Simple, grave, sincere.--COWPER.
William Oswald, the banker’s son, inherited in some degree the
disposition of his father; but the bitterness of the original stock was
modified in the branch. A grave, decided, firm man, his character had
already developed itself; but he was not obstinate. His mind was open at
all points to truth, and strong and tenacious as was the grasp of his
opinion, he was still convinceable, and did not wilfully shut his eyes
against the light from what quarter soever it came. And William Oswald,
though a thoroughly natural and warm-hearted man, and with indeed a
singular degree of ardour under his gravity, was of the stuff which made
stoics in the old Roman times. He had a power of self-denial and
self-restraint, which is at all times a very considerable weapon, and
could hold steadily on, past all the temptations of pleasure--past even
the natural resting-place which wooed him to needed repose, on direct to
his end. He did not speak about it; he made no demonstration of his
ceaseless pursuit; but he fixed his dark glowing eyes clearly and
steadily upon his aim, and went on, swerving neither to the right hand
nor the left--able to give up pleasure, ease--able to endure toil and
solitude, and with a definite, clear end before him, to pursue his way
unfalteringly till it was gained.
He had been “bred a writer,” as the sons of respectable, wealthy,
middle-class men in Scotland frequently are, whether they be intended to
practise the law as a profession or no; and there had been some talk of
William succeeding Mr Shaw _the_ writer in Fendie in his great business.
But William, it appeared, did not choose to enter into partnership with
young Mr Nichol Shaw, and in the mean time he was resting ingloriously
in the obscure labours of his father’s office.
And it greatly chafed the impatient spirit of Helen Buchanan that it
should be so. Like most imaginative, youthful women, Helen fancied the
freedom and licence of mankind one of the greatest possible gifts. There
was no glorious “might be” which did not seem to her ideal vision open
to the ambition of _a man_. The exceeding might of virtuous
influence--the empire of the generous, brave spirit over its
fellows--once on this free eminence of manhood, and the ardent mind knew
that these would be hers--they were possible to men--above all to the
one man upon whom the fair garments of the ideal began to fall.
And Helen chafed unconsciously that William Oswald should be content
with this inglorious life. The humble teacher of the little girls of
Fendie aspired to a higher intellectual firmament; there were ambitious
hopes and dreams and wishes stirring in the bare school-room, enough to
have startled the little town out of its propriety; wishes, and dreams,
and hopes of a more daring kind than ever young lady in Fendie had
entertained before; and Helen Buchanan scarcely ranked as a young lady.
She was noticed by none of the magnates, and courted in no society--she
was simply the school-mistress; the people of Fendie, young and old,
would have been overwhelmed with astonishment to hear of her ambition.
But William Oswald knew it, and his temper agreed as little as her own
with the ease of inactivity. He was not the man to prefer the temporary
pleasure of even her society, greatly as he prized it, to the necessary
work of life; and he too had the upward tendency. He could not be
content with the easy indolent satisfaction of competence, and already
believing that the strong and vigorous youth within him was destined for
something nobler than the businesses or amusements of the little
country-town, his energy was stimulated by hers. They stood at this time
almost upon terms of mutual defiance, yet each unconsciously
supplemented the strength and had a share in all the secret purposes of
the other. Their own individual combat was close and exciting, yet in
the very act of resisting they invigorated each other for their several
wrestles with the world without. They were neither of a very peaceable
nature; it suited them to manage their wooing so.
But William’s plans were laid. He had determined to return to Edinburgh
to practise his profession. When he had won an independent position and
name for himself--and to do that was of itself an end worth striving
for--he felt that he should be much more likely to overcome the
obstinate opposition of his father. The banker was proud of his family,
and William, a known man, occupying a standing ground honourably
acquired by his own exertions, might expect to be differently treated
from William the unknown who had no other position than that which
belonged to Mr Oswald’s son.
His mother assented with a sigh; she foresaw a different end to the
romance of her son’s youth. He also, the cold voice of experience
prophesied, would learn to approve those views of worldly wisdom, would
forget the generous impulses of young life--would acquiesce in the
prudent decisions of his father. Mrs Oswald too was prudent; but her
heart shrank from beholding the film of calculating foresight fall upon
the frank vision of her only son. She could almost have chosen the
imprudent marriage sooner than the chill wisdom which would make it
impossible.
