A Barren Title: A Novel

by T. W. Speight

"Show him in at once," said the earl, and next moment Clement entered the room.

He gazed around for a moment, and then his eyes fell on the pallid, sunken face on the pillow. "Father! you here!" he cried, striding to the bedside. "They told me that I was wanted by the Earl of Loughton."

"I am the Earl of Lough ton, and this"--turning to the countess--"is my son, Clement Fildew Lorrimore, otherwise Lord Shoreham."

The countess stared for a moment or two into the young man's bright, handsome face, and then her hands grasped the bed as if to support herself. Turning to the earl with a grin of fiendish spite that showed the whole range of her artificial teeth, she shook a yellow claw in his face, and then, with many strange noises and gurglings under her breath, she tottered slowly from the room.

Ten minutes later her horses' shoes struck fire from the pavement of the inn yard as they started on their journey to Ringwood, carrying with them the dowager, Mr. Boscombe, and Mr. Flicker, the latter of whom, for once, came in for a terrible wigging from her ladyship, for having omitted to find out that "that wretched creature" had a son in hiding.

Father and son remained closeted together for upwards of an hour. Then Clement came out and summoned the nurse. The earl was tired and wanted to sleep. Clement took his hat and went for a long walk. Time and solitude were needed to enable him to familiarize his mind in some degree with the astounding news that had just been told him. Later in the day the earl sent for him again.

"In a tin box," he said, "labelled with my name, and deposited at Mellish's bank, you will find all the documents necessary to enable you to prove your identity, which the other side will no doubt compel you to do before admitting your right to the title. Wellclose has instructions with respect to my will, and he will bring it in the morning to be signed and witnessed. It's not much that I have to leave you, my boy--more's the pity. Merely a few paltry hundreds, the result of one or two lucky speculations. Yours will be a barren title indeed. But if you are a wise man you will speedily alter that state of things. You will give up painting, of course. Who ever heard of an earl that painted pictures, except it were for amusement? Equally, of course, you will marry money. The exigencies of your position render that imperative. There are the two Miss Larkins--good, modest, ladylike girls, though their father was a pill doctor. Each of them will have fifteen thousand pounds when she comes of age, and, no doubt, Orlando would give another five to secure an earl for his brother-in-law. You might do worse. I'll speak to Wingfield about you to-morrow, and see whether you can't have the railway chairmanship as my successor. Marry Fanny Larkins, and stick to Wingfield there's your programme, and in a dozen years, if you play your cards well, you ought to be worth a hundred thousand pounds."

To all this Clement yielded a tacit acquiescence. If his father's last hours would be rendered more easy by the thought that everything would be done in accordance with his wishes, why disturb him by urging anything to the contrary? Soon he would be where the sum of this world's troubles and anxieties is of less account than the lightest snowflake that drops through the midnight on the summit of Mont Blanc.

The earl passed a restless night and was a little light-headed at times. He seemed better in the morning, and was able to see Mr. Wellclose for half an hour. During the rest of the day Clement never left him for more than a minute or two at a time. It was evident that he was growing weaker with every hour. He ceased to talk much as the afternoon advanced, but seemed content to lie with closed eyes, but not asleep, and with one of Clement's hands in his--thinking, who shall say of what?

As the autumn daylight was deepening into dusk he fell asleep, and Dr. Ward, coming in about that time, pronounced it doubtful whether he would wake again. Nor, indeed, did he, to the extent of being conscious of where he was, or of recognizing those about him. By and by his mind began to wander again. At five minutes before twelve he died. His last faintly murmured words were, "Where's your hand, Kitty? I can't see you in the dark."