CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
THE GENTLEMAN.
THAT afternoon a gentleman who had witnessed part of the foregoing scene from the breeches-maker’s window, whither he had gone for a pair of buckskin riding-gloves—struck by the dauntless manner of Jabez, related what he had seen to his wife, Mrs. Ashton, the stately sister of Mrs. Chadwick; whilst Augusta, their eight-year old daughter, sat on a footstool by her side, hemming a bandana handkerchief for her father, an inveterate snuff-taker—occasionally putting in a word, as only spoiled daughters did in those days.
“Mamma, I daresay that’s the little boy Cousin Ellen told me about.”
“Pooh, pooh! Augusta,” said Mr. Ashton, tapping the lid of his snuff-box, and then, from force of habit, handing it to his wife, the wave of whose hand put it back—“pooh, pooh! child. Do you think there’s only one Blue-coat boy in the town? Besides, he was not such a little boy. I know I thought something of myself when I was his size,” said Mr. Ashton, dusting the snuff from his ruffles as he spoke.
“But he would be a little boy when Ellen knew him first. She says it was before I was born.”
“He could not be a Blue-coat boy then, my dear,” observed Mrs. Ashton; “he was too young.”
“But Ellen showed him to me when we went to the College at Easter; and she says he has killed a snake—a real live snake, papa. And Aunt Chadwick bought Ellen such a pretty pincushion he had worked, and, oh! such a handsome bead purse!”
Mr. Ashton smiled at his daughter’s enthusiasm.
“Ah! I think I have heard of him before; he is a sort of protege of Parson Brookes.”
“He is a very honest boy,” appended Mrs. Ashton, as she examined Augusta’s hemming by the light of the nearest wax candle. “Ellen lost Prince William’s shilling that same day. You know she always wears it dangling from her neck, absurd as it is for a great girl of fifteen.”