by Ellen Wood
“You and Mrs Vane both hate the sea like poison,” persisted William, who was not in a conciliatory mood. “At least, she has hated it up to now; and it’s odd to me, what has changed her,” he added, par parenthèse. “Were it the river Styx, you could neither of you have gone on more against it. Do you remember the duet you kept up, the last time we were at the Vanes’ at tea?”
“Our ‘ going on,’ as you call it, has arisen from different motives,” said Mrs Allair. “Mrs Vane dislikes a sea life in itself. She dislikes it for its hazards, its dangers — dislikes to live a life of almost constant separation from her son: hence has arisen her opposition to Harry’s embracing it. My objection is a different one. I dislike it for you, because I know how entirely unfitted you are for it, both in temperament and physical capacity. Were you constituted as Harry Vane is, you should go with pleasure.”
“Where’s the difference between one boy and another?” debated William, who of course was seeing things through his own one-sided spectacles. “There’s none.”
Mrs Allair quite laughed at the words. “So much difference is there, William, that what would be pastime to one boy would kill another. Do you suppose that all are endowed alike? — equally strong to endure the rubs and crosses of life?”—’
“Well, it’s not very kind of you, mamma, to preach up for Harry Vane, and ridicule me.”
“When boys fall into an absurd temper, the best plan is to let them alone until they fall out of it again,” said Mrs Allair, still good-humouredly. “Be reasonable, William. There has been no preaching for Harry Vane, except in saying that he is fitted for a sea life; and there has certainly been no ridicule cast upon you. You have each your several and individual talents. Never was a boy more suited to a profession than you are to follow that of your father: but were Harry Vane to attempt to follow it, he would break down. You are adapted for one sphere; he for another. The prospect of making it your pursuit in life afforded you pleasure at one time.”
“That was before I knew anything about the sea.”
“Allow me to ask you a question, William — if you can for a moment get the sea out of your head. Were you left at liberty to choose your profession, is not that of a solicitor the one you would prefer?”
“I would prefer going to sea.”
“I asked you to put the sea out of your head for an instant. I speak of life on land. Answer me.”
“Well, I’d as soon be a lawyer as anything else. Rather, I think. There’s no hard work in it.”
“Yes, I knew it. You have no dislike to the calling, in itself, but the contrary; and you are well adapted for it. But in this wild notion that you have taken up, and persist in encouraging, you lose sight of things fitting. I can only compare you to a blind man, William — one who has taken a wrong turning, and gropes his way along in darkness, believing he is on the right road, whereas each step takes him farther from his destination.”
“The world calls all lawyers rogues,” cried dutiful William.
Mrs Allair turned her eyes gravely upon him. “William!”
The boy blushed at the silent reproof. It was very like an insult to his father’s name, and he wished he had not spoken it.
“All lawyers are not rogues,” pursued Mrs Allair, quietly. “Some are honest and honourable, even in the sight of men; striving earnestly to do right before God. William, you know that your father is one of these.”
“I know he is. Indeed, mamma, when I spoke, I was not thinking of him.”
“And you can be one of these honourable men, if you will. A profession or a trade is just what its exerciser makes it; one of honour, or one of shame. The highest calling in life is that of a minister of God; and yet, William, we know how some, professing it, have made it a disgrace.”
“I wish I was in Harry Vane’s shoes — going to sea,” ejaculated William, reverting to the old grievance. “I shouldn’t disgrace that. Seymour must hand over his wager, now.”
“What wager?” asked Mrs Allair.
“Oh, he laid a bet with young Robertson. There was a talk in the school — knowing how his going to sea was objected to at home — as to whether Vane wouldn’t take French leave, and run away. Seymour bet he would—”
“William!”
The interrupting word was spoken in a tone of painful wailing. William looked up in surprise. Every vestige of colour had forsaken his mother’s cheek, and she gazed at him with a yearning look of apprehension. Had a prophetic vision of the future come across her?
