THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY

or, A Cloud with its Silver Lining

By Frank E. Smedley

Author Of “Frank Fairlegh,” “Lewis Arundel,” “Harry Coverdale’s-Courtship,” Etc.

London: George Routledge And Sons, Limited

1867

CONTENTS

[ THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. ]

[ CHAPTER I.—THE TWO PICTURES. ]

[ CHAPTER II.—THE BROTHERS. ]

[ CHAPTER III.—A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE. ]

[ CHAPTER IV.—SHUFFLING, DEALING, AND TURNING UP A KNAVE AND A TRUMP. ]

[ CHAPTER V.—A FAST SPECIMEN OF “YOUNG ENGLAND.” ]

[ CHAPTER VI.—THE CONSPIRACY. ]

[ CHAPTER VII.—TEMPTATION. ]

[ CHAPTER VIII.—NORMAN’S REVENGE. ]

[ CHAPTER IX.—THE DISCOVERY. ]

[ CHAPTER X.—THE TRIBUNAL OF JUSTICE. ]

[ CHAPTER XI.—LOSS AND GAIN. ]

[ CHAPTER XII.—THE ROSEBUD SKETCHES FROM MEMORY. ]

[ CHAPTER XIII.—AN ‘ELEGANT EXTRACT’ FROM BLAIR’s SERMONS. ]

[ CHAPTER XIV.—CONTAINS MUCH DOCTOR’S STUFF, AND OTHER RUBBISH. ]

[ CHAPTER XV.—SETTLES THREE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. ]

[ CHAPTER XVI.—AND LAST.—THE MORAL DRAWN VERY MILD! ]

THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY.

CHAPTER I.—THE TWO PICTURES.

“A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!”

Words, of course, in themselves good and well-chosen, and embodying a wish which all who love their neighbour should feel and communicate;—God in his mercy grant there may be very many who can respond to such a salutation hopefully; for in this Valley of the Shadow of Death there must be some who shrink from it as from a bitter mockery. Of such are those who, loving deeply, have lost, or fear to lose, the object of their fond idolatry; of such are those to whom, gifted, perhaps, with an even wider capacity of affection, such a fear would seem a blessing, for then they would not have toiled through a lifetime lonely-hearted. “A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!” God comfort those who shudder at such kindly greeting!

One short month since, a little space of time, but more than long enough for the performance of many a deeper tragedy than that to which we are about to refer, an artist, glancing into the sunny breakfast-parlour of Ashburn Rectory, might have made a pretty picture of the group on which his eye would have fallen.

That gentleman (in rags he would equally have looked such) with the calm, high forehead, mild eye, and earnest, thoughtful mouth, must be the father of the family; for his dark hair shows many a silver thread, and the lines that appear upon his still smooth brow can scarcely be the result of mental occupation only; but, if we are right in our conjecture, whence did that curly-pated nine-year-old urchin, seated upon his knee, contrive to get his arch, merry face? for he can scarcely have “come alive” out of one of Murillo’s paintings, to give light and life to our family sketch. Oh! we see, it is his mother’s countenance the rogue has appropriated, only the mischief in it is all his own; for the expression of her still-beautiful features is chastened and pensive, as of one who has lived and loved, and done angels’ work on earth, until the pure soul within has stamped its impress on the outward form.

But if you want something pretty—nay, we may as well tell the whole truth, and say at once bewitching—to look at, cast your eyes (you won’t be in a hurry to remove them again) upon the figure seated at mamma’s right hand, and recognising her facsimile (with twenty summers taken off her age, and barely eighteen left), declare whether that is not “nice,” rather. The expression is not the same, we confess: more of the woman and less of the angel, you will say. We admit it; but then, how could that little rosebud of a mouth look anything but petulant? those violet eyes express—well, it’s difficult to tell what they don’t express that is good, and fresh, and piquant, and gay, and—must we add? a little bit coquettish also;—why, the very dimple on her chin—such a well-modelled chin—has something pert and saucy about it. There! you’ve seen enough of the little beauty: you’ll be falling in love with her directly!

No one could mistake the relationship existing between the gentleman we have already described, and that tall, graceful boy, with his pale, finely-chiselled features, and classically-shaped head. Even the earnest, thoughtful expression is common to both father and son, save that the curl of the short upper lip, which tells of pride in the boy, has, in the man, acquired a character of chastened dignity.

Reader, do you like our picture? Let us turn to another, less pleasing, but alas! equally true.

The waves of time roll on, and, like a dream, another month has lapsed into the sea of ages.

The sun is shining still; but it shines upon an open grave, with aching hearts around it. A good man has died, and his brave, loving spirit has gone whither his faith has preceded him, and his good works alone can follow him. “Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.”

Let us reserve our sympathy for those who live to mourn them.

When the curate of Ashburn preached a funeral sermon, recalling to the minds of those who had practically benefited by them the virtues of their late rector, holly garlands hung in the fine old church, to commemorate the birth-time of One who came to bring “peace on earth, and good-will towards men;” but none dared to wish the widow and orphans “A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year,” lest the wish might seem an insult to their sorrow.

CHAPTER II.—THE BROTHERS.

“Percy, I have been quiet so long, and you say I must not stand upon my head, because it disturbs mamma; do come out and let us ride the pony by turns,” implored little Hugh Colville in a strenuous whisper; which was, however, clearly audible throughout the small breakfast-parlour, which was the scene of our family picture.

Percy Colville, the shy, handsome boy of our sketch, looked up with a pensive smile from the writing on which he was engaged, and shook his head negatively, in token that he felt obliged to refuse the request of his younger brother, in whom the reader will recognise, with little difficulty, a certain Murillo-like urchin to whom he has been already introduced. But the petition of her youngest born had reached the ears of the widow, who (if she had a virtue which had outgrown its due proportions till cavillers might deem it a fault), was, perhaps, a little over indulgent to Master Hugh.

“My dear Percy, you have been writing for me long enough,” she said, “you will be ill if you shut yourself up too much; besides, Hugh has been so good that he deserves his ride, and you know I don’t like to trust him by himself.”

Percy hesitated: the writing on which he was engaged was the copy of a surveyor’s report concerning that vexata quaestic, dilapidations. Some difference of opinion had arisen on this subject between the agent of the patron of the living and Mrs. Colville’s solicitor, and a copy of the report was to be forwarded by the next post to Mr. Wakefield, Mrs. Calville’s legal adviser. The matter was of importance, involving a considerable sum of money. Percy was aware of these facts: he knew, also, that he could only just finish his task by the time the village post went out; and he was about to declare that Hugh must give up his ride for that day, when his mother, reading his thoughts-, stooped over him, and, kissing his pale brow, whispered—

“Do not refuse him, dear Percy: remember, he will not have many more rides——”

She paused, for her composure was failing, then finished in a trembling voice—

“You know the pony must be sold when we go away.”

As she spoke, an expedient suggested itself to Percy’s mind, and pressing his mother’s hand affectionately, he closed his writing-desk, and, carrying it off under his arm, exclaimed—“Come along, Hugh! we’ll take old Lion (he wants a run, poor dog) as well as the pony, and have a glorious scamper.”

And a glorious scamper they had, only Hugh rode the whole way, and Percy ran by his side, declaring that he greatly preferred it, which was decidedly a pious fiction, if a fiction can ever be pious.

“Oh! mamma, mamma! do make breakfast—come, quick! there’s a good mamma! for I’m as hungry as—as—several sharks,” exclaimed Hugh, rushing like a small express train into the breakfast-parlour, on the following morning.

“Oh, you naughty mad-cap, you’ve shaken the table, and made me blot ‘That Smile’ all over!” cried his sister Emily, in vain endeavouring to repair the misfortune which had accrued to the “popular melody” she was copying.

We suppose it is scarcely necessary to reintroduce you to Emily, dear reader. You have not so soon forgotten the rosebud of a mouth, or the dangerous dimple—trust you for that.

“Well, I declare, so I have,” rejoined the culprit, a little shocked and a good deal amused at the mischief he had occasioned; then striking into the tune of the outraged ditty, he sang in an impish soprano, and with grimaces wonderful to behold—

“‘That smile—when once—de-par-ar-ar-arted,

Must leave—me bro—ken har-ar-ir-arted.’

“Oh! Emily, what a mess we have made of ‘broken-hearted,’ to be sure I’m so sorry, but what fun!”

And then came a burst of ringing, happy, childish laughter, which, of course, sealed his forgiveness: no one could think him to blame after that.

“I wonder where Percy is; I scarcely ever knew him late before,” observed Mrs. Colville, when quiet had been restored.

“Sarah tells me he is out riding,” returned Emily, applying herself with very unnecessary energy to cut bread and butter.

As she spoke, the clatter of horses’ feet became audible, and, in another moment, Percy cantered past the window.

“Where can the boy have been?” ejaculated Emily, holding the loaf lovingly, as though she was afraid of hurting the poor thing.

“I know, I do!” observed Hugh, from under the table, whence, having in his mind’s eye metamorphosed himself into a wolf, he was preparing to spring out and devour Emily.

“You know, Hugh!” repeated Mrs. Colville in surprise; “come from under the table, then, and tell me.”

“But, mamma, I’m a wolf, and just going to eat up Emily.”

“Not now, dear,” was the calm reply, as if a daughter more or less devoured by wild beasts was of little moment to that un-anxious mother; “come here, and tell me about Percy.”

