This child is not mine as the first was,
I cannot sing it to rest:
I cannot lift it up fatherly
And bless it upon my breast.
LOWELL’S _Changeling_.
William Ebbesley had travelled night and day. As he neared the child
that was all he had left on earth, for whose sake he had lived loveless
for seven years of incessant work, his impatience for his reward
increased. He outstripped the post, writing letters but not lingering
for them to be received. What did it matter whether they were prepared
for him on this day or that? had not they been waiting for him for
months past? He had meant to wander through France and Italy on his way;
to visit Rome, Venice, Paris; to turn aside here and there, as fancy
led him. The thought of ease and leisure was pleasant to the weary
wayfarer on life’s highway; he, whose whole time had for years been
portioned out with the regularity and monotony of clockwork, found, or
expected to find, a luxury in caprice and idleness. But the thought of
his boy drove all others from his head. They would see Europe together,
and all wonders of nature or of art should steal a fresh charm for him,
mirrored in the delight of young eyes. His wanderings would be far more
pleasantly irregular, dictated by the wayward fancy of a bright
impulsive child, than by his own more conventional judgment.
Mr. Ebbesley’s expectations of his son were not bounded by strict
reason: he did not reflect that the child had never even heard of most
of the countries they were to visit. His life had not favoured much
exercise of the imagination, and all he possessed of that quality had
flowed for seven years in this one direction. It was art, literature,
and all to him; and we have seen how widely the conception he had built
up for himself differed from the reality. The child of his dreams must
be tall, well-made and bright-coloured, merry and healthy, but above all
he must be full to overflowing with love to match the love he was
bringing him. He knew nothing of children, and drew his conclusions
about a child of nine from the feelings of his own heart at fifty, never
doubting that on the boy’s side the meeting had been as eagerly looked
for as on his. He had never learnt that to a child a mere name such as
‘Father’ cannot endear a person he has never seen. Those he is with,
from whom he receives kindness, however slight, may count upon his
warmest affection; but tell him he must love one brought to him for the
first time because he is akin to him, and he will not understand the
claim.
The drive from Granthurst Station in the crawling fly had seemed
endless to the poor man. Have we not all had those drives, when we felt
how much faster we could go on foot, yet knew we could not? He had
walked up all the hills, in hopes that the wretched asthmatic old horse
would gain more energy for going down on the other side. And at last he
was here--here on the threshold of happiness, hardly daring to turn the
handle of the door.
When he entered the room he never doubted for an instant which of the
boys before him was his son; indeed Carol, standing in the centre of the
room, was an object which so effectually caught the eye, that Tim, lying
prone upon the sofa, in the shadow of its high back, was scarcely
noticeable. He did not stop to consider that Carol was some four years
older than his son could possibly be; it was quite in accordance with
his views that the boy should be tall for his age, and in all other
respects the lad before him realised so completely the picture of his
child which for years had made itself in his heart.
Who can blame him for the sinking he experienced as, following the
outstretched arm of the nurse, his eyes rested on the little figure of
Tim? He put down the offended Carol without a word of apology, and stood
looking at his son: he was too much taken aback to make any
demonstration. His pent-up feelings had expended themselves in the
passionate clasp of Carol to his breast. Had he found Tim alone, those
feelings must yet have found vent, and would, if they had not
counteracted his disappointment, at least have softened it: his fancy
would have been busy to make excuses to itself for the child which was,
though it was not, the original of his dream-child. But now fate had
shown him the perfect realisation of his hopes and wishes, only to pluck
it away and substitute this changeling in its place.
As for poor Tim, he was dimly conscious that something was wrong. This
tall, gray-headed stranger, who was yet his father, frightened him; he
felt the disappointment in those sad cold eyes, though he could not
understand it. For hardly more than a minute the father and son looked
at one another, but the chill of that minute was as a barrier between
them through all their after-intercourse.
At length, roused by some gesture or sound of Mrs. Quitchett’s to a
sense of what was required of him, William Ebbesley stooped and kissed
Tim’s forehead, and then left the room without a word. It was necessary
for him to be alone, to arrange the crowding thoughts that pressed upon
his brain, to think, to determine--above all, to be master of himself.
