CHAPTER CXXVI.

ELUCIDATIONS.

At the conclusion of the hundred and twenty-fourth chapter we asked

whether Charles Hatfield would succeed in crushing the sentiments of

curiosity that had been awakened within him?

Alas! no--it was impossible!

His better feelings, aroused by the startling remembrance of the

assurances he had respectively given his father and mother, had for

a few hours triumphed over that insatiable longing to penetrate into

the mysteries of the past:--but when he again found himself alone in

his chamber, in the silence of night, he could not subdue the thoughts

which forced themselves upon him, and which were all connected with

those mysteries.

Thus was it that we again find him pacing his chamber while others

slept,--pacing up and down in an agitated and excited manner, and

maintaining a desperate struggle within his own soul.

For the irresistible temptation which beset him, was to ponder once

more and deeply on the incidents of his early days, and to endeavour

to retrieve from the abysses of his memory any other recollections

that might be slumbering there. For the sake of the pledge given

to his mother--for the sake of the assurance made to his father,

he strove,--yes--sincerely, ardently he strove--to vanquish that

temptation: yet he could not--human nature possessed not so grand a

power;--he might have ruled his actions by his will--but his thoughts

defied all controul.

Yielding, therefore, at length to their current, he was whirled along

by the same eddying tide of reflections which had swept him through so

considerable a portion of the preceding night;--and now the efforts of

memory--by one of those superhuman strainings which, while they seem as

if they must break the very fibres of the brain, also appear to evoke

a sudden flash from the depth of some profound cerebral cell,--those

powerful and painful efforts in a moment, as it were, established a

connexion between the name of _Benjamin Bones_ and _the murder of

Tamar_!

Yes: Charles Hatfield suddenly became aware that the name and the

incident were in some way associated:--and he necessarily supposed

that, in his childhood, he had heard facts mentioned which had created

that impression at the time, but the nature of which he could not now

for the life of him recall to memory. This impression was probably

vague even at the period when it was engendered; because Charles

recollected full well that the utmost caution was adopted by those

around him not to discourse upon the particulars of the foul murder

in his presence, nor even to respond otherwise than evasively to the

questions he put,--he being a mere child at the time.

As the young gentleman paced up and down, his mind labouring with the

new reminiscence which had arisen within, it suddenly struck him that

there were means of informing himself of all and every detail of that

murder, whereof he at present entertained only a vague and general

impression of its atrocity. His long absence on the continent had

prevented him from ever, even accidentally, falling in with an English

book of criminal annals, or a file of English newspapers, to which he

might have referred, had the thought struck him so to do. But now what

was to restrain him from making those searches which would throw every

light on an occurrence of such fearful interest?

Scarcely was this idea conceived, when the means of instantaneously

carrying it into execution suggested itself. For Charles Hatfield

remembered that in the well-stored library of the mansion he had

observed a complete set of the _Annual Register_, from the very origin

of that useful work until the most recent date of its publication!

And now he trembled from head to foot--he literally gasped for breath,

at the thought of being enabled to tear away the veil of mystery from

at least one incident which was so materially connected with his

childhood: for Tamar had been as a mother to him during the few months

that he was in her care!

There was in his soul a deep and yet undefined presentiment that

he stood on the threshold of strange discoveries--that important

revelations were about to be made to him;--and, without being

superstitious, he bent to the influence of this solemn but dim

forecasting--this awe-inspiring but vague prescience.

Taking the lamp in his hand, he stole gently from his

chamber--descended the wide and handsome staircase--traversed a

long corridor, in the niches of which stood beautiful specimens of

sculpture--and entered the spacious library.

On each side of the door was a marble statue as large as life; and the

young man started--but only for a moment--as the white and motionless

effigies stood out suddenly as if it were from the deep darkness which

the lamp illumined. It was not that he had forgotten such statues were

there--nor that he was positively frightened at their appearance:--but

his soul was influenced by one of those presentiments which are of

themselves superstitions in character--and moreover he was on the point

of seeking information relative to the details of a foul and horrible

murder.

Instantly recovering himself, and blushing at his fears, he advanced

into the library, closing the door carefully behind him: then,

approaching a particular range of shelves, he reached down the _Annual

Register_ for the year 1827.

