CHAPTER CXX.
THE LAPSE OF NINETEEN YEARS.
How easy is it to record upon paper the sweeping words--“Nineteen years
had passed away since the occurrences just related:”--how easy is it
with a few moments’ manipulation of the pen to leap over a period
embracing almost the fifth part of a century!
Nineteen years!--a few short syllables--a drop of ink--a scrap of
paper--and a minute’s trouble,--these are all that the novelist needs
to enable him to pass by the deeds of nineteen years!
Oh! this very power compels us to look with suspicion upon the utility
of our own avocations,--to reflect how far removed from _the_ natural
is even the _most_ natural of the works of fiction,--and to feel the
nothingness of all the efforts of the imagination when placed in
contrast with the stern and stubborn facts of the real world!
For though the novelist, exercising a despotic power over the offspring
of his fancy, may dispose of years--aye, even of centuries, with a dash
of his pen,--yet of Time, as the universe actually experiences its
march, not one instant can he stay--not one instant accelerate.
Great Kings, who have proclaimed themselves demigods and compelled the
millions to abase themselves round their mighty thrones,--at whose
awful nod whole nations have trembled as if at the frown of Olympian
Jove, and whose impatient stamp on the marble pavement of their palaces
has seemed to shake the earth to its very centre,--proud and haughty
monarchs such as these have been powerless in the hands of Time as
infants in the grasp of a Giant. Though heads would fall at their
command, yet not a hair of their own could they prevent from turning
gray: though at their beck whole provinces were de-populated, yet not a
single moment could they add to their own lives!
TIME is a sovereign more potent than all the imperial rulers that ever
wore the Tyrian purple,--stronger than the bravest warriors that ever
led conquering armies over desolated lands,--less easy to be moved to
mercy than the fiercest tyrants that ever grasped earthly sceptres.
To those who, being in misery, look forward to the certain happiness
that already gleams upon them with orient flickerings from the
distance, Time is slow--oh! so slow, that his feet seem heavy with
iron weights and his wings with lead:--but to those who, being as yet
happy, behold unmistakeable auguries of approaching affliction, Time
is rapid--oh! so rapid, that his feet appear to glide glancingly along
like those of a sportive boy in pursuit of a butterfly, and his wings
are as light and buoyant as the fleetest of birds.
The wicked man, stretched upon the bed of death, cries out, “Oh! for
leisure to repent!”--but Time disregardeth his agonising prayer, and
saith, “Die!” The invalid, racked with excruciating pains, and wearied
of an existence which knows no relief from suffering, exclaims, “Oh!
that death would snatch me away!”--but Time accordeth not the shrieking
aspiration, and saith, “Live on!”
Passionless and without feeling though he be, Time shows caprices
in which the giddiest and most wilful girl would be ashamed to
indulge,--sparing where he ought to slay--slaying where he ought to
spare: insensible to all motives, incompetent to form designs, he
appears to act with a method of contradictions and on a system of
studied irregularities.
* * * * *
“Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the
preceding chapters!”--Such is the sweeping assertion which we have now
to make.
Nineteen years!--how much joy had been experienced, how much misery
felt, during that interval: what vast changes had taken place over the
whole earth!
In these islands that period was marked with the names of three
sovereigns:--George the Fourth--William the Fourth--Victoria.
The debaucheries, vices, and profligacies of George lessened the
value of Monarchy even in the eyes of its stanchest supporters: the
utter incompetency, weakness, and even downright silliness of William
reduced it to a still greater discount;--and the accession of Victoria
proclaimed the grand fact that Monarchy is a farce, since a mere
school-girl can be put up as the throned puppet of the Punch-and-Judy
show of Royalty.
