It was past midnight; and in only one chamber throughout the Earl of Ellingham’s spacious mansion was a light still burning.

In that chamber Charles Hatfield was pacing to and fro—his mind filled with thoughts of so bewildering, exciting, and painful a nature, that he felt the inutility of endeavouring to escape from them by retiring to his couch.

This young man of twenty-five years of age,—so handsome, so intelligent, and with the certainly of inheriting vast riches,—possessing the most brilliant worldly prospects, and knowing himself to be the object of his parents’ devoted affection—entertaining, too, a profound love for the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham, and having every reason to hope that his passion was reciprocated,—this young man, with so many advantages in respect to position, and so many sources of felicity within his view,—Charles Hatfield was restless and unhappy.

The striking incident which had marked the day—the sudden discovery that those whom he had hitherto looked upon as his uncle and his aunt, were in reality his parents,—the assurance which he had received respecting the honour of his mother and the legitimacy of his birth,—then the mysterious fact that his parentage was still to remain a secret to the world,—all these circumstances combined to torment him with doubts and misgivings—to excite his curiosity to a painful degree—and to animate him with an ardent longing to penetrate into all that was so obscure and suspicious.

It was true that he had promised his mother never to question her relative to a subject that might be disagreeable to her;—for the moment, too, he had been satisfied with the assurances of his legitimacy which he had received from the lips of his father. But when he found himself alone in his own bed-chamber—surrounded by the stillness of night—he could no longer check the natural current of his reflections:—the deep silence in which the mansion was enveloped—the secluded position of his apartment—and the slightly romantic turn of his mind,—all united to give an impulse to thoughts which were so intimately associated with subjects of mysterious and strange import.

Then, many circumstances, remembered in connexion with his early boyhood, but until now never before pondered upon with serious attention,—recollections, hitherto vague and disjointed,—gradually assumed a more intelligible aspect to his mental contemplation:—memory exerted herself with all her energy, to fill up blanks and bring vividly forward those reminiscences that until this moment had been like dim and misty vapours floating before the mind’s eye:—he fixed his gaze intently on the past, until the feeblest glimmerings assumed a bolder and more comprehensible light;—and by degrees the confusion of his ideas relative to his early being, yielded to something like order—so that he became enabled to fit incidents into their proper places, and even make some accurate calculations with regard to the dates of particular occurrences.

In a word, a light had streamed in upon his soul—illuminating many of the hitherto unexplored cells of his memory,—giving significancy to recollections on which he had never before paused to ponder, and investing with importance various reminiscences that had not until this period engaged his serious attention.

Naturally of a happy—cheerful disposition,—and intent on soaring aspirations relative to the future, rather than on speculations and wanderings connected with the past,—he had never until now been struck with certain facts which, though having a dwelling-place in his memory, had failed to occupy his meditations or excite any thing like suspicions in his mind.

But the incident of the day had set him to work, in the silence of his chamber and the depth of night, to call forth all those sleeping reminiscences—examine them one by one—connect them together—make them up as well as he could into a continuous history—and from the aggregate deduce a variety of truths intimately regarding himself.

All this was not done through any disrespect for his mother or his father—any change of fueling in reference to them. No:—he loved them the more tenderly—the more fervently, now that he knew they were his parents, and not mere relations. But if he fell into the train of thought in which we now find him engaged, it was that he could no more help yielding to that current of reflections than a child could avoid being carried whirlingly along the rapids of the Canadian stream which had engulphed it.

And now let us see into what connected form the meditations and recollections of Charles Hatfield had settled themselves?

