Paul Porter and his Brothers [A tale.] By the Author of 'Merry and Grave; or, What's in a Name?'

Preface

. B^FjSgESPITE life's strange vicissitudes, its dizzy heights P.^sSfcl and far-sounding depths, much of even tenor pervades human existence. And while ever and anon exalted, illustrious lives flash with meteoric brilliancy before our dazzled vision, startling us into wondering admiration, thrilling us with intense ardour and delight — yet they are the dear, long-familiar, much-loved faces, the siveet, every-day commonplaces which give to life truest solace and tenderest charm. And if in the story of " Paul Porter and his Brothers " I have not striven after impossible circumstances, or too exalted models of perfection, I have endeavoured to speak of life much as it generally is, conscious that true nobility is most frequently developed under humble guise, and the simple deeds and daily duties are those which make the largest share of that last final account which every responsible human soul must eventually render.

CONTENTS. CHAPTFR .AGB I. — Choosing the Names - - - 9 II. — A Long Trial - - - 20 III. — Friendly Help - • - -36 IV. — The Brown Cob - - - 49 V. — The Caricature - - - 71 VI. — Mrs. Grattan's Cupboard - - 85 VII. — Begging for Mercy - - - 105 VIII. — Starting in Life - - - 131 IX.— Evil Ways - - • - - 164 X. — Treachery - - - - 174 XI. — Paul's First Cukacy - - - 196 XII. — Married Bliss - - - 213 XIII.— Sydney ----- 224 XIV. — A Purpose in Life - - - 247 XV. — Blanche's Secret - - - 256 XVI. — The Shadow Between Them • • 264 XVII. — Philip Carter's Fortunes - - - 275 XVIII.— On the Track - - - 287 XIX.— The Return Home - - - CONTENTS. 8 CHA.TMI ,AOE XX— A Gray Life - - - 3°7 XXI.— Passing Away - - - - 32° XXII.— Paul's New Friend - - - 329 XXIII.— Theodore's Wedding, and what Happened at it - - - - - 342 XXIV.— A Strange Visitor - - & HIS BROTHERS.

Chapter I

choosing the names. fe'g^g'AUL PORTER, that was his name; not much EslP^O °^ a name a hero, perhaps, but then the — —^^ circumstances to which he owed his name were peculiar — I will try and explain them. To begin with, Paul was the fifth child in the family ; that it should make any difference whether a child is first or fifth seems unreasonable, for a baby is a baby, whether it be first or last in the family records; still, that being fifth child did seriously affect Paul, so far as his •name was concerned, remains an undisputed fact. Yet it was not so much his being the fifth child, as being the fifth boy, that proved the exasperating part of the business. For while we meet with some parents who, with a sort of passive content, will tell you that as to their children being boys or girls, they never had a wish either way, there are others who have not only a wish, but a very earnest desire about the matter.

Proud parents ardently desiring an heir to wide lands, may find their wedded life crowned only by a succession of daughters ; while a large family of boys will speak with something akin to reverence, of the little sister who for a few years blossomed in their midst, and then sickened, faded and died. And they will tell you in hushed tones of a little grave in the churchyard, and that father and mother always like to go home from church that way, for the sake of just passing by that little grave. Such was the case with Paul's father, Mr. William Porter. He could boast a whole band of stalwart brothers, but his only remembrance of a sister, was of a wee, pretty little maiden who gladdened their home for eight short years, and then died, leaving them almost broken-hearted at her loss. And if Mr. Porter indulged in the depths of his soul a secret wish, a fluttering hope, it was that a little daughter might fill the place of the dead Selina, the little sister whose memory was still green in the heart of her faithful brother.

Not that in contemplation of the advent of his first-born, hardly to himself did he express the desire; but then the first child in itself is a source of such mysterious delight, that unless the case be urgent indeed, few will stay to cavil at its sex. Only once did the latent wish manifest itself. One winter's night, as he and his wife sat lingering over their fire, with her hand in his, she said, " Don't you think Oliver Ernest a pretty name, love ? " Mr. Porter answered that he did think it a pretty name. In fact, he thought but little about it ; beyond a sort of instinctive feeling that the two names sounded well together, he had no particular opinion, good or bad, on the subject. But when his wife was about to propose a feminine name of equal beauty, he suddenly interrupted her. " If we should ever have a daughter, my dear, we will call her Selina."