“Well, you know, mamma,” began Hugh, emerging from his hiding-place, and assuming the grave air of a raconteur, “when Percy came to bed last night, he did not go to bed at all—that is, not for a very, very, very long time. Do you know, I think”—and here he put on a solemn face, and spoke with an air of mystery—“I think he was not in bed at twelve o’clock, perhaps not till almost one!” Having disclosed this frightful fact, he paused and nodded like a bird, for the greater effect, ere he continued: “I went to sleep long before, but, whenever I opened my eyes, there he sat, still write, write, writing on, as if he was writing his life, like Robinson Crusoe—only,” he added, parenthetically—“only he’s got no man Friday.”

“But what could he be writing?” exclaimed Emily, coquetting with the large bread-knife.

“I know,” resumed Hugh; then, having paused to balance himself on one leg, and spin round like a teetotum, he continued very fast, and without any stops, for Percy’s footsteps sounded in the hall: “he was writing the paper he had not time to finish yesterday, because I wanted him to go out with me and the pony; and this morning he got up at six o’clock to ride over to Staplehurst, seven miles there, and I don’t know how many back again, to catch the post, and make it all the same as if it had been put in yesterday; I know he did, because Sarah says so.” And, having delivered himself with the greatest vehemence of this somewhat incoherent account, he rushed up to his brother, then entering the room, and, throwing his arm as round his waist, exclaimed, “Oh, Percy! I’ve gone and told them all about your great letter, and sitting up late, and everything, and never remembered till now that you said I wasn’t to mention it to anybody. Oh, I am so sorry, but what fun!” and, assured by the expression of Percy’s face that his crime was not quite unpardonable, Hugh’s merry, childish laugh again rang through the apartment.

The mother’s heart was full: tears stood in her eyes as, pressing her elder son to her bosom, she murmured,—

“Dear, dear Percy, you must not overtask your strength thus.”

The post that morning brought the following letter directed to Mrs. Colville:—

“My dear Sister,—That I have the will to aid you in your distress you cannot doubt; that the power to do so effectually is denied me, adds one more to the troubles of life. My imprudent marriage (he had run away with a pretty governess at eighteen), and its subsequent consequences (he had nine healthy children), force me to work like a horse in a mill, in order to make both ends meet. Of this I am not complaining.. I did an unwise thing, and must pay the necessary penalty. But I mention these facts to prove to you the truth of my assertion, that my power is not coequal with my will. The little I can do is this: I am shareholder in an excellent proprietary school, where boys are taught everything necessary to fit them for a commercial life; Wilfred Jacob has been there two years, and is already conversant with, or, as he familiarly terms it, ‘well up in’ tare and tret. I trust Adolphus Samuel, Albert John, Thomas Gabriel, and even the little Augustus Timothy, will soon follow, and profit equally. I therefore propose to send your two boys to this school at my own cost; and, if the eldest distinguishes himself, as I am proud to believe Wilfred Jacob will do, a desk in my counting-house (No. 8, Grubbinger Street, City) shall reward his diligence. Clementina Jane desires her kindest regards, and begs me to say that, should you finally determine upon settling in London, she shall have much pleasure in looking out a cheap lodging for you in some of the least expensive streets in the vicinity of Smithfield. I am, dear Margaret, ever your affectionate brother,

“Goldsmith and Thryft.

“P.S.—So much for habit: I have become so accustomed to sign for the firm, that I actually forget that my name is Tobiah.”

Mrs. Colville closed the letter, with a sigh, and placing it in her pocket, waited till the boys had breakfasted. As soon as they had quitted the room she handed it to her daughter, saving. “Read that, dear Emily: it is very kind of your uncle, but——”

“Percy at a desk in Grubbinger Street! Oh, my dearest mamma, what a dreadful idea!” exclaimed the Rosebud, arching her brows, and pursing up her pretty little mouth with an expression of the most intense disapproval: “Uncle Tobiah means to be very kind, but he forgets what Percy is.”

Mrs. Colville shook her head mournfully. “I am afraid it is we who forget, love,” she said: “Percy can no longer hope to pursue the career marked out for him—with the very limited means at my disposal, college is quite out of the question; nay, if Sir Thomas Crawley persists in his demand for the incoming tenant’s claim to these dilapidations, and should prove his right to it, I shall be unable to send the boys to school at all; indeed, I must not reject your uncle’s offer rashly. I shall consult Mr. Slowkopf on the subject; he is a very prudent adviser.”

“Oh! if you mean to ask him, the matter is as good as settled, and poor Percy chained to a desk for life,” cried Emily. “Ah!” she continued, as a tall, thin, gaunt figure, clothed in rusty black, passed the window, “here he comes—the creature always puts me in mind of that naughty proverb about a certain person: one no sooner mentions him than there he is at one’s elbow;—but, if you really want to talk sense to him, mamma dear, I’d better go, for I shall only say pert things and disturb you: he is so delightfully slow and matter-of-fact, that I never can resist the temptation of plaguing him;” and as she spoke, the Rosebud laughed a little silvery laugh at her own wickedness, and tripped, fairy-like, out of the apartment.

The worthy Mr. Slowkopf, who had held the office of curate of Ashburn for about two years, was a very good young man, and nothing else; all his other qualities were negative. He wasn’t even positively a fool, though he looked and acted the part admirably. He was essentially, and in every sense of the word, a slow man: in manners, ideas, and appearance, he was behind the age in which he lived; in conversation he was behind the subject discussed; if he laughed at a joke, which, solemnly and heavily, he sometimes condescended to do, it was invariably ten minutes after it had been made. He never heard of Puseyism till Tract Ninety had been suppressed, or knew of the persecutions and imprisonments of Dr. Achilli till that amateur martyr was crying aloud for sympathy in Exeter Hall; he usually finished his fish when the cheese was being put on table; and went to bed as other people were getting up. Still, he had his good points. Unlike King Charles, of naughty memory,

“Who never said a foolish thing,

And never did a wise one,”

however dull and trite might be Mr. Slowkopf’s remarks, his actions were invariably good and kind. The village gossips, when they were very hard-up for scandal, declared that, insensible as he appeared to all such frivolities as the fascinations of the softer sex, he was gradually taking a “slow turn” towards the Rosebud of Ashburn. Nay, the rumour was reported to have reached the delicate ears of the “emphatic she” herself; who was said to have replied, that as she was quite certain he would never dream of telling his love till he heard she was engaged to be married to some one else—in which case she should have a legitimate reason for refusing him—the information did not occasion her the slightest uneasiness.

However this might be, certain it is, that on the morning in question, Mr. Slowkopf, gaunt, ugly, and awkward, solemnly walked into the breakfast-parlour, and that the widow, perplexed between her good sense and her loving tenderness for her children, laid before him her difficulties and her brother’s letter.

The curate paused about three times as long as was necessary, and then, in a deep, sepulchral voice, observed—

“In order to attain to a sound and logical conclusion in regard to this weighty matter, it behoves me first to assure myself that I rightly comprehend the question propounded, and if, as I conceive, it prove to be one which will not admit of demonstration with a mathematical certainty; then, secondly, so to compare the different hypotheses which may present themselves, that, sufficient weight being allotted to each, a just and philosophical decision may be finally arrived at.”

Having, after this preamble, stated the case in language as precise and carefully selected as though he were framing a bill to lay before Parliament, and were resolved to guard against the possibility of the most astute legal Jehu driving a coach and four through it, he argued the matter learnedly and steadily for a good half-hour, ere he dug out the ore of common sense from the mass of logical rubbish beneath which he had buried it, and decided in favour of Mr. Goldsmith’s proposal. Pleased at his own cleverness in having solved this difficult problem, and possessing unlimited confidence in his oratorical powers, he volunteered to communicate the decision thus formed to the person most nearly concerned therein, an offer to which Mrs. Colville, feeling her strength unequal to the task, reluctantly consented.

Percy listened in silence till Mr. Slowkopf had talked himself out of breath, which it took him some time to accomplish, for, in every sense of the term, he was awfully long-winded; when at length he was silent, the boy fixed his large eyes earnestly upon his face as he replied, “I understand, sir, we are so poor that it is not possible to send me to a public school, or to college as—as—my dear father wished; but I do not see why I am necessarily obliged to become a merchant’s clerk, a position which I shall never be fit for, and which I hate the idea of; the Colvilles have always been gentlemen.”

“A man may work for his living in some honest occupation without forfeiting that title,” returned Mr. Slowkopf, sententiously.

“Not as a merchant’s clerk,” was the haughty reply: “No; let me be an artist, if I cannot receive a gentleman’s education in England. I know I have some talent for drawing, let me study that, and then go to Italy, beautiful Italy, for a few years; people can live very cheaply abroad, and I will be very careful. When I become famous I shall grow rich, and be able to support mamma, and send Hugh to college, and then I shall care less for not having been there myself.”

“Without attempting to regard your scheme in its many complicated bearings, or to argue the matter in its entire completeness, for which time, unfortunately, is wanting,” remarked Mr. Slowkopf, deliberately; “I will place before you, in limine, certain objections to it which render the commercial career proposed by your excellent uncle, if not in every point a more advantageous arrangement, at all events one more suited to the present position of affairs. Your uncle proposes to take upon himself all immediate expense connected with your education; while, as a clerk in his counting-house, you will be in the receipt of a gradually increasing salary. Your scheme would demand a constant outlay of capital, for certainly the next five years; nay, it would be no matter of surprise to me if ten years should elapse, ere, by the precarious earnings of an artist’s career, you were enabled to render yourself independent. In one case you will be an assistance to your excellent mother, in the other a burden upon her.”

Percy walked to the window; the burning tears of disappointed ambition and mortified pride rushed to his eyes, but he brushed them hurriedly away, as he said in a firm, steady voice, “Thank you for telling me the truth, Mr. Slowkopf; we will accept my uncle’s offer.”