Seating himself at the table, on which he leant his elbows, and supporting his head on his hands, in which he buried his face, he pondered in the ensuing manner:—

“My earliest remembrances carry me back to a period when I must have been about five years old; and then I was accustomed to call a good woman whose name was Watts, my mother. But she died—I forget precisely under what circumstances; and then, when I was nearly six, I was taken care of by a gentleman named Rainford. Yes—and he had a beautiful wife named Tamar;—and this Tamar was the sister of the Countess of Ellingham. Mr. Rainford and Tamar were very kind to me, I remember well; but I was not with them long. And now there is so much confusion in my thoughts—so much bewilderment in my reminiscences touching that particular period in my life, that I scarcely know how to render my ideas continuously accurate. I fully recollect, however, that he whom I grew accustomed to call by the endearing name of ‘father’ although I knew that he was not my father—I mean this Mr. Rainford,—I recollect, I say, that he was absent for some weeks, and that I pined after him. Then Tamar would reassure me with promises of his return—but I remember that she used to weep very much—oh! very much! One day she put on black clothes—and she was going to dress me in mourning also; but she cried bitterly, and threw the dark garments away. Next I recollect being taken to the house of Mr. de Medina, where I saw Esther for the first time—that Esther who is now Countess of Ellingham. The happiness I experienced that day dwells in my mind; for I recollect as well as if it were but yesterday, that all Tamar’s sorrow had suddenly disappeared, and that she gave me the most earnest promises that I should soon see Mr. Rainford again.2 And I did behold him again soon—but it was at some town in France, whither I was taken by Mr. de Medina and his two daughters.3 Then we all travelled in a post-chaise and four—and we repaired to Paris, where I remember that the Earl of Ellingham and Jacob Smith joined us.4 Next we went to Havre-de-Grace—I remember it was that town, because I have seen it since; and there Mr. de Medina, Esther, and the Earl of Ellingham left us—Mr. Rainford, Tamar, Jacob Smith, and myself going on board of a ship.5 We were not very long at sea, but the next incident which I remember was travelling alone with Tamar to London, where we took up our abode at the country-seat of Mr. de Medina.6 That was at Finchley. We never went out, I remember—but kept close to our own room, Esther and Mr. de Medina frequently visiting us. How long we lived in this manner I cannot recollect: but now my mind settles with horror on the never-to-be-forgotten lamentation which, child as I was, struck horror to my soul as it echoed through the dwelling! For Mr. de Medina and Esther had suddenly learnt that Tamar—the good, kind Tamar—who had been absent a considerable time that day, was foully and brutally murdered. Oh! how I cried—how bitterly I wept: but if I asked any questions—which I must naturally suppose that I did—they were not answered, or were answered vaguely. Yes—all particulars were carefully kept from me;—and this was doubtless nothing more than a mere matter of prudence—for I was but a child of between six and seven! Mr. Rainford now came back to live at Finchley; but how unhappy he was! I remember well one evening—a very few days only after the dreadful death of her whom I was wont to call ‘my mamma’—that Mr. Rainford, after a long conversation in whispers with Lord Ellingham, suddenly turned towards me—caught me up in his arms—and covered me with kisses. Yes—that incident has ever remained indelibly impressed upon my memory!7 It was followed very soon by Tamar’s funeral; and almost immediately afterwards I was sent to a school at a great distance—for I remember that Mr. de Medina and Esther themselves took me there, and that we travelled all day in a post-chaise. Ah! and now I recollect too—yes—it flashes to my mind, that before they left me they charged me never to mention the name of Rainford at the school;—for my own name was at that time Charles Watts. For three years did I remain there, Mr. de Medina and Esther frequently visiting me, even after she had become the Countess of Ellingham. Every six months I went home to Finchley for the holidays, and found Mr. Rainford always staying at Mr. de Medina’s house, and always ready to receive me with kindness. Then Mr. de Medina died; and we all went into mourning for him. I returned to school for another year; and when between ten and eleven I was suddenly sent for home—that is, to the manor-house at Finchley, which Mr. Rainford had continued to occupy after Mr. de Medina’s death. But instead of meeting Mr. Rainford, as I had expected, I was taken into the presence of a gentleman and a lady, neither of whom I had ever beheld before. These were Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana!”

