University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
In which the ship of the narrator sails unexpectedly
into port, with the usual cargo.

Sir John Penreath was a connection,
though distant, of the Marston family.
He considered that the Marston family
were much honored by the fact. For
the Penreaths went back for their origin
to a date long anterior to the conquest.
The Penreaths were Penreaths
in the time of Canute. The royal family
of England, alongside of the Penreaths,
were mere upstarts. Sir John
was duly impressed by the honorable
antiquity of his house. The Penreaths
came out of the antediluvian world
with Noah, no doubt, but in that case
they had a cabin passage in the Ark,
during its voyage to Mount Ararat.
Honest, punctilious, and slightly pompous
was Sir John. That he should

have invited the Count and Zara, Sir
Charles and Lady Berkely, was not to
be wondered at; that he should have
tolerated Paul Bagy was not astonishing,
since Paul was of an old family;
but to ask a parvenu like me, and a
tradesman like Guttenberg, to his table,
was so extraordinary that no ordinary
motives could have prompted
it. So I was not at all surprised on
my arrival at Penreath Hall to find
myself treated with the same frank
cordiality accorded to the other guests.

But why?

That was soon to be solved. When
we were assembled in the drawing-room,
where I found Archbold, Sir John
addressed us.

“I have had the honor of your presence,
ladies and gentlemen,” said he,
“through the request of my kinsman,
the Earl of Landys. His lordship is
tolerably well convinced that he has a
near kinsman in in this young gentleman,
Mr. Fecit; and desires to investigate
the fact, and acknowledge him
in your presence. All present, with
the exception of Mr. Blodgett, his lordship's
solicitor, and myself, have known
Mr. Fecit for some time, and it is to be
supposed are naturally interested in
the inquiry.

“His Lordship is coming now,” said
Mr. Blodgett, entering, and the Peer
followed him into the room.

I had seen the Earl once before in
my boyish days, during a short visit
he had made to England after a long
absence, and I remembered him very
well. Time had changed him but very
little. His complexion was darker
through long travel; there were a few
deepened lines about the mouth and
eyes; and here and there some silver
streaked his locks; but he was still
the same erect, dignified nobleman,
with the same grey eyes and squarely
cut chin that remained in my memory.
He greeted the guests courteously, as
they were presented. I was the last,
and I trembled, for was not the mystery
of my birth about to be probed,
and it might be laid bare? The Earl
smiled kindly as he took my hand,
which he retained a moment with a
gentle pressure.

“My return,” said he, “I find is looked
upon almost as a resurrection. Yet
there is nothing very startling, except
in the fact of my return at all, from my
long absence. I was shipwrecked on
the Mexican coast, near Mazatlan. My
servant and I alone escaped. It was
found that the ship could not be saved,
and she was let drive bow and quarter
on, the masts cut so as to fall to shore.
An attempt was made to get the passengers
and crew to shore by means
of boats; these were swamped, and
my servant, who must have found
something afloat from the wreck, and
clung to it, alone escaped. I was too
ill to take my place in the boat, and
was abandoned in the most cowardly
way. The abandonment saved me.
The gale subsided, and after twenty-four
hours the vessel, or rather the
fragments of it, was beached high and
dry. I crawled out of my state-room,
and with an energy created by peril,
found the use of my limbs. I let myself
down into the low water, made my
way to shore, and along the beach,
and finally found a spot where the
rocks were less steep. I climbed these,
and after a rest at the top made my
way to a rancho. The ranchero and
his wife took good care of me, and I
remained with them three weeks,
scarcely able to stir. I was indifferent

as to the result, but with returning
health came a renewed love of life.
After considering over the matter, having
no care for home, for reasons which
you will presently see, I determined to
remain and explore that portion of
Mexico. My proper course was to have
gone to Mazatlan, written home from
thence to my friends, and drawn
through the Consul for funds. But I
happened to fall in with a company
who were going overland to the new
Mexico country, and thoughtlessly I
accompanied them. We were captured
by a band of Navajoes. I was the
only survivor, and some trifling feats
of legerdemain which I showed the
head chief caused my life to be spared,
and ensured my adoption into the tribe.
I was with them many years, and my
escape from them, in company with
some traveling traders, was of only
recent occurrence. That is my story;
but Mr. Blodgett will give you the
facts on which I have requested your
presence.”

Mr. Blodgett, thus appealed to, after
the customary preliminary ahem, began
his statement.

