CHAPTER VIII — GOOD RESOLUTIONS
“Blest are those
Whose blood and judgement are so well commingled,
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's linger
To sound what stop she please.”
—Hamlet.
“There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft.”
—Naval Song.
AS we were preparing to take our departure I observed the Captain exchange glances with Cumberland, who turned to Oaklands, saying:—
“Don't wait for me; I have one or two places to call at in my way back, and I shall only make you late;—when you get home, give Thomas a hint to keep back dinner five minutes or so—old Mildman won't say anything about it, if he fancies it's the servant's fault.”
To this Oaklands replied, “that it was rather a shame, but he'd see what he could do for once”; and, with a very distant bow to the Captain, we left the room. As soon as we were in the street Oaklands accosted me with:—
“Well, Frank, what do you think of billiards?”
"Why,” replied I, after a moment's thought, “as to the game itself, it's a very pretty game, and when you can play well, I have no doubt a very interesting one; too much so, perhaps.”
“Too interesting! why, that's the beauty of it; almost every other game is a bore, and tires one, because one does not get sufficiently interested to forget the trouble of it; what can you mean by too interesting?”
“You won't be angry at what I am going to say, will you?” said I, looking up in his face.
“Angry with you, my dear boy! no fear of that; always say just what you think to me, and, if it happens to be disagreeable, why it can't be helped; I would rather hear a disagreeable truth from a friend any day, than have it left for some ill-natured person to bring out, when he wants to annoy me.”
“All I meant to say was this,” I replied; “it seems to me that you get so much excited by the game, that you go on playing longer, and for higher stakes, than you intended to do when you began,—surely,” continued I, “it cannot be right to lose such sums of money merely for amusement; is it not gambling?”
“I believe you are right, Frank,” replied Oaklands, after a short pause, during which he had apparently been revolving the matter in his mind; “when one comes to think seriously about it, it is a most unprofitable way of getting rid of one's money; you will scarcely credit it,” continued he, half-smiling, “but I declare to you I have been playing almost every day for the last two months.”
“So long as that?” interrupted I, aghast.
“There or thereabouts,” said Oaklands, laughing at the tone of horror in which I had spoken; “but I was going to say,” he continued, “that till this moment—looking upon it merely as an amusement, something to keep one from going to sleep over a newspaper in that vile reading-room—I have never taken the trouble to consider whether there was any right or wrong in the matter. I am very much obliged to you for the hint, Frank; I'll think it all over to-night, and see how much I owe Master Cumberland, and I'll tell you to-morrow what conclusion I have come to. I hate to do anything in a hurry—even to think; one must take time to do that well.”
We had now reached home, and, mindful of his promise, Oaklands begged Thomas to use his interest with the cook, for the purpose of postponing dinner for a few minutes, in order to give Cumberland a chance of being ready—to which Thomas replied:—
“Very well, sir, anything to oblige you, Mr. Oaklands,” muttering to himself as he went off, “wonder what that chap Cumberland is up to now; no good, I'll be bound”.
In another minute we heard his voice in the lower regions, exclaiming:—
“I say, cook, mustn't dish up for the next ten minutes; master ain't quite finished his next Sunday's sermon; he's got hitched just at thirdly and lastly, and mustn't be disturbed; not on no account”;—which produced from that functionary the following pathetic rejoinder:—
“Then, it's hall hup with the pigeon pie, for it will be burnt as black as my blessed shoe by that time!”
As I was descending the stairs, ready to go out, the next day, Oaklands called me into his room, and, closing the door, said:—
“Well, Fairlegh, I have thought over all you said yesterday,—made up my mind—and acted upon it”.
“Bravo!” replied I, “I am so glad, for, whenever you will but rouse yourself, you are sure to act more rightly and sensibly than anybody else; but what have you done now? Let me hear all about it.”
“Oh, nothing very wonderful,” answered Oaklands; “when I came to look at my pocket-book, I found I had lost, from first to last, above one hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Good gracious!” cried I, aghast at the magnitude of the sum; “what will you do?”
Oaklands smiled at my look of horror, and continued:—
“About one hundred pounds of this I still owe Cumberland, for, after my ready money was gone, I merely set down on paper all I won or lost, as he said I could pay him at any time, just as it suited me best; and I thought I would wait till I got my next quarter's allowance, pay him out of that, and be very economical ever after. Well, when I saw what the sums amounted to, I found this plan certainly would not answer, and that I was getting into a mess; so I made up my mind to put an end to the thing at once,—and sat down to write to my father, telling him I had been playing billiards every day for some time past with a friend,—of course I did not mention who,—and that, without being at all aware of it, my losses had mounted up till I owed him one hundred pounds. I mentioned at the same time that I had a pretty long bill at Smithson's; and then went on to say that I saw the folly, if not worse than folly, of what I had been doing; and that I applied to him, as the best friend I had in the world,—and I am sure he is too, Frank,—to save me from the consequences of my own imprudence.”
