 | CHAPTER IV. Home as found |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
Thy gates shall yet give way,
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past.”
Bryant.
Captain Ducie had retired for the night, and was
sitting reading, when a low tap at the door roused him
from a brown study. He gave the necessary permission,
and the door opened.
“I hope, Ducie, you have not forgotten the secretary
I left among your effects,” said Paul entering the room,
“and concerning which I wrote you when you were
still at Quebec.”
Captain Ducie pointed to the case, which was standing
among his other luggage, on the floor of the room.
“Thank you for this care,” said Paul, taking the
secretary under his arm, and retiring towards the door;
“it contains papers of much importance to myself, and
some that I have reason to think are of importance to
others.”
“Stop, Powis — a word before you quit me. Is
Templemore de trop?”
“Not at all; I have a sincere regard for Templemore,
and should be sorry to see him leave us.”
“And yet I think it singular a man of his habits
should be rusticating among these hills, when I know
that he is expected to look at the Canadas, with a view
to report their actual condition at home.”
“Is Sir George really entrusted with a commission
of that sort?” inquired Paul, with interest.
“Not with any positive commission, perhaps, for
none was necessary. Templemore is a rich fellow, and
has no need of appointments; but, it is hoped and
report their condition to the government. I dare say
he will not be impeached for his negligence, though it
may occasion surprise.”
“Good night, Ducie; Templemore prefers a wigwam
to your walled Quebec, and natives to colonists; that
is all.”
In a minute, Paul was at the door of John Effingham's
room, where he again tapped, and was again told to
enter.
“Ducie has not forgotten my request, and this is the
secretary that contains poor Mr. Monday's papers,” he
remarked, as he laid his load on a toilet-table, speaking
in a way to show that the visit was expected.
“We have, indeed, neglected this duty too long, and
it is to be hoped no injustice, or wrong to any, will be
the consequence.”
“Is that the package?” demanded John Effingham,
extending a hand to receive a bundle of papers that
Paul had taken from the secretary. “We will break the
seals this moment, and ascertain what ought to be done,
before we sleep.”
“These are papers of my own, and very precious
are they,” returned the young man, regarding them a
moment, with interest, before he laid them on the toilet.
“Here are the papers of Mr. Monday.”
John Effingham received the package from his young
friend, placed the lights conveniently on the table, put
on his spectacles, and invited Paul to be seated. The
gentlemen were placed opposite each other, the duty
of breaking the seals, and first casting an eye at the
contents of the different documents, devolving, as a
matter of course, on the senior of the two, who, in
truth, had alone been entrusted with it.
“Here is something signed by poor Monday himself,
in the way of a general certificate,” observed John
Effingham, who first read the paper, and then
handed it to Paul. It was, in form, an unsealed letter;
The certificate itself was in the following words:
“I, John Monday, do declare and certify, that all the
accompanying letters and documents are genuine and
authentic. Jane Dowse, to whom and from whom,
are so many letters, was my late mother, she having
intermarried with Peter Dowse, the man so often
named, and who led her into acts for which I know she
has since been deeply repentant. In committing these
papers to me, my poor mother left me the sole judge
of the course I was to take, and I have put them in
this form, in order that they may yet do good, should
I be called suddenly away. All depends on discovering
who the person called Bright actually is, for he was
never known to my mother, by any other name. She
knows him to have been an Englishman, however, and
thinks he was, or had been, an upper servant in a gentleman's
family. John Monday.”
This paper was dated several years back, a sign that
the disposition to do right had existed some time in Mr.
Monday; and all the letters and other papers had been
carefully preserved. The latter also appeared to be regularly
numbered, a precaution that much aided the investigations
of the two gentlemen. The original letters
spoke for themselves, and the copies had been made
in a clear, strong, mercantile hand, and with the method
of one accustomed to business. In short, so far
as the contents of the different papers would allow,
nothing was wanting to render the whole distinct and
intelligible.
