The Railway Man and His Children

by Mrs. Oliphant

“They will have found nae proof,” she said, “as how could they have found any proof, there being nane. And they will just be in a puzzle what to do—and yon leddy will either be concocting something, or else she will be working upon your father, poor misguided man. Eh, when I think what James Rowland might have been, with his bonnie dochter to sit at the head of his table, and his son to stand for him before the world, and everything just good nature and peace. But he had to have a grand leddy to scare us a’ with her grand ways, and that was thinking of nothing but how to get as much as she could out o’ him, and his ain that were the right heirs, out of the way. Ye’ll see the next thing will be trouble to Mey. She will not put up with Mey: now she’s gotten you banished, the next thing in her head will be something against your sister, till baith the ane and the ither o’ you is on the street. And just let her do her worst,” said Mrs. Brown with a flush of war, “there will be aye room here. I’m no wanting to see her fall into worse and worse sin, but the sooner she lets out her plans the better for us. And we’ll just have Mey back in her bonnie little room, and everything as it was before.”

Would everything be as it was before? Alas, Archie feared not. They were not as they had been before. For himself everything was changed. It was vain to think of returning to his old existence as it had been, when they were all so cheerful together in Sauchiehall Road. He thought of the old suppers, when he would bring in with him two or three of his Philosophers, whom Mrs. Brown would receive with a “Come away ben, come in to the fire. I’m just very glad to see you,” and Marion would set herself to tease and provoke: and who would be delighted to reply to both the ladies, to meet Mrs. Brown with compliments upon her supper, and to laugh with Marion to her heart’s content. These little parties had been very pleasant. They had appeared to him sometimes, when anything had gone wrong at Rosmore, as happy examples of natural ease and enjoyment. But now he had ceased to have any taste for these gatherings. And Marion: perhaps Marion would be more at home than he was: for at Rosmore her social performances had been still a little in the same kind, personal encounters of laughter and sharp speeches, what Eddy called “chaff,” and in which style he was himself a master. Perhaps she could still have made herself happy with the Philosophers. But Archie’s day for that was over. The old home could never be what it had been before. He scorned himself for seeing all its little defects, and for feeling the disenchantment, even for the consciousness that Aunt Jane, who was so kind, was scarcely a companion who could make life sweet. She was as his mother. He had never known other care than her’s. In the old days he had perhaps wished sometimes that she had not spoken the language of Glasgow in quite so broad a tone. But this was so small a defect; how he hated himself for perceiving much more than the broad Glasgow speech which jarred upon him! But it is a very hard ordeal for an old woman in any rank when she has to be the sole companion of a young man; especially when long knowledge makes him acquainted with every tale she has to tell, and all the experiences which might be interesting to another, but have been familiar to him since ever he began to listen and to understand.

The only relief which Archie had was in attempts, not carried out with any energy, to get a situation in which he could earn his own living. Nothing could have been more false than his present position. He had scarcely any money left, and he had abandoned his father’s house for ever. Yet he was supported by his aunt, who received her living from his father, and so it was still by James Rowland’s money that his son was nourished, though that son had totally rebelled against him. What if he might cut short or take away altogether Jane Brown’s allowance, on account of the rebel she was harbouring? What if he understood with contempt that his son was thus living upon him still? Sometimes at night these thoughts would so sting and madden Archie that he would jump out of bed in the morning, resolved before night came again to have got work, whatever it was, and to have made himself independent. But this was so much easier said and thought than done. One man to whom he applied, laughed in his face when he confessed that he was the son of the great Rowland, the Indian Railway Man. “No, no, Mr. Rowland,” he said, “the like of you in my office would revolutionise everything. You have too much money to spend, you rich men’s sons. You lead away the poor lads that cannot play fast and loose with life like you. Eh! you have no money? Well, then, I suppose you have had a tiff with your father and mean to be independent. That’s just as bad. You will be diligent for a while and then you will go off like a firework. I have known the sort of thing before. No, no, my young gentleman, the like of you is not for an office like mine.” Then poor Archie tried the plan of giving no account of himself at all, except that he was in want of a situation, and could do a little bookkeeping, and was acquainted with the axiom that two and two make four. And in this case he was asked for his testimonials, but had no testimonials to offer, no previous character or evidence as to what he could do. And again, but more roughly, he was re-conducted, as the French say, to the simplest door, and his hopes in that instance were over. He then began, as how many a much disappointed man has done, to study the advertisements in the newspapers, and to answer them sometimes half a dozen in the day. But the sprawling large hand-writing which was so fatally like his father’s, did not find favour in the eyes of men who advertised for clerks. It was admired in Mr. Rowland, the great railway man, and said to mean originality, daring, and a strong will, but in the young would-be clerk it was sharply set down as a bad hand, and he was rejected on that and other reasons again and again. This dismal play went on from day to day. Perhaps he was not very earnest in it, perhaps he felt that in no combination of circumstances could it be a matter of life and death. If he was not arrested and brought to trial, he would be provided for. The question was whether he would submit his pride to being supported by the man who had flung that cheque in his face. When he asked himself such a question, or rather, when it fluttered across his path, Archie would spring to his feet again with an emphatic “No!” and redouble his exertions.

But he was in a false position, crippled all round by disabilities. Mrs. Brown advised that he should go to the minister, who had known him so long, and could speak for him; but Archie knew what the minister would say: he would remind him of his duty to his father, and that to leave his father’s house and bury himself in a position unbecoming Mr. Rowland’s son, was ungrateful and unkind. And if he told all his story, and that of the forged cheque, what would the minister say? He would shake his head, he would grow grave, a cloud would gather over his face, he would make haste to end the interview. It would be impossible to believe that Mr. Rowland would make such an accusation without certain proof. Archie knew this was how it would happen, and he could not face such a reception.

Mrs. Brown went herself privately to the foundry, where her own connection with it as the widow of a foreman, and still more, her connection with Rowland, who had risen from it to such unexampled heights, made her still a person of consideration—to speak to the manager. But the manager of the foundry was still more decided.

“If he really wants to learn the work, and his father will say a single word, it will be easily managed.”

“But oh, Mr. Blyth, ye must not ask that; for it’s just in consequence of two-three unlucky words with his father that he’s thinking of taking a situation.”

“Then, Mrs. Brown, you should give the young man good advice. What does he think he’ll gain by quarrelling with his father? He may be sure his father is twice the man that he is, however clever he may be.”

“I was not saying he was very clever,” said Mrs. Brown; “but ye see he has a stepmother, and that explains everything: for she just turns the father against them, as is a common occurrence.”

“Well,” said the manager, “all the same, the best thing he can do is to make it up with his father. Stepmothers are ill things, but they’re not always as black as they’re painted; and those that are subject to them must just put up with them.”