“I am very glad you did that; it was much the wisest thing,” interrupted I.
“As soon as I had written my letter,” continued Oaklands, “I went to Cumberland, and told him that I found I had been going on over fast,—that I owned he was too good a player for me,—and that I therefore did not mean to play any more—and would pay him as soon as I received my father's answer.”
“And what did he say to that?” inquired I.
“Why, he seemed surprised and a little annoyed, I fancied. He denied being the best player, and begged I would not think of paying him yet, saying that I had been unlucky of late, but that, if I would go on boldly, luck was sure to change, and that I should most likely win it all back again.”
“And you?”
“Oh! I told him that was the true spirit of gambling; that I did not choose to owe so much to any man as I owed him, and that pay him I would. Well then, he said, that if I did not like to trouble my father about such a trifle, and yet was determined to pay him, it could be very easily managed. I asked how? He hummed and ha'd, and at last said that Smithson would advance me the money in a minute—that I should only have to sign a receipt for it, and need not pay him for years—not till I was of age, and not then if I did not like—that no one would be any the wiser—and he was going on with more in the same style, when I stopped him, by answering very abruptly, that such an arrangement was not to my taste, and that I was not yet reduced be borrowing money of my tailor.”
“Quite right, I am so glad you told him that,” interposed I; “what did he say then?”
“Something about not intending to offend me, and its being a thing done every day.”
“By him perhaps,” said I, recollecting the scene I had witnessed soon after my arrival.
“Why! what do you mean?” said Oaklands.
“I'll tell you when you have done,” replied I; “but I want to know how all this ended.”
“There was not much more. He tried to persuade me to go again to-day, and play another match. I told him I was engaged to ride with you. Then he looked as if he was going to be angry. I waited to see, and he wasn't, and so we parted.”
"And what think you of Cumberland now?” inquired I. “I can't say I altogether like the way in which he has behaved about this,” replied Oaklands; “it certainly looks as if he would have had no objection to win as much as he could from me, for he must have known all along that he was the best player. It strikes me that I am well out of the mess, and I have to thank you for being so too, old fellow.”
“Nay, you have to thank your own energy and decision; I did nothing towards helping you out of your difficulties.”
“Indeed! if a man is walking over a precipice with his eyes shut, is it nothing to cause him to open them, in order that he may see the dangers into which the path he is following will lead him?”
“Ah! Harry, if you would but exert yourself, so as to keep your own eyes open——”
“What a wide-awake fellow you would be!” interposed Coleman, who, after having tapped twice, without succeeding in making himself heard (so engrossed were we by the conversation in which we were engaged), had in despair opened the door in time to overhear my last remark. “I say, gents, as Thomas calls us,” continued he, “what have you been doing to Cumberland to put him into such a charming temper?”
“Is he out of humour then?” inquired Oaklands. “I should say, rather,” replied Coleman, winking ironically; “he came into our room just now, looking as black as thunder, and, as I know he hates to be spoken to when he is in the sulks, I asked him if you were going to play billiards with him to-day.”
Harry and I exchanged glances, and Coleman continued:—
“He fixed his eyes upon me, and stared as if he would have felt greatly relieved by cutting my throat, and at last growled out, 'No; that you were going to ride with Fairlegh'; to which I replied, 'that it was quite delightful to see what great friends you had become'; whereupon he ground his teeth with rage, and told me 'to go to the devil for a prating fool'; so I answered, that I was not in want of such an article just at present, and had not time to go so far to-day, and then I came here instead. Oh, he's in no end of a rage, I know.”
“And your remarks would not tend to soothe him much either,” said I. “Oaklands has just been telling him he does not mean to play billiards again.”
“Phew!” whistled Coleman, “that was a lucky shot of mine; I fancied it must have been something about Oaklands and billiards that had gone wrong, when I saw how savage it made him. I like to rile Cumberland sometimes, because he's always so soft and silky; he seems afraid of getting into a good honest rage, lest he should let out something he does not want one to know. I hate such extreme caution; it always makes me think there must be something very wrong to be concealed, when people are so mighty particular.”
“You are not quite a fool after all, Freddy,” said Oaklands, encouragingly.
