After our frugal dinner of rump steaks, and our one bottle of port, he returned to the subject of the morning by asking my advice as to his future conduct.

"Nay, Pigtop," I replied, "you should not ask me. You are much more capable of judging for yourself—you, who have been so much longer in the world than I."

"There you are out of your reckoning. I have lived more than twice your years, and have never been in the world at all. On shore, I'm like a pig afloat in a washing-tub. What would you advise me to do?"

"You have no relations or friends to assist you?"

The mournful shake of the head was eloquently negative.

"And yet you will not resume that life for which alone you were educated?"

"I will not, and I cannot."

"Well, you must either go on the highway or marry a fortune."

"Look at this figure-head—look at this scar. No—no one will ever splice with such an old ravelled-out rope-yarn as Andrew Pigtop. The road is no longer a gentlemanly profession. I intend to be a servant."

"You, Pigtop!—begging your pardon, who the devil would be encumbered with you?"

"You, I hope—no, don't laugh; I know you to be a gentleman born, and that you have a hundred a year. By hints that I have picked up, I believe when you come of age, and all is done right by you, that you'll have thousands. We have one view in common—to hang that rogue, Daunton. I certainly do not wish to put on your livery, without you insist upon it. Call me your secretary, or anything you like—only let me be near you—your servant and your friend."

I saw the poor fellow's eye glisten, and his weather-worn features quiver. I looked upon his worn and shabby uniform, and reflected upon his long and unrequited services. Venerate him I knew that I never could; but I already pitied him exceedingly. I resolved, at least, to assist him and to keep him near me for a time.

"Well, Pigtop," I at length said, "if you would be faithful—"

"To the backbone—to the shedding of my blood. Stand by me now in my distress: and while I have either soul or body, I will peril them for your safety."

"Pigtop, I believe you. Say no more about it. I engage you as my travelling tutor; and I will pay you your salary when I come of age— that is, if I am able. Now, what money have you?"

"Three pounds, fifteen shillings, and sevenpence-halfpenny. Not enough to take me down to the guard-ship, when I have paid my bill at the tavern."

"Then, my good fellow, go and pay it immediately, and come back with all possible speed." The prompt obedience that he gave to my first order augured well for his attention.

On his return, I addressed him seriously to this effect: "My friend, you shall share with me to the last shilling; but, believe me, my position is as dangerous as it is unnatural. It is full of difficulty, and requires not only conduct, but courage. I have a parent that either dares not, or from some sinister motive will not, own me; and I fear me much that I have a half-brother that I know is pursuing me with the assassin's knife, whilst I am pursuing him with the vengeance of the law. It is either the death of the hunted dog for me, or of the felon's scaffold for him. The event is in the hand of God. We must be vigilant, for my peril is great. My implacable enemy is leagued with some of the worst miscreants of this vast resort of villainy; he knows all the labyrinths of this Babel of iniquity; and the fraternal steel may be in my bosom even amidst the hum of multitudes. That man has a strong motive for my death, and to personify me afterwards. Already has he stolen my vouchers and my certificates. The mystery to me appears almost inscrutable; but his inducements to destroy me are obvious enough. I think that I am tolerably safe here, though I am equally sure that I am watched. Here is money. Go now, and purchase two brace of serviceable pistols and a couple of stout sword-canes. We will be prepared for the worst. Of course you will sleep here, and hereafter always take up your abode in whatever place I may be. As you return, you must find, in some quiet street, an unobtrusive tailor—he must not have a shop—bring him with you. I must put you in livery, after all."

"Why, if so be you must, I suppose you must—I'm off."

Pigtop did his commissions well. He returned with the arms and the tailor. "I hope," said he, "you won't want me to wear this livery long?"

"Not long, I hope. My friend," said I, addressing the man of measures, "this gentleman, lately in the navy, has had recently a very serious turn. He is profoundly repentant of the wickedness of his past life—he has had a call—he has listened to it. It is not unlikely that he may shortly take out a licence to preach. Make him a suit of sad-coloured clothes, not cut out after the vanities of the world. Your own would not serve for a bad model. You go to meeting, I presume?"

"I have received grace—I eschew the steeple-house—I receive the blessed crumbs of the Word that fall from the lips of that light of salvation, the Reverend Mr Obadiah Longspinner."

"A holy and a good man, doubtless; would that we were all like him! But our time will come—yes, our time will come. As is the outward man of the Reverend Mr Obadiah Longspinner, so would my friend have his outward man—verily, and his inward also—improved unto sanctity."

The devout tailor snuffled out "Amen," and did his office. Whilst Pigtop's clothes were preparing, he was not idle. He procured all the requisites for travelling, and I sent him on a fruitless mission to discover the residence of the Brandons. He was told by the neighbours that, a year back, they had all emigrated to Canada. Everything seemed to favour the machinations of my enemy, and to prevent my gaining any clue by which to trace him out, or the object of my search. However, I had one chance left—an interview with the superb Mrs Causand, that lady that Joshua had so kindly bestowed upon me for a mother.

In three days behold us in private lodgings, the Reverend Mr Pigtop looking as sour as any canting Methodist in Barebones' parliament, and quite reconciled to the singularly starch figure that he presented. There was certainly a sad discrepancy between his dress and his discourse. However, it was a good travelling disguise, and very serviceable to a petty officer breaking his leave of absence.

With my health perfectly recovered, dressed with the greatest precision, and with a beating heart, I went to call upon Mrs Causand. On her all my hopes rested. I knew that, as a schoolboy, she was extremely fond of me, and I really loved her as much as I admired her.

I had never before visited her, and was consequently totally ignorant of the style in which she lived. I found the house which she inhabited, for I always carefully preserved her address, to be one of those which faced Hyde Park. I was rather chilled as I observed its quiet, aristocratic appearance. The porter told me that if I would walk into the adjoining parlour, and favour him with my name, he would go up immediately she was alone and announce me.



CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

RALPH, FINDING HIMSELF IN PLEASANT PLACES, PREPARETH A LOVE-SPEECH WHICH IS NOT UTTERED IN THIS CHAPTER—RALPH DESCRIBETH ONLY.

In about five minutes the servant returned, bowed, and led the way. He stepped up quietly and slowly. There was an awe in his deportment that chilled me. He opened the door of the drawing-room with extreme caution and gentleness, bowed, and closed it upon me. As I stood near the threshold, the last low tones of some plaintive and soothing melody, sung in a tone much more subdued than that of common conversation, died faintly away to the vibrating of a chord of the harp; and a youthful figure, bathed in a misty light from the window recess, rose, and moving silently across the room, without once casting her eyes upon myself, disappeared through a door parallel to the one by which I had entered.

Whilst I remain in the darker portion of this saloon, it is necessary for me to describe it. I could not have imagined such a combination of taste and luxury. At first, I was almost overpowered by the too genial warmth of the apartment, and the aromatic and rose-imbued odours that filled it. I trod on, and my step sank into, a yielding carpet, which seemed to be elastic under my feet, and which glowed with a thousand never fading, though mimic flowers. The apartment was not crowded, though I saw candelabra, vases, and side-tables of the purest marble, supported upon massive gilt pedestals. In all this there was nothing singular—it was the work of the upholsterer; but the beautiful arrangement was the work of a presiding taste.

At the further end of this superb room, stood two fluted and gilded pilasters, and two pillars of the Corinthian order, the capitals of which reached the ceiling: but they were not equidistant from each other, the space from the pilaster to the pillar on either side being much less than that between the two pillars. Between the two former there were placed statues of the purest marble; what fabled god or goddess they were sculptured to represent, I know not; I only felt that they personified male and female beauty. I was too agitated to permit myself to notice them accurately. Between this screen of pillars and statues, hung two distinct sets of drapery, the one of massive and crimson silk curtains, entirely opaque by their richness and their weight of texture, that drew up and aside with golden cords; the other of a muslin almost transparent, how managed I had no time to examine.

When the draperies fell in their gorgeous and graceful folds to the ground, they made of the saloon two parts, and the division that embraced the windows had then all the privacy of a secluded apartment. When the curtains were let fall, thus intercepting the light from the bayed windows, there was still sufficient from the three sash-windows on the left of this large apartment to give splendour to what would then become the inner room.

The heavy draperies that hung between the pillars were drawn up, but the light muslin was dropped even with the rich Turkey carpet, through which I caught but a dim and glowing view of the recess. It was, as nearly as I can recollect, about three o'clock in the afternoon; and the sun, just dallying with the top of the trees in the distant Kensington Gardens, sent his level beams directly through the large windows, and the orange-trees and exotics that were placed about them.