John Effingham read the paper No. 1, with deliberation,
though not aloud; and when he had done, he
handed it to his young friend, coolly remarking—
“That is the production of a deliberate villain.”
Paul glanced his eye over the document, which was
an original letter signed, `David Bright,' and addressed
to `Mrs. Jane Dowse.' It was written with exceeding
art, made many professions of friendship, spoke of the
and of her first husband in particular, and freely professed
the writer's desire to serve her, while it also contained
several ambiguous allusions to certain means
of doing so, which should be revealed whenever the
person to whom the letter was addressed should discover
a willingness to embark in the undertaking.
This letter was dated Philadelphia, was addressed to
one in New-York, and it was old.
“This is, indeed, a rare specimen of villany,” said
Paul, as he laid down the paper, “and has been written
in some such spirit as that employed by the devil
when he tempted our common mother. I think I never
read a better specimen of low, wily, cunning.”
“And, judging by all that we already know, it
would seem to have succeeded. In this letter you will
find the gentleman a little more explicit; and but a
little; though he is evidently encouraged by the interest
and curiosity betrayed by the woman in this copy
of the answer to his first epistle.”
Paul read the letter just named, and then he laid
it down to wait for the next, which was still in the
hands of his companion.
“This is likely to prove a history of unlawful love,
and of its miserable consequences,” said John Effingham
in his cool manner, as he handed the answers to
letter No. 1, and letter No. 2, to Paul. “The world is
full of such unfortunate adventures, and I should think
the parties English, by a hint or two you will find in
this very honest and conscientious communication.
Strongly artificial, social and political distinctions render
expedients of this nature more frequent, perhaps,
in Great Britain, than in any other country. Youth is
the season of the passions, and many a man in the
thoughtlessness of that period lays the foundation of
bitter regret in after life.”
As John Effingham raised his eyes, in the act of extending
his hand towards his companion, he perceived
until the colour diffused itself over the whole of
his fine brow. At first an unpleasant suspicion flashed
on John Effingham, and he admitted it with regret, for
Eve and her future happiness had got to be closely
associated, in his mind, with the character and conduct
of the young man; but when Paul took the papers,
steadily, and by an effort seemed to subdue all unpleasant
feelings, the calm dignity with which he read
them completely effaced the disagreeable distrust. It
was then John Effingham remembered that he had
once believed Paul himself might be the fruits of the
heartless indiscretion he condemned. Commiseration
and sympathy instantly took the place of the first impression,
and he was so much absorbed with these feelings
that he had not taken up the letter which was to
follow, when Paul laid down the paper he had last
been required to read.
“This does, indeed, sir, seem to foretell one of those
painful histories of unbridled passion, with the still more
painful consequences,” said the young man with the
steadiness of one who was unconscious of having a
personal connexion with any events of a nature so
unpleasant. “Let us examine farther.”
John Effingham felt emboldened by these encouraging
signs of unconcern, and he read the succeeding
letters aloud, so that they learned their contents simultaneously.
The next six or eight communications
betrayed nothing distinctly, beyond the fact that the
child which formed the subject of the whole correspondence,
was to be received by Peter Dowse and his
wife, and to be retained as their own offspring, for the
consideration of a considerable sum, with an additional
engagement to pay an annuity. It appeared by these
letters also, that the child, which was hypocritically
alluded to under the name of the `pet,' had been actually
transferred to the keeping of Jane Dowse, and
that several years passed, after this arrangement, before
later letters referred to the payment of the annuity,
although they all contained cold inquiries after the
`pet,' and answers so vague and general, as sufficiently
to prove that the term was singularly misapplied. In
the whole, there were some thirty or forty letters, each
of which had been punctually answered, and their dates
covered a space of near twelve years. The perusal
of all these papers consumed more than an hour, and
when John Effingham laid his spectacles on the table,
the village clock had struck the hour of midnight.