“Thank ye for nothing, Harry Longlegs,” replied Coleman,—skipping beyond the reach of Oaklands' arm. A few mornings after this conversation took place Oaklands, who was sitting in the recess of the window (from which he had ejected Lawless on the memorable evening of his arrival), called me to him, and asked in a low tone of voice whether I should mind calling at the billiard-rooms when I went out, and paying a month's subscription which he owed there. He added that he did not like going himself, for fear of meeting Cumberland or the Captain, as if they pressed him to play, and he refused (which he certainly should do), something disagreeable might occur, which it was quite as well to avoid. In this I quite agreed, and willingly undertook the commission. While we were talking Thomas came into the room with a couple of letters, one of which he gave to Oaklands, saying, it had just come by the post, while he handed the other to Cumberland, informing him that the gentleman who brought it was waiting for an answer. I fancied that Cumberland changed colour slightly when his eye fell upon the writing. After rapidly perusing the note, he crushed it in his hand, and flung it into the fire, saying:—
“My compliments to the gentleman, and I'll be with him at the time he mentions”.
“Well, this is kind of my father,” exclaimed Oaklands, looking up with a face beaming with pleasure; “after writing me the warmest and most affectionate letter possible, he sends me an order for three hundred pounds upon his banker, telling me always to apply to him when I want money, or get into difficulties of any kind; and that if I will promise him that this shall be the case, I need never be afraid of asking for too much, as he should be really annoyed were I to stint myself.”
“What a pattern for fathers!” exclaimed Coleman, rubbing his hands. “I only wish my old dad would test my obedience in that sort of way;—I'd take care I would not annoy him by asking for too little; he need not fret himself on that account. Ugh!” continued he, with a look of intense disgust, “it's quite dreadful to think what perverted ideas he has on the subject; he actually fancies it his business to spend his money as well as to make it; and as for sons, the less they have the better, lest they should get into extravagant habits, forsooth! I declare it's quite aggravating to think of the difference between people: a cheque for three hundred pounds from a father, who'll be annoyed if one does not always apply to him for money enough! Open the window there! I am getting faint!”
“Don't you think there's a little difference between sons as well as fathers, Master Fred, eh?” inquired Lawless. “I should say some sons might be safely trusted with three-hundred-pound cheques; while others are certain to waste two shillings, and misapply sixpence, out of every half-crown they may get hold of.”
“Sir, I scorn your insinuations; sir, you're no gentleman,” was the reply, producing (as was probably intended) an attack from Lawless, which Coleman avoided for some time by dodging round chairs and under tables. After the chase had lasted for several minutes Coleman, when on the point of being captured, contrived, by a master-stroke of policy, to substitute Mullins in his place, and the affair ended by that worthy being knocked down by Lawless, “for always choosing to interfere with everything,” and being kicked up again by Coleman, “for having prevented him from properly vindicating his wounded honour”.
“Who's going near the Post-office, and will put a letter in for me?” asked Oaklands.
“I am,” replied Cumberland; “I've got one of my own to put in also.”
“Don't forget it or lose it, for it's rather important,” added Oaklands; “but I need not caution you, you are not one of the harebrained sort; if it had been my friend Freddy, now——”
“I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Oaklands,” said Coleman, putting on an air of offended dignity, in which, though very much exaggerated, there was at the bottom the smallest possible spice of reality—a thing, by the way, one may often observe in people who have a very strong appreciation of the ridiculous, and who, however fond they may be of doing absurd things for the sake of being laughed at, do not approve of their buffooneries being taken for granted—“I'll tell you what it is, sir—you have formed a most mistaken estimate of my character; I beg to say that any affair I undertake is certain to be conducted in a very sedate and business-like manner. My prudence I consider unimpeachable; and as to steadiness, I flatter myself I go considerably ahead of the Archbishop of Canterbury in that article. If I hear you repeat such offensive remarks, I shall be under the painful necessity of elongating your already sufficiently prolonged proboscis.”
“Come and try,” said Oaklands, folding his arms with an air of defiance. Coleman, reckoning on his adversary's dislike of exertion, and trusting to his own extreme quickness and activity to effect his escape scot-free, made a feint of turning away as if to avoid the contest, and then, with a sudden spring, leaped upon Oaklands, and succeeded in just touching his nose. The latter was, however, upon his guard, and while, by seizing his outstretched arm with one hand, he prevented him from attaining his object, he caught him by the coat-collar with the other, and detained him prisoner.
