FARTHER EXPLANATIONS.
"My brother!" repeated the Earl of Ellingham, with a wild glance and a
sudden start, indicative of the most painful surprise. "My brother!
Georgiana!—oh! no—impossible! 'Tis true that my father——but no——that
child died——"
"I can give you no particulars—offer you no evidence in this most
strange and mysterious matter," said Lady Hatfield, endeavouring to
subdue the excitement produced in her much-agitated mind by the
preceding scene. "All that I know is—all that _he_ told me was that
secret which I have now revealed to you! Thus, Arthur, you perceive
that—independent of the _other_ reason which would prevent _me_ from
becoming yours, and _you_ from receiving me as your wife——"
"But wherefore did you not mention this at first—at the commencement of
our conversation this morning?" demanded the nobleman, utterly
bewildered by the revelation that had been made to him, and scarcely
knowing whether to regard it as a substantial fact or a miserable
fiction.
"Because Rainford himself appeared to tell it to me as a profound
secret," observed Georgiana. "Not that he desired me to consider it as
such: but his manner—and then the nature of the revelation itself, which
could not be gratifying to your feelings—oh! I scarcely know what I am
saying, Arthur—but I would have spared your feelings, had you not
compelled me to make that revelation, to prevent the mad—the insane
designs of vengeance which you had formed——"
"I understand you, Georgiana," interrupted the Earl: "and deeply—oh!
deeply do I feel your generous consideration on that point. But there is
one question that I wish to ask you—a question——"
"Speak, Arthur! This is the day of mutual outpourings of confidence,"
said Lady Hatfield: "and, remember—we are henceforth to stand in the
light of brother and sister to each other!"
"The question I would ask is relative to the robbery that was
perpetrated on you and Miss Mordaunt a short time back near Hounslow,"
continued the Earl. "Was that highwayman——"
"He was—he was!" exclaimed Georgiana, once more painfully excited. "But
do not look coldly on me, Arthur—do not despise me for that dreadful
crime of perjury which I committed to save him. He wrote me an imperious
note, commanding me to stop all proceedings instituted in reference to
that matter. What did such a note imply? It was a menace—a dreadful
menace,—a threat to expose me, if I did not obey his mandate! Consider,
Arthur—oh! consider how I was placed—my reputation at stake—my fame in
the hands of one who——But can you wonder that I preferred the dread
alternative of perjury to the danger of disgrace and infamy which seemed
to impend over my head?"
"Alas! I cannot blame you, poor, suffering woman?" ejaculated the Earl
in a tone of deep commiseration. "We never know how we should act until
we find ourselves placed in circumstances of difficulty and
embarrassment; and then—then even the most rigid integrity often yields!
But let us sit down quietly, Georgiana, for a short half-hour—compose
ourselves, if we can—collect our scattered thoughts—and converse
together as sister and brother. For I will now communicate to you the
little I know concerning the birth of Thomas Rainford—if he indeed be
the offspring of that amour——"
[Illustration]
Arthur ceased, and passed his hand over his brow as if to calm the
warfare of thoughts and conjectures which agitated his brain.
Georgiana seated herself on the sofa, and the Earl at length took a
chair near her.
He then continued in the following manner:—
"My father, the late Earl, was married twice: his first matrimonial
connexion was formed when he was thirty; and this union was unproductive
of issue. Lady Ellingham, as I have heard, was a woman devotedly
attached to the dissipation of a fashionable life. She seemed to exist
only to shine in the gay assemblies of the West End; and, as she had no
children, and her husband was immersed in politics, she possessed no
ties to bind her to her own fireside. She played deeply—for play was
very fashionable then amongst ladies, and is even now to a considerable
extent. Her extravagances were great, and she made rapid inroads upon my
father's fortune. By the time he was forty he found himself involved in
debts; and moreover, rumour began to be so busy with the name of his
wife, imputing to her the most shameless infidelity, that he determined
to separate from her. I should not allude to this circumstance—I would
not for a moment revive statements prejudicial to the memory of a woman
who has long ago gone to render an account of her deeds to her
Maker—were it not that respect for the name of my lamented father
renders me anxious to discover any extenuation which offers itself for
his subsequent conduct. Well, a separation was resolved upon: a certain
income was settled upon Lady Ellingham; the estate was put 'to nurse,'
as the law-phrase has it; and my father, who was a proud man, retired to
a small property which he possessed in Ireland, ostensibly for the
purpose of giving up the cares of public life, but in reality to conceal
the necessity of retrenching his expenditure. Ten years passed away: and
when my father was upwards of fifty, he returned to London, his estates
having in the meantime been relieved of all their incumbrances. Lady
Ellingham was still living: but the smallness of her income and the
impaired condition of her health, forced her to dwell in the strictest
retirement. She had moreover become a devotee, and manifested no desire
to return into the dazzling scenes of fashionable life.
"I am now speaking of about thirty-one years ago; when I was not born.