I advanced to the screen; and when close upon it, I perceived the figure, though but faintly, of Mrs Causand, reclining upon a couch. I paused—I do not think, on account of the distribution of the light, that she could have seen me through the veil that intervened between us. I dared not break through it without a summons; and there I stood, for two unpleasant minutes, endeavouring to imagine of what nature my reception would be; and whether a lady surrounded by so much magnificence would listen to the appeal of her former pet-playfellow.

At this time, it was the fashion, in full dress, to show the whole of the arm bare to the shoulder. At length, from out of the mass of rich shawls, there was lifted the white, rounded, exquisitively shaped, though somewhat large, arm of the lady, beckoning me to enter; but sound there was none. "She is delighted to play the empress," said I, as I pushed aside the curtain, and stood before her in her odoriferous sanctum.

Verily, in the pride of her beauty, she never looked more beautiful. She was in full dress—and, as I surveyed her in mute admiration, and my mind was busy at once with the past and the present, I pronounced her improved since I had last seen her; for I could perceive no difference in her countenance, except that her rounded and classic cheek glowed with a ruddier hue, and her eyes sparkled with a more restless fire.

I stood before her at the foot of the couch, and my heart confessed that the perfection of womanly beauty lay beneath my wondering eyes, but a beauty which, if in smiles, would rather madden with voluptuousness, than subdue with tenderness, and, if in repose, seemed to command worship, more than solicit affection.

As I stood mutely there, I looked into her regal countenance for some encouragement to speak—I saw none. I then strove to read there the sentiment then passing in her mind, and to my confusion, to my dismay, it seemed to me that she was endeavouring to conquer in her countenance the expression of pain. I watched intently—I was not deceived—a sudden convulsion passed over her features, succeeded by the paleness of an instant, and then a gush of tears—I was moved, almost to weeping, yet dared not advance. Her tears were hurried off instantly; and then again her dear smile of former days sunned up her countenance into something heavenly.



CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

RALPH BEGINNETH A CONVERSATION TOTALLY BEYOND HIS COMPREHENSION, AND YET COMPREHENDETH MORE THAN THE CONVERSATION IS MEANT TO CONVEY—HE FEELETH SOME INCLINATION TOWARDS LOVE-MAKING, BUT CHECKETH HIMSELF VALIANTLY.

"My own brave Ralph," said she, extending to me both her hands.

"Your schoolboy lover," said I: an immense weight of anxiety removed from my mind, as I kissed her jewelled fingers.

"Hush, Ralph! such words are vanities—but ask me not why? Oh, my dear boy, make the most of this visit—"

"I will, I will—how beautiful you are! how very, very beautiful!"

"Am I?—I rejoice to hear you say so! Ralph, speak to me as my own devoted, my more than loved friend—by all the affection that I have lavished on you, speak to me truly; do you, dearest Ralph, see no alteration in me?"

"A little," said I, smiling triumphantly, "a very little, for there was never room for much—you are a little more beautiful than when I last beheld you."

"Thank you—you have given me more happiness by the fervent honesty of that speech than I have experienced for days and weeks, nay, months before. Stand from me, and let me look at you—you, Ralph, are also much, very much improved—perhaps there is a little too much cast of thought upon your brow—that thought is a sad wrinkle maker—but, Ralph, you are not well dressed. But come and sit by me now, there, on that low footstool. I always loved to play thus with your pretty curls—I wish that they were a shade darker; as you have grown so manly, it would have been as well. Truly, as I look into the ingenuous brightness of your countenance, the joys of past happy hours seem to wing themselves back, and whisper to me that word so little understood—Happiness. But, Ralph, we will be alone together for this day at least—you shall dine with me here—we will have no interruption—you shall tell me all your deeds of arms—and, you naughty boy, of love also. Reach that bell, and ring it—but gently."

I obeyed, and the same handsome young lady, whom I had before seen, answered the silver summons. She glided in, and stooped over to Mrs Causand, as she lay on the couch, and their short conference was in whispers. As she retired, I was rather puzzled by the deep sorrow on her countenance, and the unfeigned look of pity with which she regarded her mistress or her friend. When we were again alone, I resumed my low seat, and was growing rather passionate over one of her beautiful hands, when, looking down, apparently much pleased with these silly endearments, she said, "Yes, Ralph, make the most of it; hand and heart, all, all are yours, for the little space that they will be mine."

Strange and disloyal thoughts began their turmoil in my bosom; and speculation was busy, and prospects of vanity began to dance before my eyes. Old enough to be my mother! What then? Mother! the thought brought with it the black train of ideas of which Daunton was the demoniac leader. He had asserted that the superb woman before me might claim from me the affection of a son. I then felt most strongly that I was not there to play any ridiculous part.

The protestations that I was about to utter died on my lips—I spake not, but pressed the hand that I held to my heart.

"Now, Ralph," said Mrs Causand, "relate to me all the wonders that you have encountered—speak lowly"—and she threw a white and very thin handkerchief over her face.

"But, my dear madam, why may I not gaze upon the countenance that you know is very dear to me? And this setting sun—how glorious! Do you know that, at his rising and his setting, I have often thought of you? Pray come to the window, and look upon it before it is quite hid among the trees."

"Ralph, by all the love that I bore your mother, by the affection that I bear to you, do not talk to me of setting suns! I dread to look upon them. You ask me to rise—oh, son of my best friend—know, that I cannot—without assistance—without danger—I am on my sick-couch—on my dying bed—they tell me—me—me, whom you just now so praised for improved beauty, that my days are numbered—but, I believe them not— no—no—no—but hush, softly!—I may not agitate myself—you, my sweet boy, have surely come to me the blessed messenger of health—your finger shall turn back the hand upon the dial, and years, whole years of happiness, shall be yours and mine."

"Inscrutable Ruler of heaven!" I exclaimed, "it is impossible! You are but trying my affection—you do but wish to witness the depth of my agony—you would prove me—but this is with a torture too cruel. Say— oh, say—my dear Mrs Causand, that you are trifling with me—you—you are now the only friend that I have upon earth!"

"These emotions, my dear boy, will slay me outright—the monster is now, even now, grappling with me—give me your hand." She took it, and placed it over the region of her heart. The shock it gave me was electric—that heart trembled beneath her bosom rapidly as flutter the wings of the dying bird—then paused—then went on. I looked into her face, and saw again the instant and momentary pallor, that had surprised me so much on my first entrance. The paroxysm was as short as it was violent, and her features again returned to their usual placidity of majestic beauty.

"You know it all now, Ralph—the least motion sets my heart in this unaccountable fury—and—alas, alas! every attack is more acute than the last. They tell me that I am dying—I cannot believe it. I cannot even comprehend it. I have none of the symptoms of death upon me. Everything around me breathes of health and happiness—you alone were wanting to complete the scene—you are here—no—no, I will not die. Had my hair whitened, my form bowed, my complexion withered—why, then— I might have been reconciled—but, no—it is impossible—no—no—Ralph, I am not dying."

"Fervently do I pray God that you are not. It also seems to me impossible—but still, the youngest of us cannot always escape—hoping, trusting, relying on the best, we should be prepared for the worst."

"But I am not prepared," she exclaimed, with a fierce energy that breathed defiance; and then, relapsing into a profound melancholy, she mournfully continued—"and I cannot prepare myself."

"Have you spoken to a clergyman?" said I, not knowing exactly what else to say. "Is not this some book of divine consolation?"

I took it up; it was the popular novel of the day, entitled, "The Rising Sun." What a profound mockery for a deathbed!

"I tell you, my dear Ralph, that you must not agitate me. Talk of anything but my approaching death—for know, that I am resolved not to die. To-morrow there will be a consultation over my case of the very first of the medical faculty in the world. Ralph, do not you league together with the rest of the world, and condemn me to an untimely death."

"Untimely, indeed."

She had now evidently talked too much; she closed her eyes, and seemed to enjoy a peaceful and refreshing slumber. I sat by and watched her. Was I then in a sick-chamber?—was that personification of beauty doomed? I looked round, and pronounced it incredible. I gazed upon the recumbent figure before me, so still, so living, and yet so death-like— and moralised upon the utter deception of appearances.

At length she awoke, apparently much reanimated.

"My dear Ralph," said she, "why are you not in mourning?"

"I understand you—and I perceive that you are now in black. But I must not disturb you—yet, if I dared, I would ask you one question—oh, in pity answer it—was she my mother?"

"Does death absolve us from our oaths?"

"I am not, dear lady, casuist enough to answer you that question. But do you know that I have become a desperate character lately? I write myself man, and will prove the authenticity of the signature with my life. I have renounced my profession—every pursuit, every calling, every thought—that may stand between me and the development of the mystery of my birth. It is the sole purpose of my life—the whole devotion of my existence."

"Ralph—a foolish one—just now. Bide the course of events."

