As no school could be found conducted on principles sufficiently rigorous, he was attended at home by a master who set a high price on the understanding that he was to illustrate the beauty of abstinence not only by precept but by example.
Rowland passed for a child of ordinary parts, and certainly, during his younger years, was an excellent imitation of a boy who had inherited nothing whatever that was to make life easy.
He was passive, pliable, frank, extremely slow at his books, and inordinately fond of trout-fishing.His hair, a memento of his Dutch ancestry, was of the fairest shade of yellow, his complexion absurdly rosy, and his measurement around the waist, when he was about ten years old, quite alarmingly large.
This, however, was but an episode in his growth; he became afterwards a fresh-colored, yellow-bearded man, but he was never accused of anything worse than a tendency to corpulence.
He emerged from childhood a simple, wholesome, round-eyed lad, with no suspicion that a less roundabout course might have been taken to make him happy, but with a vague sense that his young experience was not a fair sample of human freedom, and that he was to make a great many discoveries.
When he was about fifteen, he achieved a momentous one.
He ascertained that his mother was a saint.She had always been a very distinct presence in his life, but so ineffably gentle a one that his sense was fully opened to it only by the danger of losing her.She had an illness which for many months was liable at any moment to terminate fatally, and during her long-arrested convalescence she removed the mask which she had worn for years by her husband's order.
Rowland spent his days at her side and felt before long as if he had made a new friend.All his impressions at this period were commented and interpreted at leisure in the future, and it was only then that he understood that his mother had been for fifteen years a perfectly unhappy woman.
Her marriage had been an immitigable error which she had spent her life in trying to look straight in the face.
She found nothing to oppose to her husband's will of steel but the appearance of absolute compliance; her spirit sank, and she lived for a while in a sort of helpless moral torpor.
But at last, as her child emerged from babyhood, she began to feel a certain charm in patience, to discover the uses of ingenuity, and to learn that, somehow or other, one can always arrange one's life.She cultivated from this time forward a little private plot of sentiment, and it was of this secluded precinct that, before her death, she gave her son the key.Rowland's allowance at college was barely sufficient to maintain him decently, and as soon as he graduated, he was taken into his father's counting-house, to do small drudgery on a proportionate salary.
For three years he earned his living as regularly as the obscure functionary in fustian who swept the office.
Mr.Mallet was consistent, but the perfection of his consistency was known only on his death.He left but a third of his property to his son, and devoted the remainder to various public institutions and local charities.Rowland's third was an easy competence, and he never felt a moment's jealousy of his fellow-pensioners;but when one of the establishments which had figured most advantageously in his father's will bethought itself to affirm the existence of a later instrument, in which it had been still more handsomely treated, the young man felt a sudden passionate need to repel the claim by process of law.
There was a lively tussle, but he gained his case;immediately after which he made, in another quarter, a donation of the contested sum.He cared nothing for the money, but he had felt an angry desire to protest against a destiny which seemed determined to be exclusively salutary.
It seemed to him that he would bear a little spoiling.
And yet he treated himself to a very modest quantity, and submitted without reserve to the great national discipline which began in 1861.
When the Civil War broke out he immediately obtained a commission, and did his duty for three long years as a citizen soldier.
His duty was obscure, but he never lost a certain private satisfaction in remembering that on two or three occasions it had been performed with something of an ideal precision.
He had disentangled himself from business, and after the war he felt a profound disinclination to tie the knot again.
He had no desire to make money, he had money enough;and although he knew, and was frequently reminded, that a young man is the better for a fixed occupation, he could discover no moral advantage in driving a lucrative trade.Yet few young men of means and leisure ever made less of a parade of idleness, and indeed idleness in any degree could hardly be laid at the door of a young man who took life in the serious, attentive, reasoning fashion of our friend.It often seemed to Mallet that he wholly lacked the prime requisite of a graceful flaneur--the simple, sensuous, confident relish of pleasure.
He had frequent fits of extreme melancholy, in which he declared that he was neither fish nor flesh nor good red herring.
He was neither an irresponsibly contemplative nature nor a sturdily practical one, and he was forever looking in vain for the uses of the things that please and the charm of the things that sustain.
He was an awkward mixture of strong moral impulse and restless aesthetic curiosity, and yet he would have made a most ineffective reformer and a very indifferent artist.It seemed to him that the glow of happiness must be found either in action, of some immensely solid kind, on behalf of an idea, or in producing a masterpiece in one of the arts.Oftenest, perhaps, he wished he were a vigorous young man of genius, without a penny.
As it was, he could only buy pictures, and not paint them;and in the way of action, he had to content himself with making a rule to render scrupulous moral justice to handsome examples of it in others.On the whole, he had an incorruptible modesty.