“I've got you this time, at all events, Master Freddy; now what shall I do with you, to pay you off for all your impertinence?” said Oaklands, looking round the room in search of something suitable to his purpose. “I have it,” continued he, as his eyes encountered the bookcase, which was a large square-topped, old-fashioned affair, standing about eight feet high, and the upper part forming a sort of glass-fronted closet, in which the books were arranged on shelves. “Great men like you, who go ahead of archbishops and so on, should be seated in high places.” So saying he lifted Coleman in his arms, with as much ease as if he had been a kitten; and, stepping up on a chair which stood near, seated him on the top of the bookcase, with his head touching the ceiling, and his feet dangling about six feet from the ground.
“What a horrid shame!” said Coleman; “come help me down again, Harry, there's a good fellow.”
“I help you down!” rejoined Oaklands, “I've had trouble enough in putting you up, I think; I'm a great deal too much tired to help you down again.”
“Well, if you won't, there's nobody else can,” said Coleman, “unless they get a ladder, or a fire-escape—don't call me proud, gentlemen, if I look down upon you all, for I assure you it's quite involuntary on my part.”
“A decided case of 'up aloft': he looks quite the cherub, does he not?” said Lawless.
"They are making game of you, Coleman,” cried Mullins, grinning.
“I hope not,” was the reply, “for in that case I should be much too high to be pleasant.”
“They ought to keep you there for an hour longer for that vile pun,” said Cumberland. “Is your letter ready, Oaklands, for I must be going?”
“It is upstairs, I'll fetch it,” replied Oaklands, leaving the room.
“Well, as it seems I am here for life, I may as well make myself comfortable,” said Coleman, and, suiting the action to the word, he crossed his legs under him like a tailor, and folding his arms leaned his back against the wall, the picture of ease.
At this moment there was a gentle tap at the door; some one said “Come in,” and, without a word of preparation, Dr. Mildman entered the apartment. Our surprise and consternation at this apparition may easily be imagined. Cumberland and Lawless tried to carry it off by assuming an easy unembarrassed air, as if nothing particular was going on; I felt strongly disposed to laugh; while Mullins looked much more inclined to cry; but the expression of Coleman's face, affording a regular series of “dissolving views” of varied emotions, was the “gem” of the whole affair. The unconscious cause of all this excitement, whose back was turned towards the bookcase, walked quietly up to his usual seat, saying, as he did so:—
“Don't let me disturb you—I only came to look for my eye-glass, which I think I must have dropped”.
“I see it, sir,” said I, springing forward and picking it up; “how lucky none of us happened to tread on it and break it!”
“Thank you, Fairlegh, it is an old friend, and I should have been sorry to have any harm happen to it,” replied he, as he turned to leave the room, without having once raised his eyes from the ground. Coleman, who up to this moment had considered a discovery inevitable, gave me a sign to open the door, and, believing the danger over, was proceeding to relieve his feelings by making a hideous face at his retiring tutor, when the bookcase, affected no doubt by the additional weight placed upon it, suddenly gave a loud crack.
“Bless my heart,” said Dr. Mildman, looking up in alarm, “what's that? Gracious me!” continued he, starting back as his eyes encountered Coleman, “there's something alive up there! why it's—eh?” continued he, levelling his newly restored eye-glass at the object of his alarm; “yes, it certainly is Coleman; pray, sir, is it usually your 'custom of an afternoon,' as Shakspeare has it, to sit perched up there cross-legged, like a Chinese mandarin? It's a very singular taste.”
“Why, sir,” replied Coleman, for once completely taken aback, “you see I didn't—that is, I wasn't—I mean, if I hadn't—I shouldn't.”
“Hum,” resumed Dr. Mildman, with whom he was rather a favourite, and who, now that he had satisfied himself it was not some wild animal he had to deal with, was evidently amused by Coleman's embarrassment, “that sentence of yours is not particularly clear or explanatory; but,” continued he, as a new idea occurred to him, “how in the world did you get up there? you must have flown.”
“I didn't get up, I was—that is, he——” stammered
Coleman, remembering just in time that he could not explain without involving Oaklands.
“And how are you ever to get down again?” said Dr. Mildman.
“Has the pretty bird flown yet?” cried Oaklands, hastily entering the room; when, observing the addition the party had received during his absence, he started back, murmuring in an under tone, “The old gentleman, by Jove!” Quickly recovering himself, however, he sprang upon a chair, and, seizing Coleman in his arms, whisked him down with more haste than ceremony; and going up to Dr. Mildman said respectfully, “That was a bit of folly of mine, sir; I put him up there; I merely did it for a joke, and I hadn't an idea you would come in and find him”.
“Never mind,” replied Dr. Mildman, good-naturedly, “as you have contrived to get him down again safely there is no harm done;” adding as he left the room, “that young man is as strong as Hercules. I hope he'll never take it into his head to pop me up anywhere, for I am sure he could do it if he chose.”