CHAPTER XXIII.
OSBORNE HAMLEY REVIEWS HIS POSITION.
Osborne had his solitary cup of coffee in the drawing-room. He wasvery unhappy too, after his fashion. He stood on the hearth-rugpondering over his situation. He was not exactly aware how hardlyhis father was pressed for ready-money; the Squire had never spokento him on the subject without being angry; and many of his loosecontradictory statements--all of which, however contradictory theymight appear, had their basis in truth--were set down by his sonto the exaggeration of passion. But it was uncomfortable enough toa young man of Osborne's age to feel himself continually hamperedfor want of a five-pound note. The principal supplies for theliberal--almost luxurious table at the Hall, came off the estate; sothat there was no appearance of poverty as far as the household went;and as long as Osborne was content at home, he had everything hecould wish for; but he had a wife elsewhere--he wanted to see hercontinually--and that necessitated journeys. She, poor thing! had tobe supported--where was the money for the journeys and for Aimee'smodest wants to come from? That was the puzzle in Osborne's mindjust now. While he had been at college his allowance--heir of theHamleys--had been three hundred, while Roger had to be content with ahundred less. The payment of these annual sums had given the Squirea good deal of trouble; but he thought of it as a merely temporaryinconvenience; perhaps unreasonably thought so. Osborne was todo great things; take high honours, get a fellowship, marry along-descended heiress, live in some of the many uninhabited rooms atthe Hall, and help the squire in the management of the estate thatwould some time be his. Roger was to be a clergyman; steady, slowRoger was just fitted for that, and when he declined entering theChurch, preferring a life of more activity and adventure, Roger wasto be--anything; he was useful and practical, and fit for all theemployments from which Osborne was shut out by his fastidiousness,and his (pseudo) genius; so it was well he was an eldest son, for hewould never have done to struggle through the world; and as for hissettling down to a profession, it would be like cutting blocks witha razor! And now here was Osborne, living at home, but longing to beelsewhere; his allowance stopped in reality; indeed, the punctualpayment of it during the last year or two had been owing to hismother's exertions; but nothing had been said about its presentcessation by either father or son money matters were too sore asubject between them. Every now and then the Squire threw him aten-pound note or so; but the sort of suppressed growl with which itwas given, and the entire uncertainty as to when he might receivesuch gifts, rendered any calculation based upon their receiptexceedingly vague and uncertain.
"What in the world can I do to secure an income?" thought Osborne, ashe stood on the hearth-rug, his back to a blazing fire, his cup ofcoffee sent up in the rare old china that had belonged to the Hallfor generations; his dress finished, as dress of Osborne's couldhardly fail to be. One could hardly have thought that this elegantyoung man, standing there in the midst of comfort that verged onluxury, should have been turning over that one great problem in hismind; but so it was. "What can I do to be sure of a present income?Things cannot go on as they are. I should need support for two orthree years, even if I entered myself at the Temple, or Lincoln'sInn. It would be impossible to live on my pay in the army; besides,I should hate that profession. In fact, there are evils attending allprofessions--I couldn't bring myself to become a member of any I'veever heard of. Perhaps I'm more fitted to take 'orders' than anythingelse; but to be compelled to write weekly sermons whether one hadanything to say or not, and, probably, doomed only to associate withpeople below one in refinement and education! Yet poor Aimee musthave money. I can't bear to compare our dinners here, overloaded withjoints and game and sweets, as Morgan will persist in sending themup, with Aimee's two little mutton-chops. Yet what would my fathersay if he knew I'd married a Frenchwoman? In his present mood he'ddisinherit me, if that is possible; and he'd speak about her in a wayI couldn't stand. A Roman Catholic, too! Well, I don't repent it. I'ddo it again. Only if my mother had been in good health--if she couldhave heard my story, and known Aimee! As it is I must keep it secret;but where to get money? Where to get money?"
