 Section 47 of the Mysteries of London, Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Anne Fletcher, Hobart 2019. The Mysteries of London, Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds. Mrs. Fitz Harding Return we now to Mrs. Fitz Harding, whom the officers of justice had arrested at Dover on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival the Miser. The old woman, when made acquainted with the cause of her apprehension, was completely thunderstruck, for in truth she had not even heard until that moment of the dreadful deed which had taken place. But the Dover constables who took her into custody and who were in plain clothes insisted upon her accompanying them to London, and yielding to the imperious necessity with as good a grace as possible, Mrs. Fitz Harding cherished that consolation that her innocence must inevitably become apparent when the case should undergo a magisterial investigation. For a variety of reasons she made no mention of her daughter and Charles, who she doubted not had embarked in safety. Neither did she volunteer any explanations relative to her acquaintance with Mr. Percival, or the business which she had with him on the night when as it appeared the murder was committed. She had already in her life passed through the ordeal of arrest, examination at a police court, committal, trial and condemnation, eye and expiation also, and she was well aware that unseasonable garulity or explanatory remarks inconsiderately volunteered seldom benefit even the innocent person when unjustly accused. She accordingly shrouded herself, or rather took refuge in a complete silence, from which the officers did not seek to draw her as they all proceeded together by railway to London. On their arrival in the metropolis at a somewhat late hour in the afternoon, Mrs. Fitz Harding was consigned to Clark and Welle Prison, where she passed the night, and at ten o'clock on the following morning she was removed in a cab to Marleybone Police Court to undergo an examination relative to the serious charge existing against her. The prisoner, who had retained counsel in her behalf and made other arrangements for her defence, appeared perfectly cool and collected, and although the sinister expression of her countenance might have told somewhat in her disfavour, in the estimation of common observers, yet to the eye of the experienced magistrate, it spoke not of guilt in this instance. Nevertheless, that very experience which he possessed taught him not to judge either way by outward appearances, and he therefore prepared himself to give the matter the most searching investigation. The first witness examined was Mrs. Dyer, who deposed as follows. I occupy a house adjoining that of the deceased. At half past eleven o'clock on the nighting question, I returned home from the dwelling of a friend in the neighbourhood, and saw deceased at his door, taking leave of two females. He had a light in his hand, and one of the women who seemed by her figure and general appearance to be young was at the garden gate, and I could not see her countenance. The light which the deceased carried fell fully upon the face of the other female, and I therefore obtained a good view of her. The prisoner at the bar is the female alluded to. Mrs. Dyer then narrated how she and her lodgers had discovered the murder on the ensuing morning, but these details are already known to the reader. The inspector of police who had the case in hand was next examined, and his deposition was to the following effect. In consequence of the information I received from Mrs. Dyer immediately after the murder was discovered, I instituted certain inquiries, and ascertained in the course of the morning that an old and a young woman had taken a cab in the neighbourhood of the angel at his LinkedIn on the previous night, which was the one in question. They drove to Suffolk Street, Palmale, where the young lady paid the driver his fare from a heavy and well-filled purse. The driver gave me a description of the elder female, and that description tallied with the one already given by Mrs. Dyer. I thereupon repaired to Suffolk Street and learnt that the two women had taken their departure in a post-shays between nine and ten o'clock that morning. This was the morning after the murder. Previous to their departure they were joined by a young gentleman who went away with them. He had called on several occasions at the lodgings, and his name was—here, the magistrate interposed—and said that it might not be necessary to mention this name publicly, as there was nothing to implicate the gentleman referred to. The inspector accordingly proceeded thus. The shays was sent for in a great hurry, and its destination was unknown to the landlady and servants of the house. No previous intimation of the intended departure of the lodgers had been given. They settled all their liabilities before they left. The prisoner at the bar paid the rent and other little matters owing, but did not display any large sum of money. Having ascertained all these particulars, I sent a description of the elder female to the various railways having electric telegraphs, and the prisoner at the bar was apprehended at Dover in consequence of the information thus conveyed. Upon being cross-examined by the learned gentleman for the defence, the inspector fairly and impartially deposed as follows. The stake with which the murder was evidently perpetrated was found by the side of the corpse. It was taken from a piece of unenclosed waste-ground at the back of the house. I believe this to be the fact, because I have discovered a hole from which a stake had most likely been taken, and the stake, now produced, fits the hole. I also discovered marks of footsteps between the back door of the house and the spot where the stake had been pulled up. Those marks are of a man's boots. The soil of some part of the waste-ground is moist and damp. There are marks on the window-edge of the back parlor, as if someone with dirty boots or shoes had clambered up and stood there. The shutters have numerous heart holes in them, so that a person standing up on the ledge outside the window could see into the back parlor. I discovered no traces of any female footsteps on the waste-ground. Neither are there two descriptions of marks. They are all produced by the same sized boots. The door-post of the back gate was cut away from the outside. Whoever did it must have known the precise place where the bolt fitted into the door-post and the inside. The cutting away rendered it easy to force back the bolt with the fingers. The work of cutting was performed, I should say, with a knife, most probably a pocket or clasp knife. It must have taken half an hour at the least to accomplish, and the hand that did it must have been tolerably strong. There are marks of footsteps indicated in the same manner as those on the window-edge, up the stairs from the back door to the back parlor. The lock of the back door, so often alluded to, was picked from the outside. The inspector's evidence terminated here, and the counsel for Mrs. Fitz Harding recalled Mrs. Dyer. Will you state as accurately as you can the hour when you returned home on the night of the murder?" he asked. Half past eleven, sir, was the answer. That will do, said the learned gentleman, who forthwith proceeded to call the driver of the cab, which Mrs. Fitz Harding and Perditor had taken on the night in question. At what hour, he demanded, did the prisoner and the young lady who accompanied her hire your vehicle? It was twelve o'clock, replied the man. I'm sure it was precisely midnight, because I had just left a public house when I was hailed by the ladies. This witness was ordered to stand down, and the landlady of the house in Suffolk Street was called next. She deposed that she was sitting up for her lodgers on the night in question, and that they reached home at twenty minutes to one. She was certain as to the correctness of her statement, because she looked at the clock in the passage as she passed by to let the ladies in. There was nothing confused in their manner. She attended them to the door of their bed-chamber, and did not observe that their shoes were at all soiled with damp clay. She was convinced that they did not leave the house again that night. The ladies had always appeared to have plenty of money, from the very day they entered her dwelling. The learned council then proceeded to address the magistrate on behalf of Mrs. Fitzharding. He began by remarking on the meager nature of the evidence against her. The mere fact that she and the young lady who was with her, and who was her daughter, were the last persons seen in the company of the murdered man. And he complained bitterly that his client should have been arrested, ignominiously brought back to London, and forced through the ordeal of a public examination on such a shallow pretense. Every circumstance adduced that morning, every feature of the evidence tended only to exculpate the prisoner at the bar. In the first place it was clear from the testimony recorded that the prisoner and her daughter had quitted the house of the deceased at half past eleven, had taken a cab at the angel at midnight, and had driven straight home, reaching Suffolk Street at twenty minutes to one. Now the distance from the scene of the murder to the angel would require rapid walking for two females to accomplish in half an hour, and leave not an instant to accomplish the crime before they set out, much less to cut away the doorpost, ransack the deceased's boxes, and so forth. From the angel they were traced home, and they did not leave the house again that night. Now the evidence of the Inspector of Police attended to showing contestably that the murder had been perpetrated by a man. He, the learned counsel, was instructed to state that Mrs. Fitzhiring and her daughter had called upon Mr. Percival for the purpose of obtaining the discount of a bill, that he did discount the document, and that he left his cash-box open on the table during the negotiation. It was presumable that some man, who probably knew the premise as well, had clambered up against the back window, had beheld the cash-box and its contents, and during the night had perpetrated the bloody deed. The speedy departure of the prisoner, her daughter, and the gentleman who had been alluded to on the morning following that night of the crime, was occasioned by the fact that the young people contemplated a matrimonial alliance unknown to the gentleman's parents, and the means of travelling having been procured by the discount already mentioned, there was no necessity to delay the departure for Paris any longer. This was the simple and plain explanation of the suddenly undertaken journey and the precipitate decampment from Suffolk Street. But the ladies did not act as if they had committed a crime, nor their male companion as if he had been an accomplice in one, for they travelled by pochets instead of by rail to Dover, and there they waited quietly until the steam-packet left next morning, instead of hiring some small craft, as they might have done, to waft them across the same night of their arrival to Calais. Again, if the prisoner and her daughter had even entertained such a fearful idea, as that of depriving the miser of his life for the sake of his gold, they would have had a better opportunity of carrying it into execution while alone with him in his back parlor, than by the roundabout manner suggested by the nature of the charge against Mrs. Fitz Harding. During the short time the two ladies had dwelt at the lodgings in Suffolk Street, they had not been embarrassed for want of funds, nor even when they sought the aid of the discounter was their need so pressing, much less was it of that desperate nature, which could alone prompt so such a dreadful alternative as murder. The reason why the assistance of the deceased was sought at all could be readily explained by the avowal that the bill to be discounted was not a security which any other class of moneylenders would entertain. It was the promissory note of a young gentleman raising cash upon his expectations, and therefore of a character suiting only the purposes of a discounter who took an amount of interest proportionate to the risk which he ran. In conclusion, the learned gentleman insisted that there was not a shadow of evidence against his client. The magistrate acquiesced in this view of the case and discharged Mrs. Fitz Harding forthwith. She was, however, compelled to repair from the Marlebone Police Court to the tavern where the coroner was holding an adjourned inquest upon the body. But the result of her examination before the magistrate being communicated to that functionary, she was not detained on his authority. A verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown was returned, and the old woman once more found herself at liberty. The evidence given by the Inspector of Police at the Marlebone Court and repeated in the presence of the coroner had excited certain suspicions in the mind of Mrs. Fitz Harding, and the more she pondered upon the subject, the