that day with an abandoned woman——”
“Yes—and it was to your prudent representations that I yielded, when I was about to commit the folly of imparting every thing to my wife,—the loss of the papers—the certainty that Charles had not only taken them, but had likewise discovered every thing relating to my own past life——”
“It was scarcely my advice, Thomas, which prevented you from making all those revelations to Georgiana,” said the earl: “but it was when——”
“Yes—I remember: it was when we resolved to depart in search of the fugitive, that I found my wife was so overcome by the first word I uttered—the word which told her he was gone—that I could not feel it in my heart to afflict her by farther revelations.”
“You scarcely require to be informed that Villiers and myself each pursued the road that we respectively took, until we acquired the certainty that no travellers of the description given had passed that way; but it was late at night when I returned to London, and Villiers was an hour or two later still. While we are, however, conversing in this desultory manner,” said the earl, “we forget that Charles is waiting for us in another room.”
“And you forget, my dear Arthur,” observed Mr. Hatfield, “that you have a project respecting him, but which you have not as yet revealed to me.”
“True!” ejaculated Lord Ellingham; “and the explanation can be speedily given. Yesterday afternoon I received a hastily written note from the Prince of Montoni, stating the melancholy intelligence that his illustrious father-in-law, Alberto I., expired after a short illness twelve days ago. The Prince received the news yesterday morning by special courier——”
“And he is now Grand Duke of Castelcicala?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield.
“Yes—he is a sovereign prince,” returned the nobleman,—“and one who will not only make his people happy, but who, I venture to predict, will be the means of regenerating Italy. His Sovereign Highness departs to-morrow for Castelcicala; and, although it be scarcely consistent with propriety to accost him with a request under such circumstances, yet I will do so—trusting that the explanations which I shall give, may excuse the apparent importunity at the present moment.”
“And that request?” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.
“Is that the Grand Duke—for by this proud title must we now denominate him—will permit Charles to accompany him in the capacity of one of his aides-de-camp. Your son can speak the Italian language as fluently as his own; and his long residence in Castelcicala will have fitted him for the situation I propose to procure for him. Moreover, that aspiring nature—that ardent ambition which has already manifested itself, will be gratified and will find congenial associations and emulative stimulants In the career thus opened to him. If his ambition, in its first strugglings, have unfortunately led him into error, it was on account of the misconceptions to which he yielded, and the baleful influence which a designing woman exercised over him: but, with such a glorious example before him as the illustrious personage into whose service I propose that he shall enter, and keeping in view such legitimate aims as that service naturally suggests, I am much deceived indeed if your son do not prove himself a good, an estimable, and, perhaps, a great man.”
“Your advice is as excellent as your purpose is generous and kind,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, overjoyed at the prospects thus held out.
“We may now release Charles,” said the earl, “from the suspense which he is doubtless enduring.”
Mr. Hatfield left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, accompanied by the young man, whose face was pale and whose looks were downcast, as he advanced towards the earl.
“My dear Charles,” said the good nobleman, embracing him,—“not a word relative to the past! All is forgiven—all forgotten, as far as the memory can forget.”
Charles shed tears, while his heart was agitated with many conflicting emotions,—gratitude for the assurance thus given to him—joy that he was so completely pardoned—bitter regret that he should have ever contemplated aught prejudicial to the interests of the generous earl—vexation on account of the facility with which he had been led astray—and shame at the deplorable errors he had committed.
But when he heard the kind, affectionate, and re-assuring language addressed to him alike by his father and Lord Ellingham,—when he learnt that the main particulars of his late proceedings were to be kept a solemn secret in respect to his mother, the countess, and Lady Frances,—and when he was made acquainted with the project which the earl had suggested relative to placing him about the person of the idol of his heroic worship—the new Grand Duke of Castelcicala,—a genial tide of consolation was poured into his soul; and he felt that the future might yet teem with bright hopes for him!
