You may judge of the effect that my dinner at Mr Trevanion’s, with a
long conversation after it with Lady Ellinor, made upon my mind, when,
on my return home, after having satisfied all questions of parental
curiosity, I said nervously, and looking down,—“My dear father,—I should
like very much, if you have no objection,—to—to—”
“What, my dear?” asked my father kindly.
“Accept an offer Lady Ellinor has made me, on the part of Mr Trevanion.
He wants a secretary. He is kind enough to excuse my inexperience, and
declares I shall do very well, and can soon get into his ways. Lady
Ellinor says (I continued with dignity) that it will be a great opening
in public life for me; and at all events, my dear father, I shall see
much of the world, and learn what I really think will be more useful to
me than any thing they will teach me at college.”
My mother looked anxiously at my father. “It will indeed be a great
thing for Sisty,” said she timidly; and then taking courage she
added—“And that is just the sort of life he is formed for—”
“Hem!” said my uncle.
My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, after a long
pause,—
“You may be right, Kitty: I don’t think Pisistratus is meant for study;
action will suit him better. But what does this office lead to?”
“Public employment, sir,” said I boldly; “the service of my country.”
“If that be the case,” quoth Roland, “I have not a word to say. But I
should have thought that for a lad of spirit, a descendant of the old De
Caxtons, the army would have—”
“The army!” exclaimed my mother, clasping her hands, and looking
involuntarily at my uncle’s cork leg.
“The army!” repeated my father peevishly. “Bless my soul, Roland, you
seem to think man is made for nothing else but to be shot at! You would
not like the army, Pisistratus?”
“Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother; otherwise, indeed—”
“Papæ!” said my father interrupting me. “This all comes of your giving
the boy that ambitious, uncomfortable name, Mrs Caxton; what could a
Pisistratus be but the plague of one’s life? That idea of serving his
country is Pisistratus ipsissimus all over. If ever I have another son,
(_Dii meliora!_) he has only got to be called Eratostratus, and then he
will be burning down St Paul’s; which I believe was, by the way, first
made out of the stones of the temple of Diana! Of the two, certainly,
you had better serve your country with a goose-quill than by poking a
bayonet into the ribs of some unfortunate Indian;—I don’t think there
are any other people whom the service of one’s country makes it
necessary to kill just at present,—eh, Roland?”
“It is a very fine field, India,” said my uncle, sententiously. “It is
the nursery of captains.”
“Is it? Those plants take up a great deal of ground, then, that might be
more profitably cultivated. And, indeed, considering that the tallest
captains in the world will be ultimately set into a box not above seven
feet at the longest, it is astonishing what a quantity of room that
species of _arbor mortis_ takes in the growing! However, Pisistratus, to
return to your request, I will think it over, and talk to Trevanion.”
“Or rather to Lady Ellinor,” said I imprudently: my mother slightly
shivered, and took her hand from mine. I felt cut to the heart by the
slip of my own tongue.
“That, I think, your mother could do best,” said my father, drily, “if
she wants to be quite convinced that somebody will see that your shirts
are aired. For I suppose they mean you to lodge at Trevanion’s.”
“Oh, no!” cried my mother. “He might as well go to college then. I
thought he was to stay with us; only go in the morning, but, of course,
sleep here.”
“If I know any thing of Trevanion,” said my father, “his secretary will
be expected to do without sleep. Poor boy, you don’t know what it is you
desire. And yet, at your age, I—” my father stopped short. “No!” he
renewed abruptly, after a long silence, and as if soliloquising. “No,
man is never wrong while he lives for others. The philosopher who
contemplates from the rock, is a less noble image than the sailor who
struggles with the storm. Why should there be two of us? And _could_ he
be an _alter ego_, even if I wished it? impossible!” My father turned on
his chair, and, laying the left leg on the right knee, said smilingly,
as he bent down to look me full in the face; “But, Pisistratus, will you
promise me always to wear the saffron bag?”