We must now direct attention to Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis. Upon the strength of the handsome pecuniary present made to them by Lord William Trevelyan, the former forthwith dubbed himself Major; and for the first six weeks after this self-bestowed elevation, he was under the disagreeable necessity of thrashing his bosom friend soundly at least once a day for being oblivious of the new rank and calling him Captain. At length he succeeded in completely beating into the head of Frank Curtis that he was really a Major; and when they were seated together of an evening over their whisky-and-water, at some public-house, the gallant Irishman never failed to recount to his companion all the military services he had rendered the State, and all the splendours of his paternal mansion of Blunderbuss Park, Connemara. These statements, though ostensibly addressed to Mr. Frank Curtis, were really intended for the behoof of the frequenters of the parlours where they were enunciated; and the quiet tradesmen into whose ears the flaming narratives were thus dinned, ended by being particularly proud of the acquaintance of Major Gorman O’Blunderbuss. At length, what with succulent dinners at eating-houses and oceans of “potheen” every evening, the sum so liberally given by Lord William Trevelyan came to a termination; and the two friends were one day holding a council of war—or rather sitting in “committee of ways and means”—when a paragraph in the newspaper informed them that Lady Blunt and her son had been upset in a boat during an aquatic excursion at Richmond, and drowned “in spite of all the efforts made by the footman to save them.” Up jumped both the Major and Frank Curtis in ectasies of joy, dissolving themselves as a committee then and there by kicking over the table; and away they sped to the mansion in Jermyn Street. The Intelligence was true: Lady Blunt and her son were no more;—and the stout footman was disconsolate. There was no will; and Frank Curtis accordingly found himself, as if by magic, the heir-at-law to all those possessions from which his uncle had sought to exclude him years ago. The day on which the remains of the deceased lady and her son were consigned to the tomb, was the happiest that Major O’Blunderbuss and his friend had ever passed in their lives: for the gallant officer resolved to make a regular Irish wake of it, and the good “potheen” circulated so rapidly that the assembled mourners alarmed the whole street with their noise and laughter. And a most refreshing spectacle was it when Major O’Blunderbuss, with a view to enhance the hilarity of the scene, kicked the stout footman completely out of the house and tossed his clothes and wages ignominiously from the window. In the course of a few days the two friends paid a visit to Mr. Strongitharms, the celebrated engraver in St. James’s Street, for the purpose of having their cards printed with their armorial bearings on the top; and when Frank blandly directed the shopman who took the order to write down in his book the names of Mr. Curtis and Major O’Bluntherbuss, the latter exclaimed in a tone of mingled indignation and disgust, “Be Jasus! Frank, and your mimory grows worse and worse ivery day: for, be the holy poker-r! and isn’t it Colonel O’Bluntherbuss that I am, the new rank being conferred upon me by her Gracious Majesty for my services in the East Indies?”—The shopman wrote down Colonel O’Blunderbuss accordingly; and as a colonel is the gallant gentleman known at the present day. Reader, if you happen to be passing along Jermyn Street any time in the evening after five o’clock, you will hear such shouts of laughter and peals of merriment issuing from one of the houses, that there can be no mistake as to the identity of that dwelling. We need not tell you the number of the mansion, because you cannot fail to discover where Colonel O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis reside by means of the uproarious sounds that emanate from the front-parlour, in spite of the closed shutters and heavy draperies. And to tell you the truth, the neighbours look upon that house as a complete nuisance; and rents are falling rapidly in the immediate neighbourhood—for quiet old bachelor-gentlemen, families, and even young blades about town, are frightened away from the lodgings that are let in the three or four nearest tenements on either side of the one where the two friends have settled themselves. But these worthies care nothing for the opinion of their neighbours and are deaf to all remonstrances: they lead a jolly life after their own hearts and in their own peculiar fashion—and to witness them in their happy domesticity, a stranger unacquainted with their history could not tell that the house and the fortune both belonged to Frank Curtis, for the Colonel is as much master of both dwelling and purse as his devoted friend.
