“Take this to Sir Thomas Crawley, and tell him I am waiting.”
The servant to whom the above direction was given, carried the card to which it referred to his master, who, lifting it from the silver waiter on which it was presented, read the following name—“The Rev. Ernest Carrington.”
“Show the gentleman into the library, and bring candles there directly,” said Sir Thomas; then, thrusting his fingers through the short, stiff, grey bristles, suggestive of a venerable and well-worn scrubbing-brush, which constituted his head of hair—an action which, to any one acquainted with his habits, would have proved that he was anxious and excited—he turned, and left the apartment.
When he entered the library, his excitement seemed to have increased and taken a crabbed turn, for it was in no very cordial tone of voice that he addressed his visitor.
“If, as I presume, you have come here in consequence of my letter, I must say you have chosen a somewhat late hour for a business visit, young gentleman.”
“I lost no time, sir, in making the necessary inquiries,” was the reply. “Immediately on receiving your letter I hastened to London, saw your solicitor, perused my grandfather’s will, obtained the information I required, and came down by the first train that stopped at the Flatville station; and, as your man of business informed me time was of importance, I would not wait till to-morrow, lest the delay might cause you inconvenience. If that is not sufficient apology for my untimely visit, I have none other to offer.”
The calm, respectful, but at the same time perfectly self-possessed manner of the speaker, appeared to have the same land of effect upon his auditor that the keeper’s eye has upon some savage animal, for he replied, in a more civil tone than he had yet used,—
“Yes, well—I see—yes. I am obliged to you for the prompt attention you have paid to my letter.” He paused, then added, with affected indifference,—“About the entail; you find, of course, that the point raised was a wholly unnecessary one, and that your signature is a mere matter of form, to satisfy the absurd scruples of the party negotiating for the purchase; some people are so ridiculously cautious, ha! ha!” and here he laughed a forced, uneasy laugh.
“Such was by no means the view the solicitor whom I consulted in town appeared to take of the matter,” was Ernest’s quiet reply. “So far from it, that he declared, without my signature, the title was worthless; and that, if I were inclined to litigate the question, he had not a doubt that I should gain my cause. The estates, he said, were clearly entailed; and, therefore, my grandfather could not alienate them without my father’s consent, which, I need scarcely tell you, he never attempted to obtain.”
Sir Thomas Crawley’s brow grew black as midnight. “Preposterous,” he said, “quite childish and preposterous. I have taken counsel’s opinion on the point, and they say you haven’t a leg to stand on. You must have consulted some very ignorant person.”
“On the contrary, it is Mr. S., of ———— Street,” replied Ernest, naming a gentleman whose reputation for legal knowledge and acumen was undeniable; “but,” he continued, “it matters little, for I have no intention of raising the question. The animus of my grandfather’s will is unmistakable; he meant to leave every acre away from my father; and I should scorn to hold the estate on no better tenure than the juggling of a legal-quibble.”
“Then you are prepared to sign the paper resigning all claim upon the entailed estates, are you?” inquired Sir Thomas, eagerly.
“Yes, this very moment, if you choose,” was the ready answer.
Sir Thomas paused an instant in thought ere he replied.
“There is no such extreme hurry: Mr. Selby, my country agent, will be here to-morrow morning, and can witness your signature. I am glad to find that you take such a sensible view of the matter. I feared you might have formed some rash hopes on the strength of my application; in fact, I was most unwilling to apply to you; but—but—”
“You found it impossible to make out a title which could sell the estate without so doing,” interposed Ernest in a tone of quiet politeness, in which it would have required perceptions quicker and more delicate than those of Sir Thomas Crawley to have distinguished the covert satire that lurked beneath it.
“Exactly: one of those contemptible legal quibbles which you so justly reprobate,” returned Sir Thomas; “however, I am glad to perceive you feel with me so completely. You will dine with me? and I have a bed very much at your service.”
Ernest thanked him, but civilly declined. Sir Thomas however, persisted—he would take no denial; and at length a compromise was effected, Ernest consenting to dine with his rich relative, on condition that he might return to the inn where he had left his valise, in time to write one or two letters of importance to go by the early post the next morning.
The dinner passed off agreeably enough; Ernest being one of those happily endowed individuals who, without falsifying their own opinions, or seeming the thing they are not, yet possess the talent of adapting their conversation to those with whom they are thrown in company, in such a manner as to set them at ease, and draw out the best points of their characters.
