The Railway Man and His Children

by Mrs. Oliphant

There was great curiosity at Rosmore to hear what the young men had done and what they had seen in Glasgow: in the chief place, no doubt on account of the decorations for the ball, which were of so much importance, and in which Eddy’s taste was expected to accomplish such great things. Eddy had so much to say on this point, that the brief interval in the drawing-room before dinner was wholly taken up with his account of his arrangements and purchases.

“If it all succeeds as I expect,” said Eddy, “I know what I shall do, Mrs. Rowland. It will make a revolution in my life. I will follow the example of other fils de famille and set myself up as a decorator. Don’t you know? Algy Fergusson makes heaps of money by it. When you are going to give a ball, he takes everything in hand, charges you a certain sum, and supplies whatever you want, from the flowers on the stairs to a few dancing men in the best society, if that is wanted. I shall follow him in humble imitation. No, I’m not going to tell you too much. Mrs. Rowland has given me carte blanche. Wait till you see.”

“It’s a queer trade,” said Rowland; “but something might be made of it. I would advise you, however, Eddy, to look out for something more like a man.”

“Oh, it is very like my kind of man,” said Eddy; “not yours, sir: but there’s not very much of me.”

Rowland, like everybody else, had learned to call young Saumarez, according to the fashion of the day, by his petit nom. And he laughed with great good humour at this self-description. The young man was the most entertaining study of what he considered the manners of the best society to the master of Rosmore. Eddy’s lightness and ease and imperturbability amused him more than he could say, and at the same time filled him with respect. It was all the more evident in comparison with Archie’s easily roused temper and irritable self-consciousness, which saw in everything a shadow of blame, and never was at ease, or able to take anything lightly. Rowland watched the effect upon his son of intercourse with the other light-hearted lad with the greatest secret anxiety. He thought with pleasure that Eddy had “taken to” his uncultured uneasy boy, and that Archie would “learn manners” from contact with the other youth, who, though so little to look at, not such a nice-looking fellow as Archie, was yet so much more a man of the world. Eddy’s cheerful admission of his own defects, and that there was not very much of him, delighted Rowland. How it disarmed criticism! Would Archie, he wondered, ever attain to that easy mind, and unembarrassed faculty of taking the sting out of any jibe by tranquil pre-assertion of his own deficiencies? It was not a thing which Mr. Rowland could himself have attained, but he saw its advantages. It did not seem, however, in the meantime that Archie had made much progress in acquiring this gift. He took little part in the conversation which young Saumarez kept up so lightly. It was Eddy who told the story of their day in Glasgow, and owned to having yawned in the Cathedral. Archie was silent, as was his wont. He kept a little apart, and said nothing. Sometimes he cast a glance of strange meaning at the lively conversationalist, who made their expedition sound so amusing. What was it that look meant? It was Archie’s usual way—his inability to understand the happier natures. They all noted that occasional glance, and all gave the same interpretation to it: for what, indeed, could it mean else? There was nothing else to arouse his surprise, the wondering, half-question in his eyes.

Archie’s wonder, indeed, was beyond words. To think that, with such a light heart, the transaction which had already cost himself so much should be taken by the other, without a thought of the penalty involved, or the shame it had already brought. Perhaps Eddy did not realise that shame, or what it was to the young man to be suspected of unkindness, of selfishness, of wasting upon miserable pursuits of his own the money that might have saved the life of another. A year ago nothing could have made Archie himself realise such a position, for he had never possessed money, and could not in the nature of things have been asked for it, and this probably was why Saumarez was so obtuse. There was another thing, however, which Archie could not understand, but which he was deeply grateful for: and that was that Eddy made not the slightest reference in his lively narrative of the day’s proceedings, to the visit to Mrs. Brown. Why? But Archie could not tell—it only vaguely increased the trouble in his mind, while more or less soothing it externally: and he did not know whether it was not his duty to mention it himself. They might think him ashamed of Aunt Jane if he said nothing, and yet the recollection of that visit was so painful that he preferred not to speak of it, and was grateful to his companion for leaving it out of his easy and amusing tale. After dinner Eddy was as much the hero of the moment as he had been before. He had various experiments to make as to the lights, as to the flowers, and all the details of the ball-room, for the due regulation of which the group of admiring spectators followed him up and down, hanging upon his words. Archie followed at the end of the train, still wondering, saying to himself, that no doubt the money, which apparently was to cost himself so dear, had so relieved Eddy’s mind that he could not restrain himself, that he felt a new man: that was no doubt the cause of his vivacity, the lightness of his heart. Archie remembered how he had himself felt when relieved of the burden of the debt to Rankin for the little dogs, and other small matters which had been on his mind before he had received his father’s first gift of twenty pounds. That gift had come to him amid painful circumstances, but when the first effect produced by them had died away, how glad he had been to have it, to clear himself from the small burdens which were as lead upon his soul! Eddy was much more a man of the world than he, and his liabilities were far greater, but he thought he could understand how he must feel from those sensations of his own. He could not but think, however, that in Eddy’s place he would have said something—he would have given a look or a grasp of the hand to his benefactor to show him that he appreciated and felt what he had done, especially if that benefactor had been likely to get into trouble for it. Then Archie, pondering behind backs, while all that lively chatter was going on, remembered himself that he had not said a word of gratitude to his father for the twenty pounds, had neither felt nor spoken any gratitude. Ah, but I am not his father, Archie said to himself. With this thought, however, came another reflection, that up to this moment he had never shown any thankfulness to his father, who had bestowed so many gifts upon him. He had been embarrassed and awkward, and had taken everything for granted. Who was he to blame another for the same sentiment which was so strong in himself? Only just I am not his father, Archie said.

It was when the party was breaking up for the night that Marion seized upon her brother, drawing him into a corner of the hall where the lights were extinguished, and where in the recess of a window there was a sheltered place beyond the reach of observation. She caught him by the arm and drew him aside there, until the others had dispersed, and then a piece of inquiry which he had not anticipated burst upon Archie. “Were you at Aunty Jane’s? Did you take him to Aunty Jane’s?” Marion exclaimed breathlessly, holding his arm with her hands as if in a vice.

“You heard him,” said Archie, avoiding the question, “telling all where we had been.”

“Were you not there? Did you not go there? He never said a word, but he could not speak if you didn’t. Archie, tell me on your word—were you not there?”

Archie saw that her eyes were gleaming, and her face pale. He did not know what to make of this sudden assault, nor what it could matter to Marion whether he had or had not gone to see Aunty Jane. He answered at last, however, with reluctance.