The night on which Charles Hatfield made the important discoveries detailed in the preceding chapter, was marked by other events of a scarcely less interesting nature.

It was about eleven o’clock—the weather was intensely warm—and not a breath of air agitated the foliage on the way-side, as two females toiled slowly and painfully along the high road between Dartford and Shooter’s Hill.

One was a hideous old harridan whose years could not have been less than sixty-two or sixty-three; and yet, though her form—once tall, symmetrical, and on a large scale—was bowed with age and sufferings, she still possessed considerable physical energy. The countenance was weather-beaten and tanned to such an extreme that, had she been dressed in male attire, no delicacy nor feminine cast of features would have betrayed her real sex: her short grizzled locks were confined by an old kerchief wound round her head in a gipsy fashion;—and her garb denoted the utmost penury and distress. Not only did she leave upon the mind the disagreeable impression of revolting ugliness;—but her look was sinister and repulsive. The wrinkles beneath her eyes and about her closely compressed lips, bespoke a ferocious and determined character,—a soul resolute and nerved to every evil purpose;—and the acute observer might also mark in that countenance traces of those stormy and impetuous passions which had influenced her earlier years.

Her companion was a young woman of about nineteen; and though she was dressed almost as wretchedly as the old harridan, yet how different was the form which those rags covered! For her figure, though full even to a maturity beyond her years, was exquisitely modelled,—a waist not ridiculously small, but still small enough to develop in all their voluptuous proportions the swelling hips and fine bust. Clothed in stockings covered with darns, and shod with large clumsy shoes, were limbs and feet that for symmetry might have been envied by a queen;—and, as if anxious in the depths of her penury to preserve her charms as completely as possible, she wore an old pair of gloves upon her beautifully sculptured hands. Then her face, though sun-burnt was of a beauty which event an anchorite must have turned to admire,—yet a beauty of a bold and masculine style, and stamping her rather as a very handsome than as a very lovely woman. Her features were of the Roman cast,—the strong facial aquiline denoting a voluptuous and profoundly sensual disposition;—her fine large grey eyes looked boldly and wantonly from beneath dark brows majestically arched and almost meeting between the temples, and above which rose the high, straight, wide forehead, crowned with intelligence. Her hair was of a dark brown and singularly luxuriant, glossy, and silken;—and it was evident that not even the bitter miseries of poverty rendered her indifferent to the care which that glorious covering required to maintain its splendour unimpaired. Her mouth was small,—the upper lip thin—the lower one fuller, but not pouting;—her teeth, the least thing large, were nevertheless perfectly regular and of pearly whiteness;—and her chin was prominent, but well rounded. The general expression of her countenance was indicative of strong passions and fierce desires—great resolution of purpose—and something approaching even to a resolute sternness of purpose, amounting almost to implacability. She was not above the middle height; and her carriage was more commanding than graceful:—at the same time, it would have struck a beholder that were she attired in a befitting manner, her gait and gestures would have been characterised by nothing positively inelegant.

The reader will perceive that great, in many respects, was the contrast between the mother and daughter—for in such close relationship did the two females stand to each other: but in some points there was a marked resemblance. For instance, the countenances of both indicated strong passions and indomitable resolution;—both were totally devoid of all moral principle, though they could simulate the sanctity of anchorites to suit their purposes or serve their interests;—and both could be implacable enemies, while friendship was a mere name with them at which their lips would curl into a sneer.

In spite of her natural energies and the somewhat substantial remains of physical strength, the old woman dragged herself slowly and painfully along the road towards London; while her daughter exhibited scarcely less evident symptoms of fatigue—approaching almost to total exhaustion.

“Perdita,” said the harridan, suddenly breaking a silence that had been of long duration,—“Perdita,” she repeated, “we cannot reach London this night: it will be impossible,—I feel it will be impossible.”

“Then we must lie down by the road-side and perish with hunger,” answered the young woman, who bore, it seemed, the singular Christian name of Perdita.

