The Desborough Connections

"The Desborough Connections" by Bret Harte is a captivating short story that explores themes of social class, morality, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in the American West, the narrative revolves around the titular Desborough family, whose connections and enigmatic past intrigue locals and visitors alike. Through a blend of wit, irony, and vivid characterization, Harte delves into the intricacies of love, loyalty, and the consequences of choices made by the characters. The story reflects the author's hallmark style, showcasing his ability to capture the essence of frontier life while critiquing societal norms.

• Short story

								
"Then it isn't a question of property or next of kin?" said the consul.

"Lord! no," said the lady vivaciously. "Why, goodness me! I reckon
old Desborough could, at any time before he died, have 'bought up' or
'bought out' the whole lot of his relatives on this side of the
big pond, no matter what they were worth. No, it's only a matter of
curiosity and just sociableness."

The American consul at St. Kentigorn felt much relieved. He had feared
it was only the old story of delusive quests for imaginary estates and
impossible inheritances which he had confronted so often in nervous
wan-eyed enthusiasts and obstreperous claimants from his own land.
Certainly there was no suggestion of this in the richly dressed and
be-diamonded matron before him, nor in her pretty daughter, charming in
a Paris frock, alive with the consciousness of beauty and admiration,
and yet a little ennuye from gratified indulgence. He knew the mother to
be the wealthy widow of a New York millionaire, that she was traveling
for pleasure in Europe, and a chance meeting with her at dinner a
few nights before had led to this half-capricious, half-confidential
appointment at the consulate.

"No," continued Mrs. Desborough; "Mr. Desborough came to America, when
a small boy, with an uncle who died some years ago. Mr. Desborough never
seemed to hanker much after his English relatives as long as I knew him,
but now that I and Sadie are over here, why we guessed we might look 'em
up and sort of sample 'em! 'Desborough' 's rather a good name," added
the lady, with a complacency that, however, had a suggestion of query in
it.

"Yes," said the consul; "from the French, I fancy."

"Mr. Desborough was English--very English," corrected the lady.

"I mean it may be an old Norman name," said the consul.

"Norman's good enough for ME," said the daughter, reflecting. "We'll
just settle it as Norman. I never thought about that DES."

"Only you may find it called 'Debborough' here, and spelt so," said the
consul, smiling.

Miss Desborough lifted her pretty shoulders and made a charming grimace.
"Then we won't acknowledge 'em. No Debborough for me!"

"You might put an advertisement in the papers, like the 'next of
kin' notice, intimating, in the regular way, that they would 'hear of
something to their advantage'--as they certainly would," continued the
consul, with a bow. "It would be such a refreshing change to the kind
of thing I'm accustomed to, don't you know--this idea of one of my
countrywomen coming over just to benefit English relatives! By Jove! I
wouldn't mind undertaking the whole thing for you--it's such a novelty."
He was quite carried away with the idea.

But the two ladies were far from participating in this joyous outlook.
"No," said Mrs. Desborough promptly, "that wouldn't do. You see," she
went on with superb frankness, "that would be just giving ourselves
away, and saying who WE were before we found out what THEY were like.
Mr. Desborough was all right in HIS way, but we don't know anything
about his FOLKS! We ain't here on a mission to improve the Desboroughs,
nor to gather in any 'lost tribes.'"

It was evident that, in spite of the humor of the situation and the
levity of the ladies, there was a characteristic national practicalness
about them, and the consul, with a sigh, at last gave the address of one
or two responsible experts in genealogical inquiry, as he had often
done before. He felt it was impossible to offer any advice to ladies
as thoroughly capable of managing their own affairs as his fair
countrywomen, yet he was not without some curiosity to know the result
of their practical sentimental quest. That he should ever hear of them
again he doubted. He knew that after their first loneliness had worn off
in their gregarious gathering at a London hotel they were not likely to
consort with their own country people, who indeed were apt to fight
shy of one another, and even to indulge in invidious criticism of one
another when admitted in that society to which they were all equally
strangers. So he took leave of them on their way back to London with the
belief that their acquaintance terminated with that brief incident. But
he was mistaken.

In the year following he was spending his autumn vacation at a
country house. It was an historic house, and had always struck him as
being--even in that country of historic seats--a singular example of the
vicissitudes of English manorial estates and the mutations of its
lords. His host in his prime had been recalled from foreign service
to unexpectedly succeed to an uncle's title and estate. That estate,
however, had come into the possession of the uncle only through his
marriage with the daughter of an old family whose portraits still looked
down from the walls upon the youngest and alien branch. There were
likenesses, effigies, memorials, and reminiscences of still older
families who had occupied it through forfeiture by war or the favoritism
of kings, and in its stately cloisters and ruined chapel was still felt
the dead hand of its evicted religious founders, which could not be
shaken off.

It was this strange individuality that affected all who saw it. For,
however changed were those within its walls, whoever were its inheritors
or inhabiters, Scrooby Priory never changed nor altered its own
character. However incongruous or ill-assorted the portraits that looked
from its walls,--so ill met that they might have flown at one another's
throats in the long nights when the family were away,--the great
house itself was independent of them all. The be-wigged, be-laced, and
be-furbelowed of one day's gathering, the round-headed, steel-fronted,
and prim-kerchiefed congregation of another day, and even the
black-coated, bare-armed, and bare-shouldered assemblage of to-day had
no effect on the austerities of the Priory. Modern houses might show
the tastes and prepossessions of their dwellers, might have caught some
passing trick of the hour, or have recorded the augmented fortunes or
luxuriousness of the owner, but Scrooby Priory never! No one had dared
even to disturb its outer rigid integrity; the breaches of time and
siege were left untouched. It held its calm indifferent sway over all
who passed its low-arched portals, and the consul was fain to believe
that he--a foreign visitor--was no more alien to the house than its
present owner.

"I'm expecting a very charming compatriot of yours to-morrow," said Lord
Beverdale as they drove from the station together. "You must tell me
what to show her."

"I should think any countrywoman of mine would be quite satisfied with
the Priory," said the consul, glancing thoughtfully towards the pile
dimly seen through the park.

"I shouldn't like her to be bored here," continued Beverdale. "Algy met
her at Rome, where she was occupying a palace with her mother--they're
very rich, you know. He found she was staying with Lady Minever at

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