“Why, mamma, what’s the matter?”
“I do not like to hear such things spoken. Wicked ideas they are, William. Had Harry Vane taken so false a step, it would have killed his mother.”
“Killed her!” echoed William.
“It surely would. Were my darling boy” — she laid her hand impressively upon his shoulder—” my best and dearest son, ever to fall into so terrible an act of disobedience, it would kill me. Not at once; no: but, if I know anything of myself, the sorrow would bring me to a lingering death. It must be a grievous thing, William, to die of a broken heart,” she added, with a shiver.
“Mamma, what are you saying!”
“I think I could bear any sorrow better than the rebellion of my children. Not for my sake; no, no. I could struggle with the trouble it might bring to me; but I could not bear it for them. Nothing but sorrow could be in store for them, if they so set at defiance the law of God. For every pain a child feels, its mother undergoes one infinitely greater. She suffers in and for her children. Many a mother has been laid in her grave by the ungrateful conduct of her sons. William, take you care never so to offend, if you would have God’s blessing rest upon you.”
William was softened to contrition. “You cannot fear such a step for me, mamma!”
“My boy, I would almost rather die than fear it! I do not fear it.”
“You never shall have cause,” whispered William. He spoke in his earnest belief: and the tears shone in his eyes as he fondly kissed his mother.
A few days, and Harry Vane departed. The whole village was sad, for he was a favourite with everybody; but none were more sad than William Allair. Not that he was grieving after Harry Vane, personally: boys are not so sentimental. His grief lay chiefly for himself: because he was not going; or, so far as he saw, likely to go.
“This is obstinacy, William,” said Mr Allair, hearing a rebellious and discontented speech that William gave utterance to. “You must let your good sense return to you, or you will seriously displease me.”
“We can’t help our likes and dislikes, papa.”
“We can persuade ourselves into any liking or disliking that we choose,” significantly rejoined Mr Allair; “especially when we turn obstinate over it. You have picked up this very absurd fancy about the sea, and are hugging it and cherishing it by every means in your power. Take care that it does not over-master you, so as to render you permanently dissatisfied and miserable. Put it away from you, William. It is good advice, mind, that I give you.”
“Of course you think it is, papa.”
“And you don’t,” said Mr Allair. He never supposed this fancy of William’s would turn out to be a serious one, or that they should have trouble over it. “William,” he resumed, in a joking tone, “my old uncle was very fond of repeating a certain truth to us boys, wishing it to be impressed upon our memory. ‘Young folks think old folks fools; but the old folks know the young ones to be so.’”
“What a donkey the old fellow must have been!” thought William. —
CHAPTER X.
AN ILL-OMENED RESOLVE.
THE time went on. Harry Vane, in due course, joined the “Hercules,” Captain Stafford, as midshipman, and the ship departed on what was thought would prove a long cruise.
There was a spirit of obstinacy in William Allair, not altogether pleasant. Did he set his mind upon a thing and get opposed, so much the more eager became he for it, simply because he was opposed. Mr Allair’s remark, that we can persuade our
selves into any liking or disliking that we choose, was a perfectly correct one. Boys, take you notice of this. When you are earnestly bent upon some project, some idea, and protest that you cannot get it out of your head, such hold has it there, although you know (if you listen to your conscience) that it ought to be got out, just try and discover whether the fault does not lie with you. You are prejudiced in its favour; you look at it but from one point of view; you think, there it is in your head, and there it must be, and all your efforts tend to keep it there. Suppose you were to try the opposite course; to make a few genuine efforts to throw it away, instead of to keep it; you might find the benefit. So great is this prejudice carried, that a boy may set on and long for the moon; ay, and may grow ill, miserable, feverish, because he can’t get it. But were the coveted thing thrown into his lap — the moon, or any other toy so wished for — he might find it a source of pain, instead of pleasure; a subject for loathing, rather than for liking.
