“You shall hear. We were talking about your good mother. When she had married this Cherfeuil, who was the French assistant at a large school, she found out the agents to whom you were entrusted, and soon arranged with them that you should be domesticated under her own roof—you were removed to Stickenham, and she and you were happy.”
“Oh, how happy!”
“Well, you know it was in those happy days that I had first the pleasure of forming an acquaintance with the inimitable Ralph Rattlin.”
“But why Rattlin?—my name must be either Daventry or Rathelin.”
“Rathelin, of a surety—it was first of all corrupted to Rattlin by that topmost of all top-sawyers, Joe Brandon—it having thus been so established, for many reasons, concealment among the rest, your mother thought it best for you to retain it. Now, Ralph, mark this—about eight, or rather seven, months ago, I took a short trip to my native country in Germany. Never was my health more redundant. I left your mother prosperous and happy, and beautiful as ever—she had heard of you, and heard much in your favour, though you never once condescended to write to any one of us. Whilst I was in—your father returned, a changed man—changed in everything, even in religion: he had turned penitent and a Catholic; and so had his travelling companion, the very man who had married him to your sweet mother.”
“Then he was in holy orders?”
“He was.”
“God of infinite justice, I thank you.”
“The Reverend Mr Thomas came here to my very house, when I was away, with a long and repentant letter from his patron—full of inquiries for yourself; and for your mother, Lady Rathelin.”
“Where is that inestimable letter?”