CHAPTER I. THE AUTHOR’S
PEDIGREE,—ALSO THAT OF HIS FATHER.
The philosopher who broaches a
new theory is bound to furnish, at least, some elementary proofs of
the reasonableness of his positions, and the historian who ventures
to record marvels that have hitherto been hid from human knowledge,
owes it to a decent regard to the opinions of others, to produce
some credible testimony in favor of his veracity. I am peculiarly
placed in regard to these two great essentials having little more
than its plausibility to offer in favor of my philosophy, and no
other witness than myself to establish the important facts that are
now about to be laid before the reading world for the first time.
In this dilemma, I fully feel the weight of responsibility under
which I stand; for there are truths of so little apparent
probability as to appear fictitious, and fictions so like the truth
that the ordinary observer is very apt to affirm that he was an
eye-witness to their existence: two facts that all our historians
would do well to bear in mind, since a knowledge of the
circumstances might spare them the mortification of having
testimony that cost a deal of trouble, discredited in the one case,
and save a vast deal of painful and unnecessary labor, in the
other. Thrown upon myself, therefore, for what the French call les
pieces justificatives of my theories, as well as of my facts, I see
no better way to prepare the reader to believe me, than by giving
an unvarnished the result of the orange- woman’s application; for
had my worthy ancestor been subjected to the happy accidents and
generous caprices of voluntary charity, it is more than probable I
should be driven to throw a veil over those important years of his
life that were notoriously passed in the work-house, but which, in
consequence of that occurrence, are now easily authenticated by
valid minutes and documentary evidence. Thus it is that there
exists no void in the annals of our family, even that period which
is usually remembered through gossiping and idle tales in the lives
of most men, being matter of legal record in that of my progenitor,
and so continued to be down to the day of his presumed majority,
since he was indebted to a careful master the moment the parish
could with any legality, putting decency quite out of the question,
get rid of him. I ought to have said, that the orange-woman, taking
a hint from the sign of a butcher opposite to whose door my
ancestor was found, had very cleverly given him the name of Thomas
Goldencalf.
This second important transition
in the affairs of my father, might be deemed a presage of his
future fortunes. He was bound apprentice to a trader in fancy
articles, or a shopkeeper who dealt in such objects as are usually
purchased by those who do not well know what to do with their
money. This trade was of immense advantage to the future prosperity
of the young adventurer; for, in addition to the known fact that
they who amuse are much better paid than they who instruct their
fellow-creatures, his situation enabled him to study those caprices
of men, which, properly improved, are of themselves a mine of
wealth, as well as to gain a knowledge of the important truth that
the greatest events of this life are much oftener the result of
impulse than of calculation.
I have it by a direct tradition,
orally conveyed from the lips of my ancestor, that no one could be
more lucky than himself in the character of his master. This
personage, who
came, in time, to be my maternal
grandfather, was one of those wary traders who encourage others in
their follies, with a view to his own advantage, and the experience
of fifty years had rendered him so expert in the practices of his
calling, that it was seldom he struck out a new vein in his mine,
without finding himself rewarded for the enterprise, by a success
that was fully equal to his expectations.
“Tom,” he said one day to his
apprentice, when time had produced confidence and awakened
sympathies between them, “thou art a lucky youth, or the parish
officer would never have brought thee to my door. Thou little
knowest the wealth that is in store for thee, or the treasures that
are at thy command, if thou provest diligent, and in particular
faithful to my interests.” My provident grandfather never missed an
occasion to throw in a useful moral, notwithstanding the general
character of veracity that distinguished his commerce. “Now, what
dost think, lad, may be the amount of my capital?”
My ancestor in the male line
hesitated to reply, for, hitherto, his ideas had been confined to
the profits; never having dared to lift his thoughts as high as
that source from which he could not but see they flowed in a very
ample stream; but thrown upon himself by so unexpected a question,
and being quick at figures, after adding ten per cent. to the sum
which he knew the last year had given as the net avail of their
joint ingenuity, he named the amount, in answered to the
interrogatory.
My maternal grandfather laughed
in the face of my direct lineal ancestor.
“Thou judgest, Tom,” he said,
when his mirth was a little abated, “by what thou thinkest is the
cost of the actual stock before thine eyes, when thou shouldst take
into the account that which I term our floating capital.”
Tom pondered a moment, for while
he knew that his master had money in the funds, he did not account
that as any portion of the available means connected with his
ordinary business; and as for a floating capital, he did not well
see how it could be of much account, since the disproportion
between the cost and the selling prices of the different articles
in which they dealt was so great, that there was no particular use
in such an investment. As his master, however, rarely paid for
anything until he was in possession of returns from it that
exceeded the debt some seven-fold, he began to think the old man
was alluding to the advantages he obtained in the way of credit,
and after a little more cogitation, he ventured to say as
much.
Again my maternal grandfather
indulged in a hearty fit of laughter.
“Thou art clever in thy way,
Tom,” he said, “and I like the minuteness of thy calculations, for
they show an aptitude for trade; but there is genius in our calling
as well as cleverness. Come hither, boy,” he added, drawing Tom to
a window whence they could see the neighbors on their way to
church, for it was on a Sunday that my two provident progenitors
indulged in this moral view of humanity, as best fitted the day,
“come hither, boy, and thou shalt see some small portion of that
capital which thou seemest to think hid, stalking abroad by
daylight, and in the open streets. Here, thou seest the wife of our
neighbor, the pastry-cook; with what an air she tosses her head and
displays the bauble thou sold’st her yesterday: well, even that
slattern, idle and vain, and little worthy of trust as she is,
carries about with her a portion of my capital!”
My worthy ancestor stared, for he
never knew the other to be guilty of so great an
indiscretion as to trust a woman
whom they both knew bought more than her husband was willing to pay
for.
“She gave me a guinea, master,
for that which did not cost a seven-shilling piece!”
“She did, indeed, Tom, and it was
her vanity that urged her to it. I trade upon her folly, younker,
and upon that of all mankind; now dost thou see with what a capital
I carry on affairs? There—there is the maid, carrying the idle
hussy’s patterns in the rear; I drew upon my stock in that wench’s
possession, no later than the last week, for half-a-crown!”
Tom reflected a long time on
these allusions of his provident master, and although he understood
them about as well as they will be understood by the owners of half
the soft humid eyes and sprouting whiskers among my readers, by
dint of cogitation he came at last to a practical understanding of
the subject, which before he was thirty he had, to use a French
term, pretty well exploite.
