Although Dorriforth was the good man that he has been described, there
were in his nature shades of evil—there was an obstinacy which he
himself, and his friends termed firmness of mind; but had not religion
and some opposite virtues weighed heavily in the balance, it would
frequently have degenerated into implacable stubbornness.
The child of a sister once beloved, who married a young officer against
her brother’s consent, was at the age of three years left an orphan,
destitute of all support but from his uncle’s generosity: but though
Dorriforth maintained, he would never see him. Miss Milner, whose heart
was a receptacle for the unfortunate, no sooner was told the melancholy
history of Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, the parents of the child, than she
longed to behold the innocent inheritor of her guardian’s resentment,
and took Miss Woodley with her to see the boy. He was at a farm house a
few miles from town; and his extreme beauty and engaging manners,
wanted not the sorrows to which he had been born, to give him farther
recommendation to the kindness of her, who had come to visit him. She
looked at him with admiration and pity, and having endeared herself to
him by the most affectionate words and caresses, on her bidding him
farewell, he cried most pitiously to go along with her. Unused at any
time to resist temptations, whether to reprehensible, or to laudable
actions, she yielded to his supplications, and having overcome a few
scruples of Miss Woodley’s, determined to take young Rushbrook to town,
and present him to his uncle. This idea was no sooner formed than
executed. By making a present to the nurse, she readily gained her
consent to part with him for a day or two, and the signs of joy denoted
by the child on being put into the carriage, repaid her beforehand for
every reproof she might receive from her guardian, for the liberty she
had taken.
“Besides,” said she to Miss Woodley, who had still her fears, “do you
not wish his uncle should have a warmer interest in his care than
duty?—it is duty alone which induces Mr. Dorriforth to provide for him;
but it is proper that affection should have some share in his
benevolence—and how, hereafter, will he be so fit an object of the love
which compassion excites, as he is at present?”
Miss Woodley acquiesced. But before they arrived at their own door it
came into Miss Milner’s remembrance, that there was a grave sternness
in the manners of her guardian when provoked, the recollection of which
made her a little apprehensive for what she had done—her friend, who
knew him better than she did, was more so. They both became silent as
they approached the street where they lived—for Miss Woodley having
once represented her fears, and having suppressed them in resignation
to Miss Milner’s better judgment, would not repeat them—and Miss Milner
would not confess they were now troubling her.
Just, however, as the coach stopped at the door, she had the forecast
and the humility to say, “We will not tell Mr. Dorriforth the child is
his nephew, unless he should appear fond, and pleased with him, and
then I think we may venture without any danger.”
This was agreed; and when Dorriforth entered the room just before
dinner, poor Harry Rushbrook was introduced as the son of a lady who
frequently visited there. The deception passed—his uncle shook hands
with him, and at length highly pleased with his engaging manner, and
applicable replies, took him on his knee, and kissed him with
affection. Miss Milner could scarce restrain the joy it gave her; but
unluckily, Dorriforth said soon after to the child, “And now tell me
your name.”
“Harry Rushbrook,” replied he, with force and clearness of voice.
Dorriforth was holding him fondly round the waist as he stood with his
feet upon his knees; and at this reply he did not _throw_ him from
him—but he removed his hands, which had supported him, so suddenly,
that the child, to prevent falling on the floor, threw himself about
his uncle’s neck. Miss Milner and Miss Woodley turned aside to conceal
their tears. “I had like to have been down,” cried Harry, fearing no
other danger. But his uncle took hold of each hand which had twined
around him, and placed him immediately on the ground. The dinner being
that instant served, he gave no greater marks of his resentment than
calling for his hat, and walking instantly out of the house.
Miss Milner cried for anger; yet she did not shew less kindness to the
object of this vexatious circumstance: she held him in her arms while
she sat at table, and repeatedly said to him, (though he had not the
sense to thank her) “That she would always be his friend.”
The first emotions of resentment against Dorriforth being passed, she
returned with her little charge to the farm house, before it was likely
his uncle should come back; another instance of obedience, which Miss
Woodley was impatient her guardian should know; she therefore enquired
where he was, and sent him a note for the sole purpose of acquainting
him with it, offering at the same time an apology for what had
happened. He returned in the evening seemingly reconciled, nor was a
word mentioned of the incident which had occurred in the former part of
the day; yet in his countenance remained a perfect remembrance of it,
without one trait of compassion for his helpless nephew.