“It is something my poor boy didn’t like to ask,” said Mrs. Powys, with a little timidity. “He had offended you that day, or he thought he had offended you; and he would not do any thing to bring it back to your mind. I am sure if he went wrong, Mr. Brownlow, he didn’t mean to—There’s nothing in this world he would not do for you.”
“Went wrong—offended me?” said Mr. Brownlow; “I don’t think he ever offended me. What is it he wants? There are certain subjects which I can not enter upon either with him or you—”
“Oh, not that—not that,” said Mrs. Powys, with tears. “If he’s been foolish he’s punished for it, my poor boy! And he would not ask you for his papers, not to bring it back to your mind.” ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘he’s worried, and I can’t vex him.’ He would lose all his own hopes for that. But I’m his mother, Mr. Brownlow. I have a feeling for my son’s interests as you have for yours. His papers, poor boy, are no good to you.”
“His papers?” said Mr. Brownlow, with amaze, looking at her. For the moment his old confusion of mind came back to him; he could not quite feel yet that Powys’s papers could be innocent of all reference to himself.
“My poor husband’s letters, sir,” said Mrs. Powys, drying her eyes; “the papers he took to you when he thought—; but that is neither here nor there. I’ve found my poor Charley’s mother, Mr. Brownlow; she’s living, though she’s an old woman. I have been tracing it out to the best of my ability, and I’ve found her. Likely enough she’ll have nothing to say to me. I am but a poor woman, never brought up to be a lady; but it’s different with my boy.”
“Ah, his papers!” said Mr. Brownlow. This, too, belonged to his previous stage of existence. It was clear that he had to be driven back to that day of vain terror and equally vain relief. It came back to him now in every particular—the packet he had found on his writing-table; his long confused poring over it; his summons to Powys in the middle of the night, and discovery of the mistake he had been making; even the blue dawn of the morning through the great window in the staircase as he went up to bed, a man delivered. All this rushed back on his memory. He took his keys and opened the dispatch-box, which he had been about to open when Mrs. Powys came in. Probably the papers would be there. He began even to recollect what these papers were as he opened the box. “So you have found your husband’s family?” he said; “I hope they are in a position to help you. I should be very glad to hear that, for your son’s sake.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Brownlow,” said Mrs. Powys. “I have found my poor Charley’s mother. She’s old now, poor lady, and she’s lost all her children: and at long and last she’s bethought herself of us, and wrote a letter to Canada to inquire. I got it sent on this morning—only this morning. I don’t know what she can do for my boy; but she’s Lady Powys, and that counts for something here.”
“Lady Powys?” cried Mr. Brownlow, looking up with a handful of papers in his hand, and struck with consternation. “She used to live near Masterton; if you knew she was your husband’s mother, why did not you apply to her before? Are you sure you are making no mistake? Lady Powys! I had no idea your relations were—”
“My husband was a gentleman, sir,” said Mrs. Powys proudly. “He gave up his friends and his family, poor fellow, for me. I don’t pretend I was his equal—and it might have been better for him if he’d thought more of himself; but he was always known for a gentleman wherever he went; and my boy is his father’s son,” said the proud mother. She would have been glad to humble the rich lawyer who had sent her boy away from his house, and forbidden him, tacitly at least, his daughter’s presence. “We did not know that his grandmamma was a lady of title,” she added, with candor. “My poor Charley used to say it was in the family; but his folks have come to it, poor fellow, since his time.”
“Lady Powys!” Mr. Brownlow said to himself, with a curious confusion of thoughts. He knew Lady Powys well enough, poor old woman. She had accumulated a ghostly fortune by surviving every body that belonged to her. He remembered all about her, and the look of scared dismay and despair that came into her eyes as death after death among her own children made her richer, and left her more desolate. And what if this was an heir for her—this young fellow whom he had always liked even in spite of himself? He had always liked him. He was glad to remember that. He sought out his papers with his heart softening more and more. Lady Powys’s grandson was a very different person from his nameless Canadian clerk.