The banker consented readily to William’s project; it was likely, _he_
thought, to accomplish a twofold good:--to establish the young man’s
fortunes steadily, on a basis of good work entered into with the
freshness of youth, and to detach him from his foolish liking to the
poor schoolmistress, who, gentlewoman as Hope asserted her to be, he was
resolved to receive into his family--never!
So, although on grounds so different, the father and mother consented,
and the grave, firm, undemonstrative son, the depths of whose nature
were too profound to be frozen over as his mother feared by the icy
prudence of the world, mapped out his own course, knowing better than
they did the tenacious constancy of his own mind. It was no boyish fancy
which moved him; the light emotions of youthful liking were very
different from this, and there was nothing from which the ardent, grave
spirit stood in so little peril as change.
On a dull evening, late in December, he sat by Mrs Buchanan’s fireside
waiting till Mrs Buchanan’s daughter should leave her school-room and
her pupils. William Oswald had been a favourite long ago with his
father’s sensitive partner, and was a favourite with Mrs Buchanan of so
long standing, that before the unfortunate hour in which he astonished
with unwonted eloquence the wondering ears of Helen, and raised the
_questio vexata_, which at present did so strangely unite and disunite
them, his prospects and purposes had been as confidentially discussed in
Mrs Buchanan’s parlour as at home; and still, though Helen’s mother
began to feel strongly interested in the prosperity of the Reverend
Robert Insches, it was impossible to break through the old familiar use
and wont which bound her to William Oswald almost like a mother to a
son. In his absence she could fancy the Reverend Robert very eligible,
but in his presence she felt almost unwillingly that it could be none
but he, the daily long-accustomed visitor--the son trained into all
their simple habitudes--the friend whom they knew so thoroughly, and who
so thoroughly knew them.
To this friendly, confidential footing he was very anxious to return
to-night. He wanted to discuss his plans with them, to make Helen aware
of the course which he projected for himself. Since he made the plunge,
and relinquished his place as friend to claim a nearer one, the attempt
had cost him much; not only the constraint which it had placed upon his
intercourse with his father, but the loss of Helen’s society which it
involved; so he resolved for this night to ignore their past struggle,
and to be only the old familiar friend, the son of the house.
Mrs Buchanan and her visitor sat together silently, both of them
somewhat sad. The sound of the children’s footsteps and subdued voices
broke the stillness, and almost immediately Helen entered the room. The
candle was not lighted, for Mrs Buchanan liked the twilight, and was
thrifty, besides economizing the daylight as she did other things. She
was seated before the fire, which only shed a ruddy glow upon her face,
and did not in any degree light the dusky room. Withdrawn in a corner of
the sofa, William Oswald sat unseen.
“Mother,” exclaimed Helen, as she entered, “I have been thinking all day
of my old plan of going to Edinburgh. You remember what Hope Oswald said
about Miss Swinton; and the letter I wrote to her has been lying in my
desk for a month. I wish you would consent, mother; I wish you would let
me send it.”
“But, Helen, my dear,” said the less hasty mother, “you must take no
such step without consideration.”
“What can we do here, mother?” said Helen, eager for the moment, in the
strength of impulse. “What can we do here?--always the same--no
possibility of changing this dull routine of labour--no chance of rising
higher. I shall not always be young,” and the sudden change from warm
hope to depression fell upon the variable face in an instant, “and so
long as I am, should we not provide?”
“Helen, my dear,” repeated the gentle Mrs Buchanan, “you distress me
when you say such things; besides, it is nonsense, you know.”
Helen did not answer; she sat down on the other side of the fire, and
leaned her head upon her hand. The dim cloud of melancholy hovered over
her--for the moment the young sunshine was gone. It _was_ a dull
routine--a laborious life--cheered only by the special inheritance of
fair and gracious things which had been given her in her own spirit, and
sometimes the cloud overshadowed even these.
