That morning after the storm, The Wyechester Independent had a long account of the storm and of the wreck of the Seabird, the death of the Duke of Shropshire, and of the heroic conduct of "Mr. Charles Augustus Cheyne, a gentleman who had recently won his spurs in the field of literature, and whose latest achievement fills all England this day with wonder and admiration, and of whom the people of Wyechester are naturally proud, as he owes his parentage on one side to this city."
What, Wyechester proud of her grandson, of the child of her unhappy daughter! Wyechester, the pious cathedral-town of Wyechester, proud of him she had looked upon as a disgrace! It was unkind, ungenerous, unmanly of the author of that article to hint thus even distantly at the disgraceful past. It was not necessary or decent for the writer of that article to unearth a long-buried scandal. It was an outrage on the living and the dead. The man who wrote it was a low creature, and ought to be scouted from all decent society; that is, indeed, if ever he had been in decent society. How had this man found out? It must have been the attorney who gave the information.
While the old woman was giving full scope to her anger, there was a knock at the door. A gentleman desired to see Mrs. Mansfield; he gave the name of Fritson. The servant might show him in.
A stout little man entered the room, and bowed to Mrs. Mansfield, and said briskly:
"Mrs. Mansfield, I believe?"
"Yes, sir, I am Mrs. Mansfield," she said, with great coldness and repelling precision.
He took no notice of her manner.
"My name is Fritson, madam."
"And to what, Mr.--er--eh--Fritson, do I owe the honour of this visit? I have no recollection of having seen you before, sir," she said frigidly.
"You are right, my dear madam."