CHAPTER VII.
I went out, and to see Francis Vivian; for on leaving Mr. Trevanion I
was not without anxiety for my new friend's future provision. But
Vivian was from home, and I strolled from his lodgings into the suburbs
on the other side of the river, and began to meditate seriously on the
best course now to pursue. In quitting my present occupations I
resigned prospects far more brilliant and fortunes far more rapid than I
could ever hope to realize in any other entrance into life. But I felt
the necessity, if I desired to keep steadfast to that more healthful
frame of mind I had obtained, of some manly and continuous labor, some
earnest employment. My thoughts flew back to the university; and the
quiet of its cloisters--which, until I had been blinded by the glare of
the London world, and grief had somewhat dulled the edge of my quick
desires and hopes, had seemed to me cheerless and unfaltering--took an
inviting aspect. It presented what I needed most,--a new scene, a new
arena, a partial return into boyhood; repose for passions prematurely
raised; activity for the reasoning powers in fresh directions. I had
not lost my time in London: I had kept up, if not studies purely
classical, at least the habits of application; I had sharpened my
general comprehension and augmented my resources. Accordingly, when I
returned home, I resolved to speak to my father. But I found he had
forestalled me; and on entering, my mother drew me upstairs into, her
room, with a smile kindled by my smile, and told me that she and her
Austin had been thinking that it was best that I should leave London as
soon as possible; that my father found he could now dispense with the
library of the Museum for some months; that the time for which they had
taken their lodgings would be up in a few days: that the summer was far
advanced, town odious, the country beautiful,--in a word, we were to go
home. There I could prepare myself for Cambridge till the long vacation
was over; and, my mother added hesitatingly, and with a prefatory
caution to spare my health, that my father, whose income could ill
afford the requisite allowance to me, counted on my soon lightening his
burden by getting a scholarship. I felt how much provident kindness
there was in all this,--even in that hint of a scholarship, which was
meant to rouse my faculties and spur me, by affectionate incentives, to
a new ambition. I was not less delighted than grateful.
"But poor Roland," said I, "and little Blanche,--will they come with
us?"
"I fear not," said my mother; "for Roland is anxious to get back to his
tower, and in a day or two he will be well enough to move."
"Do you not think, my dear mother, that, somehow or other, this lost son
of his had something to do with Roland's illness,--that the illness was
as much mental as physical?"
"I have no doubt of it, Sisty. What a sad, bad heart that young man
must have!"
"My uncle seems to have abandoned all hope of finding him in London;
otherwise, ill as he has been, I am sure we could not have kept him at
home. So he goes back to the old tower. Poor man, he must be dull
enough there! We must contrive to pay him a visit. Does Blanche ever
speak of her brother?"
"No; for it seems they were not brought up much together,--at all
events, she does not remember him. How lovely she is! Her mother must
surely have been very handsome."
"She is a pretty child, certainly, though in a strange style of beauty,
--such immense eyes!--and affectionate, and loves Roland as she ought."
And here the conversation dropped.
Our plans being thus decided, it was necessary that I should lose no
time in seeing Vivian and making some arrangement for the future. His
manner had lost so much of its abruptness that I thought I could venture
to recommend him personally to Trevanion; and I knew, after what had
passed, that Trevanion would make a point to oblige me. I resolved to
consult my father about it. As yet I had either never found or never
made the opportunity to talk to my father on the subject, he had been so
occupied; and if he had proposed to see my new friend, what answer could
I have made, in the teeth of Vivian's cynic objections? However, as we
were now going away, that last consideration ceased to be of importance;
and, for the first, the student had not yet entirely settled back to his
books. I therefore watched the time when my father walked down to the
Museum, and, slipping my arm in his, I told him, briefly and rapidly, as
we went along, how I had formed this strange acquaintance, and how I was
now situated. The story did not interest my father quite so much as I
expected, and he did not understand all the complexities of Vivian's
character,--how could he?--for he answered briefly, "I should think
that, for a young man apparently without a sixpence, and whose education
seems so imperfect, any resource in Trevanion must be most temporary and
uncertain. Speak to your Uncle Jack: he can find him some place, I have
no doubt,--perhaps a readership in a printer's office, or a reporter's
place on some journal, if he is fit for it. But if you want to steady
him, let it be something regular."
Therewith my father dismissed the matter and vanished through the gates
of the Museum. Readership to a printer, reportership on a journal, for
a young gentleman with the high notions and arrogant vanity of Francis
Vivian,--his ambition already soaring far beyond kid gloves and a
cabriolet! The idea was hopeless; and, perplexed and doubtful, I took
my way to Vivian's lodgings. I found him at home and unemployed,
standing by his window with folded arms, and in a state of such revery
that he was not aware of my entrance till I had touched him on the
shoulder.