I learn by unquestionable
tradition, received also from the mouths of his contemporaries,
that the opinions of my ancestor underwent some material changes
between the ages of ten and forty, a circumstance that has often
led me to reflect that people might do well not to be too confident
of the principles, during the pliable period of life, when the
mind, like the tender shoot, is easily bent aside and subjected to
the action of surrounding causes.
During the earlier years of the
plastic age, my ancestor was observed to betray strong feelings of
compassion at the sight of charity-children, nor was he ever known
to pass a child, especially a boy that was still in petticoats, who
was crying with hunger in the streets, without sharing his own
crust with him. Indeed, his practice on this head was said to be
steady and uniform, whenever the rencontre took place after my
worthy father had had his own sympathies quickened by a good
dinner; a fact that maybe imputed to a keener sense of the pleasure
he was about to confer.
After sixteen, he was known to
converse occasionally on the subject of politics, a topic on which
he came to be both expert and eloquent before twenty. His usual
theme was justice and the sacred rights of man, concerning which he
sometimes uttered very pretty sentiments, and such as were
altogether becoming in one who was at the bottom of the great
social pot that was then, as now, actively boiling, and where he
was made to feel most, the heat that kept it in ebullition. I am
assured that on the subject of taxation, and on that of the wrongs
of America and Ireland, there were few youths in the parish who
could discourse with more zeal and unction. About this time, too,
he was heard shouting “Wilkes and liberty!” in the public
streets.
But, as is the case with all men
of rare capacities, there was a concentration of powers in the mind
of my ancestor, which soon brought all his errant sympathies, the
mere exuberance of acute and overflowing feelings, into a proper
and useful subjection, centring all in the one absorbing and
capacious receptacle of self. I do not claim for my father any
peculiar quality in this respect, for I have often observed that
many of those who (like giddy-headed horsemen that raise a great
dust, and scamper as if the highway were too narrow for their
eccentric courses, before they are fairly seated in the saddle, but
who afterward drive as directly at their goals as the arrow parting
from the bow), most indulge their sympathies at the commencement of
their careers, are the most apt toward
the close to get a proper command
of their feelings, and to reduce them within the bounds of common
sense and prudence. Before five-and-twenty, my father was as
exemplary and as constant a devotee of Plutus as was then to be
found between Ratcliffe Highway and Bridge Street:—I name these
places in particular, as all the rest of the great capital in which
he was born is known to be more indifferent to the subject of
money.
My ancestor was just thirty, when
his master, who like himself was a bachelor, very unexpectedly, and
a good deal to the scandal of the neighborhood, introduced a new
inmate into his frugal abode, in the person of an infant female
child. It would seem that some one had been speculating on his
stock of weakness too, for this poor, little, defenceless, and
dependent being was thrown upon his care, like Tom himself, through
the vigilance of the parish officers. There were many good-natured
jokes practised on the prosperous fancy-dealer, by the more witty
of his neighbors, at this sudden turn of good fortune, and not a
few ill-natured sneers were given behind his back; most of the
knowing ones of the vicinity finding a stronger likeness between
the little girl and all the other unmarried men of the eight or ten
adjoining streets, than to the worthy housekeeper who had been
selected to pay for her support. I have been much disposed to admit
the opinions of these amiable observers as authority in my own
pedigree, since it would be reaching the obscurity in which all
ancient lines take root, a generation earlier, than by allowing the
presumption that little Betsey was my direct male ancestor’s
master’s daughter; but, on reflection, I have determined to adhere
to the less popular but more simple version of the affair, because
it is connected with the transmission of no small part of our
estate, a circumstance of itself that at once gives dignity and
importance to a genealogy.
Whatever may have been the real
opinion of the reputed father touching his rights to the honors of
that respectable title, he soon became as strongly attached to the
child, as if it really owed its existence to himself. The little
girl was carefully nursed, abundantly fed, and throve accordingly.
She had reached her third year, when the fancy-dealer took the
smallpox from his little pet, who was just recovering from the same
disease, and died at the expiration of the tenth day.
This was an unlooked-for and
stunning blow to my ancestor, who was then in his thirty- fifth
year and the head shopman of the establishment, which had continued
to grow with the growing follies and vanities of the age. On
examining his master’s will, it was found that my father, who had
certainly aided materially of late in the acquisition of the money,
was left the good-will of the shop, the command of all the stock at
cost, and the sole executorship of the estate. He was also
intrusted with the exclusive guardianship of little Betsey, to whom
his master had affectionately devised every farthing of his
property. An ordinary reader may be surprised that a man who had so
long practised on the foibles of his species, should have so much
confidence in a mere shopman, as to leave his whole estate so
completely in his power; but, it must be remembered, that human
ingenuity has not yet devised any means by which we can carry our
personal effects into the other world; that “what cannot be cured
must be endured”; that he must of necessity have confided this
important trust to some fellow-creature, and that it was better to
commit the keeping of his money to one who, knowing the secret by
which it had been accumulated, had less inducement to be dishonest,
than one who was exposed to the temptation of covetousness, without
having a knowledge of any direct and legal means of gratifying his
longings. It has been conjectured, therefore, that the testator
thought, by giving up his
trade to a man who was as keenly
alive as my ancestor to all its perfections, moral and pecuniary,
he provided a sufficient protection against his falling into the
sin of peculation, by so amply supplying him with simpler means of
enriching himself. Besides, it is fair to presume that the long
acquaintance had begotten sufficient confidence to weaken the
effect of that saying which some wit has put into the mouth of a
wag, “Make me your executor, father; I care not to whom you leave
the estate.” Let all this be as it might, nothing can be more
certain than that my worthy ancestor executed his trust with the
scrupulous fidelity of a man whose integrity had been severely
schooled in the ethics of trade. Little Betsey was properly
educated for one in her condition of life; her health was as
carefully watched over as if she had been the only daughter of the
sovereign instead of the only daughter of a fancy-dealer; her
morals were superintended by a superannuated old maid; her mind
left to its original purity; her person jealously protected against
the designs of greedy fortune-hunters; and, to complete the
catalogue of his paternal attentions and solicitudes, my vigilant
and faithful ancestor, to prevent accidents, and to counteract the
chances of life, so far as it might be done by human foresight, saw
that she was legally married, the day she reached her nineteenth
year, to the person whom, there is every reason to think, he
believed to be the most unexceptionable man of his acquaintance—in
other words, to himself. Settlements were unnecessary between
parties who had so long been known to each other, and, thanks to
the liberality of his late master’s will in more ways than one, a
long minority, and the industry of the ci-devant head shopman, the
nuptial benediction was no sooner pronounced, than our family
stepped into the undisputed possession of four hundred thousand
pounds. One less scrupulous on the subject of religion and the law,
might not have thought it necessary to give the orphan heiress a
settlement so satisfactory, at the termination of her
wardship.