During nineteen years, then, did the value of Monarchy experience a
rapid and signal decline: and, though it still endures, it is hastening
with whirlwind speed to total annihilation. Men are becoming too wise
to maintain a throne which may either be filled by a voluptuary, a
fool, or a doll: they see something radically and flagrantly bad in an
institution which is fraught with such frightful contingencies;--and
they look forward to a convenient moment and a proper opportunity to
effect, by moral means, and without violence, a complete change. The
throne is worm-eaten--its velvet is in holes and covered with dust:
and no earthly power can repair the wood nor patch up the cloth. It
is old--ricketty--and good-for-nothing; and the magisterial seat of a
President, elected by the nation at large, must displace it. Monarchy
falling, will drag down the ancient Aristocracy along with it; and
the twenty-six millions of these realms all starting fair together on
a principle of universal equality, those who succeed in reaching the
goals of VIRTUE and TALENT will constitute and form a new Aristocracy.
* * * * *
Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the
preceding chapters; and it was now the summer of 1846.
The July sun gave forth a heat of intense sultriness; and not a breath
of air fanned the stifling streets of the West-End, nor agitated the
green foliage of St. James’s Park. Nevertheless all that fashionable
quarter of London which lies within the immediate vicinity of the old
palace that gives its name to the park just mentioned, presented a
bustling and animated appearance; for Queen Victoria was to hold a
grand reception at noon that day.
Pall Mall was thronged with well-dressed persons of both sexes;--and
the windows and balconies in that thoroughfare were crowded with
elegantly-attired ladies and gentlemen, who were either the occupants
of the houses at the casements of which they were thus stationed, or
had hired seats at the shops where the cupidity of the proprietors
turned to advantage the curiosity of the public.
It was evident, then, that the reception to be holden this day was of
no ordinary character, and that some great or illustrious personage was
expected to attend the royal levee. For, amongst the thousands that
thronged the streets, an immense anxiety to secure the best places
prevailed; and in all quarters was the eager question asked--“But is it
certain that the Prince will come this way?”
We must pause for a few minutes to notice a group occupying the balcony
of the drawing-room windows at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham.
This group consisted of six persons--three gentlemen, and three ladies.
The first of the three gentlemen was a fine, handsome, noble-looking
man of about forty-five years of age--with a countenance indicating
feelings of the most lofty honour, great generosity, and a splendid
intellect. This was the Earl of Ellingham.
Near him stood an old and venerable gentleman, whose years were verging
fast to three-score-and-ten, but whose small, restless, sparkling eyes
beamed with the fires of genius, and whose compressed lips showed
that although he had consented to become a spectator of the gay scene
about to take place, his thoughts frequently wandered to subjects of a
more serious kind and more congenial to his nature. This was Sir John
Lascelles--the most eminent physician of the age, and who had received
the honour of knighthood in recompense for the great services which he
had rendered to the art of medicine.
The third gentleman was about twenty-five years of age. Tall, handsome,
well-formed, and genteel in appearance, he seemed a fit and suitable
companion for the lovely girl who leant upon his arm, and of whom we
shall speak more fully anon. The fine young man at present alluded to,
was called by the name of Charles Hatfield: but in the former portion
of this work he was known, when a little boy, to the reader as Charley
Watts.
The first of the three ladies was about thirty-seven years of age;
and her beauty, in the finest, chastest, and most elevated Hebrew
style, was admirably preserved. The lapse of years had only matured
her charms, and not impaired them: time had touched not the pearly
whiteness of her teeth, nor dimmed the brilliant lustre of her large
dark eyes. Her hair was still of the deepest and glossiest jet,--silken
and luxuriant, as when we first described it in the fourth chapter
of our narrative:--for she of whom we are speaking now, was Esther,
Countess of Ellingham.
Conversing with the noble Jewess--for she clung to the faith of her
forefathers--was a lady whose style of beauty was of that magnificent
and voluptuous kind which sets the beholder at naught in his
calculations and conjectures relative to the age of the object of his
admiration;--for though forty-four years had passed over the head of
Lady Hatfield, she was still endowed with a loveliness that, though
matured, seemed to have known only the lapse of summers and never to
have passed through the snowy storms of as many winters.
