Home Influence Part 14

"It is never sufficiently guarded; and it would require a person of higher principles than I fear Harris has, to resist the temptation of inserting a satire likely to sell a double or treble number of his papers. I spoke to him at once, and bought up every one that remained; but though he expressed regret, it was not in a tone that at all satisfied me as to his feeling it, and of course, as the paper has been published since last Sat.u.r.day evening, the circulation had nearly ceased. If I could but know the author, I think I could make him feel the excessive cruelty, if not the actual guilt, of his wanton deed."

"But, dear papa, the person who wrote it might not have known his story," interposed Caroline, to Edward's and Ellen's astonishment, that she had courage to speak at all; for their uncle's unusual tone and look brought back almost more vividly than it had ever done before their mother's lessons of his exceeding and terrible sternness.

"That does not excuse the ridicule, my dear child; it only confirms the lesson I have so often tried to teach you all, that any thing tending by word or deed to hurt the feelings of a fellow-creature, is absolutely wrong--wrong in the thing itself, not according to the greater or less amount of pain it may excite."

"But, my dear husband, the writer may not have been so taught. Satire and ridicule are unhappily so popular, that these verses may have been penned without any thought of their evil tendency, merely as to the _eclat_ they would bring their author. We must not be too severe, for we do not know--"

"Mother! mother! do not--do not speak so, if you have ever loved me!" at length exclaimed poor Percy, so choked with his emotion, that he could only throw himself by her side, bury his face in her lap, and sob for a few minutes like a child. But he recovered himself with a strong effort, before either of his family could conquer their anxiety and alarm, and, standing erect, though pale as marble, without in the least degree attempting excuse or extenuation, acknowledged the poem as his, and poured out his whole story, with the sole exception of how he had disposed of the money, with which the second time of receiving his allowance he had intended to discharge his debt; and the manner in which he told that part of his tale, from the fear that it would seem like an excuse or a boast, was certainly more calculated to call for doubt than belief. Herbert was about to speak, but an imploring glance from Percy checked him.

Mr. Hamilton was silent several minutes after his son had concluded, before he could reply. Percy was so evidently distressed--had suffered so much from the consequence of his own errors--felt so intensely the unintentional publication of his poem--for his father knew his truth far too well to doubt his tale, and there was something so intrinsically n.o.ble in his brave confession, that to condemn him severely he felt as if he could not.

"Of willful cruelty toward Mr. Morton, your story has certainly exculpated you," he said, as sternly as he could; "but otherwise you must be yourself aware that it has given me both grief and pain, and the more so, because you evidently shrink from telling me in what manner you squandered away that money which would have been sufficient to have fully discharged your debt six weeks ago; I must therefore believe there is still some deed of folly unrevealed. I condemn you to no punishment--you are old enough now to know right from wrong, and your own feelings must condemn or applaud you. Had you been firm, as I had hoped you were, example would not so have worked upon you, as to tempt even the composition of your satire; as it is, you must reap the consequences of your weakness, in the painful consciousness that you have deeply wounded one, who it would seem had been already sufficiently afflicted, and that confidence must for the time be broken between us.

Go, sir, the hour of your attendance on Mr. Howard is pa.s.sed."

Mr. Hamilton rose with the last words, and somewhat hastily quitted the room. Percy only ventured one look at his mother, she seemed so grieved--so sad--that he could not bear it; and darting out of the room, was seen in less than a minute traversing the grounds in the direction of the vicarage, at such a rate that Edward, fleet as in general he was, could not overtake him. Herbert lingered; he could not bear that any part of Percy's story should remain concealed, and so told at once how his second allowance had been expended.

Mrs. Hamilton's eyes glistened. Percy's incoherence on that one point had given her more anxiety than any thing else, and the relief the truth bestowed was inexpressible. Imprudent it was; but there was something so lovable in such a disposition, that she could not resist going directly to her husband to impart it.

"You always bring me comfort, dearest!" was his fond rejoinder; "anxious as that boy's thoughtlessness must make me (for what are his temptations now to what they will be?) still I must imbibe your fond belief, that with such an open, generous, truthful heart, he can not go far wrong.

But what _are_ we to do about that unfortunate poem? I can not a.s.sociate with Morton, knowing the truth, and yet permit him to believe I am as ignorant of the author as himself."

"Let me speak to Percy before we decide on anything, my dear Arthur. Is Mr. Morton still at Torrington?"

"No; he was to return to Heathmore this morning."

Mrs. Hamilton looked very thoughtful, but she did not make any rejoinder.

In the hour of recreation Emmeline, declaring it was much too hot for the garden, sought her mother's private sitting-room, with the intention of asking where she could find her father. To her great delight, the question was arrested on her lips, for he was there. She seated herself on his knee, and remained there for some minutes without speaking--only looking up in his face with the most coaxing expression imaginable.

"Well, Emmeline, what great favor are you going to ask me?" said Mr.

Hamilton, smiling; "some weighty boon, I am quite sure."

"Indeed, papa, and how do you know that?"

"I can read it in your eyes."

"My eyes are treacherous tell-tales then, and you shall not see them any more," she replied, laughing, and shaking her head till her long bright ringlets completely hid her eyes and blushing cheeks. "But have they told you the favor I am going to ask?"

"No," replied her father, joining in her laugh; "they leave that to your tongue."

"I can read more, I think," said Mrs. Hamilton; "I am very much mistaken, if I do not know what Emmeline is going to ask."

