Walter walked along the quiet, almost deserted street with a hasty step
and a still hastier rush of disagreeable thoughts. There was, he felt,
an advantage in being angry, in the sensation of indignant resistance to
a petty tyranny. For a long time past he had taken refuge in this from
every touch of conscience and sense of time lost and opportunities
neglected. He was no genius, but he was not so dull as not to know that
his life was an entirely unsatisfactory one, and himself in the wrong
altogether; everything rotten in the state of his existence, and a great
deal that must be set right one time or another in all his habits and
ways. The misfortune was that it was so much easier to put off this
process till to-morrow than to begin it to-day. He had never been roused
out of the boyish condition of mind in which a certain resistance to
authority was natural, and opposition to maternal rule and law a sort of
proof of superiority and independence. Had this been put into words, and
placed before him as the motive of much that he did, no one would have
coloured more angrily or resented more hotly the suggestion; and yet in
the bottom of his heart he would have known it to be true. All through
his unoccupied days he carried with him the sense of folly, the
consciousness that he could not justify to himself the course he was
pursuing. The daily necessity of justifying it to another was almost the
sole thing that silenced his conscience. His mother, who kept "nagging"
day after day, who was never satisfied, whose appeals he sometimes
thought theatrical, and her passion got up, was his sole defence against
that self-dissatisfaction which is the severest of all criticisms. If
she would but let him alone, leave him to his own initiative, and not
perpetually endeavour to force a change which to be effectual, as all
authorities agreed, must come of itself! He was quite conscious of the
inadequacy of this argument, and in his heart felt that it was a poor
thing to take advantage of it; but yet, on the surface of his mind, put
it forward and made a bulwark of it against his own conscience. He did
so now as he hurried along, in all the heat that follows a personal
encounter. If she would but let him alone! But he could not move a step
anywhere, could not make an engagement, could not step into a friend's
rooms, as he was going to do now, without her interference. The
relations of a parent to an only child are not the same as those that
exist between a father and mother and the different members of a large
family. It has been usual to consider them in one particular light as
implying the closest union and mutual devotion. But there is another
point of view in which to consider the question. They are so near to
each other, and the relationship so close, that there is a possibility
of opposition and contrariety more trying, more absorbing, than any
other except that between husband and wife. A young son does not always
see the necessity of devotion to a mother who is not very old, who has
still many sources of pleasure apart from himself, and who is not
capable, perhaps, on her side, of the undiscriminating worship which is
grandmotherly, and implies a certain weakness and dimness of perception
in the fond eyes that see everything in a rosy, ideal light. This fond
delusion is often in its way a moral agent, obliging the object of it to
fulfil what is expected of him, and reward the full and perfect trust
which is given so unhesitatingly. But in this case it was not possible.
The young man thought, or persuaded himself, that his mother's vexatious
watch over him, and what he called her constant suspicion and doubt of
him, had given him a reason for the disgust and impatience with which he
turned from her control. He pictured to himself the difference which a
father's larger, more generous sway would have made in him; to that he
would have answered, he thought, like a ship to its helm, like an army
to its general. But this petty rule, this perpetual fault-finding,
raised up every faculty in opposition. Even when he meant the best, her
words of warning, her reminders of duty, were enough to set him all
wrong again. He thought, as a bad husband often thinks when he is
conscious of the world's disapproval, that it was her complaints that
were the cause. And when he was reminded by others, well-meaning but
injudicious, of all he owed to his mother, his mind rose yet more
strongly in opposition, his spirit refused the claim. This is a very
different picture from that of the widow's son whose earliest
inspiration is his sense of duty to his mother, and adoring gratitude
for her care and love--but it is perhaps as true a one. A young man may
be placed in an unfair position by the excessive claim made upon his
heart and conscience in this way, and so Walter felt it. He might have
given all that, and more, if nothing had been asked of him; but when he
was expected to feel so much, he felt himself half justified in feeling
nothing. Thus the situation had become one of strained and continual
opposition. It was a kind of duel, in which the younger combatant at
least--the assailed person, whose free-will and independence were
hampered by such perpetual requirements--never yielded a step. The other
might do so, by turns throwing up her arms altogether, but not he.
