Oh, what a change--a goodly change!
I, too, am changed. I feel my heart expand;
My spirit, long bowed down with misery,
Grow light and buoyant 'mid these blessed scenes.--S.M.
As Elinor predicted, the miser slowly recovered, and for a few months
his severe illness had a salutary effect upon his mind and temper. He
was even inclined to treat his wife with more respect; and when informed
by Dr. Moore of the birth of his son, he received the intelligence with
less impatience than she had anticipated. But this gleam of sunshine did
not last long. With returning strength his old monomania returned; and
he began loudly to complain of the expense which his long illness had
incurred, and to rave at the extortion of doctors and nurses; declaring
the necessity of making every possible retrenchment, in order to replace
the money so lost. Elinor did not live long enough to endure these fresh
privations. She sunk into a lingering decline, and before her little boy
could lisp her name, the friendly turf had closed over his heart-broken
mother.
Small was the grief expressed by the miser for the death of his gentle
partner. To avoid all unnecessary expense, she was buried in the
churchyard, instead of occupying a place in the family vault; and no
stone was erected during the life of the squire, to her memory.
It was a matter of surprise to the whole neighborhood that the young
child survived his mother. His father left Nature to supply her place,
and, but for the doting affection of Ruth, who came every night and
morning to wash and feed him, out of pure affection to her dear
mistress, the little Anthony would soon have occupied a place by his
ill-fated mother.
The Squire never cast a thought upon his half-clad half-famished babe
without bitterly cursing him as an additional and useless expense.
Anthony was a quiet and sweet-tempered little fellow; the school in
which he was educated taught him to endure with patience trials that
would have broken the spirit of a less neglected child.
Except the kindness which he received from Ruth, who was now married to
a laborer, and the mother of children of her own, he was a stranger to
sympathy and affection; and he did not expect to receive from strangers
the tenderness which he never experienced at home.
The mind of a child, like the mind of a grown person, requires
excitement: and, as Anthony could neither read nor write, and his father
seldom deigned to notice him, he was forced to seek abroad for those
amusements which he could not obtain at home. By the time he had
completed his eighth year he was to be seen daily mingling with the poor
boys in the village, with face unwashed and hair uncombed, and clothes
more ragged and dirty than those of his indigent associates.
One fine summer afternoon, while engaged in the exciting game of
pitch-and-toss, a handsome elderly gentleman rode up to the group of
boys, and asked the rosy ragged Anthony if he would run before him and
open the gate that led to the Hall.
"Wait awhile," cried the little fellow, adroitly poising the halfpenny
that he was about to throw, on the tip of his finger. "If I win by this
toss I will show you the way to my father's."
"Your father!" said the gentleman, surveying attentively the ragged
child. "Are you the gardener's son?"
"No, no," replied the boy, laughing and winking to his companions; "not
quite so bad as that. My father is a rich man, though he acts like a
poor one, and lets me, his only son, run about the streets without
shoes. But, did I belong to skin-flint Pike, instead of one slice of
bread to my milk and water, I might chance to get none. My father is the
old Squire, and my name is Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone."
"His father and grandfather's names combined--names of evil omen have
they been to me," sighed the stranger, who was, indeed, no other than
Algernon Hurdlestone, who for eight long years had forgotten the solemn
promise given to Elinor, that he would be a friend and guardian to her
child. Nor would he now have remembered the circumstance, had not his
own spoilt Godfrey been earnestly teasing him for a playmate. "Be a good
boy, Godfrey, and I will bring you home a cousin to be a brother and
playfellow," he said, as his conscience smote him for this long
neglected duty; and ordering his groom to saddle his horse, he rode over
to Oak Hall to treat with the miser for his son.
"Alas!" he thought, "can this neglected child be the son of my beautiful
Elinor, and heir to the richest commoner in England? But the boy
resembles my own dear Godfrey, and, for Elinor's sake, I will try and
rescue him from the barbarous indifference of such a father."
Then, telling the bare-footed urchin that he was his uncle Algernon,
and that he should come to Norgood Hall, and live with him, and have
plenty to eat and drink, and pretty clothes to wear, and a nice pony of
his own to ride, and a sweet little fellow of his own age to play with,
he lifted the astonished and delighted child before him on the saddle,
and was about to proceed to the Hall.
