CHAPTER 25

EXPLANATORY.

——By your leave, gentle wax.

SHAKSPEARE.

In the hall of Shaws–Castle the Earl of Etherington met Mowbray, returned from his fruitless chase after the bearer of the anonymous epistle before recited; and who had but just learned, on his return, that the Earl of Etherington was with his sister. There was a degree of mutual confusion when they met; for Mowbray had the contents of the anonymous letter fresh in his mind, and Lord Etherington, notwithstanding all the coolness which he had endeavoured to maintain, had not gone through the scene with Clara without discomposure. Mowbray asked the Earl whether he had seen his sister, and invited him, at the same time, to return to the parlour; and his lordship replied, in a tone as indifferent as he could assume, that he had enjoyed the honour of the lady’s company for several minutes, and would not now intrude farther upon Miss Mowbray’s patience.

“You have had such a reception as was agreeable, my lord, I trust?” said Mowbray. “I hope Clara did the honours of the house with propriety during my absence?”

“Miss Mowbray seemed a little fluttered with my sudden appearance,” said the Earl; “the servant showed me in rather abruptly; and, circumstanced as we were, there is always awkwardness in a first meeting, where there is no third party to act as master of the ceremonies.—I suspect, from the lady’s looks, that you have not quite kept my secret, my good friend. I myself, too, felt a little consciousness in approaching Miss Mowbray—but it is over now; and, the ice being fairly broken, I hope to have other and more convenient opportunities to improve the advantage I have just gained in acquiring your lovely sister’s personal acquaintance.”

“So be it,” said Mowbray; “but, as you declare for leaving the castle just now, I must first speak a single word with your lordship, for which this place is not altogether convenient.”

“I can have no objections, my dear Jack,” said Etherington, following him with a thrill of conscious feeling, somewhat perhaps like that of the spider when he perceives his deceitful web is threatened with injury, and sits balanced in the centre, watching every point, and uncertain which he may be called upon first to defend. Such is one part, and not the slightest part, of the penance which never fails to wait on those, who, abandoning the “fair play of the world,” endeavour to work out their purposes by a process of deception and intrigue.

“My lord,” said Mowbray, when they had entered a little apartment, in which the latter kept his guns, fishing-tackle, and other implements of sport, “you have played on the square with me; nay, more—I am bound to allow you have given me great odds. I am therefore not entitled to hear any reports to the prejudice of your lordship’s character, without instantly communicating them. There is an anonymous letter which I have just received. Perhaps your lordship may know the hand, and thus be enabled to detect the writer.”

“I do know the hand,” said the Earl, as he received the note from Mowbray; “and, allow me to say, it is the only one which could have dared to frame any calumny to my prejudice. I hope, Mr. Mowbray, it is impossible for you to consider this infamous charge as any thing but a falsehood?”

“My placing it in your lordship’s hands, without farther enquiry, is a sufficient proof that I hold it such, my lord; at the same time that I cannot doubt for a moment that your lordship has it in your power to overthrow so frail a calumny by the most satisfactory evidence.”

“Unquestionably I can, Mr. Mowbray,” said the Earl; “for, besides my being in full possession of the estate and title of my father, the late Earl of Etherington, I have my father’s contract of marriage, my own certificate of baptism, and the evidence of the whole country, to establish my right. All these shall be produced with the least delay possible. You will not think it surprising that one does not travel with this sort of documents in one’s post-chaise.”

“Certainly not, my lord,” said Mowbray; “it is sufficient they are forthcoming when called for. But, may I enquire, my lord, who the writer of this letter is, and whether he has any particular spleen to gratify by this very impudent assertion, which is so easily capable of being disproved?”

“He is,” said Etherington, “or, at least, has the reputation of being, I am sorry to say, a near—a very near relation of my own—in fact, a brother by the father’s side, but illegitimate.—My father was fond of him—I loved him also, for he has uncommonly fine parts, and is accounted highly accomplished. But there is a strain of something irregular in his mind—a vein, in short, of madness, which breaks out in the usual manner, rendering the poor young man a dupe to vain imaginations of his own dignity and grandeur, which is perhaps the most ordinary effect of insanity, and inspiring the deepest aversion against his nearest relatives, and against myself in particular. He is a man extremely plausible, both in speech and manners; so much so, that many of my friends think there is more vice than insanity in the irregularities which he commits; but I may, I hope, be forgiven, if I have formed a milder judgment of one supposed to be my father’s son. Indeed, I cannot help being sorry for poor Frank, who might have made a very distinguished figure in the world.”

