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13. CHAPTER XIII.
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her.”
Hamlet.
The next morning, Paul and Eve were alone in that
library which had long been the scene of the confidential
communications of the Effingham family. Eve
had been weeping, nor were Paul's eyes entirely free
from the signs of his having given way to strong sensations.
Still happiness beamed in the countenance of
each, and the timid but affectionate glances with which
our heroine returned the fond, admiring look of her
lover, were any thing but distrustful of their future felicity.
Her hand was in his, and it was often raised to
his lips, as they pursued the conversation.
“This is so wonderful,” exclaimed Eve, after one of
the frequent musing pauses in which both indulged,
“that I can scarcely believe myself awake. That you,
Blunt, Powis, Assheton, should, after all, prove an
Effingham!”
“And that I, who have so long thought myself an
orphan, should find a living father, and he a man like
Mr. John Effingham!”
“I have long thought that something heavy lay at the
honest heart of cousin Jack—you will excuse me, Powis,
of greater respect.”
“Call him always so, love, for I am certain it would
pain him to meet with any change in you. He is your
cousin Jack.”
“Nay, he may some day unexpectedly become my
father too, as he has so wonderfully become yours,”
rejoined Eve, glancing archly at the glowing face of
the delighted young man; “and then cousin Jack might
prove too familiar and disrespectful a term.”
“So much stronger does your claim to him appear
than mine, that I think, when that blessed day shall
arrive, Eve, it will convert him into my cousin Jack,
instead of your father. But call him as you may, why
do you still insist on calling me Powis?”
“That name will ever be precious in my eyes! You
abridge me of my rights, in denying me a change of
name. Half the young ladies of the country marry
for the novelty of being called Mrs. Somebody else,
instead of the Misses they were, while I am condemned
to remain Eve Effingham for life.”
“If you object to the appellation, I can continue to
call myself Powis. This has been done so long now
as almost to legalize the act.”
“Indeed, no—you are an Effingham, and as an
Effingham ought you to be known. What a happy
lot is mine! Spared even the pain of parting with my
old friends, at the great occurrence of my life, and
finding my married home the same as the home of my
childhood!”
“I owe every thing to you, Eve, name, happiness,
and even a home.”
“I know not that. Now that it is known that you
are the great-grandson of Edward Effingham, I think
your chance of possessing the Wigwam would be quite
equal to my own, even were we to look different ways
in quest of married happiness. An arrangement of
that nature would not be difficult to make, as John
loss of her house and lands by means of those money-yielding
stocks and bonds, of which he possesses so
many.”
“I view it differently. You were Mr. — my father's
heir—how strangely the word father sounds in unaccustomed
ears!—But you were my father's chosen
heir, and I shall owe to you, dearest, in addition to the
treasures of your heart and faith, my fortune.”
“Are you so very certain of this, ingrate?—Did not
Mr. John Effingham—cousin Jack—adopt you as his
son even before he knew of the natural tie that actually
exists between you?”
“True, for I perceive that you have been made acquainted
with most of that which has passed. But I
hope, that in telling you his own offer, Mr.—that my
father did not forget to tell you of the terms on which
it was accepted?”
“He did you ample justice, for he informed me that
you stipulated there should be no altering of wills, but
that the unworthy heir already chosen, should still
remain the heir.”
“And to this Mr—”
“Cousin Jack,” said Eve, laughing, for the laugh
comes easy to the supremely happy.
“To this cousin Jack assented?”
“Most true, again. The will would not have been
altered, for your interests were already cared for.”
“And at the expense of yours, dearest Eve!”
“It would have been at the expense of my better
feelings, Paul, had it not been so. However, that will
can never do either harm or good to any, now.”
“I trust it will remain unchanged, beloved, that I
may owe as much to you as possible.”
Eve looked kindly at her betrothed, blushed even
deeper than the bloom which happiness had left on her
cheek, and smiled like one who knew more than she
cared to express.
“What secret meaning is concealed behind that
look of portentous signification?”
“It means, Powis, that I have done a deed that is
almost criminal. I have destroyed a will.”
“Not my father's!”
“Even so—but it was done in his presence, and if
not absolutely with his consent, with his knowledge.
When he informed me of your superior rights, I insisted
on its being done, at once, so, should any accident
occur, you will be heir at law, as a matter of course.
Cousin Jack affected reluctance, but I believe he slept
more sweetly, for the consciousness that this act of
justice had been done.”