"The Squire does not live at the Hall," said the child, pulling at the
rein, in order to give the horse another direction. "Oh, no; he is _too
poor_ (and he laughed outright) to live there."
"What do you mean, Anthony and why do you call Mr. Hurdlestone the
Squire, instead of papa?"
"He never tells me to call him papa; he never calls me his son, or
'little boy,' or even 'Anthony,' or speaks to me as other fathers speak
to their children. He calls me chit and brat, and rude noisy fellow; and
it's 'Get out of my way, you little wretch! Don't come here to annoy
me.' And how can I call him father or papa, when he treats me as if I
did not belong to him?"
"My dear child, I much fear that you do not love your father."
"How can I, when he does not love me? If he would be kind to me, I would
love him very much; for I have nothing in the world to love but old
Shock, and he's half-starved. But he does love me, and I give him all I
can spare from my meals, and that's little enough. I often wish for
more, for poor Shock's sake; for they say that he was mamma's dog, and
Ruth Candler told me that when mamma died, he used to go every day for
months and lie upon her grave. Now was not that kind of Shock? I wish
papa loved me only half as well as old Shock loved my mother, and I
would not mind being starved, and going about the streets without
shoes."
Thus the child, prattled on, revealing to his new companion the secrets
of the prison-house. Had he looked up at that moment into his uncle's
face, he would have seen the tear upon his cheeks. He pressed the poor
child silently against him as they rode on.
"We will take Shock with us, Anthony, and he shall have plenty to eat as
well as you."
"Oh, dear uncle, how we shall love you, both Shock and I!"
"But tell me, Anthony, has your father really left the Hall?"
"Long, long ago; as far back as I can remember. It is the first thing I
can remember, since I awoke in this world and found myself alive, the
removing to old Pike's cottage. The Squire said that he was too poor to
live at the Hall, and there was plenty of room in the gardener's cottage
for us three, and there we have lived ever since. See, uncle, we are now
coming to it."
Algernon looked up and saw that they had entered a long avenue of lofty
trees, which he recognised as a back way to the extensive gardens, at
the extremity of which, and near the garden gate, stood a small cottage,
once neat and comfortable, but now fast falling to decay. He had often
played there with his brother and Grenard Pike in their childhood. The
plastered walls of the tenement in many places had given way, and the
broken windows were filled with pieces of board, which, if they kept out
the wind and rain, dismally diminished the small portion of light which
found its way through the dusty panes.
Fastening his horse to the moss-grown paling, Algernon proceeded to
knock at the door.
"Who's there?" growled a deep voice from within.
"A gentleman wishes to speak to Mr. Hurdlestone."
"He's not at home to strangers," responded the former growl, without
unclosing the door.
"That's Grenard Pike," whispered the boy. "You may be sure that the
Squire is not far off."
"I _must_ see Mr. Hurdlestone. I cannot wait until he returns," said
Algernon, walking into the house "I ought, I think, to be no stranger
here."
A small spare man, with sharp features, a brown leather face, thin lank
black hair, and eyes like a snake, drew back from the door, as Algernon
thus unceremoniously effected an entrance. His partner in penury, the
miser, was seated at an old oak table making arithmetical calculations
upon a bit of broken slate.
The tall stately figure of Mark Hurdlestone was, at this period, still
unbent with age, and he rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger
at being detected in sanctioning an untruth. His quick eye recognised
his brother, and he motioned to him to take a seat on the bench near
him.
It was not in the nature of the miser to consider Algernon a welcome
visitor. He was continually haunted by the recollection of the ten
thousand pounds that remorse had extorted from him, in the evil hour
when death stared him in the face, and the fear of future punishment,
for a brief season, triumphed over the besetting sin. He could not
forgive Algernon for this dreadful sacrifice; and but for very shame
would have asked him to return the money, giving him a bond to restore
it at his death.
"Well, brother," he began, in his usual ungracious tones, "what business
brings you here?"
"I came to ask of you a favor," said Algernon, seating himself, and
drawing the little Anthony between his knees; "one which I hope that you
will not refuse to grant."
"Humph!" said Mark. "I must tell you, without mincing the matter brother
Algernon, that I never grant favors in any shape. That I never ask
favors of any one. That I never lend money, or borrow money. That I
never require security for myself of others, or give my name as security
to them. If such is your errand to me you may expect, what you will
find--disappointment."
