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12. CHAPTER XII.
“Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.”
Cordelia.
As no man could be more gracefully or delicately
polite than John Effingham, when the humour seized
him, Mrs. Bloomfield was struck with the kind and
gentlemanlike manner with which he met his young
kinswoman on this trying occasion, and the affectionate
tones of his voice, and the winning expression of
his eye, as he addressed her. Eve herself was not
unobservant of these peculiarities, nor was she slow in
comprehending the reason. She perceived at once
that he was acquainted with the state of things between
her and Paul. As she well knew the womanly fidelity
of Mrs. Bloomfield, she rightly enough conjectured
that the long observation of her cousin, coupled with
the few words accidentally overheard that evening,
condition of her feelings, than was the case with the
friend with whom she had so lately been conversing
on the subject.
Still Eve was not embarrassed by the conviction
that her secret was betrayed to so many persons. Her
attachment to Paul was not the impulse of girlish caprice,
but the warm affection of a woman, that had
grown with time, was sanctioned by her reason, and
which, if it was tinctured with the more glowing imagination
and ample faith of youth, was also sustained
by her principles and her sense of right. She knew
that both her father and cousin esteemed the man of
her own choice, nor did she believe the little cloud that
hung over his birth could do more than have a temporary
influence on his own sensitive feelings. She met
John Effingham, therefore, with a frank composure,
returned the kind pressure of his hand, with a smile
such as a daughter might bestow on an affectionate
parent, and turned to salute the remainder of the party,
with that lady-like ease which had got to be a part of
her nature.
“There goes one of the most attractive pictures that
humanity can offer,” said John Effingham to Mrs.
Bloomfield, as Eve walked away; “a young, timid,
modest, sensitive girl, so strong in her principles, so
conscious of rectitude, so pure of thought, and so warm
in her affections, that she views her selection of a husband,
as others view their acts of duty and religious
faith. With her love has no shame, as it has no weakness.”
“Eve Effingham is as faultless as comports with
womanhood; and yet I confess ignorance of my own
sex, if she receive Mr. Powis as calmly as she received
her cousin.”
“Perhaps not, for in that case, she could scarcely
feel the passion. You perceive that he avoids oppressing
her with his notice, and that the meeting passes
elevating principle in love, that, by causing us to wish
to be worthy of the object most prized, produces the
desired effects by stimulating exertion. There, now,
are two as perfect beings as one ordinarily meets with,
each oppressed by a sense of his or her unworthiness
to be the choice of the other.”
“Does love, then, teach humility; successful love,
too?”
“Does it not? It would be hardly fair to press this
matter on you, a married woman; for, by the pandects
of American society, a man may philosophize on love,
prattle about it, trifle on the subject, and even analyze
the passion with a miss in her teens, and yet he shall
not allude to it, in a discourse with a matron. Well,
chacun à son goût; we are, indeed, a little peculiar in
our usages, and have promoted a good deal of village
coquetry, and the flirtations of the may-pole, to the
drawing-room.”
“Is it not better that such follies should be confined
to youth, than that they should invade the sanctity of
married life, as I understand is too much the case elsewhere?”
“Perhaps so; though I confess it is easier to dispose
of a straight-forward proposition from a mother, a
father, or a commissioned friend, than to get rid of a
young lady, who, propriâ personâ, angles on her own
account. While abroad, I had a dozen proposals—”
“Proposals!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloomfield, holding
up both hands, and shaking her head incredulously.
“Proposals! Why not, ma'am?—am I more than
fifty? am I not reasonably youthful for that period of
life, and have I not six or eight thousand a year—”
“Eighteen, or you are much scandalized.”
“Well, eighteen, if you will,” coolly returned the
other, in whose eyes money was no merit, for he was
born to a fortune, and always treated it as a means,
and not as the end of life; “every dollar is a magnet,
a single man, of tolerable person, well-born, and with
a hundred thousand francs of rentes, could entirely
escape proposals from the ladies in Europe?”
“This is so revolting to all our American notions,
that, though I have often heard of such things, I have
always found it difficult to believe them!”