"I will not—if I can control them. Through this detestable mystery, I have been insulted, reviled—a wretch has had the hardihood, the turpitude, to brand both you and me—me as the base-born child, and you as the ignominious parent."

"Who, who, who?"

"A pale-faced, handsome, short, smooth-worded villain, with a voice that I now recognise, for the first time—a coward—a swindler, that calls himself, undoubtedly among other aliases—"

"Stop, Ralph, in misery!" and, for the first time, she sat upright on her couch. "The crisis of a whole life is at hand—I must go through it, if I die on the spot—ring again for Miss Tremayne."

The gentle and quiet lady was soon at Mrs Causand's side. There was a little whispering passed between them, some medicines put on the small work-table near the head of the couch, and, finally, a tolerably large packet of papers. She then cautioned Mrs Causand most emphatically to keep herself tranquil, and, bowing to me slightly, glided out of the room.



CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

THE VEIL IS FAST DROPPING FROM BEFORE RALPH'S MYSTERIOUS PARENTAGE— STRANGE DISCLOSURES, AND MUCH GOOD EVIDENCE THAT THIS IS A VERY BAD WORLD—RALPH'S LOVE-SYMPTOMS ARE FAST SUBSIDING.

"Ralph," said the lady, when we were again alone, "I have, through the whole of my life, always detested scenes, and, to the utmost of my power, ever repelled all violent emotions. I am not now going to give you a history of my life—to make my confessions, and ask pardon of you and God, and then die—nonsense; but I must say that your fate has been somewhat strangely connected with my own. I acknowledge to you, at once, that I am a fallen woman—but, as I never had the beauty, so I never had the repentance, of a Magdalen. I fell to one of the greatest upon the earth. I still think that it was a glorious fate. I know that you are going to wound me deeply. I will take it meekly; may it be, in some measure, looked upon as a small expiation for my one great error! But, spare me, as long as you are able, the name of this person you have described with such bitterness—it may not, after all, be he who has been almost the only bitterness that has yet poisoned my cup of a too pleasurable existence—'tis pleasurable, alas! until, even in this, my eleventh hour. Tell me all, and then I shall be able to judge how much it may be my duty to reveal to you."

It was a fine study, that of observing the gradual emotion of this worldly and magnificent woman, as I proceeded with my eventful tale. I took it up only at that period when Joshua Daunton first made his application to me to be allowed to enter the Eos. The beginning of my narrative fell coldly upon her, and her features were strung up to that tension which I had often before observed in persons who were bracing up their nerves to undergo a dangerous surgical operation. They were certainly not impassive, for, in the fixed eyes that glared upon me, there was a strange restlessness, though not of motion.

The first symptoms of emotion that I could perceive took place when I described the lash descending upon the shrinking shoulders of Daunton. She clasped her hands firmly together, and upturned her eyes, as if imploring Heaven for mercy, or entreating it for vengeance. I perceived, as I proceeded, that I was gradually losing ground in her affections—that she was, in spite of herself, espousing the cause of my pledged enemy; and when I told her of the defiance that I had received in the sick-bay, she murmured forth, "Well done! well done!" followed by a name that was not mine.

When I related to her the documents that he had shown me to convince me that he was no impostor, she said, "Ralph, it is enough—it is of little consequence now what name you may give him. He is my son!"

"And my half-brother?"

"Oh no, no, young sir! Disgraced as he has been, a nobler blood than that of Rattlin flows in his veins. Degraded, disgraced as he is, neither on the side of the father nor of the mother need he blush for his parentage. But you are his sworn enemy—I can now listen more calmly to what you have to say. But, graceless as he is, he should not have denied his own mother."

"Mrs Causand," said I, in a tone of voice more cold than any with which I had yet addressed her, "it seems that you have, and that most unreasonably too, taken part against me. In no point have I sinned against you or yours. I have all along been the attacked, the aggrieved party. I will no longer offend your ears, or wring your heart, by a recapitulation of your son's delinquencies. He has done me much wrong; he is contemplating more—only place me in a situation to do myself justice, and silence on the past shall seal my lips for ever; but know that he has stolen all my documents, and intends passing himself to whomever may be my father, as his legitimate son, as myself."

"This must not be—foolish, mad, wicked boy! That I, his mother, must stand up his accuser! must act against him as his enemy! but I have long ago discarded him—almost cursed him. Oh, Ralph, Ralph! had he been but like you—but, from his youth upwards, he has been inclined to wickedness—no fortune could have supplied his extravagance—he has exhausted even a mother's love. I refused him money, and he stole my papers—I never dreamt of the vile use that he intended to put them to. Spare me for a little while, and I will let you know all; but should you once get his neck under your heel, oh! tread lightly on my poor William!" She had evidently another and a most severe attack of her complaint, which passed rapidly over like the rest; but she now had, for the first time in my observation, recourse to her medicines. When sufficiently recovered, she continued:

"Ralph, neither you nor any one else shall know my private history. It is enough for you to understand that I was almost from infancy destined to associate with the greatest of the sterner sex. Early was I involved in this splendid—degradation, the austere would call it, though degradation I never held it to be. Even appearances were preserved; for, before my wretched son was born, I was married to one of the pages of a German court, who was sixty years of age, and properly submissive and distant. To the English ear, this sounds like a confession of infamy. Let me not, Ralph, endeavour to justify it to you—I was taught otherwise—now, if I could, I would not regret it. Your father, then an only son, sometimes visited at the house of the person over whose establishment I presided, and—and, mark me, Ralph, injuriously as you must now think of me, I presided over but one. Deride me not when I tell that to that distinguished personage I was chaste."

She paused, and I thought that her voice faltered strangely, and that the assertion died upon her lips, and I made no reply. I was by no means astonished at this detail. I could only look upon her most anxiously, and await her future disclosures.

"I have," she continued, "lived for the world, and found it a glorious one. The husband of my heart, and the husband of ceremony, have long both been dead. I enjoy a competency—nay, much more—and yet, they talk to me of dying. To-morrow will decide upon my fate. I have lived a good life, according to my capabilities—it is no delusion—but, should the sentence of to-morrow's consultation be fatal, then the lawyer and the clergyman—"

"And why not to-day?"

"Because it is ours, Ralph, or rather, yours. Well, your mother was of good, though not of exalted, family—the daughter of a considerable freeholder in our neighbourhood. She was the eldest of many children, and the most beautiful born of all in the county. Her father sent her to London; and she became thus, for her station and the period, over educated. She foolishly preferred the fashionable, and refined, and luxurious service in a nobleman's family to a noble independence in her honest father's spacious house. It was her mistake and her ruin.

"Ralph! I loved your mother—you know it—but as a governess in the Duke of E's family, I hated and feared her. I don't think that she was more beautiful than I, but he—he whom I will never mention—began to be of that opinion—at least, I trembled. Reginald Rathelin loved her— wooed her; I entered with eagerness into his schemes—his success was my security. Miss Daventry at first repulsed me; but, at length, I overcame her repugnance—many ladies, notwithstanding my ambiguous position, awed by the rank of my protector, received me—we became friends. The beautiful governess eloped—I managed everything—they were married. I was myself a witness of the ceremony."

"Thank God!" I exclaimed, fervently.

"Reginald was wild and dissipated, poor and unprincipled—he cajoled his wife, and suffered her again to return to her menial station in the duke's family. In due time there was another journey necessary. It was when you were born at Reading. 'A little while, and yet a little while,' was the constant plea of the now solicited husband, 'and I will own you, my dear Elizabeth, and boast of you before all the world.'"

"My poor mother!"

"About two years after this marriage, Sir Luke, the father of Reginald, fell ill, and the neglect of the husband became only something a little short of actual desertion. Your mother had a proud as well as a loving spirit. She wrote to the father of Reginald—she interested the duke in her favour—she was now as anxious for publicity as concealment; but the expectant heir defied us all. He confessed himself a villain, and avowed that he had entrapped your mother by a fictitious marriage."

"And he my father!—but you, you, her friend?"

"He deceived me also. He declared the man who pretended to perform the marriage ceremony was not in holy orders. He dared us to prove it. His father, bred up in prejudice of birth and family, did not urge the son to do justice to your mother, but satisfied his conscience by providing very amply for yourself: he first took credit to himself for thus having done his duty, then the sacrament, and died.

"Your father, now Sir Reginald, in due time proposed for the richest heiress in the three adjacent counties, and was rejected with scorn. We made a strong party against him—the seat of his ancestors became hateful to him—he went abroad. His princely mansion was locked up—his estates left to the management of a grinding steward; and the world utterly forgot the self-created alien from his country."

"Then, alas! after all, I am illegitimate."

"And if you were?—but, methinks, that you are now feeling more for yourself than your mother."