"Fortunately my visit to you has nothing to do with money. Nor do I
think that the favor I am about to ask will cause you to make the least
sacrifice. Will you give me this boy?"
The novel request created some surprise, it was so different from the
one the miser expected. He looked from the ragged child to his
fashionably-dressed brother, then to the child again, as if doubtful
what answer to return. The living brown skeleton, Pike, slipped softly
across the room to his side; and a glance of peculiar meaning shot from
his rat-like eyes, into the dark, deep-set, searching orbs of the miser.
"What do you think of it, Pike? Hey!"
"It is too good an offer to be refused," whispered the avaricious
satellite, who always looked upon himself as the miser's heir. "Take him
at his word."
"What do you want with the child?" said Mark, turning to his brother.
"Have you not a son of your own?"
"I have--a handsome clever little fellow. This nephew of mine greatly
resembles him."
"He cannot be more like you than this child is, whom his mother dared to
call mine. For my own part I never have, nor ever shall, consider him as
such."
"Brother! brother! you cannot, dare not, insinuate aught against the
honor of your wife!" and Algernon sprang from his seat, his cheeks
burning with anger.
"Sit down, sit down," said the miser coldly; "I do not mean to quarrel
with you on that score. In one sense of the word she was faithful. I
gave her no opportunity of being otherwise. But her heart"--and his dark
eye emitted an unnatural blaze of light--"her heart was false to me, or
that boy could not have resembled you in every feature."
"These things happen every day," said Algernon. "Children often resemble
their grandfathers and uncles more than they do their own parents. It is
hard to blame poor Elinor for having a child like me. Let me look at
you, boy," he continued, turning the child's head towards him as he
spoke. "Are you so very, very like your uncle Algernon?" The
extraordinary likeness could not fail to strike him. It filled the heart
of the miser with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. Still the
expression of the child's face was the only point of real resemblance;
his features and complexion belonged to his father. "Your jealous fancy,
Mark, has conjured up a phantom to annoy you. Where did this boy get his
black eyes from, if not from you? his dark complexion? I am fair, my
eyes are blue."
"He has his mother's eyes," sullenly returned the miser.
"I might as well accuse you of being the father of Godfrey, because he
has your eyes."
"You cannot reason me out of my senses. This Anthony is as like you,
Algernon, as two peas. He is your own son, and you are welcome to him.
His absence will give me no pain, nor will his adoption by you extort
from me one farthing for his future maintenance. If you persist in
taking him it will be at your own risk."
"I am contented to accept the poor orphan on these terms," said the
generous Algernon. "May God soften your iron heart towards your
neglected child. While I have wealth he shall not want; and were I
deprived of it to-morrow, he should share my bread while I have a
crust."
"Fools and their money are soon parted," muttered the ungracious Mark;
though in reality he was glad to embrace his brother's offer. No ties of
paternal love bound him to the motherless child he had so cruelly
neglected; and the father and son parted with mutual satisfaction,
secretly hoping that they never might behold each other again.
"We have got rid of that pest, Grenard!" exclaimed the hard-hearted man,
as he watched his brother lift the little Anthony into his saddle, and
carefully dispose the folds of his cloak around the child to hide his
rags from public observation. "If the child were not his own, would he
take such care of him?"
"You cannot believe that," said the gaunt Cerberus. "You know that it is
impossible."
"You may think so--perhaps you are right--but, Grenard, you were never
married; never had any experience of the subtlety of woman. I have my
own thoughts on the subject--I hate women--I have had cause to hate
them--and I detest that boy for the likeness which he bears to my
brother."
"Tush!" said the living skeleton, with more feeling of humanity than his
niggardly patron. "Whose fault is it that you rob a woman of her love,
and then accuse her of inconstancy because your son resembles the man
that was the object of her thoughts? Is that reasonable, or like your
good sense?"
How delightful was that first journey to the young pilgrim of hope; and
he so lately the child of want and sorrow, whose eyes were ever bent to
earth, his cheeks ever wet with tears!--he now laughed and carolled
aloud in the redundant joy of his heart. "Oh, he was so happy, so
happy." He had never been a mile from home--had never ridden on a horse;
and now he was told he was to have a horse of his own--a home of his
own--a dear little cousin to play with, and a nice bed to sleep upon at
night, not a bundle of filthy straw.