It was with this feeling strong in his mind, and affecting his temper as
nothing else does to such a degree, that he hastened along the street
towards the rooms occupied by Captain Underwood, a personage whom the
ladies of Sloebury were unanimous in disliking. Nobody knew exactly
where it was that he got his military title. He did not belong to any
regiment in her Majesty's service. He had not even the humble claim of a
militia officer; yet nobody dared say that there was anything fictitious
about him, or stigmatise the captain as an impostor. Other captains and
colonels and men-at-arms of undoubted character supported his claims; he
belonged to one or two well-known clubs. An angry woman would sometimes
fling an insult at him when her husband or son came home penniless after
an evening in his company, wondering what they could see in an
under-bred fellow who was no more a captain (she would say in her wrath)
than she was; but of these assertions there was no proof, and the
vehemence of them naturally made the captain's partisans more and more
eager in his favour. He had not been above six months in Sloebury, but
everybody knew him. There was scarcely an evening in which half-a-dozen
men did not congregate in his rooms, drawn together by that strange
attraction which makes people meet who do not care in the least for each
other's company, nor have anything to say to each other, yet are
possibly less vacant in society than when alone, or find the murmur of
many voices, the smoke of many cigars, exhilarating and agreeable. It
was not every evening that the cards were produced. The captain was
wary; he frightened nobody; he did not wish to give occasion to the
tremors of the ladies, whom he would have conciliated even, if he had
been able; but there are men against whom the instinct of all women
rises, as there are women from whom all men turn. It was only now and
then that he permitted play. He spoke indeed strongly against it on many
occasions. "What do you want with cards?" he would say. "A good cigar
and a friend to talk to ought to be enough for any man." But twice or
thrice in a week his scruples would give way. He was a tall, well-formed
man, of an uncertain age, with burning hazel eyes, and a scar on his
forehead got in that mysterious service to which now and then he made
allusion, and which his friends concluded must have been in some foreign
legion, or with Garibaldi, or some other irregular warfare. There were
some who thought him a man, old for his age, of thirty-five, and some
who, concluding him young for his age, and well preserved, credited him
with twenty years more; but thirty-five or fifty-five, whichever it was,
he was erect and strong, and well set up, and possessed an amount of
experience and apparent knowledge of the world, at which the striplings
of Sloebury admired and wondered, and which even the older men
respected, as men in the country respect the mention of great names and
incidents that have become historical. He had a way of recommending
himself even to the serious, and would now and then break forth, as if
reluctantly, into an account of some instance of faith or patience on
the battlefield or the hospital which made even the rector declare that
to consider Underwood as an irreligious man was both unjust and unkind.
So strong was the prejudice of the women, however, that Mrs. Wynn,
always charitable, and whose silent protest was generally only made when
the absent were blamed, shook her head at this testimony borne in favour
of the Captain. She had no son to be led away, and her husband it need
not be said, considering his position, was invulnerable; but with all
her charity she could not believe in the religion of Captain Underwood.
His rooms were very nice rooms in the best street in Sloebury, and if
his society was what is called "mixed," yet the best people were
occasionally to be met there, as well as those who were not the best.
There was a little stir in the company when Walter entered. To tell the
truth, notwithstanding the wild mirth and dissipation which the ladies
believed to go on in Captain Underwood's rooms, the society assembled
there was at the moment dull and in want of a sensation. There had not
been anything said for the course of two minutes at least. There was no
play going on, and the solemn puff of smoke from one pair of lips after
another would have been the height of monotony had it not been the
wildest fun and gratification. The men in the room took pipes and cigars
out of their mouths to welcome the new-comer. "Hallo, Walter!" they all
said in different tones; for in Sloebury the use of Christian names was
universal, everybody having known everybody else since the moment of
their birth.
"Here comes Methven," said the owner of the rooms (it was one of his
charms, in the eyes of the younger men, that he was not addicted to this
familiarity), "in the odour of sanctity. It will do us all good to have
an account of the rector's party. How did you leave the old ladies, my
excellent boy?"
"Stole away like the fox, by Jove," said the hunting man, who was the
pride of Sloebury.
"More like the mouse with the old cats after it," said another wit.
Now Walter had come in among them strong in his sense of right and in
his sense of wrong, feeling himself at the same moment a sorry fool and
an injured hero, a sufferer for the rights of man; and it would have
been of great use to him in both these respects to have felt himself
step into a superior atmosphere, into the heat of a political
discussion, or even into noisy amusement, or the passion of
play--anything which would rouse the spirits and energies, and show the
action of a larger life. But to feel his own arrival a sort of godsend
in the dulness, and to hear nothing but the heavy puff of all the smoke,
and the very poor wit with which he was received, was sadly
disconcerting, and made him more and more angry with himself and the
circumstances which would give him no sort of support or comfort.
"The old ladies," he said, "were rather more lively than you fellows.
You look as if you had all been poisoned in your wine, like the men in
the opera, and expected the wall to open and the monks and the coffins
to come in."
