The Mysteries of London, v. 4/4

by George W. M. Reynolds

We must pause for a few minutes to notice a group occupying the balcony of the drawing-room windows at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. This group consisted of six persons—three gentlemen, and three ladies.

The first of the three gentlemen was a fine, handsome, noble-looking man of about forty-five years of age—with a countenance indicating feelings of the most lofty honour, great generosity, and a splendid intellect. This was the Earl of Ellingham.

Near him stood an old and venerable gentleman, whose years were verging fast to three-score-and-ten, but whose small, restless, sparkling eyes beamed with the fires of genius, and whose compressed lips showed that although he had consented to become a spectator of the gay scene about to take place, his thoughts frequently wandered to subjects of a more serious kind and more congenial to his nature. This was Sir John Lascelles—the most eminent physician of the age, and who had received the honour of knighthood in recompense for the great services which he had rendered to the art of medicine.

The third gentleman was about twenty-five years of age. Tall, handsome, well-formed, and genteel in appearance, he seemed a fit and suitable companion for the lovely girl who leant upon his arm, and of whom we shall speak more fully anon. The fine young man at present alluded to, was called by the name of Charles Hatfield: but in the former portion of this work he was known, when a little boy, to the reader as Charley Watts.

The first of the three ladies was about thirty-seven years of age; and her beauty, in the finest, chastest, and most elevated Hebrew style, was admirably preserved. The lapse of years had only matured her charms, and not impaired them: time had touched not the pearly whiteness of her teeth, nor dimmed the brilliant lustre of her large dark eyes. Her hair was still of the deepest and glossiest jet,—silken and luxuriant, as when we first described it in the fourth chapter of our narrative:—for she of whom we are speaking now, was Esther, Countess of Ellingham.

Conversing with the noble Jewess—for she clung to the faith of her forefathers—was a lady whose style of beauty was of that magnificent and voluptuous kind which sets the beholder at naught in his calculations and conjectures relative to the age of the object of his admiration;—for though forty-four years had passed over the head of Lady Hatfield, she was still endowed with a loveliness that, though matured, seemed to have known only the lapse of summers and never to have passed through the snowy storms of as many winters.

And now we must speak more in detail of that charming girl to whom we alluded ere now, and who was leaning on the arm of Lady Hatfield’s son. Ravishingly beautiful was this young creature of seventeen—with the aquiline countenance of her mother, and the Saxon complexion of her father. Yes—lovely indeed was Lady Frances Ellingham, the only issue of the alliance which took place between the Earl and Esther one year after the murder of Tamar, and consequently eighteen years previous to the period of which we are now writing. Much of the description which we gave of Esther in the opening of our tale, would apply to the charms of her daughter, whose forehead was high, broad, and intelligent,—whose mouth was small, and revealing in smiles teeth white as orient pearls,—whose eyes were large and dark,—and whose figure was tall, sylph-like, and graceful. But Lady Frances Ellingham’s hair, though dark, was several shades less jetty than that of her mother; and her complexion was delicately clear, with a slight tinge of rich carnation appearing beneath the dazzling purity of the skin.

Such was the interesting group of six persons stationed in the balcony of the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion. But while they are awaiting the presence of the illustrious individual who is expected to pass through Pall Mall to the Queen’s levee at St. James’s palace, we will place on record a few short facts that will render less obscure to our readers the interval of nineteen years over which we have thought fit to leap in our narrative.

For a long—long time after the murder of Tamar, Tom Rain appeared inaccessible to consolation: but at last his naturally strong mind and vigorous intellect began to exercise their energies—the former to combat against the deep and depressing sense of affliction—and the latter to teach him the necessity of putting forth all his powers in the struggle, not only on account of the inutility of repinings, but likewise for the sake of those who were interested in him. It was, however, chiefly on the occasion of Lord Ellingham’s marriage with Esther de Medina, that Rainford perceptibly rallied; for it did his generous heart good to behold the happiness of his half-brother. As time wore on, Tom Rain recovered much of his former cheerfulness; and after the lapse of three years from the date of Tamar’s death, he began to listen with attention, if not with interest, to the representations made to him by the Earl, urging him to the performance of a duty which it was now in his power to fulfil. Arthur reminded him of Georgiana Hatfield’s generous conduct in obtaining the royal pardon,—he assured Rainford that her ladyship no longer thought of him with abhorrence and aversion, but would cheerfully bestow her hand on the father of her child,—and the nobleman moreover advised the alliance on the ground that the boy would then dwell with both his parents. The death of Mr. de Medina, which happened about that time, delayed the negociations thus commenced; but at the expiration of a year the proposal was revived, and the necessary arrangements were speedily adjusted. In fine, it was settled that Rainford should abandon the name by which he had hitherto been known, and assume that of Hatfield,—that the boy should be thenceforth called in the same manner, but should be brought up in the belief that he was Rainford’s nephew,—and that after the marriage, which was to be solemnized in the most private manner possible, the wedded pair should proceed to the continent, and there reside for some years. All these arrangements were duly carried out. Rainford—whom we shall henceforth call by his wife’s name—became the husband of Lady Georgiana Hatfield;—and, taking with them their child, who was represented to be their nephew, they forthwith repaired to Italy, where they dwelt for nearly fifteen years. Thus, on their return to London, only a few weeks before the date up to which we have now brought the incidents of our tale, all the stirring circumstances once associated with the name of Tom Rain were pretty well forgotten; and none, save those few who were in the secret, suspected that the pleasant, gentlemanly, good-natured Mr. Hatfield was identical with the individual who nineteen years previously had filled all England with his fame.

While we have been thus digressing, the sensation amongst the crowds in Pall Mall has increased;—for the carriages of several eminent or illustrious personages have passed along in their way to the royal levee.