since, a handsome, substantial-looking mansion, bearing all the marks of
plenty and comfort; while the neat and elegant arrangement of the
grounds around bore evidence to the refined and chaste taste of its
proprietor, Gavin Douglas. He was a gentleman by birth, and, "if merit
gave titles, he might be a lord," for a more kind-hearted, amiable
Christian never existed. He had succeeded to his father's property
nearly thirty years before the time of which we write, and had
constantly resided upon it ever since, growing daily in the love and
respect of all who knew him. His appearance and address were
particularly prepossessing: he was tall and upright in his person; his
manners were bland and gentleman-like; and his fine expanded forehead
and mild expressive eye told of a warm and benevolent heart. He was a
widower; and his family were at a distance--the sons in the pursuit of
their respective professions, and the daughters all happily and
comfortably married, with the exception of the eldest, who resided under
his roof with her three fatherless children. His eldest son, Edward, had
been for some years settled in a mercantile house in Calcutta, where he
had lately married, and had been admitted as one of the partners of the
firm. Gavin Douglas well supplied the place of a father to his little
grandchildren; his whole aim seemed to be, to study _their_ happiness,
and to soothe the sorrow of their bereaved parent.
One summer evening, the family party at Eskhall were seated in their
comfortable drawing-room, engaged in that cheerful, affectionate
conversation which forms the peculiar charm of a well-educated,
well-regulated family circle. The day had been one of the most sultry
and oppressive of the season; but the clouds, which gathered round the
setting sun in dark and gloomy masses, seemed as if waiting in sullen
silence for his disappearance, to pour their fury upon the scenes to
which his rays had given beauty. Nor did they threaten in vain; all the
wrathful energies of nature seemed to have awakened at the very hour
when man and beast were about to seek repose. The rain descended in
torrents, and poured forth, more like a continued stream than a
collection of single drops. The vivid forked lightning appeared, in its
ragged and eccentric course, to tear asunder the veil of darkness, only
to render it doubly visible, while, glancing ten thousand reflections
from the falling rain-drops, it flashed across the eyes of the family
party, startling and dazzling them with its sudden and excessive
brilliancy. The children clung to their grandfather in mute and
breathless awe, and the whole party sat in silence, uninterrupted, save
by involuntary ejaculations, which escaped them at each successive
flash. Not a breath of wind was stirring, not a sound was to be heard,
but the dull, monotonous, incessant pattering of the rain, and the loud,
clear, crackling burst of the thunder, as it rolled peal after peal over
their heads, and apparently in dangerous proximity. At length, the rain
began to relax in its violence, the flashes of lightning became less and
less vivid, and the thunder died away in faint and distant murmurings.
"Grandfather!" said little Gavin, leaving his stronghold between
Douglas's knees, "was not that an awful storm?"
"Yes, my boy," replied the old man; "awful, indeed! and thankful ought
we to be to the good Providence which has blessed us with a roof to
shelter us, while many an uncovered head has been exposed to its
violence. Such a night as this ought to awaken in us a spirit of
gratitude for the blessings we ourselves enjoy, and of charity towards
the wants of others."
"Did you hear that strange noise during the storm, grandfather!" said
little Emma; "it sounded like the bleating of a lamb close by; but I was
so much frightened by the lightning at the time, that I did not mention
it to you, and----There it is again!"
A low, wailing, stifled kind of cry was heard, which almost immediately
ceased, and the whole party started up, with looks of surprise and
alarm, and gazed at each other, as if mutely inquiring from whence the
strange sound could proceed. Again the cry was heard; and Mr Douglas,
seizing one of the candles, rushed to the front-door, to ascertain the
cause of their alarm. Great was his surprise to find, under the porch, a
small wicker-basket, covered with a coarse, ragged shawl, on removing
which, he started to behold the little chubby features of an infant,
which stretched out its little arms, and crowed with delight at the
sight of the candle. Mr Douglas's first impulse was to hurry into the
parlour, where our little hero was safely deposited on a sofa, and
exposed to the curious and inquiring gaze of the assembled party.
