"The Squire does not live at the Hall," said the child, pulling at the rein, in order to give the horse another direction. "Oh, no; he is _too poor_ (and he laughed outright) to live there."

"What do you mean, Anthony and why do you call Mr. Hurdlestone the Squire, instead of papa?"

"He never tells me to call him papa; he never calls me his son, or 'little boy,' or even 'Anthony,' or speaks to me as other fathers speak to their children. He calls me chit and brat, and rude noisy fellow; and it's 'Get out of my way, you little wretch! Don't come here to annoy me.' And how can I call him father or papa, when he treats me as if I did not belong to him?"

"My dear child, I much fear that you do not love your father."

"How can I, when he does not love me? If he would be kind to me, I would love him very much; for I have nothing in the world to love but old Shock, and he's half-starved. But he does love me, and I give him all I can spare from my meals, and that's little enough. I often wish for more, for poor Shock's sake; for they say that he was mamma's dog, and Ruth Candler told me that when mamma died, he used to go every day for months and lie upon her grave. Now was not that kind of Shock? I wish papa loved me only half as well as old Shock loved my mother, and I would not mind being starved, and going about the streets without shoes."

Thus the child, prattled on, revealing to his new companion the secrets of the prison-house. Had he looked up at that moment into his uncle's face, he would have seen the tear upon his cheeks. He pressed the poor child silently against him as they rode on.

"We will take Shock with us, Anthony, and he shall have plenty to eat as well as you."

"Oh, dear uncle, how we shall love you, both Shock and I!"

"But tell me, Anthony, has your father really left the Hall?"

"Long, long ago; as far back as I can remember. It is the first thing I can remember, since I awoke in this world and found myself alive, the removing to old Pike's cottage. The Squire said that he was too poor to live at the Hall, and there was plenty of room in the gardener's cottage for us three, and there we have lived ever since. See, uncle, we are now coming to it."

Algernon looked up and saw that they had entered a long avenue of lofty trees, which he recognised as a back way to the extensive gardens, at the extremity of which, and near the garden gate, stood a small cottage, once neat and comfortable, but now fast falling to decay. He had often played there with his brother and Grenard Pike in their childhood. The plastered walls of the tenement in many places had given way, and the broken windows were filled with pieces of board, which, if they kept out the wind and rain, dismally diminished the small portion of light which found its way through the dusty panes.

Fastening his horse to the moss-grown paling, Algernon proceeded to knock at the door.

"Who's there?" growled a deep voice from within.

"A gentleman wishes to speak to Mr. Hurdlestone."

"He's not at home to strangers," responded the former growl, without unclosing the door.

"That's Grenard Pike," whispered the boy. "You may be sure that the Squire is not far off."

"I _must_ see Mr. Hurdlestone. I cannot wait until he returns," said Algernon, walking into the house "I ought, I think, to be no stranger here."

A small spare man, with sharp features, a brown leather face, thin lank black hair, and eyes like a snake, drew back from the door, as Algernon thus unceremoniously effected an entrance. His partner in penury, the miser, was seated at an old oak table making arithmetical calculations upon a bit of broken slate.

The tall stately figure of Mark Hurdlestone was, at this period, still unbent with age, and he rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger at being detected in sanctioning an untruth. His quick eye recognised his brother, and he motioned to him to take a seat on the bench near him.

It was not in the nature of the miser to consider Algernon a welcome visitor. He was continually haunted by the recollection of the ten thousand pounds that remorse had extorted from him, in the evil hour when death stared him in the face, and the fear of future punishment, for a brief season, triumphed over the besetting sin. He could not forgive Algernon for this dreadful sacrifice; and but for very shame would have asked him to return the money, giving him a bond to restore it at his death.

"Well, brother," he began, in his usual ungracious tones, "what business brings you here?"

"I came to ask of you a favor," said Algernon, seating himself, and drawing the little Anthony between his knees; "one which I hope that you will not refuse to grant."

"Humph!" said Mark. "I must tell you, without mincing the matter brother Algernon, that I never grant favors in any shape. That I never ask favors of any one. That I never lend money, or borrow money. That I never require security for myself of others, or give my name as security to them. If such is your errand to me you may expect, what you will find--disappointment."

"Fortunately my visit to you has nothing to do with money. Nor do I think that the favor I am about to ask will cause you to make the least sacrifice. Will you give me this boy?"

The novel request created some surprise, it was so different from the one the miser expected. He looked from the ragged child to his fashionably-dressed brother, then to the child again, as if doubtful what answer to return. The living brown skeleton, Pike, slipped softly across the room to his side; and a glance of peculiar meaning shot from his rat-like eyes, into the dark, deep-set, searching orbs of the miser.

"What do you think of it, Pike? Hey!"

"It is too good an offer to be refused," whispered the avaricious satellite, who always looked upon himself as the miser's heir. "Take him at his word."

"What do you want with the child?" said Mark, turning to his brother.

"Have you not a son of your own?"

"I have--a handsome clever little fellow. This nephew of mine greatly resembles him."

"He cannot be more like you than this child is, whom his mother dared to call mine. For my own part I never have, nor ever shall, consider him as such."

"Brother! brother! you cannot, dare not, insinuate aught against the honor of your wife!" and Algernon sprang from his seat, his cheeks burning with anger.

