Frank Fairlegh_ Scenes from the Life of a Private Pupil Frank E. Smedley 1507 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frank Fairlegh: Scenes from
the Life of a Private Pupil
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: Frank Fairlegh: Scenes from the Life of a Private Pupil

Author: Frank E. Smedley

Illustrator: George Cruikshank

Release date: December 10, 2006 [eBook #20075]
Most recently updated: February 24, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20075

Credits: Produced by David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK
FAIRLEGH: SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF A PRIVATE PUPIL ***

FRANK FAIRLEGH
SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF A PRIVATE PUPIL

BY FRANK E. SMEDLEY

“How now! good lack! what present have we here?
A Book that goes in peril of the press;
But now it's past those pikes, and doth appear
To keep the lookers-on from heaviness.
What stuff contains it?”

Davies of Hereford

WITH TWENTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE
CRUIKSHANK

A NEW EDITION METHUEN & CO. LONDON 1904

This Issue is founded on the First Edition,
published by A. Hall, Virtue, & Co., in the year 1850.

Contents

FRANK FAIRLEGH
CHAPTER I ALL RIGHT! OFF WE GO!
CHAPTER II LOSS AND GAIN
CHAPTER III COLD-WATER CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE
CHAPTER IV THE ADVENTURE OF THE MACINTOSH
CHAPTER V MAD BESS
CHAPTER VI LAWLESS GETS THOROUGHLY PUT OUT
CHAPTER VII THE BOARD OF GREEN CLOTH
CHAPTER VIII GOOD RESOLUTIONS
CHAPTER IX A DENOUEMENT
CHAPTER X THE BOATING PARTY
CHAPTER XI BREAKERS AHEAD!
CHAPTER XII DEATH AND CHANGE
CHAPTER XIII CATCHING A SHRIMP
CHAPTER XIV THE BALL
CHAPTER XV RINGING THE CURFEW
CHAPTER XVI THE ROMAN FATHER
CHAPTER XVII THE INVISIBLE GIRL
CHAPTER XVIII THE GAME IN BARSTONE PARK
CHAPTER XIX TURNING THE TABLES
CHAPTER XX ALMA MATER
CHAPTER XXI THE WINE-PARTY
CHAPTER XXII TAMING A SHREW
CHAPTER XXIII WHAT HARRY AND I FOUND WHEN LOST
CHAPTER XXIV HOW OAKLANDS BROKE HIS HORSEWHIP
CHAPTER XXV THE CHALLENGE
CHAPTER XXVI COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS

CHAPTER XXVII THE DUEL
CHAPTER XXVIII THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW
CHAPTER XXIX THE STRUGGLE IN CHESTERTON MEADOW
MR. FRAMPTON'S INTRODUCTION TO A
CHAPTER XXX
TIGER
CHAPTER XXXI HOW I RISE A DEGREE
CHAPTER XXXII CATCHING SIGHT OF AN OLD FLAME
CHAPTER XXXIII WOMAN'S A RIDDLE
CHAPTER XXXIV THE RIDDLE BAFFLES ME!
CHAPTER XXXV A MYSTERIOUS LETTER
CHAPTER XXXVI THE RIDDLE SOLVED
CHAPTER XXXVII THE FORLORN HOPE
CHAPTER XXXVIII
PACING THE ENEMY
CHAPTER XXXIX THE COUNCIL OF WAR
CHAPTER XL LAWLESS'S MATINÉE MUSICALE
CHAPTER XLI HOW LAWLESS BECAME A LADY'S MAN
CHAPTER XLII THE MEET AT EVERSLEY GORSE
CHAPTER XLIII A CHARADE — NOT ALL ACTING
CHAPTER XLIV CONFESSIONS
CHAPTER XLV HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE
CHAPTER XLVI TEARS AND SMILES
CHAPTER XLVII A CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE
CHAPTER XLVIII PAYING OFF OLD SCORES
CHAPTER XLIX MR. FRAMPTON MAKES A DISCOVERY
CHAPTER L A RAY OF SUNSHINE
FREDDY COLEMAN FALLS INTO
CHAPTER LI
DIFFICULTIES
CHAPTER LII LAWLESS ASTONISHES MR. COLEMAN
CHAPTER LIII A COMEDY OF ERRORS
CHAPTER LIV MR. VERNOR MEETS HIS MATCH
CHAPTER LV THE PURSUIT

CHAPTER LVI RETRIBUTION
CHAPTER THE
WOO'D AND MARRIED AND
LAST

List of Illustrations

Page27 —— Caught in a Trap
Page29 —— Ornamenting a Writing Desk
Page44 —— Mad Bess
Page56 —— Lawless Finds his Level
Page79 —— The Doctor Makes a Discovery
Page90 —— The Doctor Expels a Pupil
Page104 ——Frank Rescues Coleman
Page124 ——Fall of the Cadelabrum
Page133 ——Freddy Mystifies the Beadle
Page135 ——Eloping With the Fire-engine
Page167 ——The Wine Party
Page190 ——The Roused Lion
Page216 ——Result of Giving Satisfaction
Page231 ——Fairlegh to the Rescue
Page246 ——Hurrah! Room for the Governor
Page249 ——Shy Young Gentleman
Page253 —— A Mysterious Bonnet
Page266 —— An Unexpected Reverie
Page281 —— The Discovery
Page338 —— Lovers Leap

Page345 —— A Charade Not All Acting
Page382 —— A New Cure for the Heart-ache
Page398 —— A Striking Position
Page418 —— The Reconciliation
Page430 —— Mammon Worship
Page447 —— A Messenger of Evil
Page457 —— The Retribution
Page459 —— The Rescue

FRANK FAIRLEGH
OR

SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF A PRIVATE
PUPIL

CHAPTER I — ALL RIGHT! OFF WE GO!
“Yet here... you are stayed for
... There; my blessing with you,
And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character——-”

“Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
I rather would entreat thy company
To see the wonders of the world abroad,
Than living dully, sluggardis'd at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.”

“Where unbruised youth, with unstuff'd brain,
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.”
Shakspeare

“NEVER forget, under any circumstances, to think and act like a
gentleman, and don't exceed your allowance,” said my father.
“Mind you read your Bible, and remember what I told you about wearing
flannel waistcoats,” cried my mother.
And with their united “God bless you, my boy!” still ringing in my ears, I
found myself inside the stage-coach, on my way to London.
Now, I am well aware that the correct thing for a boy in my situation (i.e.
leaving home for the first time) would be to fall back on his seat, and into a
reverie, during which, utterly lost to all external impressions, he should
entertain the thoughts and feelings of a well-informed man of thirty; the
same thoughts and feelings being clothed in the semi-poetic prose of a
fashionable novel-writer. Deeply grieved, therefore, am I at being forced
both to set at nought so laudable an established precedent, and to expose my
own degeneracy. But the truth must be told at all hazards. The only feeling I
experienced, beyond a vague sense of loneliness and desolation, was one of
great personal discomfort. It rained hard, so that a small stream of water,
which descended from the roof of the coach as I entered it, had insinuated
itself between one of the flannel waistcoats, which formed so important an
item in the maternal valediction, and my skin, whence, endeavouring to
carry out what a logician would call the “law of its being,” by finding its
own level, it placed me in the undesirable position of an involuntary
disciple of the cold-water cure taking a “sitz-bad”. As to my thoughts, the

reader shall have the full benefit of them, in the exact order in which they
flitted through my brain.
First came a vague desire to render my position more comfortable,
ending in a forlorn hope that intense and continued sitting might, by some
undefined process of evaporation, cure the evil. This suggested a
speculation, half pleasing and half painful, as to what would be my mother's
feelings could she be aware of the state of things; the pleasure being the
result of that mysterious preternatural delight which a boy always takes in
everything at all likely to injure his health, or endanger his existence, and
the pain arising from the knowledge that there was now no one near me to
care whether I was comfortable or not. Again, these speculations merged
into a sort of dreamy wonder, as to why a queer little old gentleman
opposite (my sole fellow-traveller) was grunting like a pig, at intervals of
about a minute, though he was wide awake the whole time; and whether a
small tuft of hair, on a mole at the tip of his nose, could have anything to do
with it. At this point my meditations were interrupted by the old gentleman
himself, who, after a louder grunt than usual, gave vent to his feelings in the
following speech, which was partly addressed to me and partly a soliloquy.
“Umph! going to school, my boy, eh?” then, in a lower tone, “Wonder
why I called him my boy, when he's no such thing: just like me, umph!”
I replied by informing him that I was not exactly going to school—(I was
nearly fifteen, and the word “school” sounded derogatory to my dignity)—
but that, having been up to the present time educated at home by my father,
I was now on my way to complete my studies under the care of a private
tutor, who only received six pupils, a very different thing from a school, as I
took the liberty of insinuating.
“Umph! different thing? You will cost more, learn less, and fancy
yourself a man when you are a boy; that's the only difference I can see:”
then came the aside—“Snubbing the poor child, when he's a peg too low
already, just like me; umph!”
After which he relapsed into a silence which continued uninterrupted
until we reached London, save once, while we were changing horses, when
he produced a flask with a silver top, and, taking a sip himself, asked me if I
drank brandy. On my shaking my head, with a smile caused by what
appeared to me the utter wildness and desperation of the notion, he
muttered:—

“Umph! of course he doesn't; how should he?—just like me”.
In due course of time we reached the Old Bell Inn, Holborn, where the
coach stopped, and where my trunk and myself were to be handed over to
the tender mercies of the coachman of the Rocket, a fast coach (I speak of
the slow old days when railroads were unknown) which then ran to
Helmstone, the watering-place where my future tutor, the Rev. Dr.
Mildman, resided. My first impressions of London are scarcely worth
recording, for the simple reason that they consisted solely of intense and
unmitigated surprise at everything and everybody I saw and heard; which
may be more readily believed when I add the fact that my preconceived
notions of the metropolis had led me to imagine it perhaps might be twice
the size of the town nearest to my father's house; in short, almost as large as
Grosvenor Square.
Here, then, I parted company with my fellow-traveller, who took leave of
me thus:—
“Umph! well, good-bye; be a good boy—good man, you'd like me to say,
I suppose; man, indeed! umph! don't forget what your parents told you”;
then adding, “Of course he will, what's the use of telling him not? just like
me”;—he dived into the recesses of a hackney-coach, and disappeared.
Nothing worthy of note occurred during my journey to Helmstone, where
we arrived at about half-past four in the afternoon. My feelings of surprise
and admiration were destined once more to be excited on this (to me)
memorable day, as, in my way from the coach-office to Langdale Terrace,
where Dr. Mildman resided, I beheld, for the first time, that most
stupendous work of God, the mighty Ocean; which, alike in its wild
resistless freedom, and its miraculous obedience to the command, “Thus far
shalt thou come, and no further,” bears at once the plainest print of its
Almighty Creator's hand, while it affords a strong and convincing proof of
His omnipotence.
On knocking at the door of Dr. Mildman's house (if the truth must be
told, it was with a trembling hand I did so) it was opened by a man-servant,
whose singularly plain features were characterised by an expression
alternating between extreme civility and an intense appreciation of the
ludicrous.
On mentioning my name, and asking if Dr. Mildman was at home, he
replied:—

“Yes, sir, master's in, sir; so you're Mr. Fairlegh, sir, our new young gent,
sir?” (here the ludicrous expression predominated); “hope you'll be
comfortable, sir” (here he nearly burst into a laugh); “show you into
master's study, sir, directly” (here he became preternaturally grave again);
and, opening the study door, ushered me into the presence of the dreaded
tutor.
On my entrance Dr. Mildman (for such I presumed a middle-aged
gentleman, the sole tenant of the apartment, to be) rose from a library table,
at which he had been seated, and, shaking me kindly by the hand, inquired
after the health of my father and mother, what sort of journey I had had, and
sundry other particulars of the like nature, evidently with the good-
humoured design of putting me a little more at my ease, as I have no doubt
the trepidation I was well aware of feeling inwardly, at finding myself tête-
à-tête with a real live tutor, was written in very legible characters on my
countenance. Dr. Mildman, whose appearance I studied with an anxious
eye, was a gentlemanly-looking man of five-and-forty, or thereabouts, with
a high bald forehead, and good features, the prevailing expression of which,
naturally mild and benevolent, was at times chequered by that look which
all schoolmasters sooner or later acquire—a look which seems to say,
“Now, sir, do you intend to mind me or do you not?” Had it not been for
this, and for an appearance of irresolution about the mouth, he would have
been a decidedly fine-looking man. While I was making these observations
he informed me that I had arrived just in time for dinner, and that the
servant should show me to my sleeping apartment, whence, when I had
sacrificed to the Graces (as he was pleased to call dressing), I was to
descend to the drawing-room, and be introduced to Mrs. Mildman and my
future companions.
My sleeping-room, which was rather a small garret than otherwise, was
furnished, as it appeared to me, with more regard to economy than to the
comfort of its inmate. At one end stood a small four-post bedstead, which,
owing to some mysterious cause, chose to hold its near fore-leg up in the
air, and slightly advanced, thereby impressing the beholder with the idea
that it was about to trot into the middle of the room. On an unpainted deal
table stood a looking-glass, which, from a habit it had of altering and
embellishing the face of any one who consulted it, must evidently have
possessed a strong natural taste for the ludicrous: an ancient washing-stand,

supporting a basin and towel, and a dissipated-looking chair completed the
catalogue.
And here, while preparing for the alarming ordeal I was so soon to
undergo, let me present to the reader a slight sketch of myself, mental and
bodily; and, as mind ought to take precedence of matter, I will attempt, as
far as I am able after the lapse of time, to paint my character in true colours,
“nought extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice”. I was, then, as the
phrase goes, “a very well-behaved young gentleman”; that is, I had a great
respect for all properly constituted authorities, and an extreme regard for
the proprieties of life; was very particular about my shoes being clean, and
my hat nicely brushed; always said “Thank you” when a servant handed me
a plate, and “May I trouble you?” when I asked for a bit of bread. In short, I
bade fair in time to become a thorough old bachelor; one of those unhappy
mortals whose lives are alike a burthen to themselves and others—men
who, by magnifying the minor household miseries into events of
importance, are uneasy and suspicious about the things from the wash
having been properly aired, and become low and anxious as the dreadful
time approaches when clean sheets are inevitable! My ideas of a private
tutor, derived chiefly from Sandford and Merton, and Evenings at Home,
were rather wide of the mark, leading me to expect that Dr. Mildman would
impart instruction to us during long rambles over green fields, and in the
form of moral allegories, to which we should listen with respectful attention
and affectionate esteem. With regard to my outward man, or rather boy, I
should have been obliged to confine myself to such particulars as I could
remember, namely, that I was tall for my age, but slightly built, and so thin,
as often to provoke the application of such epithets as “hop-pole,” “thread-
paper,” etc., had it not been that, in turning over some papers a few days
since, I stumbled on a water-colour sketch of myself, which I well
remember being taken by a young artist in the neighbourhood, just before I
left home, in the hope of consoling my mother for my departure. It
represented a lad about fifteen, in a picturesque attitude, feeding a pony out
of a very elegant little basket, with what appeared to be white currants,
though I have every reason to believe they were meant for oats. The
aforesaid youth rejoiced in an open shirt-collar and black ribbon à la Byron,
curling hair of a dark chestnut colour, regular features, a high forehead,
complexion like a girl's, very pink and white, and a pair of large blue eyes,
engaged in regarding the white currant oats with intense surprise, as well

indeed they might. Whether this young gentleman bore more resemblance
to me than the currants did to oats, I am, of course, unable to judge; but, as
the portrait represented a very handsome boy, I hope none of my readers
will be rude enough to doubt that it was a striking likeness.
I now proceeded to render myself thoroughly wretched, by attempting to
extricate the articles necessary for a change of dress from the very bottom
of my trunk, where, according to the nature of such things, they had hidden
themselves; grammars, lexicons, and other like “Amenities of Literature,”
being the things that came to hand most readily. Scarcely had I contrived to
discover a wearable suit when I was informed that dinner was on the table;
so, hastily tumbling into my clothes, and giving a final peep at the facetious
looking-glass, the result of which was to twist the bow of my Byron tie
under my left ear, in the belief that I was thereby putting it straight, I rushed
downstairs, just in time to see the back of the hindmost pupil disappear
through the dining-room door.
“Better late than never, Fairlegh. Mrs. Mildman, this is Fairlegh; he can
sit by you, Coleman;—'For what we are going to receive,' etc.;—Thomas,
the carving-knife.”
Such was the address with which my tutor greeted my entrance, and,
during its progress, I popped into a seat indicated by a sort of half wink
from Thomas, resisting by a powerful act of self-control a sudden impulse
which seized me to bolt out of the room, and do something rash but
indefinite, between going to sea and taking prussic acid; not quite either, but
partaking of the nature of both. “Take soup, Fairlegh?” said Dr. Mildman.
“Thank you, sir, if you please.”
“A pleasant journey, had you?” inquired Mrs. Mildman.
“Not any, I am much obliged to you,” I replied, thinking of the fish.
This produced a total silence, during which the pupils exchanged glances,
and Thomas concealed an illicit smile behind the bread-basket.
“Does your father,” began Dr. Mildman in a very grave and deliberate
manner, “does your father shoot?—boiled mutton, my dear?”
I replied that he had given it up of late years, as the fatigue was too much
for him.
“Oh! I was very fond of carrying a gun—pepper-when I was-a spoon-at
Oxford; I could hit a—mashed potato—bird as well as most men; yes, I was

very sorry to give up my double-barrel—ale, Thomas.”
“You came inside, I believe?” questioned Mrs. Mildman, a lady
possessing a shadowy outline, indistinct features faintly characterised by an
indefinite expression, long ringlets of an almost impossible shade of whity-
brown, and a complexion and general appearance only to be described by
the term “washed out”.
“Yes, all the way, ma'am.”
“Did you not dislike it very much? it creases one's gown so, unless it is a
merino or mousseline-de-laine; but one can't always wear them, you know.”
Not being in the least prepared with a suitable answer, I merely made
what I intended to be an affirmative ahem, in doing which a crumb of bread
chose to go the wrong way, producing a violent fit of coughing, in the
agonies of which I seized and drank off Dr. Mildman's tumbler of ale,
mistaking it for my own small beer. The effect of this, my crowning
gaucherie, was to call forth a languid smile on the countenance of the
senior pupil, a tall young man, with dark hair, and a rather forbidding
expression of face, which struggled only too successfully with an attempt to
look exceedingly amiable; which smile was repeated with variations by all
the others.
“I'm afraid you do not distinctly perceive the difference between those
important pronouns, meum and tuum, Fairlegh? Thomas, a clean glass!”
said Dr. Mildman, with a forced attempt at drollery; but Thomas had
evaporated suddenly, leaving no clue to his whereabouts, unless sundry
faint sounds of suppressed laughter outside the door, indicating, as I
fancied, his extreme appreciation of my unfortunate mistake, proceeded
from him.
It is, I believe, a generally received axiom that all mortal affairs must
sooner or later come to an end; at all events, the dinner I have been
describing did not form an exception to the rule. In due time Mrs. Mildman
disappeared, after which Dr. Mildman addressed a remark or two about
Greek tragedy to the tall pupil, which led to a dissertation on the merits of a
gentleman named Prometheus, who, it seemed, was bound in some peculiar
way, but whether this referred to his apprenticeship to any trade, or to the
cover of the book containing his history, did not appear. This conversation
lasted about ten minutes, at the expiration of which the senior pupil
“grinned horribly a ghastly smile” at the others, who instantly rose, and

conveyed themselves out of the room with such rapidity that I, being quite
unprepared for such a proceeding, sat for a moment in silent amazement,
and then, becoming suddenly alive to a sense of my situation, rushed
frantically after them. My speed was checked somewhat abruptly by a door
at the end of the passage being violently slammed in my face, for which
polite attention I was indebted to the philanthropy of the hindmost pupil,
who thereby imposed upon me the agreeable task of feeling in the dark for a
door-handle in an unknown locality. After fumbling for some time, in a state
of the greatest bewilderment I at length opened the door, and beheld the
interior of the “pupils' room,” which, for the benefit of such of my readers
as may never have seen the like, I will now endeavour shortly to describe.
The parlour devoted to the pupils' use was of a good size, nearly square,
and, like the cabin of a certain “ould Irish gentleman,” appeared to be fitted
up with “nothing at all for show”. In three of the corners stood small tables
covered with books and writing materials for the use of Dr. Mildman and
the two senior pupils; in the fourth was a book-case. The centre of the room
was occupied by a large square table, the common property of the other
pupils; while a carpet, “a little the worse for wear,” and sundry veteran
chairs, rather crazy from the treatment to which many generations of pupils
had subjected them (a chair being the favourite projectile in the event of a
shindy), completed the catalogue. Mr. Richard Cumberland, the senior
pupil, was lounging in an easy attitude on one side of the fireplace; on the
other stood, bolt upright, a lad rather older than myself, with a long
unmeaning face, and a set of arms and legs which appeared not to belong to
one another. This worthy, as I soon learned, responded to the name of
Nathaniel Mullins, and usually served as the butt of the party in the absence
of newer or worthier game. Exactly in front of the fire, with his coat-tails
under his arms, and his legs extended like a pair of compasses, was
stationed Mr. George Lawless, who, having been expelled from one of the
upper forms at Eton for some heroic exploit which the head master could
not be persuaded to view in its proper light, was sent to vegetate for a year
or two at Dr. Mildman's ere he proceeded to one of the universities. This
gentleman was of rather a short thick-set figure, with a large head, and an
expression of countenance resembling that of a bull when the animal
“means mischief,” and was supposed by his friends to be more “thoroughly
wide awake” than any one of his years in the three kingdoms. The quartette
was completed by Mr. Frederick Coleman, a small lad, with a round merry

face, who was perched on the back of a chair, with his feet resting on the
hob, and his person so disposed as effectually to screen every ray of fire
from Nathaniel Mullins.
“You are not cold, Fairlegh? Don't let me keep the fire from you,” said
Lawless, without, however, showing the slightest intention of moving. “Not
very, thank you.”
“Eh! quite right—glad to hear it. It's Mildman's wish that, during the first
half, no pupil should come on the hearthrug. I made a point of conscience
of it myself when I first came. The Spartans, you know, never allowed their
little boys to do so, and even the Athenians, a much more luxurious people,
always had their pinafores made of asbestos, or some such fireproof stuff.
You are well read in Walker's History of Greece, I hope?” I replied that I
was afraid I was not. “Never read Hookeyus Magnus? Your father ought to
be ashamed of himself for neglecting you so. You are aware, I suppose, that
the Greeks had a different sort of fire from what we burn nowadays? You've
heard of Greek fire?”
I answered that I had, but did not exactly understand what it meant.
“Not know that, either? disgraceful! Well, it was a kind of way they had
of flaring up in those times, a sort of 'light of other days,' which enabled
them to give their friends a warm reception; so much so, indeed, that their
friends found it too warm sometimes, and latterly they usually reserved it
for their enemies. Mind you remember all this, for it is one of the first
things old Sam will be sure to ask you.”
Did my ears deceive me? Could he have called the tutor, the dreaded
tutor, “old Sam”? I trembled as I stood—plain, unhonoured “Sam,” as
though he had spoken of a footman! The room turned round with me. Alas
for Sandford and Merton, and affectionate and respectful esteem!
“But how's this?” continued Lawless, “we have forgotten to introduce
you in form to your companions, and to enter your name in the books of the
establishment; why, Cumberland, what were you thinking of?”
“Beg pardon,” rejoined Cumberland, “I really was so buried in thought,
trying to solve that problem about bisecting the Siamese twins—you know
it, Lawless? However, it is not too late, is it? Allow me to introduce you,
Mr. Fairplay———”
“Legh, sir,” interrupted I.

“Ah, exactly; well, then, Mr. Fairlegh, let me introduce this gentleman,
Mr. George Lawless, who has, if I mistake not, been already trying, with his
usual benevolence, to supply a few of your deficiencies; he is, if he will
allow me to say so, one of the most rising young men of his generation, one
of the firmest props of the glorious edifice of our rights and privileges.”
“A regular brick,” interposed Coleman. “Hold your tongue, Freddy: little
boys should be seen and not heard, as Tacitus tells us,” said Lawless,
reprovingly.
The only reply to this, if reply it could be called, was something which
sounded to me like a muttered reference to the Greek historian Walker,
whom Lawless had so lately mentioned; and Cumberland continued:—
“You will pay great attention to everything Lawless tells you, and
endeavour to improve by following his example, at a respectful distance—
ahem! The gentleman on your right hand, Mr. Mullins, who is chiefly
remarkable for looking ['like a fool,' put in Coleman, sotto voce], before he
leaps, so long, that in general he postpones leaping altogether, and is in the
habit of making ['an ass of himself,' suggested Coleman]—really, Freddy, I
am surprised at you—of making two bites at a cherry—you will be better
able to appreciate when you know more of him. As to my young friend
Freddy here, his naturally good abilities and amiable temper ['Draw it mild,
old fellow!' interrupted the young gentleman in question] have interested us
so much in his favour that we cannot but view with regret a habit he has of
late fallen into, of turning everything into ridicule ['What a pity!' from the
same individual], together with a lamentable addiction to the use of slang
terms. Let me hope his association with such a polished young gentleman as
Mr. Fairlegh may improve him in these particulars.”
“Who drank Mildman's ale at dinner?” asked Coleman; “if that's a
specimen of his polished manners, I think mine take the shine out of them,
rather.” "I assure you,” interrupted I, eagerly, “I never was more distressed
in my life; it was quite a mistake.”
“Pretty good mistake—Hodgson's pale ale for Muddytub's swipes—eh,
Mull?” rejoined Coleman.
“I believe you,” replied Mullins.
“Well, now for entering your name; that's important, you know,” said
Lawless; “you had better ring the bell, and tell Thomas to bring the books.”

I obeyed, and when Thomas made his appearance informed him of my
desire to enter my name in the books of the establishment, which I begged
he would bring for that purpose. A look of bewilderment that came over his
face on hearing my request changed to an expression of intelligence, as,
after receiving some masonic sign from Lawless, he replied:—
“The books, sir; yes, sir; bring 'em directly, sir “.
After a few minutes he returned with two small, not overclean, books,
ruled with blue lines. One of these Lawless took from him, opened with
much ceremony, and, covering the upper part of the page with a bit of
blotting paper, pointed to a line, and desired me to write my name and age,
as well as the date of my arrival, upon it. The .same ceremony was repeated
with the second.
“That's all right: now let's see how it reads,” said he, and, removing the
blotting paper, read as follows: “'Pair of Wellingtons, £1 15s.; satin stock,
25s.; cap ribbon for Sally Duster, 2s. 6d.; box of cigars, £1 16s. (mem.
shocking bad lot)—5th Nov., Francis Fairlegh, aged 15'.—So much for that;
now, let's see the next: 'Five shirts, four pair of stockings, six pocket-
handkerchiefs, two pair of white ducks—5th Nov., Francis Fairlegh, aged
15'.”
Here his voice was drowned in a roar of laughter from the whole party
assembled, Thomas included, during which the true state of the case
dawned upon me, viz.—that I had, with much pomp and ceremony, entered
my name, age, and the date of my arrival in Mr. George Lawless's private
account and washing books!
My thoughts, as I laid my aching head upon my pillow that night, were
not of the most enviable nature. Leaving for the first time the home where I
had lived from childhood, and in which I had met with affection and
kindness from all around me, had been a trial under which my fortitude
would most assuredly have given way, but for the brilliant picture my
imagination had very obligingly sketched of the happy family of which I
was about to become a member; in the foreground of which stood a group
of fellow-pupils, a united brotherhood of congenial souls,, containing three
bosom friends at the very least, anxiously awaiting my arrival with
outstretched arms of welcome. Now, however, this last hope had failed me;
for, innocent (or, as Coleman would have termed it, green) as I then was, I
could not but perceive that the tone of mock politeness assumed towards me

by Cumberland and Lawless was merely a convenient cloak for
impertinence, which could be thrown aside at any moment when a more
open display of their powers of tormenting should seem advisable. In fact
(though I was little aware of the pleasures in store for me), I had already
seen enough to prove that the life of a private pupil was not exactly “all my
fancy painted it”; and, as the misery of leaving those I loved proved in its
“sad reality” a much more serious affair than I had imagined, the result of
my cogitations was, that I was a very unhappy boy (I did not feel the
smallest inclination to boast myself man at that moment), and that, if
something very much to my advantage did not turn up in the course of the
next twenty-four hours, my friends would have the melancholy satisfaction
of depositing a broken heart (which, on the principle of the Kilkenny cats,
was all I expected would remain of me by that time) in an early grave.
Hereabouts my feelings becoming too many for me at the thought of my
own funeral, I fairly gave up the struggle, and, bursting into a flood of tears,
cried myself to sleep, like a child.

CHAPTER II — LOSS AND GAIN
“And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw
rheumatic day?”

“His thefts were too open; his filching was like an
unskilful singer, he kept not time.... Convey, the wise
it call. 'Steal!' foh! a fico for the phrase!”—
Shakspeare.

“From Greenland's icy mountains.”—Heber.

AMONGST the minor phenomena which are hourly occurring in the
details of everyday life, although we are seldom sufficiently close observers
to perceive them, there is none more remarkable than the change wrought in
our feelings and ideas by a good night's rest; and never was this change
more strikingly exemplified than on the present occasion. I had fallen
asleep in the act of performing the character of chief-mourner at my own
funeral, and I awoke in the highest possible health and spirits, with a strong
determination never to “say die” under any conceivable aspect affairs might
assume. “What in the world,” said I to myself, as I sprang out of bed, and
began to dress,—“What in the world was there for me to make myself so
miserable about last night? Suppose Cumberland and Lawless should laugh
at, and tease me a little at first, what does it signify? I must take it in good
part as long as I can, and if that does not do I must speak seriously to them
—tell them they really annoy me and make me uncomfortable, and then, of
course, they will leave off. As to Coleman, I am certain———Well, it's
very odd!”—this last remark was elicited by the fact that a search I had
been making for some minutes, in every place possible and impossible, for
that indispensable article of male attire, my trousers, had proved wholly
ineffectual, although I had a distinct recollection of having placed them
carefully on a chair by my bedside the previous night. There, however, they
certainly were not now, nor, as far as I could discover, anywhere else in the
room. Under these circumstances, ringing the bell for Thomas seemed
advisable, as it occurred to me that he had probably abstracted the missing
garment for the purpose of brushing. In a few moments he answered the
summons, and, with a face bright from the combined effects of a light heart

and a severe application of yellow soap, inquired, “if I had rung for my
shaving water?”
“Why, no—-I do not—that is, it was not—I seldom shave of a morning;
for the fact is, I have no beard to shave as yet.”
“Oh, sir, that's no reason; there's Mr. Coleman's not got the leastest
westige of a hair upon his chin, and he's been mowing away with the
greatest of persewerance for the last six months, and sends his rashier to be
ground every three weeks, regilar, in order to get a beard—but what can I
do for you, sir?”
“Why,” replied I, trying to look grave, “it's very odd, but I have lost—
that is, I can't find—my trousers anywhere. I put them on this chair last
night, I know.”
“Umph! that's sing'lar, too; I was just a coming upstairs to brush 'em for
you; you did not hear anybody come into your room after you went to bed,
did you, sir?”
“No; but then I was so tired—I slept as sound as a top.”
“Ah! I shouldn't much wonder if Mr. Coleman knew something about
'em: perhaps you had better put on another pair, and, if I can find 'em, I'll
bring 'em back after breakfast.”
This was very good advice, and, therefore, of course, impossible to
follow; for, on examining my trunk, lo and behold! dress pantaloons, white
ducks, et hoc genus omne, had totally disappeared, and I seemed to stand a
very good chance of making my first appearance at my tutor's breakfast-
table in an extemporary “kilt,” improvised for the occasion out of two
towels and a checked neckcloth. In this extremity Thomas, as a last
resource, knocked at Coleman's door, informing him that I should be glad to
speak to him—a proceeding speedily followed by the appearance of that
gentleman in propria persona.
“Good-morning, Fairlegh! hope you slept well. You are looking cold; had
not you better get some clothes on? Mildman will be down in a minute, and
there will be a pretty row if we are not all there; he's precious particular, I
can tell you.”
“That is exactly what I want to do,” replied I; “but the fact is, somebody
has taken away all my trousers in the night.”

“Bless me! you don't say so? Another case of pilfering! this is getting
serious: I will call Lawless—I say, Lawless!” “Well, what's the row?” was
the reply. “Have the French landed? or is the kitchen chimney on fire? eh!
What do I behold! Fairlegh, lightly and elegantly attired in nothing but his
shirt, and Thomas standing like Niobe, the picture of woe! Here's a sight for
a father!”
“Why, it's a bad job,” said Coleman; “do you know, here's another case of
pilfering; Fairlegh has had all his trousers stolen in the night.”
“You don't say so!” rejoined Lawless: “what is to be done? It must be
stopped somehow: we had better tell him all we know about it. Thomas,
leave the room.”
Thomas obeyed, giving me a look of great intelligence, the meaning of
which, however, I was totally at a loss to conceive, as he went; and Lawless
continued:—
“I am afraid you will hardly believe us,—it is really a most unheard-of
thing,—but we have lately missed a great many of our clothes, and we have
every reason to suspect (I declare I can scarcely bear to mention it) that
Mildman takes them himself, fancying, of course, that, placed by his
position so entirely above suspicion, he may do it with impunity. We have
suspected this for some time; and lately one or two circumstances—old
clothesmen having been observed leaving his study, a pawn-ticket falling
out of his waistcoat pocket one day as he went out of our parlour, etc.—
have put the matter beyond a doubt; but he has never gone to such an extent
as this before. Mind you don't mention a word of this to Thomas, for, bad as
Mildman is, one would not wish to show him up before his own servant.”
“Good gracious!” cried I, “but you are joking, it never can be really
true!” Reading, however, in the solemn, not to say distressed, expression of
their faces indisputable evidence of the reality of the accusation, I
continued: “I had no idea such things ever could take place, and he a
clergyman, too!—dreadful! but what in the world am I to do? I have not got
a pair of trousers to put on. Oh! if he would but have taken anything else,
even my watch instead, I should not have minded—what shall I do?”
“Why really,” replied Coleman, “it is not so easy to advise: you can't go
down as you are, that's certain. Suppose you were to wrap yourself up in a
blanket, and go and tell him you have found him out, and that you will call

a policeman if he does not give you your clothes instantly; have it out with
him fairly, and check the thing effectually once for all—eh?”
“No, that won't do,” said Lawless. “I should say, sit down quietly (how
cold you must be!) and write him a civil note, saying, that you had reason to
believe he had borrowed your trousers (that's the way I should put it), and
that you would be very much gratified by his lending you a pair to wear to-
day; and then you can stick in something about your having been always
accustomed to live with people who were very particular in regard to dress,
and that you are sorry you are obliged to trouble him for such a trifle; in
fact, do a bit of the respectful, and then pull up short with 'obedient pupil,'
etc.”
“Ay, that's the way to do it,” said Coleman, “in the shop-fellow's style,
you know—much obliged for past favours, and hope for a continuance of
the same—more than you do, though, Fairlegh, I should fancy; but there
goes the bell—I am off,” and away he scudded, followed by Lawless
humming:—

“Brian O'Lynn had no breeches to wear,
So he took an old catskin, and made him a pair.”

Here was a pretty state of things: the breakfast bell had rung, and I, who
considered being too late a crime of the first magnitude, was unable even to
begin dressing from the melancholy fact that every pair of trousers I
possessed in the world had disappeared; while, to complete my misery, I
was led to believe the delinquent who had abstracted them was no less a
person than the tutor, whom I had come fully prepared to regard with
feelings of the utmost respect and veneration.
However, in such a situation, thinking over my miseries was worse than
useless; something must be done at once—but what? Write the note as
Lawless had advised? No, it was useless to think of that; I felt I could not
do it. “Ah! a bright idea!—I'll try it.” So, suiting the action to the word, I
rang the bell, and then jumping into bed muffled myself up in the
bedclothes.
“Well, sir, have you found them?” asked Thomas, entering.
“No, Thomas,” replied I dolefully, “nor ever shall, I fear; but will you go
to 'Dr. Mildman, and tell him, with my respects, that I cannot get up to
breakfast this morning, and, if he asks what is the matter with me, say that I

am prevented from coming down by severe cold. I am sure that is true
enough,” added I, shivering.
“Well, sir, I will, if you wish it; but I don't exactly see the good of it; you
must get up some time or other.”
“I don't know,” replied I gloomily, “we shall see; only do you take my
message.”
And he accordingly left the room, muttering as he did so, “Well, I calls
this a great deal too bad, and I'll tell master of it myself, if nobody else
won't”.
“Tell master of it himself!”—he also suspected him then. This crushed
my last faint hope that, after all, it might turn out to be only a trick of the
pupils; and, overpowered by the utter vileness and depravity of him who
was set in authority over me, I buried my face in the pillow, feeling a strong
inclination to renew the lamentations of the preceding night. Not many
minutes had elapsed when the sound of a heavy footstep slowly ascending
the stairs attracted my attention. I raised my head, and beheld the
benevolent countenance (for even then it certainly did wear a benevolent
expression) of my wicked tutor, regarding me with a mingled look of
scrutiny and pity.
“Why, Fairlegh, what's all this?—Thomas tells me you are not able to
come down to breakfast; you are not ill, I hope?”
“No, sir,” replied I, “I don't think I am very ill, but I can't come down to
breakfast.”
“Not ill, and yet you can't come down to breakfast! pray, what in the
world prevents you?”
“Perhaps,” said I (for I was becoming angry at what I considered his
unparalleled effrontery, and thought I would give him a hint that he could
not deceive me so easily as he seemed to expect), “perhaps you can tell that
better than I can.”
"I, my boy!—I'm afraid not; my pretensions to the title of doctor are
based on divinity, not physic:—however, put out your tongue—that's right
enough; let me feel your hand—a little cold or so, but nothing to signify;
did this kind of seizure ever happen to you at home?”
Well, this was adding insult to injury with a vengeance; not content with
stealing my clothes himself, but actually asking me whether such things did

not happen at home! The wretch! thought I; does he suppose that everybody
is as wicked as himself?
“No,” I answered, my voice trembling with the anger I was scarcely able
to repress; “no, sir, such a thing never could happen in my dear father's
house.”
“There, don't agitate yourself; you seem excited: perhaps you had better
lie in bed a little longer; I will send you up something warm, and after that
you may feel more inclined to get up,” said he kindly, adding to himself, as
he left the room, “Very strange boy—I can't make him out at all”.
The door closed, and I was once more alone. “Is he guilty or not guilty?”
thought I; “if he really has taken the clothes, he is the most accomplished
hypocrite I ever heard of; yet he must have done so, everything combines to
prove it—Thomas's speech—nay, even his own offer of sending me
'something warm'; something warm, indeed! what do I want with anything
warm, except my trousers? No! the fact was beyond dispute; they were
gone, and he had stolen them, whilst I, unhappy youth, was entirely in his
power, and had not therefore a chance of redress. 'But I will not bear it,'
cried I, 'I'll write to my father—I'll run away—I'll———'”
“Hurrah!” shouted Thomas, rushing into the room with his arm full of
clothes, “here they are, sir; I have found the whole kit of them at last.”
“Where?” exclaimed I eagerly.
“Where? why in such a queer place!” replied he, “stuffed up the
chimbley in master's study; but I have given them a good brushing, and they
are none the worse for it, except them blessed white ducks; they are almost
black ducks now, though they will wash, so that don't signify none.”
“Up the chimney, in master's study!” here was at last proof positive; my
clothes had been actually found in his possession—oh, the wickedness of
this world!
“But how did you ever find them?” asked I.
“Why! I happened to go in to fetch something, and I see'd a little bit of
the leg of one of them hanging down the chimbley, so I guessed how it all
was, directly. I think I know how they got there, too; they did not walk there
by themselves, I should say.”
“I wish they had,” muttered I.

“I thought somebody was up too early this morning to be about any
good,” continued he; “he is never out of bed till the last moment, without
there's some mischief in the wind.”
This was pretty plain speaking, however. Thomas was clearly as well
aware of his master's nefarious practices as the pupils themselves, and
Lawless's amiable desire to conceal Dr. Mildman's sins from his servant's
knowledge was no longer of any avail. I hastened, therefore (the only
reason for silence being thus removed), to relieve my mind from the burden
of just indignation which was oppressing it.
“And can you, Thomas,” exclaimed I, with flashing eyes, “remain the
servant of a man who dares thus to outrage every law, human and divine?
one who having taken upon himself the sacred office of a clergyman of the
Church of England, and so made it his especial duty to set a good example
to all around him, can take advantage of the situation in which he is placed
in regard to his pupils, and actually demean himself by purloining the
clothes of the young men” (I felt five-and-twenty at the very least at that
moment) “committed to his charge?—why, my father———”
What I imagined my father would have said or done under these
circumstances was fated to remain a mystery, as my eloquence was brought
to a sudden conclusion by my consternation, when a series of remarkable
phenomena, which had been developing themselves during my harangue in
the countenance of Thomas, terminated abruptly in what appeared to me a
fit of most unmitigated insanity. A look of extreme astonishment, which he
had assumed at the beginning of my speech, had given place to an
expression of mingled surprise and anger as I continued; which again in its
turn had yielded to a grin of intense amusement, growing every moment
broader and broader, accompanied by a spasmodic twitching of his whole
person; and, as I mentioned his master's purloining my trousers, he
suddenly sprang up from the floor nearly a yard high, and commenced an
extempore pas seul of a Jim Crow character, which he continued with
unabated vigour during several minutes. This “Mazurka d'ecstase,” or
whatever a ballet-master would have called it, having at length, to my great
joy, concluded, the performer of it sank exhausted into a chair, and
regarding me with a face still somewhat the worse for his late violent
exertions favoured me with the following geographical remark:—

“Well, I never did believe in the existence of sich a place as Greenland
before, but there's nowhere else as you could have come from, sir, I am
certain.”
“Eh! why! what's the matter with you? have I done anything particularly
'green,' as you call it? what are you talking about?” said I, not feeling
exactly pleased at the reception my virtuous indignation had met with.
“Oh! don't be angry, sir; I am sure I did not mean to offend you; but
really I could not help it, when I heard you say about master's having stole
your things. Oh lor!” he added, holding his sides with both hands, “how my
precious sides do ache, sure-ly!”
“Do you consider that any laughing matter?” said I, still in the dark.
“Oh! don't, sir, don't say it again, or you will be the death of me,” replied
Thomas, struggling against a relapse; “why, bless your innocence, what
could ever make you think master would take your clothes?”
“Make me think? why, Lawless told me so,” answered I, “and he also
said it was not the first time such a thing had occurred either.”
“You'll have enough to do, sir, if you believe all our young gents tell you;
why, master would as soon think of flying as of stealing anything. It was
Mr. Coleman as put them up the chimbley; he's always a playing some trick
or another for everlasting.”
A pause ensued, during which the whole affair in its true bearings
became for the first time clear to my mind's eye; the result of my
cogitations may be gathered from the following remark, which escaped me
as it were involuntarily—“What a confounded ass I have made of myself, to
be sure!”
Should any of my readers be rude enough to agree with me in this
particular, let them reflect for a moment on the peculiar position in which I
was placed. Having lived from childhood in a quiet country parsonage, with
my father and mother, and a sister younger than myself, as my sole
companions, “mystification”—that is, telling deliberate falsehoods by way
of a joke—was a perfectly novel idea to me; and, when that joke involved
the possibility of such serious consequences as offending the tutor under
whose care we were placed, I (wholly ignorant of the impudence and
recklessness of public school boys) considered such a solution of the
mystery inconceivable. Moreover, everything around me was so strange,

and so entirely different from the habits of life in which I had been hitherto
brought up, that for the time my mind was completely bewildered. I
appeared to have lost my powers of judgment, and to have relapsed, as far
as intellect was concerned, into childhood again. My readers must excuse
this digression, but it appeared to me necessary to explain how it was
possible for a lad of fifteen to have been made the victim of such a palpably
absurd deception without its involving the necessity of his not being “so
sharp as he should be”.
The promised “something warm” made its appearance ere long, in the
shape of tea and toast, which, despite my alarming seizure, I demolished
with great gusto in bed (for I did not dare to get up), feeling, from the fact
of my having obtained it under false pretences, very like a culprit all the
while. Having finished my breakfast, and allowed sufficient time to elapse
for my recovery, I got up, and, selecting a pair of trousers which appeared
to have suffered less from their sojourn in the chimney than the others,
dressed myself, and soon after eleven o'clock made my appearance in the
pupils' room, where I found Dr. Mildman seated at his desk, and the pupils
apparently very hard at work.
“How do you find yourself now you are up, Fairlegh?” inquired my tutor
kindly.
“Quite well, sir, thank you,” I replied, feeling like an impostor.
“Quite recovered?” continued he.
“Everything—entirely, I mean,” stammered I, thinking of my trousers.
“That's well, and now let us see what kind of Latin and Greek lining you
have got to your head.”
So saying, without appearing to notice the tittering of the pupils, he
pointed to a seat by his side, and commenced what I considered a very
formidable examination, with the view of eliciting the extent of my
acquaintance with the writers of antiquity, which proved to be extremely
select. When he had thoroughly satisfied (or dissatisfied) himself upon this
point, he recommended Horace and Xenophon to my particular notice,
adding, that Coleman was also directing his attention to the sayings and
doings of the same honourable and learned gentlemen—and that, therefore,
we were to work together. He then explained to me certain rules and
regulations of his establishment, to which he added a few moral remarks,
conveying the information, that, if I always did exactly what he considered

right, and scrupulously avoided everything he deemed wrong, I might
relieve my mind from all fears of his displeasure, which was, to say the
least, satisfactory, if not particularly original.
Exactly as the clock struck one Dr. Mildman left the room (the morning's
“study,” as it was called, ending at that hour), leaving us our own masters
till five, at which time we dined. Lest any kind reader should fancy we were
starved, let me add, that at half-past one a substantial luncheon was
provided, of which we might partake or not as we pleased. As well as I
remember we generally did graciously incline towards the demolition of the
viands, unless “metal more attractive” awaited us elsewhere—but I am
digressing.

