 | III. Edwin Brothertoft |  |
3. III.
Edwin Brothertoft, fifth of that name, had
been two years at Oxford, toiling at the peaceful
tasks and dreaming the fair dreams of a
young scholar.
It was the fashion of that time to send young
men of property to be educated and Anglicized
in England.
Bushwhackers and backwoodsmen the new
continent trained to perfection. Most of the
Colonists knew that two and two make four,
and could put this and that together. But
lore, classic or other, — heavy lore out of tomes,
— was not to be had short of the old country.
The Massachusetts and Connecticut mills, Harvard
and Yale, turned out a light article of domestic
lore, creditable enough considering their
inferior facilities for manufacture; the heavy
British stuff was much preferred by those who
could afford to import it.
Edwin went to be Anglicized. Destiny meant
that he shall not be. His life at Oxford came
to a sharp end.
His father wrote: “My son, I am dying the
early death of a Brothertoft. I have been foolish
enough to lose the last of our fortune.
Come home and forgive me!”
Beautiful Oxford! Fair spires and towers and
dreamy cloisters, — dusky chapels, and rich old
halls, — green gardens, overlooked by lovely
oriels, — high avenues of elms for quiet contemplation,
— companionship of earnest minds,
— a life of simple rules and struggles without
pain, — how hard it was for the young man to
leave all this!
It was mid-January, 1757, when he saw home
again.
A bleak prospect. The river was black ice.
Dunderberg and the Highlands were chilly with
snow. The beech-trees wore their dead leaves,
in forlorn protest against the winter-time. The
dilapidated Manor-House published the faded fortunes
of its tenants.
“Tenants at will,” so said the father to his
son, in the parlor where Vandyck's picture presided.
“Whose will?” Edwin asked.
“Colonel Billop's.”
“The name is new to me.”
“He is a half-pay officer and ex-army-contractor,
— a hard, cruel man. He has made a
great fortune, as such men make fortunes.”
“Will his method suit me, father? You
know I have mine to make.”
“Hardly. I am afraid you could not trade
with the Indians, — a handful of beads for a
beaver-skin, a `big drunk' for a bale of them.”
“I am afraid not.”
“I fear your conscience is too tender to let
you put off beef that once galloped under the
saddle to feed troops.”
“Yes; and I love horses too much to encourage
hippophagy.”
“Could you look up men in desperate circumstance,
and take their last penny in usury?”
“Is that his method?”
“Certainly. And to crown all, could you
seduce your friend into a promising job, make
the trustful fool responsible for the losses, and
when they came, supply him means to pay them,
receiving a ruinous mortgage as security? This
is what he has done to me. Do any of these
methods suit my son?” asked the elder, with a
gentleman's scorn.
“Meanness and avarice are new to me,” the
junior rejoined, with a gentleman's indignation.
“Can a fortune so made profit a man?”
“Billop will not enjoy it. He is dying, too.
His heirs will take possession, as mine retire.”
Edwin could not think thus coolly of his father's
death. To check tears, he went on with
his queries.
“He has heirs, then, our unenviable successor?”
“One child, heir or heiress; I do not remember
which.”
“Heir or heiress, I hope the new tenant will
keep the old place in order, until I can win it
back for you, father.”
“It cheers me greatly, my dear son,” said the
father, with a smile on his worn, desponding face,
“to find that you are not crushed by my avowal
of poverty.”
“The thought of work exhilarates me,” the
younger proudly returned.
“We Brothertofts have always needed the
goad of necessity,” said the senior, in apology
for himself and his race.
“Now, then, necessity shall make us acquainted
with success. I will win it. You
shall share it.”
“In the spirit, not in the body. But we will
not speak of that. Where will you seek your
success, here or there?”
He pointed to Vandyck's group of the Parliamentary
Colonel and his family. The forefather
looked kindly down upon his descendants. Each
of them closely resembled that mild, heroic gentleman.
“Here or in the land of our ancestors?” the
father continued. “Your generation has the
Hanoverians on the throne of England will
crowd us to revolution, as the Stuarts did the
mother country.”
“Then Westchester may need a Brothertoft,
as Lincolnshire did,” cries Edwin, ardently. His
face flushed, his eye kindled, it seemed as if the
Colonel, in the vigor of youth, had stepped down
from the canvas.
His father was thrilled. A life could not name
itself wasted which had passed to such a son.
“But let us not be visionary, my boy,” he went
on more quietly, and with weak doubts of the
wisdom of enthusiasm. “England offers a brilliant
career to one of your figure, your manners,
and your talents. Our friends there do not forget
us, as you know, for all our century of rustication
here. When I am gone, and the Manor
is gone, you will have not one single tie of property
or person in America.”
“I love England,” said Edwin, “I love Oxford;
the history, the romance, and the hope of
England are all packed into that grand old
casket of learning; but” — and he turned towards
the portrait — “the Colonel embarked us
on the continent. He would frown if we gave
up the great ship and took to the little pinnace
again.”
Clearly the young gentlemen was not Anglicized.
the big ship was freighted with pine lumber,
and manned by Indians, while the pinnace was
crammed with jewels, and had a king to steer
and peers to pull the halyards; but still he was
of a continent, Continental in all his ideas and
fancies, and could not condescend to be an
Islander.”
Then the gentlemen continued to discuss his
decision in a lively tone, and to scheme pleasantly
for the future. They knew that gravity
would bring them straightway to sadness.
Sadness must come. Both perceived that this
meeting was the first in a series of farewells.
Daily interviews of farewell slowly led the
father and the son to their hour of final parting.
How tenderly this dear paternal and filial love
deepened in those flying weeks of winter. The
dying man felt his earthly being sweetly completed
by his son's affection. His had been a
somewhat lonely life. The robust manners of
his compeers among the Patroons had repelled
him. The early death of his wife had depressed
and isolated him. No great crisis had happened
to arouse and nerve the decaying gentleman.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I should not have accepted
a merely negative life, if your mother had
been with me to ripen my brave purposes into
stout acts. Love is the impelling force of life.
than failure, a hapless ruin and defeat.”
These boding words seemed spoken with the
clairvoyance of a dying man. They were the
father's last warnings.
The first mild winds of March melted the
snow from the old graveyard of Brothertoft Manor
on a mount overlooking the river. There was
but a little drift to scrape away from the vault
door when they came to lay Edwin Brothertoft,
fourth of that name, by the side of his ancestors.
| III. Edwin Brothertoft | |