"O grandpapa!" shouted little Gavin, clapping his hands, and dancing
round the baby, "I have often heard you say, 'It is an ill wind that
blows nobody good;' and now see what a nice little brother the
thunderstorm has blown us."
"Inhuman wretches!" exclaimed Douglas, "to expose such a sweet infant in
a night like this! But they cannot be far off." And, ringing the bell
violently, he went out with some of the servants in pursuit of the
supposed fugitives: but vain was their search; every nook and corner of
the grounds were examined, but no traces of any such could be
discovered; and Douglas returned, fatigued and disappointed, to the
parlour. On examining the basket in which the child had been laid, a
crumpled and dirty piece of paper was discovered, on which was written,
in a trembling and almost illegible hand, "Be kind to the boy--he comes
of a good family. His name is Philip F. May Heaven prosper you as you
behave to him!" There was likewise a signet ring, with a few Persian
characters engraved upon it. The clothes in which the infant was dressed
were formed of the best materials, neatly and plainly made, but bore
evident tokens of neglect and dirt.
"Poor boy," muttered Gavin; "since your own unnatural father has
deserted you, I will be a father to you. Here, Jane, my love,"
addressing his daughter, "I commit this stray lamb to your charge for
the present; see that he is comfortably settled in the little crib in
your room."
Years passed on; the little foundling had become a tall, handsome
stripling of thirteen, as much beloved for his kind and amiable
disposition, as he was admired for his handsome form and bold and manly
spirit, when Gavin Douglas received a letter from his son Edward in
Calcutta, informing him that by the next ship he intended to send his
eldest daughter, who was now seven years old, home to his care. The ship
by which this letter had been forwarded, having met with a succession of
light and baffling winds, had made so long a passage, that the little
stranger whose approach it announced might be now daily expected. At
length the newspapers gave notice of the arrival off the Start of the
ship Cornwallis; and Gavin Douglas prepared to hasten up to town to
receive his grand-daughter. Philip, who was at home for his school
holidays, and who was now as dear to Douglas as if he had been his own
flesh and blood, entreated and obtained permission to accompany him.
Owing to a long continuance of easterly winds, the Cornwallis made a
tedious passage up the Channel, and our travellers were detained for
some days at Gravesend, awaiting her arrival. To Philip this delay was
most welcome; the bustling scenes around him seemed to arouse the latent
energies of his nature. Accustomed to the quiet and peaceful monotony
of a country life, he felt as if a new sphere of existence was opened to
him; and everything he beheld bore, in his eyes, the stamp of novelty
and excitement. His great delight was to loiter for hours at the stairs
(Gravesend did not then boast of the handsome jetty which now adorns
it), and to gaze at the numerous craft floating on the bosom of the
majestic Thames; some lying at anchor, and others taking advantage of
the tide to hasten towards their various destinations. Frank and open in
his manner, eager and anxious in his thirst for information, the
watermen, who were always lounging in numbers about the stairs, felt a
pleasure in gratifying his curiosity, and in initiating him into all the
mysteries of river seamanship; and he soon learned to distinguish the
different "riggs" of the passing vessels, from the lowly "peter-boat" to
the majestic ship. One morning there was a dead calm; the river was
gliding past unruffled by the slightest air; the cheerful "Yo, heave
oh!" of the sailors, and the loud clanking of the windlass "pauls," were
heard distinctly from some of the distant colliers, shortening in cable,
preparatory to making a start; while the rattling, clattering sounds of
the chains were heard from others which were just "bringing up"--for it
was high-water, and the upward-bound vessels were obliged to come to
anchor. Philip had been at his usual post for some time, when his
attention was attracted by the heavy, sluggish cloud of smoke which hung
in the wake of two steamers, whose low painted chimneys were seen over
the land, which they flitted past with great rapidity, while the tall,
naked spars of a large ship towered far above them. At length their
hulls became distinctly visible.
"Hand here the glass, Jem," said a waterman who was anxiously observing
them, to his comrade; "let me have a squint at her. Ah, I'd swear to her
among a thousand! That's the old Cornwallis! Jump into the boat, Jem,
and let's push out into the stream."
