But soft! Had not Sarsefield said that he was married? Was Mrs. Lorimer so speedily forgotten by him; or was the narrative of Clithero the web of imposture or the raving of insanity?
These new ideas banished all personal considerations from my mind. I looked eagerly into the face of my friend, and exclaimed in a dubious accent—"How say you? Married?—When?—To whom?"
"Yes, Huntly, I am wedded to the most excellent of women; to her am I indebted for happiness, and wealth, and dignity, and honour; to her do I owe the power of being the benefactor and protector of you and your sisters. She longs to embrace you as a son. To become truly her son will depend upon your own choice, and that of one who was the companion of our voyage."
"Heavens!" cried I, in a transport of exultation and astonishment—"of whom do you speak?—of the mother of Clarice—the sister of Wiatte—the sister of the ruffian who laid snares for her life, who pursued you and the unhappy Clithero with the bitterest animosity?"
My friend started at these sounds as if the earth had yawned at his feet; his countenance was equally significant of terror and rage. As soon as he regained the power of utterance, he spoke.—"Clithero!—Curses light upon thy lips for having uttered that detested name!—Thousands of miles have I flown to shun the hearing of it. Is the madman here?—have you set eyes upon him?—does he yet crawl upon the face of the earth? Unhappy, unparalleled, unheard-of, thankless miscreant! Has he told his execrable falsehoods here?—has he dared to utter names so sacred as those of Euphemia Lorimer and Clarice?"
"He has—he has told a tale that had all the appearances of truth."
"Out upon the villain! The truth! Truth would prove him to be unnatural—devilish—a thing for which no language has yet provided a name! He has called himself unhappy—no doubt, a victim to injustice, overtaken by unmerited calamity:—say, has he fooled thee with such tales?"
