During my stay at my uncle’s, I received several
letters from my father, inquiring how my work went
on, and urging me to proceed as rapidly as possible,
lest another “Voyage to China,” which it
was reported a gentleman of high reputation was now
composing, should come out, and preclude mine for
ever. I cannot account for my folly: the
power of habit is imperceptible to those who submit
passively to its tyranny. From day to day I continued
procrastinating and sighing, till at last the fatal
news came that Sir George Staunton’s History
of the Embassy to China, in two volumes quarto, was
actually published.
There was an end of all my hopes. I left my uncle’s
house in despair; I dreaded to see my father.
He overwhelmed me with well-merited reproaches.
All his expectations of my success in life were disappointed;
he was now convinced that I should never make my talents
useful to myself or to my family. A settled melancholy
appeared in his countenance; he soon ceased to urge
me to any exertion, and I idled away my time, deploring
that I could not marry my Lucy, and resolving upon
a thousand schemes for advancing myself, but always
delaying their execution till to-morrow.
CHAPTER III.
Two years passed away in this manner, about the end
of which time my poor father died. I cannot describe
the mixed sensations of grief and self-reproach which
I felt at his death. I knew that I had never
fulfilled his sanguine prophecies, and that disappointment
had long preyed upon his spirits. This was a
severe shock to me: I was roused from a state
of stupefaction by the necessity of acting as my father’s
executor.
Among his bequests was one which touched me particularly,
because I was sensible that it was made from kindness
to me. “I give and bequeath the full-length
picture of my son Basil, taken when a boy (a very promising
boy) at Eton school, to my brother Lowe—I
should say to my sweet niece, Lucy Lowe, but am afraid
of giving offence.”
I sent the picture to my uncle Lowe, with a copy of
the words of the will, and a letter written in the
bitterness of grief. My uncle, who was of an
affectionate though positive temper, returned me the
following answer:
“DEAR NEPHEW BASIL,
“Taking it for granted you feel as much as I
do, it being natural you should, and even more, I
shall not refuse to let my Lucy have the picture bequeathed
to me by my good brother, who could not offend me
dying, never having done so living. As to you,
Basil, this is no time for reproaches, which would
be cruel; but, without meaning to look back to the
past, I must add that I mean nothing by giving the
picture to Lucy but respect for my poor brother’s
memory. My opinions remaining as heretofore,
I think it a duty to my girl to be steady in my determination;
convinced that no man (not meaning you in particular)
of what I call a putting off temper could make
Copyrights
Tales and Novels — Volume 02 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