“I fear he slept little, as it was; it was long past
midnight before I left him, and the agitation of his
spirits was such as to appear awful in the eyes of a
son!”
“And the promised explanation is to come, to renew
his distress! Why make it at all? is it not enough
that we are certain that you are his child? and for
that, have we not the solemn assurance, the declaration
of almost a dying man!”
“There should be no shade left over my mother's
fame. Faults there have been, somewhere, but it is
painful, oh! how painful! for a child to think evil of a
mother.”
“On this head you are already assured. Your own
previous knowledge, and John Effingham's distinct
declarations, make your mother blameless.”
“Beyond question; but this sacrifice must be made
to my mother's spirit. It is now nine; the breakfast-bell
will soon ring, and then we are promised the whole
of the melancholy tale. Pray with me, Eve, that it
may be such as will not wound the ear of a son!”
Eve took the hand of Paul within both of hers, and
kissed it with a sort of holy hope, that in its exhibition
caused neither blush nor shame. Indeed so bound
together were these young hearts, so ample and confiding
was their love, that neither regarded such a manifestation
of feeling, differently from what an acknowledgement
of a dependence on any other sacred principle
would have been esteemed. The bell now summoned
them to the breakfast-table, and Eve, yielding
to her sex's timidity, desired Paul to precede her a few
minutes, that the sanctity of their confidence might not
be weakened by the observation of profane eyes.
The meal was silent; the discovery of the previous
night, which had been made known to all in the house,
by the declarations of John Effingham as soon as he
was restored to his senses, Captain Ducie having innocently
collected those within hearing to his succour,
causing a sort of moral suspense that weighed on the
vivacity if not on the comforts of the whole party,
the lovers alone excepted.
As profound happiness is seldom talkative, the meal
was a silent one, then; and when it was ended, they
who had no tie of blood with the parties most concerned
with the revelations of the approaching interview,
delicately separated, making employments and
engagements that left the family at perfect liberty;
while those who had been previously notified that
their presence would be acceptable, silently repaired
to the dressing-room of John Effingham. The latter
party was composed of Mr. Effingham, Paul, and Eve,
only. The first passed into his cousin's bed-room,
where he had a private conference that lasted half an
hour. At the end of that time, the two others were
summoned to join him.
John Effingham was a strong-minded and a proud
man, his governing fault being the self-reliance that
indisposed him to throw himself on a greater power,
for the support, guidance, and counsel, that all need.
To humiliation before God, however, he was not unused,
and of late years it had got to be frequent with
him, and it was only in connexion with his fellow-creatures
equality existed. He felt how much more just, intuitive,
conscientious even, were his own views than
those of mankind, in general; and he seldom deigned
to consult with any as to the opinions he ought to entertain,
or as to the conduct he ought to pursue. It is
scarcely necessary to say, that such a being was one
of strong and engrossing passions, the impulses frequently
proving too imperious for the affections, or even
for principles. The scene that he was now compelled
to go through, was consequently one of sore mortification
and self-abasement; and yet, feeling its justice no
less than its necessity, and having made up his mind
to discharge what had now become a duty, his very
pride of character led him to do it manfully, and with
no uncalled-for reserves. It was a painful and humiliating
task, notwithstanding; and it required all the
self-command, all the sense of right, and all the clear
perception of consequences, that one so quick to discriminate
could not avoid perceiving, to enable him to
go through it with the required steadiness and connexion.
John Effingham received Paul and Eve, seated in
an easy chair; for, while he could not be said to be
ill, it was evident that his very frame had been shaken
by the events and emotions of the few preceding hours.
He gave a hand to each, and, drawing Eve affectionately
to him, he imprinted a kiss on a cheek that was
burning, though it paled and reddened in quick succession,
the heralds of the tumultuous thoughts within. The
look he gave Paul was kind and welcome, while a
hectic spot glowed on each cheek, betraying that his
presence excited pain as well as pleasure. A long
pause succeeded this meeting, when John Effingham
broke the silence.
“There can now be no manner of question, my
dear Paul,” he said, smiling affectionately but sadly,
as he looked at the young man, “about your being my
mother, after the separation of your parents, would
settle that important point, had not the names, and the
other facts that have come to our knowledge, already
convinced me of the precious truth; for precious and
very dear to me is the knowledge that I am the father
of so worthy a child. You must prepare yourself to
hear things that it will not be pleasant for a son to
listen—”
“No, no—cousin Jack—dear cousin Jack!” cried
Eve, throwing herself precipitately into her kinsman's
arms, “we will hear nothing of the sort. It is sufficient
that you are Paul's father, and we wish to know
no more—will hear no more.”