“As yet,” he observed, “we have learned little more
than the fact, that a child was made to take a false
character, without possessing any other clue to the
circumstances than is given in the names of the parties,
all of whom are evidently obscure, and one of
the most material of whom, we are plainly told, must
have borne a fictitious name. Even poor Monday, in
possession of so much collateral testimony that we
want, could not have known what was the precise
injustice done, if any, or, certainly, with the intentions
he manifests, he would not have left that important
particular in the dark.”
“This is likely to prove a complicated affair,” returned
Paul, “and it is not very clear that we can be
of any immediate service. As you are probably fatigued,
we may without impropriety defer the further
examination to another time.”
To this John Effingham assented, and Paul, during
the short conversation that followed, brought the secretary
from the toilet to the table, along with the bundle
of important papers that belonged to himself, to which
he had alluded, and busied himself in replacing the
whole in the drawer from which they had been taken.
“All the formalities about the seals, that we observed
when poor Monday gave us the packet, would seem
to be unnecessary,” he remarked, while thus occupied,
“and it will probably be sufficient if I leave the secretary
in your room, and keep the keys myself.”
“One never knows,” returned John Effingham, with
the greater caution of experience and age. “We
have not read all the papers, and there are wax and
lights before you; each has his watch and seal, and it
will be the work of a minute only, to replace every
thing as we left the package, originally. When this
is done, you may leave the secretary, or remove it, at
your own pleasure.”
“I will leave it; for, though it contains so much
that I prize, and which is really of great importance
to myself, it contains nothing for which I shall have
immediate occasion.”
“In that case, it were better that I place the package
in which we have a common interest in an armoire,
or in my secretary, and that you keep your
precious effects more immediately under your own
eye.”
“It is immaterial, unless the case will inconvenience
you, for I do not know that I am not happier
when it is out of my sight, so long as I feel certain of
its security, than when it is constantly before my eyes.”
Paul said this with a forced smile, and there
was a sadness in his countenance that excited the
sympathy of his companion. The latter, however,
merely bowed his assent, and the papers were replaced,
and the secretary was locked and deposited
in an armoire, in silence. Paul was then about to wish
the other good night, when John Effingham seized his
hand, and by a gentle effort induced him to resume
his seat. An embarrassing, but short pause succeeded,
when the latter spoke.
“We have suffered enough in company, and have
seen each other in situations of sufficient trial to be
friends,” he said. “I should feel mortified, did I believe
you could think me influenced by an improper curiosity,
in wishing to share more of your confidence
than you are perhaps willing to bestow; I trust
you will attribute to its right motive the liberty I am
and the sincere and strong interest I feel in your welfare,
ought to give me a small claim not to be treated
as a total stranger. So jealous and watchful has this
interest been, I might with great truth call it affection,
that I have discovered you are not situated exactly as
other men in your condition of life are situated, and I
feel persuaded that the sympathy, perhaps the advice,
of one so many years older than yourself, might be
useful. You have already said so much to me, on the
subject of your personal situation, that I almost feel a
right to ask for more.”
John Effingham uttered this in his mildest and most
winning manner; and few men could carry with them,
on such an occasion, more of persuasion in their voices
and looks. Paul's features worked, and it was evident
to his companion that he was moved, while, at the same
time, he was not displeased.
“I am grateful, deeply grateful, sir, for this interest
in my happiness,” Paul answered, “and if I knew the
particular points on which you feel any curiosity,
there is nothing that I can desire to conceal. Have
the further kindness to question me, Mr. Effingham,
that I need not touch on things you do not care to
hear.”
“All that really concerns your welfare, would have
interest with me. You have been the agent of rescuing
not only myself, but those whom I most love,
from a fate worse than death; and, a childless bachelor
myself, I have more than once thought of attempting
to supply the places of those natural friends that I
fear you have lost. Your parents—”
“Are both dead. I never knew either,” said Paul,
who spoke huskily, “and will most cheerfully accept
your generous offer, if you will allow me to attach
to it a single condition.”
