FATHER AND SON.
For though thou work'st my mother ill
I feel thou art my father still!
--_Byron._
Yet what no chance could then reveal,
And no one would be first to own,
Let fate and courage still conceal,
When truth could bring reproach alone.
--_Milnes._
Ishmael had been violently shaken. It was with much effort that he
controlled his own emotions in order to administer consolation to
one who was suffering even more than he himself was, because that
suffering was blended with a morbid remorse.
"Father," he said, reaching forth his hand to the stricken man; but
his voice failed him.
Herman Brudenell looked up; an expression of earnest love chasing
away the sorrow from his face, as he said:
"Father? Ah, what a dear name! You call me thus, Ishmael? Me, who
worked your mother so much woe?"
"Father, it was your great misfortune, not your fault; she said it
on her death-bed, and the words of the dying are sacred," said
Ishmael earnestly, and caressing the pale, thin hand that he held.
"Oh, Nora! Oh, Nora!" exclaimed Herman, as all his bosom's wounds
bled afresh.
"Father, do not grieve so bitterly; and after all these years so
morbidly! God has wiped away all tears from her eyes. She has been a
saint in glory these many years!"
"You try to comfort me, Ishmael. You, Nora's son?" exclaimed Herman,
with increased emotion.
"Who else of all the world should comfort you but Nora's son?"
"You love me, then, a little, Ishmael?"
"She loved you, my father, and why should not I?"
"Ah, that means that you will love me in time; for love is not born
in an instant, my son."
"My heart reaches out to you, my father: I love you even now, and
sympathize with you deeply; and I feel that I shall love you more
and more, and as I shall see you oftener and know you better," said
the simply truthful son.
"Ishmael! this is the happiest hour I have known since Nora's death,
and Nora's son has given it to me."
"None have a better right to serve you."
"My son, I am a prematurely old and broken man, ruined and
impoverished, but Brudenell Hall is still mine, and the name of
Brudenell is one of the most ancient and honored in the Old and New
World! If you consent, Ishmael, I will gladly, proudly, and openly
acknowledge you as my son. I will get an act of the Legislature
passed authorizing you to take the name and arms of Brudenell. And I
will make you the heir of Brudenell Hall. What say you, Ishmael?"
"Father," said the young man, promptly but respectfully, "no! In all
things I will be to you a true and loving son; but I cannot, cannot
consent to your proposal; because to do so would be to cast bitter,
heavy, unmerited reproach upon my sweet mother's memory! For,
listen, sir: you are known to have been the husband of the Countess
Hurstmonceux for more years than I have lived in this world; you are
known to have been so at the very time of my birth; you could not go
about explaining the circumstances to everyone who would become
acquainted with the facts, and the consequences would be what I
said! No, father, leave me as I am; for, besides the reasons I have
given, there is yet another reason why I may not take your name."
"What is that, Ishmael?" asked Brudenell, in a broken voice.
"It is, that in an hour of passionate grief, after hearing my
mother's woeful story from the lips of my aunt, I fell upon that
mother's grave and vowed to make her name--the only thing she had to
leave me, poor mother!--illustrious. It was a piece of boyish
vainglory, no doubt, but it was a vow, and I must try to keep it,"
said Ishmael, faintly smiling.
"You will keep it; you will make the name of Worth illustrious in
the annals of the country, Ishmael," said Mr. Brudenell.
There was a pause for a little while, at the end of which the latter
said:
"There is another way in which I may be able to accomplish my
purpose, Ishmael. Without proclaiming you as my son, and risking the
reproach you dread for your dear mother's memory, I might adopt you
as my son, and appoint you as my heir. Will you make me happy by
consenting to that measure, Ishmael?" inquired the father, in a
persuasive tone.
"Dear sir, I cannot. Oh, do not think that I am insensible to all
your kindness, for indeed I am not! I thank you; I love you; and I
deeply sympathize with you in your disappointment; but--"
"But what, my son? what is the reason you cannot agree to this last
proposal?" asked Mr. Brudenell, in a voice quivering with emotion.
"A strong spirit of independence, the growth of years of lonely
struggle with the world, possesses and inspires me. I could not for
an hour endure patronage or dependence, come they from where or how
they might. It is the law of my life," said Ishmael firmly, but
affectionately.
"It is a noble law, and yours has been a noble life, my son. But--is
there nothing, nothing I can do for you to prove my affection, and
to ease my heart, Ishmael?"
"Yes!" said the young man, after a pause. "When you return to
England, you will see--Lady Vincent!" The name was uttered with a
gasp. "Tell her what you have told me--the history of your
acquaintance with my mother; your mutual love; your private
marriage, and the unforeseen misfortune that wrecked your happiness!
Tell her how pure and noble and lovely my young mother was! that her
ladyship may know once for all Nora Worth was not"--Ishmael covered
his face with his hands, and caught his breath, and continued--"not,
as she said, 'the shame of her own sex and the scorn of ours'; that
her son is not 'the child of sin,' nor 'his heritage dishonor!'" And
Ishmael dropped his stately head upon his desk, and sobbed aloud;
sobbed until all his athletic form shook with the storm of his great
agony.
