“You are welcome, young man!” said Sir Philip; “take courage, and speak for yourself.”
Edmund sighed deeply; he at length broke silence with difficulty. “I am come thus far, noble sir, to throw myself at your feet, and implore your protection. You are, under God, my only reliance.”
“I receive you,” said Sir Philip, “with all my heart! Your person is greatly improved since I saw you last, and I hope your mind is equally so; I have heard a great character of you from some that knew you in France. I remember the promise I made you long ago, and am ready now to fulfil it, upon condition that you have done nothing to disgrace the good opinion I formerly entertained of you; and am ready to serve you in any thing consistent with my own honour.”
Edmund kissed the hand that was extended to raise him. “I accept your favour, sir, upon this condition only; and if ever you find me to impose upon your credulity, or incroach on your goodness, may you renounce me from that moment!”
“Enough,” said Sir Philip; “rise, then, and let me embrace you; You are truly welcome!”
“Oh, noble sir!” said Edmund, “I have a strange story to tell you; but it must be by ourselves, with only heaven to bear witness to what passes between us.”
“Very well,” said Sir Philip; “I am ready to hear you; but first, go and get some refreshment after your journey, and then come to me again. John Wyatt will attend you.”
“I want no refreshment,” said Edmund; “and I cannot eat or drink till I have told my business to your honour.”
“Well then,” said Sir Philip, “come along with me.” He took the youth by the hand, and led him into another parlour, leaving his friends in great surprise, what this young man’s errand could be; John Wyatt told them all that he knew relating to Edmund’s birth, character, and situation.
When Sir Philip had seated his young friend, he listened in silence to the surprising tale he had to tell him. Edmund told him briefly the most remarkable circumstances of his life, from the time when he first saw and liked him, till his return from France; but from that era, he related at large every thing that had happened, recounting every interesting particular, which was imprinted on his memory in strong and lasting characters. Sir Philip grew every moment more affected by the recital; sometimes he clasped his hands together, he lifted them up to heaven, he smote his breast, he sighed, he exclaimed aloud; when Edmund related his dream, he breathed short, and seemed to devour him with attention; when he described the fatal closet, he trembled, sighed, sobbed, and was almost suffocated with his agitation. But when he related all that passed between his supposed mother and himself, and finally produced the jewels, the proofs of his birth, and the death of his unfortunate mother, he flew to him, he pressed him to his bosom, he strove to speak, but speech was for some minutes denied. He wept aloud; and, at length, his words found their way in broken exclamations.