I was the fifth of the children
who were the fruits of this union, and the only one of them all
that passed the first year of its life. My poor mother did not
survive my birth, and I can only record her qualities through the
medium of that great agent in the archives of the family,
tradition. By all that I have heard, she must have been a meek,
quiet, domestic woman; who, by temperament and attainments, was
admirably qualified to second the prudent plans of my father for
her welfare. If she had causes of complaint, (and that she had,
there is too much reason to think, for who has ever escaped them?)
they were concealed, with female fidelity, in the sacred repository
of her own heart; and if truant imagination sometimes dimly drew an
outline of married happiness different from the fact that stood in
dull reality before her eyes, the picture was merely commented on
by a sigh, and consigned to a cabinet whose key none ever touched
but herself, and she seldom.
Of this subdued and unobtrusive
sorrow, for I fear it sometimes reached that intensity of feeling,
my excellent and indefatigable ancestor appeared to have no
suspicion. He pursued his ordinary occupations with his ordinary
single-minded devotion, and the last thing that would have crossed
his brain was the suspicion that he had not punctiliously done his
duty by his ward. Had he acted otherwise, none surely would have
suffered more by his delinquency than her husband, and none would
have a better right to complain. Now, as her husband never dreamt
of making such an accusation, it is not at all surprising that my
ancestor remained in ignorance of his wife’s feelings at the hour
of his death.
It has been said that the
opinions of the successor of the fancy-dealer underwent some
essential changes between the ages of ten and forty. After he had
reached his twenty-
second year, or, in other words,
the moment he began to earn money for himself, as well as for his
master, he ceased to cry “Wilkes and liberty!” He was not heard to
breathe a syllable concerning the obligations of society toward the
weak and unfortunate, for the five years that succeeded his
majority; he touched lightly on Christian duties in general, after
he got to be worth fifty pounds of his own; and as for railing at
human follies, it would have been rank ingratitude in one who so
very unequivocally got his bread by them. About this time, his
remarks on the subject of taxation, however, were singularly
caustic, and well applied. He railed at the public debt, as a
public curse, and ominously predicted the dissolution of society,
in consequence of the burdens and incumbrances it was hourly
accumulating on the already overloaded shoulders of the
trader.
The period of his marriage and
his succession to the hoardings of his former master, may be dated
as the second epocha in the opinions of my ancestor. From this
moment his ambition expanded, his views enlarged in proportion to
his means, and his contemplations on the subject of his great
floating capital became more profound and philosophical. A man of
my ancestor’s native sagacity, whose whole soul was absorbed in the
pursuit of gain, who had so long been forming his mind, by dealing
as it were with the elements of human weaknesses, and who already
possessed four hundred thousand pounds, was very likely to strike
out for himself some higher road to eminence, than that in which he
had been laboriously journeying, during the years of painful
probation. The property of my mother had been chiefly invested in
good bonds and mortgages; her protector, patron, benefactor, and
legalized father, having an unconquerable repugnance to confiding
in that soulless, conventional, nondescript body corporate, the
public. The first indication that was given by my ancestor of a
change of purpose in the direction of his energies, was by calling
in the whole of his outstanding debts, and adopting the Napoleon
plan of operations, by concentrating his forces on a particular
point, in order that he might operate in masses. About this time,
too, he suddenly ceased railing at taxation. This change may be
likened to that which occurs in the language of the ministerial
journals, when they cease abusing any foreign state with whom the
nation has been carrying on a war, that it is, at length, believed
politic to terminate; and for much the same reason, as it was the
intention of my thrifty ancestor to make an ally of a power that he
had hitherto always treated as an enemy. The whole of the four
hundred thousand pounds were liberally intrusted to the country,
the former fancy-dealer’s apprentice entering the arena of virtuous
and patriotic speculation, as a bull; and, if with more caution,
with at least some portion of the energy and obstinacy of the
desperate animal that gives title to this class of adventurers.
Success crowned his laudable efforts; gold rolled in upon him like
water on a flood, buoying him up, soul and body, to that enviable
height, where, as it would seem, just views can alone be taken of
society in its innumerable phases. All his former views of life,
which, in common with others of a similar origin and similar
political sentiments, he had imbibed in early years, and which
might with propriety be called near views, were now completely
obscured by the sublimer and broader prospect that was spread
before him.
I am afraid the truth will compel
me to admit, that my ancestor was never charitable in the vulgar
acceptation of the term; but then, he always maintained that his
interest in his fellow-creatures was of a more elevated cast,
taking a comprehensive glance at all the bearings of good and
evil—being of the sort of love which induces the parent to
correct
the child, that the lesson of
present suffering may produce the blessings of future
respectability and usefulness. Acting on these principles, he
gradually grew more estranged from his species in appearance, a
sacrifice that was probably exacted by the severity of his
practical reproofs for their growing wickedness, and the austere
policy that was necessary to enforce them. By this time, my
ancestor was also thoroughly impressed with what is called the
value of money; a sentiment which, I believe, gives its possessor a
livelier perception than common of the dangers of the precious
metals, as well as of their privileges and uses. He expatiated
occasionally on the guaranties that it was necessary to give to
society, for its own security; never even voted for a parish
officer unless he were a warm substantial citizen; and began to be
a subscriber to the patriotic fund, and to the other similar little
moral and pecuniary buttresses of the government, whose common and
commendable object was, to protect our country, our altars, and our
firesides.
The death-bed of my mother has
been described to me as a touching and melancholy scene. It appears
that as this meek and retired woman was extricated from the coil of
mortality, her intellect grew brighter, her powers of discernment
stronger, and her character in every respect more elevated and
commanding. Although she had said much less about our firesides and
altars than her husband, I see no reason to doubt that she had ever
been quite as faithful as he could be to the one, and as much
devoted to the other. I shall describe the important event of her
passage from this to a better world, as I have often had it
repeated from the lips of one who was present, and who has had an
important agency in since making me the man I am. This person was
the clergyman of the parish, a pious divine, a learned man, and a
gentleman in feeling as well as by extraction.
