CHAPTER XVI. A SECOND DELIVERANCE.
“Stockwell. So, so, you seem disordered, Mr. Belcour.
Belcour. Disordered, sir!
Why did I ever quit the soil in which I grew?”
The West Indian.
For a minute the father of Isidora and I preserved a dignified silence. The stern displeasure his countenance evinced was not encouraging, and I looked the silliest young gentleman imaginable. The contretemps of this evening visit was most provoking. I had never done the sentimental in my life but twice, and on both occasions Mr. Hartley had managed to drop in. Turning his dark and searching eye on mine, he drily inquired, “Whether it would be considered an impertinence on his part, if he asked who the lady might be whom he had very unintentionally put to flight?”
I mentioned her name, not forgetting to announce also the nobility of her descent; but had it been in direct line from Charlemagne or the Conqueror, it would not have propitiated Mr. Hartley, if one could form any opinion from the inauspicious “humph!” with which he received the intelligence.
“And, my good sir, how long have you known this interesting personage?” he continued.
“Since my arrival in London,” I replied.
“A marvellous short time to ripen friendship to such full maturity! And what event might have called forth that storm of sobs and kisses which I so unluckily interrupted?”
A contemptuous sneer accompanied the inquiry that stung my pride, and I answered warmly, that “I considered that he had neither authority nor interest to pry into matters with which he was wholly unconcerned.”
“No right, certainly,” he observed, “excepting that which former services may be fairly supposed to warrant.”
“Mr. Hartley,” I replied, “I freely admit that I am indebted to you for hospitality, and also for deliverance from a disagreeable, and possibly a dangerous restraint; but surely one who rigidly interdicts inquiry into aught connected with himself, should also respect the secrets of another.”
“I acknowledge the justice of your remark,” said my quondam host; “and the noble demoiselle, who hangs upon the neck of the acquaintance of a fortnight, discharging volleys of sighs, ‘hot as a furnace,’ shall remain incognita. You own yourself indebted to me for former obligations; you have now a power of returning them; and I come here to ask a favour.”
“It is granted, sir,” I replied, warmly, “even before ‘tis known.”
“Stop, stop,” he returned; “it is a request that is too frequently refused.”
“Name it, sir.”
“It is the loan of money I solicit. The period brief; the repayment certain.”
I felt my face redden, and could not find words to answer.
“Before I name the sum that I would borrow,” pursued Mr. Hartley, without appearing to notice my confusion, “and as the loan must be regulated by the state of your own finances, let me inquire what money you brought to town. Men coming to London are generally well provided.”
What a question from a stranger! Surely I should resent it as impertinent. But no—the man appeared gifted with some influence that bent me to his will—and I muttered, that when I embarked for England my purse had contained two hundred pounds.
“Faith, not a bad supply. Could you with convenience spare me half?”
I groaned, and shook my head. .
“Fifty, then?”
Another and a more desponding shake.
“Well, be it forty. No answer. Thirty—twenty—ten! No answer yet? Then is my request refused? So much for the lip-gratitude of Mr. Hector O’Halloran!”
I thought my brain would madden, as the humiliating position to which my folly had reduced me, was thus rudely exposed by this tormenting supplicant. I tried to speak—‘twas useless; words would not come. Another minute passed—and Mr. Hartley’s eyes were turned on mine, as if he would have read the secret agony of spirit which his importunity had caused.
“Well,” continued he, “should I solicit five paltry pounds—would that small assistance be refused?”
The question was torturous. My voice at last found utterance. I raised my eyes, and looked full at Mr. Hartley. How well that look betrayed my secret sufferings—the bitterest a man can know—those of self-contempt and conscious humiliation!
“Had I hundreds, Mr. Hartley, they should be placed freely at your disposal, and I should feel too proud in having the power of convincing you that I have not forgotten kindnesses. I want the means—for on yonder table lies all the money I am master of.”
“What!” he exclaimed, “only a few shillings left of two hundred pounds?”
“‘Tis true, by Heaven!”
“Then, sir, are you lower than the wretch who asks for alms upon the road-side. You are a pauper by vice; he a beggar through misfortune. Listen, boy, and learn how deep is your degradation. A man to whom you were indebted for good services seeks your assistance, and whatever might have been your wishes to render it, folly has placed the means beyond your reach; and, to a noble spirit, how painful is the inability of returning a former obligation! And for what did you deprive yourself of the power of being generous? To lavish money upon knaves and gamblers—or, still more wretched infatuation,—to win the heartless smiles of beauty?”
He paused, as if to observe the effect of his reproof, and one glance attested its influence. In my agitated countenance the inward workings of the breast were visible; for I had never felt the agony of conscious shame and self-reproach till now. No wonder that under such feelings, this singular personage elicited step by step, every particular touching my connexion with Santonier and his confederates. There are times when men feel their positions so intolerable, that, with despairing recklessness, they court no concealment, but place their offendings in their worst light. Such feelings were mine; and, undeterred by the strongly-expressed scorn and displeasure of Mr. Hartley, I brought the confessions of my folly to a close.
