The discourse was now taken up by several other individuals present, the bald-headed gentleman declining to pursue it farther; and the sallow-faced guest fearlessly and ably dissected the whole social and governmental system, concluding with an emphatic declaration that the community should agitate morally, but unweariedly, for those reforms which were so much needed.
It was twelve o’clock when Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob issued from the Bengal Arms; and passing through George Yard, they entered Lombard Street.
Thence they proceeded towards London Bridge, over which they walked in a leisurely manner—side by side—watching each other—and maintaining a profound silence.
Down the Blackfriars’ Road they went; and on reaching the obelisk in St. George’s Fields, the Doctor paused for a few minutes to make up his mind what course to pursue.
He was already wearied—and a mental irritation was growing upon him in spite of his characteristic recklessness and indifference: he required rest—and he knew that he could obtain none so long as his terrible enemy was by his side.
“Perhaps I may weary him out,” thought the Doctor to himself: “or if I lead him into the open country I shall perhaps be able to give him the slip. Otherwise we must fight it out in some place where no interruption need be dreaded.”
Influenced by these ideas, Jack Rily resumed his wanderings, Vitriol Bob still remaining by his side like the ghost of some murdered victim.
They proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle; and on reaching that celebrated tavern, they once more refreshed themselves with beer, as the establishment was still open in consequence of some parochial entertainment that was given there on that particular evening.
On issuing from the house, the two men proceeded along the Kent Road.
Nearly an hour had now elapsed since they had last exchanged a word; for the feeling of desperate irritation was growing stronger and stronger on the part of Jack Rily—while Vitriol Bob was becoming impatient of this delay in the gratification of his implacable vengeance.
But delight filled the soul of the latter when he found that his companion was taking a direction that led into the open country; and, breaking the long silence which had prevailed, he said tauntingly, “You are getting tired, Jack.”
“Not a bit,” replied the Doctor, assuming a cheerful tone.
“Oh! yes—you are, old feller,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob: “you drag your feet along as if you was.”
“I could walk all night without being wearied so much as you are now,” returned the Doctor: and, thus speaking, he mended his pace.
“I never felt less tired than I am at present, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but you are failing in spite of this pretended briskness. You can’t keep it up.”
“You shall see,” answered the Doctor, his irritation augmenting fearfully.
Vitriol Bob made no further observation upon the subject; and the two miscreants walked on, side by side, until they reached the Green Man at Blackheath.
There was no tavern—no beer-shop open; and both were thirsty, alike with fatigue and the workings of evil passions.
Seating himself upon a bench fixed against the wall of a public-house, Jack Rily could not help gnashing his teeth with rage; and as he maintained his looks fixed upon the countenance of his enemy, his eyes glared with a savage and ferocious malignity. The moon-light enabled Vitriol Bob to catch the full significancy of that expression which distorted the Doctor’s features; and, sitting down close by his side, he said, “You are growing desperate now, Jack: I knowed I should disturb your coolness and composure before long.”
“By God! you’re right, my man!” ejaculated the Doctor, unable to restrain his irritation. “I had no enmity against you at first—I would have shaken hands with you and been as good friends as ever—aye, and have given you more money than you’ve ever yet seen in all your life,—given it to you as a present! But now I hate and detest you—I loathe and abhor you! Damnation! I could stick my knife into you this very minute!”
“Two can play at that game,” returned Vitriol Bob, savagely. “But remember that we’re talking tolerably loud just underneath the windows of this ’ere public; and I don’t feel at all inclined to be baulked of the satisfaction——”
“Of a last and desperate struggle, eh?” exclaimed the Doctor, starting up. “Well—we will not delay it much longer. Come along:—it is pretty near time that this child’s play was put an end to—I am getting sick of it.”
“Bless ye, I’ve no such excitement,” said Vitriol Bob, rising from the bench and again placing himself by the side of his companion: “I rayther like it than anythink else. We’ve had a nice walk—plenty of refreshments—and now and then a cozie little bit of chat—besides the advantage of hearing them political sermons in at the Bengal Arms: and so I don’t think you can say we’ve spent the time wery disagreeably.”
All this was said to irritate the Doctor still more; for Vitriol Bob, well acquainted with the disposition of his enemy, knew that when once he was thus excited it was impossible for him to regain his composure.
Jack Rily made no answer—but continued his way in silence, weariness gaining upon his body as rapidly as bitter ferocity was acquiring a more potent influence over his mind.
It was two o’clock in the morning when the Doctor and Vitriol Bob ascended Shooter’s Hill.
Both were much fatigued—but the former far more so than the latter.
The moon rode high in the heavens, which were spangled with thousands of stars; and every feature of the scene was brought out into strong relief by the pure silvery light that filled the air.