“May I ask the gentleman’s name, my lord?” said Mowbray.

“My father’s indulgence gave him our family name of Tyrrel, with his own Christian name Francis; but his proper name, to which alone he has a right, is Martigny.”

“Francis Tyrrel!” exclaimed Mowbray; “why, that is the name of the very person who made some disturbance at the Well just before your lordship arrived.—You may have seen an advertisement—a sort of placard.”

“I have, Mr. Mowbray,” said the Earl. “Spare me on that subject, if you please—it has formed a strong reason why I did not mention my connexion with this unhappy man before; but it is no unusual thing for persons, whose imaginations are excited, to rush into causeless quarrels, and then to make discreditable retreats from them.”

“Or,” said Mr. Mowbray, “he may have, after all, been prevented from reaching the place of rendezvous—it was that very day on which your lordship, I think, received your wound; and, if I mistake not, you hit the man from whom you got the hurt.”

“Mowbray,” said Lord Etherington, lowering his voice, and taking him by the arm, “it is true that I did so—and truly glad I am to observe, that, whatever might have been the consequences of such an accident, they cannot have been serious.—It struck me afterwards, that the man by whom I was so strangely assaulted, had some resemblance to the unfortunate Tyrrel—but I had not seen him for years.—At any rate, he cannot have been much hurt, since he is now able to resume his intrigues to the prejudice of my character.”

“Your lordship views the thing with a firm eye,” said Mowbray; “firmer than I think most people would be able to command, who had so narrow a chance of a scrape so uncomfortable.”

“Why, I am, in the first place, by no means sure that the risk existed,” said the Earl of Etherington; “for, as I have often told you, I had but a very transient glimpse of the ruffian; and, in the second place, I am sure that no permanent bad consequences have ensued. I am too old a fox-hunter to be afraid of a leap after it is cleared, as they tell of the fellow who fainted in the morning at the sight of the precipice he had clambered over when he was drunk on the night before. The man who wrote that letter,” touching it with his finger, “is alive, and able to threaten me; and if he did come to any hurt from my hand, it was in the act of attempting my life, of which I shall carry the mark to my grave.”

“Nay, I am far from blaming your lordship,” said Mowbray, “for what you did in self-defence, but the circumstance might have turned out very unpleasant.—May I ask what you intend to do with this unfortunate gentleman, who is in all probability in the neighbourhood?”

“I must first discover the place of his retreat,” said Lord Etherington, “and then consider what is to be done both for his safety, poor fellow, and my own. It is probable, too, that he may find sharpers to prey upon what fortune he still possesses, which, I assure you, is sufficient to attract a set of folk, who may ruin while they humour him.—May I beg that you, too, will be on the outlook, and let me know if you hear or see more of him?”

“I shall, most certainly, my lord,” answered Mowbray; “but the only one of his haunts which I know, is the old Cleikum Inn, where he chose to take up his residence. He has now left it, but perhaps the old crab-fish of a landlady may know something of him.”

“I will not fail to enquire,” said Lord Etherington; and, with these words, he took a kind farewell of Mowbray, mounted his horse, and rode up the avenue.

“A cool fellow,” said Mowbray, as he looked after him, “a d—d cool fellow, this brother-inlaw of mine, that is to be—takes a shot at his father’s son with as little remorse as at a blackcock—what would he do with me, were we to quarrel?—Well, I can snuff a candle, and strike out the ace of hearts; and so, should things go wrong, he has no Jack Raw to deal with, but Jack Mowbray.”

Meanwhile the Earl of Etherington hastened home to his own apartments at the Hotel; and, not entirely pleased with the events of the day, commenced a letter to his correspondent, agent, and confidant, Captain Jekyl, which we have fortunately the means of presenting to our readers.—

“Friend Harry,—They say a falling house is best known by the rats
leaving it—a falling state, by the desertion of confederates and
allies—and a falling man, by the desertion of his friends. If this
be true augury; your last letter may be considered as ominous of my
breaking down. Methinks, you have gone far enough, and shared deep
enough with me, to have some confidence in my savoir faire—some
little faith both in my means and management. What crossgrained
fiend has at once inspired you with what I suppose you wish me to
call politic doubts and scruples of conscience, but which I can only
regard as symptoms of fear and disaffection? You can have no idea of
‘duels betwixt relations so nearly connected’—and ‘the affair seems
very delicate and intricate’—and again, ‘the matter has never been
fully explained to you’—and, moreover, ‘if you are expected to take
an active part in the business, it must be when you are honoured
with my full and unreserved confidence, otherwise how could you be
of the use to me which I might require?’ Such are your expressions.

