"George! Harry!—lazy fellows that you are!—Why are you not in attendance?" said Lord Robert Summers in an angry tone, throwing the rein of his pony to his grooms, and rushing up the great staircase with his handkerchief held close to his face.
"What is the matter with our young lord to-day?" said Harry; "he seems in a marvellous ill mood."
"I suppose he has had another brush with Philip Harley to-day: did not you see the blood on his handkerchief?" said the other.
"That Philip is a saucy young rascal," replied Harry; "but he will get himself into a scrape before long. Lord Robert will be even with him, I will answer; for he never takes an offence without returning twenty-fold."
"They never meet now without a battle," returned the groom. "Lord Robert has been so used to domineer over men twice his age, on board ship, that he is more unbearable than any young man of rank I ever served. I wonder who is to put up with all his tempers? If his elder brother, my young lord, were half so hasty with his hands, or so flippant with his tongue, I would leave his service to-morrow: however, he wont be with us long—that's my comfort. It was but the other day I was airing the dogs, and trod, by accident, on his favourite Neptune's toe. The plaguy beast set up a yell. In an instant, I had a cuff of the head from the young tyrant, and was called a careless rascal and scoundrel, while he had breath to heap such epithets on me. I am glad the lad has given him a dressing, and wish it had been twice as much; it might have done him good."
With this wish, George led off the pony. The fact was, Lord Robert had caught Philip Harley trespassing, according to custom, in the Park, and had tried to horsewhip him out of the grounds, but had fairly got the worst of it. Lord Robert, though a stout and courageous youth, was pulled off his horse by the desperate young rustic, and in the fray received several contusions on the face. Philip did not part without some tokens of his enemy's vengeance; but he certainly remained victor in the contest. Lord Robert was glad to regain his pony and make a hasty retreat, much mortified, and in a very evil temper.
When he had reached his apartment, he washed the blood from his face, and composed the swelling of his haughty spirit; and after smoothing his ruffled plumes, he descended into the dining-room and joined the family party. His mother made some inquiry respecting the bruises on his face; but he turned it off with an evasive answer, as the effect of a fall he had met with in the Park. No farther notice was taken, except a slight sarcasm on the proverbial bad horsemanship of sailors.
At the dessert, the Marquis, his father, handed him a letter. "It is from your uncle, Sir Henry. See, Robert, what a charming surprise he has prepared for you! He spoils you, boy! I think you would not be so petulant and imperious, if every wish of that wayward heart were not gratified by his fond affection."
Lord Robert was so eager to read the letter from his beloved uncle, that he scarcely heard this reproof, which, gentle as it was, at any other time would have clouded his handsome brow with frowns.
Captain Sir Henry Stanley wrote to his brother-in-law, that he should sail in the Diomede, from Portsmouth, in less than a month; when he should expect his noble boy, his brave Robert, again to accompany him to victory. "I think it long till we are afloat," continued he; "and so, I dare say, does my dear nephew. However, that the time may not appear so very tedious, I have sent him a little pleasure-brig, the most complete that could be procured: he can sail and manœuvre it on your lake; not that I approve of freshwater sailing, but it is better than dancing after horses and dogs, and such landsmen's amusements."
Lord Robert then heard that this fairy frigate had been safely landed that day at a sea-port town, some little distance from his father's domains. A waggon and team of horses had been despatched to bring it home; and a servant soon afterwards entered to say that it had arrived, and was carefully placed by the side of the lake, ready for launching, which ceremony Lord Robert, full of impatient joy, sprang off to superintend.
It sometimes happens that time and tide will not wait obsequiously even on the children of prosperity. These stubborn powers will sometimes fret and chafe the proud and great, and, frequently, are so unpolite as to ruffle a rose-leaf on their couch of pleasure; but, as if the young lord had suffered mortification enough in the morning, his cup of delight was full in the evening. The pleasure was scarcely promised before it was realized. The gay glittering frigate dashed bravely into the lake: she bounded and danced on the waves, with as much spirit as the youthful noble could wish. The bottle of claret was flung with great effect; and she received her name amidst the applauses of the peasantry of the neighbouring village, who, as a great favour, were permitted to behold this sight at an awful distance.
Lord Robert sank to rest that night, anticipating the charming sail he should take in the morning.