“This is like yourself, Eve, but it will not answer
what I conceive to be the dictates of duty. Paul had
two parents; and not the slightest suspicion ought to
rest on one of them, in order to spare the feelings of
the other. In showing me this kindness you are treating
Paul inconsiderately.”
“I beg, dear sir, you will not think too much of me,
but entirely consult your own judgment—your own
sense of—in short, dear father, that you will consider
yourself before your son.”
“I thank you, my children—what a word, and what
a novel sensation is this, for me, Ned!—I feel all your
kindness, but if you would consult my peace of mind,
and wish me to regain my self-respect, you will allow
me to disburthen my soul of the weight that oppresses
it. This is strong language; but, while I have no confessions
of deliberate criminality, or of positive vice to
make, I feel it to be hardly too strong for the facts.
My tale will be very short, and I crave your patience,
Ned, while I expose my former weakness to these
young people.” Here John Effingham paused, as if
to recollect himself; then he proceeded with a seriousness
of manner that caused every syllable he uttered
to tell on the ears of his listeners. “It is well
new to you,” he said, “that I felt a passion for your
sainted mother, such as few men ever experience for
any of your sex. Your father and myself were suitors
for her favour at the same time, though I can scarcely
say, Edward, that any feeling of rivalry entered into
the competition.”
“You do me no more than justice, John, for if the
affection of my beloved Eve could cause me grief, it
was because it brought you pain.”
“I had the additional mortification of approving of
the choice she made; for, certainly, as respected her
own happiness, your mother did more wisely in confiding
it to the regulated, mild, and manly virtues of
your father, than in placing her hopes on one as eccentric
and violent as myself.”
“This is injustice, John. You may have been positive,
and a little stern, at times, but never violent, and
least of all with a woman.”
“Call it what you will, it unfitted me to make one
so meek, gentle, and yet high-souled, as entirely happy
as she deserved to be, and as you did make her, while
she remained on earth. I had the courage to stay and
learn that your father was accepted, (though the marriage
was deferred two years in consideration for my
feelings,) and then with a heart, in which mortified
pride, wounded love, a resentment that was aimed rather
against myself than against your parents, I quitted
home, with a desperate determination never to rejoin
my family again. This resolution I did not own
to myself, even, but it lurked in my intentions unowned,
festering like a mortal disease; and it caused me, when
I burst away from the scene of happiness of which I
had been a compelled witness, to change my name,
and to make several inconsistent and extravagant arrangements
to abandon my native country even.”
“Poor John!” exclaimed his cousin, involuntarily,
“this would have been a sad blot on our felicity, had
we known it!”
“I was certain of that, even when most writhing
under the blow you had so unintentionally inflicted,
Ned; but the passions are tyrannical and inconsistent
masters. I took my mother's name, changed my servant,
and avoided those parts of the country where I
was known. At this time, I feared for my own reason,
and the thought crossed my mind, that by making
a sudden marriage I might supplant the old passion,
which was so near destroying me, by some of that
gentler affection which seemed to render you so blest,
Edward.”
“Nay, John, this was, itself, a temporary tottering
of the reasoning faculties.”
“It was simply the effect of passions, over which
reason had never been taught to exercise a sufficient
influence. Chance brought me acquainted with Miss
Warrender, in one of the southern states, and she promised,
as I fancied, to realize all my wild schemes of
happiness and resentment.”
“Resentment, John?”
“I fear I must confess it, Edward, though it were
anger against myself. I first made Miss Warrender's
acquaintance as John Assheton, and some months had
passed before I determined to try the fearful experiment
I have mentioned. She was young, beautiful,
well-born, virtuous and good; if she had a fault, it
was her high spirit—not high temper, but she was
high-souled and proud.”
“Thank God, for this!” burst from the inmost soul
of Paul, with unrestrainable feeling.
“You have little to apprehend, my son, on the subject
of your mother's character; if not perfect, she
was wanting in no womanly virtue, and might, nay
ought to have made any reasonable man happy. My
offer was accepted, for I found her heart disengaged.