CHAPTER III — COLD-WATER CURE FOR
THE HEARTACHE
“Oh! grief for words too deep,
From all his loved ones parted,

He could not choose but weep,
He was so lonely-hearted.”
—Shortfellow.

“How does the water come down at Lodore?

Dashing and flashing, and splashing and clashing,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.”
—Southey.

“PRAY, Fairlegh, what did you mean by not coming down till eleven
o'clock?” asked Cumberland in an angry tone.
“Did its mamma say it was always to have its breakfast in bed, a dear?”
sneered Lawless.
“When she fastened that pretty square collar round its neck,” chimed in
Coleman.
“Just like a great gal,” added Mullins.
“Mildman was exceedingly angry about it, I can tell you,” continued
Cumberland, “and desired me to speak seriously to you on the subject; such
abominable idleness is not to be tolerated.”
“It was not idleness,” answered I, warmly; “you all know very well, why
I could not come down, and I don't think it was at all right or kind of you to
play me such a trick.”
“Eh—now don't say that—you will hurt my feelings; I declare it is quite
affecting,” said Coleman, wiping his eyes with Mullins's handkerchief, of
which he had just picked his pocket.
"I'd have given five pounds to have seen old Sam's phiz, when he was
trying to make out what ailed young stupid here, whether he was really ill,
or only shamming,” said Lawless; “depend upon it, he thinks it was all
pretence, and he can't bear anything of that sort; that was why he began

spinning him that long yarn about 'meriting his approbation by upright and
straightforward conduct,' this morning. I saw what the old boy was aiming
at in a minute; there's nothing puts him out so much as being deceived.”
“Won't he set him all the hard lines to construe, that's all!” said Mullins.
“It will be 'hard lines' upon him if he does,” observed Coleman.
“Hold your tongue, Freddy! your puns are enough to make one ill,” said
Cumberland.
“Well, I don't know whether you are going to stand here all day baiting
your pinafore, Cumberland?” interrupted Lawless; “I'm not, for I've got a
horse waiting for me down at Snaffles's, and I am going to ride over to
Hookley; there's a pigeon-match coming off to-day between Clayton, of the
Lancers—(he was just above me at Eton, you know)—and Tom Horton,
who won the great match at Pinchley, and I have backed Clayton pretty
heavily—shall you come?”
“No,” replied Cumberland, “no, I am going down to F———Street.”
“As usual, the board of green cloth, eh? you will go there once too often,
if you don't mind, old fellow.” “That's my look out,” replied Cumberland.
And away they went to their different pursuits, each, as he left the room,
making me a very low obeisance; Coleman taking the trouble to open the
door again after he had gone out, to beg, “that, if I were going to write to
my mother, I would tell her, with his love, that she need not make herself in
the least uneasy, as he had quite got over his last little attack”. In a few
minutes they had all quitted the house, and I remained the sole tenant of the
pupils' room.
Many a long year has passed over my head since the day I am now
describing, and each (though my life has been on the whole as free from
care as that of most of the sons of Adam) has brought with it some portion
of sorrow or suffering to temper the happiness I have enjoyed, and teach me
the much required lesson, that “here we have no abiding place”. I have lived
to see bright hopes fade—high and noble aspirations fall to the ground,
checked by the sordid policy of worldly men—and the proud hearts which
gave them birth become gradually debased to the level of those around
them, or break in the unequal struggle—and these things have pained me. I
have beheld those dear to me stretched upon the bed of sickness, and taken
from me by the icy hand of death; and have deemed, as the grave closed
over them, that my happiness, as far as this world was concerned, was

buried with them. I have known (and this was grief indeed) those loved
with all the warm and trustful confidence of youth prove false and
unworthy of such deep affection; and have wished, in the bitterness of my
soul, that the pit had shut her mouth upon me also, so I had but died with
my faith in them unshaken. Still, although such sorrows as these may have
produced a more deep and lasting effect, I do not remember ever to have
felt more thoroughly desolate than upon the present occasion. The last
scene, though trifling in itself, had made a great impression upon me, from
the fact that it proved, as I considered, the animus of the pupils towards me.
“Every man's hand was against me.” Even the oaf Mullins might insult me
with impunity; secure that, in so doing, if in nothing else, he would be
supported by the rest. Then I had offended my tutor, all my predilections in
whose favour had returned with double force, since I had satisfied myself
that he was not addicted to the commission of petty larceny; offended him
by allowing him to suppose that I had practised a mean deception upon him.
Moreover, it was impossible to explain my conduct to him without showing
up Coleman, an extreme measure for which I was by no means prepared.
Besides, every one would think, if I were to do so, that I was actuated by a
paltry spirit of malice, and that would have been worse to bear than
anything. No—turn my gaze to whichever side I. would, the horizon
seemed alike clouded; there was no comfort for me anywhere. I looked at
my watch—two o'clock! Three long hours to dinner-time, in which I might
do what I liked. What I liked! there was mockery in the very sound. What
was there for me to do? go out and see more new faces looking coldly on
me, and wander up and down in strange places alone, amidst a crowd? No!
I had not the heart to do that. Sit down, and write home, and by telling them
how miserable I was, render them unhappy too?—that was worst of all. At
length I found a book, and began reading as it were mechanically, but so
little was I able to fix my attention that, had I been questioned at the end of
the time as to the subject of the work I had been perusing, I should have
been utterly at a loss for an answer. I had fairly given it up as hopeless, and
closed the book, when I heard footsteps in the passage, followed by the
sudden apparition of the ever-smiling Mr. Frederick Coleman, who, closing
the door after him, accosted me as follows:—
“What, Fairlegh, all in the downs, old fellow?—'never say die!'—come,
be jolly—look at me”.

As he said this I involuntarily raised my eyes to his features, and
certainly if ever there were a face formed for banishing blue devils by a
glance, it was his. It was a round face, not remarkable for beauty of outline,
inasmuch as it bore a strong resemblance to that of the gentleman on the
blue China plates, in two pigtails and a petticoat, who appears to pass a
mild ornithological and botanical existence in studying intently certain
fishy-looking birds, and a cannon-ball tree, which form the leading feature
of the landscape in his vicinity. With regard to expression, however,
Coleman had a decided advantage over the Chinese horticulturist, for,
whereas the countenance of the latter gentleman expresses (if indeed it can
be said to express anything) only meek astonishment, Coleman's small
black eyes danced and sparkled with such a spirit of mischief and devilry,
while such a fund of merriment, and, as it now for the first time struck me,
of good-nature also, lurked about the corners of his mouth, that it seemed
impossible to look at him without feeling that there was something
contagious in his hilarity.
“Why,” said I, “everything here is so new to me, so entirely different
from all I have been accustomed to before, and the unkind—that is, the odd
way in which Lawless and the rest of you seem to behave to me, treating
me as if you thought I was either a fool or a baby—it all seems so strange,
that I confess I am not over-happy.”
“Precious odd if you were, I think,” replied Coleman; “and it was a
horrid shame of me to hide your trousers as I did this morning. Oh! how
delightfully miserable you did look, as you stood shivering up in the cold!
I'm sorry for it now, but I'm such a chap for a bit of fun, that if a trick like
that comes into my head, do it I must. Oh! I get into no end of scrapes that
way! Why it was but the other day I put a piece of cobbler's wax on the seat
of Mildman's chair, and ruined his best Sunday-going sit-upons; he knew,
too, who did it, I'm sure, for the next day he gave me a double dose of
Euclid, to take the nonsense out of me, I suppose. He had better mind what
he's at, though! I have got another dodge ready for him if he does not take
care! But I did not mean to annoy you: you behaved like a brick, too, in not
saying anything about it—I am really very sorry.”
“Never mind,” said I; “it's all right again now: I like a joke as well as
anybody when I know it's only fun; the thing I am afraid of now is, that Dr.

Mildman may think I wanted to deceive him, by pretending to be ill, when I
was not.”
“I daresay he has got a pretty good notion how it is,” said Coleman, “but
we'll get Thomas to tell him what I was up to, and that will set it all straight
again.”
“That will be very kind indeed,” replied I; “but will not Dr. Mildman be
angry with you about it?”
“Not he,” said Coleman, “he never finds fault unless there's real necessity
for it; he's as good a fellow as ever lived, is old Sam, only he's so precious
slow.”
“I am glad you like him, he seems so very kind and good-natured,” said I,
“just the sort of person one should wish one's tutor to be. But about
Cumberland and Lawless; what kind of fellows are they when you come to
know them?”
“Oh, you will like Lawless well enough when he gets tired of bullying
you,” replied Coleman; “though you need not stand so much of that as I was
obliged to bear; you are a good head taller than I am—let's look at your
arm; it would be all the better for a little more muscle, but that will soon
improve. I'll put on the gloves with you for an hour or so every day.”
“Put on the gloves!” repeated I; “how do you mean?—what has that to do
with Lawless?”
“Oh, you muff! don't you understand?—of course, I mean the boxing-
gloves; and when you know how to use your fists, if Lawless comes it too
strong, slip into him.”
“He must bully a good deal before I am driven to that,” replied I; “I never
struck a blow in anger in my life.”
“You will see before long,” rejoined Coleman; “but at all events there is
no harm in learning to use your fists; a man should always be able to defend
himself if he is attacked.”
“Yes, that's very true,” observed I; “but you have not told me anything of
Cumberland. Shall I ever like him, do you think?”
“Not if you are the sort of fellow I take you to be,” replied he; “there's
something about Cumberland not altogether right, I fancy; I'm not very
strait-laced myself, particularly if there's any fun in a thing, not so much so
as I should be, I suspect; but Cumberland is too bad even for me; besides,

there's no fun in what he does, and then he's such a humbug—not
straightforward and honest, you know. Lawless would not be half such a
bully either, if Cumberland did not set him on. But don't you say a word
about this to any one; Cumberland would be ready to murder me, or to get
somebody else to do it for him—that's more in his way.”
“Do not fear my repeating anything told me in confidence,” replied I;
“but what do you mean when you say there's something wrong about
Cumberland?”
“Do you know what Lawless meant by the 'board of green cloth' this
morning?”
“No—it puzzled me.”
“I will tell you then,” replied Coleman, sinking his voice almost to a
whisper—“the billiard table!”
After telling me this, Coleman, evidently fearing to commit himself
further with one of whom he knew so little, turned the conversation, and,
finding it still wanted more than an hour to dinner, proposed that we should
take a stroll along the shore together. In the course of our walk I acquired
the additional information that another pupil was expected in a few days—
the only son of Sir John Oaklands, a baronet of large fortune in
Hertfordshire; and that an acquaintance of Coleman's, who knew him, said
he was a capital fellow, but very odd—though in what the oddity consisted
did not appear. Moreover, Coleman confirmed me in my preconceived idea,
that Mullins's genius lay at present chiefly in the eating, drinking, and
sleeping line—adding that, in his opinion, he bore a striking resemblance to
those somewhat dissimilar articles, a muff and a spoon. In converse such as
this, the time slipped away, till we suddenly discovered that we had only a
quarter of an hour left in which to walk back to Langdale Terrace, and
prepare for dinner; whereupon a race began, in which my longer legs gave
me so decided an advantage over Coleman that he declared he would
deliver me up to the tender mercies of the “Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals,” for what he was pleased to call “an aggravated case of
over-driving a private pupil”.
We had not more than five minutes left when we arrived at Dr. Mildman's
door, Coleman affording a practical illustration of the truth of the aphorism,
that “it is the pace that kills”; so that Thomas's injunction, “Look sharp,
gentlemen,” was scarcely necessary to induce us to rush upstairs two steps

at a time. In the same hurry I entered my bedroom, without observing that
the door was standing ajar rather suspiciously, for which piece of
inattention I was rewarded by a deluge of water, which wetted me from
head to foot, and a violent blow on the shoulder, which stretched me on the
ground in the midst of a puddle. That I may not keep the reader in suspense
I will at once inform him that I was indebted for this agreeable surprise to
the kindness and skill of Lawless, who, having returned from his pigeon-
match half-an-hour sooner than was necessary, had devoted it to the
construction of what he called a “booby trap,” which ingenious piece of
mechanism was arranged in the following manner: The victim's room-door
was placed ajar, and upon the top thereof a Greek Lexicon, or any other
equally ponderous volume, was carefully balanced, and upon this was set in
its turn a jug of water. If all these were properly adjusted, the catastrophe
above described was certain to ensue when the door was opened.

“Fairly caught, by Jove,” cried Lawless, who had been on the watch.
“By Jupiter Pluvius, you should have said,” joined in Coleman, helping
me up again; for so sudden and unexpected had been the shock that I had
remained for a moment just as I had fallen, with a kind of vague expectation
that the roof of the house would come down upon me.
“I suppose I have to thank you for that,” said I, turning to Lawless.
“Pray, don't mention it, Pinafore,” was the answer; “what little trouble I
had in making the arrangement, I can assure you, was quite repaid by its
success.”
“I'll certainly put on the gloves to-morrow,” whispered I to Coleman—to
which he replied by a sympathetic wink, adding:—
“And now I think you had better get ready, more particularly as you will
have to find out 'how to dress jugged hair,' as the cookery-books say”.
By dint of almost superhuman exertions I did just contrive to get down in
time for dinner, though my unfortunate “jugged hair,” which was anything
but dry, must have presented rather a singular appearance. In the course of
dinner Dr. Mildman told us that we should have the whole of the next day
to ourselves, as he was obliged to go to London on business, and should not
return till the middle of the day following—an announcement which
seemed to afford great satisfaction to his hearers, despite an attempt made
by Cumberland to keep up appearances, by putting on a look of mournful
resignation, which, being imitated by Coleman, who, as might be expected,
rather overdid the thing, failed most signally.

CHAPTER IV — WHEREIN IS COMMENCED
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MACINTOSH,
AND OTHER MATTERS
“How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,
Makes ill deeds done.”

“Come, tailor, let us see't;

Oh! mercy.... What masking stuff is here?

What's this? a sleeve?”

“Disguise, I see; thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.”

“A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!”
—Shakspeare.

ON returning to the pupils' room Lawless commenced (to my great
delight, as I thereby enjoyed a complete immunity from his somewhat
troublesome attentions) a full, true, and particular account of the pigeon-
match, in which his friend Clayton had, with unrivalled skill, slain a
sufficient number of victims to furnish forth pies for the supply of the
whole mess during the ensuing fortnight. At length, however, all was said
that could be said, even upon this interesting subject, and the narrator,
casting his eyes around in search of wherewithal to amuse himself, chanced
to espy my new writing-desk, a parting gift from my little sister Fanny,
who, with the self-denial of true affection, had saved up her pocket-money
during many previous months in order to provide funds for this munificent
present.
“Pinafore, is that desk yours?” demanded Lawless.
Not much admiring the sobriquet by which he chose to address me, I did
not feel myself called upon to reply.
“Are you deaf, stupid? don't you hear me speaking to you?—where did
you get that writing-desk?”
Still I did not answer.

“Sulky, eh? I shall have to lick him before long, I see. Here you, what's
your name? Fairlegh, did your grand-mother give you that writing-desk?”
“No,” replied I, “my sister Fanny gave it to me the day before I left
home.”
“Oh, you have got a sister Fanny, have you? how old is she, and what is
she like?”
“She is just thirteen, and she has got the dearest little face in the world,”
answered I, earnestly, as the recollection of her bright blue eyes and sunny
smile came across me.
"How interesting!” sighed Coleman; “it quite makes my heart beat; you
could not send for her, could you?”
“And she gave you that desk, did she?—how very kind of her,” resumed
Lawless, putting the poker in the fire.
“Yes, was it not?” said I, eagerly. “I would not have any harm happen to
it for more than I can tell.”
“So I suppose,” replied Lawless, still devoting himself to the poker,
which was rapidly becoming red-hot. “Have you ever,” continued he, “seen
this new way they have of ornamenting things? encaustic work, I think they
call it:—it's done by the application of heat, you know.”
“I never even heard of it,” said I.
“Ah! I thought not,” rejoined Lawless. “Well, as I happen to understand
the process, I'll condescend to enlighten your ignorance. Mullins, give me
that desk.”
“Don't touch it,” cried I, bounding forward to the rescue; “I won't have
anything done to it.”

My design was, however, frustrated by Cumberland and Lawless, who,
both throwing themselves upon me at the same moment, succeeded, despite
my struggles, in forcing me into a chair, where they held me, while Mullins,
by their direction, with the aid of sundry neckcloths, braces, etc., tied me
hand and foot; Coleman, who attempted to interfere in my behalf, receiving
a push which sent him reeling across the room, and a hint that if he did not
mind his own business he would be served in the same manner.
Having thus effectually placed me hors de combat, Lawless took
possession of my poor writing-desk, and commenced tracing on the top
thereof, with the red-hot poker, what he was pleased to term a “design from
the antique,” which consisted of a spirited outline of that riddle-loving
female the Sphinx, as she appeared when dressed in top-boots and a wide-
awake, and regaling herself with a choice cigar! He was giving the finishing
touch to a large pair of moustaches, with which he had embellished her

countenance, and which he declared was the only thing wanting to complete
the likeness to an old aunt of Dr. Mildman's, whom the pupils usually
designated by the endearing appellation of “Growler,” when the door
opened, and Thomas announced that “Smithson” was waiting to see Mr.
Lawless.
“Oh yes, to be sure, let him come in; no, wait a minute. Here, you,
Coleman and Mullins, untie Fairlegh; be quick!—confound that desk, how
it smells of burning, and I have made my hands all black too. Well,
Smithson, have you brought the things?”
The person to whom this query was addressed was a young man, attired
in the extreme of the fashion, who lounged into the room with a “quite at
home” kind of air, and, nodding familiarly all around, arranged his curls
with a ring-adorned hand, as he replied in a drawling tone:—
“Ya'as, Mr. Lawless, we're all right—punctual to a moment—always
ready 'to come to time,' as we say in the ring”.
“Who is he?” whispered I to Coleman.
“Who is he?” replied Coleman; “why the best fellow in the world, to be
sure'. Not know Smithson, the prince of tailors, the tailor par excellence! I
suppose you never heard of the Duke of Wellington, have you?”
I replied humbly that I believed I had heard the name of that illustrious
individual mentioned in connection with Waterloo and the Peninsula—and
that I was accustomed to regard him as the first man of the age.
“Aye, well then, Smithson is the second; though I really don't know
whether he is not quite as great in his way as Wellington, upon my honour.
The last pair of trousers he made for Lawless were something sublime, too
good for this wicked world, a great deal.”
During this brief conversation Smithson had been engaged in extricating
a somewhat voluminous garment from the interior of a blue bag, which a
boy, who accompanied him, had just placed inside the study-door.
“There, this is the new invention I told you about; a man named
Macintosh hit upon it. Now, with this coat on, you might stand under a
water-fall without getting even damp. Try it on, Mr. Lawless; just the thing,
eh, gents?”
Our curiosity being roused by this panegyric, we gathered round Lawless
to examine the garment which had called it forth. Such of my readers as

recollect the first introduction of Macintoshes will doubtless remember that
the earlier specimens of the race differed very materially in form from those
which are in use at the present day. The one we were now inspecting was of
a whity-brown colour, and, though it had sleeves like a coat, hung in
straight folds from the waist to the ankles, somewhat after the fashion of a
carter's frock, having huge pockets at the side, and fastening round the neck
with a hook and eye.
“How does it do?” asked Lawless, screwing himself round in an insane
effort to look at the small of his own back, a thing a man is certain to
attempt when trying on a coat. “It does not make a fellow look like a Guy,
does it?”
"No, I rather admire the sort of thing,” said Cumberland.
“A jolly dodge for a shower of rain, and no mistake,” put in Coleman.
“It is deucedly fashionable, really,” said Smithson—“this one of yours,
and one we made for Augustus Flareaway, Lord Fitz-scamper's son, the man
in the Guards, you know, are the only two out yet.”
“I have just got it at the right time then,” said Lawless; “I knew old Sam
was going to town, so I settled to drive Clayton over to Woodend, in the
tandem, to-morrow. The harriers meet there at eleven, and this will be the
very thing to hide the leathers, and tops, and the green cutaway. I saw you
at the match, by-the-by, Smithey, this morning.”
“Ya'as, I was there; did you see the thing I was on?”
“A bright bay, with a star on the forehead! a spicy-looking nag enough—
whose is it?”
“Why, young Robarts, who came into a lot of tin the other day, has just
bought it; Snaffles charged him ninety guineas for it.”
“And what is it worth?” asked Lawless.
“Oh! he would not do a dirty thing by any gent I introduced,” replied
Smithson. “I took young Robarts there: he merely made his fair profit out of
it; he gave forty pounds for it himself to a man who bred it, only the week
before, to my certain knowledge: it's a very sweet thing, and would carry
him well, but he's afraid to ride it; that's how I was on it to-day. I'm getting
it steady for him.”
“A thing it will take you some time to accomplish, eh? A mount like that
is not to be had for nothing, every day, is it?”

“Ya'as, you're about right there, Mr. Lawless; you're down to every move,
I see, as usual. Any orders to-day, gents? your two vests will be home to-
morrow, Mr. Coleman.”
“Here, Smithson, wait a moment,” said Cumberland, drawing him on one
side; “I was deucedly unlucky with the balls this morning,” continued he in
a lower tone, “can you let me have five-and-twenty pounds?”
“What you please, sir,” replied Smithson, bowing.
“On the old terms, I suppose?” observed Cumberland.
“All right,” answered Smithson; “stay, I can leave it with you now,”
added he, drawing out a leather case; “oblige me by writing your name here
—thank you.”
So saying, he handed some bank-notes to Cumberland, carefully replaced
the paper he had received from him in his pocket-book, and withdrew.
"Smithey was in great force to-night,” observed Lawless, as the door
closed behind him—“nicely they are bleeding that young ass Robarts
among them—he has got into good hands to help him to get rid of his
money, at all events. I don't believe Snaffles gave forty pounds for that bay
horse; he has got a decided curb on the off hock, if I ever saw one, and I
fancy he's a little touched in the wind, too and there's another thing I should
say——”
What other failing might be attributed to Mr. Robarts' bay steed we were,
however, not destined to learn, as tea was at this moment announced. In due
time followed evening prayers, after which we retired for the night. Being
very sleepy I threw off my clothes, and jumped hastily into bed, by which
act I became painfully aware of the presence of what a surgeon would term
“certain foreign bodies”—i.e., not, as might be imagined, sundry French,
German, and Italian corpses, but various hard substances, totally opposed to
one's preconceived ideas of the component parts of a feather-bed. Sleep
being out of the question on a couch so constituted, I immediately
commenced an active search, in the course of which I succeeded in bringing
to light two clothes-brushes, a boot-jack, a pair of spurs, Lemprière's
Classical Dictionary and a brick-bat. Having freed myself from these
undesirable bed-fellows I soon fell asleep, and passed (as it seemed to me)
the whole night in dreaming that I was a pigeon, or thereabouts, and that
Smithson, mounted on the top-booted Sphinx, was inciting Lawless to shoot
at me with a red-hot poker.

As Coleman and I were standing at the window of the pupils' room, about
ten o'clock on the following morning, watching the vehicle destined to
convey Dr. Mildman to the coach-office, Lawless made his appearance,
prepared for his expedition, with his hunting-costume effectually concealed
under the new Macintosh.
“Isn't Mildman gone yet? Deuce take it, what a time he is! I ought to be
off—I'm too late already!”
“They have not even put his carpet-bag in yet,” said I.
“Well, I shall make a bolt, and chance it about his seeing me,” exclaimed
Lawless; “he'll only think I'm going out for a walk rather earlier than usual,
if he does catch a glimpse of me, so here's off.”
Thus saying, he placed his hat upon his head, with the air of a man
determined to do or die, and vanished.
Fortune is currently reported to favour the brave, and so, to do her
justice, she generally does; still, at the best of times, she is but a fickle jade,
at all events she appeared determined to prove herself so in the present
instance; for scarcely had Lawless got a dozen paces from the house, before
Dr. Mildman appeared at the front door with his great coat and hat on,
followed by Thomas bearing a carpet-bag and umbrella, and, his attention
being attracted by footsteps, he turned his head, and beheld Lawless. As
soon as he perceived him he gave a start of surprise, and, pulling out his
eye-glass (he was rather short-sighted), gazed long and fixedly after the
retreating figure. At length, having apparently satisfied himself as to the
identity of the person he was examining, he replaced his glass, stood for a
moment as if confounded by what he had seen, and then turning, abruptly
re-entered the house, and shut his study-door behind him with a bang,
leaving Thomas and the fly-driver mute with astonishment. In about five
minutes he re-appeared, and saying to Thomas, in a stern tone, “Let that
note be given to Mr. Lawless the moment he returns,” got into the fly and
drove off.
“There's a precious go,” observed Coleman; “I wonder what's in the wind
now. I have not seen old Sam get up the steam like that since I have been
here. He was not half so angry when I put Thomas's hat on the peg where he
hangs his own, and he, never noticing the difference, put it on, and walked
to church in it, gold band and all.”

“I wouldn't be Lawless for something,” observed I; “I wonder what the
note's about?”
“That's just what puzzles me,” said Coleman. “I should have thought he
had seen the sporting togs, but that's impossible; he must have a penetrating
glance indeed if he could see through that Macintosh.”
“Lawless was too impatient,” said Cumberland; “he should have waited a
few minutes longer, and then Mildman would have gone off without
knowing anything about him. Depend upon it, the grand rule of life is to
take things coolly, and wait for an opportunity: you have the game in your
own hands then, and can take advantage of the follies and passions of
others, instead of allowing them to avail themselves of yours.”
“In plain English, cheat instead of being cheated,” put in Coleman.
“You're not far wrong there, Freddy; the world is made up of knaves and
fools—those who cheat, and those who are cheated—and I, for one, have no
taste for being a fool,” said Cumberland.
“Nor I,” said Mullins; “I should not like to be a fool at all; I had rather be
——”
“A butterfly,” interrupted Coleman, thereby astonishing Mullins to such a
degree that he remained silent for some moments, with his mouth wide
open as if in the act of speaking.
“You cannot mean what you say; you surely would not wish to cheat
people,” said I to Cumberland; “if it were really true that one must be either
a knave or a fool, I'd rather be a fool by far—I'm sure you could never be
happy if you cheated any one,” continued I. “What does the Bible say about
doing to others as you would have others do to you?”
“There, don't preach to me, you canting young prig,” said Cumberland
angrily, and immediately left the room.
“You hit him pretty hard then,” whispered Coleman; “a very bad piece of
business happened just before I came, about his winning a lot of tin from a
young fellow here, at billiards, and they do say that Cumberland did not
play fairly. It was rather unlucky your saying it; he will be your enemy from
henceforth, depend upon it. He never forgets nor forgives a thing of that
sort.”
“I meant no harm by the remark,” replied I; “I knew nothing of his
having cheated any one; however, I do not care; I don't like him, and I'm

just as well pleased he should not like me. But now, as my foreign relations
seem to be rapidly assuming a warlike character (as the newspapers have
it), what do you say to giving me a lesson in sparring, as you proposed, by
way of preparation?”
“With all my heart,” replied Coleman.
And accordingly the gloves were produced, and my initiatory lesson in
the pugilistic art commenced by Coleman's first placing me in an
exceedingly uncomfortable attitude, and then very considerately knocking
me out of it again, thereby depositing me with much skill and science flat
upon the hearth-rug. This manouvre he repeated with great success during
some half hour or so, at the end of which time I began to discover the knack
with which it was done, and proceeded to demonstrate the proficiency I was
making, by a well-directed blow, which, being delivered with much greater
force than I had intended, sent Coleman flying across the room. Chancing
to encounter Mullins in the course, of his transit he overturned that worthy
against the table in the centre of the apartment, which, yielding to their
combined weight, fell over with a grand crash, dragging them down with it,
in the midst of an avalanche of books, papers, and inkstands.
This grand coup brought, as might be expected, our lesson to a close for
the day, Coleman declaring that such another hit would inevitably knock
him into the middle of next week, if not farther, and that he really should
not feel justified in allowing such a serious interruption to his studies to
take place.
“And now, what are we going to do with ourselves?” asked I; “as this is a
holiday, we ought to do something.”
“Are you fond of riding?” inquired Coleman.
“Nothing I like better,” replied I; “I have been used to it all my life; I
have had a pony ever since I was four years old.”
“I wish I was used to it,” said Coleman. “My governor living in London,
I never crossed a horse till I came here, and I'm a regular muff at it; but I
want to learn. What do you say to a ride this afternoon?”
“Just the thing,” said I, “if it is not too expensive for my pocket.”
“Oh no,” replied Coleman; “Snaffles lets horses at as cheap a rate as any
one, and good 'uns to go, too; does not he, Cumberland?”

“Eh, what are you talking about?” said Cumberland, who had just entered
the room; “Snaffles? Oh yes, he's the man for horse flesh. Are you going to
amuse yourself by tumbling off that fat little cob of his again, Fred?”
“I was thinking of having another try,” replied Coleman; “what do you
say, Fairlegh? Never mind the tin; I daresay you have got plenty, and can
get more when that's gone.”
“I have got a ten-pound note,” answered I; “but that must last me all this
quarter: however, we'll have our ride to-day.”
“I'll walk down with you,” said Cumberland; “I'm going that way;
besides, it's worth a walk any day to see Coleman mount; it took him ten
minutes the last time I saw him, and then he threw the wrong leg over, so
that he turned his face to the tail.”
“Scandalum magnatum! not a true bill,” replied Coleman.
“Now, come along, Fairlegh, let's get ready, and be off.” During our walk
down to Snaffles' stables Cumberland (who seemed entirely to have
forgotten my mal à propos remark) talked to me in a much more amiable
manner than he had yet done; and the conversation naturally turning upon
horses and riding, a theme always interesting to me, I was induced to enter
into sundry details of my own exploits in that line. We reached the livery
stables just as I had concluded a somewhat egotistical relation concerning a
horse which a gentleman in our neighbourhood had bought for his invalid
son, but which, proving at first too spirited, I had undertaken to ride every
day for a month in order to get him quiet; a feat I was rather proud of
having satisfactorily accomplished.
“Good-morning, Mr. Snaffles; is Punch at home?” asked Coleman of a
stout red-faced man, attired in a bright green Newmarket coat and top-
boots.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Lawless told me your governor was gone to town, so I kept
him in, thinking perhaps you would want him.”
“That's all right,” said Coleman; “and here's my friend, Mr. Fairlegh, will
want a nag too.”
“Proud to serve any gent as is a friend of yours, Mr. Coleman,” replied
Snaffles, with a bob of his head towards me, intended as a bow. “What
stamp of horse do you like, sir? Most of my cattle are out with the harriers
to-day.”

“Snaffles—a word with you,” interrupted Cumberland.
“One moment, sir,” said Snaffles to me, as he crossed over to where
Cumberland was standing.
“Come and look at Punch; and let's hear what you think of him,” said
Coleman, drawing me towards the stable.
“What does Cumberland want with that man?” asked I.
“What, Snaffles? I fancy he owes a bill here, and I daresay it is
something about that.”
“Oh, is that all?” rejoined I.
“Why, what did you think it was?” inquired Coleman.
“Never mind,” I replied; “let's look at Punch.”
And accordingly I was introduced to a little fat, round, jolly-looking cob,
about fourteen hands high, who appeared to me an equine counterpart of
Coleman himself. After having duly praised and patted him I turned to leave
the stable, just as Cumberland and Snaffles were passing the door, and I
caught the following words from the latter, who appeared rather excited:—
“Well, if any harm comes of it, Mr. Cumberland, you'll remember it's
your doing, not mine”.
Cumberland's reply was inaudible, and Snaffles turned to me, saying:—
“I've only one horse at home likely to suit you, sir; you'll find her rather
high-couraged, but Mr. Cumberland tells me you won't mind that”.
“I have been mentioning what a good rider you say you are,” said
Cumberland, laying a slight emphasis on the say.
“Oh, I daresay she will do very well,” replied I. “I suppose she has no
vice about her.”
“Oh dear, no,” said Snaffles, “nothing of the sort.—James,” added he,
calling to a helper, “saddle the chestnut mare, and bring her out directly.”
The man whom he addressed, and who was a fellow with a good-
humoured, honest face, became suddenly grave, as he replied in a
deprecatory tone:—
“The chestnut mare? Mad Bess, sir?”
“Don't repeat my words, but do as you are told,” was the answer; and the
man went away looking surly.

After the interval of a few minutes a stable door opposite was thrown
open, and Mad Bess made her appearance, led by two grooms. She was a
bright chestnut, with flowing mane and tail, about fifteen-and-a-half hands
high, nearly thorough-bred, and as handsome as a picture; but the restless
motion of her eye disclosing the white, the ears laid back at the slightest
sound, and a half-frightened, half-wild air, when any one went up to her,
told a tale as to her temper, about which no one in the least accustomed to
horses could doubt for an instant.
“That mare is vicious,” said I, as soon as I had looked at her.
“Oh dear, no, sir, quiet as a lamb, I can assure you. Soh, girl! soh!” said
Snaffles, in a coaxing tone of voice, attempting to pat her; but Bess did not
choose to “soh,” if by “sohing” is meant, as I presume, standing still and
behaving prettily; for on her master's approach she snorted, attempted to
rear, and ran back, giving the men at her head as much as they could do to
hold her.
“She's a little fresh to-day; she was not out yesterday, but it's all play,
pretty creature! nothing but play,” continued Snaffles.
“If you are afraid, Fairlegh, don't ride her,” said Cumberland; “but I
fancied from your conversation you were a bold rider, and did not mind a
little spirit in a horse: you had better take her in again, Snaffles.”
“Leave her alone,” cried I, quickly (for I was becoming irritated by
Cumberland's sneers, in spite of my attempt at self-control), “I'll ride her.
I'm no more afraid than other people; nor do I mind a spirited horse,
Cumberland; but that mare is more than spirited, she's ill-tempered—look at
her eye!”
“Well, you had better not ride her, then,” said Cumberland.
“Yes, I will,” answered I, for I was now thoroughly roused, and
determined to go through with the affair, at all hazards. I was always, even
as a boy, of a determined, or, as ill-natured people would call it, obstinate
disposition, and I doubt whether I am entirely cured of the fault at the
present time.
“Please yourself; only mind, I have warned you not to ride her if you are
afraid,” said Cumberland.
"A nice warning,” replied I, turning away;—“who'll lend me a pair of
spurs?”

“I've got a pair here, sir; if you'll step this way I'll put them on for you,”
said the man whom I had heard addressed as “James,”—adding, in a lower
tone, as he buckled them on, “for Heaven's sake, young gentleman, don't
mount that mare unless you're a first-rate rider.”
“Why, what's the matter with her? does she kick?” inquired I.
“She'll try and pitch you off, if possible, and if she can't do that, she'll
bolt with you, and then the Lord have mercy upon you!”
This was encouraging, certainly!
“You are an honest fellow, James,” replied I; “and I am much obliged to
you. Ride her I must, my honour is at stake, but I'll be as careful as I can,
and, if I come back safe, you shall have half a crown.”
“Thank you, sir,” was the reply, “I shall be glad enough to see you come
back in any other way than on a shutter, without the money.”
Of a truth, the race of Job's comforters is not yet extinct, thought I, as I
turned to look for Coleman, who had been up to this moment employed in
superintending the operation of saddling Punch, and now made his
appearance, leading that renowned steed by the bridle.
“Why, Fairlegh, you are not going to ride that vicious brute to be sure;
even Lawless won't mount her, and he does not care what he rides in
general.”
“Nevermind about Lawless,” said I, assuming an air of confidence I was
very far from feeling; “she won't eat me, I daresay.”
“I don't know that,” rejoined Coleman, regarding Mad Bess with a look
of horror; “Cumberland, don't let him mount her.”
“Nay, I can't prevent it; Fairlegh is his own master, and must do as he
likes,” was the answer.
“Come, we can't keep the men standing here the whole day,” said I to
Coleman; “mount Punch, and get out of my way as fast as you can, if you
are going to do so at all”—a request with which, seeing I was quite
determined, he at length unwillingly complied, and having, after one or two
failures, succeeded in throwing his leg over the cob's broad back, rode
slowly out of the yard, and took up his station outside in order to witness
my proceedings.

“Now, then,” said I, “keep her as steady as you can for a minute, and as
soon as I am fairly mounted give her her head—stand clear there.”
I then took a short run, and, placing one hand on the saddle, while I
seized a lock of the mane with the other, I sprang from the ground and
vaulted at once upon her back, without the aid of the stirrup, a feat I had
learned from a groom who once lived with us, and which stood me in good
stead on the present occasion, as I thereby avoided a kick with which Mad
Bess greeted my approach. I next took up the reins as gently as I could, the
men let go her head, and after a little plunging and capering, though much
less than I had expected, her ladyship gave up hostilities for the present, and
allowed me to ride her quietly up and down the yard. I then wished
Cumberland (who looked, as I thought, somewhat mortified) a good-
afternoon, turned a deaf ear to the eulogies of Mr. Snaffles and his satellites,
and proceeded to join Coleman. As I left the yard my friend James joined
me, under the pretence of arranging my stirrup leather, when he took the
opportunity of saying:—
“She'll go pretty well now you're once mounted, sir, as long as you can
hold her with the snaffle, but if you are obliged to use the curb—look out
for squalls!!!”

CHAPTER V — MAD BESS
“Away, away, my steed and I,
Upon the pinions of the wind,
All human dwellings left behind,
We sped like meteors through the sky,

With glossy skin and dripping mane,
And reeling limbs, and reeking flank,
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain
Up the repelling bank.

We gained the top, a boundless plain
Spreads onward.

My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore,
And throbbed awhile, then beat no more,
The sky spun like a mighty wheel,
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,
Which saw no farther.”

Mazeppa.

OUT of consideration for the excitable disposition of Mad Bess we took
our way along the least bustling streets we could select; directing our course
towards the outskirts of the town, behind which extended for some miles a
portion of the range of hills known as the South Downs, over the smooth
green turf of which we promised ourselves a canter. As we rode along
Coleman questioned me as to what could have passed while he was seeing
Punch saddled, to make me determine to ride the chestnut mare, whose
vicious disposition was, he informed me, so well known, that not only
would no one ride her who could help it, but that Snaffles, who was most
anxious to get rid of her, had not as yet been able to find a purchaser. In
reply to this I gave him a short account of what had occurred, adding my
more than suspicion that the whole matter had been arranged by
Cumberland, in which notion he entirely agreed with me.
“I was afraid of something of this sort, when I said I was sorry you had
made that remark about cheating to him this morning—you see, he would
no doubt suppose you had heard the particulars of his gambling affair, and
meant to insult him by what you said, and he has done this out of revenge.
Oh, how I wish we were safely at home again; shall we turn back now?”

“Not for the world,” said I—“you will find, when you know me better,
that when once I have undertaken a thing, I will go through with it—
difficulties only make me more determined.”
“Ah!” said Coleman, “you should get somebody to write a book about
you, that is the kind of disposition they always give to the heroes of novels,
the sort of character that will go and run his head against a brick wall to
prove that it is the harder and thicker of the two—they knock out their
brains though, sometimes, in doing it, when they happen to have any—it is
very pretty to read about, splendid in theory, but I much doubt its acting so
well if you come to put it in practice.”
“You may laugh at me, if you please,” replied I; “but depend upon it, a
man of energy and determination will undertake great deeds, aye, and
perform them too, which your prudent, cautious character would have
considered impossibilities.”
“Perhaps it may be so,” was the reply; “I know I am not the sort of stuff
they cut heroes out of—woa, Punch! steady, old boy; holloa, what ails him?
this is getting serious.”
During this conversation we had been gradually leaving the town behind
us and approaching the downs, and had arrived at a point where the road
became a mere cart-track, and the open country lay spread for miles before
us. Our two steeds, which had up to the present time conducted themselves
with the greatest propriety, now began to show signs of excitement, and, as
the fresh air from the downs blew against their nostrils, they tossed their
heads, snorted, and exchanged the quiet jog-trot pace at which we had been
proceeding, for a dancing, sidelong motion, which somewhat disturbed
Coleman's equanimity, and elicited from him the expressions above
recorded. The road at the same time becoming uneven and full of ruts, we
agreed to turn our horses' heads, and quit it for the more tempting pathway
afforded by the green-sward. No sooner, however, did Punch feel the
change from the hard road to the soft elastic footing of the turf, than he
proceeded to demonstrate his happiness by slightly elevating his heels and
popping his head down between his forelegs, thereby jerking the rein loose
in Coleman's hand; and, perceiving that his rider (who was fully employed
in grasping the pommel of his saddle in order to preserve his seat) made no
effort to check his vivacity, he indulged his high spirits still further by
setting off at a brisk canter.