This was too much for his full heart to bear; it ran over, it was
brimful of gladness and expectation, and the excited child sobbed
himself to sleep in his good uncle's arms.
Poor old Shock was trotting beside the horse, and Anthony had been too
much engrossed with his own marvellous change of fortune to notice
Shock; but Shock did not forget him, and though he could not see--for
the animal was blind--he often pricked up his ears, and raised his head
to the horse and its double burden, to be sure that his young master was
there.
It was a spaniel that Algernon had left a pup with Elinor when he went
to India. The sight of the poor blind worn-out creature brought back to
his mind so many painful recollections that his own eyes were wet with
tears. The wife who had supplanted Elinor in his affections was dead.
The grass grew rank upon Elinor's nameless grave; and her poor boy was
sleeping within his sheltering arms, as if he had never known so soft a
pillow.
Algernon looked down upon his beautiful but squalid face, and pressing
his lips upon his pale brow, swore to love and cherish him as his own;
and well did that careless but faithful heart keep its solemn covenant.
The very reverse of the miser, Algernon was reckless of the future; he
only lived for the present, which, after his disappointment in regard to
Elinor, was all, he said, that a man in truth could call his own. Acting
up to this principle, he was as much censured for his extravagance, as
his brother was for his parsimony, by those persons who, like Timon's
friends, daily shared his hospitality, and were too often the recipients
of his lavish expenditure. In adopting the little Anthony, he had
followed the generous impulse of his heart, without reflecting that the
separation of father and son, under their peculiar circumstances, might
injure without ultimately benefiting the child.
He meant to love and take care of him; to be a father to him in the
fullest sense of the word; his intentions doubtless were good, but his
method of bringing him up was very likely to be followed by bad
consequences. Algernon had no misgivings on the subject. He felt certain
that the boy would not only inherit his father's immense wealth, (a
large portion of which the law secured to him, independent of the
caprice of his father,) but ever continue prosperous and happy. While
musing upon these things, his horse turned into the park that surrounded
his own fine mansion, and a beautiful boy bounded down the broad stone
steps that led to the hall-door, and came running along the moonlit path
to meet him,
"Health on his cheek, and gladness in his eye."
"Well, dear papa! Have you brought me my cousin?"
"What will you give for him, Godfrey?" and the delighted father bent
down to receive the clasp of the white arms, and the kiss of the
impatient child.
"That's all I can afford. Perhaps he's not worth having after all;" and
the spoilt child turned pettishly away.
Casting his eyes upon old Shock, he exclaimed, "Mercy! what an ugly dog.
A perfect brute!"
"He was once a very handsome dog," said his father, as the groom
assisted him to alight.
"It must be, a long time ago. I hope my cousin is better-looking than
his dog."
"Why, what in the world have we got here?" said Mrs. Paisley, the
housekeeper, who came to the door to welcome her master home; and into
whose capacious arms the footman placed the sleeping Anthony, enveloped
in his uncle's cloak.
"A present for you, Mrs. Paisley," said Algernon, "and one that I hope
you will regard with peculiar care."
"A child!" screamed the good woman. "Why, la, sir; how did you come by
it?"
"Honestly," returned Algernon, laughing.
"Let _me_ look at him," cried the eager Godfrey, as soon as they entered
the room where supper was prepared for his father; and pulling the cloak
away from his cousin's face,--"Is this dirty shabby boy the playfellow
you promised me, papa?"
"The same."
"And he in rags!"
"That's no fault of his, my child."
"And has a torn cap, and no shoes!"
"Mrs. Paisley will soon wash, and dress, and make him quite smart; and
then you will be proud of him."
"Well, we shall see," replied the boy, doubtingly. "But I never was fond
of playing with dirty ragged children. But why is he dirty and ragged? I
thought you told me, papa, that he was the son of my rich, rich uncle,
and that he would have twice as much money as I?"
"And so he will."
"Then why is he in this condition?"
"His father is a miser."
"What is that?"
"A man that loves money better than his son; who would rather see him
ragged and dirty, nay even dead, than expend upon his comfort a part of
his useless riches. Are you not glad that your father is not a miser?"