My mother, though long conscious
that she was drawing near to her last great account, had steadily
refused to draw her husband from his absorbing pursuits, by
permitting him to be made acquainted with her situation. He knew
that she was ill; very ill, as he had reason to think; but, as he
not only allowed her, but even volunteered to order her all the
advice and relief that money could command (my ancestor was not a
miser in the vulgar meaning of the word), he thought that he had
done all that man could do, in a case of life and death
—interests over which he
professed to have no control. He saw Dr. Etherington, the rector,
come and go daily, for a month, without uneasiness or apprehension,
for he thought his discourse had a tendency to tranquillize my
mother, and he had a strong affection for all that left him
undisturbed, to the enjoyment of the occupation in which his whole
energies were now completely centred. The physician got his guinea
at each visit, with scrupulous punctuality; the nurses were well
received and were well satisfied, for no one interfered with their
acts but the doctor; and every ordinary duty of commission was as
regularly discharged by my ancestor, as if the sinking and resigned
creature from whom he was about to be forever separated had been
the spontaneous choice of his young and fresh affections.
When, therefore, a servant
entered to say that Dr. Etherington desired a private interview, my
worthy ancestor, who had no consciousness of having neglected any
obligation that became a friend of church and state, was in no
small measure surprised.
“I come, Mr. Goldencalf, on a
melancholy duty,” said the pious rector, entering the private
cabinet to which his application had for the first time obtained
his admission; “the fatal secret can no longer be concealed from
you, and your wife at length consents that I
shall be the instrument of
revealing it.”
The Doctor paused; for on such
occasions it is perhaps as well to let the party that is about to
be shocked receive a little of the blow through his own
imagination; and busily enough was that of my poor father said to
be exercised on this painful occasion. He grew pale, opened his
eyes until they again filled the sockets into which they had
gradually been sinking for twenty years, and looked a hundred
questions that his tongue refused to put.
“It cannot be, Doctor,” he at
length querulously said, “that a woman like Betsey has got an
inkling into any of the events connected with the last great secret
expedition, and which have escaped my jealousy and
experience?”
“I am afraid, dear sir, that Mrs.
Goldencalf has obtained glimpses of the last great and secret
expedition on which we must all, sooner or later, embark, that have
entirely escaped your vigilance. But of this I will speak some
other time. At present it is my painful duty to inform you it is
the opinion of the physician that your excellent wife cannot
outlive the day, if, indeed, she do the hour.”
My father was struck with this
intelligence, and for more than a minute he remained silent and
without motion. Casting his eyes toward the papers on which he had
lately been employed, and which contained some very important
calculations connected with the next settling day, he at length
resumed:
“If this be really so, Doctor, it
may be well for me to go to her, since one in the situation of the
poor woman may indeed have something of importance to
communicate.”
“It is with this object that I
have now come to tell you the truth,” quietly answered the divine,
who knew that nothing was to be gained by contending with the
besetting weakness of such a man, at such a moment.
My father bent his head in
assent, and, first carefully enclosing the open papers in a
secretary, he followed his companion to the bedside of his dying
wife.
CHAPTER II. TOUCHING MYSELF AND
TEN THOUSAND POUNDS.
Although my ancestor was much too
wise to refuse to look back upon his origin in a worldly point of
view, he never threw his retrospective glances so far as to reach
the sublime mystery of his moral existence; and while his thoughts
might be said to be ever on the stretch to attain glimpses into the
future, they were by far too earthly to extend beyond any other
settling day than those which were regulated by the ordinances of
the stock exchange. With him, to be born was but the commencement
of a speculation, and to die was to determine the general balance
of profit and loss. A man who had so rarely meditated on the grave
changes of mortality, therefore, was consequently so much the less
prepared to gaze upon the visible solemnities of a death-bed.
Although he had never truly loved my mother, for love was a
sentiment much too pure and elevated for one whose imagination
dwelt habitually on the beauties of the stock-books, he had ever
been kind to her, and of late he was even much disposed, as has
already been stated, to contribute as much to her temporal comforts
as comported with his pursuits and habits. On the other hand, the
quiet temperament of my mother required some more exciting cause
than the affections of her husband, to quicken those germs of deep,
placid, womanly love, that certainly lay dormant in her heart, like
seed withering with the ungenial cold of winter. The last meeting
of such a pair was not likely to be attended with any violent
outpourings of grief.
My ancestor, notwithstanding, was
deeply struck with the physical changes in the appearance of his
wife.
“Thou art much emaciated,
Betsey,” he said, taking her hand kindly, after a long and solemn
pause; “much more so than I had thought, or could have believed!
Dost nurse give thee comforting soups and generous
nourishment?”
My mother smiled the ghastly
smile of death; but waved her hand, with loathing, at his
suggestion.
“All this is now too late, Mr.
Goldencalf,” she answered, speaking with a distinctness and an
energy for which she had long been reserving her strength. “Food
and raiment are no longer among my wants.”
“Well, well, Betsey, one that is
in want of neither food nor raiment, cannot be said to be in great
suffering, after all; and I am glad that thou art so much at ease.
Dr. Etherington tells me thou art far from being well bodily,
however, and I am come expressly to see if I can order anything
that will help to make thee more easy.”
“Mr. Goldencalf, you can. My
wants for this life are nearly over; a short hour or two
will remove me beyond the world,
its cares, its vanities, its—” My poor mother probably meant to
add, its heartlessness or its selfishness; but she rebuked herself,
and paused: “By the mercy of our blessed Redeemer, and through the
benevolent agency of this excellent man,” she resumed, glancing her
eye upwards at first with holy reverence, and then at the divine
with meek gratitude, “I quit you without alarm, and were it not for
one thing, I might say without care.”
“And what is there to distress
thee, in particular, Betsey?” asked my father, blowing his nose,
and speaking with unusual tenderness; “if it be in my power to set
thy heart at ease on this, or on any other point, name it, and I
will give orders to have it immediately performed. Thou hast been a
good pious woman, and canst have little to reproach thyself
with.”
My mother looked earnestly and
wistfully at her husband. Never before had he betrayed so strong an
interest in her happiness, and had it not, alas! been too late,
this glimmering of kindness might have lighted the matrimonial
torch into a brighter flame than had ever yet glowed upon the
past.
“Mr. Goldencalf, we have an only
son—”
“We have, Betsey, and it may
gladden thee to hear that the physician thinks the boy more likely
to live than either of his poor brothers and sisters.”
I cannot explain the holy and
mysterious principle of maternal nature that caused my mother to
clasp her hands, to raise her eyes to heaven, and, while a gleam
flitted athwart her glassy eyes and wan cheeks, to murmur her
thanks to God for the boon. She was herself hastening away to the
eternal bliss of the pure of mind and the redeemed, and her
imagination, quiet and simple as it was, had drawn pictures in
which she and her departed babes were standing before the throne of
the Most High, chanting his glory, and shining amid the stars—and
yet was she now rejoicing that the last and the most cherished of
all her offsprings was likely to be left exposed to the evils, the
vices, nay, to the enormities, of the state of being that she
herself so willingly resigned.