Thus it came about that Percy and Hugh Colville were entered, as boarders, at Doctor Donkiestir’s excellent proprietary establishment.

CHAPTER III.—A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE.

The Rosebud of Ashburn possessed a female friend. Caroline Selby was the daughter of Sir Thomas Crawley’s agent. Sir Thomas Crawley was the rich man of the neighbourhood, lord of the manor, patron of the living, and owner of a splendid place about a mile from the village; but although Ashburn Priory was an old family seat, the present owner of the property had by no means always been the great man he was at present; indeed, it may be doubted whether, in justice, he had any right to be so at all; though, unfortunately, in law he possessed a very sufficient one. The former possessor of Ashburn Priory, an irritable, perverse old man, had, in a moment of passion, disinherited an only son (who had committed the unpardonable crime of consulting his heart, rather than his pocket, in the choice of a wife), making a will in favour of a relative whom he had never seen, and of whom the little he had heard was unfavourable. It is true, he never intended this will to take effect; meaning, when he had sufficiently consulted his dignity, and marked his disapproval of the sin against Mammon which his son had committed, graciously to receive him into favour again; but Death, who has no more respect for ill-temper than for many more amiable qualities, did not allow him time to repair the injustice he had committed, cutting him off with an attack of bronchitis, and his son with a shilling, at one fell stroke. The son, an amiable man, with a large family (a conjunction so often to be observed, that, to a speculative mind, it almost assumes the relation of cause and effect), soon spent his shilling, and, overtasking his strength to replace it, ere long followed his unjust father, though we can scarcely imagine that he travelled by the same road. Before this latter event took place, however, Mr. Thomas Crawley made his first appearance as lord of the manor of Ashburn, and master of the Priory; and everybody was so well aware what he was, that they carefully abstained from inquiring what he had been. To those capable of judging, however, one thing was unmistakably apparent; namely, that neither in the past nor in the present could his manners and appearance entitle him to the designation of a gentleman. That he himself entertained an uncomfortable suspicion of this fact, might be gathered from the indefatigable perseverance with which he pursued the object of attaining to the rank of knighthood. Up the rounds of a ladder of gold he climbed into Parliament; once there, if he voted according to his conscience, that inward monitor must have been of a decidedly versatile temperament; for the way in which he wheeled about, and turned about, on every occasion, conceivable and inconceivable, was without precedent, save in the cases of Jim Crow of giddy memory, and of Weathercock versus Boreas and Co. At last a crisis arrived; votes were worth more than the men who gave them: a minister stayed in who should have gone out; and Mr. Crawley became Sir Thomas. And this was the man who, with a rent-roll of £15,000 a-year, was about to avail himself of a legal quibble, in order to extort from a widow and orphans a share of the little pittance that remained to them. His agent Mr. Selby, was a better man than his master; and might have been better still, if “his poverty, and not his will,” had not led him to consent to be the instrument wherewith Sir Thomas Crawley, M.P., transacted much dirty work in Ashburn and its vicinity. At the time we treat of the will had so often yielded that it had quite lost the habit of asserting itself; and the poverty, profiting by this inertness, had gradually disappeared, till Mr. Selby was generally looked upon as a man well to do in the world, and respected accordingly.

And this brings us back to the point from whence we originally started; namely, that the Rosebud of Ashburn possessed a female friend. Now, the office of female friend to a Rosebud, romantic and poetical as it sounds, was by no means a sinecure; indeed, from the confidant of Tilburnia downwards, these sympathisers of all work have hard places of it. Still, there appears to be no lack of amiable creatures ready to devote themselves to the cause of friendship; the supply seems always to equal the demand. Possibly occasional perquisites, in the shape of a heart caught in the rebound, as in the case of a discarded lover, or the reversion of some bon parti, rejected for a more eligible offer, may have something to do with it—of this we cannot pretend to judge.

That any such sordid notions influenced Caroline Selby in her devotion to Emily Colville, we do not believe: on the contrary, the friendship arose from, and was cemented by, the Jack-Sprat-and-his-wife-like suitableness of their respective natures; Caroline having a decided call to look up to and worship somebody, while Emily experienced an equally strenuous necessity for being worshipped and looked up to. But the Rosebud was subject also to other necessities, which effectually preserved her friend from falling into the snares of idleness. First, she had a chronic necessity for “talking confidence,”—though how, in the quiet village of Ashburn, she contrived to obtain a supply of mysteries to furnish forth subjects for these strictly private colloquies, was the greatest mystery of all. Then privy councils were held upon dress, in all its branches, from staylaces up to blonde Berthes; and committees of ways and means had to combat and arrange financial difficulties. Again, the affairs of their poorer neighbours required much talking about, and speculating upon; and their little charities Nor, despite sundry small weaknesses and frivolities natural to their age, or rather youth, and sex, the friends were thoroughly kind-hearted, amiable girls, could not be planned, or executed, without a necessary amount of conversation. Then there was a town, three miles off by the road, and two and a half by the fields, where everything came from; for, though Ashburn boasted a “general” shop, yet those who were rash enough to particularise any article they might require, beyond the inevitable bacon, cheese, soap, bad tea, worse sugar, starch, and; hobnailed shoes, upon which agricultural life is supported, only prepared for themselves a disappointment.

This obliging town the Rosebud had a call to visit, on an average, three times a week at the very least; and of course, when the pony-chaise could not be had, which—as Hugh, by the agency of that much-enduring pony, existed rather as a centaur than a biped—was almost always the case, Caroline Selby was required as a walking companion.

Having thus enlightened the reader as to the nature of the friendship existing between these young ladies, together with other particulars, which, at the risk of being considered prosy, we felt bound to communicate to him, we resume the thread of our narrative.

Three weeks had elapsed since Mrs. Colville had accepted her brother’s offer, and the day approached when Percy and Hugh were to quit the home of their happy childhood, never again to return to it. Mrs. Colville seldom alluded to the subject; busying herself in preparing their clothes, and in other necessary duties appertaining to the mistress of a family.

Now it happened that Master Hugh wore turn-over collars, famous for two peculiarities, viz., the moment they were put on, clean and smooth, they became rumpled and dirty—and the strings by which they were fastened, were the victims to a suicidal propensity for tearing themselves violently off, so that the amount of starch, labour, and tape, required to preserve these collars in an efficient condition, formed a serious item in the household expenditure.

Although the excellent factotum, Sarah, declared upon oath (not a very naughty one) that she had reviewed the delinquents cautiously that day fortnight, and been able to report them fitted for service, yet, at the eleventh hour, when she was actually packing Hugh’s box, there were only three strings and a quarter remaining among the twelve collars, and there was no reliance to be placed even upon them. Moreover, on examination, there was discovered to have been such a run upon tape, of late, that not an inch of that useful article was forthcoming throughout the entire establishment. Under these appalling circumstances, Emily nobly volunteered to go to Flatville, and invest capital in the purchase of a “whole piece of tape.” But the boys were absent on a skating expedition; and the roads were slippery, and the pony had not been roughed, and Emily, not liking to walk by herself, set off, no way loth, to enlist Caroline Selby as her companion.

Here, however, a difficulty arose. Mr. Selby was just starting in his phaeton, to drive over to the railroad station, two miles beyond Flatville, and his daughter was going with him, for the sake of a drive.

Caroline was perplexed: had it been only to give up her own plans, she would gladly have done so; but between her father and her friend, a double sacrifice was required of her, and being only a single woman, she was unable to meet the demand. Mr. Selby, happily, hit upon an expedient. He proposed a compromise: Miss Colville should do him the honour to take a seat in his phaeton (he called it phee-aton), he would drive her as far as Flatville; his daughter should alight with her: they should make their little purchases (the words in italics he uttered in a tone of the tenderest affection); and the phee-aton, in returning from the station, should call and pick them up.

Mr. Selby was a very polite man; and perpetually rubbed his hands together, as though he were playing at washing them, a habit possibly induced by a consciousness of all the dirty work he had performed. Emily patronised him, steadily disbelieving everything that was hinted against him, because he was Caroline’s father,—a piece of scepticism, amiable, illogical, and womanly, which we rather admire in the young lady than otherwise.

Accordingly, favouring him with a bewitching smile, that a better man than he might have been proud to win, she scarcely touched the hand he held out to assist her (which he carefully dry-washed afterwards, as though the contact even of her fairy fingers had dissolved the spell of its prudish purity), and sprang lightly into the “phee-aton.”

Half an hour’s drive brought them to Flatville, where Mr. Selby, so to speak, washed his hands of them, and went on to the railroad station. Then began the shopping, that most mysterious and deeply-seated passion of the female heart—the one master vice which serves the ladies of England, instead of the turf, the wine-cup, and the gaming table, which mislead their lords. There can be little doubt who first invented shopping! The same hand which launched that arrow into the bosom of private life, gave to the child-woman, Eve, the apple that betrayed her—an apple which contained the seeds of shopping. It is such a seductive, hypocritical sin, too, this same shopping—one which is so easily dressed up to resemble a virtue—that it is almost impossible to distinguish its true character till the bill comes in: that, like the touch of Ithuriel’s spear, reveals the fiend in all its deformity. Every woman (that we have known) is more or less addicted to this ruinous practice, but some appear especially gifted with the fatal talent, and, if the truth must be told, our little heroine was one of these unfortunates. The amount of shopping she would contrive to get, even out of a piece of tape, was fearful to reflect upon. In the first place, it was to be of a particular (very particular) texture, neither too coarse nor too fine; then society would probably be uprooted, and the Thames be set on fire, if it were a shade too wide, or, worse still, too narrow. Again, tape was useless without needles and thread, wherewith to operate upon it; and for some time—indeed, till the obsequious parrot of a shopman had gone through his whole vocabulary of persuasion, and become cynical and monosyllabic—all the needles were too large; and, that difficulty being overcome, the thread (sewing cotton Emily called it) took a perverse turn, and would by no means sympathise with the eyes of the selected needles, till the harassed shopman muttered a private aspiration in regard to those useful orifices, which would have cost him five shillings in any court of justice. But he took his revenge, did that cunning shopman, for, no sooner had Emily bought all that she required, than he suddenly recovered his good humour and loquacity, and placed before her exactly the very articles she most desired, and had not funds to purchase withal, till Tantalus himself might have appeared a gentleman who lived at home at ease, in comparison with that sorely-tempted “Rose-bud.”