Half an hour afterwards, when Mrs. Quitchett went to seek him in the
room to which he had gone--a little chamber by the front door, which had
been his study in the old days--she found him sitting still in his coat
as he had come in.
‘I came to see if you wouldn’t take something to eat, sir; I’m sorry we
were so unready for you, but if you wrote I never got it, though I
wondered not to hear from you again.’
He raised his head, and answered her almost mechanically, ‘Oh yes, he
would have something, no matter what--whatever was least trouble.’ She
brought him the little meal she had arranged for him, and stood watching
him as he ate in silence, with the air of one doing accustomed things in
his sleep. Her loving old heart had lent keenness to her sight, and she
had seen at a glance how things stood; she longed to smooth matters a
little, but hardly knew how to begin; she had always had some awe of her
master, which time and distance had not diminished, and at present he
seemed in no mood for conversation. Presently she took courage and
spoke. ‘You mustn’t think, sir, the little one won’t be very glad to see
you, when he finds himself a bit; the poor dear’s not himself; he had an
accident a fortnight or so back, and he’s weak and nervous yet. Your
coming was sudden to him, poor dear----’
He interrupted her almost angrily. ‘Who did you say that other boy was?’
‘’Tis young Master Darley, sir, from the Court; it was he that caused
your son’s accident while shooting, and he’s been nearly every day since
to sit with him.’
‘He mustn’t come any more.’
Mrs. Quitchett was horrified. ‘Your son ’ll fret to death without him,’
she said; ‘he’s going away to school soon; let him come till then.’
She knew what had passed in her master’s mind, and did not attempt to
argue with him; only she begged for a little reprieve for her darling,
who was more precious in her eyes than all the healthiest children in
England. Mr. Ebbesley considered a little and then answered, ‘Very well;
but don’t let _me_ see him.’ And with that Mrs. Quitchett was fain to be
content.
Tim meanwhile clung to Carol. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he said, again and
again; ‘he frightens me, that man. I don’t care if he is my father; I
want you, and only you. I don’t care about him’; and then again,
‘Promise me you won’t leave me, Carol; always be my friend.’
Carol promised readily enough--would have promised anything just then to
get away. He did not like emotional display, and he was very angry with
Mr. Ebbesley. ‘Was that old man mad?’ he said indignantly as he scudded
off homewards. But his wrath was not of a kind upon which the sun goes
down, and the air and exercise soon restored him to his usual spirits. A
little breeze had come up towards sunset, and blew refreshingly in his
flushed face. ‘How hot that room was!’
And here for a time we must part company with him. With the evening wind
in his curls, he springs out of our story, and is lost to our eyes for a
little. Two days later he went to Eton. Tim heard the Court dogcart
whirl by the house, on its way to the station. Did Carol look round?
Was that his hand waving? He could not quite tell, for his eyes were
full of childish tears.
Soon after this Tim was about again as usual. A man had brought the
squirrel in his cage, with a message of farewell from its owner. But for
that, life seemed much the same as before. Had he dreamed all this, as
he lay on the high-backed sofa?
At first even the presence of his father in the house made but little
difference: when they met, Tim never showed to advantage; he was
frightened, and his scared manner irritated Mr. Ebbesley, who never
guessed how much character he had. The poor man had no notion how to
talk to the child. He patted him stiffly on the head, and asked him
questions that he could not answer. He was like a man who, meeting
another in some foreign country, wishes to hold converse with him, but
does not know in what language to address him. If the boy would but
begin, he thought,--would seem in any way glad to have him there, or
claim his interest in his pursuits, he could respond, and would. He
almost wished him to be naughty; he knew he could reprove him, and that
at least would be intercourse, and might lead to something else; only
this simple shyness and silence he was powerless to attack. On one point
he had no doubt. The life his son was leading was a most unprofitable
one, and a radical change must be made in it; he called him into his
study and told him so. Tim naturally had not the least idea of what he
meant. He looked very uncomfortable, and pulled Bess’s ears.
