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                     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 so
perfect that it was worth a man's while to struggle for it; that any
officious interference with the recognised and existing was a mistake;
that nothing was either the best or the worst, but all things mere
degrees in a round of the comparative, in which a little more or a
little less was of no importance, and the most strenuous efforts tended
to failure as much as indifference? Walter, returning to the old house
which was his field of battle, questioned himself thus, with a sense of
despair not lessened by the deeper self-ridicule within him, which
asked, was he then so anxious for the best, so ready to sacrifice his
comfort for an ideal excellence? That he, of all men, should have this
to do, and yet that, being done, it should be altogether ineffectual,
was a sort of climax of clumsy mortal failure and hopelessness. The
only good thing he had done was the restoration of those half-evicted
cotters, and that was but a mingled and uncertain good, it appeared.
What was the use of any struggle? If it was his own personal freedom
alone that he really wanted, why here it was within his power to
purchase it--or at least a moderate amount of it--a comparative freedom,
as everything was comparative. His mind by this time had ceased to be
able to think, or even to perceive with any distinctness the phrase or
_motif_ inscribed upon one of those confused and idly-turning wheels of
mental machinery which had stood in the place of thought to him. It was
the afternoon when he got back, and everything within him had fallen
into an afternoon dreariness. He lingered when he landed on the waste
bit of grass that lay between the little landing-place and the door of
the old castle. He had no heart to go in and sit down unoccupied in that
room which had witnessed so many strange meetings. He was no longer
indeed afraid of his visitor there, but rather looked forward with a
kind of relief to the tangible presence which delivered him from
meetings of the mind more subtle and painful. But he had no expectation
of any visitor; nor was there anything for him to do except to sit down
and perhaps attempt to read, which meant solely a delivering over of
himself to his spiritual antagonists--for how was it possible to give
his mind to any fable of literature in the midst of a parable so urgent
and all-occupying, of his own?

He stood therefore idly upon the neglected turf, watching the ripple of
the water as it lapped against the rough stones on the edge. The breadth
of the loch was entirely hidden from him by the projection of the old
tower, which descended into the water at the right, and almost shut off
this highest corner of Loch Houran into a little lakelet of its own.
Walter heard the sound of oars and voices from the loch without seeing
any 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 was
aware of the polished and gilded galley from Birkenbraes, in which
already Mr. Williamson, seated in the stern, had perceived and was
hailing him. "Hallo, my Lord Erradeen! Here we've all come to see ye
this fine afternoon. I told them we should find ye under your own vine
and your own fig-tree." This speech was accompanied by a general laugh.
The arrival of such a party, heralded by such laughter in a desolate
house, with few servants and no readiness for any such emergency, to a
young man in Walter's confused and distracted condition would not, it
may be supposed, have been very welcome in