“My words have pained you?—it is all the better,” continued my stern monitor, “as it affords reasonable ground for hoping that the error lies in the head, and not in the heart. Vice has no blush; and, when the cheek reddens at the recollection of past imprudence, it may be expected that future follies will be eschewed. But how could you have been plundered so unsuspectingly? I only marvel that the veriest novice ever loosed upon a vicious town, could not in one day’s acquaintance have detected the barefaced swindling of your noble friends.”
“You seem to know them?” I inquired.
“Yes; and for that profitable knowledge I own myself indebted to Mr. Hector O’Halloran.”
“To me, sir?” I exclaimed.
“Ay, sir, to you.—Have you forgotten my letter? and have I not apprised you that every action of your life is under the strictest surveillance? With all your movements, from the very night you entered London, I have been acquainted; and it is not wonderful that I should take some interest in ascertaining who were the intimate associates of a man, whose fortunes are to be made or marred by me.”
What a strange gentleman this Mr. Hartley was! He seemed to have selected me as a sort of shuttlecock wherewith to amuse himself at his own discretion, while with my future fortunes he modestly announced a determination, in Yankee parlance, to “go the whole hog.” Strange that I should passively submit to be thus painfully hectored by a stranger; and, with every inclination, want moral courage to rebel! The man was a mystery—he appeared to have a perfect knowledge of my actions, added to the gift of ubiquity. Did I ask an impertinent question, or perpetrate a kiss, he was sure to be close at my elbow. Was it not devilish hard, that a man could not commit his fooleries—as Sir Lucius O’Trigger wished to fight—“in peace and quietness?” and, when he had lost his last guinea, that a gentleman should drop in, to deliver himself of an admonition first, and require the loan of a hundred afterwards? I had got myself into “a regular fix,”—and that seemed the signal for Mr. Hartley to appear at the moment when I wished him “five fathom under the Rialto.”
One thing was indisputable—I had been sadly fooled. Circumstances smooth down misfortunes; and I have heard that men, who would be driven to desperation at being cheated by a thimble-rigger, feel it only an agreeable kind of sorrow in being swindled by a peer.—I wished to find out the real character of my plunderers; and it would be an unspeakable satisfaction to be certain that I had been “cleaned out” by the descendants of some “baron bold” who had tilted on the field of Agincourt, or at Pavia “lost every thing but honour.” Adelaide had described them as low-born swindlers, but she might be mistaken. Timidly, therefore, I hazarded the inquiry, whether “Mr. Hartley knew the exact circle of society which Santonier and his companions appertained to?”
“That question,” replied Mr. Hartley, “is a puzzler; for in every grade, from the highest to the lowest, you will find distinctions. The colonel’s birth may be as noble as he insinuates it to be. He was an enfant trouvé, and in time, the foundling rose to be a valet. In the Revolution, his master lost his head, and Santonier his place; he next became a professional gambler; ‘a master of fence’ afterwards—and lastly, the chevalier d’industrie reached the climax of rascality, and acted as a double spy. The old gentleman, in green spectacles, has been all his life attaché to ‘a hell.’ The lady’s history can only be learned at the Palais Royal—and I doubt whether it would repay the trouble of a research. Although the struggle may be painful, still it is best to prepare you for the trial, a warrant from the Alien Office has directed your amiable acquaintances to withdraw—and before to-morrow’s sun rises, the Santoniers will have departed. An hour since the Colonel and I had a satisfactory conversation. This money he requested me to deliver to you.” (Here Mr. Hartley gave me some bank notes.) “And, as to this security, it is now mine—and may I inquire, are you prepared to discharge it?”
I took the writing,—it was a promissory note bearing my signature, and covenanting to pay “one hundred-and fifty pounds at sight!”
“Are you prepared to discharge this honourable engagement?” he demanded, with affected seriousness.
I shook my head.
“Then we may as well cancel it at once;” and as he spoke he tore the paper to pieces.
“Said I not well, when I told you, that on me the colour of your future life depended? Remember this second deliverance—one, to which a week’s imprisonment in the haunt of drunken outlaws were a mere nothing. But no more of this; we have other matters now to occupy us. I want you for an hour or two.”
He took his hat—desired me to follow him. I felt myself a mere puppet in his hands—bowed assent—and we left the hotel together.
And where was Isidora? The question was often on my lips; but my companion was a gentleman of such explosive temperament, that I dare not hazard the inquiry. He called a coach—I stepped in after him, obedient as a poodle—and, according to order, honest Jarvey rumbled his “leathern conveniency” to some caravanserai in the city, as much excluded from the Court Circular as Mr. Pryme’s favourite hostelrie—the house with “the man’s head” in Crutched Friars.