And now we must speak more in detail of that charming girl to whom we
alluded ere now, and who was leaning on the arm of Lady Hatfield’s
son. Ravishingly beautiful was this young creature of seventeen--with
the aquiline countenance of her mother, and the Saxon complexion of
her father. Yes--lovely indeed was Lady Frances Ellingham, the only
issue of the alliance which took place between the Earl and Esther
one year after the murder of Tamar, and consequently eighteen years
previous to the period of which we are now writing. Much of the
description which we gave of Esther in the opening of our tale, would
apply to the charms of her daughter, whose forehead was high, broad,
and intelligent,--whose mouth was small, and revealing in smiles teeth
white as orient pearls,--whose eyes were large and dark,--and whose
figure was tall, sylph-like, and graceful. But Lady Frances Ellingham’s
hair, though dark, was several shades less jetty than that of her
mother; and her complexion was delicately clear, with a slight tinge of
rich carnation appearing beneath the dazzling purity of the skin.
Such was the interesting group of six persons stationed in the balcony
of the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion. But while they are awaiting the
presence of the illustrious individual who is expected to pass through
Pall Mall to the Queen’s levee at St. James’s palace, we will place on
record a few short facts that will render less obscure to our readers
the interval of nineteen years over which we have thought fit to leap
in our narrative.
For a long--long time after the murder of Tamar, Tom Rain appeared
inaccessible to consolation: but at last his naturally strong mind and
vigorous intellect began to exercise their energies--the former to
combat against the deep and depressing sense of affliction--and the
latter to teach him the necessity of putting forth all his powers in
the struggle, not only on account of the inutility of repinings, but
likewise for the sake of those who were interested in him. It was,
however, chiefly on the occasion of Lord Ellingham’s marriage with
Esther de Medina, that Rainford perceptibly rallied; for it did his
generous heart good to behold the happiness of his half-brother. As
time wore on, Tom Rain recovered much of his former cheerfulness; and
after the lapse of three years from the date of Tamar’s death, he began
to listen with attention, if not with interest, to the representations
made to him by the Earl, urging him to the performance of a duty which
it was now in his power to fulfil. Arthur reminded him of Georgiana
Hatfield’s generous conduct in obtaining the royal pardon,--he assured
Rainford that her ladyship no longer thought of him with abhorrence and
aversion, but would cheerfully bestow her hand on the father of her
child,--and the nobleman moreover advised the alliance on the ground
that the boy would then dwell with both his parents. The death of Mr.
de Medina, which happened about that time, delayed the negociations
thus commenced; but at the expiration of a year the proposal was
revived, and the necessary arrangements were speedily adjusted. In
fine, it was settled that Rainford should abandon the name by which
he had hitherto been known, and assume that of Hatfield,--that the
boy should be thenceforth called in the same manner, but should be
brought up in the belief that he was Rainford’s nephew,--and that after
the marriage, which was to be solemnized in the most private manner
possible, the wedded pair should proceed to the continent, and there
reside for some years. All these arrangements were duly carried out.
Rainford--whom we shall henceforth call by his wife’s name--became
the husband of Lady Georgiana Hatfield;--and, taking with them their
child, who was represented to be their nephew, they forthwith repaired
to Italy, where they dwelt for nearly fifteen years. Thus, on their
return to London, only a few weeks before the date up to which we have
now brought the incidents of our tale, all the stirring circumstances
once associated with the name of Tom Rain were pretty well forgotten;
and none, save those few who were in the secret, suspected that the
pleasant, gentlemanly, good-natured Mr. Hatfield was identical with the
individual who nineteen years previously had filled all England with
his fame.
While we have been thus digressing, the sensation amongst the crowds
in Pall Mall has increased;--for the carriages of several eminent or
illustrious personages have passed along in their way to the royal
levee.
In the balcony at the Earl of Ellingham’s drawing-room window, a
degree of curiosity and excitement prevailed which certainly could not
have been aroused on the part of the intelligent individuals there
assembled, by the mere display of gorgeous equipages. Let us see
whether the conversation passing in that balcony will throw any light
upon the subject.
“Well,” exclaimed Sir John Lascelles, almost in a petulant tone, “I
wonder how much longer your cynosure of attraction will be before
he makes his appearance? Truly, it was worth while for my friend
Ellingham here, to drag me away from my experiments in order to catch a
glimpse of a foreign Prince----”
“Nay, doctor,” interrupted the Earl, smiling: “It was precisely because
this illustrious Prince is _not_ a foreigner--but an Englishman by
birth and a true Briton in his noble heart--that I thought you would be
pleased to join those who are desirous to behold a youthful hero whose
name occupies so memorable a page in history.”
