This eBook was produced by Pat Castevens
and David Widger
My uncle's conjecture as to the parentage of Francis Vivian seemed to mea positive discovery. Nothing more likely than that this wilful boy hadformed some headstrong attachment which no father would sanction, andso, thwarted and irritated, thrown himself on the world. Such anexplanation was the more agreeable to me as it cleared up much that hadappeared discreditable in the mystery that surrounded Vivian. I couldnever bear to think that he had done anything mean and criminal, howeverI might believe he had been rash and faulty. It was natural that theunfriended wanderer should have been thrown into a society, theequivocal character of which had failed to revolt the audacity of aninquisitive mind and adventurous temper; but it was natural also thatthe habits of gentle birth, and that silent education which Englishgentlemen commonly receive from their very cradle, should have preservedhis honor, at least, intact through all. Certainly the pride, thenotions, the very faults of the well-born had remained in full force,—why not the better qualities, however smothered for the time? I feltthankful for the thought that Vivian was returning to an element inwhich he might repurify his mind, refit himself for that sphere to whichhe belonged, thankful that we might yet meet, and our present half-intimacy mature, perhaps, into healthful friendship.
It was with such thoughts that I took up my hat the next morning to seekVivian, and judge if we had gained the right clew, when we were startledby what was a rare sound at our door,—the postman's knock. My fatherwas at the Museum; my mother in high conference, or close preparationfor our approaching departure, with Mrs. Primmins; Roland, I, and Blanchehad the room to ourselves.
"The letter is not for me," said Pisistratus.
"Nor for me, I am sure," said the Captain, when the servant entered andconfuted him,—for the letter was for him. He took it up wonderinglyand suspiciously, as Glumdalclitch took up Gulliver, or as (ifnaturalists) we take up an unknown creature that we are not quite surewill not bite and sting us. Ah! it has stung or bit you, CaptainRoland; for you start and change color,—you suppress a cry as you breakthe seal; you breathe hard as you read; and the letter seems short—butit takes time in the reading, for you go over it again and again. Thenyou fold it up, crumple it, thrust it into your breast-pocket, and lookround like a man waking from a dream. Is it a dream of pain, or ofpleasure? Verily, I cannot guess, for nothing is on that eagle faceeither of pain or pleasure, but rather of fear, agitation, bewilderment.Yet the eyes are bright, too, and there is a smile on that iron lip.
My uncle looked round, I say, and called hastily for his cane and hishat, and then began buttoning his coat across his broad breast, thoughthe day was hot enough to have unbuttoned every breast in themetropolis.
"You are not going out, uncle?"
"Yes, Yes."
"But are you strong enough yet? Let me go with you."
"No, sir; no. Blanche, come here." He took the child in his arms,surveyed her wistfully, and kissed her. "You have never given me pain,Blanche: say,'God bless and prosper you, father!'"
"God bless and prosper my dear, dear papa!" said Blanche, putting herlittle hands together, as if in prayer.
"There—that should bring me luck, Blanche," said the Captain, gayly,and setting her down. Then seizing h