OSBORNE HAMLEY REVIEWS HIS POSITION.
Osborne had his cup of coffee in the drawing-room. He was very too, after his fashion. He on the hearth-rug over his situation. He was not aware how his father was pressed for ready-money; the Squire had spoken to him on the without being angry; and many of his statements—all of which, they might appear, had their in truth—were set by his son to the of passion. But it was to a man of Osborne's age to himself for want of a five-pound note. The for the liberal—almost table at the Hall, came off the estate; so that there was no of as as the went; and as long as Osborne was at home, he had he wish for; but he had a wife elsewhere—he wanted to see her continually—and that journeys. She, thing! had to be supported—where was the money for the and for Aimée's wants to come from? That was the puzzle in Osborne's mind just now. While he had been at college his allowance—heir of the Hamleys—had been three hundred, while Roger had to be with a hundred less. The payment of these had the Squire a good of trouble; but he of it as a temporary inconvenience; so. Osborne was to do great things; take high honours, a fellowship, a long-descended heiress, live in some of the many rooms at the Hall, and help the in the management of the that would some time be his. Roger was to be a clergyman; steady, slow Roger was just for that, and when he entering the Church, a life of more activity and adventure, Roger was to be—anything; he was useful and practical, and fit for all the from which Osborne was out by his fastidiousness, and his (pseudo) genius; so it was well he was an son, for he would have done to through the world; and as for his settling to a profession, it would be like with a razor! And now here was Osborne, at home, but to be elsewhere; his stopped in reality; indeed, the payment of it the last year or two had been to his mother's exertions; but nothing had been said about its present by either father or son; money were too a them. Every now and then the Squire him a ten-pound note or so; but the of with which it was given, and the entire as to when he might such gifts, any upon their receipt and uncertain.
"What in the world can I do to secure an income?" Osborne, as he on the hearth-rug, his to a fire, his cup of coffee sent up in the old that had to the Hall for generations; his dress finished, as dress of Osborne's fail to be. One have that this man, there in the of that on luxury, should have been over that one great problem in his mind; 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 or three years, if I entered myself at the Temple, or Lincoln's Inn. It would be to live on my pay in the army; besides, I should that profession. In fact, there are all professions—I couldn't myself to a of any I've of. Perhaps I'm more to take 'orders' than anything else; but to be to one had anything to say or not, and, probably, only to with people one in and education! Yet Aimée must have money. I can't to our dinners here, with joints and game and sweets, as Morgan will in sending them up, with Aimée's two little mutton-chops. Yet what would my father say if he I'd married a Frenchwoman? In his present mood he'd me, if that is possible; and he'd speak about her in a way I couldn't stand. A Roman Catholic, too! Well, I don't it. I'd do it again. Only if my mother had been in good health—if she have my story, and Aimée! As it is I must keep it secret; but where to money? Where to money?"
Then he him of his poems—would they sell, and him in money? In of Milton, he they might; and he to his MSS. out of his room. He near the fire, trying to study them with a eye, to public opinion as as he could. He had his since the Mrs. Hemans' days. He was in his faculty; and of late he had the lead of a popular of sonnets. He his over: they were almost to an passage in his life. Arranging them in their order, they came as follows:—
"To Aimée, Walking with a Little Child."
"To Aimée, Singing at her Work."
"To Aimée, Turning away from me while I told my Love."
"Aimée's Confession."
"Aimée in Despair."
"The Foreign Land in which my Aimée dwells."
"The Wedding Ring."
"The Wife."
When he came to this last he put his of papers and to think. "The wife." Yes, and a French wife; and a Roman Catholic wife—and a wife who might be said to have been in service! And his father's of the French, and individually—collectively, as ruffians, who their king, and all of atrocities—individually, as by "Boney," and the of "Johnny Crapaud" that had been in full about five-and-twenty years this time, when the Squire had been and of impressions. As for the of religion in which Mrs. Osborne Hamley had been up, it is to say that Catholic had to be talked about by some politicians, and that the of the majority of Englishmen, at the idea of it, was in the with threatenings; the very mention of such a measure the Squire was, as Osborne well knew, like a red flag a bull.
