I know no reason why I should begin my story of the fortunes of the
Harleys by a description of my own son. Perhaps it is just because there
is no reason whatever that I feel so much disposed to do it--also
because the appearance of that son is the only difference that has come
to my own life since last my unknown friends heard of me, and because
there is quite an exhilaration in thinking that here is a new audience
to whom I am at liberty to introduce the second Derwent Crofton. This
story is not in the least about my boy, and, in consequence, it is quite
an unusual delight to be able to drag him in head and shoulders. Women
are not logical, as everybody knows.
My son, then, is, at the present writing, exactly seven years old. He
is a little athlete--straight and strong. We have often explained to
ourselves that it is in consequence of his having got over the baby
period of existence sooner than most children do, that he is not quite
so plump, as, for example, that red and white heir of the Sedgwicks, who
has a succession of rosy cushions on all the points where there should
be angles of his small frame. Derwent, I confess, has corners about
him--but then what limbs! what color! what hard, consistent stuff the
little rogue is made of! And I am not quite sure that I entirely approve
of these fat children--not when they are past the baby-age. I will not
delude myself, nor anybody else, into the idea that the boy is very
clever. Truth to speak, he has not taken very kindly as yet to
book-learning; but then does not everybody remember that it is the
dunces who grow into great men? Neither is he in the slightest degree
meditative or thoughtful, nor what you would call an interesting child.
He has as many scars upon him as a warrior, and has been bumped and
bruised in all directions. At first the child’s misfortunes somewhat
alarmed me, but by this time I am hardened to their daily occurrence,
and no longer grow pale when I am informed that Master Derwent has
broken his head or got a bad fall. This peculiarity is one in which his
father rather rejoices. I hear Mr. Crofton sometimes privately
communicating to his especial friends the particulars of little
Derwent’s accidents: “He was certainly born to knock about the world,
that boy of mine. Such a fellow was never intended to take peaceable
possession of Hilfont, and settle down a calm country gentleman,” says
Derwent, with a chuckle. And even when once or twice in the child’s life
my husband’s fears have been really excited about some misadventure
greater than usual, there has always been visible to me a certain gleam
of complacence and pride in his fear. For already he sees in the boy,
whom I am half disposed to keep a baby as long as possible, a man--the
heir of his own personal qualities as well as his land.
Little Derwent, however, has none of the sentimental qualities, which
might be expected from an only child. He has indemnified himself in the
oddest fashion for the want of those nursery friendships which sweeten
the beginning of life. In the oddest fashion! I am almost ashamed to
confess--I admit it with natural blushes and hesitation--that this
little boy of ours is the most inveterate gossip that ever was born!
Yes, there is no use disguising the fact, gossiping, plain, naked, and
unsophisticated, is the special faculty of Derwent. He has all the
natural childish thirst for a story, but he prefers to have his stories
warm from the lips of the heroes and heroines of the same; and somehow
everybody to whom he has access confides in the child. He goes through
every corner of Hilfont, from cellar to attic, with his bold, quick
step, and his bright, curious eyes, interested about every individual
under the roof. Too young to feel any of those sentiments which detract
from the value of a sympathizer--without either the condescension of a
superior or the self-comparison of an equal--I find nobody who is not
pleased and comforted by the child’s warm interest in their concerns;
pleased and half amused as well--till, by habit, housekeeper and nurse,
kitchenmaid and groom--for any efforts I might once have made to keep
Derwent a proper little boy, circulating only in an orthodox round
between the drawing-room and the nursery, have proved so totally
fruitless, that I have given up the endeavor--repose a flattered but
perfectly sincere confidence in their master’s little son. Nor is the
village at all stoical to his attractions. He drops in at all the
cottages as if he were the curate or the parish doctor--asks questions
about everything--never forgets any special circumstances which may
happen to have been told him--knows all about the old women’s marriages
and the number of their children, and which one’s son has been wild and
’listed, and which one’s daughter is at service in Simonborough. He is
ready for as many fairy tales as anybody will tell him; but nothing is
so thoroughly interesting to Derwent as the people round about him and
their homely lives. I began by being a little shocked at this propensity
of his--then gradually grew amused at it--then tried my utmost to
restrain that deep inquisitiveness which seemed inherent in him--and at
last have come to accept it quietly as the child’s peculiarity, a part
of himself. If the best object for the study of mankind is man, Derwent
will, perhaps, some day turn out a great philosopher. At present he is
the most sincere and simple-minded of little gossips, pursuing his
favorite branch of knowledge boldly, without any compunctions; such is
the most distinct and remarkable characteristic of my son.
And only to imagine the difference which that pair of blue eyes has
wrought in our great house and our calm life! My husband and I were, to
be sure, “very happy,” as people say, before; as happy as two people can
make each other, by a hearty and sincere love and cordial union; the
climax of happiness we would have thought it, each in our separate
thoughts, when we lived lonely lives apart. But love, which makes labor
sweet and life pleasant, does not answer for daily bread--never does,
let the romancers say what they will; no--not even to women. The heart
within me was dissatisfied even with Derwent--I could not content myself
with that life we lived--that calm, happy, tranquil life, which knew no
burdens, and if it overflowed in courtesies and charities, which cost us
nothing, was thought a model existence by our hard-working neighbors.
By dint of perpetual pin-pricks and unceasing agitation, I had managed
to drive Derwent into Parliament, where he somewhat solaced me by his
intense affliction and sufferings during the season of Parliamentary
martyrdom, and was himself happier during the rest of the year in the
relief of escaping that treadmill; but the content that had fluttered
off from my heart, when I had only my husband and myself to think of,
came with a flash of magic in the train of the little heir. All life
glowed and brightened up with a different interest--there were no longer
only ourselves who had attained all that was attainable in our own
mature and settled existence; but this new living, loving creature, with
all the possibilities of life burning upon his fresh horizon. The
picture changed as if by enchantment; the master and mistress of that
tranquil great house--lone, happy people set apart, none of the changes
of life coming near them, living for themselves, changed into a father
and mother, linked by sweet ties of succession to the other generations
of the world; belonging not to ourselves, but to the past and the
future--to the coming age, which _he_ should influence--to the former
age, which had hailed _our_ entrance as we hailed _his_. One cannot be
content with the foot-breadth of human soil that supports one’s own
weight--one must thrust out one’s hands before and behind. I felt that
we fell into our due place in the world’s generations, and laid hold
upon the lineal chain of humanity when little Derwent went forth before
us, trusted to our guidance--the next generation--the Future to us, as
to the world.