The Disowned Part 49

The old steward sat silent and aghast. At that instant his wife entered, with a message of chiding at the lateness of the hour upon her lip, but she started back when she saw Clarence's profile, as he stood leaning against the wall.

"Good heavens!" cried she, "is it, is it,--yes, it is my young master, my own foster-son!"

Rightly had Clarence conjectured, when he had shunned her presence.

Years had indeed wrought a change in his figure and face; acquaintance, servant, friend, relation,--the remembrance of his features had pa.s.sed from all: but she who had nursed him as an infant on her lap and fed him from her breast, she who had joined the devotion of clans.h.i.+p to the fondness of a mother, knew him at a glance. "Yes," cried he, as he threw himself into her withered and aged arms, "it is I, the child you reared, come, after many years, to find too late, when a father is no more, that he had a right to a father's home."

CHAPTER LXXI.

Let us go in, And charge us there upon inter'gatories.--SHAKSPEARE.

"But did not any one recognize you in your change of name?" said the old foster-mother, looking fondly upon Clarence, as he sat the next morning by her side. "How could any one forget so winsome a face who had once seen it?"

"You don't remember," said Clarence (as we will yet continue to call our hero), smiling, "that your husband had forgotten it."

"Ay, sir," cried the piqued steward, "but that was because you wore your hat slouched over your eyes: if you had taken off that, I should have known you directly."

"However that may be," said Clarence, unwilling to dwell longer on an occurrence which he saw hurt the feelings of the kind Mr. Wardour, "it is very easy to explain how I preserved my incognito. You recollect that my father never suffered me to mix with my mother's guests: so that I had no chance of their remembering me, especially as during the last three years and a half no stranger had ever entered our walls. Add to this that I was in the very time of life in which a few years work the greatest change, and on going to London I was thrown entirely among people who could never have seen me before. Fortunately for me, I became acquainted with my mother's uncle; circ.u.mstances subsequently led me to disclose my birth to him, upon a promise that he would never call me by any other name than that which I had a.s.sumed. He, who was the best, the kindest, the most generous of human beings, took a liking to me. He insisted not only upon his relations.h.i.+p to me, as my grand-uncle, but upon the justice of repairing to me the wrongs his unhappy niece had caused me. The delicacy of his kindness, the ties of blood, and an accident which had enabled me to be of some service to him, all prevented my resisting the weight of obligation with which he afterwards oppressed me. He procured me an appointment abroad: I remained there four years. When I returned, I entered, it is true, into very general society: but four years had, as you may perceive, altered me greatly; and even had there previously existed any chance of my being recognized, that alteration would probably have been sufficient to insure my secret."

"But your brother,--my present lord,--did you never meet him, sir?"

"Often, my good mother; but you remember that I was little more than six years old when he left England, and when he next saw me I was about two and twenty: it would have been next to a miracle, or, at least, would have required the eyes of love like yours, to have recalled me to memory after such an absence."

"Well--to turn to my story--I succeeded, partly as his nearest relation, but princ.i.p.ally from an affection dearer than blood, to the fortune of my grand-uncle, Mr. Talbot. Fate prospered with me: I rose in the world's esteem and honour, and soon became prouder of my borrowed appellation than of all the t.i.tles of my lordly line. Circ.u.mstances occurring within the last week which it will be needless to relate, but which may have the greatest influence over my future life, made it necessary to do what I had once resolved I would never do,--prove my ident.i.ty and origin. Accordingly I came here to seek you."

"But why did not my honoured young master disclose himself last night?"

asked the steward.

"I might say," answered Clarence, "because I antic.i.p.ated great pleasure in a surprise; but I had another reason; it was this: I had heard of my poor father's death, and I was painfully anxious to learn if at the last he had testified any relenting towards me, and yet more so to ascertain the manner of my unfortunate mother's fate. Both abroad and in England, I had sought tidings of her everywhere, but in vain; in mentioning my mother's retiring into a convent, you have explained the reason why my efforts were so fruitless. With these two objects in view, I thought myself more likely to learn the whole truth as a stranger than in my proper person; for in the latter case, I deemed it probable that your delicacy and kindness might tempt you to conceal whatever was calculated to wound my feelings, and to exaggerate anything that might tend to flatter or to soothe them. Thank Heaven, I now learn that I have a right to the name my boyhood bore, and that my birth is not branded with the foulest of private crimes, and that in death my father's heart yearned to his too hasty but repentant son. Enough of this: I have now only to request you, my friend, to accompany me, before daybreak on Wednesday morning, to a place several miles hence. Your presence there will be necessary to substantiate the proof for which I came hither."