more she reflected upon the occurrences at Percival's house on the night of the murder, and the details of the manner in which the deed itself must have been accomplished, the more confident did she become that she could name the assassin. Had circumstances permitted, she would have remained in London to ferret out the individual whom she thus associated with the crime, but she could not now spare the time, for she was anxious to proceed without delay to Paris, and join her daughter and Charles Hatfield, who she had no doubt had reached that capital in safety. Her examination at the police court and her attendance at the inquest had, however, consumed the entire day, and she therefore waited until the next morning when she departed by the first train for Folkestone, at which town she arrived in time to embark on board a steamer for Boulogne. In order that we may accurately show the precise time when Mrs. Fitz Harding reached Paris, we must request our readers to observe that on the same day that Charles and Perdita crossed the water to Calais, the old woman was born back to London by the Constables. On the following day, while they were journeying toward the French capital, she was undergoing the examination already recorded. On the third day, when they were married at the British Ambassador's Chapel, she was hastening to join them. And it was therefore in the after-part of the fourth day, being the one on which the separation of Charles and her daughter had occurred, that Mrs. Fitz Harding entered Paris in the diligence, or stagecoach, thoroughly weary-read out by the fatigue, annoyance and excitement she had lately undergone. The old woman repaired to her hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of the office where the coach stopped, and, having changed her apparel, drove forthwith in a Hackney vehicle to the British Embassy, for it must be remembered that she was entirely ignorant of everything that had taken place in respect to her daughter and Charles, since she had been separated from them, and knew not where they had put up in Paris. Indeed, she even had her misgivings whether they were in the French capital at all, or whether they might not have set out upon some tour immediately after their marriage. For that they were already united in matrimonial bonds she had no doubt. That they had returned to Dover to look for her she did not flatter herself, inasmuch as she had latterly seen enough of Perdita's altered disposition to be fully aware that all maternal authority or filial affection were matters which the young lady was more inclined to treat with contempt than with serious consideration. But Mrs. Fitzharding was resolved not to be thrust aside without an effort to regain the maternal authority. As for the filial affection, her soul, tanned, hardened, rendered rough and inaccessible, and with all its best feelings irremediably blunted by the incidents of her stormy life, her soul, we say, experienced but a slight pang at the idea of having to renounce that devotedness which it is usually a mother's joy and delight to receive at the hands of a daughter. No, the aim of this vile, intriguing woman was merely the re-establishment of her former ascendancy over her daughter, by fair means or foul, by conciliation or intimidation, by ministering to her vanity and her pride, or by working on her fears, by rendering herself necessary to her, or by reducing her to subjection through a course of studied despotism and tyranny. Her imagination pictured the voluptuous and impassioned Perdita clinging to her young husband as to something which had become necessary to her very existence, and from which it were death to part, and she chuckled within herself as she muttered between her lips. The girl would have this marriage, and it shall be made in my hands a means to subdue her, for in her tenderest moments when reading love in his eyes and looking love with her own, when wrapped in Elysian dreams and visions of ineffable bliss, then will I still near her and whisper in her ear, Perdita, you must yield to me in all things, or with a word, a single word, will I betray you to that font confiding fool. I will blast all your happiness, and he shall cast thee away from him as a loathsome and polluted thing. With such agreeable musings as these, did Mrs. Fitzharding while away the half-hour, which the Hackney coach occupied in driving her from the hotel to the British Embassy. It was now five o'clock in the evening, and she fortunately found the chaplain's clerk in an office to which the gate-porter directed her to proceed. From the official to whom she was thus referred, she learnt that Charles Hatfield and Perdita Fitzharding were united in matrimonial bonds on the previous day, and an inspection of the register for which she paid a small fee enabled her to ascertain the address they had given as their place of abode in the French capital. Satisfied with these results, Mrs. Fitzharding returned to the vehicle and ordered the coachman to drive her to an hotel which she named and which was the one mentioned in the register. We shall observe that the old woman spoke French with fluency and thus she had no difficulty in making herself understood in the gay city of Paris. The Mysteries of London, Vol. 4 by George W. M. Reynolds The Mother and Daughter On arriving at the hotel indicated, Mrs. Fitzharding alighted and inquired of the porter whether Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield were residing there. The man referred to a long list of names on a paper posted against the wall, and after running his eye down the column, turned to the old woman with the laconic but respectfully uttered observation, removed to No. 9, Rue Montabel. To this new address did Mrs. Fitzharding repair, without pausing to ask any further question, and on her arrival at the entrance to a house of handsome appearance in the street named, she inquired for Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield. Oh, it's all right, said the porter. I was told that if any persons called to ask for Mrs. Hatfield, I was to direct them to the lady who has taken the second floor. Mrs. Fitzharding was somewhat surprised by this ambiguous answer, but it instantly struck her that Charles might have assumed his title of Viscount Marston, and that the name of Hatfield would therefore be unknown to the porter, had no particular instructions been left with him. At all events she was in too great a hurry to remain bandying words with the man, and she accordingly hastened to ascend to the second floor, which we should observe, by the way, is the most fashionable in Parisian houses. But as she mounted the staircase, it struck her that the porter, when replying to her query, had made no mention of any gentleman at all, but had plainly and clearly spoken of the lady who had taken the second floor. The old woman was puzzled, indeed bewildered by the mystery which suddenly appeared to envelop her, and a certain misgiving seized upon her mind, the nature of which she could not precisely define. On gaining the marble landing of the second floor, she rang the bell at the door of the suite of apartments on that flat, and was immediately admitted by Rosalie into a handsomely furnished drawing-room. Whom shall I mention to ma'am Zell, inquired the French ladies made? Her mother was the response. Rosalie withdrew, and Mrs. Fitzharding, seating herself upon an elegant Ottoman, cast her eyes around the splendid room. Perdita is well lodged at all events, she mused inwardly, but somehow or other there is a mystery which I cannot comprehend. The porter spoke of no gentleman. The maid was equally silent on that head, and alluded to her mistress as ma'am Zell, and not ma'am. What can it mean? One moment the door opened, and Perdita made her appearance in a charming désabit, for she had been assisting to arrange her effects in her newly hired, ready furnished apartments. The meeting between the mother and daughter was characterised by nothing cordial, much less affectionate. There was no embracing, not even a shaking of the hand, but only a mutual desire hastily evinced on either side to receive explanations. Where is Charles? demanded Mrs. Fitzharding. Gone, was the laconic reply. Gone, ejaculated the old woman, now manifesting the most profound astonishment. Yes, gone, departed, never to return, said Perdita, with some degree of bitterness, and then in an altered tone and with recovered calmness she asked, How have you managed, respecting the accusation? Ah, then you have heard of that! interrupted Mrs. Fitzharding with a subdued feeling of spite, for she thought that her daughter took the matter very quietly. I was taken back to London, examined at the Marlebone Police Court, and discharged without much difficulty. Now in your turn. Answer my next question. Wherefore has Charles left you? The first place, said Perdita, tell me how you discovered my abode? And she fixed her large grey eyes in a searching manner upon the old woman, as if to ascertain by that look the precise extent of her mother's knowledge relative to herself and Charles. Oh, that is speedily explained! Observed Mrs. Fitzharding, who instantly perceived that her daughter intended to reveal to her no more than she was actually compelled to do, and it flashed to her mind, she knew not why, that Perdita meant especially to throw a veil over the fact of her marriage with Charles. Else why had she not immediately mentioned it? Why had she not hastened to satisfy her that the alliance had indeed taken place? But if Perdita had a motive in concealing that fact, then the knowledge of the secret might sooner or later prove serviceable to Mrs. Fitzharding, and she therefore resolved to feign ignorance. All these thoughts and calculations swept through the old woman's brain in a moment, and she preserved the while the most steady composure of countenance. That is speedily explained, she repeated. I went to the prefectural police and learnt your address. But you knew not by what name to ask for me, said Perdita, still keeping her eyes fixed on her mother's countenance. I inquired for you by the name of Fitzharding, answered the old woman, hazarding the falsehood, and referred to the hotel where you and Charles had put up. And on your calling there, asked Perdita impatiently, the porter laconically told me that you had removed Hither, returned the old woman, but what means the absence of Charles, and has he not married you? No, responded Perdita, reading in her mother's countenance more intently, more searchingly than Hither too. He has played a perfidious part and deserted me. The villain ejaculated the old woman, affecting to give full credence to the denial that the matrimonial alliance had taken place, while on the other hand Perdita was completely deceived by her mother's profound duplicity. The adventures I have experienced, said Perdita, have been numerous and exciting. When everything was settled for the ceremony to take place, the father of Charles suddenly appeared upon the scene and exposed me in a cruel manner to his son. In fact, Mr. Hatfield proved himself to be well acquainted with all, everything relating to you and me. And he unsparingly availed himself of that knowledge. I retaliated, I convinced him that his family affairs were no secret to me, and then he again assumed the part of one who triumphs in defeating the hopes of another, for he produced unquestionable evidence to the fact that his son is illegitimate and entirely dependent on him. Ah! ejaculated Mrs. Fitz-Harding, who now fancied that she read the reason which had induced Perdita to conceal her marriage with the young man. Of then, after all, your suitor is plain Charles Hatfield, and not Viscount Marston. Such indeed is the case, mother, returned Perdita, and I think you will agree with me that I have had a fortune at escape. Oh! I do congratulate you on that point," answered the old woman, her dissimulation continuing impenetrable. But where have you obtained the means to hire this handsome lodging? Oh! you cannot suppose that I allowed Mr. Hatfield and his son to depart without making ample provision for me! exclaimed Perdita. No! I displayed a two intimate acquaintance with all their family affairs to permit them thus to abandon me. Besides, the very secret of the young man's illegitimacy, a secret which the father revealed in a moment of excitement produced by the discussion that took place between us, that secret, I understand you, Perdita," said Mrs. Fitz Harding. It was necessary to purchase your silence respecting a matter that involved the good name and the honour of Lady Georgiana Hatfield. Well, have you made a profitable bargain for yourself? A thousand pounds in ready money and five hundred a year for life on condition that I return not to England was the response. Good! ejaculated the old woman, her eyes glistening with delight. And I have adopted another name for a variety of reasons, continued Perdita. In the first place, having learned from that hated Mr. Hatfield of your arrest at Dover and the nature of the charge against you, I feared lest