THE WIZARD'S SON
A Novel
BY MRS. OLIPHANT
AUTHOR OF "THE CURATE IN CHARGE," "YOUNG MUSGRAVE," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1884
[The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved]
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,
BREAD STREET HILL.
THE WIZARD'S SON.
CHAPTER I.
Was this then the conclusion of all things—that there was nothing soperfect that it was worth a man's while to struggle for it; that anyofficious interference with the recognised and existing was a mistake;that nothing was either the best or the worst, but all things meredegrees in a round of the comparative, in which a little more or alittle less was of no importance, and the most strenuous efforts tendedto failure as much as indifference? Walter, returning to the old housewhich was his field of battle, questioned himself thus, with a sense ofdespair not lessened by the deeper self-ridicule within him, whichasked, was he then so anxious for the best, so ready to sacrifice hiscomfort for an ideal excellence? That he, of all men, should have thisto do, and yet that, being done, it should be altogether ineffectual,was a sort of climax of clumsy mortal failure and hopelessness. Theonly good thing he had done was the restoration of those half-evictedcotters, and that was but a mingled and uncertain good, it appeared.What was the use of any struggle? If it was his own personal freedomalone that he really wanted, why here it was within his power topurchase it—or at least a moderate amount of it—a comparative freedom,as everything was comparative. His mind by this time had ceased to beable to think, or even to perceive with any distinctness the phrase ormotif inscribed upon one of those confused and idly-turning wheels ofmental machinery which had stood in the place of thought to him. It wasthe afternoon when he got back, and everything within him had falleninto an afternoon dreariness. He lingered when he landed on the wastebit of grass that lay between the little landing-place and the door ofthe old castle. He had no heart to go in and sit down unoccupied in thatroom which had witnessed so many strange meetings. He was no longerindeed afraid of his visitor there, but rather looked forward with akind of relief to the tangible presence which delivered him frommeetings of the mind more subtle and painful. But he had no expectationof any visitor; nor was there anything for him to do except to sit downand perhaps attempt to read, which meant solely a delivering over ofhimself to his spiritual antagonists—for how was it possible to givehis mind to any fable of literature in the midst of a parable so urgentand all-occupying, of his own?
He stood therefore idly upon the neglected turf, watching the ripple ofthe water as it lapped against the rough stones on the edge. The breadthof the loch was entirely hidden from him by the projection of the oldtower, which descended into the water at the right, and almost shut offthis highest corner of Loch Houran into a little lakelet of its own.Walter heard the sound of oars and voices from the loch without seeingany one: but that was usual enough, and few people invaded his privacy:so that he was taken by surprise when, suddenly raising his eyes, he wasaware of the polished and gilded galley from Birkenbraes, in whichalready Mr. Williamson, seated in the stern, had perceived and washailing him. "Hallo, my Lord Erradeen! Here we've all come to see yethis