Although Rosalie, the French lady’s-maid, has not performed a very conspicuous part on the stage of our narrative, we are nevertheless induced to trace her career up to the present time. Compelled to appear as a witness at the Coroner’s Inquest which was holden upon her late master and mistress, she attracted the notice of a young baronet who attended the proceedings through motives of curiosity: and as the overtures which he subsequently made her, were far from displeasing, she accepted them after a due amount of affected hesitation. The baronet was rich, and provided in a sumptuous manner for his mistress. He hired and furnished a house for her accommodation in a fashionable street at the West End—bought her a brougham and pair of handsome bays—took for her use a box at the Opera—and allowed her fifty guineas a month for her domestic expenses. In return for this generosity, she treated him with a capriciousness that would have been intolerable on the part of a sensible man, but which only confirmed the insensate spendthrift’s infatuation. Rosalie’s conduct was a matter of calculation, and not the unavoidable result of a wilful disposition. She knew that she had only to be kind and winning, in order to coax him into any extravagant expenditure which would minister to her enjoyments; and her smiles were thus literally purchased with gold and diamonds. Six months only did the baronet’s fortune stand this wanton devastation; and when he could no longer draw cheques for the sums which she required, she at once accepted the “protection” of an old nobleman who made her very handsome offers, and who was in his dotage. But now mark the wayward inconsistency of this woman’s conduct! The moment she ceased to be dependent upon the baronet, she conceived a violent affection for him—was never happy save when in his society—bestowed upon him two-thirds of the money which she received from the ancient peer—and even stinted herself to supply his extravagances. She never treated him with the slightest indication of caprice—but served him as if she were a purchased slave, and he a Pacha. He gave way to intemperance, and in his drunken freaks would beat and ill-use her. She endured it all without a murmur, so long as he would forgive her when he was sober! At length the old nobleman died one day of indigestion—and Rosalie passed into the keeping of a Bishop. The Right Reverend Father was one of the most staunch supporters of all measures for the better observance of the Sabbath. He hated Sunday trading as something a shade or two worse than wilful murder—and no one declaimed more eloquently than he against the steam-boats plying on the Lord’s Day. He even wished to prevent the railway-trains from running on the Sabbath; and his heart rejoiced when he read in the newspapers that apple-women, orange-girls, and shrimp-boys had been taken into custody for attempting to earn a penny to buy a meal on the “day of rest.” But every Sunday evening this respectable old prelate made it a rule to dine with his mistress—aye, and remain with her too until past twelve at night; and heaven only knows what lying excuses he made to his wife for these intervals of absence. He was, however, far more stingy towards Rosalie than the deceased nobleman; and she accordingly cut him in favour of his Archdeacon, who was as unmitigated an old sinner as himself. Meantime the baronet continued to be the young woman’s real favourite; and when he happened to find himself locked up in the Queen’s Bench Prison, she never failed to visit him every day. Her diamonds—her jewels—her rings—her very watch she pawned to raise the sum necessary to procure his release; although the more his temper grew soured by adversity, the more brutal became his conduct towards her. From the keeping of the Archdeacon, she passed into that of a wealthy tradesman who had a splendid establishment in Regent Street. He likewise had a wife and six children; but he neglected them for the sake of his mistress—and while he grudged the former even common necessaries, he lavished all his gains upon the latter. At length he learnt that Rosalie was constantly visited by the baronet; and he broke off the connexion. No admirer immediately appearing to supply his place, the Frenchwoman wrote a very pretty letter to the Bishop, complimenting him upon his last speech against Sunday-trading, and declaring how much pleasure she should experience if he would honour her with a visit. The invitation was irresistible—the prelate went—and the result was that Rosalie once more became his mistress. The renewal of their connexion has not since been interrupted; and the baronet is still the object of the young woman’s affection—still the recipient of two-thirds of all the money she can obtain—and still the only person in the world who would dare to raise his hand against her.
For nearly a year after his attempted suicide, the Marquis of Delmour lived happily with his wife, the past being buried in oblivion. Lady Delmour devoted herself to her husband as far as her own blighted and crushed affections would permit; and she at least had the supreme felicity of witnessing the unalloyed happiness which was experienced by Lord William Trevelyan and the lovely Agnes, who were united about six months after the reconciliation of the young lady’s parents, the consent of the Lord Chancellor being obtained to sanction the marriage. But in the summer of 1847 the Marquis of Delmour was seized with a sudden and alarming illness; and in spite of the unwearied attentions of Sir John Lascelles and Lady Delmour, the old nobleman succumbed to the tyrant sway of Death. Upwards of a year has elapsed since that event; and we observe by a recent paragraph in the newspapers that the Marchioness has bestowed her hand upon Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
Lord William Trevelyan and Agnes are as happy as mortals can hope to be on earth. Their mode of life is somewhat secluded—for it is in each other’s society that their enjoyment of existence consists. Their charity is unbounded, but bestowed privately and unostentatiously; and although you will never hear the name of Lord William Trevelyan proclaimed from the platform of Exeter Hall, amidst a list of liberal subscribers to Missionary Societies and other legalised swindles and robberies of the same class, yet rest assured that many and many a poor family has reason to bless that good nobleman and his amiable wife.
