“My poor boy!” murmured Lady Hatfield, straining him to her breast: “I feel as if an immense weight were taken from my mind—I seem to drink of a purer source of happiness than I have ever yet known——Oh! why did I ever hesitate to tell thee that thou wast my son!”
And again she pressed him closer and closer still to her bosom, covering his brow and cheeks with kisses; while tears flowed from the eyes of the Countess and of Lady Frances at the touching spectacle—and the Earl turned aside to conceal his emotions.
In the meantime Sir John Lascelles had repaired to the library in the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion; and there he found, as he had anticipated, his friend Mr. Hatfield—late Tom Rain.
This individual was now in his fiftieth year; and he was much changed by time as well as by art. He still possessed the fine teeth which caused the beholder to forget the somewhat coarse thickness of the lips;—but the laugh that came from those lips, when he was in a happy mood, was more subdued and quiet than when the reader first made his acquaintance many years previously to the present date. Though never inclined to corpulency, he had nevertheless become thinner: yet his form was still upright, muscular, and well-knit. In his calm moments, especially when he was alone, a slight shade of melancholy appeared upon his countenance;—and he even sighed at times as he thought upon the past
These were the changes which the lapse of years had effected in regard to him; and the appliances of art rendered it still more difficult to recognise in the Mr. Hatfield of 1846 the rollicking Tom Rain of 1827. For his hair and whiskers were dyed a very dark hue; and his attire was a plain suit of black.
Was he happy? Yes—to a certain extent, in spite of the shade of melancholy and the occasional sighs. His was a disposition originally so gay and joyous, that it could not be completely subdued—only mellowed down. Years of rigorous integrity—boundless charity—never-failing philanthropy—and innumerable good deeds, had established in his mind a confidence that the errors of his early life were fully expiated;—and so complacently could he look upon the present, that he no longer reproached himself for the past.
This was the usual tenour of his mind: but, as we have already hinted, there were now and then moody intervals in which thought became painful. These were, however, of no frequent occurrence;—and, thus—on the whole—we may assert that Mr. Hatfield was happy.
The conduct of Lady Georgiana towards him, from the moment of their union, had been of an affectionate and touching nature. She studied to enact the part of the tender wife—the sincere friend—and the amiable woman: and she succeeded fully. Espousing him at first solely on account of their child, she soon began to like her husband—next to admire him—eventually to love him. She found him to be possessed of numerous good qualities—noble and generous feelings—and sentiments far more refined than she could possibly have anticipated. The terms on which he lived with her, therefore, aided in insuring his happiness; and the fine principles as well as handsome appearance of their son, were a source of profound delight to them both.
Mr. de Medina had died possessed of great wealth—one half of which was bequeathed to Mr. Hatfield. This amount, joined to Lady Hatfield’s fortune, rendered them very wealthy; and their riches were almost doubled by the demise of Sir Ralph Walsingham, Georgiana’s uncle, who left them all his fine estates. Thus their income might be calculated at thirty thousand a-year; and no inconsiderable portion of this splendid revenue was devoted to humane and charitable purposes.
When Sir John Lascelles entered the library, as above stated, Mr. Hatfield hastened to welcome him with all the affectionate assiduity of a son receiving a visit from a kind and venerable parent; and the worthy physician evidently experienced a greater elasticity of feeling towards Mr. Hatfield than to any other friend whom he possessed on earth. The one never could forget that he owed his life to the science of the doctor: the other looked on Hatfield as a person whom he had actually restored to the world, and as a living proof of the triumph which had crowned long years of research in respect to a particular study.
“My dear friend,” said Sir John Lascelles, when they were both seated, “I have just witnessed a spectacle that I must candidly admit to have been very gratifying. The English are a most generous-hearted people, and are quick also in the appreciation of sterling merit. The Earl’s name was just now coupled with the shouts of applause that welcomed the Prince of Montoni.”
“I am rejoiced to hear these tidings,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “Indeed, it struck me, as the sounds of the myriad voices reached my ears in the seclusion of this room, remote though it be from the apartment whence you have just come,—it struck me, I say, that I heard my brother’s name mentioned. For nineteen years has Arthur now struggled in the interests of the middle and industrious classes: session after session has he passed in review the miseries and the wrongs endured by the sons and daughters of toil;—and what has he experienced from the several Administrations which have succeeded each other during that period? Though Whigs and Tories have held the reins of power in their turns, the treatment received by my brother has been uniformly the same. The most strenuous opposition to all his grand proposals has been offered; and when some trifling point has been conceded, ’twas as if a boon were conferred instead of an act of justice done. But although Arthur has thus failed in inducing the Government to adopt large and comprehensive measures for the relief, benefit, and elevation of the industrious classes, he has at least succeeded in giving such an impetus to Liberal sentiments out of doors—beyond the walls of the Senate-house—that he has taught millions to think, who never thought before, upon their political condition. Though baffled in the Legislative Assembly—though thwarted by the old school of aristocracy, and the supporters of those vile abuses which are summed up in the phrase ‘the landed interest’—though opposed with unmitigated hostility by the worshippers of ‘the wisdom of our ancestors,’—nevertheless, Arthur has returned undaunted to the charge. Never disheartened—never cast down—always courageous in the People’s Cause, he has fearlessly exposed the rottenness of our antiquated institutions, and mercilessly torn away the veil from our worn-out systems. The millions recognise and appreciate his conscientious—his unwearied strivings in their behalf; and they adore him as their champion. Unassuming—honest—and free from all selfishness as he is, it must nevertheless have been a proud moment for my brother when he heard his name associated ere now with that of the illustrious Prince who achieved the liberation of Castelcicala beneath the walls of Montoni.”