the whole thing should be blazoned in the newspapers. Well, well, interrupted her mother, I understand. The name of Fitz Harding would suit no longer. What is the new one? I have taken that of Mortimer," answered the daughter. Laura Mortimer sounds prettily, I think. Then you have not even retained your Christian name," said the old woman interrogatively. Oh, no! for it is so uncommon that it could not fail to excite attention wherever whispered was the reply. In this case, I am to become Mrs. Mortimer, continued the mother. Precisely so! And as a matter of course you will take up your abode with me. You do not appear particularly unhappy at the loss of the young man whom you fell so deeply in love with, observed the old woman, whom we must now denominate Mrs. Mortimer. That dream has passed, gone by, vanished, returned Laura, for by this Christian name is Perditor to be henceforth known. And as she spoke, her voice assumed a deep and even many-sing tone. Yes, that illusion is dissipated, and if circumstances permit, I will have vengeance where I used to think only of love. To what circumstances do you allude? demanded Mrs. Mortimer. Can you not understand my position? I, and your own position also, exclaimed Laura. At present we are dependent to a certain degree upon Mr. Hatfield, and must adhere to the conditions he imposed upon me. That is to say, we must reside on the continent so long as the income allowed by him shall be indispensable necessary. But the moment that I can carve out a new career of fortune for myself, either by a brilliant marriage, or by unchaining some wealthy individual in my silken meshes, the instant that I find myself in a condition to spurn the aid of Mr. Hatfield's purse, and can command treasures from another quarter, then, mother, then, added Laura, emphatically, will be the time for vengeance. For think you, she continued, drawing herself proudly up to her full height, while her nostrils dilated and her eyes flashed fire. Think you, that if I have loved as a woman, I will not likewise be avenged as a woman? Oh yes, yes, and welcome, most welcome, will be that day when I shall see myself independent of the purse of Mr. Hatfield, and able to work out my vengeance after the manner of my own heart. To be exposed by the father, and discarded by the son, to have the mask torn away from my countenance by the former, and be looked upon with loathing and abhorrence by the latter, all this is enough to drive me mad, mad. And if I retained a calm demeanour and a stern composure of countenance in the presence of those men this morning, it was only the triumph of an indomitable pride over feelings wounded in the most sensitive point. Vengeance, indeed, is a pleasing consummation, said the old woman, and then after an instant's pause she added, and I also have a vengeance to gratify. You, mother! ejaculated Laura with unfeigned surprise. Yes, you remember the night that we called upon Percival? You may recollect how he spoke of a certain visitor who had been with him. Torrens, your husband, observed Laura quietly. The same. He was the murderer of Percival, added Mrs. Mortimer, her countenance assuming an expression so fiend-like that it was horrible to behold. How know you that! demanded Laura, surprised. I am convinced of it, returned her mother. On that night when we visited the miser, Torrens had been with him. Indeed he had departed from the house only the moment before we knocked on the door. You remember that Percival said so? Well, and you also recollect that Torrens was represented to be poor and very miserable. While we were engaged with Percival the cash-box was produced and its contents were displayed. A man clambered up to the window and looked through the holes in the shutters. This was proved at the police-office. We departed and the miser was left alone. The back gate was forced open, or rather the woodwork was cut away in such a manner as to allow the bolt to be shot back with the fingers, and the lock was picked with a piece of iron. All this was done from the outside. Then again the stake whereby the old man was killed was taken from a piece of waste-ground at the back of the house, and on the damp clay soil the marks of boots were discovered. The murder was therefore perpetrated by the man whose footsteps were thus traced. And who could that man be but Torrens? I have no doubt of the accuracy of my conjectures. They are reasonable at the least, observed Laura. Oh, but wherefore do you trouble your head about him when I require your assistance here in a matter of importance? One moment and you shall explain your views when I have made you acquainted with mine," said Mrs. Mortimer. Percival was a rich man, and that cash-box contained a treasure in notes and gold. Torrens has no doubt concealed himself somewhere in London. A man who has committed such a crime invariably regards the metropolis itself as the safest hiding place. My design is to ferret him out and compel him by menaces to surrender into my keeping the treasure which he has obtained. You and I, Perdita—oh, Laura, I mean— will know how to spend those thousands, and it will give me pleasure—unfamed pleasure! She added with a fearful expression of countenance to know that he has been plunged back again into misery and want. Oh, the project is a good one, mother," said Laura, and the money would prove most welcome. Possessed of a few thousands of pounds, I would at once act in complete independence of Mr. Hatfield. But wherefore this bitter vengeance against the man who is still your husband? Well, because when he was released from Newgate upwards of nineteen years ago, when imprisoned there on suspicion of having murdered a certain Sir Henry Courtney, said the old woman, when he was set free, I tell you, I still languished a prisoner in that horrible jail. And he came not near me. He recognised me not. He loathed and abhorred me, and I knew it. You, Laura, have felt how terrible it is to be hated, shunned, forsaken by one on whom you have claims. You are still smarting under the conduct of Charles Hatfield. Can you not then comprehend how I should cherish feelings of bitterness against that sneaking coward, that base wretch, who was a partner in my iniquity, and who abandoned me to my fate, doubtless hoping that a halter would end my days, and for ever rid him of me? Oh, but you loved not that man, according to all I have ever heard you say upon the subject, returned Laura. Whereas, she added in a tone of transitory softness, I did. Yes, I did love Charles Hatfield. Oh, granted the difference, ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, and yet, even making every possible allowance for that, there is still room enough to admit the existence of my bitter hostility against Torrens. What, was I not arrested the other day, dragged ignominiously back to London, compelled to sleep in a prison, and forced to appear at the bar of justice, and all on account of his crime? He reaped the benefit, I, the inconvenience, the fear, the exposure, and the disgrace. It is true that I never loved him, never even liked him. Charles was a marriage of convenience, both suspecting, despising, and abhorring each other. From the very first then I was his enemy, and ever since I have cherished an undying animosity against him. Well, mother, I shall not attempt to interfere with your vengeance any more than you will seek to mar the progress of mine. You've given me an explanation of your views, and it is now my turn to speak. This morning, continued Laura, my hopes were suddenly defeated, and my golden dreams dissipated by the appearance of Mr. Hatfield. At half past eleven o'clock I found myself deserted by him whom I had loved, and alone, as it were, in a strange city. I instantly made up my mind not to yield to sorrow or give way to grief, and when a woman placed in such circumstances will not permit her tender feelings to get the better of her pride, when in fact she takes refuge in that very pride against the poignancy of sorrow, she necessarily conceives thoughts of vengeance. For the pride which becomes her defence and her shield in such a case must be vindicated. I therefore determined to cherish this hope of vengeance and gratify that hope when the proper time shall come. But in the interval and, first of all, I must create a brilliant social position for myself. On these matters I reflected seriously this morning so soon as Charles and his father had taken their departure. Then to a certain extent I made a confidence of my French lady's maid who has already become deeply attached to me and in whom I speedily discovered a spirit of intrigue and a shrewd disposition. At the same time I told her nothing more than was absolutely necessary to account for the abrupt departure of Charles and my change of name, and even those explanations which I did give her were not entirely true. In a word I acted with caution while I secured her fidelity and devotion to my interests. Having thus come to a certain understanding as it were we repaired to an agency office kept by an Englishman and made inquiries for furnished apartments in a fashionable neighbourhood. The agent conducted as hither. I inspected the suite, approved of it, paid a half-year's rent in advance and removed into my new abode where you now find me at about three o'clock this afternoon. You have lost no time in settling yourself thus far at all events, observed Mrs Mortimer, but proceed, you have more yet to explain to me. Only to observe that your aid is now required, mother, to help me to that brilliant position which I am determined to reach and the attainment of which will render us independent for the remainder of our days. O my aid and assistance you shall have, Laura! I, and effectually too, returned the old woman with difficulty concealing the joy and triumph which she experienced on finding herself thus again appealed to as a means to work out a grand design. But a fortnight's delay will not prejudice your scheme. You will not lose one particle of your beauty in that time. On the contrary you will recover your won'ted hues of health, for your cheeks are somewhat pale this evening and there is a bluish tint around your eyes. Doubtless, she added with a slightly malicious grin, Charles Hatfield was a husband to you in everything save the indissoluble ones. Oh no! replied Laura, with an effrontery so cool, so complete, that had the old woman been questioning her daughter on suspicion only and not on a verified certainty, she would have been satisfied with that laconic but emphatic negative. Ah! then your maudlin sentimentalism did not render you altogether client and docile to the impetuous passions of that handsome young man, she observed. Believing that we were to be married, answered Laura, I necessarily refrained from compromising myself in his estimation. But wherefore, these questions, mother, and again the fine large eyes of the young woman were fixed searchingly on Mrs. Mortimer's countenance. Oh, I had no particular motive in putting those queries, the response, apparently delivered offhand, but in reality well weighed and measured, as was every word that the artful old creature uttered upon this occasion. I was merely curious to learn whether your prudence or your naturally voluptuous temperament had prevailed in the strong wrestle that must have taken place between those feelings while you were travelling and dwelling alone with a handsome young man whom you almost adored. Not quite alone, mother, exclaimed Laura impatiently, Rosalie was with us. Oh, the French ladies made, who is so shrewd in disposition, and who manifests such an admirable capacity for intrigue, cried the old woman, unable to resist the opportunity of bantering her daughter a little in revenge for the cool insults which she herself had received at the hands of that daughter during the last few days of their sojourn in England. Oh, mother, have you sought me out only to revive a certain bitterness of feeling which you so recently studied to provoke between us? demanded Laura, her countenance flushing with indignation, and when she had ceased speaking she bit her underlip with her pearly teeth. No, no, we will not dispute, said Mrs. Mortimer, but you must admit that I warned you not to dream of marriage with that Charles Hatfield, and had you followed my advice and stayed in London you might have retained him as a lover. Let us not talk of the past, interrupted Laura, with an imperiousness of manner which warned her mother not to provoke her father. The present is assured, and we are at least independent, but the future is before us, and there is the sphere in which my hopes are soaring. Or to return, then, to the point whence I am now diverged, resumed Mrs. Mortimer, I will repeat my assertion that one fortnight's delay will not mar your plans. On the contrary, you will obtain physical rest after the fatigues of travelling and mental composure after the excitement of recent occurrences. Your charms will be enhanced, and you will thereby become the more irresistible. This fortnight's interval I require for my own purposes, as just now