Home Influence Part 15

AN UNPLEASANT PROPOSAL.--THE MYSTERY SOLVED.--A FATHER'S GRIEF FROM A MOTHER'S WEAKNESS.--A FATHER'S JOY FROM A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE.

Meanwhile the young heir of Oakwood had pa.s.sed no very pleasant day. His thoughts since Mr. Howard's return had been so pre-occupied, that his studies had been unusually neglected; so much so, as rather to excite the displeasure of his gentle and forbearing preceptor. The emotion of the morning had not tended to steady his ideas, and a severe reproof and long imposition was the consequence. Not one word did he deign to address Herbert and Edward, who, perceiving him leave the Vicarage with every mark of irritation, endeavored, during their walk home, to soothe him. His step was even more rapid than that in which he had left home, and he neither stopped nor spoke till he had reached his father's library, which, fortunately for the indulgence of his ire in words, was untenanted. He dashed his cap from his brow, flung his books with violence on the ground, and burst forth--

"Am I not a fool--an idiot, thus to torment myself, and for one act of folly, when hundreds of boys, at my age, are entirely their own masters?

do what they please--spend what they please--neither questioned nor reproved--and that poem--how many would glory in its authors.h.i.+p, and not care a whit whom it might wound. Why am I such a fool, as to reproach myself about it, and then be punished, like a school-boy, with an imposition to occupy me at home, because I did not choose to learn in the hours of study?--Not choose! I wish Mr. Howard could feel as I have done to-day, nay, all this week; and I challenge him to bore his head with Greek and Latin! But why am I so cowed as to feel so? Why can not I have the same spirit as others--instead of being such a slave--such a--"

"Percy!" exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, who, having sought him the moment she heard the hall-door close, had heard nearly the whole of his violent speech, and was almost alarmed at the unusual pa.s.sion it evinced. Her voice of astonished expostulation checked his words, but not his agitation; he threw himself on a chair, leaning his arms upon the table, buried his face upon them, while his whole frame shook. His mother sat down by him, and laying her hand on his arm, said gently--

"What is it that has so irritated you, my dear Percy? What has made you return home in such a very different mood to that in which you left it?

Tell me, my boy."

Percy tried to keep silence, for he knew if he spoke he should, as he expressed it, be a child again, and his pride tried hard for victory.

Even his father or Herbert at that moment would have chafed him into increased anger, but the almost pa.s.sionate love and reverence which he felt for his mother triumphed over his wrath, and told him he was much more unhappy than angry; and that he longed for her to comfort him, as she always had done in his childish griefs; and so he put his arms round her, and laid his head on her shoulder and said, in a half-choked voice:--

"I am very unhappy, mother; I feel as if I had been every thing that was bad, and cruel, and foolish, and so it was a relief to be in a pa.s.sion; but I did not mean you to hear it, and cause you more grief than I have done already."

"You have been very thoughtless, very foolish, and not quite so firm as we could have wished, my own dear boy, but I will not have you accuse yourself of any graver faults," replied Mrs. Hamilton, as she lightly pushed back the cl.u.s.tering hair from his heated forehead, and the gentle touch of her cool hand seemed as restorative as her soothing words; and Percy, as he listened to her, as she continued speaking to him in the same strain for some little time, felt more relieved than five minutes before he thought possible, and more than ever determined that he would never act so thoughtlessly; or, if he were tempted to do so, never keep it concealed so long again. Mrs. Hamilton's anxious desire with him was, always to do justice to his better qualities, at the same time that she blamed and convinced him of his faults. It was a very delicate thing, and very difficult to succeed in, perhaps impossible to minds less peculiarly refined, and hearts less intensely anxious than Mrs. Hamilton's; but no difficulty, no failure, had ever deterred her--and in Percy she was already rewarded. He was of that high, fine spirit, that any unjust harshness would have actually confirmed in error--any unguarded word bring argument on argument, and so, for the mere sake of opposition, cause him to abide in his opinions, when the acknowledgment of his being right in some things, produced the voluntary confession of his error in others.

"And now about these unfortunate verses, my dear boy; I am not quite clear as to their fate, how it happened that you did not destroy them directly you returned home."

"I fully intended, and believed I had done so, mother, but the whirl of that night seemed to extend to the morning, and I dressed and prepared for Mr. Howard in such a hurry (I had overslept myself, too), that though I had quite resolved they should not pollute my pocket-book any longer, I had no time to look over my papers--thought I could not be mistaken in their outside--burnt those I really wished to keep, and threw those which have caused me all this pain into my portfolio. If I had but been firm enough to have followed my father's advice, and left my companions before supper!--or, if I did join them, had not been so weak, so mad, as to yield to the temptation, but adhered to my principles, notwithstanding they might have been laughed at, I might have been spared it all; but I was so excited, so heated, with a more than sufficient quant.i.ty of wine, that I did not know what I was about--not its extent of wrong, at least."

