Читать книгу William and His Uncle Ben. A Tale Designed for the Use of Young People - Барбара Хофланд - Страница 5

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Mr. Denham was so much employed in his little counting-house, that he could not often inspect the improvements of his son, but he never failed to encourage him to proceed.—"Alas, my poor boy!" he would say, "you will have to work your own way in the world, and the sooner you inure yourself to exertion, the better. Besides, at your time of life, the memory is not loaded with other things, and the organs are pliant and flexible; a man may learn a foreign language at any time of life, but it is only in early youth that he can attain a good pronunciation of it."

Under this management William made himself master of French, and a good deal of Italian; and so much was Selina's master pleased with his application, that he frequently gave him instructions, and lent him books; and there appeared every prospect, from the industry and improvement of all the family, to think they would surmount all their difficulties, when unhappily, from over exertion, poor Mr. Denham took a fever, and became extremely ill.

The disorder, as to its severity, soon gave way to the skill and good nursing of his excellent wife and her affectionate family, but it left behind it extreme weakness, a troublesome cough, and many alarming symptoms. William frequently wished that his father could go down to his uncle's house, in which he was born, and where good air, good wine, and many good things necessary for an invalid, might be had in abundance. For some time Mr. Denham yielded to the wish, wrote to his brother, and talked a good deal on the subject.

When an answer arrived from the Squire, which was not till many anxious days were passed, it was one which chilled the warm hearts of the family. It began indeed by saying—"That Mr. Denham would be glad to see his brother, but he was afraid the Hall would be a bad place for an invalid, as the housekeeper was too old to see after things, the butler was an awkward fellow, and the maids good for nothing; besides, the dogs were very troublesome to sick people, Vixen especially, and she never went out of the parlour."

There was no inclosure offered to pay the expense of the doctor, or the journey; and the poor sufferer was just observing "that he would give it up," when the medical man entered, and confirmed his decision, assuring him, "that it would be highly imprudent to go northward, as it was certain that it would be much better to go to France than Yorkshire."

It so happened, that at the very time the affectionate family were all consulting with each other "what was to be done?" the long absent dear Uncle Ben suddenly arrived from Spithead, where his ship lay at anchor to refit. He was, in the first moments of his arrival, exceedingly affected with the appearance of all around him; for although he knew all that had happened, and had used his utmost means to relieve it, yet he could not see his sister worn down with suffering, her excellent husband in such a state of weakness, and their lovely young family so much in want of assistance, without feeling the change severely. He rallied his spirits, however, as soon as he could, and began to inquire after their present prospects.

When he had heard the late fiat of the doctor, he protested that they should all go over to France immediately—"Ay, every one of them."

William had been exceedingly afraid, that if this scheme of his father's journey was put in practice, he should have been sent to the Hall; so that when his uncle uttered the last words, he pressed up to him smilingly, and taking hold of his collar, drew close to his breast.

"You want to go with father, don't you, my fine fellow?"

"Indeed I do, my dear uncle."

"So you shall, my boy, and, what is more, treat him into the bargain. In this here pocket lies my prize-money, every shilling of which I swore should go for your schooling. Now if you are man enough to scramble for learning without it, all I have to say is this—do what you will with it, my hearty."

William threw his arms gratefully round his dear uncle's neck, then suddenly turned to a beloved father still dearer, and placed the pocket-book in his hand.

"My dear brother Ben, I cannot think of taking this."

"Then you are no brother of mine," said the sailor, sternly, as he shook off the big round tear that coursed down his sun-burnt cheeks.

The girls crowded round their uncle to thank him, their mother blessed him, and when the first emotions had subsided, all became busy and happy; and as Mr. Denham's business had been inevitably suspended during his illness, there was now no impediment to their setting out; and of course, in a little time they had crossed the Channel, and found themselves in a country where all was new and astonishing.

The surprise and pleasure our young party now experienced, was damped by bidding farewell to their uncle, who was now setting out on a long, and, as they feared, a dangerous voyage, since it was one of discovery. He earnestly recommended them to proceed to Paris, and take a lodging in the vicinity, where, he observed, they might live cheaply, improve themselves in the language, and all recover their health, for it appeared that all were injured, from the anxiety they naturally felt.

"And Betsey, my girl," he added, turning to his sister, "when your purse runs low, write to this person in London," giving her a card; "I will order with him, as far as a couple of hundreds go; for although prize-money and promotion are over, I think I can venture to promise as much as that in the worst of times. Your husband is a worthy soul, and shall want for nothing, whilst I have a shilling in my locker, or can stand on my limbs to earn one."

Every one of the family was moved to tears, and the poor boy was quite overwhelmed; he clung around him, crying—"Uncle, dear uncle, take me with you—make me a sailor like yourself."

"You! no, no, my brave boy, I will leave you as my representative—as the comforter, and in time the supporter of your family.—There, there—don't make a fool of your uncle, my precious child—don't make me cry any more."

The worthy man, after once more clasping his nephew to his bosom, now fled, not daring to trust his feelings further. Poor William watched him till the last glimpse of the vessel had disappeared, when he returned so overwhelmed with grief, that his mother almost wished for him, that he had departed with that excellent uncle, who would have been to him indeed the tenderest of conductors.