"I don't know," said Godfrey; "he would save money to make me rich, and
when he died all his wealth would be mine. Anthony is not so badly off
after all, and I think I will try to love him, that he may give me a
part of his great fortune by-and-by."
"Your love, springing from a selfish motive, would not be worth having.
Besides, Godfrey, you will have a fortune of your own."
"I'm not so clear of that," said the boy, with a sly glance at his
father. "People say that you will spend all your money on yourself, and
leave none for me when _you_ die."
There was much--too much truth in this remark; and though Algernon
laughed at what he termed his dear boy's wit, it stung him deeply.
"Where can he have learned that?" he thought; "such an idea could never
have entered into the heart of a child." Then turning to Mrs. Paisley,
who had just entered the room, he said,--
"Take and wash and clothe that little boy; and when he is nicely
dressed, bring him in to speak to his cousin."
"Come, my little man," said the old lady, gently shaking the juvenile
stranger. "Come, wake up. You have slept long enough. Come this way with
me."
"Whose clothes are you going to put upon him?" demanded Godfrey.
"Why in course, Master Godfrey, you will lend him some of yours?"
"Well, if I do, remember, Paisley, you are not to take my best."
During this colloquy, Anthony had gradually woke up, and turning from
one strange face to another, he lost all his former confidence, and
began to cry. Paisley, who was really interested in the child, kindly
wiped away his tears with the corner of her white apron, and gently led
the weeper from the room.
While performing for him the long and painful ablutions which his
condition required, Mrs. Paisley was astonished at his patience. "Why,
Master Godfrey would have roared and kicked, like a mad thing that he
is, if I had taken half the liberty with him," said the dame to herself.
"Well, well, the little fellow seems to have a good temper of his own.
Now you have got a clean face, my little man, let me look at you, and
see what you are like."
She turned him round and round, took off her spectacles, carefully wiped
them, and re-adjusting them upon her nose, looked at the child with as
much astonishment as if he had been some rare creature that had never
before been exhibited in a Christian land.
"Mercy on me! but the likeness is truly wonderful--his very image; all
but the dark eye; and that he may have got from the mother, as Master
Godfrey got his. I don't like to form hard thoughts of my master; but
this is strange.--Mr. Glen!" and she rose hastily, and opened a door
that led from her own little sanctuary into the servants' hall--"please
to step in here for a moment."
"What's your pleasure, Mistress Paisley?" said the butler, a rosy,
portly, good-natured man, of the regular John Bull breed, who, in
snow-white trowsers, and blue-striped linen jacket, and a shirt adorned
with a large frill (frills were then in fashion), strutted into the
room. "Mistress Paisley, ma'arm, vot are your commands?"
"Oh, Mr. Glen," said the housekeeper, simpering, "I never command my
equals--I leave my betters to do that. I wanted you just to look at this
child."
"Look at him--vhy, vot's the matter vith un', Mrs. Paisley? He's
generally a werry naughty boy; but he looks better tempered than usual
to-day."
"Why, who do you take him for?" said Mrs. Paisley, evidently delighted
at the butler's mistake.
"Vhy, for Master Godfrey--is it not? Hey--vot--vhy--no--it is--and it
isn't. Vot comical demonstration is this?"
"Well, I don't wonder, Jacob, at your mistake--it is, and it is not. Had
they been twins, they could not have been more alike. Godfrey, to be
sure, has a haughty uppish look, which this child has not. But what do
you think of our master now?"
"It must be his son."
The good woman nodded. "Such likenesses cannot come by accident. It is a
good thing that my poor dear mistress did not live to see this day--and
she so jealous of him--it would have broken her heart."
"Aye, you may vell say that, Mrs. Paisley. And some men are cruel,
deceitful, partic'lar them there frank sort of men, like the Kurnel.
They are so pleasant like, that people never thinks they can be as bad
as other volk. They have sich han hinnocent vay vith them. I vonder
maister vos not ashamed of his old servants seeing him bring home a
child so like himself."
"Well, my dear, and what is your name?" said Mrs. Paisley, addressing
her wondering charge.
"Anthony Hurdlestone."
"Do you hear that, Mrs. Paisley?"
"Anthony Hurdlestone! Oh, shame, shame," said the good woman. "It would
have been only decent, Mr. Glen, for the Colonel to have called him by
some other name. Who's your father, my little man?"
