THE LOST HEIR

“I implore you, Dr. Johnson, help a grieving mother to find her lost son!”

Thus impulsively spoke Paulette, Lady Claybourne, as she crossed the threshold at Johnson’s Court. We saw a delicate small personage, past youth indeed, but slim and erect in the most elegant of costly widow’s weeds. Her face was a clear oval, cream tinged with pink, and her large dark eyes looked upon us imploringly under smooth translucent lids. In Dr. Johnson’s plain old-fashioned sitting room, she looked like a white butterfly momentarily hovering over the gnarled bole of an oak tree.

Dr. Sam: Johnson, detector of crime and chicane, and friend to the distrest, bowed over the small white hand. Then in his sixty-third year, tall and burly, aukward and uncouth, he yet valued himself upon his complaisance to the ladies. His large but shapely fingers engulfed the dainty digits of our guest as he led her to an armed chair, the while replying:

“’Twere duty, no less. But first, ma’am (seating her), you must tell me how you came to lose the child. Pray attend, Mr. Boswell, I shall value your opinion. Ma’am, I present Mr. Boswell, advocate, of Edinburgh in Scotland, my young friend and favourite companion.”

Smiling with pleasure to hear myself thus described, I bowed low. The lady inclined slightly, and began her story:

“My son, Sir Richard Claybourne, is no child. He is in his twenty-seventh year, if—if he is in life. His father, Sir Hubert Claybourne, of Claybourne Hall in Kent, left me inconsolable ten years ago, and our only son, Richard, then sixteen, acceded to the title and estate.

“Well, sir, ’tis a common story. Tho’ we had been close before, once he came into his estate, I could not controul him. Claybourne Hall saw him but seldom, for he preferred raking in London, running from the gaming tables to—to places more infamous yet.

“Then, as he approached his majority,” the soft voice went on, “Richard fell deeply in love, and proposed to marry. ’Twas against my wishes, for tho’ the young lady’s fortune was ample, she was brought up in a household where I, alas, have no friends. But being neighbours, Cynthia Wentworth drew Richard home to Kent, and at Claybourne, on a day in spring, they were wedded and bedded.

“Alas the day! That very night, Richard burst into my chamber, where I lay alone waking and fretting. He was dishevelled and wild, and, Damn the bitch, says he (pardon me, gentlemen), she has broken my heart, I shall leave England this night, I’ll go for a soldier, and never return while she lives. Nothing I said could disswade him. Take care of Claybourne estate, cried he to me, and was gone.”

The low voice faltered, and went on:

“With the help of Mr. Matthew Rollis, my trusted solicitor, I kept up the estate. Cynthia Wentworth, mute and grim, went back to her foster folk at Rendle. No word came from Richard; but enquiring of returning soldiers, once or twice I heard a rumor of him in the New World, at New-York, at Jamaica. Since then, nothing. Six years have now passed. I can bear it no longer. I must find my boy.”

Dr. Johnson looked grave.

“’Tis long for a voluntary absence. Who is the next heir? Who had an interest to prevent Sir Richard’s return?”

“Good lack, Dr. Johnson, you do not think—?”

“I do not think. I ask meerly.”

“You alarm me, sir. The next heir is Jeremy Claybourne, a lad now rising twenty. He springs from the Claybournes of Rendle, a family I have long lived at enmity with. His father, my husband’s late brother Hector—well, I say nothing of him; he was kind to me while he lived. But his wife was a venomous vixen, and never spared to vilify me. In that house Cynthia was brought up and her mind poisoned against me. On them I blame the whole affair.

“Indeed it is pressure from that quarter that drives me to action. The lawyers will have Richard declared dead, and his cousin Jeremy put in possession. On that day they will turn me out into the world without a friend. He must come home and protect me.”

“Then we must find him. You say your son departed on his wedding night. How did he depart?”

“I know not how, sir, but Claybourne estate is on the coast; I have thought he went by sea, perhaps in some smuggler’s vessel.”

“A course full of peril,” commented my friend, who considered that being in a ship was like being in gaol, with the likelihood of being drowned. “Alas, madam, what assures you that he is still in life?”

