CHAPTER CXL.

FRESH SCENES AND MORE TROUBLES AT HOME.

While the discovery of the assassination of the old miser was being

made in Pentonville, as just related, a scene of some interest occurred

simultaneously at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, in Pall Mall.

Charles Hatfield had risen early, after having passed a restless night;

and, his toilette being completed, he was just meditating--unpleasantly

meditating on the demeanour that it was proper for him to assume at

the breakfast-table,--when the door opened, and his father entered the

chamber.

The young man had not encountered his parents since the dispute of

the preceding morning: he had purposely avoided them throughout the

day--not appearing at the dinner-table, and absenting himself likewise

from the usual family meeting at the supper-hour. He therefore felt

himself somewhat disagreeably situated,--being totally unprepared to

meet his father, and having decided on no definite course to pursue

with regard to him.

“My dear son,” said Mr. Hatfield, approaching and taking the young

man’s hand, “it is necessary that we should have an immediate

explanation. I allude to the occurrences of yesterday morning; and I

regret that you should have adopted the unusual course of absenting

yourself throughout the day----”

“I returned home between seven and eight last evening,” interrupted

Charles, hastily, but not disrespectfully.

“I am aware of it,” said Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes upon his son

in a penetrating manner. “But you only remained in the house a few

minutes;--and, having visited your chamber, you hurried away again.

Were you afraid to encounter your parents? Remember, Charles, if

you felt that your conduct of the morning had been undutiful and

improper--nay, I will even say _cruel_, towards us--yet a single word

expressive of contrition would have made us open our arms to receive

you.”

“You denounce my behaviour as cruel towards you,” exclaimed Charles:

“but did you not first provoke _me_, father?--did you not call me harsh

names? And if, in return, I complained of what I considered to be the

unnatural conduct of my parents toward me----”

“Wherefore thus pertinaciously endeavour to penetrate into those

secrets which, for good and salutary reasons, your parents keep

concealed from you?” demanded Mr. Hatfield: “for I presume that you

allude to the fact of our still desiring that you should pass as our

nephew.”

“You have assured me that I am legitimate--that there is no stigma

upon my birth,” cried Charles;--“then wherefore not acknowledge me as

your son? You claim from me the duty of a son--and yet you deny me the

title! And again I must remind you, father, that to an accident alone

am I indebted for the knowledge of my birth!”

“I would ask you, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a serious and

impressive tone, “what all this has to do with the proposal of marriage

that you made to Lady Frances Ellingham: for it was on _this_ point

that our dispute commenced yesterday morning. Am I to suppose that my

son, being unwilling to contract an alliance so honourable to him,

seeks other grounds whereon to base his design of flying in the face

of his parents?--am I to conclude that, being resolved to thwart us in

this--our dearest hope, you seize upon another and ignoble pretext to

justify your rebellion against us!”

“No--ten thousand times _No_!” exclaimed the young man, cruelly hurt by

these suspicions. “In first place, I do not love Lady Frances Ellingham

otherwise than as a brother may love a sister----”

“Because,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes sternly upon

his son,--“because you have formed some connexion of which you are

ashamed----”

“Ah!” cried Charles, starting violently. “Has my father acted the spy

upon me?”

“Listen,” said Mr. Hatfield, to whose countenance the indignant

blood rushed as his son thus insolently addressed him: but he chose

to controul his feelings--and he succeeded: “listen, Charles--and

then decide whether you ought to judge me so harshly. Your conduct

of yesterday morning towards your mother and myself was of such an

extraordinary--unaccountable--distressing nature, that you cannot blame

me if I resolved to discover the motives that had actuated you. In

this determination I was fixed by your protracted absence throughout

the day--your stealthy return in the evening--your short visit to your

own chamber--your avoidance of all the inmates of this house--and

your hasty and also stealthy departure again. I confess, then, that I

followed you last evening----”

“You followed me, father?” repeated Charles, in a low, hoarse, and

hollow voice.

“Yes--I followed you to Suffolk Street,” continued Mr. Hatfield,

with a firmness and a cool determination of tone and manner which he

hoped would overawe the rebellious young man: “and, on inquiry in the

neighbourhood, I learnt that at the house which you entered, dwells a

very beautiful young lady. Now, I give you my honour, Charles, that I

asked no more--was told no more than this one fact. I have no desire to

become acquainted with the _liaisons_ of my son:--indeed, I know that

young men will be--what shall we call it?---_gay_, if you will. All I

wished to ascertain was whether there were any grounds for supposing

that you had formed a connexion which you may believe to have _love_

for its basis, and which induced you yesterday morning to refuse the

fulfilment of your own offer to Lady Frances Ellingham.”

