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 his 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 master scheme of
life--viz., 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 disfavour--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 recognise 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, honourably; 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 that 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 for ever."
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 sprang upon the sill. "Farewell," he
repeated: "tell the world I am dead."
He leapt 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 dishonour shall comfort me
for all!"