Then he bethought him of his poems--would they sell, and bring himin money? In spite of Milton, he thought they might; and he went tofetch his MSS. out of his room. He sate down near the fire, trying tostudy them with a critical eye, to represent public opinion as far ashe could. He had changed his style since the Mrs. Hemans' days. Hewas essentially imitative in his poetic faculty; and of late he hadfollowed the lead of a popular writer of sonnets. He turned his poemsover: they were almost equivalent to an autobiographical passage inhis life. Arranging them in their order, they came as follows:--
"To Aimee, Walking with a Little Child."
"To Aimee, Singing at her Work."
"To Aimee, Turning away from me while I told my Love."
"Aimee's Confession."
"Aimee in Despair."
"The Foreign Land in which my Aimee dwells."
"The Wedding Ring."
"The Wife."
When he came to this last sonnet he put down his bundle of papersand began to think. "The wife." Yes, and a French wife; and aRoman Catholic wife--and a wife who might be said to have been inservice! And his father's hatred of the French, both collectivelyand individually--collectively, as tumultuous brutal ruffians,who murdered their king, and committed all kinds of bloodyatrocities--individually, as represented by "Boney," and the variouscaricatures of "Johnny Crapaud" that had been in full circulationabout five-and-twenty years before this time, when the Squire hadbeen young and capable of receiving impressions. As for the form ofreligion in which Mrs. Osborne Hamley had been brought up, it isenough to say that Catholic emancipation had begun to be talked aboutby some politicians, and that the sullen roar of the majority ofEnglishmen, at the bare idea of it, was surging in the distance withominous threatenings; the very mention of such a measure before theSquire was, as Osborne well knew, like shaking a red flag before abull.
And then he considered that if Aimee had had the unspeakable, theincomparable blessing of being born of English parents, in the veryheart of England--Warwickshire, for instance--and had never heardof priests, or mass, or confession, or the Pope, or Guy Fawkes, buthad been born, baptized, and bred in the Church of England, withouthaving ever seen the outside of a dissenting meeting-house, or apapist chapel--even with all these advantages, her having been a(what was the equivalent for "bonne" in English? 'nursery-governess'was a term hardly invented) nursery-maid, with wages paid down once aquarter, liable to be dismissed at a month's warning, and having hertea and sugar doled out to her, would be a shock to his father's oldancestral pride that he would hardly ever get over.
"If he saw her!" thought Osborne. "If he could but see her!" But ifthe Squire were to see Aimee, he would also hear her speak her prettybroken English--precious to her husband, as it was in it that shehad confessed brokenly with her English tongue, that she loved himsoundly with her French heart--and Squire Hamley piqued himself onbeing a good hater of the French. "She would make such a loving,sweet, docile little daughter to my father--she would go as near asany one could towards filling up the blank void in this house, if hewould but have her; but he won't; he never would; and he sha'n't havethe opportunity of scouting her. Yet if I called her 'Lucy' in thesesonnets; and if they made a great effect--were praised in _Blackwood_and the _Quarterly_--and all the world was agog to find out theauthor; and I told him my secret--I could if I were successful--Ithink then he would ask who Lucy was, and I could tell him all then.If--how I hate 'ifs.' 'If me no ifs.' My life has been based on'whens;' and first they have turned to 'ifs,' and then they havevanished away. It was 'when Osborne gets honours,' and then 'ifOsborne,' and then a failure altogether. I said to Aimee, 'when mymother sees you,' and now it is 'if my father saw her,' with a veryfaint prospect of its ever coming to pass." So he let the eveninghours flow on and disappear in reveries like these; winding up witha sudden determination to try the fate of his poems with a publisher,with the
direct expectation of getting money for them, and anulterior fancy that, if successful, they might work wonders with hisfather.
When Roger came home Osborne did not let a day pass before tellinghis brother of his plans. He never did conceal anything long fromRoger; the feminine part of his character made him always desirous ofa confidant, and as sweet sympathy as he could extract. But Roger'sopinion had no effect on Osborne's actions; and Roger knew this fullwell. So when Osborne began with--"I want your advice on a planI have got in my head," Roger replied: "Some one told me that theDuke of Wellington's maxim was never to give advice unless he couldenforce its being carried into effect; now I can't do that; and youknow, old boy, you don't follow out my advice when you've got it."