“Father,” said Charles Hatfield, scarcely able to restrain an outburst

of indignation, reproach, and bitter recrimination,--in which, had he

allowed that torrent of feelings to force a vent, all that he knew

of his family and their secrets would have been revealed, or rather

proclaimed, in no measured terms;--“father,” he said, fortunately

subduing the evil promptings of the moment,--“I have listened to

you with attention--though not without impatience. Yesterday you

reviled me--you heaped bitter reproaches upon me--you menaced me with

disinheritance: then, in the evening, you enacted the spy upon my

actions--you watched me--you followed me----”

“It was my duty--and a most painful one, I can assure you,” interrupted

Mr. Hatfield, alarmed by the strange--the ominous coldness that

characterised his son’s tone and manner.

“Your duty!” ejaculated Charles, now speaking with an indignation that

burst forth in frightful contrast with the unnatural tranquillity on

which it so abruptly broke; “and wherefore have you not performed

your duty in all things? Duty, indeed! But know, father, that there

are other duties to fulfil than merely playing the part of a spy on

your son’s actions:--there are such duties as giving him his proper

name--allowing him to assume his just rights--and placing him in

that social position which he ought to occupy! You menace me with

the loss of fortune, father?--Oh! you know how vain and ridiculous

is this threat--and how it aggravates the wickedness of all your

former conduct towards me! I am no longer a child to be held in

leading-strings--no longer a silly sentimentalist who, through maudlin

and mawkish feelings of a false delicacy, will consent to have my

nearest and dearest interests trampled upon--my privileges altogether

withheld--my rights cruelly denied me! You have played the mysterious

too long,--you have enacted the cruel and unnatural until endurance has

become impossible;--and now you would assume the part of the absolute

dictator--expecting to find me still a pliant, docile, grovelling

slave,--without spirit--without courage--without even the common

feelings of a man! But you are mistaken, father:--and if I have thus

been driven to tell you my mind, you have only yourself to reproach,

for so distressing--so painful a scene!”

Thus speaking,--and before his father had so far recovered from the

amazement into which this volley of words threw him, as to be able

even to stretch out a hand to retain him,--Charles seized his hat, and

rushed from the room.

In less than a minute the front-door of the house closed behind him;

and he hurried on, like one demented, to Suffolk Street.

But before we accompany him thither, we must pause to explain the

effect which this scene had upon his father.

Indeed, Mr. Hatfield was struck with an astonishment so profound--a

bewilderment so complete, that his heart seemed as if it were numbed

against pain. He could not comprehend the drift of Charles’s passionate

address,--otherwise than by supposing that the young man required to

be recognised as a son, and not as a nephew. For it did not--as, in

fact, it could not--for a single moment enter Mr. Hatfield’s head that

Charles had discovered all the occurrences of former years, and that

he had thence drawn the false and fatal inference that he--this same

infatuated young man--was the heir to the proud title and vast estates

of the Earldom of Ellingham. He therefore saw in his son’s conduct only

the rebellious spirit of an individual who, having formed a connexion

of which he was most likely ashamed and which he knew to be improper,

endeavoured to meet his parents’ reproaches with recriminations, and

seize upon the least shadow of an excuse or pretext for resisting the

paternal authority.

When reflection thus diminished the wonderment which Mr. Hatfield

experienced at the behaviour of the young man, pain and sorrow

succeeded that first feeling. Indeed, the unhappy father was cruelly

embarrassed: he knew not how to act. Charles was of that age

when,--even did circumstances permit Mr. Hatfield to acknowledge that

he really was his son,--no legal authority could be exercised, nor

constraint practised; and he felt assured that any farther attempt to

interfere with him in the connexion which he had formed, would only

aggravate the irritability of the wrong-headed young man.

Then again, it was impossible to abandon him thus to courses which

might hurry him on to utter ruin;--and moreover, the Lady Frances

Ellingham had been so cruelly trifled with, that an explanation with

_her_ parents became absolutely necessary.

Now was it that Mr. Hatfield cursed the hour when he had been

induced to leave Italy, and return to England on this visit to his

half-brother--a visit which the Earl had by letter urged him to pay,

and to which he had assented in full confidence of the complete safety

of the step.