In less than a minute he was seated at the table, with the book opened

at the proper place before him;--and greedily--Oh! how greedily he

plunged as it were into its contents.

But--great heavens!--why starts he thus? What discovery has he

made?--what revelation has been afforded him?

He learns, with a frightful sinking of the heart, that Rainford was a

highwayman--that he had been executed at Horsemonger Lane Gaol--that he

had been resuscitated by some means or another with which the writer

was unacquainted--that he had reappeared in London in the disguise

of a Blackamoor--and that he had received the royal pardon for all

his crimes. These details were incidentally given in the course of

the narrative of the foul murder of Tamar, who was represented to

have been Rainford’s wife;--and now also Charles Hatfield discovered

how terrific was the connexion between the name of Benjamin Bones

and the assassination of that ill-fated daughter of Israel. Yes--and

he perceived, too, that _Benjamin Bones_ and _Old Death_ were one

and the same individual;--and he shuddered from head to foot as he

perused--nay, almost rushed through the details of the crime which had

been committed nineteen years previously in the subterranean cells

belonging to a house in Red Lion Street, Clerkenwell!

But Charles Hatfield is not satisfied with what he has already

_devoured_--for we can scarcely use the word _read_:--his curiosity

to know more has become insatiable;--and guided by the hints and the

observations occurring in the narrative of the murder, he refers to an

earlier page in that volume, in order to obtain a full and complete

insight into the trial and condemnation of Rainford--that Rainford whom

he had loved so well!

The whole particulars were given in detail and with accuracy,--the

robbery of Sir Christopher Blunt--the capture of Rainford by Dykes and

his myrmidons in Lock’s Fields--the trial--the condemnation--and the

execution!

Charles read--read on with horrified feelings which often threatened

to get the better of him;--but there was one point in the evidence

which rivetted his attention. Dykes, the officer, in explaining the

mode in which the highwayman had been taken into custody, used these

words:--“_When I and my people gained admittance into the house in

Brandon Street, the prisoner was in bed with his mistress, a Jewess_.”

“Then,” thought Charles Hatfield immediately, “Tamar was not his wife!

Ah! that is clear enough--although the narrative of the murder would

imply otherwise. But the only inference that can be drawn from this

discrepancy, is that the reporter of the assassination was delicately

and judiciously sparing of the feelings of the Medina family--whereas,

in the former case, it was absolutely necessary to record the evidence

just as it was given. Poor Tamar!--no wonder that thy name is never

mentioned now by those who once knew thee--no wonder that even thy

very sister, the Countess of Ellingham, seems to have forgotten thee!”

Thus, Charles Hatfield suddenly adopted the belief that Tamar was not

Rainford’s wife. Neither, indeed, was she at the time when Rainford

was arrested by Mr. Dykes; and it never struck the young man that the

matrimonial ceremony might have been performed between the period of

Rainford’s resuscitation and the murder of the Jewish lady. For when

the nuptial blessing _was_ performed in Paris, Charles--being then

a mere boy--was not present at the proceedings which took place as

privately as possible in the British Ambassador’s Chapel. As for his

suspicion that the Countess of Ellingham was ashamed to breathe the

name of Tamar,--Oh! the reader may judge how erroneous was that belief!

In her heart of hearts did the generous Esther treasure the image of

that dearly-beloved sister;--and if neither herself nor her noble

husband ever breathed her name, it was through kind feelings towards

Mr. Hatfield and motives of delicacy in respect to Georgiana. But

Charles, being as yet ignorant that his father and Rainford were one

and the same person, could not possibly suspect the necessity for the

exercise of such kind feelings on the one hand or such delicacy on the

other.

“And thus,” murmured Charles to himself, as he closed the book which

had made such marvellous and horrifying revelations,--“and thus Thomas

Rainford was a highwayman! The good--kind-hearted--generous man who

loved me, was a felon--a criminal: he passed through the hands of the

public executioner! Oh! my God--what dreadful things have I this night

learnt!” he exclaimed aloud, pressing his hand to his forehead. “But

how came this Thomas Rainford to have the care of me?--how was it that

my parents could have left me so long in his hands--or at his disposal?