“Beggars must not be choosers,” returned John
Effingham, “and if you will allow me to feel this interest
of a father; I shall not insist on any unreasonable
terms. What is your condition?”
“That the word money may be struck out of our
vocabulary, and that you leave your will unaltered.
Were the world to be examined, you could not find a
worthier or a lovelier heiress, than the one you have
already selected, and whom Providence itself has
given you. Compared with yourself, I am not rich;
but I have a gentleman's income, and as I shall probably
never marry, it will suffice for all my wants.”
John Effingham was more pleased than he cared to
express with this frankness, and with the secret sympathy
that had existed between them; but he smiled
at the injunction; for, with Eve's knowledge, and her
father's entire approbation, he had actually made a
codicil to his will, in which their young protector
was left one half of his large fortune.
“The will may remain untouched, if you desire it,”
he answered, evasively, “and that condition is disposed
of. I am glad to learn so directly from yourself, what
your manner of living and the reports of others had
prepared me to hear, that you are independent. This
fact, alone, will place us solely on our mutual esteem,
and render the friendship that I hope is now brought
within a covenant, if not now first established, more
equal and frank. You have seen much of the world,
Powis, for your years and profession?”
“It is usual to think that men of my profession see
much of the world, as a consequence of their pursuits;
though I agree with you, sir, that this is seeing
the world only in a very limited circle. It is now
several years since circumstances, I might almost say
the imperative order of one whom I was bound to obey,
induced me to resign, and since that time I have done
little else but travel. Owing to certain adventitious
causes, I have enjoyed an access to European society
that few of our countrymen possess, and I hope the
as a traveller on the continent of Europe, that I had
the pleasure of first meeting with Mr. and Miss Effingham.
I was much abroad, even as a child, and owe
some little skill in foreign languages to that circumstance.”
“So my cousin has informed me. You have set the
question of country at rest, by declaring that you are
an American, and yet I find you have English relatives.
Captain Ducie, I believe, is a kinsman?”
“He is; we are sister's children, though our friendship
has not always been such as the connexion would
infer. When Ducie and myself met at sea, there was
an awkwardness, if not a coolness, in the interview,
that, coupled with my sudden return to England, I fear
did not make the most favourable impression, on those
who witnessed what passed.”
“We had confidence in your principles,” said John
Effingham, with a frank simplicity, “and, though the
first surmises were not pleasant, perhaps, a little reflection
told us that there was no just ground for suspicion.”
“Ducie is a fine, manly fellow, and has a seaman's
generosity and sincerity. I had last parted from him
on the field, where we met as enemies; and the circumstance
rendered the unexpected meeting awkward.
Our wounds no longer smarted, it is true; but, perhaps,
we both felt shame and sorrow that they had ever
been inflicted.”
“It should be a very serious quarrel that could arm
sister's children against each other,” said John Effingham,
gravely.
“I admit as much. But, at that time, Captain Ducie
was not disposed to admit the consanguinity, and the
offence grew out of an intemperate resentment of some
imputations on my birth; between two military men,
the issue could scarcely be avoided. Ducie challenged,
and I was not then in the humour to balk him.
But an interval of three years had enabled my enemy
to discover that he had not done me justice; that I had
been causelessly provoked to the quarrel, and that we
ought to be firm friends. The generous desire to make
suitable expiation, urged him to seize the first occasion
of coming to America that offered; and when ordered
to chase the Montauk, by a telegraphic communication
from London, he was hourly expecting to sail
for our seas, where he wished to come, expressly that
we might meet. You will judge, therefore, how happy
he was to find me unexpectedly in the vessel that contained
his principal object of pursuit, thus killing, as it
might be, two birds with one stone.”
“And did he carry you away with him, with any
such murderous intention?” demanded John Effingham,
smiling.