"I knew that Methven would bring us some excellent lesson," said Captain
Underwood. "Remember that we have all to die. Think, my friends, upon
your latter end."
"Jump up here and give us a sermon, Wat."
"Don't tease him, he's dangerous."
"The old ladies have been too much for him."
This went on till Walter had settled down into his place, and lighted
his pipe like the rest. He looked upon them with disenchanted eyes; not
that he had ever entertained any very exalted opinion of his company;
but to-night he was out of sympathy with all his surroundings, and he
felt it almost a personal offence that there should be so little to
attract and excite in this manly circle which thought so much more of
itself than of any other, and was so scornful of the old ladies who
after all were not old ladies: but the graver members of the community
in general, with an ornamental adjunct of young womankind. On ordinary
occasions no doubt Walter would have chimed in with the rest, but
to-night he was dissatisfied and miserable, not sure of any sensation in
particular, but one of scorn and distaste for his surroundings. He would
have felt this in almost any conceivable case, but in the midst of this
poor jesting and would-be wit, the effect was doubled. Was it worth
while for this to waste his time, to offend the opinion of all his
friends? Such thoughts must always come in similar circumstances. Even
in the most brilliant revelry there will be a pause, a survey of the
position, a sense, however unwilling that the game is not worth the
candle. But here! They were all as dull as ditch water, he said to
himself. Separately there was scarcely one whom he would have selected
as an agreeable companion, and was it possible by joining many dulnesses
together to produce a brilliant result? There was no doubt that Walter's
judgment was jaundiced that evening; for he was not by any means so
contemptuous of his friends on ordinary occasions; but he had been eager
to find an excuse for himself, to be able to say that here was real life
and genial society in place of the affected solemnity of the proper
people. When he found himself unable to do this, he was struck as by a
personal grievance, and sat moody and abstracted, bringing a chill upon
everybody, till one by one the boon companions strolled away.
"A pretty set of fellows to talk of dulness," he cried, with a little
burst, "as if they were not dull beyond all description themselves."
"Come, Methven, you are out of temper," said Captain Underwood. "They
are good fellows enough when you are in the vein for them. Something has
put you out of joint."
"Nothing at all," cried Walter, "except the sight of you all sitting as
solemn as owls pretending to enjoy yourselves. At the rectory one yawned
indeed, it was the genius of the place--but to hear all those dull dogs
laughing at that, as if they were not a few degrees worse! Is there
nothing but dulness in life? Is everything the same--one way or
another--and nothing to show for it all, when it is over, but
tediousness and discontent?"
Underwood looked at him keenly with his fiery eyes.
"So you've come to that already, have you?" he said. "I thought you were
too young and foolish."
"I am not so young as not to know that I am behaving like an idiot,"
Walter said. Perhaps he had a little hope of being contradicted and
brought back to his own esteem.
But instead of this, Captain Underwood only looked at him again and
laughed.
"I know," he said: "the conscience has its tremors, especially after an
evening at the rectory. You see how well respectability looks, how
comfortable it is."
"I do nothing of the sort," Walter cried indignantly. "I see how dull
you are, you people who scoff at respectability, and I begin to wonder
whether it is not better to be dull and thrive than to be dull and
perish. They seem much the same thing so far as enjoyment goes."
"You want excitement," said the other carelessly. "I allow there is not
much of that here."
"I want something," cried Walter. "Cards even are better than nothing. I
want to feel that I have blood in my veins."
"My dear boy, all that is easily explained. You want money. Money is the
thing that mounts the blood in the veins. With money you can have as
much excitement, as much movement as you like. Let people say what they
please, there is nothing else that does it," said the man of experience.
He took a choice cigar leisurely from his case as he spoke. "A bit of a
country town like this, what can you expect from it? There is no go in
them. They risk a shilling, and go away frightened if they lose. If they
don't go to church on Sunday they feel all the remorse of a villain in a
play. It's all petty here--everything's petty, both the vices and the
virtues. I don't wonder you find it slow. What I find it, I needn't
say."
"Why do you stop here, then?" said Walter, not unnaturally, with a
momentary stare of surprise. Then he resumed, being full of his own
subject. "I know I'm an ass," he said. "I loaf about here doing nothing
when I ought to be at work. I don't know why I do it; but neither do I
know how to get out of it. You, that's quite another thing. You have no
call to stay. I wonder you do: why do you? If I were as free as you, I
should be off--before another day."
"Come along then," said Underwood, good-humouredly. "I'll go if you'll
go."
At this Walter shook his head.
"I have no money you know. I ought to be in an office or doing
something. I can't go off to shoot here or fish there, like you."
"By and by--by and by. You have time enough to wait."
Walter gave him a look of surprise.