The eyes of the young lord were open before sunrise; but whilst his valet was hastily dressing him, what was his indignation, on casting his eyes towards the lake, to see his fairy frigate, his beautiful Ariel, spreading her white sails to the breeze, and gliding on the lake as gallantly as if her noble master were commanding her? Who could be the person that had dared to unmoor her? Down flew Lord Robert, half undressed; and the servants were summoned; but none of the household had been guilty of such a piece of audacity. At last, a thought struck him, that it could be no other than that contemner of all legal authority, Philip Harley. Lord Robert was soon by the border of the lake; and there he saw his young enemy reclined in the gilded pleasure-boat, sailing at his ease, and coasting near enough for Lord Robert to behold the look of calm defiance with which he surveyed his anger: and he continued to manage the Ariel with as much coolness as if her lawful owner had not been viewing her manœuvres with the greatest indignation. Lord Robert was still more provoked, when he recollected that he had no means of reaching the offender, to expel him from the boat.
"Is there anything like a boat on the estate," exclaimed Lord Robert, "that I may pursue that insolent young Harley, and take my property from him?"
"No, my Lord," said Edwards, the old gardener; "there is nothing of the kind on any of the pieces of water within a mile or two of the hall. Your Lordship may remember that when you were very young, and took such a fancy to everything relating to ships and sailing, my Lady had all the boats destroyed, for fear you should endanger your life by venturing on the water."
"And have they never been replaced?" asked Lord Robert.
"No, my Lord: there were two boats and a fishing-punt staved in by her Ladyship's order," replied Edwards. "You may recollect that your Lordship got into sad disgrace, the next day, by embarking on the lake in a large washing-tub."
Lord Robert could not help laughing. "On my honour, Edwards," said he, "I could find it in my heart to embark in a washing-tub at present, if I thought it of any use."
"I think, my Lord," said his valet, "Captain Bently has a small boat on the river, about a mile from the Park."
"Run, carry my compliments to Captain Bently, and ask him to lend it to me for an hour."
Two or three messengers started with obedient speed to fulfil the wishes of their master: but the land conveyance of a boat is a work of time; and, long before their return, Philip, tired, as we may suppose, of his amusement, steered the boat to the most distant part of the lake (which happened to be nearest his own home), and jumped on shore, behind some bushes, which jutted out and concealed his landing. He had walked quietly through the Park, and arrived at the village, before Lord Robert perceived, by the irregular drifting of the little vessel, that she was deserted, and the culprit had escaped his vengeance.
Lord Robert was literally glowing with rage, when he met his father in the breakfast-room. For some reason best known to himself, he had hitherto concealed from the Marquis his encounters with Philip Harley; but, in the moment of indignation, everything blazed forth; and, in all the exaggeration of anger, he informed his father of every outrage Philip had been guilty of towards him; adding, that the reason of their first disagreement was, his interrupting Philip in the act of poaching.
The Marquis was a good and humane man; but the representations of Lord Robert highly incensed him. That a young ruffian, exercising the lawless pursuits of a poacher, should take every opportunity of insulting and thwarting his son, and even of brutally assaulting him in his own park, was too much to be endured, and called for the severest punishment. Certainly, of all the species of theft (and it is theft), poaching is considered with the least mercy by noblemen and gentlemen of landed property. Perhaps the Marquis may be reckoned severe, but this was an aggravated case.
It was then in the middle of the American war, and a press-gang paid pretty frequent visits to the neighbouring sea-port town. His Lordship, therefore, informed them that he wished to remove a noxious person from the vicinity, and they took their measures accordingly.
Philip was partial to the sea: he was clever in the management of a boat, and was in the habit of taking trips, now and then, with some seafaring friends. He was preparing for one of these excursions, when the press-gang caught him near the harbour, dressed in a blue jacket and trousers; and the unfortunate youth was immediately dragged from his native place, without even being suffered to bid farewell to his parents; and it was with the greatest difficulty that he obtained leave to inform them of what had befallen him. Indeed, the first news they heard of him was, that he was on board a tender, and destined to sail in the first fleet that left England.
Philip Harley has hitherto appeared in no very respectable light. That he was a desperate trespasser and depredator is the most favourable opinion that can be formed of him; yet there were people in the neighbourhood, who, having known Philip from his infancy, ventured to think that he had met with harsh treatment, and that his heart, once so good and upright, must have undergone an extraordinary change, or that he had received great provocation, to be guilty of such daring outrages.
There is an excellent saying, which, though old and trite, it is sometimes necessary to bear in mind: namely, "That one story is good till another is told."—There was, in truth, some little excuse for Philip's conduct; though he certainly deserved blame, and even punishment, for giving up every proper pursuit and feeling to the gratification of resentment.
Before Lord Robert's return from his long voyage, Philip Harley was considered as gentle in disposition, as he was manly and high-spirited. At this time, he was just sixteen, and had begun to make himself useful in his father's business, which was that of a carpenter.