‘Your education,’ his father went on, ‘has been sadly neglected; if you
are ever to know what other people do, it is time you should begin to
learn something.’
Tim, seeing something was expected of him, whispered, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t call me “sir,”’ said Mr. Ebbesley shortly; ‘it sounds common. I
had thought of sending you to school, but as you are very backward, and
your nurse tells me you are not strong, I have decided to keep you at
home and give you a tutor for the present. I have engaged a gentleman
who will come here next week.’
Tim gasped: here was a revolution. ‘You don’t mean Mr. Brown?’ he asked.
Mr. Brown was the village schoolmaster.
‘I know of no such person; that is not your tutor’s name.’
‘Oh!’
‘You can read, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘What has Mr. Brown taught you? I suppose he is the schoolmaster.’
‘A little jography, and sums.’
Mr. Ebbesley hesitated for a moment as to whether it was not his duty to
examine his son in these branches of knowledge, but came to the
conclusion it was not. ‘His tutor will do all that when he comes,’ he
thought. ‘You may go now,’ he said aloud. Tim needed no urging, but was
out of the room at once. On the door-mat, however, he paused; something
perplexed him: he went through a fearful struggle with himself, then he
knocked; he was actuated by a strong desire to do right, and give
satisfaction. He heard his father say ‘Come in,’ and saw the surprised
look on his face when he saw who had knocked. Tim stood in the doorway.
‘Well?’ said Mr. Ebbesley.
‘If you please,’ said Tim, ‘you said I wasn’t to call you “sir”; what
shall I call you?’
‘Is the boy half-witted? Call me? Why, “father,” of course; what else
would you call me?’ And as the door closed again, he said to himself
sadly, ‘Fancy a child that does not _know_ what to call his own father!
Is this what I have worked and waited for?’
How came it that these two, having each such a wealth of affection to
bestow, could not spend it on one another? On the father’s side it
seemed to congeal in his heart; on the son’s it found vent in a
passionate devotion to almost the only being capable of inspiring it,
who had crossed his lonely little path. To the birds, to Bess, to the
brook in the woods he unburthened his heart, and babbled of Carol. But
to no living person did he mention his name, insomuch that even Mrs.
Quitchett thought he had forgotten him. One great treasure he possessed.
Not long after his friend had gone to Eton, the Court groom brought a
letter that had come for Tim from Carol, enclosed in one to Mrs. Darley.
It was written in a big schoolboy hand, and told how the writer was
well, and hoped Tim was, and how he liked Eton, and found lots of
fellows who had been at his last school; and some day he hoped Tim would
come there, when he was a big fellow. Tim should be his fag. He fagged
for Ward, who was captain of the house. He liked football,--that is the
lower-boy games, for in the house games the big fellows had it all their
own way, and it was a bore never touching the ball; and he remained
Tim’s affectionate friend, Carol Darley. And, P.S. he hoped Tim would
be careful not to turn the cage round when the squirrel was half through
the hole into the sleeping-place.
Tim was ashamed to answer this, for though love of story-books had early
induced him to master reading, his writing was in a painfully
rudimentary state; and as little boys at Eton do not write, as a rule,
for pure love of the thing, the letter had no successors. But it
supplied Tim with a motive for working with the new tutor in a way that
astonished that gentleman, who did not know that his object was to fit
himself for Eton before such time as Carol should be old enough to
leave.
Tim’s tutor does not require any minute description at our hands; he was
one of those extraordinary men who, though elegant scholars and, in a
way, profound thinkers, have yet missed the rewards obtained by men much
less gifted than themselves, and are glad of such hack-work as the
temporary education of the Tims of this world. It was a relief to him to
find that his pupil was only backward, not incurably dull, as were most
of the lads into whom it had been his painful duty to hammer the
rudiments of many useless branches of knowledge.
