CONTAINING SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF COLONEL AND MRS. BRANDON, AND OF THE
EDUCATION OF THEIR SON REGINALD.
While the scene described in the last chapter was passing in the
lawyer’s study, stormy and severe was the struggle going on in the
breast of the listening father; more than once he had been on the
point of rushing into the room to fold his child in his arms; but that
obstinate pride, which causes in life so many bitter hours of regret,
prevented him, and checked the natural impulse of affection: still, as
she turned with her husband to leave the room, he unconsciously opened
the door on the lock of which his hand rested, as he endeavoured to
get one last look at a face which he had so long loved and caressed.
The door being thus partially opened, a very diminutive and favourite
spaniel, that accompanied him wherever he went, escaped through the
aperture, and, recognising Lucy, barked and jumped upon her in an
ecstasy of delight.
“Heavens!” cried she, “it is—it must be Fan!” At another time she
would have fondly caressed it, but one only thought now occupied her:
trembling on her husband’s arm, she whispered, “George, papa _must_ be
here.” At that moment her eye caught the partially opened door, which
the agitated squire still held, and breaking from her husband, she flew
as if by instinct into the adjacent room, and fell at her father’s feet.
Poor Mr. Perkins was now grievously disconcerted; and calling out,
“This way, madam, this way; that is not the right door,” was about to
follow, when George Brandon, laying his hand upon the lawyer’s arm,
said, impressively,
“Stay, sir; that room is sacred!” and led him back to his chair. His
quick mind had seized in a moment the correctness of Lucy’s conjecture,
and his good feeling taught him that no third person, not even he,
should intrude upon the father and the child.
The old squire could not make a long resistance when the gush of
his once loved Lucy’s tears trickled upon his hand, and while her
half–choked voice sobbed for his pardon and his blessing; it was in
vain that he summoned all his pride, all his strength, all his anger;
Nature would assert her rights; and in another minute his child’s head
was on his bosom, and he whispered over her, “I forgive you, Lucy: may
God bless you, as I do!”
For some time after this was the interview prolonged, and Lucy seemed
to be pleading for some boon which she could not obtain; nevertheless,
her tears, her old familiar childish caresses, had regained something
of their former dominion over the choleric but warm–hearted squire;
and in a voice of joy that thrilled even through the quiet man of
law, she cried, “George! George, come in!” He leaped from his seat,
and in a moment was at the feet of her father. There, as he knelt by
Lucy’s side, the old squire put one hand upon the head of each, saying,
“My children, all that you have ever done to offend me is forgotten:
continue to love and to cherish each other, and may God prosper you
with every blessing!” George Brandon’s heart was full: he could not
speak; but straining his wife affectionately to his bosom, and kissing
her father’s hand, he withdrew into a corner of the room, and for some
minutes remained oppressed by emotions too strong to find relief in
expressions.
We need not detail at length the consequences of this happy and
unexpected reconciliation. The check was re–written, was doubled,
and was accepted. George still persevered in his wish to accompany
his friend to Virginia; where, Ethelston assured him, that with his
20,000_l._ prudently managed, he might easily acquire a sufficient
fortune for himself and his family.
How mighty is the power of circumstance; and upon what small pivots
does Providence sometimes allow the wheels of human fortune to be
turned! Here, in the instance just related, the blessing or unappeased
wrath of a father, the joy or despair of a daughter, the peace or
discord of a family, all, all were dependent upon the bark and caress
of a spaniel! For that stern old man had made his determination, and
would have adhered to it, if Lucy had not thus been made aware of his
presence, and, by her grief aiding the voice of nature, overthrown all
the defences of his pride.
It happened that the young squire was at this time in Paris, his
father having sent him thither to see the world and learn to fence.
A letter was, however, written by Lucy, announcing to him the happy
reconciliation, and entreating him to participate in their common
happiness.
The arrangements for the voyage were soon completed; the cabin of a
large vessel being engaged to convey the whole party to Norfolk in
Virginia. The old squire offered no opposition, considering that George
Brandon was too old to begin a profession in England, and that he might
employ his time and abilities advantageously in the New World.
We may pass over many of the ensuing years, the events of which have
little influence on our narrative, merely informing the reader that the
investment of Brandon’s money, made by the advice of Ethelston, was
prosperous in the extreme. In the course of a year or two, Mrs. Brandon
presented her lord with a little girl, who was named after herself.
In the following year, Mrs. Ethelston had also a daughter: the third
confinement was not so fortunate, and she died in childbed, leaving, to
Ethelston, Edward, then about nine, and little Evelyn a twelvemonth old.