“Pull him in,” cried I, “you'll have him run away with you; pull at him.”
Whether my advice was acted upon or not I was unable to observe, as my
whole attention was demanded by Mad Bess, who appeared at length
resolved to justify the propriety of her appellation. Holding her in by means
of the snaffle alone had been quite as much as I had been able to
accomplish during the last ten minutes, and this escapade on the part of
Punch brought the matter to a crisis. I must either allow her to follow him,
i.e., to run away, or use the curb to prevent it. Seating myself, therefore, as
firmly as I could, and gripping the saddle tightly with my knees, I took up
the curb rein, which till now had been hanging loosely on the mare's neck,
and gradually tightened it. This did not, for a moment, seem to produce any
effect, but as soon as I drew the rein sufficiently tight to check her speed,
she stopped short, and shook her head angrily. I attempted gently to urge
her on—not a step except backwards would she stir—at length in despair I
touched her slightly with the spur, and then “the fiend within her woke,”
and proceeded to make up for lost time with a vengeance. The moment the
mare felt the spur she reared until she stood perfectly erect, and fought the
air with her forelegs. Upon this I slackened the rein, and, striking her over
the ears with my riding-whip, brought her down again;—no sooner,
however, had her forefeet touched the ground than she gave two or three
violent plunges, which nearly succeeded in unseating me, jerked down her
head so suddenly as to loosen the reins from my grasp, kicked viciously
several times, and, seizing the cheek of the bit between her teeth so as to
render it utterly useless (evidently an old trick of hers), sprang forward at a
wild gallop. The pace at which we were going soon brought us alongside of
Punch, who, having thoroughly mastered his rider, considered it highly
improper that any steed should imagine itself able to pass him, and
therefore proceeded to emulate the pace of Mad Bess. Thereupon a short
but very spirited race ensued, the cob's pluck enabling him to keep neck and
neck for a few yards; but the mare was going at racing speed, and the length
of her stride soon began to tell; Punch, too, showed signs of having nearly
had enough of it. I therefore shouted to Coleman as we were leaving them:
“Keep his head up hill, and you'll be able to pull him in directly”. His
answer was inaudible, but when I turned my head two or three minutes
afterwards I was glad to see that he had followed my advice with complete
success—Punch was standing still, about half a mile off, while his rider was
apparently watching my course with looks of horror. All anxiety on his

account being thus at an end, I proceeded to take as calm a view of my own
situation as circumstances would allow, in order to decide on the best means
of extricating myself therefrom. We had reached the top of the first range of
hills I have described, and were now tearing at a fearful rate down the
descent on the opposite side. It was clear that the mare could not keep up
the pace at which she was going for any length of time: still she was in first-
rate racing condition, not an ounce of superfluous flesh about her, and,
though she must have gone more than two miles already, she appeared as
fresh as when we started. I therefore cast my eyes around in search of some
obstacle which might check her speed. The slope down which we were
proceeding extended for about a mile before us, after which the ground
again began to rise. In the valley between the two hills was a small piece of
cultivated land, enclosed (as is usual in the district I am describing) within a
low wall, built of flint-stones from the beach. Towards this I determined to
guide the mare as well as I was able, in the hope that she would refuse the
leap, in which case I imagined I might pull her in. The pace at which we
were going soon brought us near the spot, when I was glad to perceive that
the wall was a more formidable obstacle than I had at first imagined, being
fully six feet high, with a ditch in front of it. I therefore selected a place
where the ditch seemed widest, got her head up by sawing her mouth with
the snaffle, and put her fairly at it. No sooner did she perceive the obstacles
before her than, slightly moderating her pace, she appeared to collect
herself, gathered her legs well under her, and, rushing forward, cleared wall,
ditch, and at least seven feet of ground beyond, with a leap like a deer,
alighting safely with me on her back on the opposite side, where she
continued her course with unabated vigour.
We had crossed the field (a wheat stubble) ere I had recovered from my
astonishment at finding myself safe, after such a leap as I had most
assuredly never dreamt of taking. Fortunately there was a low gate on the
farther side, towards which I guided the mare, for though I could not check,
I was in some measure able to direct, her course. This time, however, she
either did not see the impediment in her way, or despised it, as, without
abating her speed, she literally rushed through the gate, snapping into
shivers with her chest the upper bar, which was luckily rotten, and clearing
the lower ones in her stride. The blow, and the splintered wood flying about
her ears, appeared to frighten her afresh, and she tore up the opposite
ascent, which was longer and steeper than the last, like a mad creature. I

was glad to perceive, however, that the pace at which she had come, and the
distance (which must have been several miles), were beginning to tell—her
glossy coat was stained with sweat and dust, while her breath, drawn with
short and laboured sobs, her heaving flanks, and the tremulous motion of
her limbs, afforded convincing proofs that the struggle could not be
protracted much longer. Still she continued to hold the bit between her teeth
as firmly as though it were in a vice, rendering any attempt to pull her in
utterly futile. We had now reached the crest of the hill, when I was not best
pleased to perceive that the descent on the other side was much more
precipitous than any I had yet met with. I endeavoured, therefore, to pull
her head round, thinking it would be best to try and retrace our steps, but I
soon found that it was useless to attempt it. The mare had now become
wholly unmanageable; I could not guide her in the slightest decree; and,
though she was evidently getting more and more exhausted, she still
continued to gallop madly forwards, as though some demon had taken
possession of her, and was urging her on to our common destruction. As we
proceeded down the hill our speed increased from the force of gravitation,
till we actually seemed to fly—the wind appeared to shriek as it rushed past
my ears, while, from the rapidity with which we were moving, the ground
seemed to glide from under us, till my head reeled so giddily that I was
afraid I should fall from the saddle.

We had proceeded about half way down the descent when, on passing
one or two stunted bushes which had concealed the ground beyond, I saw,
oh, horror of horrors! what appeared to be the mouth of an old chalk-pit,
stretching dark and unfathomable right across our path, about 300 yards
before us. The mare perceives it when too late, attempts to stop, but from
the impetus with which she is going is unable to do so. Another moment,
and we shall be over the brink! With the energy of despair I lifted her with
the rein with both hands, and drove the spurs madly into her flanks;—she
rose to the leap, there was a bound! a sensation of flying through the air! a
crash! and I found myself stretched in safety on the turf beyond, and Mad
Bess lying, panting, but uninjured beside me.
To spring upon my feet, and seize the bridle of the mare, who had also by
this time recovered her footing, was the work of a moment. I then
proceeded to look around, in order to gain a more clear idea of the situation
in which I was placed, in the hope of discovering the easiest method of

extricating myself from it. Close behind me lay the chalk-pit, and, as I
gazed down its rugged sides, overgrown with brambles and rank weeds, I
shuddered to think of the probable fate from which I had been so almost
miraculously preserved, and turned away with a heartfelt expression of
thanksgiving to Him who had mercifully decreed that the thread of my
young life should not be snapped in so sudden and fearful a manner.
Straight before me the descent became almost suddenly precipitous, but a
little to the right I perceived a sort of sheep-track, winding downwards
round the side of the hill. It was a self-evident fact that this must lead
somewhere, and, as all places were alike to me, so that they contained any
human beings who were able and willing to direct me towards Helmstone, I
determined to follow it. After walking about half a mile, Mad Bess (with
her ears drooping, and her nose nearly touching the ground) following me
as quietly as a dog, I was rejoiced by the sight of curling smoke, and, on
turning a corner, I came suddenly upon a little village green, around which
some half dozen cottages were scattered at irregular distances. I directed my
steps towards one of these, before which a crazy sign, rendered by age and
exposure to the weather as delightfully vague and unintelligible as though it
had come fresh from the brush of Turner himself, hung picturesquely from
the branch of an old oak.
The sound of horse's feet attracted the attention of an elderly man, who
appeared to combine in his single person the offices of ostler, waiter, and
boots, and who, as soon as he became aware of my necessities, proceeded
to fulfil the duties of these various situations with the greatest alacrity. First
(as of the most importance in his eyes) he rubbed down Mad Bess, and
administered some refreshment to her in the shape of hay and water; then he
brought me a glass of ale, declaring it would do me good (in which, by the
way, he was not far from right). He then brushed from my coat certain
stains which I had contracted in my fall, and finally told me my way to
Helmstone. I now remounted Mad Bess, who, though much refreshed by
the hay and water, still continued perfectly quiet and tractable; and, setting
off at a moderate trot, reached the town, after riding about eight miles,
without any further adventure, in rather less than an hour.
As I entered the street in which Snaffles' stables were situated I perceived
Coleman and Lawless standing at the entrance of the yard, evidently
awaiting my arrival.

When I got near them Coleman sprang eagerly forward to meet me,
saying:—
“How jolly glad I am to see you safe again, old fellow! I was so
frightened about you. How did you manage to stop her?”
“Why, Fairlegh, I had no idea you were such a rider,” exclaimed Lawless;
“I made up my mind you would break your neck, and old Sam be minus a
pupil, when I heard you were gone out on that mare. You have taken the
devil out of her somehow, and no mistake; she's as quiet as a lamb,” added
he, patting her.
“You were very near being right,” replied I; “she did her best to break my
neck and her own too, I can assure you”
I then proceeded to relate my adventures, to which both Lawless and
Coleman listened with great attention; the former interrupting me every
now and then with various expressions of commendation, and when I had
ended he shook me warmly by the hand, saying:—
“I give you great credit; you behaved in a very plucky manner all
through; I didn't think you had it in you; 'pon my word, I didn't. I shall just
tell Cumberland and Snaffles a bit of my mind, too. Here, Snaffles, you
confounded old humbug, where are you?”
“Oh, don't say anything to him,” said I; “it's never worth while being
angry with people of that kind; besides, Cumberland made him do it.”
“That does not signify; he knew the danger to which he was exposing
you, perhaps better than Cumberland did. He had no business to do it, and
I'll make him beg your pardon before we leave this yard. Here, you ostler
fellow, where's your master?” shouted Lawless, as he turned into the yard,
where I soon heard the loud tones of his voice engaged in angry colloquy
with Snaffles, whose replies were inaudible.
In a short time the latter approached the spot where I was standing, and
began a very long and humble apology, saying that he should never have
thought of giving me the mare if he had not seen at a glance that I was a
first-rate rider, and much more to the same purpose, when Lawless
interrupted him with:—
“There, cut it short; Mr. Fairlegh does not want any more of your
blarney; and mind, if anything of the sort occurs again, I shall hire my

horses somewhere else, and take care to let all my friends know why I do
so. Now, let's be off; it's getting near dinner-time.”
So saying, he turned to leave the yard, a movement which, as soon as I
had found my friend James, returned his spurs, and given him the promised
half-crown, I proceeded to imitate: and that ended the episode of Mad Bess.

CHAPTER VI — LAWLESS GETS
THOROUGHLY PUT OUT
...” What 'tis
To Have a stranger come—
It seems you know him not
No, sir! not I.”
—Southey.

“Either forbear... or resolve you
For more amazement: if you can behold it,
I'll make the statue move indeed.”
—Winter's Tale.

“Since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his
forwardness.... You shall try but one fall.”
—As You Like It.

ON reaching home the door was opened by Thomas, who accosted us
with:—
“Here's such a bit of fun, gentlemen! The new pupil's arrived, and ain't he
a rum un, jest? Oh, I never!”
"Why, how do you mean? what's he like, then?” asked Lawless.
“Oh, he's very well to look at, only he's as tall as a life-guardsman; but
he's sich a free and easy chap, and ain't he got a pretty good notion of
making himself comfortable, too!—that's all. But come in, gents, you'll
soon see what I mean. He chucked the flyman who brought him here half a
guinea, and when I asked him if he did not want the change, for the fare
was only half a crown, he merely said 'Pooh!' and told me not to talk, for it
tired him.”
With our feelings of curiosity somewhat excited by this account we
hastened into the pupils' room, anxious to behold the individual who had so
greatly astonished Thomas.
Seated in Dr. Mildman's arm-chair, and with his legs resting upon two
other chairs, so arranged as to form a temporary sofa, reclined a young man,
apparently about eighteen, though his length of limb, and the almost
herculean proportions of his chest and shoulders, seemed rather to belong to
a more advanced age. He raised his head as we entered, disclosing a set of

features which, in spite of an expression of languor and indifference, must
have been pronounced unusually handsome. His complexion was a rich nut-
brown; the high forehead, white as snow, contrasting well with the dark hue
of his hair, which, in short clustering curls, harmonised well with the
classical outline of his head, reminding one involuntarily of the young
Antinous. The short curling upper-lip, and well-chiselled nostril, told a tale
of pride and resolution, strongly at variance with the mild sleepy
appearance of the large dark hazel eyes, to which the long silken lashes that
shaded them imparted an almost feminine expression. He did not attempt to
alter his position as we approached, but, merely turning his head, gazed at
us steadfastly for a moment, and then observed in a slow, half-absent
manner:—
“Oh, the other pupils, I suppose—how do you do, all of you?”
Lawless, who was foremost, was so much surprised, and so little pleased
at this nonchalant style of address, that he made no reply, but turning on his
heel proceeded to leave the room, in order to divest himself of his hunting
costume, muttering as he went, “Cool enough that, by Jove, eh!”
The duty of doing the polite having thus devolved upon Coleman, he
winked at me by way of preliminary, and, making a low bow in the true
dancing-master style, replied as follows:—
“Your penetration has not erred, Mr. Oaklands; we are the other pupils;
and in answer to your obliging inquiries, I have much pleasure in informing
you that we are all in perfect health and very tolerable spirits; and now, sir,
in return for your kind condescension, allow me, in the absence of my
superiors, to express a hope that you are feeling pretty comfortable—
ahem!”
Having thus delivered himself, Coleman drew up his figure to its utmost
height, and, folding his arms with an air of pompous dignity, awaited an
answer.
“Oh yes, I'm comfortable enough,” was the reply; “I always am; only I'm
so done up, tired as a dog—the least thing fatigues me; I'm as weak as a rat!
Don't they give you sofas here, Mr. What's-your-name?”
“My name is Norval—I mean Coleman; my father divides his time
between feeding his flocks on the Grampian Hills, and fleecing his clients
in Lincoln's Inn; though I must confess that ever since I can remember, he
has dropped the shepherd, and stuck to the solicitor, finding it pays best, I

suppose. Regarding the sofa, we have not one at present, but Dr. Mildman
went to town this morning; I did not till this moment know why. But now I
see it all—he was doubtless aware you would arrive to-day, and, finding he
could not get a sufficiently comfortable sofa for you in Helmstone, he is
gone to London on purpose to procure one. There is still time to write by
the post, if there is any particular way in which you would like to have the
stuffing arranged.”
This speech made Oaklands raise his head, and look Coleman so fixedly
in the face, with such a clear, earnest, penetrating gaze, that it appeared as if
he would read his very soul. Having apparently satisfied himself, he smiled
slightly, resumed his former attitude, and observed in the same half-sleepy
tone:—
“No, I'll leave all that to him; I am not particular. What time do you dine
here?”
I replied (for the look I have described seemed to have had the wonderful
effect of silencing Coleman), “At five o'clock”.
“Very good; and I believe there's a Mrs. Mildman, or some such person,
is there not? I suppose one must dress. Will you be so kind as to tell the
servant to bring some hot water, and to look out my things for me at a
quarter before five? I hate to be obliged to hurry, it tires one so.”
Having said this, he took up a book which was lying by his side, and,
murmuring something about “talking being so fatiguing,” soon became
buried in its contents.
Whilst I was dressing for dinner Lawless came into my room, and told
me that he had been speaking to Cumberland with regard to the way in
which he had behaved to me about the mare, and that Cumberland
professed himself exceedingly sorry that the affair had so nearly turned out
a serious one, declaring he meant it quite as a joke, never expecting that
when I saw the mare I should venture to mount her.
“So you see,” continued Lawless, “he merely wanted to have a good
laugh at you—nothing more. It was a thoughtless thing to do, but not so bad
as you had fancied it, by any means.”
“Well,” replied I, “as he says so, I am bound to believe him; but his
manner certainly gave me the impression that he intended me to ride her.

He went the right way to make me do so, at all events, by hinting that I was
afraid.”
“Ah! he could not know that by intuition, you see,” said Lawless; “he
thought, I daresay, as I did, that you were a mere molly-coddle, brought up
at your mother's apron-string, and had not pluck enough in you to do
anything sporting.”
“It's not worth saying anything more about,” replied I; “it will never
happen again: I am very much obliged to you, though.”
“Oh, that's nothing,” said Lawless; “if Cumberland had really meant to
break your neck, I should have fallen out with him; that would have been
too much of a good thing: however, as it is it's all right.”
And so the conversation ended, though I felt far from satisfied in my own
mind as to the innocence of Cumberland's intentions.
On reaching the drawing-room I found the whole party assembled with
the exception of Mr. Henry Oaklands, who had not yet made his
appearance. At the moment of my entrance Mrs. Mildman, who had not
seen the new arrival, and who, like the rest of her sex, was somewhat
curious, was examining Coleman (who stood bolt upright before her, with
his hands behind him, looking like a boy saying his lesson) as to his
manners and appearance.
“Very tall, and dark hair and large eyes,” continued Mrs. Mildman; “why,
he must be very handsome.”
“He seems as if he were half-asleep,” observed I.
"Not always,” said Coleman; “did you see the look he gave me? he
seemed wide-awake enough then; I thought he was going to eat me.”
“Dear me I why he must be quite a cannibal! besides, I don't think you
would be at all nice to eat, Mr. Coleman,” said Mrs. Mildman, with a smile.
“Horrid nasty, I'm sure,” muttered Mullins, who was seated on the very
edge of his chair, and looked thoroughly uncomfortable, as was his wont in
anything like civilised society.
At this moment the door opened, and Oaklands entered. If one had
doubted about his height before, when lying on the chairs, the question was
set at rest the instant he was seen standing: he must have measured at least
six feet two inches, though the extreme breadth of his chest and shoulders,
and the graceful setting-on of his finely formed head, together with the

perfect symmetry and proportion of his limbs, prevented his appearing too
tall. He went through the ceremony of introduction with the greatest ease
and self-possession; and though he infused rather more courtesy into his
manner towards Mrs. Mildman than he had taken the trouble to bestow on
us, his behaviour was still characterised by the same indolence and
listlessness I had previously noticed, and which indeed seemed part and
parcel of himself. Having bowed slightly to Cumberland and Lawless he
seated himself very leisurely on the sofa by Mrs. Mildman's side, altering
one of the pillows so as to make himself thoroughly comfortable as he did
so. Having settled it to his satisfaction, he addressed Mrs. Mildman with:—
“What a very fatiguing day this has been; haven't you found it so?”
“No, I can't say I have,” was the reply; “I daresay it was warm travelling:
I'm afraid, in that case, Dr. Mildman will not have a very pleasant journey
—he's gone to town to-day.”
“Ah, so that short, stout young gentleman” (the first two adjectives he
pronounced very slowly and distinctly) “told me.”
“Mr. Coleman,” insinuated Mrs. Mildman.
“Pleasant that,” whispered Coleman to me.
“Take care,” replied I, “he will hear you.”
“I'm afraid,” continued Oaklands, “the old gentleman will be quite
knocked up. I wonder he does not make two days' journey of it.”
“Dr. Mildman is not so very old,” observed Mrs. Mildman, in rather an
annoyed tone of voice.
"I really beg pardon, I scarcely know why I said it,” replied Oaklands,
“only I somehow fancied all tutors were between sixty and seventy—very
absurd of me. My father sent all kind of civil messages to the o—— to Dr.
Mildman, only it is so much trouble to remember that sort of thing.”
At this point the conversation was interrupted by the announcement of
dinner. Oaklands (from whom I could not withdraw my eyes, so unlike
anything I had ever met with before was he) was evidently preparing to
hand Mrs. Mildman down to dinner, as soon as he could summon sufficient
energy to move, but, perceiving Cumberland approach her for that purpose,
he appeared to recollect himself, smiled slightly as if at what he had been
about to do, and, taking me by the arm, said:—

“Come, Master Curlylocks, you shall be my lady, and a very pretty girl
you would make, too, if you were properly bemuslined”; adding, as we
went downstairs together, “You and I shall be great friends, I'm sure; I like
your face particularly. What a lot of stairs there are in this house! they'll tire
me to death.”
When we returned to the pupils' room after dinner Lawless found, lying
on the table, the note Dr. Mildman had written in such a mysterious manner
before he left home in the morning, and proceeded to open it forthwith.
Scarcely had he glanced his eye over it, when he was seized with so violent
a fit of laughter, that I expected every moment to see him fall out of his
chair. As soon as he had in some measure recovered the power of speaking
he exclaimed:—
“Here, listen to this! and tell me if it is not the very best thing you ever
heard in your lives “. He then read as follows:—
“'It is not without much pain that I bring myself to write this note; but I
feel that I should not be doing my duty towards your excellent father, if I
were to allow such extreme misconduct on the part of his son to pass
unreproved. I know not towards what scene of vulgar dissipation you might
be directing your steps, but the simple fact (to which I was myself witness)
of your leaving my house in the low disguise of a carter's smock-frock,
affords in itself sufficient proof that your associates must belong to a class
of persons utterly unfitted for the companionship of a gentleman. Let me
hope this hint may be enough, and that conduct so thoroughly disgraceful in
one brought up as you have been may not occur again. I presume I need
scarcely say that, in the event of your disregarding my wishes upon this
point, the only course left open to me would be to expel you, a measure to
which it would deeply grieve me to be obliged to resort.'”
His voice was here drowned by a chorus of laughter from all present who
were aware of the true state of the case, which lasted without interruption
for several minutes. At length Lawless observed:—
“I'll tell you what, it will be a death-blow to Smithson; a Macintosh made
by him to be taken for a smock-frock! he'll never recover it.”
“Mildman might well look like a thunder-cloud,” said Coleman, “if that
was the notion he had got in his head; what a jolly lark, to be sure!”
“How do you mean to undeceive him?” inquired Cumberland.

“Oh, trust me for finding a way to do that,” replied Lawless; “'the low
disguise of a carter's smock-frock,' indeed! What fun it would be if he were
to meet my governor in town to-day, and tell him of my evil courses! why,
the old boy would go into fits! I wonder what he means by his 'scenes of
vulgar dissipation'? I daresay he fancies me playing all-fours with a beery
coalheaver, and kissing his sooty-faced wife; or drinking alternate goes of
gin-and-water with a dustman for the purpose of insinuating myself into the
affections of Miss Cinderella Smut, his interesting sister. By Jove! it's as
good as a play!”
More laughter followed Lawless's illustration of Dr. Mildman's note. The
subject was discussed for some time, and a plan arranged for enlightening
the Doctor as to the true character of the mysterious garment.
At length there was a pause, when I heard Coleman whisper to Lawless:
—
“Thomas was pretty right in saying that new fellow knows how to make
himself comfortable, at all events”.
“He's a precious deal too free and easy to please me,” muttered Lawless,
in an undertone; “I shall take the liberty of seeing whether his self-
possession cannot be disturbed a little. I have no notion of such airs. Here,
Mullins!”
And laying hold of Mullins by the arm, he pulled him into a chair by his
side, and proceeded to give him some instructions in a whisper. The subject
of their remarks, Harry Oaklands, who had, on re-entering the room, taken
possession of the three chairs near the window, was still reclining, book in
hand, in the same indolent position, apparently enjoying the beauty of the
autumnal sunset, without concerning himself in the slightest degree about
anything which might be going on inside the room.
Lawless, whose proceedings I was watching with an anxious eye, having
evidently succeeded, by a judicious mixture of bullying and cajollery, in
persuading Mullins to assist him in whatever he was about to attempt, now
drew a chair to the other side of the window, and seated himself exactly
opposite to Oaklands.
“How tired riding makes a fellow! I declare I'm regularly baked, used
completely up,” he observed, and then continued, glancing at Oaklands,
“Not such a bad idea, that. Mullins, give us a chair; I don't see why

elevating the extremities should not pay in my case, as well as in other
people's.”
He then placed his legs across the chair which Mullins brought him, and,
folding his arms so as exactly to imitate the attitude of his opposite
neighbour, sat for some minutes gazing out of the window with a
countenance of mock solemnity. Finding this did not produce any effect on
Oaklands, who, having slightly raised his eyes when Lawless first seated
himself, immediately cast them upon the book again, Lawless stretched
himself, yawned, and once more addressed Mullins.
“Shocking bad sunset as ever I saw—it's no go staring at that. I must
have a book—give me the Byron.”
To this Mullins replied that he believed Mr. Oaklands was reading it.
“Indeed! the book belongs to you, does it not?”
Mullins replied in the affirmative.
“Have you any objection to lend it to me?”
Mullins would be most happy to do so.
“Then ask the gentleman to give it to you—you have a right to do what
you please with your own property, I imagine?”
It was very evident that this suggestion was not exactly agreeable to
Mullins; and although his habitual fear of Lawless was so strong as
completely to overpower any dread of what might be the possible
consequences of his act, it was not without much hesitation that he
approached Oaklands, and asked him for the book, as he wished to lend it to
Lawless.
On hearing this Oaklands leisurely turned to the fly-leaf, and, having
apparently satisfied himself, by the perusal of the name written thereon, that
it really belonged to Mullins, handed it to him without a word. I fancied,
however, from the stern expression of his mouth and a slight contraction of
the brow, that he was not as insensible to their impertinence as he wished to
appear.
Lawless, who had been sitting during this little scene with his eyes
closed, as if asleep, now roused himself, and saying, “Oh, you have got it at
last, have you?” began turning over the pages, reading aloud a line or two
here and there, while he kept up a running commentary on the text as he did
so:—

“Hum! ha! now let's see, here we are—the 'g-i-a-o-u-r,'—that's a nice
word to talk about. What does g-i-a-o-u-r spell, Mullins? You don't know?
what an ass you are, to be sure!—

'Fair clime, whose every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles'—

blessed isles, indeed; what stuff!—

''Tis Greece, but living Greece no more;'

that would do for a motto for the barbers to stick on their pots of bear's
grease!—

'Clime of the unforgotten brave;'

unforgotten! yes, I should think so; how the deuce should they be
forgotten, when one is bored with them morning, noon, and night, for
everlasting, by old Sam, and all the other pastors and masters in the
kingdom? Hang me, if I can read this trash; the only poetry that ever was
written worth reading is 'Don Juan'.”
He then flung the book down, adding:—
“It's confoundedly cold, I think. Mullins, shut that window.”
This order involved more difficulties in its execution than might at first
be imagined. Oaklands, after giving up the book, had slightly altered his
position by drawing nearer the window and leaning his elbow on the sill, so
that it was impossible to shut it without obliging him to move. Mullins saw
this, and seemed for a moment inclined not to obey, but a look and a
threatening gesture from Lawless again decided him; and with slow
unwilling steps he approached the window, and laid his hand on it, for the
purpose of shutting it. As he did so, Oaklands raised his head, and regarded
him for a moment with a glance like lightning, his large eyes glaring in the
twilight like those of some wild animal, while the red flush of anger rose to
his brow, and we all expected to see him strike Mullins to the ground.
Conquering himself, however, by a powerful effort of self-control, he
folded his arms, and, turning from the window, suffered Mullins to close it
without interruption. Still I could perceive, from the distended nostril and
quivering lip, that his forbearance was almost exhausted.

“Ah, that's an improvement,” said Lawless; “I was getting uncommonly
chilly. By the way, what an interesting virtue patience is; it is a curious fact
in Natural History that some of the lower animals share it with us; for
instance, there's nothing so patient as a jack-ass——”
“Except a pig,” put in Mullins; “they're uncommon—”
“Obstinate,” suggested Coleman.
“Oh, ah! it's obstinate I mean,” replied Mullins. “Well, you know
donkeys are obstinate, like a pig; that's what I meant.”
“Don't be a fool,” said Lawless. “Deuce take these chairs, I cannot make
myself comfortable anyhow—the fact is, I must have three, that's the proper
number—give me another, Mullins.”
“I can't find one,” was the answer; “they are all in use.”
“Can't find one! nonsense,” said Lawless; “here, take one of these; the
gentleman is asleep, and won't object, I daresay.”
When Mullins was shutting the window his head had been so turned as to
prevent his observing the symptoms of anger in Oaklands, which had
convinced me that he would not bear trifling with much longer. Presuming,
therefore, from the success of his former attacks, that the new pupil was a
person who might be insulted with impunity, and actuated by that general
desire of retaliation, which is the certain effect bullying produces upon a
mean disposition, Mullins proceeded, con amore, to fulfil Lawless's
injunction. With a sudden snatch he withdrew the centre chair, on which
Oaklands' legs mainly rested, so violently as nearly to throw them to the
ground, a catastrophe which was finally consummated by Lawless giving
the other chair a push with his foot, so that it was only by great exertion and
quickness that Oaklands was able to save himself from falling.
This was the climax; forbearance merely human could endure no longer:
Lawless had obtained his object of disturbing Harry Oaklands' self-
possession, and was now to learn the consequences of his success. With a
bound like that of an infuriated tiger, Oaklands leaped upon his feet, and,
dashing Mullins into a corner with such force that he remained lying
exactly where he fell, he sprang upon Lawless, seized him by the collar of
his coat, and after a short but severe struggle dragged him to the window,
which was about eight feet from the ground, threw it open, and taking him
in his arms with as much ease as if he had been a child flung him out. He

then returned to the corner in which, paralysed with fear, Mullins was still
crouching, drew him to the spot from whence he had removed the chair,
placed him there upon his hands and knees, and saying, in a stern voice, “If
you dare to move till I tell you, I'll throw you out of the window too,”
quietly resumed his former position, with his legs resting upon Mullins'
back instead of a chair.

As soon as Coleman and I had in some degree recovered from our
surprise and consternation (for the anger of Oaklands once roused was a
fearful thing to behold), we ran to the other window, just in time to see
Lawless, who had alighted among some stunted shrubs, turn round and
shake his fist at Oaklands (who merely smiled), ere he regained his feet, and
rang the bell in order to gain admittance. A minute afterwards we heard him
stride upstairs, enter his bedroom, and close the door with a most sonorous
bang. Affairs remained in this position nearly a quarter of an hour, no one
feeling inclined to be the first to speak. At length the silence was broken by
Oaklands, who, addressing himself to Cumberland, said:—
“I am afraid this absurd piece of business has completely marred the
harmony of the evening. Get up, Mr. Mullins,” he continued, removing his

legs, and assisting him to rise; “I hope I did not hurt you just now.”
In reply to this Mullins grumbled out something intended as a negative,
and, shambling across the room, placed himself in a corner, as far as
possible from Oaklands, where he sat rubbing his knees, the very image of
sulkiness and terror. Cumberland, who appeared during the whole course of
the affair absorbed in a book, though, in fact, not a single word or look had
escaped him, now came forward and apologised, in a quiet, gentlemanly
manner (which, when he was inclined, no one could assume with greater
success), for Lawless's impertinence, which had only, he said, met with its
proper reward.
“You must excuse me, Mr. Cumberland, if I cannot agree with you,”
replied Oaklands; “since I have had time to cool a little, I see the matter in
quite a different light. Mr. Lawless was perfectly right; the carelessness of
my manner must naturally have seemed as if I were purposely giving
myself airs, but I can assure you such was not the case.”
He paused for a moment, and then continued, with a half-embarrassed
smile:—
"The fact is, I am afraid that I have been spoiled at home; my mother
died when I was a little child, and my dear father, having nobody else to
care about, thought, I believe, that there was no one in the world equal to
me, and that nothing was too good for me. Of course, all our servants and
people have taken their tone from him, so that I have never had any one to
say to me, 'Nay,' and am therefore not at all used to the sort of thing. I hope
I do not often lose my temper as I have done this evening; but really Mr.
Lawless appears quite an adept in the art of ingeniously tormenting.”
“I am afraid you must have found so much exertion very fatiguing,”
observed Coleman, politely.
“A fair hit, Mr. Coleman,” replied Oaklands, laughing. “No! those are not
the things that tire me, somehow; but in general I am very easily knocked
up—I am indeed—most things are so much trouble, and I hate trouble; I
suppose it is that I am not strong.”
“Wretchedly weak, I should say,” rejoined Coleman; “it struck me that
you were so just now, when you chucked Lawless out of the window like a
cat.”
“Be quiet, Freddy,” said Cumberland, reprovingly.

“Nay, don't stop him,” said Oaklands; “I delight in a joke beyond
measure, when I have not the trouble of making it myself. But about this
Mr. Lawless, I am exceedingly sorry that I handled him so roughly; would
you mind going to tell him so, Mr. Cumberland, and explaining that I did
not mean anything offensive by my manner?”
“Exactly, I'll make him understand the whole affair, and bring him down
with me in five minutes,” said Cumberland, leaving the room as he spoke.
“What makes Cumberland so good-natured and amiable to-night?”
whispered I to Coleman.
“Can't you tell?” was the reply. “Don't you see that Oaklands is a regular
top-sawyer, a fish worth catching; and that by doing this, Cumberland
places him under an obligation at first starting? Not a bad move to begin
with, eh? Besides, if a regular quarrel between Lawless and Oaklands were
to ensue, Cumberland would have to take one side or the other; and it would
not exactly suit him to break with Lawless, he knows too much about him;
besides,” added he, sinking his voice, “he owes him money, more than I
should like to owe anybody a precious deal, I can tell you. Now, do you
twig?”
“Yes,” said I, “I comprehend the matter more clearly, if that is what you
mean by twigging; but how shocking it all is! why, Cumberland is quite a
swindler—gambling, borrowing money he can't pay, and——”
“Hush!” interrupted Coleman, “here they come.”
Coleman was not mistaken: Cumberland had been successful in his
embassy, and now entered the room, accompanied by Lawless, who looked
rather crestfallen, somewhat angry, and particularly embarrassed and
uncomfortable, which, as Coleman whispered to me, was not to be
wondered at, considering how thoroughly he had been put out just before.
Oaklands, however, appeared to see nothing of all this; but, rising from his
seat as they entered, he approached Lawless, saying:—
“This has been a foolish piece of business, Mr. Lawless; I freely own that
I am thoroughly ashamed of the part I have taken in it, and I can only
apologise for the intemperate manner in which I behaved.”
The frank courtesy with which he said this was so irresistible, that
Lawless was completely overcome, and, probably for the first time in his

life, felt himself thoroughly in the wrong. Seizing Oaklands' hand,
therefore, and shaking it heartily, he replied:—
“I'll tell you what it is, Oaklands—we don't Mr. each other here—you are
a right good fellow—a regular brick, and no mistake; and as to your
shoving me out of the window, you served me quite right for my
abominable impertinence. I only wonder you did not do it ten minutes
sooner, that's all; but you really ought to be careful what you do with those
arms of yours; I was like a child in your grasp; you are as strong as a steam
engine.”
“I can assure you I am not,” replied Oaklands; “they never let me do
anything at home, for fear I should knock myself up.”
“You are more likely to knock other people down, I should say,” rejoined
Lawless; “and, by the way, that reminds me—Mullins! come here, stupid,
and beg Mr. Oaklands' pardon, and thank him for knocking you down.”
A sulky, half-muttered “shan't,” was the only reply.
“Nay, I don't want anything of that kind; I don't indeed, Lawless; pray
leave him alone,” cried Oaklands eagerly.
But Lawless was not so easily quieted, and Oaklands, unwilling to risk
the harmony so newly established between them, did not choose to interfere
further; so Mullins was dragged across the room by the ears, and was forced
by Lawless, who stood over him with the poker (which, he informed him,
he was destined to eat red-hot if he became restive), to make Oaklands a
long and formal apology, with a short form of thanksgiving appended, for
the kindness and condescension he had evinced in knocking him down so
nicely, of which oration he delivered himself with a very bad grace indeed.
“And all went merry as a marriage-bell,” until we were summoned to the
drawing-room, where we were regaled with weak tea, thin bread and butter,
and small conversation till ten o'clock, when Mrs. Mildman proceeded to
read prayers, which, being a duty she was little accustomed to, and which
consequently rendered her extremely nervous, she did not accomplish
without having twice called King William, George, and suppressed our
gracious Queen Adelaide altogether.

CHAPTER VII — THE BOARD OF GREEN
CLOTH
“What have we here—a man or a fish?”
—The Tempest.

'"The devil he baited a trap,
With billiard balls and a cue;

And he chose as marker,

An imp much darker
Than all the rest in hue.
And he put on his Sunday clothes,
And he played with saint and with sinner,

For he'd found out a way

To make the thing pay,
And when losing, He still was the winner!”
—Old Legend.

THE moment Dr. Mildman arrived at home the next day Lawless
watched him into his study, and, as soon as he was safely lodged therein,
proceeded, by the aid of sundry nails and loops previously placed there for
the purpose, to hang his Macintosh right across the passage, so that no one
could leave the study without running against it. He then ambushed himself
near the open door of the pupils' room, where, unseen himself, he could
observe the effect of his arrangements. Coleman and I, also taking a lively
interest in the event, ensconced ourselves in a favourable position for seeing
and hearing. After waiting till our small stock of patience was nearly
exhausted, we were rewarded by hearing the study-door slowly open,
followed by the tread of a well-known footstep in the passage. The next
sound that reached our ears was a quick shuffling of feet upon the oil-cloth,
as if the person advancing had “shyed” at some unexpected object; then
came the muttered exclamation, “Bless my heart, what's this?” And
immediately afterwards Dr. Mildman's face, wearing an expression of the
most thorough perplexity and bewilderment, appeared cautiously peeping
from behind the Macintosh. Having apparently satisfied himself that no
enemy was concealed there, and he had nothing further to fear, but that the
whole plot was centred as it were in the mysterious garment before him, he

set himself seriously to work to examine it. First he pulled out his eye-glass
and, stepping back a pace or two, took a general survey of the whole; he
then approached it again, and taking hold of it in different places with his
hand, examined it in detail so closely that it seemed as if he were trying to
count the number of threads. Being apparently unwilling in so difficult an
investigation to trust to the evidence of any one sense, he replaced his eye-
glass in his waistcoat pocket, and began rubbing a portion of the skirt
between his hands; the sense of touch failing, however, to throw any new
light upon the subject, as a sort of forlorn hope, he applied his nose to it.
The result of this was an indescribable exclamation, expressive of intense
disgust, followed immediately by a violent sneeze; then came a long pause,
as though he were considering of what possible use such a garment could
be. At length a ray of light seemed to break in upon the darkness, and once
more laying hands on the Macintosh he proceeded, after unhooking it from
the nails on which it hung, slowly and deliberately to put it on, with the
back part foremost, somewhat after the fashion of a child's pinafore. Having
at length accomplished this difficult operation, he walked, or rather shuffled
(for his petticoats interfered greatly with the free use of his limbs), up and
down the hall, with a grave, not to say solemn, expression of countenance.
Appearing perfectly satisfied after one or two turns that he had at last
solved the enigma, he divested himself of the perplexing garment, hung it
on a peg appropriated to great-coats, and approached the door of the pupils'
room.
By the time he entered Lawless was seated at his desk studying
Herodotus, while Coleman and I were deeply immersed in our respective
Euclids.
After shaking hands with Oaklands, and addressing some good-natured
remarks to each of us in turn, he went up to Lawless, and, laying his hand
kindly on his shoulder, said, with a half-smile:—
"I am afraid I have made rather an absurd mistake about that strange
garment of yours, Lawless; I suppose it is some new kind of greatcoat, is it
not?”
“Yes, sir, it is a sort of waterproof cloth, made with Indian rubber.”
“Indian rubber, is it? Well, I fancied so; it has not the nicest smell in the
world. I certainly thought it was a smock-frock, though, when I saw you go

out in it. Is not it rather awkward to walk in? I found it so when I tried it on
just now, and buttoning behind does not seem to me at all a good plan.”
“No, sir, but it is meant to button in front; perhaps you put it on the back
part foremost.”
“Hem!” said Dr. Mildman, trying to look as if he thought such a thing
impossible, and failing—“it is a very singular article of dress altogether, but
I am glad it was not a smock-frock you went out in. I hope,” continued he,
turning to Oaklands, with an evident wish to change the conversation, “I
hope they took good care of you when you arrived last night?”
This was turning the tables with a vengeance! Lawless became suddenly
immersed in Herodotus again.
“Oh! the greatest,” was the reply; “I had so much attention paid me that I
was almost upset by it. I was not quite overcome, though,” he continued,
with a sly glance towards Lawless, “and Mrs. Mildman gave us some very
nice tea, which soon restored me.”
“Well, I'm glad they managed to make you comfortable among them,”
observed Dr. Mildman, turning over his papers and books, preparatory to
beginning the morning's study.
“Hadn't you better ask him when he expects the sofa will be down?”
suggested Coleman to Oaklands, in a whisper.
“No, you jackanapes,” was the reply, “and don't you make me laugh
when that old gentleman is in the room, for there's nothing more fatiguing
than the attempt to smother a laugh.”
Coleman's only answer to this, if answer it could be called, was a
grimace, which had the desired effect of throwing Oaklands into a fit of
laughter, which he found it very hard labour indeed to stifle; nor had his
countenance quite recovered from the effects of his exertions, when he was
summoned to the Doctor's table to undergo an examination similar to that
which had appeared so formidable to me a few days before; and thus
terminated the notable adventure of the carter's frock, though I observed
that after a week or two had elapsed the Macintosh was handed over to
Thomas, and Smithson was called upon to tax his inventive powers to
furnish Lawless with a less questionably shaped garment of the same
material.

A few days after this, as I was walking with Coleman, he suddenly
exclaimed:—
“Well, of all the antediluvian affairs I ever beheld, the old fellow now
coming towards us is the queerest; he looks like a fossil edition of
Methuselah, dug up and modernised some hundred years ago at the very
least. Holloa! he's going mad I believe; I hope he does not bite.”
The subject of these somewhat uncomplimentary remarks was a little old
gentleman in a broad-brimmed white hat, turned up with green, and a black
cloth spencer (an article much like a boy's jacket exaggerated), from
beneath which protruded the very broad tails of a blue coat, with rather
more than their proper complement of bright brass buttons, while drab
gaiters and shorts completed the costume.
The moment, however, I beheld the countenance of the individual in
question, I recognised the never-to-be-mistaken mole at the tip of the nose
of my late coach companion to London. The recognition seemed mutual, for
no sooner did he perceive me than he stopped short, and pointed straight at
me with a stout silver-mounted bamboo which he held in his hand, uttering
a sonorous “Umph!” as he did so; to which somewhat unusual mode of
salutation may be attributed Coleman's doubts as to his sanity.
“Who'd ever have thought of meeting you at Helmstone, I should like to
know?” exclaimed he in a tone of astonishment.
“I was going to say the same thing to you, sir,” replied I; “I came down
here the very day on which we travelled together.”
“Umph! I came the next; well, and what are you doing now you are here?
Schoolmaster lives here, I suppose—tutor, you call him, though, don't
you?”
I informed him of my tutor's name and residence, when he continued:—
“Umph! I know him; very good man, too good to be plagued by a set of
tiresome boys—men, though, you call yourselves, don't you? Umph! Is he a
man too?” he inquired, pointing to Coleman.
“I've been a man these seventeen years, sir,” replied Coleman.
"Umph, a man seventeen years ago! a baby, more likely: what does he
mean? what does he mean?”
I explained that he probably intended a pun upon his name, which was
Coleman.

“A pun, Umph? he makes puns, does he? funny boy, funny boy, I daresay.
How does the Doctor like that, though? Make puns to him, he'd punish you,
Umph? Stupid things puns—made one myself then, though—just like me.
Well, give the Doctor my compliments—Mr. Frampton's—I live at No. 10
Castle Street,—he knows me, and ask him to let you come and dine with
me next week; bring funny boy too, if he likes to come;” and away he
posted, muttering “Umph! plaguing myself about a pack of boys, when I
might be quiet—just like me!”
We did not fail to deliver Mr. Frampton's message to Dr. Mildman on our
return home, who willingly gave us the required permission, saying that he
knew but little of the old gentleman personally, though he had resided for
several years at Helmstone, but that he was universally respected, in spite of
his eccentricities, and was reported to have spent great part of his life
abroad. The next time I met my new friend he repeated his invitation to
Coleman and myself, and, on the day appointed, gave us an excellent
dinner, with quite as much wine as we knew what to do with; amused and
interested us with sundry well-told anecdotes of adventures he had met with
during his residence in foreign lands, and dismissed us at nine o'clock with
a tip of a guinea each, and an injunction to come and see him again
whenever we pleased.
For many succeeding weeks nothing of any particular moment occurred
to interrupt the even tenor of the new course of life I had entered upon. The
liking which Oaklands seemed to have taken to me at first sight soon
ripened into a warm friendship, which continued daily to increase on my
part, as the many noble and lovable qualities of his disposition appeared,
one by one, from behind the veil of indolence which, till one knew him
well, effectually concealed them. Coleman, though too volatile to make a
real friend of, was a very agreeable companion, and, if it were ever possible
to get him to be serious for a minute, showed that beneath the frivolity of
his manner lay a basis of clear good sense and right feeling, which only
required calling forth to render him a much higher character than he
appeared at present. For the rest, I was alternately bullied and patronised by
Lawless (though he never ventured on the former line of conduct when
Oaklands was present), while Cumberland, outwardly professing great
regard for me, never let slip an opportunity of showing me an ill-natured
turn, when he could contrive to do so without committing himself openly.

