I felt that I ought to write to my uncles and cousins, and I consulted
Mrs Beeton about it.
Mrs Beeton put her head on one side and tried how far she could get her
arm down the black worsted stocking she was darning, looking at me
meditatively the while.
"Well, do you know," she said, "if I were you, my dear, I would write;
for it do seem strange to leave you here, as I may say, all alone."
"Then I will write," I said. "I want to know what I am going to be."
"Oh! I should be a soldier, like your dear pa was, if I were you," she
said; "and I'd go into a regiment where they wore blue and silver-blue
and silver always looks so well."
"I don't want to be a soldier," I said rather sadly, for my fancy did at
one time go strongly in that direction; but it did not seem so very long
since the news came that my poor father had been killed in a skirmish
with the Indians; and I remembered how my poor mother had thrown her
arms round my neck and sobbed, and made me promise that I would never
think of being a soldier. And then it seemed as if after that news she
had gradually drooped and faded, just as a flower might upon its stalk,
till two years had gone by, and then all happened as I have related to
you, and I was left pretty well alone in the world.
"I'm sorry you don't want to be a soldier," said Mrs Beeton, looking at
me through her glasses, with her head a little more on one side. "If I
had been a young gentleman I should have been a horse-soldier. I
wouldn't be a sailor if I was you, sir."
"Why not?" I said.
"Because they do smell so of tar, and they're so rough and boisterous."
"I think I shall be a gardener," I said.
"A what?"
"A gardener."
"My dear boy!" she cried in horror, "whatever put that in your head?
Why, you couldn't be anything worse. There!--I do declare you startled
me so I've stuck the needle right into my finger, and it bleeds!"
We had many arguments about the matter while I was waiting for answers
to my letters, for no one came down to see me.
Uncle Thomas said he was going to see about my being put in a good
public school, but there was no hurry; and perhaps it would be better to
wait and see what Uncle Johnson meant to do, for he should not like to
offend him, as he was much better off, and it might be doing me harm.
Uncle Johnson wrote a very short letter, saying that I had better write
to my Uncle Frederick.
Second-cousin Willis did not reply for a week, and he said it was the
duty of one of my uncles to provide for me; and he should make a point
of bringing them both to book if they did not see about something for me
before long.
One or two other relatives wrote to me that they were not in
circumstances to help me, and that if they were strong, stout boys such
as I was, they would try and get a situation, for it was no disgrace to
earn my living; and they wished me well.
I took all these letters over to Mr Brownsmith, and he read them day
after day as they came; but he did not say a word, and it made my heart
sink, as it seemed to me that he was repenting of his offer.
And so a month slipped by; and when I was not reading or writing I found
myself gazing out of the window at the pleasant old garden, where the
fruit was being gathered day after day. The time was passing, and the
chances of my going over to Brownsmith's seemed to me growing remote,
while I never seemed to have seen so much of Shock.
It appeared to me that he must know of my disappointment; for whenever
he saw me at the window, and could do so unseen, he threw dabs of clay,
or indulged in derisive gestures more extravagant than ever.
I affected to take no heed of these antics, but they annoyed me all the
same; and I found myself wishing at times that Mr Brownsmith would take
me, if only to give me a chance of some day thrashing that objectionable
boy.
I was sitting very disconsolately at the window one day, with a table on
which I had been writing drawn up very close to the bay, when I heard a
footstep below, and looking down there was Old Brownsmith, who nodded to
me familiarly and came up.
"Well," he said, "how are you? Nice weather for my work."
He sat down, pursed up his lips, and looked about him for some minutes
without speaking.
"News," he said, "any news?"
"No, sir," I replied.
"Humph! Not going to make you manager of the Bank of England or Master
of the Mint--eh?"
"No, sir. I have had no more news."
"I was afraid you wouldn't," he continued. "Well, I told you the other
day not to be rash, for there was plenty of time."
"Yes, sir."
"Now I'm going to change my tune."