And then he that if Aimée had had the unspeakable, the of being of English parents, in the very of England—Warwickshire, for instance—and had of priests, or mass, or confession, or the Pope, or Guy Fawkes, but had been born, baptized, and in the Church of England, without having the of a meeting-house, or a chapel—even with all these advantages, her having been a (what was the for "bonne" in English? 'nursery-governess' was a term invented) nursery-maid, with paid once a quarter, to be at a month's warning, and having her tea and sugar out to her, would be a to his father's old that he would over.
"If he saw her!" Osborne. "If he but see her!" But if the Squire were to see Aimée, he would also her speak her English—precious to her husband, as it was in it that she had with her English tongue, that she loved him with her French heart—and Squire Hamley himself on being a good of the French. "She would make such a loving, sweet, little to my father—she would go as near as any one up the blank in this house, if he would but have her; but he won't; he would; and he sha'n't have the opportunity of her. Yet if I called her 'Lucy' in these sonnets; and if they a great effect—were in Blackwood and the Quarterly—and all the world was to out the author; and I told him my secret—I if I were successful—I think then he would ask who Lucy was, and I tell him all then. If—how I 'ifs.' 'If me no ifs.' My life has been on 'whens;' and they have to 'ifs,' and then they have away. It was 'when Osborne honours,' and then 'if Osborne,' and then a failure altogether. I said to Aimée, 'when my mother sees you,' and now it is 'if my father saw her,' with a very of its to pass." So he let the hours on and in like these; up with a to try the of his with a publisher, with the direct of money for them, and an that, if successful, they might work with his father.
When Roger came home Osborne did not let a day pass telling his of his plans. He did anything long from Roger; the part of his him always of a confidant, and as sweet as he extract. But Roger's opinion had no on Osborne's actions; and Roger this full well. So when Osborne with—"I want your on a plan I have got in my head," Roger replied: "Some one told me that the Duke of Wellington's was to give unless he its being into effect; now I can't do that; and you know, old boy, you don't out my when you've got it."
"Not always, I know. Not when it doesn't agree with my own opinion. You're about this of my marriage; but you're not up in all the circumstances. You know how I meant to have done it, if there hadn't been that about my debts; and then my mother's and death. And now you've no how my father is changed—how he has become! Wait till you've been at home a week! Robinson, Morgan—it's the same with them all; but of all with me."
"Poor fellow!" said Roger; "I he looked changed: shrunken, and his of altered."
"Why, he takes the he used to do, so it's no wonder. He has away all the men off the new works, which used to be such an to him; and the with him one day, and nearly him, he won't it; and yet he won't sell it and another, which would be the plan; so there are two old their off, while he is talking about money and expense. And that me to what I was going to say. I'm hard up for money, and so I've been my poems—weeding them well, you know—going over them critically, in fact; and I want to know if you think Deighton would them. You've a name in Cambridge, you know; and I he would look at them if you offered them to him."
"I can but try," said Roger; "but I'm you won't much by them."
"I don't much. I'm a new man, and must make my name. I should be with a hundred. If I'd a hundred I'd set myself to do something. I might keep myself and Aimée by my while I for the bar; or, if the came to the worst, a hundred would take us to Australia."
"Australia! Why, Osborne, what you do there? And my father! I you'll your hundred pounds, if that's the use you're to make of it! Why, you'd the Squire's heart."
"It might have done once," said Osborne, gloomily, "but it wouldn't now. He looks at me askance, and away from with me. Let me alone for noticing and this of thing. It's this very to that me what I have; and it to me as if my bread, and my wife's too, were to upon it. You'll soon see for the terms which I am on with my father!"
Roger did soon see. His father had into a of at meal-times—a which Osborne, who was and for his own part, had not to break. Father and son together, and all the necessary speeches with the occasion enough; but it was a to them when their was over, and they separated—the father to over his and his disappointment, which were and enough, and the he had from his boy, which was in his mind by his of the steps Osborne had taken to money. If the money-lenders had calculated the of his father's life or death in making their bargain, Osborne himself had only of how soon and how easily he the money for him from all at Cambridge, and for him to Aimée to her home in Alsace, and for the marriage. As yet, Roger had his brother's wife; indeed, he had only been taken into Osborne's full after all was in which his have been useful. And now, in the separation, Osborne's whole thought, the and practical of his mind, ran upon the little wife who was her days in lodgings, when her husband would come to her next. With such an subject, it was, perhaps, no wonder that he neglected his father; but it was none the less sad at the time, and to be in its consequences.