“The gratitude of the industrious classes is the most welcome reward that a well-intentioned and a true patriot can possibly experience,” observed Sir John Lascelles. “The Earl certainly seemed pleased with the high but merited compliment thus paid to him—although not for one minute did he seek it, when he appeared at the balcony; for I noticed that he rather endeavoured to conceal himself behind the window-curtain. But speaking of the Prince—he is a very handsome young man.”
“The Castelcicalans absolutely worship him,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and they look upon him as in every way fitted to succeed the Grand Duke Alberto, whenever death shall snatch away that great and enlightened sovereign from the throne.”
“It was in the Castelcicalan capital that poor Jacob Smith breathed his last—was it not?” enquired the physician.
“Yes—in the suburbs of Montoni,” answered Mr. Hatfield. “As you are well aware, the poor youth never recovered the shock which he sustained on learning that he owed his being to that dreadful man—Benjamin Bones; and the horrible way in which that remorseless wretch died, augmented the weight of the fearful blow caused by that discovery. Jacob scarcely ever rallied—scarcely ever held up his head afterwards: the only gleam of happiness which he knew was afforded by the good tidings that we received relative to the Bunces—and even that was insufficient to sustain his drooping spirit. He languished away—for six years he pined in sorrow, accessible to no consolation that travelling, change of scenery, or our attentions could impart. It was several years before the Great Revolution, which, conducted by Richard Markham, gave freedom to Castelcicala and raised up that hero to a princely rank,—it was some years before this glorious era, that Jacob Smith—for he always retained that name—breathed his last. We buried him in a picturesque cemetery on the banks of the river Ferretti; and a cross—according to the custom of that Catholic country—was placed to mark his last home.”
“Poor fellow!” exclaimed the doctor. “He was always sickly—and the discovery of his hideous parentage was too much for so weak a constitution. And now let us turn to another subject:—have you received the letters which you expected concerning the various individuals——”
“I know to whom you allude,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield; “and I have now before me,” he added, glancing at several letters, “the correspondence relating to those persons. Timothy Splint still remains the occupant of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States; and the last nineteen years of his existence have proved the sincere penitence which he feels for the crimes of his earlier days. He possesses a competency—if not positive wealth. By his marriage with the daughter of a neighbouring settler, he has a numerous family; and he brings up his children in the ways of morality and virtue. Indeed, I am well aware that he has lived to bless the period when he went through the ordeal of the subterranean dungeon.”
“You prophesied that he would!” exclaimed Sir John Lascelles. “Yes—those were the very words which you used when speaking of him to me nineteen years ago. I recollect them perfectly;—for age has not impaired my memory, thank heaven!”
“I now come to Joshua Pedler,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, “You will remember, my dear doctor, that this man and his wife Matilda were appointed to the charge of the Eddystone Light-house. There they remained for six or seven years—as indeed I wrote to you to this effect a long time ago——”
“Yes—and then you sent them out as emigrants to Canada,” interrupted Sir John Lascelles; “and they continued to do well. What say your last accounts concerning them?”
“They are still happy—contented—and prosperous,” answered Mr. Hatfield. “Their shop at Quebec thrives admirably; and they have managed to put by several hundred pounds. Pedler says that the sweetest bread he has ever eaten in his life, has been that which he has earned by his honest toils. I have reason to feel convinced, moreover, that he is kind and good towards his wife, and that his only regret is their not having any children.”
“And the Bunces are still living in St. Peter’s-Port, after having acquired a competency in the Island of Sark?” enquired the physician.
“Yes—they are still in the capital of Guernsey,” was the response. “Bunce tells me in his letter that his wife’s health does not improve; in fact, she doubtless received a cruel shock when she heard of the death of Jacob Smith—for it had been her hope that he might some day take up his abode with her and her husband—a hope which she however nourished in secret.”
“Bunce himself has never learnt the real parentage of Jacob, I believe?” said the physician. “Indeed, I remember you told me the other day that his wife, always bearing in mind the injunctions you conveyed to her through Mrs. Harding, had retained as a profound secret her former illicit connexion with Benjamin Bones.”
“Yes—it was useless to make a revelation which would only have troubled their domestic peace,” said Mr. Hatfield. “Harding divined the hope that the woman had formed relative to Jacob—and in his letters he communicated his ideas to me. But even if death had spared Jacob, he would not have quitted me—no, not though it were to dwell with his own mother!”
“And Jeffreys?” asked the physician: “what of him?”