"And you have suffered enough for an evening's excitement, my poor boy; but I am sure you would atone for it, if you could."

"Atone for it, mother! I would give all I possess to cancel that odious poem, and blot it from Mr. Morton's memory, as from my own."

"And I think you can do both, Percy."

He looked at her in utter bewilderment.

"Do both, mother!" he repeated.

"Yes, my boy! it is a painful remedy, but it would be an effectual one.

Seek Mr. Morton, and tell him yourself your whole story."

Percy crimsoned to the very temples.

"Do not ask me such a thing, mother," he answered very hurriedly; "I can not do it."

"You think so at this moment, my dear boy; I am not at all astonished that you should, for it will be very humiliating, and very painful; and if I could spare you either the humiliation or the pain, yet produce the same good effects, I need not tell you how gladly I would; but no one can remove the sting of that poem from Mr. Morton's sensitive feelings but yourself; and I am quite sure if you will allow yourself a little time for quiet thought, you will agree with me."

"But why should I inflict such pain upon myself, granting I deserve it?"

answered Percy, still much heated; "when, though my poem is the only one that has unfortunately met his eye, the others were quite as galling, and my companions quite as much to blame--why should I be the sufferer?"

"Because, by many errors, you have brought it on yourself. Your companions did indeed act very wrongly, but are we quite sure that the principles which your father and Mr. Howard have so carefully impressed upon you, have been as carefully impressed upon them? and in such a case are not you the more responsible? They had evidently no inward check to keep them from such an amus.e.m.e.nt; you had, for you have acknowledged that you kept aloof at first, _knowing it was wrong_, and only yielded from want of sufficient firmness. Inflict the pain of an avowal upon yourself, my boy, and its memory will help you in future from yielding to too great weakness--and the act prove to us that, though for a moment led into great error, you are still as brave and honest as we believe you."

Percy did not reply, but his countenance denoted an inward struggle, and his mother added--

"Suppose, as is very likely, Mr. Morton becomes intimate here, how can you, with your open, truthful heart, a.s.sociate with him, with any comfort or confidence even though perfectly satisfied that we would not betray you, and that he would never know the truth? You may fancy now that you could, but I know my Percy better; but I must not talk to you any more, for the dressing-bell rang some minutes ago. Remember, my dear boy, that I lay no command on you to seek Mr. Morton; I have only told you that which I believe would restore you to happiness and atone for your faults, more effectually than any thing else; but you are quite at liberty to act as you think proper."

She left the room as she spoke, but Percy remained for some few minutes longer in deep thought, and when he prepared for dinner, and joined his family, it was still in the same unbroken silence. Mr. Hamilton took no notice of him, and two or three times the little affectionate Emmeline felt the tears rising to her eyes, for she could not bear to see that brother, who was in general the life of the family group, so silent and abstracted.

Sliding after him, as he quitted the room after dinner, she took his hand, and looked coaxingly in his face, longing, but not daring to tell him her father's promise, for fear he should discover her share in the transaction.

"Well, dear Emmy?"

"Are you going to take a walk, Percy?--let me go with you."

"I do not think I am, love. I may be going to ride."

"To ride!" repeated the little girl; "will it be worth while?"

"You forget, Emmy, it is summer now, I have full four hours before prayers; but do not say any thing about my intentions, Emmeline, for I do not know them myself yet."

He kissed her forehead and left her, and a few minutes afterward she was summoned to join her mother, Caroline, and Ellen, in a walk. They sauntered through the grounds in the direction of the northern lodge, which opened on the road leading to Dartmoor; when, not a quarter of an hour after they had left the house, they were overtaken by Percy, riding at what seemed almost a hand gallop, but he had time as he pa.s.sed his mother to gracefully doff his cap, and her fond heart throbbed, as she caught the expression of his flushed, but earnest face. He was out of sight in another moment, followed by Robert, who was the lads' constant attendant.

Before they had concluded their walk, they met Mrs. Greville and Mary, and returned with them to the house. Emmeline, who had not seen Mary for nearly a fortnight, was in an ecstasy of enjoyment, and Ellen always felt it a real pleasure quietly to walk by Mary's side, and answer the many questions with which she always contrived to interest her. On entering the house, Mr. Hamilton, Herbert, and Edward joined them, and Mrs. Hamilton was somewhat surprised at the even more than ordinary warmth with which her son was greeted by her friends, and at the flush which stained his cheek at Mrs. Greville's first words--

"You were not too much fatigued last Thursday, I hope, my dear Herbert?"

she inquired, and as she looked at him, her eyes glistened in tears.