“By no means; nothing could be more amicable
than Ducie and myself got to be, when we had been
a few hours together in his cabin. As often happens,
when there have been violent antipathies and unreasonable
prejudices, a nearer view of each other's character
and motives removed every obstacle; and long before
we reached England, two warmer friends could not
be found, or a more frank intercourse between relatives
could not be desired. You are aware, sir, that
our English cousins do not often view their cis-atlantic
relatives with the most lenient eyes.”
“This is but too true,” said John Effingham proudly,
though his lip quivered as he spoke, “and it is, in a
great measure, the fault of that miserable mental bondage
which has left this country, after sixty years of
nominal independence, so much at the mercy of a hostile
opinion. It is necessary that we respect ourselves
in order that others respect us.”
“I agree with you, sir, entirely. In my case, however,
previous injustice disposed my relatives to receive
me better, perhaps, than might otherwise have
and feeling no disposition to raise a question that
might disturb the peerage of the Ducies, I became a
favourite.”
“A peerage!—Both your parents, then, were English?”
“Neither, I believe; but the connection between
the two countries was so close, that it can occasion
no surprise a right of this nature should have passed
into the colonies. My mother's mother became the
heiress of one of those ancient baronies, that pass to
the heirs-general, and, in consequence of the deaths
of two brothers, these rights, which however were
never actually possessed by any of the previous generation,
centered in my mother and my aunt. The former
being dead, as was contended, without issue—”
“You forget yourself!”
“Lawful issue,” added Paul, reddening to the temples,
“I should have added—Mrs. Ducie, who was
married to the younger son of an English nobleman,
claimed and obtained the rank. My pretension would
have left the peerage in abeyance, and I probably owe
some little of the opposition I found, to that circumstance.
But, after Ducie's generous conduct, I could
not hesitate about joining in the application to the
crown, that, by its decision, the abeyance might be determined
in favour of the person who was in possession;
and Lady Dunluce is now quietly confirmed in
her claim.”
“There are many young men in this country, who
would cling to the hopes of a British peerage with
greater tenacity!”
“It is probable there are; but my self-denial is not
of a very high order, for, it could scarcely be expected
the English ministers would consent to give the rank
to a foreigner who did not hesitate about avowing his
principles and national feelings. I shall not say I did
not covet this peerage, for it would be supererogatory;
but I am born an American, and will die an American;
is like the daw among the peacocks. The less that is
said about it, the better.”
“You are fortunate to have escaped the journals,
which, most probably, would have begraced you, by
elevating you at once to the rank of a duke.”
“Instead of which, I had no other station than that
of a dog in the manger. If it makes my aunt happy
to be called Lady Dunluce, I am sure she is welcome
to the privilege; and when Ducie succeeds her, as will
one day be the case, an excellent fellow will be a peer
of England. Voila tout! You are the only countryman,
sir, to whom I have ever spoken of the circumstance,
and with you I trust it will remain a secret.”
“What! am I precluded from mentioning the facts in
my own family? I am not the only sincere, the only
warm friend, you have in this house, Powis.”
“In that respect, I leave you to act your pleasure,
my dear sir. If Mr. Effingham feel sufficient interest
in my fortunes, to wish to hear what I have told you,
let there be no silly mysteries,—or—or Mademoiselle
Viefville—”
“Or Nanny Sidley, or Annette,” interrupted John
Effingham, with a kind smile. “Well, trust to me for
that; but, before we separate for the night, I wish to
ascertain beyond question one other fact, although the
circumstances you have stated scarce leave a doubt of
the reply.”
“I understand you, sir, and did not intend to leave
you in any uncertainty on that important particular. If
there can be a feeling, more painful than all others, with
a man of any pride, it is to distrust the purity of his
mother. Mine was beyond reproach, thank God, and
so it was most clearly established, or I could certainly
have had no legal claim to the peerage.”
“Or your fortune—” added John Effingham, drawing
a long breath, like one suddenly relieved from an
unpleasant suspicion.
