University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

The Hon. General Denbigh was the youngest
of three sons. His seniors, Francis and
George, were yet bachelors. The death of a
cousin had made Francis a Duke, while a
child, and both he and his favourite brother
George, had decided on lives of inactivity and
sluggishness.

“When I die, brother,” the oldest would
say, “you will succeed me, and Frederic can
provide heirs for the name hereafter.”

This arrangement had been closely adhered
to, and the brothers had reached the ages of
fifty-five and fifty-six, without altering their
condition. In the mean time, Frederic had
married a young woman of rank and fortune,
and the fruits of their union, were the two
young candidates for the hand of Isabel
Howell.

Francis Denbigh, the eldest son of the General,
was diffident of himself by nature, and in
addition thereto, it was his misfortune to be the
reverse of captivating in his external appearance.
The small pox sealed his doom;---ignorance,
and the violence of his attack, left
him indelibly impressed with the ravages of
that dreadful disorder. On the other hand,
his brother escaped without any vestiges of
the complaint, and his spotless skin, and fine
open countenance, met the gaze of his mother,

as contrasted with the deformed lineaments
of his elder brother. Such an occurrence is
sure to excite one of two feelings in the breast
of every beholder---pity or disgust---and, unhappily
for Francis, maternal tenderness was
unable to counteract the latter sensation in
his case. George became a favourite, and
Francis a neutral. The effect was now easy
to be seen---it was rapid, as it was indelible.

The feelings of Francis were tensitive to
an extreme---he had more quickness---more
sensibility---more real talents than George---
and all these enabled him to perceive, and the
more acutely to feel, the partiality of his mother,
to his own prejudice.

As yet, the engagements and duties of the
General, had kept his children, and their improvements,
out of his sight; but at the ages
of eleven and twelve, the feelings of a father,
began to pride themselves in the possession of
his sons.

On his return from a foreign station, after
an absence of two years, his children were
ordered from school to meet him. Francis
had improved in stature, but not in beauty---
George had flourished in both.

The natural diffidence of the former was
increased, by perceiving himself no favourite,
and the effects began to show itself in his
manners, at no time engaging. He met his
father with doubts as to his impressing him
favourably, and he saw with anguish, that
the embrace received by his brother far exceeded

in warmth, what had been bestowed
on himself.

“Lady Margaret,” said the General to his
wife, as he followed the retiring boys with
his eyes from the dinner table, “it is a
thousand pity's George had not been the elder.
He would have graced a dukedom or a
throne. Frank is only fit for a parson.”

This ill-judged speech was uttered sufficiently
loud to be overheard by both the sons;
on the younger, it made a pleasurable sensation
for the moment. His father---his dear
father, had thought him fit to be a king---and
his father must be a judge, whispered his native
vanity---but all this time the connexion
between the speech and his brother's rights
did not present themselves to his mind.---
George loved this brother too well---too sincerely,
to have injured him even in thought;
and so far as Francis was concerned, his vanity
was as blameless, as it was natural.

The effect produced on the mind of Francis,
was both different in substance and degree.
It mortified his pride---alarmed his
delicacy---and wounded his already morbid
sensibility to such an extent, as to make him
entertain the romantic notion of withdrawing
from the world, and yielding a birthright
to one so every way more deserving of it than
himself.

From this period, might be dated the opinion
of Francis, which never afterwards left
him; that he was doing injustice to another,

and that other, a brother whom he ardently
loved, by continuing to exist. Had he met
with fondness in his parents, or sociability in
his play-fellows, these fancies would have
left him as he grew into life. But the affections
of his parents were settled on his more
promising brother, and his manners, daily increasing
in their repulsive traits, drove his
companions to the society of others, more
agreeable to their own buoyancy and joy.