We have above spoken of contrasts and resemblances in respect to these two females, who are destined to play no unimportant part in the forthcoming chapters of our narrative;—but we must pause to observe that it would be impossible to conceive a greater discrepancy in tones than that which marked the voices of mother and daughter.

The voice of the old woman was masculine—hoarse—disagreeable—and grating to the ear; and although she spoke the English language with the most grammatical punctuality, and there was nothing positively vulgar in her manner of speech, yet the impression it seemed calculated to produce upon a stranger was singularly unpleasant. On the other hand, the whole sphere of harmony has known nothing more melodious than the voice of Perdita,—a voice which was capable of many modulations, each characterised by a charm peculiar to itself; for whether she were speaking in indignation—or in softness,—in outbursting passion—or in dogged ill-humour,—still were the tones of that voice metallic, rich, and flowing.

“The heartless wretches!” exclaimed the old woman, again breaking an interval of silence,—“to thrust us on shore at Deal with only a shilling in our pockets!”

“This is not the least hardship we have ever endured, mother,” said Perdita, rather in a tone of remonstrance than consolation. “For my part, I have scarcely ever seen any thing but privation and misery——”

“You ungrateful wretch!” ejaculated the harridan, furiously. “When I had but a morsel of bread to give you, did I ever take a portion for myself! For you, Perdita,” she continued, speaking in a milder and even more tender tone,—“for you I have gone through sufferings unknown and unheard of in this country,—for you have I toiled beneath the scorching South Australian sun of summer, and amidst the noisome damps of a South Australian winter! Yes—for years and years have I toiled on—toiled on, that your beauty might not be impaired by want or privation,—at least that you might endure as little want and privation as possible.”

“Well—well,” cried the young woman, somewhat softened by her mother’s words; “don’t let us look back to the past. We are now in England—and you say that we are not many miles from London. Good! We will endeavour to sustain each other’s courage and strength to reach the fine city where you hope to change our rags into silks and satins, and fill our empty pockets with gold.”

“Yes—and you shall see whether I have deceived you, Perdita!” exclaimed the harridan, in a tone partaking of enthusiasm. “Nearly nineteen years have elapsed since I last saw the mighty metropolis; and, unless its people be much changed, there is a fortune to be made by an experienced woman and a beautiful girl, leagued together.”

“And you are the experienced woman, mother?” said Perdita, actually seeking a compliment—for inordinate vanity was amongst her failings.

“Yes—and you are the beautiful girl—and you know it,” returned the old harridan. “Being of accord as we are together, it is impossible that we can fail to accomplish our grand designs. Why was it that I implored you not to accept the offers of marriage which needy settlers made you in New South Wales? Because your charms can command thousands of pounds in London; whereas, in that frightful colony, all you could have hoped to gain was what is termed ‘a comfortable position.’ And to one possessing your notions—your pride—your strong passions—your soaring disposition,—aye, and to one endowed with your loveliness too,—a mere home is not sufficient. You require luxuries—although you have never yet tasted them,—fine clothes—although you have never yet worn them,—a splendid equipage, although you have never yet known the use of one! It was for this that I brought you to England,—it was for this that I besought you to contract no marriage in the colony,—it was for this that I conjured you to abstain from any connexion that might become permanent!”

“I am well aware of your motives, mother,” said Perdita. “In a word,” she added, with a strange mixture of pride and irony, “you considered my beauty to be more marketable in London than in New South Wales. And after all that you have told me of the English people and England’s capital, I am inclined to believe that you have not misled me. But supposing that I contract some splendid marriage in London—that I find my way into the highest circles—and that I become the belle of the great city,—will there not be the constant risk—the ever imminent chance of falling in with the officers of some of those regiments which have returned from Sydney or Botany Bay——”

“I see now that you scarcely understand me—that we do not altogether comprehend each other!” interrupted the old woman, impatiently. “There is no need for you to count only on the chance of making a good match: ’tis indeed far more probable that you may ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family, and fortune,—or some old voluptuary of immense wealth,—and there is more to be gained as the mistress of one of these, than as a wife. Do not marry, Perdita—do not dream of marriage: remain independent—and the moment you have ruined one lover, you can take another. There—that is plain speaking; and now do you comprehend me?”