"Only that--that--" still she hesitated, as if afraid to continue, and her mother added--

"That papa will not be very angry with Percy; Emmeline, is not that the boon you have no courage to ask?"

A still deeper glow mounted to the child's fair cheek, and throwing her arms round her father's neck, she said, coaxingly and fondly--

"Mamma has guessed it, dear papa! you must, indeed, you must forgive him--poor fellow! he is so _very_ sorry, and he has suffered so much already--and he did not throw away his money foolishly, as you thought; he gave it to some very poor people--and you are always pleased when we are charitable; pray forget every thing else but that, and treat him as you always do, dear papa--will you not?"

"I wonder which is most certain--that mamma must be a witch, or Emmeline a most eloquent little pleader," said Mr. Hamilton, caressingly stroking the ringlets she had disordered, "and suppose, after to-day, I do grant your request--what then?"

"Oh, you will be such a dear, darling, good papa!" exclaimed Emmeline, almost suffocating him with kisses, and then starting from his knee, she danced about the room in a perfect ecstasy of delight; "and Percy will be happy again, and we shall all be so happy. Mamma, dear mamma, I am sure you will be glad too."

"And now, Emmeline, when you have danced yourself sober again, come back to your seat, for as I have listened to and answered you, you must listen to and answer me."

In an instant she was on his knee again, quite quiet and attentive.

"In the first place, do you think Percy was justified making Mr. Morton an object of satire at all, even if it should never have left his own portfolio?"

"No, papa, and I am quite sure, if he had not been rather more excited--and--and heedless than usual--which was very likely he should be, you know, papa, after such a day of nothing but pleasure--he would never have done such a thing: I am sure he did not think of hurting Mr.

Morton's feelings; he only wanted to prove that he was quite as clever as his companions, and that was very natural, you know, when he is so clever at such things. But my brother Percy willingly ridicule a clergyman! no, no, dear papa, pray do not believe it."

"Well defended, my little girl; but how do you justify his disobeying my commands, and incurring a debt?"

Emmeline was silent. "He was very wrong to do that, papa; but I am sure, when he ordered the engravings, he did not intend to disobey you, and you know he is naturally very--I mean a little impatient."

"Still on the defensive, Emmeline, even against your better judgment.

Well, well, I must not make you condemn your brother; does he know what an eloquent pleader he has in his sister?"

"No, papa; and pray do not tell him."

"And why not?"

"Because he might think it was only for my sake you forgave him, and not for his own; and I know I should not like that, if I were in his place."

"He shall know nothing more than you desire, my dear little girl,"

replied her father, drawing her closer to him, with almost involuntary tenderness. "And now will you try and remember what I am going to say.

You wish me only to think of Percy's kind act in giving his money to the poor people; but I should have been better pleased in this case, had he been more _just_, and not so generous. I know it is not unfrequently said by young persons, when they think they are doing a charitable act, and can only do it by postponing the payment of their debts--'Oh, Mr. So and so has plenty of business, he can afford to wait for his money, but these poor creatures are starving.' Now this is not generosity or charity, but actual injustice, and giving away money which is literally not their own. I do not believe Percy thought so, because I have no doubt he forgot Mr. Harris, at the time, entirely; but still, as it was a mere impulse of kindness, it does not please me quite so much as it does you."

"But it was charity, papa, was it not? You have said that whenever we are kind and good to the poor, G.o.d is pleased with us; and if Percy did not intend to wrong Mr. Harris, and only thought about relieving the poor family, was it not a good feeling?"

"It was; but it might have been still worthier. Suppose Percy had encountered this case of distress when on his way to order his engravings, and to enable him to relieve it as he wished, he had given up the purchasing them. That he found he could not afford the _two_, and so gave up the one mere _individual_ gratification, to succor some unhappy fellow-creatures: would not that have been still worthier? and by the conquest of his own inclinations rendered his charity still more acceptable to G.o.d? Do you quite understand me, Emmy?"

"I think I do, dear papa; you mean that, though G.o.d is so good, He is pleased whenever we are charitable, He is still better pleased when to be so gives us a little pain."

"Very well explained, my little girl; so you see in this instance, if Percy had been just before he was generous, and then to be generous, had denied himself some pleasure, his conduct would not have given us or himself any pain, but have been quite as worthy of all the praise you could bestow. And now I wonder how mamma could have discovered so exactly what favor you had to ask?"

"Oh, mamma always knows all my feelings and wishes, almost before I know them myself, though I never can find out how."

"Shall I tell you, Emmeline? Your mother has devoted hours, weeks, months, and years to studying the characters of all her children; so to know them, that she may not only be able to guide you in the path of good, but to share all your little joys and sorrows, to heighten the one and guard you from the other. Ought you not to be very grateful to your Father in Heaven for giving you such a mother?"

His child made no answer in words, but she slipped from his knee, and darting to her mother, clasped her little arms tight round her neck, and hid her glowing cheeks and tearful eyes in her bosom. And from that hour, as she felt her mother's fond return of that pa.s.sionate embrace, her love became religion, though she knew it not. Her thoughts flew to her cousins and many others, who had no mother, and to others whose mothers left them to nurses and governesses, and seemed always to keep them at a distance. And she felt, How could she thank and love G.o.d enough? Nor was it the mere feeling of the moment, it became part of her being, for the right moment had been seized to impress it.

CHAPTER VIII.