His father was rather independent in his circumstances; and his whole family consisted of two children—this Philip, and a lovely little blind girl, called Kate. This unhappy sister (if a creature in the practice of the most angelic patience can be called unhappy) was the darling of Philip's heart. Every spare minute he devoted to amusing and caressing this child, who was many years younger than himself; and she returned his love with the most grateful affection. The cottage where they lived fronted the west, and could be seen from the London road; and blind Kate used to take her evening seat on the threshold, waiting to hear the step of this beloved brother on his return from work; with her fair face and glittering curls turned to the setting sun—with a divine expression of hope and peace on her innocent countenance, that attracted the admiration of every passenger.
Philip had a very large spaniel, one of the handsomest of that beautiful species. This creature he had reared from a puppy, and taught to be obedient to his sister; and in his absence Rover was her only source of amusement; but he was, indeed, a most faithful and attached attendant, serving both for a guard and guide.
Sometimes Kate would walk on the road before the cottage, with her fair hands grasping Rover's silky coat, who would restrain his natural vivacity to guide the darkling steps of his little mistress. At other times, when the sun shone warm and bright, and the grass was soft and thick, Kate was as full of frolic and play as Rover himself, and would gambol with him a whole spring-day on the lawn in front of the cottage; but as the evening approached, Kate and Rover took their station at the cottage-door, and greeted the return of Philip with the utmost joy. Both were most dear to Philip: he tenderly loved his suffering sister; and he loved the faithful dog for her sake. It is not surprising, therefore, that Philip was almost broken-hearted when Kate fell sick, and after a few days expired. True, she was removed to a better place. Philip knew that she was taken in mercy, as her lot in this world was one of peculiar hardship; but he could not bear to lose her; and he and Rover moped in the most cheerless manner for many days after the funeral.
It was some little time before this that Lord Robert returned to the hall, after several years' absence. He had promised himself much pleasure from the autumnal field-sports; but in this amusement, as in every other occupation, he was too apt to suffer trifles to ruffle his temper, and make him violent and unreasonable.
One gloomy October evening, Lord Robert was returning with his gun and dogs through the park, attended by a gamekeeper. He had pursued his amusement that day with very little success: everything had gone wrong; the dogs had pointed badly, and his new fowling-piece, that had cost him twenty guineas only the week before, had hung fire several times, at the very moment when the game sprang before him the finest mark possible. In short, he had suffered disappointment enough to vex the heart of the most patient person in the world, who had never in his life felt what real affliction was. At this unlucky minute, it was Philip Harley's ill fortune to cross the park by a public footway that led through the grounds. It was the first day Philip had resumed his work since the death of his sister; and he was walking in a melancholy way, carrying his basket of tools, with his eyes fixed on the ground, attending very little to what was passing around him, and Rover was trudging by his side, when, unluckily, just as Lord Robert came up to him, a hare darted out of some bushes, and Rover scampered after it.
"That is the way all the game is poached off the estate!" exclaimed Lord Robert in a fit of passion; and, yielding to the influence of temper, he levelled his gun at the dog. The piece, that had so many times missed fire that day, now rang sharp and true: the faithful creature was mortally wounded; he crawled feebly to his master's feet, and expired. Philip hung over his poor dog, while he saw him die, with anguish that gave a painful sensation to Lord Robert; yet still, under the dominion of temper, he said to his servant—
"What a fool the fellow makes of himself about a dog!"
Philip lifted the body of his poor favourite from the ground, and taking it in his arms, rushed by the young lord, giving him a look of contempt and indignation as he passed.
"It is the dog that used to lead about his blind sister," said the humane gamekeeper. "She is just dead."
Lord Robert then remembered meeting Kate and the dog when he first came home: he had patted her curly head and admired her beauty.
"Was it blind Kate's dog?" said Lord Robert. "Had I known that, he might have destroyed every head of game on the estate before I would have shot him."
Perhaps, had Philip heard this half acknowledgment of error, much evil might have been prevented. The next time he met the young noble, it was with the most bitter feelings. He considered that Lord Robert had wantonly murdered the innocent companion of his sister; and all the grief he felt for her loss was turned into rage. Contemptuous words succeeded angry looks: and these ere not to be borne by Lord Robert's untamed spirit; though he felt greatly displeased with himself, and would have given half his fortune to have recalled the past, yet he would not bear Philip's reproaches. A very little provoked him to strike him, and a desperate encounter ensued. This was followed by many others; for Philip neglected all his better pursuits to gratify his revenge; he lay in wait to attack Lord Robert, and took every opportunity of defying him; till the most ferocious hatred took place between the two youths, which led to the consequences we have already seen. In one instance, however, Philip was wrongfully accused, as he never had stained his hands with dishonest practices. Lord Robert well knew that the dog's accidentally chasing the hare was perfectly involuntary on the part of Philip, who was scarcely conscious of it before the poor animal was put to death.