Bewildered with the variety of his conflicting thoughts, and feeling

the necessity as well as recognising the propriety of consulting the

Earl, Mr. Hatfield repaired to the library, whence he despatched a

message to the nobleman requesting his lordship to join him there as

speedily as possible:--for it still wanted upwards of half-an-hour to

the usual breakfast time.

The Earl of Ellingham was just issuing from his chamber when the

message was delivered to him; and, immediately apprehending some evil

news, he hastened to the library, where he found his half-brother

pacing up and down in an agitated manner.

Mr. Hatfield, without any disguise, hesitation, or circumlocution,

immediately unfolded to the Earl all that had taken place, both on that

and the preceding day, in respect to Charles;--and Arthur listened with

emotions of mingled pain, astonishment, and apprehension.

“Much as it would have delighted me,” he at length observed, “to

witness the union of my daughter and your son, Thomas, I cannot for a

moment recommend that the young man’s inclinations should be forced.

Such an union seemed necessary--almost imperiously necessary under

the peculiar circumstances in which we are placed. While you, the

elder brother, renounce the title which is your just right--I, the

younger one, have long borne it and bear it still;--though, heaven

knows that I value it indeed but little----However,” added the Earl,

interrupting himself hastily,--“I was about to observe that, situated

as we thus are, it appears but natural and proper that your son should

receive a positive and acknowledged admission into the family by

means of an alliance with my daughter. And she, poor girl--she loves

him,” continued the nobleman, his voice faltering; “and he has acted

unwisely--to use no harsher term--in declaring an attachment which he

does not feel, and making a proposal which he cannot accomplish.”

“I am at a loss how to act!” said Mr. Hatfield. “My God!” he cried, in

a tone expressive of deep feeling, “am I ever to be the means of giving

annoyance and vexation to you, my dear Arthur,--you, who have been so

kind and generous a friend to me?”

“Not on _this_ account must you distress yourself, Thomas,” returned

the Earl, emphatically: “you are not responsible for the wayward

humours of your son. But surely this sudden manifestation of a

rebellious disposition on his part, cannot arise wholly and solely from

the connexion which you believe him to have formed. Have you enquired

concerning the character of the women--the mother and daughter--whom he

visits in Suffolk-street?”

“No: I contented myself with ascertaining that at the house which I saw

him enter, there is a young lady of very extraordinary beauty.”

“And are you convinced that Charles has learnt nothing relative to the

events of former years--nothing calculated to diminish----”

“I understand you, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield, seeing that his

half-brother hesitated: “you would ask whether I have any reason

to believe that he has learnt aught which may have a tendency to

diminish the respect he had until within these two days past maintained

towards his parents? On this head I am of course unable to answer you

positively: but my impression is that he is as much as ever in the dark

relative to the dread occurrences of the past. Indeed, how can he have

possibly learnt a single fact----”

“May not the discovery that he is your _son_, and not your nephew,

have induced him to seek for farther information?” enquired the Earl

of Ellingham. “May not some sentiment of ardent curiosity have been

awakened within him----”

“But where could he address himself to this task of raising the veil

from the mysteries of by-gone years--even if he have the slightest

ground to suspect that such mysteries do exist?” demanded Mr. Hatfield,

interrupting the Earl. “To what source could he repair for the means of

elucidation?”

“I know not: and yet--I am now impressed with suspicions of a most

unpleasant nature,” observed the Earl. “It is very essential that some

immediate step should be taken to redeem this fine young man from a

career of error--perhaps of depravity----”

“Oh! yes--yes!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “My God! if the sins of

the father be in this case visited upon the son, life will become

intolerable to me!--Rather would I at once have a full and complete

understanding with Charles,--tell him all--yes, _all_,--reveal to him

who I really am--open to him the means of a complete retrospection,

embracing all my sad history,--and then throw myself on his

mercy--imploring him at least to have pity upon his innocent mother, if

not on me who am so guilty!”

“No--no, Thomas: this humiliation may not be!” ejaculated the Earl.

“For if, as you believe, your son has at present no suspicion of the

past, it would be madness to make unnecessary revelations.”

“I am bewildered--cruelly perplexed: I know not how to act!” cried Mr.

