A little sorrow, a little pleasure,
Fate metes us from the dusty measure
That holds the date of all of us:
We are born with travail and strong crying,
And from the birthday to the dying
The likeness of our life is thus.
SWINBURNE’S _Ilicet_.
‘You might come up to-morrow afternoon, if you cared,’ Carol had said as
they parted, ‘and then we could go round by the old mill, as I meant to
do to-day, and you would see the new cart-road grandfather is making in
the wood.’
And who so ready as Tim! Only, he doubted if his father would get back
in time for him to get to the Court after he had been to Granthurst to
fetch him. Would Carol leave it open? And Carol had said, ‘All right,
old fellow; I shan’t expect you till I see you’; on which understanding
they had parted, Tim standing to watch the tall active figure striding
away from the open door of the manor-house, calling his dogs after him.
‘He’s a fine growed lad, that young Darley,’ remarked Mrs. Quitchett,
who had come out to welcome her nursling; ‘do you remember the day,
Master Tim dear, when he came with the grapes, the first time ever he
come here?’
‘Remember? Oh, nurse,’ cried Tim (he always called the old lady
‘nurse’), ‘he’s the noblest, finest fellow going, and I love him better
than anybody in the world--except you, dear,’ he added quickly, putting
his arms about her as he saw a quick look of pain cross her face; and
then, what was it? a prick of conscience perhaps that made him add lower
and more thoughtfully, with just a shade of doubt in his tone, ‘and
father.’
Was it true that he loved his father better than Carol? The question
had never before suggested itself to him in that crude form. What was
the criterion of loving? He did not know; he had no signs to go by. He
had assumed, as children do, that of course he loved his father; good
people always love their parents. It was only that vague indefinite
class of ‘the wicked,’ which he heard denounced on Sunday, and to which
it never occurs to a child that he or any of his immediate surroundings
can possibly belong, who did not love their parents. But now he felt in
his inmost being that his affection for his father was _not_ as strong
as that for his friend,--was not, indeed, of the same sort at all, and
he took shame to himself for the discovery. Many of us live thus for
years, allowing our hearts to act for us, and never asking ourselves
needless psychological questions; and then suddenly comes a time when we
seem to start up uncomfortably active and alert, new possibilities open
out around us, and questionings of our feelings suggest themselves
which plead, importunate, for answers. Nor can we make a greater
mistake than in supposing that such turns in their lives come only to
men and women. To a boy of Tim’s organisation, fourteen is an age quite
ripe for crises.
Violet crosses his path, erect, slim, and hazel-eyed, and in a moment he
seems to understand all possible complications of love and courtship
between her and Carol. He makes a chance little gush to his old nurse,
and lo! conscience awaking, proceeds to inquire with uncomfortable
pertinacity into his relations with his father. When one considers how
those who have delicate consciences like our hero, suffer and writhe,
and run round and round, and drive their stings into their own brains,
one is tempted to ask as the best gift for one’s dearest, a fine tough
insensibility, a happy bluntness of the moral sense. I suppose the
moralists would tell us to keep our account with the stern goddess as
clean as possible, to put into her hands no weapon for our torment; but
which of us can truly boast of such a course as that? And besides, does
not experience daily teach us that it is precisely the most blameless
among us she selects for her favourite victims?
Tim, as he sat over the book he did not read that night, as he drove
over to Granthurst in the trap next day, could not help asking himself,
‘What have I ever done for father, who has done so much for me? What
have I ever given up for him? He tried to answer that no boys of his age
can do anything for their parents; it is a matter of course that they
accept what they get, ‘Ah! but,’ says conscience, ‘_they_ love their
fathers.’ And though he dared not put it into words even to himself, the
thought was ever present, though formless as yet within him, that he did
_not_ love his father.
Poor Mr. Ebbesley! no one _did_ love him that I know of; no one ever
had. He was not made to attract love, and yet if his heart was not
breaking for it (not being of a breaking sort), it had hardened and
withered and dried up for want of it.
To have longed for love all one’s life, to have sought it with care and
constantly missed it, is as sad a fate as can well be imposed on a man,
and is not calculated to sweeten the temper.
Looking back over William Ebbesley’s life, the wonder is that he had not
turned out a social pariah and enemy of his race. There must have been
an immense moral rectitude about him that kept him true to what he
believed to be his duty to his neighbour.