"Squire Hurdlestone."
"Humph!" responded the interrogator. "And your mother?"
"She's in the churchyard."
"How long has she been dead?"
"I don't know; but Ruth does. She died when I was a baby."
"And who took care of you, my poor little fellow?" asked Mrs. Paisley,
whose maternal feelings were greatly interested in the child.
"God, and Ruth Candler! If it had not been for her, the folks said that
I should have been starved long ago."
"That has been the 'oman, doubtless, that the Kurnel left him with,"
said the butler. "Vell, my young squire, you'll be in no danger of
starvation in this house. Your papa is rich enough to keep you."
"He may be rich," said Anthony; "but, for all that, the poorest man in
the parish of Ashton is richer than he."
"Come, come, my little gentleman, you are talking of what you know
nothing about," said Mrs. Paisley. "I must now take you into the parlor,
to see your papa and your little brother."
"He's not my papa," said Anthony; "I wish he were. Oh, if you could see
my papa--ha! ha!--you would not forget him in a hurry; and if he chanced
to box your ears, or pinch your cheek, or rap your head with his
knuckles, you would not forget that in a hurry."
"You have got a new papa, now; so you may forget the old one. Now, hold
your head up like a man, and follow me."
Colonel Hurdlestone was lounging over his wine; his little son was
sitting over against him, imitating his air and manner, and playing
with, rather than drinking from, the full glass of port before him.
"Mrs. Paisley!" he cried, with the authority of an old man of fifty,
"tell Glen to send up some sweet madeira--I hate port. Ha! little miser,
is that you?" springing from his chair. "Why, I thought it was myself.
Now, mind, don't soil those clothes, for they don't belong to you."
"Never mind, Anthony," said his uncle. "To-morrow I will have some made
for you. Mrs. Paisley, are not these children strikingly alike?"
"Why, yes, your honor, they are too much alike to be lucky. Master
Godfrey may lay all his mischievous pranks upon this young one, and you
will never find out the mistake."
"Thank you, Paisley, for the hint. Come and sit by me, double, and let
us be friends."
"I am sure you look like brothers--ay, and twin brothers, too," said
Mrs. Paisley.
"They are first cousins," said Algernon, gravely. "This child is the
only son and heir of my rich brother, Mrs. Paisley: I beg that he may be
treated accordingly."
"Oh, certainly, sir. I never had a child so like my husband as this boy
is like you."
"Very likely, Mrs. Paisley," said the Colonel. "I have seen many
children that did not resemble their fathers. Perhaps yours were in the
same predicament?"
"Whether they were or no, they are all in heaven with their poor dear
father," whimpered Mrs. Paisley, "and have left me a lone widow, with no
one to love or take care of me."
"Jacob Glen says that you are a good hand at taking care of yourself,
Paisley," said Godfrey; "but I dare say Master Jacob would be glad of
taking care of you himself. Here's your good health, Mrs. P----;" and
down went the madeira.
"Ah, Master Godfrey, you are just like your pa--you will have your
joke. Lord bless the child! he has swallowed the whole glass of wine. He
will be 'toxicated."
Godfrey and the Colonel laughed, while Anthony slid from his chair, and
taking the housekeeper by the hand, said, in a gentle tone, "You have no
one to love you, Mrs. Paisley. If you will be kind to me, I will love
you."
"Who could help being kind to you, sweet child?" said the good woman,
patting his curly head and kissing the rosy mouth he held up to her.
"You are a good boy, and don't make fun of people, like some folks."
"That's me," said Godfrey. "Tony, you are quite welcome to my share of
Mrs. Paisley; and instead of Benjamin's, you may stand a chance to get
Jacob's portion also."
"Will you have some wine, Anthony?" said his uncle, handing him a glass
as he spoke.
The child took the liquid, tasted it, and put it back on the table, with
a very wry face. "I don't like it, uncle--it is medicine."
"You will like it well enough by and by," said Godfrey. "I suppose the
stingy one at home only drinks Adam's ale?"
"What is that?"
"Water. A mess only fit for dogs and felons. Gentlemen, Anthony, rich
gentlemen like you and me, always drink wine."
"I shall never like it," said the child. "I love milk."