“He is well pleased that he removed last summer from Hackney to Liverpool. The money he had saved during a period of eighteen years at his shop in the London suburb, enabled him to take a very handsome establishment in the great commercial town in the north; and he is carrying on a large and flourishing business.”
“Thus, in every instance, save that of Old Death, have you succeeded in reclaiming those wicked people whose reform you took in hand,” said Sir John Lascelles. “Tidmarsh died tranquilly in his bed in the Island of Alderney—and the others still exist, worthy members of society.”
With these words the physician rose and took his leave; and almost immediately after he had quitted the library, the Earl of Ellingham entered, closing the door behind him with the caution of one who has some important or mysterious communication to make.
“Arthur, you have evil tidings for me?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, advancing towards his noble half-brother.
“Nay—they can scarcely be called evil, Thomas,” was the reply: “and yet—’twould perhaps have been better——”
“Speak! Keep me not in suspense,” interrupted the other.
“Charles—your son——”
“Ah! he has discovered his parentage!” cried Hatfield. “Yes—I am sure that this is the circumstance which you came to communicate;”—and he walked twice up and down the room in an agitated manner: then, suddenly turning towards his brother, he said, “How did this occur, Arthur?”
The Earl related the incident just as it had taken place, not forgetting the short but impressive dialogue which he had with his own daughter, Lady Frances, respecting the sudden and accidental revelation of the secret of Charles Hatfield’s birth.
“After all, I am not sorry that this has so happened,” observed the nobleman’s half-brother. “Sooner or later the truth must have been confided to my son—my dear son;—and since the secret may still be preserved in respect to the world and to those whom we would not wish to become acquainted with it——”
“Sir John Lascelles himself does not even suspect it,” interrupted Arthur. “It is known but to our immediate family—and Georgiana’s honour is as safe as ever it was. The breath of scandal cannot reach it.”
“Thanks, my dear brother—a thousand thanks for this assurance!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “And now let my son come hither to embrace me as his father:—but, Arthur,” he added, sinking his voice to a low and solemn tune, “let him not enquire into the motives which induced his parents to envelop his birth in mystery. Enjoin him to forbear from any attempt to gratify his curiosity in that respect!”
“I hope—indeed, I believe that you have no painful ordeal of such a nature to apprehend,” replied the Earl of Ellingham; and having thus spoken, he quitted the library.
Two minutes elapsed, during which Mr. Hatfield once more paced the apartment in an agitated manner: for, knowing the fine spirit of his son, he trembled lest it should be checked or even broken by the mortifying suspicion that he was illegitimate!
“A falsehood is abhorrent to me,” he thought within himself: “and yet—if he should question me respecting his birth—I dare not avow the truth! I must not confess to my own son that his being resulted from an atrocious outrage perpetrated by myself:—nor must I permit him to suspect the honour of his mother! Silence on my part, I now perceive, would engender such suspicion in respect to her; and she must not lose one particle of the dignity of virtue in the eyes of her own offspring! Alas! painful position!—and, Oh! with what foolish and short-sighted haste did I ere now affirm that I was not sorry for the discovery which he had made!”
At this moment the door opened, and Charles sprang forward into his father’s arms, which were extended to receive him.
For some minutes they remained silent—each too profoundly the prey to ineffable emotions to give utterance to a syllable.
“I am proud—I am rejoiced to be able to call you by the sacred name of Father!” at length exclaimed Charles, speaking with the abrupt loosening of the tongue which was caused by a sudden impulse. “But are you—are you well pleased that accident should have thus revealed to me——”
“Charles—my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, summoning all his firmness to his aid, “you must be aware that weighty reasons—the weightiest reasons—could alone have induced your mother and myself to practise a deception towards you and the world in respect to the degree of relationship in which you really stood with regard to us. Is it sufficient for you to know at last that you are our son?—or do you demand of me an explanation wherefore you must still pass as our nephew?”
“Oh! then Lord Ellingham spoke truly as he brought me hither just now!” cried Charles, in a tone of vexation: then, in another moment brightening up, he added feelingly, “But by what right do I dare to question the conduct of parents who have ever treated me so kindly? No—my dear father—I seek not any explanation at your hands—I am content to obey your wishes in all things.”
“Generous youth!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “Though you must pass as my nephew, Charles, yet in all respects shall you continue to be treated as my son! You are doubtless aware that I am rich—very rich;—and all that your mother and myself possess is bequeathed to you.”
“One word, father—only one word!” cried Charles. “I have an ardent longing to ask a single question—and yet I dare not—no—I cannot tutor my lips to frame the words——”
“Speak!” said, Mr. Hatfield, emphatically: “I can almost divine the question you hesitate to put to me.”
“Ah! my dear father—I would rather know the truth at once than remain in suspense, a prey to a thousand wild conjectures—the truth regarding one point—and only one!” repeated the young man, in an earnest and imploring tone. “And imagine not,” he continued, speaking with increased warmth and rapidity, “that I should ever look less lovingly or less respectfully upon my dear mother—if——”
“Set that suspicion at rest, my son,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn manner. “Your mother has ever been an angel of innocence and purity! As God is my judge she has never been guilty of weakness or frailty—no—never—never!” he added emphatically.