"Not always, I know. Not when it doesn't agree with my own opinion.You're thinking about this concealment of my marriage; but you'renot up in all the circumstances. You know how fully I meant to havedone it, if there hadn't been that row about my debts; and then mymother's illness and death. And now you've no conception how myfather is changed--how irritable he has become! Wait till you've beenat home a week! Robinson, Morgan--it's the same with them all; butworst of all with me."
"Poor fellow!" said Roger; "I thought he looked terribly changed:shrunken, and his ruddiness of complexion altered."
"Why, he hardly takes half the exercise he used to do, so it's nowonder. He has turned away all the men off the new works, which usedto be such an interest to him; and because the roan cob stumbled withhim one day, and nearly threw him, he won't ride it; and yet he won'tsell it and buy another, which would be the sensible plan; so thereare two old horses eating their heads off, while he is constantlytalking about money and expense. And that brings me to what I wasgoing to say. I'm desperately hard up for money, and so I've beencollecting my poems--weeding them well, you know--going over themquite critically, in fact; and I want to know if you think Deightonwould publish them. You've a name in Cambridge, you know; and Idaresay he would look at them if you offered them to him."
"I can but try," said Roger; "but I'm afraid you won't get much bythem."
"I don't expect much. I'm a new man, and must make my name. I shouldbe content with a hundred. If I'd a hundred pounds I'd set myself todo something. I might keep myself and Aimee by my writings while Istudied for the bar; or, if the worst came to the worst, a hundredpounds would take us to Australia."
"Australia! Why, Osborne, what could you do there? And leave myfather! I hope you'll never get your hundred pounds, if that's theuse you're to make of it! Why, you'd break the Squire's heart."
"It might have done once," said Osborne, gloomily, "but it wouldn'tnow. He looks at me askance, and shies away from conversation withme. Let me alone for noticing and feeling this kind of thing. It'sthis very susceptibility to outward things that gives me what facultyI have; and it seems to me as if my bread, and my wife's too, were todepend upon it. You'll soon see for yourself the terms which I am onwith my father!"
Roger did soon see. His father had slipped into a habit of silenceat meal-times--a habit which Osborne, who was troubled and anxiousenough for his own part, had not striven to break. Father and sonsate together, and exchanged all the necessary speeches connectedwith the occasion civilly enough; but it was a relief to them whentheir intercourse was over, and they separated--the father to broodover his sorrow and his disappointment, which were real and deepenough, and the injury he had received from his boy, which wasexaggerated in his mind by his ignorance of the actual steps Osbornehad taken to raise money. If the money-lenders had calculated thechances of his father's life or death in making their bargain,Osborne himself had thought only of how soon and how easily he couldget the money requisite for clearing him from all imperious claimsat Cambridge, and for enabling him to follow Aimee to her home inAlsace, and for the subsequent marriage. As yet, Roger had never seenhis brother's wife; indeed, he had only been taken into Osborne'sfull confidence after all was decided in which his advice could havebeen useful. And now, in the enforced separation, Osborne's wholethought, both the poetical and practical sides of his mind, ranupon the little wife who was passing her lonely days in farmhouselodgings, wondering when her bridegroom husband would come to hernext. With such an engrossing subject, it was, perhaps, no wonderthat he unconsciously neglected his father; but it was none the lesssad at the time, and to be regretted in its consequences.
"I may come in and have a pipe with you, sir, mayn't I?" said Roger,that first evening, pushing gently against the study-door, which hisfather held only half open.
"You'll not like it," said the squire, still holding the door againsthim, but speaking in a relenting tone. "The tobacco I use isn't whatyoung men like. Better go and have a cigar with Osborne."
"No. I want to sit with you, and I can stand pretty strong tobacco."
Roger pushed in, the resistance slowly giving way before him.
"It will make your clothes smell. You'll have to borrow Osborne'sscents to sweeten yourself," said the Squire, grimly, at the sametime pushing a short smart amber-mouthed pipe to his son.
"No; I'll have a churchwarden. Why, father, do you think I'm a babyto put up with a doll's head like this?" looking at the carving uponit.