This incident had given Lord Robert Summers great mental pain: he was as angry with himself as with Philip Harley; he could not bear to think of his conduct in this affair—he could not bear to recall any circumstance relating to it; and only the name of Philip Harley gave him the greatest uneasiness. Yet he was not conscious that the whole of this uneasiness sprang from giving the reins one moment to ungovernable temper; for it was neither Philip nor his dog that had offended or irritated him; but accidental circumstances had put him in a very ill humour, and he vented his temper on the first beings that crossed his path, and, by that means, he was induced to commit an act of cruelty and oppression really foreign to his own disposition, and which outraged the best feelings of a fellow-creature, already under the pressure of acute affliction. If young people will look into their own hearts, they will find that there is no frailty belonging to our erring nature so deceptive as temper. Strange as it may appear, it often happens that many individuals, when they express anger, generally wreak it on the last person who would have thought of exciting it. Some unfortunate servant, or still more unhappy dependant, is made the victim of ill humour; which is not only in itself as blind and erring as it is unjust, but also brings with it the additional pain of self-reproach. Yet the heart is not always bad that gives way to its evil dominion; but it is for want of self-examination—of saying, "I find myself mentally uneasy, perhaps from accidental events, or even from indisposition of body; why then should I make myself odious to this person, who is in my power, and must endure my ill treatment, when a little patience and forbearance will remove the cloud that rests on my mind, and my spirit will rise bright and unclouded, rejoicing in the consciousness of having overcome one of the most painful infirmities of human nature?" This self-confession (if it may be so called) will bring mental health, and rectify the most irritable disposition.
Never did a month seem so long, as the time appeared to Lord Robert Summers while he remained on shore. He parted from his noble relatives with the less regret as he longed to be at sea, to lose in active employment the memory of these errors and mortifying reflections.
This young nobleman had passed his examination as lieutenant with the greatest credit; and in a severe engagement between his uncle's ship and a French man-of-war of superior force (which ended in the capture of the Frenchman), Lord Robert Summers behaved with such distinguished valour, that he was considered, both for intrepidity and nautical skill, a most promising young officer; yet, on account of his youth, being but just sixteen, he did not expect his commission for some time to come. In this idea, however, he was agreeably deceived; for, before the Diomede put to sea, he received his commission as lieutenant. Lord Robert was greatly attached to his profession; and this early promotion, which he was conscious was less the effect of interest than desert, seemed to him the first fruits of a brilliant career of naval honours.
He was received with transport by Sir Henry Stanley; who, himself an ornament to the British navy, foresaw, in the early valour of this beloved nephew, the glory of a Vernon or a Rodney. The Diomede had received sailing orders; Lord Robert, in high spirits, and joyful expectation of future triumphs, was in one of his happiest humours, when a boat from a tender came alongside the Diomede, with a supply of pressed men to recruit the ship's company.
"Summers, are you ill?" asked a young officer, with whom Lord Robert was gaily conversing; when a sudden alteration became observable in his voice and manner, and his cheek was overspread with a deadly paleness. Lord Robert did not hear him, being wholly occupied in watching the progress of a young sailor up the ship's side.
Lieutenant Cary repeated the question, but received no answer; and, supposing that Lord Robert was troubled with one of his occasional fits of patrician haughtiness, and being to the full as high-spirited as himself, left him to his contemplations. These were of no pleasant nature; for though emaciated, ragged, and dirty, and in many respects different from the handsome youth he had lately seen, the young sailor (who by this time stood on the deck of the Diomede) was Philip Harley! He now felt that his dislike and abhorrence had arisen to a more intolerable degree than ever; he fretted at the perverse accident that had thrown this hated object in his way, and actually proceeded some paces to request his uncle to remove Philip Harley from the ship; but then he recollected that he should most likely be forced to enter into particulars that he detested to recall, besides giving his enemy reason to suppose that the presence or absence of so abject a creature could be of the least consequence to him.
"No," said he to himself, "let him remain; he will, in the discipline of a man-of-war, be cured perhaps of his audacity, and learn submission to proper authority." This was the result of Lord Robert's debate with himself. At first, he had been a little touched by Philip's pale and altered countenance; but, on a second glance, he found his enemy had recognised him, and returned his glance with a look so full of reproach and contempt, that Lord Robert vowed within himself that his haughty spirit should be broken.