But in the next moment he reflected that no trace of an untimely or mysterious visit to that library must remain,—that none must suspect his pryings or his researches: for not for worlds—no, not for worlds—would he have his father or mother know that he had made the discoveries which characterised this memorable night! He accordingly rose from his seat—raised the volume from the floor—and turned to the book-case to replace it.
This act, so simple in itself, was destined to lead to a circumstance thenceforth influencing the entire destiny of Charles Hatfield: for as he thrust the volume back into the place on the shelf whence he had taken it, he heard a sharp abrupt sound, like the click of a lock.
He was in that humour when every incident, however trivial, was calculated to assume an importance in his imagination; and, standing on a chair, he proceeded to examine the wainscotting at the back of the shelves—for which purpose he removed several of the books. To his surprise, he observed a small aperture formed by the opening of a sliding panel, and which revealed a recess in the wall of about a foot square,—the violence with which, in his excitement, he had thrust the book on the shelf, having acted on the secret spring whereby the panel was fastened.
Under ordinary circumstances, Charles Hatfield would have immediately closed the recess, in which he beheld a small leathern case and a packet of letters,—in the same way as he would have abstained from reading a manuscript lying on a desk or evidently left about through inadvertence. But, on the present occasion, he was not his own master:—his honourable feelings were triumphed over by emotions of the most painful nature;—and it was impossible, in this state of mind, that he should avoid catching at any circumstance savouring of mystery,—every such circumstance apparently linking itself with his own concerns.
Thus, obedient to an impulse which he could not controul, he seized the leathern case and the documents as if they were a glorious prize; and, returning to his seat, proceeded to examine them.
The leathern case contained a roll of letters, and other documents tied round with a piece of riband so faded that it was impossible to determine what its colour might have originally been. The writing in the papers was, however, still completely legible—the leathern case, and the total absence of damp in the little recess, having preserved them for a period of half a century!
Wrapped round the roll of papers in the case, was a letter, addressed to the Earl of Ellingham; and it instantaneously struck Charles that it was in the handwriting of his father—Mr. Hatfield! By the comparative darkness of the ink, it was of a far more recent period than the documents which it accompanied;—but the precise time when it was written did not immediately appear, no date being attached to it.
Without pausing to reflect upon the impropriety of violating the sanctity of correspondence concealed with so much precaution in a secret recess,—but carried away by the influence of those feelings which we have above attempted to describe,—Charles Hatfield devoured the contents of this letter; and though they are already familiar to the reader, yet for the purposes of our narrative we quote them again:—
“I have sent you the papers, my dear brother—for so I shall make bold to call you still,—to convince you that I did not forge an idle tale when we met last. Whatever your motive for abandoning me in my last hour may be, I entertain no ill feeling towards you: on the contrary, I hope that God may prosper you, and give you long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility of dispute.
“I had promised to leave behind me a written narrative of my chequered and eventful history for your perusal: but—need I explain wherefore I have not fulfilled this promise?
“T. R.”
“His brother—his dear brother!” gasped Charles Hatfield, as the letter dropped from his hands; but his eyes remained intently fixed upon it: “his brother!” he repeated. “My God! then am I the nephew of the Earl of Ellingham?—am I the cousin of Lady Frances, whom I already love so well? But——gracious heavens!” he ejaculated, as another and still more thrilling idea flashed to his mind: “if Mr. Hatfield be indeed the brother of the Earl of Ellingham—as he assuredly is,—then is he the elder brother! And if the elder brother, he himself should be the bearer of the title—and I—I should be a Viscount! But—ah! perhaps my father is the illegitimate offspring of the late Earl—and that this is the reason wherefore the family honours and estates have devolved upon the younger brother! And yet—what mean these words?—‘give you long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility of dispute!’ Oh! here again is some dreadful mystery: just heavens! what a fated—doomed family is ours! Doubt—uncertainty—secrecy characterise all its history:—at least the experience of the last two days would lead me so to believe!”