Still, what woman could do, she did, for she firmly resisted everything, till an unlucky remnant of magpie-coloured ribbon, the “very thing she should want when she changed her mourning, and which she knew she could never meet with again,” a ribbon so cheap that the shopman declared he was “giving it away,” at the very moment when he was adding two shillings to the bill on the strength of it; though this reductive ribbon beguiled her, the little concession only proved that she was not above humanity. With which fact we are well contented, because, enjoying but a very distant and limited acquaintance with such higher circles as she would otherwise have mixed in, we might never have heard of her existence, That she possessed some power of self-denial she proved, by paying her bill and quitting the shop the moment that ribbon had conquered her; the next best thing to resisting temptation being to fly from it.

“Why, Caroline dear, we must have been an age in that shop, it is nearly five o’clock! What can have become of your father’s carriage?” exclaimed Emily, glancing in dismay at the hands of the old church clock, which pointed to a quarter to five.

“Really I can’t conceive,” was the reply: “something must have occurred to delay it, I suppose; it will be growing dusk before we can get home if we have to walk by the road, and we can scarcely attempt the fields so late by ourselves.”

“Mamma will be so frightened,” suggested Emily, “if it gets at all dark before we return—had we not better start at once, and walk on till the carriage overtakes us?”

Caroline agreed to this plan, merely proposing the emendation that they should leave word they had done so, and that the groom, if he ever appeared, was to follow and endeavour to overtake them. For this purpose they re-entered the linen-draper’s shop, where, while they paused for a moment to deliver the message, that vindictive shopman actually was scoundrel enough to display at arm’s length a flimsy black scarf (barege we believe the villain called it), which, down to the very pattern itself (opaque spots of the same material, representing apparently a turnip with a cocked hat on, though we can scarcely bring ourselves to believe the draughtsman could seriously have thus planned the design), Emily had dreamed of only the night before: such is the heartlessness of men—at least of shopmen.

The two girls, having nobly withstood the scarf, started energetically on their homeward walk, nor were their tongues less active than their feet, but then they had so much to talk about. The linen-draper’s stock was first done ample justice to; that “dear” silver grey mousseline de soie, which wasn’t dear at all, but as cheap as—(the ribbon, perhaps, on which the shop-keeper only realised some fifty per cent., but then it was a remnant, and given away)—and then those gloves, French kid, oh! they must have been smuggled; how wrong it was to smuggle, at least papa (Selby) always said so, but really the price was quite ridiculous; didn’t Emily think so?

Emily did not know about its being ridiculous, but it was dreadfully tempting; and if she had not made up her mind irrevocably against changing any one of the three sovereigns she had in her purse, and which must last her for pocket-money for the next two months, she should decidedly have bought a pair, really, for the sake of economy.

This fruitful and edifying topic lasted them a good mile and a half, and was not yet exhausted, when Emily interrupted herself by exclaiming—“Upon my word it’s growing quite dusk; I wonder whether that carriage is ever coming?”

“I’m sure I hope so, for I’m getting dreadfully frightened; ah! what’s that?” replied her companion with a sudden start; “Oh! it’s only a post, how silly I am! I declare I thought it was a man with a pistol hooked—no—what is it they call it when they’re dangerous and mean to go off, dear?”

“Cocked,” returned Emily; “but surely that is a man, and a very uncomfortable looking one too; walk on quickly, and seem as if you did not perceive him; perhaps he may not take any notice of us.”

The advice was sound, but, unfortunately, the plan did not prove as successful as it deserved to be; the individual in question, who, when they first came in sight, was lying apparently asleep upon some fallen timber by the road-side, rose as they came near, and approaching them, began in a tone half-impertinent, half-imploring, to beg of them. He was a stout, ruffianly-looking fellow, dressed in a style which accorded with his profession. The poor girls were considerably frightened: they were quite a mile from Ashburn, in a lonely part of the road; the evening was closing in rapidly, and there was no human being in sight, except their persecutor, who, walking beside them, grew every minute more pertinacious and imperative. With a most transparent attempt at dignified composure, Emily drew out her purse, and, taking a shilling from it, handed it to him, saying—

“There, that is as much as we shall give you, so you need not follow us any further—good evening.”

Taking the shilling, with a look of sulky dissatisfaction, the fellow paused for a moment in irresolution; but, unfortunately, when Emily produced her purse, his eye had caught the sparkle of gold, and his cupidity was too deeply excited to be so easily satisfied: looking up and down the road, to assure himself that no one was at hand to interfere with his designs, he again followed the trembling girls; and, coming up with them, exclaimed—

“What! will you only give a poor fellow that’s starving, a shilling? and you with a purse full of money in your pocket—and you calls yourselves ladies too? It would only serve you right to show you that ladies was no better than other people.” As he spoke, he pressed rudely against Caroline Selby, who, shrinking from him, whispered in an agony of terror—

“Emily, what will become of us? Pray give him some more money, and entreat him to go away.”

Thus urged, Emily again drew forth her purse, and, trembling at her own temerity, said in an authoritative tone of voice—

“There’s half-a-crown for you, and now go away, and don’t annoy us any more.”

“Not without something better worth taking with me,” was the insolent reply, as, catching her wrist, he attempted to force the purse from her grasp; but Emily, although greatly alarmed, had a brave little heart of her own, and held on stoutly, till the unmanly ruffian, provoked at her pertinacity, used so much force that she relinquished the purse; while at the same moment, partly through pain, partly through fright, she uttered piercing scream.

Now, albeit insolent lords of the creation exulting in strong nerves, and not possessing soprano voices, are accustomed to regard screaming as a feeble-minded practice, equally useless and ridiculous, yet in the instance before us it proved of the highest benefit, and by far the best thing, which, under the circumstances, Emily could have done; for, as if he were some good genius evoked by the Rosebud’s appeal, suddenly and unexpectedly a tall, agile figure sprang through a gap in the hedge, cleared the intervening space at a bound, and, almost before the footpad was aware of his approach, struck the scoundrel, with a stick which he carried, so severe a blow over the knuckles, that he dropped the purse; while, at the same moment, seizing him by the throat, he forced him backwards, and, putting out his leg, tripped him up, and flung him heavily to the ground. Placing his foot upon the breast of his fallen foe, to prevent his rising, he turned towards the frightened girls, find, lifting his hat courteously, thereby revealing his dark chestnut curls, he said—

“Do not be alarmed, ladies, I am quite able to protect you.” Then, pointing to the fallen man with his stick, which he slightly shook at him with a menacing gesture, he continued—“Has the scoundrel robbed you of anything but the purse?” As she turned to answer, Emily raised her eyes to the speaker’s face. He was young, apparently not more than five or six and twenty; the exertion he had undergone had caused a bright flush to overspread his usually pale features; even at that moment his look was calm and spiritual; the prevailing expression of his face was power, which revealed itself in his flashing eyes and stern, compressed mouth; his voice, when he spoke, sounded peculiarly rich and sweet. When Emily had informed him that, with the exception of the purse, they had sustained no loss, he continued—

“But he was struggling with you when I came up; he must, surely, have hurt you; are you quite uninjured?”

Both the gils having assured him that they were merely frightened, and that until the moment before he appeared, the man had simply been begging of them, the stranger turned to his prostrate foe, saying—

“It would only serve you right for your unmanly attack on two defenceless women, if I were to avail myself of the advantage I have gained over you to take you into custody and have you punished for the offence you have committed; but as I wish to spare these ladies the alarm of witnessing any further struggle between us, I shall, with their permission, let you go; but mind this, I shall give a description of your appearance at the nearest police-station; and if you do not immediately quit this part of the country, you will have rather more attention paid you than you will find by any means agreeable. So now take yourself off while you may.”

As he spoke, he removed his foot from the scoundrels breast, and with difficulty restraining an impulse to bestow upon him a parting kick, allowed him to rise and slink doggedly away. And now the Rosebud, who, between alarm, and gratitude, and shyness, and an embarrassing consciousness that their champion was young and handsome, was altogether in a great state of agitation and excitement, felt it incumbent upon her, as spokeswoman, to express her sentiments as best she might. Accordingly, with some hesitation and many blushes, which unfortunately the increasing darkness rendered invisible, she informed the stranger how very much obliged to him they were: and impressed upon his mind the state of abject terror from which he had relieved them, glancing slightly at the anxiety they felt for the favourable termination of the combat, and their admiration of, and gratitude for, his heroic conduct.

The stranger received her acknowledgments with a quiet smile, partly pleased, partly amused by the young girl’s eagerness; then, in a few simple, courteous, well-chosen words, he expressed the pleasure he had felt in having been able to render them such a slight service; adding, he should always consider it a most fortunate occurrence that, owing to a fancy which had seized him, to find his way from the railroad-station across the fields, he had been enabled to arrive just at the most critical moment.

