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however； was much modified by the companionship and caresses
of its young master。 He would go nowhere； do nothing without
Yorke； Yorke lay at his feet while he learned his lessons； played
with him in the garden； walked with him in the lane and wood； sat
near his chair at meals； was fed always by his own hand； was the
first thing he sought in the morning； the last he left at night。 Yorke
accompanied Mr。 Hunsden one day to X—； and was bitten in the
street by a dog in a rabid state。 As soon as Hunsden had brought
him home； and had informed me of the circumstance； I went into
the yard and shot him where he lay licking his wound： he was
dead in an instant； he had not seen me level the gun； I stood
behind him。 I had scarcely been ten minutes in the house； when
my ear was struck with sounds of anguish： I repaired to the yard
once more； for they proceeded thence。 Victor was kneeling beside
his dead mastiff； bent over it； embracing its bull…like neck； and lost
in a passion of the wildest woe： he saw me。
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“Oh； papa； I’ll never forgive you！ I’ll never forgive you！” was his
exclamation。 “You shot Yorke—I saw it from the window。 I never
believed you could be so cruel—I can love you no more！”
I had much ado to explain to him； with a steady voice； the stern
necessity of the deed； he still； with that inconsolable and bitter
accent which I cannot render； but which pierced my heart；
repeated—
“He might have been cured—you should have tried—you
should have burnt the wound with a hot iron； or covered it with
caustic。 You gave no time； and now it is too late—he is dead！”
He sank fairly down on the senseless carcase； I waited patiently
a long while； till his grief had somewhat exhausted him； and then I
lifted him in my arms and carried him to his mother； sure that she
would comfort him best。 She had witnessed the whole scene from
a window； she would not come out for fear of increasing my
difficulties by her emotion； but she was ready now to receive him。
She took him to her kind heart； and on to her gentle lap； consoled
him but with her lips； her eyes； her soft embrace； for some time；
and then； when his sobs diminished； told him that Yorke had felt
no pain in dying； and that if he had been left to expire naturally；
his end would have been most horrible； above all； she told him
that I was not cruel （for that idea seemed to give exquisite pain to
poor Victor）； that it was my affection for Yorke and him which had
made me act so； and that I was now almost heart…broken to see
him weep thus bitterly。
Victor would have been no true son of his father； had these
considerations； these reasons； breathed in so low； so sweet a
tone—married to caresses so benign； so tender—to looks so
inspired with pitying sympathy—produced no effect on him。 They
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did produce an effect： he grew calmer； rested his face on her
shoulder； and lay still in her arms。 Looking up； shortly； he asked
his mother to tell him over again what she had said about Yorke
having suffered no pain； and my not being cruel； the balmy words
being repeated； he again pillowed his cheek on her breast； and
was again tranquil。
Some hours after； he came to me in my library； asked if I
forgave him； and desired to be reconciled。 I drew the lad to my
side； and there I kept him a good while； and had much talk with
him； in the course of which he disclosed many points of feeling
and thought I approved of in my son。 I found； it is true； few
elements of the “good fellow” or the “fine fellow” in him； scant
sparkles of the spirit which loves to flash over the wine cup； or
which kindles the passions to a destroying fire； but I saw in the
soil of his heart healthy and swelling germs of compassion；
affection； fidelity。 I discovered in the garden of his intellect a rich
growth of wholesome principles—reason； justice； moral courage；
promised； if not blighted； a fertile bearing。 So I bestowed on his
large forehead； and on his cheek—still pale with tears—a proud
and contented kiss； and sent him away comforted。 Yet I saw him
the next day laid on the mound under which Yorke had been
buried； his face covered with his hands； he was melancholy for
some weeks； and more than a year elapsed before he would listen
to any proposal of having another dog。
Victor learns fast。 He must soon go to Eton； where； I suspect；
his first year or two will be utter wretchedness： to leave me； his
mother； and his home； will give his heart an agonized wrench；
then； the fagging will not suit him—but emulation； thirst after
knowledge； the glory of success； will stir and reward him in time。
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Meantime； I feel in myself a strong repugnance to fix the hour
which will uproot my sole olive branch； and transplant it far from
me； and； when I speak to Frances on the subject； I am heard with
a kind of patient pain； as though I alluded to some fearful
operation； at which her nature shudders； but from which her
fortitude will not permit her to recoil。 The step must； however； be
taken； and it shall be； for； though Frances will not make a milksop
of her son； she will accustom him to a style of treatment； a
forbearance； a congenial tenderness； he will meet with from none
else。 She sees； as I also see； a something in Victor’s temper—a
kind of electrical ardour and power—which emits； now and then；
ominous sparks； Hunsden calls it his spirit； and says it should not
be curbed。 I call it the leaven of the offending Adam； and consider
that it should be； if not whipped out of him； at least soundly
disciplined； and that he will be cheap of any amount of either
bodily or mental suffering which will ground him radically in the
art of self…control。 Frances gives this something in her son’s
marked character no name； but when it appears in the grinding of
his teeth； in the glittering of his eye； in the fierce revolt of feeling
against disappointment； mischance； sudden sorrow； or supposed
injustice； she folds him to her breast； or takes him to walk with her
alone in the wood； then she reasons with him like any philosopher；
and to reason Victor is ever accessible； then she looks at him with
eyes of love； and by love Victor can be infallibly subjugated； but
will reason or love be the weapons with which in future the world
will meet his violence？ Oh； no！ for that flash in his black eye—for
that cloud on his bony brow—for that compression of his
statuesque lips； the lad will some day get blows instead of
blandishments—kicks instead of kisses； then for the fit of mute
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fury which will sicken his body and madden his soul； then for the
ordeal of merited and salutary suffering； out of which he will come
（I trust） a wiser and a better man。
I see him now； he stands by Hunsden； who is seated on the
lawn under the beech； Hunsden’s hand rests on the boy’s collar；
and he is instilling God knows what principles into his ear。 Victor
looks well just now； for he listens with a sort of smiling