The countenance of Jack Rily was ghastly pale and hideous to gaze upon—his large teeth gleaming through the opening in his upper lip, and his eyes glaring like those of a wild beast about to spring upon its prey;—whereas the features of Vitriol Bob denoted a stern—dogged—ferocious determination.
Having reached the top of the hill, the two men paused as if by mutual though tacit consent; and glancing rapidly along the road in each direction, they neither saw nor heard anything that threatened to interfere with the deadly purpose on which they were now both intent.
No sound of vehicles met their ears—no human forms dotted the long highway which, with its white dust, had the appearance of a river traversing the dark plains.
“Well—are you pretty nearly tired out, Jack?” demanded Vitriol Bob.
“I am as fresh as ever,” answered the Doctor.
“But you’re afraid, old feller,” exclaimed the other.
“Not afraid of you!” retorted Jack Rily, contemptuously.
“You would have run away if you could,” said his enemy.
“You are a liar, Bob,” was the savage response.
“No—it’s you that tells the lie, Jack. I’ve watched you narrerly—and I could see all that was a-passing in your mind as plain as if it was a book.”
“But you can’t read a book, Bob, when you have it open before you.”
“There you’re wrong, Doctor: I’ve had my hedication as well as you.”
“And a pretty use you’ve made of it! But I don’t see any use in our standing palavering here: I want to get back to London—and so the sooner you let me polish you off, the better.”
“I’m as anxious to come to the scratch as you. Where shall it be?”
“In the field close by, Bob. We may be interrupted in the road.”
“And yet there’s nothink and no one to be seen.”
“Never mind. We’ll make as sure as possible,” observed the Doctor, who throughout this rapid and laconic colloquy had endeavoured to appear as collected and as composed as possible: but his words had hissed through his teeth—for his mouth was as parched as if he had been swallowing the dry dust of the road.
“Let’s over the hedge, then,” said Vitriol Bob.
The two men accordingly made their way into the adjoining field; and having proceeded to a short distance down the sloping meadow, they suddenly stopped short and confronted each other.
“Shall it be here?” demanded Vitriol Bob.
“Yes,” responded Jack Rily; and drawing his clasp-knife, which was already open, from his pocket, he sprang with a savage howl upon his enemy.
But Vitriol Bob was also prepared with his sharp weapon; and catching the Doctor’s right arm with his left hand, he inflicted a wound upon the shoulder upon his foe. Then the two men closed completely upon each other—and the death-struggle commenced!
It was an appalling spectacle,—the knives flashing in the pure moon-light—and the eyes of the miscreants glaring savagely, while they writhed in each other’s embrace, savage howls bursting from them at short intervals.
In less than a minute they were covered with blood: but the nature of the contest only permitted them to inflict hideous gashes and not decisive wounds upon each other. But suddenly Jack Rily’s foot slipped, and he fell backward—bringing however his adversary down upon him: for the left hand of each held a firm grasp upon the collar of the other.
As they thus tumbled, Vitriol Bob endeavoured to plant his knife in the breast of his antagonist—but the spring of the weapon broke, and the blade suddenly closing as it glanced over the Doctor’s shoulder, cut through its owner’s fingers to the very bone. A yell of mingled rage and pain escaped him; but the chances were at the same moment equalised by the fact of Rily’s clasp-knife escaping from his hand.
The death-struggle was now continued by mere brute force; and the Doctor succeeded in getting uppermost. At the same time he seized upon Vitriol Bob’s nose with his large sharp teeth and bit it completely off—in spite of the almost superhuman efforts of the other to resist this savage attack.
Yelling horribly with the pain, and with his countenance bathed in blood, Vitriol Bob once more got his foe beneath him; and the Doctor echoed those appalling cries of agony as he felt the fore-finger of his adversary’s left hand thrust into one of his eyes. Frightful—terrific—revolting was the contest at this crisis,—the two miscreants writhing, struggling, convulsing like snakes in each other’s grasp,—and the ferocious process of gouging inflicting the agonies of hell upon the maddened Jack Rily.
’Twas done: the eye was literally torn out of its socket; but the pain excited the Doctor to the most tremendous efforts in order to wreak a deadly vengeance upon his foe. And as they rolled over on the blood-stained sward, Rily’s hand came in contact with the knife which he had ere now lost; and clutching it with a savage yell of triumph, he plunged it into Vitriol Bob’s throat.
The miscreant, mortally wounded, rolled over on the grass with a gurgling sound coming from between his lips; and Jack Rily was immediately upon him, brandishing the fatal weapon.
Then, at that moment, as the moon-light fell fully upon the countenance of Vitriol Bob, as he gazed up at his victorious enemy, what fiendish hate—what impotent rage—what diabolical malignity were depicted upon those distorted features and expressed in every lineament of that blood-smeared face,—a face rendered the more frightful by the loss of the nose.