Still, although he took a genuine interest in his charge, which Tim
repaid by a grateful feeling very near affection and wonderfully good
behaviour, he neither had nor desired any insight into the child’s
heart. Some men are born without a fondness for children, just as some
have no ear for music; their more favoured brethren look down on them
with sublime contempt, but it is absurd to blame either one or the
other. Altogether, except as the means of enabling him to prepare for
what he so ardently desired, this blameless, learned fellow-creature
played but a small part in the life of our hero. That life, but for this
new element of education, was for the present much unchanged. After the
installation of the tutor, Tim saw but little of his father, which he
scarcely regretted. Mr. Ebbesley was often away for weeks at a time,
being interested in his profession and watching many cases carefully.
Gradually he began to get briefs himself, and established chambers in
London, where he spent most of his time; his tastes were not
countrified. Mr. Darley had called and had asked him to dine at the
Court, but the talk there was so exclusively of Carol, of his letters,
his beauty, his skill in games, and thousand virtues, that it almost
maddened the poor man.
‘You saw our boy before he went away,’ the Squire said; ‘he has taken
quite a fancy for your little fellow. We owe Mr. Ebbesley apologies, my
dear, for that unfortunate accident; and yet,’ he added graciously, ‘we
mustn’t call it unfortunate if it makes us all better acquainted.’
‘Thank you,’ answered his victim, to whom the Squire’s milk of human
kindness was very sour indeed; ‘I daresay your grandson was glad to find
a young companion.’ He detected a spice of pity in the reference to Tim
which was far from pleasing him.
‘Oh well, you know,’ said grandpapa, ‘I think he felt very sorry for
having been the innocent cause of such a mishap; he has a good heart,
that boy, and is as tender as a girl for anything in pain, though he’s a
brave boy too. But nothing would satisfy him but that we must send to
inquire the same afternoon. He has a spice of Darley obstinacy in him.’
‘I don’t think you can call it obstinacy, dear,’ put in grandmamma; ‘I’m
sure he’s not a difficult child to guide if you’re judicious with him.
When he was quite a little tiny thing I always said, “That’s a child
that can be ruled by kindness and no other way, for he has a high
spirit.” I recollect when he first went to the school he was at, before
Eton, I went down there, and the schoolmaster said to me--I forget his
name. Kate dear, do you remember his name? was it Watt or Watkin?
Watson, was it? Are you sure? Well, it doesn’t matter--Mr. Watson said,
“He’s not a bad boy, Mrs. Darley, but very self-willed.”--”No, Mr.
Watkins,” I said, “_there_ you must allow me to correct you; _not_
self-willed, only with a great deal of spirit,” and I’m sure I was
right. And your poor dear little boy? I hope he’s quite well again; he
didn’t look at all strong.’
‘Yes, he’s quite strong and hearty again, thank you; it was a mere
nothing.’
‘Oh, I’m glad to hear it; to me he looked delicate, but then they say
I’m always saying people are ill. May he come and see us sometimes? but
perhaps he’d not care to, now Carol is away; the house is dull without
him.’
‘You are very good, but he is hard at work just now, and I am afraid I
must ask you to excuse him. I have got him a tutor, and he is pursuing a
more regular course of life than has been possible hitherto. Will that
branch line the railway talk of making touch your property in any way,
Mr. Darley?’ plunging wildly away from the subject. It seemed as if they
were galling him on purpose; and when the Squire made one of his
old-fashioned courtly speeches to the effect that ‘if the more exciting
sports of India had not rendered their homely partridge and pheasant
shooting too tame for him, he hoped he would bring his gun,’ etc., he
answered bluntly that he had given up shooting, and so said good-night.
‘A very curt person,’ said Mrs. Darley; ‘I am sure, if only in common
gratitude to that dear boy for all his goodness to little
what’s-his-name, he ought to be more civil. Fancy a little thing like
that working hard! I only hope his father doesn’t beat him.’
And so gradually the intercourse between the two houses languished
considerably.
The morning after the dinner at the Court Mr. Ebbesley encountered Tim,
his lessons done, flying out of the house in his usual hatless
condition. The conversation of the Darleys was still rankling, and his
tone was not gentle as he said--
‘You’ve forgotten your hat.’
‘I never wear one except on Sunday,’ answered Tim simply.
‘Not wear a hat!’ ejaculated his father. ‘I never heard of such a
thing; I desire you will begin at once.’
