He had been “bred a writer,” as the sons of respectable, wealthy, middle-class men in Scotland frequently are, whether they be intended to practise the law as a profession or no; and there had been some talk of William succeeding Mr Shaw the writer in Fendie in his great business. But William, it appeared, did not choose to enter into partnership with young Mr Nichol Shaw, and in the mean time he was resting ingloriously in the obscure labours of his father’s office.
And it greatly chafed the impatient spirit of Helen Buchanan that it should be so. Like most imaginative, youthful women, Helen fancied the freedom and licence of mankind one of the greatest possible gifts. There was no glorious “might be” which did not seem to her ideal vision open to the ambition of a man. The exceeding might of virtuous influence—the empire of the generous, brave spirit over its fellows—once on this free eminence of manhood, and the ardent mind knew that these would be hers—they were possible to men—above all to the one man upon whom the fair garments of the ideal began to fall.
And Helen chafed unconsciously that William Oswald should be content with this inglorious life. The humble teacher of the little girls of Fendie aspired to a higher intellectual firmament; there were ambitious hopes and dreams and wishes stirring in the bare school-room, enough to have startled the little town out of its propriety; wishes, and dreams, and hopes of a more daring kind than ever young lady in Fendie had entertained before; and Helen Buchanan scarcely ranked as a young lady. She was noticed by none of the magnates, and courted in no society—she was simply the school-mistress; the people of Fendie, young and old, would have been overwhelmed with astonishment to hear of her ambition.
But William Oswald knew it, and his temper agreed as little as her own with the ease of inactivity. He was not the man to prefer the temporary pleasure of even her society, greatly as he prized it, to the necessary work of life; and he too had the upward tendency. He could not be content with the easy indolent satisfaction of competence, and already believing that the strong and vigorous youth within him was destined for something nobler than the businesses or amusements of the little country-town, his energy was stimulated by hers. They stood at this time almost upon terms of mutual defiance, yet each unconsciously supplemented the strength and had a share in all the secret purposes of the other. Their own individual combat was close and exciting, yet in the very act of resisting they invigorated each other for their several wrestles with the world without. They were neither of a very peaceable nature; it suited them to manage their wooing so.
But William’s plans were laid. He had determined to return to Edinburgh to practise his profession. When he had won an independent position and name for himself—and to do that was of itself an end worth striving for—he felt that he should be much more likely to overcome the obstinate opposition of his father. The banker was proud of his family, and William, a known man, occupying a standing ground honourably acquired by his own exertions, might expect to be differently treated from William the unknown who had no other position than that which belonged to Mr Oswald’s son.
His mother assented with a sigh; she foresaw a different end to the romance of her son’s youth. He also, the cold voice of experience prophesied, would learn to approve those views of worldly wisdom, would forget the generous impulses of young life—would acquiesce in the prudent decisions of his father. Mrs Oswald too was prudent; but her heart shrank from beholding the film of calculating foresight fall upon the frank vision of her only son. She could almost have chosen the imprudent marriage sooner than the chill wisdom which would make it impossible.
The banker consented readily to William’s project; it was likely, he thought, to accomplish a twofold good:—to establish the young man’s fortunes steadily, on a basis of good work entered into with the freshness of youth, and to detach him from his foolish liking to the poor schoolmistress, who, gentlewoman as Hope asserted her to be, he was resolved to receive into his family—never!
So, although on grounds so different, the father and mother consented, and the grave, firm, undemonstrative son, the depths of whose nature were too profound to be frozen over as his mother feared by the icy prudence of the world, mapped out his own course, knowing better than they did the tenacious constancy of his own mind. It was no boyish fancy which moved him; the light emotions of youthful liking were very different from this, and there was nothing from which the ardent, grave spirit stood in so little peril as change.
On a dull evening, late in December, he sat by Mrs Buchanan’s fireside waiting till Mrs Buchanan’s daughter should leave her school-room and her pupils. William Oswald had been a favourite long ago with his father’s sensitive partner, and was a favourite with Mrs Buchanan of so long standing, that before the unfortunate hour in which he astonished with unwonted eloquence the wondering ears of Helen, and raised the questio vexata, which at present did so strangely unite and disunite them, his prospects and purposes had been as confidentially discussed in Mrs Buchanan’s parlour as at home; and still, though Helen’s mother began to feel strongly interested in the prosperity of the Reverend Robert Insches, it was impossible to break through the old familiar use and wont which bound her to William Oswald almost like a mother to a son. In his absence she could fancy the Reverend Robert very eligible, but in his presence she felt almost unwillingly that it could be none but he, the daily long-accustomed visitor—the son trained into all their simple habitudes—the friend whom they knew so thoroughly, and who so thoroughly knew them.
To this friendly, confidential footing he was very anxious to return to-night. He wanted to discuss his plans with them, to make Helen aware of the course which he projected for himself. Since he made the plunge, and relinquished his place as friend to claim a nearer one, the attempt had cost him much; not only the constraint which it had placed upon his intercourse with his father, but the loss of Helen’s society which it involved; so he resolved for this night to ignore their past struggle, and to be only the old familiar friend, the son of the house.