Hatfield. “Oh! if I were confident that he has no such suspicions--that

he has learnt or surmised nothing calculated to diminish the respect

due to his mother and myself----”

“How can he have fathomed the obscurity which hangs over your former

life?” demanded the Earl. “And as to supposing that he could, by any

possible means, obtain even the shadow of an idea of your real birth

and parentage----”

“No: for the papers--those important papers which I gave you years ago,

and which I requested you to destroy,--those papers, I say,” exclaimed

Mr. Hatfield, “could alone make such important revelations to my son:

and, thank heaven! they are not in existence.”

“My dear brother,” returned the Earl of Ellingham, taking Mr.

Hatfield’s hand, and speaking in a very serious tone, “I most frankly

and honestly inform you that those papers have _not_ been destroyed. At

the same time, they have been kept in a place of perfect security--a

secret recess known only to myself----”

“And wherefore were not such dangerous documents burnt--annihilated!”

asked Mr. Hatfield, in a reproachful tone.

“I dared not perform a deed which would argue so much selfishness on

my part,” replied the Earl of Ellingham, now speaking with a strong

emphasis--the result and impulse of his generous, lofty, honourable

feelings. “So long as those papers remain in existence, you, my dear

brother, can at any moment say to me, ‘_I repent of the step which

I took in renouncing my just rights and privileges; and I now claim

them_:’--and should you at any time thus address me, it would only be

for me to produce the papers that establish your claims.”

“Oh! Arthur, you are generous--even to a fault!” exclaimed Mr.

Hatfield. “You know--or, at least, I again assure you for the hundredth

time, that not for worlds would I heap disgrace on a noble name by

daring to assume it! Merciful heavens! shall the coronet which becomes

you so well, be snatched from your brows, and transferred to those

of----”

“Hush! Thomas--hush! this excitement is most unnecessary,” interrupted

the Earl. “You must not blame me for the motives which induced me to

keep the documents;--and now--if you will have them restored to you----”

“Yes--yes: give them to me, Arthur,” cried Mr. Hatfield, resolving to

destroy the papers without farther delay.

“You claim them--they are yours--and they shall at once be returned

into your hands,” said the nobleman. “But I conjure you to act not

hastily nor rashly----”

“Fear nothing, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “but give me the

papers! There is no time to lose--the ladies will be waiting for us at

the breakfast-table----”

“True!” ejaculated the Earl: and, approaching that shelf at the back

of which the secret recess was formed, he said, “Once every year have

I inspected this well concealed depository: once every year have I

assured myself that the precious documents were safe;--and on those

occasions, I have cleansed them of the dust which even accumulates in a

place that is almost hermetically sealed.”

As the Earl thus spoke, he took down from the shelf the books which

stood immediately before the recess; and Mr. Hatfield, receiving the

volumes in his hands, placed them upon the table. While performing this

simple and almost mechanical act, his eyes were suddenly attracted to

the name and date of one of the books;--and his looks were rivetted, as

it were, on the words--“_Annual Register, 1827_.”

For the nature of the volume and the date of the year whose

incidents it recorded, suddenly revived the poignancy of many bitter

recollections, the sharpness of which had been somewhat blunted by

time: and it was in a moment of strange nervousness--or idiosyncratic

excitement, that he opened the book which thus had aroused those

painful memories.

An ejaculation of horror--irrepressible horror--escaped his lips: for

he had lighted on the very page which contained the account of his

_Execution_ at Horsemonger Lane:--and at the very same instant a cry of

mingled amazement and alarm burst from the Earl of Ellingham.

“Oh! is this a mere accident?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “or a

warning----”

“Merciful heaven--the papers!” ejaculated the nobleman.

“A warning that my son has seen this?” added the unhappy father, almost

distracted with the idea.

“Some miscreant has done this!” cried the Earl, stamping his foot with

rage: and it was seldom that _he_ thus gave way to his passion.

The brothers turned towards each other--exchanging hasty glances of

mutual and anxious enquiry.

“The papers are gone!” said the Earl, clasping his hands in despair.

“Gone!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, staggering as if struck by a sudden

blow. “And this book--this book,” he faltered, in a faint tone, “was

in the immediate vicinity of the recess! He who took the papers--might

have read also--in that volume--the terrible account----”

Mr. Hatfield could say no more: overpowered by his feelings, he sank

exhausted on the nearest seat.

The Earl glanced at the open page which his half-brother had indicated;

and, observing the nature of the statement there recorded, he instantly

comprehended the cause of Mr. Hatfield’s emotions, and also of the

suspicions which had suddenly seized upon him.

