Home as Found, James Fenimore Cooper [bookreader txt] 📗

a light.

 

"Desire Captain Ducie to give me the favour of his company for a

moment," he then said, motioning to the servant to withdraw. "You

will not be needed any longer."

 

It was but a minute before Captain Ducie stood before him. This

gentleman was instantly struck with the pallid look, and general

agitation of the person he had come to meet, and he expressed an

apprehension that he was suddenly taken ill. But a motion of the hand

forbade his touching the bell-cord, and he waited in silent wonder at

the scene which he had been so unexpectedly called to witness.

 

"A glass of that water, if you please, Captain Ducie," said John

Effingham, endeavouring to smile with gentleman-like courtesy, as he

made the request, though the effort, caused his countenance to appear

ghastly again. A little recovered by this beverage, he said more

steadily--

 

"You are the cousin of Powis, Captain Ducie."

 

"We are sisters' children, sir."

 

"And your mother is"

 

"Lady Dunluce--a peeress in her own right."

 

"But, what--her family name?"

 

"Her own family name has been sunk in that of my father, the Ducies

claiming to be as old and as honourable a family, as that from which

my mother inherits her rank. Indeed the Dunluce barony has gone

through so many names, by means of females, that I believe there is

no intention to revive the original appellation of the family which

was first summoned."

 

"You mistake, me--your mother--when she married--was--"

 

"Miss Warrender."

 

"I thank you, sir, and will trouble you no longer," returned John

Effingham, rising and struggling to make his manner second the

courtesy of his words--"I have troubled you, abruptly--incoherently I

fear--your arm--"

 

Captain Ducie stepped hastily forward, and was just in time to

prevent the other from falling senseless on the floor, by receiving

him in his own arms.

 

Chapter XXVII.

 

"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 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, but I shall need time to learn

to call him by a name 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 Effingham might easily

compensate a daughter for the 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, or 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 the 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 had been the confessions of both, and so pure 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 that his repugnance to admitting

even of an 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 son. The letter written by John Assheton to your

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