Sir Thomas experienced the full influence of this fascination, and talked largely of his schemes for the amelioration of his tenantry; of plans for the revision and modification of the poor-laws; of the advisability of erecting model lodging-houses for the industrial classes, &c., &c., until he had deceived his companion, and almost persuaded himself into the belief that he was an enlightened philanthropist, overflowing with the milk of human kindness.
On his return to the inn at Ashburn, Ernest wrote the following letter to an old college friend, who was junior partner in the office of the legal luminary to whom he had alluded in his interview with Sir Thomas Crawley.
“My dear Milford,—Since I saw you two days ago, I have got through a considerable amount of business, met with an adventure, and, in short, condensed more active existence into the last eight-and-forty hours than one often accomplishes in as many days. One thing I am delighted to tell you,—I have succeeded in procuring employment, which will more than provide for the few requirements without which one must degrade from the rank of a gentleman. You can now, therefore, carry out the arrangement I explained to you, and settle the small residue of my poor father’s property upon my sisters;—my mother, as you are aware, having (I own, against my wishes) married again. Thanks to those unnaturally amiable railroad shares which my father bought just before his decease, and which have turned out a really good investment (I look upon any one who, having gambled in railroads, leaves off a winner, as I should at a rat, who, nibbling at a baited trap, carried off the cheese scatheless), they will thus be able to live in comparative comfort, especially on the Continent, which their tastes lead them to prefer. The employment I have obtained is not exactly to my liking, but I shall look out for a curacy if I find the duties of my position unbearably irksome. Owing to my wrangler’s degree I distanced some half-dozen competitors, and obtained the post of classical and mathematical master at Doctor Donkiestir’s well-known school, almost as soon as I had entered my name as candidate. I begin my new duties the day after to-morrow, at which time the school meets.
“Having been thus enabled to place my sisters beyond the reach of poverty, my last scruple, in regard to that which you are pleased to call my absurd Quixotism, about the entailed estates, has vanished; and I, this evening, signified in proprid persona to Sir Thomas, my willingness to ‘do a little bit of Esau,’ as you irreverently term signing away my birthright—and here, par parenthèse, let me observe that you are too much addicted to this style of scriptural jesting—a fault the more to be reprehended because (as I find to my cost) it is decidedly infectious: verbum sat! The aforesaid ‘Sir Thomas’ seems, as far as one can judge on so short an acquaintance, by no means so black as he is painted; indeed, upon many of the great social questions of the day, his ideas coincide wonderfully with my own: he was polite in the extreme, though I must confess his amiability followed my declaration that I was willing to meet his wishes in regard to the entail.
“This epistle has run to such an unexpected length, that I have no room to detail my adventure, and will merely stimulate your curiosity by adding that it was intensely romantic, and that it contained the elements of the two things which, in the old Trinity days, we esteemed the greatest pleasures in life—viz., a fight and a flirtation.
“In consideration of my cloth, I indulged, in the first sparingly, and abstained from the last entirely; though, as far as the twilight enabled me to judge, the provocation was a very fair one. I know the epithet this confession will obtain for me; but I had rather bear the ignominy of being considered a ‘muff,’ than merit the designation of a ‘fast parson;’ and so fare thee well.
“Yours ever,
“Ernest Carrington.”
“P.S.—Remember, my sisters are not to know that I am sacrificing anything to add to their income; you are merely to inform them that, my father’s affairs being at length arranged, they will for the future be in the receipt of six hundred and fifty pounds per annum, instead of the four hundred which you before paid to them; and the delightful mist through which all women regard business matters, will effectually prevent their making any further discoveries.”
Having sealed his letter, Ernest betook himself to bed, and fell asleep as contentedly as if he had not sacrificed an estate worth £10,000 to a chivalrous scruple, and a patrimony of £200 a-year to brotherly affection.
Sir Thomas Crawley might consider him a weak-minded, good-natured fool; Milford designate him a “muff.” But if there were a few mere such muffs and fools in this realm of good King Mammon, that same kingdom might be better worth living in.