It was at that period that my father encountered a young and very
beautiful girl, named Octavia Manners. She was the half-sister of a
marine-store dealer, who bore the disagreeable appellation of Benjamin
Bones. By all I have heard, Octavia must have been a charming creature;
and her manners, acquirements, and conversation were far superior to her
humble condition in life. I cannot give you any details respecting the
way in which my father became acquainted with her: suffice it to say
that he grew deeply attached to her, and his visits were encouraged by
her brother. But, alas! from all that I have heard, I have grounds—oh!
too strong grounds to believe that those visits were most unwelcome to
Octavia; for she was beloved by a young man in her own sphere of life,
and whom she loved in return. And it is now that I would palliate—as far
as possible—the conduct of my sire, while I am bound to admit that his
proceedings in respect to that unhappy girl were most unworthy the noble
and the man. My heart aches, too, as I utter these words: but I am
telling you a history, the truth of which must not be disguised nor in
any way misrepresented. But some allowance—some little excuse may be
found for a man who was separated from a wife whom he had not seen for
many years, and to whom there were positively no moral ties, although
the legal ones still existed, to bind his fidelity. He was devotedly
attached to a young and beautiful girl who unfortunately could not
return his love, and who did not even seem flattered by his visits, as
so many maidens in her sphere would have been. No—she shrank from his
addresses, and implored him not to persecute her!
"But he persisted in his visits; and the first sad result was that the
young man to whom Octavia's faith was plighted, would not believe that
she discouraged the attentions of the nobleman who condescended to
appear at that humble dwelling. I cannot of course inform you, although
we may both imagine, how the young man reproached Octavia, and how she
defended herself: but it is certain that he suddenly quitted the
neighbourhood, leaving behind him a note declaring that he should never
see the unhappy girl again. Alas! that I should now be compelled to
recite the tale of my father's guilt—my father's crime! His love for
Octavia knew no bounds—he was determined to risk all—every thing——"
"Spare your feelings, Arthur—dear Arthur!" exclaimed Lady Hatfield; "for
I can fully appreciate the grief which this revival of such a subject
must cause you!"
"Octavia, then, was purchased—purchased with gold—my father's gold,
Georgiana;—and the deed of—dare I call it aught save _infamy_?—was
consummated!" said the Earl, in a low and subdued tone, as if he were
overcome by the enormity of his sire's guilt—that guilt which, with a
venial filial affection, he had vainly endeavoured to palliate.
"Yes—'twas done," he continued sadly; "and the vile half-brother sold
the honour of that young and already too deeply afflicted girl. Too
deeply afflicted, I say, because she had lost him on whom the
affections of her youthful heart were set. The very day after her
disgrace—her ruin, she fled from her brother's house; and for several
months no trace was discovered of her. It was feared she had committed
suicide; and my father was almost distracted. At that precise period
his wife died, having ended as a devotee that life of which so much of
the early portion was passed in dissipation and illicit amours. She
had not been laid many weeks in the family vault, when my father, by
some means unknown to me—perhaps, by accident—discovered that Octavia
was living, and that she was in the 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. A girl of the gipsy tribe, and whose name was
Miranda, was the friend and companion of poor Octavia. How they grew
acquainted—how they came to live together, I am not aware: but Miranda
was much attached to poor Octavia, and was nearly her own age. Indeed
Octavia was not seventeen even at that time; and this Miranda of whom
I speak, was about fifteen. Much mystery envelopes this portion of the
sad tale: it is, however, certain that my father visited Octavia for
several days—that he passed hours with her—that she even appeared to
be reconciled to his presence—and that they went out together, and
remained absent for hours, on two or three occasions. Again she
disappeared—suddenly—abruptly—without having intimated her intention
to my father, and without even having confided her design to her
friend Miranda. For Miranda remained behind at the lodging, and when
my father called and found Octavia not, he was seized with a paroxysm
of the deepest grief.
"Another year passed away; and behold, poverty and distress drove the
unfortunate Octavia to seek an asylum at the house of her half-brother.
She would not, doubtless, have gone near that fatal dwelling where her
ruin was accomplished, had it not been for the child which she held in
her arms. That child—a boy—was the fruit of her connexion with my
father,—or rather of the dreadful deed which gave her, when under the
influence of an opiate, into his arms. But she was dying—yes, she was
dying, when she knocked at her brother's door; and on her death-bed she
implored that my father might be sent for. He flew to her: he knelt by
her side—he took the child in his arms, and embraced both the dying
mother and the innocent babe. By a strange—a wondrous coincidence,
Miranda entered the house at that moment: she had come to make inquiries
concerning Octavia—and found her dying. The poor mother forgave those
who had wronged her,—forgave her half-brother—blessed my father—yes,
blessed him—and recommended her infant to his care—that infant being
also his own! Then my father requested to be left alone with her; but
scarcely had the villain Bones and the faithful Miranda quitted the
room, when they were recalled by a dreadful cry which burst from my
father's lips;—and they hurried back to find that Octavia was no more."
Arthur paused to wipe away the tears which were trickling down his
cheeks; nor were Georgiana's eyes unmoistened by the sweet dews of
sympathy.