“And therefore no stigma is upon my birth?” asked Charles, his heart palpitating—or rather fluttering violently, as he awaited the response.
“None!” replied his father, with an effort which was, however, unnoticed by the young man in the excitement of his own feelings.
“God be thanked!” exclaimed he, wringing Mr. Hatfield’s hand in gratitude for this assurance. “And now I seek to learn no more.”
Bucklersbury—a tortuous street, leading from Cheapside to Walbrook—abounds in dining-rooms, where for fifteen pence the “City man” can procure a meal somewhat on the “cheap and nasty” principle. There’s ten-pence for a plate of meat, cut off a joint—two-pence, a pint of porter—a penny, potatoes—a penny, bread—and a penny the waiter.
The moment a person enters one of these establishments and seats himself at a table, a waiter with a dirty apron to his waist, and a ditto napkin over his arm, rushes up, and gabbles through the bill-of-fare, just in the same rapid and unintelligible manner as an oath is administered to a juryman or a witness in a court of justice.
It was while the preceding scenes were taking place at the West End of London, that two gentlemen lounged into a dining-room in Bucklersbury, and took their places, facing each other, at one of the numerous little tables that were spread with dirty cloths and strewn in a random fashion with knives, forks, salt-sellars, pepper-boxes, and vinegar-cruets,—all in preparation for the afternoon’s process of “feeding.”
Scarcely had the two gentlemen thus brought themselves to an anchor, when the waiter darted up to them as if the necessity of speed were a matter of life or death;—and, heedless whether the visitors were attending to him or not, the domestic functionary hurried over the list of delicacies at that moment in readiness in the kitchen.
“Roast beef—biled beef—roast leg of pork—biled leg of pork and pease pudding—fillet of veal and ’am—beef steak pie—biled leg of mutton and caper sarse—greens—colliflowers—and taturs. Give your orders, gentle-men.”
But were the rapidity of the waiter’s utterance properly represented in print, his repetition of the bill-of-fare would more properly stand thus:—
“Roast beef biled beef roast leg of pork biled leg of pork and pease pudding fillet of veal and ’am beefsteak pie biled leg of mutton and caper sarse greens colliflowers and taturs give your orders gentle-men!”
“Well—what shall we have, old fellow?” said the younger gentleman of the two to his companion.
“Be Jasus! ’an it’s afther boiled leg of por-r-rk and paze pudding that I am, my frind!” was the emphatic reply, delivered with a ferocious look at the waiter as much as to let that individual know that he had better not have any of his nonsense—although nothing was farther from the poor devil’s thoughts at the moment.
“Very good, sir!” cried the waiter. “Biled pork and pease pudding!” he shouted out for the behoof of the young lady within the bar at the remote end of the room.
“And the same for me,” said the Irishman’s companion.
“Same for gentle-man!” bawled the waiter, again addressing himself to the young lady just alluded to. “Ale or stout, gentle-men?”
“Porther—a pint!” exclaimed the ferocious Hibernian.
“Pale ale for me,” intimated his friend.
“Pint of porter and pint palale for gentle-men!” vociferated the waiter. “Weggitubles—bread?” he next demanded.
“No bread—greens!” ejaculated the Irishman.
“Bread and potatoes for me,” said his companion.
“One bread—one greens—one taturs—for gentle-men!” cried the waiter, thus conveying his last instructions to the young lady who officiated at the bar; and the said young lady sent each fresh order down a pipe communicating with the kitchen—her own voice being as affected and her manner as lackadaisical as the waiter was natural, rapid, and bustling.
But before the various luxuries thus commanded were hoisted from the kitchen to the bar by means of the moveable dumb-waiter that worked up and down between the two places just mentioned,—we must pause to inform our readers—if indeed they have not already suspected the fact—that the two visitors to the dining-establishment in Bucklersbury, were our old friends Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Francis Curtis!
The gallant Irishman had now numbered sixty-four years; and although the lapse of time had rendered his head completely bald, and turned his whiskers and moustachios to a bright silver, the ferocity of his aspect remained unaltered, and his fiery disposition was unsubdued. He was still the terrible Captain O’Blunderbuss—ready to exchange shots with any one and on all occasions—and more devoted to poteen than ever. His form was as erect as when in the prime of life; and his military coat, all frogged and braided, was buttoned over an ample chest that no stoop had contracted. The captain had grown somewhat stouter than when we took leave of him nineteen years previously to our present date; but his physical strength seemed to have remained unimpaired.
Frank Curtis was now forty-three. He also had “filled out,” as the phrase is; but his countenance, in fattening, had lost nothing of its ignoble expression of self-sufficiency and impudent conceit; and his manner was as flippant as ever. Neither had he laid aside any portion of his mendacious habits, but had rather added thereto by varying the style of his boastings and the nature of his lies. He continued to dress in a flashy way—delighting in a hat of strange appearance, and in a waistcoat concentrating in a yard of stuff all the colours which have existence and name upon earth.