It was just so with William Allair. You have seen that he had set his mind upon going to sea; and although he promised his mother he would no longer think of it, the desire continued in all its unabated force. He tried no means, save wrong ones, to make good his promise. Instead of striving manfully to put the wish from him, he took all possible pains to augment it. The appetite grows by what it feeds on. He so fed this ideal desire, that it was becoming nearly irrepressible. Never once did he say to himself, “I will turn my thoughts away from its fascinations.” All his wishes were on the wrong side, and pursued in a spirit of discontent. “How I wish I could go! What a shame it is of them to deny me! As if they could tell what I should like to be, so well as I can!” After this fashion did the gentleman daily and hourly reason.
Harry Vane’s final departure, in high glowing spirits, had tended to fan the flame. Before he joined the “Hercules,” he came home for a few days; and his golden visions, breathed in William’s hearing, of the stirring life he was about to enter on, excited William beyond everything. He grew pining, moping, miserable; quite unhappy.
And so had passed the months: autumn, winter, spring; and summer came round again and was quickly flitting.
Dr Robertson’s school broke up for the summer holidays. William quitted it for good, and was very shortly to be articled to his father. But about this time, as ill luck would have it, there arrived a young man at Whittermead on a visit to the Jennikers. His name was Carter, and he was related to Mrs Jenniker. He was a sailor, second mate of an Indiaman, of which vessel his father was captain and part owner.
Young Carter had seen only the more favourable auspices of a sea life. Voyaging with and under his father, in a fine vessel, well disciplined, well provisioned, accustomed to the sea from boyhood — for he had more than once been taken the voyage to India for pleasure — possessing also a natural liking for it, there is no wonder that he spoke of it in terms of enthusiasm. He had nearly as great a liking for it as had Harry Vane. With this gentleman William became intimate, and it was productive to him of much mischief.
William imparted to him his longing for the sea. Mr Carter, fond of boasting, proud of speaking well of his own pursuit in life, encouraged the longing. He pictured a sea life in colours so glowing, that one, with less inclination for it than William, might well have been taken in. His own good sense ought to have told him that James Carter had seen only the bright side of the profession; and all professions have two sides, a bright and a dark one. Sometimes the dark becomes bright, and the bright dark, according as the eyes of the regarders view them. Three weeks did the visit of Mr Carter last; three pernicious weeks to William Allair. He had dwelt a vast deal too much upon going to sea before; but now he dwelt upon it in a different spirit. Then he had said, “I wish I could go now he began to say, “I will go.”
His entire conversation now, whether with young Carter or others, was of the sea. His thoughts by day never quitted it; at night his dreams brought it to him again. You may perceive that he never attempted not to think of it; he encouraged his mind to dwell upon it; and therein lay his error.
At home he said nothing; he had given over speaking of it to his father and mother.
A hint had been imparted to William of the disease that threatened his father — that he could look for no long life. It was Mrs Allair who had told him; and hence it was so necessary that he — he, William — should be rendered capable of taking to the business in his father’s place. But the impression made upon him at the time by this communication had worn away. He was sure his father was not ill, he reasoned with himself. He was active, and lively, and looked well — why shouldn’t he live as long as other people? As for himself, he should get plenty of money at sea. Sailors, especially when they got to be mates, had good pay; and captains always made money; some of them were as rich as Croesus. Oh, yes, he should fill his pockets with money there, and he’d bring every farthing of it home to his dear mother.
Somewhat after this fashion did William constantly reason. His mind was unsettled, his brain was at work, his heart was miserable. The first day that he was to take his place in his father’s office happened to be the day fixed for James Carter’s departure from Whittermead. At half-past nine, the usual hour of Mr Allair’s proceeding to his office, he looked into a room that his children were fond of sitting in.
“Come, William.”
“I’ll follow you, papa. I’ll be there as soon as you are.” But the words were not spoken cheerfully or readily.
