He told Tom at once of his adventure at the shop window, and the occurrence darkened Tom’s countenance1. He peeped out and took a long look toward Hatherton.
“Put the horse to the fly and bring it round at once,” said Tom, who put his hand in his pocket and drew forth2 a rather showy handful of silver.
I don’t pretend to say, when Tom was out of regular employment, from what pursuits exactly he drew his revenue. They had rather improved than otherwise; but I dare say there were anxious compensations.
The boy had eaten his breakfast before he reached Hatherton. So much the better; for the apparition3 of the Sergeant–Major would have left him totally without appetite. As it was, he was in an agony to be gone, every moment expecting to see him approach the little inn to arrest him and Tom.
Tom Orange was uneasy, I am sure, and very fidgety till the fly came round.
“You know Squire4 Fairfield of Wyvern?” said the hostess, while they were waiting.
“Ay,” said Tom.
“Did you hear the news?”
“What is it?”
“Shot the night before last in a row with poachers. Gentlemen should leave that sort o’ work to their keepers; but they was always a fightin’ wild lot, them Fairfields; and he’s lyin’ now a dead man—all the same—gave over by Doctor Willett and another—wi’ a whole charge o’ duck-shot lodged5 under his shoulder.”
“And that’s the news?” said Tom, raising his eyes and looking through the door. He had been looking down on the ground as Mrs. Gumford of the George told her story.
“There’s sharp fellows poachers round there, I’m told,” he said, “next time he’d a’ been out himself with the keepers to take ’em dead or alive. I suppose that wouldn’t answer them.”
“Tis a wicked world, said the lady.
“Damned wicked,” said Tom. “Here’s the fly—”
In they got and drove off.
Tom was gloomy, and very silent.
“Tom, where are we going to?” asked the boy at last.
“All right,” said Tom. “All right, my young master. You’ll find it’s to none but good friends. And, say now—Haven’t I been a good friend to you. Master Harry6, all your days, sir? Many a mile that you know nothing about has Tom Orange walked on your business, and down to the cottage and back again; and where would you or her have been if it wasn’t for poor Tom Orange?”
“Yes, indeed, Tom, and I love you, Tom.”
“And now, I’ve took you away from that fellow, and I’m told I’m likely to be hanged for it. Well, no matter.”
“Oh, Tom; poor Tom! Oh! no, no, no!” and he threw his arms round Tom’s neck in a paroxysm of agonised affection, and, in spite of the jolting8, kissed Tom; sometimes on the cheek, on the eyebrow9, on the chin, and in a great jolt7 violently on the rim10 of his hat, and it rolled over his shoulder under their feet.
“Well, that is gratifyin’,” said Tom, drying his eyes. “There is some reward for prenciple after all, and if you come to be a great man some o’ these days, you’ll not forget poor Tom Orange, that would have spent his last bob and spilt his heart’s blood, without fee or reward, in your service.”
Another explosion of friendship from the boy assured Tom of his eternal gratitude11.
“Do you know this place, sir?” asked Tom, with a return of his old manner, as making a sudden turn the little carriage drove through an open gate, and up to a large old-fashioned house. A carriage was waiting at the door.
There could be no mistake. How delightful12! and who was that “Mammy” at the hall door, and in an instant they were locked in one another’s arms, and “Oh! the darlin’,” and “Mammy, mammy, mammy!” were the only words audible, half stifled13 in sobs14 and kisses.
In a minute more there came into the hall—smiling, weeping, and with hands extended toward him, the pretty lady dressed in black, and her weeping grew into a wild cry, as coming quickly she caught him to her heart. “My darling, my child, my blessed boy, you’re the image—Oh! darling, I loved you the moment I saw you, and now I know it all.”
The boy was worn out. His march, including his divergence15 from his intended route, had not been much less than thirty miles, and all in chill and wet.
They got him to his bed and made him thoroughly16 comfortable, and with mammy at his bedside, and her hand, to make quite sure of her, fast in his, he fell into a deep sleep.
Alice had already heard enough to convince her of the boy’s identity, but an urgent message from Harry, who was dying, determined17 her to go at once to Wyvern to see him, as he desired. So, leaving the boy in charge of “mammy,” she was soon on her way to the old seat of the Fairfields.
If Harry had not known that he was dying, no power could ever have made him confess the story he had to tell.
There were two points on which he greatly insisted.
The first was, that believing that his brother was really married to Bertha Velderkaust, he was justified18 in holding that his nephew had no legal right to succeed.
The second was, that he had resolved, although he might have wavered lately a little, never to marry, and to educate the boy better than ever he was educated himself, and finally to make him heir to Wyvern, pretending him to be an illegitimate son of his own.
Whether the sergeant-Major knew more than he was ordered or undertook to know, he never gave the smallest ground to conjecture19. He stated exactly what had passed between him and Harry Fairfield. By him he was told that the child which was conveyed to Marjory Trevellian’s care was his own unacknowledged son.
On the very same evening, and when old Mildred Tarnley was in the house at Twyford, was a child taken, with the seeds of consumption already active in it, from a workhouse in another part of England and placed there as the son of Charles Fairfield and Alice. It was when, contrary to all assurances, this child appeared for a few days to rally, and the situation consequent on its growing up the reputed heir to Wyvern alarmed Harry, that he went over, in his panic, to the Grange, and there opened his case, that the child at Twyford was a changeling, and not his brother’s son.
When, however, the child began to sink, and its approaching death could no longer be doubtful, he became, as we have seen, once more quite clear that the baby was the same which he had taken away from Carwell Grange.
Dr. Willett’s seeing the child so often at Twyford, also prevented suspicion, though illogically enough, for had they reflected they might easily have remembered that the doctor had hardly seen the child twice after its birth while at the Grange, and that, like every one else, he took its identity for granted when he saw it at Twyford.
Alice returned greatly agitated20 late that evening. No difficulty any longer remained, and the boy, with ample proof to sustain his claim, was accepted as the undoubted heir to Wyvern, and the representative of the ancient family of Fairfield.
The boy, Henry Fairfield, was as happy as mortal can be, henceforward. His little playmate, the pretty little girl whom Alice had adopted, who called her “mamma,” and yet was the daughter of a distant cousin only, has now grown up, and is as a girl even more beautiful than she was as a child. Henry will be of age in a few months, and they are then to be married. They now reside at Wyvern. The estate, which has long been at nurse, is now clear, and has funded money beside.
Everything promises a happy and a prosperous reign21 for the young Fairfield.
Mildred Tarnley, very old, is made comfortable at Carwell Grange.
Good old Dulcibella is still living, very happy, and very kind, but grown a little huffy, being perhaps a little over petted. In all other respects, the effect of years being allowed for, she is just what she always was.
Tom Orange, with a very handsome sum presented by those whom he had served, preferred Australia to the old country.
Harry Fairfield had asserted, in his vehement22 way, while lying in his last hours at Wyvern, that the fellow with the handkerchief over his face who shot him was, he could all but swear, his old friend Tom Orange.
Tom swore that had he lived he would have prosecuted23 him for slander24. As it is, that eccentric genius has prospered25 as the proprietor26 of a monster tavern27 at Melbourne, where there is comic and sentimental28 singing, and some dramatic buffooneries, and excellent devilled kidneys and brandy.
Marjory Trevellian lives with the family at Wyvern, and I think if kind old Lady Wyndale were still living the consolations29 of Alice would be nearly full.
The End
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1
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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9
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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11
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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13
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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27
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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29
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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