“Yes--yes: this book has been read lately,” said Arthur, in an excited

and hurried manner: “behold! the corners of the covers have been

recently injured. Oh! my God! what does all this mean?”

It will be recollected that on the memorable night when Charles

Hatfield pursued his successful researches in the library, he had

hurled away from him, in his rage and almost maddening grief, the

volume that made such strange--such appalling revelations: and the

violence of the action had so far injured the book, as to bend and

graze the corners of the binding,--the marks of the injury remaining

clearly visible, and the white interior of the leather being laid bare,

and thus proving how recently the work had been used.

“The book has been read very lately,” murmured Mr. Hatfield, in a

musing tone; “and the papers have perhaps been stolen lately---”

“Yes,” exclaimed the Earl: “for not a month has elapsed since I

inspected that recess and found them safe.”

“Then who could have done this?” cried Mr. Hatfield, starting from

his seat, in a sudden access of excitement which was accompanied by a

return of moral and physical energy. “Oh! is it possible that Charles

is the author of all that seems so mysterious? Has he searched for

the records of my earlier life?--has he by accident discovered and

purloined those papers--those fatal papers?”

“Yes--it must be he!” exclaimed the Earl: “for did you not tell me that

he spoke of claims--and rights--and privileges unjustly withheld,--and

that be has harped upon what he termed the unnatural conduct of his

parents in concealing from him the secret of his birth? Thomas--my

dear Thomas,” continued Lord Ellingham, speaking in a lower--more

measured--and more impressive tone, “I can see it all! That young man

has found out who you are: be has learnt that you are the rightful heir

to the honours and estates which I enjoy;--and, believing himself to be

your legitimate son--according to the assurance that you were forced,

for your wife’s sake, to give him--the deluded, deceived Charles

Hatfield fancies himself to be the lawful heir to the Earldom!”

“You have divined the truth, Arthur!” cried Mr. Hatfield, his heart

wrung to its very core by all the maddening fears and torturing

reflections which were thus suddenly excited within him. “Oh! what

dreadful embarrassments--what frightful complications, will this

misapprehension entail on my unhappy son--on you--on me--on all who are

connected with us!”

“There is not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Lord Ellingham. “We must

hasten after this infatuated young man----”

At that moment the door opened; and Clarence Villiers entered the

library,--the Earl having requested him on the previous day to visit

him at the hour when, true to the appointment, he thus made his

appearance.

Villiers, perceiving at the first glance, that something unusual

was agitating Lord Ellingham and Mr. Hatfield, was about to retire,

when the Earl, beckoning him to advance, turned hastily round to his

half-brother, and said in a hurried whisper, “We will entrust this

matter to Villiers: he will conduct it with less excitement than you

and I; and, as he knows your secret----”

“Yes:--but all he _does_ know is that the Mr. Hatfield of

to-day is identical with the Thomas Rainford of former times,”

interrupted the Earl’s half-brother, also speaking in a low and

hasty tone: “remember--he is unacquainted with aught of our family

secrets--ignorant of the parentage of Charles----”

“Neither is it necessary that he should be made acquainted with all

these facts,” interrupted Arthur:--“but leave the matter to me.” Then,

turning towards Clarence, he said, “My dear Mr. Villiers, you come most

opportunely to render us an important service. We have every reason

to believe that Charles has formed an improper connexion with a young

female of great beauty, residing with her mother in very handsome

lodgings in Suffolk Street: we likewise conclude that he is there

at this present moment. Hasten thither, my good friend--demand an

immediate interview with Charles--and tell him that certain discoveries

have been made at home, in which he is deeply interested. In a word,

compel him to accompany you away from the designing women who have

doubtless entangled him in their meshes----”

“Nay: let us not judge hastily,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “remember--I

have heard nothing against the characters of these ladies; and it

may be a virtuous and honest affection, after all, that renders

Charles a visitor at their house. Let Mr. Villiers, then, act with

circumspection--and behave with the strictest courtesy towards these

ladies, should he encounter them.”

“Yes--but under any circumstances you must persuade Charles to return

with you immediately to this house,” said the Earl. “Mr. Hatfield

will acquaint you with the precise address of the lodgings in Suffolk

Street----”

The Earl’s half-brother mentioned the number of the dwelling to which

he had traced his son on the preceding evening;--adding, “The name of

the ladies is Fitzhardinge--and I heard that the daughter bears the

singular denomination of _Perdita_.”

“Perdita!” cried Villiers, starting violently. “Oh! if this be the

case----unhappy, lost Charles Hatfield!”