He took his hat, however, and went out after his father. It was a warm, beautiful day — too warm; inclining idle people to idleness. William, as a matter of course, began wishing that he could go roaming about the fields, instead of being cooped up in a close room, and — worse thought still! — where he was to be cooped up for ever so many years to come. In the midst of his murmurs, an open carriage came bowling towards him. It contained Mr Jenniker and James Carter, the latter being driven to the four-mile-off station to catch the London train. James Carter, who had previously taken leave, moved his hat in an animated manner to William.
“Yes! he may well look pleased,” grumbled William, as he turned to gaze after the carriage. “He is going to enjoy the beauty of this sunny day, while I must be stewed to death in that horrible old office. Put Carter into one, and see whether he’d stand it! And next week he sets sail for China! It’s a shame there should be so much disparity in the world!”
In this remarkably cordial mood did William take his appointed place on the high stool at the clerk’s desk, and begin the work assigned him. It was the copying of a deed. But now we all know how unpalatable — nay, how almost unbearable — is a task to which we set ourselves unwillingly. With every word that William wrote, his eyes were raised to the dusky panes of the window opposite him. A wretchedly discontented feeling filled his mind, He was longing to be careering abroad in that bright sunshine, or to be basking idly beside some gleaming pond; in short, to be doing anything but what he was doing.
The day seemed a terribly long one, and his task irksome to a degree — as was sure to be the case, pursuing it with so ill a will. Had it been the most delightful employment, he would, in his present temper, have completed it rebelliously. He set himself against it. Every line that he wrote chafed his spirit worse than the preceding one; and, at length, it was with difficulty that he could bring himself or his fingers to go on with it at all. Like an idle child, who is put to learn a lesson when he would rather play, the closer he is kept to his task, the more impatient and fretful does he become. William Allair was like too many of you. How often are you discontented with the task assigned you, and get through it perforce, your unwilling spirit bubbling up to rebellion! You think the fault lies in the work — that it is irksome beyond bearing, flat, stale, unprofitable; everything that the English language can express of bad. But you are mistaken; the fault is in you. Throw your antipathy to the winds; return to it with a willing mind, a cheerful spirit, and you will find its irksomeness gone. William Allair had not the sense to do t
his.
At five o’clock, and in a very ill humour, he left the office for the day. Contrasting, as he went along, the dull employment he had been kept to, with the delight of a sail over the dark blue waters — as Mr James Carter was wont to style the sea. They are green sometimes, though, mind you, and very angry. Upon entering home, his brother Edmund came dancing gleefully about him, holding something concealed in his hand. “It’s for you,” said Edmund, with his vacant laugh. “Guess.”
“Don’t tease, Edmund,” was the fretful answer. “I am too tired to guess. Keep it yourself.”
“Tired, are you?” asked Mrs Allair.
“Just dead,” groaned William.
“But what has so tired you?”
“Why, the writing, of course. Write, write, write all day — the pen going upon one parchment, and the eyes upon another. I feel quite ill. I am convinced I can’t stand it long.”
“You will soon get used to it.”
“I shall never get used to it. And I shall never like it.”
“Not if you set your mind against it, as I fear you are doing,” replied Mrs Allair. She need not have said, “I fear:” it was all too plain. William was allowing this discontent to take entire possession of him; making his mind unhappy, souring his temper. He loved his mother beyond everything in life; but he was losing sight both of love and duty in this unhappy state of feeling.
“How hot it has been to-day!” exclaimed William. “Too hot to stop in-doors, unless you are forced to it.”
“I always thought out of doors was hotter than in, in the extreme summer weather,” remarked Mrs Allair. “Where is your papa?” she added. “The dinner is waiting.”
“He is coming soon, I suppose,” ungraciously rejoined William.
“Edmund is holding a letter for you. It is from Harry Vane. They received a packet from him to-day, and Caroline brought yours up. He is well and happy. The one he wrote to her she read aloud to us. Edmund, give it to your brother.”