He broke off abruptly, as if ashamed of his own enthusiasm.
For my own part I felt sorry for him. I always do, somehow, when I see a brave young spirit eager to meet and conquer fortune—a ship setting sail from port, colours all flying, guns firing, crowds cheering. How many reach the harbour? How many founder at sea? One is wrecked in this way, another in that. One gallant bark meets with headwinds nearly all the way; another is run down by a rival and is heard of no more; a third, after baffling many a wintry gale, goes down in smooth water, within sight of land. How many unsuccessful men are there in the world for every one who succeeds? And of those who gain their heart’s desire, how many can say, ‘I am satisfied’?
October 29.
I was fairly amazed to find this unfinished letter, begun three weeks ago, between the leaves of my blotter this morning. Another example of my incurable laziness!
My stay here is almost at an end. My large picture is nearly completed. My portrait of Margaret is finished; and though it is not what I would like it to be, I think it is the best thing I have done yet. I leave to-morrow morning, and hope to be with you in a day or two. Alec goes with me as far as Glasgow, for he has persuaded his father to send him to college—or rather, the old man has yielded to the lad’s discontent, backed by my expressions of the high opinion I hold of his abilities. I fancy Mr. Lindsay thinks his son will yet be an ornament to the Free Kirk, but, if I am not very much mistaken, Alec will never change his mind on this point.
We had a regular family council, at which the matter was settled. The old man sat on his chair, bolt upright, his hands folded before him. Alec sat near by while his future was being decided, carelessly playing with a paper-knife on the table. Margaret was, as usual, at her sewing; but I could tell by little signs in her face, that for once her composure was more than half assumed.
‘You had your chance a year ago,’ said the old man in a harsh unyielding tone, ‘and you threw it away. Why should I stint myself, and go back from my task of buying back the land, to give you another one?’
‘I don’t wish you to stint yourself,’ said the boy half sullenly.
‘I don’t want to injure your sister,’ said his father, in the same tone.
‘Do you think I wish Margaret injured? If you cannot spare five-and-twenty pounds without inconvenience, there’s an end of it.’