explained to you, and whatever be the result of my search after Torrance, I pledge myself that if alive and in health I will return to you in the evening of the fourteenth day from the present date. Agreed, exclaimed Laura, you purpose therefore to retrace your way to London? Such is my intention. A night's rest will be sufficient to recruit my strength, continued Mrs. Mortimer, and to-morrow morning I shall depart. Now let us thoroughly understand each other and in no way act without a previous constitution and agreement, said Laura. You are about to return to the English metropolis, and it may happen that you will encounter Charles Hatfield. It is my wish that you avoid him, that you do not appear even to notice him, and for the same reasons which urge me to give you this recommendation, I must request that you attempt no extortion with his father, that you will not seek to render available or profitable the knowledge you possess of the private affairs of that family. Were you to act contrary to my wishes in this respect, you would only mar the projects which I have formed to ensure the eventual gratification of my vengeance. I have listened to you with attention, said the old woman, that I would not irritate you by interruption. The counsel you have given me was, however, quite unnecessary. My sole object in visiting London is connected with Torren's, and were I to behold Charles Hatfield at a distance, I should avoid him rather than throw myself in his way. His father I know not even by sight. Besides, according to the tacit understanding which appeared to establish itself between you and me just now, we are mutually to forbear from interfering in each other's special affairs, and on this basis good feelings will permanently exist between us. On my return to Paris, fourteen days hence, I shall devote myself to the object which you have in view, and rest assured that ere long, some wealthy, amorous and docile nobleman, English or French, no matter which, shall be languishing at your feet. Oh, yes, it is for you to find out the individual to be enchained, and it will then be for me to enchain him, cried Laura, her countenance lighting up with the glow of anticipated triumph. The mother and daughter thus made their arrangements and settled their plans in an amicable fashion, and the former, after passing the night at the handsome lodgings which Laura occupied, set out in the morning on her journey back to London. We must hear pause for a brief space to explain the sentiments and motifs that respectively influenced these designing women during the lengthy discourse above recorded. We have already stated that even before Mrs. Mortimer found herself in the presence of her daughter, her suspicions and her curiosity were excited by two or three mysterious, though trivial, incidents that occurred, and she had not been many minutes in Laura's company before she acquired the certainty that the young woman intended to conceal the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield. Mrs. Mortimer at first fancied that this desire arose from shame on the part of Laura, whose pride might naturally revolt from the idea of avowing that in her eagerness to secure the hand of a nobleman she had only linked herself indissolubly to a simple commoner of illegitimate birth and entirely dependent on his father. But as the conversation embraced ample details and exhibited views more positive and minute, Mrs. Mortimer perceived that Laura was not influenced by wounded pride and shame only in concealing the fact of her marriage, but that as she contemplated another matrimonial alliance as soon as an opportunity for an eligible match should present itself, she was unwilling to allow her mother to attain the knowledge of a secret that would place her so completely in that mother's power. And Mrs. Mortimer had accurately read the thoughts and motives that were uppermost in Laura's mind, for imagining from the observations made and the questions put by her mother that the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield was indeed unknown to the old woman, she resolved to cherish so important, so precious a secret. Well aware of the despotic character and arbitrary disposition of her parent, Laura chose to place herself as little as possible at the mercy of one who sought to rule with a rod of iron and who was unscrupulous and resolute to a degree in adopting any means that might establish her sway over those whom she aspired to control. No! No! thought Laura within herself. My secret is safe, I am well assured of that, and my mother shall not penetrate it. The lips of Rosalie, who alone could reveal it to her now, are sealed by rich bribes. For such a secret in my mother's keeping would reduce me to the condition of her slave. I should not dare to contract another marriage, because her exigencies would be backed by a menace of exposure and a prosecution for bigamy, and by means of the terrorism which she would thus exercise over me I should become a mere puppet in her hands, not daring to assert a will of my own. On the other hand Mrs. Mortimer's thoughts ran thus. Laura believes me to be ignorant of her marriage and my dissimulation shall confirm her in that belief. Yes, I will act so as to lull her into complete security on this point. It would be of no use to me now to proclaim my knowledge of the fact that the marriage has taken place, because at present she requires my services and will be civil and courteous to me of her own accord. But when once I shall have helped her to a wealthy and titled husband, and when my age shall no longer be required, then she will reassert her sway and attempt to thrust me aside as a mere cipher. But she shall find herself mistaken, and the secret that I thus treasure up must prove the talisman to give me despotic control over herself, her husband, her household, I and her purse. Oh yes, yes, she may marry now without any opposition from me. For whereas in the former case her marriage would indeed have reduced me to the condition of a miserable dependent, a new alliance will invest me with the power of a despot. Oh, daughter, daughter, you have at length overreached yourself. And such indeed was the case. For so well did Mrs. Mortimer play her part of deep dissimulation that Laura felt convinced her secret was safe and that the circumstance of her marriage was totally unsuspected. And it was as much to confirm the young woman in this belief as for the purpose of slyly bantering her that the mother questioned her as to the point to which her connection with Charles Hatfield had reached and astutely placed in juxtaposition her daughter's prudence on the one hand and voluptuousness of temperament on the other. Thus Laura was completely duped while secretly triumphing in the belief that it was her parent who was deceived. We must, however, observe that the two women under present circumstances felt dependent on each other in many and important respects and this mutual necessity rendered them easy to come to terms and settle their affairs upon an amicable basis. On the one hand Mrs. Mortimer relied upon her daughter for pecuniary supplies and this very circumstance prompted her to undertake the journey to London in the hope of finding Torrance and extorting from him the treasure of which, as she believed, he had plundered Percival. The possession of a few thousands of pounds added to her knowledge of Laura's secret would place her in a condition of complete independence and that independence she would labour hard to achieve for herself but she might fail and then she would again be compelled to fall back on the resources of her daughter. Thus for the present at least she was in a state of dependence and it was by no means certain that her visit to London would change her condition in this respect. On the other hand Laura was dependent on her mother for aiding carrying out her ambitious views. Ignorant of the French language as she was she could not hope to succeed by herself alone and in intrigues which required so much delicacy of management she could not rely solely on the ladies' maid. The assistance of her mother was therefore necessary for she reflected that the astute old woman who had succeeded in inducing Charles Hatfield to accompany her to the lodgings in Suffolk Street could not fail to lead some wealthy and amorous noble within the influence of her daughter's siren charms in the Rue Montalbor. We have now explained the exact position in which these two designing women were placed with regard to each other and we must request our readers to bear in mind all the observations which we have just recorded as they afford a clue to the motives of many transactions to be hereafter narrated. For the history of Laura is, as it were, only just commenced and the most startling, exciting and surprising incidents of her career have yet to be told. She was a woman of whom it may well be said we ne'er shall look upon her like again. But the delineation of such a character as this Perdita or Laura, as we are henceforth to call her, has the advantage of throwing into glorious contrast the virtues, amenities and endearing qualities of women generally in as much as she is a grand and almost unique exception proving the rule which asserts the excellent qualities of her sex. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Brian Keenan Mysteries of London, Vol. 4 by George W. M. Reynolds The Half-Brothers It was about five o'clock in the evening of the second day after the incidents just related that the Earl of Allingham received a note, the address of which was written in a feint hand with the word private marked in the corner. The messenger who left it at the mansion in Palmall had departed immediately his errand was discharged and without waiting for any reply. Lord Ellium happened to be alone in the library when the missive was placed in his hands. And on opening it he recognized the writing of his half-brother for the address only was disguised, a precaution adopted in case the letter should be observed by the ladies before it reached the hands of the Earl. The contents conveyed a brief intimation that Mr. Hatfield had returned to London with his son and that they had put up temporarily at the Trafalgar Hotel, Spring Gardens, where the presence of the nobleman was anxiously expected. Thither the Earl accordingly repaired and a waiter conducted him to an apartment in which he was received by his half-brother alone, the father having deemed it prudent that the son should not be present while the necessary explanations were being given. The meeting between the nobleman and Mr. Hatfield was cordial and even affectionate. How different from that of the mother and daughter in Paris as described in the preceding chapter. You have recovered your son, Thomas, said the Earl, and under any circumstances I congratulate you. The fact that he has returned to London with you convinces me that the paternal authority is once more recognized. Yes, he is here, in an adjacent room, Arthur, replied Mr. Hatfield. I thought it prudent, for many reasons, to send for you privately and consult you before I venture to take him back to his mother's presence. Indeed, I know not, after all that has occurred, whether you will permit him to cross your threshold again, whether you can ever forgive him. He is your son, Thomas, and that is sufficient, interrupted the generous, noble-hearted Earl. Whatever he may have done, I promise to pardon him. However gravely he may have erred, I will yield him my forgiveness. Nay more. I will undertake to promise the same for my wife, who you know is not a woman that harbors ranker. The amiable of the excellent Esther. Oh, no, no. She would not refuse pardon or sympathy to a living soul, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. And you, my generous brother, my never-failing friend, how can I sufficiently thank you for these assurances which you give me, and which so materially tend to lighten the sorrow that weighs upon my heart? I have suffered an undergone much during the few days of my absence from London. But you have recovered your son, hastily interrupted the Earl, pressing his half-brother's hand with a fervor that was indeed consolatory. And I am sure that, although his errors may have been great, he has not committed anything dishonorable. He may have been self-willed, rebellious against the paternal authority, ungrateful, unmindful of those who wish him well. He may have yielded himself up to the wiles of an infamous woman. All that has he assuredly done, Arthur, said Mr. Hatfield, in a melancholy tone. And more still, for, as you yourself suspected on that day when we made so many distressing discoveries in the library, he found out who I was, who I am. He believed himself to be my legitimate son. He even raised money by the name of Viscount Marston. He dared to contemplate measures to force me to assume your title and claim your estates. And he would have sacrificed you, me, his mother, the Countess, I, and the amiable, excellent Francis. He would have sacrificed us all, added Mr. Hatfield, profoundly excited, to