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uSo it was, for you deserved to have not only your head but
vorv bone in your body broken; but when, in my passion I
11(X ked you down and your blood flooded my best carpet, I
bou <r]it i had killed you,—as if it were possible to kill such a fel
)W by any hurt done to the head—and since then a proper con
ideration of my own weight of arm and anger, have made me for
ear utterly, until now drubbing would do you no service. You
,v ruined, I am afraid, for any future use.”
“A wife will cure him, Major;” said T.
“And perhaps punish him more effectually than anything I
an do; and I shouldn’t object provided he could get the right
>n e. But there, again, he is not disposed to do as I want him.
I e has a hankering after that pretty little Frenchified huzzy,
’aula Bonneau, and thinks 1 don’t see —and don’t suspect. An
ver honestly now, Ned Bulmer, is it not true what I say ?”
“I own the soft impeachment, sir;” was the quiet response
if Ned, lighting a fresh cigar, and reversing the position of his
trussed legs.
“You own —and what ad and mincing phrase is that. Do
rou suppose it proper because it is taken from Shakspeare. You
D\vn it! Well, sir, and why do you suffer yourself to hanker after
lucli a woman as that ? Not a woman in fact—a mere child —a
loll—a pretty plaything —more like a breast pin than a woman —
a very pretty cut Italian cameo, sir; but not fit for a wife. What
sort of children, sir, do you suppose such a woman can bring you \
Such as will do credit to the name of your family —to the State —
able to wield a broad-sword —able to command respe ct and pre
side with state and dignity in a parlour, or at a dinner table ! Be
sides, Ned, she’s French, and we are English, and for a hundred
years there has l>eon an antipathy between our two families !”
“High time to heal it, father;” said Ntd, flushed and firing up.
“Don’t speak unkindly, sir, of Paula Bonneau. You know, sir, it
is wrong—you wrong her as a lady, young, innocent, intelligent,
ot good family, and very beautiful. You wrong yourself as a gen
tit man, boastful of family, so to speak ; —and you know it —and feel
Mr. If Paula is petite, as 1 allow, she is not the less worthy to
be the wife of any man, nor will she fail to command respect any
[Where. ‘1 here’s no lady in the parish of better manners, more
dignifit and and amiable, polished and unaffected. As for these old
miily antipathies and grudges, I do think, sir, that it’s a disgrace
10 common sense that you should entertain them. AY hat if
1( ‘ M french blood in her veins? So have bait the English,
ai ‘d the best half too. Your Normans who conquered England
i !1 to it all the vitality that make the race great. All that
their descendants have of the noble and the conquering came
ttom the Norman side of the house. The Saxon was a sullen boor,
“hose sole virtue was bis dogged bull-dog tenacity. But the
( lUa hy, the enterprise, the lofty adventure, and the superior
l:istes > were borrowed from the Normans. Your own family, sir,
“:i>" :i> originally Norman, and you yourself, had you lived three hun
'b* and years ago, might have been proud of your French tongue at
an English court. The fact is, sir, you too much underrate our
knnily-, its antiquity no less than its character, in dating only from
h |( prejudices of your great-great-grandsire in America. It was
1,1 hb ignorance of his own origin that he imbibed those prejudi
l!l,l from his personal rivalries with old Philip Bonneau. It
I’l” n<‘d unfortunately that his son had a French rival in laid
!oQneau > tire son of Philip ; and his son again, in your father,
THE GOLDEN CHRISTMAS.
found an antagonist in the younger Philip. But you, sir, have no
sueh rival, and why you should, discrediting all gallantry, make a
woman, a girl, the object of your antipathy, simply to perpetuate
the silly personal prejudices of your ancestors, neither justice, nor
generosity, nor common sense, can well see! I protest, sir, it is
positively a reproach to your manhood that you should thus reli
giously maintain an antipathy, when its object is a sweet, young,
artless, and unoffending woman !”
The Major was taken all aback.
“ Take breath. Ned, take breath, —or let me breathe a little.
W’ ell, sir, have you done ?”
“ Done!”
“ By the powers, Dick Cooper, did you ever hear a father so
be-rated by a son!”
“ Really, sir, he proves his legitimacy by the close resemblance
of his style to your own.”
“ Good! —and now Master Edward Bulmer do you suppose that
I would not gladly welcome any man-antagonist of the Bonneau
family ?”
“Nobody suspects you of fear, sir; but courage in the encoun
ter with an armed man, and an equal, is not the sole proof of
manliness. The courage, sir, which is just and magnanimous,
and which shrinks from the idea of wrong-doing, as from death
and shame, is the best proof that one can give of a true nobility.
How, sir, with your general sense of what is right—with your
pride and sense of honour, —can you reconcile it to yourself to
speak sneeringly and scornfully of such a pure, sweet, gentle crea
ture as Paula Bonneau—one who has never wronged you —one,
too, whom you know to be the object of the most earnest attach
ment of your son.”
The Major was disquieted. Ned had caught him tripping. lie
knocked the ashes out of his pipe—put fresh tobacco in—knocked
that out also—then stuck the empty pipe into his mouth, and be
gan drawing and puffing vigorously. Ned, meanwhile, had risen,
and was taking long strides across the floor. The old man, at
length, recovered Iris tone. He felt the home truths which he had
heard, and was manly enough to acknowledge them. He sprang
to his feet, with the elasticity of a boy of eighteen.
“ Ned’s right,” said he to me, “ after all. He’s rough, but he’s
right. Ned, my son, forgive me. I have wounded you more
sorely than I meant.”
His arms were extended, and the son rushed into them. For a
moment the Major clasped him closely to his bosom. He was
proud of his boy —his only —he knew his real nobleness of charac
ter, and he felt how much he had outraged it. I felt my eyes
suffused at the picture.
“ You are right, Ned; but do not do me the injustice to suppose
that I meant any wrong to Paula Bonneau. She is a good girl, I
verily believe, and a pretty one, I am willing to admit —but, Ned,
for all that, look you,—you shall never marry her with my con
sent, There —enough ! Good night, boys.”
Thus saying, the Major hurried off, evidently anxious to avoid
any more words.
“ Something gained,” said I.
“ You think so ?”
“ Decidedly.”
“ Yet, you heard his last words ?”
uj t doesn’t matter! With a magnanimous nature, the convic-
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