It was with no ordinary feelings that Sir Godfrey Willoughby perused or listened to this formal memorial of an event that had been so long obscure to him: it seemed, however, to leave little now indefinite or concealed; numerous though the details were, which it presented for the first time, they implied nothing really evil, or extraordinary, save as most human calamities might; and the result was rather satisfactory than otherwise. But the afternoon was now far advanced, and he rode homeward, to dine alone, to finish an uncompleted packet to his Exeter lawyer, with information and inquiries about the so-called young Griffiths, as well as in regard to his adoptive father—then to set off, a little later than he had expected, to meet his returning party on the Versailles road.
The circumstances of their late dilemma were soon related—rather tending to Charles’s disadvantage in the eyes of his father, who, amidst all his general mildness, was inclined to look upon the youth’s disposition with occasional severity; seeming, as it did to him, at that half-formed stage, when lads are least agreeable in the paternal view, to indicate some traits, both erratic and froward, though at times brilliant, of his second uncle, John. He scarce listened to the boy’s explanation, and checked his self-justifying arguments somewhat abruptly; to the silent chafing of his son’s spirit, and the mother’s still more silent concern. But at their late coffee-table, all being apparently forgotten with Sir Godfrey’s expressed resolution never to trust the carriage in future apart from his own guidance, they sat pleasantly talking by candle-light. “So soon as Frank arrives, my dear Kate,” said Sir Godfrey, from his arm-chair to the sofa where his wife leant near, recovering from her fatigues, “we shall leave forthwith for the country. I have scarcely any further business in Paris. And you have seen here, I daresay, all that is to see?” She assented perfectly. Mr Thorpe had launched out almost in a dissertation to the governess and Miss Willoughby, the fruit of his late rural notices, on agriculture and ecclesiastical arrangements; led on by Mrs Mason’s attentive air, and the apparently intelligent interest of Rose. It was with a mild confusion that he heard the young lady’s abrupt doubt as to the sufficiency of sugar in his cup, followed straight by the addition of another lump from the silver tongs in her hand; and while Mr Thorpe stirred, and tasted, she had quietly escaped from the room, perhaps to re-read her dearest friend’s epistle. So Sir Godfrey, who not merely treated the tutor with the utmost deference as a graduate and a deacon of the Church of England, but entertained great respect for him as a learned and good man—at once joined himself to the topic—differing slightly from the view that English plans, even English Protestantism, would improve Frenchmen.
“I, of course, have happened to come a good deal in contact with them abroad, my dear sir,” added he, “particularly in North America, during the late war, and I assure you they have many generous, noble, and honourable qualities, peculiarly their own, which would perhaps be lost in any forced imitation of us. When I was taken prisoner by our own rebels there, I really believe, Thorpe, that but for the clear and gentlemanly conviction of some French naval officers, who came up at the time, I should have been summarily hanged on the spot as a spy. I had sought to escape in the uniform of a dead Frenchman, from a band of savages, and colonials more brutal by far—though, among my captors, there were some who ought to have known better. Nothing saved me, in fact, but the ready quickness of these officers, whom I had never in my life seen before. They immediately claimed me as a prisoner who had broken parole from their frigate, by swimming to the river bank—a charge which I, of course, indignantly disowned. I was, however, taken on board in their boat, when the assertion was persisted in by the captain, a French nobleman,on the suggestion of his officers, so that the ship set sail with me beyond colonial reach. In the fleet of Count de Grasse I was indebted for the utmost kindness to the captain of the frigate; and when, not long after, at the defeat by Lord Rodney, he himself, with his ship, was captured, I was enabled, in some degree, to repay the obligation. We contracted the warmest friendship. Indeed, I regret not having heard from the Count for many years, and his estates, I believe, are not near Paris.”
“Observe, however,” persisted Mr Thorpe, stubbornly, “the extreme want of principle which, in the bulk of the population, must be a thousand times more egregious. A Protestant, Sir Godfrey, would rather have”—
“My dear Thorpe,” eagerly interrupted the baronet, “the Count deplored the necessity, or rather the action, so deeply, as never, I do believe, to have succeeded in reasoning the painful recollection away. It clung to him like a superstition, in fact—for you must notice, he had sacrificed, as it were, his hereditary honour to save me—a thing perhaps more fanciful, less dependent on personal character, and more on externals and reputation, than with us. Yet so delicate was his feeling, and his wish to conceal it from me—that it was only by further acquaintance with his character I could observe it—or understand the restless tread on that poop at midnight—the frequent abstraction and sudden fitfulness of his conduct towards the officers who had first suggested his conduct—mixed with a singular regard towards myself—notwithstanding, nay, as ifbecauseof all. Nothing, as he afterwards confessed to me, almost with tears, could have induced it, except his recognition in me of an officer and a gentleman, an unfortunate stranger, whose country had been gratuitously opposed and defeated by French aid—when those of his own race were about to murder him ignominiously. His sword, however, he said, should have been trusted to alone, at all hazards; or, as he afterwards recollected, the frigate’s guns might have been turned toward the neighbouring town; indeed, next morning he had even sent to acknowledge the deception, with a refusal to give me up, and an offer of personal satisfaction to the American in command. Still, not only to have destroyed for ever the prestige of French honour, with all its securities, but to have falsely pledged the escutcheon of his own family, never before soiled, was a thought which enraged him against himself, against others, almost beyond control. It was useless to reason with my friend; it was perfectly hopeless to attempt consoling him; in truth, during the quiet of our voyage, a kind of insanity seemed to possess him, the only lucid intervals in which were our conversations on subjects as remote as possible from that. I think he secretly abhorred the manners of the colonials, like the American alliance, and saw a degree of retribution in the terrible defeat by Lord Rodney. I myself have reason to recollect America with mingled feelings of horror and satisfaction”—he glanced for a moment towards his wife, whose placid features betrayed no consciousness of the allusion to her first conjugal letters—“so that, my dear Thorpe, you may easily believe I could not help sympathising with him!”
“But surely, Sir Godfrey,” continued the graduate, with very logical insensibility, “you must be of opinion that this country, inclined, as it now seems, to copy England, will be”—
“Like the Count de Charlemont and his friends, I should think, with their English riding-coats and bulldogs!” involuntarily broke in Charles Willoughby, with a laugh: he had been listening very intently; but the laugh ceased at his father’s sudden look.
“Do not interrupt Mr Thorpe, boy!” said the latter, rather sternly; then relaxing next minute at the abashed and flushed look, which made him feel as if his tone had been too harsh—“what do you mean—what Count—what did you say?”
“The mayor I had to visit this evening, you know, sir,” replied Charles, “the Comte de Charlemont, I mean—Charlemont is the village we got mobbed in.”
“De Charlemont?” repeated his father slowly, looking at him, “de Charlemont? You mistake, my boy—or is this some silly presumption of yours? That name I thought I had not allowed to slip from me. I never have permitted myself to mention it. Pronounce the name again.”
Charles did so distinctly and firmly. “That is curious,” said his father, rising from his seat. “Were you listening to what I told Mr Thorpe just now, Charles?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy, frankly.
“And I think I uttered no such name?” added the baronet.
“No,” said his son with gravity, “there was no name mentioned, except the Count de Grasse and Lord Rodney—I particularly noticed.”
“Ah—well,” was the only additional remark, as his father turned to the old stove-filled hearth-place, and leaning his arms above, stood plunged in thought; Mr Thorpe calmly reasoning on, till it was past time for prayers to be read, and for retirement. “I shall call on the Comte de Charlemont,” said Sir Godfrey, the last thing, to Lady Willoughby.