"An honor to the family, indeed!" This was the clear expression in
that Christian lady's eyes, as I saw them sink immediately after
in a scornful examination of my rugged frame and coarse garments.
The family had its own sources of honor, was the calm opinion of
both my patrons, as they turned their eyes upon their only remaining
child--a little girl about five years old, who was playing around
them on the carpet. This opinion was also mine, even then: and my
eyes followed theirs in the same direction. Julia Clifford was one
of the sweetest little fairies in the world. Tender-hearted, and
just, and generous, like the dear little brother, whom she had
only known to lose, she was yet as playful as a kitten. I was twice
her age--just ten--at this period; and a sort of instinct led me to
adopt the little creature, in place of poor Edgar, in the friendship
of my boyish heart. I drew her in her little wagon--carried her over
the brooklet--constructed her tiny playthings--and in consideration
of my usefulness, in most generally keeping her in the best of
humors, her mother was not unwilling that I should be her frequent
playmate. Nay, at such times she could spare a gentle word even
to me, as one throws a bone to the dog, who has jumped a pole, or
plunged into the water, or worried some other dog, for his amusement.
At no other period did my worthy aunt vouchsafe me such unlooked-for
consideration.
But Julia Clifford was not my only friend. I had made another
shortly before the death of Edgar; though, passingly it may be said,
friendship-making was no easy business with a nature such as mine
had now become. The inevitable result of such treatment as that
to which my early years had been subjected, was fully realized. I
was suspicious to the last degree of all new faces--jealous of the
regards of the old; devoting myself where my affections were set
and requiring devotion--rigid, exclusive devotion--from their object
in return. There was a terrible earnestness in all my moods which
made my very love a thing to be feared. I was no trifler--I could
not suffer to be trifled with--and the ordinary friendships of man
or boy can not long endure the exactions of such a disposition.
The penalties are usually thought to be--and are--infinitely beyond
the rewards and benefits.
My intimacies with William Edgerton were first formed under
circumstances which, of all others, are most likely to establish
them on a firm basis in our days of boyhood. He came to my rescue
one evening, when, returning from school, I was beset by three
other boys, who had resolved on drubbing me. My haughty deportment
had vexed their self-esteem, and, as the same cause had left me
with few sympathies, it was taken for granted that the unfairness
of their assault would provoke no censure. They were mistaken. In
the moment of my greatest difficulty, William Edgerton dashed in
among them. My exigency rendered his assistance a very singular
benefit. My nose was already broken--one of my eyes sealed up for
a week's holyday; and I was suffering from small annoyances, of hip,
heart, leg, and thigh, occasioned by the repeated cuffs, and the
reckless kicks, which I was momently receiving from three points
of the compass. It is true that my enemies had their hurts to
complain of also; but the odds were too greatly against me for any
conduct or strength of mine to neutralize or overcome; and it was
only by Edgerton's interposition that I was saved from utter defeat
and much worse usage. The beating I had already suffered. I was
sore from head to foot for a week after; and my only consolation
was that my enemies left the ground in a condition, if anything,
something worse than my own.