“By Jove! this is too bad,” said Julian, passionately; “when she adds innuendoes against my mother to her other malice—I won’t stand it,” and, without reading farther, he tossed the letter into the fire, watching with vindictive eyes its complete consumption—
“There goes the squire—revered, illustrious spark!
And there—no less illustrious—goes the clerk!”
he said, as he watched the little red streams flickering out of the black paper ashes. “And now for the answer! Bother the woman for plaguing me, (for I know it’s none of my aunt’s handiwork), in the middle of trial-week.”
“I say, Julian, don’t be too fiery in your answer, you know, for you really ought to appease the poor old lady. Only think of that impudent little brother of yours! I must make the young rogue’s acquaintance some day.”
But Julian had seized a sheet of note-paper, and wrote to his aunt, not condescending to notice even by a message her obnoxious amanuensis:—
“My Dear Aunt—I cannot believe that the letter I received to-day really emanated from you, at least not in the language in which it was couched.
“I have neither time nor inclination,” (‘Hoity, toity, how grand we are!’) “to attend to the foolish trifle to which your amanuensis,” (‘Meaning me!’ screamed the irrepressible Sprong), “alludes; but I am quite sure that, on reflection, you will not be inclined to judge too hardly a mere piece of fun and thoughtless liveliness; for that Frankie meant to be rude, I don’t for a moment believe. I shall only add, that if I were not convinced that you can never have sanctioned the expressions which the lady,” (Julian had first written ‘person,’ but altered it afterwards), “who wrote for you presumed to apply to my brothers, and above all, to my mother, I should have good reason to be offended; but feeling sure that they are not attributable to you, I pass them over with indifference. I am obliged to write in great haste, so here I must conclude.
“Believe me, my dear Aunt, your affectionate nephew,
“Julian Home.”
Lady Vinsear was secretly pleased with the spirit which this letter showed, and was not sorry for the snubbing which it gave to her lady-companion; but she determined to exercise a little tyranny, and fancied that Julian would be too much frightened to resent it. Accustomed to the legacy-hunting spirit of many parasites, the old lady thought that Julian would be like the rest, and hoped to enjoy the sight of him reduced to submission and obedience, in the hopes of future advantage; not that she would exult in his humiliation, but she was glad of any pretext to bring the noble boy before her as a suppliant for her favour. Accordingly, setting aside her first and better impulses, she wrote back a sharp reply, abusing Cyril and Frank in round and severe terms, and adding some bitter innuendoes about the poverty of the family, and their supposed expectations at her decease. Miss Sprong lent all the venom of her malicious ingenuity to this precious performance, which fortunately did not reach Julian until trials were nearly over. Tired with excitement and hard work, the boy could ill endure these galling allusions, and wrote back a short and fiery reply:—
“My Dear Aunt—If any one has persuaded you that I am eager to purchase your good-will at any sacrifice, and that in consideration of ‘supposed advantages’ hereafter to be derived from you—I shall be willing to endure unkindly language or groundless insinuations about my other relatives—then they have very seriously misled you as to my real character. This is really the only reply of which your letter admits. I shall always be ready, as in duty bound, to bestow on you such respect and affection as our relationship demands and your own kindness may elicit, but I would scorn to win your favour at the expense of a subservience at once ungenerous and unjust.
“Believe me to remain, your affectionate nephew,
“Julian Home.”
This letter decided the matter. Lady Vinsear wrote back, that as he obviously cared nothing about her, and did not even treat her with ordinary deference, she had that day altered her will. Poor old lady! Julian’s angry letter cost her many a pang; and that night, as she sat in her bedroom by her lonely hearth, and thought over her dead brother and this gallant high-souled boy of his, the tears coursed each other down her furrowed cheeks, and she could get no rest. At last she had taken her desk, and, with trembling hands, written:—
“Dearest Julian—Forgive an old woman’s whim, and come to me and comfort my old age. All I have is yours, Julian; and I love you, though I wrote to you so bitterly.—Your loving aunt,
“Caroline Vinsear.”