As we rolled along the streets Mr. Hartley’s manner assumed a different tone, for he talked to me with the familiarity of old acquaintanceship, and never for a moment recurred to my recent peccadillos. We spoke of the engrossing subjects of the day, and on every topic he displayed that peculiar knowledge, which one who has been long intimate with mankind only can acquire. Keen and correct as his observations were, they seemed to be those of a man who had quarrelled with the world; and, inexperienced as I was, I set him down to be one whose past career had been unfortunate, or whose future prospects were gloomy and uncertain.
When we entered the hotel Mr. Hartley led the way to the apartments he occupied. They were situated at the extremity of a long corridor, and isolated from the other chambers of the inn. In an ante-room my old acquaintance Dominique was seated. Although his fanciful dress was discarded for a plain blue livery, I easily recognised my sable friend; and the negro’s intelligent countenance brightened as he saw me, and offered a silent welcome. His master introduced me into a drawing-room, desired me to be seated, apologized for a short absence, and left me to myself.
How strange—during our long interview and drive, not a word of Isidora!—I had once asked simply if she were well, and he had replied in the affirmative so briefly, that it seemed to preclude any further inquiries touching his fair daughter. I examined the apartment—no tokens of female occupancy presented themselves—it was like the common-place chamber of every inn, and only remarkable for the numerous trunks and boxes it contained; and to judge from the extent of the baggage, the traveller to whom it appertained was preparing for a final flitting. The various packages had Mr. Hartley’s name attached; and hence, I concluded that to Ireland he had bidden a long farewell. But brief space was permitted for solitary fancyings: the door opened,—my quondam host entered accompanied by a lady,—and one look told me that she was Isidora.
When I advanced and took her hand, she coloured to the brow, but still my reception was a kind one. Meeting under different circumstances, we both felt less embarrassment than when I had been first presented to her; and I thought I could perceive something in Mr. Hartley’s manner, which appeared to give encouragement to our closer intimacy. Occasionally he alluded to my last escapade in dry sarcastic observations, only intelligible to ourselves; but his manner satisfied me, that however foolish I might have appeared, still I had not fallen in his estimation. Supper ended, Isidora withdrew; we parted with “a fair good night;” and Mr. Hartley and I were left alone.
My host looked at the door to see that it was closed, then filled his glass, and pushed the flask across to me.
“Hector,” he commenced.
I started; for it was the first time he had ever addressed me without prefixing a formal mister to my name.
“I perceive,” he continued, “that you are surprised to hear me speak to you with little ceremony. Did you but know the secret history of him who sits beside you, that wonder would be removed. The time for that is yet to come; and you must expect my confidence only as circumstances may require, and your own conduct shall deserve it. I told you that your fortunes were controlled by me; and on that assurance you may place the firmest reliance. Listen, and you may learn much concerning your own family—more than you have yet known—and, afterwards, I will explain the reason that made me thus communicative.”
I bowed, and remained a silent listener.
“You had an uncle. He was thrown upon the world unwisely when a boy, left to his own guidance, and subjected to more temptation than youth can conquer. Need I tell you, who have learned the lesson practically, how easily intimacies are formed, which, when unchecked, prove ruinous? By the ill-judging liberality of his father, young Clifford obtained the means to follow the bent of his inclination. His temper was ardent—his passions strong—he had no friend to counsel—no Mentor to direct—his life became a whirlwind of dissipation—and with rapid strides he hurried to destruction. Too late, the film was removed from his parent’s eyes; and unfortunately, the steps he took to stay that course of folly in his child, which himself had first encouraged, were injudicious. Money was suddenly withheld; could the wild youth’s career be thus arrested? No; false villains surrounded him, who pointed out easy means by which a large supply was raised, only, when obtained, to be wasted upon knaves, or lavished with reckless prodigality on those whose beauty had been their bane. Oh! woman—thou art a blessing or a curse—and as both, this withered heart has proved thee!”
Mr. Hartley sprang from his chair—strode aeross the room—stopped at the window—and then, as if he had subdued a violent outbreak of secret feeling, he resumed his seat and thus continued:
“A vicious career soon finds its termination. The mode by which young Clifford had hitherto obtained supplies at last became unavailing, and criminal means were cautiously proposed by his villanous confederates. From these the youth recoiled with horror—his guardian angel had not yet deserted him; and, like another prodigal, he half determined to fall at his father’s feet, and ask him to bless and pardon. That blessing was ready had he sought it—but the moment of penitence had passed. One, with an angel form and demon heart, had thrown her spells around him; and all that remained of moral principle, she, the foul temptress, gradually extinguished. In a desperate emergency young Clifford committed forgery, affixing to securities of immense amount, his father’s name. In due time the criminal act was discovered, and to the agonized parent one alternative alone was left—to pay an enormous sum to the villains who had demoralized him, or denounce his child a felon, and consign him to a felon’s doom. He sacrificed the money. Did the mischief end there? No;—the misguided young man was now the victim of a gang of swindlers—the puppet of a coldblooded courtesan. Deeper and deeper they involved him, and at last, when their own detection was impending, they made him a scapegoat to their safety, and denounced their dupe for crimes which they had themselves committed, and of which he, poor wretch, was guiltless.