“Now, as to scruples of conscience about near relations, and so
forth, all that has blown by without much mischief, and certainly is
not likely to occur again—besides, did you never hear of friends
quarrelling before? And are they not to exercise the usual
privileges of gentlemen when they do? Moreover, how am I to know
that this plaguy fellow is actually related to me?—They say it is
a wise child knows its own father; and I cannot be expected wise
enough to know to a certainty my father’s son.—So much for
relationship.—Then, as to full and unreserved confidence—why,
Harry, this is just as if I were to ask you to look at a watch, and
tell what it was o’clock, and you were to reply, that truly you
could not inform me, because you had not examined the springs, the
counter-balances, the wheels, and the whole internal machinery of
the little timepiece.—But the upshot of the whole is this. Harry
Jekyl, who is as sharp a fellow as any other, thinks he has his
friend Lord Etherington at a dead lock, and that he knows already so
much of the said noble lord’s history as to oblige his lordship to
tell him the whole. And perhaps he not unreasonably concludes, that
the custody of a whole secret is more creditable, and probably more
lucrative, than that of a half one; and, in short,—he is resolved
to make the most of the cards in his hand. Another, mine honest
Harry, would take the trouble to recall to your mind past times and
circumstances, and conclude with expressing a humble opinion, that
if Harry Jekyl were asked now to do any service for the noble lord
aforesaid, Harry had got his reward in his pocket aforehand. But I
do not argue thus, because I would rather be leagued with a friend
who assists me with a view to future profit, than from respect to
benefits already received. The first lies like the fox’s scent when
on his last legs, increasing every moment; the other is a
back-scent, growing colder the longer you follow it, until at last
it becomes impossible to puzzle it out. I will, therefore, submit to
circumstances, and tell you the whole story, though somewhat
tedious, in hopes that I can conclude with such a trail as you will
open upon breast-high.

“Thus then it was.—Francis, fifth Earl of Etherington, and my
much-honoured father, was what is called a very eccentric man—that
is, he was neither a wise man nor a fool—had too much sense to walk
into a well, and yet in some of the furious fits which he was
visited with, I have seen him quite mad enough to throw any one
else into it.—Men said there was a lurking insanity—but it is an
ill bird, &c., and I will say no more about it. This shatterbrained
peer was, in other respects, a handsome accomplished man, with an
expression somewhat haughty, yet singularly pleasing when he chose
it—a man, in short, who might push his fortune with the fair sex.

“Lord Etherington, such as I have described him, being upon his
travels in France, formed an attachment of the heart—ay, and some
have pretended, of the hand also, with a certain beautiful orphan,
Marie de Martigny. Of this union is said to have sprung (for I am
determined not to be certain on that point) that most incommodious
person, Francis Tyrrel, as he calls himself, but as I would rather
call him, Francis Martigny; the latter suiting my views, as perhaps
the former name agrees better with his pretensions. Now, I am too
good a son to subscribe to the alleged regularity of the marriage
between my right honourable and very good lord father, because my
said right honourable and very good lord did, on his return to
England, become wedded, in the face of the church, to my very
affectionate and well-endowed mother, Ann Bulmer of Bulmer-hall,
from which happy union sprung I, Francis Valentine Bulmer Tyrrel,
lawful inheritor of my father and mother’s joint estates, as I was
the proud possessor of their ancient names. But the noble and
wealthy pair, though blessed with such a pledge of love as myself,
lived mighty ill together, and the rather, when my right honourable
father, sending for this other Sosia, this unlucky Francis Tyrrel,
senior, from France, insisted, in the face of propriety, that he
should reside in his house, and share, in all respects, in the
opportunities of education by which the real Sosia, Francis
Valentine Bulmer Tyrrel, then commonly called Lord Oakendale, hath
profited in such an uncommon degree.

