CHAPTER I.

THE WIZARD'S SON

A Novel

BY MRS. OLIPHANT

AUTHOR OF "THE CURATE IN CHARGE," "YOUNG MUSGRAVE," ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. I.

London

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1884

[_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved_]

LONDON:

R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,

BREAD STREET HILL.

THE WIZARD'S SON.

CHAPTER I.

The Methvens occupied a little house in the outskirts of a little town

where there was not very much going on of any description, and still

less which they could take any share in, being, as they were, poor and

unable to make any effective response to the civilities shown to them.

The family consisted of three persons--the mother, who was a widow with

one son; the son himself, who was a young man of three or four and

twenty; and a distant cousin of Mrs. Methven's, who lived with her,

having no other home. It was not a very happy household. The mother had

a limited income and an anxious temper; the son a somewhat volatile and

indolent disposition, and no ambition at all as to his future, nor

anxiety as to what was going to happen to him in life. This, as may be

supposed, was enough to introduce many uneasy elements into their joint

existence; and the third of the party, Miss Merivale, was not of the

class of the peacemakers to whom Scripture allots a special blessing.

She had no amiable glamour in her eyes, but saw her friends'

imperfections with a clearness of sight which is little conducive to

that happy progress of affairs which is called "getting on." The

Methvens were sufficiently proud to keep their difficulties out of the

public eye, but on very many occasions, unfortunately, it had become

very plain to themselves that they did not "get on." It was not any want

of love. Mrs. Methven was herself aware, and her friends were in the

constant habit of saying, that she had sacrificed everything for Walter.

Injudicious friends are fond of making such statements, by way, it is to

be supposed, of increasing the devotion and gratitude of the child to

the parent: but the result is, unfortunately, very often the exact

contrary of what is desired--for no one likes to have his duty in this

respect pointed out to him, and whatever good people may think, it is

not in itself an agreeable thought that "sacrifices" have been made for

one, and an obligation placed upon one's shoulders from the beginning of

time, independent of any wish or claim upon the part of the person

served. The makers of sacrifices have seldom the reward which

surrounding spectators, and in many cases themselves, think their due.

Mrs. Methven herself would probably have been at a loss to name what

were the special sacrifices she had made for Walter. She had remained a

widow, but that she would have been eager to add was no sacrifice. She

had pinched herself more or less to find the means for his education,

which had been of what is supposed in England to be the best kind: and

she had, while he was a boy, subordinated her own tastes and pleasures

to his, and eagerly sought out everything that was likely to be

agreeable to him. When they took their yearly journey--as it is considered

necessary for him--places that Walter liked, or where he could find

amusement, or had friends, were eagerly sought for. "Women," Mrs.

Methven said, "can make themselves comfortable anywhere; but a boy, you

know, is quite different." "Quite," Miss Merivale would say: "Oh, if you

only knew them as well as we do; they are creatures entirely without

resources. You must put their toys into their very hands." "There is no

question of toys with Walter--he has plenty of resources. It is not

that," Mrs. Methven would explain, growing red. "I hope I am not one of

the silly mothers that thrust their children upon everybody: but, of

course, a boy must be considered. Everybody who has had to do with

men--or boys--knows that they must be considered." A woman whose life

has been mixed up with these troublesome beings feels the superiority of

her experience to those who know nothing about them. And in this way,

without spoiling him or treating him with ridiculous devotion, as the

king of her fate, Walter had been "considered" all his life.

For the rest, Mrs. Methven had, it must be allowed, lived a much more

agreeable life in the little society of Sloebury when her son was young

than she did now that he had come to years, mis-named, of discretion.

Then she had given her little tea-parties, or even a small occasional

dinner, at which her handsome boy would make his appearance when it was

holiday time, interesting everybody; or, when absent, would still

furnish a very pleasant subject of talk to the neighbours, who thought

his mother did a great deal too much for him, but still were pleased to

discuss a boy who was having the best of educations, and at a public

school. In those days she felt herself very comfortable in Sloebury, and

was asked to all the best houses, and felt a modest pride in the

certainty that she was able to offer something in return. But matters

were very different when Walter was four-and-twenty instead of fourteen.