Away flew our friend Philip to the inn, to tell his father, as he called
him, the welcome news. The old gentleman hurried down to the stairs, and
the Cornwallis had hardly let go her anchor in Gravesend Reach, before
he and Philip were on her quarterdeck, inquiring for Catherine Douglas.
Captain M'Dougall of the Cornwallis received them with the greatest
politeness, and, upon Gavin Douglas informing him of the cause of his
visit, he was immediately ushered into one of the round-house cabins,
where a little dark-eyed girl was playing with her ayah.
"Catherine, my dear," said Captain M'Dougall, "here is your grandpapa
come to visit you."
Little Catherine, as we said before, was seven years old, and, like most
Indian children, quick and clever beyond her years. She was a brunette
in complexion--so much so, indeed, that she might have been mistaken for
a descendant from parentage of the climate in which she had been reared.
Her eyes were dark, lively, and brilliant, and a profusion of rich black
hair fell in clusters upon her shoulders. The moment she heard Captain
M'Dougall's announcement, she dropped the toy with which she was
playing, and ran eagerly up to Douglas:--
"Are you really grandpapa Gavin?"
"Yes, my love," said the old gentleman, almost smothering her with
kisses.
"Are you quite sure?" said she: "then," looking smilingly up in his
face, "I think I love you very much, grandpapa."
Philip was now introduced, and, in five minutes' time the two young
people were sworn friends. Catherine had shown Philip all her rich store
of toys, and had answered all his eager questions about the voyage, the
ship, the uses of various things in the cabin, &c. Be not impatient,
gentle reader, at the details of this childish meeting; the happiness or
misery of life often depends upon trifles light as air, and our friend
Philip's future destiny took its hue from the consequences of that
intimacy of which we have just been describing the commencement. In the
course of a fortnight, the travellers with their young charge returned
to Eskhall, where the little stranger met with the most affectionate
welcome. The banks of the Esk were beautiful as ever; but, to Philip's
eyes, they had lost great part of their attraction; he had had a glimpse
of the scenes of active life, and he was eager to engage in them. The
country sports in which he used to take such delight began to lose their
relish; and his principal amusement now was to wander in the green
fields with little Catherine, and to listen to the tales she told of her
recollections of the distant lands she had left. His curiosity was
excited, and he burned with impatience to visit them, and to judge for
himself; and he expressed to Gavin Douglas his predilection for a
sailor's life, and his eager wish to commence his career as soon as
circumstances would allow. Gavin's heart yearned towards the handsome
and spirited boy, whose eye sparkled, and whose tongue became eloquent,
as he urged his suit; and he felt that the time was come, which he had
long looked forward to with pain, when this young and ardent spirit must
leave his guardian care, and be intrusted to its own impulses. He talked
seriously and affectionately to the boy on the subject of his wishes;
told him--what had hitherto been kept a secret from him--the history of
his first appearance at Eskhall; assured him that he always would be, as
he hitherto had been, in the place of a father to him; and concluded
with saying--"Reflect seriously upon what I have pointed out to you, my
dear boy; I have laid before you, as far as my experience goes, all the
advantages and disadvantages of the profession which you wish to adopt;
weigh the matter carefully in your thoughts; and if, at the end of a
week, you continue in the same mind, I will do all in my power to
promote your wishes."
Poor Philip's astonishment and distress was unbounded, when Gavin
informed him of the mystery that hung over his birth. He had always
hitherto been known by the name of Douglas, and had been accustomed to
consider himself as Gavin's grandson; and the truth burst upon him with
the astounding effect of a thunderbolt. Pale as ashes, with the tears
streaming down his cheeks, he exclaimed--
"Not your grandson, sir? Then who am I? Good heavens! have I been living
from my earliest years a poor dependant upon your bounty? O my generous
benefactor! my more than father! how can I ever prove my gratitude to
you for your unvaried affection and kindness?"
"You have already proved it, Philip, by repaying affection with
affection; by your steady obedience, and constant attention to my
slightest wish. I have a father's love for you, Philip; and, poor, and
unknown, and alien as you are, you have made yourself as dear to me as
if you were my own flesh and blood. I feared that this disclosure would
fall like a blight upon your young spirit; but, painful as it is, it was
necessary that it should be made. Cheer up, my boy! brighter days will
come. I feel a conviction that the secret of your birth will be one day
discovered, and that you will have no reason to blush for your
parentage."
