The Mysteries of London, Vol. IV — page 73: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

66 re te THE MYSTERISS OF LONDON. 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 vour hospitality.” “Ah! awoman as old as myself doubtless?” ex- claimed 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 pre- gent: my people have gone toashort distance—on business of their own—but thaz is of no matter to you. Young woman,” she continued, addressing herself to Terdita, “you are strong and active: I was ones 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 n manner that the wanderers were both im- pressed with the idea that sho must be in her dotage; and the rapid look of intelligence which passed between mother and daughter, showed that they had simul- tancously entertained the same idea. Verdita, how- ever, hastened to obey tho 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 con- tained. While the two wanderers were thus employed, the old gipsy began rocking herself to and fro, and utter- mg her thoughts aloud. First she addressed herself to her guests: then, by degrees forgetting their presence, aud becoming more and more enshrouded in the mists of her own failing mind, she still continued her mus- ngs in an audible tone. An old woman and a young one—eh?—then you are doubtless mother and daughter? Ah! J wish that I had a daughter so comely tu 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 manties your cheeks: but do not take offence. “I'were a eorry 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 com- panions are they at times, J can assure you. Let ine oee—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 Earlof Ellingham. Ido not mean this present Earl: —no—no—'t was the late Earl The child had a peculiar mark on the right arm: "twas near the shoulder. Then J 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 adupted it as my own. For seven years did] retain the bev 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. On! how Y regretted that dear, flaxen-headed boy! me he was dead—and I mourned for him. 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. fine, dashing, jovial, rollicking man ;—ves—and, woe is me—a highway robber!” They told Years Boy! no—no—i¢ was a man—a By this time the two wanderers, who had not lost a single word of all that the gipsy crone was thus utter- ing 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 herown and her daughter’s advantage. “Yoes—yes,” continued the old gipsy, “we met in Wampshire—and circumstances revealed him to me. The mark on the arm then proved that it was indeed he! pressed 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! tricd—you were cast for death—and you were hanged on the roof of Horsemonger Lane gaol. I told him the history of his birth—and he ex- You were captured — you were Yes—I saw it all with my own cyes: for Iwas amidst the crowd —drawn thither by God alone can tell what strange infatuation! And if in the decp anguish that rent my heart, there was a single gleam of joy—a singlo leam, however faint—’t was to mark how boldly you 4 nae died, my brave Tom Rain! Died—died!” exclaimed the old gipsy, now speaking with thrilling emphasis: “no—no—you did not diel 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 belict. 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—IJ have thought of thee—aye, and wept bitterly, bitterly. But—am I dreaming—am I becoming crazy ? —or is it indeed true that ten davs ago, when in London, I saw thee—yes, thee—alive and in the full enjoyment of health and wealth? Ah! I recelleci— ‘twas not a dream: no—no—I saw thee,—ane J re cognised thee, too, disguised though thou wert. For not even the hair dyed black—nor the changeeffected by time—nor the plain and unassuming garo,—no— naught could deceive me, Tom Rain, in respect to you! I beheld you in a carriage, with your half-brother tha Earl of Ellingham, and with a fine young man whoso countenance was of gloricus beauty.” These words suddenly made Perdita as attentive and interested a listener as her mother, beth having by this time finished their hearty meal. ne “Yes—a young man divinely handsome,” continued the gipsy-crone, rocking herself to and fro; “witha countenance that would ensnare any young female heart! snd Imade enquiries—and I learnt that my Tom Rain was now Mr. Hatfield, and that this young econmlelooolks (SO)