“Who will return to London this morning, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, scarcely able to articulate, so parched was his throat—so agonising was the pain in the socket whence the eye had been torn out. “Ah! you can’t answer—but you know well enough what the reply should be!”
Vitriol Bob made a sudden and desperate effort to throw his enemy off him: but he was easily overpowered—and in another moment the Doctor drove the sharp blade of the knife through the man’s right eye, deep into the brain.
So strong was the convulsive spasm which shot through the form of Vitriol Bob, that the Doctor was hurled completely off him: but all danger of a renewal of the contest was past—Jack Rily’s enemy was no more!
The conqueror lay for some minutes upon the sward, so exhausted that it almost seemed possible to give up the ghost at a gasp: it appeared, in fact, as if he retained a spark of life within himself by his own free will—but that were he to breathe even too hard, existence would become extinct that moment.
A sensation of numbness came over him, deadening the pain which his eyeless socket occasioned him; and for nearly ten minutes a sort of dreamy repose stole upon the man, the incidents of the night becoming confused and all his ideas jumbling together pell-mell.
But suddenly—swift as the lightning darts forth from the thunder-cloud upon the obscurity of a stormy sky—a feeling of all that had happened and where he was sprang up in the Doctor’s soul; and half rising from his recumbent posture, he gazed wildly around with the visual organ that was still left.
The motionless corpse of his slaughtered enemy lay near;—and the moon-light rendered the ghastly countenance fearfully visible.
The pain in the socket now returned with renewed force; and the Doctor, raising himself up with difficulty, began to drag his heavy limbs slowly away from the scene of a horrible contest and a dreadful death.
He was wounded in many places; and the anguish which he now again endured through the loss of his eye, was maddening him.
At the bottom of the field there was a pond; and Jack Rily, on reaching the bank of the stagnant pool, felt that he could at that moment give all the money he possessed for a single glass of pure water. A draught from that pond would be delicious: but how was he to obtain it? He might stoop down, and endeavour to raise it with his hand—or he might even fill his hat: but the bank was steep all round—and the wretched man was so exhausted and enfeebled that he knew he should fall in and most likely be suffocated.
Seating himself upon the bank, he maintained his one eye fixed upon the pond in which the moonbeams were reflected; and at the expiration of a few minutes he resolved to make an attempt to assuage his burning thirst, even though the consequences should be fatal.
Stooping cautiously down, he succeeded in filling his hat; but as he was drawing it up, he overbalanced himself, and fell headlong into the water.
The pond was deep: but Jack Rily managed to drag himself out;—and on gaining the bank he fainted.
How long he remained in a senseless state, he knew not: or whether a deep sleep had succeeded the fit, he was likewise unable to conjecture. Certain it was, however, that on awaking slowly from what appeared to have been a profound trance, a stronger light than that which he had last seen fell upon his view—for the sun had just risen.
Then all the horrors of the past night came back to the wretch’s memory; and, though the pain in his eyeless socket was much mitigated, it was still poignant enough to wring bitter imprecations from his lips.
He endeavoured to rise: but he was as stiff all over as if he had been beaten soundly with a thick stick wielded by a strong hand—and he was also weakened by loss of blood and the fatigues which he had undergone.
He longed to get back to London, not only in order to have surgical assistance to assuage the pain consequent on the frightful injury he had sustained by the loss of his eye; but also because he was fearful that the body of his murdered enemy would be shortly discovered and his own arrest follow as a matter of course.
Therefore, although he would have given worlds to be enabled to lie on the grass for hours longer, he raised himself up, and moved slowly away across the fields.
But how could he enter London in the broad day-light—covered with blood and maimed as he was? One course only appeared open to him: namely, to remain concealed somewhere until night, and then return to his lodgings. Accordingly, he lay down under a hedge at the distance of about a mile from the scene of the previous night’s deadly contest; and again did he sink into a deep trance.
From this he was awakened by the sounds of voices; and starting up, he heard people talking on the other side of the hedge. They were labourers—and having discovered the corpse of Vitriol Bob in the field adjoining Shooter’s Hill, they were hurrying back to the farm to which they belonged, in order to give an alarm. Their pace was rapid—their remarks denoted indescribable horror—and Jack Rily remained a breathless listener until they were out of sight and hearing.
He then rose and moved off across the fields as quickly as he could drag himself along.
The sun was now high in the heavens; and he thereby knew that it was nearly mid-day. Not a breath of wind stirred the air; and the heat was stifling.
He had bandaged his head in such a way with his handkerchief as to conceal the frightful injury which he had received by the loss of his eye: but the pain he experienced was excruciating.