"Oh no, no! tell me of her!"

"After this expose, she lived some few years respected in the duke's family; but she changed her name—home to her father's she would never go—no tidings ever reached her of the man she looked upon as her seducer. It must be confessed, however, that he took great care of his child—he appointed agents to watch over your welfare, though I firmly believe that he never saw you in his life."

"I think that he once made the attempt when I was at Roots' school; but, before I was brought to him, his conscience smote him, and he fled like a craven from his only and injured son."

"Most probably. Rumour said that he had made several visits to England under a strict incognito. But I must pause—the evening is fast waning—let me repose a little, and then we will have lights and dinner." She fell back upon her couch, and appeared again to slumber.



CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

RALPH THINKS SERIOUSLY ABOUT CHANGING HIS NAME—GETS A LITTLE UNWILLING JUSTICE DONE TO HIMSELF, AND GAINS MUCH INFORMATION—THE WHOLE WOUND UP SUDDENLY AND SORROWFULLY.

It was nearly dark. As I sat for more than half an hour by the side of the impenitent beauty, I could not conceive that she was in any danger. Whilst she discoursed with me so fully, her voice was firm, though not loud, and, were it not for a short and sudden check, sometimes in the middle of a word, I should say that I never before heard her converse more fluently or more musically.

Whilst she yet reclined, the servants brought in lights, and made preparations for our little dinner, a small table being laid close to Mrs Causand's couch. When this exquisite repast was ready, and Miss Tremayne made her appearance, Mrs Causand rose, apparently much renovated. She looked almost happy: without assistance, she walked from her sofa, and took her place at the table.

"There, Fanny," said she, quite triumphantly—"and not a single attack! This dear Ralph has surely brought health with him. Yesterday, this exertion would have killed me."

"Do not, however," said the lady, "try yourself too much."

We dined cheerfully: she seemed to have forgotten her son, and I my much-injured mother. After the dinner was concluded, and Miss Tremayne had retired, and my hostess had returned to her sofa, she sent for her writing-desk, and then proceeded with her narrative.

"Your mother, my dear Ralph, yearned for your society. She had saved a considerable sum of money—she wished for a home, to procure which, she married that little ugly, learned Frenchman, Cherfeuil—but even that she did not do until it was currently reported, and generally believed, that your father was dead."

"I admire the delicacy of the scruple—I honour her for it."

"Sip your wine, Ralph—you'll find it excellent—I will indulge in one glass, let Dr Hewings say what he will—to your health, my little lover, and may I soon hail you as Sir Ralph Rathelin!"

"How is it possible?"

"You shall hear. We were talking about your good mother. When she had married this Cherfeuil, who was the French assistant at a large school, she found out the agents to whom you were entrusted, and soon arranged with them that you should be domesticated under her own roof—you were removed to Stickenham, and she and you were happy."

"Oh, how happy!"

"Well, you know it was in those happy days that I had first the pleasure of forming an acquaintance with the inimitable Ralph Rattlin."

"But why Rattlin?—my name must be either Daventry or Rathelin."

"Rathelin, of a surety—it was first of all corrupted to Rattlin by that topmost of all top-sawyers, Joe Brandon—it having thus been so established, for many reasons, concealment among the rest, your mother thought it best for you to retain it. Now, Ralph, mark this—about eight, or rather seven, months ago, I took a short trip to my native country in Germany. Never was my health more redundant. I left your mother prosperous and happy, and beautiful as ever—she had heard of you, and heard much in your favour, though you never once condescended to write to any one of us. Whilst I was in—your father returned, a changed man—changed in everything, even in religion: he had turned penitent and a Catholic; and so had his travelling companion, the very man who had married him to your sweet mother."

"Then he was in holy orders?"

"He was."

"God of infinite justice, I thank you."

"The Reverend Mr Thomas came here to my very house, when I was away, with a long and repentant letter from his patron—full of inquiries for yourself; and for your mother, Lady Rathelin."

"Where is that inestimable letter?"

"Oh, where?" said the again agonised Mrs Causand. "Ralph, much mischief was done in that absence—my boy, my lost William: he, whom you know as Joshua Daunton, broke into his mother's house, rifled my escritoir, and carried off some of my most important documents—that unread letter among the number."

"But how know you its contents?" said I, breathless with agitation.

"By the tenor of these succeeding ones from Sir Reginald and his priest."

She opened her desk, and gave me two letters from my father to her. They were, as she described them, repentant, and spoke most honourably and most fondly of my deceased mother—praying Mrs Causand most earnestly to tell him of the happiness and the whereabouts of his wife.

"And you did, of course."

"No, Ralph, I did not—look at the dates. It was a fortnight after these arrived before I returned home. I weep even now when I think of it—three days before I returned your mother had died, almost suddenly."

"Ah, true, true!" said I, mournfully. But, a sudden pang of agony seizing my inmost heart, I suddenly started up, and, seizing her roughly by the hand, I said, sternly:

"Look me in the face, Madam—do you see any resemblance there to my poor, poor mother?"

"Oh, very, very great—but why this violence?"

"Because I now understand the villainy that caused her death. Your son murdered her—see in me her reproachful countenance—oh, Mrs Causand, you and yours have been the bane, the ruin of me and mine."

"What do you mean by those horrible words? Ralph, beware, or you will yourself commit a dastardly murder upon me, even as you stand there."

"Mrs Causand, I will be calm. I see it all. With the first letter of Sir Reginald in his hand, he went to Stickenham; and, with the murderous intent strong in his black bosom, he branded my mother with bigamy, incensed the weak Frenchman against her, and, in twenty-four hours, did the mortal work that years of injustice and injury could not effect."

"Good God, it must be so!—Ralph, I do not ask you to forgive him—but pity his poor suffering mother—he has broken my heart—not, Ralph, in the mystical, but in the actual, the physical sense. In the very hour in which I returned home, I found a warrant had been issued for his apprehension as a housebreaker; and the stony-hearted reprobate had the cruelty to insult his mother by a letter glorying in the fact, at the same time demanding a thousand pounds for his secrecy and the papers that he had stolen. The shock was too much for me. I had an attack, a fit—I know not what—I fell senseless to the earth—my heart has never since beaten healthfully. Oh, perhaps, after all, it would be a happiness for me to die!—Poor Elizabeth—my more than sister, my friend!"

"But why do I waste my time here?" said I, starting up, and seizing my hat. "The reptile is at work. Where lives Sir Reginald?—my demon— like double may be there before me. He may personate me long enough to kill my father and rifle his hoards. I must away—but, ere I go, know that, with these abstracted papers, he sought me in the West Indies, cheated me out of my name on my return to England, and, finally, waylaid and attempted, with a low accomplice, to assassinate me on my return from Stickenham."

"God of Heaven, let me die!—he could never have been son of mine—let me know the horrid particulars."

"No—no—no—I must away—or more murders will be perpetrated."

"Stop, Ralph, a little moment—do not go unprovided. Take these and these—he stole not all the documents—let me also give my testimony under my own hand of your identity. It may be of infinite service to you."

She then wrote a short letter to Sir Reginald, describing accurately my present appearance, and vouching that I, and none other, was the identical Ralph Rattlin, who was nursed by the Brandons, and born at Reading.

"Take this, Ralph, and show it to Sir Reginald. I only ask one thing: spare the life—only the life—of that unfortunate boy!—and in his, spare mine—for I am unprepared to die!"

"The mercy that he showed my mother—"

I had proceeded no further in my cruel speech, when a great noise was heard at the door, and two rough-looking Bow Street officers, attended by the whole household, rushed into the room. They advanced towards the upper end of this elegant sanctum. Mrs Causand sprang up from her sofa, and, standing in all the majesty of her beauty, sternly demanded, "What means this indignity?"

"Beg your ladyship's pardon, sorry to intrude—duty—never shy, that you know, ma'am—only a search-warrant for one Joshua Daunton, alias Sneaking Willie, alias Whitefaced—"

"Stop, no more of this ribaldry—you see he is not here—I know nothing concerning him—of what is he accused?"

"Of forgery, housebreaking, and, with an accomplice, of an attempt to murder a young gentleman, a naval officer of the name of Ralph Rattlin."

Mrs Causand turned to me sorrowfully, and exclaimed, "Oh, Ralph! was this well done of you?" Her fortitude, her sudden accession of physical strength, seemed to desert her at once; and she, who just before stood forth the undaunted heroine, now sank upon her couch, the crushed invalid. At length, she murmured forth, feebly, "Ralph, rid me of these fellows."

I soon effected this. I told them that I was the culprit's principal accuser; that I was assured he was not only not within the house, but I verily believed many miles distant. They believed me, and respectfully enough retired.