"With all my heart, sir," cried the honest steward; "and after Wednesday you will, I trust, a.s.sume your rightful name."

"Certainly," replied Clarence; "since I am no longer 'the Disowned.'"

Leaving Clarence now for a brief while to renew his acquaintance with the scenes of his childhood, and to offer the tribute of his filial tears to the ashes of a father whose injustice had been but "the stinging of a heart the world had stung," we return to some old acquaintances in the various conduct of our drama.

CHAPTER LXXII.

Upon his couch the veiled Mokanna lay.--The Veiled Prophet.

The autumn sun broke through an apartment in a villa in the neighbourhood of London, furnished with the most prodigal yet not tasteless attention to luxury and show, within which, beside a table strewed with newspapers, letters, and accounts, lay Richard Crauford, extended carelessly upon a sofa which might almost have contented the Sybarite who quarrelled with a rose-leaf. At his elbow was a bottle half emptied and a winegla.s.s just filled. An expression of triumph and enjoyment was visible upon his handsome but usually inexpressive countenance.

"Well," said he, taking up a newspaper, "let us read this paragraph again. What a beautiful sensation it is to see one's name in print. 'We understand that Richard Crauford, Esq., M. P. for ----, is to be raised to the dignity of the peerage. There does not perhaps exist in the country a gentleman more universally beloved and esteemed' (mark that, d.i.c.ky Crauford). 'The invariable generosity with which his immense wealth has been employed, his high professional honour, the undeviating and consistent integrity of his political career' (ay, to be sure, it is only your honest fools who are inconsistent: no man can deviate who has one firm principle, self-interest), 'his manly and energetic attention to the welfare of religion' (he! he! he!), 'conjoined to a fortune almost incalculable, render this condescension of our gracious Sovereign no less judicious than deserved! We hear that the t.i.tle proposed for the new peer is that of Viscount Innisdale, which, we believe, was formerly in the n.o.ble family of which Mr. Crauford is a distant branch.'

"He! he! he! Bravo! bravo! Viscount Innisdale, n.o.ble family, distant branch,--the devil I am! What an ignoramus my father was not to know that! Why, rest his soul, he never knew who his grandfather was; but the world shall not be equally ignorant of that important point. Let me see, who shall be Viscount Innisdale's great-grandfather? Well, well, whoever he is, here's long life to his great-grandson! 'Incalculable fortune!'

Ay, ay, I hope at all events it will never be calculated. But now for my letters. Bah! this wine is a thought too acid for the cellars of Viscount Innisdale! What, another from Mother H----! Dark eyes, small mouth, sings like an angel, eighteen! Pis.h.!.+ I am too old for such follies now: 't is not pretty for Viscount Innisdale. Humph! Lisbon, seven hundred pounds five s.h.i.+llings and seven-pence--half-penny, is it, or farthing? I must note that down. Loan for King of Prussia. Well, must negotiate that to-morrow. Ah, Hockit, the wine-merchant, pipe of claret in the docks, vintage of 17--. Bravo! all goes smooth for Viscount Innisdale! Pis.h.!.+ from my d.a.m.nable wife! What a pill for my lords.h.i.+p!

What says she?"

DAWLISH, DEVONs.h.i.+RE.

You have not, my dearest Richard, answered my letters for months. I do not, however, presume to complain of your silence; I know well that you have a great deal to occupy your time, both in business and pleasure.

But one little line, dear Richard,--one little line, surely that is not too much now and then. I am most truly sorry to trouble you again about money; and you must know that I strive to be as saving as possible; ("Pish--curse the woman; sent her twenty pounds three months ago!") but I really am so distressed, and the people here are so pressing; and, at all events, I cannot bear the thought of your wife being disgraced.

Pray, forgive me, Richard, and believe how painful it is in me to say so much. I know you will answer this! and, oh, do, do tell me how you are.