In a short time he reached a rivulet, where he washed himself; and he was likewise enabled to slake his thirst. A turnip plucked from a field afforded him a sorry meal;—and thus was a man having thousands of pounds secured about his person, reduced to the most miserable shifts and compelled to wander about in the most deplorable condition that it is possible to conceive.
Never had the time appeared to pass with such leaden wings;—and, oh! how the man longed for night to fall. Not more ardently did Wellington at Waterloo crave for the coming of the obscurity of evening, when, beaten and hopeless, he was in full retreat ere the Prussians made their appearance to change the fortune of the day and win the victory which England so arrogantly claims, not more earnestly did the Iron Duke desire the presence of the darkness on that occasion, than Jack Rily in the present instance.
At last the sun was sinking in the western horizon; and the Doctor bent his steps towards the metropolis which lay at a distance of about seven miles.
It was nine o’clock in the evening, when Jack Rily entered the southern suburbs; and he succeeded in gaining his lodgings in Roupel Street without attracting any particular observation. A surgeon with whom he was acquainted, and who did not ask any questions so long as he was well paid, dressed his wounds: and the Doctor began to think the victory over his mortal enemy cheaply bought by the loss of an eye. The black patch which he was compelled to wear, certainly increased the hideousness of his countenance: but as vanity was not one of his failings, this circumstance did not so much trouble him as the inconvenience and the pain attendant upon the loss of the optic.
In the course of the ensuing day, the report spread all over London that the body of a man, frightfully mutilated, had been discovered in a field near Shooter’s Hill; and that it had been removed to a public-house at Blackheath, in order to lie there for recognition. A minute description of the clothing which the corpse had on, was given in the newspapers and also in placards posted in the principal thoroughfares of the metropolis; and it was likewise stated that the clasp-knife, with which the mortal blow was struck, had been left by the murderer sticking in the victim’s head.
Now it happened that Mary Calvert—alias Pig-faced Moll—and whom the reader will recollect to have been already represented as Vitriol Bob’s paramour, was alarmed by the protracted absence of her fancy-man; and while wandering about in search of him at his usual haunts, she observed one of the placards.
The attire therein specified exactly corresponded with the dress which Vitriol Bob wore when he quitted her two days previously; and she at once went to the public-house where the body was lying. A glance was sufficient to convince her that her suspicions were well founded; and on examining the clasp-knife, she instantly recognised it as one which she had frequently seen in the possession of Jack Rily.
Everything was now clearly apparent to Molly Calvert. She knew the deadly animosity that Vitriol Bob had nourished against the Doctor: she was likewise acquainted with the intention of her paramour to wreak his vengeance upon that individual on the first suitable occasion;—and she therefore concluded that a deadly conflict had taken place between them, ending in the murder of her fancy-man.
From the public-house where the body lay, she proceeded straight to a police-station, where she gave such information as led to an immediate search after the Doctor. In the course of the next day a member of the Detectives ascertained that Jack Rily had recently been living in Roupel Street, and that he had only quitted his lodgings there the preceding evening. For the Doctor, alarmed by the publicity given to the discovery of Vitriol Bob’s body, had deemed it prudent to flit.
Several days elapsed without affording the police any clue to his whereabouts: but at the expiration of a week Molly Calvert herself one evening traced him to an obscure pot-house in one of the vilest parts of Bethnal Green; and he was immediately arrested.
Upon his person was found a vast sum in gold and bank-notes—but chiefly consisting of the latter; and this amount was accordingly seized by the officers. Jack Rily was then locked up for the night, and on the following morning he was taken before a magistrate.
When charged with the murder of Vitriol Bob, he at once admitted that he had been the cause of that individual’s death, but declared that it was in self-defence. His story was corroborated by many circumstances, amongst which the loss of his eye was not the least; for the organ had been found, as it was torn out of its socket, close by the corpse. The gashes which the man had received—Vitriol Bob’s own clasp-knife, discovered on the fatal spot—and the evident marks of a fearful struggle having taken place,—all proved that the deed was neither cold-blooded nor accomplished by surprise. On the other hand, might not Jack Rily have himself provoked the contest which terminated so fatally to his opponent? This point the magistrate left to a jury to decide; and the Doctor was ordered to be committed for trial. Relative to the money found upon his person, he persisted in declaring that it was his own, and that he had come by it honestly,—but from what source he refused to state.
Castelcicala became a Republic; and Richard Markham had the immortal honour of founding a purely democratic government in the finest State belonging to the Italian Peninsula.
The Chamber of Senators voted by an immense majority the very measure which deprived them of their rank of Peers, and abolished titles of nobility altogether. This species of suicidal process, adopted in obedience to the popular will, the interests of the community at large, and the dictates of a consummate civilisation, presented a glorious spectacle to the eyes of all the world. And these good men who thus sacrificed their own family interests to those of their country, experienced a rich reward in the enthusiasm with which they were received by the people when the result of the division on the third reading of the Bill was made known. For no empty honours could outvie that applause which grateful myriads thus poured forth; and if Dukes, Marquises, Counts, Viscounts, and Barons went home that day denuded of those titles, they had the proud recompense of a conviction that their names would shine all the more resplendently in history through their own unartificial light. Their’s was now the aristocracy of VIRTUE and INTELLIGENCE!