“Perfectly,” answered the young woman: then, under the influence of the wanton thoughts which rushed to her imagination, she said, “Yes—I comprehend you, and I confess that your views now become more suitable to mine. I could not chain myself to one individual, with any hope of being faithful to him:—love is a passion which will never obtain over me that influence which it so often exercises over the weak, the simple-minded, or the infatuated.”

“Be not too confident on that point, Perdita,” said the old woman. “In Sydney and Botany Bay your amours were only the result of a warm temperament;—for carefully as I watched over you——”

“Now, mother, let us have no moral teachings from your lips!” exclaimed the young woman, in an imperious and authoritative tone; “for had you been so very immaculate yourself, I should never have beheld the light of day, neither would you have passed some eighteen or nineteen years of your life in a penal colony. And such a colony as it is! Why—let a pretty girl be hemmed in by all the precautions which a parent can imagine, circumstances must inevitably lead her astray in South Australia! And you,—you, who know all this so well,—can you wonder if I were seduced at the early age of thirteen, and if from that period until your pardon arrived and we embarked to return home, I have not failed to indulge my fancy without hesitation? On the one side I obeyed your instructions,—I accepted no offer of marriage, and lived with no man permanently as his mistress: but, on the other, I hesitated not to intrigue with the gayest and most dashing officers——”

“Enough! enough!” ejaculated the mother, who, bad as she herself was, felt a cold chill come over her at this open, audacious, and unblushing avowal of her daughter’s depravity,—a depravity that was not however unknown, either in circumstances or extent, to the old woman. “Give me your arm, Perdita—assist me to mount this hill,—for I am ready to drop. There! you are a good girl! Ah! Perdita—I was once young and beautiful as you are now,—well-formed too, and elegant in carriage! I was a lady in every sense of the word—as far as outward appearance and manners went. But now—oh! how altered I am! My toothless mouth was once filled with pearls as white as yours—my bust was as voluptuous and as firm—my figure was as upright—my feet and ankles as delicate—and my step as light! Ah! that was many—many years ago, Perdita!”

“Shall you not be glad, mother, to visit London again?” demanded the young woman.

“Yes—for ’tis the only city in the world where adventuresses like ourselves—beggars, I may say—are certain to succeed. Oh! you have no idea of what a pandemonium is the great metropolis of England!” exclaimed the harridan, with strange emphasis. “’Tis a furnace in which millions of passions, interests, and ideas are ever boiling—boiling madly and as if in rage: ’tis a scene of immense iniquity and of boundless luxury—of wondrous intrigues and ineffable enjoyments.”

“Oh! how I long to plunge headlong into that fine city!” cried Perdita. “It is a vortex that will suit my disposition well.”

“Aye—and play your cards as I shall prompt,” observed her mother; “and you will speedily be the mistress of all the pleasures which London can afford. But, oh! I am ready to drop with weariness—I am dying with hunger and thirst, Perdita: and not a penny have we to purchase a morsel of bread——”

“I see a strong light yonder—there, mother—in that bye-lane,” said the young woman. “Shall we repair in that direction—perhaps it may be a hospitable cottage——”

“No: ’tis a gipsy’s encampment—I can distinguish the cart and the tent,” interrupted the old wretch. “But the gipsy race are good and generous; and they will not refuse us a morsel of bread and a cup of water.”

The two wanderers accordingly proceeded towards the strong light which Perdita had first discovered, and which proved to be, as her mother had surmised, the fire of a gipsy encampment situate in a bye-lane. As they approached, they observed a female form crouching over the blazing faggots, in spite of the intense sultriness of the weather, and apparently watching with attention a huge cauldron that was suspended above the fire in the usual gipsy fashion. When Perdita and her mother drew nearer still, they obtained a more perfect view of that female, whose countenance was thrown out in strong relief by the lurid flame; and they now perceived that she was a very old woman, bent down with the weight of years, but having nothing in her appearance of that weird-like character which so generally marks gipsy women of advanced age. She seemed to be all alone in the encampment at the time;—and her attitude, which had at first struck the wanderers as being that of a person watching the culinary process, now assumed a more thoughtful and serious character.

