Wilfrid Cumbermede. George MacDonald
the tears were rolling down my cheeks, and there was a great lump in my throat.
‘I am very sorry indeed to give you pain, Willie,’ he said kindly.
‘It’s not my blame, is it, uncle?’ I sobbed.
‘Not in the least, my boy.’
‘Oh! then, I don’t mind it so much.’
‘There’s a brave boy! Now the question is, what to do with you.’
‘Can’t I stop at home, then?’
‘No, that won’t do either, Willie. I must have you taught, and I haven’t time to teach you myself. Neither am I scholar enough for it now; my learning has got rusty. I know your father would have wished to send you to college, and although I do not very well see how I can manage it, I must do the best I can. I’m not a rich man, you see, Willie, though I have a little laid by. I never could do much at making money, and I must not leave your aunt unprovided for.’
‘No, uncle. Besides, I shall soon be able to work for myself and you too.’
‘Not for a long time if you go to college, Willie. But we need not talk about that yet.’
In the evening I went to my uncle’s room. He was sitting by his fire reading the New Testament.
‘Please, uncle,’ I said, ‘will you tell me something about my father and mother?’
‘With pleasure, my boy,’ he answered, and after a moment’s thought began to give me a sketch of my father’s life, with as many touches of the man himself as he could at the moment recall. I will not detain my reader with the narrative. It is sufficient to say that my father was a simple honourable man, without much education, but a great lover of plain books. His health had always been delicate; and before he died he had been so long an invalid that my mother’s health had given way in nursing him, so that she very soon followed him. As his narrative closed my uncle said: ‘Now, Willie, you see, with a good man like that for your father, you are bound to be good and honourable! Never mind whether people praise you or not; you do what you ought to do. And don’t be always thinking of your rights. There are people who consider themselves very grand because they can’t bear to be interfered with. They think themselves lovers of justice, when it is only justice to themselves they care about. The true lover of justice is one who would rather die a slave than interfere with the rights of others. To wrong any one is the most terrible thing in the world. Injustice to you is not an awful thing like injustice in you. I should like to see you a great man, Willie. Do you know what I mean by a great man?’
‘Something else than I know, I’m afraid, uncle,’ I answered.
‘A great man is one who will try to do right against the devil himself: one who will not do wrong to please anybody or to save his life.’
I listened, but I thought with myself a man might do all that, and be no great man. I would do something better—some fine deed or other—I did not know what now, but I should find out by-and-by. My uncle was too easily pleased: I should demand more of a great man. Not so did the knights of old gain their renown. I was silent.
‘I don’t want you to take my opinions as yours, you know, Willie,’ my uncle resumed. ‘But I want you to remember what my opinion is.’
As he spoke, he went to a drawer in the room, and brought out something which he put in my hands. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was the watch grannie had given me.
‘There,’ he said, ‘is your father’s watch. Let it keep you in mind that to be good is to be great.’
‘Oh, thank you, uncle!’ I said, heeding only my recovered treasure. ‘But didn’t it belong to somebody before my father? Grannie gave it me as if it had been hers.’
‘Your grandfather gave it to your father; but when he died, your great-grandmother took it. Did she tell you anything about it?’
‘Nothing particular. She said it was her husband’s.’
‘So it was, I believe.’
‘She used to call him my father.’
‘Ah, you remember that!’
‘I’ve had so much time to think about things, uncle!’
‘Yes. Well—I hope you will think more about things yet.’
‘Yes, uncle. But there’s something else I should like to ask you about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The old sword.’
My uncle smiled, and rose again, saying, ‘Ah! I thought as much. Is that anything like it?’ he added, bringing it from the bottom of a cupboard.
I took it from his hands with awe. It was the same. If I could have mistaken the hilt, I could not mistake the split sheath.
‘Oh, uncle!’ I exclaimed, breathless with delight.
‘That’s it—isn’t it?’ he said, enjoying my enjoyment.
‘Yes, that it is! Now tell me all about it, please.’
‘Indeed I can tell you very little. Some ancestor of ours fought with it somewhere. There was a story about it, but I have forgot it. You may have it if you like.’
‘No, uncle! May I? To take away with me?’
‘Yes. I think you are old enough now not to do any mischief with it.’
I do not believe there was a happier boy in England that night. I did not mind where I went now. I thought I could even bear to bid Mrs Elder farewell. Whether therefore possession had done me good, I leave my reader to judge. But happily for our blessedness, the joy of possession soon palls, and not many days had gone by before I found I had a heart yet. Strange to say, it was my aunt who touched it.
I do not yet know all the reasons which brought my uncle to the resolution of sending me abroad: it was certainly an unusual mode of preparing one for the university; but the next day he disclosed the plan to me. I was pleased with the notion. But my aunt’s apron went up to her eyes. It was a very hard apron, and I pitied those eyes although they were fierce.
‘Oh, auntie!’ I said, ‘what are you crying for? Don’t you like me to go?’
‘It’s too far off, child. How am I to get to you if you should be taken ill?’
Moved both by my own pleasure and her grief, I got up and threw my arms round her neck. I had never done so before. She returned my embrace and wept freely.
As it was not a fit season for travelling, and as my uncle had not yet learned whither it would be well to send me, it was after all resolved that I should return to Mr Elder’s for another half-year. This gave me unspeakable pleasure; and I set out for school again in such a blissful mood as must be rare in the experience of any life.
CHAPTER XII. THE HOUSE-STEWARD
My uncle had had the watch cleaned and repaired for me, so that, notwithstanding its great age, it was yet capable of a doubtful sort of service. Its caprices were almost human, but they never impaired the credit of its possession in the eyes of my school-fellows; rather they added to the interest of the little machine, inasmuch as no one could foretell its behaviour under any circumstances. We were far oftener late now, when we went out for a ramble. Heretofore we had used our faculties and consulted the sky—now we trusted to the watch, and indeed acted as if it could regulate the time to our convenience, and carry us home afterwards. We regarded it, in respect Of time, very much as some people regard the Bible in respect of eternity. And the consequences were similar. We made an idol of it, and the idol played us the usual idol-pranks.
But I think the possession of the sword, in my own eyes too a far grander thing than the watch, raised me yet higher in the regard of my companions. We could not be on such intimate terms with the sword, for one thing, as with the watch. It was in more senses than one beyond our sphere—a thing to be regarded with awe and reverence. Mr Elder had most wisely made no objection to my having it in our bed-room; but he drove two nails into the wall and hung it high above