The claimant, who had been quite forthcoming in his answers, hesitated a considerable time before attempting to respond. “We were not,” said he, hesitating once again, “in communication.”
“Not in communication?” echoed Sir John. “Have I heard you right? Am I to understand that during that entire period in which you were in the North American colonies, you failed to write your mother?”
“That. . is correct.”
“How do you account for that? “
Tears welled in the young mans eyes. I was altogether astounded: They seemed quite real. “You must understand my situation,” said he. “It was my misfortune to be born the younger son. As it became apparent that Christopher Paltrow, Lord Laningham, would have no male heir, he lavished more and more attention upon my elder brother, to whom his title and wealth would fall. Its true he did also provide for my education, but upon my leaving Oxford, I knew that with my father dead, I could depend upon myself and no other to see me through this life. My mother was considerably reduced in her widowhood. She and I suffered most by these dreadful circumstances of primogeniture. I vowed to her when I set off for North America that I would make my fortune there and return to deliver her from her shameful state there in Bath. The pity was, I was never able to do so. I felt I had betrayed her by my inadequacy. In short, I felt ashamed that I was unable to keep my vow to her, so ashamed indeed that I could never bring myself to write her and confess my failure. I know that I should have. I am now even more greatly ashamed because of it. I can only take some solace in the fact that when at last we did meet after that long separation, she forgave me completely, and without reservation welcomed me back like the prodigal returned — all this before she had even heard tell of the improvement in my prospects.”
“You tell that quite movingly,” said Sir John. “It is a pity that she died shortly thereafter. “
“A pity? Nay, sir, it is a great tragedy.”
“As you say.” Sir John nodded solemnly. “I have but a few more questions for you.”
“And what are they?”
“Could you tell us how it was that you heard of your brother’s death?”
“I learned of it first from a newspaper in the city of Philadelphia. The matter was much discussed in that city, which is quite dominated by the Society of Friends.”
“The Quakers, as they are popularly known?”
“Just so. My brothers crimes were held as an example of the extreme corruption of the aristocracy.”
“And what opinion had you of them?”
“His crimes? Why something of the same sort, I suppose, in the beginning. You must understand that there was little between him and me in the way of love or even respect. Had he come to America, as I did, he would have perished, for he would have played the gentleman rather than attempt any real labor. That was how he lived his life — as one specially blessed, excused from all manner of earthly toil. He lived off the kindness of our uncle, then married and lived off his wife’s fortune, and at last, with the death of our father, he naturally inherited all and lived off that. It was then, by the bye, that he turned our mother out and installed her in those squalid little rooms in Bath. Imagine! His own mother! I believe he was encouraged in this by that wife of his.”
“Hmmm. . well, yes,” said Sir John mildly, “but, sir, you told us that in the beginning you felt as many did in that colonial city of Philadelphia regarding your brother, but by so saying, that indicated a later change of opinion. Could you describe that change? “
“It was a change of attitude, rather. I was so chagrined to see the name I bore linked to his that I found myself denying that he was any relation of mine. I told myself that this was the only proper attitude to take toward such monstrous behavior; I could make no excuse for it or for him. I thought at first I would make no effort to claim the title because of the shame that would accompany it. But then, as I thought upon it, I saw that I could do much to ease my mother’s last years. I saw that if I were to come forward with my claim I might demonstrate to these colonials and, for that matter, to all true-born Englishmen, that it was possible for a nobleman to live a truly noble life.”
“And therefore come forward you did. How long would you say that this change of heart required? You were a bit late in organizing your claim, after all.”
“I suppose I have been,” said he. “But when you consider the distance between here and North America, and the time required to cover such distance, I would say I have come along about as quickly as anyone might.”
Sir John emitted a considerable sigh. “I suppose you are right. And I suppose, too, that I have now exhausted my store of questions. But as I believe Lord Mansfield mentioned, the gentleman who entered with me would now also like to put to you some questions. Will you consent to that?”
“Indeed I will,” said the claimant, looking for the first time a bit uncomfortable, even perhaps slightly embarrassed. “But I confess,” he continued, “I feel a call of nature. Could you direct me to the necessary?”
This question, addressed to Lord Mansfield, was answered by him as he pulled the sash located in a corner of the room: “I’ll have one of the servants show you the way to the water closet.”
Immediately, one of the footmen appeared, bowed at the order given him by his master, and led the claimant from the room. Their footsteps echoed in the great house. There was naught but silence in Lord Mansfield’s study. I looked about me and noted the doleful expressions worn by those on the commission; only Sir Patrick Spenser remained unmoved by what he had witnessed.
“Well,” said Lord Mansfield, his voice hardly rising above a whisper, “what did you think of him?”
His question fell like a stone down a deep well. There was a long wait until at last came the answering splash: “He was very good, wasn’t he?” The response came from Mr. Hemmings, who seemed quite as glum as the rest.
“He seemed to account for everything, didn’t he?” said Mr. Daliymple. “I perceived no gaps in his story, and no hesitation in his telling of it.”
“Did you see the tears in his eyes when he spoke of his mother?’ said William Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. “I should not like to see him before a jury. He would likely have them weeping along with him.”
Then did he turn to the Solicitor-General. “Sir Patrick/‘ said he, “do you have an opinion in this matter?”
To which Sir Patrick Spenser did shake his head in the negative. And with a wave of his hand, he indicated that the matter should not involve him, that it was entirely the affair of the commission. I recall reflecting at that moment how eloquently he managed to express himself by mere signs and gestures.
Silence once again. It was broken by Mr. Trezavant, who did no more than give expression to a thought which had occurred to others. “Could it be,” said he, “that this fellow is telling no more than the truth? Perhaps he is who he says he is — Lawrence Paltrow, the true and legitimate heir to the Laningham title and fortune. You will surely admit that he is most convincing.”
There were grunts of assent about the room.
But of a sudden Sir John Fielding leapt from his chair. “No, by God, no!” He wailed it forth, a strangled cry of frustration. “He is not Lawrence Paltrow. In the beginning, I might well have conceded the matter of his identity quite indifferently, but the closer I have got to him and the more I have learned of him and those about him, the more certain I am that he is an impostor.”
“Yet, Sir John,” said Mr. Trezavant, ‘you must know I put that forward only with the greatest reluctance. My inclination is to find against him, but how can one do that when his every word and his every emotion seem to argue in his favor?”
“I can only insist that no matter how convincing he is, no matter how pleasing his manner, he is not who he claims to be. And perhaps that will be revealed now with — ” Sir John broke off in midsentence; his more sensitive ears had picked up the sound of the claimants returning footsteps. “Soft, now,” said he, “the fellow comes.” And so saying, he seated himself once again and put upon his face that same impenetrable blind mask that he often hid behind; it took but a moment, and he appeared as one asleep.