his inordinate ambition. Now, my dear Arthur, he asked, in a milder and more measured tone, now can you forgive my son all this? Yes, and more, ten thousand times more, ejaculated the Earl emphatically. Had he possessed the right to accomplish all he devised, I had he carried out his designs to the very end. Even then, Thomas, would I have forgiven him for your sake. It is a God, an angel who speaks thus, and not a mere human being, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, embracing his half-brother with an enthusiasm and a fervour amounting almost to a worship. Oh, why are not all men like you? The world would then know not animosity, nor ranker nor strife, and earth would be heaven. Thomas, Thomas, cried the Earl reproachfully, attached not too much importance to a feeling on my part which you yourself would show under similar circumstances. But let us speak of your son. He has erred, and you have forgiven him. You, his father, who are the most deeply wounded by his temporary ingratitude, have pardoned him and taken him again to your heart. Shall not I, then, who look upon him in the light of a nephew, shall not I, an uncle, forgive and forget what a father can pardon and obliterate from his memory? Yes, and I will even find extenuating circumstances in his favour. I will search out and conjure up excuses for him. Endowed with an enthusiastic disposition, an ardent longing to render himself conspicuous in the world, a fervid craving to earn distinction and acquire a proud name, he paused not to reflect whether it were well to shine with an adventitious lustre, or to win for himself and by himself the glory that should encircle his brow. The splendid career of the Prince of Montoni dazzled, nay almost blinded him, and while he contemplated the eminence on which that illustrious personage stands, he forgot that his royal highness obtained not rank and power by hereditary right, but by his great deeds, his steady perseverance in the course of rectitude, and his ennobling virtues. While filled with lofty aspirations, your son suddenly made the discovery of certain family secrets, which appeared to place a title within his reach. Ah, pardon him if he stretched out his hand to grasp the visionary coronet. Pardon him, I say, and wonder not if in the eagerness of his desire to clutch the dreamy bobble, he thrust parents, relatives, and friends rudely aside. The generosity which prompts you to extenuate his grievous faults shall not be cooled nor marred by any opposite opinion on my part, said Mr. Hatfield. And, my God, is he not my son? And have I not already? Yes, already, while we were still in Paris. Promise to forgive him everything. But when I think of all the misery his insane ambition would have brought upon you and yours. Oh, the loss of title and wealth would not interfere with my happiness, Thomas, interrupted the earl, smiling. And that loss you cannot now sustain. No, never, never, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, impetuously. And I thank God that I am unable to give you this assurance. For the papers, the fatal papers, the family documents, are all burnt. Burnt with my own hand, and in the presence of that young man who dared to take them from the secret recess where you had deposited them. Here now you called me generous, Thomas, said the earl. And for the performance of a common Christian duty. I mean the forgiveness of one who has offended and who was penitent. But you, my brother, what generosity have you not shown towards me? Yes, and for years, long years. And now, to crown it all, you have destroyed those evidences which would make you great at any moment. Oh, as the world's ambition goes, and as human hearts are constituted, your generosity outvalues mine, as immeasurably as the boundless Pacific exceeds the stagnant puddle in the street. And as the earl spoke these words with an enthusiasm and a sincerity that came from the inmost recesses of his heart, he dashed away at ear. Then, as if suddenly animated by the same sentiment, a sentiment of mutual regard, devotion, and admiration, the half-brothers grasped each other's hands, and the pressure was long and fervid, a profound silence reigning between them the while, for men of years and worldly experience though they were, their soul's emotions were deeply stirred, and their finest feelings were aroused. I have not yet told you all, perhaps scarcely even the worst, relative to my unfortunate son, said Mr. Hatfield, after a long pause. That vile woman of whom Villiers spoke, that Perdita Slingsby, or Torrens, or Fitzharding, whichever her name may be. Ah, I understand you already, interrupted the earl, in a tone of deep commiseration. The artful creature has inveigled your son into a hasty marriage. Is it not so? Alas, it is too true, Arthur, said Mr. Hatfield, and he then proceeded to narrate to his brother all that had occurred during his absence from London. The accident near Greenwich, the adventure with the officers at Dover, the interview with his son in Paris, the negotiations with Perdita, and the terms which he had finally settled with that designing woman. Oh, that you had been one day earlier, exclaimed Lord Ellion, and this odious marriage would not have occurred. It is lamentable indeed, Thomas, and the more so in consequence of the hopes that I had founded on the attachment which until lately existed between Charles and my daughter. Ah, it is that, it is that which cuts me to the very soul, cried Mr. Hatfield, with exceeding bitterness of tone and manner. And yet there is hope. There is hope for us yet, exclaimed the earl, who, after pacing the room in deep thought for a few minutes, turned suddenly towards his half-brother. Hope, do you say, demanded the latter, his countenance brightening up, though he could not as yet conjecture much less perceive the source whence the gleam of hope could possibly emanate. Yes, hope, repeated the earl emphatically, but sinking his voice almost to a whisper, as if he were afraid that the very walls should hear the words he was uttering. Did not that woman tell you she should contract another marriage? She assuredly intimated as much, answered Mr. Hatfield, and by her words and manner I have no doubt that the intention was uppermost in her mind. And from the knowledge which we now possess of her character, added the earl, we may rest satisfied that she will not refuse the first good offer that presents itself. Well then, on the day that she contracts another marriage, Charles may consider himself absolved from the alliance which he so unhappily formed. Ah, I comprehend you, my dear Arthur, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his heart already feeling lighter. But the legal tie will still exist, he added an instant afterwards, his voice again becoming solemn and mournful. The law is an unnatural, a vile, and a miserable one, which would forever exclude either that woman or your son from the portals of the matrimonial temple, said the earl, speaking with impassioned emphasis, though still in a subdued tone. Charles has discarded her, and she has consented nevermore to molest him. Already, then, are they severed in a moral point of view. But should that woman contract another marriage, take unto herself another husband, and thereby prove that her severance from the young man whom she ensnared and inveigled is complete? Should she adopt the initiative in that respect, it would be a despicable fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation on the part of anyone to say to Charles Hatfield, you must never know matrimonial happiness, but you must remain in your present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of your days. It were inhuman, base, and unnatural thus to address your son, when once the woman herself shall have ratified by her actions that compact which her words and her signature have already sanctioned. Were a father to consult me under such circumstances, and ask my advice whether he should bestow his daughter on a young man situated as your son will then be, my counsel would be entirely in the affirmative. Can you therefore suppose for a moment that I shall shrink from acting in accordance with the advice I should assuredly give to another man, who is likewise a father? No. No. If then in the course of time this Perdita shall contract a new marriage, and if your son manifest, as I hope and believe he will do, contrition for the past. If his conduct be such as to afford sure guarantees for the future, and if his attachment for Francis should revive, as I am certain that hers, poor girl, will continue unimpaired. Under all these circumstances, Thomas, I should not consider myself justified in stamping the unhappiness of that pair by refusing my consent to their union. Most solemnly do I assure you, Arthur, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, that, as an impartial person, and supposing I were disinterested in the matter, I should view it precisely in the same light. But I should not have dared to express those sentiments before you, had you not been the first to give utterance to them. It is, after all, the mere common-sense aspect of the question, said the Earl. A young man is inveigled into a marriage with a woman whom he looks upon as an angel of purity, and in a few hours he discovers her to be a demon of pollution. They separate upon positive and written conditions. The tribunals would take cognizance of the affair, and grant a legal divorce where they appealed to. But a private arrangement is deemed preferable to a public scandal. Well, the woman marries again, and every remaining shadow of claim which she might still have had upon the individual whom she had entrapped and eluded ceases at once. The complete snapping of the bond, the total severance of the tie, is her own doing. It is true that the law may proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one, but morality revolts against such an unnatural averment. These are my solemn convictions, and, were I to ponder upon them for a hundred years, I should not waver one tittle in my belief. There is more injustice committed by a false morality, more unhappiness inflicted by a ridiculous fastidiousness, than the world generally would believe, observed Mr. Hatfield. Yes, and there is another consideration which weighs with me, Thomas, exclaimed the Earl, turning once more, and now with a smiling countenance towards his half-brother. You have shown so much generosity towards me. You have annihilated documents which ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have prized and availed themselves of. And you have exhibited so much noble feeling in all your actions, respecting myself and our family honour, that I consider myself bound to effect the union of my daughter and your son, if it be practicable. This then I propose, that the unfortunate marriage of Charles shall be kept a profound secret, and that he shall leave England for a short time, so that active employment may completely and radically wean his mind from any lingering attachment that he may entertain for the polluted Perdita. With regard to this latter suggestion, I have a project which I will presently explain to you. Respecting the maintenance of the secret of his unhappy marriage, I should recommend its propriety even where there are no ulterior considerations of the nature already stated. For of what avail can it be to distress my wife or yours, much less my daughter, by revelation of the sad circumstance? In any case, Francis would not be permitted to learn that secret, and I should be loath indeed to afflict Lady Ellingham by the narration of such a history. And you may be well assured, Arthur, observed Mr. Hatfield, that it would prove no pleasant task for me to inform Lady Georgiana that her son, by his mad ambition and his fatal misconceptions, had compelled me to make known to him the fact of his illegitimacy. Neither should I wish to distress her by unfolding to her the secret of this most miserable marriage. It is fortunate that we were so guarded with our wives on that morning when we made such alarming discoveries in the library, observed Lord Ellingham. It is a subject for self-congratulation that we merely intimated the fact of Charles's departure that day with an abandoned woman. Yes, and it was to your prudent representations that I yielded when I was about to commit the folly of imparting everything to my wife, the loss of the papers, the certainty that Charles had not only taken them, but had likewise discovered everything relating to my own past life. It was scarcely my advice, Thomas, which prevented you from making all those revelations to Georgiana, said the Earl. But it was when—yes, I remember—it was when we resolved to depart in search of the fugitive, that I found my wife was so overcome by the first word I uttered—the word which told her he was gone—that I could not feel it in my heart to afflict her by further revelations. You scarcely require to be informed that Villiers and myself each pursued the road that we respectively took, until we acquired the certainty that no travellers of the