“The fallen have no friends; and your uncle was obliged to evade the penalty which the law would have then exacted, by abandoning the country of his birth, to seek ignominious safety in a foreign land. There—he lived and died—a nameless fugitive. Heaven knows in what misery the remnant of his few and evil days were passed,—or, when the hour of deliverance came, under what fearful circumstances death claimed a willing victim.”
Mr. Hartley paused; the story of my unfortunate relative had affected me, and I expressed strong sympathy for the offender.
“Well,” continued he, “it is probable that his punishment was greater than his crime; but of that none but himself could tell. To proceed:—from the moment young Clifford quitted England, his father, by a mental exertion that almost appeal’s incredible, seemed to forget that he had ever had a son, and centered all his hopes and his affections in the child still spared him; and your mother became the object that he lived for. There, too, it was decreed that his hopes and plans should be disappointed. He had resolved to ally her nobly; but his air-built castle was levelled to the earth. She eloped with a soldier of fortune; and worse still, in the estimation of one so deeply bigoted to his own faith, the husband she had selected was a Protestant.
“As he had banished from his heart the memory of a guilty son, so, also, he appears to have forgotten that a daughter, whose sole offence was love, has often sued for pardon, and sued in vain. Dead, apparently, to human passions, and wrapped in gloomy reveries of religion without any thing of its charities, he mistakes ascetic indifference for submission to that Will which rules the fate of mortals. In every thing he is directed by his confessor, and report affirms that he has bequeathed his fortune and estates to the uses of the Church of Rome. I have heard that you bear a striking likeness to your mother. Could you but meet this cold old man, possibly some spark of kindred love might still be latent in the heart, and in the living child, he might happily be forced to recollect the long-estranged mother. But to obtain that meeting is the difficulty. Surrounded by priests and spies, your very name, if known, would bar you from his presence. I have taken measures to ascertain what are the old man’s habits, and how an interview might be accomplished. The experiment may fail—but still it is worth the trial.
“Why have I enlarged on what you knew partially already?—the fall of William Clifford. Only to show, by startling truths, that imprudence is too generally the path to crime; and that your career, unless arrested as it was by me, might have ended fatally as your uncle’s did.”
“Never!” I exclaimed, passionately; “a fool I might be—a villain, never.”
“And so thought young Clifford once—but no more of this. I feel convinced that your fancy for play and dangerous acquaintances is ended.”
“Indeed, Mr. Hartley, I see my folly in its true colours.”
“And now for bed,” he replied. “You to your hotel, and I to my chamber. Let me see you early to-morrow. Should business have called me from home, you will find Isidora, and her sable genius, Dominique.”
“You never travel far without your black attendant,” I remarked.
“He never leaves us; and for twenty years, amidst all its storm and sunshine, he has followed my fortunes with devoted fidelity. Next to that of my child, the greatest loss Heaven could inflict would be to take from me that faithful negro. He comes.—Show Mr. O’Halloran down stairs.—Once more, good night.” He shook me warmly by the hand. “One word more, friend Hector,” he added with a smile; “you need not lose time in a visit to Jermyn-street—the birds have flown!”
It was past midnight, if you could believe the watchman; and as I walked slowly westward, and thought on the events of the few last hours, I doubted their actual reality. The strange and quick succession in which they followed, seemed like the wanderings of a dream. A second time had I been delivered from a critical position by a person, two months ago a stranger—and yet one, who appeared to have dropped upon the earth, for the especial purpose of looking after me. I slept—many a vision passed “in shadowy review.”—but one, more brilliant than the rest, was ever before “my mind’s eye.”—Mr. Hartley, the genius of my good fortune, and Isidora, its bright reward.
I have said already, that the destinies of my foster-brother and myself were intimately united. Mark Antony left my father’s house to join me in Dublin—the hand of fate had interposed—and on this eventful night, while I reposed at Stevens’s, my alter ego was “taking his rest” in a back attic, two pair up, in a ramification of the Seven Dials—a safe and agreeable domicile, to which his friend, the ratcatcher, had introduced him. A cheaper lodging might have been certainly obtained; but this was quiet and select. From slates to cellar there were but seven families in the house—“and the beauty of it was,” as Shemus Rhua remarked with triumphant satisfaction, “every soul of them was Irish.”