“And is it more revolting for the friends of young
ladies to look out for them, on such occasions, than
that the young ladies should take the affair into their
own hands, as is practised quite as openly, here?”
“It is well you are a confirmed bachelor, or declarations
like these would mar your fortunes. I will
admit that the school is not as retiring and diffident as
formerly; for we are all ready enough to say that no
times are equal to our own times; but I shall strenuously
protest against your interpretation of the nature
and artlessness of an American girl.”
“Artlessness!” repeated John Effingham, with a
slight lifting of the eye-brows; “we live in an age
when new dictionaries and vocabularies are necessary
to understand each other's meaning. It is artlessness,
with a vengeance, to beset an old fellow of fifty, as
one would besiege a town. Hist!—Ned is retiring
with his daughter, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, and it will
not be long before I shall be summoned to a family
council. Well, we will keep the secret until it is publicly
proclaimed.”
John Effingham was right, for his two cousins left
the room together, and retired to the library, but in
a way to attract no particular attention, except in
those who were enlightened on the subject of what
had already passed that evening. When they were
alone, Mr. Effingham turned the key, and then he gave
a free vent to his paternal feelings.
Between Eve and her parent, there had always existed
a confidence exceeding that which it is common
to find between father and daughter. In one sense,
never hesitated about pouring those feelings into his
breast, which, had she possessed another parent, would
more naturally have been confided to the affection of
a mother. When their eyes first met, therefore,
they were mutually beaming with an expression of
confidence and love, such as might, in a measure, have
been expected between two of the gentler sex. Mr.
Effingham folded his child to his heart, pressed her
there tenderly for near a minute in silence, and then
kissing her burning cheek he permitted her to look up.
“This answers all my fondest hopes, Eve”—he exclaimed;
“fulfils my most cherished wishes for thy
sake.”
“Dearest sir!”
“Yes, my love, I have long secretly prayed that
such might be your good fortune; for, of all the youths
we have met, at home or abroad, Paul Powis is the
one to whom I can consign you with the most confidence
that he will cherish and love you as you deserve
to be cherished and loved!”
“Dearest father, nothing but this was wanting to
complete my perfect happiness.”
Mr. Effingham kissed his daughter again, and he
was then enabled to pursue the conversation with
greater composure.
“Powis and I have had a full explanation,” he said,
“though in order to obtain it, I have been obliged to
give him strong encouragement—”
“Father!”
“Nay, my love, your delicacy and feelings have
been sufficiently respected, but he has so much diffidence
of himself, and permits the unpleasant circumstances
connected with his birth to weigh so much on
his mind, that I have been compelled to tell him, what
I am sure you will approve, that we disregard family
connections, and look only to the merit of the individual.”
“I hope, father, nothing was said to give Mr. Powis
reason to suppose we did not deem him every way our
equal.”
“Certainly not. He is a gentleman, and I can claim
to be no more. There is but one thing in which connections
ought to influence an American marriage,
where the parties are suited to each other in the main
requisites, and that is to ascertain that neither should be
carried, necessarily, into associations for which their
habits have given them too much and too good tastes
to enter into. A woman, especially, ought never to be
transplanted from a polished to an unpolished circle;
for, when this is the case, if really a lady, there will
be a dangerous clog on her affection for her husband.
This one great point assured, I see no other about
which a parent need feel concern.”
“Powis, unhappily, has no connections in this country;
or none with whom he has any communications;
and those he has in England are of a class to do him
credit.”
“We have been conversing of this, and he has manifested
so much proper feeling that it has even raised
him in my esteem. I knew his father's family, and
must have known his father, I think, though there were
two or three Asshetons of the name of John. It is a
highly respectable family of the middle states, and belonged
formerly to the colonial aristocracy. Jack Effingham's
mother was an Assheton.”
“Of the same blood, do you think, sir? I remembered
this when Mr. Powis mentioned his father's name,
and intended to question cousin Jack on the subject.”
“Now you speak of it, Eve, there must be a relationship
between them. Do you suppose that our kinsman
is acquainted with the fact that Paul is, in truth,
an Assheton?”