We must however admit—for the truth cannot be blinked in this respect—that there was a certain air of seediness about both the captain and Mr. Frank Curtis, which neither the bullying insolence of the former nor the impertinent self-sufficiency of the latter could altogether throw into the shade. It was evident that they had lost the confidence of their tailors and hatters—and even of their washerwomen;—for their garments might have been less thread-bare, and their wristbands a trifle cleaner. We say “wristbands,” because those were the only portions of their shirts which met the eye—the captain’s frogged coat and Mr. Curtis’s faded double-breasted waistcoat being each buttoned up to its owner’s throat.
“Waiter-r!” vociferated the gallant officer, when about a minute and a half had elapsed from the time that the orders had been given for the repast.
“Yes, sir—coming, sir,” cried the functionary thus addressed, as he hurried away in quite another direction.
“Be Jasus!” ejaculated the captain, thumping his fist so vigorously down upon the table that the pepper box danced the polka with the mustard-pot, and the knives and forks performed a pas de quatre. “Is that boiled por-r-rk and paze pudding afther coming to-day at all, at all?”
“Just coming, sir!” said the waiter, under no excitement whatever, though in an immense bustle—for waiters always remain cool and imperturbable when most in a hurry.
“If it don’t come in sivin seconds, ye villain,” thundered the captain, “I’ll skin ye alive!”
“Very good, sir,” said the waiter, as he hastened to attend upon some new-comers.
“The beauty of the French eating-houses is that the moment you order things they appear on the table by magic,” observed Frank Curtis, in a tone loud enough to let every one present know that he had been in France. “When I was in Paris—on that secret mission from the English Government, you know, captain——-”
“Be Jasus! and I remimber quite well,” exclaimed the gallant officer. “’Twas at the same time that I wint to offer my swor-r-d and services to the Imperor of the Tur-r-rks—the Sulthan, I mane.”
“Just so,” said Frank. “Well—as I was going to tell you——”
“Two biled pork—two pease pudding—for gentle-men,” cried the waiter at this juncture, as he set the plates upon the table. “One—bread—one greens—one taturs—for gentle-men.”
The captain and Mr. Curtis fell to work upon the delicacies thus placed before them; and after an interval of silence, during which the boiled pork and et ceteras disappeared with astonishing rapidity, the latter leaning across the table, said in a low whisper, “It was a deuced lucky thing that I met my friend Styles just now; for if he hadn’t lent me this sovereign, we might have gone without dinner as well as without breakfast.”
“Be Jasus! and that’s thrue enough, Frank!” returned the gallant officer, likewise in sotto voce. “Where did ye appint to mate Misther Styles again this afternoon?”
“At a nice quiet little public that I know of—where there’s a good parlour and capital spirits,” answered Mr. Curtis.
“Ah! the thrue potheen—the rale cratur!” said the captain. “Well that’s a blissing, at all evints! And, be Jasus! I hope your frind Misther Styles will be after putting us up to do a something, as he suggisted—for, be the power-r-rs! Frank, it’s hard work looking about for the sinews of war-r-r!”
“Styles is a splendid fellow, captain,” replied Mr. Curtis, smacking his lips after his last glass of pale ale—or “palale,” as the waiter denominated it. “Why, God bless you! It was him who got up the London and Paris Balloon Conveyance Company, with Parachute Branches to Dover and Calais.”
“And how came it to fail?” demanded the gallant officer.
“Simply because it was never meant to succeed,” answered Frank, in a matter-of-fact way. “The object was to make money by showing the balloons and parachutes that were to be used in the business; and the press took up the affair quite seriously. As long as curiosity was kept alive, Styles cleared upwards of five guineas a-day by the admissions at a shilling a head. Ah! he’s a clever fellow—a deuced clever fellow, I can tell you. But it’s pretty near time we went to meet him: for, though he hasn’t any thing particular to do at present, he always pretends to be in a hurry, and never waits one minute over the hour for an appointment:—that’s the way he has got himself the character of a man of punctuality and business-habits.”
“Waiter-r!” vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss.
“Coming, sir!” cried the functionary thus adjured: then, rushing up to the table, he said interrogatively, “Cheese, gentle-men?”
“No. What’s to pay?” demanded Curtis.
The waiter enumerated the items in a rapid manner and mentioned the amount, which was forthwith discharged by Frank, who ostentatiously threw down a sovereign as if he had plenty more of the same kind of coin in his pocket. On receiving his change, he gave the waiter sixpence—a specimen of liberality which induced that discriminating personage to disregard all the other demands made at the moment upon his services, until he had duly escorted the two gentlemen to the door.
Upon quitting the dining-rooms, Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis proceeded arm-in-arm into Cheapside; and, on catching a glimpse of the clock of Bow Church, the latter gentleman said, “We are in lots of time. It’s only half-past two—and we’re to meet Styles at three at a public in Fleet Street. So we needn’t gallop along as if a troop of sheriffs’ officers were at our heels.”
“Be Jasus! d’ye remember what fine fun we had with the snaking scoundrels up in Baker Street?” cried the gallant officer. “Why—it must be upwards of twenty years ago—or nineteen at the laste!”