Miss Tremayne, the companion and nurse of the invalid, now with myself stood over her. She had another attack upon the region of her heart: and it was so long before she rallied, that we thought the fatal moment had arrived. When she could again breathe freely, her colour did not, as formerly, return to her cheeks. They wore an intense and transparent whiteness, at once awful and beautiful. Yet she spoke calmly and collectedly. I entreated to be permitted to depart—my intercessions were seconded by the young lady. But the now cold hand of Mrs Causand clasped mine so tightly, and the expression of her eyes was so imploring, that I could not rudely break away from her.

"But a few short minutes," she exclaimed, "and then fare you well. I feel worse than I ever yet remember—and very cold. It is not now the complaint that has cast me down upon a sick-bed that seems invading the very principle of life—a chilly faintness is coming over me—yet I dare not lay my head upon my pillow, lest I never from thence lift it again. Ralph, here is a warmth in your young blood—support me!"

I cradled her head upon my shoulder, and whispered to Miss Tremayne, who immediately retired, to procure the speedy attendance of the physician.

"Are we alone, Ralph?" said the shuddering lady, with her eyes firmly closed. "I have a horrid presentiment that my hour is approaching— everything is so still around and within me. Every sensation seems deserting me rapidly, but one—and that is a mother's feeling! You will leave me here to die, amongst menials and strangers!"

"Miss Tremayne?" said I, soothingly.

"Is but a hired companion; engaged only since the occurrence of these attacks. Yes, you will desert me to these—and for what, God of retribution!—to hunt down the life of my only son! Will you, will you, Ralph, do this over-cruel thing?"

"He has attempted mine—he still seeks it. Let us talk, let us think, of other matters. Compose your mind with religious thoughts. Your strength will rally during the night; to-morrow comes hope, the consultation of physicians, and, with God's good blessings, life and health."

"To hear, to know, that he is to die the death of the felon! Promise me to forego your purpose, or let me die first!"

"I have sworn over the grave of my mother that the laws shall decide this matter between us. If he escape, I forgive him, and may God forgive him, too!"

"And must it come to this?" she sobbed forth in the bitterness of her anguish, whilst the tears streamed down her cheeks from her closed eyelids. "Will this cruel youth at length extort the horrible confession!—it must be so—one pang—and it will be over. Let me forego your support—lay me gently on the pillow, for you will loathe me. A little while ago, and I told you I had been faithful to him—it was a bitter falsehood—know, that my son, my abandoned William, is also the son of your father—say, will his blood now be upon your hands?"

"Tell me, beautiful cause of all our miseries, does your miserable offspring know this?"

"Yes," said she, very faintly.

"Yet he could seek my life—basely—but no matter. His blood shall never stain my hand—I will not seek him—if he crosses my path, I will avoid him—I will even assist him to escape to some country where, unknown, he may, by a regenerated life, wipe out the dark catalogue of his crimes, make his peace with man here, and with his God hereafter."

"Will you do all this, my generous, my good, my godlike Ralph?"

"You and God be my witnesses!"

She sprang up wildly from her apparent state of lethargy, clasped me fervently in her arms, blessed me repeatedly, and then, in the midst of her raptures, she cried out, "Oh, Ralph, you have renewed my being, you have given me long years of life, and health, and happiness. You—" and here she uttered a loud shriek, that reverberated through the mansion— but it was cut short in the very midst—a thrilling, a horrible silence ensued—she fell dead upon the couch.

I stood awe-struck over the beautiful corpse, as it lay placidly extended, disfigured by no contortion, but on the contrary, a heavenly repose in the features—a sad mockery of worldly vanity. Death had arrayed himself in the last imported Parisian mode.

At that dying shriek, in rushed the household, headed by the physician, and closely followed by the companion, with the hired nurses. Methought that the doctor looked on this wreck of mortality with grim satisfaction. "I knew it," said he, slowly; "and Doctor Phillimore is nothing more than a solemn dunce. I told him that she would not survive to be subjected to the consultation of the morrow. And how happens it," said he, turning fiercely to the companion and the nurses, "that my patient was thus left alone with this stripling?"

"Stripling, sir!" said I.

"Young man, let us not make the chamber of death a hall of contention. Tell me, Miss Tremayne, how comes my patient thus unattended, or rather, thus ill attended?"

"It was her own positive command," said the young lady, in a faltering voice.

"Ah! she was always imperious, always obstinate. There must have been some exciting conversation between you, sir (turning to me), and the lady; did you say anything to vex or grieve her?"

"On the contrary; she was expressing the most unbounded hope and happiness when she died."

"And the name of God was not on her lips, the prayer for pardon not in her heart, when she was snatched away."

I shook my head. "Well," said he, "it is a solemn end, and she was a wilful lady. Do you know, Miss Tremayne, if she has any relations living?—they should be sent for."

"I know of none. A person of distinction, whose name I am not at liberty to mention, sometimes visited her. We had better send for her solicitor."

Some other conversation took place, which I hardly noticed. The body was adjusted on the couch, we left the room, and the door was locked. As I walked quietly, almost stealthily, home, I felt stunned. Health and mortality, death and life, seemed so fearfully jumbled together, that I almost doubted whether I was not traversing a city of spirits.

My Achates stared at me when I described to him the late occurrences.

"So you have at length discovered him?" said he.

"I have—a voice almost from the grave has imparted to me all that I wished to know—and something more. I have sprung from a beautiful race—but we must not speak ill of kith and kin, must we, Pigtop?"

"For certain not. And, so your father actually did send that old lord to look after you at your return from the West Indies. Well, that shows some affection for you, at all events."

"The fruits of which affection Daunton is, no doubt, now reaping."

"Well, let us go and cut his throat, or rather, turn him over to the hangman."

"No, Pigtop; I have promised his mother that I will not attempt his life."

"But I have not."

"Humph! let us to roost. To-morrow, at break of day, we will be off for Rathelin Hall. See that our arms are in order. And now to what rest nature and good consciences will afford us."



CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

MR. PIGTOP BELIEVETH IN GHOSTS, AND HATH SOME TRUST IN WITCHES, BUT NONE AT ALL IN LAWYERS—A CONSULTATION AFTER SUPPER, AND, AFTER SUPPER, ACTION.

Early next morning, Mr Pigtop and myself were seated in a post-chaise, making the best of our way towards the western extremity of England. When we had arrived at Exeter, where we found it necessary to sleep, in order to gain some little restoration from the fatigues of our incessant travelling, we made up our minds to hire three horses and a groom, and, having very accurately ascertained the exact site of Rathelin Hall, which was situated a few miles to the north-eastward of Barnstaple, we arrived there towards the close of the day, and put up at a very decent inn in an adjoining village.

The old and large house was distinctly visible, notwithstanding the well-wooded park in which it was situated, from the windows of our inn. A conference with our host fully realised our worst fears. He informed us that Sir Reginald was not expected to live many days; that his whole deportment was very edifying; and, moreover, that his dying hours were solaced and sweetened by the presence and the assiduities of his only and long-disowned, but now acknowledged, son Ralph. We, moreover, learned that this Ralph came attended by a London attorney; and that they, with the priest Thomas, in the intervals between rest, refection, and prayer, were actively employed in settling his sublunary affairs, very much to the dissatisfaction of a Mr Seabright, the family solicitor, and land-steward of the estate.

"Where does Mr Seabright live?" was my question, instantly.

"Why, here, sir, to be sure, in our town of Antwick; and mortally in dudgeon he has taken all this."

"Undoubtedly, and with justice," was my reply. "So faithful a servant, who has for so many years had the sole management of the Rathelin affairs, should not be cast off so slightly. Give us as good a supper, landlord, as your skill and Antwick can produce, and let us have covers for three. Send your porter down to Mr Seabright—but I had better write a note." So I sent to him a polite invitation to sup with us, telling him that two strangers wished to see him on important business.

To all these proceedings Pigtop demurred. He was for the summary process of going before a magistrate next morning, and taking out a warrant to apprehend Joshua Daunton on the capital charge for which he was pursued in London, and thus, at one blow, wind up the affair.

But I held my promise to Mrs Causand to be sacred, and determined to give him, my fraternal enemy, one chance of escaping. Pigtop's repugnance, however, to the employment of a lawyer could not be overcome; so, not being able to obtain his consent, I determined to try and do without it, which my friend averred to be impossible.

At nine o'clock precisely, as the smoking dishes appeared, so did the lawyer. A sudden emotion was perceptible on his iron-bound visage when his eyes first fell upon me, of the nature of which I could form no idea. Mr Pigtop bowed to him very stiffly; and it was some time before the genuine cordiality of my manner could put Mr Seabright at his ease.