“A mother’s heart! I know that, somewhere, he is alive!”

“Then we must appeal to him to shew himself, wherever he may be. Bozzy, your tablets. By your leave, ma’am, we’ll address him thus in all the papers (dictating):

SIR RICHARD CLAYBOURNE went from his Friends in the year ’66, & left his Mother bereft & his Affairs in disorder. Whosoever makes known his whereabouts shall be amply rewarded & he himself is implored to return to the Bosom of his grieving Mother.

Claybourne Hall in Kent

April ye 10th, 1772

“There, madam, let this simple screed be disseminated, especially in the seaports of the New World, where he was last heard of; and my life upon it, if he be alive, Sir Richard will give over his sulks and return to his duties.”

“I pray it may be so,” murmured my Lady.

Dr. Johnson looked after the crested coach as it left the court, and shook his head.

“Let us all pray, for her sake, it may be so.”

Time passed. I returned to Edinburgh, and quite forgot the problem of the missing Sir Richard Claybourne and his whereabouts; until once more, in th spring of 1773, I visited London.

I was sitting comfortably with my learned friend in his house in Johnson’s Court, when a billet was handed in. Dr. Johnson put up his well-shaped brows as he read it, and passed it to me.

“By the grace of Heaven, Sir Richard Claybourne is found!

Come at once to the Cross Keys.

P. Claybourne

at the Cross Keys,

Wednesday, 10 of ye clock”

“I suppose we must go,” said Dr. Johnson.

Wild horses would not have kept me away. We found Lady Claybourne in the wainscotted room abovestairs at the Cross Keys, sitting by the fire in a state of agitation. By her side, in silent concern, stood a grave, smooth-faced person in a decent grey coat. He proved to be Mr. Rollis, the manager of the Claybourne estate. My Lady started up at our advent.

“O bless you, Dr. Johnson, your screed has brought my Richard home to me!”

“Is he here?”

“Not yet. He is but now come into port, and gives me the rendezvous here.”

“That is so,” murmured Mr. Rollis in a low caressing voice, seating her gently.

“Then, my Lady, how are you sure it is he?” asked Dr. Johnson gravely.

“Old Bogie says so.”

“And who is old Bogie?”

“My son’s bodyservant from his childhood. To this trusted retainer I gave the task of disseminating your screed in the New World. You understand, Dr. Johnson, I am of French extraction, and come from the island of Haiti, where I still possess estates. There Bogie was born and bred, and there, his task done, he was instructed to await developments.”

“And there he found Richard?”

“Sir, strolling in the gardens at Port au Prince, by chance he comes face to face with Richard. What, ’tis Bogie! cries Richard. Master Dickie! cries Bogie, and they embrace. In letters sent before, they describe this affecting scene.”

“Indeed, my Lady, so they do,” asseverated Rollis.

What more these letters imported was not revealed, for just then there was a knock at the door, and two men appeared on the threshold. One of them, a little old Negro with such a face as might have been carven on a walnut shell, was but a shadow behind the shoulder of the other. On this one all eyes fixed.

We saw a tall young man, dark tanned and very thin. His swarthy face, tho’ gaunt and worn, yet strikingly resembled my Lady’s about the eyes, which were brilliant and dark, with smooth deep lids under arching brows. He smiled her very smile, his delicately cut mouth, so like hers, flashing white teeth. His own dark hair was gathered back with a thong. His right sleeve hung empty.

The length of a heartbeat the room was poised in silence. Then my Lady rose slowly to her feet.

“’Tis Richard,” she whispered.

“Aye; ’tis Richard,” murmured Rollis.

“’Tis Richard: but O Heaven, how changed!”

In an instant the tall young man went to, her, and she gathered him to her bosom. Let us draw the veil over a mother’s transports.

After these sacred moments, Richard made known to us his story.