A more intimate acquaintance with Mullins only served to place beyond a
doubt the fact of his being a most unmitigated, and not over-amiable, fool.
The word is a strong one, but I fear that, if I were to use a milder term, it
would be at the expense of truth.
For my tutor I soon began to conceive the warmest feeling of regard and
esteem; in fact, it was impossible to know him well, and not to love him.
Simple as a child in everything relating to worldly matters, he united the
deepest learning to the most elevated piety, while the thoroughly practical
character of his religion, carried, as it was, into all the minor details of
everyday life, imparted a gentleness and benignity to his manner which
seemed to elevate him above the level of ordinary mortals. If he had a fault
(I suppose, merely for the sake of proving him human, I must allow him
one), it was a want of moral courage, which made it so disagreeable to him
to find fault with any of us, that he would now and then allow evils to exist,
which a little more firmness and decision might have prevented; but, had it
not been for this, he would have been quite perfect, and perfection is a thing
not to be met with in this life.
Cumberland, after the eventful evening on which he acted as peacemaker
between Lawless and Oaklands, had persevered steadily in his endeavour to
ingratiate himself with the latter; and, by taking advantage of his weak
point, his indolence and dislike of trouble, had, at length, succeeded in
making Oaklands believe him essential to his comfort. Thus, though there
was not the smallest sympathy between them, a sort of alliance was
established, which gave Cumberland exactly the opportunities he required
for putting into execution certain schemes which he had formed. Of what
these schemes consisted, and how far they succeeded, will appear in the
course of this veracious history.
The winter months, after favouring us with rather more than our due
allowance of frost and snow, had at length passed away, and March, having
come in like a lion, appeared determined, after the fashion of Bottom the
weaver, “to roar that it would do any man's heart good to hear him,” and to
kick up a thorough dust ere he would condescend to go out like a lamb,
albeit, in the latter state, he might have made a shilling per pound of himself
at any market, had he felt suicidally inclined.
"This will never do,” said Oaklands to me, as, for the third time, we were
obliged to turn round and cover our eyes, to avoid being blinded by the

cloud of dust which a strong east wind was driving directly in our faces;
“there is nothing in the world tires one like walking against a high wind. A
quarter to three,” added he, taking out his watch. “I have an appointment at
three o'clock. Will you walk with me? I must turn up here.”
I assented; and, turning a corner, we proceeded up a narrow street, where
the houses, in a great measure, protected us from the wind. After walking
some little distance in silence Oaklands again addressed me:—
“Frank, did you ever play at billiards?”
I replied in the negative.
“It's a game I've rather a liking for,” continued he; “we have a table at
Heathfield, and my father and I often played when the weather was too bad
to get out. I used to beat the old gentleman easily though at last, till I found
out one day he did not half like it, so then I was obliged to make shocking
mistakes, every now and then, to give him a chance of winning; anybody
else would have found me out in a minute, for I am the worst hand in the
world at playing the hypocrite, but my father is the most unsuspicious
creature breathing. Oh! he is such a dear old man. You must come and stay
with us, Frank, and learn to know him and love him—he'd delight in you—
you are just the sort of fellow he likes.”
“There's nothing I should like better,” answered I, “if I can get leave from
head-quarters; but why did you want to know if I played at billiards?”
“Oh, I have been playing a good deal lately with Cumberland, who seems
very fond of the game, and I'm going to meet him at the rooms in F——
Street to-day; so I thought, if you knew anything of the game, you might
like to come with me.”
“Cumberland is a first-rate player, isn't he?” asked I.
“No, I do not think so: we play very evenly, I should say; but we are to
have a regular match to-day, to decide which is the best player.”
“Do you play for money?”
“Just a trifle to give an interest to the game, nothing more,” replied
Oaklands; “our match to-day is for a five-pound note.”
I must confess that I could not help feeling extremely uneasy at the
information Oaklands had just given me. The recollection of what Coleman
had said concerning some gaming affair in which Cumberland was
supposed to have behaved dishonourably, combined with a sort of general

notion, which seemed to prevail, that he was not exactly a safe person to
have much to do with, might in some degree account for this; still I always
felt a kind of instinctive dislike and mistrust of Cumberland, which led me
to avoid him as much as possible on my own account. In the present
instance, when the danger seemed to threaten my friend, this feeling
assumed a vague character of fear; “and yet,” reasoned I with myself, “what
is there to dread? Oaklands has plenty of money at his command; besides,
he says they play pretty evenly, so that he must win nearly as often as
Cumberland; then, he is older than I am, and of course must be better able
to judge what is right or wrong for him to do.” However, remembering the
old adage, that “lookers-on see most of the game,” I determined, for once,
to accompany him; I therefore told him that, though I could not play myself,
it would be an amusement to me to watch them, and that, if he had no
objection, I would go with him, to which proposition he willingly agreed.
As we turned into F——Street we were joined by Cumberland, who, as I
fancied, did not seem best pleased at seeing me, nor did the scowl which
passed across his brow, on hearing I was to accompany them, tend to lessen
this impression. He did not, however, attempt to make any opposition to the
plan, merely remarking that, as I did not play myself, he thought I should
find it rather dull. After proceeding about half way down the street
Cumberland stopped in front of a small cigar-shop, and, turning towards a
private door, on which was a brass plate with the word “Billiards” engraved
on it, knocked, and was admitted. Leading the way up a dark, narrow
staircase, he opened a green baize door at the top, and ushered us into a
tolerably large room, lighted by a sky-light, immediately under which stood
the billiard-table. On one side was placed a rack, containing a formidable
arrangement of cues, maces, etc., while at the farther end two small dials,
with a brass hand in the centre for the purpose of marking the scores of the
different players, were fixed against the wall. As we entered, two persons
who were apparently performing certain intricate manoeuvres with the balls
by way of practice immediately left off playing and came towards us. One
of these, a little man, with small keen grey eyes, and a quick restless
manner, which involuntarily reminded one of a hungry rat, rejoiced in the
name of “Slipsey,” and proved to be the billiard-marker; his companion was
a tall stout personage, with a very red face, rather handsome features, large
white teeth, and a profusion of bushy whiskers, moustaches, and imperial of
a dark-brown colour. His dress consisted of a blue military frock coat,

which he wore open, to display a crimson plush waistcoat and thick gold
watch-chain, while his costume was completed by a pair of black and white
plaid trousers, made in the extreme of the fashion, with a broad stripe down
the outside of the leg. This personage swaggered up to Cumberland, and,
with a manner composed of impertinent familiarity and awkwardness,
addressed him as follows:—
“How d'ye do, Mr. Cumberland? hope I see you well, sir. Terrible bad
day, gentlemen, don't you think? dusty enough to pepper the devil, as we
used to say in Spain, hey? Going to have a touch at the rolley-polleys, I
suppose.”
“We shall be disturbing you, Captain Spicer,” said Cumberland, who, I
thought, had tact enough to perceive that his friend's free and easy manner
was the reverse of acceptable to Oaklands.
“Not at all, not at all,” was the reply; “it was so terrible unpleasant out of
doors that, as I happened to be going by, I thought I'd look in to see if there
was anything up; and as the table was lying idle I got knocking the balls
about with little Slipsey here, just to keep one's hand in, you know.”
“Well, then, we had better begin at once,” said Cumberland, to which
Oaklands assented rather coldly.
As he was pulling off his greatcoat he whispered to me, “If that man
stays here long, I shall never be able to stand it: his familiarity is
unbearable; there is nothing tires me so much as being obliged to be civil to
that kind of people”.
“How is it to be?” said Cumberland, “whoever wins four games out of
seven is the conqueror, wasn't that it?”
“Yes, I believe so,” was Oaklands' reply.
“A very sporting match, 'pon my life,” observed the Captain; “are the
stakes high?”
“Oh no! a mere nothing: five, or ten pounds, did we say?” inquired
Cumberland.
“Just as you like,” replied Oaklands, carelessly.
“Ten pounds, by all means, I should say; five pounds is so shocking
small, don't you think? not worth playing for?” said the Captain.

“Ten let it be then,” said Cumberland; and after a few preliminaries they
began playing.
I did not understand the game sufficiently to be able to give a detailed
account of the various chances of the match, nor would it probably greatly
interest the reader were I to do so. Suffice it, then, to state, that, as far as I
could judge, Oaklands, disgusted by the vulgar impertinence of the Captain
(if Captain he was), thought the whole thing a bore, and played carelessly.
The consequence was, that Cumberland won the first two games. This put
Oaklands upon his mettle, and he won the third and fourth; the fifth was
hardly contested, Oaklands evidently playing as well as he was able,
Cumberland also taking pains; but it struck me as singular that, in each
game, his play seemed to depend upon that of his adversary. When
Oaklands first began Cumberland certainly beat him, but not by many; and,
as he became interested, and his play improved, so in the same ratio did
Cumberland's keep pace with it. Of course, there might be nothing in this;
the same causes that affected the one might influence the other; but the idea
having once occurred to me, I determined to watch the proceedings still
more closely, in order, if possible, to make up my mind on the point. After a
very close contest Oaklands also won the fifth game; in the sixth he missed
a difficult stroke, after which he played carelessly, apparently intending to
reserve his strength for the final struggle, so that Cumberland won it easily.
Each had now won three games, and on the event of the seventh depended
the match. Again did Oaklands, who was evidently deeply interested, use
his utmost skill, and his play, which certainly was very good, called forth
frequent eulogiums from the Captain, who offered to bet unheard-of sums
on the certainty of his winning (which, as there was no one in the room at
all likely to accept his offer, was a very safe and innocent amusement), and
again, pari passu, did Cumberland's skill keep pace with his. After playing
neck and neck, till nearly the end of the game, Cumberland gained a slight
advantage, which produced the following state of affairs:—It was Oaklands'
turn to play, and the balls were placed in such a position, that by a brilliant
stroke he might win the game, but it required great skill to do so. If he
failed, the chances were so much in Cumberland's favour as to render his
success almost a certainty. It was an anxious moment: for my own part, I
felt as if I scarcely dared breathe, and could distinctly hear the throbbing of
my own heart, while the Captain, after having most liberally offered to bet
five hundred pounds to five pence that he did it, remained silent and

motionless as a statue, watching the proceedings, with his eye-glass
screwed after some mysterious fashion into the corner of his eye. And now,
carefully and deliberately, Oaklands pointed his cue—his elbow was drawn
back for the stroke—for the last time his eye appeared to measure and
calculate the precise spot he must strike to produce the desired effect—
when suddenly, and at the exact moment in which the cue struck the ball, a
sonorous sneeze from the rat-like billiard-marker resounded through the
room; as a necessary consequence, Oaklands gave a slight start and missed
his stroke. The confusion that ensued can “better be imagined than
described,” as the newspapers always say about the return from Epsom.
With an exclamation of anger and disappointment Oaklands turned away
from the table, while the Captain began storming at Slipsey, whom he
declared himself ready to kick till all was blue, for the trifling remuneration
of half a farthing. The marker himself apologised, with great contrition, for
his delinquency, which he declared was quite involuntary, at the same time
asserting that, to the best of his belief, the gentleman had made his stroke
before he sneezed: this Oaklands denied, and appealed to Cumberland for
his opinion. After trying in various ways to avoid giving a direct answer,
and appealing in his turn to Captain Spicer (who was so intensely positive
that the sneeze had preceded the stroke, that he was willing to back his
opinion to any amount), Cumberland very unwillingly owned that, if he was
forced to say what he thought, he believed Oaklands had made his stroke
before the sneeze caused him to start, but that it was a near thing, and he
might very possibly be mistaken. This was quite enough for Oaklands, who
declared that he was perfectly satisfied, and begged Cumberland to play,
which, with some apparent reluctance, he did, and, as was almost a matter
of certainty, proved the conqueror.
“'Pon my life, in all my experience, I never knew a gentleman lose a
match in such a tremendously unfortunate way,” observed the Captain. “I
am certain that if you had not been flurried, Mr. Oaklands, sir, you could
have done the trick as clean as a whistle. Allow me to place the balls as they
were then—I know how they stood to a nicety—there, that's it to a demi-
semi fraction; oblige me, sir, just as a personal favour, by trying the stroke
once more.”
Thus invoked, Oaklands approached the table, and, without a moment's
deliberation, struck the ball, and succeeded in doing with perfect ease the
very thing which a minute before would have won him ten pounds.

"There! I was super-certain you could do it; the match was yours, sir, as
safe as the bank, if that wretched little abortion there hadn't made that
disgusting noise. Play him again, sir; play him again: Mr. Cumberland's a
pretty player, a very pretty player; but you're too strong for him, Mr.
Oaklands; it's my firm conviction you're too strong for him.”
“What do you say to giving me my revenge, Cumberland?” asked
Oaklands.
“Oh! I can have no possible objection,” replied Cumberland, with the
slightest imaginable assumption of superiority in his tone, which annoyed
my ear, and which I felt sure would produce the same effect upon Oaklands.
The next game Oaklands won; and they continued to play the rest of the
afternoon with various success, and for what appeared to me very high
stakes. I calculated that, by the time they left off, Oaklands must have lost
more than thirty pounds; and yet, in spite of this, to a superficial observer
he appeared to be the better player of the two: he certainly made the most
brilliant strokes, but he also made blunders, and failed now and then; while
Cumberland's score mounted up without one's exactly knowing how; he
never seemed to be playing particularly well, and yet there was always
something easy for him to do; while, when Oaklands had to play, the balls
got into such awkward positions that it appeared as if they were leagued
against him.
Besides this, many things concurred to strengthen me in my pre-
conceived idea, that Cumberland was accommodating his play to that of
Oaklands, whom, I felt certain, he could have beaten easily, if he had been
so inclined. If this were really the case, the only conclusion one could come
to was, that the whole thing was a regularly arranged plot: the object of
which was to win as much as he could of Oaklands' money. The marker's
sneeze too, occurring so very opportunely for Cumberland's interest; and
the presence of the Captain, who, by his eulogiums on Oaklands' skill, had
excited him to continue playing, while, by his observations and advice, he
had endeavoured (whenever it was possible) to raise the amount of the
stakes; all this favoured my view of the case. Still these were but
suspicions; for I was utterly without proof: and could I on mere suspicion
tell Oaklands that he was a dupe, and Cumberland a knave? No, this would
never do; so I determined, as people generally do when they are at their

wits' end, and can hit on nothing better, to wait and see what time would
bring forth, and act according to circumstances.
Should any of my readers think such penetration unnatural in a boy of my
age, brought up in a quiet country parsonage, let them remember that,
though utterly ignorant of the ways of the world, I was what is called a
quick, sharp boy; that I had been informed Cumberland was not a person to
be trusted, nay, that he was known to have cheated some young man before;
and that, moreover, my very unworldliness and ignorance increased my
suspicions, inasmuch as it seemed to me that playing billiards, at a public
table, for what I considered large sums of money, was neither more nor less
than gambling; and gambling I viewed in the light of a patent twenty-devil-
power man-trap, fresh baited (in the present case with a billiard cue and
balls) by the claws of the Evil One himself; consequently, I was prepared to
view everything that passed with the greatest mistrust; and, in such a frame
of mind, I must have been blind not to have perceived something of what
was going on.

CHAPTER VIII — GOOD RESOLUTIONS
“Blest are those
Whose blood and judgement are so well commingled,
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's linger
To sound what stop she please.”
—Hamlet.

“There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft.”
—Naval Song.

AS we were preparing to take our departure I observed the Captain
exchange glances with Cumberland, who turned to Oaklands, saying:—
“Don't wait for me; I have one or two places to call at in my way back,
and I shall only make you late;—when you get home, give Thomas a hint to
keep back dinner five minutes or so—old Mildman won't say anything
about it, if he fancies it's the servant's fault.”
To this Oaklands replied, “that it was rather a shame, but he'd see what he
could do for once”; and, with a very distant bow to the Captain, we left the
room. As soon as we were in the street Oaklands accosted me with:—
“Well, Frank, what do you think of billiards?”
"Why,” replied I, after a moment's thought, “as to the game itself, it's a
very pretty game, and when you can play well, I have no doubt a very
interesting one; too much so, perhaps.”
“Too interesting! why, that's the beauty of it; almost every other game is
a bore, and tires one, because one does not get sufficiently interested to
forget the trouble of it; what can you mean by too interesting?”
“You won't be angry at what I am going to say, will you?” said I, looking
up in his face.
“Angry with you, my dear boy! no fear of that; always say just what you
think to me, and, if it happens to be disagreeable, why it can't be helped; I
would rather hear a disagreeable truth from a friend any day, than have it
left for some ill-natured person to bring out, when he wants to annoy me.”
“All I meant to say was this,” I replied; “it seems to me that you get so
much excited by the game, that you go on playing longer, and for higher
stakes, than you intended to do when you began,—surely,” continued I, “it

cannot be right to lose such sums of money merely for amusement; is it not
gambling?”
“I believe you are right, Frank,” replied Oaklands, after a short pause,
during which he had apparently been revolving the matter in his mind;
“when one comes to think seriously about it, it is a most unprofitable way
of getting rid of one's money; you will scarcely credit it,” continued he,
half-smiling, “but I declare to you I have been playing almost every day for
the last two months.”
“So long as that?” interrupted I, aghast.
“There or thereabouts,” said Oaklands, laughing at the tone of horror in
which I had spoken; “but I was going to say,” he continued, “that till this
moment—looking upon it merely as an amusement, something to keep one
from going to sleep over a newspaper in that vile reading-room—I have
never taken the trouble to consider whether there was any right or wrong in
the matter. I am very much obliged to you for the hint, Frank; I'll think it all
over to-night, and see how much I owe Master Cumberland, and I'll tell you
to-morrow what conclusion I have come to. I hate to do anything in a hurry
—even to think; one must take time to do that well.”
We had now reached home, and, mindful of his promise, Oaklands
begged Thomas to use his interest with the cook, for the purpose of
postponing dinner for a few minutes, in order to give Cumberland a chance
of being ready—to which Thomas replied:—
“Very well, sir, anything to oblige you, Mr. Oaklands,” muttering to
himself as he went off, “wonder what that chap Cumberland is up to now;
no good, I'll be bound”.
In another minute we heard his voice in the lower regions, exclaiming:—
“I say, cook, mustn't dish up for the next ten minutes; master ain't quite
finished his next Sunday's sermon; he's got hitched just at thirdly and lastly,
and mustn't be disturbed; not on no account”;—which produced from that
functionary the following pathetic rejoinder:—
“Then, it's hall hup with the pigeon pie, for it will be burnt as black as my
blessed shoe by that time!”
As I was descending the stairs, ready to go out, the next day, Oaklands
called me into his room, and, closing the door, said:—

“Well, Fairlegh, I have thought over all you said yesterday,—made up my
mind—and acted upon it”.
“Bravo!” replied I, “I am so glad, for, whenever you will but rouse
yourself, you are sure to act more rightly and sensibly than anybody else;
but what have you done now? Let me hear all about it.”
“Oh, nothing very wonderful,” answered Oaklands; “when I came to look
at my pocket-book, I found I had lost, from first to last, above one hundred
and fifty pounds.”
“Good gracious!” cried I, aghast at the magnitude of the sum; “what will
you do?”
Oaklands smiled at my look of horror, and continued:—
“About one hundred pounds of this I still owe Cumberland, for, after my
ready money was gone, I merely set down on paper all I won or lost, as he
said I could pay him at any time, just as it suited me best; and I thought I
would wait till I got my next quarter's allowance, pay him out of that, and
be very economical ever after. Well, when I saw what the sums amounted
to, I found this plan certainly would not answer, and that I was getting into
a mess; so I made up my mind to put an end to the thing at once,—and sat
down to write to my father, telling him I had been playing billiards every
day for some time past with a friend,—of course I did not mention who,—
and that, without being at all aware of it, my losses had mounted up till I
owed him one hundred pounds. I mentioned at the same time that I had a
pretty long bill at Smithson's; and then went on to say that I saw the folly, if
not worse than folly, of what I had been doing; and that I applied to him, as
the best friend I had in the world,—and I am sure he is too, Frank,—to save
me from the consequences of my own imprudence.”
“I am very glad you did that; it was much the wisest thing,” interrupted I.
“As soon as I had written my letter,” continued Oaklands, “I went to
Cumberland, and told him that I found I had been going on over fast,—that
I owned he was too good a player for me,—and that I therefore did not
mean to play any more—and would pay him as soon as I received my
father's answer.”
“And what did he say to that?” inquired I.
“Why, he seemed surprised and a little annoyed, I fancied. He denied
being the best player, and begged I would not think of paying him yet,

saying that I had been unlucky of late, but that, if I would go on boldly, luck
was sure to change, and that I should most likely win it all back again.”
“And you?”
“Oh! I told him that was the true spirit of gambling; that I did not choose
to owe so much to any man as I owed him, and that pay him I would. Well
then, he said, that if I did not like to trouble my father about such a trifle,
and yet was determined to pay him, it could be very easily managed. I
asked how? He hummed and ha'd, and at last said that Smithson would
advance me the money in a minute—that I should only have to sign a
receipt for it, and need not pay him for years—not till I was of age, and not
then if I did not like—that no one would be any the wiser—and he was
going on with more in the same style, when I stopped him, by answering
very abruptly, that such an arrangement was not to my taste, and that I was
not yet reduced be borrowing money of my tailor.”
“Quite right, I am so glad you told him that,” interposed I; “what did he
say then?”
“Something about not intending to offend me, and its being a thing done
every day.”
“By him perhaps,” said I, recollecting the scene I had witnessed soon
after my arrival.
“Why! what do you mean?” said Oaklands.
“I'll tell you when you have done,” replied I; “but I want to know how all
this ended.”
“There was not much more. He tried to persuade me to go again to-day,
and play another match. I told him I was engaged to ride with you. Then he
looked as if he was going to be angry. I waited to see, and he wasn't, and so
we parted.”
"And what think you of Cumberland now?” inquired I. “I can't say I
altogether like the way in which he has behaved about this,” replied
Oaklands; “it certainly looks as if he would have had no objection to win as
much as he could from me, for he must have known all along that he was
the best player. It strikes me that I am well out of the mess, and I have to
thank you for being so too, old fellow.”
“Nay, you have to thank your own energy and decision; I did nothing
towards helping you out of your difficulties.”

“Indeed! if a man is walking over a precipice with his eyes shut, is it
nothing to cause him to open them, in order that he may see the dangers
into which the path he is following will lead him?”
“Ah! Harry, if you would but exert yourself, so as to keep your own eyes
open——”
“What a wide-awake fellow you would be!” interposed Coleman, who,
after having tapped twice, without succeeding in making himself heard (so
engrossed were we by the conversation in which we were engaged), had in
despair opened the door in time to overhear my last remark. “I say, gents, as
Thomas calls us,” continued he, “what have you been doing to Cumberland
to put him into such a charming temper?”
“Is he out of humour then?” inquired Oaklands. “I should say, rather,”
replied Coleman, winking ironically; “he came into our room just now,
looking as black as thunder, and, as I know he hates to be spoken to when
he is in the sulks, I asked him if you were going to play billiards with him
to-day.”
Harry and I exchanged glances, and Coleman continued:—
“He fixed his eyes upon me, and stared as if he would have felt greatly
relieved by cutting my throat, and at last growled out, 'No; that you were
going to ride with Fairlegh'; to which I replied, 'that it was quite delightful
to see what great friends you had become'; whereupon he ground his teeth
with rage, and told me 'to go to the devil for a prating fool'; so I answered,
that I was not in want of such an article just at present, and had not time to
go so far to-day, and then I came here instead. Oh, he's in no end of a rage, I
know.”
“And your remarks would not tend to soothe him much either,” said I.
“Oaklands has just been telling him he does not mean to play billiards
again.”
“Phew!” whistled Coleman, “that was a lucky shot of mine; I fancied it
must have been something about Oaklands and billiards that had gone
wrong, when I saw how savage it made him. I like to rile Cumberland
sometimes, because he's always so soft and silky; he seems afraid of getting
into a good honest rage, lest he should let out something he does not want
one to know. I hate such extreme caution; it always makes me think there
must be something very wrong to be concealed, when people are so mighty
particular.”

“You are not quite a fool after all, Freddy,” said Oaklands, encouragingly.
“Thank ye for nothing, Harry Longlegs,” replied Coleman,—skipping
beyond the reach of Oaklands' arm. A few mornings after this conversation
took place Oaklands, who was sitting in the recess of the window (from
which he had ejected Lawless on the memorable evening of his arrival),
called me to him, and asked in a low tone of voice whether I should mind
calling at the billiard-rooms when I went out, and paying a month's
subscription which he owed there. He added that he did not like going
himself, for fear of meeting Cumberland or the Captain, as if they pressed
him to play, and he refused (which he certainly should do), something
disagreeable might occur, which it was quite as well to avoid. In this I quite
agreed, and willingly undertook the commission. While we were talking
Thomas came into the room with a couple of letters, one of which he gave
to Oaklands, saying, it had just come by the post, while he handed the other
to Cumberland, informing him that the gentleman who brought it was
waiting for an answer. I fancied that Cumberland changed colour slightly
when his eye fell upon the writing. After rapidly perusing the note, he
crushed it in his hand, and flung it into the fire, saying:—
“My compliments to the gentleman, and I'll be with him at the time he
mentions”.
“Well, this is kind of my father,” exclaimed Oaklands, looking up with a
face beaming with pleasure; “after writing me the warmest and most
affectionate letter possible, he sends me an order for three hundred pounds
upon his banker, telling me always to apply to him when I want money, or
get into difficulties of any kind; and that if I will promise him that this shall
be the case, I need never be afraid of asking for too much, as he should be
really annoyed were I to stint myself.”
“What a pattern for fathers!” exclaimed Coleman, rubbing his hands. “I
only wish my old dad would test my obedience in that sort of way;—I'd
take care I would not annoy him by asking for too little; he need not fret
himself on that account. Ugh!” continued he, with a look of intense disgust,
“it's quite dreadful to think what perverted ideas he has on the subject; he
actually fancies it his business to spend his money as well as to make it; and
as for sons, the less they have the better, lest they should get into
extravagant habits, forsooth! I declare it's quite aggravating to think of the
difference between people: a cheque for three hundred pounds from a

father, who'll be annoyed if one does not always apply to him for money
enough! Open the window there! I am getting faint!”
“Don't you think there's a little difference between sons as well as fathers,
Master Fred, eh?” inquired Lawless. “I should say some sons might be
safely trusted with three-hundred-pound cheques; while others are certain to
waste two shillings, and misapply sixpence, out of every half-crown they
may get hold of.”
“Sir, I scorn your insinuations; sir, you're no gentleman,” was the reply,
producing (as was probably intended) an attack from Lawless, which
Coleman avoided for some time by dodging round chairs and under tables.
After the chase had lasted for several minutes Coleman, when on the point
of being captured, contrived, by a master-stroke of policy, to substitute
Mullins in his place, and the affair ended by that worthy being knocked
down by Lawless, “for always choosing to interfere with everything,” and
being kicked up again by Coleman, “for having prevented him from
properly vindicating his wounded honour”.
“Who's going near the Post-office, and will put a letter in for me?” asked
Oaklands.
“I am,” replied Cumberland; “I've got one of my own to put in also.”
“Don't forget it or lose it, for it's rather important,” added Oaklands; “but
I need not caution you, you are not one of the harebrained sort; if it had
been my friend Freddy, now——”
“I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Oaklands,” said Coleman, putting on an air of
offended dignity, in which, though very much exaggerated, there was at the
bottom the smallest possible spice of reality—a thing, by the way, one may
often observe in people who have a very strong appreciation of the
ridiculous, and who, however fond they may be of doing absurd things for
the sake of being laughed at, do not approve of their buffooneries being
taken for granted—“I'll tell you what it is, sir—you have formed a most
mistaken estimate of my character; I beg to say that any affair I undertake is
certain to be conducted in a very sedate and business-like manner. My
prudence I consider unimpeachable; and as to steadiness, I flatter myself I
go considerably ahead of the Archbishop of Canterbury in that article. If I
hear you repeat such offensive remarks, I shall be under the painful
necessity of elongating your already sufficiently prolonged proboscis.”

“Come and try,” said Oaklands, folding his arms with an air of defiance.
Coleman, reckoning on his adversary's dislike of exertion, and trusting to
his own extreme quickness and activity to effect his escape scot-free, made
a feint of turning away as if to avoid the contest, and then, with a sudden
spring, leaped upon Oaklands, and succeeded in just touching his nose. The
latter was, however, upon his guard, and while, by seizing his outstretched
arm with one hand, he prevented him from attaining his object, he caught
him by the coat-collar with the other, and detained him prisoner.
“I've got you this time, at all events, Master Freddy; now what shall I do
with you, to pay you off for all your impertinence?” said Oaklands, looking
round the room in search of something suitable to his purpose. “I have it,”
continued he, as his eyes encountered the bookcase, which was a large
square-topped, old-fashioned affair, standing about eight feet high, and the
upper part forming a sort of glass-fronted closet, in which the books were
arranged on shelves. “Great men like you, who go ahead of archbishops and
so on, should be seated in high places.” So saying he lifted Coleman in his
arms, with as much ease as if he had been a kitten; and, stepping up on a
chair which stood near, seated him on the top of the bookcase, with his head
touching the ceiling, and his feet dangling about six feet from the ground.
“What a horrid shame!” said Coleman; “come help me down again,
Harry, there's a good fellow.”
“I help you down!” rejoined Oaklands, “I've had trouble enough in
putting you up, I think; I'm a great deal too much tired to help you down
again.”
“Well, if you won't, there's nobody else can,” said Coleman, “unless they
get a ladder, or a fire-escape—don't call me proud, gentlemen, if I look
down upon you all, for I assure you it's quite involuntary on my part.”
“A decided case of 'up aloft': he looks quite the cherub, does he not?”
said Lawless.
"They are making game of you, Coleman,” cried Mullins, grinning.
“I hope not,” was the reply, “for in that case I should be much too high to
be pleasant.”
“They ought to keep you there for an hour longer for that vile pun,” said
Cumberland. “Is your letter ready, Oaklands, for I must be going?”
“It is upstairs, I'll fetch it,” replied Oaklands, leaving the room.

“Well, as it seems I am here for life, I may as well make myself
comfortable,” said Coleman, and, suiting the action to the word, he crossed
his legs under him like a tailor, and folding his arms leaned his back against
the wall, the picture of ease.
At this moment there was a gentle tap at the door; some one said “Come
in,” and, without a word of preparation, Dr. Mildman entered the apartment.
Our surprise and consternation at this apparition may easily be imagined.
Cumberland and Lawless tried to carry it off by assuming an easy
unembarrassed air, as if nothing particular was going on; I felt strongly
disposed to laugh; while Mullins looked much more inclined to cry; but the
expression of Coleman's face, affording a regular series of “dissolving
views” of varied emotions, was the “gem” of the whole affair. The
unconscious cause of all this excitement, whose back was turned towards
the bookcase, walked quietly up to his usual seat, saying, as he did so:—

“Don't let me disturb you—I only came to look for my eye-glass, which I
think I must have dropped”.
“I see it, sir,” said I, springing forward and picking it up; “how lucky
none of us happened to tread on it and break it!”
“Thank you, Fairlegh, it is an old friend, and I should have been sorry to
have any harm happen to it,” replied he, as he turned to leave the room,
without having once raised his eyes from the ground. Coleman, who up to
this moment had considered a discovery inevitable, gave me a sign to open
the door, and, believing the danger over, was proceeding to relieve his
feelings by making a hideous face at his retiring tutor, when the bookcase,
affected no doubt by the additional weight placed upon it, suddenly gave a
loud crack.

“Bless my heart,” said Dr. Mildman, looking up in alarm, “what's that?
Gracious me!” continued he, starting back as his eyes encountered
Coleman, “there's something alive up there! why it's—eh?” continued he,
levelling his newly restored eye-glass at the object of his alarm; “yes, it
certainly is Coleman; pray, sir, is it usually your 'custom of an afternoon,' as
Shakspeare has it, to sit perched up there cross-legged, like a Chinese
mandarin? It's a very singular taste.”
“Why, sir,” replied Coleman, for once completely taken aback, “you see I
didn't—that is, I wasn't—I mean, if I hadn't—I shouldn't.”
“Hum,” resumed Dr. Mildman, with whom he was rather a favourite, and
who, now that he had satisfied himself it was not some wild animal he had
to deal with, was evidently amused by Coleman's embarrassment, “that
sentence of yours is not particularly clear or explanatory; but,” continued
he, as a new idea occurred to him, “how in the world did you get up there?
you must have flown.”
“I didn't get up, I was—that is, he——” stammered
Coleman, remembering just in time that he could not explain without
involving Oaklands.
“And how are you ever to get down again?” said Dr. Mildman.
“Has the pretty bird flown yet?” cried Oaklands, hastily entering the
room; when, observing the addition the party had received during his
absence, he started back, murmuring in an under tone, “The old gentleman,
by Jove!” Quickly recovering himself, however, he sprang upon a chair,
and, seizing Coleman in his arms, whisked him down with more haste than
ceremony; and going up to Dr. Mildman said respectfully, “That was a bit
of folly of mine, sir; I put him up there; I merely did it for a joke, and I
hadn't an idea you would come in and find him”.
“Never mind,” replied Dr. Mildman, good-naturedly, “as you have
contrived to get him down again safely there is no harm done;” adding as he
left the room, “that young man is as strong as Hercules. I hope he'll never
take it into his head to pop me up anywhere, for I am sure he could do it if
he chose.”

CHAPTER IX — A DENOUEMENT
“Play not for gain but sport; who plays for more
Than he can lose with pleasure, stakes his heart.”
—Herbert.

“If you are so bold as to venture a blowing-up, look closely
to it! for the plot lies deadly deep... but of all things have
a care of putting it in your pocket,... and if you can shun
it, read it not;... consider well what you do, and look
to yourself,... for there is danger and jeopardy in it.”—
—Dr. Eachard.

IN the course of my walk that afternoon I called at the billiard-rooms in F
—— Street, in order to pay Oaklands' subscription. On inquiring for Mr.
Johnson, the proprietor, I was told that he was engaged at present, but that if
I did not mind waiting for a few minutes, he would be able to attend to me.
To this I agreed, and was shown into a small room downstairs, which, from
its sanded floor, and a strong odour of stale tobacco which pervaded it, was
apparently used as a smoking-room. It opened into what seemed to be a
rather spacious apartment from which it was divided by a glass half-door,
across the lower panes of which hung a green blind: this door, on my
entrance, was standing slightly ajar. The day being cold, there was a bright
fire burning on the hearth; near this I seated myself, and, seduced by its
drowsy influence, fell into a kind of trance, in which, between sleeping and
waking, my mind wandered away to a far different scene, among well-
known forms and familiar faces that had been strangers to me now for many
a long day. From this day-dream I was aroused by sounds, which,
proceeding from the adjoining apartment, resolved themselves, as I became
more thoroughly awake, into the voices of two persons apparently engaged
in angry colloquy.
“I tell you,” said a gruff voice, which somehow seemed familiar to me
—“I tell you it is the only chance for you; you must contrive to bring him
here again, and that without loss of time.”
“Must I again repeat that the thing is impossible?” was the reply, in tones
I knew but too well; “utterly impossible; when once his mind is made up,
and he takes the trouble to exert himself, he is immovable; nothing can
shake his determination.”

“And is this your boasted skill and management?” rejoined the first
speaker; “how comes it, pray, that this overgrown child, who seemed the
other day to be held as nicely in leading-strings as need be—this raw boy,
whose hot-headedness, simplicity, and indolence rendered him as easy a
pigeon to pluck as one could desire; how comes it, I say, that he has taken
alarm in this sudden manner, so as to refuse to come here any more? you've
bungled this matter most shamefully, sir, and must take the consequences.”
“That's just the point I cannot make out,” replied the second speaker,
who, as the reader has probably discovered, was none other than
Cumberland; “it's easy enough for you to lay it all to my mismanagement,
Captain Spicer, but I tell you it is no such thing; did I not accommodate my
play to his, always appearing to win by some accident, so that the fool
actually believed himself the better player, while he was losing from twenty
to thirty pounds a day? Didn't I excite him, and lead him on by a mixture of
flattery and defiance, so that he often fancied he was persuading me to play
against my will, and was so ready to bet that I might have won three times
what I have of him, if you had not advised me to go on quietly, and by
degrees? Did not you refuse when I wished you to take him in hand
yourself, because you said I understood him best, and managed him
admirably? No, I believe that detestable young Fairlegh is at the bottom of
it: I observed him watching me with that calm, steadfast glance of his, that I
hated him for from the first moment I saw him; I felt certain some mischief
would arise from it.”
“Yes!” replied Spicer, “that was your fault too: why did you let the other
bring him; every fool knows that lookers-on see most of the game.”
“I was afraid to say much against it, lest Oaklands should suspect
anything,” rejoined Cumberland; “but I wish to Heaven I had now; I might
have been sure no good would come from it—that boy is my evil genius.”
“I have no time for talking about geniuses, and such confounded stuff,”
observed Spicer, angrily, “so now to business, Mr. Cumberland: you are
aware you owe me two hundred pounds, I presume?”
Cumberland grumbled out an unwilling assent, to which he appended a
muttered remark not exactly calculated to enhance the Captain's future
comfort.
“Like a good-natured fool,” continued Spicer, “I agreed to wait for my
money till you had done what you could with this Oaklands.”

“For which forbearance you were to receive fifty pounds extra, besides
anything you could make out of him by private bets,” put in Cumberland.
“Of course I was not going to wait all that time for my money for
nothing,” was the reply; “you have only as yet paid me fifty pounds, you
tell me you can't persuade Oaklands to play again, so there's nothing more
to be got from that quarter, consequently nothing more to wait for. I must
trouble you, therefore, to pay me the two hundred pounds at once; for, to be
plain with you, it won't do for me to remain here any longer—the air does
not agree with my constitution.”
“And where on earth am I to get two hundred pounds at a minute's
notice?” said Cumberland; “you are as well aware the thing is impossible as
I am.”
“I am aware of this, sir,” replied the Captain with an oath, “that I'll have
my money; ay, and this very day too, or I'll expose you—curse me if I don't.
I know your uncle's address: yes! you may well turn pale, and gnaw your lip
—other people can plot and scheme as well as yourself: if I'm not paid
before I leave this place, and that will be by to-night's mail, your uncle shall
be told that his nephew is an insolvent gambler; and the old tutor, the Rev.
Dr. Mildman, shall have a hint that his head pupil is little better than a
blackleg.”
“Now listen to me, Spicer,” said Cumberland quietly; “I know you might
do what you have threatened, and that to me it would be neither more nor
less than ruin, but—and this is the real question—pray what possible
advantage (save calling people's attention to the share, a pretty large one,
you have had in making me what I am) would it be to you?”
“To me, sir? eh! why, what do you mean, sir? your uncle is a man of
honour, and, of course, as such would pay his nephew's debts for him, more
particularly when he knows that if he refuses to do so that nephew will be
sent to jail; yes, to jail, sir.”
“There; blustering is of no use with me, so you may save yourself that
trouble, Captain,” replied Cumberland; “as to sending me to jail, that is
absurd; you can't arrest a minor for debt, and I shall not be of age these two
years. My uncle is, as you say, what is called a man of honour, but he is not
one of those over-scrupulous fools who will pay any demand, however
dishonest and unreasonable, rather than tarnish the family honour, forsooth!
No! he will pay what the law compels him, and not a farthing more I leave

you to decide whether the law is likely to be of much use to you in the
present case. Now, listen to me; though you cannot obtain the money by the
means you proposed, you can, as I said before, do me serious injury;
therefore, if for no other reason but to stop your mouth, I would pay you the
whole if I could, but I have not the power of doing so at present. What I
propose then is this—Oaklands will pay me, in a day or two, one hundred
pounds; this I will hand over to you at once, and will give you a written
promise to pay you the rest in the course of the next six months; for before
that time I must raise money somehow, even if I have to sell every farthing
I expect to come into to the Jews, in order to do it.”
“Won't do,” was the reply; “the ready isn't enough; I must leave this
country in a day or two, and I must have money to take with me; come, one
hundred and fifty pounds down, and I'll let you off the other fifty.”
“It's impossible, I can get no other money yet, excepting the sum
Oaklands is to pay me.”
“Yes! and how the devil am I to be sure he will pay you directly; I'm
pretty certain the fool's hard up himself; he hasn't paid cash for a month
past.”
“If that's all you're afraid of, I can soon convince you to the contrary;
here's a letter to his father's banker, which I am going to put into the post
directly, with a cheque for three hundred pounds in it; there, hold it up to
the light, and you can see the figures yourself.”
“By Jove! so it is,” exclaimed Spicer: “I say, Cumberland,” he continued,
and then the voices almost sunk into a whisper, so that I could not catch
more than a word here and there, but by the tone I judged that the Captain
was making some proposition, to which Cumberland refused to agree.
At length I heard the former say, “Fifty pounds down, and a receipt in
full “.
Cumberland's reply was inaudible, but when the Captain spoke again I
caught the following words: “Not the slightest risk, only you do as I say,
and——”
At this moment the outer door of the room in which I was sitting opened,
while the one communicating with the other apartment was violently
slammed to from the farther side, and I heard no more.

