‘How on earth did he come so?’ asked Herbert, almost smiling in spite of himself.
‘Why, do you know, Herbert,’ Lady Le Breton answered somewhat obliquely, ‘a few days since, I met him wheeling along a barrow full of coals for a dirty, grimy, ragged little girl from some alley or gutter somewhere. I believe they call the place the Mews—at the back of the terrace, you remember. He pretended the child wasn’t big enough to wheel the coals, which was absurd, of course, or else her parents wouldn’t have sent her; but I’m sure he really did it on purpose to annoy me. He never does these things when I’m not by to see; or if he does, I never see him. Now, that was bad enough in all conscience, wasn’t it? but to-day what he did was still more outrageous. He met a poor man, as he calls him, in Westbourne Grove, who was one of his Christian brethren (is that the right expression?) and who declared he was next door to starving. So what must Ronald do, but run into a pawnbroker’s—I shouldn’t have thought he could ever have heard of such a place—and sell his coat, or something of the sort, and give the man (who was doubtless an impostor) all the money. Then he positively walked home in his shirt sleeves. I call it a most unchristian thing to do—and to walk straight into my very arms, too, as I was coming along with Mrs. Faucit.’
Herbert offered at once such condolences as were in his power. ‘And are the Faucits coming to night?’ he asked eagerly.
Lady Le Breton kissed him again gently on the forehead. ‘Oh, Herbert,’ she said warmly, ‘I can’t tell you what a comfort you always are to me. Oh yes, the Faucits are coming; and do you know, Herbert, my dear boy, I’m quite sure that old Mr. Faucit, the uncle, wouldn’t at all object to the match, and that Ethel’s really very much disposed indeed to like you immensely. You’ve only to follow up the advantage, my dear boy, and I don’t for a moment think she’d ever refuse you. And I’ve been talking to Sir Sydney Weatherhead about your future, too, and he tells me (quite privately, of course) that, with your position and honours at Oxford, he fully believes he can easily push you into the first good vacant post at the Education Office; only you must be careful to say nothing about it beforehand, or the others will say it’s a job, as they call it. Oh, Herbert, I really and truly can’t tell you what a joy and a comfort you always are to me!’
CHAPTER XXII. — THE PHILISTINES TRIUMPH.
‘My dear,’ said Dr. Greatrex, looking up in alarm from the lunch table one morning, in the third term of Ernest Le Breton’s stay at Pilbury, ‘what an awful apparition! Do you know, I positively see Mr. Blenkinsopp, father of that odious boy Blenkinsopp major, distinctly visible to the naked eye, walking across the front lawn—on the grass too—to our doorway. The pupil’s parent is really the very greatest bane of all the banes that beset a poor harassed overdriven schoolmaster’s unfortunate existence!’
‘Blenkinsopp?’ Mrs. Greatrex said reflectively. ‘Blenkinsopp? Who is he? Oh, I remember, a tobacco-pipe manufacturer somewhere in the midland counties, isn’t he? Mr. Blenkinsopp, of Staffordshire, I always say to other parents—not Brosely—Brosely sounds decidedly commercial and unpresentable. No nice people would naturally like their sons to mix with miscellaneous boys from a place called Brosely. Now, what on earth can he be coming here for, I wonder, Joseph?’
‘Oh, I know,’ the doctor answered with a deep-drawn sigh. ‘I know, Maria, only too well. It’s the way of all parents. He’s come to inquire after Blenkinsopp major’s health and progress. They all do it. They seem to think the sole object of a head-master’s existence is to look after the comfort and morals of their own particular Tommy, or Bobby, or Dicky, or Harry. For heaven’s sake, what form is Blenkinsopp major in? For heaven’s sake, what’s his Christian name, and age last birthday, and place in French and mathematics, and general state of health for past quarter? Where’s the prompt-book, with house-master’s and form-master’s report, Maria? Oh, here it is, thank goodness! Let me see; let me see—he’s ringing at the door this very instant. “Blenkinsopp... major... Charles Warrington... fifteen... fifth form... average, twelfth boy of twelve... idle, inattentive, naturally stupid; bad disposition... health invariably excellent... second eleven... bats well.” That’ll do. Run my eye down once again, and I shall remember all about him. How about the other? “Blenkinsopp... minor... Cyril Anastasius Guy Waterbury Macfarlane”—heavens, what a name!... “thirteen... fourth form... average, seventh boy of eighteen... industrious and well-meaning, but heavy and ineffective... health good... fourth eleven... fields badly.” Ah, that’s the most important one. Now I’m primed. Blenkinsopp major I remember something about, for he’s one of the worst and most hopelessly stupid boys in the whole school—I’ve caned him frequently this term, and that keeps a boy green in one’s memory; but Blenkinsopp minor, Cyril Anastasius Guy Thingumbob Whatyoumaycallit,—I don’t remember HIM a bit. I suppose he’s one of those inoffensive, mildly mediocre sort of boys who fail to impress their individuality upon one in any way. My experience is that you can always bear in mind the three cleverest boys at the top of each form, and the three stupidest or most mischievous boys at the bottom; but the nine or a dozen meritorious nobodies in the middle of the class are all so like one another in every way that you might as well try to discriminate between every individual sheep of a flock in a pasture. And yet, such is the natural contradictiousness and vexatious disposition of the British parent, that you’ll always find him coming to inquire after just one of those very particular Tommies or Bobbies. Charles Warrington:—Cyril Anastasius Guy Whatyoumay—call it: that’ll do: I shall remember now all about them.’ And the doctor arranged his hair before the looking glass into the most professional stiffness, as a preparatory step to facing Mr. Blenkinsopp’s parental inquiries in the head-master’s study.