Ever your affectionate wife, CAROLINE CRAUFORD.

"Was there ever poor man so plagued? Where's my note book? Mem.--Send Car. to-morrow 20 pounds to last her the rest of the year. Mem.--Send Mother H----, 100 pounds. Mem.--Pay Hockit's bill, 830 pounds. Bless me, what shall I do with Viscountess Innisdale? Now, if I were not married, I would be son-in-law to a duke. Mem.--Go down to Dawlish, and see if she won't die soon. Healthy situation, I fear,--devilish unlucky,--must be changed. Mem.--Swamps in Ess.e.x. Who's that?"

A knock at the door disturbed Mr. Crauford in his meditations. He started up, hurried the bottle and gla.s.s under the sofa, where the descending drapery completely hid them; and, taking up a newspaper, said in a gentle tone, "Come in." A small thin man, bowing at every step, entered.

"Ah! Bradley, is it you, my good fellow?" said Crauford: "glad to see you,--a fine morning: but what brings you from town so early?"

"Why, sir," answered Mr. Bradley, very obsequiously, "something unpleasant has--"

"Merciful Heaven!" cried Crauford, blanched into the whiteness of death, and starting up from the sofa with a violence which frightened the timid Mr. Bradley to the other end of the room, "the counting-house, the books,--all safe?"

"Yes, sir, yes, at present, but--"

"But what, man?"

"Why, honoured sir," returned Mr. Bradley, bowing to the ground, "your partner, Mr. Jessopp, has been very inquisitive about the accounts.

He says Mr. Da Costa, the Spanish merchant, has been insinuating very unpleasant hints, and that he must have a conversation with you at your earliest convenience; and when, sir, I ventured to remonstrate about the unreasonableness of attending to what Mr. Da Costa said, Mr. Jessopp was quite abusive, and declared that there seemed some very mysterious communication between you (begging your pardon, sir) and me, and that he did not know what business I, who had no share in the firm, had to interfere."

"But," said Crauford, "you were civil to him; did not reply hotly, eh!

my good Bradley?"

"Lord forbid, sir; Lord forbid, that I should not know my place better, or that I should give an unbecoming word to the partner of my honoured benefactor. But, sir, if I dare venture to say so, I think Mr. Jessopp is a little jealous or so of you; he seemed quite in a pa.s.sion at the paragraph in the paper about my honoured master's becoming a lord."

"Right, honest Bradley, right; he is jealous: we must soothe him. Go, my good fellow, go to him with my compliments, and say that I will be with him by one. Never fear this business will be easily settled."

And, bowing himself out of the room, Bradley withdrew. Left alone, a dark cloud gathered over the brow of Mr. Crauford.

"I am on a precipice," thought he; "but if my own brain does not turn giddy with the prospect, all yet may be safe. Cruel necessity, that obliged me to admit another into the business, that foiled me of Mordaunt, and drove me upon this fawning rascal! So, so: I almost think there is a Providence, now that Mordaunt has grown rich; but then his wife died; ay, ay, G.o.d saved him, but the devil killed her. [Dieu a puni ce fripon, le diable a noye les autres.--VOLTAIRE: Candide.] He! he! he!

But, seriously, seriously, there is danger in the very air I breathe! I must away to that envious Jessopp instantly; but first let me finish the bottle."

CHAPTER LXXIII.

A strange harmonious inclination Of all degrees to reformation.--Hudibras.

About seven miles from W----, on the main road from ----, there was in 17-- a solitary public-house, which by the by is now a magnificent hotel. Like many of its brethren in the more courtly vicinity of the metropolis, this amoenum hospitium peregrinae gentis then had its peculiar renown for certain dainties of the palate; and various in degree and character were the numerous parties from the neighbouring towns and farms, which upon every legitimate holiday were wont to a.s.semble at the mansion of mine host of the Jolly Angler, in order to feast upon eel-pie and grow merry over the true Herefords.h.i.+re cider.

But upon that special day on which we are about to introduce our reader into the narrow confines of its common parlour, the said hostelry was crowded with persons of a very different description from the peaceable idlers who were ordinarily wont to empty mine host's larder, and forget the price of corn over the divine inspirations of pomarial nectar.