"In the mean while," said Clement, "I will commence my plan of operations; and when you return to town, dear Paul, you shall find me in your cheap house, toiling like a slave."
Paul's pleasure was much lessened by going home without his brother; but he felt that this trip might be painful to Clement, as every incident would remind him, that he might have served, but had not served, his family.
We will go with Paul to his mother's: it is pleasant to look upon happiness, especially when it has been earned by virtue.
It was a dark and stormy night, when Paul drove into the inn-yard of his native town. He jumped, however, lightly from his seat on the coach-box, and, seizing his umbrella in one hand, and his carpet bag in the other, he paced down the street. Nothing could be more uncomfortable than the walk: a cold wind, a heavy rain, a muddy path,—passengers jostling him, dogs barking at him, and posts coming every moment in his way, as if they stood there on purpose to teaze him. To not one of these plagues was Paul conscious: he saw nothing,—felt nothing,—heard nothing. His mind was full and busy; a smile was on his lips, and a thousand delightful thoughts possessed his heart.
Paul & Clement.
Pubd. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, St. Pauls Church Yd.
He reached his mother's humble door,—knocked,—entered! At once, an universal hubbub arose: little Kitty was the first to discover him. "Brother Paul! Brother Paul!" and she was in his arms, and clinging to his neck, in an instant. Fanny, with a step scarcely less swift, sprang forward, and was encircled by one arm, which he had disengaged from Kitty. His mother put down her spectacles: "My son Paul! And Clement! Ah! he is not with you!—What has happened to him?"—"Nothing, dearest mother—nothing!—He is well and happy, and sends you a thousand loves," said Paul, gently disengaging himself from his sisters, and embracing his mother.—"You are sure!—quite sure he is safe and well?"—"On my honour mother!"—"God be thanked; then I am quite happy!" said the old lady, bursting into tears.
Who shall number the questions asked and answered,—the tender looks and kisses interchanged—the exclamations, wonderings, and bursts of thankings! "How well you look, my son!"—"And how fat and saucy!" said Fanny.—"And how Fanny is grown! I never thought she would have been so—pretty," said Paul archly, yet dropping his voice as he uttered the last word. His mother thought "beautiful" would have suited her Fanny better; and even that would not have half done justice to her charms. "And am not I grown, brother?" said little Kitty, shoving herself between her brother's knees, and holding up her head—"Am I not very much grown and improved?"—"I do not know who is most charming, and most dear to me!" cried Paul, fondly kissing the rosy child, and placing her on his knee. "Do not plague him, Kitty, my dear!" said her mother.—"Oh, love never plagues any body," said Kitty, pressing herself closely to her brother.—"And I know who says, people can never have enough of love—Mr. Frank Pelham,"—observed the child, with a glance at her sister. Her mother frowned; and, sending Fanny out of the room, to hasten tea, took Miss Kitty to task. "I told you, Kitty, I would not allow you to name Frank Pelham every moment in this way! But your brother's arms, I suppose, you think, will shelter you now, say what you will." Paul certainly folded the offender as if to shelter her from all harm; whilst he said: "And why, my dear mother, is Frank's name interdicted, when once it was so familiar? Has he displeased you?"—"Far from it, very far from it, Paul! His conduct is all I could wish it to be; but there is so little prospect of his ever being one of our family, that I think it right, for dear Fanny's sake, to wean ourselves from him."—"Does he never visit you?"—"Oftener than I could wish, Paul."—"And why may not some happy chance—"—"Do not talk nonsense, my son! We ought never to depend upon chance."—"True, mother. I ought to have said, why might not some fortunate exertion—" His mother interrupted him: "My dear Paul, we have already made every possible exertion,—I may say, every possible sacrifice: but the sum is so large—two hundred pounds!"—"Is that all that is required?" inquired Paul earnestly.—"All! And enough too, I think," replied his mother, half astonished at what she deemed his strange wilfulness. "Because I was thinking, my dear mother, that perhaps some farther funds might be needed."—"For Fanny's outfit; and their first establishment. Yes, a trifle would be wanted for these; but (lowering her voice,) I have provided for these matters." As Paul was about to speak, the old lady begged him to be silent, till he had heard all she had to say. "You know, Frank's uncle more than half promised to assist him. Well, for one whole year, he has gone on delaying and demurring, and keeping us in a state of painful suspense. Last week, the gentleman with whom Frank is to engage, declared he would wait no longer; so, Frank's uncle was obliged to give an answer. It came this morning, saying he was sorry, very sorry, and concerned; but he could neither give nor lend a shilling."—"The wretched miser!" exclaimed Paul. "Yes, miser indeed! and he rolling in wealth! But, no matter; he can never enjoy one farthing of it, with so narrow a mind."—"Well," said Paul, "there is one comfort always for the poor, that what little they have, they spend, and thus enjoy."—"But, hush! Not another word: here comes Fanny;" and the old lady began to prepare her son's tea. Paul was longing to open his happy commission, but did not know how: he had nothing but winks and whispers from his mother; so he thought he would speak at her, as she would not let him speak to her. "Clement and I," said he, as if half-speaking to himself,—"we often amuse ourselves with building castles in the air; and fancying all manner of wonders. We are always for being very rich, and having plenty of money to spend and to give."—"I doubt not, you have money enough to give away, in your fancyings," said his mother, pouring out the milk.—"And then we always think what we would do, for our dear folks at home."—"I dare say—poor fellows! Giving pounds, where you have not pence," said the old lady, portioning out the sugar.—"And yesterday, we drew out a paper. I will shew it to you," said Paul, taking out his pocket-book.—"Not now, my dear boy, not now, filling up our table with your conjuring papers! Don't you see, how small the tray is! Bless the boy, how he is littering every place! Why, Paul, you are upsetting the tea cups!"—"I beg your pardon, mother; I am very sorry for the tea cups, but I just wanted to shew you this slip of paper."—"Hieroglyphics, I suppose,—I dare say it is all very clever, my dear, but I can neither see nor understand."—"Put on your spectacles then dearest mother—pray do,—just to read this bit of paper," continued the pertinacious Paul. "Now, Paul, don't be so very disagreeable!—And you laughing at my telling you, that you are making yourself disagreeable! Why child! what is the matter with you?—I never saw you so before!"—"You never did, indeed, my dearest mother!" cried Paul; "for you never before saw me so perfectly, perfectly happy!" And his lip quivered, and his cheek flushed, and the tears stood in his eyes.