“I went from England,” he said, “resolved never to return. But I soon tired of the soldier’s restless life, and I resolved to seek some idyllic shade, far from the haunts of man, and there forget the past. From Jamaica I made my way to Haiti. With forged letters and a false name I obtained employment from our own factor on our own plantation. There all went on to a wish, marred only when in the late earthquake I was pinned by a fallen lintel, which paralyzed my right arm (touching the empty sleeve). Alas, Mother, I have brought you back the half of a man.”

“Not so!” cried my Lady stoutly. “The arm is there. (So it was, close-clipped to his side within his fustian coat.) We’ll have the best surgeons to it, and it shall mend!”

“Meanwhile,” he smiled, “you shall see how my left hand serves.”

To proof, he took her white fingers in his brown ones, and kissed them the while my Lady melted in smiles.

“Tho’ ’twas my intent never to return,” he went on, “your eloquent appeal, making its way to me, moved my heart towards England.”

“The thanks be yours, Dr. Johnson,” uttered my Lady.

“Aye, our thanks to you,” seconded Rollis.

“And so I came down to Port au Prince, with intent to take ship, and there at the dock I met with dear Bogie—”

The black man bowed, and wiped a tear with the heel of a dusky pink palm.

“—and here I am!”

“There will be rejoicing at Claybourne,” smiled my Lady. “You must be present, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Boswell.”

Assenting, we parted with a promise to visit the Hall for the coming festivities of the Claybourne Dole on St. George’s Day.

It was April, with spring in the air. We proceeded forthwith into Kent, tho’ not to Claybourne Hall. Dr. Johnson had a mind first to visit friends at Kentish Old Priory, hard by.

Our welcome at the Priory, and our diversions thereat, form no part of this tale, except insofar as diversion was afforded at every social gathering by speculation upon the romantick, recrudescence of Sir Richard Claybourne. Those who had caught a glimpse of him importantly expatiated on his resemblance to his lady mother. Some even saw in him a look of his late father, Sir Hubert. Others again thought he resembled nobody, and suspected my Lady had been bamboozled by an imposter. She was just asking to be bamboozled, added certain cynics; while the sentimental joyed to share the bliss of a mother’s heart.

As to myself, being a lawyer I took it upon me to expatiate in all companies on the great principle of filiation, by which the romantick Douglas Cause had been newly won: that, in brief, if a mother declares This is my son, it is so.

Heedless, the young ladies would twitter the while over the folk at Rendle. How were they taking it? How would Cynthia receive the return of her long-lost bridegroom? What would Jeremy say, now that his cousin had returned to cut him out?

As the group around the tea table was enjoyably speculating thus, one afternoon, a servant announced:

“Lady Claybourne. Mr. Claybourne.”

At the names silence fell, and every head turned. Into the silence stepped a blonde girl in sea-green tissue, snug at her slender waist, and draping softly over a swaying hoop. Her sunny hair was lightly piled up à la Pompadour. There was pride in her carriage, and reserve in her level blue gaze and faint smile.

Attending her, nay, hovering over her, came a broad-shouldered youth in mulberry, whose carelessly ribbanded tawny hair, square jaw, and challenging hazel eye delineated a very John Bull in the making.

Thus I encountered at last Cynthia, Lady Claybourne, whom Richard had loved and left, and Jeremy Claybourne, his cousin and heir.

Constraint fell on the tea table. After a few observes on the weather (very fair for April), the company dispersed. The Claybournes lingered, having come of purpose to bespeak Dr. Johnson’s advice in the matter of the claimant at Claybourne Hall.

“They say you have met this person,” said Cynthia. “I have not. Tell me, is he Richard indeed?”

“Of course he is not!” uttered Jeremy angrily.

“The great principle of filiation—” I began.

“As you say, Mr. Boswell: the mother avers it is her son. Moreover,” added Dr. Johnson, “the man of business says it is Richard; and the old-time servant asserts it is Richard.”

“My Lady’s too tender heart is set on the fellow,” growled Jeremy, “and everybody knows Rollis and Bogie will never gainsay her. She has them under her spell with her coaxing ways: as she has everybody. Only my mother saw thro’ her. Cupidity, wilfulness, adultery, bastardy—in such terms my mother spoke of her.”