But not a word was breathed either by Mr. Hatfield or Lord Ellingham respecting that other prospect which had evoked so much enlightened reasoning and such liberal sentiments from the lips of the earl: we mean the probability of a marriage eventually taking place between the young man and the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham.
With the proposal that he should enter the service of the Grand Duke, Charles was delighted; and the earl promised to visit his Sovereign Highness early in the morning, at Markham Place, to proffer the request which he had to make as the necessary preliminary.
The nobleman, Mr. Hatfield, and Charles now repaired to the mansion in Pall Mall, where the presence of the two latter, especially of the last-mentioned, caused feelings of joy which we must leave the reader to imagine.
Yes—it was true that the Prince of Montoni had become Grand Duke of Castelcicala; and those who have read the First Series of “The Mysteries of London,” have now traced the career of Richard Markham from the period of his obscure boyhood until the time when his brow is circled by a sovereign crown!
And when we reflect that it was a Revolution which evoked his brilliant qualities as a warrior and a statesman,—when we call to mind the fact that it was the cry of “Liberty” which became the watch-word of his achievements and the herald of his triumphs,—we cannot do otherwise, on reaching this point in our narrative, than avail ourselves of so fitting an opportunity to notice the grand and glorious struggle that has so lately taken place in the capital of France.
Oh! the French are a fine people, and are destined to teach the world some signal lessons in the school of Political Freedom!
People of England! accord your sympathies—your best and most generous sympathies—to that gallant Parisian population which has so recently dethroned a miscreant Monarch, and hurled an execrable Ministry from the seat of power!
Let the English Sons of Toil—oppressed, ground down by taxation, half-starved, and deprived of their electoral rights as they are,—let the Industrious Classes of the British Islands, trampled upon and made tools of by the wealthy few as we know them to be,—let them do honour, at least by words to the working men of France who have dared to expel a demon-hearted tyrant and his bravo-hirelings.
The States of Italy—Bavaria—and France have all, within the last few weeks, manifested their scorn and contempt for the doctrine of “the divine right of kings;”—the People in those realms have exercised the power which they possess:—the cause has been righteous—the despots have yielded—and one has been overthrown altogether.
For the cause is always righteous when the People seek to wrest from their rulers that freedom which has been basely usurped, and which the tyrannical oligarchy refuses to surrender by fair means to the millions.
It is a monstrous absurdity and a hideous mockery to prate of treason, and sedition, and rebellion, when a people rises up in its might and its power to demand the privileges which are naturally its own.
The few cannot possibly possess an inherent or hereditary right to enslave the many: nor is the present generation to be bound by the enactments of the preceding one. If that preceding one chose to have a Monarchy, the present one is justified in declaring its will that a Republic shall exist;—and so long as the great majority of the inhabitants of a country are of accord in this respect, they have a right to upset the existing government at any moment and establish another. Nay, more; we will assert that the people need not even be wise or prudent in order to legitimatise their actions:—the great majority may act as they think fit, although they should be unwise or imprudent in respect to the institutions they choose to build up!
We are averse to the exercise of physical force;—but France has shown that when moral agitation fails, violence must be used;—and if freedom can be gained by the loss of a few drops of blood—why, then those drops should be shed cheerfully.
Suppose that in any country the great majority of the people sign a document addressed to the sovereign in these terms:—“We are very much obliged to you for having reigned over us hitherto; but we do not require your services farther. It pleases us to establish another form of government and raise up another ruler; and therefore we request you to descend from the throne and surrender up the power delegated to you.” Were the sovereign to refuse compliance with this demand, then force should be used; and all the antiquated farces of “hereditary rights,” and “treason,” and “sedition,” and such-like nonsense, would of course be disregarded by an insurgent people.
On the other hand, so long as a nation remains tranquil, and addresses to the sovereign no demand of the kind supposed above, that sovereign may continue to occupy the throne, as the people’s executive magistrate; for it is the fault of the millions themselves if they be foolish enough to tolerate either a king or a queen.