“Various were the matrimonial quarrels which arose between the
honoured lord and lady, in consequence of this unseemly conjunction
of the legitimate and illegitimate; and to these, we, the subjects
of the dispute, were sometimes very properly, as well as decorously,
made the witnesses. On one occasion, my right honourable mother, who
was a free-spoken lady, found the language of her own rank quite
inadequate to express the strength of her generous feelings, and
borrowing from the vulgar two emphatic words, applied them to Marie
de Martigny, and her son Francis Tyrrel. Never did Earl that ever
wore coronet fly into a pitch of more uncontrollable rage, than did
my right honourable father: and in the ardour of his reply, he
adopted my mother’s phraseology, to inform her, that if there was
a whore and bastard connected with his house, it was herself and her
brat.

“I was even then a sharp little fellow, and was incredibly struck
with the communication, which, in this hour of ungovernable
irritation, had escaped my right honourable father. It is true, he
instantly gathered himself up again; and, he perhaps recollecting
such a word as bigamy, and my mother, on her side, considering the
consequences of such a thing as a descent from the Countess of
Etherington into Mrs. Bulmer, neither wife, maid, nor widow, there
was an apparent reconciliation between them, which lasted for some
time. But the speech remained deeply imprinted on my remembrance;
the more so, that once, when I was exerting over my friend Francis
Tyrrel, the authority of a legitimate brother, and Lord Oakendale,
old Cecil, my father’s confidential valet, was so much scandalized,
as to intimate a possibility that we might one day change
conditions. These two accidental communications seemed to me a key
to certain long lectures, with which my father used to regale us
boys, but me in particular, upon the extreme mutability of human
affairs,—the disappointment of the best-grounded hopes and
expectations,—and the necessity of being so accomplished in all
useful branches of knowledge, as might, in case of accidents, supply
any defalcation in our rank and fortune;—as if any art or science
could make amends for the loss of an Earldom, and twelve thousand
a-year! All this prosing seemed to my anxious mind designed to
prepare me for some unfortunate change; and when I was old enough to
make such private enquiries as lay in my power, I became still more
persuaded that my right honourable father nourished some thoughts of
making an honest woman of Marie de Martigny, and a legitimate elder
brother of Francis, after his death at least, if not during his
life. I was the more convinced of this, when a little affair, which
I chanced to have with the daughter of my Tu——, drew down my
father’s wrath upon me in great abundance, and occasioned my being
banished to Scotland, along with my brother, under a very poor
allowance, without introductions, except to one steady, or call it
rusty, old Professor, and with the charge that I should not assume
the title of Lord Oakendale, but content myself with my maternal
grandfather’s name of Valentine Bulmer, that of Francis Tyrrel being
pre-occupied.

“Upon this occasion, notwithstanding the fear which I entertained of
my father’s passionate temper, I did venture to say, that since I
was to resign my title, I thought I had a right to keep my family
name, and that my brother might take his mother’s. I wish you had
seen the look of rage with which my father regarded me when I gave
him this spirited hint. ‘Thou art,’ he said, and paused, as if to
find out the bitterest epithet to supply the blank—‘thou art thy
mother’s child, and her perfect picture’—(this seemed the severest
reproach that occurred to him.)—‘Bear her name then, and bear it
with patience and in secrecy; or, I here give you my word, you shall
never bear another the whole days of your life.’ This sealed my
mouth with a witness; and then, in allusion to my flirtation with
the daughter of my Tu—— aforesaid, he enlarged on the folly and
iniquity of private marriages, warned me that in the country I was
going to, the matrimonial noose often lies hid under flowers, and
that folks find it twitched round their neck when they least expect
such a cravat; assured me, that he had very particular views for
settling Francis and me in life, and that he would forgive neither
of us who should, by any such rash entanglements, render them
unavailing.

“This last minatory admonition was the more tolerable, that my rival
had his share of it; and so we were bundled off to Scotland, coupled
up like two pointers in a dog-cart, and—I can speak for one at
least—with much the same uncordial feelings towards each other. I
often, indeed, detected Francis looking at me with a singular
expression, as of pity and anxiety, and once or twice he seemed
disposed to enter on something respecting the situation in which we
stood towards each other; but I felt no desire to encourage his
confidence. Meantime, as we were called, by our father’s directions,
not brothers, but cousins, so we came to bear towards each other the
habits of companionship, though scarcely of friendship. What Francis
thought, I know not; for my part, I must confess, that I lay by on
the watch for some opportunity when I might mend my own situation
with my father, though at the prejudice of my rival. And Fortune,
while she seemed to prevent such an opportunity, involved us both in
one of the strangest and most entangled mazes that her capricious
divinityship ever wove, and out of which I am even now struggling,
by sleight or force, to extricate myself. I can hardly help
wondering, even yet, at the odd conjunction, which has produced such
an intricacy of complicated incidents.