By ten o’clock the next morning he was again at Ashburn Priory; signed the deed relinquishing all claim upon the entailed estates; shook hands cordially with the rich man who was thus scheming to defraud him; and started with a light heart, and still lighter purse, to carry his own carpet-bag seven miles to the railroad. About a mile from the station, a pony-chaise overtook him, driven by a stout serving-lad, and containing two gentlemanly-looking boys, dressed in mourning, and a ponderous trunk, carefully corded and directed. As this vehicle approached, Ernest, who had walked fast, paused to wipe his brow, at the same time resting his carpet-bag—which he had carried on a stick over his shoulder—upon the top of the last milestone.
The elder of the two boys regarded him attentively; then whispered something to the younger, who nodded and smiled in reply; making a sign to the driver to stop, the elder boy, addressing Ernest, began—
“I beg your pardon, sir, but you seem tired: we are going to the Flatville station, and have a vacant seat at your service, if you please to accept it.”
“I will with the greatest pleasure,” returned Ernest, “if you are sure we shall not overweight the pony.”
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid—you need not be in the least afraid of that, sir,” interposed the younger boy confidently. “Samson can draw us; Samson is as strong as——”
“His Israelitish namesake, perhaps,” suggested Ernest, placing his carpet-bag on the top of the trunk, and springing lightly into the pony-chaise.
“Well, I was going to say, as strong as the Elephant and Castle,” remarked the younger boy, with a look of profound sagacity; “but, perhaps, the original Samson will do as well. What do you say, Percy?”
“I say that you are an absurd little chatterbox, Hugh, and I have little doubt the gentleman thinks so too,” returned his brother,—for the reader need scarcely read the direction on the trunk, albeit written in Percy’s plainest hand, to inform him that the boys were the two young Colvilles, then leaving home for the first time in their lives.
The parting had been a trying scene for all the persons concerned; and poor Hugh had only just recovered from the hearty cry, in which even his incipient manly dignity could not preserve him from indulging, when they overtook Ernest.
“A chatterbox, perhaps, but not an absurd one,” was the good-natured reply. “I feel particularly interested about the pony, I can assure you; have you had him long? I daresay he is a-great favourite.”
This speech, which was addressed to. Hugh, was too much for the poor little fellow’s fortitude, and, after a vain struggle to repress them, his scarcely dried tears sprang forth anew.
Percy threw his arm around him, and drew him affectionately to his side, as he said, in an explanatory whisper, “He is going to school for the first time, sir; and before he comes back, the pony we are so fond of must be sold.”
“And you?” inquired Ernest, interested by the boy’s manner and appearance.
“I am older, and therefore better able to bear such little trials,” was the reply. “Besides,” Percy continued, in a lower tone, “my mother depends upon me to take care of him, and keep up his spirits, for he has no father now to protect him.” Ernest glanced involuntarily at their deep mourning, and there was a pause; for the circumstance brought vividly before his recollection a similar period of sorrow, when death had been busy among his own loved ones, and his father and a younger brother, of whom Percy strongly reminded him, had been called from this world of care, and sin, and sorrow, to that better land, “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” The silence was at length broken by Hugh, whose grief was a very April kind of affair, even at the worst of times.
“I suppose you are not going to school, sir, too?” he said, addressing Ernest, while a merry sparkle in his eye belied the {implicit}’ the question indicated.
“Perhaps I may be,” returned Ernest, smiling at the applicability of the question to his own situation. “If I should tell you that I were going to do so, would you believe me?”
“I don’t think I should,” replied Hugh, regarding him attentively. “People don’t usually go to school when they’ve these things on their faces;” and, as he spoke, he, with a gesture half coaxing, half arch, gave a gentle twitch to Ernest’s curling whiskers.
Percy, afraid Hugh’s sudden rush into intimacy might annoy the stranger, attempted to restrain him, but Ernest, with a good-natured smile, prevented him.
“Do not check him,” he said; “our friendship will not end any sooner because it has begun rather rapidly.” He then, entered into conversation with the boys, choosing subjects in which he imagined they would feel interest, and enlarging upon them so cleverly and amusingly, that ere they reached the station, he had completely captivated the fresh, warm hearts of his young-companions.
“What will you say if I guess where you are going to?” he inquired of Hugh, as they drove up to the station.
“Why, if you guess right, I shall say you must be a conjuror,” was the reply.
“I think you are going to Doctor Donkiestir’s school, at Tickletown. Am I right?”
“Quite, quite right,” exclaimed Hugh, clapping his hands in delighted surprise; “but you must be a conjuror; how did you contrive to find it out?”