Here the young man paused in his meditations, as if to fix all his powers of thought with as much intensity as possible upon that era of his life whence dated at it were a new existence. But his ideas came rushing in upon his soul with such overwhelming force, as literally to hurry him along; and, obedient to the current of continuous and self-linking reflections, he thus proceeded in that silent history which he was repeating to himself:—

“And what were my first impressions on entering into the presence of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana? I scarcely know now—for I remember that the lady snatched me to her bosom—folded me in a fond embrace—covered me with kisses—and even wept over me. It was the first time I had ever seen her, to my recollection. Mr. Hatfield then embraced me in his turn, and with as much fervour as if he had been the Mr. Rainford whom I had expected to meet and to behold! I was then, as I just now reckoned, between ten and eleven when all this happened; and it struck me—I recollect it well—that there was a considerable likeness between Mr. Rainford and Mr. Hatfield:—but then Mr. Rainford had light hair, and Mr. Hatfield black,—Mr. Rainford had reddish whiskers, and those of Mr. Hatfield were dark as jet. Yes: those were my ideas at the time; but I suppose that they were the offspring of a delusion. Nevertheless, when I call to mind the features of that Mr. Rainford who was so good to me in my infancy, it even seems now that I can recollect a resemblance between them and the countenance of my own father such as it now is. Still, this is most probably mere fancy;—and I wish to arrive at truths, not indulge in idle speculations. Well, then—to go back to that interview,—that first interview between myself and those who have since turned out to be my parents,—I can call to mind each look they bestowed upon me—each word they uttered. They told me that they were my uncle and my aunt—that they were rich, and intended to have me to live with them altogether thenceforth, and be recognised as their heir—that Mr. Rainford had gone upon a long, long voyage to settle in a far-off land, whence perhaps he should never return—and that they would supply the place of the parents whom I had lost in my infancy and of the generous friend who had thus quitted his native shores for ever! There was so much in the voice—manner—and language of Mr. Hatfield which reminded me of Mr. Rainford, that this circumstance materially consoled me for the deprivation of my long-loved protector; and I was moreover just at that age when kindness, handsome clothes, indulgence, and the change of scene which immediately followed, were fully calculated to attach me to those who gave me so many enjoyments. Thus, I am afraid that I was ungrateful to the memory of Mr. Rainford—by loving Mr. Hatfield too soon and too well,—for I could not then suspect that he was my father;—no—nor did I ever until the truth burst so suddenly on me this day! But, ah! it was nature which prompted that feeling;—and I remember well how joyous and happy I was when told, on the occasion of that first interview, that thenceforth I must bear the name of Hatfield!”

Here he paused again, as if in doubt whether he had omitted any detail, reminiscence, or incident which should constitute a link in the narrative that he was endeavouring, in his progressive thoughts, to render as complete as possible;—and solemnly—profoundly interesting would it have been for a human observer, himself unobserved, to have contemplated that fine and handsome young man, thus devoting the hours when others slept to the task of tracing, by memorial efforts, his career from the days of infancy to the present moment! But no eye beheld him save that of Him who beholdeth all things, and who sleepeth never!

