“Oh! Arthur, you are generous—even to a fault!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “You know—or, at least, I again assure you for the hundredth time, that not for worlds would I heap disgrace on a noble name by daring to assume it! Merciful heavens! shall the coronet which becomes you so well, be snatched from your brows, and transferred to those of——”
“Hush! Thomas—hush! this excitement is most unnecessary,” interrupted the Earl. “You must not blame me for the motives which induced me to keep the documents;—and now—if you will have them restored to you——”
“Yes—yes: give them to me, Arthur,” cried Mr. Hatfield, resolving to destroy the papers without farther delay.
“You claim them—they are yours—and they shall at once be returned into your hands,” said the nobleman. “But I conjure you to act not hastily nor rashly——”
“Fear nothing, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “but give me the papers! There is no time to lose—the ladies will be waiting for us at the breakfast-table——”
“True!” ejaculated the Earl: and, approaching that shelf at the back of which the secret recess was formed, he said, “Once every year have I inspected this well concealed depository: once every year have I assured myself that the precious documents were safe;—and on those occasions, I have cleansed them of the dust which even accumulates in a place that is almost hermetically sealed.”
As the Earl thus spoke, he took down from the shelf the books which stood immediately before the recess; and Mr. Hatfield, receiving the volumes in his hands, placed them upon the table. While performing this simple and almost mechanical act, his eyes were suddenly attracted to the name and date of one of the books;—and his looks were rivetted, as it were, on the words—“Annual Register, 1827.”
For the nature of the volume and the date of the year whose incidents it recorded, suddenly revived the poignancy of many bitter recollections, the sharpness of which had been somewhat blunted by time: and it was in a moment of strange nervousness—or idiosyncratic excitement, that he opened the book which thus had aroused those painful memories.
An ejaculation of horror—irrepressible horror—escaped his lips: for he had lighted on the very page which contained the account of his Execution at Horsemonger Lane:—and at the very same instant a cry of mingled amazement and alarm burst from the Earl of Ellingham.
“Oh! is this a mere accident?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “or a warning——”