“Dismiss, boys. And a holiday to-morrow.”
Dawkins flung his college-cap to the ceiling, and the cane after it, and led the cheering. They crowded about him; and with a little boy astride of his shoulders, a big boy dragging at either sleeve, the whole crowd poured forth into the playground, where Dawkins began to toss coins among them by handfuls. The worthy mariner had found means to replenish his purse, it seemed, since last we met.
Upon the following evening I was seated at dinner with Mr Brandon Pomfrett, his nephew, and his sister Deborah. Pomfrett the elder was a square, stern old gentleman of sixty, with prominent nose and chin. His little grey eyes looked directly at you; his wide, thin lips never relaxed. A man, you would say, upright, dogmatic, severely kind, and pretty dull company withal. His sister Deborah was a straight-backed widow lady, with beautiful white hair. In her first youth she had espoused a wealthy old Greek, Constantine Adrianopoulo by name, who did not long survive the ordeal. You cannot go about saying Adrianopoulo; and the Greek’s respectable relict was never known otherwise than as Mrs A. With Brandon Pomfrett the elder I could converse, for a short time, with comparative comfort. But Mrs A. was extraordinarily repellent. She had the sallow skin that goes with dark eyes, high cheek-bones, and a club-nose; she spoke very gently; she was scrupulously courteous, rigidly pious, fervently Protestant; she gave much labour and money to the poor; and still contrived to infuse into all she said and did a spice of malice, an after-taste of venom. As for Brandon the younger, he hated his aunt. Between these portentous elders sat their nephew, with his amiable fair face and big blue eyes. His parents were dead; his Uncle Brandon had thought it his duty to adopt the boy, and, accordingly, he adopted him. Had his duty told him, instead, to drown young Pomfrett like a kitten, it is probable that he would have arranged the stone about his neck with precisely the same emotions, neither more nor less.
“Well, Mr Winter,” said Mr Pomfrett, with his wooden geniality, which suggested that Mr Pomfrett had said to himself, once for all, There are times when it is my duty to be genial, and I will, “I have, as I daresay Brandon has told you, agreed to accede to his wishes, and to send him to sea.”
“It is always a good thing, do you not think so, Mr Winter, to give a young man a fresh opportunity,” said Mrs A. “A change may work wonders.”
“So, sir,” Mr Pomfrett went on, “my nephew goes as owners’ agent in a privateer we are fitting out for the South Seas. To be more precise, Mrs A. is fitting out the bark. I shall put in but little of my own. And although there are a few other merchants interested in the venture, their shares are but small. The enterprise is really Mrs A.’s.”
“It is the bounden duty of a professing Christian—provided that God has blessed him with the means—to come to the help of his country, and especially of the Protestant Church, at such a time as this,” observed Mrs A., firmly.
I learned, afterwards, that Uncle Brandon had counselled his sister not to risk her money; but the old lady was greedy of riches, and obstinate as flint. She had taken a whim to pick up that silver—there was an end of discussion.
“Brandon, you see, Mr Winter, is become, virtually, his aunt’s trustee,” observed Mr Pomfrett. He had a way of enunciating the most commonplace sentiment with a sort of unctuous relish, which might have been pardoned him if he were ever witty. “Yes,” said Mr Pomfrett. “Yes. Trustee of Mrs A.”
“’Tis not the money,” said Mrs A., “but the idea; and that is a great trust for a young man.”