“Good dame,” said Perdita, “we are sinking with fatigue and famishing through want; and we crave your hospitality.”

“Ah! a woman as old as myself doubtless?” exclaimed the gipsy-crone, surveying Perdita’s mother with attention. “Come—sit down—you are welcome—you are welcome! I am all by myself for the present: my people have gone to a short distance—on business of their own—but that is of no matter to you. Young woman,” she continued, addressing herself to Perdita, “you are strong and active: I was once so myself! Ascend into the cart—you will find wooden bowls and spoons—and help yourselves to the contents of the pot. There will be enough for my people when they come back.”

The old gipsy spoke in so strange—vague—and peculiar a manner that the wanderers were both impressed with the idea that she must be in her dotage; and the rapid look of intelligence which passed between mother and daughter, showed that they had simultaneously entertained the same idea. Perdita, however, hastened to obey the directions which she had received; and, returning with the utensils, she and her mother commenced a hearty meal upon the broth and soddened poultry and meat which the cauldron contained.

While the two wanderers were thus employed, the old gipsy began rocking herself to and fro, and uttering her thoughts aloud. First she addressed herself to her guests: then, by degrees forgetting their presence, and becoming more and more enshrouded in the mists of her own failing mind, she still continued her musings in an audible tone.

“An old woman and a young one—eh?—then you are doubtless mother and daughter? Ah! I wish that I had a daughter so comely to look upon as yourself, my pretty dear;—but I should not like her to be quite so bold in her demeanour as yourself. You are very lovely: and yet methinks you are scarcely as virtuous as you are beautiful. Oh! now the red blood mantles in your cheeks: but do not take offence. ’Twere a sorry deed on my part to offer insult to those who share my hospitality. Yes—I wish that I had a daughter, who would love me in my old age. My own people neglect me: they leave me alone—alone—for many long hours together;—and then I have no other companions but my own thoughts. And strange companions are they at times, I can assure you. Let me see—what was I thinking of when you came up? Oh! I remember now:—yes—I remember now. Fifty years ago—no—it was about forty-nine, I nursed a male child,—the child of Octavia Manners and the Earl of Ellingham. I do not mean this present Earl:—no—no—’twas the late Earl. The child had a peculiar mark on the right arm: ’twas near the shoulder. Then I was turned away by the dead Octavia’s half-brother, Benjamin Bones—a horrible man, who knew no pity. But the child again fell in my way—Egyptia had it in keeping. Ah! I loved that child—I would have adopted it as my own. For seven years did I retain the boy with me—the dear boy, whom methinks I see now. But, the wretches—they sent him away: they lost him in Winchester—cast him off purposely on the wide world. Oh! how I regretted that dear, flaxen-headed boy! They told me he was dead—and I mourned for him. Years and years passed away: heaven only knows how many—I cannot stop to count them now. But it must have been twenty or twenty-one years ago that I met the flaxen-haired boy. Boy! no—no—he was a man—a fine, dashing, jovial, rollicking man;—yes—and, woe is me—a highway robber!”

By this time the two wanderers, who had not lost a single word of all that the gipsy crone was thus uttering aloud in her musings, became interested in the wild, yet still connected history which she was relating,—a history that was revealed by the development of her own thoughts and reminiscences, and which she seemed to experience a “pleasing pain” in reciting. But it was the elder of the two listeners—Perdita’s mother—who paid the deepest and most particular attention to the crone’s audible meditations, and who seemed to experience a presentiment that they were furnishing a subject which might be turned to her own and her daughter’s advantage.

