This last confidence, which was given on a windy night, when the rain plashed most dismally against the windows of the children’s room, quite alarmed Tom’s sisters, who were romantic and tender-hearted girls of seventeen and eighteen. They began to cry, and to beg the indignant lad not to do anything so dreadful. But the more they petitioned, the more stubborn Tom grew. Tears and entreaties only hardened him into firmer determination to doff his mortar-board cap for ever. How could he stay at school, when his chums, Sam Jackson and Harry Wilde, had gone to business! What did girls know of a fellow’s vexation at being left with a lot of young boys, not one of whom could hold a bat or keep a goal! To sea he would go, unless papa got him some sort of a berth by Easter.
The poor girls were crying very bitterly, and the rain throbbed in sympathy against the panes, and Tom stamped up and down the floor, when his mamma came in. She was much surprised at the scene; for the children were always on the best of terms. She was still more surprised, and a little dismayed, when she learned the cause of the scene. Being a prudent and self-restraining woman, however, she did not say much; and with a few general remarks, ‘that of course all boys must go to business in due time,’ she terminated the painful discussion.
After supper, when her husband and self were alone, she startled the good easy man by relating what had taken place. Tom’s father was the principal doctor of the neighbourhood, which was so salubrious and so poor that he must have left it long before, had he not possessed a little independency, which kept the household afloat. He was of an indolent turn, getting gray and fat, like his old cob. Want of work, magnificent health, and a managing wife, who took all the worries of life off his shoulders, made him oblivious of the young world growing round his hearth. He could not imagine that his boy and girls were weaving anticipatory tissues of their lives, that these young birds were getting fledged for flights far away from the home-nest. So, the announcement of Tom’s rebellion against school, and his thoughts of evasion, came on the doctor as the greatest event he had known for years.
‘Now you mention it, Maria,’ said he, when he began to quieten down a bit—‘now you mention it, Tom is really growing a big fellow. He’ll be six feet high, if he’s an inch, by his twentieth year. And what a square stiff back he’s got! He takes after my mother’s family; they were all strapping fellows. Yes, Tom’s too big for school. He’s like a salmon among minnows, among the grammar-school boys. Dear, dear, how lads do grow!’
‘Yes, yes,’ broke in Tom’s mother, a little tartly—she had a temper of her own, as all managing women have—‘Tom is big, and will be bigger; that goes without the saying. But what is to be done for the poor boy? What career do you propose for him?’
‘Upon my life, I haven’t the ghost of an idea, Maria. Now you have brought this matter on the carpet, it recalls a good deal I have heard of late. When I was at Bimpson’s the other day, attending his wife of her seventh boy, Bimpson said to me, over a glass of wine: “Doctor, he is a fine child, I admit; but how he’ll get bread and cheese, if he lives, I can’t guess at all.” And the poor fellow broke out into quite a jeremiad over the redundancy of boys just now. He has three lads waiting for careers, and the deuce an opening can he find! Then there is Clumpit the wheelwright—you know Clumpit, Maria? Well, I’ve been attending him for hypochondria. He can find nothing suitable for his eldest son; and it preys on his mind, because the mother won’t let him go away from home to try his luck in some of the big towns. And old Burrows met me the other day, and quite pitifully asked me if I could advise him what to do with his grandson. I was really sorry for the poor old man. Of course, I could not help him.’
Tom’s mother looked more anxious as the doctor went on ramblingly; and at last she said: ‘All this leads to nothing. Tom must have a career arranged for him by us, or he will take the matter in his own hands. I can read his mind; I know him better than you, my dear. What must we do with him?’
‘I tell you, again, Maria, I have not a ghost of an idea. Yet, I do know one thing—he shall not be a medical man!’
Here the doctor relighted his cigar and smoked in frowning thoughtfulness, until Tom’s mother said decisively: ‘Well, if you do not know what is to be done with the dear child, we must ask the opinion of our friends. I, for my part, cannot allow this subject to drop. It must be taken up and carried out to the needful end. I know too well your easy-going way. To-morrow, you will forget all about poor Tom. I say, and with emphasis, we must find a career for our boy. As you have no ideas, I shall write to such of our friends as have experience of the world; and ask them either to advise us, by coming over here to a sort of family council, or else to tell us by letter. Your connections and mine have among them a great deal of experience: they know what prospects there are for the rising generation better than we can know, in this out-of-the-way place. So, I tell you, my dear, my mind’s made up; and to-morrow I will write the letters.’
‘You are a genius, Maria, as I’ve often told you. I believe you would get us out of any hobble, however formidable. I haven’t the ghost of an idea; and you have the ideas themselves, heaps of them. Write, my dear, to all our relations that are likely to be of help to us; and we shall soon find a billet for Tom. God bless him! he is a good and clever boy, and deserves a splendid career. Don’t forget my brother John; as a London lawyer, he will be a host of advice in himself. And be sure to ask your cousin Richard, the parson; he has always been fond of Tom; and besides, he’s the shrewdest fellow I know, notwithstanding his cloth. He ought to have been a barrister. But, as that cannot be, he ought to be a bishop. How he would rule a diocese, Maria!’