It was on this sad occasion that he persuaded his sister to come out
from England to reside with him, and take care of his motherless
children: a task that she undertook and fulfilled with the love and
devotion of the most affectionate mother.
In course of time the war broke out which ended in the independence
of the colonies. During its commencement, Brandon and Ethelston both
remained firm to the crown; but as it advanced, they became gradually
convinced of the impolicy and injustice of the claims urged by England.
Brandon having sought an interview with Washington, the arguments, and
the character, of that great man decided him: he joined the Independent
party, obtained a command, and distinguished himself so much as to
obtain the esteem and regard of his commander. As soon as peace was
established, he had, for reasons before stated, determined to change
his residence, and persuaded Ethelston to accompany him with his family.
After the dreadful domestic calamity mentioned in the first chapter,
and the untimely death of Ethelston, Colonel Brandon sent Edward, the
son of his deceased friend, to a distant relative in Hamburgh, desiring
that every care might be given to give him a complete mercantile and
liberal education, including two years’ study at a German university.
Meanwhile the old Squire Shirley was dead; but his son and successor
had written, after his own strange fashion, a letter to his sister,
begging her to send over her boy to England, and he would “make a man
of him.” After duly weighing this proposal, Colonel and Mrs. Brandon
determined to avail themselves of it; and Reginald was accordingly sent
over to his uncle, who had promised to enter him immediately at Oxford.
When Reginald arrived, Marmaduke Shirley turned him round half a dozen
times, felt his arms, punched his ribs, looked at his ruddy cheeks and
brown hair, that had never known a barber, and exclaimed to a brother
sportsman who was standing by, “D—n if he ain’t one of the right sort!
eh, Harry?” But if the uncle was pleased with the lad’s appearance,
much more delighted was he with his accomplishments: for he could _walk
down_ any keeper on the estate, he sat on a horse like a young centaur,
and his accuracy with a rifle perfectly confounded the squire. “If this
isn’t a chip of the old block, my name isn’t Marmaduke Shirley,” said
he; and for a moment a shade crossed his usually careless brow, as he
remembered that he had wooed, and married, and been left a childless
widower.
But although, at Shirley Hall, Reginald followed the sports of the
field with the ardour natural to his age and character, he rather
annoyed the squire by his obstinate and persevering attention to his
studies at college: he remembered that walking and shooting were
accomplishments which he might have acquired and perfected in the woods
of Virginia; but he felt it due to his parents, and to the confidence
which they had reposed in his discretion, to carry back with him some
more useful knowledge and learning.
With this dutiful motive, he commenced his studies; and as he advanced
in them, his naturally quick intellect seized on and appreciated the
beauties presented to it. Authors, in whose writings he had imagined
and expected little else but difficulties, soon became easy and
familiar; and what he had imposed upon himself from a high principle as
a task, proved, ere long, a source of abundant pleasure.
In the vacations he visited his good–humoured uncle, who never failed
to rally him as a “Latin–monger” and a book–worm: but Reginald bore
the jokes with temper not less merry than his uncle’s; and whenever,
after a hard run, he had “pounded” the squire or the huntsman, he
never failed to retaliate by answering the compliments paid him on his
riding with some such jest as, “Pretty well for a book–worm, uncle.”
It soon became evident to all the tenants, servants, and indeed to the
whole neighbourhood, that Reginald exercised a despotic influence over
the squire, who respected internally those literary attainments in his
nephew which he affected to ridicule.
When Reginald had taken his degree, which he did with high honour and
credit, he felt an ardent desire to visit his friend and school–fellow,
Edward Ethelston, in Germany: he was also anxious to see something
of the Continent, and to study the foreign languages. This wish he
expressed without circumlocution to the squire, who received the
communication with undisguised disapprobation: “What the devil can the
boy want to go abroad for? not satisfied with wasting two or three
years poking over Greek, Latin, mathematics, and other infernal ‘atics’
and ‘ologies,’ now you must go across the Channel to eat sour–krout,
soup–maigre, and frogs! I won’t hear of it, sir;” and in order to keep
his wrath warm, the squire poked the fire violently.
In spite of this determination, Reginald, as usual, carried his point,
and in a few weeks was on board a packet bound for Hamburgh, his purse
being well filled by the squire, who told him to see all that could be
seen, and “not to let any of those Mounseers top him at any thing.”
Reginald was also provided with letters of credit to a much larger
amount than he required; but the first hint which he gave of a wish to
decline a portion of the squire’s generosity raised such a storm, that
our hero was fain to submit.