He wrote a short letter to Roland (that letter which had given the poor man so sanguine a joy),—that letter after reading which he had said to Blanche, “Pray for me”, stating simply that he wished to see his father, and naming a tavern in the City for the meeting.
The interview took place. And when Roland—love and forgiveness in his heart, but (who shall blame him?) dignity on his brow and rebuke in his eye—approached, ready at a word to fling himself on the boy’s breast, Vivian, seeing only the outer signs, and interpreting them by his own sentiments, recoiled, folded his arms on his bosom, and said, coldly, “Spare me reproach, sir,—it is unavailing; I seek you only to propose that you shall save your name and resign your son.”
Then, intent perhaps but to gain his object, the unhappy youth declared his fixed determination never to live with his father, never to acquiesce in his authority, resolutely to pursue his own career, whatever that career might be, explaining none of the circumstances that appeared most in his disfavor,—rather, perhaps, thinking that, the worse his father judged of him, the more chance he had to achieve his purpose. “All I ask of you,” he said, “is this: Give me the least you can afford to preserve me from the temptation to rob, or the necessity to starve; and I, in my turn, promise never to molest you in life, never to degrade you in my death; whatever my misdeeds, they will never reflect on yourself, for you shall never recognize the misdoer! The name you prize so highly shall be spared.” Sickened and revolted, Roland attempted no argument; there was that in the son’s cold manner which shut out hope, and against which his pride rose indignant. A meeker man might have remonstrated, implored, and wept; that was not in Roland’s nature. He had but the choice of three evils: to say to his son, “Fool, I command thee to follow me!” or say, “Wretch, since thou wouldst cast me off as a stranger, as a stranger I say to thee,—Go, starve or rob, as thou wilt!” or lastly, to bow his proud head, stunned by the blow, and say, “Thou refusest me the obedience of the son, thou demandest to be as the dead to me. I can control thee not from vice, I can guide thee not to virtue. Thou wouldst sell me the name I have inherited stainless, and have as stainless borne. Be it so! Name thy price!”
And something like this last was the father’s choice.
He listened, and was long silent; and then he said slowly, “Pause before you decide.”
“I have paused long; my decision is made! This is the last time we meet. I see before me now the way to fortune, fairly, honorably; you can aid me in it only in the way I have said. Reject me now, and the option may never come again to either!”
And then Roland said to himself, “I have spared and saved for this son: what care I for aught else than enough to live without debt, creep into a corner, and await the grave? And the more I can give, why, the better chance that he will abjure the vile associate and the desperate course.” And so, out of his small income Roland surrendered to the rebel child more than the half.
Vivian was not aware of his father’s fortune,—he did not suppose the sum of two hundred pounds a year was an allowance so disproportioned to Roland’s means; yet when it was named, even he was struck by the generosity of one to whom he himself had given the right to say, “I take thee at thy word: ‘Just enough not to starve!’”
But then that hateful cynicism, which, caught from bad men and evil books, he called “knowledge of the world,” made him think, “It is not for me, it is only for his name;” and he said aloud, “I accept these terms, sir; here is the address of a solicitor with whom yours can settle them. Farewell forever.”
At those last words Roland started, and stretched out his arms vaguely like a blind man. But Vivian had already thrown open the window (the room was on the ground floor) and sprung upon the sill. “Farewell,” he repeated; “tell the world I am dead.”