MR. MORTON'S STORY.—A CONFESSION.—A YOUNG PLEADER.—GENEROSITY NOT ALWAYS JUSTICE.
"Do you remember, Emmeline, a Mr. Morton, who officiated for Mr. Howard at Aveling, five or six weeks ago?" asked Mr. Hamilton of his wife, on the Saturday morning after Herbert's mysterious excursion. The family had not yet left the breakfast-table.
"Perfectly well," was the reply; "poor young man! his appearance and painful weakness of voice called for commiseration too deeply not to be remembered."
"Is he not deformed?" inquired Miss Harcourt; "there was something particularly painful about his manner as he stood in the pulpit."
"He is slightly deformed now; but not five years ago he had a graceful, almost elegant figure, though always apparently too delicate for the fatiguing mental duties in which he indulged. He was of good family, but his parents were suddenly much reduced, and compelled to undergo many privations to enable him to go to Oxford. There he allowed himself neither relaxation nor pleasure of the most trifling and most harmless kind; his only wish seemed to be to repay his parents in some degree the heavy debt of gratitude which he felt he owed them. His persevering study, great talent, and remarkable conduct, won him some valuable friends, one of whom, as soon as he was ordained, presented him with a rich living in the North. For nine months he enjoyed the most unalloyed happiness. His pretty vicarage presented a happy, comfortable home for his parents, and the comforts they now enjoyed, earned by the worth of their son, amply repaid them for former privations.—One cold snowy night he was summoned to a poor parishioner, living about ten miles distant. The road was rugged, and in some parts dangerous; but he was not a man to shrink from his duty for such reasons. He was detained eight hours, during which time the snow had fallen incessantly, and it was pitchy dark. Still believing he knew his road, he proceeded, and the next morning was found lying apparently dead at the foot of a precipice, and almost crushed under the mangled and distorted carcass of his horse."
An exclamation of horror burst from all the little group, except from Percy and Herbert; the face of the former was covered with his hands, and his brother seemed so watching and feeling for him, as to be unable to join the general sympathy. All, however, were so engrossed with Mr. Hamilton's tale, that neither was observed.
"He was so severely injured, that for months his very life was despaired of. Symptoms of decline followed, and the inability to resume his ministerial duties for years, if ever again, compelled him to resign his rich and beautiful living in Yorkshire; and he felt himself once more a burden on his parents, with scarcely any hope of supporting them again. Nor was this all; his figure, once so slight and supple, had become so shrunk and maimed, that at first he seemed actually to loathe the sight of his fellows. His voice, once so rich and almost thrilling, became wiry, and almost painfully monotonous; and for some months the conflict for submission to this inscrutable and most awful trial was so terrible that he nearly sunk beneath it. This was, of course, still more physical than mental, and gradually subsided, as, after eighteen months' residence in Madeira, where he was sent by a benevolent friend, some portion of health returned. The same benefactor established his father in some humble but most welcome business in London; and earnestly, on his return, did his parents persuade him to remain quietly with them, and not undertake the ministry again; but this he could not do, and gratefully accepted a poor and most miserable parish on the moor, not eight miles from here."
"But when did you become acquainted with him, papa?" asked Caroline; "you have never mentioned him before."
"No, my dear; I never saw him till the Sunday he officiated for Mr. Howard; but his appearance so deeply interested me, I did not rest till I had learned his whole history, which Mr. Howard had already discovered. He has been nearly a year in Devonshire, but so kept aloof from all but his own poor parishioners, dreading the ridicule and sneers of the more worldly and wealthy, that it was mere accident which made Mr. Howard acquainted with him. Our good minister's friendship and earnest exhortations have so far overcome his too great sensitiveness, as sometimes to prevail on him to visit the Vicarage, and I trust in time equally to succeed in bringing him here."
"But what is he so afraid of, dear papa?" innocently asked Emmeline. "Surely nobody could be so cruel as to ridicule him because he is deformed?"
"Unfortunately, my dear child, there are too many who only enter church for the sake of the sermon and the preacher, and to criticise severely and uncharitably all that differs from their preconceived ideas; to such persons Mr. Morton must be an object of derision. And now I come to the real reason of my asking your mother if she remembered him."
"Then you had a reason," answered Mrs. Hamilton, smiling; "your story has made me wonder whether you had or not."
"I must tax your memory once more, Emmeline, before my cause is told. Do you recollect, for a fortnight after the Sunday we heard him, he preached twice a week at Torrington, to oblige a very particular friend?"
"Yes, and that you feared the increased number of the congregation proceeded far more from curiosity than kindliness or devotion."
"I did say so, and my fears are confirmed: some affairs brought Morton to Torrington for two or three days this week, and yesterday I called on him, and had some hours' interesting conversation. He was evidently even more than usually depressed and self-shrinking, if I may use the word, and at length touched, it seemed, by my sympathy, he drew my attention to a poem in Harris's 'Weekly Magazine.'"
"'It is not enough that it has pleased my God to afflict me,' he said, 'but my fellow-creatures must unkindly make me the subject of attacks such as these. There is indeed no name, but to none else but me will it apply.' I could not reply, for I really felt too deeply for him. It was such a cruel, wanton insult, the very talent of the writer, for the verses though few in number were remarkably clever, adding to their gall."
"I wonder Harris should have published them," observed Miss Harcourt; "his paper is not in general of a personal kind."
"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 Saturday 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 éclat 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 noble 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 passed."
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 associate 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, God 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 God? Do you quite understand me, Emmy?"
"I think I do, dear papa; you mean that, though God 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 passionate 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 God 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.