“Scarcely had I thus been taken into the care of Mr. and Lady Georgiana Hatfield,”—it was thus he proceeded in his continuous meditations,—“when we repaired to the Continent. Having travelled through France, we crossed the Alps, and entered the delicious land of Italy. The Sardinian States were traversed by us in that leisurely manner which allowed us to view every thing worthy of inspection;—for some weeks we stayed at Florence, the capital of the beauteous Grand Duchy of Tuscany;—thence we journeyed to Rome,—and for several months did we sojourn in the Eternal City. But the health of a young man who was with us, and whose name was Jacob Smith, required a change of climate. Mr. Hatfield was deeply attached to this youth, who, on his side, treated my father with the utmost deference and devotedness. The Roman physicians recommended the genial air of Montoni; and we accordingly removed to the sovereign city of Castelcicala. But Jacob Smith appeared to have some secret sorrow preying upon him; and he pined away before our very eyes. Yes—he had a secret source of grief: for I remember well now, that one night he uttered dreadful screams and ejaculations in his sleep, which awoke and alarmed me—for I slept in the next room to him. I recollect that I rushed in, fearful lest his chamber had caught on fire; and that before I could arouse him, he shrieked forth in thrilling tones—‘Old Death—Benjamin Bones—my father! No—no!’—Poor fellow, he died soon afterwards; and I wept much—for he was always kind and good to me! But that ejaculation of ‘Old Death—Benjamin Bones!’ even then seemed to touch some chord within my soul, as if awaking a long dormant but vague reminiscence: and now again, that name of Benjamin Bones—that frightful appellation of Old Death,—Oh! they do not seem so unfamiliar to me as if I had never heard them mentioned but that once, and by the lips of Jacob Smith. Were not those names, in fact, in some way associated with recollections of a much earlier date? Did I never hear those names pronounced in my earliest boyhood? It appears to me that I did; and yet I vainly—oh! how vainly endeavour to plunge my eager glances through the mist—the dense, dark mist, which envelopes that idea,—reducing the thought to a suspicion so dim and vague that I dare not adopt it as a link in this history of mine! And yet why does the name of Old Death produce a kind of shuddering within me, as if the influence of a very early recollection still partially remained? Wherefore does the appellation of Benjamin Bones seem more familiar to me, than I can possibly conceive a reason for? There are moments when I appear to obtain the least glimmering—the least scintillation of a light at the remote profundity of this mystery,—a light which for an instant seems to promise an elucidation of all I wish to know in that respect, and then becomes suddenly extinguished—leaving me in a deeper and darker uncertainty than before!”

Charles Hatfield pressed his hands violently to his forehead, as if to awaken recollections that slumbered too soundly to be otherwise aroused: but he could not conjure up nor evoke a single idea that was calculated to throw any light on the obscurity which enveloped every thing in his mind respecting the two names, the utterance whereof thrilled to his very soul.

“What means that horrible phrase—Old Death?” he asked himself a hundred times: “and is it in any way connected with the name of Benjamin Bones? Is the phrase a name itself likewise? and if so, are Old Death and Benjamin Bones one and the same person? Why should those names produce upon me a disagreeable effect, as if I suddenly came in contact with a loathsome snake? I know not:—and yet it is so! The more I ponder upon that night when poor Jacob Smith shrieked out in his sleep—the more vivid do my recollections become concerning the horror that convulsed him, and the piercing—tense anguish which marked his tone! Oh! then, there must have been something dreadful—appalling—terrible in the associations which the names of Old Death and Benjamin Bones conjured up in the young man’s mind at the time; and this Benjamin Bones must have been a bad—a very bad person. But wherefore do I say ‘must have been?’ May he not be alive now? In a word—what do I know of him? Nothing! nothing! And yet—and yet, something seems to tell me that I did know more of him once than I do now! Perhaps, when I was a child, I heard evil things said of him,—things which have long since fled from my mind, leaving only a general and very faint impression behind—and that impression unfavourable to the object of it. Let me not then dwell longer on this point of my narrative—that narrative which I seek to compile from the myriads of ideas that until this night have been all scattered in my brain—never concentrated and reduced to order until now! Yes—from that chaos of memories, I have succeeded in rescuing reminiscences and thoughts sufficient to form a somewhat continuous and connected history;—and heaven must guide me, if its will so be, sooner or later to clear up all that is still obscure, and gratify my craving—ardent curiosity unto the fullest extent! But wherefore am I devoured with this burning desire to know all that there may be to know relative to myself? Alas! ’tis in my nature: the incident of the day just past has suddenly aroused that curiosity within me—for I feel, I have an innate conviction that there is a mystery attached to my birth, the elucidation of which must some day or another have a powerful influence upon my destinies! And oh! if it should prove that I am pursuing investigations which must end in stamping me with the stigma of illegitimacy, and bringing to light the dishonour of my mother——But, no—no! this cannot be! My father would not otherwise have given me the solemn assurance that my mother is an angel of innocence and purity, and never has been guilty of weakness or frailty!”