The Chamber of Peers was abolished; but all those who had voted in favour of the Government measures were returned by a grateful people as members of the National Assembly which was now convoked—the new system admitting of only one House of Parliament. The moment that august body met, one of its earliest duties was to frame the new Constitution; and this was done on the broadest and most liberal principles. It was resolved, amongst other matters thus definitively settled, that the President of the Republic should be elected on the principle of universal suffrage, and for three years; and we need scarcely inform our readers that there was not even any opposition attempted against General Markham.
But in the meantime—for these proceedings occupied upwards of two months—the other Italian States had become seriously alarmed at the establishment of Democracy in Castelcicala; and the diplomatic agents of Naples, Rome, Tuscany, and Sardinia were ordered by their respective Governments to demand their passports. These were instantaneously granted; and shortly after the departure of the envoys, a league was formed by the Sovereigns of the States which we have named for the purpose of compelling Castelcicala to return into the sisterhood of monarchical countries. Protocols first poured into the Foreign Office at Montoni; and these were logically answered by the Minister presiding over that department. Menaces followed;—and these were treated with a firmness proving how confidently General Markham and his Cabinet relied upon the Castelcicalans to defend the institutions which they had consecrated. An ultimatum, threatening immediate hostilities, was now signed by that blood-thirsty miscreant the King of Naples—by the weak, timid, and vacillating Pope Pius IX.—by the Grand Duke of Tuscany—and by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia. To this document Richard Markham replied, through the Minister of Foreign Affairs, insisting upon the right of the Castelcicalans, as a free people, to choose their own form of Government; and the argument was so well sustained by a mass of reasoning, that the King of Sardinia and the Grand-Duke of Tuscany withdrew from the league, re-accrediting their diplomatic agents to the Castelcicalan Republic. The timid Pope was frightened by a knowledge of Markham’s military prowess into a similar course; and the tyrant Ferdinand of Naples was left alone in hostility against the newly-established Democracy.
This monarch—obstinate, self-willed, and blood-thirsty, like all the Bourbons—was not disheartened by what he called the “defection” of the Pontiff, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and the King of Piedmont; but he immediately declared war against the Castelcicalan Republic. Thereupon General Markham commenced the most active preparations, not only to prevent an invasion, but to carry hostilities into the enemy’s country. In a short time an army of twenty-six thousand men was collected in the south of the State; and Richard, having taken leave of his family, proceeded to join it, attended by a numerous staff, of which Charles Hatfield was a member. The executive power was in the meantime delegated to Signor Bassano, the General’s brother-in-law; and the utmost enthusiasm pervaded the entire Castelcicalan population, so great was the confidence entertained in the valour of the army and the skill of its commander.
It was in the first week of December, 1846, that the Castelcicalan forces commenced their march towards the Neapolitan frontier. Intelligence had already arrived to the effect that the Neapolitans, to the number of forty thousand men, were advancing under the command of General Avellino; but Markham, well knowing that the spirit of a republican army was far greater than that which animates troops belonging to a monarchy, was not daunted by this immense numerical superiority on the part of the enemy. He was deeply impressed with the opinion that Napoleon Bonaparte had damped the ardour of his soldiers by exchanging the consular cap for the imperial crown: his knowledge of French history told him that Bonaparte’s grandest victories were gained with a republican army;—and he was likewise well aware that the Neapolitan troops loathed and abhorred the monarch who had sent them out to fight against liberal institutions. He therefore resolved to push on and meet the enemy; for his generous nature contemplated with horror the prospect of an invasion of the fertile plains of Castelcicala by an army which even in its own country acted the lawless and ferocious part of a horde of plunderers and ravagers.
On the 7th of December, General Markham entered the Neapolitan territory at the head of his troops; and on the same evening he encamped beneath the walls of Casino, which surrendered without the least attempt at resistance. Here he waited four days in the hope that the Neapolitans would advance to the attack: but hearing that they had halted to rest awhile at Sabino—a place about sixty miles distant—he determined to continue his march. Accordingly, in the afternoon of the 13th, he came within sight of General Avellino’s army, which he found to be occupying a strong position at a short distance from Sabino.
General Markham ascended an elevated flat to reconnoitre the precise distribution of the Neapolitans, and he was speedily convinced that an immense advantage might be gained by placing the artillery upon that height. The task was a difficult one to accomplish: but nothing was impossible to an active commander and enthusiastic troops;—and thus in a few hours, hollows were filled up, projections levelled, and a pathway cleared for the ascent of the cannon. Meantime General Avellino had made no movement on his side; and ere sunset the work of establishing the artillery on the eminence was complete.