Oh! no wonder--no wonder that Mr. de Medina and Esther should have

charged me, when first they left me at school, never to mention the

name of Rainford! And now how many gaps in the earliest portion of my

reminiscences are filled up,--that absence of Mr. Rainford for several

weeks, during which period I pined after him--that constant weeping

of Tamar--then the removal to Mr. de Medina’s house, and the sudden

revival of joy which Tamar experienced there. But--a highwayman--a

felon--a criminal! Oh! what awful mysteries envelop all this matter

still! For the Earl of Ellingham was intimate with Rainford--and it

was said, I remember, that at Mr. de Medina’s death he left to this

same Rainford a large fortune. A fortune to whom?--to the seducer of

his daughter--to one who had passed through the hands of the public

executioner! And Lord Ellingham was intimate with the man who seduced

the sister of his intended wife;--and Esther was friendly likewise

with him who ruined that sister. Gracious God! all this is most

unaccountable--so unaccountable, that I am lost and bewildered! But

most mysterious--ten thousand times the most mysterious of all these

incidents, is that one grand fact to which I cannot but recur,--how

could my parents have left me in the care of a highwayman! ’Tis

true that he received the royal pardon: but that pardon----Ah! the

_Register_ says that it was procured through the interest of Lady

Hatfield--that Dykes, an officer of justice, was present at the time

when that lady announced----Just heavens! a light breaks in upon my

soul----Oh! no--no----and yet that resemblance----May God have mercy

upon me!”

And the young man, groaning bitterly--bitterly, in the anguish of his

spirit, fell back in his chair--covering his face with his hands.

Yes--a light had indeed broken in upon him, elucidating a terrible

mystery in a terrible manner! Lady Georgiana Hatfield had procured the

royal pardon:--Lady Georgiana Hatfield must therefore have had strong

reasons thus to exert herself in behalf of a convicted felon, who had

passed through the hands of the hangman, but had been recalled to life

and restored to the world in some wondrous manner. But of what nature

were those potent reasons? Naturally did it strike Charles Hatfield

that _love_ must have been the cause;--and when he recollected the

resemblance which existed between his own father and that Thomas

Rainford who had once been his friend and protector, it flashed to his

mind that he in whom Lady Hatfield had shown such tender interest--even

to the compromising of her fair fame in the eyes of the world,--he for

whom she had so far stepped aside from the precise course of female

delicacy as to implore the royal pardon,--he it must be who was her

husband!

Yes--yes: it was now as clear as the sun at noon-day:--Mr. Hatfield

and Thomas Rainford were one and the same individual,--and

he--Charles Hatfield--was the son of a highwayman who had been

tried--convicted--and ushered through all the ignominious ordeal of the

scaffold!

For several minutes the young man sat motionless--crushed, stupefied,

astounded by the appalling truth which he had elicited from his fatal

investigations into the past:--for several minutes it must have been a

mere balancing of chances whether he should awake from that dreadful

reverie to the light of reason once more, or suddenly start up a

howling, hopeless maniac!

But this latter condition was not to be his frightful doom.

By degrees--by very slow degrees, he recovered so much of his

self-possession and composure as to be enabled to look his misfortune

in the face, and even fall into additional reflections on the subject.

“Yes--Thomas Rainford and Mr. Hatfield are the same individual--and

_he_ is my father! It was but little more than nineteen years ago

when the trial and the ordeal of the gallows took place--and I am

twenty-five! Was my mother--was Lady Hatfield my father’s _wife_ at

that time? In other words--am I legitimate? ‘_As God is my judge_,’

said my father yesterday, ‘_she has never been guilty of weakness or

frailty_.’ Then what am I to believe? That my father and my mother were

married privately in an honourable manner--and that I was the offspring

of that lawful union;--then, that my father deserted my mother, and

became enamoured of Tamar, whom he took as his mistress;--and, lastly,

that after Tamar’s death, my parents were reunited! This--this must

be the truth--and therefore my father deceived me not when he so

emphatically proclaimed my mother’s virtue and my legitimacy. But--Oh!

my God!--well might he have said that _the weightiest reasons had alone

induced him and my mother to practise a deception towards myself and

the world in respect to the degree of relationship in which I really

stood with regard to them_! Yes--for the world perhaps dates the

marriage of my parents only from the time when they were reunited a few

years after Tamar’s death:--and hence the necessity of calling me their

_nephew_! I understand it all now--Oh! yes, I understand it all too

well! I am legitimate--but I am the son of a highwayman: my God! how

bitterly--bitterly is my curiosity punished this night!”