Again he paused: and now he arose from his seat, and paced the room for several minutes—agitated by the fear that he was militating against the wishes, or perhaps even the interests, of kind parents, by venturing to give full rein to the impetuous curiosity that had seized upon him. And yet—as ere now observed—he could not restrain the ardour of that sentiment, which, more powerful than himself, engulphed him in its onward, eddying influence.

Resuming his seat,—resuming likewise his meditative attitude,—and with his countenance again buried in his hands,—the young man took up the chain of his thoughts from that point where he had suddenly broken off to reflect on the secret and mysterious influence which the words Old Death and Benjamin Bones produced upon him.

“I reached in my mental narrative that epoch when poor Jacob Smith died. I was then about thirteen—a little more than thirteen; and I mourned sincerely for him. Frequently did I visit his grave in the beautiful cemetery where he was buried; and often—often as I wandered on the bank of the clear and broad Ferretti, down to whose chrystal margin that cemetery stretched,—often did I marvel who that departed youth was—and what secret tie might have linked him to Mr. Hatfield! Years passed rapidly away,—years unmarked by any incident on which my mind need pause to ponder: I grew up—happy, gay, and seldom thinking of the past. The bright and shining future—decked with all the glorious and golden hues which a sanguine imagination could devise—was ever the topic of my thoughts. Oh! well do I recollect that when between eighteen and nineteen years of age, I began to comprehend the affairs of the great world—to study well the political condition of nations—and to observe that the State of Castelcicala languished under the tyranny of the Grand Duke Angelo. Then I longed to become a hero—to have an army at my command—to achieve the independence, not only of Castelcicala, but of all Italy. These aspirations continued until I became an enthusiast in the cause of freedom; and though of English birth, yet deeply—sincerely did I sympathise with the generous-hearted Castelcicalans, when the treachery and despotism of the Grand Duke Angelo called a mighty Austrian army into the State, to besiege and overawe the capital! But Providence suddenly sent a champion to rescue a fine country and a noble people from the power of the invaders. No Castelcicalan native—no Italian patriot watched the career of Richard Markham with so much anxiety, such burning hope, and such deep suspense as I! When I heard those persons who were his best-wishers in their hearts, shake their heads and declare that the Constitutional Cause could not possibly succeed with so youthful a leader and such slender resources, I thought otherwise:—yes—I thought otherwise—because I wished otherwise. Then as victory after victory marked the progress of the hero—Estella, Piacere, and Abrantani giving their names to the triumphs of the Constitutional Army,—I longed—Oh! I longed to fly into the presence of the conqueror, and implore him to permit me to wield a sword in the same cause. But we were then prisoners as it were within the walls of Montoni, which was besieged by the Austrians; and while all was dismay—confusion—and terror around, I alone seemed to entertain a conviction as to the result. Nor was I mistaken: the Constitutional Army, under the command of Richard Markham, advanced to raise the siege—and beneath the walls of Montoni was fought the most sanguinary action of modern times. From morning’s dawn till the evening, lasted that terrific encounter;—but at eight o’clock on that evening the capital was delivered. Yet why should I now dwell on all these incidents,—why detail to myself all that followed?—the flight of the Grand Duke Angelo—the accession of Alberto to the ducal throne—and the subsequent arrival of Richard Markham, then Prince of Montoni, to settle with his lovely wife, the Princess Isabella, in the capital of the State which owed so much to him! Never—never shall I forget the exuberant joy which greeted his return to Montoni; and to render that day the more remarkable, the Grand Duke, his father-in-law, had convoked for the first time the Chambers of Senators and Deputies, instituted by the new Constitution previously promulgated! And the first act of those Chambers was to recognise the Prince as heir-apparent to the throne; while the Grand Duke appointed him Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army—that army which he had led to conquest and to glory! It was a joyous and a memorable day for me when Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana, having left their cards at the palace, received an invitation to a ball given by the Grand Duke and Duchess to celebrate the arrival of their son-in-law and beauteous daughter;—for I was permitted to accompany those whom I at that time believed to be my uncle and my aunt. Then did I find myself in the presence of Royalty for the first time; and I was agreeably disappointed and surprised to discover that condescension, affability, and great kindness of manner were fully compatible with the loftiest rank,—for such was the bearing of the Grand Duke Alberto and his Duchess, as well as of the Prince and Princess of Montoni. From that time forth I have become almost a worshipper of his Royal Highness the Prince,—an enthusiastic admirer of his genius, his character, and his glorious achievements:—to me he appears unrivalled as a warrior, faultless as a statesman, and estimable as a man,—endowed with every virtue—every qualification that can ennoble him not only as an individual who created rank and honours for himself by his high merits, but who is also the most splendid specimen of Nature’s aristocracy that the world has ever yet seen!”

The young man raised his head as he reached this climax in his thoughts; and as the light of the lamp beamed upon his countenance, it was reflected in eyes brilliant with enthusiasm and with the glow excited by a heart swelling with the loftiest aspirations.

“Oh! shall I ever be able to raise myself to eminence?” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together, as if in earnest appeal to heaven: “may I hope ever to make for myself a name which the whole world shall pronounce with respect and admiration? But first—first,” he continued, still speaking aloud and in an excited tone,—“I must satisfy this ardent curiosity which has seized upon me! Wherefore all these dreadful mysteries?—wherefore do not my parents acknowledge me as their son, if I be really legitimate?—why am I still to pass as their nephew? Are they ashamed of me?—have I ever done aught to bring disgrace upon their name? No—no: and they gave me that name—their own name of Hatfield, and of their own accord! But who was the good woman, Sarah Watts, that I used to call by the title of mother?—why was I entrusted in my infancy to her care?—for what motive was it that my parents never took charge of me until I was upwards of ten years of age?—and who was that kind and generous Mr. Rainford that I loved so much, and whom I have not now heard of for many long—long years? Oh! I must find the solutions of all these mysteries—the answers to all these questions! Yes:—whatever be the result,—whatever be the consequences, I must tear away the veil which conceals so much of the past from my view!”

Charles Hatfield rose from his chair as he pronounced these last words with strong emphasis; and, beginning to pace the room in an agitated manner, he was repeating his impassioned determination to clear up all that was at present obscure and dark, when a remorse struck to his soul—producing a sensation that made him reel and stagger!

For had not he said to Lady Georgiana but a few hours previously—“I now know that you art my mother—and I care to know nothing more! Never—never shall I question you concerning the past: the enjoyment of the present, and the hope which gilds the future—these are enough for me!”

And had not he said to his sire—“By what right do I dare to question the conduct of parents who have ever treated me to kindly? No—my dear father—I seek not any explanation at your hands—I am content to obey your wishes in all things.”

Charles Hatfield was a young man of fine principles and noble feelings; and the solemn nature of those assurances, striking with suddenness and force upon his mind, filled him with bitter regret that he should have ever thought of violating such sacred pledges.

“No—no!” he exclaimed in an impassioned manner,—“I will not play so vile a part towards my parents—I will not render myself so little in my own estimation! Let me endeavour, rather, to fly from my thoughts—to crush, subdue, stifle this wicked curiosity which has seized upon me—let me indeed be contented with the happiness of the present and the hopes of the future, and not seek to tear away the veil that conceals the past! The secrets of my parents must be solemnly preserved from violation by my profane hands:—how dare I—presumptuous and wilful young man that I am,—how dare I institute a search into the private matters and histories of the authors of my being?”

Then—enraged and indignant with himself, in one sense, and satisfied with the timeous decision to which he had come in another—Charles Hatfield hastened to retire to his bed, where the exhaustion and fatigue of long and painful thought soon sealed his eyelids in slumber.

But will he succeed in crushing the sentiments of curiosity which have been awakened within him?—or is he already preparing the way, by this night’s long meditation, for a vast amount of sorrow to fall upon and be endured by many?