The Monikins. Джеймс Фенимор Купер
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and as respectable even as my lords Grey, Landsdowne, and Holland, were treated as if they were no better than they should be. But on these little details it is unnecessary to dwell, for it must be a subject of common remark, that the more elevated and refined men become in their political ethics, the more they are accustomed to throw dirt upon their neighbors. I will just state, however, that most of what I have here related has been transmitted to me by direct oral traditions, for I seldom saw my ancestor, and when we did meet, it was only to settle accounts, to eat a leg of mutton together, and to part like those who, at least, have never quarrelled.
Not so with Dr. Etherington. Habit (to say nothing of my own merits) had attached him to one who owed so much to his care, and his doors were always as open to me as if I had been his own son.
It has been said that most of my idle time (omitting the part misspent in the schools) was passed at the rectory.
The excellent divine had married a lovely woman, a year or two after the death of my mother, who had left him a widower, and the father of a little image of herself, before the expiration of a twelvemonth. Owing to the strength of his affections for the deceased, or for his daughter, or because he could not please himself in a second marriage as well as it had been his good fortune to do in the first, Dr. Etherington had never spoken of forming another connection. He appeared content to discharge his duties, as a Christian and a gentleman, without increasing them by creating any new relations with society.
Anna Etherington was of course my constant companion during many long and delightful visits at the rectory. Three years my junior, the friendship on my part had commenced by a hundred acts of boyish kindness. Between the ages of seven and twelve, I dragged her about in a garden-chair, pushed her on the swing, and wiped her eyes and uttered words of friendly consolation when any transient cloud obscured the sunny brightness of her childhood. From twelve to fourteen, I told her stories; astonished her with narratives of my own exploits at Eton, and caused her serene blue eyes to open in admiration at the marvels of London. At fourteen, I began to pick up her pocket-handkerchief, hunt for her thimble, accompany her in duets, and to read poetry to her, as she occupied herself with the little lady-like employments of the needle. About the age of seventeen I began to compare cousin Anna, as I was permitted to call her, with the other young girls of my acquaintance, and the comparison was generally much in her favor. It was also about this time that, as my admiration grew more warm and manifest, she became less confiding and less frank; I perceived too that, for a novelty, she now had some secrets that she did not choose to communicate to me, that she was more with her governess, and less in my society than formerly, and on one occasion (bitterly did I feel the slight) she actually recounted to her father the amusing incidents of a little birthday fete at which she had been present, and which was given by a gentleman of the vicinity, before she even dropped a hint to me, touching the delight she had experienced on the occasion. I was, however, a good deal compensated for the slight by her saying, kindly, as she ended her playful and humorous account of the affair:
“It would have made you laugh heartily, Jack, to see the droll manner in which the servants acted their parts” (there had been a sort of mystified masque), “more particularly the fat old butler, of whom they had made a Cupid, as Dick Griffin said, in order to show that love becomes drowsy and dull by good eating and drinking—I DO wish you COULD have been there, Jack.”
Anna was a gentle feminine girl, with a most lovely and winning countenance, and I did inherently like to hear her pronounce the word “Jack”—it was so different from the boisterous screech of the Eton boys, or the swaggering call of my boon companions at Oxford!
“I should have liked it excessively myself, Anna,” I answered; “more particularly as you seem to have so much enjoyed the fun.”
“Yes, but that COULD NOT BE” interrupted Miss-Mrs. Norton, the governess. “For Sir Harry Griffin is very difficult about his associates, and you know, my dear, that Mr. Goldencalf, though a very respectable young man himself, could not expect one of the oldest baronets of the county to go out of his way to invite the son of a stock-jobber to be present at a fete given to his own heir.”
Luckily for Miss-Mrs. Norton, Dr. Etherington had walked away the moment his daughter ended her recital, or she might have met with a disagreeable commentary on her notions concerning the fitness of associations. Anna herself looked earnestly at her governess, and I saw a flush mantle over her sweet face that reminded me of the ruddiness of morn. Her soft eyes then fell to the floor, and it was some time before she spoke.
The next day I was arranging some fishing-tackle under a window of the library, where my person was concealed by the shrubbery, when I heard the melodious voice of Anna wishing the rector good morning. My heart beat quicker as she approached the casement, tenderly inquiring of her parent how he had passed the night. The answers were as affectionate as the questions, and then there was a little pause.
“What is a stock-jobber, father?” suddenly resumed Anna, whom I heard rustling the leaves above my head.
“A stock-jobber, my dear, is one who buys and sells in the public funds, with a view to profit.”
“And is it thought a PARTICULARLY disgraceful employment?”
“Why, that depends on circumstances. On 'Change it seems to be well enough—among merchants and bankers there is some odium attached to it, I believe.”
“And can you say why, father?”
“I believe,” said Dr. Etherington, laughing, “for no other reason than that it is an uncertain calling—one that is liable to sudden reverses—what is termed gambling—and whatever renders property insecure is sure to obtain odium among those whose principal concern is its accumulation; those who consider the responsibility of others of essential importance to themselves.”
“But is it a dishonest pursuit, father?”
“As the times go, not necessarily, my dear; though it may readily become so.”
“And is it disreputable, generally, with the world?”
“That depends on circumstances, Anna. When the stock-jobber loses, he is very apt to be condemned; but I rather think his character rises in proportion to his gains. But why do you ask these singular questions, love?”
I thought I heard Anna breathe harder than usual, and it is certain that she leaned far out of the window to pluck a rose.
“Why, Mrs. Norton said Jack was not invited to Sir Harry Griffin's because his father was a stock-jobber. Do you think she was right, sir?”
“Very likely, my dear,” returned the divine, who I fancied was smiling at the question. “Sir Harry has the advantages of birth, and he probably did not forget that our friend Jack was not so fortunate—and, moreover, Sir Harry, while he values himself on his wealth, is not as rich as Jack's father by a million or two—in other words, as they say on 'Change, Jack's father could buy ten of him. This motive was perhaps more likely to influence him than the first. In addition, Sir Harry is suspected of gambling himself in the funds through the aid of agents; and a gentleman who resorts to such means to increase his fortune is a little apt to exaggerate his social advantages by way of a set-off to the humiliation.”
“And GENTLEMEN do really become stock-jobbers, father?”
“Anna, the world has undergone great changes in my time. Ancient opinions have been shaken, and governments themselves are getting to be little better than political establishments to add facilities to the accumulation of money. This is a subject, however, you cannot very well understand, nor do I pretend to be very profound in it myself.”
“But is Jack's father really so very, very rich?” asked Anna, whose thoughts had been wandering from the thread of those pursued by her father.
“He is believed to be so.”
“And Jack is his heir.”
“Certainly—he has no other child; though it is not easy to say what so singular a being may do with his money.”
“I hope he will disinherit