The inactivity of the enemy during the entire afternoon led Markham to believe that Avellino meditated an attack in the course of the night; and the Castelcicalans were therefore fully prepared to give the Neapolitans a warm reception. But hour after hour passed without any indication of the approach of the enemy; and General Markham resolved to take the initiative at day-break.
Scarcely had the sun risen on the morning of the 14th of December, when the action commenced by a smart fire on the part of the Castelcicalan light troops, commanded by an active and gallant officer in whom the General had full confidence. The Neapolitans were thereby dislodged from an apparently inaccessible position near Sabino; and the result was that the Castelcicalans were enabled to stretch out upon the plains so as to threaten the enemy’s flanks. Both armies were soon within cannon shot; and by nine o’clock in the forenoon the action became general.
The manœuvres on the Castelcicalan side were performed with a marvellous precision, fully compensating for the numerical inferiority of Markham’s troops; and by mid-day they had succeeded in gaining possession of a wood which covered one of the enemy’s corps. At the same time the cannon upon the height were scattering death throughout the Neapolitan ranks; and General Avellino ordered up his reserve of cavalry to take a share in the conflict. Markham was well prepared for this proceeding; and at the head of his cuirassiers he dashed against the new-comers. This charge was made with an impetuosity altogether irresistible; and the Neapolitans were thrown into disorder in that part of the field. The Castelcicalans pursued their advantage; and by four o’clock in the afternoon the enemy were completely overwhelmed.
The Neapolitan loss was immense: upwards of twelve thousand men of that army lay dead upon the field—while an equal number had been made prisoners. On Markham’s side the number of killed did not exceed two thousand; but the generous-hearted young man considered his splendid victory to be dearly bought even by means of that sacrifice—and the eyes which flashed with the fires of heroism on the battle-field, now melted into tears at the evidences of the sanguinary fight.
We should observe that the conduct of Charles Hatfield was admirable throughout this memorable day. In the charge upon the Neapolitan cavalry, he comported himself in a manner that more than once gained for him the approval of his commander; and when the strife was over and the victory was won, Markham complimented him on his prowess in the presence of the officers gathered about him at the time.
The booty acquired by this great battle was immense; for the Neapolitans who survived the conflict were compelled to retreat with such precipitation as to leave all their baggage and artillery in the hands of their enemy.
On the following day Markham set his army in motion towards the capital, at the gates of which he was determined to force the King to acknowledge the Castelcicalan Republic. But in his progress through the Neapolitan dominions, he adopted the most rigorous measures to protect the innocent inhabitants from plunder or wrong at the hands of his victorious troops; and he issued a proclamation to the effect that any soldier found guilty of an act of oppression or outrage, should be expelled the army and deprived of his civil rights as a Castelcicalan citizen.
It was at about mid-day on the 17th of December that Markham came within sight of Naples; and he was then met by plenipotentiaries sent by King Ferdinand to treat for an armistice, preparatory to negociations for peace. The victorious General received the deputies with the utmost courtesy; he however bade them observe that it was not for him to treat—but to dictate. Thereupon he drew up the conditions on which he would spare the capital and retire from the kingdom,—those terms being the acknowledgment of the Castelcicalan Republic, the payment of all the expenses incurred by Castelcicala in consequence of this war, and a guarantee against the renewal of hostilities on the same pretence.
To these conditions Ferdinand refused to accede; and the citizens of Naples were called upon to arm in defence of the capital. But the people rose up as one man within the walls of the city, and threatened to dethrone the King unless he accepted the terms set forth by General Markham. The blood-thirsty Ferdinand was accordingly compelled to submit to the demands of the Castelcicalan General; and the conditions being fulfilled in the course of a few days, Markham began to retrace his way to the State which he had thus a second time saved from destruction.
It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm with which the victorious General and his army were received on their return to Castelcicala. The roads were lined with a grateful population, anxious to catch a glimpse of the hero and to testify their joy at the conquest which he had achieved over the enemy. Triumphal arches were raised—flags were waving in all directions—towns were illuminated—municipal corporations appeared with congratulatory addresses—and the peasantry made bonfires on the hills as proofs of their delight.
When the army approached Montoni, the General’s family came out to meet him: and Isabella experienced more sincere pride in embracing a husband whose citizen name it was an honour to bear, than if he still wore a princely title and held a sovereign rank.
Peace was thus ensured to Castelcicala; and the Republic was firmly established, not only by the will of the people, but likewise by the prowess of the army.