“Enough, Jeremy,” said Cynthia quickly, “your mother ever spoke more than she knew about her sister Claybourne.”

“Never defend Lady Claybourne,” muttered Jeremy, “for she is no friend to you.”

“Yet Richard loved me,” said the girl. “Can he be Richard, and never come near me?”

“Yet, my dear—if he left you in anger?” murmured Dr. Johnson.

“That is between me and Richard,” said Cynthia stiffly.

“Then there’s no more to be said.”

“Oh, but there is,” countered Cynthia quickly. “I’ll not see Jeremy dispossessed by a pretender. Pray, Dr. Johnson, will you not scrutinize this fellow, and detect whether he be Richard indeed, or an imposter?”

“Why, if he be an imposter, ’tis my hand in the business has raised him up,” observed Dr. Johnson. “I’ll scan him narrowly, you may be sure. But why do you not confront him yourself?”

“The door is closed against me.”

“We’ll confront him at the Dole,” said Jeremy grimly.

“What is this Claybourne Dole we hear so much about?” I enquired curiously.

“Sir,” replied Cynthia, “’tis a whimsy from the Dark Ages, of a death-bed vow to relieve the poor forever, and a death-bed curse, that if ’tis neglected, the Claybourne line shall fail. For six years past Jeremy, as the heir, has upheld the custom; and all Claybournes, even I must play their part on St. George’s Day.”

“Which is this day week,” remarked Dr. Johnson. “Well, well, I’ll note Sir Richard’s proceedings in the meantime.”

Next day, according to our invitation at the Cross Keys, we became guests at Claybourne Hall. We found the Hall to be a stately Palladian mansion, with classical pilasters and myriad sashwindows taking the light. Here the dowager Lady Claybourne reigned in splendour, and now that her Richard was beside her, all was love and abundance.

Richard indeed moved as one waking out of a dream, from the formal garden to the bluffs above the sea, from the great hall to the portrait gallery. As he stared at the likenesses of his ancestors in the latter, we were enabled to stare at him, as a youth on canvas, as a man in the flesh. As my Lady had said, how changed!

The youthful face in the portrait was smooth and high-coloured. The face of flesh was now thin and sallow. But in both countenances, the fresh and the worn, the look of my Lady was apparent in the large thin-lidded eyes and the curve of lip. In the portrait, young Richard rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and held in his right the bridle of his favourite horse.

“Gallant Soldier, remember, mother?” murmured Richard. “He bade fair to be the fastest horse in the county.”

“He is so still. You shall ride him yet, my son, when the arm mends.”

Following her glance, I perceived that the useless arm had been coaxed into its sleeve, and saw in the hand the ball of crimson wool whereby, with continual kneading and plying, the atrophied muscles were to be, by little and little, restored to use. The slack fingers with an effort tightened about the crimson wool and loosed it again, tightened and loosed.

“I’ll ride Gallant Soldier yet,” vowed Sir Richard.

Meanwhile, the swift steed was Richard’s delight and wherever he went, out of doors in the fresh April weather, horse and groom were sure to be near him.

The out of doors was Richard’s element. The old gamekeeper rejoiced to have him back, and marvelled at his undiminished skill, tho’ with the left hand, at angling and fencing and shooting with the pistol; tho’ the sporting gun was no longer within his power.

Indoors, other times, the restored Sir Richard would be busied with Mr. Rollis, turning over old deeds or signing new ones, as to the manor born. Mr. Rollis exclaimed in wonder, that the new signature, tho’ left-handed, so closely resembled the old.

In certain respects, methought, the long sojourn in the wilds shewed its effects. The skin was leather-tanned by the furnace of the West Indies. The voice was harsh, and so far from smacking of his upbringing in Kent, the manner of speech had a twang that spoke of the years in Haiti.

At table, also, the heir’s manners, to my way of thinking, left something to be desired. But what can a man do who must feed himself with one hand? Old Bogie hovered ever at his shoulder, ready to cut his meat; while at his knee, rolling adoring eyes, sat Richard’s old dog, a cross fat rug of a thing named Gypsy. I noticed she got more than her share of titbits.