Had Francis Denbigh, at this age, met with
a guardian, clear-sighted enough to fathom
his real character, and competent to direct
his course onward, to his great and prominent
duties in life, he would yet have become
an ornament to his name and country, and a
useful member of society. But no such guide
existed. His natural guardians, in his particular
case, were his worst enemies---and the
boys left school for college four years afterwards,
each advanced in their respective properties
of attraction and repulsion.

Irreligion is hardly a worse evil in a family
than favouritism; when once allowed to exist,
acknowledged, in the breast of the parent,
though hid apparently from all other eyes---
its sad consequences begin to show themselves
—effects are produced, and we look in vain
for the cause. The awakened sympathies of
reciprocal caresses and fondness, are mistaken
for uncommon feelings, and the forbidding
aspect of deadened affections miscalled
native insensibility.

In this manner the evil increases itself, until
manners are formed, and characters created,
that must descend, with their possessor,
to the tomb.

In the peculiar formation of the mind of
Francis Denbigh, the evil was doubly injurious.
His feelings required sympathy and
softness, when they met only with coldness
and disgust. George alone was an exception
to the rule. He did love his brother; but even
his gayety and spirits, soon tired of the dull
uniformity of the diseased habits of his elder.

The only refuge Francis found in his solitude,
amidst the hundreds of the university,
was in his muse and powers of melody.
The voice of his family has been frequently
mentioned in these pages. And if, as Lady
Laura had intimated, there had ever been
a syren in the race, it was a male one. He
wrote prettily, and would sing these efforts of
his muse, to music of his own, that would
often draw crowds around his windows, in
the stillness of the night, to listen to sounds,
as melodious as they were mournful. His poetical
efforts partook of the distinctive character
of the man, and were melancholy—
wild—and sometimes pious.

George was always amongst the most admiring
of his brother's auditors, and would
feel a yearning of his heart towards him at
such moments, that was painful. But George
was too young, and too heedless, to supply
the place of a monitor, or a guide, for Francis,

to draw his thoughts into a more salutary
train. This was the duty of his parents, and
should have been their task. But the world
—his rising honours—and his professional
engagements, occupied the time of his father;
and fashion, parties and pleasure, killed the
time of his mother—when they did think
of their children, it was of George—the painful
image of Francis, was as seldom admitted
to disturb their serenity as possible.

George Denbigh was open-hearted, without
suspicion, and a favourite. The first taxed
his generosity—the second subjected him
to fraud—and the third supplied him with
the means. But these means sometimes failed.
The fortune of the General, though
handsome, was not more than competent to
the support of his style of living. He expected
to be a duke himself one day, and
was anxious to maintain an appearance now,
that would not disgrace his future elevation.
A system of strict but liberal economy had
been adopted in the case of his sons. They
had, for the sake of appearance, a stated and
equal allowance for each.

The Duke had offered to educate the heir
himself, and under his own eye. But to this
Lady Margaret had found some ingenious
excuse in objection, and one that seemed to
herself and the world, as honourable to her
natural feeling; but had the offer been made
to George, these reasons would have vanished
in the desire to advance his interests, or

gratify his propensities. Such decisions are
by no means uncommon; as parents having
once decided on the merits and abilities of
their children, frequently decline the interference
of third persons, as the improvement
of their denounced offspring might bring
their own judgment into question, if it did
not convey an indirect censure on their justice.

The heedlessness of George, had brought
his purse to a state of emptiness. His last
guinea was gone, and two months was wanting
to the end of his quarter. George had
played and been cheated. He had ventured
to apply to his mother for small sums, when
his dress or some trifling indulgence required
an advance; and always with success. But
here were sixty guineas gone at a blow—and
his pride—his candour, forbade his concealing
the manner of his loss, if he made the
application. This was dreadful—his own
conscience reproached him—and he had so
often witnessed the violence of his mother's
resentments against Francis, for faults which
appeared to him very trivial, not to stand in
the utmost dread of her more just displeasure
in his present case.

Entering the apartment of his brother, in
this disturbed condition, George threw himself
into a chair, and with his face concealed
between his hands, sat brooding over his forlorn
situation.

