When conversing one day with Mrs. Heathcote and Algernon, Mr. Jenkins, in his character of family friend, inquired if they had ever happened to see a picture which he remembered well, as having been a great favourite with the late Mrs. Thorpe. “It was the portrait,” said he, “of her unfortunate and ill-conducted son. I should like to see it again.... if indeed it has not been destroyed.” —
“What sort of portrait was it, Mr. Jenkins?” demanded Algernon; and the portrait was described to him, in reply.
“Do you remember that picture?” returned the boy, laughing and rubbing his hands in infinite glee.... “Do you remember that portrait?.... Oh! you know not the fun that portrait has caused me!.... It is hanging in mamma’s room now.”
“Fun?.... How can it have caused you fun?” returned the sallow traveller, while something almost approaching to a flush crossed his cheek.
“I don’t think I ought to tell you,” replied Algernon, suddenly recollecting the liberal stranger’s cross-examination respecting the character of Sophia, and his own determination not to give any testimony against her.
“Good gracious, why not, Algernon?” said Mrs. Heathcote, observing a vexed and disappointed expression on the countenance of Mr. Jenkins, who had become a great favourite with her — not only on account of the earrings, but because she so clearly perceived his great admiration of her darling step-son. “I am sure it is a very good story, and if you won’t tell it, I will.”
“You had better let it alone, mother,” replied Algernon, scampering off. “But at any rate I won’t stay to listen.”
Mrs. Heathcote then related with a good deal of humour the history, as communicated to her by Algernon, of Sophia’s having somehow or other got a sight of this picture, and having dressed herself so as to resemble it. “I had never seen it, when my saucy boy pointed out to me the change in Miss Martin Thorpe’s manner of dressing herself,” she said, “but now that I see the picture over my chimney-piece every day, I often think of it.... and most certainly Algernon was right; for though, I don’t think that she is really very much like it, she did certainly contrive to make herself look so, by her dress.... Of course you understand what she was at, Mr. Jenkins.... And to be sure it answered perfectly,” she added with a sigh.
Mr. Jenkins probably did understand what she was about, but at that time made no remark upon it. He did not, however, forget the story; and being determined to make this portrait a part of the machinery of his discovery scene, he slipped out of the drawing-room after Sophia had entered it, when the company were assembling for dinner, and seizing upon the intelligent William, explained to him where he wished the portrait, then hanging over the chimney-piece in Mrs. Heathcote’s bed-room, to he placed before the ladies entered the drawing-room after dinner. The command was accompanied by a sovereign, and was answered by a “Yes, sir,” pronounced in a tone that left no doubt of Obedience.
Sophia started upon seeing the well remembered canvass, her brows contracted themselves into an alarming frown, and hastening to the bell she rang it violently.
It was answered by William.
“Who was it brought that thing here?” she demanded, in no very gentle voice, and pointing to the portrait.
“It was I, ma’am,” replied the man. “Mr. Jenkins ordered me to do it.”
“Mr. Jenkins?” repeated Sophia in a softened tone. “Let it remain then.”
“How very odd!” exclaimed Miss Wilkyns. “He is very kind, to be sure, and all that, but certainly he is the very oddest person that ever lived. Don’t you think so, dearest Sophia?”
“I think Mr. Jenkins so very agreeable, and like him so very much,” replied the mistress of the mansion, “that if there is anything particularly odd about him, I don’t perceive it. I am sure I hardly know anybody in the whole world that I like so Well as I do him.... And as to this picture, Elfreda, I think I can guess all about it. You know his great attachment to the Thorpe family, and I believe I told you that when he first came to see me, he seemed quite affected at the sight of the old house, and begged that I would let Barnes take him over all the rooms.... which of course I consented to with the greatest pleasure. But I thought he had changed his mind, for he has never said anything about it lately; but I suppose that now he has changed it again, and probably has got Barnes to take him over some of the old rooms, and in that way has found out this old picture. I am sure that if it gives him any pleasure, he is very welcome to it, and I shall be quite glad he has found it.”