“On the third day of December, 1827,
a male child, newly-born, is delivered
into the charge of Mr. John Guttenberg,
printer and stationer, in the town
of Puttenham, in a mysterious manner.
By Mr. Guttenberg he is reared to manhood.
With this boy there are certain
tokens, a packet, unfortunately lost or
destroyed, a pair of bracelets, and a
ring, containing an inscription in the
Malay language. Subsequently, the
bones of a human being, pronounced
to be a female, are found in the cellar
of an old house, answering the description
of the one in which Mr. Guttenberg
received the child. To identify
this more surely, Mr. Guttenberg remembers
that there were two breaks
in the plaster in the room, one near the
door, and half way up, and a larger
one in the adjoining corner, extending
to the ceiling. The late Mr. Sharp,
just before his death, assured me that
such was the case in the back room of
the third story, in the house he sold to
Bingham. The house has been removed,
but others can prove the fact.
With the remains in this house were
found a Malay dress, a pair of sleeve-buttons,
and a pin, matching the bracelets,
and having a similar inscription
to that in the ring. Now, it appears
that in Landys Castle there is a portrait,
sent home by his lordship from
Java, of Don Estevan de Cabarrus, at
that time Prime-Minister to a native
Prince, and his lordship's friend. To
that portrait Mr. Fecit, in some respects,
bears a strong resemblance.
Circumstances occurring from time to
time, which I have in this paper, but
which we will pass over for the present,
have led this young gentleman
to believe himself the son of Don Estevan,
known among the Malays as Baganda
Jawa, though his title from his
office was Raden Adipati.”

Here Mr. Blodgett paused to take
breath, and the Earl took up the thread
of the revelation.

“From 1823 to 1828, I traveled
abroad,” he said, “roaming over the
Eastern Archipelago, and coming home
by the way of Spain. In Spain I fell
in love with a young lady, the daughter
of a nobleman of ancient family
but decayed fortune, residing near Cadiz.
I married her. The marriage has
never appeared in Burke's Peerage, but
we were married, nevertheless, in both
forms. I had unfortunately incurred

the ill-will of the brother, whom I had
met while at the court of the Susuhunan,
in Java, where he was chief minister,
and for a time my warm friend.
He was disgraced by that sovereign,
and erroneously attributed his disgrace
to my machinations. On his return,
which occurred three months after
our marriage, I inadvertently betrayed
the fact that he had apostacised
from his religion while in Java, which
drew on him the censure of the church,
and the reproaches of his friends. He
vowed revenge, and he soon found an
instrument for the purpose.

“Osborne, whom you know as the
steward of my cousin, was at that time
my confidential valet. I had picked
him up at Calcutta, when my former
body-servant died, and had taken him
on the representation of an army officer
there. He was bold, dexterous,
and without scruples, and was possessed
of the faculty of imitating, successfully,
any hand-writing that he had
ever seen. I had no reason to doubt
his fidelity, but still he betrayed me;
under what inducement, or for what
reason, I have been unable to learn.

“The plan of the conspirators was
soon laid, and it succeeded.

“I received a letter one day, dated
at Madrid, from a friend whom I knew
to be in Spain, informing me that he
was in trouble there, and desiring me
to set out for his relief. The letter was
urgent, but said nothing of the nature
of his difficulties. He was an old college-friend,
and without further ado I
set out at once for Madrid, leaving my
wife in charge of her family, and leaving
Osborne, who feigned to be too
sick to travel, behind also.

“When I arrived at Madrid, I found
the letter was a forgery. My friend
had gone to Paris two weeks before.
I set out on my return, anxious to see
my wife, for though I had been ten
months a husband, I was fond as ever,
and beside, I was about to take the
Countess to England, and my journey
had been undertaken in the midst of
our preparations for departure.

“On my return I found that my wife
and valet had gone. I found a letter
addressed to me, and signed by my
wife. She said in this letter that she
found she did not love me, and had
abandoned me forever under the protection
of one for whom she had more
regard. Her brother, to whom I showed
the letter, said that he had noticed
her in conference with Osborne the
night before they disappeared, but
thought nothing of it then, and swore
he would pursue the fugitives, and
wipe out the dishonor in their hearts'
blood. Don Estevan and I came to
London to intercept the vessel. We
failed in our object; for the ship had
parted with her passengers at Puddleford,
where a sloop for Havre had put
in for repairs, and the couple took passage
in that for France. It was useless
to pursue them. I sought my
home for a day only, bade my mother
farewell, and departed to be absent,
with rare intervals, for many years.

