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; circumstances 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 assumed. He, who was the best,
the kindest, the most generous of human beings, took a liking to me. He
insisted not only upon his relationship 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 principally 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 titles of my lordly line. Circumstances
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
identity 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 anticipated 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, assume 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.