GOLD BROUGHT TO THE PROOF.
THE story told by George, however gratifying to my feelings as a needle,
did not prevent me from dwelling a good deal on the troubles of his
parents, and wondering if any letter had arrived from Bristol. I seldom
saw Mr. Ellerslie in the drawing-room, where I was kept, till he
returned from business late in the afternoon. This day, when he entered
the apartment with his wife, he looked gloomy and anxious as ever.
“There is a late post; we may hear to-night,” the lady said. He muttered
something, I could not make out what.
Mr. Ellerslie was very irritable that evening; he could scarcely bear
the children near him at all. Eddy made a vain attempt to repeat to him
the fairy’s song, of which the rhyme had caught the child’s fancy. He
and his sister were soon sent up to the nursery; but George, as being
older and more quiet, was suffered to remain behind.
Mrs. Ellerslie, with forced cheerfulness, did all that she could to make
the heavy time pass pleasantly. She carefully avoided rousing her
husband’s temper, and when, without reason, his peevishness broke forth,
she bore it without a murmur or complaint, and kept down the tears which
struggled to rise. I saw plainly that iron is not the only thing liable
to a speck of rust, nor broken-pointed scissors the only articles formed
to cut and divide.
Mrs. Ellerslie took up a book, a very amusing volume it was, and read
till her voice grew hoarse and faint.
“May I read a little, mother?” said George; “it is good practice for me,
you know.”
She placed the book in his hand; but it soon became evident that George
was not accustomed to read aloud. He never varied his tone, missed the
short words and mispronounced the long, and certainly made a very poor
figure as a reader.
“How you drawl! it is a penance to hear you!” cried his father.
“Shall I take the book now?” said Mrs. Ellerslie faintly.
George was flushed. I could see that he felt his father’s taunt. I
believe that he would gladly have given up the reading; but his mother’s
feeble tone seemed to touch his heart, and still retaining his hold of
the volume, he said, “If you please, I would rather try a little longer;
I will try to read better, if you will let me.”
“There’s the post!” exclaimed Mrs. Ellerslie, with a start, as the
double rap was suddenly heard.
George saw that his mother was anxious: he sprang out of the room in a
moment.
Mr. Ellerslie rose, as if too impatient to be able to sit still; his
wife clasped her trembling hands; but neither of them uttered a word
till George returned with a letter.
“The Bristol post-mark!” muttered Mr. Ellerslie, as he broke the seal.
“George, my son,” said the lady, “go to the dining-room for a few
minutes. You can take the book with you, if you like.”
George instantly obeyed, without speaking; and Mrs. Ellerslie fixed her
blue eyes, with a look of intense anxiety, on the changing countenance
of her husband.
“There—read it,” he exclaimed, when he had finished perusing the letter;
“what do you say, Eliza, to that?” and he threw himself again on his
chair.
“He writes kindly of George,” said the mother, after looking over the
first page of the letter,—“‘_I was much pleased with what I saw of your
boy last year,—I don’t forget that he is my namesake._’” The poor
mother’s face brightened up.
“Read on,” said her husband abruptly.
“It does not seem that he declines to assist you,” said the lady, still
anxiously endeavouring to make out the crabbed handwriting before her;
“on the contrary,” he writes, ‘_I shall have a large sum at your
disposal, such as I think will remove every difficulty._’”
“There’s an _if_ to that. Read on a little farther.”
“Oh, Edward!” exclaimed the lady, almost dropping the letter, “can he
ask us to give up our boy—our dear son?”
“He offers to adopt him as his own.”
“My George! oh! no, no, no!—we can never, never consent to that!”
“Why, you see, Eliza,” said her husband, speaking rapidly, “if I have
not assistance now, all will be ruin—I shall have no means of supporting
my family. Perhaps this is the best thing for George himself—”
“I can hardly think it,” said the mother, with a look of intense pain.
“Hardcastle gives us to understand that the separation from our boy must
be ‘_complete—final_’—these are his very words—that ‘_George must not
look to two fathers or two homes_—’”
“Hardcastle dislikes me,” muttered Mr. Ellerslie to himself.
“And even if we could bear to part,” continued his wife, with something
like a stifled sob, “Hardcastle is not one to whom our boy could look up
with the affection—the reverence—” she stopped for a moment, as if to
swallow down her tears. “Hardcastle has temper, he is strange,
eccentric. Our George would be wretched with him. Oh no! it cannot be!”
she added with energy; “it would be like sacrificing—selling our child!”