“You cannot wonder, any of you;
after this, that I never cared to acknowledge
the marriage. I never endeavored
to discover the after fate of
my wife, for she was dead to me, and
forever.”

“You did right, beyond doubt,” said
Sir Charles Berkely, at length, when
the silence of the Earl seemed to invite
comment.

I felt relieved by the close of the
narrative, for before it closed I had begun

to have a horrible suspicion. The
Earl went on.

“I did wrong, Sir Charles, but I was
deceived. My wife, like myself, was
the victim of a base plot. She had received
a letter the day after my departure
for Madrid, dated on the way—it
was a forgery of my handwriting—informing
her that I had meddled with
Spanish politics, and my only hope of
escape from trouble was to fly the
country. It directed her to place herself
in charge of Osborne, who would
conduct her to England, where I would
meet her. A vessel was to sail from
Cadiz that week, and Osborne engaged
passage for her and her maid, and they
left under cover of the night, the unusual
proceeding being covered by
some story to the master of the ship,
invented by Osborne. Unknown to
his sister, Don Estevan was cognisant
of the plot, a party to it, and to wreck
my happiness, did not scruple to blast
the reputation of his sister, or at least
to run the risk of her disgrace.

“The ship was bound to London,
but sprang a leak in the channel, and
was obliged to put into Puddleford.
Here Osborne, after misleading the
captain with a story of taking passage
in the sloop to Havre, took a conveyance
to Puttenham, and hired Sharp's
house, one room of which he furnished
for my wife's accommodation, leaving
her there, while he sought lodgings for
himself at an inn. My unfortunate
wife, excited, not knowing the language,
in effect, a prisoner, was taken
with premature labor, and gave birth
to a son. That birth, Ambrose, cost
your mother her life.”

There was a general murmur of surprise
when the Earl concluded, and I
was congratulated on the discovery of
my birth. The Earl went on to say—

“Here is the portrait, in miniature,
of your mother, and all can see that the
resemblance between you and her is
striking. Her brother and she were
very much alike. Besides, the ring
and trinkets were gifts of mine to her;
they were made for me in Sumatra, and
the letters were put on by the jeweler,
without my knowledge, he supposing
that as a great English nobleman I
must be a prince in my own country,
at least. I am convinced that you are
my son; the story of Don Estevan,
whom I met in Mexico since, confirms
it; but I desire to make it surer.
Bring Mr. Osborne in.”

Osborne was brought into the room
in charge of two constables. I expected
to see him crest-fallen. On the
contrary, he was apparently triumphant.
The Earl addressed him—

“Osborne, you know what charges
are against you for peculation, conspiracy
and forgery. The evidence is
sufficient to convict you, and you cannot
escape penal servitude, except
through my mercy. I am willing to
abandon these charges and set you
free, if you answer me a few questions
truly.”

“I may not choose to do that?”

“We shall see.”

At that moment a messenger came
in with a note for Sir John Penreath,
who left the room. The Countess Dowager
and Gifford entered at the same
time.

“Now,” said the Earl, “what was
your motive for betraying my confidence?”

“I will answer that question last of
all.”

“Very well. The next is, Mr. Guttenberg
received from you a male infant.

Whose child was that?”

“I can answer that readily. It was
that of Brigida, your wife's maid, and
the father was said to be Don Estevan
de Cabarrus. Your wife's child was
still-born.”

This was an unexpected answer, and
accounted for the likeness. I felt my
heart sink, but at the next moment the
story of Dr. Pascoe came to my recollection.
I broke the silence.

“Mr. Osborne,” I said, “I have not
hitherto meddled in this investigation;
but I have something to say and something
to ask. Dr. Pascoe attended my
mother. Shall I summon him to describe
his patient? If I am only the
offspring of a servant, why was the
packet given to your fellow-conspirator,
and, referring to me, destroyed?”

“Your story is false,” broke in the
Countess Dowager. “This young gentleman
has the Marston ear. That
mark is peculiar to our family. I knew
him from the first; but I never betrayed
my knowledge, for I thought
his mother had dishonored my son and
herself. Now that her honor is cleared,
I own him for my grandson, for
such I am assured he is.”

