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The Heir Of The McHulishes
by
At this mention of his Christian name, the consul turned sharply on the speaker. A closer scrutiny of the face before him ended with a flash of reminiscence. The fog without and within seemed to melt away; he was standing once more on a Western hillside with this man; a hundred miles of sparkling sunshine and crisp, dry air stretching around him, and above a blue and arched sky that roofed the third of a continent with six months’ summer. And then the fog seemed to come back heavier and thicker to his consciousness. He emotionally stretched out his hand to the stranger. But it was the fog and his personal surroundings which now seemed to be unreal.
“Why it’s Harry Custer!” he said with a laugh that, however, ended in a sigh. “I didn’t recognize you in this half light.” He then glanced curiously toward the diffident young man, as if to identify another possible old acquaintance.
“Well, I spotted you from the first,” said Custer, “though I ain’t seen you since we were in Scott’s Camp together. That’s ten years ago. You’re lookin’ at HIM,” he continued, following the consul’s wandering eye. “Well, it’s about him that I came to see you. This yer’s a McHulish–a genuine McHulish!”
He paused, as if to give effect to this statement. But the name apparently offered no thrilling suggestion to the consul, who regarded the young man closely for further explanation. He was a fair-faced youth of about twenty years, with pale reddish-brown eyes, dark hair reddish at the roots, and a singular white and pink waxiness of oval cheek, which, however, narrowed suddenly at the angle of the jaw, and fell away with the retreating chin.
“Yes,” continued Custer; “I oughter say the ONLY McHulish. He is the direct heir–and of royal descent! He’s one of them McHulishes whose name in them old history times was enough to whoop up the boys and make ’em paint the town red. A regular campaign boomer–the old McHulish was. Stump speeches and brass-bands warn’t in it with the boys when HE was around. They’d go their bottom dollar and last cartridge–if they’d had cartridges in them days–on him. That was the regular McHulish gait. And Malcolm there’s the last of ’em–got the same style of features, too.”
Ludicrous as the situation was, it struck the consul dimly, as through fog and darkness, that the features of the young man were not unfamiliar, and indeed had looked out upon him dimly and vaguely at various times, from various historic canvases. It was the face of complacent fatuity, incompetency, and inconstancy, which had dragged down strength, competency, and constancy to its own idiotic fate and levels,–a face for whose weaknesses valor and beauty had not only sacrificed themselves, but made things equally unpleasant to a great many minor virtues. Nevertheless, the consul, with an amused sense of its ridiculous incongruity to the grim Scottish Sabbath procession in the street, and the fog-bound volumes of admiralty law in the room, smiled affably.
“Of course our young friend has no desire to test the magic of his name here, in these degenerate days.”
“No,” said Custer complacently; “though between you and me, old man, there’s always no tellin’ what might turn up over in this yer monarchy. Things of course are different over our way. But jest now Malcolm will be satisfied to take the title and property to which he’s rightful heir.”
The consul’s face fell. Alas! it was only the old, old story. Its endless repetitions and variations had been familiar to him even in his youth and in his own land. “Ef that man had his rights,” had once been pointed out to him in a wild Western camp, “he’d be now sittin’ in scarlet on the right of the Queen of England!” The gentleman who was indicated in this apocalyptical vision, it appeared, simply bore a singular likeness to a reigning Hanoverian family, which for some unexplained reason he had contented himself with bearing with fortitude and patience. But it was in his official capacity that the consul’s experience had been the most trying. At times it had seemed to him that much of the real property and peerage of Great Britain was the inherited right of penniless American republicans who had hitherto refrained from presenting their legal claims, and that the habitual first duty of generations of British noblemen on coming into their estates and titles was to ship their heirs and next of kin to America, and then forget all about them. He had listened patiently to claims to positions more or less exalted,–claims often presented with ingenuous sophistry or pathetic simplicity, prosecuted with great good humor, and abandoned with invincible cheerfulness; but they seldom culminated more seriously than in the disbursement of a few dollars by the consul to enable the rightful owner of millions to procure a steerage passage back to his previous democratic retirement. There had been others, less sincere but more pretentious in quality, to whom, however, a letter to the Heralds’ College in London was all sufficient, and who, on payment of various fees and emoluments, were enabled to stagger back to New York or Boston with certain unclaimed and forgotten luggage which a more gallant ancestor had scorned to bring with him into the new life, or had thrown aside in his undue haste to make them citizens of the republic. Still, all this had grown monotonous and wearisome, and was disappointing as coming through the intervention of an old friend who ought to know better.