Eve told her father that she had never spoken with
their relative on the subject, at all.
“Then ring the bell, and we will ascertain at once
false delicacy, my child, about letting your engagement
be known to one as near and as dear to us, as
John.”
“Engagement, father!”
“Yes, engagement,” returned the smiling parent,
“for such I already deem it. I have ventured, in your
behalf, to plight your troth to Paul Powis, or what is
almost equal to it; and in return I can give you back
as many protestations of unequalled fidelity, and eternal
constancy, as any reasonable girl can ask.”
Eve gazed at her father in a way to show that reproach
was mingled with fondness, for she felt that, in
this instance, too much of the precipitation of the other
sex had been manifested in her affairs; still, superior
to coquetry and affectation, and much too warm in
her attachments to be seriously hurt, she kissed the
hand she held, shook her head reproachfully, even
while she smiled, and did as had been desired.
“You have, indeed, rendered it important to us to
know more of Mr. Powis, my beloved father,” she
said, as she returned to her seat, “though I could wish
matters had not proceeded quite so fast.”
“Nay, all I promised was conditional, and dependent
on yourself. You have nothing to do, if I have
said too much, but to refuse to ratify the treaty made
by your negotiator.”
“You propose an impossibility,” said Eve, taking
the hand, again, that she had so lately relinquished,
and pressing it warmly between her own; “the negotiator
is too much revered, has too strong a right to
command, and is too much confided in to be thus dishonoured.
Father, I will, I do, ratify all you have, all
you can promise in my behalf.”
“Even, if I annul the treaty, darling?”
“Even, in that case, father. I will marry none without
your consent, and have so absolute a confidence in
your tender care of me, that I do not even hesitate to
say, I will marry him to whom you contract me.”
“Bless you, bless you, Eve; I do believe you, for
such have I ever found you, since thought has had any
control over your actions. Desire Mr. John Effingham
to come hither”—then, as the servant closed
the door, he continued,—“and such I believe you will
continue to be until your dying day.”
“Nay, reckless, careless father, you forget that you
yourself have been instrumental in transferring my
duty and obedience to another. What if this sea-monster
should prove a tyrant, throw off the mask, and
show himself in his real colours? Are you prepared,
then, thoughtless, precipitate, parent”—Eve kissed Mr.
Effingham's cheek with childish playfulness, as she
spoke, her heart swelling with happiness the whole
time, “to preach obedience where obedience would
then be due?”
“Hush, precious—I hear the step of Jack; he must
not catch us fooling in this manner.”
Eve rose; and when her kinsman entered the room,
she held out her hand kindly to him, though it was
with an averted face and a tearful eye.
“It is time I was summoned,” said John Effingham,
after he had drawn the blushing girl to him and kissed
her forehead, “for what between tête à têtes with
young fellows, and tête à têtes with old fellows, this
evening, I began to think myself neglected. I hope I
am still in time to render my decided disapprobation
available?”
“Cousin Jack!” exclaimed Eve, with a look of reproachful
mockery, “you are the last person who
ought to speak of disapprobation, for you have done
little else but sing the praises of the applicant, since
you first met him.”
“Is it even so? then, like others, I must submit to
the consequences of my own precipitation and false
conclusions. Am I summoned to inquire how many
thousands a year I shall add to the establishment of the
new couple? As I hate business, say five at once;
reading.”
“Most generous cynic,” cried Eve, “I would I
dared, now, to ask a single question!”
“Ask it without scruple, young lady, for this is the
day of your independence and power. I am mistaken
in the man, if Powis do not prove to be the captain
of his own ship, in the end.”
“Well, then, in whose behalf is this liberality really
meant; mine, or that of the gentleman?”
“Fairly enough put,” said John Effingham, laughing,
again drawing Eve towards him and saluting her
cheek; “for if I were on the rack, I could scarcely say
which I love best, although you have the consolation
of knowing, pert one, that you get the most kisses.”
“I am almost in the same state of feeling myself,
John, for a son of my own could scarcely be dearer
to me than Paul.”
“I see, indeed, that I must marry,” said Eve hastily,
dashing the tears of delight from her eyes, for what
could give more delight than to hear the praises of her
beloved, “if I wish to retain my place in your affections.
But, father, we forget the question you were to
put to cousin Jack.”
“True, love. John, your mother was an Assheton?”
“Assuredly, Ned; you are not to learn my pedigree
at this time of day, I trust.”
“We are anxious to make out a relationship between
you and Paul; can it not be done?”
“I would give half my fortune, Eve consenting,
were it so!—What reason is there for supposing it
probable, or even possible?”
“You know that he bears the name of his friend,
and adopted parent, while that of his family is really
Assheton.”
“Assheton!” exclaimed the other, in a way to show
that this was the first he had ever heard of the fact.
“Cortainly; and as there is but one family of this
here it is spelt by Paul himself, on this card—we have
thought that he must be a relation of yours. I hope
we are not to be disappointed.”
“Assheton!—It is, as you say, an unusual name;
nor is there more than one family that bears it in this
country, to my knowledge. Can it be possible that
Powis is truly an Assheton?”
“Out of all doubt,” Eve eagerly exclaimed; “we
have it from his own mouth. His father was an
Assheton, and his mother was—”
“Who?” demanded John Effingham, with a vehemence
that startled his companions.
“Nay, that is more than I can tell you, for he did
not mention the family name of his mother; as she
was a sister of Lady Dunluce, however, who is the
wife of General Ducie, the father of our guest, it is
probable her name was Dunluce.”
“I remember no relative that has made such a marriage,
or who can have made such a marriage; and
yet do I personally and intimately know every Assheton
in the country.”
Mr. Effingham and his daughter looked at each
other, for it at once struck them all painfully, that there
must be Asshetons of another family.
“Were it not for the peculiar manner in which this
name is spelled,” said Mr. Effingham, “I could suppose
that there are Asshetons of whom we know nothing,
but it is difficult to believe that there can be such persons
of a respectable family of whom we never heard,
for Powis said his relatives were of the Middle
States—”
“And that his mother was called Dunluce?” demanded
John Effingham earnestly, for he too appeared
to wish to discover an affinity between himself and
Paul.
“Nay, father, this I think he did not say; though it
is quite probable; for the title of his aunt is an ancient
family name.”
“In this you must be mistaken, Eve, since he mentioned
that the right was derived through his mother's
mother, who was an Englishwoman.”
“Why not send for him at once, and put the question?”
said the simple-minded Mr. Effingham; “next
to having him for my own son, it would give me pleasure,
John, to learn that he was lawfully entitled to that
which I know you have done in his behalf.”
“That is impossible,” returned John Effingham. “I
am an only child, and as for cousins through my mother,
there are so many who stand in an equal degree
of affinity to me, that no one in particular can be my
heir-at-law. If there were, I am an Effingham; my
estate came from Effinghams, and to an Effingham it
should descend in despite of all the Asshetons in America.”
“Paul Powis included!” exclaimed Eve, raising a
finger reproachfully.
“True, to him I have left a legacy; but it was to a
Powis, and not to an Assheton.”
“And yet he declares himself legally an Assheton,
and not a Powis.”
“Say no more of this, Eve; it is unpleasant to me.
I hate the name of Assheton, though it was my mother's,
and could wish never to hear it again.”
Eve and her father were mute, for their kinsman,
usually so proud and self-restrained, spoke with suppressed
emotion, and it was plain that, for some hidden
cause, he felt even more than he expressed. The idea
that there should be any thing about Paul that could
render him an object of dislike to one as dear to her
as her cousin, was inexpressibly painful to the former,
and she regretted that the subject had ever been introduced.
Not so with her father. Simple, direct, and
full of truth, Mr. Effingham rightly enough believed
that mysteries in a family could lead to no good, and
the matter cleared up at once.
“You are too reasonable, Jack,” he concluded, “to
let an antipathy against a name that was your mother's,
interfere with your sense of right. I know that some
unpleasant questions arose concerning your succession
to my aunt's fortune, but that was all settled in your
favour twenty years ago, and I had thought to your
entire satisfaction.”