Herman Brudenell gazed at him--appalled. Then, rising, he laid his
hand on the young man's shoulder, saying:
"Ishmael! Ishmael! don't do so! Calm yourself, my son; oh, my dear
son, calm yourself!"
He might as well have spoken to a tempest. Sobs still shook
Ishmael's whole frame.
"Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! Would to the Lord I had never been born!"
cried Herman Brudenell, in a voice of such utter woe that Ishmael
raised his head and struggled hard to subdue the storm of passion
that was raging in his bosom. "Or would that I had died the day I
met Nora, and before I had entailed all this anguish on you!"
continued Herman Brudenell, amid groans and sighs.
"Don't say so, my father! don't say so! You were not in fault. You
were as blameless as she herself was; and you could not have been
more so," said Ishmael, wiping his fevered brow, and looking up.
"My generous son! But did Claudia--did Lady Vincent use the cruel
words you have quoted, against your mother and yourself?"
"She did, my father. Oh, but I have suffered!" exclaimed Ishmael,
with shaking voice and quivering features.
"I know you have; I know it, Ishmael; but you have grandly,
gloriously conquered suffering," said Mr. Brudenell, with
enthusiasm.
"Not quite conquered it yet; but I shall endeavor to do so," replied
the young man, who had now quite regained his self-possession.
And another pause fell between them.
Ishmael leaned his head upon his hand and reflected deeply for a few
moments. Then, raising his head, he said:
"My father, for her sake, our relationship must remain a secret from
all the world, with the few exceptions of those intimate friends to
whom you can explain the circumstances, and even to them it must be
imparted in confidence. You will tell Lady Vincent, that her
ladyship may know how false were the calumnies she permitted herself
to repeat; and Judge Merlin and Mr. Middleton, whose kindness has
entitled them to the confidence, for their own satisfaction."
"And no one else, Ishmael?"
"No one else in the world, my father. I myself will tell Uncle
Reuben. And in public, my father, we must be discreet in our
intercourse with each other. Forgive me if I speak in too
dictatorial a manner; I speak for lips that are dumb in death. I
speak as my dead mother's advocate," said Ishmael, with a strange
blending of meekness and firmness in his tone and manner.
"And her advocate shall be heard and heeded, hard as his mandate
seems. But, ah! I am an old and broken man, Ishmael. I had hoped, in
time, to claim you as my son, and solace my age in your bright
youth. I am grievously disappointed. Oh! would to Heaven I had taken
charge of you in your infancy, and then you would not disclaim me
now!" sighed Mr. Brudenell.
"I do not disclaim you, father. I only deprecate the publicity that
might wound my mother's memory. And you are not old and broken, my
father. How can you be--at forty-three? You are in the sunny summer
noon of your life. But you are harassed and ill in mind and body;
and you are very morbid and sensitive. You shun society, form no new
ties with your fellow-creatures, and brood over that old sad tragedy
long passed. Think no more of it, father; its wounds are long since
healed in every heart but yours; my mother has been in heaven these
many years; as long as I have been on earth; my birthday here was
her birthday there! Therefore, brood no more over that sad time; it
is forever past and gone. Think of your young love as much as you
please; but think of her in heaven. It is not well to think forever
of the Crucifixion and never of the Ascension; forever of the
martyrdom that was but for a moment, and never of the glory that is
from everlasting to everlasting. Nora was martyred; her martyrdom
was as the grief of a moment; but she has ascended and her happiness
is eternal in the heavens. Think of her so. And rouse yourself. Wake
to the duties and pleasures of life. Look around upon and enjoy the
beauty of the earth, the wisdom of man, the loveliness of woman, and
the goodness of God. If you were a single man I should say 'marry
again'; but as you are already a married man, though estranged from
your wife, I say to you, seek a reconciliation with that lady. You
are both in the prime of life."
"What! does Nora's son give me such advice?" inquired Brudenell,
with a faint, incredulous smile.
"Yes, he does; as Nora herself in her wisdom and love would do,
could she speak to you from heaven," said Ishmael solemnly Brudenell
slowly and sorrowfully shook his head.
"The Countess of Hurstmonceux can nevermore be anything to me," he
said.
"My father! have you then no kindly memory of the sweet young lady
who placed her innocent affections upon you in your early manhood,
and turning away from all her wealthy and titled suitors, gave
herself and her fortune to you?"
Slowly and bitterly Herman Brudenell shook his head. Ishmael, still
looking earnestly in his face continued:
"Who left her native country and her troops of friends, and crossed
the sea alone, to follow you to a home that must have seemed like a
wilderness, and servants that were like savages to her; who devoted
her time and spent her money in embellishing your house and
improving your land, and in civilizing and Christianizing your
negroes; and who passed the flower of her youth in that obscure
neighborhood, doing good and waiting patiently long, weary years for
the return of the man she loved."
Still the bitter, bitter gesture of negation from Herman.
