“One word, father—only one word!” cried Charles. “I have an ardent longing to ask a single question—and yet I dare not—no—I cannot tutor my lips to frame the words——”
“Speak!” said, Mr. Hatfield, emphatically: “I can almost divine the question you hesitate to put to me.”
“Ah! my dear father—I would rather know the truth at once than remain in suspense, a prey to a thousand wild conjectures—the truth regarding one point—and only one!” repeated the young man, in an earnest and imploring tone. “And imagine not,” he continued, speaking with increased warmth and rapidity, “that I should ever look less lovingly or less respectfully upon my dear mother—if——”
“Set that suspicion at rest, my son,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn manner. “Your mother has ever been an angel of innocence and purity! As God is my judge she has never been guilty of weakness or frailty—no—never—never!” he added emphatically.
“And therefore no stigma is upon my birth?” asked Charles, his heart palpitating—or rather fluttering violently, as he awaited the response.
“None!” replied his father, with an effort which was, however, unnoticed by the young man in the excitement of his own feelings.
“God be thanked!” exclaimed he, wringing Mr. Hatfield’s hand in gratitude for this assurance. “And now I seek to learn no more.”
CHAPTER CXXII.
TWO OF THE READER’S OLD FRIENDS.
Bucklersbury—a tortuous street, leading from Cheapside to Walbrook—abounds in dining-rooms, where for fifteen pence the “City man” can procure a meal somewhat on the “cheap and nasty” principle. There’s ten-pence for a plate of meat, cut off a joint—two-pence, a pint of porter—a penny, potatoes—a penny, bread—and a penny the waiter.
The moment a person enters one of these establishments and seats himself at a table, a waiter with a dirty apron to his waist, and a ditto napkin over his arm, rushes up, and gabbles through the bill-of-fare, just in the same rapid and unintelligible manner as an oath is administered to a juryman or a witness in a court of justice.