“Unhappily, family quarrels are ever the most bitter,
and usually they are the least reconcileable,” returned
John Effingham, evasively.—“I would that this young
man's name were any thing but Assheton! I do not
wish to see Eve plighting her faith at the altar, to any
one bearing that accursed name!”
“I shall plight my faith, if ever it be done, dear cousin
John, to the man, and not to his name.”
“No, no—he must keep the appellation of Powis,
by which we have all learned to love him, and to
which he has done so much credit.”
“This is very strange, Jack, for a man who is usually
as discreet and as well regulated as yourself. I
again propose that we send for Paul, and ascertain
precisely to what branch of this so-much-disliked
family he really belongs.”
“No, father, if you love me, not now!” cried Eve,
arresting Mr. Effingham's hand as it touched the bell-cord;
“it would appear distrustful, and even cruel,
were we to enter into such an inquiry so soon. Powis
might think we valued his family, more than we do
himself.”
“Eve is right, Ned; but I will not sleep without
learning all. There is an unfinished examination of
the papers left by poor Monday, and I will take an
occasion to summon Paul to its completion, when an
opportunity will offer to renew the subject of his own
history; for it was at the other investigation that he
first spoke frankly to me, concerning himself.”
“Do so, cousin Jack, and let it be at once,” said Eve,
earnestly. “I can trust you with Powis alone, for I
know how much you respect and esteem him in your
heart. See, it is already ten.”
“But, he will naturally wish to spend the close of
an evening like this engaged in investigating something
very different from Mr. Monday's tale,” returned her
cousin; the smile with which he spoke chasing away
the look of chilled aversion that had so lately darkened
his noble features.
“No, not to-night,” answered the blushing Eve. “I
have confessed weakness enough for one day. Tomorrow,
if you will—if he will,—but not to-night. I
shall retire with Mrs. Hawker, who already complains
of fatigue; and you will send for Powis, to meet you
in your own room, without unnecessary delay.”
Eve kissed John Effingham coaxingly, and as they
walked together out of the library, she pointed towards
the door that led to the chambers. Her cousin laughingly
complied, and when in his own room, he sent a
message to Paul to join him.
“Now, indeed, may I call you a kinsman,” said
John Effingham, rising to receive the young man,
towards whom he advanced, with extended hands, in
his most winning manner. “Eve's frankness and your
own discernment have made us a happy family!”
“If any thing could add to the felicity of being acceptable
to Miss Effingham,” returned Paul, struggling
to command his feelings, “it is the manner in which
her father and yourself have received my poor offers.”
“Well, we will now speak of it no more. I saw
from the first which way things were tending, and it
was my plain-dealing that opened the eyes of Templemore
to the impossibility of his ever succeeding, by
which means his heart has been kept from breaking.”
“Oh! Mr. Effingham, Templemore never loved Eve
Effingham! I thought so once, and he thought so,
too; but it could not have been a love like mine.”
“It certainly differed in the essential circumstance
of reciprocity, which, in itself, singularly qualifies the
passion, so far as duration is concerned. Templemore
did not exactly know the reason why he preferred
Eve; but, having seen so much of the society in
which he lived, I was enabled to detect the cause.
Accustomed to an elaborate sophistication, the singular
union of refinement and nature caught his fancy;
for the English seldom see the last separated from vulgarity;
and when it is found, softened by a high intelligence
and polished manners, it has usually great
attractions for the blasés.”
“He is fortunate in having so readily found a substitute
for Eve Effingham!”
“This change is not unnatural, neither. In the first
place, I, with this truth-telling tongue, destroyed all
hope, before he had committed himself by a declaration;
and then Grace Van Cortlandt possesses the
great attraction of nature, in a degree quite equal to
that of her cousin. Besides, Templemore, though a
gentleman, and a brave man, and a worthy one, is not
remarkable for qualities of a very extraordinary kind.