"I may come in and have a pipe with you, sir, mayn't I?" said Roger, that evening, pushing against the study-door, which his father only open.
"You'll not like it," said the squire, still the door against him, but speaking in a tone. "The tobacco I use isn't what men like. Better go and have a cigar with Osborne."
"No. I want to with you, and I can tobacco."
Roger pushed in, the slowly way him.
"It will make your smell. You'll have to borrow Osborne's to yourself," said the Squire, grimly, at the same time pushing a amber-mouthed pipe to his son.
"No; I'll have a churchwarden. Why, father, do you think I'm a to put up with a doll's like this?" looking at the upon it.
The Squire was pleased in his heart, though he did not choose to it. He only said, "Osborne it me when he came from Germany. That's three years ago." And then for some time they in silence. But the of his son was very to the Squire, though not a word might be said.
The next speech he the direction of his thoughts; indeed, his were always a medium through which the might be seen.
"A of a man's life comes and goes in three years—I've that out;" and he away at his pipe again. While Roger was over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, the again stopped his and spoke.
"I when there was all that about the Prince of Wales being regent, I read somewhere—I it was in a newspaper—that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on terms. Osborne was a little then: he used to go out with me on White Surrey;—you won't the we called White Surrey?"
"I it; but I it a tall in those days."
"Ah! that was you were such a small lad, you know. I'd seven in the then—not the farm-horses. I don't having a then, except—she was always delicate, you know. But what a boy Osborne was! He was always in black velvet—it was a foppery, but it wasn't my doing, and it was all right, I'm sure. He's a now, but the has gone out of his face."
"He's a good about this money, and the he has you," said Roger, taking his brother's for granted.
"Not he," said the Squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and the bowl so against the that it in pieces. "There! But mind! I say, not he, Roger! He's none about the money. It's easy money from Jews if you're the son, and the heir. They just ask, 'How old is your father, and has he had a stroke, or a fit?' and it's settled out of hand, and then they come about a place, and the and land—Don't let us speak of him; it's no good, Roger. He and I are out of tune, and it to me as if only God Almighty put us to rights. It's of how he her at last that makes me so with him. And yet there's a 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 at for my slowness," said he.
"Never mind!" said the Squire, consolingly. "I'm sure I don't. If you were a like Osborne yonder, you'd be all for for books and writing, and you'd it as as he to keep company with a bumpkin-squire Jones like me. Yet, I daresay, they think a of you at Cambridge," said he, after a pause, "since you've got this wranglership; I'd nearly that—the news came at such a time."
"Well, yes! They're always proud of the senior of the year up at Cambridge. Next year I must abdicate."
The Squire sat and into the embers, still his pipe-stem. At last he said, in a low voice, as if aware he had got a listener,—"I used to to her when she was away in London, and tell her the home news. But no will her now! Nothing her!"
Roger started up.
"Where's the tobacco-box, father? Let me you another pipe!" and when he had done so, he over his father and his cheek. The Squire his head.
"You've only just come home, lad. You don't know me, as I am now-a-days! Ask Robinson—I won't have you Osborne, he ought to keep it to himself—but any of the will tell you I'm not like the same man for into with them. I used to be a good master, but that's past now! Osborne was once a little boy, and she was once alive—and I was once a good master—a good master—yes! It's all past now."
He took up his pipe, and to afresh, and Roger, after a of some minutes, a long about some Cambridge man's on the hunting-field, telling it with such that the Squire was into laughing. When they rose to go to his father said to Roger,—
"Well, we've had a evening—at least, I have. But you haven't; for I'm but company now, I know."
"I don't know when I've passed a evening, father," said Roger. And he spoke truly, though he did not trouble himself to out the of his happiness.