"Oh, not in the least," he replied instantly, and as if he would exceedingly like to change the subject; but Mrs. Greville, turning to Mrs. Hamilton, continued--

"Will you forgive me, Emmeline, if I confess that my visit this evening was more to inquire after your son, than even to see you. I was so anxious to know that he had suffered no inconvenience from his unusual, and I am sure fatiguing, exertion."

"I suppose I must not be jealous, as you are so candid," replied Mrs.

Hamilton, smiling; "but I feel very much inclined to be so, finding that you are more in my son's confidence than I am myself. I know Herbert was from home on Thursday, but I was not aware of any particular exertion on his part."

"Did you not know then where he went?" exclaimed Mary and her mother at the same moment; and the former continued, with unusual eagerness, "Did you not know that he went to the races, to try and hear something of Alfred? and that by hunting about both the fair and the race-ground--scenes which I know he so much dislikes--he actually found him, and amused him so successfully, that he kept him with him all day.

Papa was so engaged that he had no time to look after Alfred, who, from being left entirely to himself, might have sought the worst companions; I can not think what charm Herbert used, but Alfred was quite contented to be with him; they dined together, and--"

"He brought me what, next to my boy himself, was the greatest consolation I could have," interposed Mrs. Greville, her voice so faltering, that tears almost escaped,--"a few lines which, he a.s.sures me, Alfred thought of writing himself, telling me, he could not bear to think he had left home without kissing me, and that, though he was so happy with his father, that he could not wish to return home, he still loved me and Mary very, very much, and would continue to love us, and come and see us, whenever he could. Oh, Emmeline, can you not imagine the relief of such a letter, of hearing of him at all? and it was all through the kindness, the goodness of your boy!"

When Mrs. Greville and Mary had first begun to speak, Herbert tried to retreat; but Edward placing himself against the door, so that to open it was impossible, and Caroline and Emmeline, both at once catching hold of him, to keep him prisoner, egress was not to be thought of; so, in laughing despair, he broke from his sisters, flung himself on his usual seat, his mother's stool, and almost hid himself in her dress.

"It must have been a relief, indeed," answered Mr. Hamilton; "and rejoiced am I that my quiet Herbert thought of such a plan. Look up, Master Shamefaced, and tell us the reason of your most extraordinary mystery on this occasion. Why did you so carefully conceal your intentions from your mother and myself?"

"Because, papa, I feared you might not approve of them; I hardly dared think about it myself, for it seemed as if I were doing actually wrong in disregarding your principles, for only the _chance_ of effecting good. I know, if I had mentioned my wish to find Alfred, or hear something about him, you would not have refused my going; but then mamma must have known it, and she would have been anxious and uncomfortable, if I had not appeared the very moment I had named; would you not?" he continued, looking up in her face with that expression of affection, which very few, even comparative strangers, had power to remit.

"I should indeed, my dear boy; I fear I should have condemned your scheme as a very wild one, and really am glad you thought so much of my comfort, as not to tell me more than you did. So I must not even be jealous, Jessie, but rather propose a vote of thanks to you and Mary for solving the mystery. I do not think Herbert ever excited so much curiosity and speculation, in his life, before."

The entrance of Mr. Grahame changed the current of the conversation, greatly to Herbert's relief, for he did not at all like being thus brought forward. Austere as Grahame was at home, he was always welcomed with pleasure by the young Hamiltons, who never could understand why Annie and Cecil should so fear him. That something unusual had annoyed him, Mr. Hamilton perceived at the first glance; but he took no notice, for Grahame seemed to find relief in talking gayly to the young people.

"And where is my friend Percy?" he inquired, as he joined the happy group at tea, and Percy was still absent. Mr. Hamilton repeated the question in some surprise; but his wife replying that he had gone to ride, and might not be back yet, the subject dropped.

After tea, Mrs. Greville and Mary, attended by Herbert and Edward, returned to the Manor; and the little girls went to finish some business for the next day, and amuse themselves as they liked. Grahame remained alone with his friends, who at length drew from him the cause of his solicitude. He had that morning discovered, that, notwithstanding his positive commands, Cecil had gone to the prohibited places of amus.e.m.e.nt.

His wife had prevaricated when he questioned her; at one moment almost denying her connivance at the boy's disobedience, at another unconsciously acknowledging it, by insisting that there was no harm in it; and if Grahame would persist in so interfering with his children's amus.e.m.e.nts, he must expect to be disobeyed. If such were his home, where was he to look for truth, honor, and affection? What would be his son's after career, if such were the lessons of his childhood? He had punished him severely, but there was little hope of its producing any good effect, when his wife was yet more to blame than his child. It would only alienate the boy's affections still more from him. Yet what could he do? Could he let such disobedience and untruthfulness--for Cecil had denied his having been at the races--pa.s.s unnoticed? He had shut himself up in his library the remainder of the day; but at length, unable to bear his own thoughts, had walked over to Oakwood, feeling sure, if peace were to be found, he should find it there.