“Yes—and do you remember what larks we had in the Bench too, during the time that the sleepy old Commissioners remanded me for?” said Curtis.
“Be the holy poker-r! and I’ve forgotten nothing of all that same!” ejaculated the captain. “But it was a sad blow to ye, my frind, when Sir Christopher-r died without laving ye a single sixpence!”
“I can’t bear to think of it, captain—although a dozen years or more have passed since then. But who do you think I saw the other day, riding in her carriage just as if she had been a lady all her life?”
“Be Jasus! and ye mane Sir Christopher’s wife that was!” exclaimed the gallant officer. “Had she got the fine stout livery-servant standing up behind as usual?”
“Yes—and young Blunt was inside,” added Curtis. “He’s as like the stout footman as ever a lad was to a middle-aged man in this world—the same pudding face—sandy hair—stupid-looking eyes——”
“Now be the power-rs! I think you’re too hard upon the footman, Frank!” interrupted the captain. “He’s not such an ugly fellow as you would be afther making him out. I don’t say, for insthance, that he’s so handsome as you, my dear frind—or yet so well made as me, Frank——”
“Very far from it, captain,” cried Mr. Curtis. “I don’t think that we’re the worst looking chaps in Cheapside at this moment. That’s exactly what Styles said to us this morning. ‘I want a couple of genteel fellows like you,’ says he, ‘to join me in something that I have in hand.’”
“We’re the very boys to co-operate with him, Frank!” exclaimed the captain: “and what’s more, you and me can play into ache-other’s hands. ’Tisn’t for nothing that we’ve been frinds for the last twinty years.”
“In which time we’ve seen many ups and downs, captain,” observed Frank,—“had many a good dinner, and gone many a time without one—spent many a guinea, and seen many a day when we didn’t know where the devil to get a shilling——”
“Be the power-rs! and had many a rar-r lar-r-rk into the bargin!” said Captain O’Blunderbuss. “D’ye renumber our gitting into the station-house the night afther your dear wife left ye to jine the old gintleman that fell in love with her, and——”
“And who was kind enough to take her off my hands, children and all!” exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily. “Ah! that was a glorious business—that was—I mean, old Shipley relieving me of my dear spouse and the five responsibilities.”
“And didn’t I conduct the bargin for ye?” demanded the captain. “Didn’t I make him pony down a thousand pounds to prevint an action of crim. con.? Be the potheen of ould Ireland—I did that same business as nate and clane as iver such a thing was setthled in this wor-r-rld!”
“True enough, captain,” said Frank. “But it’s just on the stroke of three, I declare!” he exclaimed, glancing up at Saint Bride’s, which they were now passing. “How we must have dawdled along! I wish you wouldn’t loiter to stare at the gals so, captain,” he added, laughing.
“Be Jasus! and it’s yourself, Frank, that ogles all the lasses that we mate,” cried the captain, throwing back an insinuation that was intended as a friendly compliment. “But which is the place, me boy?”
“Here,” said Curtis, turning into a public-house in Fleet Street just as the clock struck three.
Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a gentleman of about fifty years of age. Short, thin, dapper, and active,—with a high, bald forehead, and small restless, twinging eyes,—he seemed a perfect man of business—an impression that was enhanced by a certain sly knowingness which he had assumed years before, and which was now habitual to him. He was uneducated and ignorant: but he had studied the manner in which well-instructed persons spoke—he compared their language with his own—and he had actually weeded his style of speech of the solecisms and grammatical errors that originally characterised it. He had not, however, been able to improve himself in spelling, with equal facility; and therefore he took care never to write a letter. He always had some plausible excuse for throwing this duty in business matters upon some other person more competent than himself.
Astute and cunning, he forebore from touching on topics which he did not understand: but if the conversation did turn, in spite of his endeavours to the contrary, on subjects whereof he was ignorant, he so artfully managed his observations that even those who knew him well were far from suspecting that he was otherwise than profoundly acquainted with the matter under discussion. Every body thought him a very shrewd fellow;—and he had a habit of looking so knowing and critical when any one was speaking, that his opinion, when subsequently delivered, was received with respect and deemed an authority.
The reader may therefore perceive that Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a thorough man of the world. He took care never to commit himself. In small money transactions he was always regular and correct: he therefore escaped the imputation of meanness, and actually acquired at a cheap rate the denomination of “an honourable character.” The consequence was, that when he failed—which was very often indeed—in large transactions, he was considered merely as “a spirited but unsuccessful speculator,”—never as a dishonest person.
He had an office in the City: but were any of his friends to ask, “What is Styles?” the answer would be a vague generality—such as, “Oh! he is a City man, you know—engaged in business and all that!”—a reply leaving the enquirer just as wise as he was before. And yet, at his office, there were all the symptoms and evidence of “business,”—a letter-box at the door—a clerk engaged in writing at the desk—a pile of letters here, and a heap of account-books there—samples of many kinds of goods on the mantel and shelves—mysterious-looking bales and hampers on the floor—files covered with dingy papers, looking like invoices and bills of lading—and the words Bills for Acceptance labelled over a slit in the board-work that enclosed the desk. Thus the place had a very business-like aspect: and yet no one could define what was the precise nature of the business carried on there.
