University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

No one felt the loss of Gladsdown Beckford more
than Ralph. It was to him a blow that seemed to
deprive him of his only friend—of a more than father.
In fact his uncle had almost entirely supported
him at college. What he obtained from his father
was merely an occasional pittance enveloped in
pages of economical advice. But his uncle was all
generosity and kindness to him, and Ralph was about
to pass through college, not only with the reputation
of a highly intellectual man, but with the means of
liberal expenditures in the enjoyment of any rational
and harmless pleasure with his fellow collegians,
when this unforeseen death came over his heart and
hopes.

Ralph heard not at all of his uncle's indisposition.
With a glow of pride he was reading a paragraph
in the newspaper, stating that his uncle had made
one of his ablest arguments in a cause which occupied
public attention, when he received a letter from
his aunt, in frantic terms mentioning the death.
Ralph instantly obtained leave of absence from college,
and hastened home to attend the funeral of his
uncle, and do all in his power to console his aunt.

Mournfully he shook his fellows by the hand, for

he felt the gates of his alma mater were about to
close on his college career, and the honours which all
had expected he would receive, he knew now were
not for him, for he was satisfied that the increasing
avarice of his father, which grew with his age, would
prevent his return. In the dead of the night, he
sprung with an effort from his restless couch, on
which he had thrown himself in the vain hope of
snatching a little sleep, and gathering his cloak
around him, he hurried into the stage, while the
clouds of the future rolled darkly before him, and
more darkly as he attempted to penetrate the shade.
As he thought of himself and his prospects, he felt
his own to be a disposition unfit for the turmoil and
excitement of life, and full, he thought, of gloomy tendencies
which required a soothing and cheering
spirit to dispel them. Then how natural the vision
of Ruth arose to the mind and heart of Ralph, and
he determined, if he could not return to college with
the same facilities he had enjoyed there under the
patronage of his uncle, and remain until he was of
age, so that he might graduate with honour, when
he would be his own master and receive the little
property due him, he would instantly wend westward,
and seek his fortune where Ruth's was cast.

He pictured to himself Perryville, as Ruth had
described it to him in her letters, and the little farm
on which she lived. He thought he saw Billy playing
by her side, or saying his task to her in the quiet
scene, and he resolved to throw aside ambition and

worldly strife, and live, he believed, happily, oh!
how happily, with Ruth, the queen of his destiny.
Then the dark thought arose, could it be that fate
had so much happiness in store for him? could his
cup be so full, so overflowing with joy? and gloom
again took possession of his mind. He reverted to
his uncle and all his kindnesses to him; recalled to
memory his form, and voice, and look, when he last
saw him; and, smitten to the heart with the conviction
that he should see him no more, Ralph buried
his head in his cloak, and wept like a woman.

As soon as Ralph reached the city of his birth,
he hurried to the residence of his uncle. The burial
was to take place that afternoon. Ralph found his
aunt in her chamber, stunned by her loss. She wept
bitterly when he entered; and finding his presence
seemed to add to her grief, he left the room, and
passed into that where lay the mortal remains of the
one who had so befriended him. Ralph removed
the lid of the coffin noiselessly, like one who feared
to awaken a sleeper, and yet as he did so, the wish
arose in his breast, almost to its bursting—“Oh! God,
that I could reanimate that clay!” Could he have
done so, he could not have restored the Promethean
heat to a nobler heart, or a manlier brow. The
dark hair, just touched with gray, lay heavily on a
massive forehead, where intellect was stamped, as
with a seal, its impression still lived there so vividly.
In every lineament was written ennobling character,
and vigorous intellect; or rather in their expression

was the proof of what had been there, while the conviction
of what was—the fearful presence and reality
of death—pressed the more heavily on the beholder.
He looked at the lip, on which a smile seemed to
play, and he could hardly realize the fact, that it
would speak to him no more.

“My dear uncle,” said Ralph, as he gazed upon
the features of the dreamless sleeper—“Oh! that
you could speak to me; but I will so live and act,
that if you could, even from the grave, speak, you
would not censure me,”—and he sat down beside
the corpse, he knew not how long; nor was he
conscious of anything, until an attendant roused
him from his gloomy reverie, and led him to his
chamber.

A week or so after the burying, Ralph learned
that his uncle had died insolvent; and that his aunt
was entirely destitute, except what she might receive
from Henry. The information he obtained
from his father, who made loud complaints against
his deceased brother, stating, he had lent him two
thousand dollars but a few weeks previous to his
death, and should never get a single cent of it.

Ralph was astonished to hear of the pecuniary condition
of his uncle, and feeling his deep indebtedness
to him, he determined to do his uttermost to contribute
to the comfort of his aunt. In a few months he
would be of age, and he resolved, if it took every cent
of the property which he would then receive in right
of his mother, to contribute it to the maintenance of

his aunt. This resolve he communicated to his
father, who, our readers may suppose, was awfully
astonished.

“By dad,” exclaimed the old miser, jumping from
his arm-chair in a passion, “Ralph, you are demented.
Give all the money you have in the world
away to feed your aunt's extravagance—when two
thousand dollars of my money has gone to the devil
the same way!—good God, did you learn this at
college? you never got it from me. I shall never
leave you a cent, Ralph; it would be a sin, a crying
shame to give you money, when I know it would be
squandered. As soon as you are of age, you will
take possession of your property, to give it to your
aunt, hey? Well, do so, sir; and then you may
take possession of yourself and depart from my
house. By dad, I'll turn you out on the common;
and it will be with you—root, hog, or die!”