Miss Warrender was not affluent, and, in addition to
the other unjustifiable motives that influenced me, I
thought there would be a satisfaction in believing that
wealth. Indeed, I had got to be distrustful and ungenerous,
and then I disliked the confession of the weakness
that had induced me to change my name. The
simple, I might almost say, loose laws of this country,
on the subject of marriage, removed all necessity for
explanations, there being no bans nor license necessary,
and the christian name only being used in the ceremony.
We were married, therefore, but I was not so
unmindful of the rights of others, as to neglect to procure
a certificate, under a promise of secrecy, in my
own name. By going to the place where the ceremony
was performed, you will also find the marriage
of John Effingham and Mildred Warrender duly registered
in the books of the church to which the officiating
clergyman belonged. So far, I did what justice
required, though, with a motiveless infatuation for
which I can now hardly account, which cannot be
accounted for, except by ascribing it to the inconsistent
cruelty of passion, I concealed my real name from her
with whom there should have been no concealment.
I fancied, I tried to fancy I was no impostor, as I was
of the family I represented myself to be, by the mother's
side; and I wished to believe that my peace
would easily be made when I avowed myself to be the
man I really was. I had found Miss Warrender and
her sister living with a well-intentioned but weak aunt,
and with no male relative to make those inquiries which
would so naturally have suggested themselves to persons
of ordinary worldly prudence. It is true, I had
become known to them under favourable circumstances,
and they had good reason to believe me an
Assheton from some accidental evidence that I possessed,
which unanswerably proved my affinity to that
family, without betraying my true name. But there is
so little distrust in this country, that, by keeping at a
distance from the places in which I was personally
known, a life might have passed without exposure.”
“This was all wrong, dear cousin Jack,” said Eve,
taking his hand and affectionately kissing it, while her
face kindled with a sense of her sex's rights, “and I
should be unfaithful to my womanhood were I to say
otherwise. You had entered into the most solemn of
all human contracts, and evil is the omen when such
an engagement is veiled by any untruth. But, still, one
would think you might have been happy with a vrituous
and affectionate wife!”
“Alas! it is but a hopeless experiment to marry one,
while the heart is still yearning towards another. Confidence
came too late; for, discovering my unhappiness,
Mildred extorted a tardy confession from me; a confession
of all but the concealment of the true name;
and justly wounded at the deception of which she had
been the dupe, and yielding to the impulses of a high
and generous spirit, she announced to me that she was
unwilling to continue the wife of any man on such
terms. We parted, and I hastened into the south-western
states, where I passed the next twelvemonth
in travelling, hurrying from place to place, in the vain
hope of obtaining peace of mind. I plunged into the
prairies, and most of the time mentioned was lost to
me as respects the world, in the company of hunters
and trappers.”
“This, then, explains your knowledge of that section
of the country,” exclaimed Mr. Effingham, “for
which I have never been able to account! We thought
you among your old friends in Carolina, all that time.”
“No one knew where I had secreted myself, for I
passed under another feigned name, and had no servant,
even. I had, however, sent an address to Mildred,
where a letter would find me; for, I had begun
to feel a sincere affection for her, though it might
not have amounted to passion, and looked forward
to being reunited, when her wounded feelings had
time to regain their tranquillity. The obligations of
wedlock are too serious to be lightly thrown aside, and
in the end, without discharging the duties of the state
into which we had entered.”
“And why did you not hasten to your poor wife,
cousin Jack,” Eve innocently demanded, “as soon as
you returned to the settlements?”
“Alas! my dear girl, I found letters at St. Louis
announcing her death. Nothing was said of any child,
nor did I in the least suspect that I was about to become
a father. When Mildred died, I thought all the
ties, all the obligations, all the traces of my ill-judged
marriage were extinct; and the course taken by her
relations, of whom, in this country, there remained
very few, left me no inclination to proclaim it. By
observing silence, I continued to pass as a bachelor,
of course; though had there been any apparent reason
for avowing what had occurred, I think no one who
knows me, can suppose I would have shrunk from
doing so.”
“May I inquire, my dear sir,” Paul asked, with a
timidity of manner that betrayed how tenderly he felt
it necessary to touch on the subject at all—“may I
inquire, my dear sir, what course was taken by my
mother's relatives?”
“I never knew Mr. Warrender, my wife's brother,
but he had the reputation of being a haughty and exacting
man. His letters were not friendly; scarcely
tolerable; for he affected to believe I had given a
false address at the west, when I was residing in the
middle states, and he threw out hints that to me were
then inexplicable, but which the letters left with me,
by Paul, have sufficiently explained. I thought him
cruel and unfeeling at the time, but he had an excuse
for his conduct.”
