The Return of Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector

by Lillian de la Torre

  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 hi
gh 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 i
n 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.