The Squire was pleased in his heart, though he did not choose toshow it. He only said, "Osborne brought it me when he came back fromGermany. That's three years ago." And then for some time they smokedin silence. But the voluntary companionship of his son was verysoothing to the Squire, though not a word might be said.
The next speech he made showed the direction of his thoughts; indeed,his words were always a transparent medium through which the currentmight be seen.
"A deal of a man's life comes and goes in three years--I've foundthat out;" and he puffed away at his pipe again. While Roger wasturning over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, thesquire again stopped his smoking and spoke.
"I remember when there was all that fuss about the Prince ofWales being made regent, I read somewhere--I daresay it was in anewspaper--that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on badterms. Osborne was quite a little chap then: he used to go out ridingwith me on White Surrey;--you won't remember the pony we called WhiteSurrey?"
"I remember it; but I thought it a tall horse in those days."
"Ah! that was because you were such a small lad, you know. I'd sevenhorses in the stable then--not counting the farm-horses. I don'trecollect having a care then, except--_she_ was always delicate, youknow. But what a beautiful boy Osborne was! He was always dressed inblack velvet--it was a foppery, but it wasn't my doing, and it wasall right, I'm sure. He's a handsome fellow now, but the sunshine hasgone out of his face."
"He's a good deal troubled about this money, and the anxiety he hasgiven you," said Roger, rather taking his brother's feelings forgranted.
"Not he," said the Squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, andhitting the bowl so sharply against the hob that it broke in pieces."There! But never mind! I say, not he, Roger! He's none troubledabout the money. It's easy getting money from Jews if you're theeldest son, and the heir. They just ask, 'How old is your father, andhas he had a stroke, or a fit?' and it's settled out of hand, andthen they come prowling about a place, and running down the timberand land--Don't let us speak of him; it's no good, Roger. He and Iare out of tune, and it seems to me as if only God Almighty couldput us to rights. It's thinking of how he grieved _her_ at last thatmakes me so bitter with him. And yet there's a deal of good in him!and he's so quick and clever, if only he'd give his mind to things.Now, you were always slow, Roger--all your masters used to say so."
Roger laughed a little--
"Yes; I'd many a nickname at school for my slowness," said he.
"Never mind!" said the Squire, consolingly. "I'm sure I don't. If youwere a clever fellow like Osborne yonder, you'd be all for caring forbooks and writing, and you'd perhaps find it as dull as he does tokeep company with a bumpkin-squire Jones like me. Yet, I daresay,they think a deal of you at Cambridge," said he, after a p
ause,"since you've got this fine wranglership; I'd nearly forgottenthat--the news came at such a miserable time."
"Well, yes! They're always proud of the senior wrangler of the yearup at Cambridge. Next year I must abdicate."
The Squire sat and gazed into the embers, still holding his uselesspipe-stem. At last he said, in a low voice, as if scarcely aware hehad got a listener,--"I used to write to her when she was away inLondon, and tell her the home news. But no letter will reach her now!Nothing reaches her!"
Roger started up.
"Where's the tobacco-box, father? Let me fill you another pipe!"and when he had done so, he stooped over his father and stroked hischeek. The Squire shook his head.
"You've only just come home, lad. You don't know me, as I amnow-a-days! Ask Robinson--I won't have you asking Osborne, he oughtto keep it to himself--but any of the servants will tell you I'm notlike the same man for getting into passions with them. I used tobe reckoned a good master, but that's past now! Osborne was once alittle boy, and she was once alive--and I was once a good master--agood master--yes! It's all past now."
He took up his pipe, and began to smoke afresh, and Roger, after asilence of some minutes, began a long story about some Cambridgeman's misadventure on the hunting-field, telling it with such humourthat the Squire was beguiled into hearty laughing. When they rose togo to bed his father said to Roger,--
"Well, we've had a pleasant evening--at least, I have. But perhapsyou haven't; for I'm but poor company now, I know."
"I don't know when I've passed a happier evening, father," saidRoger. And he spoke truly, though he did not trouble himself to findout the cause of his happiness.
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