The newcomer was a little slipshod girl in dirty curlpapers, who informed
me that her master was sorry he could not see me that day as he was
particularly engaged, but if I would do him the favour of calling to-morrow,
at the same hour, he should be at leisure, etc. To this I answered something,
I scarcely knew what, and, seizing my hat, rushed out at the front door, to
the great astonishment of the curl-papered damsel, who cast an anxious
glance at the pegs in the hall, ere she could convince herself that I had not
departed with more hats and coats than legitimately belonged to me.
It was not until I had proceeded the length of two or three streets, that I
could collect my ideas sufficiently to form anything like a just estimate of
the extraordinary disclosures with which I had so unexpectedly become
acquainted, and no sooner had I in some measure succeeded in so doing,
than the puzzling question presented itself to me, what line of conduct it
would be advisable to adopt, in consequence of what I had heard. I asked
myself too, to begin with, what right I had to make any use of a private
conversation, which accident alone had caused me to overhear? Would not
people say I had behaved dishonourably in having listened to it at all? But
then again, by preserving Cumberland's secret, and concealing his real
character from Oaklands, should not I, as it were, become a party to any
nefarious schemes he might contemplate for the future? Having failed in
one instance in his attempt on Oaklands' purse, would he not (having, as I
was now fully aware, such a strong necessity for money) devise some fresh
plan, which might succeed in its object, were Oaklands still ignorant of the
real character of the person he had to deal with? And in such case should
not I be answerable for any mischief which might ensue? Nay, for aught I
knew, some fresh villainy might be afloat even now; what plan could Spicer
have been urging, which Cumberland seemed unwilling to adopt, if not
something of this nature, and which might be prevented were Oaklands
made aware of all the circumstances?
This last idea settled the business. I determined to reveal everything to
Oaklands in confidence, and to be guided in my subsequent conduct by his
opinion. Having once arrived at this conclusion, the next thing was to carry
my intentions into effect with as little loss of time as possible. I
consequently started off at speed in a homeward direction, and succeeded in
reaching my destination in rather less than ten minutes, having, at various
times in the course of my route, run against and knocked over no less than
six little children, to the manifest discomposure and indignation of as many

nursery-maids, who evidently regarded me as a commissioned agent of
some modern Herod, performing my master's work zealously.
On arriving at home my impatience was doomed to be disappointed, for
Oaklands, who had gone out soon after I did, was not yet returned. This
delay, in the feverish state of anxiety and excitement in which I was,
appeared to me intolerable; and, unable to sit still, I kept striding up and
down the room, clenching my fists, and uttering exclamations of impatience
and vexation; which unusual conduct on my part so astonished and alarmed
the worthy Thomas that, after remaining in the room till he had exhausted
every conceivable pretext for so doing, he boldly inquired whether “I did
not feel myself ill, no how?” adding his hope, that “I had not been a-
exhaling laughing gas, or any sich rumbustical wegitable?” after which he
favoured me with an anecdote of “a young man as he know'd, as had done
so, wot conducted hisself more like a hideotic fool than a sanatory
Christian, ever after”. Perceiving at length that his attentions were rapidly
reducing me to the same state of mind as that of his friend, he very
considerately left me.
After half an hour of anxious expectation, in the course of which I must
have walked at least a mile or two over Dr. Mildman's parlour carpet,
Oaklands and Lawless returned together. I instantly called the former aside,
and told him I wished to speak to him alone, as I had something of
importance to communicate. To this he replied that it was very near dinner-
time; but that, if I would come up to his room, I could talk to him while he
dressed. As soon as we were safely closeted together I began my relation,
but scarcely had I got beyond “You asked me to go to the billiard-rooms,
you know “—when a hasty footstep was heard upon the stairs; some one
knocked at the door, and immediately a voice, which I knew to be that of
Cumberland, asked to be let in, “as he had something particular to say”.
“The plot thickens,” said Oaklands, as, without rising from his seat, he
stretched out an immense length of arm, and opened the door.
“Hear what I have to say first,” cried I; but it was too late, and
Cumberland entered, breathless, and with his usually sallow complexion
flushed with exercise and excitement.
“The most unfortunate thing”—he began; and stopping to draw breath, he
added, “I have run all the way from the post-office, as hard as my legs
would carry me—but I was going to tell you—as I went down, I met Curtis

of the —th, who told me their band was going to play in Park Square, and
asked me to go with him to hear it; and I'm afraid that, as I stood in the
crowd, my pocket must have been picked, for when I got to the post-office I
found that my letter, my pocket handkerchief, and I am sorry to say your
letter also, had disappeared—so, remembering you had told me your letter
was of importance, I thought the best thing I could do was to come home as
fast as I could, and tell you.”
“By Jove,” exclaimed Oaklands, “that's rather a bore though; there was
my father's cheque for three hundred pounds in it; I suppose something
ought to be done about it directly.”
“Write a note to stop the payment; and—let me see—as it is too late for
the post now, if you will make a parcel of it, I'll run down and give it to the
guard of the mail, begging him to deliver it himself as soon as he gets to
town—the cheque can't be presented till to-morrow morning, so that will be
all right.”
“What a head you have for business, to be sure!” said Oaklands; “but
why should you have the trouble of taking it? I dare say Thomas will go
with it when we have done dinner, or I can take it myself.”
“Nay,” replied Cumberland, “as I have contrived to lose your letter, the
least I can do is to take the parcel; besides, I should like to speak to the
guard myself, so as to be sure there's no mistake.”
While this was going on it may be imagined that my thoughts were not
idle. When Cumberland mentioned the loss of the letter my suspicions that
some nefarious scheme might be on foot began for the first time to resolve
themselves into a tangible form, but when I perceived his anxiety to have
the parcel entrusted to him, which was to prevent the payment of the
cheque, the whole scheme, or something nearly approaching to it, flashed
across me at once, and, without reflecting for a moment on what might be
the consequences of doing so, I said:—
“If Oaklands will take my advice, he will not entrust you with anything
else, till you can prove that you have really lost the letter, as you say you
have done”.
Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of us, it could scarcely have
produced greater confusion than did this speech of mine. Oaklands sprang
upon his feet, regarding me with the greatest surprise as he asked “if I knew
what I was saying?” while Cumberland, in a voice hoarse from passion,

inquired, “What the devil I meant by my insolence? what did I dare to
insinuate he had done with the letter, if he had not lost it?”
"I insinuate nothing,” was my reply; “but I tell you plainly that I believe,
and have good reason for believing, that you have not lost the letter, but
given it to your gambling friend and accomplice, Captain Spicer, who, in
return for it, is to give you a receipt in full for the two hundred pounds you
owe him, and fifty pounds down.” On hearing this Cumberland turned as
pale as ashes, and leaned on the back of a chair for support, while I
continued, “You look surprised, Oaklands, as well you may; but when you
hear what I have to tell, you will see that I do not make this accusation
without having good grounds to go upon “.
“I shall not stay here,” said Cumberland, making an effort to recover
himself, and turning towards the door, “I shall not remain here to be any
further insulted; I wish you good-evening, Mr. Oaklands.”
“Not so fast,” said Oaklands, springing to the door, and locking it; “if all
this be true, and Fairlegh would not have said so much unless he had strong
facts to produce, you and I shall have an account to settle together, Mr.
Cumberland; you will not leave this room till I know the rights of the affair.
Now, Frank, let us hear how you learned all this.”
“Strangely enough,” replied I; and I then gave him an exact account of all
that had passed at the billiard-rooms, repeating the conversation, word for
word, as nearly as I could remember it, leaving Oaklands to draw his own
inferences therefrom. During the whole of my recital Cumberland sat with
his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried in his hands, without
offering the slightest interruption, scarcely indeed appearing aware of what
was going on, save once, when I mentioned the fact of the door between the
two rooms being slightly open, when he muttered something about “what
cursed folly!” When I had finished my account Oaklands turned towards
Cumberland, and asked in a stern voice “what he had to say to this
statement?” Receiving no answer, he continued: But it is useless, sir, to ask
you: the truth of what Fairlegh has said is self-evident—the next question
is, What is to be done about it?” He paused for a moment as if in thought,
and then resumed: “In the position in which I now stand, forming one of Dr.
Mildman's household, and placed by my father under his control, I scarcely
consider myself a free agent. It seems to me, therefore, that my course is

clear; it is evidently my duty to inform him of the whole affair, and
afterwards to act as he may advise, Do you agree with me, Frank?”
"It is exactly what I should have proposed, had you not mentioned it
first,” was my answer.
“For God's sake, Oaklands, don't,” exclaimed Cumberland, raising
himself suddenly; “he will write to my uncle—I shall be expelled—my
character lost—it will be utter ruin;—have pity upon me—I will get you
back your money, I will indeed, only don't tell Mildman.”
“I have treated you up to the present time as a gentleman and a friend,”
replied Oaklands; “you have proved yourself unworthy of either title, and
deserve nothing at my hands but the strictest justice; no one could blame me
were I to allow the law to take its course with you, as with any other
swindler, but this I shall be most unwilling to do; nothing short of Dr.
Mildman's declaring it to be my positive duty will prevail upon me. But our
tutor ought to be informed of it, and shall: he is a good, kind-hearted man,
and if his judgment should err at all, you may feel sure it will be on the side
of mercy. Fairlegh, will you go down and ask Dr. Mildman if I can speak to
him on a matter of importance, now, at once? you will find him in his study.
Let me know when he is ready, and we will come down; for,” added he,
turning to Cumberland, “I do not lose sight of you till this business is settled
one way or other.”
When I had told my errand Dr. Mildman, who looked a good deal
surprised and a little frightened, desired me (on receiving my assurance that
the business would not do as well after dinner) to tell Oaklands to come to
him immediately. To this Oaklands replied by desiring me to hold myself in
readiness for a summons, as he should want me presently. Then, linking his
arm within that of Cumberland, he half-led, half-forced, him out of the
room. In another minute I heard the study-door close behind them.
“Now, Fairlegh,” said Dr. Mildman, when, in about a quarter of an hour's
time, I had been sent for, “I wish you to repeat to me the conversation you
overheard at the billiard-room, as nearly word for word as you can
remember it.”
This I hastened to do; the Doctor listening with the most profound
attention, and asking one or two questions on any point which did not at
first appear quite clear to him. When I had concluded he resumed his

inquiries by asking whether I had seen the parties who were speaking. To
this I answered in the negative.
“But you imagined you recognised the voices?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whose did you take them to be?”
"One I believed to be Cumberland's, the other that of a Captain Spicer,
whom I had seen when I was there before.”
“How often have you been there?”
“Twice, sir; once about a week ago, and again to-day.”
“And have you the slightest moral doubt as to the fact of the persons you
heard speaking being Cumberland and this Captain Spicer?”
“Not the slightest; I feel quite certain of it.”
“That is all clear and straightforward enough,” observed Dr. Mildman,
turning to the culprit. “I am afraid the case is only too fully proved against
you; have you anything to say which can at all establish your innocence?”
“It would be of no use if I were to do so,” said Cumberland, in a sullen
manner; “it is all a matter of assertion; you choose to believe what they say,
and if I were to deny it, you would not believe me without proof, and how
can I prove a negative?”
“But do you deny it?” inquired Dr. Mildman, regarding him with a clear,
scrutinising look. Cumberland attempted to speak, but, meeting Dr.
Mildman's eye, was unable to get out a word, and turned away, concealing
his face in his handkerchief.
“This is a sad piece of business,” said Dr. Mildman; “I suppose you mean
to prosecute, Oaklands?”
“I shall be most unwilling to do so,” was the reply; “nor will I, sir, unless
you consider it my positive duty; I would rather lose the money ten times
over than bring such a disgrace upon Cumberland.”
“You are a kind-hearted fellow,” replied the Doctor; “it really is a very
difficult case in which to know how to act. As a general principle, I am
most averse to anything like hushing up evil.”

“For Heaven's sake have pity upon me, Dr. Mildman,” cried Cumberland,
throwing himself on his knees before him; “I confess it all. I did allow
Spicer to keep the cheque; he threatened to expose me, and I did it to escape
detection; but promise you will not prosecute me, and I will tell you where
he may be found, so that something may be done about it yet. I will pay
anything you please. I shall come into money when I am of age, and I can
make some arrangement. I don't care what I sacrifice, if I have to dig to earn
my bread, only do not disgrace me publicly. Remember, I am very young,
and oh! if you knew what it is to be tempted as I have been! Oaklands,
Fairlegh, intercede for me; think how you should feel, either of you, if you
were placed in my situation!”
“Get up, Mr. Cumberland,” observed Dr. Mildman, in a grave, impressive
manner; “it is equally needless and unbecoming to kneel to man for
forgiveness—learn to consider that position as a thing set apart and sacred
to the service of One greater than the sons of men—One, whom you have
indeed grievously offended, and to whom, in the solitude of your chamber,

you will do well to kneel, and pray that He who died to save sinners may, in
the fulness of His mercy, pardon you also.” He paused, and then resumed:
“We must decide what steps had better be taken to recover your cheque,
Oaklands; it is true we can send and stop the payment of it—but if you
determine not to prosecute, for Cumberland's sake, you must let off this
man Spicer also, in which case it would be advisable to prevent his
presenting the cheque at all, as that might lead to inquiries which it would
be difficult to evade. You said just now you knew where this bad man was
to be found, Mr. Cumberland.”
“Yes, sir, if he is not at the billiard-rooms in F—— Street, his lodgings
are at No. 14, Richmond Buildings,” said Cumberland.
“Ay, exactly,” replied Dr. Mildman; and, resting his head upon his hand,
he remained for some minutes buried in thought. Having at length
apparently made up his mind, he turned to Cumberland, and said:
“Considering all the circumstances of the case, Mr. Cumberland, although I
most strongly reprobate your conduct, which has grieved and surprised me
more than I can express, I am unwilling to urge Oaklands to put the law in
force against you, for more reasons than one. In the first place, I wish to
spare your uncle the pain which such an exposure must occasion him; and
secondly, I cannot but hope that at your age, so severe a lesson as this may
work a permanent change in you, and that at some future period you may
regain that standing among honourable men, which you have now so justly
forfeited, and I am anxious that this should not be prevented by the stigma
which a public examination must attach to your name for ever. I will
therefore at once go with you to the abode of this man Spicer, calling on my
way at the house of a legal friend of mine, whom I shall try to get to
accompany us. I presume we shall have no great difficulty in procuring
restitution of the stolen letter, when the culprit perceives that his schemes
are found out, and that it is consequently valueless to him. Having
succeeded in this, we shall endeavour to come to some equitable
arrangement in regard to his claims on you—do you agree to this?”
Cumberland bowed his head in token of assent, and Dr. Mildman continued:
—
“And you, Oaklands, do you approve of this plan?” “It is like yourself,
Doctor, the perfection of justice and kindness,” replied Oaklands, warmly.

“That is well,” resumed Dr. Mildman; “I have one more painful duty to
perform, which may as well be done at once—you are aware, Mr.
Cumberland, that I must expel you?”
“Will you not look over my fault this once?” entreated Cumberland;
“believe me, I will never give you cause for complaint again.”
“No, sir,” was the reply; “in justice to your companions I cannot longer
allow you to remain under the same roof with them: it is my duty to see that
they associate only with persons fitted for the society of gentlemen,
amongst whom, I am sorry to say, I can no longer class you. I shall myself
accompany you to town to-morrow, and, if possible, see your uncle, to
inform him of this unhappy affair. And now, sir, prepare to go with me to
this Captain Spicer;—on our return you will oblige me by remaining in
your room during the evening. Oaklands, will you ask Lawless to take my
place at the dinner-table, and inform your companions that Cumberland has
been engaged in an affair, of which I so strongly disapprove, that I have
determined on expelling him, but that you are not at liberty to disclose the
particulars? I need scarcely repeat this caution to you, Fairlegh; you have
shown so much good sense and right feeling throughout the whole business
that I am certain you will respect my wishes on this head.”
I murmured some words in assent, and so ended one of the most painful
and distressing scenes it has ever been my fate to witness.

CHAPTER X — THE BOATING PARTY
“Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm,
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,
Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm.”
—Gray's Bard.

“Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?”
—Henry IV.

THE dinner passed off heavily; every attempt to keep up a continued
conversation failed entirely; and a general feeling of relief was experienced
when the time arrived for us to retire to the pupils' room. Even here,
however, the state of things was not much better. Lawless and the others
having in vain attempted to learn more of the affair from Oaklands and
myself than we felt at liberty to tell them, lounged over a book, or dozed by
the fire; whilst we, unable to converse on the subject which alone engrossed
our thoughts, and disinclined to do so upon any other, were fain to follow
their example. About half-past eight Dr. Mildman and Cumberland
returned, and, after dinner, which was served to them in the Doctor's study,
Cumberland retired to his room, where he remained during the rest of the
evening. Oaklands then received a summons from the Doctor, and, on his
return, informed us that (as we had already heard) Cumberland was to be
expelled. He added that Dr. Mildman intended to take him to town himself
the next morning, as he was anxious to see Cumberland's uncle, who was
also his guardian: he would probably, therefore, not return till the following
day, in consequence of which we should have a whole holiday, and he
trusted to us to spend it in a proper manner, which, as Coleman remarked,
proved that he was of a very confiding disposition indeed, and no mistake.
When we went up to bed Oaklands beckoned me into his room, and, as
soon as he had closed the door, gave me an account (having obtained Dr.
Mildman's permission to do so) of the interview with Spicer. They found
him, it seemed, at his lodgings, preparing for his departure. At first he took
a very high tone, denied the whole thing, and was extremely blustering and
impertinent; but on being confronted with Cumberland, and threatened by
Dr. Mildman's legal friend with the terrors of the law, he became thoroughly

crestfallen, restored the three-hundred-pound cheque, and consented, on the
payment of fifty pounds, in addition to the fifty pounds he had already
received, to give up all claims upon Cumberland, whereupon they paid him
the money down, made him sign a paper to the above effect, and left him.
“And so, my dear Frank,” said Oaklands, “there is an end of that affair,
and, if it only produces as much effect upon Cumberland as it has produced
upon me, it will read him a lesson he will not forget for many a long day. I
blame myself excessively,” he continued, “for my own share in this matter;
if it had not been for my easy, careless way of going on, this scheme would
never have been thought of—nay, I might, perhaps, have been able to
rescue Cumberland from the hands of this sharper; but in this manner we
neglect the opportunities afforded us of doing good, and—Frank,” he
continued, with a sudden burst of energy, “I will cure myself of this
abominable indolence.” He paused for some minutes in thought, and then
added, “Well, I must not stand here raving at you any longer; it is getting
very late: goodnight, old fellow! I shall be glad enough to tumble into bed,
for I'm as tired as a dog: it really is astonishing how easily I am knocked
up.”
The absurdity of this remark, following upon the resolution he had
expressed with so much energy but a minute before, struck us both at the
same instant, and occasioned a fit of laughter, which we did not check till
we recollected with what dissonance any approach to mirth must strike the
ear of the prisoner (for such he was in fact, if not in name) in the adjoining
apartment.
“Now, sir; come, Mr. Fairlegh, you'll be late for breakfast,” were the first
sounds that reached my understanding on the following morning: I say
understanding, as I had heard, mixed up with my dreams, sundry noises
produced by unclosing shutters, arranging water-jugs, etc., which appeared
to my sleep-bewildered senses to have been going on for at least half an
hour. My faculties not being sufficiently aroused to enable me to speak,
Thomas continued, “You'll be late, Mr. Fairlegh”; then came an aside, “My
wig, how he do sleep! I hope he ain't been a-taking lauddelum, or
morpheus, or anything of a somnambulous natur. I wouldn't be master,
always to have six boys a weighing on my mind, for all the wealth of the
Ingies.—Mr. Fairlegh, I say!”

“There, don't make such a row,” replied I, jumping out of bed and
making a dash at my clothes; “is it late?”
“Jest nine o'clock, sir; master and Mr. Cumberland's been gone these two
hours. Shocking affair that, sir; it always gives me quite a turn when any of
our gents is expelled: it's like being thrown out of place at a minute's
warning, as I said to cook only this morning. 'Cook,' says I, 'life's a curious
thing,' there's——”
“The breakfast bell ringing, by all that's unlucky,” exclaimed I; and
downstairs I ran, with one arm in, and one out of my jacket, leaving
Thomas to conclude his speculations on the mutability of human affairs as
he best might, solus.
“How are we going to kill time to-day?” inquired Oaklands, as soon as
we had done breakfast.
“We mustn't do anything to outrage the proprieties,” said Coleman;
“remember we are on parole d'honneur.”
“On a fiddlestick,” interrupted Lawless; “let's all ride over to the Duke of
York, at Bradford, shoot some pigeons, have a champagne breakfast, and be
home again in time for the old woman's feed at five o'clock. I daresay I can
pick up one or two fellows to go with us.”
“No,” said Oaklands, “that sort of thing won't do to-day. I quite agree
with Freddy, we ought not to do anything to annoy the Doctor upon this
occasion; come, Lawless, I'm sure you'll say so too, if you give it a
moment's thought.”
“Well, he's a good old fellow in his way, I know, but what are we to be at
then? something I must do, if it's only to keep me out of mischief.”
“It's a lovely day; let us hire a boat, and have a row,” suggested Coleman.
“That's not against the laws, is it?” asked Oaklands.
“Not a bit,” replied Coleman; “we used to go pulling about like bricks
last summer, and Mildman rather approved of it than otherwise, and said it
was a very healthy exercise.”
“Yes, that will do,” said Lawless; “I feel savage this morning, and a good
pull will take it out of me as well as anything. Now, don't go wasting time;
let's get ready, and be off;” and accordingly in less than half an hour we
were prepared, and on our way to the beach.

“How are we going to do it?” inquired Lawless; “you'll take an oar,
Oaklands?”
Oaklands replied in the affirmative.
“Can you row, Fairlegh?”
I answered that I could a little.
"That will do famously, then,” said Lawless; “we'll have a four-oar;
Wilson has a capital little boat that will be just the thing; Freddy can steer,
he's a very fair hand at it, and we four fellows will pull, so that we need not
be bothered with a boatman. I do abominate those chaps, they are such a set
of humbugs.”
No objection was made to this plan. Lawless succeeded in getting the
boat he wished for; it was launched without any misadventure, and we took
our places, and began pulling away merrily, with the wind (what little there
was) and tide both in our favour.
The morning was beautiful: it was one of those enjoyable days, which
sometimes occur in early spring, in which Nature, seeming to overleap at a
bound the barrier between winter and summer, gives us a delightful
foretaste of the good things she has in store for us. The clear bright sea, its
surface just ruffled by a slight breeze from the south-west, sparkled in the
sunshine, and fell in diamond showers from our oars as we raised them out
of the water, while the calm serenity of the deep blue sky above us
appeared, indeed, a fitting emblem of that heaven, in which “the wicked
cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest”.
The peaceful beauty of the scene seemed to impress even the restless
spirits of which our little party was composed, and, by common consent, we
ceased rowing, and suffered the boat to drift with the tide, merely pulling a
stroke now and then to keep her head in the right direction. After drifting
for some twenty minutes or so in the manner I have described Lawless, who
never could remain quiet long, dropped the blade of his oar into the water
with a splash that made us all start, exclaiming as he did so:—
“Well, this may be very sentimental and romantic, and all that sort of
thing, but it doesn't strike me as particularly entertaining. Why, you fellows
were all asleep, I believe.”
“Heigho!” exclaimed Oaklands, rousing himself, with a deep sigh, “I was
in such a delicious reverie; what a barbarian you are, Lawless! you seem

utterly ignorant of the pleasures of the dolce-far-niente.”
“Dolce-far-devilskin!” was the reply, in tones of the greatest contempt. “I
would not be as lazy as you are, Oaklands, for any money. You are fitter to
lounge about in some old woman's drawing-room, than to handle an oar.”
“Well, I don't know,” answered Oaklands, quietly, “but I think I can pull as
long as you can.”
"You do, do you?” rejoined Lawless, “it will be odd to me, if you can. I
don't think I was stroke-oar in the crack boat at Eton for a year, without
knowing how to row a little; what do you say to having a try at once?”
“With all my heart,” replied Oaklands, divesting himself of his waistcoat,
braces, and neckcloth—which latter article he braced tightly round his waist
—an example speedily followed by Lawless, who exclaimed, as he
completed his preparations:—
“Now, you young shavers, pull in your oars, and we'll give you a ride, all
free, gratis, for nothing”.
Mullins and I hastened to comply with Lawless's directions, by placing
the oars and seating ourselves so as not to interfere with the trim of the
boat; while he and Oaklands, each taking a firm grasp of his oar,
commenced pulling away in real earnest. They were more evenly matched
than may be at first imagined, for Lawless, though much shorter than
Oaklands, was very square-built and broad about the shoulders, and his
arms, which were unusually long in proportion to his height, presented a
remarkable development of muscle, while it was evident, from the manner
in which he handled his oar, that he was the more practised rower of the
two. The boat, urged by their powerful strokes, appeared to fly through the
water, while cliff and headland (we were rowing along shore about half a
mile from the beach) came in view and disappeared again like scenes in
some moving panorama. We must now have proceeded some miles, yet still
the rival champions continued their exertions with unabated energy and a
degree of strength that seemed inexhaustible. Greatly interested in the
event, I had at first watched the contending parties with anxious attention,
but, perceiving that the efforts they were making did not produce any
visible effects upon them, and that the struggle was likely to be a protracted
one, I took advantage of the opportunity to open a letter from my sister,
which I had received just as I was leaving the house. I was sorry to find, on
perusing it, that my father had been suffering from an inflammatory attack,

brought on by a cold which he had caught in returning from a visit to a sick
parishioner, through a pouring rain. A postscript from my mother, however,
added that I need not make myself in the least uneasy, as the apothecary
assured her that my father was going on as well as possible, and would
probably be quite restored in the course of a week or so. On observing the
date of the letter I found I ought to have received it the day before. Arguing
from this (on the “no-news-being-good-news” system) that I should have
heard again if anything had gone wrong, I dismissed the subject from my
mind, and was reading Fanny's account of a juvenile party she had been at
in the neighbourhood, when my attention was roused by Coleman, who,
laying his hand on my shoulder, said:
“Look out, Frank, it won't be long now before we shall see who's best
man; the work's beginning to tell”.
Thus invoked, I raised my eyes, and perceived that a change had come
over the aspect of affairs while I had been engaged with my letter. Oaklands
and Lawless were still rowing with the greatest energy, but it appeared to
me that their strokes were drawn with less and less vigour each succeeding
time, while their flushed faces, and heavy breathing, proved that the severe
labour they had undergone had not been without its effect. The only visible
difference between them was, that Lawless, from his superior training, had
not, as a jocky would say, “turned a hair,” while the perspiration hung in big
drops upon the brow of Oaklands, and the knotted, swollen veins of his
hands stood out like tightly strained cordage.
“Hold hard!” shouted Lawless. “I say, Harry,” he continued, as soon as
they left off rowing, “how are you getting on?”
“I have been cooler in my life,” replied Oaklands, wiping his face with
his handkerchief.
“Well, I think it's about a drawn battle,” said Lawless; “though I am free
to confess, that if you were in proper training, I should be no match for you,
even with the oar.”
“What made you stop just then?” inquired Oaklands; “I'm sure I could
have kept on for a quarter of an hour longer, if not more.”
“So could I,” replied Lawless, “ay, or for half an hour, if I had been put to
it; but I felt the work was beginning to tell, I saw you were getting used up,
and I recollected that we should have to row back with the wind against us,

which, as the breeze is freshening, will be no such easy matter; so I thought
if we went on till we were both done up we should be in a regular fix.”
“It's lucky you remembered it,” said Oaklands; “I was so excited, I
should have gone on pulling as long as I could have held an oar; we must be
some distance from Helmstone by this time. Have you any idea
whereabouts we are?”
“Let's have a look,” rejoined Lawless. “Yes, that tall cliff you see there is
the Nag's Head, and in the little bay beyond stands the village of Fisherton.
I vote we go ashore there, have some bread and cheese, and a draught of
porter at the inn, and then we shall be able to pull back again twice as well.”
This proposal seemed to afford general satisfaction; Mullins and I
resumed our oars, and, in less than half an hour, we were safely ensconced
in the sanded parlour of the Dolphin, while the pretty bar-maid, upon whom
also devolved the duties of waitress, hastened to place before us a smoking
dish of eggs and bacon, which we had chosen in preference to red herrings
—the only other dainty the Dolphin had to offer us—Coleman observing
that a “hard roe” was the only part of a herring worth eating, and we had
had that already, as we came along.
“I say, my dear, have you got any bottled porter?” inquired Lawless.
“Yes, sir, and very good it is,” replied the smiling damsel.
“That's a blessing,” observed Coleman, piously.
“Bring us up a lot of it, my beauty,” resumed Lawless, “and some pewter
pots—porter's twice as good out of its own native pewter.”
Thus exhorted, the blooming waitress tripped off, and soon returned with
a basket containing six bottles of porter.
“That's the time of day,” said Lawless; “now for a corkscrew, pretty one;
here you are, Oaklands.”
“I must own that is capital, after such hard work as we have been doing,”
observed Oaklands, as he emptied the pewter pot at a draught.
“I say, Mary,” asked Coleman, “what's gone of that young man that used
to keep company along with you—that nice young chap, that had such
insinivatin ways with him?”
“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, sir; I've nothink to say
to no young man whatsumever,” replied the damsel addressed, shaking her

curls coquettishly.
“Ah!” sighed Coleman, “if I were but single now.”
“Why, you never mean to say you've got a wife already, such a very
young gentleman as you are?”
“Not only that, but a small family with a large appetite,” continued
Coleman, pathetically.
“Well, I never,” exclaimed the bar-maid, surprised, for once, out of her
company manners; then, observing a smile, at her expense, going the round
of the party, she added, “I see how it is; you are making fun of me, sir; oh,
fie, you're a wicked young gentleman, I know you are.”
“Never mind him, my dear,” said Lawless, “but give me another bottle of
porter.”
In converse such as this the meal and the half-dozen of porter were
finished; in addition to which Lawless chose to have a glass of brandy-and-
water and a cigar. Having been rendered unusually hungry by the sea air
and the unaccustomed exercise of rowing, I had both eaten and drunk more
than I was in the habit of doing, to which cause may be attributed my
falling into a doze; an example which, I have every reason to believe, was
followed by most of the others. I know not how long my nap had lasted,
when I was aroused by hearing Coleman exclaim:—
“Why I think it rains! Lawless, wake up! I don't much like the look of the
weather.”
“What's the row?” inquired Lawless, leisurely removing his legs from the
table on which they had been resting, and walking to the window—a feat,
by the way, he did not perform quite as steadily as usual. “By Jove!” he
continued, “the wind's blowing great guns; we must look sharp, and be off
—we shall have the sea getting up.”
Accordingly, the bill was rung for and paid; Mary received half a crown
and a kiss from Lawless, and down we ran to the beach, where difficulties
we were little prepared for awaited us.

CHAPTER XI — BREAKERS AHEAD!
“Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of
barren ground.... The wills above be done! but I would
fain die a dry death.”

“I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he hath
no drowning mark upon him.”—Tempest.

THE wind, which we had observed was rising when we landed, had
increased during our stay at the inn, and was now blowing almost a gale
from the south-west; whilst the sea, which we had left smooth as a lake,
was rolling in and breaking on the beach in somewhat formidable waves.
“I tell you what,” said Coleman, as soon as he had observed the state of
affairs, “I won't attempt to steer in such a sea as that; it requires great skill
and judgment, besides a stronger hand than mine, to keep the boat's head
right; if I were to let her turn her broadside to one of those waves, it would
be a case of 'Found drowned' with some of us, before long.”
“What's to be done, then?” inquired Oaklands. “I am sure I can't do it: it's
a thing I'm quite ignorant of; all my boating having been on the river.”
“Let's hire one of those amphibious beggars out there to steer for us,”
proposed Lawless, pointing to a group of fishermen who were lounging
round an old boat, not far from where we stood; “they're up to all the right
dodges, you may depend. Here, my men! which of you will earn half a
guinea by steering our boat for us to Helmstone?”
“I wouldn't, master, for ten times the money,” replied an old weather-
beaten boatman, in a tarpaulin hat; “and if you'll take an old man's advice,
gentlemen, you'll none of you venture out in that cockle-shell this
afternoon; the wind's getting up every minute, and we shall have a rough
night of it.”
“Nonsense,” replied Lawless; “I've often been out in worse weather than
this. Are you, all of you, frightened by that old woman's croaking?”
continued he, turning to the group of men.
“He's no old woman,” replied a sturdy fellow, in a rough pea-jacket; “he's
been a better sailor than ever you'll be, and he's right now too,” he added.

“It's as much as a man's life is worth to go to sea in that bit of a thing, with
the waves running in as they do now—and with such a set of landlubbers as
them for a crew,” he muttered, turning away.
“Suppose we try and get something to take us home by land,” suggested
Oaklands; “and leave the boat for some of these good fellows to bring
home, as soon as the weather will allow.”
“You'll have to walk, sir,” replied one of them, civilly; “I don't believe
there's a cart or horse in the place; they all went inland this morning with
fish, and won't return till to-morrow.”
“There, you hear that,” said Lawless, who had just drunk enough to
render him captious and obstinate. “I'm not going to walk to please
anybody's fancy; I see how it is,—I did not bid high enough. A couple of
guineas for any one who will come with us,” added he.
“A couple of guineas is not to be got every day,” observed a sullen,
downcast-looking man, who had not yet spoken; “and it is not much odds to
me whether I sink or swim now; those custom-house sharks,” added he,
with an oath, “look so close after one, that one can't do a stroke of work that
will pay a fellow nowadays. Money down, and I'm your man, sir,” he
added, turning to Lawless.
“That's the ticket,” said Lawless, handing him the money. “I'm glad to
see one of you, at least, has got a little pluck about him. Come along.”
I could see that Oaklands did not at all approve of the plan, evidently
considering we were running a foolish risk; but, as nothing short of a direct
quarrel with Lawless could have prevented it, his habitual indolence and
easy temper prevailed, and he remained silent. I felt much inclined to
object, in which case I had little doubt the majority of the party would have
supported me; but a boyish dread, lest my refusal should be attributed to
cowardice, prevented my doing so. With the assistance of the by-standers
we contrived to launch our little bark without further misadventure than a
rather heavier sprinkling of salt water than was agreeable. Rowing in such a
sea, however, proved much harder work than I, for one, had any idea of; we
made scarcely any way against the waves, and I soon felt sure that it would
be utterly impossible for us to reach Helmstone by any exertions we were
capable of making. The weather too was becoming worse every minute: it
rained heavily, and it was with the greatest difficulty we were able to
prevent the crests of some of the larger waves from dashing into our boat; in

fact, as it was, she was already half full of water, which poured in faster
than Coleman (who was the only person not otherwise engaged) could bale
it out.
“Upon my word, Lawless, it's madness to attempt to go on,” exclaimed
Oaklands; “we are throwing away our lives for nothing.”
“It certainly looks rather queerish,” replied Lawless. “What do you say
about it, my man?” he asked of the person whom he had engaged to steer
us.
“I say,” replied the fellow in a surly tone, “that our only chance is to
make for the beach at once, and we shall have better luck than we deserve,
if we reach it alive.”
As he spoke a larger wave than usual broke against the bow of the boat,
flinging in such a body of water that we felt her stagger under it, and I
believed, for a moment, that we were about to sink. This decided the
question; the boat's head was put about with some difficulty, and we were
soon straining every nerve to reach the shore. As we neared the beach we
perceived that even during the short time which had elapsed since we
quitted it, the sea had become considerably rougher, and the line of surf
now presented anything but an encouraging appearance. As we approached
the breakers the steersman desired us to back with our oars till he saw a
favourable opportunity; and the moment he gave us the signal to pull in as
hard as we were able. After a short pause the signal was given, and we
attempted to pull in as he had directed; but, in doing this, we did not act
exactly in concert—Lawless taking his stroke too soon, while Mullins did
not make his soon enough; consequently, we missed the precise moment,
the boat turned broadside to the beach, a wave poured over us, and in
another instant we were struggling in the breakers. For my own part, I
succeeded in gaining my legs, only to be thrown off them again by the next
wave, which hurried me along with it, and flung me on the shingle, when
one of the group of fishermen who had witnessed the catastrophe ran in,
and seizing me by the arm, in time to prevent my being washed back again
by the under-tow, dragged me out of the reach of the waves.
On recovering my feet my first impulse was to look round for my
companions. I at once perceived Lawless, Mullins, and Oaklands, who were
apparently uninjured, though the latter held his hand pressed against his

forehead, as if in pain; but Coleman was nowhere to be seen. “Where is
Coleman?” exclaimed I.
“There is some one clinging to the boat still,” observed a by-stander.
I looked anxiously in the direction indicated, and perceived the boat
floating bottom upwards, just beyond the line of breakers; while, clinging to
the keel, was a figure which I instantly recognised to be that of Coleman.
“Oh, save him, save him; he will be drowned!” cried I, in an agony of fear.
“Ten guineas for any one who will get him out!” shouted Lawless; but
nobody seemed inclined to stir.
“Give me a rope,” cried I, seizing the end of a coil which one of the
boatmen had over his shoulder, and tying it round my waist.
“What are you going to do?” asked Lawless.
While he spoke a large wave separated Coleman from the boat, and, as it
poured its huge volume upon the beach, bore him along with it. With the
swiftness of thought I sprang forward, and succeeded in throwing my arms
round him, ere the next advancing wave dashed over us. And now my
foresight in fastening the rope around me proved, under Providence, the
means of saving both our lives. Though thrown to the ground by the force
of the water I contrived to retain my grasp of Coleman, and we were hauled
up and conveyed beyond the reach of the surf by the strong arms of those
on shore, ere another wave could approach to claim its victims.

On recovering my consciousness (I had been partially stunned by the
violence of my last fall) I found myself lying on the beach, with my head
resting on the breast of Oaklands.
“My dear, dear Frank, thank God that you are safe!” exclaimed he,
pressing me more closely to him.
“What of Coleman?” asked I, endeavouring to raise myself.
“They are taking him to the inn,” was the reply; “I will go and see if I can
be of any use, now I know you are unhurt; but I could not leave you till I
felt sure of that.”
“I fancied you seemed in pain just now,” said I.
“I struck my head against some part of the boat when she capsized,”
returned Oaklands, “and the blow stunned me for a minute or two, so that I
knew nothing of what was going on till I saw you rush into the water to

save Coleman; that roused me effectually, and I helped them to pull you
both out. Frank, you have saved his life.”
“If it is saved,” rejoined I. “Let us go and see how he is getting on; I
think I can walk now, if you will let me lean upon your arm.”
With the assistance of Oaklands I contrived to reach the inn without
much difficulty; indeed, by the time I got there (the walk having served in
great measure to restore my circulation) I scarcely felt any ill effects from
my late exertions. The inn presented a rare scene of confusion: people were
hurrying in and out, the messenger sent for the doctor had just returned,
breathless, to say he was not to be found; the fat landlady, in a state of the
greatest excitement, was trotting about making impracticable suggestions,
to which no one paid the slightest attention, while Coleman, still insensible,
lay wrapped in blankets before a blazing fire in the parlour, with the pretty
barmaid on her knees beside him sobbing piteously, as she chafed his
temples with some strong essence.
“That's the time of day!” exclaimed Lawless, as his eye fell upon a
printed card which the landlady had just thrust into his hand, headed, “The
directions of the Humane Society for the restoration of persons apparently
drowned”. “We shall have it now all right,” added he, and then read as
follows: “The first observation we must make, which is most important, is,
that rolling the body on a tub—”
“Bring a tub,” cried the landlady eagerly, and off started several of the
by-standers to follow her injunctions—
“Is most injurious,” continued Lawless; “but holding up by the legs with
the head downwards”—(a party of volunteers, commanded by the landlady,
rushed forward to obtain possession of Coleman's legs)—“is certain death,”
shouted Lawless, concluding the sentence.
While this was going on I had been rubbing Coleman's hands between
my own, in the hope of restoring circulation; and now, to my extreme
delight, I perceived a slight pulsation at the wrist; next came a deep sigh,
followed by a tremulous motion of the limbs; and, before five minutes were
over, he was sufficiently restored to sit up, and recognise those about him.
After this, his recovery progressed with such rapidity that ere half an hour
had elapsed he was able to listen with interest to Oaklands' account of the
circumstances attending his rescue, when Lawless, hastily entering the
room, exclaimed: “Here's a slice of good luck, at all events; there's a post-

chaise just stopped, returning to Helmstone, and the boy agrees to take us
all for a shilling a head, as soon as he has done watering his horses. How is
Freddy getting on?—will he be able to go?”
“All right, old fellow,” replied Coleman. “Thanks to Fairlegh in the first
instance, and a stiff glass of brandy-and-water in the second, 'Richard's
himself again!'”
“Well, you've had a near shave for it this time, however,” said Lawless;
“there is more truth than I was aware of in the old proverb, 'If you are born
to be hanged, you will never be drowned'; though, if it had not been for
Frank Fairlegh, you would not have lived to fulfil your destiny.”
In another ten minutes we were all packed in and about the post-chaise;
Coleman, Oaklands, and myself occupying the interior, while Lawless and
Mullins rode outside. The promise of an extra half-crown induced the driver
to use his best speed. At a quarter before five we were within a stone's-
throw of home; and if that day at dinner Mrs. Mildman observed the pale
looks and jaded appearance of some of the party, I have every reason to
believe she has remained up to the present hour in total ignorance as to their
cause.

CHAPTER XII — DEATH AND CHANGE
“The voice which I did more esteem
Than music on her sweetest key;

Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day;

Those now by me, as they have been,
Shall never more be heard or seen;

But what I once enjoyed in them,
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

“All earthly comforts vanish thus;
So little hold of them have we;

That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment ravished be.

Yet we are neither just nor wise
If present mercies we despise,

Or mind not how these may be made
A thankful use of what we had.”
—Wither.

“Up springs at every step to claim a tear
Some youthful friendship form'd and cherish'd here.”
—Rogers.

“Time flies away fast!
The while we never remember—
How soon our life here
Grows old with the year
That dies with the next December.”
—Herrick.

AS I was undressing that night Coleman came into my room, and
grasping my hand with his own shook it warmly, saying: “I could not go to
sleep, Frank, without coming to thank you for the noble way in which you
risked your own life to save mine to-day. I laughed it off before Lawless
and the rest of the fellows, for when I feel deeply, I hate to show it; but
indeed,” (and the tears stood in his eyes while he spoke), “indeed I am not
ungrateful.”
“My dear Freddy,” returned I, “do not suppose I thought you so for a
moment; there, say no more about it; you would have done the same thing
for me that I did for you, had our positions been reversed.”

“I am not so sure of that,” was his reply; “I should have wished to do so;
but it is not every one who can act with such promptitude and decision in
moments of danger.”
"There is one request I should like to make,” said I.
“What is it?” replied he quickly.
“Do not forget to thank Him, whose instrument I was, for having so
mercifully preserved your life.”
A silent pressure of the hand was the only answer, and we parted for the
night.
Owing, probably, to over-fatigue, it was some little time before I went to
sleep. As I lay courting the fickle goddess (or god as the case may be, for,
mythologically speaking, I believe Somnus was a he), I could not help
contrasting my present feelings with those which I had experienced on the
first night of my arrival. Then, overcome by the novelty of my situation,
filled with a lively dread of my tutor, bullied and despised by my
companions, and separated for what I deemed an interminable period from
all who were dear to me, my position was far from an enviable one.. Now,
how different was the aspect of affairs! With my tutor, who, from an object
of dread, had become one of esteem and affection, I had every reason to
believe myself a favourite; I was on terms of the closest friendship with
those of my companions whose intimacy was best worth cultivating; while
with the others I had gained a standing which would effectually prevent
their ever venturing seriously to annoy me; and, above all, I had acquired
that degree of self-confidence, without which one is alike impotent to
choose the good or to refuse the evil. And it was with an honest pride that I
reflected, that this improvement in my position was mainly owing to a
steady adherence to those principles, which it had been the constant aim of
my dear parents to instil into me from my childhood. I fell asleep at last,
endeavouring to picture to myself the delight of relating my adventures on
my return home; how my mother and sister would shudder over the dangers
I had escaped, while my father would applaud the spirit which had carried
me through them. The vision was a bright and happy one: would it ever be
realised?
To our surprise, we learned the next morning that Dr. Mildman had
arrived by the last coach the previous evening, having fortunately met with
Cumberland's uncle at his house of business in town, and delivered his

nephew into his safe custody without further loss of time. The breakfast
passed over without the Doctor making any inquiry how we had amused
ourselves during his absence, nor, as may easily be believed, did we
volunteer information on the subject. On returning to the pupils' room I
found a letter, in my sister's handwriting, lying on the table. With a feeling
of dread for which I could not account, I hastened to peruse it. Alas! the
contents only served to realise my worst apprehensions. My father's illness
had suddenly assumed a most alarming character, inflammation having
attacked the lungs with such violence that the most active measures had
failed to subdue it, and the physician, whom my mother had summoned on
the first appearance of danger, scarcely held out the slightest hope of his
recovery. Under these circumstances my mother wished me to return home
without loss of time, as my father, before he became delirious, had desired
that I might be sent for, expressing himself most anxious to see me; and the
letter concluded with a line in my mother's handwriting, exhorting me to
make every exertion to reach home without delay, if I wished to find him
alive. For a minute or two I sat with the letter still open in my hand, as if
stunned by the intelligence I had received; then, recollecting that every
instant was of importance, I sprang up, saying, “Where's Dr. Mildman? I
must see him directly.”
“My dear Frank, is anything the matter? you are not ill?” inquired
Oaklands anxiously.
“You have received some bad news, I am afraid,” said Coleman.
“My father is very ill, dying perhaps,” replied I, while the tears, which I
in vain endeavoured to restrain, trickled down my cheeks. After giving way
to my feelings for a minute or two, the necessity for action again flashed
across me.
“What time is it now?” inquired I, drying my eyes.
“Just ten,” replied Oaklands, looking at his watch.
“There is a coach which starts at the half-hour, is there not?”
“Yes, the Highflyer, the best drag on the road,” returned Lawless; “takes
you to town in five hours, and does the thing well too.”
“I must go by that then,” replied I.
“What can I do to help you?” asked Coleman.