He will be as happy as is usual for an Englishman of
his class to be, and he has no particular right to expect
more. I sent for you, however, less to talk of love,
than to trace its unhappy consequences in this affair,
revealed by the papers of poor Monday. It is time
we acquitted ourselves of that trust. Do me the
favour to open the dressing-case that stands on the
toilet-table; you will find in it the key that belongs to
the bureau, where I have placed the secretary that
contains the papers.”
Paul did as desired. The dressing-case was complicated
and large, having several compartments, none
of which were fastened. In the first opened, he saw a
miniature of a female so beautiful, that his eye rested on
it, as it might be, by a fascination. Notwithstanding
some difference produced by the fashions of different
obvious at a glance. Borne away by the pleasure of
the discovery, and actually believing that he saw a picture
of Eve, drawn in a dress that did not in a great
degree vary from the present attire, fashion having
undergone no very striking revolution in the last twenty
years, he exclaimed—
“This is indeed a treasure, Mr. Effingham, and
most sincerely do I envy you its possession. It is like,
and yet, in some particulars, it is unlike—it scarcely
does Miss Effingham justice about the nose and forehead!”
John Effingham started when he saw the miniature
in Paul's hand, but recovering himself, he smiled at the
eager delusion of his young friend, and said with perfect
composure—
“It is not Eve, but her mother. The two features
you have named in the former came from my family;
but in all the others, the likeness is almost identical.”
“This then is Mrs. Effingham!” murmured Paul,
gazing on the face of the mother of his love, with a
respectful melancholy, and an interest that was rather
heightened than lessened by a knowledge of the truth.
“She died young, sir?”
“Quite; she can scarcely be said to have become
an angel too soon, for she was always one.”
This was said with a feeling that did not escape
Paul, though it surprised him. There were six or seven
miniature-cases in the compartment of the dressing-box,
and supposing that the one which lay uppermost
belonged to the miniature in his hand, he raised it, and
opened the lid with a view to replace the picture of
Eve's mother, with a species of pious reverence. Instead
of finding an empty case, however, another
miniature met his eye. The exclamation that now
escaped the young man was one of delight and surprise.
“That must be my grandmother, with whom you
laughing—“I was comparing it yesterday with the
picture of Eve, which is in the Russia-leather case, that
you will find somewhere there. I do not wonder,
however, at your admiration, for she was a beauty in
her day, and no woman is fool enough to be painted
after she grows ugly.”
“Not so—not so—Mr. Effingham! This is the miniature
I lost in the Montauk, and which I had given up
as booty to the Arabs. It has, doubtless, found its way
into your state-room, and has been put among your
effects by your man, through mistake. It is very precious
to me, for it is nearly every memorial I possess
of my own mother!”
“Your mother!” exclaimed John Effingham rising.
“I think there must be some mistake, for I examined
all those pictures this very morning, and it is the first
time they have been opened since our arrival from
Europe. It cannot be the missing picture.”
“Mine it is certainly; in that I cannot be mistaken!”
“It would be odd indeed, if one of my grandmothers,
for both are there, should prove to be your
mother.—Powis, will you have the goodness to let me
see the picture you mean.”
Paul brought the miniature and a light, placing both
before the eyes of his friend.
“That!” exclaimed John Effingham, his voice sounding
harsh and unnatural to the listener,—“that picture
like your mother!”
“It is her miniature—the miniature that was transmitted
to me, from those who had charge of my childhood.
I cannot be mistaken as to the countenance, or
the dress.”
“And your father's name was Assheton?”
“Certainly—John Assheton, of the Asshetons of
Pennsylvania.”
John Effingham groaned aloud; when Paul stepped
face of his friend was almost livid, and that the hand
which held the picture shook like the aspen.
“Are you unwell, dear Mr. Effingham?”
“No—no—'tis impossible! This lady never had a
child. Powis, you have been deceived by some fancied,
or some real resemblance. This picture is mine, and
has not been out of my possession these five and twenty
years.”
“Pardon me, sir, it is the picture of my mother, and
no other; the very picture lost in the Montauk.”
The gaze that John Effingham cast upon the young
man was ghastly; and Paul was about to ring the bell,
but a gesture of denial prevented him.