“Good heavens! what mean you?” demanded the wretched father, rendered

terribly anxious by those ominous words that fell on his ears like a

death-knell.

“Two ladies--mother and daughter--dwelling together--and the

girl named _Perdita_,” mused Clarence Villiers, not immediately

heeding the earnest appeal of Mr. Hatfield: “yes--yes--it must be

they!--my aunt--my wretched, wretched aunt who has returned from

transportation--and her profligate but beauteous daughter!”

“Do you mean that Mrs. Slingsby who--years ago--you know to what I

allude?” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a hurried tone, as he grasped Clarence

violently by the wrist.

“Yes--I _do_ mean that bad woman!” exclaimed Villiers, who had now

become painfully excited in his turn: “and I regret--Oh! I regret to

say that she has brought over to England her daughter, whom report

mentions as an angel of beauty and a demon in profligacy----”

“My God! Mr. Villiers--save Charles--save my Charles from these

incarnate fiends!” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Or I myself----”

And he was rushing to the door of the library, when the Earl held him

back, saying, “No, Thomas--you must not go in this excited state: let

Villiers take the affair in hand.”

Mr. Hatfield fell back into a seat, a prey to the most painful--the

most agonising emotions; while Clarence hurriedly departed to execute

the commission entrusted to him.

The Earl now addressed himself to the task of consoling his unfortunate

brother-in-law;--and he had just succeeded in inducing Mr. Hatfield to

assume as composed a demeanour as possible, preparatory to their joint

appearance at the breakfast-table, when Clarence Villiers rushed into

the room.

Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed since his departure;--and this

speedy return, together with his agitated manner, raised new alarms in

the breasts of the Earl and Mr. Hatfield.

“They are gone--fled--all three together!” cried Villiers, throwing

himself exhausted on an ottoman, and panting for breath.

“Gone!” repeated the miserable father, surveying Clarence with eyes

that stared wildly and unnaturally.

“Yes--gone!” said Villiers. “Ten minutes before I reached Suffolk

Street, my aunt, her daughter, and Mr. Charles departed in a

post-chaise, which had been sent for apparently in consequence of some

sudden plan: for the people of the house were previously unacquainted

with the intention of their lodgers thus to leave so abruptly.”

“But where was the chaise hired? and which road has it taken?” demanded

Mr. Hatfield, now manifesting an energy and determination that proved

his readiness to meet the emergency and adopt measures to pursue the

fugitives.

“I sought for that information in vain,” returned Clarence Villiers.

“It appears that my aunt herself went out to order the post-chaise;

and that care was taken not to allow the people of the house any

opportunity to converse with the post-boys. The rent and other

liabilities were all duly paid; and the landlady of the lodgings

accordingly makes no complaint of the women who have quitted her abode.”

“What course do you intend to adopt?” hastily demanded the Earl,

turning to his half-brother.

“Order me your best horse to be saddled forthwith,” said Mr. Hatfield;

“and I will proceed in pursuit of the runaways. ’Tis ten to one that

I will obtain some trace of them. Perhaps Mr. Villiers will likewise

mount horse, and take the northern road.”

“While I shall do the same, and pursue a westerly direction,” observed

the Earl.

“Good: for it was my intention to choose the route towards Dover,”

added Mr. Hatfield. “And now one word more, Arthur,” he continued,

the moment Villiers had left the room to give the necessary orders

respecting the horses: “as it is probable that we may recover and

reclaim my self-willed son--and as, in that case, penitence on his part

might induce you to forgive this absurd freak, so that the result may

yet be favourable to our nearest and dearest wishes,--under all these

circumstances, I say, suffer not Frances to learn aught disparaging to

his character.”

“I understand you, Thomas,” exclaimed the Earl, wringing his

half-brother’s hand in token of cordial assent to this proposition. “I

will even speak as warily and cautiously as I may to my wife;--while,

on your side----”

“Oh! I must tell every thing to Georgiana,” said Mr. Hatfield:

“suspense and uncertainty would be intolerable to her. I shall now seek

her for the purpose of making a hasty but most sad communication: and

then away in pursuit of the ingrate!”

A quarter of an hour afterwards, the Earl of Ellingham, Mr. Hatfield,

and Clarence Villiers--all three equipped for their journeys--repaired

to the nobleman’s stables in the immediate vicinity of the

mansion;--and thence they speedily issued forth, well mounted, and each

taking a separate direction.