"Selina!" almost shrieked Mrs. Porter; "oh ! I don't like that name." Mr. Porter made no answer in words ; he only gave a dry cough, and taking the poker, quietly stirred the fire. His wife supposed her spirited opposition had settled the matter. Had she lived with her husband so many years instead of months, she might have felt less certain of the result, and might probably have detected in the quiet face and manner, a very considerable degree of obstinate determination. However, there was never any real cause for altercation on the point : the baby, when he arrived, was accommodating enough to prove a boy, and the parents in their joy and pride called him Oliver Ernest accordingly. Then when in process of time it became probable that Oliver Ernest would have a little playfellow, — or as his nurse maliciously suggested, a slit in his nose, — again a throb of the old desire woke up in the father's heart.

But the hope was not to be fulfilled ; the playfellow came, but, alas ! he came only in the form of a brother, and Mr. Porter had really a good mind to be disappointed. And when his wife — not sharing at all in these sentiments, and who looked on another son only as another honour — formally consulted him upon the child's name, (that point being previously settled in her own mind,) he treated the matter almost with indifference, and so the second hope of the family, according to his mother's desire, was named Sydney Herbert. The two children grew and throve, and if Mr. Porter was not proud of such a pair of healthy, blooming boys, he cer tainly ought to have been. And then a third link in the family chain arrived ; but he, contrary to secret anticipation, also proved a boy. Still in some respects this child differed somewhat from his brothers.

In the first place he did not owe his name to any ingenious arrangement on the part of his mother ; for about the time of his birth, a bachelor uncle returned from abroad, and this gentleman, who bore the name of Thomas Samuel Porter, desired that the baby should be named after him, intimating that if the request was com plied with, the said Thomas Samuel Porter, jun., would one day be the possessor of a very fair inheritance. So his mother comforted herself with the thought, that if he had but a plain name, he had brilliant prospects. Even Mr. Porter himself found in this circumstance some con solation for the fact of his not being the now earnestly longed-for Selina. But when a fourth child arrived on the scene, the words, " A boy — a very fine boy, sir," fell heavy as lead on Mr. Porter's now thoroughly-disappointed soul ; and when his friends pressed round him with congratulations upon being the happy father of four sons, he had to bear it all with the best grace he could.

But whether children were becoming more common-place occurrences, or whether it was owing to domestic troubles which preceded his arrival — the children having all been ill with some of the sicknesses so attendant on early child hood, — certain it is that no name had been definitely fixed upon for this fourth baby. But the matter did not remain long in doubt : Mr. Porter coming in one day found his wife and the nurse encratred in an animated discussion, and upon his enquiring the cause, he was triumphantly asked if he did not consider Theodore Eustace a sweet name. Mr. Porter winced ; to tell the truth, he had been slightly twitted by some of his friends upon the rather flowing names of his children : but he had enough of the man in him to understand that just then was a time of his wife's entire supremacy, so he merely asked very mildly, by way of suggestion, if she didn't consider it rather unnecessary to have two such grand names to gether — rather a waste of names, in fact.

But upon his wife rising up on her couch, and declaring that she could name a hundred children right off, and give them two names each, all of that description, Mr. Porter, who did not for a moment doubt her capabilities in that line, prudently dropped the subject ; and Mrs. Porter, meeting with no further opposition, named him as she desired, Theodore Eustace. So time passed, and then appeared the fifth and last of that little family circle. Another boy truly, but this time a somewhat puny, delicate one ; just such a baby, that had he been a wonderful first-born, or a long-coveted heir, his days and nights would have been watched with keen solicitude. As it was, however, soon after his birth, Mrs. Porter fell ill, so dangerously ill that for a time her life was despaired of; and during this period, beside just supplying to the baby common necessities, no one seemed to make much note of his existence.

Certainly Miss Dorothy Fairfield, Mrs. Porter's aunt, who came in this crisis of events to help nurse the sick wife, and superintend the household — she being a tender-hearted, gentle woman, would sometimes peer lovingly into the cradle where the baby lay; but as for naming him, no one gave a thought in that direction. His mother for the most part was delirious, and when she escaped from imminent danger, lay weak herself as a baby, and was in no state certainly to think upon the matter ; and so baby seemed as if he might have been called " baby " all his life through, when one day no other than the registrar himself appeared, and formally demanded the name of the child. Miss Dorothy herself encountered him, and was struck dumb by the question : in dismay she fled to Mr. Porter for help. " The registrar is come to register the child ; what name is he to be called ?