“My fortune comes from neither parent, but from
one of those generous dispositions, or caprices, if you
will, that sometimes induce men to adopt those who
are alien to their blood. My guardian adopted me,
took me abroad with him, placed me, quite young, in
the navy, and dying, he finally left me all he possessed.
As he was a bachelor, with no near relative, and had
been the artisan of his own fortune, I could have no
hesitation about accepting the gift he so liberally bequeathed.
It was coupled with the condition that I
should retire from the service, travel for five years,
return home, and marry. There is no silly forfeiture
exacted in either case, but such is the general course
solemnly advised by a man who showed himself my
true friend for so many years.”
“I envy him the opportunity he enjoyed of serving
you. I hope he would have approved of your national
pride, for I believe we must put that at the bottom of
your disinterestedness, in the affair of the peerage.”
“He would, indeed, although he never knew any
thing of the claim which arose out of the death of the
two lords who preceded my aunt, and who were the
brothers of my grandmother. My guardian was in all
respects a man, and, in nothing more, than in a manly
national pride. While abroad a decoration was offered
him, and he declined it with the character and dignity
of one who felt that distinctions which his country repudiated,
every gentleman belonging to that country
ought to reject; and yet he did it with a respectful
gratitude for the compliment, that was due to the government
from which the offer came.”
“I almost envy that man,” said John Effingham,
with warmth. “To have appreciated you, Powis, was
a mark of a high judgment; but it seems he properly
appreciated himself, his country, and human nature.”
“And yet he was little appreciated in his turn. That
man passed years in one of our largest towns, of no
more apparent account among its population than any
as one of its bustling brokers, or jobbers.”
“In that there is nothing surprising. The class of
the chosen few is too small every where, to be very
numerous at any given point, in a scattered population
like that of America. The broker will as naturally
appreciate the broker, as the dog appreciates the dog,
or the wolf the wolf. Least of all is the manliness
you have named, likely to be valued among a people
who have been put into men's clothes before they are
out of leading-strings. I am older than you, my dear
Paul,” it was the first time John Effingham ever
used so familiar an appellation, and the young man
thought it sounded kindly—“I am older than you, my
dear Paul, and will venture to tell you an important
fact that may hereafter lessen some of your own mortifications.
In most nations there is a high standard
to which man at least affects to look; and acts are extolled
and seemingly appreciated, for their naked
merits. Little of this exists in America, where no
man is much praised for himself, but for the purposes
of party, or to feed national vanity. In the country
in which, of all others, political opinion ought to be the
freest, it is the most persecuted, and the community-character
of the nation induces every man to think he
has a right of property in all its fame. England exhibits
a great deal of this weakness and injustice, which,
it is to be feared, is a vicious fruit of liberty; for it is
certain that the sacred nature of opinion is most appreciated
in those countries in which it has the least
efficiency. We are constantly deriding those governments
which fetter opinion, and yet I know of no nation
in which the expression of opinion is so certain to
attract persecution and hostility as our own, though it
may be, and is, in one sense, free.”
“This arises from its potency. Men quarrel about
opinion here, because opinion rules. It is but one mode
of struggling for power. But to return to my guardian;
as far from the magazine and newspaper existence that
most Americans, in a moral sense, pass, as any man
could be.”
“It is indeed a newspaper and magazine existence,”
said John Effingham, smiling at Paul's terms, “to
know life only through such mediums! It is as bad as
the condition of those English who form their notions
of society from novels written by men and women
who have no access to it, and from the records of the
court journal. I thank you sincerely, Mr. Powis, for
this confidence, which has not been idly solicited on
my part, and which shall not be abused. At no distant
day we will break the seals again, and renew
our investigations into this affair of the unfortunate
Monday, which is not yet, certainly, very promising
in the way of revelations.”
The gentlemen shook hands cordially, and Paul,
lighted by his companion, withdrew. When the young
man was at the door of his own room, he turned, and
saw John Effingham following him with his eye. The
latter then renewed the good night, with one of those
winning smiles that rendered his face so brilliantly
handsome, and each retired.
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