In spite of her, his studies suffered. He felt no humiliation now that Hector or any should be ahead of him with books; he could have been far ahead of them if he had chosen, but they could under no circumstance have done what he did. Of these things he was proudly convinced, and he declared them without hesitation. His almost untutored playing took on a strange audacity, a fantastical quality that made it pleasing to none in the household. That did not disturb him; he pursued triumphantly in the direction repugnant to them, taking their disapproval to naturally point to its excellence. Sometimes, half in scorn, he would play for the little girls the simple melodies they knew, to show them that he could do that, too, if he chose; full tenderly could he play them and delight their gentle hearts, but he preferred, if he could catch an unprejudiced soul for audience, a housemaid for instance, to set her opposite to him and play to her from his head, then question her as to what the music had made her think of, helping her to detail her impressions, expressing his contempt freely if the music had not had on her the desired effect, but hugging her if she happened to answer as he wanted.
Whenever he had a holiday, or took one, he disappeared with his instrument, returning with a conqueror's mien, out of place in a boy with whom every one is displeased, and who has had nothing to eat. It was felt by all how he was in these days not friends with anybody, nor anybody friends with him. It suited his pride to carry off the situation as if he had been a king among boors.
Her eldest child's conduct began at last to be something of a grievance to Emmie. She appealed to no one for help to reduce him to obedience. She would not have dared do that; an intimate sense forbade it, a scruple which would have had no voice, perhaps, had she loved him more. She excused and up-held him in her little wars with Lucretia, and respected Gregory's reluctance to interfere with him, founded in justice on the consciousness of a deep-seated, invincible dislike; but she fretted under his undutifulness and only refrained from satisfying the desire to attempt asserting her power over him, though it should be futile as ever, in the idea that, at the worst, he would soon be leaving home, with Hector, for school, when the detested violin must be given up and stronger hands than her own find a way to bend his obstinate spirit. At the same time, in a corner of her heart, she felt unreasonably, unaccountably hurt, as perhaps she would have felt if Dorastus's father had suddenly ceased from his persecutions and she had known by that sign that, worm as he was, he had ceased to care for her.
"This is all very well; but when you get to school—" Phrases begun on that line became frequent in Dorastus's ear as the time approached. He heard them with a singularly bright eye.
The two boys set out for school together, under the guardianship of the tutor. Consternation fell on the family when it was known that Dorastus had been missed on the way. The boy was traced to London; there he was easily lost among the millions of its inhabitants.
While the question was in discussion whether it behooved Gregory himself to travel to London and institute a search for the runaway, came a letter from the boy, making it easily decent for his step-father to leave the stinging weed to get its growth where it might without being a nuisance, and reconciling his mother to letting him take his chances as he pleased, since he was so sure they were brilliant—very brilliant, those chances.
His certainty of himself, his enthusiasm, were such that gradually they communicated themselves in a degree to her. Why not? After all, his father, they had said, was a great man; princes had honored him. An involuntary respect crept through her for Dorastus's daring. It seemed advisable at least to give him the opportunity he wanted; the more that the process of finding him, bringing him back in what to him would seem ignominy, and thereafter keeping watch over him, was uncomfortable to think of.
His letter was to his mother, a mixture of boyishness and manliness, more frank than any speech she had had from him in a long time. It vaguely stirred her heart; for it seemed to restore to her something that possessing she had not prized, but, careful economist, did not like to think lost.
"You must promise that I shall not be troubled by any attempt to get me back. I will do anything terrible if I am trapped. Don't you see that I couldn't go to school with Hector, who is younger? We should be put in classes together, for a while at least, and I couldn't stand it. Besides, I haven't the time, I have so much to do! Besides, I couldn't go on living with those people forever. I don't mean that you shall, either. I won't tell you all now, but after a time you may know that there is to be a house much better than theirs for you to live in, with me. You shall have everything much better. But I will not tell you more. Only, you can be perfectly sure of it. You will not think that I came away without caring about leaving you. I was afraid you would guess something if I hugged you before them as I wanted to, but I had been to your room in the night, and any of your gowns you put on is full of your son's kisses. If I thought you would show this letter, I think that I should never in my life write you again. If you should send me any money, I should return it at once or destroy it, so please don't do it, it would make me angry. I know that we had nothing when we came to their house, except the violin. One of the servants told me how we came. What do you suppose keeping me all these years has cost? When I can, I mean to give them double; you can tell him so, if you choose. I can't now, but what I can do is to take nothing more from them. You need not be anxious about me. I am prepared, because I have long known what I meant to do, and I can take care of myself. I have met several persons already who know of my father; it seems to be something here to be his son, though not at home, except to one man, and he a hostler. Well, I will show them—you, too, dear mother. I don't mean to vex or grieve you, mother, dear. If I have vexed you, I know I shall make you forgive me some day, before long, perhaps, when I shall have made you understand. You can write me at the Tartar's Head, but if you hunted me there, or information concerning me, you would never find me, I vow."
Other letters came from time to time, written in fine spirits always, referring, but mysteriously, to fine successes. Emmie felt a certain modesty about these letters. She communicated what was in them with reserve, and adopted towards inquirers the tone of discretion that the letters had with herself. But she found herself often brooding over the contents. They charmed the imagination; they sounded like things one read. It was so remarkable, this circumstance of a poor boy, a boy of her own, arriving in a great city, with little but his violin, and by sounds merely forcing the things one values to come to him, as he had spoken fancifully once, she remembered, of making a flock of rabbits follow him into the woods. He wrote little very definite, but dropped telling hints of how he had played before this great man and that man of importance, and this one had said—the other had promised. He had been called upon to perform at a certain levee, and out of his fee had bought the things he was sending; he had money to spare. And there came a parcel of presents for Emmie and the little girls, by which all were greatly impressed. Dorastus's rank in the memory of his family rose a degree. Now, on looking back, each knew that he had always foreseen how, with that powerful will, Dorastus must be able to hew his way through difficulties and compel circumstances to serve him. He was looked on rather as a man than a boy, even as he looked on himself. His mother was grateful to him for seeming to efface the weak foolishness out of her first marriage: she was justified in her latter days, and proved a virgin full of good sense. She wrote Dorastus encouraging letters. Her good words got glowing answers: surely it would not be long; he was working with all his might. But they must be patient, for success as a material recompense was slow; and he hinted with the effect of a sigh at rivalries, at the density of the public mind. Yet talent must inevitably triumph in the end and manly effort meet its reward.