"Ha!" said he then, with one of his short, quick, impatient sighs, "I
thought you had given me up and forgotten me; but you look pale and
harassed. I could almost think you had grown thinner within the last
few days."
"Oh! never mind me, Vivian; I have come to speak of yourself. I have
left Trevanion; it is settled that I should go to the University, and we
all quit town in a few days."
"In a few days!--all! Who are 'all'?"
"My family,--father, mother, uncle, cousin, and myself. But, my dear
fellow, now let us think seriously what is best to be done for you. I
can present you to Trevanion."
"Ha!"
"But Trevanion is a hard, though an excellent man, and, moreover, as he
is always changing the subjects that engross him, in a month or so he
may have nothing to give you. You said you would work,--will you
consent not to complain if the work cannot be done in kid gloves? Young
men who have--risen high in the world have begun, it is well known, as
reporters to the press. It is a situation of respectability, and in
request, and not easy to obtain, I fancy; but still--"
Vivian interrupted me hastily.
"Thank you a thousand times! But what you say confirms a resolution I
had taken before you came. I shall make it up with my family and return
home."
"Oh, I am so really glad. How wise in you!"
Vivian turned away his head abruptly.
"Your pictures of family life and domestic peace, you see," he said,
"seduced me more than you thought. When do you leave town?"
"Why, I believe, early next week."
"So soon," said Vivian, thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps I may ask you yet
to introduce me to Mr. Trevanion; for who knows?--my family and I may
fall out again. But I will consider. I think I have heard you say that
this Trevanion is a very old friend of your father's or uncle's?"
"He, or rather Lady Ellinor, is an old friend of both."
"And therefore would listen to your recommendations of me. But perhaps
I may not need them. So you have left--left of your own accord--a
situation that seemed more enjoyable, I should think, than rooms in a
college. Left, why did you leave?"
And Vivian fixed his bright eyes full and piercingly on mine.
"It was only for a time, for a trial, that I was there," said I,
evasively; "out at nurse, as it were, till the Alma Mater opened her
arms,--alma indeed she ought to be to my father's son."
Vivian looked unsatisfied with my explanation, but did not question me
further. He himself was the first to turn the conversation, and he did
this with more affectionate cordiality than was common to him. He
inquired into our general plans, into the probabilities of our return to
town, and drew from me a description of our rural Tusculum. He was
quiet and subdued; and once or twice I thought there was a moisture in
those luminous eyes. We parted with more of the unreserve and fondness
of youthful friendship--at least on my part, and seemingly on his--than
had yet endeared our singular intimacy; for the cement of cordial
attachment had been wanting to an intercourse in which one party refused
all confidence, and the other mingled distrust and fear with keen
interest and compassionate admiration.
That evening, before lights were brought in, my father, turning to me,
abruptly asked if I had seen my friend, and what he was about to do.
"He thinks of returning to his family," said I.
Roland, who had seemed dozing, winced uneasily.
"Who returns to his family?" asked the Captain.
"Why, you must know," said my father, "that Sisty has fished up a friend
of whom he can give no account that would satisfy a policeman, and whose
fortunes he thinks himself under the necessity of protecting. You are
very lucky that he has not picked your pockets, Sisty; but I dare say he
has. What's his name?"
"Vivian," said I,--"Francis Vivian."
"A good name and a Cornish," said my father. "Some derive it from the
Romans,--Vivianus; others from a Celtic word which means--"
"Vivian!" interrupted Roland. "Vivian!--I wonder if it be the son of
Colonel Vivian."
"He is certainly a gentleman's son," said I; "but he never told me what
his family and connections were."
"Vivian," repeated my uncle,--"poor Colonel Vivian! So the young man is
going to his father. I have no doubt it is the same. Ah!--"
"What do you know of Colonel Vivian or his son?" said I. "Pray, tell
me; I am so interested in this young man."
"I know nothing of either, except by gossip," said my uncle, moodily.
"I did hear that Colonel Vivian, an excellent officer and honorable man,
had been in--in--" (Roland's voice faltered) "in great grief about his
son, whom, a mere boy, he had prevented from some improper marriage, and
who had run away and left him,--it was supposed for America. The story
affected me at the time," added my uncle, trying to speak calmly.
We were all silent, for we felt why Roland was so disturbed, and why
Colonel Vivian's grief should have touched him home. Similarity in
affliction makes us brothers even to the unknown.
"You say he is going home to his family,--I am heartily glad of it!"
said the envying old soldier, gallantly.
The lights came in then, and two minutes after, Uncle Roland and I were
nestled close to each other, side by side; and I was reading over his
shoulder, and his finger was silently resting on that passage that had
so struck him: "I have not complained, have I, sir? And I won't
complain!"