Republicanism is the “order of the day;” and there is not a throne in Europe that is worth twenty years’ purchase,—no—not even that of the Austrian Kaiser or the Muscovite Czar;—and from the banks of the Thames to the confines of Asia—from the cheerless regions of the North to the sunny shores of the tideless Mediterranean, the prevailing sentiment is adverse to the antiquated, useless, oppressive institutions of Monarchy.
Honour To the Great and Glorious French Nation! And let the Royalty which still exists in England beware how it caress, and pet, and openly sympathise with the ex-Royalty which has taken refuge on this soil. For the Queen of England to adopt such a course, were to offer a gross and flagrant insult to the people of France, and inevitably provoke a war. Besides—is not Louis-Philippe a miscreant deserving universal execration? Did he not calmly and deliberately calculate upon butchering the brave Parisian people, in order to consolidate the power of his despot-throne? Are not his hands imbrued with blood? No sympathy, then—no pity for this royal Greenacre—this horrible assassin!
And were he to be received at the palace of our Queen, the insult would not only be monstrous towards the French people, who have expelled him, but equally great towards the English people, who abhor tyrants, and who are generous, humane, and merciful.
Working Men of England! rejoice and be glad—for amidst the changes which have so recently taken place in France, there is one “sign of the times” that is cheering and full of prophetic significancy for you! I allude to the grand—the glorious fact, that in the list of the Provisional Government which the Revolution raised up, these words appeared—“Albert, Working Man.”
Yes: a Working Man was included in that fine category of Republican names; and he has been instrumental in giving to the whole political world that impulse which must inevitably conduct even the present generation to the most glorious destinies.
Honour to Albert, the Working Man!
There is another point on which I must touch, ere I resume the thread of my narrative.
The Prime Minister of England has declared “that he has no intention whatever to interfere with the form of government which the French nation may choose for themselves.” He therefore admits the right of the nation to establish any form of government which it chooses;—and this concession is an important one, when coming from the principal adviser of the Queen, and from a man who is, after all, nothing more nor less than the chief of an aristocratic clique.
Well, then—it being admitted by the Prime Minister that a nation has a right to choose its own form of government, the sooner the people of England begin to think of establishing new institutions for themselves, the better. For there is no use in disguising the fact—and no possibility of exaggerating it,—that England is in a truly awful condition. Already are we enduring a war-tax; and it was only through fear of seeing the glorious example of the Parisians immediately followed by the inhabitants of London, that the Ministers abandoned their iniquitous and execrable scheme of doubling that shameful impost. But the financial ignorance and the wanton extravagance of the Whigs have plunged the country into serious pecuniary embarrassments, from which nothing but the sweeping reform of a purely democratic Ministry can relieve it. With a tremendous national debt,—with no possibility of levying another tax,—with Ireland to care for and almost support,—with a vast amount of absolute penury and positive destitution in the country,—with an aristocracy clinging to old abuses, and with the land in the possession of a contemptibly small oligarchy,—with the industrious classes starving on pitiable wages,—with a pension-list which is a curse and a shame,—with a cumbrous and costly Monarchy,—with a Church grasping at all it can possibly lay hands on,—with a Bench of Bishops in inveterate and banded hostility to all enlightening opinions and popular interests,—and with a franchise so limited that nine-tenths of the people are altogether unrepresented,—with all these, and a thousand other evils which might be readily enumerated, we repeat our assertion that England is in an awful state; and we must add that great, important, and radical changes must be speedily effected.13
Oh! how well and how truly has a great French writer declared that “men have only to will it, in order to be free!” France has set England and the world a great and glorious example in this respect.
These English newspapers which are interested in pandering to the prejudices and the selfishness of a bloated aristocracy and an oppressive oligarchy, of landowners, represent revolutions as scenes of spoliation, social ruin, and other demoralisation. But the incidents of the Revolution which gave Louis Philippe a throne in 1830, and those of the grand struggle which has just hurled him from his despot-seat, give the lie—the bold, unequivocal lie—to such statements.14