Ernest enjoyed the mystification for a minute or so; then, casting his eyes on the box, observed quietly, “I was taught to read when I was a good little boy; and your brother has written that direction so plainly, that I must have been blind if I had not been able to decipher it.”
“Oh, you cheat! anybody could have done that,” returned Hugh, contemptuously; “and I to think you a conjuror: Why, I expected to see you take twenty eggs out of an empty bag, and make a boiled plum-pudding in your hat, like the man we-saw perform last year. I say, Percy, it strikes me I’ve been making a goose of myself.”
“Very decidedly,” was Percy’s quiet reply.
The railroad station at Flatville was a large and central one, two or three branches converging at that point and joining the main line. A train from London was due before that by which the Colvilles were to proceed would start. Almost at the moment our little party arrived it made its appearance, the engine snorting and puffing, as though it were about to burst with spite at having been forced to draw so heavy a train at the rate of fifty miles-an hour.
“This is the train by which our cousin, Wilfred Goldsmith, was to arrive; but it is so long since I last saw him, that I scarcely expect to recognise him,” observed Percy.
“Oh! I hope we shall not miss him, for he will take care that they don’t put us into a wrong carriage, and carry us off to some desolate island, where we shall never be heard of any more till we have been eaten by the savages like Captain Cook; and then you know it will be too late,” suggested Hugh.
“I will ensure you against that catastrophe,” observed Ernest, “even if your cousin should not make his appearance; for I am going as far as Tickletown, and we will travel in the came carriage; see, they are bringing them up now—follow me.”
So saying, and having committed the important trunk to the care of an amiable and intelligent porter, Ernest selected a carriage, and the trio took their seats. Just before the train was about to start, an individual bustled up, followed by a porter carrying a writing-desk and a railway-rug glowing with all the colours of the rainbow. The moment the door was opened, he sprang in with such energy as nearly to overturn poor Hugh.
“Beg your pardon, little boy, but ’pon my word I didn’t see you—you ought to grow a couple of sizes larger to travel safe by rail; it was nearly a case of infanticide—a spoilt child, as somebody calls it. That’ll do, Velveteens” (this was addressed to the porter); “gently with that writing-desk, if you please; there’s all my personal jewellery, and several £500 notes in it. That’s the time of day! Sorry the directors set their faces against tipping; but the first occasion on which we meet in private life, half-a-crown awaits you; till then, Velveteens, as the Archbishop says in the play, ‘Accept my blessing.’”
The speaker was either a very small man, or a large boy dressed in adult clothing—at first sight it was not easy to determine which—till closer observation detected, in the breaking-voice, now hoarse, now shrill, the youthful complexion, and straggling, unformed figure, sufficient evidence that the latter hypothesis was the correct one. His outer boy was encased in a rough, very loose pea-jacket, with preternatural buttons, a. pair of the very “loudest” checked trousers, real Wellington boots, with heels not above three inches high, a shawl round his neck, in regard to which Emily’s perfidious shopman might have been believed, had he declared the colours to be indisputably fast; while a velvet travelling-cap, with a bullion tassel, completed his costume. Having wrapped his rug round his lower limbs, and gone through a most elaborate pantomime of making himself comfortable, he condescended to favour his companions with a glance of patronising scrutiny; apparently satisfying himself, by this means, that they were sufficiently respectable to be honoured by his conversation, he turned to Ernest, saying,—
“Fine open weather this, sir—jolly for the hunting—none-of your confounded frosts to-day—regular break up yesterday evening, and been thawing like bricks ever since—fond of hunting, sir?”
“I consider it a fine, manly sport, but too dangerous for little boys to be allowed to indulge in,” returned Ernest, drily.
Either not detecting, or more probably purposely ignoring, the covert satire of his speech, the fast young gentleman appeared to agree in the sentiment. .
“Yes, that’s true enough,” he said; “for instance, I wouldn’t advise this small shaver” (indicating with a motion of the eyelid Hugh, who sat watching him with breathless astonishment) “to trust himself across country outside a horse; but when one has come to—ahem! years of discretion, and learned how to take care of oneself,—the purpose for which divines tell us we are sent into the world,—why the more hunting one gets the jollier, I say.”