All this did very well for the Misses Wilkyns, and they had no doubt that the case was exactly as their dear cousin Sophia stated; but Mrs. Heathcote perfectly well remembered the “good story” she had told to the family-friend concerning this picture, and she could not help fancying that the sudden production of it might have some connexion with the anecdotè. She was perfectly aware that, “dear good Mr. Jenkins” was an odd man, and she fully expected that he would make some commentary upon this new mode of passing an estate by the title of a shirt collar and a hair brush. But she cared little, and said less upon the subject; feeling perfectly indifferent as to whether Miss Martin Thorpe quarrelled with her outright or not; being brought to this sturdy state of mind, by the young lady’s having told her, that very morning, with every appearance of the most obliging attention, that she thought it might be better for the boys and girls who were at school, to pass the approaching holidays at one of the Watering-places on the Welsh coast, where the rest of the family could meet them.... for that sea-bathing would do them all so much good.
* * * * *
Mr. Jenkins himself was the last of the gentlemen who entered the drawing-room; and be found those who preceded him, already grouped round the portrait, which by its conspicuous situation had immediately attracted their attention.
Sir Charles Temple, who instantly recognised the picture, looked furtively at the supposititious Mr. Jenkins, and silently turning away seated himself near Florence, quite certain that the hour was at last come for the discovery so long anticipated, and which must of course, he thought, give rise to a scene by no means of an agreeable nature. Algernon too, who, like his mother, connected the appearance of the portrait with the fact of Mr. Jenkins having been told the history of Sophia’s mimicry of it, rather drew off from the scene of action, and placed himself as near as he conveniently could to his stepmother, anticipating the probability that she might be referred to respecting it. But the business a-foot was rather of a more serious nature, and he was presently drawn from the place he had chosen, for one whence he could better hear and see what passed.
“You have seen the original of that portrait, Major Heathcote,” said Thorpe, placing himself close beside it, and so as to receive the broad day-light on his uncovered head. “That was taken when the original was eighteen. Have you any notion how the same face might look after an interval of twenty years?”
“It is the portrait of young Thorpe,” replied the Major, rather startled by the tone in which he was addressed; “I remember him perfectly, sir, and had he lived twenty years after I last saw him, I think I should have remembered him still, had it been my lot to meet him.”
“Do you think me like him, Major Heathcote?” said Thorpe, fixing his eyes upon him, and speaking in a tone as solemn as that of old Hamlet’s ghost.
“Gracious Heaven, sir, no!” replied the Major hastily....
“what on earth is it you mean?”
“Simply to ask the question, Heathcote, which my words imply. Can you trace any resemblance between the nephew by marriage from whom you parted when you were quartered at Cork some seventeen years ago, and the worn and weary man who stands before you?”
Whether the gentleman were an impostor or not, might remain to be proved; but there was no longer any doubt that the personage before them claimed to be no other than the long lost Cornelius Thorpe, and the master of the house wherein he stood.
The effect which this startling announcement produced upon the company was various. Major Heathcote
remained exactly in the position wherein he first received the idea that little yellow Mr. Jenkins meant to announce himself as the owner of Thorpe-Combe He really was much too strongly agitated to speak, even if he had known what to say; but anybody who had studied his countenance might have perceived that the longer he gazed the more satisfied he became that the ghost spoke truth.
Sir Charles Temple looked on, gently took the hand of Florence in his, held it fast, but said not a word.
Algernon deliberately began a critical comparison between the eyes, nose, and mouth, on the canvass, and those on which every eye in the room was now fixed. His sister almost, it maybe feared, returned the pressure of Sir Charles’ hand, but if she did, it was by a movement that trembled so violently as perhaps to make the doing so involuntary. The three Misses Wilkyns drew together in a cluster, and having gazed their fill on good Mr. Jenkins in his new character, turned all their six eyes, as if by common consent, upon Sophia, nor removed them again for a very considerable time. Mrs. Heathcote only exclaimed, “Mercy on us!”.... and then turned her back, with a great deal more of kind-hearted civility than the action generally demonstrates, upon the unfortunate heiress, without having glanced, even for an instant, at her face. Mr. Wilkyns very nearly rose from his chair, and as he sank into it again, audibly exclaimed, “What’s that?”