Only once during that week was the name of Cynthia mentioned, when Dr. Johnson took opportunity to say:

“Sir, will you not see your wife?”

Richard shook his head.

“Not yet. Do not ask it. Let me mend first.”

“Cynthia’s suspense must be painful,” observed Dr. Johnson.

Wherever Richard was, my Lady was sure to be close at hand. Now she came between to say coldly:

“Cynthia has Jeremy to console her. Let her alone.”

Richard turned away in silence.

St. George’s Day, April 23, 1773, dawned fair. Claybourne Hall hummed and was redolent with final preparations. At the farther edge of the south meadow they were roasting whole oxen, and putting up long tables on trestles to set forth the viands to come. At the near end a platform under a red and white stripéd canopy offered shelter against sun or shower, whatever April weather might ensue.

At the Hall as morning advanced, Lady Claybourne bustled about; but Richard did not appear. Soon he would face his first meeting with the world. How would he be received?

At mid-morning, we all attended Sir Richard’s levee in the old-fashioned way. A rainbow of splendid garments had been kept furbished for him from his raking days. For this great occasion, he chose a suit of cream brocaded and laced with gold, in which he looked like a bridegroom. A modish new wig with high powdered fore-top well became his flashing dark eyes and haggard face. In this he shewed his only trace of foppery, the outmoded hats and wigs of past days having been condemned en masse, and new ones bespoke from London.

My Lady, too, was adorned most like a bride, for she had given over her mourning weeds upon Richard’s return, and now wore silver tissue edged with bullion lace. As to me, I had donned my bloom-coloured coat, while Dr. Johnson was satisfied to be decent in chestnut broadcloth.

On the stroke of noon we issued forth to greet the quality and commonalty already gathering to honour the day. Richard vibrated like a wire; my Lady, glowing with joy, never left his side. Thus, strolling in the meadow, we exchanged bows with the neighbouring squires, and nodded condescendingly to the assembling tenantry. Sometimes Richard uttered a name; sometimes he only made a leg, bowed and smiled. His eyes shewed the strain he was under.

As we strolled, suddenly my Lady took in a sibilant breath, and gripped her son’s fingers. Two persons stood in our way. Richard uttered one word: “Cynthia!”

Her hand on Jeremy’s, the girl stood and eyed the speaker, utterly still. At last she spoke:

“Who are you?”

“I am Sir Richard Claybourne, your humble servant, and your husband that was.”

She searched him deep, the sallow face, the dark eyes, the useless arm.

“Make me believe it,” she said. “Answer me but three questions.”

“Not now,” snapped Lady Claybourne. “The Dole begins.”

“I think you must, Sir Richard,” said Dr. Johnson gently.

“Very well, sir. But think well, Cynthia, you may not like the answers.”

“If true, I shall like them very well. One: when we began our loves (the clear skin rosied), what was my name for you?”

“Dickon,” said the claimant instantly.

“No, ‘Rich,’ you are wrong. Now say: where was our secret post office?”

“In a hollow tree.”

“That is true. Which one?”

“Ah, that I have forgotten.”

“Never mind. Why did you leave me as you did?”

“You know why.”

“I know why. Do you?”

“I beg you, Cynthia, spare me saying it.”

“I do not fear to hear it.”

Eyes downcast, Richard uttered low: “You force me to say it. Because I found you to be used goods.”

Jeremy doubled his fists and aimed a blow, which Richard swiftly fended with his own.

“Stand back, Jeremy,” said Cynthia coolly: “he knows he lies.”

Jeremy, muttering, dropped his arms, and the claimant followed suit, as the dowager cried:

“Of course the little trollop must deny it. Enough of this farce!”

“Answer me but this, if you be Richard,” pursued Cynthia steadily, “what did you say in your farewell note?”

“An unworthy trick, Cynthia, I left you no farewell note.”

“Shall I shew it you?”

“I forbid it!” cried the dowager angrily. “’Tis clear Cynthia will tell any lie, pass any forgery, to do away with you and get the estate for Jeremy. Come, begin the Dole!”

