| I, The Open Door |
| II, The Portrait |
THE OPEN DOOR, AND THE PORTRAIT
Stories of the Seen and the Unseen
By Margaret O. Wilson Oliphant
1881
I
THE OPEN DOOR.
I took the house of Brentwood on my return from India in 18—, for thetemporary accommodation of my family, until I could find a permanenthome for them. It had many advantages which made it peculiarlyappropriate. It was within reach of Edinburgh; and my boy Roland, whoseeducation had been considerably neglected, could go in and out toschool; which was thought to be better for him than either leaving homealtogether or staying there always with a tutor. The first of theseexpedients would have seemed preferable to me; the second commendeditself to his mother. The doctor, like a judicious man, took the midwaybetween. “Put him on his pony, and let him ride into the High Schoolevery morning; it will do him all the good in the world,” Dr. Simsonsaid; “and when it is bad weather, there is the train.” His motheraccepted this solution of the difficulty more easily than I could havehoped; and our pale-faced boy, who had never known anything moreinvigorating than Simla, began to encounter the brisk breezes of theNorth in the subdued severity of the month of May. Before the time ofthe vacation in July we had the satisfaction of seeing him begin toacquire something of the brown and ruddy complexion of hisschoolfellows. The English system did not commend itself to Scotland inthese days. There was no little Eton at Fettes; nor do I think, if therehad been, that a genteel exotic of that class would have tempted eithermy wife or me. The lad was doubly precious to us, being the only oneleft us of many; and he was fragile in body, we believed, and deeplysensitive in mind. To keep him at home, and yet to send him toschool,—to combine the advantages of the two systems,—seemed to beeverything that could be desired. The two girls also found at Brentwoodeverything they wanted. They were near enough to Edinburgh to havemasters and lessons as many as they required for completing thatnever-ending education which the young people seem to require nowadays.Their mother married me when she was younger than Agatha; and I shouldlike to see them improve upon their mother! I myself was then no morethan twenty-five,—an age at which I see the young fellows now gropingabout them, with no notion what they are going to do with their lives.However; I suppose every generation has a conceit of itself whichelevates it, in its own opinion, above that which comes after it.
Brentwood stands on that fine and wealthy slope of country—one of therichest in Scotland—which lies between the Pentland Hills and theFirth. In clear weather you could see the blue gleam—like a bent bow,embracing the wealthy fields and scattered houses—of the great estuaryon one side of you, and on the other the blue heights, not gigantic likethose we had been used to, but just high enough for all the glories ofthe atmosphere, the play of clouds, and sweet reflections, which give toa hilly country an interest and a charm which nothing else can emulate.Edinburgh—with its two lesser heights, the Castle and the Calton Hill,its spires and towers piercing through the smoke, and Arthur’s Seat lyingcrouched behind, like a guardian no longer very needful, taking hisrepose beside the well-beloved charge, w