“Those who desire to deceive themselves
can always find enough evidence,”
retorted Osborne. “What
have I to gain by a lie? His lordship
has trumped up charges against me
that it may be difficult to disprove.
I have only to speak as you wish—to
satisfy your desire—and I am free. I
do not choose to lie, even to save myself.”

It looked reasonable enough, and
doubt began to crawl into the minds
of all. Sir John had entered the room
meanwhile, accompanied by a female
strange to all but Archbold and my
self. Osborne leaned against the back
of an easy chair, cool, self-possessed
and triumphant. The strange female
—it was Potter's wife—confronted
him.

“How,” said she, in Spanish, “Senor
Osborne, does it come that you did
not give the child to his father, as you
promised? I would not consent to
leave England for Spain until you
swore solemnly to undo the wrong thus
far, in a year's time. Have you done
it? You talk of him being my child
Liar! My husband shall strike you
to the earth, and choke the falsehood
out of you!”

“Brigida!”

“Yes; Brigida Mejia that was;
Bridget Potter now. You thought me
dead. Earl of Landys, the babe delivered
to the strange Englishman in
the old house—yonder he stands—is
your lawful son. I am ready to swear
it on the Evangelists of God. Base
dog, Osborne, instead of sending me
to Spain, as you promised, you put me
on board of a vessel bound to America.
You thought I would never come
back, Senor Osborne; but I am here
to confound you. My son, indeed!
Liar!”

“It strikes me,” said Mr. Blodgett,
“that with this evidence we have no
other use for this fellow. Officers, remove
him.”

“One moment, if you please, Mr
Blodgett,” returned Osborne. “I have
a word to say to you, Earl of Landys.
You asked me a question just now I
will answer why I betrayed you. I
loved Carlota de Cabarrus—loved her,
my lord, as you, with your cold heart
never did, never could have loved any
one. I would have won her too, but
for you. I had served you faithfully:

I had a chance of bettering my fortune—of
taking the position of a gentleman,
to which my culture and my
talents entitled me—yes, and my family—for
though I took menial service,
my connections were good as
your lordship's own. But you stepped
in as my rival Your wealth, your title,
outbid me; but I vowed revenge,
and I had it. I sent you a wretched
man, to wander for years. You came
back to find your fortune impaired too.
Your broad acres are there—I could
not destroy them. But the personal
property, the heir-looms of the family,
the jewels, the plate, have all been
sold, and the proceeds are placed where
you can never reach them. I have
taken good care of that. And you can
transport me—possibly I take with
me one comfort—the Countess of Landys,
the wife of a proud peer, your
wife, my lord, died like a pauper and
was buried like a brute!”

The angry wretch was removed from
the room. That night, by some means,
he escaped from jail, (the jailor plead
ignorance, but he was much richer afterwards,
they said) and hurrying by
night to Puddleford, chartered a fishing
smack, and escaped across the
channel. He was never again seen in
England. We afterwards learned that
he sailed from Havre to the United
States, went out West, engaged successfully
in land speculations, became
the President of some railway corporation
there, and when last heard of was
looked upon as a model of probity and
honor. Poetical justice would require
that he should lose some portion of his
ill-gotten gains. So far, however, poetical
justice has not been done, and
from present appearances is not likely
to be.

When he had been taken from the
room, I turned to Espinel:

“Count,” said I, “do you remember
your promise?”

“Yes,” he answered, smiling, “but
you will need your father's approval.”

“Pray,” said the Earl, smiling in
turn, “in what is the parental approval
required?”

I took Zara by the hand, and led her,
blushing, to the Earl.

“Father,” said I, demurely, “to prevent
any farther controversy about
the title—”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as he bent forward
and imprinted a kiss on the brow
of Zara, “I get a daughter then, as
well as a son.”

And now seven years have passed,
and brought many changes. My father,
the Dowager Countess of Landys,
and the Count de Espinel are no more.
I am sitting now in the library of Landys
Castle, writing. A servant has
just brought a letter sealed with black.
That lady who sits yonder, with a very
little girl at her feet, and two boys
standing by her knee, is Zara, Countess
of Landys. No; I think she is not.
She is a Countess no longer. The elder
dignity has at last fallen to our house,
for by the superscription on that letter,
with its black wax and black edges, I
learn that Ambrose Fecit, foundling
and printer's apprentice, is now the
Duke of Sellingbourne.