She swept Richard away. At her gesture, he mounted the platform and spoke:

“My people—my dear friends, companions of my youth! Richard is returned, and we shall have better days at Claybourne Hall. I am too moved to say more.”

A silence. Would they reject him? Then the cheer burst forth: Huzza! It was Mr. Rollis who gave the triple “Hip hip!”

Bowing, the master of Claybourne reached his hand to his lady mother, and descended to the level. Old Bogie with a basket of loaves and Mr. Rollis with a purse of crown pieces fell in on either side. Jeremy and Cynthia, stiff-backed, followed; and we, Sir Richard’s guests, brought up the rear.

Drawn up before the dais, shepherded by friends and relations in gala array, stood two dozen hand-picked and hand-scrubbed antients of days. Clean smocks cloathed the toothless gaffers, and snowy aprons adorned the silver-haired gammers. The Dole began: to each, a gracious word from Sir Richard, a crown piece from Rollis’s purse, and a fat brown loaf from Bogie’s basket.

The entourage had gone part way down the line, when a boy with a billet pushed through the crowd and handed the folded paper to Sir Richard. The latter snapped it open, read, and scowled. Then he shrugged, threw down the crumpled paper (which in the interest of neatness I retrieved and pocketed for future destruction) and stepped forward to the next curtseying old crone.

There was still bread in the basket and silver in the purse when again a newcomer pushed his way importantly through the crowd. I recognized the burly fellow with his staff and his writ: the parish constable, come as I supposed to bear his part in the drama of the Claybourne Dole. At sight of him, Richard stopped stock-still. Then he bowed abruptly, and strode swiftly away. We saw him reach the edge of the meadow, where as usual the favourite steed, Gallant Soldier, saddled and bridled, stood with his groom. The Dole party stood and gaped as Richard leaped to the saddle, slapped the reins two-handed, and tore off at a gallop.

As we stood staring the dowager rounded on Cynthia.

“You wicked, wicked girl!” she cried. “Now what have you done! You have driven Richard from home a second time!”

“Be that as it may,” said Dr. Johnson, “continue the Dole, Sir Jeremy, lest the Curse fall upon you.”

Under his commanding eye, the Dole party reformed about Jeremy. I noticed that the constable, stately with writ and staff, belatedly brought up the rear; and so the Dole was completed.

Cheering, the tenantry broke ranks and attacked the tables; but there was no feasting for us. Marshalled by Dr. Johnson, we found ourselves indoors in the withdrawing room, sitting about on the stiff brocaded chairs as the late sunlight slanted in along the polished floor. We seemed to sit most like a select committee, myself and Cynthia and Jeremy, Lady Claybourne and Rollis and Bogie, with Dr. Johnson as it were in the chair; and the constable like a sergeant-at-arms, solidly established just outside the door.

“Where is Sir Richard?” demanded Mr. Rollis.

“Vanished,” replied Dr. Johnson with a broad smile. “We have put the genie back in the bottle.”

“How do you know he is vanished?”

“Because ’twas I conjured him away.”

“Alas for my Lady!” cried generous-hearted Cynthia, “to lose her son a second time.”

With a heart-broken gesture, Lady Claybourne put her kerchief to her eyes.

“Save your sympathy, she has not lost him,” said Dr. Johnson calmly.

“Unravel this mystery, sir,” exclaimed Cynthia.

“I have not all the strands in my fingers, but the master string I have pulled, and the unravelling begins. You have heard the cynical saying, if you should send word to every member of Parliament, Fly, all is discovered, the floor would be half empty next day.”

In a trice I had out of my pocket the note the claimant had thrown down. Fly, all is discovered, it read.

“But he did not fly,” I objected.

“Not then,” conceded my friend. “But upon the heels of the warning came the constable with his staff and a great writ in his hand—instructed by me, I confess—and that did the business. The false Richard is off, and I venture to suppose he’ll not return.”

“How could you be so sure he was not the true Richard?” I asked curiously.

