It was the morning of the first of June--a rarely brilliant and beautiful day for London.
The d.u.c.h.ess had gone down to a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
The duke sat alone in his sumptuous library, whose windows overlooked the luxuriant garden, then in its fullest bloom and fragrance.
The windows were open, admitting the fine, fresh air of summer, perfumed with the aroma of numberless flowers, and musical with the songs of many birds.
The duke sat in a comfortable reading-chair, with an open book on its rotary ledge. He was not reading. The charm of external nature, appealing equally to sense and sentiment, won him from his mental task, and soothed him into a delicious reverie, during which he sat simply resting, breathing, gazing, luxuriating in the lovely life around him.
In the midst of this clear sky a thunderbolt fell.
A discreet footman rapped softly, and being told to enter, glided into the room, bearing a card upon a tiny silver tray, which he brought to his master.
The duke took it, languidly glanced at it, knit his brows, and took up his reading-gla.s.s and examined it closely. No! his eyes had not deceived him. The card bore the name: ARCHBALD A. J. SCOTT.
"Who brought this?" inquired the duke.
"A young gentleman, sir," respectfully answered the footman.
"Where is he?"
"I showed him into the blue reception room, your grace."
The duke paused a moment, gazing at the card, and then abruptly demanded:
"What is the young man like?"
"Most genteel, your grace; most like our young lord, and about his age, and dressed in the deepest mourning, your grace; and most particular anxious to see your grace."
"I do not know the boy at all; do not know where he came from, nor what he wants; but he bears the family name, and looks like Arondelle," mused the duke, gazing at the card and knitting his brow.
"I will see the young man. Show him up here," at length he said, abruptly.
The footman bowed and withdrew.
A few moments pa.s.sed and the footman re-entered and announced:
"Mr. Scott," and withdrew.
The duke wheeled his chair around and looked at the visitor, who stood just within the door, bowing profoundly.
The newcomer was a youth of about fifteen years of age, tall, slight and elegant in form; fair, blue-eyed and light-haired in complexion; refined, graceful and self possessed in manner; and faultlessly dressed in deep mourning; but! how amazingly like the duke"s own son, the young Marquis of Arondelle.
The duke"s short survey of his visitor seemed so satisfactory that he arose and advanced to meet him, saying kindly:
"You wished particularly to see me, I understand, young gentleman. In what manner can I serve you?"
The youth bowed again with the deepest deference, and said:
"Thanks, your grace. I bring you a letter of introduction."
"Sit down, young sir, sit down, and give me your letter," said the duke, pointing to a chair, and resuming his own seat. "Good Heaven, how like this boy"s voice was to the voice of the young Marquis of Arondelle! Who could he be?" mused the duke, as he sat and waited the issue.
The youth seated himself as directed, and seemed to hesitate, as if respectfully referring to his host"s convenience.
"Your letter of introduction, now, if you please, young sir," said the duke, at length.
"Thanks; your grace. It"s from my mother. She--" Here the boy"s voice faltered and broke down; but he soon, recovered it and resumed: "She wrote it on her death-bed--on the very day she died. Here it is, your grace."
The duke took the letter and held it gravely in his fingers while he gazed upon the orphaned boy with sympathy and compa.s.sion in every lineament of his fine face, saying, slowly and seriously:
"Ah! that is very, very sad. You have lost your mother, my boy; and if I judge correctly from the circ.u.mstance of your coming to me, you have lost your father also. I hope, however, I am wrong."
"Your grace is right. I have lost my father also. I lost him first, so long ago that I have no memory of him. I have no relatives at all. That is the reason why my dear mother, on her death-bed, gave me that letter of introduction to your grace, who used to know her, so that I might not be without friends as well as without relatives," modestly replied the youth.
"Ah! I see! I see! And she wrote this letter on her death-bed, which gives it a grave importance. I must therefore pay the more respect to it.
The wishes of the dying should be considered sacred," said the duke, as he adjusted his gla.s.s and looked at the letter, wondering who the writer could be and what claims she could possibly have on him; but feeling too kindly toward the orphan-boy to let such thought betray itself.
He scrutinized the handwriting of the letter. He could not recognize the faint, scratchy, uncertain characters as anything he had ever seen before. After all, the whole thing might be an imposture, and he himself an exceedingly great dupe, to suffer his feelings to be enlisted by a perfect stranger, merely because that stranger happened to be a counterpart of his own idolized boy Arondelle.
Still dallying with the note, he looked again at the youth, and as he looked, his confidence in him revived. No boy of such a n.o.ble countenance could possibly be an impostor. He might have satisfied himself at once, by opening the note and reading the signature; but from some occult reason that even he could not have given, he held it in his hands for a few moments longer, as if it contained some oracle he dreaded to discover. At length he broke the seal and looked at the signature.
It was a faint maze of scratches, so difficult to decipher that he gave it up in despair, and turning to the boy, said:
"Your name is Scott, young sir?"
"Yes, your grace--a very common name," modestly replied the youth.
"It is ours also" added the duke with a smile.
"I beg your grace"s pardon," said the boy, with some embarra.s.sment.
"No offence, young sir. Your mother"s name was also Scott, I presume?"
"Yes, your grace; my mother never re-married."
"Ah," said the duke, and he turned the letter for the first page, and commenced its perusal.
And then--
Reader! If the Duke of Hereward"s hair had not already been white with age, it must have turned as white as snow with amazement and horror as he read the astounding disclosures of that dying woman"s letter!
CHAPTER XLI.
FATHER AND SON.