“Well, well,” said the physician, somewhat more mildly: “I will have
patience--and since you assure us that the object of all curiosity is
indeed an Englishman----”
“Surely you can neither doubt the fact, nor be ignorant of his great
achievements, doctor?” exclaimed the Earl. “But if you wish to receive
positive assurances as to his Royal Highness’s English parentage, Lady
Hatfield will satisfy you.”
“Yes--truly,” observed Georgiana. “When we were staying in Italy, we
not only became as it were eye-witnesses of the great Revolution which
was conducted to so signally triumphant an issue by the young hero of
whom you are speaking; but we subsequently had the honour of forming
the acquaintance of his Royal Highness and that of his Princess, who is
as amiable as she is beautiful.”
“And now that the Prince has come to visit his native land once more,”
said Charles Hatfield, his eyes flashing the fires of that enthusiasm
which filled his soul, “the people assemble in crowds to do honour
to their illustrious fellow-countryman. Oh! how delicious must his
feelings be, when he reflects that as an obscure individual he once
moved, unnoticed and unknown, amidst the mazes of this great city,--and
that by his own brilliant merits he has raised himself to that pinnacle
of rank and glory which renders him the admiration of the myriads now
assembled to welcome his presence.”
“Well spoken, my dear Charles,” exclaimed Lady Hatfield. “Look up and
down the street--it is literally paved and walled with human faces!
In the balconies on either side of this house--and opposite too--I
recognise many ladies and peers of the highest rank. Yes--Charles, you
are right: the feelings of the Prince must indeed be joyous when he
reflects that this vast congregation of all classes has gathered to do
honour to the fellow-countryman of whom they are so justly proud.”
“History teems with examples of bold, bad, and ambitious men usurping
power and decorating themselves with lofty titles,” continued Charles,
addressing himself partly to Lady Hatfield and partly to the beautiful
Lady Frances Ellingham: “but in the present instance we have a young
Englishman, of generous soul, enlightened opinions, and even rigorous
rectitude of conduct, raising himself from nothing as it were and
acquiring the proudest titular distinctions. For what a glorious
elevation was it from plain _Mr. Richard Markham_ to _His Royal
Highness Field-Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the
Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-Apparent to the Grand-Ducal Throne_!”
Scarcely had Charles Hatfield enunciated these sounding titles in a
tone which afforded full evidence of the enthusiasm that filled his
soul as he thought of the splendid career of Richard Markham,[1] when
far-off shouts of welcome and of joy suddenly reached the ears of the
group on the balcony:--then those sounds came nearer and nearer, as the
crowd took up the cries from the direction where they commenced;--and
never was Royalty saluted with a more cordial greeting than that which
now welcomed the hero of Castelcicala.
“Long live the Prince of Montoni! God save Richard Markham!” were the
words sent up by thousands and thousands of voices to the blue arch of
heaven.
In a short time a handsome carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses,
came in sight of the spectators in the balcony; and nothing could now
exceed the enthusiasm of Charles Hatfield, as he once more beheld the
object of his heroic idolatry--that fine young Prince whom he had so
often admired and envied when in the vast square of the ducal palace of
Montoni his Royal Highness reviewed the garrison of the Castelcicalan
capital.
The Prince, who was accompanied in his carriage by two aides-de-camp,
wore the uniform of his high military rank: his breast was covered with
Orders; and in his hand he carried his plumed hat, which he had removed
from his brow through respect to the generous British public from whom
he now received so enthusiastic a welcome.
His Royal Highness was in the prime and glory of his manhood. He was
thirty years of age: his dark hair, which he wore rather long and which
curled naturally, enclosed a forehead that appeared to be the seat of
genius of the highest order;--and his fine black eyes were bright with
the fire of intelligence and the animation of complete happiness. His
magnificent uniform set off his symmetrical and graceful figure to
its fullest advantage; and he acknowledged with affability and modest
condescension the demonstrations of joy and welcome which marked his
progress.