By that time it was apparent that he was not going to take the world by

storm, or set the Thames on fire; and, though she had been too sensible

to brag, Mrs. Methven had thought both these things possible, and

perhaps had allowed it to be perceived that she considered something

great, something out of the way, to be Walter's certain career. But

twenty-four is, as she said herself, so different! He had been

unsuccessful in some of his examinations, and for others he had not been

"properly prepared." His mother did not take refuge in the thought that

the examiners were partial or the trials unfair; but there was naturally

always a word as to the reason why he did not succeed--he had not been

"properly prepared." He knew of one only a few days before the eventful

moment, and at this time of day, she asked indignantly, when everything

is got by competition, how is a young man who has not "crammed" to get

the better of one who has? The fact remained that at twenty-four,

Walter, evidently a clever fellow, with a great many endowments, had got

nothing to do; and, what was worse--a thing which his mother, indeed,

pretended to be unconscious of, but which everybody else in the town

remarked upon--he was not in the least concerned about this fact, but

took his doing nothing quite calmly as the course of nature, and neither

suffered from it, nor made any effort to place himself in a different

position. He "went in for" an examination when it was put before him as

a thing to do, and took his failure more than philosophically when he

failed, as, as yet, he had always done: and, in the mean time,

contentedly lived on, without disturbing himself, and tranquilly let the

time go by--the golden time which should have shaped his life.

This is not a state of affairs which can bring happiness to any

household. There is a kind of parent--or rather it should be said of a

mother, for no parent of the other sex is supposed capable of so much

folly--to whom everything is good that her child, the cherished object

of her affections, does; and this is a most happy regulation of nature,

and smooths away the greatest difficulties of life for many

simple-hearted folk, without doing half so much harm as is attributed to

it; for disapproval has little moral effect, and lessens the happiness

of all parties, without materially lessening the sins of the erring.

But, unfortunately, Mrs. Methven was not of this happy kind. She saw her

son's faults almost too clearly, and they gave her the most poignant

pain. She was a proud woman, and that he should suffer in the opinion of

the world was misery and grief to her. She was stung to the heart by

disappointment in the failure of her many hopes and projects for him.

She was stricken with shame to think of all the fine things that had

been predicted of Walter in his boyish days, and that not one of them

had come true. People had ceased now to speak of the great things that

Walter would do. They asked "_What_ was he going to do?" in an entirely

altered tone, and this went to her heart. Her pride suffered the most

terrible blow. She could not bear the thought; and though she maintained

a calm face to the world, and represented herself as entirely satisfied,

Walter knew otherwise, and had gradually replaced his old careless

affection for his mother by an embittered opposition and resistance to

her, which made both their lives wretched enough. How it was that he did

not make an effort to escape from her continual remonstrances, her

appeals and entreaties, her censure and criticism, it is very difficult

to tell. To have gone away, and torn her heart with anxiety, but

emancipated himself from a yoke which it was against the dignity of his

manhood to bear, would have been much more natural. But he had no

money, and he had not the energy to seize upon any way of providing for

himself. Had such an opportunity fallen at his feet he would probably

have accepted it with fervour; but Fortune did not put herself out of

the way to provide for him, nor he to be provided for. Notwithstanding

the many scenes which took place in the seclusion of that poor little

house, when the mother, what with love, shame, mortification, and

impatience, would all but rave in impotent passion, appealing to him, to

the pride, the ambition, the principle which so far as could be seen the

young man did not possess, Walter held upon his way with an obstinate

pertinacity, and did nothing. How he managed to do this without losing

all self-respect and every better feeling it is impossible to say; but

he did so somehow, and was still "a nice enough fellow," notwithstanding

that everybody condemned him; and had not even lost the good opinion of

the little society, though it was unanimous in blame. The only way in

which he responded to his mother's remonstrances and complaints was by

seeking his pleasure and such occupation as contented him--which

was a little cricket now and then, a little lawn-tennis, a little

flirtation--as far away from her as possible; and by being as little at

home as possible. His temper was a little spoilt by the scenes which

awaited him when he went home; and these seemed to justify to himself

his gradual separation from his mother's house: but never induced him to

sacrifice, or even modify, his own course. He appeared to think that he

had a justification for his conduct in the opposition it met with; and

that his pride was involved in the necessity for never giving in. If he

had been let alone, he represented to himself, everything would have

been different; but to yield to this perpetual bullying was against

every instinct. And even the society which disapproved so much gave a

certain encouragement to Walter in this point of view: for it was Mrs.

Methven whom everybody blamed. It was her ridiculous pride, or her

foolish indulgence, or her sinful backing-up of his natural indolence;

even some people thought it was her want of comprehension of her son

which had done it, and that Walter would have been entirely a different

person in different hands. If she had not thought it a fine thing to

have him appear as a useless fine gentleman above all necessity of

working for his living, it was incredible that he could have allowed the

years to steal by without making any exertion. This was what the town

decided, not without a good deal of sympathy for Walter. What could be

expected? Under the guidance of a foolish mother, a young man always

went wrong; and in this case he did not go wrong, poor fellow! he only

wasted his existence, nothing worse. Sloebury had much consideration for

the young man.