But we have travelled to Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in Crosby Hall Chambers; whereas Mr. Bubbleton Styles himself is just now in a tavern-parlour in Fleet Street.
The clock had just begun to strike three as Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis entered the public-house: and by the time they reached the aforesaid parlour it was six seconds past three.
There sate Mr. Bubbleton Styles—with his silver watch in his hand, and gazing at the Dutch clock over the mantel-piece, as if he were anxiously comparing the two dials, and found himself much put out because there happened to be a slight difference between them.
“If I thought it was my watch that was wrong,” he said aloud, apparently in a musing manner, but really because he caught a glimpse of the entrance of Curtis and Blunderbuss at the moment, and he never lost an opportunity of impressing even his best friends with an idea of his punctuality,—“if I thought it was my watch that was wrong, I would trample it to pieces beneath my heel.”
“No—don’t do that, old fellow!” exclaimed Frank, advancing towards him. “Much better give it to me!”
“I would not do any thing so prejudicial to a friend as present him with a watch that went irregularly,” returned Mr. Styles, in a solemn tone. “But the fault is not with my watch, I am convinced: it lies with that rascally old clock. However, you are only six seconds after your time: I should have allowed you the full minute—and then I should have waited no longer. Come, sit down, Curtis—Captain O’Blunderbuss, sit down; I have just one hour to devote to you. As the clock strikes four, I must be off. What will you take?”
“Potheen for me, if ye plaze,” said the gallant officer.
“Brandy for me,” observed Frank.
“And wine-and-water for me,” added Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “I never take spirits until after supper.”
The various beverages required, were immediately ordered and supplied; and the three gentlemen proceeded to business, the parlour at the tavern—or rather public-house—being occupied only by themselves at the moment.
“Well, old fellow,” said Mr. Frank Curtis, addressing himself to Mr. Styles, “what good thing can you put us up to?”
“A speculation that will enrich us all three,” replied the gentleman thus appealed to. “I do not mind telling you that I have been rather unfortunate lately in one or two enterprises—and I want something to set me square again. I have a few bills coming due in a couple or three months, and would not have them dishonoured on any account. Thank God! however, I have no paltry debts—no mean milk-scores—no peddling affairs. I always avoid them. Still I must make a bold stroke for the sake of my larger transactions;—and I presume that neither of you are averse to earning a little money easily and speedily.”
“Arrah! and be Jasus! that’s the most wilcome thing ye could be afther saying to me, my frind!” exclaimed the captain, surveying the speculator with deep admiration.
“Now,” continued Mr. Styles, “I have been thinking that we three can work the oracle well together—and I propose——”
“What?” demanded Mr. Curtis, anxiously.
“Hould your tongue—and have patience, Frank!” ejaculated the gallant officer. “It shall be your turn to spake prisintly. Well, sir—and what is it, thin, that ye’re afther proposing!”
“A Railway!” returned Mr. Bubbleton Styles.
“Divil a betther idea could ye have formed!” cried the captain, enthusiastically.
“Glorious!” exclaimed Curtis, in an equally impassioned tone of approval.
“Don’t be excited—take things calmly—in a business-like way,” said Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “It is now twenty minutes past three: we have forty minutes more to converse upon the subject. Much may be done in that time. Here,” continued the speculator, drawing a skeleton-map of England from his pocket, and spreading it on the table; “you see this line drawn almost longitudinally from one end of Great Britain to the other? Well—that is my projected Railway. You perceive, we start from Beachy Head in Sussex—right on, as straight as we can go, to Cape Wrath on the northern coast of Scotland. Of course we avoid as much as possible placing any portion of our line in competition with railways already existing; but we shall have Branches to all the principal cities and manufacturing towns, and Single Lines wherever they may be asked for.”
“Capital, be Jasus!” exclaimed the Hibernian officer, unable to restrain the exuberance of his delight at this magnificent scheme. “And be what title d’ye mane to call this purty little bantling of yours, Misther Styles?”
“The Grand British Longitudinal Railway,” answered the speculator, in a measured and emphatic manner.
The captain was so elated by the grandeur and vast comprehensiveness of this denomination, that he rang the bell with furious excitement, and ordered the waiter to replenish the glasses.
“Now,” continued Mr. Bubbleton Styles, “having expounded my views, it is necessary to take into consideration the mode of procedure. Of course I am the promoter of the scheme; and to-morrow I shall register it. This will only cost five pounds—and then the thing is secured to us. ‘Provisionally Registered, pursuant to 7 and 8 Victoria, cap. 110;’—and so forth. Capital £8,000,000, in 400,000 shares of £20 each. Deposit, £2 2s. per share. You, Frank, must be the Secretary; and you, captain, Consulting Engineer.”
“Is it an Ingineer ye’d be afther making of me in my ould age?” cried the gallant officer: “for, be the power-rs! I’ve forgot more than I ever knew of that same!”