“If you would put a few things into my bag for me, while I speak to the
Doctor,” rejoined I.
“I will go and get a fly for you,” said Lawless, “and then I can pick out a
nag that will move his pins a bit; that will save you ten minutes, and you
have no time to lose.”
On acquainting Dr. Mildman with the sad intelligence I had received, and
the necessity which existed for me to depart immediately, he at once gave
me his permission to do so; and, after speaking kindly to me, and showing
the deepest sympathy for my distress, said he would not detain me longer,
as I must have preparations to make, but should like to see me the last thing
before I started, and wish me good-bye.
I found, on reaching my own room, my carpet-bag already packed:
Coleman and Thomas (whose honest face wore an expression of genuine
commiseration) having exerted themselves to save me all trouble on that
head. Nothing, therefore, remained for me to do, but to take leave of my
fellow-pupils and Dr. Mildman. After shaking hands with Lawless and
Mullins (the former assuring me, as he did so, that I was certain not to be
late, for he had succeeded in securing a trap, with a very spicy little nag in
it, which would have me there in no time) I hastened to take leave of my
tutor. The kindhearted Doctor inquired whether I had sufficient money for
my journey, and, begging me to write him word how I got home, shook me
warmly by the hand, saying, as he did so, “God bless you, my boy! I trust
you may find your father better; but if this should not be the case, remember
whose hand it is inflicts the blow, and strive to say, 'Thy will be done'. We
shall have you among us again soon, I hope; but should anything prevent
your return, I wish you to know that I am perfectly satisfied with the
progress you have made in your studies; and, in other respects, you have
never given me a moment's uneasiness since you first entered my house.
Once more, good-bye; and remember, if ever you should want a friend, you
will find one in Samuel Mildman.”
The fly-horse proved itself deserving of Lawless's panegyric, and I
arrived at the coach-office in time to secure a seat outside the Highflyer.
After taking an affectionate leave of Oaklands and Coleman, who had
accompanied me, I ascended to my place; the coachman mounted his box,
exactly as the clock chimed the halfhour the horses sprang forward with a

bound, and ere ten minutes had elapsed Helmstone lay at least a couple of
miles behind us.
I accomplished my journey more quickly than I had deemed possible,
and had the melancholy satisfaction of reaching home in time to receive my
father's blessing. The powerful remedies to which they had been obliged to
have recourse had produced their effect; the inflammation was subdued; but
the struggle had been protracted too long, and his constitution, already
enfeebled by a life of constant labour and self-denial, was unable to rally.
Having given me a solemn charge to cherish and protect my mother and
sister, he commended us all to the care of Him who is emphatically termed
“the God of the fatherless and widow”; and then, his only earthly care being
ended, he prepared to meet Death, as those alone can do to whom “to die is
gain”. When the last beam of the setting sun threw a golden tint around the
spire of the little village church those lips which had so often breathed the
words of prayer and praise within its sacred walls were mute for ever, and
the gentle spirit which animated them had returned to God who gave it!
In regard to this portion of my career, but little more remains to be told.
My father's income being chiefly derived from his church preferment, and
his charities having been conducted on too liberal a scale to allow of his
laying by money, the funds which remained at my mother's disposal after
winding up his affairs, though enough to secure us from actual poverty,
were not sufficient to allow of my continuing an inmate of an establishment
so expensive as that of Dr. Mildman. On being informed of this change of
circumstances the Doctor wrote to my mother in the kindest manner;
speaking of me in terms of praise which I will not repeat, and inquiring
what were her future views in regard to me; expressing his earnest desire to
assist them to the utmost of his ability. At the same time I received letters
from Oaklands and Coleman full of lamentations that I was not likely to
return; and promising, in the warmth of their hearts, that their respective
fathers should assist me in all ways, possible and impossible. Mr. Coleman,
senior, in particular, was to do most unheard-of things for me; indeed,
Freddy more than hinted that through his agency I might consider myself
secure of the Attorney-Generalship, with a speedy prospect of becoming
Lord Chancellor. I also found enclosed a very characteristic note from
Lawless, wherein he stated, that if I really was likely to be obliged to earn
my own living, he could put me up to a dodge, by which all the

disagreeables of having so to do might be avoided. This infallible recipe
proved to be a scheme for my turning stage-coachman! After citing
numerous examples of gentlemen who had done so (amongst whom the
name of a certain baronet stood forth in high pre-eminence), he wound up
by desiring me to give the scheme my serious attention, and, if I agreed to
it, to come and spend a month with him when he returned home at
midsummer; by the end of which time he would engage to turn me out as
finished a “Waggoner” as ever handled the ribbons.
To these letters I despatched suitable replies, thanking the writers for
their kindness, but refusing to avail myself of their offers, at all events for
the present; and I finished by expressing a hope, that, be my fate in life
what it might, I should still preserve the regard and esteem of the friends
whose affection I prized so highly.
For some months after my father's death I continued to live at the rectory;
Mr. Dalton, the new incumbent, who had been his curate, and was
unmarried, kindly allowing my mother to remain there till her plans for the
future should be so far arranged as to enable her to determine in what part
of the country it would be advisable for her to reside. It had been my
father's wish and intention, when I should have attained a fit age, to send
me to one of the universities: a wish my mother was most anxious to carry
into effect. In order to accomplish this wish with her reduced means, it
would have been necessary for her, not only to have practised the strictest
economy, but also, in great measure, to have sacrificed my sister's
education, as she would have been utterly unable to afford the advantage of
masters. To this, of course, I would not consent; after much discussion,
therefore, the idea of college was reluctantly given up, and, as a last
resource, my mother applied to an uncle of hers, engaged in the West India
trade, begging him to endeavour to procure for me a clerkship in some
mercantile establishment. She received a very kind reply, saying that,
although he considered me too young at present to be chained to a desk, he
should advise me to apply myself diligently to the study of French and
book-keeping; and ending by offering me a situation in his own counting-
house when I should be eighteen. As my only alternative lay between
accepting this offer (however little suited to my taste), or remaining a
burden upon my mother, it may easily be imagined that I lost no time in
signifying my desire to avail myself of his kindness; and, ere a couple of
months had elapsed, I had plunged deeply into the mysteries of book-

keeping, and could jabber French with tolerable fluency. I was still working
away at “Double Entry,” and other horrors of a like nature, when one
morning I received a large business-like letter, in an unknown hand, the
contents of which astonished me not a little, as well they might; for they
proved to be of a nature once more entirely to change my prospects in life.
The epistle came from Messrs. Coutts, the bankers, and stated that they
were commissioned to pay me the sum of four hundred pounds per annum,
in quarterly payments, for the purpose of defraying my expenses at college;
the only stipulations being, that the money should be used for the purpose
specified, that I did not contract any debts whatsoever, and that I made no
inquiries, direct or indirect, as to the source from which the sum proceeded.
In the event of my complying with these conditions, the same allowance
was to be continued to me till I should have taken my degree.
The immediate consequence of this most unexpected communication
was, our devoting the greater part of a morning to vain speculations as to
the possible source from which this liberal offer might have proceeded.
After guessing every one we could think of, likely or unlikely, we ended, as
is usual in such cases, by becoming decidedly more puzzled than when we
began. The only person with whom I was acquainted, possessing both the
will and the power to do such a thing, was Sir John Oaklands; but he had
already, in the kindest manner, tried to persuade my mother to allow me to
accompany Harry to Trinity College, Cambridge, begging to be permitted to
defray the expenses of my so doing himself; an offer which she (not
choosing to place herself under so heavy an obligation to a comparative
stranger) had, with many expressions of gratitude, declined. After
consulting with our friend Mr. Dalton, it was decided that I should signify
to Messrs. Coutts my readiness to comply with the required conditions,
begging them to convey my best thanks to my mysterious benefactor, and to
inform him that it was my intention (subject to his approval) to enter my
name at Trinity without loss of time. In answer to this I received the
following laconic epistle:—
“Messrs. Coutts beg to inform Mr. Frank Fairlegh, that, in reply to his
favour of the 21st ult., they are desired to state, that the sum of four hundred
pounds per annum will be placed at his disposal whenever he applies for it”.
I now resumed my studies under the superintendence of Mr. Dalton, who
had taken a good degree at Cambridge; and, alike delighted at my escape

from the counting-house, and anxious to do credit to my benefactor's
liberality, I determined to make the best use of my time, and worked con
amore. In this manner the next year and a half passed away without
anything worthy of remark occurring. I was happy to perceive a gradual
improvement taking place in my mother's health and spirits, while Fanny
was developing into a very pretty and agreeable girl.
Towards the expiration of this period Mr. Dalton saw fit to take unto
himself a wife, a circumstance which induced my mother to accept the offer
of a cottage belonging to Sir John Oaklands, which was suited to her
limited means. It was situated within the park gates, about a mile from
Heathfield Hall, and, though small, appeared well-built, and exceedingly
pretty.
This was an arrangement of which I highly approved, as it enabled me to
renew my intercourse with Harry, who, having left Dr. Mildman's, was
spending a few months at home with his father previous to his matriculation
at Trinity. I found him but little altered in any respect, save that he had
become more manly-looking. For the rest, he was just as good-tempered,
kind-hearted, and, alas! indolent as ever. He informed me that Lawless also
was going to Cambridge, and that Coleman, when he learned what a party
of us there would be, had been most anxious to accompany us; but his
father, unfortunately, did not approve, and he was now articled to a solicitor,
with a view to his succeeding eventually to his father's practice.
Time rolled on, and another three months beheld us duly installed in our
rooms at Trinity, and dividing our time between reading (more or less, in
accordance with our various idiosyncrasies), boating on the Cam, billiard-
playing at Chesterton, et hoc genus omne.
Of the details of my college life I shall say but little, a piece of
forbearance for which I consider myself entitled to the everlasting gratitude
of my readers, who, if they have not had their curiosity on that subject more
than satisfied by the interminable narrations of “Peter Priggins,” and his
host of imitators, must indeed be insatiable. Suffice it then to say, that,
having from the first determined, if possible, to obtain a good degree, I
made a resolute stand against the advances of Lawless (who, in
consequence of his father's having, for some reason best known to himself
and the Premier, received a peerage, had now become an “honourable”) and
the “rowing set,” amongst whom, by a sort of freemasonry of kindred souls,

he had become enrolled immediately on his arrival. After several fruitless
attempts to shake my determination, they pronounced me an incorrigible
“sap,” and, leaving me to my own devices, proceeded to try their powers
upon Oaklands. They met with but little success in this quarter, however;
not that with him they had any indomitable love of study to contend with,
but that “all that sort of thing was too much trouble; he really didn't believe
there was a single fellow among the whole lot who had the slightest
appreciation of the dolce far niente”. When, however, they found out that
upon an emergency Harry could excel them all—whatever might be the
nature of the feat to be performed—and that I could cross a country, pull an
oar, or handle a bat with the best of them, they set us down as a pair of
eccentric geniuses, and as such admitted us to a kind of honorary
membership in their worshipful society; and thus, 'twixt work and play, the
first two years of my residence at Cambridge passed happily enough.

CHAPTER XIII — CATCHING A SHRIMP
“Give me that boy.”
—Shakspeare.

“I was there
From college, visiting the son.”
—Princess.

“To bring in, Heaven shield us, a lion among ladies, is a
most dreadful thing.”
—Shakspeare.

“A MIGHTY stupid chapter that last!” “True for you, A reader, but how
was it to be avoided? It was necessary to give you that short summary of
my proceedings, the better to enable you to understand all that is to follow,
and so, don't you see?”
“Yes, that will do. Above all things, Master Frank, avoid being prosy; it is
the worst fault an author can fall into.”
“Reader, you're very cross!”
It was towards the close of the long vacation that, one morning as I was
sitting at breakfast with my mother and sister, a note was brought to me. On
opening it, it proved to be from Coleman, whose father had lately taken a
country-house near Hillingford, a small town about fifteen miles from
Heathfield, where he was now about to give a grand ball to all the
neighbourhood by way of house-warming. At this ball Freddy (with whom I
had kept up a constant correspondence, though we had never met since I
left Dr. Mildman's) was most anxious I should be present, and his letter was
really a master-piece of persuasion: not only should I meet all the beauty
and fashion of the county, but he had for some days past employed himself
in paving the way for me with several of the most desirable young ladies of
his acquaintance, who were now, as he assured me, actually pining to be
introduced to me. Moreover, the Honourable George Lawless had promised
to be there; so we were safe for fun of some sort, Lawless's tastes and habits
being about as congenial to the atmosphere of a ball-room, as those of a bull
to the interior of a china-shop.

[These manifold temptations, together with the desire of again meeting
Freddy himself, proved irresistible, and I decided to go. Oaklands, who had
received a similar invitation, was unluckily not able to accept it, as his
father had fixed a shooting-party for that day, at which, and at the dinner
that was to follow, Harry's presence was indispensable.
It was in the afternoon of a glorious September day that I set off on
horseback for Hillingford. I had accompanied the sportsmen in the morning,
and had walked just enough to excite without fatiguing myself; and now the
elastic motion of the horse (a valuable hunter of Sir John's)—the influence
of the fair scene around me, as I cantered over the smooth turf of Heathfield
Park, and along the green lanes beyond it—the prospect of seeing again an
old companion of my boyhood's days—all contributed to produce in me an
exhilaration of spirits which seemed to raise me above the kleinigkeiten, the
little, nesses (as the Germans so well express it) of this world, and to exalt
me to some higher and nobler sphere. Out of this day-dream I was at length
aroused by the clatter of horses' feet and the rattle of wheels in the lane
behind me, while a man's voice, in tones not of the most gentle description,
accosted me as follows: “Now then, sir, if you've got a licence to take up
the whole road, I'll just trouble you to show it!” With a touch of the spur I
caused my horse to bound on one side, and, as I did so, I turned to look at
the speaker. Perched high in mid-air, upon some mysterious species of dog-
cart, bearing a striking resemblance to the box of a mail-coach, which had
contrived, by some private theory of development of its own, to dispense
with its body, while it had enlarged its wheels to an almost incredible
circumference; perched on the top of this remarkable machine, and
enveloped in a white greatcoat undermined in every direction by strange
and unexpected pockets, was none other than the Honourable George
Lawless! The turn-out was drawn by a pair of thorough-breds, driven
tandem, which were now (their irascible tempers being disturbed by the
delay which my usurpation of the road had occasioned) relieving their
feelings by executing a kind of hornpipe upon their hindlegs. The equipage
was completed by a tiger, so small, that beyond a vague sensation of top-
boots and a livery hat, one's senses failed to realise him.
“Why, Lawless!” exclaimed I; “you are determined to astonish the
natives, with a vengeance: such a turnout as that has never been seen in
these parts before, I'm certain.”

“Frank Fairlegh, by Jove! How are you, old fellow? Is it my trap you're
talking about? what do you think of it? rather the thing, isn't it, eh?” I
signified my approval, and Lawless continued, “Yes, it's been very much
admired, I assure you;—quiet, mare! quiet!—not a bad sort of dodge to
knock about in, eh?—What are you at, fool?—Tumble out, Shrimp, and hit
Spiteful a lick on the nose—he's eating the mare's tail. Spicy tiger, Shrimp
—did you ever hear how I picked him up?” I replied in the negative, and
Lawless resumed:—
“I was down at Broadstairs, the beginning of the long —wretched place,
but I went there for a boat-race with some more fellows; well, of course,
because we wanted it to be fine, the weather turned sulky, and the boat-race
had to be put off; so, to prevent ourselves from going melancholy mad, we
hired a drag, and managed to get together a team, such as it was. The first
day we went out they elected me waggoner, and a nice job I had of it; three
of the horses had never been in harness before, and the fourth was a bolter.
It was pretty near half an hour before we could get them to start; and, when
they were off, I had enough to do to keep their heads out of the shop-
windows. However, as soon as they began to get warm to their work, things
improved, and we rattled along merrily. We were spinning away at about
twelve miles an hour when, just as we were getting clear of the town, we
came suddenly upon a covey of juvenile blackguards who were
manufacturing dirt pies right in the centre of the road. As soon as I saw
them I sung out to them to clear the course, but before they had time to cut
away we were slap into the middle of them. Well, I thought it was to be a
regular case of Herod, and that there would be at least half a dozen of them
spifflicated, but they all managed to save their bacon, except Shrimp—one
of the wheels went over him and broke him somewhere. Where was it,
Shrimp?”
"Left arm, sir, if you please,” replied Shrimp in a shrill treble.
“Ay, so it was,” continued Lawless. “As soon as I could contrive to pull
up I sent the groom back, with orders to find a doctor, get the boy repaired,
and tell them to come to me at the hotel in the morning, and I'd pay for all
damages. Accordingly, while I was eating my breakfast next morning, an
amphibious old female in a blue pea-jacket was shown in to me, who stated
she was Shrimp's mother. First, she was extremely lachrymose, and couldn't
speak a word; then she got the steam up, and began slanging me till all was

blue: I was 'an unchristian-like, hard-hearted, heathen Turk, so I was, and
I'd been and spiled her sweet boy completely, so I had; such a boy as he was
too, bless him; it was quite a sight to hear him say his Catechism; and as to
reading his book, he'd beat the parson himself into fits at it'. Fortunately for
me, she was a little touched in the wind, and, when she pulled up to take
breath for a fresh start, I managed to cut in. 'I tell you what it is, old lady,'
said I, 'there's no need for you to put yourself into a fury about it;
misfortunes will happen in the best-regulated families, and it seems to me a
boy more or less can make no great odds to any one—no fear of the breed
becoming extinct just at present, if one may judge from appearances;
however, as you seem to set a value upon this particular boy, I'll tell you
what I'll do: I'll buy him of you, and then, if anything should go wrong with
him, it will be my loss and not yours. I'll give you twenty pounds for him,
and that's more than he would be worth if he was sound.' By Jove, the old
girl brightened up in a moment, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat,
and said: 'Five pounds more, and it's a bargain'. And the end of it all was,
the brat got well before I left the place; I paid the old woman her money,
and brought Shrimp away with me, and it hasn't turned out such a bad spec
either, for he makes a capital tiger; and now I've broken him in, I would not
take twice the money for him. You'll be at old Coleman's hop to-night, I
suppose; so bye! bye! for the present.”
Thus saying he drew the whip lightly across the leader's back, the horses
sprang forward, and in another moment he was out of sight.
Half an hour's ride brought me within view of Elm Lodge, the house
lately taken by Mr. Coleman, senior. As I rang at the bell a figure leaped out
of one of the front windows, and came bounding across the lawn to meet
me, and in another minute my hand was seized and my arm nearly shaken
off by Coleman.
“Freddy, old boy!” “Frank, my dear old fellow!” were our mutual
exclamations, as we once more shook hands with an energy which must
have highly edified a pompous footman whom my ring had summoned.
After the first excitement of our meeting had a little subsided we found time
to examine each other more minutely, and note the changes a couple of
years had wrought in us. Coleman was the first to speak.
“Why, Frank, how you are altered!” “If you were but decently civil, you
would say 'improved' instead of 'altered,'” replied I; “but you'll never learn

manners.”
“Oh, if you want compliments I'll soon get up a few, but it strikes me
they are not required. A man with such a face and figure as yours soon finds
out that he is a deucedly good-looking fellow. Why, how high do you
stand?”
“About six feet without my boots,” replied I, laughing at Coleman, who
kept turning me round, and examining me from top to toe, as if I had been
some newly discovered animal.
“Well, you are a screamer, and no mistake,” exclaimed he at length. “Be
merciful towards the young ladies tonight, or the floor will be so cumbered
with the heaps of slain that we shall have no room to dance.”
“Never fear,” rejoined I, “the female breast is not so susceptible as you
imagine; and I'll back your bright eyes and merry smile to do more
execution than my long legs and broad shoulders any day.”
“No soft sawder, Master Frank, if you please; it's an article for which I've
a particular distaste: people never make pretty speeches to one's face
without laughing at one behind one's back afterwards by way of
compensation.”
“Which rule of course applies to the remarks you have just been making
about me,” returned I.
“You've caught me there fairly,” laughed Coleman; “but come along in,
now, I want to introduce you to my mother and the governor; they are
longing to see you after all I've told them about you, though I can't say you
look much like the thin delicate youth I have described you.”
Mr. Coleman, who was a short, stout, red-faced old gentleman, with a
bald head and a somewhat pompous manner, came forward and welcomed
me warmly, saying all sorts of complimentary things to me in extremely
high-flown and grandiloquent language, and referring to my having saved
his son's life, in doing which, however, he quite won my heart by the
evident pride and affection with which he spoke of Freddy. The lady of the
house was a little, round, merry-looking woman, chiefly remarkable (as I
soon discovered) for a peculiar mental obliquity, leading her always to think
of the wrong thing at the wrong time, whereby she was perpetually
becoming involved in grievous colloquial entanglements, and meeting with

innumerable small personal accidents, at which no one laughed so heartily
as herself.
About half-past nine that evening some of the guests began to arrive,
amongst the foremost of whom was Lawless, most expensively got up for
the occasion in a stock and waistcoat, which, as Coleman observed,
required to be seen ere they could be believed in. As the arrivals succeeded
each other more rapidly, and the rooms began to fill, Lawless took me by
the arm and led me to a corner, whence, unnoticed ourselves, we could
observe the whole scene.
“This will be a very full meet, Fairlegh,” he began; “I'm getting
confoundedly nervous, I can tell you; I'm not used to this sort of affair, you
know; I used always to shirk everything of the kind, but my Mater has got it
into her head, since she's become 'My Lady,' that she must flare up and give
balls, because 'ladies of rank always do so,' forsooth; and so she's taken me
in hand, to try and polish me up into something like 'a man of fashion,' as
she calls those confounded puppies one sees lounging about drawing-
rooms. Well, as I didn't like to rile the old woman by refusing to do what
she wanted, I went to a French mounseer, to teach me my paces; I've been
in training above a month, so I thought I'd come here just as a sort of trial to
see how I could go the pace.” “This is your debut, in fact,” returned I. “My
how much?” was the reply. “Oh, I see, starting for the maiden stakes, for
untried horses only—that sort of thing—eh? Yes, it's the first time I've been
regularly entered; I hope I shan't bolt off the course; I feel uncommon shy at
starting, I can assure you.”
“Oh, you'll do very well when you're once off; your partner will tell you
if you are going to make any mistake,” replied I.
“My partner, eh? You mean one of those white-muslined young ladies,
who is to run in double harness with me, I suppose?—that's another sell;—I
shall be expected to talk to her, and I never know what to say to women; if
one don't pay 'era compliments, and do a bit of the sentimental, they set you
down as a brute directly. What an ass I was to come here! I wish it was
bedtime!”
“Nonsense, man; never be afraid!” exclaimed Freddy, who had just
joined us; “I'll pick you out a partner who's used to the thing, and will do all
the talking herself, and be glad of the opportunity of giving her tongue a
little exercise; and here comes the very girl, of all others—Di Clapperton.”

Then turning towards a tall, showy-looking girl, who had just arrived, he
addressed her with—“Delighted to see you, Miss Clapperton; a ball-room
never appears to me properly arranged till it is graced by your presence:
here's my friend, the Hon. George Lawless, dying to be introduced to you”.
“Pleasure—ar—dancing—with you, eh?” muttered the Hon. George,
giving a little quick nod between each word, and getting very red in the
face.
The young lady smiled a gracious assent, and saying, “I think they are
forming a quadrille—shall we take our places?” marched him off in
triumph.
“Frank, are you provided; or can I do anything for you?” inquired
Coleman.
“Who is that interesting-looking girl, with dark hair?” asked I, in return.
“What, the she-male with the white camellia in her head, leaning on the
arm of that old fellow with a cast-iron face? What a splendid pair of eyes
she has got! I'll rind out her name, and get you introduced,” replied
Coleman, disappearing in the crowd. In a minute or two he returned, and
informed me that the young lady's name was Saville. “You've not made
such a bad hit either,” continued he; “they tell me she's to be a great heiress,
and old Ironsides there is her guardian. They say he keeps her shut up so
close that nobody can see her; he would hardly let her come to-night, only
he's under some business obligations to my governor, and he persuaded him
to bring her, in order to give me a chance, I suppose.”
“What an expression of sadness there is in those deep blue eyes of hers! I
am afraid she is not happy, poor thing!” said I, half thinking aloud.
“Why, you're getting quite romantic about it!” returned Coleman; “for my
part, I think she looks rather jolly than otherwise;—see how she's laughing
with my cousin Lucy; by Jove, how her face lights up when she smiles!—
she's very decidedly pretty. Well, will you be introduced?—they are going
to waltz.”
I signified my assent, and Coleman set off in search of his father to
perform the ceremony, not having courage enough himself to face “old
Stiff-back,” as he irreverently termed the young lady's guardian.
“I am sorry to refuse your young friend, Mr. Coleman,” was the reply to
my introduction; “but Miss Saville never waltzes.”

“Come, don't be crabbed, Vernor; young people ought to enjoy
themselves; recollect, we were young ourselves once!”
“If old Time had dealt as leniently by me as he seems to have done by
you, Coleman, I should consider myself young yet,” replied Mr. Vernor. “I
believe I have spoken my ward's wishes upon this point; but, if it would be
more satisfactory to your friend to hear her decision from her own lips I can
have no objection.—Clara, my dear, this gentleman, Mr. Fairlegh, does you
the honour of wishing to waltz with you.”
Thus accosted, Miss Saville raised her eyes to my face for a moment,
and, instantly casting them down again, coloured slightly, as she replied: “If
Mr. Fairlegh will excuse me, I had rather not waltz”.
I could, of course, only bow in acquiescence, and was turning away,
when old Mr. Coleman stopped me with:—
“There, wait a minute, Mr. Fairlegh; my little niece, Lucy Markham, will
be only too glad to console you for your disappointment; she's never so
happy as when she's waltzing”.
“If you are impertinent, uncle, I'll make you waltz with me till you're
quite tired, by way of punishment!” replied his niece, as she accepted my
proffered arm.
During a pause in the waltz I referred to the refusal just received, and
asked my partner (a lively little brunette, with very white teeth and a
bewitching smile) whether her friend Miss Saville were not somewhat of a
prude?
“Poor dear Clara—a prude?—oh no!” was the reply. “You mean because
she would not waltz, I suppose?”
I bowed my head in assent, and she continued:—
“I gave you credit for more penetration, Mr. Fairlegh; did you not see it
was all that horrible Mr. Vernor, her guardian?—he chose her not to waltz;
and she is too much afraid of him to dare to do anything he does not
approve;—he would hardly let her come here to-night, only Uncle Coleman
worried him into it”.
"She is exceedingly pretty,” remarked I; “there is something peculiar in
the expression of those beautiful blue eyes which particularly pleases me;
an earnest, trustful look, which—you will laugh at what I am going to say—
which I have never seen before, except in the eyes of a dog!”

“Oh! I know so well what you mean,” replied my partner; “I have
observed it often, but I never should have known how to express it. What a
good idea!”
“May I ask whether you are very intimate with her? Is she an old friend
of yours?”
“No, I never saw her till my uncle took this house; but Mr. Vernor
sometimes brings her with him when he drives over on business, and she
comes and sits with me while they are puzzling about their parchments. I
like her so much; she seems as agreeable and good as she is pretty.”
“How is it,” asked I, “that my friend Freddy did not know her by sight
even?—he had to inquire her name this evening.”
“Why, Frederick is generally obliged to be in town, you know; and I have
observed that when he is down here Mr. Vernor never brings her with him.”
“He had better make a nun of her at once,” said I.
“Perhaps she won't be a nun!” said, or rather sang Lucy. And here we
joined the waltzers again, and the conversation ended.

CHAPTER XIV — THE BALL
“I could be pleased with any one,
Who entertained my sight with such gay shows
As men and women, moving here and there,
That coursing one another in their steps,
Have made their feet a tune.”
—Dryden.

“And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.”

“Come now, what... shall we have,
To wear away this long age of three hours,
Between our after-supper and bed-time?”
—Midsummer Night's Dream.

“By Jove! this is hot work!” exclaimed Lawless, flinging himself down
on a sofa so violently as to make an old lady, who occupied the farther end
of it, jump to an extent which seriously disarranged an Anglo-Asiatic
nondescript, believed in by her as a turban, wherewith she adorned her aged
head. “If I have not been going the pace like a brick for the last two hours,
it's a pity; what a girl that Di Clapperton is to step out!—splendid action she
has, to be sure, and giving tongue all the time too. She's in first-rate
training, 'pon my word: I thought she'd have sewn me up at one time—the
pace was terrific. I must walk into old Coleman's champagne before I make
a fresh start; when I've recovered my wind, and got a mouthful of hay and
water, I'll have at her again, and dance till all's blue before I give in.”
“My dear fellow,” said I, “you must not dance all the evening with the
same young lady; you'll have her brother call upon you the first thing to-
morrow morning to know your intentions.”
“He shall very soon learn them as far as he is concerned, then,” replied
Lawless, doubling his fist. “Let me have him to myself for a quiet twenty
minutes, and I'll send him home with such a face on him that his nearest
relations will be puzzled to recognise him for the next month to come at
least. But what do you really mean?”
“That it's not etiquette to go on dancing with one young lady the whole
evening; you must ask some one else.”

“Have all the bother to go over again, eh? what a treat! Well, we live and
learn; it will require a few extra glasses of champagne to get the steam up to
the necessary height, that's all. And there they are going down to supper;
that's glorious!” and away he bounded to secure Miss Clapperton's arm,
while I offered mine to the turbaned old lady, to compensate for her late
alarm.
After supper the dancing was resumed with fresh energy, the champagne
having produced its usual exhilarating effects upon the exhausted frames of
the dancers. Notwithstanding my former repulse, I made a successful
attempt to gain Miss Saville's hand for a quadrille, though I saw, or fancied
I saw, the scowl on Mr. Vernor's sour countenance grow deeper as I led her
away. My perseverance was not rewarded by any very interesting results,
for my partner, who was either distressingly shy, or acting under constraint
of some kind, made monosyllabic replies to every remark I addressed to
her, and appeared relieved when the termination of the set enabled her to
rejoin her grim protector.
“Of all the disagreeable faces I ever saw, Mr. Vernor's is the most
repulsive,” said I to Coleman; “were I a believer in the power of the 'evil
eye,' he is just the sort of looking person I should imagine would possess it.
I am certain I have never met him before, and yet, strange to say, there is
something which appears familiar to me in his expression, particularly
when he frowns.”
“He is a savage-looking old Guy,” replied Freddy, “and bullies that sweet
girl shockingly, I can see. I should feel the greatest satisfaction in punching
his head for him, but I suppose it would be hardly the correct thing on so
short an acquaintance, and in my father's house too; eh?”
“Not exactly,” replied I, turning away with a smile.
When Lawless made his appearance after supper it was evident by his
flushed face, and a slight unsteadiness in his manner of walking, that he had
carried his intentions with regard to the champagne into effect; and,
heedless of my warning, he proceeded to lay violent siege to Miss
Clapperton, to induce her to waltz with him. I was watching them with
some little amusement, for the struggle in the young lady's mind between
her sense of the proper, and her desire to waltz with an Honourable, was
very apparent, when I was requested by Mrs. Coleman to go in search of a
cloak appertaining to the turbaned old lady whom I had escorted down to

supper, and who, being delicate in some way or other, required especial care
in packing up. Owing to a trifling mistake of Mrs. Coleman's (who had
described a red, worsted shawl as a blue cloth cloak, which mistake I had to
discover and rectify) my mission detained me some minutes. As I re-entered
the ball-room, shawl in hand, I was startled by the crash of something heavy
falling, followed by a shriek from several of the ladies at the upper end of
the room; and on hastening to the scene of action I soon perceived the cause
of their alarm.

During my absence Lawless, having succeeded in overcoming Miss
Clapperton's scruples, had recommenced waltzing with the greatest energy;
but unfortunately, after going round the room once or twice, “the pace,” as
he called it, becoming faster at every turn, the combined effects of the
champagne and the unaccustomed exercise rendered him exceedingly
giddy, and just before I entered the room he had fallen against a small table
supporting a handsome China candelabrum, containing several wax lights,

the overthrow of which had occasioned the grand crash which I heard. The
cause of the shriek, however, still remained to be discovered, and a nearer
approach instantly rendered it apparent. One of the wax candles, which had
not been extinguished in its fall, had rolled against the ball-dress of Miss
Saville, who happened to be seated next the table, and set it on fire. After
making an ineffectual attempt to put it out with her hands, she became
alarmed, and as I approached started wildly up, with the evident intention of
rushing out of the room. Without a moment's hesitation I sprang forward,
caught her in my arms, and, flinging the worsted shawl over her dress,
which was just beginning to blaze, enveloped her in it, and, telling her if she
only remained quiet she would be perfectly safe, laid her on the floor, while
I continued to hold the thick shawl tightly down, till, to my very great
delight, I succeeded in extinguishing the flames.
By this time several gentlemen had gathered round us, eager with their
advice and offers of assistance. Having satisfied myself that the danger was
entirely over I raised Miss Saville from the ground, and, making way
through the crowd, half led, half carried her to the nearest sofa. After
placing her carefully upon it I left her to the care of Mrs. Coleman and Lucy
Markham, while I sought out the turbaned old lady whose shawl I had so
unceremoniously made use of, and succeeded in making my peace with her,
though, I believe, in her own secret breast, she considered Miss Saville's
safety dearly purchased at the expense of her favourite whittle. As I
approached the sofa again, the following words, in the harsh tones of Mr.
Vernor's voice, met my ear:—
“I have ascertained our carriage is here; as soon, therefore, as you feel
strong enough to walk, Clara, my dear, I should advise your accompanying
me home; quiet and rest are the best remedies after such an alarm as this”.
“I am quite ready, sir,” was the reply, in a faint tone of voice.
“Nay, wait a few minutes longer,” said Lucy Markham kindly; “you are
trembling from head to foot even yet.”
“Indeed I am quite strong; I have no doubt I can walk now,” replied Miss
Saville, attempting to rise, but sinking back again almost immediately from
faintness.
“Can I be of any assistance?” inquired I, coming forward.
“I am obliged to you for the trouble you have already taken, sir,”
answered Mr. Vernor coldly, “but will not add to it. Miss Saville will be

able to proceed with the assistance of my arm in a few minutes.”
After a short pause the young lady again announced her readiness to
depart; and, having shaken hands with Mrs. Coleman and Lucy Markham,
turned to leave the room, leaning on Mr. Vernor's arm. As I was standing
near the door I stepped forward to hold it open for them, Mr. Vernor
acknowledging my civility by the slightest imaginable motion of the head.
Miss Saville, as she approached me, paused for a moment, as if about to
speak, but, apparently relinquishing her intention, merely bowed, and
passed on.
“Well, if it's in that sort of way fashionable individuals demonstrate their
gratitude for having their lives saved, I must say I don't admire it,”
exclaimed Coleman, who had witnessed the cool behaviour of Mr. Vernor
and his ward; “it may be very genteel, but, were I in your place, I should
consider it unsatisfactory in the extreme, and allow the next inflammable
young lady who might happen to attract a spark in my presence to consume
as she pleased, without interfering; and peace be to her ashes!”
“It was most fortunate that I happened to have that thick shawl in my
hand,” said I; “in another minute her whole dress would have been in a
blaze, and it would have been next to impossible to save her. What courage
and self-command she showed! she never attempted to move after I threw
the shawl around her, till I told her all danger was over.”
“Very grand, all that sort of thing,” returned Freddy; “but for my own
part I should like to see a little more feeling. I've no taste for your 'marble
maidens'; they always put me in mind of Lot's wife.”
“Eh! Mrs. Lot?” interrupted Lawless, coming up to us: “why was she like
me? do you give it up? Because she got into a pretty pickle—there's a riddle
for you. I say, I made a nice mess of it just now, didn't I? that's what comes
of going to these confounded balls. The fact was,” he continued, sinking his
voice, “the filly bolted with me; she took uncommon kindly to the
champagne at supper; in consequence, she was so fresh when we started
that I couldn't hold her; she kept pushing on faster and faster, till at last she
was fairly off with me; we did very well as long as we stuck to the open
country, but at last we contrived to get among some very awkward fences;
the first stiff bit of timber we came to she made a rush at, and down we
came, gate—I mean table, candlestick, and all, a regular smash; and to

make matters worse, one of the candles set the other young woman's
petticoat alight.”
“In fact, after a very severe run, you were nearly being in at the death,”
suggested Coleman.
"By Jove, it was nothing to laugh at, though!” remarked Lawless; “she'd
have been regularly cooked, if Prank Fairlegh hadn't put her out when he
did, and I should have been tried for 'Unjustifiable Girl-icide,' or
'Maliciously setting fire to a marriageable female,' or some such thing; and I
daresay the young woman wasn't insured anywhere: I should have got into a
pretty mess; it would have been a worse job than breaking Shrimp.”
“Frederick, look here!” cried Lucy Markham, who was passing the place
where we stood; “see how Mr. Fairlegh's sleeve is scorched; surely,” she
continued, turning to me, “your arm must be injured.”
“It begins to feel rather painful,” replied I; “but I daresay it's nothing to
signify.”
“Come to my room,” exclaimed Freddy anxiously; “why did you not
mention it before?”
“Really I scarcely felt it in the excitement of the moment,” returned I; “it
can't be of any consequence.”
On removing the coat-sleeve, however, a somewhat considerable burn
was apparent, extending about half way from the wrist to the elbow, and
which, the moment it was exposed to the air, became excessively painful.
Fortunately, among the guests who had not yet taken their departure was
the surgeon of the neighbourhood, who was speedily summoned, and who,
after having applied the proper remedies, recommended me to carry my arm
in a sling for a few days, at the end of which time, he assured me, it would
cause me little inconvenience.
As it was, by great good luck, my left arm which was injured, I submitted
to this mandate with tolerable resignation, and returned to the drawing-
room to be pitied by the tongues of the old, and the bright eyes of the young
ladies, to an extent which (as at that time of day I was somewhat addicted to
the vice of shyness) was more flattering than agreeable.
It was between two and three o'clock when Lawless and I prepared to
take our departure for the inn at which we were to sleep. Being a lovely
night Coleman volunteered to accompany us for the sake of the walk,

telling the servants not to sit up for him, as he had a latch-key in his pocket
—an article, regarding the possession of which a constant civil war was
carried on between his mother and himself, wherein by dint of sundry well-
contrived stratagems, and deeply laid schemes, he invariably gained the
victory.
“I tell you what,” said Lawless, “the row and bother, and the whole kick-
up altogether, has made me alarmingly hungry; the only decent bit of
chicken I managed to lay hands on at supper Di Clapperton ate: precious
twist that girl has, to be sure; even after all the ground she's been over to-
night, going a topping pace the whole time too, she wasn't a bit off her feed;
didn't she walk into the ham sandwiches—that's all! I'd rather keep her for a
week than a fortnight, I can tell you; she'd eat her head off in a month, and
no mistake. Here, waiter,” he continued, “have you got anything to eat in
the house?”
“Yes, sir, splendid barrel of oysters down by coach last night; capital
brown stout, sir—real Guinness's!”
“That's it, my man,” was the rejoinder; “trot 'em out, by all means.
Freddy, old boy,” he continued, “come along in with us, and have some.”
“Well, I don't mind astonishing the natives for once in a way,” replied
Freddy; “but it's dreadfully debauched, eating oysters and drinking porter at
this time of day or night, whichever you are pleased to call it; you'll ruin my
morals.”
“The devil fly away with your morals, and he won't be overloaded
either,” was the polite rejoinder; and in we all went together. The oysters
and porter soon made their appearance, and had ample justice done them;
then, as a matter of course, spirits and water and cigars were produced, “just
to prevent the oysters from disagreeing with us”; and we sat talking over
old times, and relating various adventures which had occurred to us since,
without troubling our heads about the flight of minutes. At length Coleman,
pulling out his watch, exclaimed: “Past four o'clock, by the powers! I must
be getting to bed—I've got a lease to draw to-morrow, and my head won't
be over-clear as it is.”
“Nonsense,” replied Lawless; “bed's all a popular delusion; we can't be
better off than we are—sit still.” But on Coleman's persisting in his wish to
depart, Lawless continued: “Well, take another glass, and then Frank and I
will walk home with you, and see you safe, for it's my belief that you're

getting 'screwed.,' or you'd never think of going to bed”. Freddy and I
exchanged glances, for if any of our party were in the condition expressed
by the mysterious word “screwed,” it certainly was Lawless himself. After
sitting some little time longer, we once more sallied forth, with the avowed
intention of seeing Coleman home.

CHAPTER XV — RINGING THE CURFEW
“If the bell have any sides the clapper will find 'em.”—
—Ben Jonson.

“——ringing changes all our bells hath marr'd,
Jangled they have and jarr'd
So long, they're out of tune, and out of frame;

They seem not now the same.
Put them in frame anew, and once begin
To tune them so, that they may chime all in.”
—Herbert.

“Great then are the mysteries of bell-ringing: and this may
be said in its praise, that of all devices which men have sought
out for obtaining distinction by making a noise in the world, it
is the most harmless.”
—The Doctor.

AS we proceeded through the town Lawless, despite our endeavours to
restrain him, chose to vent his superabundant spirits by performing sundry
feats at the expense of the public, which, had the police regulations of the
place been properly attended to, would have assuredly gained us a sojourn
in the watch-house. We had just prevailed upon him to move on, after
singing “We won't go home till morning” under the windows of “the Misses
Properprim's Seminary for Young Ladies,” when a little shrivelled old man,
in a sort of watchman's white greatcoat, bearing a horn lantern in his hand,
brushed past us, and preceded us down the street at a shuffling trot.
“Holloa!” cried Lawless, “who's that old picture of ugliness? Look what
a pace the beggar's cutting along at! what on earth's he up to?”
“That's the sexton and bell-ringer,” returned Coleman; “they keep up the
old custom at Hillingford of ringing the curfew at daybreak, and he's going
about it now, I suppose.”
“What jolly fun!” said Lawless; “come on, and let's see how the old cock
does it; “and, suiting the action to the word, off he started in pursuit.
“We'd better follow him,” said I; “he'll be getting into some mischief or
other, depend upon it.”
After running a short distance down the street, on turning a corner we
found Lawless standing under a small arched door-way leading into a

curious old battlemented tower, which did not form part of any church or
other building of the same date as itself, but stood alone, showing, as it
reared its time-worn head high above the more modern dwellings of which
the street was composed, like some giant relic of the days of old. This tower
contained a peal of bells, the fame of which was great in that part of the
country, and of which the townspeople were justly proud.
“All right!” cried Lawless; “the old scarecrow ran in here like a lamp-
lighter, as soon he saw me bowling after him, and has left the key in the
lock; so I shall take the liberty of exploring a little; I've a strong though
undeveloped taste for architectural antiquities. Twopence more, and up goes
the donkey! come along!”
So saying, he flung open the door, and disappeared up some steps leading
to the interior of the tower, and, after a moment's hesitation, Coleman and I
followed him.
“Don't be alarmed, old boy!” observed Lawless, patting the sexton (who
looked frightened out of his wits at our intrusion) so forcibly on the back as
to set him coughing violently; “we're not come to murder you for the sake
of your lantern.”
“This gentleman,” said Coleman, who by the cunning twinkle of his eye
was evidently becoming possessed by the spirit of mischief, “has been sent
down by the Venerable Society of Antiquaries to ascertain whether the old
custom of ringing the Curfew is properly performed here. He is, in fact, no
other than the Noble President of the Society himself. That gentleman
(pointing to me) is the Vice-President, and I, who have the honour of
addressing you, am the unworthy Secretary.”
“That's it, Daddy,” resumed Lawless, coolly taking up the lantern, and
lighting a cigar; “that's the precise state of the poll, I mean case; so now go
to work, and mind you do the trick properly.”
Thus adjured, the old man, who appeared completely bewildered by all
that was going on, mechanically took hold of a rope, and began slowly and
at stated intervals tolling one of the bells.
“Where are your assistants, my good man?” inquired Coleman after a
short pause.—The only answer was a stare of vacant surprise, and Coleman
continued, “Why, you don't mean to say you only ring one bell, to be sure?
oh, this is all wrong:—what do you say, Mr. President?”

“Wrong?” replied Lawless, removing the cigar from his mouth and
puffing a cloud of smoke into the sexton's face, “I should just think it was,
most particularly and confoundedly wrong. I'll tell you what it is, old
death's-head and cross-bones; things can't be allowed to go on in this
manner. Reform, sir, is wanting, 'the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the
bill'. I mean to get into Parliament some day, Fairlegh, when I am tired of
knocking about, you know—but that wasn't exactly what I was going to
say.”
“Suppose we show him the proper way to do it, Mr. President!”
suggested Freddy, catching hold of the rope of one of the bells.
“Off she goes,” cried Lawless, seizing another.
“Gentlemen, good gentlemen, don't ring the bells, pray,” implored the old
man, “you'll raise the whole town; they are never rung in that way without
there's a fire, or a flood, or the riot act read, or something of that dreadful
natur the matter.”
But his expostulations were vain. Lawless had already begun ringing his
bell in a manner which threatened to stun us all; and Coleman saying to me,
“Come, Frank, we're regularly in for it, so you may as well take a rope and
do the thing handsomely while we are about it; it would be horridly shabby
of you to desert us now,” I hastened to follow his example.
Now it must be known that when I arrived at the inn, before supper,
owing probably to a combination of the fatigue of the day, the excitement of
the evening and the pain of my arm, I felt somewhat faint and exhausted,
and should have greatly preferred going at once quietly to bed; but, as I was
aware that by so doing I should break up the party I resolved to keep up as
well as I could, and say nothing about it. Finding myself refreshed by the
bottled porter, I repeated the dose several times, and the remedy continuing
to prove efficacious, without giving the thing a thought, I drank more
deeply than was my wont, and was a good deal surprised, when I rose to
accompany the others, to discover that my legs were slightly unsteady, and
my head not so clear as usual. Still I had been far from approving the
proceedings of my companions, and had any one told me, when I entered
the tower, that I was going to ring all the good people of Hillingford out of
their beds in a fright, I should indignantly have repelled the accusation.
Now, however, owing to the way in which Coleman had requested my
assistance, it appeared to my bewildered senses that I should be meanly

deserting my friends the moment they had got into difficulties, if I were to
refuse; but when he used the word “shabby,” it settled the business, and,
seizing a rope with my uninjured hand, I began pulling away vigorously.
"Now, then, you wretched old beggar,” shouted Lawless, “don't stand
there winking and blinking like an owl; pull away like bricks, or I'll break
your neck for you; go to work, I say!” and the miserable sexton, with a
mute gesture of despair, resuming his occupation, a peal of four bells was
soon ringing bravely out over hill and dale, and making “night horrible” to
the startled inhabitants of Hillingford.
After the lapse of a few minutes a distant shout was heard; then a
confused noise of people running and calling to each other in the streets
reached our ears; and lastly the sound of several persons rapidly
approaching the bell-tower became audible.
“We're in for a scrimmage now, I expect,” said Lawless, leisurely turning
up his sleeves.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Freddy; “only leave it to me, and you'll see. All
you fellows have got to do is to hold your tongues, and keep on ringing
away till your arms ache; trust me to manage the thing all right. Lawless,
keep your eye on ancient Methuselah there, and if he offers to say a word
just knock him head over heels by accident, will you?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Lawless, shaking his fists significantly at the
sexton.
At this moment a short fat man with a very red face (who we afterwards
learned was no less a person than the mayor of Hillingford in his public,
and a mighty tallow-chandler in his private, capacity) appeared, attired in a
night-cap and greatcoat, and bearing the rest of his wardrobe under his arm,
followed by several of the townspeople, all in a singular state of undress,
and with the liveliest alarm depicted on their countenances. The worthy
mayor was so much out of breath by his unwonted exertions that some
seconds elapsed before he could utter a word, and in the meantime we
continued ringing as though our lives depended upon it. At length he
contrived to gasp out a hurried inquiry (hardly audible amidst the clanging
of the bells) as to what was the matter. To this Coleman replied by pointing
with one hand to a kind of loop-hole, of which there were several for the
purpose of supplying light and air to the interior of the tower, while with the
other hand he continued ringing away more lustily than before.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the mayor, raising himself on tiptoe, and
stretching his short neck in a vain endeavour to peep through the loop-hole,
“it must be a fire in West Street!”
Two or three of the by-standers immediately rushed into the street,
calling out, “A fire in West Street! send for the engines”.
At this moment Freddy caught the eye of a tall, gaunt-looking man in a
top-boot and plush breeches, but without coat or waistcoat, and wearing a
gold-laced cocked hat on his head, hind part before, from beneath which
peeped out a white cotton night-cap. Having succeeded in attracting the
attention of this worthy, who in his proper person supported the dignity of
parish beadle, Coleman repeated the same stratagem he had so successfully
practised upon the mayor, save that in this instance he pointed to a loop-
hole in a completely opposite direction to the one he had indicated
previously. The beadle immediately ran out, muttering ere he did so, “I was
certain sure as they was all wrong”.—In another minute we heard him
shouting, “It's in Middle Street, I tell you, there's a fire in Middle Street!”

Coleman now turned to the mayor, who, having somewhat recovered his
breath, was evidently preparing to question the sexton as to the particulars
of the affair, and exclaimed in a tone of deep feeling, “I am surprised to see
a person of your high station standing idle at a moment like this! take a
rope, sir, and lend a hand to assist us, if you be a man”.
“To be sure, to be sure,” was the reply, “anything for the good of the
town,” and, grasping an unoccupied rope, he began pulling away with all
his might.
The hubbub and confusion now became something unparalleled—people
without number kept running in and out of the tower, giving and receiving
all kinds of contradictory orders; volunteers had been found to assist us, and
the whole peal of eight bells was clashing and clanging away above the

tumult, and spreading the alarm farther and wider; men on horseback were
arriving from the country eager to render assistance; women were
screaming, dogs barking, children crying; and, to crown the whole, a violent
and angry debate was being carried on by the more influential members of
the crowd as to the quarter in which the supposed conflagration was raging
—one party loudly declaring it was in Middle Street, while the other as
vehemently protested it was in West Street.
The confusion had apparently attained its highest pitch, and the noise was
perfectly deafening, when suddenly a shout was raised, “The engines! clear
the way for the engines!” and in another moment the scampering of the
crowd in all directions, the sound of horses' feet galloping, and the rattle of
wheels, announced their approach. While all this was going on Coleman
had contrived silently and unperceived to substitute two of the by-standers
in my place and his own, so that Lawless was the only one of our party
actually engaged in ringing. Seizing the moment, therefore, when the shout
of “The engines!” had attracted the attention of the loiterers, he touched him
on the shoulder, saying, “Now's our time, come along,” and, joining a party
who were going out, we reached the door of the bell-tower unobserved.
The scene which presented itself to our view as we gained the open street
would require the pencil of a Wilkie, or the pen of a Dickens, to describe.
The street widened in front of the bell-tower, so as to make a kind of square.
In the centre of the space thus formed stood the fire-engine drawn by four
post-horses, the post-boys sitting erect in their saddles, ready to dash
forward the moment the firemen (who in their green coats faced with red,
and shining leather helmets, imparted a somewhat military character to the
scene) should succeed in ascertaining the place at which their assistance
was required. The crowd, which had opened to admit the passage of the
engine, immediately closed round it again in an apparently impenetrable
phalanx, the individual members of which afforded as singular a variety of
costume as can well be imagined, extending from the simple shirt of
propriety to the decorated uniforms of the fire-brigade. As every one who
had an opinion to give was bawling it out at the very top of his voice, whilst
those who had none contented themselves by shouting vague sentences
devoid of particular meaning of any kind, the noise and tumult were such as
beggared description. There was one short, stout, red-faced little fellow (for
I succeeded in catching sight of him at last) with a mouth of such fearful
dimensions that when it was open the upper half of his head appeared a

mere lid, whose intellects being still partially under the dominion of sleep,
evidently imagined himself at the Election, which had taken place a short
time previously, and continued strenuously vociferating the name of his
favourite candidate, though the cry of “Judkins for ever!” did not tend
greatly to elucidate matters. Suddenly, and at the very height of the
confusion, the bells ceased ringing, and for a moment, as if influenced by
some supernatural power, the crowd to a man became silent.
The transition from the Babel of sounds I have been describing to such
perfect tranquillity was most striking, and impressed one with an
involuntary feeling of awe. I was aroused by Coleman, who whispered in an
undertone, “The sexton has peached, depend upon it, and the sooner we're
off the better”.
“Yes, and I'll go in style too; so good-bye, and take care of yourselves,”
exclaimed Lawless, and, springing forward, before any one was aware of
his intention, he forced his way through the crowd, overturning sundry
members thereof in his progress, until he reached the fire-engine, upon
which he seated himself with a bound, shouting as he did so: “Forward,
forward! do you want the place to be burnt to the ground? I'll show you the
way; give 'em the spur; faster, faster, straight on till I tell you to turn—
faster, I say!”

The appearance of authority, coupled with energy and decision, will
usually control a crowd. The firemen, completely taken in by Lawless's
manner, reiterated his orders; the post-boys applied both whip and spur
vigorously—the horses dashed forward, and, amidst the enthusiastic
cheering of the mob, the engine disappeared like a flash of lightning.
“Well, I give the Honourable George credit for that,” exclaimed
Coleman, as soon as we had a little recovered from our surprise at Lawless's
elopement with the fire-engine; “it was a good idea, and he worked it out
most artistically; the air with which he waved his hat to cheer them forward
was quite melodramatic. I've seen the thing not half so well done by several
of the greatest generals who ever lived—gallant commanders, whom their
men would have followed through any amount of the reddest possible fire

during the whole of Astley's campaigns, that is, if the commissariat
department (consisting of the pot-boy stationed at the side-scenes with the
porter) did its duty efficiently.”
“Freddy, they're beginning to come out from the bell-tower,” interrupted
I; “we shall be called upon to answer for our misdeeds if we stay much
longer; see, that long man in the cocked hat is coming towards us.”
“So he is,” returned Coleman; “it strikes me they've found us out; follow
me, and try and look as if it wasn't you as much as possible, will you?” So
saying, he began to make his way out of the crowd unperceived, an example
I hastened to follow; but we were not destined to effect our purpose quite so
easily. The point Coleman wished to gain was an arched gateway leading
into a stable-yard, from which he hoped, by a foot-path with which he was
acquainted, across some fields, to reach without molestation the inn where I
was to sleep. But, in order to effect this, we were obliged to pass the door of
the bell-tower, from which several people, who appeared angry and excited,
were now issuing. The foremost of those, the cock-hatted official before
mentioned, made his way up to us, exclaiming as he did so:—
“Here, you young gen'lmen, just you stop a bit, will yer? His Wusshup,
the mayor, seems to begin to think as somebody's been a making a fool of
him.”
“A very natural idea,” returned Coleman; “I only wonder it never
occurred to him before; as far as my limited acquaintance with him will
allow me to judge, the endeavour appears to have been perfectly successful.
I wish you a very good-morning.”
“That's all wery fine, but I must trouble yer to come along o' me; his
Wusshup wants to speak to yer,” replied the beadle, seizing Coleman by the
coat-collar.
“That is a pleasure his 'Wusshup' must contrive to postpone till he has
caught me,” answered Freddy, as with a sudden jerk he succeeded in freeing
himself from his captor's grasp, while, almost at the same moment, he dealt
him a cuff on the side of the head which sent him reeling back to the door
of the bell-tower, where encountering the mayor, who had just made his
appearance, he came headlong to the ground, dragging that illustrious
functionary down with him in a frantic endeavour to save himself. Profiting
by the confusion that ensued Freddy and I sprang forward, darted through

the archway, and, making the best use of our legs, soon found ourselves in
the open fields, and quite beyond the reach of pursuit.

CHAPTER XVI — THE ROMAN FATHER
“If a dream should come in now to make you afear'd,
With a wind-mill on his head, and bells at his beard;
Would you straight wear your spectacles here at your toes,
And your boots on your brows, and your spurs on your nose?”
—Ben Jonson.

“No——-he
With more than Roman fortitude is ever
First at the board in this unhappy process
Against his last and only son.”
—The Two Foscari.

DREAMS, ye strange mysterious visions of the soul! Ye wild and
freakish gambolings of the spirit, freed from the incubus of matter, and
unfettered by the control of reason, of what fantastic caprices are ye the
originators —what caricatures of the various features of our waking life do
ye not exhibit to us, ludicrous and distorted indeed, but still preserving
through their most extravagant exaggerations a wayward and grotesque
likeness to the realities they shadow forth! And stranger even than your
most strange vagaries, is the cool matter-of-fact way in which our sleeping
senses calmly accept and acquiesce in the medley of impossible absurdities
you offer to their notice. We conceive ourselves, for instance, proceeding
along a green lane on horseback; the animal upon which we are mounted
becomes suddenly, we know and care not how, a copper tea-kettle, and we
ride quietly on without testifying, or even feeling, the least symptom of
surprise, as though the identity of hackneys and tea-kettles was a fact
generally recognised in natural history; the kettle perhaps addresses us, it
converses with us on all the subjects which interest us most deeply; and we
discuss our various hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, loves and hates, with
no other sentiment, save a degree of pleasure at the very sensible and
enlightened views which the utensil takes of the matter. I might multiply
examples, ad infinitum, to illustrate my meaning; but to those who are
familiar with the phenomena alluded to one instance will suffice; while
those who have never experienced them will probably, at all events, take
refuge in disbelief, and lament themselves with a self-satisfying sorrow

over the fresh proof it adduces of the truth of the Israelitish monarch's
aphorism, that “all men are liars “.
Be this as it may, my sleep (when, at length, after the excitement I had
undergone, sleep condescended to visit me, which was not until, contrary to
all the rules of good breeding, Somnus had allowed me to call upon him
repeatedly in vain) was disturbed by all sorts and kinds of visions.
Lawlesses innumerable, attended by shoals of top-booted shrimps—the
visionary shrimp being a sort of compromise between the boy so called and
the real article—drove impossible dog-carts drawn by quadrupeds whose
heads and necks bore a striking resemblance to the waltz-loving Diana
Clapperton, up and down ball-rooms, to the unspeakable terror of squadrons
of turbaned old ladies. Deafening peals of bells, rung by troops of Freddy
ColeMEN (which I take to be the correct plural of Coleman), were rousing
night-capped nations from their slumbers in alarm, to whom flocks of
frightened mayors were bleating forth bewildered orders, which resulted in
perplexing everybody; and through it all, mixed up and combined with
everything, the pale interesting face of Clara Saville, characterised by an
expression of the deepest sadness, gazed at me reproachfully out of its large
trustful eyes, and rendered me intensely miserable. From dreams such as
these I was not sorry to be aroused by the sun shining brightly through my
window-shutter; and, on consulting my watch, I found, somewhat to my
surprise, that I had slept till nearly midday.
On reaching the breakfast-room my first inquiry was for Lawless, in
reply to which, I was informed that he had returned (on the fire-engine)
about half an hour after I came in; that immediately upon his arrival he had
called for unlimited supplies of rum, lemons, and other suitable ingredients,
wherewith he manufactured a monster brewing of punch in a washing-tub
for the benefit of the firemen, with whom he had somehow contrived to
establish the most amicable relations; he then assisted in discussing the
beverage he had prepared, which appeared to produce no particular effects
until, wishing to rise to return thanks when they drank his health, he
suddenly lost his balance, and being carried to bed by the waiter and boots,
had not yet reappeared. Not liking to disturb him, I breakfasted alone, and
then strolled out to look after Freddy. I found him sitting in the study, busily
engaged in drawing the lease he had mentioned to us the night before. On
seeing me, however, he sprang up, and, shaking me by the hand, inquired
how I was after our adventures.

“That's all right, so far,” was his reply to my assurance that my injured
arm was going on favourably, and that I felt no other ill effects of any kind.
“I tell you what,” he continued, “my governor's in no end of a rage about
the bell-ringing affair: that old fool of a mayor recognised me it seems, and
vows vengeance, threatening to do all sorts of things to me, and the
governor swears he'll aid and abet him in anything he chooses to do. They
had better take care what they are at, or they may find I'm not to be bullied
with impunity; but come along into the drawing-room; I don't mind facing
the elders now I've got you to support me; and really, what between my
father's accusations and my mother's excuses, it's as good as a play.”
“You're abominably undutiful, Master Fred,” replied I, as I turned to
follow him.
On reaching the drawing-room we found Mr. Coleman standing with his
arms folded with an air of dignified severity, so exactly in the centre of the
hearth-rug that he seemed to belong to the pattern. Seated in a low arm-
chair on the right-hand side of the fireplace was Mrs. Coleman, apparently
absorbed in the manufacture of some mysterious article of knitting, which
constantly required propitiating by the repetition of a short arithmetical
puzzle, without which it would by no means allow itself to be created. At
her feet, engaged in the Sisyphian labour of remedying the effects of “a
great fall” in worsteds, scissors, and other “articles for the work-table,”
knelt Lucy Markham, looking so piquante and pretty, that I could not help
wondering how my friend Freddy contrived to keep himself heart-whole, if,
as I imagined, he was thrown constantly into her society. The party was
completed by a large, sleek, scrupulously white cat, clearly a privileged
individual, who sat bolt upright in the chair opposite Mrs. Coleman,
regarding the company with an air of intense self-satisfaction, and evidently
considering the whole thing got up for her express delectation. Mr. Coleman
received me with pompous civility, hoping I felt no ill effects from my
exertions in the earlier part of the evening—taking care to lay a marked
emphasis on the word earlier. Lucy acknowledged my presence by a smile
and a slight inclination of the head, but without altering her position.
Worthy Mrs. Coleman, however, jumped up and shook hands warmly with
me, thereby providing Lucy with full employment for the next ten minutes
in picking up the whole machinery of the knitting.
“Very glad indeed to see you, Mr. Lawless,” commenced Mrs. Coleman.

“It's Fairlegh, mother,” interposed Freddy.
“Yes, my dear, yes, I knew it was Mr. Fairlegh, only I'm always making a
mistake about names; but I never forget a face I have once seen; and I'm
sure I'm not likely to forget Mr. Fairlegh's after the noble way in which he
behaved last night” (here Mr. Coleman turned away with a kind of ironical
growl, and began caressing the cat). “I declare when I saw him setting Clara
Saville's dress on fire, so nicely made as it was too——”
“My dear aunt,” remonstrated Lucy, “it was Mr. Lawless who threw
down the candelabrum, and set Clara's frock alight.”
“Yes, my love, I know, I saw it all, my dear; and very kind it was of him,
I mean afterwards, in speaking to me of it; he said he was so very sorry
about it—and he called it something funny, poor young man—'no end of a
something or other '———”
“Sell,” suggested Freddy.
“Oh yes, that was it, no end of a sell. What did he mean by that, my
dear?”
"I strongly disapprove,” observed Mr. Coleman (who still continued
stroking the cat as he spoke, which process he performed by passing his
hand deliberately from her head, along her back, to the very tip of her tail,
which he retained each time in his grasp for a moment, ere he recommenced
operations), “I highly disapprove of the absurd practice, so common with
young men of the present day, of expressing their ideas in that low and
incomprehensible dialect, termed 'slang,' which, in my opinion, has neither
wit nor refinement to redeem its vulgarity, and which effectually prevents
their acquiring that easy yet dignified mode of expression which should
characterise the conversation of the true gentleman. In my younger days we
took Burke for our model; the eloquence of Pitt and Fox gave the tone to
society; and during our hours of relaxation we emulated the polished wit of
Sheridan; but it is a symptom of that fearful levelling system which is one
of the most alarming features of the present age; instead of striving to raise
and exalt———”
“Really, my dear Mr. Coleman, I beg your pardon for interrupting you,”
cried his wife, “but this is the second time you've lifted my poor little cat
off her hind legs by her tail; and though she's as good as gold, and lets you
do just what you like to her, it can't be pleasant for her, I'm sure.”

The only reply to this, if reply it can be called, was an angry “Psha!” and,
turning on his heel, Mr. Coleman strode with great dignity towards the
window, though the effect was considerably marred by his stumbling
against an ottoman which stood in the way, and hurting his shin to an extent
which entailed rubbing, albeit a sublunary and un-Spartan operation, as a
necessary consequence. A pause ensued, which at length became so
awkward that I was about to hazard some wretched commonplace or other,
for the sake of breaking the silence, when Mrs. Coleman addressed me
with:—
“You'll take some luncheon, Mr. Lawless, I'm sure. Freddy, ring the
bell!”
“He'll be ready enough to do that,” growled Mr. Coleman; “you could not
have asked a fitter person.”
“Of course he will, a dear fellow,” replied Mrs. Coleman; “he's always
ready to oblige anybody.”
“I disapprove greatly of such extreme facility of disposition,” observed
Mr. Coleman; “it lays a young man open to every temptation that comes in
his way; and, for want of a proper degree of firmness and self-respect, he
gets led into all kinds of follies and excesses.”
"Now, my dear Mr. Coleman,” returned his wife, “I cannot bear to hear
you talk in that way; you are too hard upon poor Freddy and his young
friends; I'm certain they meant no harm;—if they did ring the bells by way
of a joke, I daresay they had drunk rather more champagne than was
prudent, and scarcely knew what they were about; and really all they seem
to have done was to make people get up a little sooner than usual, and that
is rather a good thing than otherwise, for I'm sure if you did but know the
trouble I have sometimes in getting the maids out of bed in the morning—
and that lazy fine gentleman of a footman too, he's just as bad.—Why,
what's the matter now?”
“I really am astonished at you, Mrs. Coleman,” exclaimed her husband,
walking hurriedly across the room—although this time he took good care to
avoid the ottoman, “encouraging that boy of yours in such scandalous and
ungentlemanly proceedings as those he was engaged in last night! No harm,
indeed! I only hope (that is, I don't hope it at all, for he deserves to be
punished, and I wish he may) that the laws of his country may think there's
no harm in it. Mr. Dullmug, the mayor, intends, very properly in my

opinion, to appeal to those laws; that is a thing, I am proud to say, no
Englishman ever does in vain. You may smile, sir,” he continued, detecting
Freddy in the act of telegraphing to me his dissent from the last doctrine
propounded. “You may ridicule your old father's opinion, but you'll find it
no laughing matter to clear yourself, and justify your conduct, in a court of
justice. They may bring it in conspiracy, for I daresay you plotted it all
beforehand; they may bring it in riot and illegal assembly, for there were
three of you engaged in it; they may bring it in treason, for you incited his
majesty's subjects to commit a broach of the peace, and interfered with the
proper officers in the discharge of their duty: 'pon my word I don't know
that they may not bring it in murder, for the poor child that had the measles
in the town died between six and seven o'clock this morning, and no doubt
the confusion had something to do with accelerating its death. So, sir, if
you're not hanged, you're certain to be transported; and don't ask me to
assist you; I've lived by supporting the law for fifty years, and I'm not going
in my old age to lend my countenance to those who break it, and set it at
nought, though my own son be one of them. I have spoken my mind plainly,
Mr. Fairlegh, more so perhaps than I should have done before a guest in my
own house, but it is a matter upon which I feel deeply. I wish you good-
morning, sir.” So saying, he turned away, and stalked majestically out of the
room, closely followed, not to say imitated, by the cat, who held her tail
erect, so as to form a right angle with the line of her back, and walked with
a hypocritical air of meek dignity and chastened self-approval.
“That's what I call pleasant and satisfactory,” exclaimed Freddy, after a
pause, during which each member of the party exchanged glances of
consternation with somebody else. “Who would ever have imagined the
possibility of the governor's turning cantankerous—assuming the character
of the Roman father upon the shortest possible notice, and thirsting to
sacrifice his son on the altar of the outraged laws of his country! What an
interesting victim I shall make, to be sure! Lucy must lend me that wreath
of roses she looked so pretty in last night, to wear at the fatal ceremony.
And my dear mother shall stand near, tearing out those revered locks of hers
by handfuls.” (The reader should perhaps be informed that Mrs. Coleman
rejoiced in a false front of so open and ingenuous a nature, that from its
youth upwards it never could have been guilty of deceiving any one.) “May
I ring and tell John to have all the carving knives sharpened? it would be

more satisfactory to my feelings not to be slaughtered with a blunt
weapon.”
“Don't talk in that way, Frederick,” cried Mrs. Coleman. “I'm sure your
father would never think of doing such dreadful things; but I believe you're
only making fun of him, which isn't at all right of you. I'm not a bit
surprised at his being angry with you, when you know how steady he
always says he was as a young man (not that I ever quite believe it, though);
he never went ringing bells, however late he might stay out at night, that I
heard of (though I should never have known it if he had, very likely). I don't
myself see any great harm in it, you know, Mr. Fairless, particularly after
your saving poor Clara Saville, and Freddy from drowning, when you were
all boys together—indeed I shall always have the highest opinion of you for
it, only I wish you had never done it at all, either of you, because of making
your father so angry, you I mean, Frederick.”
“Have you received any account of Miss Saville this morning?” inquired
I, anxious to change the conversation; for I could see that Freddy, despite
his assumed indifference, was a good deal annoyed at the serious light in
which the old gentleman seemed to look upon our escapade. “I should be
glad to know that she was none the worse for all the alarm she must have
suffered.”
“No, we have not heard anything of her,” replied Lucy. “Should we not
send to inquire after her, aunt?”
“Certainly, my dear Lucy; I am glad you have reminded me; I always
meant to send, only all this has put it out of my head.”
“Now, Frank, there's a splendid chance for you,” exclaimed Freddy;
“nothing can be more correct than for you to call and make the proper
inquiries in person; and then if old Stiff-back should happen not to be at
home, and you can contrive to get let in, and the young lady be not actually
a stone——”
“Indeed, Frederick, she is nothing of the kind,” interrupted Lucy warmly;
“if you only knew her, you would be astonished to find what deep warm
feelings are concealed beneath that calm manner of hers; but she has
wonderful self-control. I could see last night how much she was grieved at
being obliged to go away without having thanked Mr. Fairlegh for saving
her.”

“Give her a chance to repair the error to-day, by all means, then,” said
Freddy; “and if you should succeed in gaining an interview, and she really
is anxious to do a little bit of the grateful, and old Vernor does not kick you
downstairs, I shall begin to regret that I didn't extinguish her myself.”
“I really have a great mind to follow your advice,” returned I; “it is only
proper to inquire after the young lady, and they need not let me in unless
they like.”
“If you should see her, Mr. Lawlegh,” said Mrs. Coleman, “tell her from
me how very much vexed I was about the candelabrum being thrown down
and setting fire to her dress; it was made of the very best Dresden china,
and must have cost (only it was a present, which made it all the more
valuable, you know) fifteen or sixteen guineas; and I'm sure I wonder, now
I come to think of it, why it did not flare up and burn her to death; but you
were so quick and clever, and entirely spoilt that beautiful whittle of old
Mrs. Trottles, with the greatest presence of mind; and I'm sure we ought all
to be thankful to you for it; and we shall be delighted to see her when she
has quite recovered it, tell her, particularly Lucy, who is nearest her own
age, you know.”
“Let me see,” said Freddy, musing; “Mrs. Trottles must be seventy-two if
she is a day; 'pon my word, Lucy, you're the youngest-looking woman of
your age I ever met with; if I had not heard my mother say it myself, I'd
never have believed it.”
“Believed what, Freddy? What have I said?” asked Mrs. Coleman.
“That Lucy was Mrs. Trottles' most intimate friend, because she was
nearest her own age,” returned Freddy.
“No such thing, sir; I said, or I meant to say—only you are so tiresome
with your jokes, that you puzzle one—that Lucy being her own age, I mean
Clara's, Mr. Fairless was to tell her how very glad she would be—and very
natural it is for young people to like young people—to see her; and I hope
you'll remember to tell her all I have said exactly, Mr. Fairless, for I'm
always anxious to try to please and amuse her, she's so very dull and stupid,
poor thing!”
To perform this utter impossibility I faithfully pledged myself; and,
taking a hasty farewell of the ladies, hurried out of the room to conceal a fit
of laughter which had been gradually becoming irrepressible.

“Laugh away, old boy,” cried Freddy, who had accompanied me into the
hall; “no wonder I'm an odd fellow, for, as Pat would say, my mother was
one before me, and no mistake. I wish you luck with the fair Clara—not
that you'll see her—old Vernor will take care of that somehow or other;
even if he's not at home, he'll have locked her up safely before he went out,
depend upon it.”
“You do not mean that in sober earnest?” said I.
“Perhaps not actually in fact,” replied Freddy, “but in effect I believe he
does. Clara tells Lucy she never sees any one.”
“She shall see me to-day, if I can possibly contrive it,” said I. “Oh for the
good old days of chivalry, when knocking the guardian on the head, and
running away with the imprisoned damsel afterwards, would have been
accounted a very moral and gentlemanlike way of spending the morning!”
“Certainly, they had a pleasant knack of simplifying matters, 'those
knights of old,'” replied Freddy; “but it's not a line of business that would
have suited me at all; in balancing their accounts, the kicks always appear
to have obtained a very uncomfortable preponderance over the halfpence;
besides, the causa belli was a point on which their ideas were generally in a
deplorable state of confusion: when one kills a man, it's as well to have
some slight notion why one does it; and the case comes home to one still
more closely if it's somebody else who's going to kill you.”
“You're about right there, Master Freddy,” said I, smiling as I shook
hands with him, and quitted the house. %

CHAPTER XVII — THE INVISIBLE GIRL
“Aye, that's a dolt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of
his horse.”
—Merchant of Venice.

“Yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. What's
to be said to him? He's fortified against any denial.”
—Twelfth Night.

“Be subject to no sight but mine; invisible
To every eyeball else.”
—Tempest.

ON arriving at the inn, to which I was forced to return to order my horse,
I perceived Lawless's tandem waiting at the door, surrounded by a crowd of
admiring rustics, with Shrimp, his arms folded with an air of nonchalant
defiance, which seemed to say, “Oh! run over me by all means if you
choose,” stationed directly in front of the leader's head. On entering the
parlour I found Lawless busily engaged in pulling on a pair of refractory
boots, and looking very hot and red in the face from the exertion.
“How are you, Fairlegh? how are you? That stupid fool has made 'em too
tight for anybody but Tom Thumb, and be hanged to him. Ever read fairy
tales, Fairlegh? I did when I was a little shaver, and wore cock-tailed
petticoats—all bare legs and bustle—'a Highland lad my love was born';
that style of thing, rather, you know; never believed 'em, though: wasn't to
be done even then; eh? Well, this is a puzzler; I can't get 'em on. Where's the
fellow they call Boots? Here, you sir, come and see if you can pull on these
confounded namesakes of yours, and I'll tip you half a crown if you
succeed; cheaper than breaking one's back, eh?”
“Where are you off to, supposing you should ever get those boots on?”
asked I.
“Eh? I am going to call on the young woman I set alight at the hop last
night, and tell her I'm quite down in the mouth about it; explain that I didn't
go to do it; that it was quite a mistake, and all owing to the other young
woman's being so fresh, in fact; and then offer to rig her out again, start her
in new harness from bridle crupper, all at my own expense, and that will be
finishing off the affair handsomely, won't it?”

“I should advise your leaving out that last piece of munificence,” replied
I; “she might think it an insult.” “An insult, eh? Oh, if she's so proud as all
that comes to I'd better stay away altogether; I shall be safe to put my foot
into it there, a good deal faster than I have into these villainous boots—
that's it, Sampson, another pull such as that and the deed's done,” added
Lawless, patting the human Boots on the back encouragingly.
“I was just going to ride over to inquire after Miss Saville myself,” said I.
“That's the very thing, then,” was the reply. “I'll drive you there instead;
it will be better for your scorched fin (pointing to my injured arm) than
jolting about outside a horse, and you shall tell me what to say as we go
along; you seem to understand the sex, as they call the petticoats, better
than I do, and can put a fellow up to a few of the right dodges. I only wish
they were all horses, and then I flatter myself I should not require any man's
advice how to harness, drive, train, or physic them.”
“The ladies are infinitely indebted to you,” replied I, as I ran upstairs to
prepare for our expedition.
A drive of rather less than an hour and a half, during which the thorough-
breds performed in a way to delight every lover of horseflesh, brought us to
the park gate of Barstone Priory, where Mr. Vernor resided. After winding
in and out for some half-mile amongst groups of magnificent forest-trees,
their trunks partially concealed by plantations of rare and beautiful shrubs, a
sudden turn of the road brought us in front of the Priory—an ancient,
venerable-looking pile of building, which had evidently, as its name
implied, once belonged to some religious community. The alterations it had
undergone, in order to adapt it to its present purpose, had been carried out
with more taste and skill than are usually met with in such cases. The
garden, with its straight terrace-walks and brilliant flower-beds, contrasted
well with the grey stone of which the building was composed, while the
smooth-shaven lawn, with an old, quaintly carved sundial in the centre, and,
above all, the absence of any living creature whatsoever, imparted an air of
severe formality to the scene, which, as the eye rested upon it, seemed to
realise all one had read of monastic discipline and seclusion; and one half
expected to see a train of dark-veiled nuns or sandalled friars winding
slowly forth from the hall-door.
"What a singular old shop!” exclaimed my companion, regarding the
structure with a look of displeased criticism; “wretched little windows as

ever I saw; they must be all in the dark inside on a dull day, and every day
would be dull if one lived there, I should think. It would puzzle a fellow to
tell whether that building was clerical or lay, fish or flesh; a castle that had
taken a serious turn, or a church out for the day in plain clothes; how people
can like to live in such a mouldy, rusty, musty old barn, that looks as full of
ghosts as a cheese is of mites, I can't conceive.”
“There certainly is an appearance of gloom and loneliness about the
place,” replied I; “but I think it is chiefly owing to the absence of any living
object—a herd of deer in the park, a group of children and dogs playing on
the lawn—anything to give animation to the picture, would be the greatest
improvement.”
“I should just think it would,” returned Lawless. “Fancy a pack of hounds
under that jolly old oak yonder, the huntsman and whips in their bits of
pink, and a field of about fifty of the right sort of fellows on thorough-
breds, dawdling about, talking to one another, or taking a canter over the
turf, just to settle themselves in the saddle; that would be a sight to make
old Vernor look a little better pleased than he did last night, sing out for his
boots and buckskins, and clap his leg over the first four-footed beast that
came in his way, even if it should happen to be the old cow.”
“I hope I may be there to see if he does,” replied I laughing.
On inquiring whether Mr. Vernor was at home we were answered in the
affirmative by a tall, gaunt-looking man-servant, with a stern, not to say
surly, countenance, the expression of which was in some degree
contradicted by a pair of quick, restless little grey eyes, which in any other
face one should have said twinkled merrily beneath the large grizzled
eyebrows which o'ershadowed them.
Having, at Lawless's request, procured a nondescript hobbledehoy of
indefinite character to stand at the horses' heads (we had left Shrimp behind,
by common consent, that he might be no restraint on our conversation), he
conducted us across the hall into a kind of morning-room, fitted up with oak
panels, and with a very handsome old carved oak chimney-piece reaching
half-way to the ceiling. He was leaving the room to inform his master of our
arrival when Lawless stopped him by saying:—
“Here, just wait a bit; tell the young woman—that is to say, don't tell her
anything; but I mean, let Miss Saville be made aware (I see you're awake,

for all your long face), put her up to our being here; don't you know, eh?”
“Tip him,” whispered I.
“Eh, stop a bit; you're a very honest fellow, and it's right to reward
faithful servants; and—you understand all about it, eh?”
One portion of this somewhat incoherent address he did understand,
evidently, for without altering a muscle of his face, he put out his hand, took
the money, and left the room with the same unconscious air of
imperturbability which he had maintained throughout the whole conference.
“Good move that, eh?” exclaimed Lawless, as soon as the door was closed;
“that'll fetch her out of her hole, for a guinea. Mind, I shall do my best to
cut you out, Master Frank. I don't see why I haven't a right to quite as large
a share of her gratitude as you have, for if I hadn't set her on fire you'd
never have put her out; so, in fact, she owes it all to me—don't you see?”
“I'm afraid there's a little sophistry in that argument,” replied I; “but we
had better wait till we find whether we shall have the opportunity afforded
us of trying our powers of fascination before we quarrel about the effects to
be produced by them. I cannot say I feel over sanguine as to the success of
your somewhat original negotiation with that raw-boned giant in the blue
plush sine qua nons, as Coleman calls them.”
“Time will show,” rejoined Lawless, turning towards the door, which
opened at this moment to admit Mr. Vernor; and, alas! him only.
His reception of us, though perfectly easy and well-bred, was anything
but agreeable or encouraging. He answered our inquiries after Miss Saville's
health by informing us, cursorily, that no ill effects had ensued from her
alarm of the previous evening. He received Lawless's apologies with a
calm, half-ironical smile, and an assurance that they were not required; and
he slightly thanked me for my obliging assistance in words perfectly
unexceptionable in themselves, but which, from a peculiarity in the tone of
voice more than anything else, impressed one with a sense of insult rather
than of compliment. Still, in compliance with certain expressive looks from
Lawless, who evidently was most unwilling to be convinced of the failure
of his little bit of diplomacy, I used every means I could think of to prolong
the visit. I first admired, then criticised, the carving of the chimney-piece; I
dived into a book of prints which lay upon the table, and prosed about
mezzo-tint and line engraving, and bored myself, and of course my hearers
also, till our powers of endurance were taxed almost beyond their strength;

and, at last, having completely exhausted not only my small-talk, but my
entire stock of conversation of all sorts and sizes, I was regularly beaten to a
stand-still, and obliged to take refuge in alternately teasing and caressing a
beautiful black and tan setter, which seemed the only member of the party
thoroughly sociable and at his ease.
At length it became apparent even to Lawless himself that the visit could
not be protracted longer, and we accordingly rose and took our leave, our
host (I will not call him entertainer, for it would be a complete misnomer)
preserving the same tone of cool and imperturbable politeness to the very
last. On reaching the hall we encountered the surly old footman, whose
features looked more than ever as if they had been carved out of some very
hard species of wood.
“I say, old boy, where's the young lady, eh?” exclaimed Lawless, as soon
as he caught sight of him; “she never showed so much as the tip of her nose
in the room; how was that, eh?”
“If she com'd into the room when gentlemen was calling, master would
eat her without salt,” was the reply.
“Which fact you were perfectly aware of when you took my tip so quietly
just now?”
“In course I was, why should I not be?”
“Done brown for once, by Jove!” muttered Lawless as he left the hall; “a
raw-boned old rogue, I'll be even with him some day, though——, we shall
see, eh?”
While Lawless was busily engaged in settling some of the harness which
had become disarranged the old footman came up to me and whispered,
“Make use of your eyes as you drive through the park, and mayhap you'll
spy some game worth looking after, young gentleman”.
Surprised at this unexpected address, I turned to question him as to its
meaning, but in vain; for no sooner had he finished speaking than he re-
entered the hall and shut the door behind him.
What could he intend me to understand, thought I; he evidently wished to
imply something beyond the simple meaning of the words “game worth
looking after”; could he mean to——no! the thing is impossible—“absurd!”
exclaimed I, as a wild idea shot through my brain and I felt myself colour
like a girl.

"What's absurd?” exclaimed Lawless, gathering up the reins as he spoke;
“what are you talking about? why, you're ranting and staring about you like
a play-actor; what's the matter with you, eh, Frank?”
“Nothing,” replied I, taking my seat; “don't drive too fast through the
park, I want to look at the view as we go along.”
In obedience to the gaunt domestic's mysterious injunction I made the
best use of my eyes as we retraced our way through the park, and for my
pains had the satisfaction of beholding a solitary rabbit, half-hidden under a
dock-leaf, and sundry carrion crows.

CHAPTER XVIII — THE GAME IN
BARSTONE PARK
“The fringed curtains of thine eye advance and say what
thou see'st yond.”
—Tempest.

“Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.”
—Twelfth Night.

“Let us go thank him and encourage him.
My Guardian's rough and envious disposition
Strikes me at heart—Sir you have well deserved.”
—As You Like It.

WE had arrived within a quarter of a mile of the gate, and I had just
settled to my thorough dissatisfaction that the old footman must be a
humorist, and had diverted himself by making a kind of April-fool out of
season of me, when, through the trees, which at that spot stretched their
huge branches across the road so as to form a complete arch, I fancied I
perceived the flutter of a woman's dress; and, in another moment, a turn in
the drive disclosed to my view a female form, which I instantly recognised
as that of Clara Saville.
Without a minute's hesitation I sprang to the ground before Lawless had
time to pull up, and, saying to him, “I shall be back again directly; wait for
me, there's a good fellow,” I hastily entered a winding path, which led
through the trees to the spot where I had seen the young lady, leaving my
companion mute from astonishment. Up to this moment, acting solely from
a sort of instinctive impulse which made me wish to see and speak to Miss
Saville, I had never considered the light in which my proceedings might
appear to her. What right, I now asked myself, had I to intrude upon her
privacy, and, as it were, force my company upon her, whether she wished it
or not? Might she not look upon it as an impertinent intrusion? As these
thoughts flitted through my brain I slackened my pace; and had it not been
for very shame could have found in my heart to turn back again. This,
however, I resolved not to do; having committed myself so far, I determined
to give her an opportunity of seeing me, and, if she should show any
intention of avoiding me, it would then be time enough to retrace my steps

and leave her unmolested. With this design I proceeded slowly up the path,
stopping now and then as if to admire the view, until a turn of the walk
brought me in sight of a rustic bench, on which was seated the young lady I
had before observed. As soon as she perceived me she rose and turned
towards me, disclosing, as she did so, the graceful form and lovely features
of my partner of the preceding evening. The morning costume, including a
most irresistible little cottage-bonnet lined with pink, was even more
becoming to her than the ball-dress; and when, instead of the cold air of
constraint which had characterised her manner of the previous evening, she
advanced to meet me with a slight blush and the most bewitching smile of
welcome that ever set man's heart beating, I thought I had never seen
anything so perfectly beautiful before.
“I must ask your forgiveness for venturing thus to intrude upon you, Miss
Saville,” began I, after we had exchanged salutations; “but the temptation of
learning from your own lips that you had sustained no injury was too strong
to be resisted, more particularly after the disappointment of finding you
were from home when I did myself the pleasure of calling on Mr. Vernor to
inquire after you.”
“Nay, there is nothing to forgive,” replied Miss Saville; “on the contrary,”
she continued, blushing slightly, “I was anxious to see you, in order to
thank you for the eminent service you rendered me yesterday evening.”
“Really it is not worth mentioning,” returned I; “it is only what any other
gentleman in the room would have done had he been in my situation; it was
good Mrs. Trottle's shawl saved you; I could have done nothing without
that.”
“You shall not cheat me out of my gratitude in that way,” replied she,
smiling; “the shawl would have been of little avail had it not been so
promptly and energetically applied; and, as for the other gentlemen, they
certainly were very ready with their offers of assistance after the danger
was over. I am afraid,” she continued, looking down, “you must have
repented the trouble you had taken when you found what a thankless person
you had exerted yourself to save.”
“Indeed, no such idea crossed my mind for an instant; the slight service I
was able to render you was quite repaid by the pleasure of knowing that I
had been fortunate enough to prevent you from sustaining injury,” said I.

“You are very kind,” was the reply; “but I can assure you I have been
exceedingly annoyed by imagining how wholly destitute of gratitude you
must have considered me!”
“Lucy Markham told me such would be the case,” replied I, smiling.
“Did she?—a dear warm-hearted girl—she always does me justice!”
exclaimed Miss Saville, as she raised her beautiful eyes, sparkling with
animation, to my face. She then, for the first time, observed my injured arm,
and added quickly, “but you wear your arm in a sling; I hope—that is—I am
afraid—-I trust it was not injured last night!”
“It is a mere trifle,” replied I; “he wristband of my sleeve caught fire, and
burnt my arm, but it is nothing of any consequence, I can assure you.”
“I am sure you must have thought me sadly ungrateful,” returned my
companion; “you exerted yourself, and successfully, to save my life,
receiving a painful injury in so doing, whilst I left the house without
offering you the thanks due even to the commonest service imaginable.”
“You were not then aware that I had burnt my arm, remember; and
forgive me for adding,” returned I (for I saw that she was really distressed
at the idea of my considering her wanting in gratitude), “that it did not
require any unusual degree of penetration to perceive that you were not
altogether a free agent.”
“No, indeed,” replied she, eagerly catching at the idea, “Mr. Vernor, my
guardian—he always means to be very kind I am sure; but,” she added,
sinking her voice, “he is so very particular, and he speaks so sternly
sometimes, that—I know it is very silly—but I cannot help feeling afraid of
him. I mention this, sir, to prevent your judging me too harshly, and I trust
to your generosity not to take any unfair advantage of my openness; and
now,” she added, fixing her large eyes upon me with an imploring look
which would have melted the toughest old anchorite that ever chewed grey
peas, “you will not think me so very ungrateful, will you?”
“My dear Miss Saville,” replied I, “let me beg you to believe I never
dreamt of blaming you for a moment; on the contrary, I pay you no
compliment, but only mention the simple truth, when I tell you that I
admired your behaviour throughout the whole affair exceedingly; your
presence of mind and self-control were greater than, under the
circumstances, I could have supposed possible.” As she made no reply to
this, but remained looking steadfastly on the ground, with her head turned

so as to conceal her face, I continued—“I hope it is unnecessary for me to
add, that you need not entertain the slightest fear of my making any
indiscreet use of the frankness with which you have done me the honour of
speaking to me—but I am forgetting half my business,” added I, wishing to
set her at ease again, “I am charged with all sorts of kind messages to you
from good Mrs. Coleman and Miss Markham; I presume you would wish
me to tell them I have had the pleasure of ascertaining that you have
sustained no ill effects from your alarm.”
“Oh yes, by all means,” replied Miss Saville, looking up with a pleased
expression, “give my kind love to them both, and tell dear Lucy I shall
come over to see her as soon as ever I can.”
“I will not intrude upon you longer, then, having delivered my message,”
said I; “I have kept my companion, the gentleman who was so unfortunate
as to overturn the candelabrum, waiting an unconscionable time already; he
is very penitent for his offence; may I venture to relieve his mind by telling
him that you forgive him?”
“Pray do so,” was the reply; “I never bear malice; besides, it was entirely
an accident, you know. How thoroughly wretched he seemed when he
found what he had done; frightened as I was, I could scarcely help laughing
when I caught a glimpse of his face, he looked so delightfully miserable,”
added she, with a merry laugh. After a moment's pause she continued—“I'm
afraid Mr. Vernor will think I am lost, if he should happen to inquire after
me, and I'm not forthcoming”.
“Surely,” said I, “he can never be so unreasonable as to blame you for
such a trifle as remaining five minutes too long. Does he expect you to be a
nun because he lives in a priory?”
“Almost, I really think,” was the reply; “and now, good-bye, Mr.
Fairlegh,” she continued—“I shall feel happier since I have been able to
explain to you that I am not quite a monster of ingratitude.”
“If that is the case, I am bound to rejoice in it also,” answered I, “though
I would fain convince you that the explanation was not required.”
Her only reply to this was an incredulous shake of the head; and, once
more wishing me good-morning, she tripped along the path; and, when I
turned to look again, her graceful figure had disappeared among the trees.

With a flushed brow and beating heart (gentle reader, I was barely
twenty) I hastened to rejoin my companion, who, as might be expected, was
not in the most amiable humour imaginable, having had to restrain the
impatience of two fiery horses for a space of time nearly approaching a
quarter of an hour.
“Really, Lawless,” I began, “I am quite ashamed.” “Oh, you are, are
you?” was the rejoinder. “I should rather think you ought to be, too. But it's
always the way with you fellows who pretend to be steady and moral, and
all that sort of thing: when you do find a chance of getting into mischief,
you're worse a great deal than a man like myself, for instance, who, without
being bothered with any particular principles of any kind, has what I call a
general sense of fitness and propriety, and does his dissipation sensibly and
correctly. But to go tearing off like a lunatic after the first petticoat you see
fluttering among the bushes in a gentleman's park, and leaving your friend
to hold in two thorough-bred peppery devils, that are enough to pull a man's
arms off, for above a quarter of an hour, it's too bad a great deal. Why, just
before you came, I fully expected when that mare was plunging about on
her hind legs——”
“How lovely she looked!” interrupted I, thinking aloud.
“You thought so, did you?” rejoined Lawless; “I wish you'd just had to
hold her; her mouth's as hard——”
“Her mouth is perfect,” replied I emphatically; “quite perfect.”
“Well, that's cool,” muttered Lawless; “he'll put me in a passion directly;
—pray, sir, may I ask how on earth you come to know anything about her
mouth?”
“How do I know anything about her mouth?” exclaimed I. “Did I not
watch with delight its ever-varying expression?—mark each movement of
those beautiful lips, and drink in every syllable that fell from them?—not
observe her mouth! Think you, when we have been conversing together for
the last quarter of an hour, that I could fail to do so?”
"Oh he's gone stark staring mad!” exclaimed Lawless; “strait-waistcoats,
Bedlam, and all that sort o' thing, you know;—conversing with my bay
mare for the last quarter of an hour, and drinking in every syllable that fell
from her beautiful lips—oh, he's raving!”