And now the young man sobbed as if his heart would break.

Whither had flown his dreams of ambition?--where now were his hopes of

emulating the career of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Montoni?

“The son of a highwayman!”--these were the words that fell ten times in

a minute from his tongue:--that was the idea which now sate, dominant

and all-absorbing, but like a leaden weight, upon his soul.

And did he loathe his father?--did he curse the author of his being?

No--no: a thousand times, _no_! Deep--profound--immeasurable was the

pity which he entertained for his sire;--and if he loathed any thing,

it was his own existence--if he cursed aught, it was his own being!

For, oh! terrible indeed was it for that fine young man, of lofty

principles, generous nature, and soaring aspirations,--terrible was it

for _him_ to receive a blow so sudden--a shock so rude--a rebuff so

awful!

Better--better far had it been for him to remain in ignorance of

his parentage,--still to have looked on Mr. Hatfield as his uncle,

and on Lady Georgiana as his aunt,--rather than have learnt a

secret which only prompted him to fathom collateral mysteries and

clear up associated doubts! For the result of those researches was

the elucidation which had flashed on him with almost lightning

effect,--blasting--searing scorching!

“Accursed book!” he suddenly exclaimed, hurling the _Annual Register_

across the apartment, as if the volume were a living thing, and endowed

with human feelings, so as to be susceptible of the venting influence

of his rage.

But in the next moment he reflected that no trace of an untimely

or mysterious visit to that library must remain,--that none must

suspect his pryings or his researches: for not for worlds--no, not for

worlds--would he have his father or mother know that he had made the

discoveries which characterised this memorable night! He accordingly

rose from his seat--raised the volume from the floor--and turned to the

book-case to replace it.

This act, so simple in itself, was destined to lead to a circumstance

thenceforth influencing the entire destiny of Charles Hatfield: for as

he thrust the volume back into the place on the shelf whence he had

taken it, he heard a sharp abrupt sound, like the click of a lock.

He was in that humour when every incident, however trivial, was

calculated to assume an importance in his imagination; and, standing

on a chair, he proceeded to examine the wainscotting at the back of

the shelves--for which purpose he removed several of the books. To

his surprise, he observed a small aperture formed by the opening of a

sliding panel, and which revealed a recess in the wall of about a foot

square,--the violence with which, in his excitement, he had thrust the

book on the shelf, having acted on the secret spring whereby the panel

was fastened.

Under ordinary circumstances, Charles Hatfield would have immediately

closed the recess, in which he beheld a small leathern case and

a packet of letters,--in the same way as he would have abstained

from reading a manuscript lying on a desk or evidently left about

through inadvertence. But, on the present occasion, he was not his

own master:--his honourable feelings were triumphed over by emotions

of the most painful nature;--and it was impossible, in this state of

mind, that he should avoid catching at any circumstance savouring of

mystery,--every such circumstance apparently linking itself with his

own concerns.

Thus, obedient to an impulse which he could not controul, he seized the

leathern case and the documents as if they were a glorious prize; and,

returning to his seat, proceeded to examine them.

The leathern case contained a roll of letters, and other documents

_tied round with a piece of riband so faded that it was impossible to

determine what its colour might have originally been_. The writing in

the papers was, however, still completely legible--the leathern case,

and the total absence of damp in the little recess, having preserved

them for a period of half a century!

Wrapped round the roll of papers in the case, was a letter, addressed

to the Earl of Ellingham; and it instantaneously struck Charles that it

was in the handwriting of his father--Mr. Hatfield! By the comparative

darkness of the ink, it was of a far more recent period than the

documents which it accompanied;--but the precise time when it was

written did not immediately appear, no date being attached to it.