“Have you ever been out hunting yourself, may I ask?” inquired Ernest, fixing his penetrating glance full on the boy’s countenance; who, despite his fastness, was not, when asked a straightforward question, prepared to tell an actual lie, though to adhere to the exact truth would have made his previous remarks appear singularly inconsistent and uncalled for; accordingly he answered—
“Ar—well—yes—oh! of course I’ve been out hunting—ah—not exactly on horseback, perhaps, but it’s just the same thing, you know;—what a shocking slow train this is, to be sure!——they hardly do their five-and-thirty miles an hour; I shall certainly write to the Times about it, if they don’t mind what they’re at.”
During this speech Hugh’s sharp eyes had deciphered the direction on the important writing-desk, containing the jewellery and the incalculable number of £500 notes, and he promulgated the result of his discovery thus:—
“‘Wilfred J. Goldsmith, Esquire:’ what! are you our cousin Wilfred? why I took you for a gentleman!”
“Oh, Hugh!” exclaimed Percy, scandalised at his brother’s rudeness.
“No, I don’t mean that,” continued Hugh quickly, while-Ernest turned away his head to hide an irrepressible smile; “I mean, I took you for a grown up gentleman, and not a boy like Percy, you know.”
This involuntary tribute to the man-about-town-like adultness-of his manners and appearance delighted Wilfred Jacob more than the most elaborate compliment courtier could have devised; at length he had found some one to believe in him, and to take him at his own valuation, and he adopted and steadily patronised Hugh from that time forth. He was much too wide awake, however, to allow this to appear; replying in the off-hand; manner which he affected—
“Rather an equivocal compliment that, young’un; but I expect it was better meant than expressed: so I’ll take the will for the deed, as the lawyer’s clerk did after he’d mixed the ‘dog’s-nose’ rather too still at his early dinner. ‘Always give credit for good intentions,’ is a copy old Splitnib (so called from an analogy between his professional avocations, and the fact of his having, in by-gone hours, fallen over a form, and divided the bridge of his own proboscis) will set you writing before you are many days older; and in me you behold a living embodiment of the precept.”
“How was it we did not see you at the station, Cousin: Wilfred?” inquired Percy; “we waited as long as we dared, till we thought we should lose the train looking for you.”
“Why, you see, my dear boy,” began Wilfred, stretching out a boot beyond the rainbow-coloured wrapper, for the purpose of tapping it admiringly with a dandyfied little cane, “leaving the modern Babylon by the seven o’clock a.m., I necessarily breakfasted early; and as, according to Cocker, the interval between six a.m. and one p.m. embraces seven hours, I experienced, on my arrival at the Flatville station, the very uncomfortable sensation of nature abhorring a vacuum in my breadbasket; and, as even Curtius himself could scarcely have contrived to fill up a similar gulf by jumping down his own throat, I walked first into the refreshment-room, and then into a basin of mock-turtle soup. A deucedly pretty gal it was who handed it to me, too; uncommon attentive she was, to be sure: in fact, entre nous,” he continued, leaning confidently towards Ernest, “it strikes me she wasn’t altogether insensible to the personal attractions of ‘yours truly’—do you twig?” Ernest smiled as he replied, “Of course she charged for the admiration as well as for your luncheon.”
“Real turtle as well as mock, eh? I hope you don’t mean any insinuation about a calf’s head too I But, now you mention it, I do think seven-and-sixpence was rather high for a basin of soup. Ah! the women, they make sad fools of us youth; but as the old lady piously remarked, when her pet dog died of repletion, ‘Such is life, which is the end of all things:’—heigh-ho!”
Having relieved his feelings by venting a deep sigh, Master (he would have annihilated us for so calling him) Wilfred Jacob, who appeared gifted with an interminable flow of conversation, and an insatiable delight in listening to his own voice, again addressed his companions, exclaiming—
“I tell you what it is, gentlemen: the cares of existence, and the heartlessness of that deluding mock-turtle soup gal, ar weighing upon my spirits to such a degree, that nothing short of a mild cigar can bring me round again: that is, always supposing you, none of you, entertain a rooted aversion (you perceive the pun?) to the leaves of the Indian herb.”
“I presume you are aware that smoking in a first-class carriage is against the rules of the railway company,” suggested Ernest.
“I know that some such prejudice exists in their feeble minds,” was the rejoinder; “but they are not obliged to learn anything about it, are they? ‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know.”