“It is of our boy that I wish now
to speak, Mr. Goldencalf,” replied my mother, when her secret
devotion was ended. “The child will have need of instruction and
care; in short, of both mother and father.”
“Betsey, thou forgettest that he
will still have the latter.”
“You are much wrapped up in your
business, Mr. Goldencalf, and are not, in other respects, qualified
to educate a boy born to the curse and to the temptations of
immense riches.”
My excellent ancestor looked as
if he thought his dying consort had in sooth finally taken leave of
her senses.
“There are public schools,
Betsey; I promise thee the child shall not be forgotten: I will
have him well taught, though it cost me a thousand a year!”
His wife reached forth her
emaciated hand to that of my father, and pressed the latter with as
much force as a dying mother could use. For a fleet moment she even
appeared to have gotten rid of her latest care. But the knowledge
of character that had been acquired
by the hard experience of thirty
years, was not to be unsettled by the gratitude of a moment.
“I wish, Mr. Goldencalf,” she
anxiously resumed, “to receive your solemn promise to commit the
education of our boy to Dr. Etherington—you know his worth, and
must have full confidence in such a man.”
“Nothing would give me greater
satisfaction, my dear Betsey; and if Dr. Etherington will consent
to receive him, I will send Jack to his house this very evening;
for, to own the truth, I am but little qualified to take charge of
a child under a year old. A hundred a year, more or less, shall not
spoil so good a bargain.”
The divine was a gentleman, and
he looked grave at this speech, though, meeting the anxious eyes of
my mother, his own lost their displeasure in a glance of
reassurance and pity.
“The charges of his education
will be easily settled, Mr. Goldencalf,” added my mother; “but the
Doctor has consented with difficulty to take the responsibility of
my poor babe, and that only under two conditions.”
The stock-dealer required an
explanation with his eyes.
“One is, that the child shall be
left solely to his own care, after he has reached his fourth year;
and the other is, that you make an endowment for the support of two
poor scholars, at one of the principal schools.”
As my mother got out the last
words, she fell back on her pillow, whence her interest in the
subject had enabled her to lift her head a little, and she fairly
gasped for breath, in the intensity of her anxiety to hear the
answer. My ancestor contracted his brow, like one who saw it was a
subject that required reflection.
“Thou dost not know perhaps,
Betsey, that these endowments swallow up a great deal of money—a
great deal—and often very uselessly.”
“Ten thousand pounds is the sum
that has been agreed upon between Mrs. Goldencalf and me,” steadily
remarked the Doctor, who, in my soul, I believe had hoped that his
condition would be rejected, having yielded to the importunities of
a dying woman, rather than to his own sense of that which might be
either very desirable or very useful.
“Ten thousand pounds!”
My mother could not speak, though
she succeeded in making an imploring sign of assent.
“Ten thousand pounds is a great
deal of money, my dear Betsey—a very great deal!”
The color of my mother changed to
the hue of death, and by her breathing she appeared to be in the
agony.
“Well, well, Betsey,” said my
father a little hastily, for he was frightened at her pallid
countenance and extreme distress, “have it thine own way—the money,
yes, yes—it shall be given as thou wishest—now set thy kind heart
at rest.”
The revulsion of feeling was too
great for one whose system had been wound up to a state of
excitement like that which had sustained my mother, who, an hour
before, had
seemed scarcely able to speak.
She extended her hand toward her husband, smiled benignantly in his
face, whispered the word “Thanks,” and then, losing all her powers
of body, sank into the last sleep, as tranquilly as the infant
drops its head on the bosom of the nurse. This was, after all, a
sudden, and, in one sense, an unexpected death: all who witnessed
it were struck with awe. My father gazed for a whole minute
intently on the placid features of his wife, and left the room in
silence. He was followed by Dr. Etherington, who accompanied him to
the private apartment where they had first met that night, neither
uttering a syllable until both were seated.
“She was a good woman, Dr.
Etherington!” said the widowed man, shaking his foot with
agitation.
“She was a good woman, Mr.
Goldencalf.” “And a good wife, Dr. Etherington.”
“I have always believed her to be
a good wife, sir.” “Faithful, obedient, and frugal.”
“Three qualities that are of much
practical use in the affairs of this world.” “I shall never marry
again, sir.”
The divine bowed.
“Nay, I never could find such
another match!”
Again the divine inclined his
head, though the assent was accompanied by slight smile. “Well, she
has left me an heir.”
“And brought something that he
might inherit,” observed the Doctor, dryly.
My ancestor looked up inquiringly
at his companion, but apparently most of the sarcasm was thrown
away,
“I resign the child to your care,
Dr. Etherington, conformably to the dying request of my beloved
Betsey.”
“I accept the charge, Mr.
Goldencalf, comformably to my promise to the deceased; but you will
remember that there was a condition coupled with that promise which
must be faithfully and promptly fulfilled.”
My ancestor was too much
accustomed to respect the punctilios of trade, whose code admits of
frauds only in certain categories, which are sufficiently explained
in its conventional rules of honor; a sort of specified morality,
that is bottomed more on the convenience of its votaries than on
the general law of right. He respected the letter of his promise
while his soul yearned to avoid its spirit; and his wits were
already actively seeking the means of doing that which he so much
desired.
“I did make a promise to poor
Betsey, certainly,” he answered, in the way of one who pondered,
“and it was a promise, too, made under very solemn
circumstances.”
“The promises made to the dead
are doubly binding; since, by their departure to the world of
spirits, it may be said they leave the performance to the
exclusive
superintendence of the Being who
cannot lie.”
My ancestor quailed; his whole
frame shuddered, and his purpose was shaken.
“Poor Betsey left you as her
representative in this case, however, Doctor,” he observed, after
the delay of more than a minute, casting his eyes wistfully towards
the divine.
“In one sense, she certainly did,
sir.”
“And a representative with full
powers is legally a principal under a different name. I think this
matter might be arranged to our mutual satisfaction, Dr.
Etherington, and the intention of poor Betsey most completely
executed; she, poor woman, knew little of business, as was best for
her sex; and when women undertake affairs of magnitude, they are
very apt to make awkward work of it.”
“So that the intention of the
deceased be completely fulfilled, you will not find me exacting,
Mr. Goldencalf.”
“I thought as much—I knew there
could be no difficulty between two men of sense, who were met with
honest views to settle a matter of this nature. The intention of
poor Betsey, Doctor, was to place her child under your care, with
the expectation—and I do not deny its justice—that the boy would
receive more benefit from your knowledge than he possibly could
from mine.”