Perhaps it added something to the exasperation with which Mrs. Methven

saw all her efforts fail that she had some perception of this, and knew

that it was supposed to be her fault. No doubt in her soul it added to

the impatience and indignation and pain with which she contemplated the

course of affairs, which she was without strength to combat, yet could

not let alone. Now and then, indeed, she did control herself so far as

to let them alone, and then there was nothing but tranquillity and peace

in the house. But she was a conscientious woman, and, poor soul! she had

a temper--the very complacency and calm with which her son went upon his

way, the approval he showed of her better conduct when she left him to

his own devices, struck her in some moments with such sudden indignation

and pain, that she could no longer contain herself. He, who might have

been anything he pleased, to be nothing! He, of whom everybody had

predicted such great things! At such moments the sight of Walter

smiling, strolling along with his hands in his pockets, excited her

almost to frenzy. Poor lady! So many women would have been proud of

him--a handsome young fellow in flannels, with his cricket bat or his

racquet when occasion served. But love and injured pride were bitter in

her heart, and she could not bear the sight. All this while, however,

nobody knew anything about the scenes that arose in the little house,

which preserved a show of happiness and tender union long after the

reality was gone. Indeed, even Miss Merivale, who had unbounded

opportunities of knowing, took a long time to make up her mind that

Walter and his mother did not "get on."

Such was the unfortunate state of affairs at the time when this history

begins. The Methvens were distantly connected, it was known, with a

great family in Scotland, which took no notice whatever of them, and,

indeed, had very little reason so to do, Captain Methven being long

since dead, and his widow and child entirely unknown to the noble house,

from which it was so great an honour to derive a little, much-diluted,

far-off drop of blood, more blue and more rich than the common. It is

possible that had the connection been by Mrs. Methven's side she would

have known more about it, and taken more trouble to keep up her

knowledge of the family. But it was not so, and she had even in her

younger days been conscious of little slights and neglects which had

made her rather hostile than otherwise to the great people from whom her

husband came. "I know nothing about the Erradeens," she would say; "they

are much too grand to take any notice of us: and I am too proud to seek

any notice from them."

"I am afraid, my dear, there is a good deal in that," said old Mrs.

Wynn, the wife of the old rector, shaking her white head. This lady was

a sort of benign embodiment of justice in Sloebury. She punished nobody,

but she saw the right and wrong with a glance that was almost

infallible, and shook her head though she never exacted any penalty.

Here Miss Merivale would seize the occasion to strike in--

"Prejudice is prejudice," she said, "whatever form it takes. A lord has

just as much chance of being nice as an--apothecary." This was said

because the young doctor, newly admitted into his father's business,

who thought no little of himself, was within reach, and just then caught

Miss Merivale's eye.

"That is a very safe speech, seeing there are neither lords nor

apothecaries here," he said with the blandest smile. He was not a man to

be beaten at such a game.

"But a lord may have influence, you know. For Walter's sake I would not

lose sight of him," said Mrs. Wynn.

"You cannot lose sight of what you have never seen: besides, influence

is of no consequence nowadays. Nobody can do anything for you--save

yourself," said Mrs. Methven with a little sigh. Her eyes turned

involuntarily to where Walter was. He was always in the middle of

everything that was going on. Among the Sloebury young people he had a

little air of distinction, or so at least his mother thought. She was

painfully impartial, and generally, in her anxiety, perceived his bad

points rather than his good ones; but as she glanced at the group, love

for once allowed itself to speak, though always with an accent peculiar

to the character of the thinker. She allowed to herself that he had an

air of distinction, a something more than the others--alas, that nothing

ever came of it! The others all, or almost all, were already launched in

the world. They were doing or trying to do something--whereas Walter!

But she took care that nobody should hear that irrepressible sigh.

"I am very sorry for it," said Mrs. Wynn, "for there are many people

who would never push for themselves, and yet do very well indeed when

they are put in the way."

"I am all for the pushing people," said Miss Merivale. "I like the new

state of affairs. When every one stands for himself, and you get just as

much as you work for, there will be no grudges and sulkings with

society. Though I'm a Tory, I like every man to make his own way."

"A lady's politics are never to be calculated upon," said the Rector,

who was standing up against the fire on his own hearth, rubbing his old

white hands. "It is altogether against the principles of Toryism, my

dear lady, that a man should make his own way. It is sheer democracy. As

for that method of examinations, it is one of the most levelling

principles of the time--it is one of Mr. Gladstone's instruments for the

destruction of society. When the son of a cobbler is just as likely to

come to high command as your son or mine, what is to become of the

country?" the old clergyman said, lifting those thin white hands.

Mr. Gladstone's name was as a firebrand thrown into the midst of this

peaceable little country community. The speakers all took fire. They

thought that there was no doubt about what was going to come of the

country. It was going to destruction as fast as fate could carry it.

When society had dropped to pieces, and the rabble had come uppermost,

and England had become a mere name, upon which all foreign nations

should trample, and wild Irishmen dance war dances, and Americans

expectorate, then Mr. Gladstone would be seen in his true colours. While

this was going on, old Mrs. Wynn sat in her easy-chair and shook her

head. She declared always that she was no politician. And young Walter

Methven, attracted by the sudden quickening of the conversation which

naturally attended the introduction of this subject, came forward, ready

in the vein of opposition which was always his favourite attitude.