"When my father had sufficiently recovered himself to attend to more
worldly matters," continued the young Earl, "he gave directions for the
funeral of his victim; and to Miranda did he entrust the child. Then he
placed in the hands of Benjamin Bones, in the presence of Miranda, a
thousand guineas to be placed out at interest, in order to provide the
means of supporting the infant and his nurse. I should also inform you
that a small roll of papers, carefully wrapped up in a piece of thick
brown paper, was found upon the person of Octavia, shortly after her
death; and these were taken possession of by Benjamin Bones, my father
having previously quitted the house. Of the nature of those documents I
know nothing; but I have been informed that when the half-brother read
them, he was greatly excited, and secured them under lock and key.
"A year elapsed, during which my father called several times to see the
little boy, who throve well in Miranda's care. But at the expiration of
that period his visits ceased altogether;—for he was about to marry
again. Twenty-nine years ago the Honourable Miss Stamford became his
second wife; and twenty-six years ago I was born. But before the date of
_my_ birth—and within six months after the marriage of my father
appeared in the newspapers—Bones discharged Miranda on some pretence;
and she returned to her tribe. Some few months afterwards she fell in
with another tribe; and to her profound surprise, she discovered the
child Thomas in the possession of a woman named Egyptia. Of the child's
identity Miranda had no doubt, because it had a peculiar mark near the
shoulder of the right arm. She and her sister-gipsy then compared notes,
and Egyptia told her that she had received the child from a man named
Benjamin Bones—a marine-store dealer in Greville Street, Hatton Garden;
that Bones had given her twenty guineas to take the child; that the
money was all gone; and that she already repented of the bargain.
Miranda, who was attached to the child, offered to take it; and her
proposal was accepted. For seven years did the faithful Miranda rear
that boy as if he were her own; but at last she fell dangerously ill—was
long delirious—and when she awoke to consciousness again, she learnt
from her companions that the boy had died of the same epidemic malady
beneath which she herself had nearly succumbed."
Again the Earl paused for a few moments; and when he again broke
silence, it was to conclude his narrative.
"My father, as you are aware, Georgiana, died when I was only a year
old; and I was brought up by my mother. At the age of nineteen I went to
Oxford; and it was in the neighbourhood of that city I one day fell in
with a party of gipsies. They offered to tell my fortune; and I
consented for the amusement of the farce. The young female who undertook
the task commenced by giving me my real name; for I had doubtless been
pointed out to her in the city, as the gipsies had been there and in the
vicinity for several days.[24] But the moment my name was mentioned,
another gipsy-woman, who had probably seen forty summers, uttered an
ejaculation of surprise—looked hard at me—and then inquired abruptly
whether I was the son of the late Earl of Ellingham. I answered in the
affirmative; and she let drop some observations which excited my
curiosity. I took her aside, thrust a guinea into her hand, and demanded
of her the meaning of her words. She returned me the money, and, after
much persuasion, narrated to me the whole history of Octavia
Manners—that is to say, as much of it as I have now told to you. You now
understand, Georgiana, how it is possible that this Thomas Rainford may
be my half-brother: but, if he be, the account of his death, received by
Miranda from her companions, must have been false;—for I need hardly
tell you that the elderly gipsy who unfolded to me the details of my
father's fatal conduct towards poor Octavia, was none other than Miranda
herself. Shortly afterwards my mother died; but I never revealed to her
the story of her late husband's guilt and Octavia's wrongs."
Scarcely was this strange narrative concluded, when the door of the
apartment opened, and Sir Ralph Walsingham entered the room.
"Well," he exclaimed, "Mr. Rainford, who honoured this house with a
visit last night, and frightened you, Georgiana, so sadly, has got
himself into a pleasant scrape at last——"
"Indeed!" exclaimed Lord Ellingham hastily; "what——"
"He is arrested on a charge of highway robbery—a robbery, in fact,
committed on no less a person than our acquaintance Sir Christopher
Blunt," returned the baronet.
"Arrested!" ejaculated the Earl, exchanging a rapid glance with
Georgiana, as much as to enjoin her not to allow the subject of their
previous conversation to transpire in the presence of Sir Ralph
Walsingham.
"Yes—arrested last night—lodged in Horsemonger Lane Gaol, as a character
too desperate to put into the usual lock-up—and examined before the
Magistrates at the office in the Borough this morning," continued Sir
Ralph. "I happened to be in the neighbourhood an hour ago, and heard all
about it. But he is remanded for a week, at the solicitation of Mr.
Howard, the attorney for the prosecution, Sir Christopher not being in
London. Well, poor fellow! I am really sorry for him—for he seems to be
a dashing, daring, gallant blade, by all accounts. Pardon me, however,
my dear Georgiana," he added, seeing that his niece was deadly pale; "I
ought not to have spoken a word in favour of a man who terrified you so:
but——"
Lord Ellingham interrupted Sir Ralph by taking his leave of him and
Georgiana; and as the nobleman took the latter by the hand, he said in a
hasty whisper, "I will go and see him at once!"
He then left the house, entered a hackney-coach at the nearest stand,
and ordered the driver to take him to Horsemonger Lane Gaol.
-----
Footnote 24:
For the mode adopted by Gipsies to glean information relative to
persons in the various neighbourhoods they visit, see "The History of
Skilligalee" in the First Series of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON."