“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? CHAPTER CXXV. THE PROJECTED RAILWAY COMPANY. It was striking ten by all the clocks at the West End, on the morning of the day following the incidents which have occupied the five preceding chapters, when a cab drove with insane speed along a fashionable street, in that district of the metropolis just alluded to; and having stopped at the door of the best house in the said street, out leapt Mr. Bubbleton Styles, with a large roll of papers in his hand. “I told you that you would not do it by ten o’clock,” said this gentleman, addressing the reproach, accompanied by an angry look, to the cab-man. “Not done it by ten, sir!” exclaimed the astonished and indignant driver: “vy, it’s on’y jest a-finished strikin’ by every blessed clock in this here part o’ the town.” “Just finished striking!” cried Mr. Styles, pulling out his watch: “it’s a minute and a quarter past ten, I tell you. Here’s your fare.” “Two bob, all the vay from Crosby Chambers!” growled the man, turning the money over and over in a discontented fashion in the palm of his hand: “come, come--that von’t jest do, if _you_ please, sir. You promised me three bob if I brought you here by ten----” “And you did not fulfil the bargain,” sharply interrupted Mr. Styles, as he hurried up the steps of the large house and knocked at the door, which was immediately opened by a servant in such a splendid--outrageously splendid livery--that no other indication was required to distinguish the mansion of a _parvenu_--or, in other words, a vulgar upstart. “Is Mr. Podgson at home?” demanded Mr. Styles. “Yes, sir. Walk in, sir. What name, sir?” were the hurried phrases which came from the domestic’s lips.