Mark Hurdlestone Part 11

"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.

"G.o.d, 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey; "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 G.o.dfrey, you are just like your pa--you will have your joke. Lord bless the child! he has swallowed the whole gla.s.s of wine. He will be 'toxicated."

G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey. "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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.dfrey. "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, G.o.dfrey. 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 c.o.c.k crows, so crows the young one.'"

"You had better not quote my servants' sayings to me, G.o.dfrey," 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 pa.s.sion 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. G.o.dfrey was his constant companion both in hunting-parties and at the table; and the boy greatly enjoyed the coa.r.s.e 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, G.o.dfrey 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 dest.i.tute 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 G.o.dfrey 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.