"Father," said Ishmael, fixing his beautiful eyes on Brudenell's
face and speaking earnestly, "it seems to me that if any young lady
had loved me with such devotion and constancy, I must have loved her
fondly in return. I could not have helped doing so!"
"She wronged me, Ishmael!"
"And even if she had offended me--deeply and justly offended me--I
must have forgiven her and taken her back to my bosom again."
"It was worse than that, Ishmael! It was no common offense. She
deceived me! She was false to me!"
"I cannot believe it!" exclaimed Ishmael earnestly.
"Why, what ground have you for saying so? What can you know of it?"
"Because I do not easily think evil of women. My life has been short
and my experience limited, I know; but as far as my observation
instructs me, they are very much better than we are; they do not
readily yield to evil; their tendencies are all good," said Ishmael
fervently.
"Young man, you know a great deal of books, a great deal of law; but
little of men, and less of women. A man of the world would smile to
hear you say what you have just said, Ishmael."
"If I am mistaken, it is a matter to weep over, not to smile at!"
said Ishmael gravely, and almost severely.
"It is true."
"But to return to your countess, my father. I am not mistaken in
that lady's face, I know. I have not seen it since I was eight years
old; but it is before me now! a sweet, sad, patient young face, full
of holy love. Among the earliest memories of my life is that of the
young Countess of Hurstmonceux, and the stories that were afloat
concerning herself and you. It was said that every day at sunset she
would go to the turnstile at the crossroads on the edge of the
estate, where she could see all up and down two roads for many
miles, and there stand watching to catch the first glimpse of you,
if perhaps you might be returning home. She did this for years and
years, until people began to say that she was crazed with hope
deferred. It was at that very stile I first saw her. And when I
looked at her lovely face and thought of her many charities--for
there was no suffering from poverty in that neighborhood while she
lived there--I felt that she was an angel!"
"Aye! a fallen angel, Ishmael!"
"No, father! no! my life and soul on her truth and love! Children
are good judges of character, you know! And I was but eight years
old on the occasion of which I speak! I was carrying a basket of
tools for the 'professor,' whose assistant I was; and who would have
carried them himself only that his back was bent beneath a load of
kitchen utensils, for we had been plastering a cistern all day and
in coming home took these things to mend in the evening. And as we
passed down the road we saw this lovely lady leaning on the stile.
And she called me to her and laid her hand on my head and looked in
my face very tenderly, and turning to the professor, said: 'This
child is too young for so heavy a burden.' And she took out her
purse and would have given me an eagle, only that Aunt Hannah had
taught me never to take money that I had not earned."
"Grim Hannah! It is a marvel she had not starved you with her
scruples, Ishmael! But what else passed between you and the
countess?"
"Not much! but if she was sorry for me, I was quite as sorry for
her."
"There was a bond of sympathy between you which you felt without
understanding at the time!"
"There was; though I mistook its precise character. Seeing that she
wore black, I said: 'Have you also lost your mother, my lady, and
are you in deep mourning for her?' And she answered, 'I am in deep
mourning for my dead happiness, child!'"
"For her dead honor, she might have said!"
"Father! the absent are like the dead; they cannot defend
themselves," said Ishmael.
"That is true; and I stand rebuked! And henceforth, whatever I may
think, I will never speak evil of the Countess of Hurstmonceux."
"Go farther yet, dear sir! seek an explanation with her, and my word
on it she will be able to confute the calumnies, or clear up the
suspicious circumstances or whatever it may have been that has
shaken your confidence in her, and kept you apart so long."
"Ishmael it is a subject that I have never broached to the countess,
and one that I could not endure to discuss with her!"
"What, my father? Would you forever condemn her unheard? We do not
treat our worst criminals so!"
"Spare me, my son! for I have spared her!"
"If by sparing her you mean that you have left her alone, you had
better not spared her; you had better sought divorce; then one of
two things would have happened--either she would have disproved the
charges brought against her, or she would have been set free! either
alternative much better than her present condition."
"I could not drag my domestic troubles into a public courtroom,
Ishmael!"
"Not when justice required it, father?--But you are going down into
the neighborhood of Brudenell Hall! You will hear of her from the
people among whom she lived for so many years, and who cherish her
memory as that of an angel of mercy, and--you will change your
opinion of her."
Herman Brudenell smiled incredulously, and then said:
"Apropos of my visit to Brudenell Hall! I hope, Ishmael, that you
will be able to join me there in the course of the summer?"
"Father, yes! I promise you to do so. I will be at pains to put my
business in such train as will enable me to visit you for a week or
two."
"Thanks, Ishmael! And now, do you know I think the first dinner bell
rang some time ago and it is time to dress?"
And Herman Brudenell arose, and after pressing Ishmael's hand, left
the library.
The interview furnished Ishmael with too much food for thought to
admit of his moving for some time. He sat by the table in a brown
study, reflecting upon all that he had heard, until he was suddenly
startled by the pealing out of the second bell. Then he sprang up,
hurried to his chamber, hastily arranged his toilet, and went down
into the dining room, where he found all the family already
assembled and waiting for him.