Timothy Splint, alias Tim the Snammer, continues the occupant of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States: indeed, the property has spread out to an extent which renders the denomination of “estate” the more correct one. Joshua Pedlar and his wife have prospered equally well in Canada; and they are now in possession of a large mercantile establishment at Quebec. Mrs. Bunce is dead: but her husband still resides at Saint Peter’s Port in Guernsey, and earns a very comfortable livelihood. Jeffreys leads a steady, industrious life at Liverpool, where he has became a substantial merchant, and is deservedly respected. Had all these persons been consigned to the horrors of transportation to a penal colony, their redemption from sin would have become an impossibility: but when placed in a condition to earn an honourable independence, even murderers may be put to a better use than hanging them like dogs, or sending them into the midst of a vile community where their example would only produce a deeper demoralisation.
Poor Mr. Bubbleton Styles, having failed in getting up his Railway Company, was compelled to pass through the Insolvents’ Court; and during the eighteen months which have elapsed since that event, he has turned his attention to at least a dozen different occupations. On his discharge from the process of white-washing in Portugal Street, he became a wine-merchant: but finding that this market was completely glutted, he entered the coal and coke trade—with may be a little dealing in slates as a necessary adjunct thereto. This speculation not succeeding “for want of capital,” Mr. Styles turned drysalter—then town-traveller for an ale-brewer—then commission-agent for a house in the woollen line—and then something else. But none of these occupations answering his purpose, and hearing of the good luck which had befallen his friends O’Blunderbuss and Curtis, he put on his last clean shirt and paid them a visit. His reception was not at first very encouraging, inasmuch as the gallant Irishman commenced by knocking him down and bunging up his right eye, for the simple reason that Mr. Styles was unaware of that formidable gentleman’s elevation to the rank of Colonel, and had called him Captain: but when explanations took place, complete harmony was restored; and the worthy Bubbleton, having been made uncommonly drunk by his two friends, received a cheque for a hundred guineas to enable him to begin the world again. He has made the recommencement accordingly, and seems in a fair way to get a living by adhering to one particular occupation instead of having a hundred upon his hands at the same time.
Clarence Villiers and Adelais continue to reside at Brompton. They are well off in a pecuniary point of view; and though the ardent love of their youth has mellowed down into a deep attachment, still are they as happy in each other’s society as they were in those days when the marriage-state was as yet new with them. And often and often, when seated together of an evening, do they speak with never-failing gratitude and regret of poor Tom Rain!
Our readers will doubtless recollect the manuscript which Lord William Trevelyan discovered at the lunatic-asylum in Bethnal Green, and which recorded the experiences of a victim to that detestable system of quackery which the law allows. We may as well observe that in the course of a short tour which the young nobleman and his wife took to the south of France, a few months back, Trevelyan encountered Mr. Macdonald, the author of that lamentable history. This gentleman had completely recovered his mental equilibrium, and was living in a strict but happy seclusion with his Editha and their son. Trevelyan communicated to him the circumstances under which he had found the manuscript, and the motives which had induced him to convey it away from its place of concealment in the mad-house. Macdonald expressed his fervent gratitude for the young nobleman’s generosity; and the papers were consigned to the flames. We will not mention the name of the town where Mr. Macdonald is residing: for, were we guilty of such imprudence, the extortioner would be assuredly sent after him.
We have now to speak of the inmates of Ellingham House. Reader, the family circle there is as happy as the mournful reminiscence of Mr. Hatfield’s sudden death will permit. Charles has become the husband of the beautiful and accomplished Lady Frances; and the youthful pair continue to dwell at the Earl’s mansion. Lady Georgiana is likewise a permanent resident beneath the same roof; and her son amply repays her by his affectionate devotion for any temporary uneasiness or grief which he might have caused her at the lamentable period of his connexion with Perdita. Sir John Lascelles is a frequent visitor at the mansion in Pall Mall; and we need scarcely add that he is always a welcome guest.
The Republic of Castelcicala flourishes under the free institutions which General Markham gave it. It is the Model-State in Europe; and appears to be the solution of a problem whether it is possible for honest rulers, a conscientious legislature, and a democratic system to extirpate poverty from a country, and make an entire people contented, free, and prosperous. There the Rights of Labour are recognised in all the plenitude of industry’s claims: there no man who is willing to work, can possibly starve. Mendicity is unknown throughout the Republic; and when the Castelcicalans read paragraphs translated from the English papers into their own prints, and detailing how men, women, and children die of starvation—aye, and very frequently too—in the British Islands, they say to each other, “It is a hideous mockery to pretend that true freedom has any existence there!”