“It is a god—an angel who speaks thus; and not a mere human being!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, embracing his half-brother with an enthusiasm and a fervour amounting almost to a worship. “Oh! why are not all men like you?—the world would then know not animosity, nor rancour, nor strife; and earth would be heaven!”
“Thomas, Thomas,” cried the earl, reproachfully, “attach not too much importance to a feeling on my part which you yourself would show under similar circumstances! But let us speak of your son. He has erred, and you have forgiven him—you, his father, who are the most deeply wounded by his temporary ingratitude, have pardoned him and taken him again to your heart. Shall not I, then, who look upon him in the light of a nephew—shall not I, an uncle, forgive and forget what a father can pardon and obliterate from his memory? Yes—and I will even find extenuating circumstances in his favour: I will search out and conjure up excuses for him! Endowed with an enthusiastic disposition—an ardent longing to render himself conspicuous in the world—a fervid craving to earn distinction and acquire a proud name,—he paused not to reflect whether it were well to shine with an adventitious lustre, or to win for himself and by himself the glory that should encircle his brow. The splendid career of the Prince of Montoni dazzled—nay, almost blinded him; and while he contemplated the eminence on which that illustrious personage stands, he forgot that his Royal Highness obtained not rank and power by hereditary right, but by his great deeds, his steady perseverance in the course of rectitude, and his ennobling virtues. While filled with lofty aspirations, your son suddenly made the discovery of certain family secrets which appeared to place a title within his reach. Ah! pardon him if he stretched out his hand to grasp the visionary coronet,—pardon him, I say—and wonder not if in the eagerness of his desire to clutch the dreamy bauble, he thrust parents, relatives, and friends rudely aside.”
“The generosity which prompts you to extenuate his grievous faults shall not be cooled nor marred by any opposite opinion on my part,” said Mr. Hatfield. “And, my God! is he not my son?—and have I not already—yes, already—while we were still in Paris—promised to forgive him every thing. But when I think of all the misery his insane ambition would have brought upon you and yours——”
“Oh! the loss of title and wealth would not interfere with my happiness, Thomas,” interrupted the earl, smiling.
“And that loss you cannot now sustain—no—never, never!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, impetuously; “and I thank God that I am enabled to give you this assurance! For the papers—the fatal papers—the family documents, are all burnt—burnt with my own hand, and in the presence of that young man who dared to take them from the secret recess where you had deposited them.”
“Ere now you called me generous, Thomas,” said the earl,—“and for the performance of a common Christian duty—I mean, the forgiveness of one who has offended and who is penitent. But you, my brother—what generosity have you not shown towards me,—yes—and for years—long years;—and now, to crown it all, you have destroyed those evidences which would make you great at any moment. Oh! as the world’s ambition goes, and as human hearts are constituted, your generosity outvalues mine as immeasurably as the boundless Pacific exceeds the stagnant puddle in the street!”
And, as the earl spoke these words with an enthusiasm and a sincerity that came from the inmost recesses of his heart, he dashed away a tear.
Then, as if suddenly animated by the same sentiment—a sentiment of mutual regard, devotion, and admiration,—the half-brothers grasped each other’s hands; and the pressure was long and fervid—a profound silence reigning between them the while,—for, men of years and worldly experience though they were, their souls’ emotions were deeply stirred and their finest feelings were aroused.
“I have not yet told you all—perhaps scarcely even the worst, relative to my unfortunate son,” said Mr. Hatfield, after a long pause. “That vile woman of whom Villiers spoke—that Perdita Slingsby—or Torrens—or Fitzhardinge—whichever her name may be——”
“Ah! I understand you already,” interrupted the earl, in a tone of deep commiseration: “the artful creature has inveigled your son into a hasty marriage. Is it not so?”