Without pausing to reflect upon the impropriety of violating the

sanctity of correspondence concealed with so much precaution in a

secret recess,--but carried away by the influence of those feelings

which we have above attempted to describe,--Charles Hatfield devoured

the contents of this letter; and though they are already familiar to

the reader, yet for the purposes of our narrative we quote them again:--

“I have sent you the papers, my dear brother--for so I shall

make bold to call you still,--to convince you that I did not

forge an idle tale when we met last. Whatever your motive

for abandoning me in my last hour may be, I entertain no ill

feeling towards you: on the contrary, I hope that God may

prosper you, and give you long life to enjoy that title and

fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility

of dispute.

“I had promised to leave behind me a written narrative of my

chequered and eventful history for your perusal: but--need I

explain wherefore I have not fulfilled this promise?

“T. R.”

“His brother--his dear brother!” gasped Charles Hatfield, as the letter

dropped from his hands; but his eyes remained intently fixed upon it:

“his brother!” he repeated. “My God! then am I the nephew of the Earl

of Ellingham?--am I the cousin of Lady Frances, whom I already love so

well? But----gracious heavens!” he ejaculated, as another and still

more thrilling idea flashed to his mind: “if Mr. Hatfield be indeed

the brother of the Earl of Ellingham--as he assuredly is,--then is he

the elder brother! And if the elder brother, he himself should be the

bearer of the title--and I--I should be a Viscount! But--ah! perhaps my

father is the illegitimate offspring of the late Earl--and that this

is the reason wherefore the family honours and estates have devolved

upon the younger brother! And yet--what mean these words?--‘_give you

long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time

will be beyond the possibility of dispute_!’ Oh! here again is some

dreadful mystery: just heavens! what a fated--doomed family is ours!

Doubt--uncertainty--secrecy characterise all its history:--at least the

experience of the last two days would lead me so to believe!”

At this moment the young man’s eyes fell upon the roll of paper which

he had taken from the leathern case: and with feverish impatience--yet

still with care, inasmuch as the documents were as fragile with old

age as tinder--he proceeded to examine them.

And, oh! how deep--how intense suddenly became the interest with which

he now perused the diary and the letters of the unfortunate Octavia

Manners! His excitement was stilled--his impatience was subdued: a

deadly pallor succeeded the hectic flush upon his cheeks;--still and

motionless sate he, his eyes devouring the contents of those important

papers!

The frightful treachery of Old Death towards his half-sister, the

beautiful but ill-fated Octavia, was revealed step by step;--but there

was likewise an elucidation which touched a chord that thrilled to the

inmost recesses of young Hatfield’s heart,--and this was the fact that

Octavia was wedded by the late Earl of Ellingham previous to the birth

of the child! Yes--there was the marriage-certificate: there, too, was

the certificate of the child’s baptism;--and that child was therefore,

at its very birth, the heir to the proud title and the entailed estates

of a mighty Earldom!

Here let us pause for a few moments to afford an explanation which now

becomes necessary.

If the reader will refer to the forty-seventh chapter of this

narrative, he will find recorded so much of the history of poor

Octavia Manners as Arthur himself was acquainted with. In relating

that history to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, Arthur had stated that

Octavia fled away from her vile half-brother’s house the very day

after her disgrace was consummated. “For several months no trace

was discovered of her: it was feared she had committed suicide.”

