The Desborough Connections Page #2

"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

								

Hedham Towers, and I went over and invited her with a little party.
She's a Miss Desborough."

The consul gave a slight start, and was aware that Beverdale was looking
at him.

"Perhaps you know her?" said Beverdale.

"Just enough to agree with you that she is charming," said the consul.
"I dined with them, and saw them at the consulate."

"Oh yes; I always forget you are a consul. Then, of course, you know
all about them. I suppose they're very rich, and in society over there?"
said Beverdale in a voice that was quite animated.

It was on the consul's lips to say that the late Mr. Desborough was an
Englishman, and even to speak playfully of their proposed quest, but a
sudden instinct withheld him. After all, perhaps it was only a caprice,
or idea, they had forgotten,--perhaps, who knows?--that they were
already ashamed of. They had evidently "got on" in English society, if
that was their real intent, and doubtless Miss Desborough, by this time,
was quite as content with the chance of becoming related to the Earl of
Beverdale, through his son and heir, Algernon, as if they had found a
real Lord Desborough among their own relatives. The consul knew that
Lord Beverdale was not a rich man, that like most men of old family he
was not a slave to class prejudice; indeed, the consul had seen very few
noblemen off the stage or out of the pages of a novel who were. So he
said, with a slight affectation of authority, that there was as
little doubt of the young lady's wealth as there was of her personal
attractions.

They were nearing the house through a long avenue of chestnuts whose
variegated leaves were already beginning to strew the ground beneath,
and they could see the vista open upon the mullioned windows of the
Priory, lighted up by the yellow October sunshine. In that sunshine
stood a tall, clean-limbed young fellow, dressed in a shooting-suit,
whom the consul recognized at once as Lord Algernon, the son of his
companion. As if to accent the graces of this vision of youth and vigor,
near him, in the shadow, an old man had halted, hat in hand, still
holding the rake with which he had been gathering the dead leaves in the
avenue; his back bent, partly with years, partly with the obeisance of
a servitor. There was something so marked in this contrast, in this
old man standing in the shadow of the fading year, himself as dried and
withered as the leaves he was raking, yet pausing to make his reverence
to this passing sunshine of youth and prosperity in the presence of his
coming master, that the consul, as they swept by, looked after him with
a stirring of pain.

"Rather an old man to be still at work," said the consul.

Beverdale laughed. "You must not let him hear you say so; he considers
himself quite as fit as any younger man in the place, and, by Jove!
though he's nearly eighty, I'm inclined to believe it. He's not one of
our people, however; he comes from the village, and is taken on at odd
times, partly to please himself. His great aim is to be independent of
his children,--he has a granddaughter who is one of the maids at the
Priory,--and to keep himself out of the workhouse. He does not come from
these parts--somewhere farther north, I fancy. But he's a tough lot, and
has a deal of work in him yet."

"Seems to be going a bit stale lately," said Lord Algernon, "and I think
is getting a little queer in his head. He has a trick of stopping and
staring straight ahead, at times, when he seems to go off for a minute
or two. There!" continued the young man, with a light laugh. "I say!
he's doing it now!" They both turned quickly and gazed at the bent
figure--not fifty yards away--standing in exactly the same attitude as
before. But, even as they gazed, he slowly lifted his rake and began his
monotonous work again.

At Scrooby Priory, the consul found that the fame of his fair
countrywoman had indeed preceded her, and that the other guests were
quite as anxious to see Miss Desborough as he was. One of them had
already met her in London; another knew her as one of the house party at
the Duke of Northforeland's, where she had been a central figure. Some
of her naive sallies and frank criticisms were repeated with great
unction by the gentlemen, and with some slight trepidation and a
"fearful joy" by the ladies. He was more than ever convinced that mother
and daughter had forgotten their lineal Desboroughs, and he resolved to
leave any allusion to it to the young lady herself.

She, however, availed herself of that privilege the evening after her
arrival. "Who'd have thought of meeting YOU here?" she said, sweeping
her skirts away to make room for him on a sofa. "It's a coon's age
since I saw you--not since you gave us that letter to those genealogical
gentlemen in London."

The consul hoped that it had proved successful.

"Yes, but maw guessed we didn't care to go back to Hengist and Horsa,
and when they let loose a lot of 'Debboroughs' and 'Daybrooks' upon us,
maw kicked! We've got a drawing ten yards long, that looks like a sour
apple tree, with lots of Desboroughs hanging up on the branches like
last year's pippins, and I guess about as worm-eaten. We took that well
enough, but when it came to giving us a map of straight lines and dashes
with names written under them like an old Morse telegraph slip, struck
by lightning, then maw and I guessed that it made us tired.

"You know," she went on, opening her clear gray eyes on the consul, with
a characteristic flash of shrewd good sense through her quaint humor,
"we never reckoned where this thing would land us, and we found we
were paying a hundred pounds, not only for the Desboroughs, but all the
people they'd MARRIED, and their CHILDREN, and children's children, and
there were a lot of outsiders we'd never heard of, nor wanted to hear
of. Maw once thought she'd got on the trail of a Plantagenet, and
followed it keen, until she found she had been reading the dreadful
thing upside down. Then we concluded we wouldn't take any more stock in
the family until it had risen."

During this speech the consul could not help noticing that, although her
attitude was playfully confidential to him, her voice really was pitched
high enough to reach the ears of smaller groups around her, who were not
only following her with the intensest admiration, but had shamelessly
abandoned their own conversation, and had even faced towards her. Was
she really posing in her naivete? There was a certain mischievous,
even aggressive, consciousness in her pretty eyelids. Then she suddenly
dropped both eyes and voice, and said to the consul in a genuine aside,
"I like this sort of thing much better."

The consul looked puzzled. "What sort of thing?"

"Why, all these swell people, don't you see? those pictures on the
walls! this elegant room! everything that has come down from the past,
all ready and settled for you, you know--ages ago! Something you haven't

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes