Devereux — CompleteLytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
History
Devereux — Complete
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Great Britain -- History -- Anne, 1702-1714 -- Fiction
My uncle pulled down his right ruffle. “‘Gad so, Morton, you’re a brave
fellow,” said he; “but I wish you were less of a hero and more of a
scholar. I wish you could beat him in Greek as well as in boxing. I will
tell you what Old Rowley said,” and my uncle occupied the next quarter
of an hour with a story. The story opened the good old gentleman’s
heart; my laughter opened it still more. “Hark ye, sirrah!” said he,
pausing abruptly, and grasping my hand with a vigorous effort of love
and muscle, “hark ye, sirrah,--I love you,--‘Sdeath, I do. I love you
better than both your brothers, and that crab of a priest into the
bargain; but I am grieved to the heart to hear what I do of you. They
tell me you are the idlest boy in the school; that you are always
beating your brother Gerald, and making a scurrilous jest of your mother
or myself.”
“Who says so? who dares say so?” said I, with an emphasis that would
have startled a less hearty man than Sir William Devereux. “They lie,
Uncle; by my soul they do. Idle I am; quarrelsome with my brother I
confess myself; but jesting at you or my mother--never--never. No, no;
_you_, too, who have been so kind to me,--the only one who ever was. No,
no; do not think I could be such a wretch:” and as I said this the tears
gushed from my eyes.
My good uncle was exceedingly affected. “Look ye, child,” said he, “I do
not believe them. ‘Sdeath, not a word; I would repeat to you a good jest
now of Sedley’s, ‘Gad, I would, but I am really too much moved just at
present. I tell you what, my boy, I tell you what you shall do: there
is a trial coming on at school--eh?--well, the Abbe tells me Gerald is
certain of being first, and you of being last. Now, Morton, you shall
beat your brother, and shame the Jesuit. There; my mind’s spoken; dry
your tears, my boy, and I’ll tell you the jest Sedley made: it was in
the Mulberry Garden one day--” And the knight told his story.
I dried my tears, pressed my uncle’s hand, escaped from him as soon as I
was able, hastened to my room, and surrendered myself to reflection.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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