“George!” said his brother, soothingly,

“you are distressed at something?---can I
relieve you in any way?”

“Oh! no---no---no---Frank; it is entirely
out of your power.”

“Perhaps not, my dear brother”---continued
the other, endeavouring to draw his
hand into his own.

“Entirely!---entirely!” said George. And
then, springing up in despair, he exclaimed:
“But I must live---I cannot die.”

“Live!---die!”---cried Francis, recoiling
in horror. “What do you mean by such language.
Tell me, George, am I not your brother?---Your
only brother and best friend?”

Francis felt he had none, if George was
not that friend, and his face grew pale with
emotion, as the tears flowed rapidly down his
cheeks.

George could not resist such an appeal.
He caught the hand of his brother, and made
him acquainted with his losses and his wants.

Francis mused some little time over his
narration, ere he broke silence with---

“It was all you had?”

“The last shilling,” cried George, beating
his head with his hand.

“And how much will you require to make
out the quarter?”

“Oh I must have at least fifty guineas, or
how can I live at all.”—The ideas of life in
George were connected a good deal with the
manner it was to be enjoyed—His brother

appeared struggling with himself, and then
turning to the other, continued,

“But surely, under present circumstances
you could make less do.”

“Less, never—hardly that”—interrupted
George vehemently; “If Lady Margaret did
not enclose me a note now and then, how
could we get along at all—dont you find it
so yourself, brother?'

“I don't know,” said Francis, turning
pale—

“Don't know,” cried George, catching a
view of his altered countenance—“you get
the money though.”

“I do not remember it,” said the other,
sighing heavily.

“Francis,” cried George, comprehending
the truth, “you shall share every shilling I
receive in future—you shall—indeed you
shall.”

“Well, then,” rejoined Francis with a
smile, “it is a bargain, and you will receive
from me a supply in your present necessities.”

Without waiting for an answer, Francis
withdrew into an inner apartment, and
brought out the required sum for his brother's
subsistence for two months—George
remonstrated—but Francis was positive; he
had been saving, and his stock was ample for
his simple habits without it.

“Besides, you forget we are partners, and
in the end I shall be a gainer.” George
yielded to his wants and his brother's entreaties,

although he gave him credit for the disinterestedness
of the act—several weeks passed
over without any further allusion to this
disagreeable subject—which had at least
the favorable result to make George more
guarded and a better student in future.

The brothers, from this period, advanced gradually
in the acquiring those distinctive qualities
which were to mark the future men—
George daily improving in grace and attraction
—Francis in an equal ratio, receding from
those very attainments, which it was only his
too great desire to possess. In the education
of his sons, General Denbigh had preserved
the appearance of impartiality; his allowance
to each was the same, they were at the same
college—they had been at the same school—
and if Frank did not improve as much as his
younger brother, it was his own obstinacy
and stupidity, and surely not want of opportunity
or favour.

Such, then, were the artificial and accidental
causes, which kept a noble, a proud, an acute
but diseased mind much below in acquirements,
another, every way its inferior, excepting
in the happy circumstance, of wanting
those very excellencies, the excess and indiscreet
management of which proved the ruin,
instead of blessing of their possessor.

The Duke would occasionally rouse himself
from his lethargy, and complain to the
father, that the heir of his honours was far
inferior to his younger brother in acquirements,
and remonstrate against the course

which produced such an unfortunate inequality;
on these occasions a superficial statement
of his system, from the General, met
the objection: they cost the same money, and
he was sure he not only wished, but did,
every thing an indulgent parent could, to render
Francis worthy of his future honours—
another evil of the admission of feelings of
partiality, in the favour of one child, to the prejudice
of another, is that the malady is contagious,
as well as lasting: it exists without
our own knowledge, and it seldom fails by
its influence to affect those around us.
The uncle soon learnt to distinguish George
as the hope of the family, yet Francis
must be the heir of its honours, and consequently
its wealth.