While we were at table, I begged to decline giving him our names, as I was fearful that the intelligence might travel to the Hall, and thus give some scope for further machinations on the part of Joshua. But, as is too often the case, we were prudent only by halves.

The groom that we had hired, not being enjoined to secrecy, had unhesitatingly told everyone belonging to the establishment our appellations. The landlord and his household were much struck by the similarity of the name by which I still went, Rattlin, and that of Rathelin; and thus, whilst I was playing the cautious before Mr Seabright, the news had already reached the Hall, and those most concerned to know it, that two gentlemen, a Mr Rattlin and a Mr Pigtop, with their groom, had put up at the Three Bells in the village, and had sent for the lawyer.

When, after supper, we had carefully secured the privacy of our apartment, amidst many nudges and objurgations from my former shipmate, I proceeded to relate to the astonished solicitor who I was, and what were my motives for appearing at that juncture in the neighbourhood. I also told him of the personation of myself that I understood was then going on at the Hall, at the same time totally suppressing every other guilty circumstance of Daunton's life.

When I had finished my recital, I produced my documents; and, notwithstanding that he was almost breathless with wonder, he confessed that he believed implicitly all my assertions, and would assist me to recover my rights, and disabuse my father, to the utmost of his abilities.

"You have lost much valuable time," said he. "This impostor has now been domesticated some days with Sir Reginald. I think, with you, that he has no ulterior views upon the title and the estates. His object is present plunder, and the inducing your father, through the agency of that scoundrel London lawyer, to make him sign such documents that everything that can be willed away will be made over to him. We must, to-morrow, proceed in a body to the Hall, and take the villains by surprise. I will now return home and prepare some necessary documents. As this is a criminal matter, I will also take care to have the attendance of an upright and clear-seeing magistrate, who will proceed with us—not certainly later than ten o'clock to morrow."

He then took his leave, with an air of much importance, and more alacrity than I could have expected from a man of his years.

When Pigtop and myself were left alone, neither the first nor the second nor'-wester of brandy-and-water could arouse him from his sullen mood. He told me frankly, and in his own sea-slang, that he could not disintegrate the idea of a lawyer from that of the devil, and that he was assured that neither I nor my cause would prosper if I permitted the interference of a land-shark. I was even obliged to assume a little the authority of a master, in order to subdue his murmurings: to convince his judgment I did not try—in which forbearance I displayed much wisdom. We each retired to our respective room, with less of cordiality than we had ever displayed since our unexpected reunion.

I had no sooner got to bed than I determined, by a violent effort, to sleep. I had always a ready soporific at hand. It was a repeating and re-repeating of a pious little ode by a late fashionable poet. It seldom failed to produce somnolency at about the twelfth or thirteenth repetition. I would recommend a similar prescription to the sleepless; and I can assure them that there is much verse lately printed, and by people who plume themselves no little upon it, that need not be gone over more than twice at furthest; excepting the person may have Saint Vitus dance, and then a third time may be necessary. I would specify some of these works, were it at all necessary; but the afflicted have only to ask, at random, for the last published volume of poems, or to take up an annual, either old or new, and they may be dosed without the perpetration of a pun.

Three times had I slept by the means of my ode, and three times had I awaked by some horrible dream, that fled my memory with my slumbers. I could draw no omen from it, for my mind could not bring it out sufficiently distinct to fix a single idea upon it. However, as I found my sleep so much more miserable than my watchfulness, I got up, and, putting on a portion of my clothes, began to promenade my room with a slow step and a very anxious mind.

I had made but few turns, when my door was abruptly thrust open, and Pigtop stalked in, fully dressed.

"I can't sleep, Rattlin," said he, "and tarnation glad am I to see that you can't caulk either. A dutiful son you would be, to be snoozing here, and very likely, at this very moment, the rascal's knife is hacking at your father's weasand. It is not yet twelve o'clock; and I saw from my window, from whence I can see the Hall plainly, a strange dancing of light about the windows, and you may take an old sailor's word that something uncommon's in the wind. Let us go and reconnoitre."

"With all my heart; any action is better than this wretched inactivity of suspense. I will complete my dress, and you, in the meantime, look to the pistols."

We were soon ready, and sallied forth unperceived from the inn. We had no purpose, no ultimate views; yet both Pigtop and myself seemed fully to understand that we should be compelled into some desperate adventure. I was going armed, and by night, like an assassin, to seek the presence, or, at least, to watch over the safety of a father I had never seen, never loved, and never respected.

The space that separated the abode of my father from the inn was soon passed; and, a little after midnight, I stood within the gloomy and park-like enclosure that circumscribed the front of the large old mansion. The lodge was a ruin, the gates had long been thrown down, and we stumbled over some of their remnants, imbedded in the soil, and matted to it with long and tangled grass. I observed that there was a scaffolding over the front of the lodge; but whether it were for the purpose of repairing or taking down, I could not then discover.

As my companion and myself advanced to the front of the building, we also observed that, lofty as were its walls, it was scaffolded to the very attics, and some part of the roof of the right wing was already removed. Altogether, a more comfortless, a more dispiriting view could hardly have been presented; and its disconsolateness was much increased by the dim and fitful light that a young moon gave at intervals, upon gables, casements, and clumps of funereal yews.

"And this," as we stood before the portals, said I to Pigtop, "is my inheritance—mine. Is it not a princely residence?"

"It looms like a county jail, that's being turned into a private madhouse. If so be as how witches weren't against the law of the land, this seems the very place for them. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Verily, yes, and—no."

"Because I think that I see the ghosts of a hearse and four horses among those tall trees at that corner."

"Then, Pig, we must be on the alert—for I see it, too; but the vision has assumed the every-day deception of a post-chaise and four."

"Jeer as you will, it is a hearse: somebody's just losing the number of his mess. It will take away a corpse to-night, depend upon it. That a post-chaise! Pooh! I can see the black plumes waving upon the horses' heads; and—hark at the low, deep moanings that seem to sweep by it— that is not at all natural—let us go back."

"I was never more resolved to go forward. There is villainy hatching— completing. Wrap your cloak closely about your countenance; don't mistake the wind for groans, nor the waving branches of cedar-trees for hearse-plumes, but follow me."

"Who's afraid?" said Pigtop.

His chattering teeth answered the question.

As I was prepared for everything, I was not surprised to find the principal door open, and the hall filled with iron-bound cases and several plate-chests. As we stepped into the midst of these, completely muffled in our cloaks, a fellow came and whispered to us, "Is all ready?"

"Hush!" said I.

"Oh, no fear—they are at prayers in Sir Reginald's bedroom—he is going fast—he is restless—he cannot sleep."

"Where are the servants?"

"Snoring in their nests."

"And who is with Sir Reginald?"

"Nobody but the priest, and his son, Master Ralph—without the lawyer has gone up since; he saw all right about the chaise. But am I on the right lay?"

"Surely. Joshua Daunton and I—"

"Enough—you're up to trap—so lend us a hand, and let us take the swag to the shay—though swag it ain't, for it's Josh's by deed of law. Sir Reginald signs and seals to-night, as they say he can't live over to-morrow."

"No there is no occasion to stir yet. Which is the way to Sir Reginald's room? I must speak one word to Joshua before we start. I know the countersign—it will bring him out to me in a moment. I would advise you, in the meantime, just to step to the chaise and see all right, and bring it up nearer the door quietly—mind, quietly, for these boxes are damned heavy."

"You're right there," said the accomplice, and departed on his errand, after previously showing me the staircase that led to the apartment of my sick father.

When the rascal's steps were no longer heard, "Now, Pigtop," said I, "show your pluck, help me to lock and bar the hall-door—good—so one bloodhound is disposed of; he dare not make a noise, lest he should rouse the establishment. Now follow me—but, hark ye, no murder: the reptile's life must be spared."

Pigtop made no answer, but pointed to his scarred and disfigured lip, with a truly ferocious grin.

It is necessary for the fully understanding of the catastrophe that ensued, that I describe the site of the old building in which such startling events were passing. The front approach was level from the road; but on the back there was a precipitous, and rugged, and rocky descent, up to the very buttresses that supported the old walls—not, certainly, so great or so dangerous as to be called a precipice; for, on the extreme right wing of the rear of the house, it was no more than a gentle inclination of the soil, deepening rapidly towards the left, and there, directly under the extremity of that wing, assuming the appearance of a vast chasm, through the bottom of which a brawling stream chafed the pointed stones, on its way to the adjacent sea.

Sir Reginald's sleeping-room was a large tapestried apartment on the first-floor, the windows of which occupied the extreme of the left wing of the house, and was directly over the deepest part of the chasm which I have described.