"Milk! What a baby! Papa, he says that he never means to like wine. Is
not that a shabby notion?"
"You, you young dog, are too fond of it already."
"I like everything that you like, pa!" said the spoilt youth. "If wine
is good for you, it must be good for me. Remember, you told me
yesterday that I must obey you in all things."
"Imitation is not obedience, Godfrey. I did not tell you to imitate me
in all things. Wine in moderation may be good for a man, and help to
beguile a weary hour, and yet may be very hurtful to boys."
"Well, I never can understand your philosophy, pa. A boy is a half-grown
man; therefore a boy may take half as much wine as a man, and it will do
him good. And as to imitation, I think that is a sort of practical
obedience. Jacob Glen says, 'As the old cock crows, so crows the young
one.'"
"You had better not quote my servants' sayings to me, Godfrey," said his
father, frowning and pushing the wine from him. "I have treated you with
too much indulgence, and am now reaping the fruit of my folly."
"Surely you are not angry with your Freddy, pa," said the beautiful boy,
hanging upon Algernon's arm, and looking imploringly into his face. "It
is all fun."
This was enough to calm the short-lived passion of the Colonel. One
glance into that sparkling animated face, and all the faults of the boy
were forgotten. He was, however, severely mortified by his impertinent
remarks, and he determined to be more strict with him for the future,
and broke his resolution the next minute.
Algernon Hurdlestone's life had been spent in making and breaking good
resolutions. No wonder that he felt such a difficulty in keeping this.
If we would remedy a fault, the reformation must be commenced on the
instant. We must not give ourselves time to think over the matter, for
if we do, nine chances out of ten, that we never carry our intentions
into practice. Algernon often drank to excess, and too often suffered
his young son to be a spectator of his criminal weakness. Godfrey was
his constant companion both in hunting-parties and at the table; and the
boy greatly enjoyed the coarse jokes and vulgar hilarity of the
roystering uproarious country squires, who, to please the rich father,
never failed to praise the witticisms of the son.
Thus the disposition of the child was corrupted, his tastes vitiated,
his feelings blunted, and the fine affections of the heart destroyed at
the age of ten years.
Algernon was so fond of him, so vain of his fine person and quick parts,
that it blinded him to his many faults. He seldom noticed his habitual
want of respect to himself, or the unfeeling and sarcastic remarks of
the audacious lad on his own peculiar failings. To a stranger, Godfrey
Hurdlestone presented the painful anomaly of the address and cunning of
the man animating the breast of a child.
He inherited nothing in common with his father, but his profusion and
love of company; and was utterly destitute of that kindliness of
disposition and real warmth of heart, that so strongly characterised his
too indulgent parent, and pleaded an excuse for many of his failings. He
was still more unlike his cousin Anthony, although personally they could
scarcely be known apart. The latter was serious and thoughtful beyond
his years; was fond of quiet and retirement, preferring a book or a
solitary walk to romping with Godfrey and his boisterous companions. He
had been a child of sorrow, and acquainted with grief; and though he was
happy now--too happy, he was wont to say--the cloud which ushered in his
dawn of life still cast its dark shadow over the natural gaiety and
sunshine of his heart.
His mind was like a rich landscape seen through a soft summer mist,
which revealed just enough of the beautiful as to make the observer wish
to behold more.
Gentle, truthful, and most winningly affectionate, Anthony had to be
known to be loved; and those who enjoyed his confidence never wished to
transfer their good will to his dashing cousin. He loved a few dear
friends, but he shrunk from a crowd, and never cared to make many
acquaintances. He soon formed a strong attachment to his uncle; the love
which nature meant for his father was lavished with prodigality on this
beloved relative, who cherished for his adopted son the most tender
regard.
He loved the mocking, laughter-loving, mischievous Godfrey, who
delighted to lay all his naughty tricks and devilries upon his quiet
cousin; while he considered himself as his patron and protector, and
often gave himself great airs of superiority. For the sake of peace,
Anthony often yielded a disputed point to his impetuous companion,
rather than awaken his turbulent temper into active operation. Yet he
was no coward--on the contrary, he possessed twice the moral courage of
his restless playmate; but a deep sense of gratitude to his good uncle,
for the blessed change he had effected in his situation, pervaded his
heart, and influenced all his actions.