The Duke and his brother were not much
addicted to action, hardly to reflection—but
if any thing could rouse them to either, it
was the reputation of the house of Denbigh.
Their ideas of reputation, it is true, were of
their own forming, but constant dropping
wears away the stone.—So long and confirmed
habits were unsettled by incessant
broodings on the character of their heir;
matrimony became less formidable in their
eyes, but the importance of the step still held
them in suspence.

The hour at length drew near when George
expected a supply from the ill-judged generosity
of his mother; it came, and with a
heart beating with pleasure, the youth flew
to the room of Francis, with a determination

to force the whole of his twenty pounds on
his acceptance. On throwing open his door,
he saw his brother evidently striving to conceal
something behind some books. It was
at the hour of breakfast, and George had
intended for a novelty to share his brother's
morning repast. They always met
at dinner, but their other meals were made
in their own rooms. George looked in vain
for the usual equipage of the table; the truth
began to dawn upon him, he threw aside the
books, and a crust of bread and glass of
water met his eye—it now flashed upon him
in all its force.

“Francis, my brother, to what has my extravagance
reduced you,” exclaimed the contrite
George, with a heart nearly ready to
burst with his emotion. Francis endeavored
to explain, but a sacred regard to the truth
held him tongue-tied, until dropping his head
on the shoulder of George, he sobbed out—
“It is a trifle, nothing to what I would
do for you, my brother.”

George felt all the horrors of remorse, and
was too generous to conceal his error any
longer; he wrote a circumstantial account of
the whole transaction to Lady Margaret.

Francis for a few days was a new being—
he had acted nobly, his conscience approved
of his motives, and his delicate concealment
of them; he in fact began to think there
were in himself the seeds of usefulness, as
his brother, who from this moment began to

understand his character better, attached himself
more closely to him as a companion.

The eye of Francis met that of George
with the look of acknowledged affection, his
mind became less moody, and his face sometimes
embellished with a smile.

The reply of their mother to the communication
of George threw a damp on these
revived hopes of the senior, and drove
him back into himself, with tenfold humility.

“I am shocked, my child, to find you have
lowered yourself, and forgot the family you
belong to, so much as to frequent those gambling
houses, which ought not to be suffered
in the neighbourhood of the universities; when
at a proper age and in proper company, your
occasional indulgence at cards I could not
object to, as both your father and myself,
sometimes resort to it as an amusement, but
never in low company; the consequence of
your mingling in such society is, that you
were cheated, and such will always be your
lot, unless you confine yourself to associates,
more becoming your rank and illustrious
name.

“As to Francis, I see every reason to condemn
the course he has taken. He should,
being the senior by a year, have taken the
means to prevent your falling into such company;
and he should have acquainted me immediately,
with your loss, in place of wounding
your pride, by subjecting you to the mortification
of receiving a pecuniary obligation,

from one so little older than yourself, and exposing
his own health by a diet on bread and water,
as you wrote me, for a whole month. Both
the General and myself are seriously displeased
with him, and think of separating you,
as you thus connive at each others follies.”

George was too indignant to conceal this letter,
and the reflections of Francis on it were
dreadful.

For a short time he actually meditated suicide,
as the only method of removing a child,
from the way of impeding the advancement
of his more favoured brother, to the wishes of
their common parents.

Had not George been more attentive and
affectionate than formerly, the awful expedient
might have been resorted to.

From college, the young men went, one
into the army, and the other to the mansion
of his uncle. George became an elegant---
gay---open-hearted---admired--captain in the
guards; and Francis stalked through the
halls of his ancestors, their acknowledged
future Lord, but a misanthrope---hateful to
himself, and disagreeable to all around him.

This picture may be highly wrought,
and the effects in the case of Francis, increased
by the peculiar tone of his diseased state
of mind. But the indulgence of favouritism
always brings its sad consequences, in a greater
or less degree, and seldom fails to give
sorrow and penitence to the bosom of the
parents.