"Heaven grant it may be so, sir! but I dare not hope. If I had not been
a cause of shame to my parents, would they have deserted me?"
Douglas shook his head, and said--
"Time will show. At all events, my dear Philip, look upon me as your
father until you find a better."
"That can never be, my dear, dear gr----benefactor."
The week of reflection passed away; but not so Philip's resolution,
which was now confirmed and strengthened by his eager desire to relieve
Mr. Douglas from the burden of his support, and by the hope that he
might by some fortunate chance be guided to the discovery of his true
parents. On his making known his decision, Gavin Douglas immediately
wrote to a friend in town, through whose interest he obtained for him an
appointment as midshipman on board an Indiaman which was on the point of
sailing for Bengal and China, and which it was necessary for him to
"join" immediately. Before he left Eskhall, Gavin delivered into his
hands the ring and other articles that had been found in the basket in
which he was exposed when an infant, that he might have some clue
whereby to endeavour to trace out his parents. Delighted as Philip was
at the prospect of entering upon his new profession, he felt the
greatest sorrow at parting from his kind and liberal benefactor, and
from those whom he had been so long accustomed to look upon as near and
dear relations; but still more deeply was he affected at leaving his
beloved little playmate, Catherine. _Her_ grief on the occasion was
excessive. Philip had been her constant companion in all her little
rambles, and her resource and comfort in all her childish difficulties
and sorrows. He had scarcely ever left her side; and now she was to part
with him--perhaps for ever! Poor Philip himself was obliged to exert all
the pride of precocious manhood to resist the contagious example of her
tears; but he did all in his power to comfort the little mourner, and at
last partially succeeded, by reminding her that in a few months the
voyage would be over.
"And _then_, dear Phil, will you come back again?"
"That I will."
"Oh, how glad I shall be to see you again!" And she jumped about,
clapping her little hands for joy, till the recollection of the long
separation that must intervene called forth a fresh torrent of tears.
At length the parting scene was over; and, freighted with the blessings
and good wishes of all who knew him, Philip was fairly launched into the
rough ocean of life, to be exposed to all its storms and quicksands,
from which he had been hitherto safely sheltered in the calm haven of
domestic peace. The first voyage passed safely and happily; and some
years flew by in the same routine of leave-takings and glad meetings.
Philip loved his profession enthusiastically; but, at every successive
parting, he felt more and more unwilling to tear himself from Eskhall
and its beloved inmates. Catherine was now a lovely, elegant girl of
eighteen; her childish preference for Philip had been gradually and
imperceptibly gaining strength, till it had become the ruling passion of
her heart. _He_ loved _her_ fondly and tenderly; but his fears were
excited by her constantly-increasing reserve towards him; there was such
apparent inconsistency between the attentive kindness of her actions,
and the distance and almost coldness of her manner, that he was puzzled
as well as surprised. But the eyes of Gavin Douglas's experience were
open, and he had for some time read--in the changing complexion of
Catherine whenever Philip approached her, in the embarrassment of her
manner whenever she addressed him, and in the suppressed eagerness of
her interest in whatever concerned him--that secret which she shrunk
from confessing even to her own heart. Though he dreaded the consequence
of an attachment which he thought might be productive of only misery and
disappointment, yet he had too much confidence in Philip's honour and
discretion to fear any clandestine avowal of love on his part. He wrote
to his son Edward in Calcutta, informing him of his suspicions and fears
as to the state of Catherine's affections--telling him all the
particulars of Philip's history, and leaving it to his own judgment to
act as he thought circumstances required.
"In the meantime," wrote he, "I cannot openly interfere, lest, by
striving to remedy, I should only increase the evil; but I will
endeavour, quietly and unobtrusively, to keep the young people apart
until I hear your decision. My opinion is, that a final separation will
be the only means of weaning them from each other. Catherine has a
father's home to receive her--when poor _Philip_ leaves _me_, he leaves
his only earthly protector; and, even for my grand-daughter's sake, I
cannot part with one whose amiable and affectionate dispositions have
rendered him dear to me as a son."