"Mr. Gladstone must be a very great man," he said. "I hear it is a sign

of being in society when you foam at the mouth at the sound of his

name."

"You young fellows think it fine to be on the popular side; but wait

till you are my age," cried one of the eager speakers. "It will not

matter much to me. There will be peace in my days." "But wait," cried

another, "and see how you will like it when everything topples down

together, the crown and the state, and the aristocracy, and public

credit, and national honour, and property, and the constitution,

and----"

So many anxious and alarmed politicians here spoke together that the

general voice became inarticulate, and Walter Methven, representing the

opposition, was at liberty to laugh.

"Come one, come all!" he cried, backed up by the arm of the sofa, upon

which Mrs. Wynn sat shaking her head. "It would be a fine thing for me

and all the other proletarians. Something would surely fall our way."

His mother watched him, standing up against the sofa, confronting them

all, with her usual exasperated and angry affection. She thought, as she

looked at him, that there was nothing he was not fit for. He was clever

enough for Parliament; he might have been prime minister--but he was

nothing! nothing, and likely to be nothing, doing nothing, desiring

nothing. Her eye fell on young Wynn, the rector's nephew, who had just

got a fellowship at his college, and on the doctor's son, who was just

entering into a share of his father's practice, and on Mr. Jeremy the

young banker, whose attentions fluttered any maiden to whom he might

address them. They were Walter's contemporaries, and not one of them was

worthy, she thought, to be seen by the side of her boy; but they had all

got before him in the race of life. They were something and he was

nothing. It was not much wonder if her heart was sore and angry. When

she turned round to listen civilly to something that was said to her,

her face was contracted and pale. It was more than she could bear. She

made a move to go away before any of the party was ready, and disturbed

Miss Merivale in the midst of a _tête-à-tête_, which was a thing not

easily forgiven.

Walter walked home with them in great good humour, but his mother knew

very well that he was not coming in. He was going to finish the evening

elsewhere. If he had come in would she have been able to restrain

herself? Would she not have fallen upon him, either in anger or in

grief, holding up to him the examples of young Wynn and young Jeremy and

the little doctor? She knew she would not have been able to refrain, and

it was almost a relief to her, though it was another pang, when he

turned away at the door.

"I want to speak to Underwood about to-morrow," he said.

"What is there about to-morrow? Of all the people in Sloebury Captain

Underwood is the one I like least," she said. "Why must you always have

something to say to him when every one else is going to bed?"

"I am not going to bed, nor is he," said Walter lightly.

Mrs. Methven's nerves were highly strung. Miss Merivale had passed in

before them, and there was nobody to witness this little struggle, which

she knew would end in nothing, but which was inevitable. She grasped him

by the arm in her eagerness and pain.

"Oh, my boy!" she said, "come in, come in, and think of something more

than the amusement of to-morrow. Life is not all play, though you seem

to think so. For once listen to me, Walter--oh, listen to me! You cannot

go on like this. Think of all the others; all at work, every one of

them, and you doing nothing."

"Do you want me to begin to do something now," said Walter, "when you

have just told me everybody was going to bed?"

"Oh! if I were you," she cried in her excitement, "I would rest neither

night nor day. I would not let it be said that I was the last, and every

one of them before me."

Walter shook himself free of her detaining hold. "Am I to be a dustman,

or a scavenger, or--what?" he said, contemptuously. "I know no other

trades that are followed at this hour."

Mrs. Methven had reached the point at which a woman has much ado not to

cry in the sense of impotence and exasperation which such an argument

brings. "It is better to do anything than to do nothing," she cried,

turning away from him and hastening in at the open door.

He paused a moment, as if doubtful what to do; there was something in

her hasty withdrawal which for an instant disposed him to follow, and

she paused breathless, with a kind of hope, in the half-light of the

little hall; but the next moment his footsteps sounded clear and quick

on the pavement, going away. Mrs. Methven waited until they were almost

out of hearing before she closed the door. Angry, baffled, helpless,

what could she do? She wiped a hot tear from the corner of her eye

before she went into the drawing-room, where her companion, always on

the alert, had already turned up the light of the lamp, throwing an

undesired illumination upon her face, flushed and troubled from this

brief controversy.

"I thought you were never coming in," said Miss Merivale, "and that

open door sends a draught all through the house."

"Walter detained me for a moment to explain some arrangements he has to

make for to-morrow," Mrs. Methven said with dignity. "He likes to keep

me _au courant_ of his proceedings."

Miss Merivale was absolutely silenced by this sublime assumption,

notwithstanding the flush of resentment, the glimmer of moisture in the

mother's eye.