Charles Hatfield, who, as one of the General’s aides-de-camp, already held the rank of lieutenant, was now invested with a captaincy; and one of the members of the National Assembly happening to die at the time, the constituency thus left temporarily unrepresented, offered to elect him as their deputy. But he felt anxious to return to England; for letters reached him about this period, informing him that Mr. Hatfield’s health had latterly caused serious apprehensions to his relatives and friends;—and the young man accordingly demanded leave of absence for a period. This was granted without hesitation; and Charles Hatfield took his departure, laden with presents from Markham and his family, and attended with their sincerest wishes for his prosperity.
The information which Charles Hatfield had received respecting his father’s health, was too true. Indeed, the accounts were purposely mitigated in order to alarm him as little as possible; and on his arrival at Lord Ellingham’s mansion in Pall Mall, he found Mr. Hatfield confined to his bed.
Charles was greatly shocked at this circumstance: for he could not help fancying that his conduct had contributed mainly to undermine his father’s health; but Mr. Hatfield reassured him on that head by declaring that a severe cold was the commencement of his illness.
“Were I thrown upon this bed of sickness by any fault of yours, Charles,” he said, pressing his son’s hand affectionately in both his own, “your behaviour during your short sojourn in Italy would speedily raise me from it. Not only have the newspapers mentioned your name in a manner highly creditable to you: but General Markham has sent us accounts of the most satisfactory nature concerning you.”
These words were gratifying indeed to the young man.
“I can assure you, my revered parent,” he said, “that I am indeed fully and completely changed. The image of that vile woman whom we will not name, is loathsome and abhorrent to me—and I would as readily come in contact with a serpent, as meet her again. Respecting that insane ambition which animated me at the same time I formed that disastrous attachment,—an ambition which prompted me to aspire to a noble title,—it has all vanished as if it had never been. I have contemplated Republican institutions—I have seen a mighty Prince and all his family lay aside their high rank without regret and abandon their titles with cheerfulness and at their own free will,—I have likewise beheld the magnates of the land following the same example, so that the equality of citizenship may be fully established;—and I am now astonished that I could ever have aspired to mere titular distinction. My eyes have been opened to the fact that men may be great and rise to fame, without those adventitious aids which savour of feudal barbarism;—and I am prouder of that rank of Captain which the battle of Sabino gave me in the army of Republican Castelcicala, than I could possibly be were the coronet of Ellingham placed upon my brow. Oh! how happy should I feel, could we all proceed to Castelcicala and settle for life in that beautiful city of Montoni which I love so well: yes—all of us to fix our habitation there,” continued Charles, with the enthusiasm that was characteristic of his nature,—“you—my dear mother, who received me so kindly—the excellent Earl and his amiable Countess—myself—”
“And what is to become of poor Lady Frances?” asked Mr. Hatfield, with a smile in spite of his severe indisposition. “Wherefore is she not included in your list? Do you think that the Earl and the Countess would leave their amiable and lovely daughter behind them?”
Charles Hatfield blushed deeply as his father thus addressed him.
“Well, my dear boy—you make no reply,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, with the smile—and a smile of ineffable satisfaction it was—still playing upon his pale countenance: “has Lady Frances offended you? Did she not receive you on your arrival ere now with as much kindness as the rest?”
“Oh! yes—yes,” exclaimed Charles; “and she appeared to me more exquisitely beautiful than ever! Fool that I was—insensate dolt—idiot—madman, ever to place myself in a position which——”
“Do not excite yourself thus, my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “You admire Lady Frances?” he observed, after a short pause, and now attentively watching his son’s countenance.
“My God! do not ask me that question, my dear father!” ejaculated Charles, with an expression of deep anguish on his features. “I love my beautiful cousin—I love her—and she cannot be mine! Oh! since I have been absent I have pondered on her image—I have cherished it as if it were that of a guardian angel! I have compared the amiability and excellence of Frances with the character of that woman—and you may judge how resplendently the charming girl shines by means of such a contrast!”
“And you may hope—yes, you may hope, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, raising himself partially up in the bed. “Happiness yet awaits you.”
“Happiness—hope—my dear father!” ejaculated Charles; “you speak in enigmas—you——”
“Nay—I speak only what I mean; and all I say is intelligible,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “I tell you that you may hope for happiness—that Lady Frances may yet become your wife!”
“Is it possible?” cried the young man, clasping his hands in the wildness of his joy. “But how? Is that woman dead?” he demanded, speaking with strange rapidity of utterance.
“No—she is not dead,” responded his father: “but she has married again!”
“Married!” ejaculated Charles. “And yet I do not see how that circumstance will alter my position,” he added, in a desponding tone.
“Listen attentively—and do not excite yourself at one moment, and in the next give way to despair,” said Mr. Hatfield.
Charles seated himself at his father’s bed-side, and prepared to hear with attention the words that were about to be addressed to him.