“See,” said John Effingham, hoarsely, as he touched
a spring in the setting, and exposed to view the initials
of two names interwoven with hair—“is this, too,
yours?”
Paul looked surprised and disappointed.
“That certainly settles the question; my miniature
had no such addition; and yet I believe that sweet and
pensive countenance to be the face of my own beloved
mother, and of no one else.”
John Effingham struggled to appear calm; and, replacing
the pictures, he took the key from the dressing
case, and, opening the bureau, he took out the secretary.
This he signed for Powis, who had the key, to open;
throwing himself into a chair, though every thing was
done mechanically, as if his mind and body had little
or no connection with each other.
“Some accidental resemblance has deceived you as
to the miniature,” he said, while Paul was looking for
the proper number among the letters of Mr. Monday.
“No—no—that cannot be the picture of your mother.
She left no child. Assheton did you say, was the name
of your father?”
“Assheton—John Assheton—about that, at least,
there can have been no mistake. This is the number
read?”
The other made a sign for Paul to read; looking, at
the same time, as if it were impossible for him to discharge
that duty himself.
“This is a letter from the woman who appears to
have been entrusted with the child, to the man Dowse,”
said Paul, first glancing his eyes over the page,—“it
appears to be little else but gossip—ha!—what is this,
I see?”
John Effingham raised himself in his chair, and he
sat gazing at Paul, as one gazes who expects some
extraordinary developement, though of what nature he
knew not.
“This is a singular passage,” Paul continued—“so
much so as to need elucidation. `I have taken the
child with me to get the picture from the jeweller, who
has mended the ring, and the little urchin knew it at a
glance.' ”
“What is there remarkable in that? Others beside
ourselves have had pictures; and this child knows its
own better than you.”
“Mr. Effingham, such a thing occurred to myself!
It is one of those early events of which I still retain,
have ever retained, a vivid recollection. Though little
more than an infant at the time, well do I recollect to
have been taken in this manner to a jeweller's, and
the delight I felt at recovering my mother's picture,
that which is now lost, after it had not been seen for a
month or two.”
“Paul Blunt—Powis—Assheton”—said John Effingham,
speaking so hoarsely as to be nearly unintelligible,
“remain here a few minutes—I will rejoin
you.”
John Effingham arose, and, notwithstanding he rallied
all his powers, it was with extreme difficulty he
succeeded in reaching the door, steadily rejecting the
offered assistance of Paul, who was at a loss what to
think of so much agitation in a man usually so self-possessed
did better, and he proceeded to the library,
followed by his own man, whom he had ordered to accompany
him with a light.
“Desire Captain Ducie to give me the favour of his
company for a moment,” he then said, motioning to
the servant to withdraw. “You will not be needed
any longer.”
It was but a minute before Captain Ducie stood before
him. This gentleman was instantly struck with
the pallid look, and general agitation of the person he
had come to meet, and he expressed an apprehension
that he was suddenly taken ill. But a motion of the
hand forbade his touching the bell-cord, and he waited
in silent wonder at the scene which he had been so unexpectedly
called to witness.
“A glass of that water, if you please, Captain Ducie,”
said John Effingham, endeavouring to smile with
gentlemanlike courtesy, as he made the request, though
the effort caused his countenance to appear ghastly
again. A little recovered by this beverage, he said
more steadily—
“You are the cousin of Powis, Captain Ducie.”
“We are sisters' children, sir.”
“And your mother is—”
“Lady Dunluce—a peeress in her own right.”
“But, what—her family name?”
“Her own family name has been sunk in that of my
father, the Ducies claiming to be as old and as honourable
a family, as that from which my mother inherits
her rank. Indeed the Dunluce barony has gone through
so many names, by means of females, that I believe
there is no intention to revive the original appellation
of the family which was first summoned.”
“You mistake me—your mother—when she married—was—”
“Miss Warrender.”
“I thank you, sir, and will trouble you no longer,”
his manner second the courtesy of his words—“I have
troubled you, abruptly — incoherently I fear — your
arm—”
Captain Ducie stepped hastily forward, and was just
in time to prevent the other from falling senseless on
the floor, by receiving him in his own arms.
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