“Which was, sir—?” Paul eagerly inquired.
“I perceive by the letters you have given me, my
son, that your mother's family had imbibed the opinion,
that I was John Assheton, of Lancaster, a man
marriage in Spain, and whose wife, I believe, is still
living in Paris, though lost to herself and her friends.
My kinsman lived retired, and never recovered the
blow. As he was one of the only persons of the name,
who could have married your mother, her relatives
appear to have taken up the idea that he had been
guilty of bigamy, and of course that Paul was illegitimate.
Mr. Warrender, by his letters, appears even to
have had an interview with this person, and, on mentioning
his wife, was rudely repulsed from the house.
It was a proud family, and Mildred being dead, the
concealment of the birth of her child was resorted to,
as a means of averting a fancied disgrace. As for
myself, I call the all-seeing eye of God to witness, that
the thought of my being a parent never crossed my
mind, until I learned that a John Assheton was the
father of Paul, and that the miniature of Mildred
Warrender, that I received at the period of our engagement,
was the likeness of his mother. The simple
declaration of Captain Ducie concerning the family
name of his mother, removed all doubt.”
“But, cousin Jack, did not the mention of Lady
Dunluce, of the Ducies, and of Paul's connections,
excite curiosity?”
“Concerning what, dear? I could have no curiosity
about a child of whose existence I was ignorant.
I did know that the Warrenders had pretensions to
both rank and fortune in England, but never heard the
title, and cared nothing about money that would not,
probably, be Mildred's. Of General Ducie I never
even heard, as he married after my separation, and
subsequently to the receipt of my brother-in-law's letters,
I wished to forget the existence of the family. I
went to Europe, and remained abroad seven years,
and as this was at a time when the continent was
closed against the English, I was not in a way to hear
any thing on the subject. On my return, my wife's
dead; her sister must then have been Mrs. Ducie; no
one mentioned the Warrenders, all traces of whom
were nearly lost in this country, and to me the subject
was too painful to be either sought or dwelt on. It is
a curious fact, that, in 1829, during our late visit to the
old world, I ascended the Nile with General Ducie
for a travelling companion. We met at Alexandria,
and went to the cataracts and returned in company.
He knew me as John Effingham, an American traveller
of fortune, if of no particular merit, and I knew
him as an agreeable English general officer. He had
the reserve of an Englishman of rank, and seldom
spoke of his family, and it was only on our return, that
I found he had letters from his wife, Lady Dunluce;
but little did I dream that Lady Dunluce was Mabel
Warrender. How often are we on the very verge of
important information, and yet live on in ignorance
and obscurity! The Ducies appear finally to have
arrived at the opinion that the marriage was legal, and
that no reproach rests on the birth of Paul, by the inquiries
made concerning the eccentric John Assheton.”
“They fancied, in common with my uncle Warrender,
for a long time, that the John Assheton whom you
have mentioned, sir,” said Paul, “was my father. But
some accidental information, at a late day, convinced
them of their error, and then they naturally enough
supposed that it was the only other John Assheton that
could be heard of, who passes, and probably with sufficient
reason, for a bachelor. This latter gentleman
I have myself always supposed to be my father, though
he has treated two or three letters I have written to
him, with the indifference with which one would be
apt to treat the pretensions of an impostor. Pride has
prevented me from attempting to renew the correspondence
lately.”
“It is John Assheton of Bristol, my mother's brother's
son, as inveterate a bachelor as is to be found in
the grave subject and deep emotions that had so lately
been uppermost in his thoughts. “He must have supposed
your letters were an attempt at mystification on
the part of some of his jocular associates, and I am
surprised that he thought it necessary to answer them
at all.”
“He did answer but one, and that reply certainly
had something of the character you suggest, sir. I
freely forgive him, now I understand the truth, though
his apparent contempt gave me many a bitter pang
at the time. I saw Mr. Assheton once in public, and
observed him well, for, strange as it is, I have been
thought to resemble him.”
“Why strange? Jack Assheton and myself have,
or rather had a strong family likeness to each other,
and, though the thought is new to me, I can now easily
trace this resemblance to myself. It is rather an
Assheton than an Effingham look, though the latter is
not wanting.”