“Some time ago—when it was first resolved that you should proceed to Italy for a short time,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the Earl of Ellingham communicated to me the generous views which he entertained with regard to you. He observed that, as you had already discarded the woman who had ensnared you, and as she had agreed never more to molest you, you were morally severed in respect to the matrimonial bond. He moreover declared that should this woman contract another marriage and thereby prove that such severance was complete, it would be a despicable fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation to tell you that you must never know matrimonial happiness, but that you must remain in your present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of your days. Those were the very words which his lordship used, Charles, on the occasion to which I am alluding.”
“Oh! am I to understand—” exclaimed the young man.
“Silence!” interrupted Mr. Hatfield: “be not impatient nor impetuous—but hear me out. Lord Ellingham continued to observe that if the woman should contract a new marriage, and if you, Charles, manifested contrition for the past,—if your conduct were such as to afford sure guarantees for the future,—and if your attachment for Lady Frances should revive,—under all those circumstances the Earl declared that he should not consider himself justified in stamping the unhappiness alike of yourself and his daughter by refusing his consent to your union.”
“Do I hear aright?” exclaimed Charles, a giddiness coming over him through excessive joy. “Oh! what generosity on the part of the Earl!”
“Yes—his sentiments on this subject were fraught with liberality,” returned Mr. Hatfield. “He argued in the following manner:—A young man is ensnared into an alliance with a woman whom he believed to be pure, but whom in a few hours he discovered to be a demon of pollution. They separate upon written conditions of the most positive character,—a private arrangement being deemed preferable to the public scandal of an appeal to the tribunals. This woman marries again—and every remnant of a claim which she might have had upon the individual whom she had ensnared and deluded, ceases at once. There is a complete snapping of the bond—a total severance of the tie; and her conduct by the fact of the second marriage proves that she so understands it. The law may certainly proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one: but morality, which holds marriage to be a covenant between two parties, revolts against the principle which the code establishes. It is upon these grounds that the Earl of Ellingham will give you the hand of his lovely and amiable daughter.”
It were useless to attempt to describe the joy which filled the soul of Charles Hatfield when these tidings met his ears. He seized his father’s hand and pressed it to his lips with grateful fervour: then, promising to return in a few minutes, he flew to the library where he understood the Earl to be at the moment; and casting himself at the feet of that good nobleman, he implored pardon for his past conduct, declaring that nothing should induce him to swerve from the path of rectitude in future.
The Earl of Ellingham raised the contrite young man—embraced him affectionately—and bade him throw a complete veil over all that related to his unfortunate marriage. His lordship then repeated, but more concisely, the observations which Mr. Hatfield had already made to his son; and at the conclusion of the interview he said, “And now, Charles, if your inclinations really and truly prompt you to take the step, you have my permission to solicit Lady Frances to allow you to become the suitor for her hand.”
Captain Hatfield expressed his liveliest gratitude in suitable terms; and hastening back to his father, he narrated all that had just occurred between himself and the Earl. Mr. Hatfield was cheered and delighted by the spectacle of his son’s happiness, and bade him repair to the drawing-room to pass an hour with the ladies.
We need scarcely state that Lady Georgiana was much pleased by the return of Charles to England, especially as he had so highly distinguished himself in the Neapolitan campaign. Nor less was the Countess of Ellingham—the amiable Esther—gratified by an event which restored the missing one to the family circle: while Lady Frances attempted not to conceal the joy that the young soldier’s presence afforded her.
It is not, however, our purpose to dwell upon this subject:—for we have now to relate an incident which led to consequences of great importance to several persons who have figured in our narrative.
The day after Charles Hatfield’s arrival in London, he was proceeding on foot up Regent Street, in order to pay a visit to his tailor for the purpose of making some additions to his wardrobe, when he met Captain Barthelma: for Laura’s husband had lost his title of Count of Carignano, in consequence of the establishment of the Republic in Castelcicala.
The young Italian was alone; and the meeting between the two was most friendly and cordial,—for during the short time that they were acquainted, Charles had observed many excellent qualities on the part of Barthelma, who on his side was enraptured with the heroic conduct that Captain Hatfield had displayed at the battle of Sabino, a full narrative of which had duly appeared in the English newspapers.
Taking the arm of Charles, Captain Barthelma walked with him up Regent Street; and for some time they conversed upon the late Neapolitan campaign—the glorious destinies of Republican Castelcicala—the noble conduct of President Markham—and various other matters connected with the Italian’s native land.
“It has grieved me greatly in one sense,” observed Barthelma, “that I should have been absent from my post about the person of General Markham at a time when such momentous incidents were taking place. But on the other hand I rejoice in my withdrawal from that hero’s service, inasmuch as I thereby secured the hand of one of the most lovely—nay, the most lovely woman in the world.”