CHAPTER VI.
You may judge of the effect that my dinner at Mr. Trevanion's, with a
long conversation after it with Lady Ellinor, made upon my mind when, on
my return home, after having satisfied all questions of parental
curiosity, I said nervously, and looking down: "My dear father, I should
like very much, if you have no objection--to--to--"
"What, my dear?" asked my father, kindly.
"Accept an offer Lady Ellinor has made me on the part of Mr. Trevanion.
He wants a secretary. He is kind enough to excuse my inexperience, and
declares I shall do very well, and can soon get into his ways. Lady
Ellinor says," I continued with dignity, "that it will be a great
opening in public life for me; and at all events, my dear father, I
shall see much of the world, and learn what I really think will be more
useful to me than anything they will teach him at college."
My mother looked anxiously at my father. "It will indeed be a great
thing for Sisty," said she, timidly; and then, taking courage, she
added--"and that is just the sort of life he is formed for."
"Hem!" said my uncle.
My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, after a long
pause,--
"You may be right, Kitty: I don't think Pisistratus is meant for study;
action will suit him better. But what does this office lead to?"
"Public employment, sir," said I, boldly; "the service of my country."
"If that be the case," quoth Roland, "have not a word to say. But I
should have thought that for a lad of spirit, a descendant of the old De
Caxtons, the army would have--"
"The army!" exclaimed my mother, clasping her hands, and looking
involuntarily at my uncle's cork leg.
"The army!" repeated my father, peevishly. "Bless my soul, Roland, you
seem to think man is made for nothing else but to be shot at! You would
not like the army, Pisistratus?"
"Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother; otherwise, indeed--"
"Papoe!" said my father, interrupting me. "This all comes of your
giving the boy that ambitious, uncomfortable name, Mrs. Caxton; what
could a Pisistratus be but the plague of one's life? That idea of
serving his country is Pisistratus ipsissimus all over. If ever I have
another son (Dii metiora!) he has only got to be called Eratostratus,
and then he will be burning down St. Paul's,--which I believe was, by
the way, first made out of the stones of a temple to Diana. Of the two,
certainly, you had better serve your country with a goose-quill than by
poking a bayonet into the ribs of some unfortunate Indian; I don't think
there are any other people whom the service of one's country makes it
necessary to kill just at present, eh, Roland?"
"It is a very fine field, India," said my uncle, sententiously; "it is
the nursery of captains."
"Is it? Those plants take up a good deal of ground, then, that might be
more profitably cultivated. And, indeed, considering that the tallest
captains in the world will be ultimately set into a box not above seven
feet at the longest, it is astonishing what a quantity of room that
species of arbor mortis takes in the growing! However, Pisistratus, to
return to your request, I will think it over, and talk to Trevanion."
"Or rather to Lady Ellinor," said I, imprudently: my mother slightly
shivered, and took her hand from mine. I felt cut to the heart by the
slip of my own tongue.
"That, I think, your mother could do best," said my father, dryly, "if
she wants to be quite convinced that somebody will see that your shirts
are aired. For I suppose they mean you to lodge at Trevanion's."
"Oh, no!" cried my mother; "he might as well go to college then. I
thought he was to stay with us,--only go in the morning, but, of course,
sleep here."
"If I know anything of Trevanion," said my father, "his secretary will
be expected to do without sleep. Poor boy! you don't know what it is
you desire. And yet, at your age, I--" my father stopped short. "No!"
he renewed abruptly, after a long silence, and as if soliloquizing,--
"no; man is never wrong while he lives for others. The philosopher who
contemplates from the rock is a less noble image than the sailor who
struggles with the storm. Why should there be two of us? And could he
be an alter ego, even if I wished it? Impossible!" My father turned on
his chair, and laying the left leg on the right knee, said smilingly, as
he bent down to look me full in the face: "But, Pisistratus, will you
promise me always to wear the saffron bag?"