During that interval the first Countess of Ellingham died. At length

the Earl (Arthur’s father) accidentally discovered that Octavia was

living, and that she was in a way to become a mother. “He hastened to

the miserable garret which she occupied, and found her in the most

abject state of poverty--endeavouring to earn a subsistence with her

needle.” All his affection for her revived, with renewed vigour; and

his heart smote him with remorse for the appalling treachery which he

had perpetrated towards her. He saw her ruined in health, character,

and spirits,--ruined by him,--still surpassingly beautiful, but only a

wreck of what she once was;--he saw all this--and he was horror-struck

at the effects of his crime! He threw himself on his knees--he offered

her every possible reparation which it was in his power to make;--and

then--for the sake of the child which she bore in her bosom--she said,

“If you would prove your contrition, my lord--if you would impart one

single gleam of hope, however faint, to my goal--you will make me your

wife! It is not for myself that I demand this boon at your hands,--for

a boon it becomes when the violater espouses the violated,--yes, a

boon in the estimation of the world, though only an act of justice in

the eyes of God! No--it is not for myself; ’tis for our child! Think

not that I--the sister of the marine-store dealer--shall ever assume

the name or adopt the rank of Countess of Ellingham! Let our union

be secret--only let it take place at once, so that our child may be

legitimate!” Thus spoke Octavia Manners on that occasion; and the Earl

of Ellingham, her violater, consented to all that she asked. They were

married with so much privacy that even Miranda--the faithful gipsy girl

who had formed so strong an attachment to Octavia--remained ignorant

of the important occurrence. But the very next day Octavia fled! No

affection had she for the noble who had ruined her--who had been the

cause of her severance from the object of her first and only love: she

had only asked him to marry her for the sake of the honour of their

child’s parentage--and, the ceremony being performed, she withdrew

herself into the strictest solitude and obscurity, to brood over her

woes and sufferings in secret!

Such was the substance of that portion of Octavia’s own diary which

revealed to Charles Hatfield the fact that the injured girl was indeed

the Countess of Ellingham when her child was born! And that child’s

career could be traced--yes, satisfactorily traced--step by step, by

means of the papers which the young man had taken from the leathern

case, and the packet of letters that he had likewise found in the

recess;--and it was evident, beyond the least possibility of doubt,

that the individual whom the world had known as Thomas Rainford, and

whom it now knew as Mr. Hatfield,--it was clear, even beyond the

remotest ground of suspicion to the contrary, that this individual was

the rightful Earl of Ellingham!

Recollect, too, reader, that Charles Hatfield had become firmly

impressed with the belief that he was the _legitimate_ offspring of

his parents;--and now, therefore, conceive the wild enthusiasm of

his delight, when he came to the conclusion that he was in reality a

Viscount by present rank, and had an Earldom in the perspective!

Forgotten was the fact that had ere now stunned and stupefied him,--the

fact that his father was the notorious highwayman, Thomas Rainford:--he

thought of that no more, in the delirium of his rapture at the idea of

having a noble title within his reach. But had he not, on the previous

day, assured Lady Frances Ellingham that he envied only the greatness

which had made itself, and not that which was obtained by the accident

of birth? Yes: and at the time he conscientiously believed that he

spoke his own thoughts correctly. Now, however, that the temptation

appeared to be within his reach, it possessed charms and attractions of

irresistible power!

Recalling to mind the sounding titles of the object of his admiration

and heroic worship, he began to fancy that _the Right Honourable

the Earl of Ellingham_ was not comparatively so very insignificant,

even when uttered after the swelling appellations of _His Royal

Highness Field Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the

Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-apparent to the Grand Ducal Throne_.

Suddenly, as it were, we behold the young man, whose sentiments were

so noble and generous while he deemed himself to be a mere civilian

having every exertion to make in order to rise to eminence,--suddenly

we behold him seized with an insatiable ambition, now that a coronet

appeared to be actually within his reach.

But did he contemplate the immediate adoption of measures to force

his father to wrest the title and estates of the Earldom from Arthur?

We know not all that passed through the mind of Charles Hatfield on

this fatal night:--we can, however, aver that having fully perused the

valuable documents which had made to him such important revelations, he

did not restore them to the secret recess where he had found them, but

secured them about his own person.

Previously to quitting the library, he closed the sliding panel, and

replaced the _Annual Register_ in such a manner that the shelf did not

appear to have been disturbed.

The west-end clocks were striking three, and the light of a July

morning was streaming through the windows of the mansion, when Charles

Hatfield retired to his own chamber. His first care was to consign to

his writing-desk the documents and letters which he now considered to

be the arbiters of his destiny; and, this being performed, he sought

his couch.

But slumber would not visit his eyes:--myriads of conflicting ideas

were in his brain. He felt that he had to play the hypocrite--to keep

a bridle on his tongue--to control every look, and measure every word,

until the time should come for proclaiming all he knew. For the present

he would not distress his parents by allowing them even to suspect

that the things which they considered to be such profound secrets,

were no longer so to him. No:--he would endeavour to appear the same

gay--frank--confiding--affectionate Charles Hatfield that he hitherto

had been!

These were amongst the principal reflections which chased sleep from

his pillow until long past four o’clock;--and when at length his

heavy lids were weighed down through sheer exhaustion of the mental

and physical energies, his slumber was agitated with wild and varying

visions, and he awoke unrefreshed, and still suffering with the fatigue

of his long vigil.