description given had passed that way. But it was late at night when I returned to London, and Villiers was an hour or two later still. While we are, however, conversing in this desultory manner, said the Earl, we forget that Charles is waiting for us in another room. And you forget, my dear Arthur, observed Mr. Hatfield, that you have a project respecting him, but which you have not as yet revealed to me. True ejaculated Lord Ellingham, and the explanation can be speedily given. Yesterday afternoon I received a hastily written note from the Prince of Montoni, stating the melancholy intelligence that his illustrious father-in-law, Alberto I, expired after a short illness twelve days ago. The Prince received the news yesterday morning by special courier. And he is now Grand Duke of Castlesicola? exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. Yes, he is a sovereign prince, returned the nobleman, and one who will not only make his people happy, but who, I venture to predict, will be the means of regenerating Italy. His sovereign highness departs tomorrow for Castlesicola, and, although it be scarcely consistent with propriety, to accost him with a request under such circumstances, yet I will do so. Trusting that the explanations which I shall give may excuse the apparent importunity at the present moment. And that request, said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively, is that the Grand Duke, for by this proud title must we now denominate him, will permit Charles to accompany him in the capacity of one of his aide-de-camp. Your son can speak the Italian language as fluently as his own, and his long residence in Castlesicola will have fitted him for the situation I propose to procure for him. Moreover, that aspiring nature, that ardent ambition which has already manifested itself, will be gratified and will find congenial associations and emulative stimulants in the career thus open to him. If his ambition, in its first struggleings, have unfortunately led him into error, it was on account of the misconceptions to which he yielded, and the baleful influence which a designing woman exercised over him. But, with such a glorious example before him, as the illustrious personage into whose service I propose that he shall enter, and keeping in view such legitimate aims as that service naturally suggests, I am much deceived indeed if your son do not prove himself a good, an estimable, and perhaps a great man. Your advice is as excellent as your purpose is generous and kind, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, overjoyed at the prospects thus held out. We may now release Charles, said the Earl, from the suspense which he is doubtless enduring. Mr. Hatfield left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, accompanied by the young man, whose face was pale and whose looks were downcast, as he advanced towards the Earl. My dear Charles, said the good nobleman, embracing him, not a word relative to the past, all as forgiven, all forgotten, as far as the memory can forget. Charles shed tears, while his heart was agitated with many conflicting emotions, gratitude for the assurance thus given to him, joy that he was so completely pardoned, bitter regret that he should have ever contemplated ought prejudicial to the interests of the generous Earl, vexation on account of the facility with which he had been led astray, and shame at the deplorable errors he had committed. But when he heard the kind, affectionate, and reassuring language addressed to him alike by his father and Lord Ellingham, when he learned that the main particulars of his late proceedings were to be kept a solemn secret in respect to his mother, the Countess, and Lady Francis, and when he was made acquainted with the project which the Earl had suggested, relative to placing him about the person of the idol of his heroic worship, the new Grand Duke of Castlesicla, a genial tide of consolation was poured into his soul, and he felt that the future might yet team with bright hopes for him. But not a word was breathed, either by Mr. Hatfield or Lord Ellingham, respecting that other prospect which had evoked so much enlightened reasoning, and such liberal sentiments from the lips of the Earl. We mean the probability of a marriage eventually taking place between the young man and the beautiful Lady Francis Ellingham. With the proposal that he should enter the service of the Grand Duke, Charles was delighted, and the Earl promised to visit his sovereign highness early in the morning at Markham Place to proffer the request which he had to make as the necessary preliminary. The nobleman, Mr. Hatfield, and Charles now repaired to the mansion in Palmall, where the presence of the two latter, especially of the last mansion, caused feelings of joy which we must leave the reader to imagine. End of section 49 Section 50 of Mysteries of London Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mysteries of London Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds Political Observations The Departure of Charles Hatfield Yes, it was true that the Prince of Montoni had become Grand Duke of Castle Ciccala, and those who have read the first series of the Mysteries of London have now traced the career of Richard Markham from the period of his obscure boyhood until the time when his brow is circled by a sovereign crown. And when we reflect that it was a revolution which evoked his brilliant qualities as a warrior and a statesman, when we call to mind the fact that it was the cry of liberty which became the watchword of his achievements and the herald of his triumphs, we cannot do otherwise on reaching this point in our narrative than avail ourselves of so fitting an opportunity to notice the grand and glorious struggle that has so lately taken place in the capital of France. Oh, the French are a fine people, and are destined to teach the world some signal lessons in the School of Political Freedom. People of England accord your sympathies, your best and most generous sympathies to that gallant Parisian population which has so recently dethroned a miscreant monarch, and hurled an execrable ministry from the seat of power. Let the English sons of toil oppressed ground down by taxation half-starved and deprived of their electoral rights as they are. Let the industrious classes of the British islands trampled upon and made tools of by the wealthy few, as we know them to be. Let them do honour, at least by words, to the working men of France who have dared to expel a demon-hearted tyrant and his Bravo Highlands. The states of Italy, Bavaria and France have all within the last few weeks manifested their scorn and contempt for the doctrine of the divine right of kings. The people in those realms have exercised the power which they possess, the cause has been righteous, the despots have yielded, and one has been overthrown altogether. For the cause is always righteous when the people seek to rest from their rulers at freedom which has been basely usurped, and which the tyrannical oligarchy refuses to surrender by fair means to the millions. It is a monstrous absurdity and a hideous mockery, depraved of treason and sedition and rebellion, when a people rises up in its might and its power to demand the privileges which are naturally its own. The few cannot possibly possess an inherent or hereditary right to enslave the many, nor is the present generation to be bound by the enactments of the preceding one. If that preceding one chose to have a monarchy, the present one is justified in declaring its will that a republic shall exist, and so long as the great majority of the inhabitants of a country are of accord in this respect, they have a right to upset the existing government at any moment and establish another. No more, we will assert that the people need not even be wise or prudent in order to legitimise their actions. The great majority may act as they think fit, although they should be unwise or imprudent in respect to the institutions they choose to build up. We are averse to the exercise of physical force, but France has shown that when moral agitation fails, violence must be used, and if freedom can be gained by the loss of a few drops of blood, why their nose drop should be shed cheerfully. Suppose that in any country the great majority of the people sign a document addressed to the sovereign in these terms. We are very much obliged to you for having reigned over us hitherto, but we do not require your services farther. It pleases us to establish another form of government and raise up another ruler, and therefore request you to descend from the throne and surrender up the power delegated to you. Whether sovereign to refuse compliance with this demand, then force should be used, and all the antiquated farces of hereditary rights and trees and insidition, and such like nonsense, would of course be disregarded by an insurgent people. On the other hand, so long as a nation remains tranquil and addresses to the sovereign no demand of the kind supposed above, that sovereign may continue to occupy the throne as the people's executive magistrate. For it is the fault of the millions themselves if they be foolish enough to tolerate either a king or a queen. Republicanism is the order of the day, and there is not a throne in Europe that is worth twenty years' purchase. No, not even that of the Austrian Kaiser or the Muscovites are. And from the banks of the Thames and the confines of Asia, from the chillest regions of the north to the sunny shores of the tideless Mediterranean, the prevailing sentiment is adverse to the antiquated useless oppressive institutions of monarchy. Honour to the great and glorious French nation, and let the royalty which still exists in England beware how it caress and pet and openly sympathise with the ex-royalty which has taken refuge in this soil. For the Queen of England to adopt such a course were to offer a gross and flagrant insult to the people of France, and inevitably provoking war. Besides, is not Louis Philippe a miscreant deserving universal execration? Did he not calmly and deliberately calculate upon butchering the brave Parisian people in order to consolidate the power of his desperate throne? Are not his hands inbrewed with blood? No sympathy, then. No pity for his royal green-acre, this horrible assassin. And were he to be received at the palace of our Queen, the insult would not only be monstrous towards the French people who have expelled him, but equally great towards the English people who are poor tyrants and who are generous, humane and merciful. Working men of England rejoice and be glad, for amidst the changes which have so recently taken place in France there is one sign of the times that is cheering and full of prophetic significance for you. I allude to the ground, the glorious fact that in the list of the provisional government which the revolution raised up these words appeared. Albert, Working Man Yes, a working man was included in that fine category of republican names, and he had been instrumental in giving to the whole political world that impulse which must inevitably conduct even the present generation to the most glorious destinies. Honour to Albert, the Working Man There is another point on which I must touch ere I resume the thread of my narrative. The Prime Minister of England has declared that he has no intention or temper to interfere with the form of government which the French nation may choose for themselves. He therefore admits the right of the nation to establish any form of government which it chooses, and this concession is an important one when coming from the principal advisor of the Queen, and from a man who is, after all, nothing more nor less than the chief of an aristocratic clique. Well then, it being admitted by the Prime Minister that a nation has a right to choose its own form of government, the sooner the people of England begin to think of establishing new institutions for themselves the better. For there is no use in disguising the fact, and no possibility of exaggerating it, that England is in a truly awful condition. Already we are enduring a war tax, and it was only through fear of seeing the glorious example of the Parisians immediately followed by the inhabitants of London, that the ministers abandoned their iniquitous and inexicable scheme of doubling that shameful impulse. But the financial ignorance and the wanton extravagance of the Whigs have plunged the country into serious pecuniary embarrassments from which nothing but the sweeping reform of a purely democratic ministry can relieve it. With a tremendous national debt, with no possibility of levying another tax, with Ireland to care for and almost support, with a vast amount of absolute penury and positive destitution in the country, with an aristocracy clinging to old abuses, and with the land in the possession of a contemptibly small oligarchy, with the industrious classes starving on pitiable wages, with the pension list which is a curse and a shame, with the cumbersome and costly monarchy, with the church grasping at all it can possibly lay