Dr. Etherington was too honest to
deny these premises, and too polite to admit them without an
inclination of acknowledgment.
“As we are quite of the same
mind, good sir, concerning the preliminaries,” continued my
ancestor, “we will enter a little nearer into the details. It
appears to me to be no more than strict justice, that he who does
the work should receive the reward. This is a principle in which I
have been educated, Dr. Etherington; it is one in which I could
wish to have my son educated; and it is one on which I hope always
to practise.”
Another inclination of the body
conveyed the silent assent of the divine.
“Now, poor Betsey, Heaven bless
her!—for she was a meek and tranquil companion, and richly deserves
to be rewarded in a future state—but, poor Betsey had little
knowledge of business. She fancied that, in bestowing these ten
thousand pounds on a charity, she was acting well; whereas she was
in fact committing injustice. If you are to have the trouble and
care of bringing up little Jack, who but you should reap the
reward?”
“I shall expect, Mr. Goldencalf,
that you will furnish the means to provide for the child’s
wants.”
“Of that, sir, it is unnecessary
to speak,” interrupted my ancestor, both promptly and proudly. “I
am a wary man, and a prudent man, and am one who knows the value of
money, I trust; but I am no miser, to stint my own flesh and blood.
Jack shall never want for anything, while it is in my power to give
it. I am by no means as rich, sir, as the neighborhood supposes;
but then I am no beggar. I dare say, if all my assets were fairly
counted, it might be found that I am worth a plum.”
“You are said to have received a
much larger sum than that with the late Mrs.
Goldencalf,” the divine observed,
not without reproof in his voice.
“Ah, dear sir, I need not tell
you what vulgar rumor is—but I shall not undermine my own credit;
and we will change the subject. My object, Dr. Etherington, was
merely to do justice. Poor Betsey desired that ten thousand pounds
might be given to found a scholarship or two: now, what have these
scholars done, or what are they likely to do, for me or mine? The
case is different with you, sir; you will have trouble—much
trouble, I make no doubt; and it is proper that you should have a
sufficient compensation. I was about to propose, therefore, that
you should consent to receive my check for three, or four, or even
for five thousand pounds,” continued my ancestor, raising the offer
as he saw the frown on the brow of the Doctor deepen. “Yes, sir, I
will even say the latter sum, which possibly will not be too much
for your trouble and care; and we will forget the womanish plan of
poor Betsey in relation to the two scholarships and the charity.
Five thousand pounds down, Doctor, for yourself, and the subject of
the charity forgotten forever.”
When my father had thus
distinctly put his proposition, he awaited its effect with the
confidence of a man who had long dealt with cupidity. For a
novelty, his calculation failed. The face of Dr. Etherington
flushed, then paled, and finally settled into a look of melancholy
reprehension. He arose and paced the room for several minutes in
silence; during which time his companion believed he was debating
with himself on the chances of obtaining a higher bid for his
consent, when he suddenly stopped and addressed my ancestor in a
mild but steady tone.
“I feel it to be a duty, Mr.
Goldencalf,” he said, “to admonish you of the precipice over which
you hang. The love of money, which is the root of all evil, which
caused Judas to betray even his Saviour and God, has taken deep
root in your soul. You are no longer young, and although still
proud in your strength and prosperity, are much nearer to your
great account than you may be willing to believe. It is not an hour
since you witnessed the departure of a penitent soul for the
presence of her God; since you heard the dying request from her
lips; and since, in such a presence and in such a scene, you gave a
pledge to respect her wishes, and, now, with the accursed spirit of
gain upper-most, you would trifle with these most sacred
obligations, in order to keep a little worthless gold in a hand
that is already full to overflowing. Fancy that the pure spirit of
thy confiding and single-minded wife were present at this
conversation; fancy it mourning over thy weakness and violated
faith—nay, I know not that such is not the fact; for there is no
reason to believe that the happy spirits are not permitted to watch
near, and mourn over us, until we are released from this mass of
sin and depravity in which we dwell—and, then, reflect what must be
her sorrow at hearing how soon her parting request is forgotten,
how useless has been the example of her holy end, how rooted and
fearful are thine own infirmities!”
My father was more rebuked by the
manner than by the words of the divine. He passed his hand across
his brow, as if to shut out the view of his wife’s spirit; turned,
drew his writing materials nearer, wrote a check for the ten
thousand pounds, and handed it to the Doctor with the subdued air
of a corrected boy.
“Jack shall be at your disposal,
good sir,” he said, as the paper was delivered, “whenever it may be
your pleasure to send for him.”
They parted in silence; the
divine too much displeased, and my ancestor too much grieved, to
indulge in words of ceremony.
When my father found himself
alone, he gazed furtively about the room, to assure himself that
the rebuking spirit of his wife had not taken a shape less
questionable than air, and then, he mused for at least an hour,
very painfully, on all the principal occurrences of the night. It
is said that occupation is a certain solace for grief, and so it
proved to be in the present case; for luckily my father had made up
that very day his private account of the sum total of his fortune.
Sitting down, therefore, to the agreeable task, he went through the
simple process of subtracting from it the amount for which he had
just drawn, and, finding that he was still master of seven hundred
and eighty-two thousand three hundred and eleven pounds odd
shillings and even pence, he found a very natural consolation for
the magnitude of the sum he had just given away, by comparing it
with the magnitude of that which was left.
CHAPTER III. OPINIONS OF OUR
AUTHOR’S ANCESTOR, TOGETHER WITH SOME OF HIS OWN, AND SOME OF OTHER
PEOPLE’S.
Dr. Etherington was both a pious
man and a gentleman. The second son of a baronet of ancient
lineage, he had been educated in most of the opinions of his caste,
and possibly he was not entirely above its prejudices; but, this
much admitted, few divines were more willing to defer to the ethics
and principles of the Bible than himself. His humility had, of
course, a decent regard to station; his charity was judiciously
regulated by the articles of faith; and his philanthropy was of the
discriminating character that became a warm supporter of church and
state.
