“That was the story which was told at the time by one who shrank not from adding falsehood to cruelty.”
“And the nurse was half wild with grief, and dared not wait till the return of her master, who had gone to London with my poor mother on account of her health; but she soon ran away, no one knew whither, and never could be traced any more.”
“She fled the place,” said Mr. Ewart, “with a man who became her husband—one who, for his bad conduct, had been dismissed by your father from the office of gamekeeper, with a threat to send him into jail. This wicked man never forgot or forgave the threat, and tempted the wretched woman whom he made his wife to a crime, in order to gratify his revenge. The babe was not drowned, but stolen. After much ill-treatment and cruelty from the unprincipled pair, who brought him up as their own son, his true birth was at length providentially discovered by the clergyman who had baptized him more than twelve years before, from a most singular mark on his shoulder.”
“You cannot mean Mark!” exclaimed Charles, in extreme surprise.
“I do mean Mark; the confession of Ann has confirmed my suspicions. I have not the shadow of a doubt that the boy is your brother.”
It was strange to watch the various emotions fast succeeding one another on the handsome countenance of Charles—astonishment, interest, doubt, pity, succeeded by a grave, inquiring look, as he said, “Then, if Mark be my brother, who is Lord Fontonore?”
“He is, as the eldest son of your late father.”
The face of Charles fell. “Then what am I?” said he.
“Charles Hope; the same as your uncle.”
“And the estate, and the castle, with its fine old hall, and all the pictures, everything that I have so prized and looked on as my own—are they all his?”