All this part of the mansion was scaffolded also; the ends of the poles having what appeared to be but a very precarious insertion on the projections of the rocks below. It had been the intention of Sir Reginald thoroughly to repair his mansion; but, falling sick, and in low spirits, he had ordered the preparations to be delayed. The scaffolding had been standing through the whole of the previous winter; and the poles, and more especially the ropes that bound them to the cross-piece, had already gone through several stages of decay.



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

CONCLUSION.

My associate and myself advanced stealthily and noiselessly up the staircase. We met no one. The profoundest security seemed to reign everywhere. Favoured by the dark shadows that hung around us, we advanced to the door that was nearly wide open, and we then had a full view of everything within. The picture was solemn. Seated in a very high-backed, elaborately-carved, and Gothic chair, supported on all sides by pillows, sat the attenuated figure of my father. I gazed upon him with an eager curiosity, mingled with awe. His countenance was long and ghastly—there was no beauty in it. Its principal expression was terror. It was evident that his days were numbered. I looked upon him intently. I challenged my heart for affection, and it made no answer.

Directly before my father was placed a table, covered with a rich and gold-embroidered cloth, bordered with heavy gold fringe, upon which stood four tall wax candles, surrounding a mimic altar surmounted by an ebony crucifix. His chaplain, dressed in Popish canonicals, was mumbling forth some form of prayer, and a splendidly-illuminated missal lay open before him. There was also on the table a small marble basin of water, and a curiously inlaid box filled with bones—relics, no doubt—imbued with the spirit of miracle-working. The priest was perhaps performing a private midnight mass.

The fitful attention that Sir Reginald gave to this office was painful to contemplate. His mind was evidently wandering, and he could bring himself to attend only at intervals. At another table, a little removed from the one I have described, sat the person of the London attorney; he had also two lights, and he was most busily employed in turning over and indexing various folios of parchment. But I have yet to describe the other figure—the, to me, loathsome person of my illegitimate half-brother. He was on his knees, mumbling forth the responses and joining in the prayers of the priest. He was paler and thinner than usual; he looked, however, perfectly gentlemanly, and was scrupulously well-dressed.

As yet, I had not heard the voice of Sir Reginald; his lips moved at some of the responses that the two made audibly, but sound there was none. At length, when there was a total cessation of the voices of the other, and a silence so great in that vast apartment that the rustling of the lawyer's parchments was distinctly heard, even where I stood— even this hardened wretch seemed to feel the general awe of the moment, and ceased to disturb the tomb-like silence.

In the midst of this, the prematurely-old Sir Reginald suddenly lifted up his voice and exclaimed, loudly, in a tone of the most bitter anguish, "Lord Jesu, have mercy upon me!"

The vast and ancient room echoed dolorously with the heart-broken supplication. It was the first time that my father's voice fell upon my ear: it was so plaintive, so imbued with wretchedness, that the feeling of resentment which, I take shame to myself, I had long suffered in my bosom, melted away at once, and a strange tenderness came over me. I could have flung myself upon his bosom, and wept. I felt that my mother's wrongs had been avenged. Even as it was, with all the secrecy that I had then thought it my interest to preserve, I could not refrain, in a subdued, yet earnest tone, from responding to his broken ejaculation, from the very bottom of my heart, "Amen."

A start of surprise and terror, as my hollow response reached the ears of all then and there assembled, followed my filial indiscretion. Each looked at the other with a glance that plainly asked, "Was the voice thine?" and each in reply shook his head.

"A miracle!" exclaimed the priest. "The sinner's supplication has been heard. Let us pray."

During this solemn scene, events of a very different description were taking place at the inn which we had just clandestinely left. Our exit had been noticed. The landlord was called up; he became seriously alarmed, the more especially when the direction that we had taken had been ascertained. He immediately concluded that we had gone to Rathelin Hall to commit a burglary, or perhaps a murder. He summoned to his aid the constables of the village; called up the magistrate, and the lawyer, Mr Seabright; and, with a whole posse of attendants, proceeded to the rescue. We will conduct them to the door that Pigtop and myself had secured when we barred out Daunton's accomplice, and, there leaving them, return to the sick-chamber.

After the reverend gentleman had concluded his extempore prayer, but few of the sentences of which reached our place of concealment, Sir Reginald said, "My friends, the little business that we have to do to-night had better be done speedily. I feel unusually depressed. I hope that it is not the hand of death that is pressing so heavily upon me. I would live a little while longer—but the will of God, the Redeemer of our sins, be done! Bring the papers here—I will sign them. My friend Brown, and you, my poor and too long neglected Ralph (addressing Joshua), I trust to your integrity in all this matter; for not only am I averse to, but just now incapable of, business. But, my dear Ralph, before we do this irrevocable deed, kneel down and receive a repentant father's blessing, and hear that father ask, with a contrite heart, pardon of his son and of his God."

The parchments were brought and placed before the baronet by the assiduous lawyer, and the son—for son to Sir Reginald he really was— with looks of the most devout humility, and his eyes streaming with hypocritical tears, knelt reverently down at the feet of the trembling and disease-stricken parent. His feeble hands are outstretched over the inclined head of the impostor, his lips part—this—this—I cannot bear—so, before a single word falls from our common father, I rush forward, and, kneeling down beside my assassin-brother, exclaim, in all the agony of wretchedness and the spirit of a newly-born affection, "Bless me, even me also, O my father!—he has taken away my birthright, and, behold, he would take away my blessing also. Bless even me!"

"Ralph Rattlin, by all that's damnable!" screamed forth the self-convicted impostor.

Thus, this apparently imprudent and rash step was productive to me of more service than could have been hoped from the deepest-laid plan. In a moment we were on our feet, and our hands on each other's throats. This sudden act seemed miraculously to invigorate our father; he rose from his seat, and, standing to the full height of his tall and gaunt figure, placing his bony hand heavily on my shoulder, and looking me fixedly in the face, said, "If thou art Ralph Rathelin, who then is this?"

"The base-born of your paramour!" and with a sudden energy I hurled him from me; and he lay bruised and crouching beneath the large oriel window, at the extremity of the room.

"It was unseemly said, and cruelly done," said the baronet, sorrowfully. "Oh, but now my sins are remembered upon me! I cast my sons loose upon the face of the earth, and, in my dying hour, they come and struggle together for their lives before my eyes! Verily am I punished; my crime is visited heavily upon me."

The other parties in the room were little less affected with various emotions. The London attorney was making rapidly for the door, when he was met by the advancing Pigtop, who thrust him again into the apartment, and then boldly faced the priest—the latter still in his canonicals, the former dressed as a sectarian preacher.

Their antipathy was mutual and instantaneous. But, ere the really reverend gentleman could begin some pious objurgation at this apparent interference with his communicant, Pigtop indulged in one of the heaviest oaths that vulgarity and anger together ever concocted, and straightway went and seized the crouching Joshua, and lugged him before the agonised father, exclaiming, "Warrants out against him, Sir Reginald, for burglary, forgery, and assassination—he is my prisoner."

The craven had not a word to say—his knees knocked together—he was a pitiable object of a terror-stricken wretch. Sir Reginald already began to look down upon him with contempt: and my heart bounded within me, when I already found him leaning parentally on my shoulder. "Speak, trembler!—is this person the veritable Ralph Rathelin?"

"Pity me, pardon me, and I will confess all."

"Splits!" said the attorney, and vanished through the now unguarded door.

"Speak!"

"This gentleman is your lawful son—but I also—"

"No more—escape—there is gold—escape—hide yourself from the eye of man for ever!"

"No," said Pigtop, giving him a remorseless shake. "Do you see this scar?"

"Let him go instantly, Pigtop!—obey me—I have promised his mother—it is sacred."

"For my sake!" said Sir Reginald.

At this instant, the steward rushed in, partly dressed, crying out, "Sir Reginald, Sir Reginald, the constables and the magistrates have broken down the hall-door, and are now coming upstairs, to arrest the housebreakers—they have packed up all the plate, and it lies in the hall, ready to be carried off?"

"My God! It is too late," said Sir Reginald, wringing his hands.

"No," said I; "let him escape by the window. Be so good, sir," said I to the priest, "to secure the door—we shall gain time. Hold it as long as you can against all intruders. The scaffolding will enable the culprit to reach the ground with comparatively little danger."

The priest obeyed; and not only fastened the door, but also barricaded it with furniture.

"Now, Pigtop," said I, "if you wish to preserve my friendship, assist this poor wretch to escape—he is paralysed with his abject fears. Come, sir," addressing Joshua, "you will certainly be hung if you don't exert yourself."

"He'll be hung yet," said Pigtop sulkily. "But I am an old sailor, and will obey orders—nevertheless, I know that I shall live to see him hung. Come along, sirrah!"

