WILFRED MANWARING GOES INTO EXILE.
IT was afternoon when Wilfred reached the home of his fathers--that
home which was no longer to be his. The old butler, whom he had known
from childhood, and who, boy and man, had lived at the Manor for close
on seventy years, regarded him with a puzzled air, as, according to the
orders he had received, he showed him to his room. “Here be a letter
for ’ee from the Squire, Master Wilfred,” said he; and, putting a
letter, sealed with a great coat of arms, into his hand, he hurried out
of the room.
Wilfred burst open the missive. It was a terrible communication, and
contained his father’s decision concerning him--an _ultimatum_
from which by experience he knew there was no appeal. Therein his
father refused to see him again, and discarded him as his son for
ever. Under pain of his curse, he commanded him to abandon the name of
Manwaring, and, from the day following forward, to abstain from holding
any correspondence either with himself or with any other member of his
Family. He ordered him to prepare to start next morning by the 7.40
train from Oswaldshaugh, which was the nearest railway station (with
characteristic formality and littleness of mind, the writer prided
himself on inserting this detail), and directed him to go to London,
and present himself at the office of his Town solicitors, Messrs.
Prodgers & Sharpin, who, as he was no longer worthy to bear the Family
Name, had directions to apprentice him under that of Thomas Brown
to some respectable grocer in a distant part of England. “You have
forfeited the right to call yourself a Gentleman, or to associate with
the equals of my Family. I have therefore desired my solicitors to pay
the premium necessary for your apprenticeship to a trade; and lest you
should be tempted to further crime, I enclose a note for £10. This is
the last remittance and the last communication you will ever receive
from him whose disgrace it is that he was once your father.--C. P. M.”
When the boy had read this dreadful letter, he sat like one dazed,
white and still, with silent tears of anguish flowing down his pallid
cheeks. He was roused by the entrance of his sister, who rushed into
the room, flung her arms around him, and mingled her tears with his.
“My darling, darling brother!” she cried at length.
“Then you don’t believe me guilty, Evelyn?” gasped out the wretched boy.
“Guilty? No, impossible!” she cried, clinging to him fondly.
“Then I have some hope left in life,” answered the lad, in low,
measured tones.
“My darling brother,” resumed Evelyn, “how my heart does bleed for you!”
“God bless you, dear,” said Wilfred. “But, tell me, what will Lionel
think, when he hears I am sent away from home as a thief?”
Yes, what would Lionel think? that bright, brave Captain of Dragoons,
whom Wilfred had ever looked up to as his ideal of a knight of old;
that kind and noble brother, who loved him so well, and had taught him
to swim and ride and shoot, and who, from African bivouacs and African
fastnesses, wrote him such tender letters? It was a bitter thought, and
Wilfred wept afresh.
The brother and sister, so lately joined, so soon to be parted, had a
long and sorrowful talk together. At length Evelyn said, “Darling, I
must leave you, and go down to our father. It was only after a dreadful
scene, and with the utmost difficulty, that I got him to consent to my
seeing you at all. Mr. Elthorne wanted to visit you, but our father
would not hear of it, so he has sent his love and blessing by me, and
he charged me to say he _trusts_ you now and ever. Wilfred, we
must bid each other farewell. I feel you will be righted sooner or
later, and in that case our father will no doubt send to you through
the lawyers. Meanwhile, trust in God, and remember that the heart of
your sister will ever cling to you with the fondest love. Here is a
tiny parting gift; take it with you, and open it when you are on your
way to that great, dreadful London. You know our father has willed that
we are not to write to one another; it is hard, but we must obey, and
we can remember each other in our prayers. Now kiss me, dear, and say
good-bye.”
The brother and sister fell into each other’s arms, and after that
long, last, loving embrace, Wilfred found himself alone. Before his
sister’s visit, the cruel sense of injustice, which ere now has
made demons of good men, had well-nigh crushed his highly-strung,
chivalrous nature and refined spirit; he could not think of the future,
he could only _bear_. Now, however, he remembered his friend
Ribblesdale’s words, in connection with those of his sister and with
the message sent him by Mr. Elthorne, and he felt a well-spring of hope
in his stricken heart. Now, once more, he could think, he could plan,
he could determine; and when Pinfold brought his supper up to his room,
he could, what seemed impossible before, make a tolerable meal. So
great is the buoyancy of youth, so great the power of human sympathy.
“So you be going to Lun’on, Master Wilfred?” said Pinfold, when he came
to take away; “I suppose I must put up your dress things as usual?”
“No, Pinfold, no dress things for me,” answered the young man; “I
suppose I shall never want dress things again. Put me up as few things
as possible, and the strongest boots and clothes you can find. Pinfold,
I am going away from home in disgrace, and I want to thank you for all
the kindness you have ever showed me. Don’t let the poor people think
worse of me than they can help, Pinfold.”
So saying, Wilfred put his hand in that of the faithful old servant,
and when he withdrew it, a tear had fallen upon it. There was comfort,
he felt, even in that. But the poor lad was destined to have yet
another visitor. Before Pinfold could shut the door, a scuffling sound
was heard in the passage, and Floss, his beautiful dog Floss, bounded
into the room, and, leaping up against his young master, whined with
delight as he licked his hands.
“_Moreover, the dogs came and licked his sores_:” these words came
into the boy’s mind with a new and touching significance. If the dumb
animals still loved him, surely he might hope for love from Above.
“_When father and mother forsake me, the Lord taketh me up_:”
these words also flashed upon his mind, and he prayed to his Heavenly
Father for the first time since the fatal discovery of the robbery, and
felt a ray of comfort illumine the darkness of his soul. It is strange
how, in the hours of the greatest need, in seasons of sorrow or on the
bed of death, the words of the Hebrew shepherd-king, of the fishermen
of Tiberias, of the Carpenter of Galilee, strike upon the souls of men
with soothing power. It is for these words that men then crave; and
no one ever yet upon a deathbed asked to hear read a speech of Mr.
Bradlaugh’s, a disquisition of Mr. Herbert Spencer’s, or a tract by old
he-she Mrs. Besant!
Next morning, after leaving an envelope on the table directed to his
father, which contained the £10 note he had received the previous
evening, Wilfred Manwaring was carried off to the railway station,
and driven out into the wilderness of that world whereof he knew so
little. The clerk stared when the young gentleman asked for a third
class ticket to London, but he made no observation. The train arrived,
and in five minutes the poor outcast was gone. His foes were they of
his own household. His father had with his own hands drawn the veil of
separation between himself and his son. And he never saw his son again.
As he sowed, so did he reap. Never more, never more.