“Helen,” said the grave, firm voice whose power over her changeful moods
she strenuously resisted, and even to herself would not acknowledge.
“_I_ am going to Edinburgh.”
She started--the quick thrill of her varying nature went over her,
carrying the cloud on its sudden breath. A flush of evanescent offence
sprang over her face, as she looked past her mother to the dark figure
which began to be dimly visible on the sofa. Her purpose had changed on
the moment, but she was half angry that she had been anticipated.
“Yes,” said Mrs Buchanan, rising hastily to light the solitary candle,
“William is not content to live quietly at home, Helen. The air of
Fendie is too still for him.”
There was a slight drawing up of the stooping figure--an almost
imperceptible expanding of the breast--a hurried, momentary glance at
William, in which only one who had long studied it could discriminate
the proud, shy pleasure, tinged as it was by a certain sadness, with
which Helen heard this news.
“He is quite right,” she said quickly.
“Do you think so?” asked William; “but what if I only lose myself yonder
in the crowd, and remain as unknown as I am now?”
“I know you will not,” said Helen. Then she recollected herself. “I
mean--yes, William Oswald, I mean you will not--you will do better than
that.”
He was still in the shadow, and while he could observe every change of
her features, she could scarcely see the dark glow of pleasure which
covered his face.
“But, Helen, you think of fame--and I will never win fame; hundreds fail
every year of acquiring the mere standing ground. Is it worth hazarding
quietness and peace, and giving up home as I shall do, think you, for
the chance of such distinction--only small distinction, Helen--as I can
ever reach?”
Her pulse began to beat more quickly--strong in those young warm veins
of hers ran the tide of her ambition.
“I do not mean distinction--that is,” said the truthful Helen, who felt
that in some degree she did mean it; “I mean things graver and nobler
before distinction. I think the old chivalry will never die out of the
world, William; to be a knight--to carry arms against all the powers of
evil--to win new lands to acknowledge our king--whatever we have to work
at for our bread, that remains the real work to live for, as it seems to
me, and I know nothing so precious but one might peril it--nothing so
dear but one would give it up for such a cause as that.”
Her voice shook a little with the excitement that made it strong--the
stooping head was quite erect--the eyes shining like stars.
Mrs Buchanan sat a little apart looking at them--observing with quiet,
smiling wonder how the grave face of the silent, uncommunicative William
began to speak and grow eloquent too, as it bent towards the other
countenance, whose thoughts were “legible i’ the eie.”
But he seemed more inclined to listen than to speak.
“I grant you that,” said William; “but suppose, Helen, a man should
distrust his own powers, and think it most expedient to keep himself
apart from all struggles--to withdraw far away from the evils he has not
strength to contend with--what then?”
“Then he does not fulfil his end,” said the rapid, eager voice--“which
is not to flee from natural temptations and difficulties, but bravely to
resist and do battle with the same. I know one feels one’s heart sink
often. It may not be so with you who are strong--but _I_ feel that to
cease such work and warfare as one is called to do, does bring a
perilous sinking of the heart. It is not well--surely it is not well to
withdraw from the evils which are in us and about us; we are bound to do
battle with them, William--not to stand on our defence alone, but to
carry the war into the camp of the enemies. I think sometimes that the
state of war must be the only good state for those who have sin natural
to them as we have--and that if these words, resist and struggle, were
withdrawn from our language we should be no longer human; for when we
let our arms fall, our hearts fall, and weariness comes upon us, and
distrust and gloom; and out of the living, moving world we come into the
narrow chamber of ourselves--and the sun sets upon us, William.”
The sun had set in the changeful face upon which William Oswald looked,
and for the moment its waning colour and downcast eyes proclaimed the
unmistakeable sinking of the heart. She did not perceive the look that
dwelt upon her, nor its language--language unconsciously powerful. “And
this, Helen, is your philosophy.” The words fell dreamily upon her ear,
echoing through a long silence. The philosophy was not hers alone.
Kindred thoughts had risen in the young minds, as they grew together
into the early flush of maturity, and now she sent him forth--a knight.