“The first porter who opens the door is certain to perceive the smell; and of course, if he inquires whence it proceeds, I shall not attempt to disguise the truth,” returned Ernest.
“Never fear,” was the reply; “even if such an alarming contingency were to accrue, I know a safe dodge to throw him off the scent.”
“If I possessed any authority over you, I should strongly remonstrate against your violating such a wise and useful regulation,” observed Ernest, gravely.
“That fearful moral responsibility not resting upon your conscience—for which, as a philanthropist, I feel humbly thankful—I shall, with your leave, waste no more precious time, but go ahead at once.” So saying the young pickle drew from his pocket a small neatly finished leather ease, well filled with cigars; having politely offered it in turn to each of his companions, who were unanimous in their refusal, he selected a cigar, lighted it by means of a piece of German tinder, and, placing it in his mouth, began puffing away with equal zest and science.
Having set it going to his satisfaction, he removed it for a moment, and, emitting a graceful wreath of smoke, resumed—“Capital good cigars these—came from Fribourg and Pontet’s—I never smoke any others—better change your mind and take one, Mr.———, ‘pon my word your name has escaped me.”
“Are you quite certain you ever knew it?” inquired Ernest, whilst a smile of quiet intelligence curled his handsome mouth.
In no degree disconcerted, Master Wilfred took another long pull at his cigar ere he replied, “Not to be done, eh, sir? Well, I respect a man all the more for being unpumpable; dodginess, in all its branches, is the virtue I most venerate.”
“And what is dodginess, please, Cousin Wilfred?” inquired Hugh, upon whose youthful intelligence slang was, for the first time, dawning with all its fascinating eloquence.
“Dodginess, my verdant young relative, is a psychological attribute compounded of equal portions of presence of mind and fertility of resource, which enables every ‘cove’ (cove is a generic appellation for indiscriminate male humanity) thus happily endowed, to rise superior to all the minor obstacles of existence; as, for example, when I, trying to pump the gentleman opposite in regard to his patronymic, was by him foiled in my attempt, and convicted of the logical absurdity of having declared myself to have forgotten that which I had never known; or, again,—when, this morning, my governor, your venerable uncle, who, benighted innocent that he is, hopes to coerce me into giving up smoking, took from me my cigar-case, but allowed me to regain it by picking his pocket thereof, while squabbling with the cabman for an extra sixpence;—mind you recollect all this; for, in these days slag is completely the language of fashionable life. Were I that epitome of slowness, ‘the father of a family,’ I should have the young idea taught to clothe itself in slang from the cradle upwards. And now, as I’ve a notion the train is approaching a station, and my cigar has arrived at its terminus, you shall witness a specimen of dodginess with your own eyes;—be silent, and observe me attentively—ahem!”
He then flung the end of his cigar out of window, and, assuming an air of great consequence, waited till the train stopped; the moment he did so, he summoned a porter.
“Porter, open the door!” The man obeyed. “Put your head in and tell me what this carriage smells of.”
The porter, looking surprised at the request, complied—“It smells tobaccer-efied like to me,” he observed, after a minute’s investigation.
“Tobaccer-efied, indeed!” repeated Wilfred Jacob, in a tone of the deepest indignation; “some brute has been smoking in this carriage, I’m certain of it! a first-class carriage, too. I tell you what, porter, when gentlemen pay for the comfort and convenience of a first-class carriage, they expect to enjoy what they pay for, and not to be poisoned alive with the odour of tobacco.”
“Smoking ain’t never allowed in the fust class, sir,” pleaded the embarrassed porter.
“It may not be allowed, but it has been done,” was the captious reply: “I’ll take my oath some one has been smoking in this carriage; I’m as certain of it as if I’d seen them myself; my nose never deceives me;—what’s your name?”
“My name be Johnson; but I’ll call the station-master to speak to you, sir.”
“By no means; it’s no fault of his,” replied Wilfred, hastily, feeling anything but desirous that a more enlightened intellect should be brought to bear upon the question: “no, I shall write to the directors, to complain, and call you to witness that I mentioned the fact at the first station we stopped at. It’s absurd to pretend to make rules, and then suffer them to be broken in this way. Shut the door. I shall remember your name—Johnson!” and as he uttered the last word, the train started.