"There is nothing to wait for," he said. "Is that why you have said so
many things to me about seeing life? I have nothing. We've got no money
in the family. I may wait till doomsday, but it will do nothing for me."
"Don't be too sure of that," said Underwood. "Oh, you needn't devour me
with your eyes. I know nothing of your family affairs. I suppose of
course that by and by, in the course of nature----"
"You mean," said Walter, turning pale, "when my mother dies. No, I'm not
such a wretched cad as that: if I didn't know I should get next to
nothing then, I----" (His conscience nearly tripped this young man up,
running into his way so hurriedly that he caught his foot unawares.)
Then he stopped and grew red, staring at his companion. "Most of what
she has dies with her, if that's what you're thinking of. There is
nothing in that to build upon. And I'm glad of it," the young man cried.
"I beg your pardon, Methven," said the other. "But it needn't be that;
there are other ways of getting rich."
"I don't know any of them, unless by work: and how am I to work? It is
so easy to speak. What can I work at? and where am I to get it?--there
is the question. I hear enough on that subject--as if I were a tailor
or a shoemaker that could find something to do at any corner. There is
no reason in it," the young man said, so hotly, and with such a flush of
resentful obstinacy, that the fervour of his speech betrayed him. He was
like a man who had outrun himself, and paused, out of breath.
"You'll see; something will turn up," said Underwood, with a laugh.
"What can turn up?--nothing. Suppose I go to New Zealand and come back
at fifty with my fortune made--Fifty's just the age, isn't it, to begin
to enjoy yourself," cried Walter, scornfully; "when you have not a tooth
left, nor a faculty perfect?" He was so young that the half-century
appeared to him like the age of Methusaleh, and men who lived to that
period as having outlived all that is worth living for. His mentor
laughed a little uneasily, as if he had been touched by this chance
shot.
"It is not such a terrible age after all," he said. "A man can still
enjoy himself when he is fifty; but I grant you that at twenty-four it's
a long time to wait for your pleasure. However, let us hope something
will turn up before then. Supposing, for the sake of argument, you were
to come in to your fortune more speedily, I wonder what you would do
with it--eh? you are such a terrible fellow for excitement. The turf?"
"All that is folly," said Walter, getting up abruptly. "Nothing more,
thanks. I am coming in to no fortune. And you don't understand me a
bit," he said, turning at the door of the room, to look back upon the
scene where he had himself spent so many hours, made piquant by a sense
of that wrongdoing which supplies excitement when other motives fail.
The chairs standing about as their occupants had thrust them away from
the table, the empty glasses upon it, the disorder of the room, struck
him with a certain sense of disgust. It was a room intended by nature to
be orderly and sober, with heavy country-town furniture, and nothing
about it that could throw any grace on disarray. The master of the place
stood against the table swaying a somewhat heavy figure over it, and
gazing at the young man with his fiery eyes. Walter's rudeness did not
please him, any more than his abrupt withdrawal.
"Don't be too sure of that," he said, with an effort to retain his
good-humoured aspect. "If I don't understand you, I should like to know
who does? and when that fortune comes, you will remember what I say."
"Pshaw!" Walter cried, impatiently turning away. A nod of his head was
all the good-night he gave. He hurried down as he had hurried up, still
as little contented, as full of dissatisfaction as when he came. This
man who thought he understood him, who intended to influence him,
revolted the young man's uneasy sense of independence, as much as did
the bond of more lawful authority. Did Underwood, _too_, think him a
child not able to guide himself? It was very late by this time, and the
streets very silent. He walked quickly home through the wintry darkness
of November, with a mind as thoroughly out of tune as it is possible to
imagine. He had gone to Underwood's in the hot impulse of opposition,
with the hope of getting rid temporarily, at least, of the struggle
within him; but he had not got rid of it. The dull jokes of the
assembled company had only made the raging of the inward storm more
sensible, and the jaunty and presumptuous misconception with which his
host received his involuntary confidences afterwards, had aggravated
instead of soothing his mind. Indeed, Underwood's pretence at knowing
all about it, his guesses and attempts to sound his companion's mind,
and the blundering interpretation of it into which he stumbled, filled
Walter with double indignation and disgust. This man too he had thought
much of, and expected superior intelligence from--and all that he had to
say was an idiotic anticipation of some miraculous coming into a fortune
which Walter was aware was as likely to happen to the beggar on the
streets as to himself. He had been angry with nature and his mother when
he left her door; he was angry with everybody when he returned to it,
though his chief anger of all, and the root of all the others, was that
anger with himself, which burnt within his veins, and which is the
hardest of all others to quench out.