As his equipage passed opposite the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham,
his eyes were attracted to the balcony; and, recognising Lady Hatfield
and the enthusiastic Charles, he bowed to them in a manner which
testified the pleasure he experienced at again beholding those whose
acquaintance he had formed in the ducal capital of Castelcicala.
“He is certainly a very fine young man,” said Sir John Lascelles. “I
have seldom seen a countenance so expressive of vast mental resources:”
then, after a short pause, the worthy physician added, “I would give
much for a cast of his head.”
The Earl was about to make some reply, when his own name was suddenly
shouted forth by a voice in the street: and that name, taken up by
tongue after tongue, was echoed by thousands of individuals who were
delighted to associate the stanch friend of the industrious classes of
England with their enthusiastic welcomings of the royal champion of
constitutional freedom in Italy.
“Long live the Marshal-Prince of Montoni! three cheers for the Earl
of Ellingham!” were now the cries that made the very welkin ring; and
these shouts were prolonged for some time, until the carriage of his
Royal Highness turned into the court-yard of St. James’s palace, and
the Earl on his side withdrew from the balcony.
“You sigh, Charles?” said Lady Frances Ellingham, in a low and somewhat
anxious tone, and speaking apart to him whom she believed to be Lady
Hatfield’s _nephew_.
“I was only thinking, dear Fanny,” answered the young gentleman, “that
much and earnestly as I may strive to elevate myself, it will never be
my good fortune to have such opportunities as the Prince of Montoni
found for distinguishing his name and acquiring on immense reputation.”
“Are you envious of him, Charles?” enquired the beautiful maiden, in a
somewhat reproachful tone. “I thought that you recked not for titles
and high rank----”
“No--not when they are hereditary,” hastily replied Charles Hatfield:
“and this assurance I have often given you in secret--because I should
not like to make such an observation before your noble father, whose
title _is_ hereditary. But I admire--yes, and I envy too, the honours
which a great man acquires by his own merits! Do you imagine that the
English people would have assembled in vast crowds to hail and welcome
one of their own royal Dukes? No, indeed! And yet they seem as if they
could not testify their joy in too lively a manner, when the Prince of
Montoni appears amongst them.”
While this little dialogue was taking place in one part of the spacious
drawing-room at the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion, the nobleman himself
was conversing with his wife and Lady Hatfield in another--the entire
group having withdrawn from the balcony, and Sir John Lascelles having
quitted the apartment.
“Yes,” said the Earl, in answer to a question put to him by Lady
Hatfield; “I have understood that the Prince proposes to stay some
weeks in London. The Princess Isabella has not accompanied him--her
royal parents, the Grand Duke Alberto and the Grand Duchess, being
loth to part with her. The Prince has taken up his abode--at least,
so states the morning newspaper--at Markham Place, the house where
he was born and where all his youth and a portion of his manhood
were passed. Accordingly, as you desire, Georgiana, I will call upon
his Royal Highness to-morrow; and I will request him to accept of an
entertainment at this mansion.”
“How did it occur,” enquired the Countess of Ellingham, “that Thomas
was not with us just now to behold the progress of the Prince to St.
James’s?”
“You know, dear Esther,” answered Lady Hatfield, “that my husband loves
privacy and seclusion, and especially avoids appearing in crowded
places. He fears to be recognised,” she added, sinking her voice so as
to be inaudible to Charles and Lady Frances, who were at the opposite
end of the apartment: “and he is perhaps right--although so many years
have elapsed since those occurrences----”
“To which we will not refer,” interrupted Lord Ellingham, hastily. “How
very seriously the young people appear to be conversing together,” he
added, glancing towards Charles Hatfield and Lady Frances.
“Charles has imbibed certain romantic ideas and hopes of distinguishing
himself in the world,” observed Georgiana; “and I think it right to
encourage such noble--such generous aspirations. But your charming
daughter is evidently remonstrating with him upon some point: and yet
the two cousins appear to be much attached to each other,” she added,
with rather an anxious look at the Earl, as if she were uncertain how
he might receive the observation, into which she threw a degree of
significancy.