" "Call him just what you like," was the indifferent answer. " But I don't know a name," said Miss Dorothy hope lessly. " If it had been a girl, now! " The words, innocent in themselves, proved very irrita ting to Mr. Porter. "But it is not a girl," he said, so fiercely as almost to startle Miss Dorothy. " Well, you must name him," she said ; " I can't think of anything, I'm sure." " Then," said Mr. Porter, meditatively stroking his chin, " I suppose I must ; and I'll — yes — I'll call him Paul." " Paul ! but you never had anyone in the family that name ? " " Yes, I had an uncle Paul : one of the best fellows that ever walked, was my uncle Paul. I'll call the child after him : I wonder I never thought of it for one of the Others." Having thus settled the question, he walked away with a resolute determination, and Miss Dorothy quietly went back to the sick chamber.

Soon afterwards she heard Mr. Porter's steps ascending the stairs ; her patient had just then fallen into a light slumber, so as he reached the threshold of the door, she held up her finger as a signal for him to stop, and noise lessly crossed the room to where he stood. Well," she said, " what have you called him ? " "Paul." " Only Paul ? " " Only Paul, of course. What does he want two names for? one name is enough for any child." " Paul — Porter," said Miss Dorothy slowly. A startled look crept into Mr. Porter's face. For the first time the truth flashed into his mind, that the uncle he had named the child after was his mother's brother, and therefore his surname was Munro. Now Paul Munro and Paul Porter sounded two very different things. " Paul Porter," repeated Miss Dorothy again, looking almost apprehensively at the bed as she spoke.

Mr. Porter followed the direction of her gaze, which said almost as plainly as words, " I wonder what she'll say to it." But the thing was done and must be made the best of; so, putting a bold face on it, he said, "Yes, that's his name ; and for all I can see, as good a name as he can want. Is all going on right?" he added, by way of diverting the subject. "Yes, quite right; she is sleeping nicely." "Then I'll come in another time;" so saying, Mr. Porter went downstairs, and Miss Dorothy once more sat down by her sick niece. But, like a person trying to fit together two things that will not match, she repeated over slowly to herself, " Paul — Porter ; Paul — Porter." "Paul Porter!" said the sick woman dreamily ; "who's he ? " The question seemed particularly to agitate Miss Dorothy. "Oh nothing — I mean — not anyone at all," she said hurriedly.

Then fancying her niece's eyes were still bent on her with a searching expression, she seemed suddenly impressed with the notion that her presence was im peratively demanded elsewhere: "I really think I can smell something boiling over in the kitchen. I left your broth by the fire ; I'll just go and see ; I shall be back in five minutes," she said. The sick woman turned over with an uneasy moan, and Miss Dorothy, after dropping her work, and making altogether a clatter quite unlike her usual quiet move ments, hurried from the room. When she came back, she was greatly relieved to find her niece again fallen asleep ; and was still further secretly rejoiced, that on her waking she did not again inquire as to the identity of Paul Porter. But though the name was thus given to the child, no one seemed in any hurry to apply it to him.

Even the two most capable of doing so, joined with the others in a sort of mock, innocent way, and still called him "baby," as though that formidable visit of the registrar had never taken place. But there comes a time for all things, good or bad, to be brought to light ; and so when Mrs. Porter became strong enough to be moved from her bed to the couch, one afternoon when her husband and aunt were both present, looking down at the innocent, sleeping child, she said, " And now it is certainly time we should think of a name for the baby." Miss Dorothy fairly turned her back ; Mr. Porter coughed and looked out of the window. "What do you think about it?" said Mrs. Porter, looking in his direction. "The truth is, my dear, the child is already named," he answered blandly. Mrs. Porter's eyes, as they fixed themselves on her husband, grew wide open with astonishment.

The thought that anyone had really taken the momentous affair in hand of naming the child, had never once arisen in her mind. But who named him ? " she asked. Well, I did, my dear," replied her husband. ' And what have you called him ? " I called — I called him Paul." " You and I can think of something prettier than that, can't we, Aunt Dorothy ? " Again Mr. Porter coughed ; it was of no use telling only half the truth. Again he summoned his blandest tones, — "But, my dear, I don't think it is any use thinking of anything different; you see, the child is registered." " But who registered him ? " " I did ; the man came, and so I registered him Paul. You see, my dear, you were ill in bed at the time, and couldn't of course think about it, therefore I had to do it for you ; so I did what I could — at any rate I did for the best."

B "If you were forced to name him, couldn't you think of something different to Paul ? What made you choose that name in particular?" Mr. Porter's face visibly brightened ; if he had done wrong, he had at least a valid reason for his wrong doing, so he answered promptly, " Why, my dear, I should have told you. I named him Paul after an uncle I had of that name ; he and I were more like brothers when we were boys, for he was only two years older than I was, though he was my uncle. He was one of the best young fellows that ever lived ; if the baby only takes like him, I shall be satisfied." " But I don't know I ever heard you speak of this uncle before. Who was he ? what did he do ? " " I don't know that he did anything in particular. He was a sailor, and while a very young man went to sea and got drowned."

Mr. Porter paused suddenly, his uncle's early fate did not sound a very fortunate argu ment. Then he added abruptly, " But there, after all, I don't see what is amiss with the name ; for my own part, I must say I like it." "And you only gave him that one name ? " " One name I thought was enough, my dear." "Yes, but think how it sounds — Paul Porter; and Paul is such a name. Some names you can nickname and make them sound prettier, but you can't even nick name Paul. Don't you think Paul Porter sounds badly, Aunt Dorothy?" she added, turning to Miss Fairsield. ■ Miss Dorothy admitted that she did think so; "But," she said, "as he has got the name, I suppose he must keep it." "Well," Mr. Porter said, "he is Paul Porter, and Paul Porter he will be for the rest of his life : " but, as though to modify the remark, he bent down and kissed his wife, and then hurriedly made his exit from the room.

Chapter II

A LONG TRIAL. KgSSjOUBTLESS Mr. Porter was right in the statei p9_l ment> t'lat tne name would last tlie child his I *• ■■"I lifetime; but it seemed at first as if that life time would be but of short duration ; for while his brothers had all more or less been healthy and strong, Paul was delicate and feeble, and the spark of life ap peared sometimes to flicker as though it would speedily go out. But, however, Paul survived the assaults that beset his infancy, and at six years of age had attained to some measure of health and strength. Mrs. Porter declared he was the plainest of all her children ; certainly he had not Oliver's bright blue eyes, nor soft, dark eyes like Sydney ; he had not Thomas's handsome face, and lithe, graceful figure ; nor was he robust and stalwart like Theodore. Still there was a considerable degree of beauty in his soft, dark, grey «yes, full of such wistful truth and earnestness, and the curl of soft, almost chestnut brown hair fell over a broad and open brow.

Then when Paul was six years old, an event occurred which threatened to mar all his future life. Owing to his delicate health he had never been subject to much restriction, and was allowed to ramble about the house at his pleasure. At the back of the house leading to the kitchen was a steep staircase, dangerous for young and heedless steps, and towards this staircase Paul one day coming with flying feet, just at the top lost his balance, and fell helplessly to the bottom. The fall in itself was a terrible one, though possibly, owing to the elasticity of childhood, he might have escaped any serious injury, but half-way down the stairs stood a pail of boiling-hot water, carelessly left there by a servant a few minutes before, and Paul striking againt this, he, the pail, and the hot water, all made a tumultuous descent together.

At first it seemed doubtful what injuries had been received. The doctor shook his head and looked grave. One hip was seriously injured, and what with the scalds, the pain, and the shock the whole system had sustained, he very much doubted in his own mind if his little patient would recover. Recover, however, he did, as far as life was concerned ; but no skill seemed to avail to subdue the swellings that attacked the injured limb, and there was every reason to fear that Paul would be a cripple, and that the trial, like his name, would be life long. But in unconscious childhood and buoyant youth, the words, "a life-long trial," are but little understood; and when once the little sufferer lost his immediate pains, no shadow of a darkened future clouded his innocent soul. And when one day his mother sat grieving about having a crippled child, at sight of her tears his little heart only filled with chivalrous desire to comfort her, and laying his head down softly on her hand he said, " I don't feel the pain so much now, so don't cry any more, mother."

A sad contrast to the other boys, so full of life and spirit, was the helpless child lying on his little couch, his face pale and wan with recent suffering. They were good lads on the whole ; Oliver, who was now fifteen years old, was tall, manly, and keen of perception be yond his years, and gave promise of soon being his father's right hand in all things. Perhaps he could not think so deeply, or soar so high in imagination as Sydney; but what he did think was always clear, practical, and to the point. Soon after Paul's accident they all were at home for the Christmas holidays, and each of them was anxious to soothe or alleviate their little brother's sufferings. But the best hand at amusing or cheering was Thomas ; as he grew older he only seemed to grow more hand some and attractive, and at ten years old was one of the merriest, liveliest boys you well could find.

He could sing any new song, dance any new dance, or think of a hundred comical things that would divert Paul from his pain. But the worst of Thomas was, he would do these things only how and at the time he pleased : did any thing else more attractive come in the way, then Paul must wait. Thomas took care the discipline of waiting did not come to his own share. He always as much as possible chose the honied side of life, and could be very entertaining to the other happy sharers of the honey ; but he had no sense of responsibility, and a continual feeling of self-esteem and approval kept all serious thoughts or reflections at bay. And so when he chose, no one could make Paul laugh so readily as Thomas, but when he did not choose, Paul must bide his time. But if Thomas was uncertain and fickle, Theodore, the next brother, was constant and persevering; stalwart, strong in mind and body, in the sturdy little frame lay a considerable degree of latent power, and beneath the solid exterior beat a quick, warm, generous heart.

If he was not so merry as Thomas, he was far more patient and kind, and so it happened that he became Paul's most chosen companion, and a strong bond of sympathy sprang up between them — the strength of the one and the weakness of the other only cementing the union closer; and not till the holidays were over and the boys gone back to school, did Paul fully realize all his little brother and companion had been to him. But he solaced himself with the thought, that when the long summer holidays came he would be better, and able perhaps to run about again. And the summer days came, and with them the summer holidays, but Paul was still a weary prisoner; with the aid of a stick or a helping hand he could walk a little, but he made slow progress ; and per haps the first shadow of pain and disappointment crept into his thoughtful grey eyes, as from his couch he lay and watched his brothers at the sports in which he now began to fully realize his inability to join.

One morning Theodore was describing to him the pleasures of a boating expedition he and his brothers had been to with some friends the evening before. He had brought some water-lilies as trophies for Paul. They had been up the river to a piece of water called the Mere : deep, silent, like a lake, encircled round with trees whose green branches seemed to shut it in from the outer world, white water-lilies growing round its shores, the Mere was a spot of peculiar beauty ; and a.^ Theodore in boyish fashion dwelt upon the scene, Paul's eyes grew full of wistful longing as he said, " Oh, Theo ! couldn't I go too ? " Theodore shook his head doubtfully. " I don't know," he said ; " it is a long way by the road, and then we should have to go through some fields before we could get to the Mere, and I couldn't get your carriage over the gates, you know, Paul."

Paul's countenance clouded. "Wouldn't one of the others go too and help, Theo? I would try and walk all I could." " Oliver and Sydney are going out with father this afternoon," said Theodore ; " but Thomas might go." At that moment the person in question entered the room. "You are just the one we want, Thomas," said Theodore. " Will you help Paul to go to the Mere this afternoon ? " " Paul can't go there, Theo : we have no boat, you know." " No, we should drag him in his carriage. "The carriage can't get over gates," said Thomas, lazily throwing himself into zn easy chair. " No ; but we could leave the carriage somewhere, per haps, and you and I could help lift him along." "Well, I can't go, at any rate," said Thomas in an indifferent tone. " Why not ? " asked Theodore. " Oh, I am going round to uncle's this afternoon (the uncle thus alluded to, being the rich bachelor uncle before mentioned) ; I met him in the town just now, and he says I may go and look at a new pony he has bought, and his man Jenkins will let me have a ride round the meadow on it, if uncle is not at home.

So I am goine round to ask Phil Carter to go with me this afternoon." " Wouldn't 'to-morrow do ? " asked Theodore, seeing Paul's disappointed look. " No, I shall go to-day ; to-morrow will do just as well for Paul to go to the Mere, or any other day. I'm going round to see Phil, now," he added, rising. Tears stood in Paul's eyes as he watched Thomas's retreating figure ; he already began to realize the help lessness of being dependent on others for the pleasures of life, and a look of weary pain settled on his face. "Never mind, Paul," said Theodore kindly; "perhaps we can go another day." " It is so hot lying here," said Paul wearily, " I should so like to go and see the cool water, and the lilies, and the trees ; and to-morrow may be wet, or something else happen ; and some days I could not go so far : when the pain comes bad I can hardly walk at all ; " and Paul hid his face, wet with tears, on the sofa cushion.

"Don't cry, Paul," said Theodore; "wait just a minute," and he hurried out after Thomas. "Thomas," he said, as he came panting up, "did uncle ask you particularly to go this afternoon ?" " No ; he said any day I liked." "And you have not asked Phil yet ? " No, I am now Gfoincr there." "Then put it off one day, and go with Paul to the Mere ; you can go to uncle's to-morrow." "And Paul can go to the Mere to-morrow." " Perhaps he won't be well enough then ; and he is so disappointed," urged Theodore. Thomas's bright face grew almost impatient as he said, " I tell you, Theodore, I can't come ; and it is all non sense Paul wanting to go to the Mere at all. What can a lame boy do there ? " " Then you won't come ? " " I tell you no," and Thomas walked abruptly away. As Theodore went back to the house he resolved the matter in his mind, and came to the determination that rather than disappoint Paul, he would take the whole undertaking upon himself.