“And that’s just what he is going to do, Master Philip,” said the head gardener, who seemed to have recovered his temper; “and that’s what, thank goodness, you are not going to do. And the sooner you are off back to school to be licked into shape the better for you, that is if ever you expect to grow into a man. Come along, my lad, it’s getting late.”
“Yes, take him away,” shouted the boy as I went off with Mr Solomon, my blood seeming to tingle in my veins as I heard a jeering burst of laughter behind me, and directly after the boy shouted:
“Here, hi! Courtenay. Here’s a game. We’ve got a new pauper in the place.”
Mr Solomon heard it, but he said nothing as we went on, while I felt very low-spirited again, and was thinking whether I had not better give up learning how to grow fruit and go back to Old Brownsmith, and Ike, and Shock, and Mrs Dodley, when my new guide said to me kindly:
“Don’t you take any notice of them, my lad.”
“Them?” I said in dismay.
“Yes, there’s a pair of ’em—nice pair too. But they’re often away at school, and Sir Francis is a thorough gentleman. They’re not his boys, but her ladyship’s, and she has spoiled ’em, I suppose. Let ’em grow wild, Grant. I say, my lad,” he continued, looking at me with a droll twinkle in his eye, “they want us to train them, and prune them, and take off some of their straggling growths, eh? I think we could make a difference in them, don’t you?”
I smiled and nodded.
“Only schoolboys. Say anything, but it won’t hurt us. Here we are. Come in.”
He led the way into a plainly furnished room, where everything seemed to have been scoured till it glistened or turned white; and standing by a table, over which the supper cloth had been spread, was a tall, quiet-looking, elderly woman, with her greyish hair very smoothly stroked down on either side of her rather severe face.