“If we refuse Hardcastle’s offer,” said her husband, “we offend him for
ever; and you know the consequences, Eliza.”
She sat with her hand pressed over her eyes, while Mr. Ellerslie
continued to speak,
“He can afford George advantages, comforts, which it would not be in our
power to bestow. I am not certain whether, all selfish motives set
aside, the boy would not be happier at Bristol than here.”
“Let us consult George himself,” said the unhappy mother. “On a question
which concerns the welfare of his whole life, we at least should know
what are the poor child’s feelings.”
“I have no objection,” replied the father, walking to the door; “but you
must command yourself, Eliza. This is weak, foolish—not what I expected
from you. We must think calmly, and decide firmly, and not give way to
emotions which injure ourselves and can do good to none.—George!” he
called out, after opening the door, while his wife, after one look of
anguish, such as I never can forget, sat quiet and submissive on the
sofa, like one whose spirit is broken and crushed.
“Did you call me, father?” said George, as he entered with his light
step and cheerful glance.
“Yes; I wish to speak to you, my boy. You remember your visit to Bristol
last summer?”
“That I do!” replied the school-boy with a meaning smile; “I know that I
was precious glad when it was over!”
“You had nothing to complain of—Mr. Hardcastle was kind?”
“Well, kind after his fashion,” said George, with a little hesitation.
“I did not mean to say anything against him. But what with the smoke and
the dirt, and the noise of the great manufactory close by, and the ways
of the house—not one bit like ours—I know that I felt like a bird in a
cage, and was heartily glad when I was set free!”
“I knew it!” murmured the mother; but I believe that no one overheard
her but myself.
Mr. Ellerslie knitted his brow. “Hardcastle wishes you to go to him,” he
said.
“Not another visit, I hope?” exclaimed George with animation; “you do
not know how much I should hate it.”
“Not for a visit—he would have you for good and all.”
“But he won’t get me!” cried the school-boy with playful confidence. “I
would not change my own dear home for that smoky prison, no, not for all
England—and Ireland to boot!”
“He shall not go!—oh, Edward, he cannot go!” exclaimed the mother,
rising and throwing her arms round her son, and pressing him
convulsively to her heart. “I would sooner starve than send him away!”
George was startled and alarmed at the sight of her agitation, and
looked anxiously at his father for an explanation of an emotion which he
could not understand.
“It is as well that he should know all,” said Mr. Ellerslie; “let the
boy decide for himself.—George, driven by circumstances which I need not
explain, I have asked a favour of Mr. Hardcastle, on which the comfort,
the independence, I may say the very living, of this family depend. This
is his answer; read it.” He pushed the letter across the table to
George.
All the healthy glow in the boy’s cheek faded away as he slowly made out
the closely-written scrawl. His father folded his arms, and fixed his
gaze sternly on the carpet; but his mother watched him with glistening
eyes. George stopped more than once as he read, as if to make sure that
he rightly understood, and repeated the words “_final and complete
separation_” as he might have done a sentence of death. When he had
finished he laid down the letter, and turning towards the sofa, said, in
a low, agitated tone, “Mother, what would you wish me to do?”
She buried her face in her hands.
“Do not further distress your mother,” said Mr. Ellerslie, rising with
emotion. “I leave the question in your own hands, George; I will never
dispose of you without your own consent:” and as he spoke I thought that
the hand which he laid on the shoulder of his first-born trembled.
George had evident difficulty in speaking. He could scarcely command his
voice. I expected him to break down every moment; but he manfully
struggled with his feelings.
“I should like one night, dear father, to think over it, before I make
up my mind. Mr. Hardcastle says in his postscript”—he took up the letter
and read—“‘_As business takes me to London, I shall arrive almost as
soon as my letter, and will see you on Saturday morning_;’ so,
doubtless, he will be here to-morrow. May I wait till the morning before
I give you my answer?”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Ellerslie, with a heavy sigh. “You had better
retire to rest now; it is late. I shall wait at home to-morrow to see
Hardcastle when he calls. You will tell me your wishes in the morning.
George, my dear boy, good-night.”
He pressed his son for a moment closely to his breast, and then himself
rapidly quitted the room. George sprang to the side of his mother.
“Mother—darling mother!” his arms were around her, his head buried on
her bosom.
“Oh, George, my heart will break—will break! I cannot part with you!—I
can never consent!”
“We will think, we will reflect over it, mother.”
“And pray—oh, my child! we will pray!”
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