“My father was a great sportsman, and Francis and I had both
inherited his taste for field-sports; but I in a keener and more
ecstatic degree. Edinburgh, which is a tolerable residence in winter
and spring, becomes disagreeable in summer, and in autumn is the
most melancholy sejour that ever poor mortals were condemned to.
No public places are open, no inhabitant of any consideration
remains in the town; those who cannot get away, hide themselves in
obscure corners, as if ashamed to be seen in the streets. The gentry
go to their country-houses—the citizens to their sea-bathing
quarters—the lawyers to their circuits—the writers to visit their
country clients—and all the world to the moors to shoot grouse. We,
who felt the indignity of remaining in town during this deserted
season, obtained, with some difficulty, permission from the Earl to
betake ourselves to any obscure corner, and shoot grouse, if we
could get leave to do so on our general character of English
students at the University of Edinburgh, without quoting any thing
more.

“The first year of our banishment we went to the neighbourhood of
the Highlands; but finding our sport interrupted by gamekeepers and
their gillies, on the second occasion we established ourselves at
this little village of St. Ronan’s, where there were then no Spa, no
fine people, no card tables, no quizzes, excepting the old quiz of a
landlady with whom we lodged. We found the place much to our mind;
the old landlady had interest with some old fellow, agent of a
non-residing nobleman, who gave us permission to sport over his
moors, of which I availed myself keenly, and Francis with more
moderation. He was, indeed, of a grave musing sort of habit, and
often preferred solitary walks, in the wild and beautiful scenery
with which the village is surrounded, to the use of the gun. He was
attached to fishing, moreover, that dullest of human amusements, and
this also tended to keep us considerably apart. This gave me rather
pleasure than concern;—not that I hated Francis at that time; nay,
not that I greatly disliked his society; but merely because it was
unpleasant to be always with one, whose fortunes I looked upon as
standing in direct opposition to my own. I also rather despised the
indifference about sport, which indeed seemed to grow upon him; but
my gentleman had better taste than I was aware of. If he sought no
grouse on the hill, he had flushed a pheasant in the wood.

“Clara Mowbray, daughter of the Lord of the more picturesque than
wealthy domain of St. Ronan’s, was at that time scarce sixteen years
old, and as wild and beautiful a woodland nymph as the imagination
can fancy—simple as a child in all that concerned the world and its
ways, acute as a needle in every point of knowledge which she had
found an opportunity of becoming acquainted with; fearing harm from
no one, and with, a lively and natural strain of wit, which brought
amusement and gaiety wherever she came. Her motions were under no
restraint, save that of her own inclination; for her father, though
a cross, peevish, old man, was confined to his chair with the gout,
and her only companion, a girl of somewhat inferior caste, bred up
in the utmost deference to Miss Mowbray’s fancies, served for
company indeed in her strolls through the wild country on foot and
on horseback, but never thought of interfering with her will and
pleasure.

“The extreme loneliness of the country, (at that time,) and the
simplicity of its inhabitants, seemed to render these excursions
perfectly safe. Francis, happy dog, became the companion of the
damsels on such occasions through the following accident. Miss
Mowbray had dressed herself and her companion like country wenches,
with a view to surprise the family of one of their better sort of
farmers. They had accomplished their purpose greatly to their
satisfaction, and were hying home after sunset, when they were
encountered by a country fellow—a sort of Harry Jekyl in his
way—who, being equipped with a glass or two of whisky, saw not the
nobility of blood through her disguise, and accosted the daughter of
a hundred sires as he would have done a ewe-milker. Miss Mowbray
remonstrated—her companion screamed—up came cousin Francis with a
fowlingpiece on his shoulder, and soon put the sylvan to flight.

“This was the beginning of an acquaintance, which had gone great
lengths before I found it out. The fair Clara, it seems, found it
safer to roam in the woods with an escort than alone, and my
studious and sentimental relative was almost her constant companion.
At their age, it was likely that some time might pass ere they came
to understand each other; but full confidence and intimacy was
established between them ere I heard of their amour.

“And here, Harry, I must pause till next morning, and send you the
conclusion under a separate cover. The rap which I had over the
elbow the other day, is still tingling at the end of my fingers, and
you must not be critical with my manuscript.”