“These explanations are very clear and satisfactory,”
observed Mr. Effingham, “and leave little doubt that
Paul is the child of John Effingham and Mildred Warrender;
but they would be beyond all cavil, were the
infancy of the boy placed in an equally plain point of
view, and could the reasons be known why the Warranders
abandoned him to the care of those who
yielded him up to Mr. Powis.”
“I see but little obscurity in that,” returned John
Effingham. “Paul is unquestionably the child referred
to in the papers left by poor Monday, to the care of
whose mother he was intrusted, until, in his fourth
year, she yielded him to Mr. Powis, to get rid of trouble
and expense, while she kept the annuity granted by
Lady Dunluce. The names appear in the concluding
letters; and had we read the the latter through at first,
we should earlier have arrived at the same conclusion.
Could we find the man called Dowse, who appears to
the whole thing would be explained.”
“Of this I am aware,” said Paul, for he and John
Effingham had perused the remainder of the Monday
papers together, after the fainting fit of the latter, as
soon as his strength would admit; “and Captain Truck
is now searching for an old passenger of his, who I
think will furnish the clue. Should we get this evidence,
it would settle all legal questions.”
“Such questions will never be raised,” said John
Effingham, holding out his hand affectionately to his
son; “you possess the marriage certificate given to
your mother, and I avow myself to have been the person
therein styled John Assheton. This fact I have
endorsed on the back of the certificate; while here is
another given to me in my proper name, with the endorsement
made by the clergyman that I passed by
another name, at the ceremony.”
“Such a man, cousin Jack, was unworthy of his
cloth!” said Eve with energy.
“I do not think so, my child. He was innocent of the
original deception; this certificate was given after the
death of my wife, and might do good, whereas it could
do no harm. The clergyman in question is now a
bishop, and is still living. He may give evidence if
necessary, to the legality of the marriage.”
“And the clergyman by whom I was baptized is also
alive,” cried Paul, “and has never lost sight of me.
He was, in part, in the confidence of my mother's
family, and even after I was adopted by Mr. Powis,
he kept me in view as one of his little Christians as he
termed me. It was no less a person than Dr. —.”
“This alone would make out the connection and
identity,” said Mr. Effingham, “without the aid of the
Monday witnesses. The whole obscurity has arisen
from John's change of name, and his ignorance of the
fact that his wife had a child. The Ducies appear to
have had plausible reasons, too, for distrusting the
a large estate is concerned, we will take care that no
further obscurity shall rest over the affair.”
“The part connected with the estate is already
secured,” said John Effingham, looking at Eve with
a smile. “An American can always make a will, and
one that contains but a single bequest is soon written.
Mine is executed, and Paul Effingham, my son by my
marriage with Mildred Warrender, and lately known
in the United States' Navy as Paul Powis, is duly declared
my heir. This will suffice for all legal purposes,
though we shall have large draughts of gossip
to swallow.”
“Cousin Jack!”
“Daughter Eve!”
“Who has given cause for it?”
“He who commenced one of the most sacred of
his earthly duties, with an unjustifiable deception. The
wisest way to meet it, will be to make our avowals
of the relationship as open as possible.”
“I see no necessity, John, of entering into details,”
said Mr. Effingham; “you were married young, and
lost your wife within a year of your marriage. She
was a Miss Warrender, and the sister of Lady Dunluce;
Paul and Ducie are declared cousins, and the
former proves to be your son, of whose existence you
were ignorant. No one will presume to question any
of us, and it really strikes me that all rational people
ought to be satisfied with this simple account of the
matter.”
“Father!” exclaimed Eve, with her pretty little
hands raised in the attitude of surprise, “in what capital
even, in what part of the world, would such a
naked account appease curiosity? Much less will it
suffice here, where every human being, gentle or simple,
learned or ignorant, refined or vulgar, fancies
himself a constitutional judge of all the acts of all his
fellow-creatures?”
“We have at least the consolation of knowing that
no revelations will make the matter any worse, or any
better,” said Paul, “as the gossips would tell their own
tale, in every case, though its falsehood were as apparent
as the noon-day sun. A gossip is essentially a liar,
and truth is the last ingredient that is deemed necessary
to his other qualifications; indeed, a well authenticated
fact is a death-blow to a gossip. I hope, my
dear sir, you will say no more than that I am your
son, a circumstance much too precious to me to be
omitted.”
John Effingham looked affectionately at the noble
young man, whom he had so long esteemed and admired;
and the tears forced themselves to his eyes, as
he felt the supreme happiness that can alone gladden
a parent's heart.
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