hands on, with a bunch of bishops in inveturate and bandit hostility to all enlightening opinions and popular interests, and with a franchise so limited that nine-tenths of the people are altogether unrepresented. With all these and a thousand other evils which might be readily enumerated, we repeat our assertion that England is in an awful state, and we must add that great, important and radical changes must be speedily effected. Oh how well and how truly has a great French writer declared that men have only to will it in order to be free! France has set England and the world a great and glorious example in this respect. These English newspapers which are interested in pandering to the prejudices and the selfishness of a bloated aristocracy, and an oppressive oligarchy of landowners, represent revolutions as scenes of spoliation, social ruin and other demoralisation. But the incidents of revolution which gave Louis Philippe a throne in 1830, and those of the grand struggle which has just hurled him from his desperate seat, give the lie, the bold, unequivocal lie, to such statements. The time has come when all true reformers must band together for the public wheel. Let there be union, union of all sects and parties, who are in favour of progress, no matter what their denomination may be, whether republicans, radicals, chartists or democrats. Union is strength, says the proverb, and the truth thereof may be fully justified and borne out in the present age, and in the grand work of moral agitation for the people's rights. We now proceed with the thread of our narrative, but it is not necessary to give at any length the particulars of the interview which took place between Lord Ellingham and Richard Markham, now Grand Duke of Castle Cicala. Suffice it to say that his sovereign highness, though deeply afflicted by the news of his father-in-law's demise, welcomed the English nobleman with the utmost cordiality, and immediately consented to receive Charles Hatfield as one of his aide-de-combe. The earl hastened back to pal Mal, and sending for the young man to his private apartment, reasoned with him in an impressive way upon the necessity of retrieving the past by the conduct which he should pursue the future. Charles listened with profound attention to all that that excellent pierce said upon this occasion, and promised that his behaviour should henceforth render him worthy of all the signal favours bestowed upon him. The preparations for his departure were in the meantime made with all possible dispatch, and in the course of a few hours Charles Hatfield took leave of his family, and hastened to Markham Place to join the suite of the new sovereign of Castle Cicala. End of Section 50 Section 51 of Mysteries of London, Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Mysteries of London, Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds. Mrs. Mortimer in London. Mrs. Mortimer, as we must now call her whom we have already known as Mrs. Slingsby, Mrs. Torrance and Mrs. Fitz Harding, arrived in London two days after the scene which took place between her daughter and herself in the Rue Montabor at Paris. The wily woman was intent upon accomplishing the aim that had brought her back to the English metropolis, but as the reader may well imagine, she had not the least trace of her husband, nor the slightest clue to his whereabout. Indeed it was only a conjecture with her that he was in London at all, but she had worked this suspicion up into a certainty in her own mind, and the object she hoped to gain was quite important enough to lead her to resolve upon leaving no stone unturned in order to arrive at a successful issue. On sitting foot in the metropolis she took up her abode at a small coffee house and an obscure street in the borough of Southwark, and having assumed a somewhat mean attire she repaired in the dusk of the evening after her arrival to the vicinity of the dwelling which in former times bore the name of Torrance Cottage. This house, as the reader will recollect, was situate between Strutham and Norwood and the old woman who knew the world well and read the human heart profoundly, calculated the Torrance impelled by that inscrutable and mysterious curiosity which prompts persons under such circumstances was likely, if indeed in London, to visit the neighbourhood where he had once dwelt, in which had proved for him the scene of such dire misfortune. Mrs. Mortimer knew that Torrance had passed many happy days at that cottage and had there cherished the grandest hopes of acquiring a great fortune by means of building speculations. She was also aware that he had at the same place bargained for the sale of his daughter's virtue, beheld the rabbi's shirt lying murdered upon the sofa, and been arrested on suspicion of the heinous crime. The place then was replete with the most varied and conflicting reminiscences for the old man, and Mrs. Mortimer said to herself the morbid feelings which must exist in such a heart as his will probably induce him to visit the neighbourhood of the house that once was his home. Such was her calculation and acting upon this impression she sped on foot towards the dwelling where she had once dwelt a few brief hours as the wife of the man whom she was searching after. It was nine o'clock in the evening when she turned into the lane where twenty years before Tom Rain had robbed Frank Curtis of the two thousand pounds. In a few minutes Mrs. Mortimer came in sight of the cottage, the walls of which were glistening white amidst the summer evening semi-obscurity, and her heart beat quickly as she thought of the long, long time that had elapsed since she last saw that spot where she also had been arrested on a capital charge. What changes? What vicissitudes had marked her existence since that epoch? She had been in Nugget and had there given birth to a daughter who had accompanied her into exile. The daughter had grown up, had become as profligate, though not altogether as criminal as her mother, and had at length defied the authority of that parent who thus surpassed her in the extent of her iniquity. Yes, many and striking had been the events that had characterized the old woman's career since last she saw those white, glistening walls. But there was the cottage apparently unchanged in outward appearance, although it was more completely hemmed in by trees than when she quitted it upwards of nineteen years back. For the large trees which were there in her time had grown larger, and the saplings had expanded into trees also, and a high, thick, verdant hedge surrounded the garden. Ah, thought the old woman to herself as she sped down the lane, I could almost wish that the cottage was mine, that I might retire with her competency to this sweet seclusion. No more to commingle in the strife and turmoil of the great, the busy, the jarring world, but this may not be, my life is destined to be stormy until the end. I feel that it is, and I must yield to the destiny that urges me on. Melancholy sentiments had risen up in her soul as she gave way to these thoughts, but their current was suddenly cut short, or rather diverted into another channel. When emerging from the lane she found herself in front of the cottage, a light was visible through the shutters of the parlor, that very parlor where Sir Henry Courtney was murdered and whether she herself was born in a fainting fit after having been arrested in the hall on a charge of forgery. A cold shudder crept over the old wretch, hardened and heartless as she was, for she remembered all the acuteness, all the intensity of the anguish she had experienced when she had awakened to consciousness on that dread occasion and found herself in the custody of the servitors of justice. Exercising, however, a powerful control over her feelings, she stepped up to the front door and knocked boldly, not in a sneaking, timid, uncertain manner, but with firmness and decision. The summons was almost immediately answered by a pretty-looking, neatly dressed and very respectable servant made of about 18 or 19, and Mrs. Mortimer's eyes now commanded a view of the hall where the constables had made her their prisoner. That fatal incident which became, as it were, an ominous and most conspicuous finger post in the rote of her checkered existence. Can I be permitted without causing inconvenience to speak a few words to your master or mistress, inquired Mrs. Mortimer, subduing the feelings aroused by the reminiscences of the past and addressing herself to the business of the present? You must have made some mistakes, said the servant girl, speaking, however, in a mild and respectful tone. No gentleman resides here. Then allow me to see your mistress, young woman, persisted Mrs. Mortimer, slipping two half-grounds into the maid's hand. I will carry your message to my mistress, said the domestic, coldly, and at the same time, indignantly repulsing the proffered bride. Walk in, if you please. Mrs. Mortimer entered the hall and as the light of the lamp suspended to the ceiling now fell fully upon her, the servant maid saw that she was somewhat meanly dressed and that her countenance was none of the most pleasant to look upon. The impression, thus made upon the domestic, was not particularly favorable towards the old woman, but the girl was artless and unsuspicious naturally and therefore strove to smother a feeling which she fancied to be uncharitable towards a complete stranger. She was therefore about to enter the parlour to deliver the message of the visitor when the door of that room suddenly opened and a beautiful young creature of about nineteen made her appearance. We must pause for a few minutes to describe the being that burst like a seraphic vision upon the amazed and dazzled sight of Mrs. Mortimer. Pictured to your self-reader at all, silk-like figure of exquisite symmetry, reminding the observer of the Grecian models of classic female beauty, with the deeply hollowed back, the swelling chest and bosom, well matured but not voluptuously large, and the high, swan-like neck on which the overhead was gracefully fixed, then fancy accountenance of the most agreeable expression and rare loveliness with eyes, not very large, but of the deepest black and most melting softness, and with brows finely arched and somewhat thickly penciled, a forehead lofty and smooth and over which the raven hair was parted into massive shining bands, the nose with the slightest trace of the Roman curve, and with the nostrils pink as delicate rose leaves, a small mouth the least, thing plump and pouting, and revealing teeth small even and whitest pearls, and a complexion of a clear living white with a carnation flushed of health upon either cheek. Pictured to yourself all this assemblage of charms, gentle reader, and you will then have a complete idea of the enchanting creature of nineteen who suddenly appeared on the threshold of the parlour door. We may however add ere we resume the thread of our narrative that this beauty as being was attired in a white dress with a high corsage and that she wore no other ornaments than a pair of earrings and a fancy ring on one of her taper fingers. Advancing towards Mrs. Mortimer, she said in a musical voice in a kind tone, I think I overheard your quest a few minutes' interview with the mistress of this house. Such was indeed the favour I solicited, observed the old woman hastily, if my presence would not inconvenience you for a little while, and if you will accept my sincere apologies for the apparent uptruthiveness of the request as well as for the lateness of the hour at which it is made. Oh, pray do not deem it necessary to excuse a proceeding which I am sure you will explain to my satisfaction interrupted the young lady with a sincerity which emanated from the artlessness of a disposition entirely unsophisticated. Walk in, madam, she added in a kind and by no means ceremonial tone as she conducted Mrs. Mortimer enter the parlour, the door of which the servant made immediately close behind them. Mrs. Mortimer now found herself in the very room which was fraught with so many exciting and varied reminiscences for her. The golden luster of the handsome lamp which stood upon the table was shed upon the scene of those crushing incidents that had suddenly made her a prisoner for a forgery which she had committed and her husband a prisoner on a charge of murder of which he was innocent. The old woman sank into a chair and gazed around her with no affectation of emotion. The appointments of the room were changed materially, changed, it was true, but her eyes nevertheless recognized full well, oh, full well. The very spot where had stood the sofa on which she had awakened to the consciousness of her desperate condition, the spot to where Torrance was standing when the officers arrested him on suspicion of the murder of Sir Henry Courtney. For a few minutes the old woman was powerfully affected by the recollections thus vividly conjured up, but at length calling all her courage to her aid, she regained her self-possession and then a rapid survey made her acquainted with the elegant and tasteful style in which