Still dallying with the note, he looked again at the youth, and as he looked, his confidence in him revived.  No boy of such a noble countenance could possibly be an impostor.  He might have satisfied himself at once, by opening the note and reading the signature; but from some occult reason that even he could not have given, he held it in his hands for a few moments longer, as if it contained some oracle he dreaded to discover.  At length he broke the seal and looked at the signature.  It was a faint maze of scratches, so difficult to decipher that he gave it up in despair, and turning to the boy, said: 

“Your name is Scott, young sir?”

“Yes, your grace—­a very common name,” modestly replied the youth.

“It is ours also” added the duke with a smile.

“I beg your grace’s pardon,” said the boy, with some embarrassment.

“No offence, young sir.  Your mother’s name was also Scott, I presume?”

“Yes, your grace; my mother never re-married.”

“Ah,” said the duke, and he turned the letter for the first page, and commenced its perusal.

And then—­

Reader!  If the Duke of Hereward’s hair had not already been white with age, it must have turned as white as snow with amazement and horror as he read the astounding disclosures of that dying woman’s letter!

CHAPTER XLI.

FATHER AND SON.

The first part of the letter was written in a much clearer chirography than the latter, where it grew fainter and more irregular as it proceeded, until at last, in the signature, it was so nearly illegible as to baffle the ingenuity of the reader to decipher it; as if, in the course of her task, the strength of the dying writer had grown weaker and weaker, until at the end the pen must have fallen from her failing hand.

The Duke of Hereward, who could not make out the name at the bottom of the letter, at once recognized the handwriting at the top, and knew that his correspondent from the dead was his lost wife, Valerie de la Motte.

He grew cold with the chill of an anticipated horror; but with that supreme power of self-control which was as much a matter of constitution as of education with him, he suppressed all signs of emotion, and courteously apologized to his visitor, saying: 

“Excuse me, young sir; my eyes are not so good as they were some twenty years ago, and I must turn to the light,” and he deliberately wheeled his chair around so as to bring his face entirely out of range of his visitor’s sharp vision, while he should read the fatal letter, which was as follows: 

“SAN VITO, ITALY, MARCH 1st, 18—­

“DUKE OF HEREWARD:  This paper will be handed you by
Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, my son and yours.

“This news will startle you, if you have not already been sufficiently startled by the living likeness of the boy to yourself, and by the electric chain of memory which will bring before you the weeks immediately preceding our separation, when you yourself had suspicions of my condition, and hopes of becoming a father.  Those fond hopes were destined to be fulfilled by me, but doomed to be ruined by you.