“Yes—yes,” continued the old gipsy, “we met in Hampshire—and circumstances revealed him to me. The mark on the arm then proved that it was indeed he! I told him the history of his birth—and he expressed his intention to visit London and seek to recover from Old Death—that was the villain Benjamin Bones—the money of which he had been plundered. Alas! poor Tom Rain—you went to the great city to meet your doom! You were captured—you were tried—you were cast for death—and you were hanged on the roof of Horsemonger Lane gaol. Yes—I saw it all with my own eyes: for I was amidst the crowd—drawn thither by God alone can tell what strange infatuation! And if in the deep anguish that rent my heart, there was a single gleam of joy—a single gleam, however faint—’twas to mark how boldly you died, my brave Tom Rain! Died—died!” exclaimed the old gipsy, now speaking with thrilling emphasis: “no—no—you did not die! Methought, however, as did the rest of the multitude, that you were indeed no more: and for years—for many years—for nineteen years have I held that same belief. And during that interval, oft—oft have I thought of thee,—thought of thee as once I knew thee, Tom Rain—a flaxen-headed boy, and before thou didst bear that name of Rainford! Yes—I have thought of thee—aye, and wept bitterly, bitterly. But—am I dreaming—am I becoming crazy?—or is it indeed true that ten days ago, when in London, I saw thee—yes, thee—alive and in the full enjoyment of health and wealth? Ah! I recollect—’twas not a dream: no—no—I saw thee,—and I recognised thee, too, disguised though thou wert. For not even the hair dyed black—nor the change effected by time—nor the plain and unassuming garb,—no—naught could deceive me, Tom Rain, in respect to you! I beheld you in a carriage, with your half-brother the Earl of Ellingham, and with a fine young man whose countenance was of glorious beauty.”

These words suddenly made Perdita as attentive and interested a listener as her mother, both having by this time finished their hearty meal.

“Yes—a young man divinely handsome,” continued the gipsy-crone, rocking herself to and fro; “with a countenance that would ensnare any young female heart! And I made enquiries—and I learnt that my Tom Rain was now Mr. Hatfield, and that this young man was his nephew. Oh! I know it was Tom Rain: but how came he thus alive?—by what means was he resuscitated?—who snatched him from the grave? No—no—I am not a drivelling fool—a dreaming idiot, as my people said: I know full well that it was he—I could not be mistaken;—and yet, ’tis impossible to say how he was snatched from death! He is married, too—married to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, whose name he has taken. And they are now all dwelling together at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall. I longed to go thither and tell Tom Rain—no, Mr. Hatfield, I mean—that I had recognised him,—tell him that in me he beheld the Miranda whom he once knew: but my people laughed at me—they told me that I was in my dotage—that I was dreaming,—I, who have intellects as keen as ever—and sight so sharp that I knew my dearly-beloved Tom Rain in spite of his dyed hair and his changed aspect! Then my people forced me away with them;—but they cannot prevent me from thinking of Tom Rain as much and as often as I choose!”

The gipsy-crone ceased; and now she seemed to become suddenly aware again that she was not alone. But not reflecting that she had been speaking aloud the whole time, and that her two guests had overheard every syllable she had uttered, she turned towards them, making some remark of a perfectly indifferent character. It was easy to perceive that the poor old creature was half demented, in spite of her self-gratulation on the keenness of her intellects: but Perdita’s mother was sharp and far-seeing enough to know that many important truths were evidently commingled with the gipsy’s rhapsodical reminiscences.

“You have journeyed far to-day?” said Miranda—for such indeed was the crone’s name.

“Many miles,” replied Perdita’s mother: “but now that we are refreshed through your kindness, we shall push more speedily on to London.”

“Ah! you are taking that pretty child of yours to the great city, which we gipsies abhor and never visit unless on urgent occasions,” observed Miranda. “What is your name, young woman?”

“Perdita,” was the answer.

“Perdita!” repeated the gipsy. “That is a strange name. We have singular names amongst our race: but I never before heard so remarkable a one as that which you bear. What does it mean?”

“Have names any meaning at all?” demanded Perdita’s mother, in a tone of impatience. “But, come, daughter—let us thank this good woman, and be off!”

The gipsy was however again rocking herself to and fro before the fire, and seemed to have relapsed into her profound reverie, save that this time she did not give audible utterance to her musings. She was however so much absorbed in thought that she did not hear the thanks that were tendered by the wanderers, nor mark their departure.