“I wrote to him, Anson, and told him that Rodney was growing a man now, thinking, since he had no wife or child of his own, he might be disposed to advance him.”
“We can do very well without him,” growled my father. “He sheered off from us when the weather was foul, and we have no need of him now that the sun is shining.”
“Nay, you misjudge him, Anson,” said my mother, warmly. “There is no one with a better heart than Charles; but his own life moves so smoothly that he cannot understand that others may have trouble. During all these years I have known that I had but to say the word to receive as much as I wished from him.”
“Thank God that you never had to stoop to it, Mary. I want none of his help.”
“But we must think of Rodney.”
“Rodney has enough for his sea-chest and kit. He needs no more.”
“But Charles has great power and influence in London. He could make Rodney known to all the great people. Surely you would not stand in the way of his advancement.”
“Let us hear what he says, then,” said my father; and this was the letter which she read to him—
14, Jermyn Street, St. James’s,
“April 15th, 1803.“My dear Sister Mary,
“In answer to your letter, I can assure you that you must not conceive me to be wanting in those finer feelings which are the chief adornment of humanity. It is true that for some years, absorbed as I have been in affairs of the highest importance, I have seldom taken a pen in hand, for which I can assure you that I have been reproached by many des plus charmantes of your charming sex. At the present moment I lie abed (having stayed late in order to pay a compliment to the Marchioness of Dover at her ball last night), and this is writ to my dictation by Ambrose, my clever rascal of a valet. I am interested to hear of my nephew Rodney (Mon dieu, quel nom!), and as I shall be on my way to visit the Prince at Brighton next week, I shall break my journey at Friar’s Oak for the sake of seeing both you and him. Make my compliments to your husband.
“I am ever, my dear sister Mary,
“Your brother,
“Charles Tregellis.”
“What do you think of that?” cried my mother in triumph when she had finished.