the parlour was now fitted up. All the furniture seemed to be nearly new upon the table in the middle were several drawings in pencil and in watercolors lying in an open portfolio, a box of paints and brushes, and several pretty bound volumes of the best modern English poets. Where a sofa had been placed in the time when Mrs. Mortimer last knew the cottage, a handsome upright pianet forte now stood, and in the nearest corner was a magnificent harp. On the chiffon-yay in the window recesses were porcelain vases filled with flowers and through the walls were suspended several excellent pictures, the subjects of which were chiefly linescapes. Everything in a word denoted the jazed elegance and delicate refinement of the taste that had presided in the fitting up of that room. Mrs. Mortimer, having recovered her self-possession, turned towards the young lady who had been watching her with mingled interest and surprise. You will pardon me, said the old woman, if I were for a few moments overcome by reminiscence of an affecting nature. Compose yourself, madam, pray compose yourself, interrupt the beauteous girl in a sweet tone and winning manner, for not only was the most artless amiability natural to her, but she thought she perceived in the language of her visitor something superior to what the condition of her apparel and her personal appearance generally would have otherwise led her to infer. Never can I sufficiently thank you for the urbanity, the kindness with which you treat me, my dear young lady, exclaimed the old woman, but am I not intruding upon your leisure, perhaps keeping you away from some companion? Oh, no, I am all alone here, said the young lady, with an ingenuous frankness that excited a feeling of interest, almost a badmiration even in the breast of such a one as Mrs. Mortimer. When I say alone, continue the beauteous creature, I do not, of course, allude to the servants because they cannot be called companions, you know. Although the old housekeeper is very kind and good nature, and Jane, the maid who gave you admission just now, is a sweet tempered girl. And is it possible that you dwell here in complete seclusion, demanded the old woman rendering her voice as mild and her manner as conciliating as possible? Oh, I am accustomed to this seclusion, as you style it, madam, exclaimed the young lady gaily, for years I've lived in this manner with my books, my music, my drawings, and I'm very happy she added in a tone which left not a doubt as to the sincerity of her statement. At the same time, she continued after a few moments pause, and in a somewhat more serious voice, I could wish that my dear papa visited me a little oftener, and that circumstances of which I am however ignorant did not prevent. What does not your father live with you? My dear young lady asked Mrs. Mortimer, surveying her with the most unfaigned surprise. Alas, he does not reply the artless girl. Her looks and her tone now becoming suddenly mournful, but in the next moment her countenance brightened up and she observed, at the same time, I'm wrong to give way to sorrow in that respect, since my dear father assures me that the reasons are most important, most grave. She checked herself where it suddenly struck her that she was bestowing her confidence upon one who was a total stranger to her, and that such frankness might possibly be indiscreet. And your mother, my dear lady, said Mrs. Mortimer interrogatively. I never knew her answer the lovely creature in a low and almost sad tone, but I've been all this time wearying you with remarks and revelations concerning myself, forgetting that I should have first suffered you to give the promised explanation relative to your visit. You may address me as Miss Vernon, or Agnes Vernon, if you choose for that is my name, and now tell me the object of your call. Mrs. Mortimer gazed in astonishment upon the charming being who was seated opposite to her. Never had the old woman beheld so fascinating a specimen of infantile artlessness in unsophisticated candor. There was nothing artificial, nothing unreal in Agnes Vernon. The innocence of her soul, the purity of her mind, the chastity of her thoughts were apparent in every word she uttered and in every feature of her bewitching face. Yes, the old woman gazed long and ardently upon the sweet countenance of that young creature, gazed as if in an adoration forced upon a savage mind by the apparition of some radiant being from a heavenly sphere. Madam, I am waiting for you to reply to me, said Agnes, looking down and blushing deeply beneath the steadfast gaze, thus fixed upon her. A thousand pardons, Miss Vernon exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, recovering her self-possession. I was lost in thought. Many, many reflections of a varied and conflicting nature pressed upon my mind, for I must inform you that I was once the occupant of this beautiful little house. Indeed, ejaculated the young lady who now began to suspect or at least thought that she had obtained a glimpse of the motive which had brought her visitor thither. You have come then to cast your eyes upon a spot which is familiar to you. Precisely so, Miss Vernon, said the old woman, and now let me announce myself to you as Mrs. Mortimer. I am the widow of a general in the army and have only just returned from India. Oh, then I can well understand, my dear Madam, cried Agnes firmly believing every word that was said to her. I can well understand your anxiety and longing to visit the place where you doubtless once dwelt with the husband you have lost. You have read my purpose accurately, Miss, said the old woman, wiping her eyes as if she were moved to tears by reminiscences of the past. But this is most singular indeed, suddenly exclaimed the young lady. Mrs. Mortimer gazed upon her with astonishment for the observation that had just escaped Miss Vernon's lips was as extraordinary as the impulse which had prompted it was mysterious. Yes, continued the beautiful creature, this is indeed most singular. Are you surprised at my boldness and thus uptruding myself upon your presence? asked Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes in a searching manner upon the charming countenance of that young lady, or do you doubt the existence of the sentiments which brought me hither. Oh, no, no, Madam, exclaimed Agnes in a tone of the deepest sincerity while her features suddenly betrayed the grief which she experienced at being suspected of what she would have regarded as our cruel skepticism. I'm sure you could have no other motive for coming hither than the one you alleged. But I said it was singular because another person a few days ago. Ah, ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, a sudden idea striking her. In a word, she already felt confident that her visit would not prove abortive and that she had acted with sagacity in seeking the first trace of torrents at the very house which he had inhabited years ago. You now appear to be surprised in your turn, observed Agnes, struck by the ejaculation which had burst from the old woman's lips. Yes, dear young lady, said Mrs. Mortimer, I was indeed surprised in as much as I gathered from your words that another person actuated by the same sentiment as that which brought me to this spot. And do you know that other person then, inquired Agnes? That is precisely what I have now to ascertain, answered the old woman. The moment I understood the sense of your observation respecting the visit of another individual to the cottage, I began to wonder whether it were any friend of my earlier years, perhaps even a relative. He was an old man with gray hair and a care-worn countenance, said Agnes, perceiving that Mrs. Mortimer paused and seemed to be deeply affected. And he told me that he also had once dwelt in this house, he sat down into this very parlor, and appeared to be overcome with grief for a long time. I offered to leave the room that he might be alone with his mournful reflections, but he conjured me to stay. And then he informed me that he had known grief so profound, vicissitudes so terrible, privations so great, that they had almost driven him mad. And when I proposed in as delicate a manner as possible to afford him such relief as my means would permit, he assured me that he was poor no longer, and that he had gold at his command. Then in another moment he exclaimed with an emphasis which almost frightened me, but oh, that I were indeed the penniless, half-strawing wretch I was some days ago. Ah, he said that, did he? Mother of the old woman to herself, remorse has already overtaken him, and he will the more easily yield to my menaces and become my victim. I did not catch your observation, madam, said Agnes. I was only musing my dear child hastily, responded Mrs. Mortimer, upon the misfortunes of this strange world of ours, doubtless some dreadful affliction hath touched the brain of that poor old man of whom you have been speaking. Such was indeed my fear, exclaimed Agnes, and much as I pitied him, I confessed that I was greatly relieved when he took his departure. Was his visit a long one, my dear young lady, asked Mrs. Mortimer. He remained here for upwards of an hour, was the reply, and was it in the evening that he called, inquired the old woman? Yes, between eight and nine o'clock, and he rose from his seat as the timepiece struck ten, responded Agnes. I know not precisely wherefore, but it is nevertheless true that his presence began to alarm me, although I had done him no injury, and indeed had never in my life seen him before, but there was such a wild expression in his eyes. I doubtless the poor old man was overcome by many painful recollections, said Mrs. Mortimer. I suppose he did not mention his name to you, Miss Vernon. No, and I did not like to ask him, was the frank and ingenious reply. His mind was evidently much unsettled, for it alternated between profound grief and a restless excitement, so that while he was here I was at one moment moved to sympathize with him, and the other forced to regard him with vague apprehension. When he spoke of the fact that he himself had once been the occupant of this dwelling, he glanced hastily around the parlor and murmured three or four times, in a tone scarcely audible, this is the very room, the very room. I could not divine what he meant, and of course dared not ask him. I was agnest with that charming ingenuousness of manner which denoted the pure child of nature, untainted by the artificial formalities of a vitiated state of society. How long have you resided here, Miss? We inquired the old woman after a brief pause, during which she reflected on all that the beauteous girl had just told her, at the same time chuckling inwardly at the certainty of having ascertained two grand facts, namely that Torrance was possessed to plenty of gold and that he was in London. I've lived in this pretty house for nearly three years, Madam, answered Agnes. Before that period I, but now she added checking herself, I am again troubling you with my own affairs whereas you have sufficient upon your mind to engross all your attention. Oh yes, you must have exclaimed the artless girl having only just returned to England after so long an absence in India, but you did not tell me whether you recognized in the old gentleman of whom I have been speaking any relative or friend, any person in fine in whom you are interested. Yes, my dear young lady responded, Mrs. Mortimer, me thinks that he cannot be altogether unknown to me, and yet my thoughts were so bewildered at this moment. The reminiscences which have been awakened in my mind by this visit to a spot where I myself once dwelt and where I have passed so many happy hours with my dear deceased husband, General Mortimer. Oh, do not weep, Madam, compose yourself, I beseech you, exclaimed Agnes, whose unsuspicious soul was touched by the grief which her artful visitor simulated so aptly. Dear young lady, murmured Mrs. Mortimer, pressing Miss Vernon's hand to her lips, you will perhaps allow me to visit you again. Oh, certainly was the reply given with cheerful and unaffected cordiality. You are the widow of an officer of high rank, and therefore I cannot be doing wrong by receiving you at my house. At the same time, added Agnes, after a moment's reflection, I do not imagine that my father, but the young lady's remark was cut short in the middle by a loud knocking at the front door. Mrs. Mortimer started up as she felt that she was an intruder and that her business there was of an equivocal character, not likely to stand the test of any inquiry that might be put by a person less artless and unsophisticated than Miss Vernon herself, but that young lady having a pure conscience and not dreaming that she had even acted with imprudence in permitting a stranger to force herself upon her, said in a cheerful manner, Oh, it is my father's knock. I know it well. You need not be uneasy. At this moment, the parlor door opened and the pretty maid servant appeared on the threshold. Do us your inner gentleman, a foo's personal appearance. We must give a brief description. End of section 51.