Ralph could not but smile at the phrase of his
father, ere he replied in his strain,

“I expect, father, I shall root in the western
country.”

“Yes,” retorted the old man, “and you'll die there,
too, of starvation. I see what you are after—you
are at deception again, Ralph—you're for your love
affair with that little vixen, Ruth Lorman, the greatest
little hussy I ever knew! Well, you may live
on love, I can tell you. Bless my soul! every one
that you have anything to do with cheats me.
There's your uncle dead, and the two thousand dollars

gone with him, yet you are grateful for his support
of you at college. Did it cost two thousand
dollars? wasn't it my money, if it did? and notwithstanding
you are giving your last cent, received, too,
through your mother, whom you pretend to love so
much, to your aunt. Your aunt! Why, Ralph, do
you know that she treated your mother abominably
—yes abominably! She scarcely ever called to see
her, and when she did it was to put extravagant notions
in her head, and create bickerings between us.
Yes, I repeat, every one whom you have anything
to do with, cheats and bamboozles me. The two
thousand's gone I lent your uncle—I never would
have lent it to him if I hadn't thought he was kind
to you. There's old Lorman, knowing you thought
well of him, I lends him a thousand dollars,—that's
just as good, I expect, as an insolvent dead man's
debts, too, I have no doubt. Merciful Providence!
I shall be ruined—have to beg my bread in my old
age yet.”

“Father,” replied Ralph, “you'll have to lose a
good many thousands more, folks think and say,
before you come to that, unless as a matter of
choice.”

“Folks say! Who says?” exclaimed the old miser,
glancing suspiciously round. “Yes, I may be
murdered yet, and all by what folks say. Yes, you
nincompoop, and folks say that you might have
married that beautiful rich lady, Helen Murray, the
daughter of my old friend; but you stood shillyshally

with a sheep's face upon your shoulders, and now
she has married, for want of a husband, a man old
enough to be the father of both of you, you stultified
know-nothing—I waste words—you must do for
yourself, that's all.”

A week or two previous to the death of his uncle.
Ralph had received a letter from Helen Murray, in
which she jocularly said she had a notion of changing
her name, and she bid him to the bridal. Ralph
hardly knew whether it was jest or earnest, and he
replied in a similar strain. When, after the burial
of his uncle, he inquired after Helen, that he might
pay his respects to her, he learned she was married,
and that the bridal party had gone on a pleasure
jaunt to New York. A few days after this Ralph
received a letter from Mrs. Davidson, stating she
was shocked at seeing the announcement of the
death of his uncle, and making many earnest inquiries
as to what property he had left, and as to
the condition of Mrs. Beckford. Ralph replied, and
fully informed her as to her inquiries.

A few weeks brought the bridal party back, and
Ralph hastened, though in the habiliments of mourning,
to call upon the bride. He thought he had
never seen Helen look half so lovely, yet he could
not but smile at the devotedness of the groom.

If Ralph was much struck by the appearance of
Helen, she was more impressed with his. He had
grown tall and thin; his intellectual brow had expanded,
she thought, and the deep shadow of grief

upon his features, and his mourning suit, awakened
an interest in her bosom, of which her lord might
have been jealous, had he known its extent.

“Indeed, Ralph,” said the bride, as he took a seat
beside her on the sofa, “I cannot tell you how much
I have been distressed by the death of your uncle.
And your aunt—what will she do? Where is
Henry?”

“In the south-west, I believe,” replied Ralph.

“What is he doing?”

“Indeed, I cannot say,” said Ralph, unwilling to
say anything against his cousin.

“From what I can understand,” said Helen, “he
has not improved. I am told his associations are
becoming worse and worse, and that he is more
reckless than ever. A great part of his fortune is
gone. I fear—I fear Mrs. Beckford will have very
little comfort in him. He was some time in Perryville.
You saw the article in the “Chronicle,” did
you not, recopied from a Perryville paper? Ruth
does not say much about him.”

“When did you hear from Ruth?” inquired Ralph,
quickly.

“A few days since. She is well—unmarried,”
continued Helen, smiling, “as, I suppose, you know.
It is Mr. Davidson's intention to proceed immediately
west. I shall see her, and persuade her to
visit the south-west with me. Come, you must accompany
us.”

“I would that I could,” exclaimed Ralph; “but I
must not leave my aunt. When do you leave?”

“The day after to-morrow. I wrote to Ruth from
New York. Come, Ralph,—Mr. Beckford—you
must go with us.”

“I need no persuasion, you well know, Mrs. Davidson;
but I am not yet of age. I shall be in a
few months, and I must wait till then to obtain the
possession of some property, to speak candidly, not
egotistically, with which I may assist my aunt, as
you think that Henry will not be able to do so.”

After a long conversation about Ruth and the
west, and after expressing many heartfelt regrets
that he could not now accompany Mrs. Davidson
westward, Ralph took his leave, promising to return
at three, and dine with herself and husband.