In accepting the trust which he
was now obliged to assume, he had yielded purely to a benevolent
wish to smooth the dying pillow of my mother. Acquainted with the
character of her husband, he had committed a sort of pious fraud,
in attaching the condition of the endowment to his consent; for,
notwithstanding the becoming language of his own rebuke, the
promise, and all the other little attendant circumstances of the
night, it might be questioned which felt the most surprise after
the draft was presented and duly honored, he who found himself in
possession, or he who found himself deprived, of the sum of ten
thousand pounds sterling. Still Dr. Etherington acted with the most
scrupulous integrity in the whole affair; and although I am aware
that a writer who has so many wonders to relate, as must of
necessity adorn the succeeding pages of this manuscript, should
observe a guarded discretion in drawing on the credulity of his
readers, truth compels me to add, that every farthing of the money
was duly invested with a single eye to the wishes of the dying
Christian, who, under Providence, had been the means of bestowing
so much gold on the poor and unlettered. As to the manner in which
the charity was finally improved, I shall say nothing, since no
inquiry on my part has ever enabled me to obtain such information
as would justify my speaking with authority.
As for myself, I shall have
little more to add touching the events of the succeeding twenty
years. I was baptized, nursed, breeched, schooled, horsed,
confirmed, sent to the university, and graduated, much as befalls
all gentlemen of the established church in the united kingdoms of
Great Britain and Ireland, or, in other words, of the land of my
ancestor. During these pregnant years, Dr. Etherington acquitted
himself of a duty that, judging by a very predominant feeling of
human nature (which, singularly enough, renders us uniformly averse
to being troubled with other people’s affairs), I think he must
have found sufficiently vexatious, quite as well as my good mother
had any right to expect. Most of my vacations were spent at his
rectory; for he had first married, then become a father, next a
widower, and had exchanged his town living for one in the country,
between the periods of my mother’s death and that on my going to
Eton; and, after I quitted Oxford, much more of my time was passed
beneath his friendly roof than beneath that of my own parent.
Indeed, I saw little of the latter. He paid my bills, furnished me
with pocket-money, and professed an intention to let me travel
after I should reach my majority. But, satisfied with these proofs
of paternal care, he appeared willing to let me pursue my
own course very much in my own
way.
My ancestor was an eloquent
example of the truth of that political dogma which teaches the
efficacy of the division of labor. No manufacturer of the head of a
pin ever attained greater dexterity in his single-minded vocation
than was reached by my father in the one pursuit to which he
devoted, as far as human ken could reach, both soul and body. As
any sense is known to increase in acuteness by constant exercise,
or any passion by indulgence, so did his ardor in favor of the
great object of his affections grow with its growth, and become
more manifest as an ordinary observer would be apt to think the
motive of its existence at all had nearly ceased. This is a moral
phenomenon that I have often had occasion to observe, and which,
there is some reason to think, depends on a principle of attraction
that has hitherto escaped the sagacity of the philosophers, but
which is as active in the immaterial, as is that of gravitation in
the material world. Talents like his, so incessantly and
unweariedly employed, produced the usual fruits. He grew richer
hourly, and at the time of which I speak he was pretty generally
known to the initiated to be the warmest man who had anything to do
with the stock exchange.
I do not think that the opinions
of my ancestor underwent as many material changes between the ages
of fifty and seventy as they had undergone between the ages of ten
and forty. During the latter period the tree of life usually gets
deep root, its inclination is fixed, whether obtained by bending to
the storms, or by drawing toward the light; and it probably yields
more in fruits of its own, than it gains by tillage and manuring.
Still my ancestor was not exactly the same man the day he kept his
seventieth birthday as he had been the day he kept his fiftieth. In
the first place, he was worth thrice the money at the former period
that he had been worth at the latter. Of course his moral system
had undergone all the mutations that are known to be dependent on a
change of this important character. Beyond a question, during the
last five-and-twenty years of the life of my ancestor, his
political bias, too, was in favor of exclusive privileges and
exclusive benefits. I do not mean that he was an aristocrat in the
vulgar acceptation. To him, feudality was a blank; he had probably
never heard the word. Portcullises rose and fell, flanking towers
lifted their heads, and embattled walls swept around their fabrics
in vain, so far as his imagination was concerned. He cared not for
the days of courts leet and courts baron; nor for the barons
themselves; nor for the honors of a pedigree (why should he?—no
prince in the land could more clearly trace his family into
obscurity than himself), nor for the vanities of a court, nor for
those of society; nor for aught else of the same nature that is apt
to have charms for the weak-minded, the imaginative, or the
conceited. His political prepossessions showed themselves in a very
different manner. Throughout the whole of the five lustres I have
named, he was never heard to whisper a censure against government,
let its measures, or the character of its administration, be what
it would. It was enough for him that it was government. Even
taxation no longer excited his ire, nor aroused his eloquence. He
conceived it to be necessary to order, and especially to the
protection of property, a branch of political science that he had
so studied as to succeed in protecting his own estate, in a
measure, against even this great ally itself. After he became worth
a million, it was observed that all his opinions grew less
favorable to mankind in general, and that he was much disposed to
exaggerate the amount and quality of the few boons which Providence
has bestowed on the poor. The report of a meeting of the Whigs
generally had an effect on his appetite; a resolution that was
suspected of emanating from
Brookes’s commonly robbed him of
a dinner, and the Radicals never seriously moved that he did not
spend a sleepless night, and pass a large portion of the next day
in uttering words that it would be hardly moral to repeat. I may
without impropriety add, however, that on such occasions he did not
spare allusions to the gallows; Sir Francis Burdett, in particular,
was a target for a good deal of billingsgate; and men as upright
and as respectable even as my lords Grey, Landsdowne, and Holland,
were treated as if they were no better than they should be. But on
these little details it is unnecessary to dwell, for it must be a
subject of common remark, that the more elevated and refined men
become in their political ethics, the more they are accustomed to
throw dirt upon their neighbors. I will just state, however, that
most of what I have here related has been transmitted to me by
direct oral traditions, for I seldom saw my ancestor, and when we
did meet, it was only to settle accounts, to eat a leg of mutton
together, and to part like those who, at least, have never
quarrelled.
Not so with Dr. Etherington.
Habit (to say nothing of my own merits) had attached him to one who
owed so much to his care, and his doors were always as open to me
as if I had been his own son.
It has been said that most of my
idle time (omitting the part misspent in the schools) was passed at
the rectory.
The excellent divine had married
a lovely woman, a year or two after the death of my mother, who had
left him a widower, and the father of a little image of herself,
before the expiration of a twelvemonth. Owing to the strength of
his affections for the deceased, or for his daughter, or because he
could not please himself in a second marriage as well as it had
been his good fortune to do in the first, Dr. Etherington had never
spoken of forming another connection. He appeared content to
discharge his duties, as a Christian and a gentleman, without
increasing them by creating any new relations with society.