“Oh! the place will be quite a sinecure—good pay and nothing to do,” said Mr. Styles. “We shall have a regular Engineer, as a matter of course; but it will look business-like to speak in the prospectus of having ‘secured the valuable services of that eminent Military Engineer, Captain O’Blunderbuss, of Blunderbuss Park, Ireland; who, having surveyed the whole of the proposed line, in concert with the Company’s Civil Engineer, has reported most favourably of the scheme, and has offered suggestions which will produce a saving to the Company of nearly half a million sterling in the progress of the works.’ This is the way to manage business, gentlemen,” added Mr. Styles, glancing in a satisfied manner at his two companions, one after the other: then, looking at his watch, he exclaimed, “Just ten minutes more to stay—and I must be off! Now, we have settled that I am to be Promoter—you, Curtis, are to be Secretary—and you, captain, Consulting Engineer. This evening I will draw up the prospectus: we must have about thirty good names for the Provisional Committee—and by to-morrow afternoon the document will be printed and ready.”
“You will not have time to call on the people to ask them to let you put down their names?” said Frank Curtis, conceiving at the moment that his friend was going a trifle too fast.
“Nonsense, my dear fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles: “I know that I can take the liberty of using the names of at least half of my intended Provisional Committee-men; and the others will not think of contradicting the prospectus, when they see that we have got Mr. Podgson as chairman.”
“What—Podgson!” cried Mr. Curtis, almost wild with joy and surprise. “You don’t mean to say that you’ve got Podgson?”
“Not yet,” answered the speculator, with his characteristic coolness: “but I shall have him by this time to-morrow.”
“I thought that you had not spoken of your scheme to a soul before you met me and the captain this morning——”
“Neither had I—and Podgson is totally unaware at this moment that such a project is in existence,” interrupted Mr. Styles, calmly and deliberately. “But I know how to deal with him: I have read his character from a distance;—and, although I have never yet exchanged a word with him in my life, depend upon it I shall hook him as our chairman before I am twenty-four hours older. Three minutes more!” cried the speculator: then, as if to make the most of the hundred and eighty seconds at his disposal, Mr. Styles closed the present interview in the following business-like and highly gratifying manner:—“You are both as shabby as you well can be; and you must obtain new clothes as soon as possible. Here is a ten-pound note for each of you. Moreover you must get respectable lodgings at once; and you can give a reference to me. To-morrow, at three o’clock punctually, there will be chops and sherry in readiness at my office—and I shall expect you both. Not a moment before three, remember—because you will be interrupting me: and if you’re a moment after, I shall decline any farther transactions with you. So good bye—I haven’t time to shake hands.”
Thus speaking, Mr. Styles rushed from the room, it being four o’clock to an instant;—and it is perhaps as well to observe that this perfect man of business had only made an appointment with his friends at the public-house in Fleet Street, because he had another gentleman to meet in the neighbourhood at six minutes past four.
It was past midnight; and in only one chamber throughout the Earl of Ellingham’s spacious mansion was a light still burning.
In that chamber Charles Hatfield was pacing to and fro—his mind filled with thoughts of so bewildering, exciting, and painful a nature, that he felt the inutility of endeavouring to escape from them by retiring to his couch.
This young man of twenty-five years of age,—so handsome, so intelligent, and with the certainly of inheriting vast riches,—possessing the most brilliant worldly prospects, and knowing himself to be the object of his parents’ devoted affection—entertaining, too, a profound love for the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham, and having every reason to hope that his passion was reciprocated,—this young man, with so many advantages in respect to position, and so many sources of felicity within his view,—Charles Hatfield was restless and unhappy.
The striking incident which had marked the day—the sudden discovery that those whom he had hitherto looked upon as his uncle and his aunt, were in reality his parents,—the assurance which he had received respecting the honour of his mother and the legitimacy of his birth,—then the mysterious fact that his parentage was still to remain a secret to the world,—all these circumstances combined to torment him with doubts and misgivings—to excite his curiosity to a painful degree—and to animate him with an ardent longing to penetrate into all that was so obscure and suspicious.
It was true that he had promised his mother never to question her relative to a subject that might be disagreeable to her;—for the moment, too, he had been satisfied with the assurances of his legitimacy which he had received from the lips of his father. But when he found himself alone in his own bed-chamber—surrounded by the stillness of night—he could no longer check the natural current of his reflections:—the deep silence in which the mansion was enveloped—the secluded position of his apartment—and the slightly romantic turn of his mind,—all united to give an impulse to thoughts which were so intimately associated with subjects of mysterious and strange import.
Then, many circumstances, remembered in connexion with his early boyhood, but until now never before pondered upon with serious attention,—recollections, hitherto vague and disjointed,—gradually assumed a more intelligible aspect to his mental contemplation:—memory exerted herself with all her energy, to fill up blanks and bring vividly forward those reminiscences that until this moment had been like dim and misty vapours floating before the mind’s eye:—he fixed his gaze intently on the past, until the feeblest glimmerings assumed a bolder and more comprehensible light;—and by degrees the confusion of his ideas relative to his early being, yielded to something like order—so that he became enabled to fit incidents into their proper places, and even make some accurate calculations with regard to the dates of particular occurrences.