"Sit down, sit down," said the miser coldly; "I do not mean to quarrel with you on that score. In one sense of the word she was faithful. I gave her no opportunity of being otherwise. But her heart"--and his dark eye emitted an unnatural blaze of light--"her heart was false to me, or that boy could not have resembled you in every feature."

"These things happen every day," said Algernon. "Children often resemble their grandfathers and uncles more than they do their own parents. It is hard to blame poor Elinor for having a child like me. Let me look at you, boy," he continued, turning the child's head towards him as he spoke. "Are you so very, very like your uncle Algernon?" The extraordinary likeness could not fail to strike him. It filled the heart of the miser with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. Still the expression of the child's face was the only point of real resemblance; his features and complexion belonged to his father. "Your jealous fancy, Mark, has conjured up a phantom to annoy you. Where did this boy get his black eyes from, if not from you? his dark complexion? I am fair, my eyes are blue."

"He has his mother's eyes," sullenly returned the miser.

"I might as well accuse you of being the father of G.o.dfrey, because he has your eyes."

"You cannot reason me out of my senses. This Anthony is as like you, Algernon, as two peas. He is your own son, and you are welcome to him.

His absence will give me no pain, nor will his adoption by you extort from me one farthing for his future maintenance. If you persist in taking him it will be at your own risk."

"I am contented to accept the poor orphan on these terms," said the generous Algernon. "May G.o.d soften your iron heart towards your neglected child. While I have wealth he shall not want; and were I deprived of it to-morrow, he should share my bread while I have a crust."

"Fools and their money are soon parted," muttered the ungracious Mark; though in reality he was glad to embrace his brother's offer. No ties of paternal love bound him to the motherless child he had so cruelly neglected; and the father and son parted with mutual satisfaction, secretly hoping that they never might behold each other again.

"We have got rid of that pest, Grenard!" exclaimed the hard-hearted man, as he watched his brother lift the little Anthony into his saddle, and carefully dispose the folds of his cloak around the child to hide his rags from public observation. "If the child were not his own, would he take such care of him?"

"You cannot believe that," said the gaunt Cerberus. "You know that it is impossible."

"You may think so--perhaps you are right--but, Grenard, you were never married; never had any experience of the subtlety of woman. I have my own thoughts on the subject--I hate women--I have had cause to hate them--and I detest that boy for the likeness which he bears to my brother."

"Tush!" said the living skeleton, with more feeling of humanity than his n.i.g.g.ardly patron. "Whose fault is it that you rob a woman of her love, and then accuse her of inconstancy because your son resembles the man that was the object of her thoughts? Is that reasonable, or like your good sense?"

How delightful was that first journey to the young pilgrim of hope; and he so lately the child of want and sorrow, whose eyes were ever bent to earth, his cheeks ever wet with tears!--he now laughed and carolled aloud in the redundant joy of his heart. "Oh, he was so happy, so happy." He had never been a mile from home--had never ridden on a horse; and now he was told he was to have a horse of his own--a home of his own--a dear little cousin to play with, and a nice bed to sleep upon at night, not a bundle of filthy straw.

This was too much for his full heart to bear; it ran over, it was brimful of gladness and expectation, and the excited child sobbed himself to sleep in his good uncle's arms.

Poor old Shock was trotting beside the horse, and Anthony had been too much engrossed with his own marvellous change of fortune to notice Shock; but Shock did not forget him, and though he could not see--for the animal was blind--he often p.r.i.c.ked up his ears, and raised his head to the horse and its double burden, to be sure that his young master was there.

It was a spaniel that Algernon had left a pup with Elinor when he went to India. The sight of the poor blind worn-out creature brought back to his mind so many painful recollections that his own eyes were wet with tears. The wife who had supplanted Elinor in his affections was dead.

The gra.s.s grew rank upon Elinor's nameless grave; and her poor boy was sleeping within his sheltering arms, as if he had never known so soft a pillow.

Algernon looked down upon his beautiful but squalid face, and pressing his lips upon his pale brow, swore to love and cherish him as his own; and well did that careless but faithful heart keep its solemn covenant.

The very reverse of the miser, Algernon was reckless of the future; he only lived for the present, which, after his disappointment in regard to Elinor, was all, he said, that a man in truth could call his own. Acting up to this principle, he was as much censured for his extravagance, as his brother was for his parsimony, by those persons who, like Timon's friends, daily shared his hospitality, and were too often the recipients of his lavish expenditure. In adopting the little Anthony, he had followed the generous impulse of his heart, without reflecting that the separation of father and son, under their peculiar circ.u.mstances, might injure without ultimately benefiting the child.

He meant to love and take care of him; to be a father to him in the fullest sense of the word; his intentions doubtless were good, but his method of bringing him up was very likely to be followed by bad consequences. Algernon had no misgivings on the subject. He felt certain that the boy would not only inherit his father's immense wealth, (a large portion of which the law secured to him, independent of the caprice of his father,) but ever continue prosperous and happy. While musing upon these things, his horse turned into the park that surrounded his own fine mansion, and a beautiful boy bounded down the broad stone steps that led to the hall-door, and came running along the moonlit path to meet him,