“Sir, the affair of Susanna and the elders was my first hint. As the lying elders could not say with one voice under which tree she sinned, so there was no agreement on the scene of that romantick meeting with old Bogie, whether the gardens or the docks. Was there such a meeting? It occurred to me to doubt it. Yet the positive voices of all three, mother, man of business, and old servant, overbore me for the nonce.”

“Not to mention,” said I, “the devotion of the dog Gypsy at Claybourne.”

“Cupboard love,” smiled Johnson. “Had you fed her, she would have drooled in your lap. No, the dog did not move me. For at Claybourne, I was again observing matter for doubt. There was, for instance, the affair of the wigs and hats. The false Richard wore his predecessor’s garments very well. But the headgear would not fit; he was obliged to obtain a new supply.”

“Moreover,” my friend continued, “the real Sir Richard was right-handed. The sword in his portrait was scabbarded to the left, as it must be for a right-handed man to draw. But I soon perceived this fellow was always left-handed. He wrote, he shot, he fished left-handed with the perfect ease of a lifetime. Therefore must his right arm seem to be stricken. Then if he had learned from someone to write like Sir Richard, yet perforce not perfectly, the shift of hand explains all. Thus too, the arm must seem to mend. Who would willingly go one-armed forever?”

“And it mended miraculously,” added Jeremy drily, “when I struck at him and he struck back two-fisted.”

“So I saw,” remarked Dr. Johnson, “tho’ ’twas over in the blink of an eye. Yet it shook him, and Cynthia’s tests still worse, making him all the more ready to believe All is discovered, and fly at once, by that mount he had always ready.”

“Then where is the real Sir Richard?” I put the question that was hanging in the air.

“Ah, there’s the question,” said Dr. Johnson. “Let us ask Cynthia. Forgive me, my dear, do not answer unless you will; but had you really a note of farewell?”

“I will answer,” said Cynthia in a low voice, “for Jeremy has the right to know. There was a note of farewell left for me in our hollow tree.” Reaching into her bodice, she brought it forth. “Here it is.”

With compressed lips, Lady Claybourne turned away. Three heads bent over the yellowing scrap. The message we read was brief and bitter:

“Now you know me, I am unworthy to touch you, But be comforted, you shall be rid of your incubus when the tide goes out. Farewell, for you’ll never see me more.

Rich”

“I made sure he had thrown himself into the sea,” whispered Cynthia.

“Dear heart,” cried Jeremy, “on his wedding night, why would he so?”

“Because,” said Cynthia, low, “he came to me with the French disease, and left me rather than infect me. He was half mad with remorse and drink taken, and I feared what he might do. ’Twas pure relief when I heard his mother had seen him and set him on his way.”

“But had she?” asked Johnson gravely. “—Sit down, Lady Claybourne. You need not answer. I will answer for you. You never saw Richard that night. He was drowned. But you were determined still to rule Claybourne estate, and you had the wit and the will to invent a story to keep you there tho’ Richard was gone. How long, think you, Cynthia, could she have remained, had you displayed this everlasting farewell?”

“I was but fourteen, and I wanted so to believe,” murmured Cynthia. “But now—I know not.”

“Perhaps,” said Dr. Johnson, turning a stern face on the old Negro, “perhaps Bogie knows.”

The dark eyes darted left and right. No sign came from my Lady, but Jeremy spoke with gruff gentleness:

“Speak up, Bogie. Tell us the truth; it shall not be held against you.”

“I know,” whispered the black painfully. “When Sir Richard was gone, none knew whither, I was set to search, and so ’twas I found at the cliff top his wedding coat folded, and a note held down by a stone.”

“What said the note? Or can you not read?”

“I can read. It began: Honoured Mother, When you read this I shall be dead—”

Cynthia hid her face in her hands.

“I read no more,” went on Bogie, “but took coat and note to my Lady in her chamber. She read it dry-eyed, and mused long. At last Bogie, says she, I learn by this billet that your young master has left England, and we are to keep all things in readiness for his return. Was I to gainsay her?”

Lady Claybourne sat like a figure carved in ice.

