CHAPTER XIV.

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.