Anna Etherington was of course my
constant companion during many long and delightful visits at the
rectory. Three years my junior, the friendship on my part had
commenced by a hundred acts of boyish kindness. Between the ages of
seven and twelve, I dragged her about in a garden-chair, pushed her
on the swing, and wiped her eyes and uttered words of friendly
consolation when any transient cloud obscured the sunny brightness
of her childhood. From twelve to fourteen, I told her stories;
astonished her with narratives of my own exploits at Eton, and
caused her serene blue eyes to open in admiration at the marvels of
London. At fourteen, I began to pick up her pocket- handkerchief,
hunt for her thimble, accompany her in duets, and to read poetry to
her, as she occupied herself with the little lady-like employments
of the needle. About the age of seventeen I began to compare cousin
Anna, as I was permitted to call her, with the other young girls of
my acquaintance, and the comparison was generally much in her
favor. It was also about this time that, as my admiration grew more
warm and manifest, she became less confiding and less frank; I
perceived too that, for a novelty, she now had some secrets that
she did not choose to communicate to me, that she was more with her
governess, and less in my society than formerly, and on one
occasion (bitterly did I feel the slight) she actually recounted to
her father the amusing incidents of a little birthday fete at which
she had been present, and which was given by a gentleman of the
vicinity, before she even dropped a hint to me, touching the
delight she had experienced on the
occasion. I was, however, a good
deal compensated for the slight by her saying, kindly, as she ended
her playful and humorous account of the affair:
“It would have made you laugh
heartily, Jack, to see the droll manner in which the servants acted
their parts” (there had been a sort of mystified masque), “more
particularly the fat old butler, of whom they had made a Cupid, as
Dick Griffin said, in order to show that love becomes drowsy and
dull by good eating and drinking—I DO wish you COULD have been
there, Jack.”
Anna was a gentle feminine girl,
with a most lovely and winning countenance, and I did inherently
like to hear her pronounce the word “Jack”—it was so different from
the boisterous screech of the Eton boys, or the swaggering call of
my boon companions at Oxford!
“I should have liked it
excessively myself, Anna,” I answered; “more particularly as you
seem to have so much enjoyed the fun.”
“Yes, but that COULD NOT BE”
interrupted Miss-Mrs. Norton, the governess. “For Sir Harry Griffin
is very difficult about his associates, and you know, my dear, that
Mr. Goldencalf, though a very respectable young man himself, could
not expect one of the oldest baronets of the county to go out of
his way to invite the son of a stock-jobber to be present at a fete
given to his own heir.”
Luckily for Miss-Mrs. Norton, Dr.
Etherington had walked away the moment his daughter ended her
recital, or she might have met with a disagreeable commentary on
her notions concerning the fitness of associations. Anna herself
looked earnestly at her governess, and I saw a flush mantle over
her sweet face that reminded me of the ruddiness of morn. Her soft
eyes then fell to the floor, and it was some time before she
spoke.
The next day I was arranging some
fishing-tackle under a window of the library, where my person was
concealed by the shrubbery, when I heard the melodious voice of
Anna wishing the rector good morning. My heart beat quicker as she
approached the casement, tenderly inquiring of her parent how he
had passed the night. The answers were as affectionate as the
questions, and then there was a little pause.
“What is a stock-jobber, father?”
suddenly resumed Anna, whom I heard rustling the leaves above my
head.
“A stock-jobber, my dear, is one
who buys and sells in the public funds, with a view to
profit.”
“And is it thought a PARTICULARLY
disgraceful employment?”
“Why, that depends on
circumstances. On ‘Change it seems to be well enough—among
merchants and bankers there is some odium attached to it, I
believe.”
“And can you say why,
father?”
“I believe,” said Dr.
Etherington, laughing, “for no other reason than that it is an
uncertain calling—one that is liable to sudden reverses—what is
termed gambling—and whatever renders property insecure is sure to
obtain odium among those whose principal concern is its
accumulation; those who consider the responsibility of others of
essential importance to themselves.”
“But is it a dishonest pursuit,
father?”
“As the times go, not
necessarily, my dear; though it may readily become so.” “And is it
disreputable, generally, with the world?”
“That depends on circumstances,
Anna. When the stock-jobber loses, he is very apt to be condemned;
but I rather think his character rises in proportion to his gains.
But why do you ask these singular questions, love?”
I thought I heard Anna breathe
harder than usual, and it is certain that she leaned far out of the
window to pluck a rose.
“Why, Mrs. Norton said Jack was
not invited to Sir Harry Griffin’s because his father was a
stock-jobber. Do you think she was right, sir?”
“Very likely, my dear,” returned
the divine, who I fancied was smiling at the question. “Sir Harry
has the advantages of birth, and he probably did not forget that
our friend Jack was not so fortunate—and, moreover, Sir Harry,
while he values himself on his wealth, is not as rich as Jack’s
father by a million or two—in other words, as they say on ‘Change,
Jack’s father could buy ten of him. This motive was perhaps more
likely to influence him than the first. In addition, Sir Harry is
suspected of gambling himself in the funds through the aid of
agents; and a gentleman who resorts to such means to increase his
fortune is a little apt to exaggerate his social advantages by way
of a set-off to the humiliation.”
“And GENTLEMEN do really become
stock-jobbers, father?”
“Anna, the world has undergone
great changes in my time. Ancient opinions have been shaken, and
governments themselves are getting to be little better than
political establishments to add facilities to the accumulation of
money. This is a subject, however, you cannot very well understand,
nor do I pretend to be very profound in it myself.”
“But is Jack’s father really so
very, very rich?” asked Anna, whose thoughts had been wandering
from the thread of those pursued by her father.
“He is believed to be so.” “And
Jack is his heir.”
“Certainly—he has no other child;
though it is not easy to say what so singular a being may do with
his money.”
“I hope he will disinherit
Jack!”
“You surprise me, Anna! You, who
are so mild and reasonable, to wish such a misfortune to befall our
young friend John Goldencalf!” I gazed upward in astonishment at
this extraordinary speech of Anna, and at the moment I would have
given all my interest in the fortune in question to have seen her
face (most of her body was out of the window, for I heard her again
rustling the bush above my head), in order to judge of her motive
by its expression; but an envious rose grew exactly in the only
spot where it was possible to get a glimpse.
“Why do you wish so cruel a
thing?” resumed Dr. Etherington, a little earnestly. “Because I
hate stock-jobbing and its riches, father. Were Jack poorer, it
seems to me he
would be better esteemed.”
As this was uttered the dear girl
drew back, and I then perceived that I had mistaken her cheek for
one of the largest and most blooming of the flowers. Dr.
Etherington laughed, and I distinctly heard him kiss the blushing
face of his daughter. I think I would have given up my hopes in
another million to have been the rector at Tenthpig at that
instant.