‘But they are so uncomfortable,’ said poor Tim.
‘I think really it’s time you left off such childish nonsense,’ answered
Mr. Ebbesley, now really provoked. ‘Why can’t you do as other people do?
Why should my son go tearing about like a butcher-boy more than other
people’s? It was evidently high time I came home.’
Tim gave in and promised compliance. Carol, he remembered, wore a hat,
and of course he would have to when he went to Eton, but it was pain and
grief to him. Clearly the days of liberty were over; hats and the Latin
grammar were beginning to plough on Tim’s back and make long furrows.
Meanwhile he had discovered, Heaven knows how, the date when the Eton
holidays should begin, and he kept strict record of the days on a scrap
of paper, scoring off one each night when he went to bed.
At last came the long-looked-for 14th of December, and with it Carol;
and now for a time Tim was really happy. All the time he could spare
from his lessons was spent in trotting about after his friend like a
little dog. Wherever Carol led Tim followed, though his soul quaked
within him at some of his own exploits. Only when Carol rode upon his
pony Tim could not accompany him; and later in the holidays, when a
schoolfellow of his own age came on a visit to the elder boy, he grew,
boylike, a little ashamed of the constant companionship of such a child
as Tim, which the latter needed no hints to tell him. But in spite of
drawbacks--and what in this world is perfect?--these were among the
happiest weeks in our hero’s life. At no later time did he have again
such unrestrained opportunities of worshipping his idol.
Mrs. Quitchett watched all this with an apprehensive eye. No touch of
jealousy mingled in her pure devoted love for the child of her heart,
but she trembled lest some blow should lie in store for him, that should
strike him through this new affection; she did not forget, as Tim seemed
to have done, that first evening of Mr. Ebbesley’s arrival. At each of
that gentleman’s visits from London she feared some renewal of the talk
they had had on that occasion,--some fresh decree of banishment against
the unconscious intruder. That his company should be unwelcome to any
one was an idea that circumstances had combined to prevent from ever
entering Carol’s head, but he did not like Mr. Ebbesley, and so timed
his visits mostly when he was not at the manor-house, to Mrs.
Quitchett’s great relief; and whatever Mr. Ebbesley may have thought, he
said nothing, and the holidays passed over without mishap. Golden days
to Tim, speeding by as such days are only too apt to speed, never to
come back any more. Indeed, it was some time before the boys met again.
When Easter brought Carol back to Darley, he found the manor-house shut
up; only Bess, wandering disconsolately, came and wagged her tail at
sight of an acquaintance. Mr. Ebbesley had taken his son for that
continental tour to which he had so long looked forward. It would be
hard to say what odd quirk in the man made him cling to this part of his
old dream, now that so much of it had gone astray; perhaps he had a sort
of hope that change of air and scene might develop Tim into something
more like what he had imagined him,--that by adhering rigidly to his
programme some result that he had looked for might follow even yet.
And, indeed, in the strange new world to which he was transported, Tim
found much to excite and interest him. Mr. Ebbesley was better pleased
with him than he had been yet, but by this time it was too late for him
to overcome the feeling of constraint and fear he always felt in his
father’s presence. He was never at his ease with him. And then he was
such a child, so very young. He could not appreciate half he saw. But
William Ebbesley did not understand all that, and there was no one to
tell it to him.
At midsummer it was Carol who was absent. A visit to a friend’s house,
measles in the village--I know Tim had them slightly about that time,--a
journey to Scotland with his grandparents, and the six weeks’ holiday
was gone without bringing him to the Court. It was a year before Tim saw
Carol again. A year, which is so little to older people, is a very long
time at Tim’s age--a long time for a little boy to remain fixed in his
loyalty to an idea. But Tim remained fixed for that year and for others
that followed, there being no one to disturb his allegiance. Carol was
his almanac, all minor events dating from the periods when he was with
him.
How eagerly he longed for the day which, by taking him to Eton, should
put an end to the long separations; he feared nothing that might await
him there, for he would be near Carol always then, and what more could
he want than that?