The Young Duchess; or, Memoirs of a Lady of Quality — page 329: what you’re looking at

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THE YOUNG DUCHESS; OR, MEMOIRS OF A LADY OF QUALITY. than mere cordial friendliness in it: it seemed to be grateful and even affectionate. “ Always in a hurry, my dear sir?” he said, with a smile, when the usual morning compli- ments were exchanged. ‘Hurry, my dear boy!” cried the great con- tractor: “to be sure Jam! But really, when I come to you, it is more through habit that I have this appearance of violent haste than because I am in reality anxious to cut short my visit. There!” he continued, placing his hat on the sideboard, and then settling himself in a chair; “now I will endeavour to put off this bustling air of mine for half-an-hour or so. Tell me, Ed- ward—are you happy?” “Oh, how could I be otherwise, my benefac- tor?” exclaimed the young man, with a look and tone of fervid enthusiasm, as he caught Mr. Sey- ‘mour’s hand and pressed it in both his own. “Do not call me.your benefactor,” said this gentleman, his lip quivering with emotions. ‘“‘Not my benefactor?” cried the young man, in astonishment. ‘As well bid me declare that the sun is not bright, or the roses have no fra- grance, or that providence itself is not good!” “ And what, Edward,” said Mr. Seymour, fix- ing his looks with a strange significancy upon him,—‘ what if I were to tell you that all for which you thank me is in reality no boon, but a simple act of justice ?” “JT should say, my dear sir, that I cannot understand you,” was the young man’s answer. ‘But what,” pursued Seymour, “if I were to assure you that this conduct on my part is far from being a disinterested benevolence—it is even more than a simple act of justice—aye, and more even than a duty! It is—it is But I must not be too quick!”—and the great railway con- tractor, who usually seemed to have no mind nor soul for aught save business and worldly affairs, was now visibly agitated with some deep inward emotions. “My dear sir,” said the young man, .again taking Seymour’s hand, and speaking in a tone of the most affectionate earnestness and grateful fervour, * that I must be sensible of a deep mys- tery in all that has occurred to me within the last fortnight, you cannot be otherwise than aware. Yes !—for when I awake in the moming, my first idea is that it is all a dream, and several minutes elapse ere I can persuade myself that it is the truth. Then, naturally enough, I ask my- self certain questions—why all this should have happened to me? why heaven should have sent me such a friend ? and what I can have done or who I can be that all the fabulous wonders of the Arabian Tales are realized for my benefit? Oh, Mr. Seymour ! your own good sense will tell you that it is natural I should experience this amount of curiosity ! But hear me, sir—hear me, I be- seech you, while I proceed to declare that if there be any reason why it would pain you to clear up that mystery and to tell me the entire truth, I would rather remain in uncertainty and darkness till the end of my days! Oh, believe me, I have power over my own feelings—lI can stifle those sentiments of curiosity—and I-can crush all ille- gitimate yearnings to plunge into the forbidden realms of mystery! You have already made me acquainted with so much happiness, that I would not for the world display such black ingratitude a Rs) as to ask a question inopportunely or prema- turely !” | “Excellent young man!” cried Seymour, the tears starting into his eyes. ‘ And to think that I should , But he stopped short, and hastily wiping away those tears, he said, ‘‘ Yes, Edward, you must think it was strange! it ought to be absolutely bewildering to you!” ‘‘T accept my happiness with gratitude,” he meekly replied : “ I kiss the hand which bestows it; and if it be better that I should never learn why it is thus showered upon me, heaven knows that I can resign myself to a lifetime of igno- rance upon the point!” ‘‘ And yet, Edward,” said Mr. Seymour, “ it is absolutely necessary that certain matters should be cleared up to your comprehension. I have no right to leave you to such conjectures as you may perhaps be inclined to form. With all your patience, and with all your self-denying readiness ‘to stifle the yearnings of curiosity, you cannot prevent your imagination from soaring in the realms of surmise. It is natural! In the absence of certainty, the human mind is involuntarily com- pelled to take refuge in conjecture. Now it is possible—indeed I fear it is most probable—that you are very likely under existing circumstances to form a conjecture that must be painful and humiliating to yourself, as well as dishonouring to her who gave you birth. In plain terms, Edward, you may have perhaps surmised —that— that—I am your father—and that you are illegi- timately born ?” A blush rose to the cheeks of the young man: he bent down his eyes for a moment: and then, suddenly raising those looks with an expression of unmistakable frankness, he said, ‘“ It is true! that thought has floated in my mind! have banished it!—for it would kill me with But I | despair and grief to think that I havé wronged | you by a suspicion, or shed a taint upon the me- mory of that mother who you have told me is no more.” . “Your mother, Edward,” answered Mr. Sey- mour, solemnly, ‘‘ does indeed deserve this justice at your hands !” He paused—stifled a sgh—and added, “‘ She was the best and purest of women !” The tears stole down the cheeks of the young man; and slowly wiping them away, he gazed upon Mr. Seymour with the suspenseful look and the half hushed breath of one who felt that he was standing upon the threshold of further reve- lations, but who dared not put a question nor give utterance to a syllable that should betray an undue curiosity for the veil to be completely lifted. ‘Fear not,” resumed Mr. Seymour, ‘that any stigma rests upon your birth. No, no! it is not thus! And therefore, when I tell you this—as you, know I am married and have children older than yourself—you may see that I am not your father. But—but, Edward—I am—your uncle!” “My uncle ?”—and it was in a tone of gushing emotion that the young man spoke. ‘“‘ My uncle? Thank God that I am of your kindred !”—and sinking on his knees at Mr. Seymour's feet, he pressed that gentleman’s hand to his lips, Seymour folded the youth to his heart—em- braced him—and sobbed over him for some minutes. The man of the world whose whole cares had wont to be centred in business, and oO COMO Colin