"In truth," my father would at these times exclaim, "I wish heartily a letter would come from the Marquis." He had written to him in preference to Lord St. Amande, reflecting that if, after all, the fellow was not what he seemed to be, the Marquis must be the man to set things right, while Lord St. Amande might, in such a case, be an impostor himself. Yet it grew more and more difficult to suppose this, since the youth himself had once or twice sent off letters addressed to "The Right Hon., The Viscount St. Amande," at Grafton Street, Dublin; to another gentleman addressed as "Wolfe Considine, Esquire," and to still another addressed as "Lord Charles Garrett, at The Castle, Dublin."
"'Tis a plaguey fellow this," he said to us of his lordship one day with a laugh, as he closed the latter up, "to whom I was engaged, as I seem to remember, to fight a duel on the morning the ruffians kidnapped me. A son of the Marquis of Tullamore, and a fire-eater, because his father had got him a pair of colours in Dunmore's regiment. He will swear I ran away for fear of him, till he gets this letter telling him I will meet him directly I set foot in Ireland again."
"What," said my father one night to me as we sat in the porch, "does he mean when he mutters something about an impostor who claims his father's title? I have heard him speak on the subject to you and Miss Mills, though, since I can not abide the youth, I have paid but little heed."
"He says," I replied, while my father smoked his great pipe and listened lazily, "that there is some youth in Ireland who claims to be the rightful lord, being the son of his uncle, the late Viscount. Yet he is not his son, he says, being in truth the son of that lord's wife who lived not with her husband."
"Humph!" exclaimed my father, "then 'tis strange he should be here sold into bond-service while the other is free at home. 'Tis common enough for such poor lads as that other to get sent away, but peers' true sons not often. Perhaps," he went on, "it is this gracious youth who is the impostor and not that other."
"I know not," I replied, "but from what Mary and I can gather--and he speaks more freely in his cups than ordinarily--there seems to have been some plot devised for shipping off that other, but some springe having been set this one was sent instead. Yet, he says, he cannot himself comprehend it, since the other was a beggar dwelling with beggars, while he was amongst the best, so that no confusion should have arisen."
"Does he say that his father, Lord St. Amande, entered into so foul a plot as that?"
"Nay, he says the youth was a young criminal cast for transportation for robbery, but that he escaped from jail and, in the hunt after him, they secured the wrong one, which he accounts for by both bearing the same name."
Again my father said "Humph!" and pondered awhile, and then, as he rose to seek his bed, he continued, "We shall know the truth some day, may be. The Marquis of Amesbury will surely answer my letter, and, indeed, if this young tosspot be what he says he is, there should already be some on their way to Virginia to seek for him. He cannot have been smuggled off without some talk arising about the affair, and, even if that should not be so, the letters he has sent by the couriers to his father should bring forth some response--if his tale is true."
So the time went on and the period drew near when news might be expected from Ireland. As it so went on and that intelligence might be looked for, we grew more and more sure that Mr. St. Amande's story must be true. For so certain did he seem of the fact that letters would come from his father--he knowing not that mine had written to the Marquis of Amesbury--requiring his release and paying, as the young man was courteous enough to term it, "my father's charges," that he threw off any restraint he might previously have had, and treated us all with even greater freedom than before. Yet, as you shall hear, he went too far.