Early left an orphan by poor and improvident parents, he had been
educated by the grudging charity of people with a family to provide for,
and sent abroad at an age when many boys have not left school, to push
his own fortunes. Uncheered, uncared-for, he had fought his way through
twenty hard years, if not to riches, to what thirty years ago was
considered a very decent competence, and had returned to England to fall
a prey to one of those absorbing passions for a beautiful and penniless
girl many years younger than himself, which are so often the fate of men
verging on middle age, in whose earlier youth there has been no room for
romance. On her he had lavished all the wealth of love that had for
years accumulated in his lonely heart. I would dwell as lightly as
possible on the painful and bitter episode of his short married life; of
the way it ended I have already given a hint in an earlier chapter of
this story. Just where he had placed all his hopes of happiness, the
bitterest shame and sorrow of his life had lain in wait for him.
Many men would have been utterly crushed by such an end of all that they
had longed and worked for, and laid down their arms in the unequal
struggle with fate. But Ebbesley, half ruined by the extravagance of the
woman he had loved, wounded to the heart by her cruelty, and humiliated
in every fibre of his proud nature by her unfaithfulness, had yet one
link that bound him to the world, one thing left to work for. It was
such a fragile thread, the poor little year-old baby, by which to hang
on to affection and grace and the beauty of life, but it was his all,
and he grasped it despairingly. For the baby’s sake he had gone
uncomplainingly back to years more of the banishment he had thought
ended, and the labour he believed accomplished, even separating himself
from the child for the child’s good. We have seen how he dwelt in secret
on what his son was to look like, and be like; how often in his own mind
he had foreseen the manner of their meeting; and how, when the time was
come, he had chafed at every delay, counting trains and steamboats but
crawling snails compared to the wings of love that were bearing him back
to his little one. And we have seen too what awaited him at home. If I
have wearied my reader with insisting on the barrenness of this man’s
life, it is because I am full of pity for him, and would not have him
judged too hardly, if in what follows he seems unkind to his son.
Tim arrived at Granthurst in a chastened frame of mind, and endeavoured
to blot himself out of the gaze of the few unemployed people always
waiting about a station, who seized on him as lawful prey, and stared as
though with a view to his identification on the morrow before a jury of
their fellow-citizens. From this scrutiny, which was peculiarly trying
and distasteful to him, he was shortly delivered by the arrival of a hot
dog, who was brought in resisting violently and tied to a post, and upon
whom all the interest of the unoccupied population, for a moment
directed at him, fastened itself with avidity, leaving Tim once more to
his compunctions. The first outcome of his meditations was an unusual
infusion of tenderness and spontaneity in the greeting kiss he bestowed
upon his father, when in due course the train brought up beside the
platform, and Mr. Ebbesley descended, bending a cindery whisker towards
the fresh young lips.
As they were mounting into their conveyance, and the aggressive
whiteness of the ‘W. E.,’ which from the side of his black bag thrust
its owner’s personality on a reluctant public, was being eclipsed under
the seat, a new anxiety suggested itself to Tim, which his previous
train of thought had for the time kept under. Mindful of Carol’s
invitation, he consulted his watch, and found that his power to avail
himself of it would depend upon whether Mr. Ebbesley had any business in
Granthurst, or meant to return at once to Stoke Ashton; timidly, but
with a manner of studied unconcern, he asked the question, and to his
delight his father answered that he was going straight home. It seemed
as though his mind in its rebound, as this weight was lifted off it,
scattered the doubts and fears that had oppressed it all the morning,
and he felt light of heart, and inclined to chatter as the carriage
rolled on its way over breezy commons, or plunged into deep shady
lanes. In the days when Tim was a schoolboy August was still a hot
month, and the warm sun called an unusual glow into his cheek at the
edge of the shadow cast by his straw hat with its pretty ribbon.
‘Eton has certainly improved him,’ thought Mr. Ebbesley, looking at him
half critically; ‘he has lost his whipped-dog expression,’ and he smiled
approvingly at his son, saying with frosty geniality, ‘You must tell me
all about last half; how have you been doing at school?’
