CHAPTER IV.—SHUFFLING, DEALING, AND TURNING UP A KNAVE AND A TRUMP.
“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.