The Rosebud listened to him attentively. One thing was quite evident, be he whom he might, both his language and manner proved him a gentleman. Mysterious and deeply interesting! Could it be Prince Albert, wandering about the country in disguise, for some inexplicable purpose connected with political economy, or the Admirable Crichton, suddenly “come alive,” to seek for a wife in the nineteenth century?

The arrival of the “Phee-aton,” which had been taken poorly, and obliged to have its wheel oiled,—a process which, owing to the inefficiency of the blacksmith who (faute de mieux) had been called in to attend the patient, had occupied a longer portion of time than was by any means necessary,—interrupted Emily’s conjectures.

The mysterious stranger, as soon as he understood the connection between the vehicle and the damsels he had rescued, politely handed them in; and, refusing Caroline’s timid offer of a seat, again raised his hat, and the carriage driving on, was soon lost to sight.

“Oh, Emily, what a brave, handsome, courteous, interesting creature!” exclaimed Caroline, enthusiastically; “who can he be?”

“I can’t conceive; but we shall be sure to find out, for he is walking in the direction of Ashburn,” was the reply. “He certainly knocked that dreadful man down very cleverly, and was extremely kind and good-natured to us; but do you think him so very handsome?”

“Oh, there can’t be a doubt about it! Those pale, interesting features—that lofty brow—those splendid flashing eyes—the dark clusters of his waving hair!”

“Carry, you’ve fallen in love with the man at first sight, and are a susceptible little goose; he is by no means the Adonis you make out; and, remember, we know nothing about him; he may be a bagman for anything we can tell to the contrary,” rejoined Emily.

“No, I’m quite certain he is a gentleman, and most likely something better still. He spoke just like Lord Adolphus Fitztoplofty, when I danced with him at the race-ball, and he asked me whether I’d seen the ‘Prophète,’ and if I didn’t doat upon that dear Mario (so lucky that he should fix upon the only opera I’d ever heard, wasn’t it?), and yet you pretend to believe he’s a bagman; but I know you only say so to plague me, you naughty thing;” and thus speaking, Caroline relieved her overwrought feelings by giving her friend a playful blow, which the most fragile fly might have endured unshrinkingly.

“My dear child, I never hinted anything of the kind,” returned Emily; “au contraire, I believe Lord Adolphus to be a thoroughly well-authenticated young nobleman, and consider him the most gentlemanly puppy I have ever met.”

“Tiresome girl; you know I don’t mean Lord Fitz. But I’ll stake my penetration on the stranger’s gentility; you only abuse him because you admire him so much that you are ashamed to own it, you mean, deceitful girl!”

“Silly child, how can you be so absurd!” said the Rosebud; but although it was so dark that, if she had blushed, her friend could never have discovered it, she turned away her head as she spoke.

CHAPTER IV.—SHUFFLING, DEALING, AND TURNING UP A KNAVE AND A TRUMP.

“Take this to Sir Thomas Crawley, and tell him I am waiting.”

The servant to whom the above direction was given, carried the card to which it referred to his master, who, lifting it from the silver waiter on which it was presented, read the following name—“The Rev. Ernest Carrington.”

“Show the gentleman into the library, and bring candles there directly,” said Sir Thomas; then, thrusting his fingers through the short, stiff, grey bristles, suggestive of a venerable and well-worn scrubbing-brush, which constituted his head of hair—an action which, to any one acquainted with his habits, would have proved that he was anxious and excited—he turned, and left the apartment.

When he entered the library, his excitement seemed to have increased and taken a crabbed turn, for it was in no very cordial tone of voice that he addressed his visitor.

“If, as I presume, you have come here in consequence of my letter, I must say you have chosen a somewhat late hour for a business visit, young gentleman.”

“I lost no time, sir, in making the necessary inquiries,” was the reply. “Immediately on receiving your letter I hastened to London, saw your solicitor, perused my grandfather’s will, obtained the information I required, and came down by the first train that stopped at the Flatville station; and, as your man of business informed me time was of importance, I would not wait till to-morrow, lest the delay might cause you inconvenience. If that is not sufficient apology for my untimely visit, I have none other to offer.”

The calm, respectful, but at the same time perfectly self-possessed manner of the speaker, appeared to have the same land of effect upon his auditor that the keeper’s eye has upon some savage animal, for he replied, in a more civil tone than he had yet used,—

“Yes, well—I see—yes. I am obliged to you for the prompt attention you have paid to my letter.” He paused, then added, with affected indifference,—“About the entail; you find, of course, that the point raised was a wholly unnecessary one, and that your signature is a mere matter of form, to satisfy the absurd scruples of the party negotiating for the purchase; some people are so ridiculously cautious, ha! ha!” and here he laughed a forced, uneasy laugh.

“Such was by no means the view the solicitor whom I consulted in town appeared to take of the matter,” was Ernest’s quiet reply. “So far from it, that he declared, without my signature, the title was worthless; and that, if I were inclined to litigate the question, he had not a doubt that I should gain my cause. The estates, he said, were clearly entailed; and, therefore, my grandfather could not alienate them without my father’s consent, which, I need scarcely tell you, he never attempted to obtain.”

Sir Thomas Crawley’s brow grew black as midnight. “Preposterous,” he said, “quite childish and preposterous. I have taken counsel’s opinion on the point, and they say you haven’t a leg to stand on. You must have consulted some very ignorant person.”

“On the contrary, it is Mr. S., of ———— Street,” replied Ernest, naming a gentleman whose reputation for legal knowledge and acumen was undeniable; “but,” he continued, “it matters little, for I have no intention of raising the question. The animus of my grandfather’s will is unmistakable; he meant to leave every acre away from my father; and I should scorn to hold the estate on no better tenure than the juggling of a legal-quibble.”

“Then you are prepared to sign the paper resigning all claim upon the entailed estates, are you?” inquired Sir Thomas, eagerly.

“Yes, this very moment, if you choose,” was the ready answer.

Sir Thomas paused an instant in thought ere he replied.

“There is no such extreme hurry: Mr. Selby, my country agent, will be here to-morrow morning, and can witness your signature. I am glad to find that you take such a sensible view of the matter. I feared you might have formed some rash hopes on the strength of my application; in fact, I was most unwilling to apply to you; but—but—”

“You found it impossible to make out a title which could sell the estate without so doing,” interposed Ernest in a tone of quiet politeness, in which it would have required perceptions quicker and more delicate than those of Sir Thomas Crawley to have distinguished the covert satire that lurked beneath it.

“Exactly: one of those contemptible legal quibbles which you so justly reprobate,” returned Sir Thomas; “however, I am glad to perceive you feel with me so completely. You will dine with me? and I have a bed very much at your service.”

Ernest thanked him, but civilly declined. Sir Thomas however, persisted—he would take no denial; and at length a compromise was effected, Ernest consenting to dine with his rich relative, on condition that he might return to the inn where he had left his valise, in time to write one or two letters of importance to go by the early post the next morning.

The dinner passed off agreeably enough; Ernest being one of those happily endowed individuals who, without falsifying their own opinions, or seeming the thing they are not, yet possess the talent of adapting their conversation to those with whom they are thrown in company, in such a manner as to set them at ease, and draw out the best points of their characters.

Sir Thomas experienced the full influence of this fascination, and talked largely of his schemes for the amelioration of his tenantry; of plans for the revision and modification of the poor-laws; of the advisability of erecting model lodging-houses for the industrial classes, &c., &c., until he had deceived his companion, and almost persuaded himself into the belief that he was an enlightened philanthropist, overflowing with the milk of human kindness.

On his return to the inn at Ashburn, Ernest wrote the following letter to an old college friend, who was junior partner in the office of the legal luminary to whom he had alluded in his interview with Sir Thomas Crawley.

“My dear Milford,—Since I saw you two days ago, I have got through a considerable amount of business, met with an adventure, and, in short, condensed more active existence into the last eight-and-forty hours than one often accomplishes in as many days. One thing I am delighted to tell you,—I have succeeded in procuring employment, which will more than provide for the few requirements without which one must degrade from the rank of a gentleman. You can now, therefore, carry out the arrangement I explained to you, and settle the small residue of my poor father’s property upon my sisters;—my mother, as you are aware, having (I own, against my wishes) married again. Thanks to those unnaturally amiable railroad shares which my father bought just before his decease, and which have turned out a really good investment (I look upon any one who, having gambled in railroads, leaves off a winner, as I should at a rat, who, nibbling at a baited trap, carried off the cheese scatheless), they will thus be able to live in comparative comfort, especially on the Continent, which their tastes lead them to prefer. The employment I have obtained is not exactly to my liking, but I shall look out for a curacy if I find the duties of my position unbearably irksome. Owing to my wrangler’s degree I distanced some half-dozen competitors, and obtained the post of classical and mathematical master at Doctor Donkiestir’s well-known school, almost as soon as I had entered my name as candidate. I begin my new duties the day after to-morrow, at which time the school meets.

“Having been thus enabled to place my sisters beyond the reach of poverty, my last scruple, in regard to that which you are pleased to call my absurd Quixotism, about the entailed estates, has vanished; and I, this evening, signified in proprid persona to Sir Thomas, my willingness to ‘do a little bit of Esau,’ as you irreverently term signing away my birthright—and here, par parenthèse, let me observe that you are too much addicted to this style of scriptural jesting—a fault the more to be reprehended because (as I find to my cost) it is decidedly infectious: verbum sat! The aforesaid ‘Sir Thomas’ seems, as far as one can judge on so short an acquaintance, by no means so black as he is painted; indeed, upon many of the great social questions of the day, his ideas coincide wonderfully with my own: he was polite in the extreme, though I must confess his amiability followed my declaration that I was willing to meet his wishes in regard to the entail.