“You have mentioned a circumstance which gives me much pleasure--nay,
not only myself, but likewise my dearest Esther,” said the nobleman.
“We have already adopted it as the basis of many happy plans for the
future----”
“Yes,” observed the Countess of Ellingham, emphatically: “an alliance
between Charles and our beloved daughter, would prove a source of
felicity and satisfaction to us all.”
“Arthur--and you, too, dear Esther,” murmured Lady Hatfield, in a tone
indicative of deep emotions, “I thank you for these assurances. All
my earthly ambition--my sole hope, would be accomplished on the day
that such an union took place. Alas! poor boy--it is distressing--Oh!
it is distressing to be compelled to veil from him the real secret
of his parentage--to hear him at times question me relative to his
parents--his _supposed_ parents, who are represented to be no more!
Yes--and it is cruel, too, to be forced to deceive him--to hear him
call me his _aunt_--I, who am his _mother_!”
“Georgiana--dearest Georgiana, do not thus afflict yourself!” murmured
Esther, pressing Lady Hatfield’s hand in a tender manner, and speaking
in a tone of consolation and sweet sympathy.
But almost at the same instant a piercing scream burst from Georgiana’s
lips; and she fell senseless into the arms of the Countess of
Ellingham--while the Earl, turning mechanically and hastily round,
beheld Charles standing close behind him,--pale--astounded--petrified!
For the young man had advanced unperceived--and his tread unheard on
the thick, soft carpet--towards the group formed by Lady Hatfield, the
nobleman, and the Countess: and his ears had caught these words--“to
hear him call me _aunt_--I, who am his _mother_!”
For a few instants he stood motionless--amazed and stupefied by what he
had heard:--but, suddenly recovering the power of movement and yielding
to the ineffable sensations which were excited in his breast, he sprang
forward--and catching his still insensible parent in his arms, he
cried, “Oh! my dearest mother--my beloved, my adored mother--open your
eyes--look upon me----”
“His mother!” exclaimed Lady Frances, overwhelmed with surprise,
and unable, in the innocence of her virgin heart, to form even the
slightest notion that might serve as a clue to what was still so deep a
mystery to her.
“Yes--my dearest Fanny,” said the Earl, hastily drawing his daughter
aside and speaking to her in a low and rapid tone: “Charles is indeed
the _son_--and not the _nephew_--of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana.
But reasons of an imperious necessity--reasons which you are too young
to comprehend, and too discreet to enquire into----”
“My dear father, I seek to know no more than it may please you to tell
me,” interrupted the young lady, with a decision as amiable as it was
dutiful and re-assuring: “and my behaviour shall henceforth be as if I
had not been accidentally made the spectatress of this scene.”
“You are my own beloved--darling daughter!” exclaimed the Earl
enthusiastically, as he pressed his lips to the pure and chaste
forehead of the charming countenance that was upturned so lovingly
towards his own.
By this time Lady Hatfield had been recovered through the kind
attentions of Esther; and, awaking to consciousness, she clasped
her son to her bosom, murmuring in a faint tone and broken voice,
“Now you have learnt my secret, Charles--a secret which--But another
time--another time, you shall know all! Oh! Charles--I feel so much
happiness and so much sorrow--strangely blended--at this moment----”
“Compose yourself, dearest--dearest parent!” exclaimed the young man,
his tears flowing freely. “I now know that you are my mother--and I
care to know nothing more! Never--never shall I question you concerning
the past: the enjoyment of the present, and the hope which gilds the
future--these are enough for me!”
[Illustration]
“My poor boy!” murmured Lady Hatfield, straining him to her breast: “I
feel as if an immense weight were taken from my mind--I seem to drink
of a purer source of happiness than I have ever yet known----Oh! why
did I ever hesitate to tell thee that thou wast my son!”
And again she pressed him closer and closer still to her bosom,
covering his brow and cheeks with kisses; while tears flowed from the
eyes of the Countess and of Lady Frances at the touching spectacle--and
the Earl turned aside to conceal his emotions.