And Sophia? What did the wretched Sophia do or say at this very terrible moment?.... First she turned very, very pale, and had she been a weakly girl would decidedly have fainted; but instead of this, she presently became extremely red, and starting from her chair exclaimed in a key as much like thunder as any female voice can achieve— “Infamous impostor!.... Are you men?.... Are you my guardians?.... And will you not turn him out?”
Sir Charles Temple looked at her with an expression of great compassion, but did not speak; the Major too only shook his head, remaining still silent for another minute or two; and when he did speak, his words though not addressed to her were more killing to the miserable girl who had appealed to him, than the harshest answer he could have framed. “Of your identity, Cornelius, it is impossible to doubt.... No one can seriously suggest the idea of attempting such a fraud.... But for God’s sake, nephew, why have you not been with us before?”
On hearing these decisive words, Sophia rose from her chair, and looking neither to the left hand nor the right, walked rapidly but steadily out of the room.
Something may be said hereafter of what passed there after she quitted it, but Sophia Martin is our heroine, and to forsake her in the hour of distress would be a very base sort of historical treason.
However much the unfortunate girl might have been agitated by the scene which has been described, she in no degree lost her presence of mind; it was with perfect steadiness of hand and head that she opened the door and passed through it, closing it after her with no violence, but appearing in all ways precisely in the same state of mind, that she had done an hour before. Upon first feeling the sting which this terrible event conveyed, one cry of anguish seemed to burst from her in the passionate words addressed to her guardians; but this passed, no farther sign of weakness was discernible.
On reaching her room she calmly and deliberately locked herself in, then opened drawer after drawer of her cabinets and wardrobes, extracting from each whatever was at once valuable and portable. The string of pearls was not forgotten, nor yet the recent present of trinkets, which, in common with the other ladies of the party, she had received from him, whom she might have been tempted to call, “A little too much kin, and less than kind.”
But when she came to the old-fashioned repository of the family diamonds, the discovery of which had lately caused her heart to throb with rapture, she hesitated. She disliked, even in that sad moment of sunken hope, the idea of being seized upon as a common thief, and forced to render up what she had stolen.... Yet it seemed that she still more disliked the anguish of parting from the jewels which she had called her own; for after twice closing the lid of their case, and twice replacing it in the cabinet, she suddenly, and with a sort of desperate courage, snatched it out again, muttering between her closed teeth.... “Let them seize me, and carry me to prison, if they dare. The ghostly vagabond calls himself a man, and cannot for very shame make me restore them.... A woman might.”
Strengthened by this philosophical reflection, Sophia removed the treasures from their massive case, and enveloping the whole collection in a pocket-handkerchief deposited it, not without some difficulty, in the pocket of her dress. She then took out the well-remembered miniature, which its false-hearted original had left in her possession only because he could not remove its diamond setting.... Did she deplore the avarice which she had suffered to peep forth on that occasion, chaining her tongue, when she would willingly, had she possessed sufficient self-command, have propitiated the favour of him, who now seemed to her fevered fancy something monstrous, absorbing and exhaling wealth at will? Perhaps she did. But at any rate, the sight of that miniature seemed to turn her sick, in spite of the magic circle of brightness which surrounded it, and which under other circumstances would have had power to charm, had the childish features it decorated been those of a youthful gorgon.... But now, the thing altogether, as it lay upon her hand, made her shudder; and after the struggle of a moment, she threw it back again into its concealed recess, and hastily closing the doors of the cabinet turned from it with loathing. The rest of her preparations took not long. A small parcel of necessaries made up in the form in which she had sometimes carried her embroidery through the wood, to consult the accomplished Margaret, while her brother hovered near in selfdevotion, constituted the rest of her baggage; and with this in her hand, every six-pence she could collect in her purse, her most serviceable bonnet on her head, and a shawl on her shoulders, Sophia Martin (Thorpe no more) sallied forth to seek new adventures.
