Squib was not his real name, as I suppose I need hardly say; it was a nickname given him by his father some years before my story begins, and it had stuck to him ever since. His real name was Sydenham, and he had been called Syd for a time, till Colonel Rutland had hit upon this other appellation.
And the reason for this was a habit of Squib’s which amused his father a good deal. The child had a way of sitting perfectly still and silent for a very long time in the room, not speaking, even when spoken to, until some exhaustive mental process had taken place, after which he would suddenly “go off,” as his father expressed it, and talk rapidly and eagerly for several minutes straight on end; then having thus relieved his mind and delivered himself of his thoughts, he would relapse into dead silence until ready for the next explosion. And so his father called him “Squib;” and Squib he became in time to the whole household.
It was commonly whispered about the place that Squib was the Colonel’s favourite amongst his children. Colonel Rutland was not a man who had taken a great deal of notice of his sons and daughters as they appeared upon the scene. He was a busy man, having a large estate to order, being a magistrate, churchwarden, and guardian of the poor-law, and having social duties to attend to as well. He was a most devoted husband; and people used to say that never was there a happier couple than he and Lady Mary, his beautiful wife. He was proud of his fine young family in the aggregate, but did not notice the children very much individually, until one or two small incidents brought Squib before his eyes.
The first of these was a severe altercation which he chanced to overhear between the child and his nurse when Squib was five years old. He was walking through the shrubberies one morning when the sound of raised voices attracted his attention, the first being that of a child lifted in indignant protest.
“It’s not a lie. I never tell lies! I did hear father sing it his own self!”
“Master Syd, that’s not true. Your father never would sing such a wicked song. It only makes it worse, telling stories about it!”
“It isn’t a story!—it isn’t, I tell you! I heard him my own self, and lots of other people heard him, too. It’s you who are wicked, saying I tell lies and father sings wicked songs!” and the crunch of the gravel betrayed the fact that Squib had brought his small foot heavily down upon it in a stamp of passionate wrath.
Colonel Rutland turned a corner and came full upon the combatants. The nurse—a most excellent and trustworthy woman, who had been for twelve years with them—was looking very grieved and disturbed as she held Squib by the hand, as if with the intention of taking him at once before some domestic tribunal; whilst the child’s square, determined face was flushed a deep crimson, his dark-grey eyes looked almost black, as they had a way of doing in moments of passion and excitement, and his whole frame was quivering with anger and protest as he reiterated his assertion that he was speaking nothing but the truth.
“What is all this?” asked Colonel Rutland in a deep voice. “Squib, what do you mean by resisting your nurse like that? I will have no insubordination to authority in my house—you know that as well as I do.” For Colonel Rutland, with his military training, was a martinet in his house about discipline, and his children knew perfectly that he would be more severe over an act of disobedience than over any other kind of transgression.
Squib and the nurse both started at the sound of the Colonel’s voice, and nurse dropped the hand she was holding and made a respectful courtesy to her master. Squib stood perfectly silent, after his fashion, for a full minute, and then burst into rapid speech,—