‘Oh! it has been a very jolly half, and I have hardly stayed out at all,
although it was so hot. I wrote you that I took 13th in trials. Tommy
Weston said it was an unlucky number, but I told him he would not have
thought so if he had been there in the list instead of 25th.’
‘And who is Tommy Weston?’ asked Mr. Ebbesley, feeling quite friendly
towards this other man’s son who had done less well than his own.
‘Tommy isn’t his real name, you know,’ explained Tim; ‘he’s a fellow at
m’-tutor’s, and the other fellows call him Tommy; he’s been very jolly
to me, and, indeed, I get on better with all the fellows than I did at
first. And I’ve “passed,” which means, don’t you know, that I can swim,
and may go on the river, and I _think_,’ rather doubtfully, ‘I’m
beginning to like cricket a little.’
‘That’s a good thing,’ said his father judicially; ‘it is always well in
life to like what other people like; eccentricity always brings
unhappiness.’
Tim glowed and expanded with the pleasant sense of having done the right
thing; it was such a new and strange sensation. ‘And I’ve grown,’ he
said exultingly; ‘I’m two inches taller than I was in the spring.’
‘Capital,’ said Mr. Ebbesley, almost with enthusiasm; and he thought,
‘It is not always the boys who grow young who turn out the finest men in
the end.’ ‘And your tutor?’ he asked; ‘I hope he is satisfied with
you.’
‘Oh! m’-tutor’s been awfully good to me; he always is; he took me to
Burnham Beeches the other day, and we had a delightful afternoon, and
he’s promised to give me a good report. I was 5th in collections, and if
I had been 3d I should have got a prize; so tutor said he would give me
a little book anyway, and he wrote “to console” in it, because he said
it was hard luck on me being just out of it, and I had worked very well
all the half. Wasn’t it kind of him?’
In his heart Mr. Ebbesley thought it was a foolish indulgence, but he
was feeling so amiably towards his son just then that he let it pass
without comment. Indeed, he seemed altogether in so gracious a mood as
he sat listening with a grave smile to all that he was told, though he
did not say much, that Tim was presently encouraged, rambling from one
subject to another, to speak of Carol. He had never felt so near to his
father before, so able to talk freely to him of what was in his heart.
Ordinarily he did not say much about his friend; his father never seemed
to be pleased at his affection for him. To tell the truth, the poor man
had not forgiven Carol the awkwardness of their first meeting, and the
innocent part he had borne in the disappointment of all his most
cherished expectations. And it was not enough that this boy who was not
his, by keeping before his eyes the perfect realisation of all that he
had desired in his own son, seemed always to mock him; but he must needs
come between him and that son, such as he was, and steal the affections
that were his by every right, and add to the wealth of love lavished on
him by his own kinsfolk. Truly, ‘to him that hath shall be given, and
from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.’ It
was by a law as natural as that of gravitation that the ewe-lamb was
added to the flocks and herds of the rich man, and the wonder is that
Nathan should have seen anything odd in the arrangement. Still this is a
hard saying, and a view of matters that has seemed unjust to generations
of men, from the prophet down to William Ebbesley, who certainly needed
and would have appreciated a little affection far more than the
fortunate Carol. In fact, he was jealous; and strange as it may seem
that a father should be jealous of his son’s friends, it is by no means
so rare a thing as might be supposed. No parent can help a certain
humiliation and annoyance at the thought of a child’s undoubted
preference of another to himself. Many people under these circumstances
make the grievous mistake of trying to separate their sons from the
objects of their jealousy, but in no case is this treatment successful.
Some lads turn sulky under it, and nurse bitter feelings in secret,
while others break out into open defiance and rebellion, when all sorts
of trouble ensue. Of course the parents do not admit for a moment that
it is jealousy that prompts their course; there are always admirable
reasons why the objectionable person is not a good friend for their
offspring. Mr. Ebbesley would probably have repudiated with scorn the
idea of his being jealous of Tim’s affection for Carol Darley, but it
galled and irritated him none the less; until he had come to entertain
such a hearty dislike of his young neighbour as he would have been slow
to acknowledge even to himself. He did not consider how little pains he
had taken to secure the gift which he grudged to another; in his own way
he loved his son strongly, but not having found him such as he had
hoped, he could not give him that approving affection which alone
conveys the _idea_ of love to a child’s mind. All the same, it did not
strike him as anything less than reasonable to expect that the boy
should be intuitively aware of this hidden love of his, and respond to
it as warmly as though it were expressed. He knew he had the feeling,
but did not reflect that he never showed it. And though Tim was as far
from guessing his father’s real sentiments with regard to his friend as
he was from divining his love for himself, he felt instinctively, though
dimly, that the subject of Carol was not a welcome one to Mr. Ebbesley,
and that he would therefore do well, without actually disguising the
fact of his intimacy with him, to see him quietly, and talk of him as
little as possible. And this was not a difficult course to pursue, as
Mr. Ebbesley rarely encouraged much conversation from him on any
subject, and still more rarely made any inquiries as to where, how, or
with whom he spent his time when they were apart.