The result of this communication was a letter to Catherine from her
father, telling her that he was obliged to visit England for a few
months, on business, and begging her to hold herself in readiness to
accompany him on his return to Calcutta. Philip had just arrived from
abroad when he received this news; and, as is often the case, it was not
till he feared he was going to part with Catherine for ever, that he
felt how deeply and fondly he loved her. He became restless and unhappy;
and wandered away, day after day, alone, under pretence of seeking
amusement in rural sports, but in reality for the sake of indulging the
sorrow that was preying upon his mind. He shunned all society, even that
of her whose image was ever present to him, and absented himself as much
as he possibly could from the family meetings at meals. His dejection
began to have an evident effect upon his health, and the kind-hearted
Gavin grieved to see his young favourite pining under the influence of
his hidden sorrow.
"Philip, my son," said he to him, one day, "why have you not confided in
me, your oldest and dearest friend? I have penetrated your secret,
Philip, and I honour you for endeavouring to confine it to your own
bosom; but you must rouse all your energies to shake off the tyranny of
a passion which your high sense of principle must tell you cannot safely
be indulged in, and is only likely to be productive of sorrow and
disappointment." He then proceeded to remind him delicately of the cloud
that hung over his birth, of his want of means to maintain the woman of
his choice in comfort, and of the absolute necessity for his strenuous
exertions to rise in his profession, as the only chance of bettering
his condition in life; "for though," added the generous man, "it is my
intention to make some provision for you in my will, yet there are so
many claims of relationship upon me, that your proportion will, I fear,
be but small."
Philip's heart swelled, and his eye glistened, as he pressed the old
man's hand, in mute acknowledgment of his kindness; and some moments
elapsed ere he could sufficiently command his feelings to give
expression to them in words. At length, in broken and hurried accents,
he expressed his heartfelt gratitude; he confessed that he had long
loved Catherine, but said that he had never "told his love," hoping that
his prospects might brighten, and that he might then be enabled to prove
himself worthy of the happiness he sought. He acknowledged the justice
and propriety of all Mr Douglas had said, and expressed his conviction
that it was his duty, however painful it might be to his feelings, to
tear himself from the society of one whose presence was so dangerous to
his peace, and to endeavour, however vain that endeavour might be, for
_her_ sake as well as for his own, to conceal, though he could not
stifle, the passion which reigned in his heart. It was agreed upon
between the two friends that Philip should employ his time while on
shore in travelling, till his ship was again ready for sea, and that he
should then join her, without taking leave a second time of his friends,
except by letter. Poor Philip could hardly command his feelings, when
taking what he considered to be his final farewell of Catherine. He knew
that, when he next returned home, Eskhall would have lost its principal
charm in his eyes--that _she_ would no longer be there, and that, in all
human probability, they might never meet again. Catherine only felt, or
appeared to feel, the uneasiness attending a temporary parting; but her
voice trembled slightly as, with a pale but steady countenance, she bade
him adieu; and, leaving the room, with a calm though melancholy manner,
she hurried to her chamber, and, securing the door, gave way to the
sorrow which in his presence she had successfully endeavoured to
restrain. Time passed slowly and heavily with Philip during a rambling
tour which he made through different parts of England and Wales. He
fought manfully against the sorrow that oppressed him, and endeavoured,
by rapidity of motion, and constant variation of scene, to turn his
thoughts into another channel; but in vain--the arrow was fixed too
deeply in his heart. He hurried from place to place, and from change to
change; but he could not fly from himself. In vain did nature present
her varied beauties to his eyes; he gazed listlessly and vacantly upon
all he beheld--he looked as though he saw not, for his heart was
elsewhere, and he felt that for him the charm of existence was over. In
the meantime, Catherine's father had arrived at Eskhall, and had been
informed by Gavin Douglas of Philip's noble struggle with his
unfortunately-placed passion, and of the anguish of mind which his
resolution had cost him.
"Generous young man!" exclaimed Edward Douglas; "he deserves a happier
fate. Would that I could favour his suit! But, poor, unknown, and
perhaps basely born as he is, it is my duty as a father to oppose it."