Happily there was a way leading into the gardens, which did not pass by the drawing-room door, or the ci-devant heiress might have faltered. As it was, she reached the sheltered path which led to Broad Grange unseen and unheard by any. The light was now failing, and Sophia was glad of it. Richly as she was laden, she feared no lawless stragglers there; and though she had perfectly made up her mind as to what she intended to do, she was not sorry to have her solitude insured by something approaching to the darkness and silence of night, while she meditated on the manner of it.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
On reaching the dwelling of old Mrs. Brandenberry, Miss Martin had to raise a venerable, long-handled, iron knocker, in order to procure admission. For the wide oaken door, which during the days of summer stood invariably open, so as to render both knocker and porter unnecessary, was now closed for the night, and great was the effect produced by so rarely occurring a summons to it.
The man of all work, and the maid of all work, now the only occupants of the kitchen —
“A world too wide for the shrunk” household both started as if they had been shot; and the one raising his head from darning his hose, and the other from mending her petticoat, exclaimed at the same moment —
“Mercy upon as!,... what’s that?”
“Go to the door, John, can’t ye?” said the female, recovering herself. “What’s the good of sitting staring that way? You don’t think it’s a ghost, do ye?”
John rose, and took the candle. “Thank you for nothing, good man,” said the woman, stretching out her hand to contest the possession of the light; “just as if it was that dark as you couldn’t feel to open the door, and I to be stopped in my work, that fashion.”
“The woman’s mad,” returned John, pulling stoutly to obtain the disputed flambeau. “Do you think I am going to let in people at this time of night without seeing who they are?”.... But not even this, reasonable as it was, sufficed to settle the question, and a second knock as loud as the hand of Sophia could make it, caused Mr. Brandenberry himself to rise from the old settee on which he was lying, with his sister on one side labouring upon one of the heiress’s chairs, and
suggesting to him new plans for the Goal subjugation of her restive heart; and his mother on the other, catching enough of what was going on to induce her to mumble from time to time an emphatic “Ay!... do, Dick, do!”
“Who can be coming here at this time of night, I wonder? and those fools in the kitchen asleep, I suppose,” said this ‘Squire of low degree,’ but long descent. “It can’t be an invitation, for they always go to the kitchen-door. Will you spare me the candle, Margaret, (there was but one,) while I go and see?”
Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Brandenberry took the candle, and sallying forth crossed the low-browed stone hall, drew back two ponderous bolts, turned the huge old key, and then opened the door, and beheld the object of his proclaimed adoration standing before it, considerably paler than usual, and looking rather flurried and discomposed in spite of all her efforts to avoid it.
Had he seen an imp of darkness or the witch of End or herself, he could hardly have appeared more frightened. But other emotions speedily chased this natural result of his extreme surprise, and assuming with all celerity the aspect of a man blessed almost beyond his own power of belief, he caught her hand (she had already laid her bundle on a slab) drew it tenderly under his arm, considerably more than half pressed it to his heart, and led her into the parlour amidst a string of tender exclamations, beginning and ending with “Dearest Miss Martin Thorpe!.... Too lovely and beloved Sophia!.... Dearest and best!.... You are agitated! What, then, has happened?... Dearest Miss Martin Thorpe!” etc etc etc.
Of course her fond friend Margaret attacked her exactly in the same manner, while the half-blind, half-deaf old lady, as soon as she clearly understood who it was, ceased not to chime in, with, “Dear me! dear me!... only think!... Richard, my dear, get out a glass of wine..... Dear me!.... dear me!” Sophia wisely seated herself on the easy chair that was assiduously offered her by her adorer, and then permitted the storm of welcome to sink into such a comparative calm, as might enable them to hear what she wished to say. As soon, indeed, as their first overpowering emotions had in some degree subsided, both the brother and sister were eager enough to listen, and then it was that Sophia plaintively began the tale she had to tell.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 325