But on this particular afternoon he seemed, as I have said, so kind, and
Tim was feeling so warmly towards him, and everything was working so
well towards the gratification of his wish to be off to the Court in
time for the promised walk, that he said in the lightness of his heart,
‘I am glad you had no business in Granthurst, father.’
‘Why so?’ asked his father, wondering in his own mind if he were going
to suggest their doing anything together, and determined beforehand to
accede to any such proposition, even though he had to put off looking
over the law-papers he had brought down with him till the next day.
‘Well, you see, I was to have gone a walk with Carol Darley yesterday,
but there were people calling at the Court, and he had to go back with
them, so we couldn’t have our walk. And he said we might go this
afternoon, but I wasn’t sure if I should be back in time; if you’d had
to stay in Granthurst it would have made it too late. So we left it
open. It was to depend on that. That’s why I wanted to know if you were
coming straight home. I’m awfully glad.’
It was one of Mr. Ebbesley’s idiosyncrasies that he always paused before
answering any one just long enough to make his interlocutor feel
awkwardly uncertain whether he had heard or not; so that Tim, who was
accustomed to his ways, was not for a moment or two surprised at his
silence.
When he did speak it was to say slowly, and in a voice from which all
traces either of affection or resentment were equally removed----
‘You say you were at Darley Court yesterday; am I to understand that you
wish to go there again to-day?’
Tim looked up quickly, and was startled at the hard expression on his
father’s face.
‘Yes,’ he stammered; ‘I thought, I meant----’
‘I think you will be in the way,’ Mr. Ebbesley continued, in the same
measured tones. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Darley cannot want you perpetually about
the house.’
‘But most likely I should not see any of them,’ Tim protested eagerly.
‘I am only going to see Carol; it was quite by accident that he happened
to be in the drawing-room yesterday when I went.’
‘I should think he too could exist without seeing you _every_ day,’ said
his father sharply, and then relapsing into stateliness, he added, ‘I
disapprove of such violent intimacies, especially with people with whom
I am not intimate myself.’
It flashed across Tim that if his intimacies were to be regulated by his
father’s, their number would indeed be limited. But he swallowed this
repartee and made one despairing effort. ‘But he _asked_ me to come, and
I said I would. I will not go again if you don’t like me to----’
‘I desire,’ said Mr. Ebbesley, in a way that put an end to all further
discussion of the subject, ‘that you will not go to the Court this
afternoon. That is enough.’
No word of _why_ he wanted him to stay at the manor-house, of regret
that he should wish to leave him on the first afternoon that they were
together after so long a separation; he was too proud to show his own
child how much he needed his affection. Nothing could be farther from
Tim’s imagination than that his father should wish to keep him near
himself, or have any desire for his company. Probably one indication of
a human motive, even a jealous or selfish one, that had its root in
love, would have brought them closer together than anything had ever
done yet, but it was foreign to William Ebbesley’s nature to make such a
sign; he believed himself to be actuated by entirely impersonal
considerations, or at least he wished to believe so, and was determined
that his son should, whether he did or not. So Tim’s flutterings of love
and joy born of a summer’s morning were chilled back upon his heart, and
he sat in silence for the rest of the drive sore and resentful, and
escaped as soon as they reached home to cry in his own room alone with
Bess. Carol, concluding that he had not got back in time, visited the
old mill and the new cart-road by himself, whistling as he went.
This was Mr. Ebbesley’s first act of open hostility to the friendship
between the lads, and it was the beginning of much pain and
heart-burning to Tim, serving to widen the distance between him and his
father considerably.