The Attempt to Build a Temple to Fortune Out of the Ruins of Home.
“But,” said Vivian, pursuing his tale, “but when you came to my aid, not
knowing me; when you relieved me; when from your own lips, for the first
time, I heard words that praised me, and for qualities that implied I
might yet be ‘worth much,’--ah!” he added mournfully, “I remember the
very words,--a new light broke upon me, struggling and dim, but light
still. The ambition with which I had sought the truckling Frenchman
revived, and took worthier and more definite form. I would lift myself
above the mire, make a name, rise in life!”
Vivian’s head drooped; but he raised it quickly, and laughed his
low, mocking laugh. What follows of this tale may be told succinctly.
Retaining his bitter feelings towards his father, he resolved to
continue his incognito: he gave himself a name likely to mislead
conjecture if I conversed of him to my family, since he knew that
Roland was aware that a Colonel Vivian had been afflicted by a runaway
son,--and indeed, the talk upon that subject had first put the notion
of flight into his own head. He caught at the idea of becoming known to
Trevanion; but he saw reasons to forbid his being indebted to me for the
introduction, to forbid my knowing where he was: sooner or later that
knowledge could scarcely fail to end in the discovery of his real name.
Fortunately, as he deemed, for the plans he began to meditate, we were
all leaving London; he should have the stage to himself. And then boldly
he resolved upon what he regarded as the masterscheme of life; namely,
to obtain a small pecuniary independence and to emancipate himself
formally and entirely from his father’s control. Aware of poor Roland’s
chivalrous reverence for his name, firmly persuaded that Roland had no
love for the son, but only the dread that the son might disgrace him,
he determined to avail himself of his father’s prejudices in order to
effect his purpose.
He wrote a short letter to Roland (that letter which had given the poor
man so sanguine a joy),--that letter after reading which he had said to
Blanche, “Pray for me”, stating simply that he wished to see his father,
and naming a tavern in the City for the meeting.
The interview took place. And when Roland--love and forgiveness in his
heart, but (who shall blame him?) dignity on his brow and rebuke in his
eye--approached, ready at a word to fling himself on the boy’s breast,
Vivian, seeing only the outer signs, and interpreting them by his own
sentiments, recoiled, folded his arms on his bosom, and said, coldly,
“Spare me reproach, sir,--it is unavailing; I seek you only to propose
that you shall save your name and resign your son.”
Then, intent perhaps but to gain his object, the unhappy youth declared
his fixed determination never to live with his father, never to
acquiesce in his authority, resolutely to pursue his own career,
whatever that career might be, explaining none of the circumstances
that appeared most in his disfavor,--rather, perhaps, thinking that, the
worse his father judged of him, the more chance he had to achieve his
purpose. “All I ask of you,” he said, “is this: Give me the least you
can afford to preserve me from the temptation to rob, or the necessity
to starve; and I, in my turn, promise never to molest you in life,
never to degrade you in my death; whatever my misdeeds, they will never
reflect on yourself, for you shall never recognize the misdoer! The
name you prize so highly shall be spared.” Sickened and revolted, Roland
attempted no argument; there was that in the son’s cold manner which
shut out hope, and against which his pride rose indignant. A meeker man
might have remonstrated, implored, and wept; that was not in Roland’s
nature. He had but the choice of three evils: to say to his son, “Fool,
I command thee to follow me!” or say, “Wretch, since thou wouldst cast
me off as a stranger, as a stranger I say to thee,--Go, starve or rob,
as thou wilt!” or lastly, to bow his proud head, stunned by the blow,
and say, “Thou refusest me the obedience of the son, thou demandest to
be as the dead to me. I can control thee not from vice, I can guide thee
not to virtue. Thou wouldst sell me the name I have inherited stainless,
and have as stainless borne. Be it so! Name thy price!”
And something like this last was the father’s choice.
He listened, and was long silent; and then he said slowly, “Pause before
you decide.”
“I have paused long; my decision is made! This is the last time we meet.
I see before me now the way to fortune, fairly, honorably; you can aid
me in it only in the way I have said. Reject me now, and the option may
never come again to either!”
And then Roland said to himself, “I have spared and saved for this son:
what care I for aught else than enough to live without debt, creep into
a corner, and await the grave? And the more I can give, why, the better
chance that he will abjure the vile associate and the desperate course.”
And so, out of his small income Roland surrendered to the rebel child
more than the half.
Vivian was not aware of his father’s fortune,--he did not suppose the
sum of two hundred pounds a year was an allowance so disproportioned
to Roland’s means; yet when it was named, even he was struck by the
generosity of one to whom he himself had given the right to say, “I take
thee at thy word: ‘Just enough not to starve!’”
But then that hateful cynicism, which, caught from bad men and evil
books, he called “knowledge of the world,” made him think, “It is not
for me, it is only for his name;” and he said aloud, “I accept these
terms, sir; here is the address of a solicitor with whom yours can
settle them. Farewell forever.”
At those last words Roland started, and stretched out his arms vaguely
like a blind man. But Vivian had already thrown open the window (the
room was on the ground floor) and sprung upon the sill. “Farewell,” he
repeated; “tell the world I am dead.”
He leaped into the street, and the father drew in the outstretched arms,
smote his heart, and said: “Well, then, my task in the world of man is
over! I will back to the old ruin,--the wreck to the wrecks; and the
sight of tombs I have at least rescued from dishonor shall comfort me
for all!”