“This epistle has run to such an unexpected length, that I have no room to detail my adventure, and will merely stimulate your curiosity by adding that it was intensely romantic, and that it contained the elements of the two things which, in the old Trinity days, we esteemed the greatest pleasures in life—viz., a fight and a flirtation.

“In consideration of my cloth, I indulged, in the first sparingly, and abstained from the last entirely; though, as far as the twilight enabled me to judge, the provocation was a very fair one. I know the epithet this confession will obtain for me; but I had rather bear the ignominy of being considered a ‘muff,’ than merit the designation of a ‘fast parson;’ and so fare thee well.

“Yours ever,

“Ernest Carrington.”

“P.S.—Remember, my sisters are not to know that I am sacrificing anything to add to their income; you are merely to inform them that, my father’s affairs being at length arranged, they will for the future be in the receipt of six hundred and fifty pounds per annum, instead of the four hundred which you before paid to them; and the delightful mist through which all women regard business matters, will effectually prevent their making any further discoveries.”

Having sealed his letter, Ernest betook himself to bed, and fell asleep as contentedly as if he had not sacrificed an estate worth £10,000 to a chivalrous scruple, and a patrimony of £200 a-year to brotherly affection.

Sir Thomas Crawley might consider him a weak-minded, good-natured fool; Milford designate him a “muff.” But if there were a few mere such muffs and fools in this realm of good King Mammon, that same kingdom might be better worth living in.

By ten o’clock the next morning he was again at Ashburn Priory; signed the deed relinquishing all claim upon the entailed estates; shook hands cordially with the rich man who was thus scheming to defraud him; and started with a light heart, and still lighter purse, to carry his own carpet-bag seven miles to the railroad. About a mile from the station, a pony-chaise overtook him, driven by a stout serving-lad, and containing two gentlemanly-looking boys, dressed in mourning, and a ponderous trunk, carefully corded and directed. As this vehicle approached, Ernest, who had walked fast, paused to wipe his brow, at the same time resting his carpet-bag—which he had carried on a stick over his shoulder—upon the top of the last milestone.

The elder of the two boys regarded him attentively; then whispered something to the younger, who nodded and smiled in reply; making a sign to the driver to stop, the elder boy, addressing Ernest, began—

“I beg your pardon, sir, but you seem tired: we are going to the Flatville station, and have a vacant seat at your service, if you please to accept it.”

“I will with the greatest pleasure,” returned Ernest, “if you are sure we shall not overweight the pony.”

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid—you need not be in the least afraid of that, sir,” interposed the younger boy confidently. “Samson can draw us; Samson is as strong as——”

“His Israelitish namesake, perhaps,” suggested Ernest, placing his carpet-bag on the top of the trunk, and springing lightly into the pony-chaise.

“Well, I was going to say, as strong as the Elephant and Castle,” remarked the younger boy, with a look of profound sagacity; “but, perhaps, the original Samson will do as well. What do you say, Percy?”

“I say that you are an absurd little chatterbox, Hugh, and I have little doubt the gentleman thinks so too,” returned his brother,—for the reader need scarcely read the direction on the trunk, albeit written in Percy’s plainest hand, to inform him that the boys were the two young Colvilles, then leaving home for the first time in their lives.

The parting had been a trying scene for all the persons concerned; and poor Hugh had only just recovered from the hearty cry, in which even his incipient manly dignity could not preserve him from indulging, when they overtook Ernest.

“A chatterbox, perhaps, but not an absurd one,” was the good-natured reply. “I feel particularly interested about the pony, I can assure you; have you had him long? I daresay he is a-great favourite.”

This speech, which was addressed to. Hugh, was too much for the poor little fellow’s fortitude, and, after a vain struggle to repress them, his scarcely dried tears sprang forth anew.

Percy threw his arm around him, and drew him affectionately to his side, as he said, in an explanatory whisper, “He is going to school for the first time, sir; and before he comes back, the pony we are so fond of must be sold.”

“And you?” inquired Ernest, interested by the boy’s manner and appearance.

“I am older, and therefore better able to bear such little trials,” was the reply. “Besides,” Percy continued, in a lower tone, “my mother depends upon me to take care of him, and keep up his spirits, for he has no father now to protect him.” Ernest glanced involuntarily at their deep mourning, and there was a pause; for the circumstance brought vividly before his recollection a similar period of sorrow, when death had been busy among his own loved ones, and his father and a younger brother, of whom Percy strongly reminded him, had been called from this world of care, and sin, and sorrow, to that better land, “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” The silence was at length broken by Hugh, whose grief was a very April kind of affair, even at the worst of times.

“I suppose you are not going to school, sir, too?” he said, addressing Ernest, while a merry sparkle in his eye belied the {implicit}’ the question indicated.

“Perhaps I may be,” returned Ernest, smiling at the applicability of the question to his own situation. “If I should tell you that I were going to do so, would you believe me?”

“I don’t think I should,” replied Hugh, regarding him attentively. “People don’t usually go to school when they’ve these things on their faces;” and, as he spoke, he, with a gesture half coaxing, half arch, gave a gentle twitch to Ernest’s curling whiskers.

Percy, afraid Hugh’s sudden rush into intimacy might annoy the stranger, attempted to restrain him, but Ernest, with a good-natured smile, prevented him.

“Do not check him,” he said; “our friendship will not end any sooner because it has begun rather rapidly.” He then, entered into conversation with the boys, choosing subjects in which he imagined they would feel interest, and enlarging upon them so cleverly and amusingly, that ere they reached the station, he had completely captivated the fresh, warm hearts of his young-companions.

“What will you say if I guess where you are going to?” he inquired of Hugh, as they drove up to the station.

“Why, if you guess right, I shall say you must be a conjuror,” was the reply.

“I think you are going to Doctor Donkiestir’s school, at Tickletown. Am I right?”

“Quite, quite right,” exclaimed Hugh, clapping his hands in delighted surprise; “but you must be a conjuror; how did you contrive to find it out?”

Ernest enjoyed the mystification for a minute or so; then, casting his eyes on the box, observed quietly, “I was taught to read when I was a good little boy; and your brother has written that direction so plainly, that I must have been blind if I had not been able to decipher it.”

“Oh, you cheat! anybody could have done that,” returned Hugh, contemptuously; “and I to think you a conjuror: Why, I expected to see you take twenty eggs out of an empty bag, and make a boiled plum-pudding in your hat, like the man we-saw perform last year. I say, Percy, it strikes me I’ve been making a goose of myself.”

“Very decidedly,” was Percy’s quiet reply.

CHAPTER V.—A FAST SPECIMEN OF “YOUNG ENGLAND.”

The railroad station at Flatville was a large and central one, two or three branches converging at that point and joining the main line. A train from London was due before that by which the Colvilles were to proceed would start. Almost at the moment our little party arrived it made its appearance, the engine snorting and puffing, as though it were about to burst with spite at having been forced to draw so heavy a train at the rate of fifty miles-an hour.

“This is the train by which our cousin, Wilfred Goldsmith, was to arrive; but it is so long since I last saw him, that I scarcely expect to recognise him,” observed Percy.

“Oh! I hope we shall not miss him, for he will take care that they don’t put us into a wrong carriage, and carry us off to some desolate island, where we shall never be heard of any more till we have been eaten by the savages like Captain Cook; and then you know it will be too late,” suggested Hugh.

“I will ensure you against that catastrophe,” observed Ernest, “even if your cousin should not make his appearance; for I am going as far as Tickletown, and we will travel in the came carriage; see, they are bringing them up now—follow me.”

So saying, and having committed the important trunk to the care of an amiable and intelligent porter, Ernest selected a carriage, and the trio took their seats. Just before the train was about to start, an individual bustled up, followed by a porter carrying a writing-desk and a railway-rug glowing with all the colours of the rainbow. The moment the door was opened, he sprang in with such energy as nearly to overturn poor Hugh.

“Beg your pardon, little boy, but ’pon my word I didn’t see you—you ought to grow a couple of sizes larger to travel safe by rail; it was nearly a case of infanticide—a spoilt child, as somebody calls it. That’ll do, Velveteens” (this was addressed to the porter); “gently with that writing-desk, if you please; there’s all my personal jewellery, and several £500 notes in it. That’s the time of day! Sorry the directors set their faces against tipping; but the first occasion on which we meet in private life, half-a-crown awaits you; till then, Velveteens, as the Archbishop says in the play, ‘Accept my blessing.’”

The speaker was either a very small man, or a large boy dressed in adult clothing—at first sight it was not easy to determine which—till closer observation detected, in the breaking-voice, now hoarse, now shrill, the youthful complexion, and straggling, unformed figure, sufficient evidence that the latter hypothesis was the correct one. His outer boy was encased in a rough, very loose pea-jacket, with preternatural buttons, a. pair of the very “loudest” checked trousers, real Wellington boots, with heels not above three inches high, a shawl round his neck, in regard to which Emily’s perfidious shopman might have been believed, had he declared the colours to be indisputably fast; while a velvet travelling-cap, with a bullion tassel, completed his costume. Having wrapped his rug round his lower limbs, and gone through a most elaborate pantomime of making himself comfortable, he condescended to favour his companions with a glance of patronising scrutiny; apparently satisfying himself, by this means, that they were sufficiently respectable to be honoured by his conversation, he turned to Ernest, saying,—

“Fine open weather this, sir—jolly for the hunting—none-of your confounded frosts to-day—regular break up yesterday evening, and been thawing like bricks ever since—fond of hunting, sir?”

“I consider it a fine, manly sport, but too dangerous for little boys to be allowed to indulge in,” returned Ernest, drily.

Either not detecting, or more probably purposely ignoring, the covert satire of his speech, the fast young gentleman appeared to agree in the sentiment. .