His companions exchanged glances: Percy’s expressed disapproval; Hugh’s, mingled surprise and delight; while Ernest was so much amused at the boy’s ready wit and cool impudence, that, for the life of him, he could not reprove him for the deception.
When the recollection of this little incident had, in some degree, worn off, Percy asked his cousin how he liked Doctor Donkiestir’s school; and begged him to tell them a little about the manners and customs of the place to which they were going.
“Put you up to a thing or two, eh? Give you some small insight into the time of day? Well, I suppose, as it’s all in the family, and you’re Tickletonians yourselves, or about to become so, it’s no breach of confidence. You won’t split, sir?” he continued, appealingly, to Ernest. “Honour amongst thieves, eh?”
“You may trust me,” was the concise reply.
“First promise me, upon your honour, that you will not tell any of the masters, then,” stipulated Wilfred.
“Upon my honour I will not tell any of them,” was the slightly Jesuitical reply; “nor will I make an unfair use of any information you may please to communicate to my young friend.”
“That’s all right, then. You look like a brick (I’m a bit of a physiognomist, you see), so I’ll trust you. In the first place, masters: there’s the Doctor, alias old Donkey, alias (his name is John) Jackass, with sundry other derivatives, more caustic than complimentary. Well, he’s not altogether a bad sort of fellow, only he makes a fuss about trifles, and is especially jealous if he fancies that any one appears likely to interfere with what he calls his prerogative; in fact, he would be a stunner if his temper did not stand in his way: but, on the whole the boys like him, and so look over his little failings. Then, there’s a sort of second master, ‘Mat. and Clat.’ we call him, which is short for mathematical and classical; but we are changing horses in that quarter, so, till we have tried the new animal (pretty well tried he will be, too, before we’ve done with him, I expect), it’s impossible to say how he may suit us; only, if he ain’t a tolerably wide-awake cove, I pity him; for, between master and boys, he’ll have a sweet time of it, poor devil! Then there are two ushers—Hexameter and Pentameter (familiarly Hex. and Pen.) so termed because one is six feet high and the other scarcely above five: they are not gentlemen, therefore they don’t act as sich, so of course we ‘chouse’ and bully them as much as we dare. Then there’s old Splitnib, a coach of the most unmitigated slowness, but who writes a wonderful hand; and, finally and lastly, Monsieur Beaugentil, the French master, who is more involuntarily comic than all the rest of his frog-devouring nation put together. These worthies rule, and are ruled by, a floating capital of some two hundred boys, more or less, of whom the eldest may be about seventeen or eighteen, and the youngest on a par with this juvenile shaver here.”
“And do you work very hard?” inquired Percy.
“Not we,” was the reply. “Of course, for decency’s sake, we do something. It don’t pay for a fellow to be quite an ignoramus in these days, unless he happens to have been born a lord, or experienced some such jolly dispensation at starting; but as for hard work,—no, thank ye. What’s the use of having a fag, if you can’t get your exercises done for you, I should like to know?”
“What’s a fag?” inquired Hugh.
The first effect of this apparently simple question was to throw the person to whom it was addressed into a state of the most violent laughter. As soon as he could recover breath, he gasped out, “Oh, lor! it’s very fatiguing; you’ll be the death of me with your blessed innocence, that you will.”
After a less severe relapse, he continued, “You’ll soon know what fagging means, you poor, unfortunate, green little warmint; though I think I shall honour you by taking you myself. I’ve a right to a fag now I’m in the fifth form; and the chap I had last half has left. You seem a jolly, good-tempered little beggar, and I shouldn’t like to see you made miserable.”
“He shall never be ill-used while I am alive,” exclaimed Percy, with flashing eyes.
“That’s a very proper and plucky sentiment on your part, my dear boy,” returned Wilfred; “but it’s a precious deal easier to talk about than to act upon. You can’t thrash a whole school, especially when some of them are almost men grown. Such chaps as Biggington or Thwackings, who can polish off a coalheaver sporting style, for instance; your namesake Hotspur himself would have found such fellows as them tough customers. All you can do with them is to keep ’em in good humour while you can, and get out of their way when you can’t.”
“But all this time you have not told me what a fag is,” interrupted Hugh.
