The Caxtons: A Family Picture — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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СКАЧАТЬ in the village church there was a beautiful brass monument to one Sir William de Caxton, who had been killed at the battle of Bosworth, fighting for that wicked king Richard III. And about the same time there lived, as you know, the great printer, William Caxton. Well, your father, happening to be in town on a visit to his aunt, took great trouble in hunting up all the old papers he could find at the Heralds’ College; and, sure enough, he was overjoyed to satisfy himself that he was descended, not from that poor Sir William who had been killed in so bad a cause, but from the great printer, who was from a younger branch of the same family, and to whose descendants the estate came in the reign of Henry VIII. It was upon this that your Uncle Roland quarrelled with him,—and, indeed, I tremble to think that they may touch on that matter again.”

      “Then, my dear mother, I must say my uncle was wrong there so far as common-sense is concerned; but still, somehow or other, I can understand it. Surely, this was not the only cause of estrangement?”

      My mother looked down, and moved one hand gently over the other, which was her way when embarrassed. “What was it, my own mother?” said I, coaxingly.

      “I believe—that is, I—I think that they were both attached to the same young lady.”

      “How! you don’t mean to say that my father was ever in love with any one but you?”

      “Yes, Sisty,—yes, and deeply! And,” added my mother, after a slight pause, and with a very low sigh, “he never was in love with me; and what is more, he had the frankness to tell me so!”

      “And yet you—”

      “Married him—yes!” said my mother, raising the softest and purest eyes that ever lover could have wished to read his fate in; “yes, for the old love was hopeless. I knew that I could make him happy. I knew that he would love me at last, and he does so! My son, your father loves me!”

      As she spoke, there came a blush, as innocent as virgin ever knew, to my mother’s smooth cheek; and she looked so fair, so good, and still so young all the while that you would have said that either Dusius, the Teuton fiend, or Nock, the Scandinavian sea-imp, from whom the learned assure us we derive our modern Daimones, “The Deuce,” and Old Nick, had possessed my father, if he had not learned to love such a creature.

      I pressed her hand to my lips; but my heart was too full tot speak for a moment or so, and then I partially changed the subject.

      “Well, and this rivalry estranged them more? And who was the lady?”

      “Your father never told me, and I never asked,” said my mother, simply. “But she was very different from me, I know. Very accomplished, very beautiful, very highborn.”

      “For all that, my father was a lucky man to escape her. Pass on. What did the Captain do?”

      “Why, about that time your grandfather died; and shortly after an aunt, on the mother’s side, who was rich and saving, died, and unexpectedly left each sixteen thousand pounds. Your uncle, with his share, bought back, at an enormous price, the old castle and some land round it, which they say does not bring him in three hundred a year. With the little that remained, he purchased a commission in the army; and the brothers met no more till last week, when Roland suddenly arrived.”

      “He did not marry this accomplished young lady?”

      “No! but he married another, and is a widower.”

      “Why, he was as inconstant as my father, and I am sure without so good an excuse. How was that?”

      “I don’t know. He says nothing about it.”

      “Has he any children?”

      “Two, a son—By the by, you must never speak about him. Your uncle briefly said, when I asked him what was his family, ‘A girl, ma’am. I had a son, but—’

      “‘He is dead,’ cried your father, in his kind, pitying voice.”

      “‘Dead to me, brother; and you will never mention his name!’ You should have seen how stern your uncle looked. I was terrified.”

      “But the girl,—why did not he bring her here?”

      “She is still in France, but he talks of going over for her; and we have half promised to visit them both in Cumberland. But, bless me! is that twelve? and the posset quite cold!”

      “One word more, dearest mother,—one word. My father’s book,—is he still going on with it?”

      “Oh yes, indeed!” cried my mother, clasping her hands; “and he must read it to you, as he does to me,—you will understand it so well. I have always been so anxious that the world should know him, and be proud of him as we are,—so—so anxious! For perhaps, Sisty, if he had married that great lady, he would have roused himself, been more ambitious,—and I could only make him happy, I could not make him great!”

      “So he has listened to you at last?”

      “To me?” said my mother, shaking her head and smiling gently. “No, rather to your Uncle Jack, who, I am happy to say, has at length got a proper hold over him.”

      “A proper hold, my dear mother! Pray beware of Uncle Jack, or we shall all be swept into a coal-mine, or explode with a grand national company for making gunpowder out of tea-leaves!”

      “Wicked child!” said my mother, laughing; and then, as she took up her candle and lingered a moment while I wound my watch, she said, musingly: “Yet Jack is very, very clever; and if for your sake we could make a fortune, Sisty!”

      “You frighten me out of my wits, mother! You are not in earnest?”

      “And if my brother could be the means of raising him in the world—”

      “Your brother would be enough to sink all the ships in the Channel, ma’am,” said I, quite irreverently. I was shocked before the words were well out of my mouth; and throwing my arms round my mother’s neck, I kissed away the pain I had inflicted.

      When I was left alone and in my own little crib, in which my slumber had ever been so soft and easy, I might as well have been lying upon cut straw. I tossed to and fro; I could not sleep. I rose, threw on my dressing-gown, lighted my candle, and sat down by the table near the window. First I thought of the unfinished outline of my father’s youth, so suddenly sketched before me. I filled up the missing colors, and fancied the picture explained all that had often perplexed my conjectures. I comprehended, I suppose by some secret sympathy in my own nature (for experience in mankind could have taught me little enough), how an ardent, serious, inquiring mind, struggling into passion under the load of knowledge, had, with that stimulus sadly and abruptly withdrawn, sunk into the quiet of passive, aimless study. I comprehended how, in the indolence of a happy but unimpassioned marriage, with a companion so gentle, so provident and watchful, yet so little formed to rouse and task and fire an intellect naturally calm and meditative, years upon years had crept away in the learned idleness of a solitary scholar. I comprehended, too, how gradually and slowly, as my father entered that stage of middle life when all men are most prone to ambition, the long-silenced whispers were heard again, and the mind, at last escaping from the listless weight which a baffled and disappointed heart had laid upon it, saw once more, fair as in youth, the only true mistress of Genius,—Fame.

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