"Catherine, my dear," said Captain M'Dougall, "here is your grandpapa come to visit you."
Little Catherine, as we said before, was seven years old, and, like most Indian children, quick and clever beyond her years. She was a brunette in complexion—so much so, indeed, that she might have been mistaken for a descendant from parentage of the climate in which she had been reared. Her eyes were dark, lively, and brilliant, and a profusion of rich black hair fell in clusters upon her shoulders. The moment she heard Captain M'Dougall's announcement, she dropped the toy with which she was playing, and ran eagerly up to Douglas:—
"Are you really grandpapa Gavin?"
"Yes, my love," said the old gentleman, almost smothering her with kisses.
"Are you quite sure?" said she: "then," looking smilingly up in his face, "I think I love you very much, grandpapa."
Philip was now introduced, and, in five minutes' time the two young people were sworn friends. Catherine had shown Philip all her rich store of toys, and had answered all his eager questions about the voyage, the ship, the uses of various things in the cabin, &c. Be not impatient, gentle reader, at the details of this childish meeting; the happiness or misery of life often depends upon trifles light as air, and our friend Philip's future destiny took its hue from the consequences of that intimacy of which we have just been describing the commencement. In the course of a fortnight, the travellers with their young charge returned to Eskhall, where the little stranger met with the most affectionate welcome. The banks of the Esk were beautiful as ever; but, to Philip's eyes, they had lost great part of their attraction; he had had a glimpse of the scenes of active life, and he was eager to engage in them. The country sports in which he used to take such delight began to lose their relish; and his principal amusement now was to wander in the green fields with little Catherine, and to listen to the tales she told of her recollections of the distant lands she had left. His curiosity was excited, and he burned with impatience to visit them, and to judge for himself; and he expressed to Gavin Douglas his predilection for a sailor's life, and his eager wish to commence his career as soon as circumstances would allow. Gavin's heart yearned towards the handsome and spirited boy, whose eye sparkled, and whose tongue became eloquent, as he urged his suit; and he felt that the time was come, which he had long looked forward to with pain, when this young and ardent spirit must leave his guardian care, and be intrusted to its own impulses. He talked seriously and affectionately to the boy on the subject of his wishes; told him—what had hitherto been kept a secret from him—the history of his first appearance at Eskhall; assured him that he always would be, as he hitherto had been, in the place of a father to him; and concluded with saying—"Reflect seriously upon what I have pointed out to you, my dear boy; I have laid before you, as far as my experience goes, all the advantages and disadvantages of the profession which you wish to adopt; weigh the matter carefully in your thoughts; and if, at the end of a week, you continue in the same mind, I will do all in my power to promote your wishes."
Poor Philip's astonishment and distress was unbounded, when Gavin informed him of the mystery that hung over his birth. He had always hitherto been known by the name of Douglas, and had been accustomed to consider himself as Gavin's grandson; and the truth burst upon him with the astounding effect of a thunderbolt. Pale as ashes, with the tears streaming down his cheeks, he exclaimed—
"Not your grandson, sir? Then who am I? Good heavens! have I been living from my earliest years a poor dependant upon your bounty? O my generous benefactor! my more than father! how can I ever prove my gratitude to you for your unvaried affection and kindness?"
"You have already proved it, Philip, by repaying affection with affection; by your steady obedience, and constant attention to my slightest wish. I have a father's love for you, Philip; and, poor, and unknown, and alien as you are, you have made yourself as dear to me as if you were my own flesh and blood. I feared that this disclosure would fall like a blight upon your young spirit; but, painful as it is, it was necessary that it should be made. Cheer up, my boy! brighter days will come. I feel a conviction that the secret of your birth will be one day discovered, and that you will have no reason to blush for your parentage."
"Heaven grant it may be so, sir! but I dare not hope. If I had not been a cause of shame to my parents, would they have deserted me?"