“Well, a fag is a small boy, taken possession of by a larger boy, according to an old established precedent, against which the masters set their faces in vain. The small boy thus enslaved is termed a fag, and his duties are to do everything the larger boy finds it impossible or disagreeable to do himself. If the small boy performs these duties zealously and good-humouredly, he is only kicked and driven about like a dog, and survives to become a fifth, and eventually a sixth form boy, and takes his change out of fags of his own. If he sulks, or neglects orders, he is either half or three-quarters murdered, according to the hands he falls into, and is usually taken away from the school, or otherwise expended, before he reaches hobble-de-hoy’s estate. And now, have I made that clear to your juvenile capacity?—Yes?—Then mind you profit by it, or I shall have to show you practically how Tickletonians tickle,” and as he spoke, he pointed suggestively to his cane, though a good-natured twinkle in his eye contradicted the threat.
Having thus broken ground, he favoured the company with a series of dissolving views, illustrating various episodes of Tickletonian life, wherein were vividly portrayed scrapes got into and out of with much ability, and more impudence, by certain scholastic heroes, past and present; but the gist of each anecdote lying in the discomfiture or mystification of one or more of the masters, it is scarcely to be supposed, giving Wilfred Jacob credit for the most open disposition imaginable, that he would have been quite so communicative, had he divined the capacity in which Ernest Carrington was then journeying to Tickletown.
When they reached the station at which they were to alight, an omnibus, provided by Doctor Donkiestir, was in waiting to convey any of his scholars who might arrive by that train. Ernest, who was not to present himself till the following morning, and had availed himself of the opportunity to accept the invitation of an old college friend, from whom he had originally heard of the vacancy, here took leave of his young companions, saying, as he did so—
“Good-bye. As I should not much wonder if we were to meet again sooner than you at all expect, I wish you to remember, that if at any time you require advice or assistance you will find a friend in Ernest Carrington.”
He then touched Wilfred’s arm, and drawing him aside, observed,—“I have allowed you to run on in a way which I am sure you would have endeavoured to avoid had you known who I was. I did so, not from any mean wish to entrap you into confessions of which I might afterwards make use to your disadvantage, but simply in order to gain some insight into your true character; and now I will make a compact with you: as long as you behave kindly towards your two cousins, who interest me exceedingly, and befriend them as your superior knowledge of the world” (the slightly ironical emphasis with which he pronounced the last few words was not lost upon his auditor, who, for once in his life, felt conscious that he had made-himself ridiculous), “and especially of the little world comprised in a boys’ school, will enable you to do, I shall forget anything peculiar I may have heard this morning. I will only add, that I have misjudged your character if you consider the condition I have proposed a hard one.”
“Before I attempt to make a suitable reply to your mysterious and startling communication, allow me, sir, to inquire, in the most respectful manner possible, first, who you are? secondly, what you are?” returned Wilfred-Jacob, in a quieter tone than he had yet made use of.
“The Rev. Ernest Carrington, classical and mathematical master (or, familiarly, Clat. and Mat.) in Dr. Donkiestir’s school at Tickletown, at your service,” was the reply.
The first effect of this announcement was to elicit from the “fast young gentleman” a prolonged and expressive whistle; next came an aside, “Well, if I haven’t gone and put my foot into it deepish rather, it’s a pity.” Then, turning to Ernest, he asked, abruptly,—“’Pon your honour as a gentleman, Mr. Carrington, if I stick to the young Colvilles like a trump, you won’t peach?”
“Upon my honour,” was the frank reply.
“It’s a bargain, then,” rejoined Wilfred. “And now, sir, before we sink the amenities of social life in the less jovial relationship of master and pupil, allow me the honour of shaking hands with you, while at the same time you must permit me to express my opinion, that your conduct has been brickish in the extreme.”
With a smile called forth by the peculiar school-boy phraseology, and strange admixture of good feeling and never-failing impudence, of his new ally, Ernest shook hands with him good-naturedly, and turned to depart; but Wilfred Jacob detained him.
“One slight additional favour would oblige,” he said. “A discreet silence in regard to the cigar episode would be a desirable addenda to our compact. Our friend Donkiestir has prejudices—verbum sat—a nod is as good as a wink. Farewell we meet again at Philippi.’”
So saying, he bowed low, removing a very shining new hat, wherewith he had replaced the gorgeous travelling cap, and hurried after his cousins, who were by this time seated in, and sole tenants of, the omnibus, where they presented, so to speak, a very forlorn and cast-away appearance.