Crying for the Light; Or, Fifty Years Ago. Vol. 3 [of 3]

by J. Ewing Ritchie

‘But suppose the wrong child was buried?’

‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ said the lady. ‘We know better than that. The estates are fairly ours, and we return to England as soon as we can to take our rights. Mr. Wentworth and his wife between them have concocted this villainous story, which no decent person would ever think of believing.’

Wentworth and his wife were quite aware of that; they believed in the boy, who was—to judge from the family portraits—a striking representation of the deceased Baronet at his time of life. But would the world believe it? that was the question to be asked.

Poor Sally on her deathbed had no inducement to tell a lie. Unfortunately, she had kept her secret too long. She had hoped to have made a harvest of the boy, but death had come to her, and all her hopes had ended in the grave. As is often the case, she was too clever by half.

Wentworth and his wife had an unpleasant time of it. Indeed, the family lawyer had intimated in a genial mood that he might possibly feel it his painful duty to place them in the dock, on a charge of conspiracy to defraud—a situation for which neither of them had any fancy. Their best friends seemed to regard the story with suspicion. What jury would be convinced by the testimony of ‘our Sally,’ whose head was generally fuddled with drink, and whom they could not even produce in court? It was true that the lad very much resembled the deceased Baronet. It was quite within probability that the latter was his father, but that did not legally make him the son and heir. It was felt that they had better talk over the matter with the lad himself, who was then an officer on board one of the floating hotels plying between Liverpool and New York.

Accordingly, Rose undertook the task of interviewing him in one of those sumptuous hotels for which Liverpool is famed. The boy had never heard of Sir Watkin, nor were his recollections of the deceased Sally of a very decided character. He had, however, never believed that she was his mother, and from her mysterious hints when under the influence of drink he had come to the conclusion that he had been stolen, though when or why he could not make out.

It is true there was an old woman at Sloville, a pal of Sally’s, the one who had written to Rose, who had the identical dress which the baby wore when it was stolen, but it was felt that the production of the article in question in court would not much advance matters. She had not stolen the baby. She could only say that the deceased Sally had asserted she had, and had bidden her be quiet, as one day or other she would astonish everybody by the wonderful revelation she had it in her power to make. It was true that Sally had been suspected, and the more so that she was no more to be seen, having been clever enough to put the detectives on the wrong scent.

It was hinted that an Italian lady had been mixed up in the matter. The world said there had been an intrigue between the Baronet and a fair Italian, and that thus she had revenged herself for his throwing her overboard.

‘Actresses,’ continued the Colonel’s lady, ‘are not particular sort of people, and newspaper writers are not much better, I believe. I can’t think how old county families can be civil to them. In my young days such an idea would have been scouted, and I must say then they knew their place. My papa helped the local printer to start a paper on condition that it was to support Church and State. Occasionally my papa had the man up in the Castle, and would sit down to a bottle of port with him, but he never took any notice of him elsewhere, nor ever introduced him to his family. I believe the man was a very respectable tradesman. He was regular in his attendance at church, and always stood by our family in election contests; but the modern literary man gives himself the most ridiculous airs, fancies he is a genius because he can scribble, and that he can wield the destinies of the nation because he is connected with some low paper. I hear he belongs to clubs, and goes into society just as if he were a gentleman. Every time,’ added the lady piteously, ‘every time that I take up an English newspaper, I see the country going to the bad, the people more intolerant of good government, the upper classes more careless as to the future, recklessly acting in accordance with the motto, “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.” The Sunday is desecrated by all classes, and the Lord will have no pity in the day of His wrath for Sabbath-breakers. The philosophers are in favour of Godless education, and now they tell me there are people who argue that Atheists have a right to sit in a Christian Parliament. Oh dear! the vials of God’s wrath will soon be flung down upon that unhappy country. The signs of the times tell us that we have reached the beginning of the end. There will be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the day of the Lord shall come.’

The gallant Colonel was accustomed to that sort of thing, and took it calmly. Whether he believed what his wife said I don’t know. He always acted as if he did; never contradicted her, as he had found that to be no use; attended her to church, sat out with well-bred polish the dreary minutes devoted to staring the domestics out of countenance called family prayers. He was always ready at his wife’s bidding to attend Bible-readings for the select few, and when joked on the subject by his chums, if he had any at his club, never gave railing for railing, but took it as if it was a cross laid on him to bear.