“Yes, that’s true enough,” he said; “for instance, I wouldn’t advise this small shaver” (indicating with a motion of the eyelid Hugh, who sat watching him with breathless astonishment) “to trust himself across country outside a horse; but when one has come to—ahem! years of discretion, and learned how to take care of oneself,—the purpose for which divines tell us we are sent into the world,—why the more hunting one gets the jollier, I say.”

“Have you ever been out hunting yourself, may I ask?” inquired Ernest, fixing his penetrating glance full on the boy’s countenance; who, despite his fastness, was not, when asked a straightforward question, prepared to tell an actual lie, though to adhere to the exact truth would have made his previous remarks appear singularly inconsistent and uncalled for; accordingly he answered—

“Ar—well—yes—oh! of course I’ve been out hunting—ah—not exactly on horseback, perhaps, but it’s just the same thing, you know;—what a shocking slow train this is, to be sure!——they hardly do their five-and-thirty miles an hour; I shall certainly write to the Times about it, if they don’t mind what they’re at.”

During this speech Hugh’s sharp eyes had deciphered the direction on the important writing-desk, containing the jewellery and the incalculable number of £500 notes, and he promulgated the result of his discovery thus:—

“‘Wilfred J. Goldsmith, Esquire:’ what! are you our cousin Wilfred? why I took you for a gentleman!”

“Oh, Hugh!” exclaimed Percy, scandalised at his brother’s rudeness.

“No, I don’t mean that,” continued Hugh quickly, while-Ernest turned away his head to hide an irrepressible smile; “I mean, I took you for a grown up gentleman, and not a boy like Percy, you know.”

This involuntary tribute to the man-about-town-like adultness-of his manners and appearance delighted Wilfred Jacob more than the most elaborate compliment courtier could have devised; at length he had found some one to believe in him, and to take him at his own valuation, and he adopted and steadily patronised Hugh from that time forth. He was much too wide awake, however, to allow this to appear; replying in the off-hand; manner which he affected—

“Rather an equivocal compliment that, young’un; but I expect it was better meant than expressed: so I’ll take the will for the deed, as the lawyer’s clerk did after he’d mixed the ‘dog’s-nose’ rather too still at his early dinner. ‘Always give credit for good intentions,’ is a copy old Splitnib (so called from an analogy between his professional avocations, and the fact of his having, in by-gone hours, fallen over a form, and divided the bridge of his own proboscis) will set you writing before you are many days older; and in me you behold a living embodiment of the precept.”

“How was it we did not see you at the station, Cousin: Wilfred?” inquired Percy; “we waited as long as we dared, till we thought we should lose the train looking for you.”

“Why, you see, my dear boy,” began Wilfred, stretching out a boot beyond the rainbow-coloured wrapper, for the purpose of tapping it admiringly with a dandyfied little cane, “leaving the modern Babylon by the seven o’clock a.m., I necessarily breakfasted early; and as, according to Cocker, the interval between six a.m. and one p.m. embraces seven hours, I experienced, on my arrival at the Flatville station, the very uncomfortable sensation of nature abhorring a vacuum in my breadbasket; and, as even Curtius himself could scarcely have contrived to fill up a similar gulf by jumping down his own throat, I walked first into the refreshment-room, and then into a basin of mock-turtle soup. A deucedly pretty gal it was who handed it to me, too; uncommon attentive she was, to be sure: in fact, entre nous,” he continued, leaning confidently towards Ernest, “it strikes me she wasn’t altogether insensible to the personal attractions of ‘yours truly’—do you twig?” Ernest smiled as he replied, “Of course she charged for the admiration as well as for your luncheon.”

“Real turtle as well as mock, eh? I hope you don’t mean any insinuation about a calf’s head too I But, now you mention it, I do think seven-and-sixpence was rather high for a basin of soup. Ah! the women, they make sad fools of us youth; but as the old lady piously remarked, when her pet dog died of repletion, ‘Such is life, which is the end of all things:’—heigh-ho!”

Having relieved his feelings by venting a deep sigh, Master (he would have annihilated us for so calling him) Wilfred Jacob, who appeared gifted with an interminable flow of conversation, and an insatiable delight in listening to his own voice, again addressed his companions, exclaiming—

“I tell you what it is, gentlemen: the cares of existence, and the heartlessness of that deluding mock-turtle soup gal, ar weighing upon my spirits to such a degree, that nothing short of a mild cigar can bring me round again: that is, always supposing you, none of you, entertain a rooted aversion (you perceive the pun?) to the leaves of the Indian herb.”

“I presume you are aware that smoking in a first-class carriage is against the rules of the railway company,” suggested Ernest.

“I know that some such prejudice exists in their feeble minds,” was the rejoinder; “but they are not obliged to learn anything about it, are they? ‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know.”

“The first porter who opens the door is certain to perceive the smell; and of course, if he inquires whence it proceeds, I shall not attempt to disguise the truth,” returned Ernest.

“Never fear,” was the reply; “even if such an alarming contingency were to accrue, I know a safe dodge to throw him off the scent.”

“If I possessed any authority over you, I should strongly remonstrate against your violating such a wise and useful regulation,” observed Ernest, gravely.

“That fearful moral responsibility not resting upon your conscience—for which, as a philanthropist, I feel humbly thankful—I shall, with your leave, waste no more precious time, but go ahead at once.” So saying the young pickle drew from his pocket a small neatly finished leather ease, well filled with cigars; having politely offered it in turn to each of his companions, who were unanimous in their refusal, he selected a cigar, lighted it by means of a piece of German tinder, and, placing it in his mouth, began puffing away with equal zest and science.

Having set it going to his satisfaction, he removed it for a moment, and, emitting a graceful wreath of smoke, resumed—“Capital good cigars these—came from Fribourg and Pontet’s—I never smoke any others—better change your mind and take one, Mr.———, ‘pon my word your name has escaped me.”

“Are you quite certain you ever knew it?” inquired Ernest, whilst a smile of quiet intelligence curled his handsome mouth.

In no degree disconcerted, Master Wilfred took another long pull at his cigar ere he replied, “Not to be done, eh, sir? Well, I respect a man all the more for being unpumpable; dodginess, in all its branches, is the virtue I most venerate.”

“And what is dodginess, please, Cousin Wilfred?” inquired Hugh, upon whose youthful intelligence slang was, for the first time, dawning with all its fascinating eloquence.

“Dodginess, my verdant young relative, is a psychological attribute compounded of equal portions of presence of mind and fertility of resource, which enables every ‘cove’ (cove is a generic appellation for indiscriminate male humanity) thus happily endowed, to rise superior to all the minor obstacles of existence; as, for example, when I, trying to pump the gentleman opposite in regard to his patronymic, was by him foiled in my attempt, and convicted of the logical absurdity of having declared myself to have forgotten that which I had never known; or, again,—when, this morning, my governor, your venerable uncle, who, benighted innocent that he is, hopes to coerce me into giving up smoking, took from me my cigar-case, but allowed me to regain it by picking his pocket thereof, while squabbling with the cabman for an extra sixpence;—mind you recollect all this; for, in these days slag is completely the language of fashionable life. Were I that epitome of slowness, ‘the father of a family,’ I should have the young idea taught to clothe itself in slang from the cradle upwards. And now, as I’ve a notion the train is approaching a station, and my cigar has arrived at its terminus, you shall witness a specimen of dodginess with your own eyes;—be silent, and observe me attentively—ahem!”

He then flung the end of his cigar out of window, and, assuming an air of great consequence, waited till the train stopped; the moment he did so, he summoned a porter.

“Porter, open the door!” The man obeyed. “Put your head in and tell me what this carriage smells of.”

The porter, looking surprised at the request, complied—“It smells tobaccer-efied like to me,” he observed, after a minute’s investigation.

“Tobaccer-efied, indeed!” repeated Wilfred Jacob, in a tone of the deepest indignation; “some brute has been smoking in this carriage, I’m certain of it! a first-class carriage, too. I tell you what, porter, when gentlemen pay for the comfort and convenience of a first-class carriage, they expect to enjoy what they pay for, and not to be poisoned alive with the odour of tobacco.”

“Smoking ain’t never allowed in the fust class, sir,” pleaded the embarrassed porter.

“It may not be allowed, but it has been done,” was the captious reply: “I’ll take my oath some one has been smoking in this carriage; I’m as certain of it as if I’d seen them myself; my nose never deceives me;—what’s your name?”

“My name be Johnson; but I’ll call the station-master to speak to you, sir.”

“By no means; it’s no fault of his,” replied Wilfred, hastily, feeling anything but desirous that a more enlightened intellect should be brought to bear upon the question: “no, I shall write to the directors, to complain, and call you to witness that I mentioned the fact at the first station we stopped at. It’s absurd to pretend to make rules, and then suffer them to be broken in this way. Shut the door. I shall remember your name—Johnson!” and as he uttered the last word, the train started.

His companions exchanged glances: Percy’s expressed disapproval; Hugh’s, mingled surprise and delight; while Ernest was so much amused at the boy’s ready wit and cool impudence, that, for the life of him, he could not reprove him for the deception.

When the recollection of this little incident had, in some degree, worn off, Percy asked his cousin how he liked Doctor Donkiestir’s school; and begged him to tell them a little about the manners and customs of the place to which they were going.

“Put you up to a thing or two, eh? Give you some small insight into the time of day? Well, I suppose, as it’s all in the family, and you’re Tickletonians yourselves, or about to become so, it’s no breach of confidence. You won’t split, sir?” he continued, appealingly, to Ernest. “Honour amongst thieves, eh?”

“You may trust me,” was the concise reply.