“Yet Sir Richard would never return,” went on Dr. Johnson, “and Jeremy’s guardians became more and more pressing. I suggest that as Jeremy approached his majority, a scheam was conceived to hold the estate, a scheam in which you three—you, my Lady, and Rollis and Bogie—had your parts to play.”

“And you too, Dr. Johnson,” smiled Rollis, unabashed.

“And I too,” said the philosopher wryly. “My part was to be the dupe, and lend my authority to the comedy of ‘The Return of the Long Lost Heir.’ ’Twas all too pat. He will be found, predicts my Lady like a sybil, and found he is, on her own ground, in Haiti. How? Because—as I now perceive—she arranged it—through a trusted messenger, her old slave from Haiti, our friend Mr. Bogie. Well, Bogie?”

The old man almost smiled as he inclined his head.

“But who was he, then, whom Bogie found in Haiti,” I demanded, “so miraculously suited to the part?”

“I know not,” replied Dr. Johnson; “but I can guess. I think we shall find that there was someone in Haiti whom my Lady sent there out of the way long ago; someone whom she would gladly establish for life at Claybourne Hall; someone who so closely resembled her that he could win wide acceptance as the lost heir. To speak plainly: her son.”

“Her son?”

“Her bastard son, Sir Jeremy, whose existence your mother railed at in years past. Is that not so, Lady Claybourne?”

My Lady disdained to answer.

“Is that not so, Mr. Rollis?”

“That is so, Dr. Johnson,” Mr. Rollis smiled thinly. “The lad was troublesome, and ’twas I who secretly shipped him off for her to the Haiti plantation. Thither my Lady sent Bogie, to instruct him and bring him back. Bogie is not as simple as he seems. Come, my Lady, say this is so, for our best course now is to compound the matter with Sir Jeremy.”

“Compound, will you?” said Jeremy darkly. “I’ll look to the strong-box first.”

“As to the strong-box,” said Rollis calmly, “you may set your mind at rest, for I have kept the keys. Tho’ in indifferent matters I was ruled by my Lady—”

“D’you call it an indifferent matter, raising me up a false husband!” cried Cynthia indignantly.

“As to that,” returned the solicitor coolly, “I never expected my Lady’s mad scheam to prevail; and as to the estate, I have kept it faithfully for whoever comes after.”

“What impudence!” cried Jeremy. “Dr. Johnson, say, shall we not give these conspirators into custody, and send after the fleeing imposter?”

Lady Claybourne spoke for the first time:

“He’ll hang for it. Would you hang your brother, Jeremy?”

“My brother?”

“Your father’s son.”

“Of the blood on both sides!” exclaimed Dr. Johnson. “Small wonder he passed for the heir!”

“And small wonder my mother railed,” added Jeremy.

“Sir Jeremy will not desire a scandal at Claybourne,” said my Lady with perfect calm. “He will prefer that I should take my dower right and withdraw to Haiti. My son Paul—whom, as you say, I have not lost—shall join me. Now I will bid you good night. Come, Rollis. Come, Bogie.”

“’Tis for the best. Let it be so, Sir Jeremy,” said my wise friend.

My Lady, head held high, sailed out at the door, and Rollis and Bogie followed.

“Be it so,” assented Jeremy gravely, and the constable let them pass. “Now,” he went on, his face softening, “there is but one more word to say. Cynthia (taking her hand)—Lady Claybourne, will you wed with me, and be Lady Claybourne still?”

“Yes, Jeremy,” said Cynthia.

[The 18th Century had its claimants, its “lost heirs,” notably James Annesley (1743) and Archibald Douglas (1767); but this story reflects neither. It may suggest rather the mystery of the Tichborne claimant a century later. You may recognize Lady Tichborne and Old Bogle and the Tichborne Dole; you may read Australia for Haiti; you may even discern a plausible explanation of the many inexplicable features of that puzzling affair. In certain fictitious elements, of course, including the outcome, my story differs widely from the Tichborne case.

The best book on the Tichborne mystery is Douglas Woodruff’s The Tichborne Claimant (New York: Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1957).]