Between us, we led him to the window. We then thrust him out, and he stood shivering upon the cross-boarding of the scaffolding level with the window-sills.

"Slide down the poles, and run," said I—and Pigtop together.

"I can't," said he, shuddering; "the chasm is awfully deep."

"You must, or die the death of the felon."

"Oh, what shall I do!"

"Cast off the lashing just above you," said Pigtop; "pass it over the crosspiece over your head, make a running noose, put it under your arms, and keep the other end of the rope in your hand. You may either cling to the pole with your legs as you like, or not—for then you can lower yourself down at your ease, as comfortably as if you were taking a nap."

"Come away, Pigtop—shut the window, close the shutters—the constables are upon us!" I exclaimed. This was done immediately, and thus was the immaculate Joshua shut out from all view. As the attacks on the door of the apartment became more energetic, and we concluded that Joshua was now safe, we were going to give the authorities entrance, when we heard a dreadful crash on the outside of the window.

"The lubber's gone by the run, by God!" said Pigtop; "he'll escape hanging, after all!"

"Let us hope in mercy not," said Sir Reginald, shuddering. "I trust it is not so. I hear no scream, no shriek. I am sure, by the sound, that it was the toppling down of the boards; he has most likely displaced some of them in his descent."

"Shall we admit, Sir Reginald, the people who are thundering at the door?"

"Not yet: let there be no appearance of disorder—remove these"— pointing to the small altar and crucifix—"and would it not be as well, my friend, to divest yourself of those holy vestments? they are irritating to heretical eyes. Assist me, sir, to my chair."

I placed him respectfully nearly in the position in which I first discovered him. All vestiges of the Catholic religion were carefully removed, and the door, at last, thrown open. The crowd entered.

Hurried explanations ensued; but we could not conceal from the magistrate that a robbery had been planned and nearly effected, and that the real culprits, for whom, at first, Pigtop and I had been mistaken, had escaped.

At length, the master of the inn suggested that perhaps they had passed out of the window, and might be still upon the boarding or the scaffolding. The shutters were hastily thrown open—and, sight of horrors! Joshua Daunton was discovered hanging by the neck—dead! Sir Reginald gazed for some moments in speechless terror on the horrible spectacle, and then fell back in a death-like swoon.

The body was brought in, and every attempt at resuscitation was useless. He had died, and was judged; may he have found pardon! Some thought that he had hung himself intentionally, so completely had the noose clasped his neck; others, among whom were Pigtop, thought differently. The old sailor was of opinion, from the broken boards that had given way beneath his feet, that, when he had got the noose below his chin, and no lower, his footing or the scaffolding had failed him; and that, letting go the other end of the rope, it had taken a half hitch, and thus jammed upon the cross-pole. However the operation was brought about, he was exceeding well hung, and the drop represented to perfection. As Pigtop had prophesied, the post-chaise in the shrubbery was turned into a hearse, in order to convey his body to the inn for the coroner's inquest.

"I knew I should live to see him hung," said Pigtop, doggedly, as he bade me good-night, when we both turned into our respective rooms for the night, in the house of my father.

Contrary to all expectations, the shock, instead of destroying, seemed to have the effect of causing Sir Reginald to rally. He lived for six months after, became fully satisfied of my identity; and just as he was beginning to taste of happiness in the duty and affection of his son, he died, having first taken every legal precaution to secure me the quiet possession of my large inheritance.

My grief at his decease was neither violent nor prolonged. After his burial, I was on the point of repairing the old mansion, when I found myself involved in three lawsuits, which challenged my right to it all. I soon came to a determination as to my plan of action. I paid off all the establishment; and, having got hold again of my foster-father and mother, Mr and Mrs Brandon, I rebuilt the lodge for them comfortably, and there I located them. I shut up the whole of the Hall, except a small sitting-room, and two bedrooms, for Pigtop and myself; and thus we led the lives of recluses, having no other attendants than the Brandons.

By these means I was enabled to reserve all my rents for carrying on my lawsuits, without at all impairing the estate. In eighteen years, I thank God, I ruined my three opponents, and they all died in beggary. The year after I came into undisputed possession of my estates, the next heir got a writ issued against me of "de inquirendo lunatico," on the ground of the strange and unworthy manner that I, as a baronet with an immense estate, had lived for those last eighteen years. I told my reasons most candidly to the jury, and they found me to be the most sensible man that they had ever heard of, placed in a similar position.

After having thus speedily settled these little matters, as I was fast approaching my fortieth year, I began to alter my style, and live in a manner more befitting my rank and revenues; yet I still held much aloof from all intimacy with my neighbours.

I am now in my forty-first year, and grown corpulent. It is now twenty-one years since I saw my unfortunate parent interred, and I walk about my domains Sir Ralphed to my heart's content—or, more properly speaking, discontent. Old Pigtop is a fixture, for he has now really become old. I cannot call him my friend, for I must venerate him to whom I give that title, and veneration, or even esteem, Pigtop was never born to inspire. My humble companion he is not, for no person in his deportment towards me can be less humble than he. He is as quarrelsome as a lady's lapdog, and seems never so happy as when he has effectually thwarted my intentions. Prince Hal said of the jolly wine-bibber, Jack, that "he could have better spared a better man!" Of Pigtop I am compelled to say more—"I could not spare him at all." He has become necessary to me. He was never very handsome; but now, in his sixty-second year, he is a perfect fright; so, at least, everybody tells me, for I don't see it myself.

His duties about my person seem to be continually healthily irritant; the most important one of which is, to keep me a bachelor, and scare away all womankind from Rathelin Hall. He controls my servants, and helps me to spoil them. Such a set of heavy, bloated, good-for-nothing, impudent, and happy dogs, never before fed upon a baronet's substance, contradicted him to his very face, and fought for him behind his back. The females in my establishment bear but a most niggardly proportion to the males—in the ratio of Falstaff, one pennyworth of bread to his many gallons of sack: and these few are the most hideous, pox-marked, blear-eyed damsels that the country could produce—all Pigtop's doing.

Never shall I forget the consternation, the blank dismay of his countenance, when, one fine, sunshiny morning, I announced to him my intention of installing in the mansion some respectable middle-aged gentlewoman as my housekeeper. It was some time before he could find his speech.

"Blood and thunder! bombs and fury! what have I done, that you should turn me out of your house in my grey hairs—now I'm dismantled, as it were, and laid up in ordinary?"

"Turn you out, Piggy! what could put that in your foolish noddle?"

"If madam comes in, I cut my cable, and pay off Rathelin Hall right abaft—even if I die in a ditch, and am buried by the parish. Take a housekeeper!—oh Lord! oh Lord! oh Lord! I would just as soon see you married, or in your coffin."

"But some such a person is absolutely necessary in an establishment of this extent; so a housekeeper I'll have, of some sort."

"Why the devil need it be a woman, then? why won't a man do—why won't I do?"

"You?"

"Yes, me—Andrew Pigtop. I ask the appointment—do, there's a good Sir Ralph, make it out directly. Clap your signature to it, and let it run as much like a commission as possible. I ask it as a favour. You know the great sacrifices that I have made for you."

"The first time I ever heard of them, upon my honour. Pray enlighten me."

"Why, you must be convinced, Sir Ralph, if I had not left the navy to attend you all the world over, as the pilot-fish sticks to the shark, I should, by this time, have been an old post-captain, and very likely C.B. into the bargain."

"You, who remained one quarter of a century a master's-mate during an active war, should rush up through the grades of lieutenant and commander to be posted during another quarter of profound peace! But, perhaps, you would have depended upon your great family interest. Well, if I make out your commission as my housekeeper, will you do the duties of the office?"

"On course."

"And wear the uniform?"

"On course, if so be it be such as a man might wear; I bar petticoats and mob-caps, and female thingamies."

"Will you carry the keys?"

"On course."

"And see that the rooms and the passages are well swept, and that the maids are up betimes in the morning?"

"Damn them!—on course—certainly."

"And, when Lady Aurelia Cosway and her five beautiful daughters drive up to the door, will you go and receive them in the ball; and, making them a profound curtsey, beg to conduct them into a dressing-room?"

"No; because, d'ye see, no ladies ever came further than your door."

"And whom may I thank for that?"

"Me, assuredly," said Pigtop, very proudly.

"I do."

I did not make out his commission, which vexed him; but, on the other hand, I did not get me a housekeeper, which, at first, a little vexed me; but, really, my friend, in an ex officio manner, does most of the duties of the office to which he aspired extremely well.

Without vanity, I still preserve my good looks, though I must confess to a little unbecoming obesity of figure; yet, through my indolence, and the perseverance of Pigtop, and perhaps certain recollections of a green and bright, bay in one of the summer islands, I do fear that I am a confirmed bachelor.

THE END