“First promise me, upon your honour, that you will not tell any of the masters, then,” stipulated Wilfred.

“Upon my honour I will not tell any of them,” was the slightly Jesuitical reply; “nor will I make an unfair use of any information you may please to communicate to my young friend.”

“That’s all right, then. You look like a brick (I’m a bit of a physiognomist, you see), so I’ll trust you. In the first place, masters: there’s the Doctor, alias old Donkey, alias (his name is John) Jackass, with sundry other derivatives, more caustic than complimentary. Well, he’s not altogether a bad sort of fellow, only he makes a fuss about trifles, and is especially jealous if he fancies that any one appears likely to interfere with what he calls his prerogative; in fact, he would be a stunner if his temper did not stand in his way: but, on the whole the boys like him, and so look over his little failings. Then, there’s a sort of second master, ‘Mat. and Clat.’ we call him, which is short for mathematical and classical; but we are changing horses in that quarter, so, till we have tried the new animal (pretty well tried he will be, too, before we’ve done with him, I expect), it’s impossible to say how he may suit us; only, if he ain’t a tolerably wide-awake cove, I pity him; for, between master and boys, he’ll have a sweet time of it, poor devil! Then there are two ushers—Hexameter and Pentameter (familiarly Hex. and Pen.) so termed because one is six feet high and the other scarcely above five: they are not gentlemen, therefore they don’t act as sich, so of course we ‘chouse’ and bully them as much as we dare. Then there’s old Splitnib, a coach of the most unmitigated slowness, but who writes a wonderful hand; and, finally and lastly, Monsieur Beaugentil, the French master, who is more involuntarily comic than all the rest of his frog-devouring nation put together. These worthies rule, and are ruled by, a floating capital of some two hundred boys, more or less, of whom the eldest may be about seventeen or eighteen, and the youngest on a par with this juvenile shaver here.”

“And do you work very hard?” inquired Percy.

“Not we,” was the reply. “Of course, for decency’s sake, we do something. It don’t pay for a fellow to be quite an ignoramus in these days, unless he happens to have been born a lord, or experienced some such jolly dispensation at starting; but as for hard work,—no, thank ye. What’s the use of having a fag, if you can’t get your exercises done for you, I should like to know?”

“What’s a fag?” inquired Hugh.

The first effect of this apparently simple question was to throw the person to whom it was addressed into a state of the most violent laughter. As soon as he could recover breath, he gasped out, “Oh, lor! it’s very fatiguing; you’ll be the death of me with your blessed innocence, that you will.”

After a less severe relapse, he continued, “You’ll soon know what fagging means, you poor, unfortunate, green little warmint; though I think I shall honour you by taking you myself. I’ve a right to a fag now I’m in the fifth form; and the chap I had last half has left. You seem a jolly, good-tempered little beggar, and I shouldn’t like to see you made miserable.”

“He shall never be ill-used while I am alive,” exclaimed Percy, with flashing eyes.

“That’s a very proper and plucky sentiment on your part, my dear boy,” returned Wilfred; “but it’s a precious deal easier to talk about than to act upon. You can’t thrash a whole school, especially when some of them are almost men grown. Such chaps as Biggington or Thwackings, who can polish off a coalheaver sporting style, for instance; your namesake Hotspur himself would have found such fellows as them tough customers. All you can do with them is to keep ’em in good humour while you can, and get out of their way when you can’t.”

“But all this time you have not told me what a fag is,” interrupted Hugh.

“Well, a fag is a small boy, taken possession of by a larger boy, according to an old established precedent, against which the masters set their faces in vain. The small boy thus enslaved is termed a fag, and his duties are to do everything the larger boy finds it impossible or disagreeable to do himself. If the small boy performs these duties zealously and good-humouredly, he is only kicked and driven about like a dog, and survives to become a fifth, and eventually a sixth form boy, and takes his change out of fags of his own. If he sulks, or neglects orders, he is either half or three-quarters murdered, according to the hands he falls into, and is usually taken away from the school, or otherwise expended, before he reaches hobble-de-hoy’s estate. And now, have I made that clear to your juvenile capacity?—Yes?—Then mind you profit by it, or I shall have to show you practically how Tickletonians tickle,” and as he spoke, he pointed suggestively to his cane, though a good-natured twinkle in his eye contradicted the threat.

Having thus broken ground, he favoured the company with a series of dissolving views, illustrating various episodes of Tickletonian life, wherein were vividly portrayed scrapes got into and out of with much ability, and more impudence, by certain scholastic heroes, past and present; but the gist of each anecdote lying in the discomfiture or mystification of one or more of the masters, it is scarcely to be supposed, giving Wilfred Jacob credit for the most open disposition imaginable, that he would have been quite so communicative, had he divined the capacity in which Ernest Carrington was then journeying to Tickletown.

When they reached the station at which they were to alight, an omnibus, provided by Doctor Donkiestir, was in waiting to convey any of his scholars who might arrive by that train. Ernest, who was not to present himself till the following morning, and had availed himself of the opportunity to accept the invitation of an old college friend, from whom he had originally heard of the vacancy, here took leave of his young companions, saying, as he did so—

“Good-bye. As I should not much wonder if we were to meet again sooner than you at all expect, I wish you to remember, that if at any time you require advice or assistance you will find a friend in Ernest Carrington.”

He then touched Wilfred’s arm, and drawing him aside, observed,—“I have allowed you to run on in a way which I am sure you would have endeavoured to avoid had you known who I was. I did so, not from any mean wish to entrap you into confessions of which I might afterwards make use to your disadvantage, but simply in order to gain some insight into your true character; and now I will make a compact with you: as long as you behave kindly towards your two cousins, who interest me exceedingly, and befriend them as your superior knowledge of the world” (the slightly ironical emphasis with which he pronounced the last few words was not lost upon his auditor, who, for once in his life, felt conscious that he had made-himself ridiculous), “and especially of the little world comprised in a boys’ school, will enable you to do, I shall forget anything peculiar I may have heard this morning. I will only add, that I have misjudged your character if you consider the condition I have proposed a hard one.”

“Before I attempt to make a suitable reply to your mysterious and startling communication, allow me, sir, to inquire, in the most respectful manner possible, first, who you are? secondly, what you are?” returned Wilfred-Jacob, in a quieter tone than he had yet made use of.

“The Rev. Ernest Carrington, classical and mathematical master (or, familiarly, Clat. and Mat.) in Dr. Donkiestir’s school at Tickletown, at your service,” was the reply.

The first effect of this announcement was to elicit from the “fast young gentleman” a prolonged and expressive whistle; next came an aside, “Well, if I haven’t gone and put my foot into it deepish rather, it’s a pity.” Then, turning to Ernest, he asked, abruptly,—“’Pon your honour as a gentleman, Mr. Carrington, if I stick to the young Colvilles like a trump, you won’t peach?”

“Upon my honour,” was the frank reply.

“It’s a bargain, then,” rejoined Wilfred. “And now, sir, before we sink the amenities of social life in the less jovial relationship of master and pupil, allow me the honour of shaking hands with you, while at the same time you must permit me to express my opinion, that your conduct has been brickish in the extreme.”

With a smile called forth by the peculiar school-boy phraseology, and strange admixture of good feeling and never-failing impudence, of his new ally, Ernest shook hands with him good-naturedly, and turned to depart; but Wilfred Jacob detained him.

“One slight additional favour would oblige,” he said. “A discreet silence in regard to the cigar episode would be a desirable addenda to our compact. Our friend Donkiestir has prejudices—verbum sat—a nod is as good as a wink. Farewell we meet again at Philippi.’”

So saying, he bowed low, removing a very shining new hat, wherewith he had replaced the gorgeous travelling cap, and hurried after his cousins, who were by this time seated in, and sole tenants of, the omnibus, where they presented, so to speak, a very forlorn and cast-away appearance.

CHAPTER VI.—THE CONSPIRACY.

“Oh, Percy, have you heard the news?” inquired Hugh, eagerly, some five weeks after his arrival at Tickletown; and as he spoke, he began dancing and clinging round his brother in a state of the greatest excitement.

“What news, Hugh?” returned Percy, who, seated at his desk, was writing with the greatest assiduity.

“Oh, then you haven’t heard,” resumed Hugh. “Well, you know that a company of actors are performing at the Tickletown Theatre, and that all the boys are mad to go and see them; and no wonder, either, for, from what Wilfred and others, who have seen one in London, say, a play must be the most wonderful, glorious, jolliest, brickish-est thing going.” Hugh was making surprising advances in slang, under his cousin Wilfred’s able tuition; his progress in dear Dr. Valpy’s Latin Delectus was by no means equally rapid.

“I know what you have told me; but I know, also, that the Doctor has expressly forbidden any of the boys, even of the sixth form, to go to the theatre, on pain of expulsion. His reason—and it seems to me a good one—being, that he cannot exercise any surveillance (that means care, or watchfulness) over them, if they are allowed to be out late at night,” returned Percy, gravely.

“Yes; but you don’t know that the manager has written to the Doctor to say that he will give a morning performance, and select only pieces of which the Doctor shall approve, if he will allow the boys to go; and the dear, good, jolly old Doctor has said ‘yes,’ and granted a half holiday next Thursday for the purpose; and I’ll never call him old Donkey any more, if Biggington kills me for refusing. But Percy, dear Percy, do you think there is any chance that we could go?”

Now, although at first sight this question would appear a very simple one, it was by no means so easy to answer as might be imagined. In the first place, Percy had a vague and indistinct notion that his mother disapproved of theatrical entertainments; certainly, as far as his own personal feelings were concerned, the recent loss he had sustained, with all its painful consequences, rendered him indisposed to enjoy any such amusements.