“What do you mean?” said I, at length awaking to some consciousness of
sublunary affairs—“Your mare!—who ever thought of your mare? it's Miss
Saville I'm talking about.”
“Miss Saville!” repeated Lawless, giving vent to a long whistle,
expressive of incredulity; “why, you don't mean to say you've been talking
to Miss Saville all this time, do you?”
“To be sure I have,” replied I; “and a very interesting and agreeable
conversation it was too.”
“Well,” exclaimed Lawless, after a short pause; “all the luck in this
matter seem's to fall to your share; so the sooner I get out of it the better. It
won't break my heart, that's one comfort;—if the young woman has the bad
taste to prefer you to me, why, it can't be helped, you know;—but what did
she say for herself, eh?”
“She sent you her forgiveness for one thing,” replied I; and I then
proceeded to relate such particulars of the interview as I considered
expedient; which recital, and our remarks thereupon, furnished conversation
during the remainder of our drive.

CHAPTER XIX — TURNING THE TABLES
“'You should also make no noise in the streets.'

“'You may stay him.'

“'Nay, by're lady, that I think he cannot.'

“'Five shillings to one on't with any man that knows the
statutes, he may stay him. His wits are not so blunt as, God help, I
would desire they were. It is an offence to stay a man against
his will. Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not suspect
my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but,
masters, remember that I am an ass: though it be not written
down, yet forget not that I am an ass.”
—Much Ado About Nothing.

ABOUT a week had elapsed after the events which I have just recorded,
when one morning, shortly before my return to Cambridge, I received a
letter from Coleman, detailing the finale of the bellringing affair. It ran as
follows:—
"My Dear Frank—Doubtless you are, or ought to be, very anxious to hear
how I contrived to get out of the scrape into which you and the Honourable
George managed to inveigle me, having previously availed yourselves of
my innocence, and succeeded, through the seductive medium of oysters and
porter, in corrupting my morals, then leaving me, poor victim! to bear the
blame, and suffer the consequences, of our common misdemeanour.
However, mine is no pitiful spirit to be quelled by misfortune, and, as
dangers thickened around me, I bore up against them bravely, like—like—
(was it Julius Cæsar or Coriolanus who did that sort of thing?) but never
mind—like a Roman brick, we'll say; the particular brick is quite
immaterial, but I must beg you to believe the likeness was something
striking. To descend to particulars.—Hostilities were commenced by that
old ass, Mayor Dullmug, who took out a summons against me for creating a
riot and disturbance in the town, and the first day the bench sat I was
marched off by two policemen, and locked up in a little dirty room, to keep
cool till their worships were ready to discuss me. Well, there I sat, kicking
my heels, and chuckling over a heart-rending little scene I had just gone
through with my mother, whose dread of the terrors of the law was greatly

increased by the very vague ideas she possessed of the extent of its powers.
The punishment she had settled in her own mind as likely to be awarded me
was transportation, and her farewell address was as follows: 'If they should
be cruel enough to order you to be transported for fourteen years, Freddy,
my dear, I shall try to persuade your father (though he's just like a savage
North American Indian about you) to get it changed “for life” instead, for
they always die of the yellow fever for the sharks to eat them, when they've
been over there three or four years; and four years are better than fourteen,
though bad's the best, and I'm a miserable woman. I read all about it last
week in one of Captain Marryat's books, and very shocking I thought it,'—
Having ventured to hint that if I was carried off by the yellow fever at the
end of a year or two, the length of my sentence would not signify much to
me when I was dead, I was rebuked with 'Don't talk in that shocking way,
Frederick, as if you were a heathen, in your situation, and I hearing you
your collect every Sunday, besides Mrs. Hannah More, who might have
been a saint if ever there was one, or anything else she liked, with her
talents, only she was too good for this wicked world, and so she went to a
better, and wrote that charming book Colebs in Search of a Wife'.—Oh! my
poor dear mother's queer sentences! I was becoming shockingly tired of my
own company, when it occurred to me that it would be the correct thing to
carve my name on the Newgate stone à la Jack Sheppard; and I was just
putting a few finishing strokes to the N of Coleman, wherewith, in
characters at least six inches long, I had embellished a very conspicuous
spot over the chimney-piece, when I was surprised 'with my chisel so fine,
tra la,' (i.e., with a red-hot poker, which I had been obliged to put up with
instead, it being the only implement attainable,) by the officials, who came
to summon me, and who did not appear in the slightest degree capable of
appreciating the beauties of my performance. By them I was straightway
conducted into the awful presence of sundry elderly gentlemen, rejoicing in
heads all more or less bald, and faces expressing various degrees of solemn
stupidity, who in their proper persons constituted 'the bench'. Before these
grave and reverend signiors did Master Dullmug and his satellites

“'Then and there,
Rehearse and declare'

all my heinous crimes, offences and misdemeanours; whereupon the
aforesaid signiors did solemnly shake their bald heads, and appear

exceedingly shocked and particularly puzzled. Well, at last I was called
upon for my defence, and, having made up my mind for some time what
line I would take, I cut the matter very short, by owning to have assisted in
ringing the bells, which I confessed was an act of folly, but nothing more,
and that the idea of its constituting an offence punishable by law was absurd
in the extreme. This sent them to book, and, after turning over sundry
ponderous tomes, and consulting various statutes of all sorts and sizes,
besides whispering together, and shaking their heads once and again, till I
began to fear that their necks would be dislocated, they arrived at the
conclusion that I was right, or thereabouts. This fact the eldest, most bald,
and most stupid of the party, chosen by common consent, doubtless in
virtue of these attributes, as spokesman, proceeded to communicate to me in
a very prosy harangue, to which he appended a lecture—a sort of stock
article, which he evidently kept constantly on hand, with blanks which
could be filled up to suit any class of offenders. In this harangue he pointed
out the dangers of juvenile tricks, and the evils of dissipation, winding up
with the assurance that, as I seemed deeply sensible of the error of my
ways, they, the magistrates, would, on my making a suitable apology to that
excellent public functionary, the Mayor of Hillingford, graciously deign to
overlook my misconduct. During his long-winded address a new idea struck
me, and when he had concluded I inquired, with all due respect, whether 'I
was to understand that it was quite certain I had committed no offence
punishable by law?' To this he replied, 'that I might set my mind completely
at ease upon that point; that though, morally speaking, I had been guilty of a
very serious misdemeanour, in the eye of the law I was perfectly innocent'.
'In that case, gentlemen,' replied I, 'the liberty of the subject has been
infringed; I have been kept in illegal confinement for some hours, and I
believe I have my remedy in an action for false imprisonment against Mr.
Dullmug. Does not the law bear me out in what I state?' Again they had
recourse to their books, and were unwillingly forced to confess that I was
right.' Then,' continued I, 'so far from making any apology to Mr. Dullmug,
unless that gentleman consents to beg my pardon, and gives me a written
apology for the unjust and illegal prosecution to which he has subjected me,
I shall at once take the necessary steps to proceed against him.' Oh! Frank, I
would have given something to have had you there, old boy! when I
announced this determination; there was such a shindy as I never before
witnessed: old Dullmug was furious, and vowed he'd never apologise: I

declared if he didn't, nothing should prevent me from bringing my action:
the magistrates tried to persuade me, but I was inflexible; and (by Jove! I
was very near forgetting the best part of it all) my governor, who was in
court, the moment he found the law was on my side, turned suddenly round,
swore I had been shamefully used, and that if it cost him every farthing he
possessed in the world, he would see justice done me. So the end of it was
that old Dullmug was forced to write the apology; it now lies in my writing-
desk, and I look upon it as one of the proudest trophies man ever possessed.
So, Master Frank, considering all things, I think I may reckon I got pretty
well out of that scrape.
“Ever your affectionate,
“F. C.
“P.S.—What have you said or done to render old Vernor so bitter against
you? Clara Saville tells Lucy, that, when she informed him of her having
met and conversed with you alone in the park that day, he flew into such a
rage as she had never seen him in before, and abused you like a pickpocket;
and she says she feels certain that, for some cause or other, he entertains a
strong personal dislike to you. Entre nous, I don't think the fair Clara seems
exactly to sympathise with him in this feeling. Considering that you had
somewhat less than half an hour to make play in, from Lucy's account you
do not seem to have wasted much time. Ah! Master Frank, you are a
naughty boy; I can't help sighing when I reflect, how anxious your poor
dear mother must feel about you, when she knows you're out.”
“Still the same light-hearted merry fellow as ever,” exclaimed I, as I
closed the letter; “how long, I wonder, will those buoyant spirits of his
resist the depressing effect which contact with the harsh realities of life
appears always sooner or later to produce? Strange, what he says about that
Mr. Vernor; I am not conscious that I ever met the man till the evening of
the ball, and yet I fancied there was something which seemed not utterly
unfamiliar to me in the expression of his face. Vernor! Vernor! I don't
believe I ever heard the name before—it's very odd. Of course, what he says
about Miss Saville is all nonsense; and yet there was something in her
manner, which made me fancy, if I had time and opportunity—pshaw! what
absurdity—I shall have enough to do if I am to imagine myself in love with
every nice girl who says, 'Thank you' prettily for any trifling service I may
chance to render her. Î am sure she is not happy, poor thing! Seriously, I

wish I were sufficiently intimate with her to be able to afford her the advice
and assistance of a friend, should such be ever required by her. I should take
the liberty of asking old Vernor what he meant by his extraordinary
behaviour towards me, were I to see much more of him; there's nothing like
a little plain speaking. But I need, not trouble my brains about the matter; I
shall probably never meet either of them again, so what does it signify? She
certainly is the loveliest girl I ever saw, though! heigho!” and, with a sigh,
for which I should have been somewhat puzzled rationally to account, I
took up my gun, and set off for a day's shooting with Harry Oaklands.

CHAPTER XX — ALMA MATER
“He's a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can
easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of
the twenty to follow my own teaching. The brain may devise
laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree.”
—Merchant of Venice.

TIME, that venerable and much-vituperated individual, who, if he has to
answer for some acts savouring of a taste for wanton destruction—if he
now and then lunches on some noble old abbey, which had remained a
memorial of the deep piety and marvellous skill of our forefathers—if he
crops, by way of salad, some wide-spreading beech or hoary patriarchal
oak, which had flung its shade over the tombs of countless generations, and,
as it stood forming a link between the present and the past, won men's
reverence by force of contrast with their own ephemeral existence—yet
atones for his delinquencies by softening the bitterness of grief, blunting the
sharp edge of pain, and affording to the broken-hearted the rest, and to the
slave the freedom, of the grave;—old Time, I say, who should be praised at
all events for his perseverance and steadiness, swept onward with his
scythe, and cutting his way through the frost and snow of winter, once more
beheld the dust of that “brother of the east wind,” March, converted into
mud by the showers of April, and the summer was again approaching. It
was on a fine morning in May, that, as Oaklands and I were breakfasting
together in my rooms at Trinity, we heard a tap at the door, and the
redoubtable Shrimp made his appearance. This interesting youth had, under
Lawless's able tuition, arrived at such a pitch of knowingness that it was
utterly impossible to make him credit anything; he had not the smallest
particle of confidence remaining in the integrity of man, woman, or child;
and, like many another of the would-be wise in their generation, the only
flaw in his scepticism was the bigoted nature of his faith in the false and
hateful doctrine of the universal depravity of the human race. He was the
bearer of a missive from his master, inviting Oaklands and myself to a
wine-party at his rooms that evening.
“I suppose we may as well go,” said Oaklands; “I like a positive
engagement somewhere—it saves one the trouble of thinking what one

shall do with oneself.”
"You can accept it,” replied I, “but it would be a waste of time which I
have no right to allow myself; not only does it make one idle while it lasts,
but the next day also, for I defy a man to read to any purpose the morning
after one of Lawless's symposia.”
“Call it supper, my dear boy,” returned Oaklands, stretching himself;
“why do you take the trouble to use a long word when a short one would do
just as well? If I could but get you to economise your labour and take things
a little more easily, it would be of the greatest advantage to you;—that
everlasting reading too—I tell you what, Frank, you are reading a great deal
too hard; you look quite pale and ill. I promised Mrs. Fairlegh I would not
let you overwork yourself, and you shall not either. Come, you must and
shall go to this party; you want relaxation and amusement, and those
fellows will contrive to rouse you up a bit, and do you good.”
“To say the truth,” I replied, “that is one of my chief objections to going.
Lawless I like, for the sake of old recollections, and because he is at bottom
a well-disposed, good-hearted fellow; but I cannot approve of the set of
men one meets there. It is not merely their being what is termed 'fast' that I
object to; for though I do not set up for a sporting character myself, I am
rather amused than otherwise to mix occasionally with that style of men;
but there is a tone of recklessness in the conversation of the set we meet
there, a want of reverence for everything human and divine, which, I
confess, disgusts me—they seem to consider no object too high or too low
to make a jest of.”
“I understand the kind of thing you refer to,” answered Oaklands, “but I
think it's only one or two of them who offend in that way; there is one man
who is my particular aversion; I declare if I thought he'd be there to-night I
would not go.”
“I think I know who you mean,” replied I; “Stephen Wilford, is it not?
the man they call 'Butcher,' from some brutal thing he once did to a horse.”
“You're right, Frank; I can scarcely sit quietly by and hear that man talk. I
suppose he sees that I dislike him, for there is something in his manner to
me which is almost offensive; really at times I fancy he wishes to pick a
quarrel with me.”
“Not unlikely,” said I; “he has the reputation of being a dead shot with
the pistol, and on the strength of it he presumes to bully every one.”

“He had better not go too far with me,” returned Oaklands, with flashing
eyes; “men are not to be frightened like children; such a character as that is
a public nuisance.”
“He will not be there to-night, I am glad to say,” replied I, “for I met him
yesterday when I was walking with Lawless, and he said he was engaged to
Wentworth this evening; but, my dear Harry, for Heaven's sake avoid any
quarrel with this man; should you not do so, you will only be hazarding
your life unnecessarily, and it can lead to no good result.”
“My dear fellow, do I ever quarrel with anybody? there is nothing worth
the trouble of quarrelling about in this world; besides, it would be an
immense fatigue to be shot,” observed Harry, smiling.
“I have no great faith in your pacific sensations, for they are nothing
more,” rejoined I; “your indolence always fails you where it might be of use
in subduing (forgive me for using the term) your fiery temper; besides, in
allowing a man of this kind to quarrel with you, you give him just the
opportunity he wants; in fact you are completely playing his game.”
“Well, I can't see that exactly; suppose the worst comes to the worst, and
you are obliged to fight him, he stands nearly as good a chance of being
killed as you do.”
“Excuse me, he does nothing of the kind; going out with a professed
duellist is like playing cards with a skilful gambler; the chances are very
greatly in his favour: in the first place, nine men out of ten would lose their
nerve entirely when stationed opposite the pistol of a dead shot; then again,
there are a thousand apparent trifles of which the initiated are aware, and
which make the greatest difference, such as securing a proper position with
regard to the sun, taking care that your figure is not in a direct line with any
upright object, a tree or post for instance, and lots of other things of a like
nature which we know nothing about, all of which he is certain to contrive
to have arranged favourably for himself, and disadvantageously for his
opponent. Then, having as it were trained himself for the occasion, he is
perfectly cool and collected, and ready to avail himself of every
circumstance he might turn to his advantage—a moment's hesitation in
pulling the trigger when the signal is given, and he fires first—many a man
has received his death-wound before now ere he had discharged his own
pistol.”

“My dear boy,” said Harry, “you really are exciting and alarming yourself
very unnecessarily; I am not going to quarrel with Wilford or anybody else;
I detest active exertion of every kind, and consider duelling as a fashionable
compound of iniquity, containing equal parts of murder and suicide—and
we'll go to Lawless's this evening, that I'm determined upon—and—let me
see—I've got James's new novel in my pocket. I shall not disturb you if I
stay here, shall I? I'm not going to talk.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, he stretched himself' at full length
on (and beyond) the sofa, and was soon buried in the pages of that best of
followers in the footsteps of the mighty Wizard of the North—Walter Scott
—leaving me to the somewhat less agreeable task of reading mathematics.

CHAPTER XXI — THE WINE-PARTY
“This night I hold an old-accustomed feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love.”

“A fair assembly, whither should they come?

Servant.—Up——-!

Romeo.—Whither?

Servant.—To supper.”
—Shakspeare.

“All is not false that seems at first a lie.”
—Southey.

“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

I do bite my thumb, sir!

Do you quarrel, sir?

Quarrel, sir! No, sir!

If you do, sir, I am for you.”
—Shakspeare.

LET the reader imagine a long table covered with the remains of an
excellent dessert, interspersed with a multitude of bottles of all shapes and
sizes, containing every variety of wine that money could procure, or palate
desire; whilst in the centre stood a glorious old china bowl of punch, which
the guests were discussing in tumblers—wine-glasses having been
unanimously voted much too slow. Around this table let there be seated
from fifteen to twenty men, whose ages might vary from nineteen to three-
or four-and-twenty; some smoking cigars, some talking vociferously, some
laughing, some though they were decidedly the minority, listening: but all
showing signs of being more or less elated by the wine they had taken. Let
the reader imagine all this, and he will have formed a pretty correct idea of
the supper-party in Lawless's rooms, as it appeared about ten o'clock on the
evening subsequent to the conversation I have just detailed.
“Didn't I see you riding a black horse with one white stocking yesterday,
Oaklands?” inquired a young man with a round jovial countenance, which

might have been reckoned handsome but for the extreme redness of the
complexion, and the loss of a front tooth, occasioned by a fall received in
the hunting field, whose name was Richard, or, as he was more commonly
termed, Dick Curtis.
“Yes,” replied Oaklands, “I daresay you did; I was trying him.”
“Ah! I fancied he was not one of your own.” “No; he belongs to Tom
Barret, who wants me to buy him; but I don't think he's strong enough to
carry my weight; there's not substance enough about him; I ride nearly
eleven stone.”
“Oh! he'll never do for you,” exclaimed Lawless. “I know the horse well;
they call him Blacksmith, because the man who bred him was named
Smith; he lives down in Lincolnshire, and breeds lots of horses; but they are
none of them, at least none that I have seen, what I call the right sort; don't
you buy him,—he's got too much daylight under him to suit you.”
“Too long in the pasterns to carry weight,” urged Curtis.
“Rather inclined to be cow-hocked,” chimed in Lawless.
“Not ribbed home,” remarked Curtis.
“Too narrow across the loins,” observed Lawless.
“He'll never carry flesh,” continued Curtis.
“It's useless to think of his jumping; he'll never make a hunter,” said
Lawless.
“Only hear them,” interrupted a tall, fashionable-looking young man,
with a high forehead and a profusion of light, curling hair; “now those two
fellows are once off, it's all up with anything like rational conversation for
the rest of the evening.”
“That's right, Archer, put the curb on 'em; we might as well be in
Tattersall's yard at once,” observed another of the company, addressing the
last speaker.
“I fear it's beyond my power,” replied Archer; “they've got such an
incurable trick of talking equine scandal, and taking away the characters of
their neighbours' horses, that nobody can stop them unless it is Stephen
Wilford.”
The mention of this name seemed to have the effect of rendering every
one grave, and a pause ensued, during which Oaklands and I exchanged

glances. At length the silence was broken by Curtis, who said:—
“By the way, what's become of Wilford? I expected to meet him here to-
night.”
“He was engaged to dine with Wentworth,” said Lawless; “but he
promised to look in upon us in the course of the evening; I thought he
would have been here before this.”
As he spoke a tap was heard at the room-door.
“Well, that's odd,” continued Lawless; “that's Wilford for a ducat; talk of
the devil,—eh, don't you know? Come in.”
“You had better not repeat that in his hearing,” observed Archer, “though
I believe he'd take it as a compliment on the whole; it's my opinion he
rather affects the satanic.”
“Hush,” said Curtis, pressing his arm, “here he is.”
As he spoke the door opened, and the subject of their remarks entered.
He was rather above the middle height, of a slight but unusually elegant
figure, with remarkably small hands and feet, the former of which were
white and smooth as those of a woman. His features were delicately formed
and regular, and the shape of his face a perfect oval; strongly marked
eyebrows overshadowed a pair of piercing black eyes; his lips were thin and
compressed, and his mouth finely cut; his hair, which was unusually glossy
and luxuriant, was jet black, as were his whiskers, affording a marked
contrast to the death-like pallor of his countenance. The only fault that
could be found in the drawing of his face was that the eyes were placed too
near together; but this imparted a character of intensity to his glance which
added to, rather than detracted from, the general effect of his appearance.
His features, when in repose, were usually marked by an expression of
contemptuous indifference; he seldom laughed, but his smile conveyed an
indication of such bitter sarcasm that I have seen men, whom he chose to
make a butt for his ridicule, writhe under it as under the infliction of bodily
torture. He was dressed, as was his wont, entirely in black; but his clothes,
which were fashionably cut, fitted him without a wrinkle. He bowed
slightly to the assembled company, and then seated himself in a chair which
had been reserved for him at the upper end of the table, nearly opposite
Oaklands and myself, saying as he did so: “I'm afraid I'm rather late,
Lawless, but Wentworth and I had a little business to transact, and I could
not get away sooner”.

“What devil's deed have they been at now, I wonder?” whispered
Oaklands to me.
“Manslaughter, most likely,” replied Archer (who was seated next me,
and had overheard the remark), “Wilford appears so thoroughly satisfied
with himself; that was just the way in which he looked the morning he
winged Sherringham, for I saw him myself.”
“Send me down the claret, will you, Curtis?” asked Wilford. “Punch is a
beverage I don't patronise; it makes a man's hand shaky.”
“If that is the case,” returned Archer, “you ought to make a point of
drinking it for the good of society, my dear Wilford; let me help you to a
glass.”
“Nonsense, Archer, be quiet, man; here, taste this cool bottle, Wilford;
claret's good for nothing if it's at all flat,” exclaimed Lawless, drawing the
cork of a fresh magnum as he spoke.
“I differ from you in that opinion, Archer,” returned Wilford, fixing his
keen black eyes upon the person he addressed with a piercing glance;
“society is like the wine in this glass,” and he filled a bumper to the brim
with claret as he spoke; “it requires a steady hand to keep it within its
proper bounds, and to compel it to preserve an unruffled surface”; and so
saying he raised the glass to his lips without spilling a drop, still keeping his
eyes fixed upon Archer's face with the same withering glance.
“Well, I have often heard of looking daggers at a person,” continued
Archer, who had been drinking somewhat deeply during the evening, and
now appeared possessed by a spirit of mischief leading him to tease and
annoy Wilford in every way he could think of; “but Wilford does worse, he
positively looks pistols—cocked and loaded pistols—at one. Fairlegh, I
shall screen myself behind your broad shoulders; I never could stand fire.”
So saying he seized me by the elbows, and, urging me forward, crouched
down behind me, affecting the extremity of terror.
The scowl on Wilford's brow deepened as he spoke, but, after a moment's
hesitation, apparently considering the affair too absurd to take notice of, he
turned away with a contemptuous smile, saying, “You make your punch too
strong, Lawless”.
Archer instantly recovered his erect attitude, and with a flushed face
seemed about to make some angry reply, when Lawless, who appeared

nervously anxious that the evening should pass over harmoniously,
interposed.
“Archer, you're absolutely incorrigible; keep him in order, Fairlegh, eh?
give him some more punch, and fill your own glass—it has been empty I
don't know how long. I'll find a toast that will make you drink—bumpers
round, gentlemen, 'to the health of the prettiest girl in Hertfordshire'. Are
you all charged? I beg to propose

“Excuse my interrupting you, Lawless,” exclaimed I—for I felt certain
who it was he was thinking of; and the idea of Miss Saville's name being
mentioned and discussed with the tone of licence common on such
occasions, appeared to me such complete profanation, that I determined, be
the consequences what they might, to prevent it—“Excuse my interrupting

you, but I should feel greatly obliged by your substituting some other toast
for the one you are about to propose”.
“Eh, what! not drink the young woman's health? why I thought you
admired her more than I do: not drink her health? how's that, eh?”
“I shall be most happy to explain to you the reasons for my request at
some other time,” replied I; “at present I can only add that I shall consider it
as a personal favour if you will accede to it.”
“It does not appear to me to require an OEdipus to discover Mr.
Fairlegh's reasons for this request,” observed Stephen Wilford; “he
evidently does not consider the present company deserving of the high
honour of drinking the health of a young lady whom he distinguishes by his
admiration.”
“Not over-flattering, I must say,” muttered Lawless, looking annoyed.
“I suppose he's afraid of our hearing her name, lest some of us should go
and cut him out,” suggested Curtis in an undertone, which was, however,
perfectly audible.
“In the meanwhile, Lawless, I hope you're not going to indulge your
friend's caprice at the expense of the rest of the company,” resumed
Wilford; “having raised our expectations you are bound to gratify them.”
Lawless, who evidently hesitated between his desire to assert his
independence and his wish to oblige me, was beginning with his usual,
“Eh? why, don't you see,”—when I interrupted him by saying, “Allow me
to set this matter at rest in a very few words. Lawless, I hope, knows me
well enough to feel sure that I could not intend any disrespect either to
himself or to his guests—I believe it is not such an unheard-of thing for a
gentle-man to object to the name of any lady whom he respects being
commented upon with the freedom incidental to a convivial meeting like
the present—however that may be, I have asked Lawless as a favour not to
drink a certain toast in my presence; should he be unwilling to comply with
my request, as I would not wish to be the slightest restraint upon him at his
own table, I shall request his permission to withdraw; on this point I await
his decision. I have only one more observation to make,” continued I,
looking at Wilford, who was evidently preparing to speak, “which is, that if,
after what I have just said, any gentleman should continue to urge Lawless
to give the toast to which I object, I must perforce consider that he wishes
to insult me.”

As I concluded, there was a murmur of applause, and Archer and one or
two others turned to Lawless, declaring it was quite impossible to press the
matter further after what I had said; when Wilford, in a cold, sarcastic tone
of voice, observed: “I am sorry Mr. Fairlegh's last argument should have
failed in convincing me, as easily as it seems to have done some others of
the party; such, however, unfortunately being the case, I must repeat, even
at the risk of incurring a thing so terrible as that gentleman's displeasure,
my decided opinion that Lawless, having informed us he was going to drink
a particular toast, should not allow himself to be bullied out of it, in
compliance with any man's humour”.
This speech, as it might be expected, produced great excitement; I sprang
to my feet (an example followed by several of the party), and was about to
make an angry reply, when Oaklands, who up to this moment had taken no
part in the discussion, but sat sipping his wine with his usual air of listless
contentment, apparently indifferent to, if not wholly unconscious of, all that
was going on, now rose from his seat, and having obtained silence said:
“Really, gentlemen, all this confusion appears to me very unnecessary,
when a word from our host will end it. Fairlegh has asked you not to
propose a certain toast; it only remains for you, Lawless, to say, whether
you intend to do so or not.”
Thus urged, Lawless replied, “Eh? no, certainly not; Frank Fairlegh's a
trump, and I would not do anything to annoy him for more than I can tell:
besides, when I come to think of it, I believe he was right, and I was wrong
—but you see, women are a kind of cattle I don't clearly understand—if it
was a horse now——”
A burst of laughter at this characteristic remark drowned the conclusion
of the speech, but the announcement that the toast was given up appeared to
produce general satisfaction; for, since I had spoken, the popular opinion
had been decidedly in my favour.
“The cause of this little interruption to the harmony of the evening being
removed,” resumed Oaklands, “suppose we see whether its effects may not
as easily be got rid of. Every man, I take it, has a right to express his own
opinion, and I think Fairlegh must allow that he was a little hasty in
presupposing, that by so doing an insult was intended. This being the case,
he will, I am sure, agree with me that he ought not to take any notice of Mr.
Wilford's remark.”

“Yes, to be sure, that's it—all right, eh?” exclaimed Lawless; “come,
Fairlegh, as a favour to me, let the matter end here.”
Thus urged, I could only reply, that “I was quite willing to defer to their
judgment, and do whatever they considered right “—and as Wilford (though
I could see that he was annoyed beyond measure at having failed in
persuading Lawless to give the toast) remained silent, merely curling his lip
contemptuously when I spoke, here the affair ended.
As soon as the conversation became general Oaklands turned to me with
a mischievous smile, and asked, in an undertone, “Pray, Master Frank,
what's become of all the wisdom and prudence recommended to me this
morning? I am afraid you quite exhausted your stock, and have not reserved
any for your own use. Who's the fire-eater now, I wonder?”
“Laugh away, Harry; I may have acted foolishly, as is usually the case
where one acts entirely from impulse; but I could not have sat tamely by
and heard Clara Saville's name polluted by the-remarks of such men as
Curtis and Wilford—I should have got into a row with them sooner or later,
and it was better to check the thing at once.”
“My dear boy,” returned Oaklands, “do not imagine for a moment that I
am inclined to blame you; the only thing that I could not help feeling rather
amused at, was your throwing down the gauntlet to the gentleman opposite,
when I recollected a certain lecture on prudence, with which I was
victimised this morning.”
“As you are strong, be merciful,” replied I; “and, whenever I do a foolish
thing, may I always have such a friend at hand to save me from the
consequences.”
"That's a toast I will drink most willingly,” said Oaklands smiling; “the
more so, as it reverses the position in which we generally stand with regard
to each other, the alteration being decidedly in my favour; but—” he
continued, interrupting himself, “what on earth are they laughing at, and
making such a row about?”
“Oh, it's merely Curtis romancing with the most unmitigated effrontery,
about something that neither he, nor any one else, ever did out hunting,”
replied Archer; “a tremendous leap, I fancy it was.”
“Do not be too sure that it is impossible,” replied I; “a horse once cleared
the mouth of a chalk pit with me on its back, when I was a boy; Lawless

remembers it.” “Eh! what? Mad Bess!” returned Lawless; “I should think I
did too; I rode there afterwards and examined the place—a regular break-
neck-looking hole as ever I saw in my life. Tell 'em about it, Frank.”
Thus called upon, no choice was left me but to commence the recital,
which, although there are few things to which I have a greater objection
than being the hero of my own story, I accordingly did. Several remarks
were made as I concluded, but, owing either to my well-known dislike of
exaggeration, or to the air of truthfulness with which I had told the tale,
nobody seemed inclined to doubt that the adventure had occurred in the
manner I related, although it was of a more incredible nature than the feat
Curtis had recounted. This fact had just excited my attention, when Wilford,
turning to the man on his right hand, observed: “It's a great pity that some
one hasn't taken notes of this evening's conversation; they would have
afforded materials for a new volume of the adventures of Baron
Munchausen”.
My only answer to this remark, which was evidently intended for my
hearing, was a slight smile, for I had determined I would not again be
betrayed into any altercation with him, and, being now on my guard, I felt
pretty sure of being able to maintain my resolution. To my annoyance
Oaklands replied: “If your remark is intended to throw any discredit upon
the truth of the anecdote my friend has related, I must be excused for
observing that Lawless and I, though not actually eyewitnesses of the leap,
are yet perfectly aware that it took place”.
“Was that observation addressed to me, Mr. Oaklands?” inquired Wilford,
regarding Oaklands with an insolent stare.
"To you, sir, or to any other man who ventures to throw a doubt on what
Fairlegh has just stated,” replied Oaklands, his brow flushing with anger.
“Really,” observed Wilford, with a contemptuous sneer, “Mr. Fairlegh is
most fortunate in possessing such a steady and useful friend: first, when he
dictates to Lawless what toasts he is to propose at his own table, and
threatens the company generally with the weight of his displeasure should
they venture to question the propriety of his so doing, Mr. Oaklands kindly
saves him from the consequences of this warlike declaration, by advancing
the somewhat novel doctrine, that his friend, having spoken unadvisedly,
ought not to act up to the tenor of his words. Again, Mr. Fairlegh relates a
marvellous tale of his earlier days, and Mr. Oaklands is prepared to visit the

most trifling indication of disbelief with the fire and faggots of his
indignation. Gentlemen, I hope you are all good and true Fairleghites, or
you will assuredly be burned at the stake, to satisfy the bigotry of Pope
Oaklands the First.”
During this speech I could perceive by the veins on his forehead, swollen
almost to bursting, his firmly set teeth, and his Viands clenched till the
blood was forced back from the nails, that Oaklands was striving to master
his passion; apparently he succeeded in a great measure, for, as Wilford
concluded, he spoke calmly and deliberately: “The only reply, sir,” he
began, “that I shall deign to make to your elaborate insult is, that I consider
it as such, and shall expect you to render me the satisfaction due to a
gentleman”.
“No, Harry,” exclaimed I, “I cannot permit this: the quarrel, if it be a
quarrel, is mine; on this point I cannot allow even you to interfere. Mr.
Wilford shall hear from me.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Lawless; “I'm sure you must see, Wilford, that this
is not at all the sort of thing, eh? recollect Oaklands and Fairlegh are two of
my oldest friends, and something is due to me at all events, eh?—Archer—
Curtis—this cannot be allowed to go on.”
By this time the party had with one accord risen from their seats, and
divided into groups, some collecting round Wilford and Lawless, others
about Oaklands and myself, and the confusion of tongues was perfectly
deafening. At length I heard Wilford's voice exclaim: “I consider it unfair in
the extreme to lay all this quarrelling and disturbance to me, and, as it is not
at all to my taste, I beg to wish you a very good evening, Lawless”.
"You will do no such thing,” cried Oaklands, and, bursting through the
cluster of men who surrounded him and endeavoured to detain him, he
sprang to the door, double-locked it, and, placing his back against it, added,
“no one loaves the room till this affair is settled one way or other.” The
action, the tone of voice, and the manner which accompanied them,
reminded me so forcibly of a deed of a somewhat similar nature at Dr.
Mildman's, when Oaklands first heard of the loss of his letter containing the
cheque, and began to suspect foul play—that for a moment the lapse of
years was forgotten, and it seemed as though we were boys together again.
Whenever Oaklands was excited by strong emotion of any kind, there
was a proud consciousness of power in his every look and motion, which

possessed for me an irresistible attraction: and now, as he stood, his noble
figure drawn up to its fullest height, his arms folded across his ample chest
in an attitude of defiance a sculptor would have rejoiced to imitate; his head
thrown slightly back, and his handsome features marked by an expression
of haughty indignation; when I reflected that it was a generous regard for
my honour which excited that indignation, I felt that my affection for him
was indeed “passing the love of women,” and that he was a friend for whom
a man might resolve to lay down his life willingly.
While these thoughts passed through my brain Lawless and several of the
more influential members of the party had been endeavouring to persuade
Wilford to own that he was in the wrong, and ought to apologise, but in
vain; the utmost concession they could get him to make was, that “he was
not aware that he had offered any particular insult to Mr. Oaklands, but if
that gentleman chose to put such a construction upon his words, he could
not help it, and should be ready to answer for them when and where he
pleased”.
They were then, as a last resource, about to appeal to Oaklands, when I
interfered by saying “that the insult, if insult it was, had originated from the
part I had taken in the proceedings of the evening, and was directed far
more against me than Oaklands; that under these circumstances it was
impossible for me to allow him to involve himself further in the affair. If
my veracity were impugned, I was the proper person to defend it; there
could be but one opinion on that subject.”
To this they all agreed, and at length Oaklands himself was forced
reluctantly to confess he supposed I was right.
“In this case, gentlemen,” I continued, “my course is clear; I leave my
honour in your hands, certain that in so doing I am taking the wisest course;
honourable men and men of spirit like yourselves will, I feel certain, never
recommend anything incompatible with the strictest regard for my
reputation as a gentleman; neither will you needlessly hurry me into an act,
the consequences of which might possibly embitter the whole of my alter
life. In order that personal feeling may not interfere any more with the
matter, my friend and I will withdraw; Lawless will kindly convey to me
your decision, on which, be it what it may, I pledge myself to act;—-I wish
you a very good-night.”

Then telling Lawless I should sit up for him, and taking leave of two or
three members of the party with whom I was most intimate, I drew
Oaklands' arm within my own, and, unlocking the door, left the room,
Wilford's fierce black eyes glaring at us with a look of disappointed fury,
such as I have witnessed in a caged tiger, being the last object I beheld.

CHAPTER XXII — TAMING A SHREW
“I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;
A quarrel.”

“I do repent; but Heaven hath pleased it so
To punish me with this.”

“We will compound this quarrel.”

“'What's that?'—'Why, a horse.'
“'Tell thou the tale.'”

“Nay, I will win my wager better yet,
And show more signs of her obedience.”

“Now go thy ways, thou hast tamed a curst shrew.”
—Shakspeare.

“WHY did you prevent me from giving that insolent scoundrel the lesson
he deserved?” was Oaklands' first observation as we left the quadrangle in
which Lawless's rooms were situated; “I do not thank you for it, Frank.”
“My dear Harry,” replied I, “you are excited at present; when you are a
little more cool you will see that I could not have acted otherwise than I did.
Even supposing I could have borne such a thing myself, what would have
been said of me if I had allowed you to fight in my quarrel? no honourable
man would have permitted me to associate with him afterwards.”
“But I don't see that the quarrel was yours at all,” returned Oaklands;
“your share of it was ended when the toast affair came to a conclusion; the
rest of the matter was purely personal between him and myself.”
“How can that be, when the origin of it was his doubting, or pretending
to doubt, the truth of the anecdote which I related?” inquired I. “No; depend
upon it, Harry, I have acted rightly, though I bitterly regret now having gone
to the party, and so exposed myself to all this. I have always looked upon
duelling with the greatest abhorrence; to run the risk of committing murder
(for I can call it by no milder name), when at the very moment in which the
crime is consummated you may fall yourself, and thus even the forlorn hope
of living to repent be cut off from you, appears to me little short of
madness. On one point I am resolved—if I do go out with him, nothing
shall induce me to fire at him; I will not die a murderer, at all events.”

“Should your life indeed be sacrificed,” said Oaklands, and his deep
voice trembled with emotion as he spoke, “I will follow this man as the
avenger of blood, fix a mortal insult upon him wherever I meet him, and
shoot him like a dog, convinced that I shall perform a righteous act in so
doing, by ridding the world of such a monster!”
I saw by his manner that it would be useless to attempt to reason with
him at that moment—his warm feelings, and the fiery though generous
impulses of his impetuous nature, had so completely gained possession of
him, that he was no longer a reasonable creature—we therefore walked in
silence to my rooms, where we parted; I declining his offer to remain with
me till I should learn the decision of Lawless and his friends, on the plea of
wishing to be alone (which was, indeed, a true one), although my chief
reason for so doing was to prevent the possibility of Oaklands saying
anything in his present excited state of mind, which, if repeated, might in
any way involve him with Wilford.
My first act, when I found myself once more alone, was to sit down, and
endeavour calmly to review the situation in which I was placed. In the event
of their deciding that the affair might be arranged amicably, my course was
clear—I had only to avoid Wilford as much as possible during the time I
should remain at Cambridge, and, if ever I were obliged to be in his
company, to treat him with a cool and studied civility, which would leave
him no pretext for forcing a quarrel upon me. On the other hand, if they
should think it imperative upon me to go out with him, then indeed was the
prospect a gloomy one. Wilford, whose ruthless disposition was so well
known as to have become, as it were, a by-word among the set he mixed
with, was not a man to be offended with impunity, and as, moreover, I had
made up my mind not to return his fire, the chances were strongly against
my escaping with life.
I am no coward; on the contrary, like most men whose physical energy is
unimpaired, I am constitutionally fearless, and in moments of danger and
excitement have never found myself wanting; still it would be affectation to
deny that the prospect of a sudden and violent death, thus unexpectedly
forced upon me, impressed my mind with a vague sensation of terror,
mingled with regret for the past, and sorrow for the future. To be thus cut
off in the bright spring-time of vigorous manhood, when the warm blood of
youth dances gladly through the veins, and every pulse throbs with the

instinct of high and noble daring—to die with hopes unattained, wishes
ungratified, duties unperformed—to leave those we love without one
parting look or word to struggle on through this cold unsympathising world
alone and unprotected—and, above all, to lose one's life in an act the
lawfulness of which was more than questionable—all these things
contributed to form a picture, which it required either a very steadfast or an
utterly callous heart to enable one to gaze upon without blanching. I thought
of the misery I should entail upon my family; how, instead of fulfilling my
father's dying injunctions to take his place, and devote myself to comfort
and protect them, I should wound my mother's heart anew, and spread the
dark mist of sorrow over the fair prospect of my sister's young existence;
and I cursed my fastidious folly in objecting to the toast, to which, in my
self-accusation, I traced all that had afterwards occurred. Then, with the
inconsistency of human nature, I began to speculate upon what would be
Clara Saville's feelings, were she to learn that it was to prevent the slightest
breath of insult being coupled with her name that I was about to peril, not
only my life, but, for aught I knew, my hopes of happiness here and
hereafter. As the last awful possibility occurred to me, the burden of my
misery became too great for me to bear, and, retiring to the privacy of my
own chamber, I flung myself on my knees, and poured forth an earnest
prayer for pardon for the past, and deliverance for the future.
When I again returned to my sitting-room my mind had nearly recovered
its usual tone, and I felt prepared to meet and to go through whatever might
be before me with calmness and determination. As I was uncertain how
long it might be before Lawless would arrive, I resolved, in order to avoid
the horrors of suspense, to employ myself, and taking up the mathematical
treatise upon which I was engaged, and by a vigorous effort of mind
compelling my attention, I read steadily for about half an hour, at the end of
which time the sound of hasty footsteps was heard ascending the stairs, and
in another minute the door was flung open, and Lawless and Archer entered
the apartment.
“Reading mathematics, as I'm a slightly inebriated Christian!” exclaimed
Archer, taking the book out of my hands; “well, if that isn't pretty cool for a
man who may be going to be shot at six o'clock to-morrow morning, for
anything he knows to the contrary, I'm no judge of temperature.”

“Oh! bother mathematics,” rejoined Lawless, flinging the book which
Archer held out to him at a bust of Homer adorning the top of my
bookshelves, which it fortunately missed—“Frank, old boy! it's all right—
you're not to have a bullet through your lungs this time—shake hands, old
fellow! I'm so glad about it that I've—”
“Drunk punch enough to floor any two men of ordinary capacity,”
interposed Archer.
“Of course I have,” continued Lawless, “and I consider I've performed a
very meritorious act in so doing;—there was the punch, all the other fellows
were gone away, somebody must have drunk it, or that young reprobate
Shrimp would have got hold of it; and I promised the venerable fish-fag his
mother to take especial care of his what do ye call 'ums—morals, isn't it?
and instil by precept, and—and—”
“Example,” suggested Archer.
“Yes, all that sort of thing,” continued Lawless, “a taste for, that is, an
unbounded admiration of, the sublime and beautiful, as exemplified under
the form of—”
“Rum punch, and lashings of it,” chimed in Archer; “but suppose you
were to tell Fairlegh all that has passed since he came away, or let me do it
for you, whichever you like best.”
“Oh! you tell him, by all means,—I like to encourage ingenuous youth;
fire away, Archer, my boy!”
Thus urged, Archer informed me that upon my departure there had been a
somewhat stormy discussion, in which the events of the evening were freely
canvassed; and at last they came to a unanimous decision that any man was
at liberty to withdraw, if a toast was proposed to which he objected, and
that, if the toastmaster preferred giving it up rather than allow him to leave
the party, he had a perfect right to do so. This being the case, they decided
that Wilford, having been in the wrong, ought to confess he had spoken
hastily, and that, if he would do so, and would add that he had meant
nothing offensive either to me or Oaklands, there the matter might rest. This
for a long time he positively refused to do; at length, finding he could get
no one to support him, he said that, as I had owned I was wrong in
attempting to prevent his expressing his opinion, he considered that, in all
other respects, I had behaved in a gentlemanly way; therefore, if he had said
anything which implied the contrary, he was willing to withdraw it. But, in

regard to Mr. Oaklands, he considered he had interfered in a very uncalled-
for manner; and he could only repeat, if that gentleman felt himself
aggrieved by anything he had said, the remedy was in his own hands. As
soon as he had spoken he withdrew.
The question was again debated, and at length they came to the
conclusion that what Wilford had said amounted to an ample apology as far
as I was concerned, which I was bound to accept; and that Oaklands, having
agreed to consider the quarrel mine, could not take any further notice of it;
therefore, the affair was at an end.
“Well,” said I, as he finished his recital, “I must ever feel grateful to you
both for the trouble you have taken on my account, and the kind feeling you
have shown towards me throughout. I will not pretend to deny that I am
very glad the matter has been amicably arranged, for, circumstanced as I
am, with everything depending upon my own exertions, a duel would have
been ruin to me; but I must say I think the whole business thoroughly
unsatisfactory, and it is only my conviction that a duel would make matters
worse, instead of mending them, which leads me to agree to the
arrangement. I sincerely hope Oaklands will not hear what Wilford said
about him, for he is fearfully irritated against him already.”
“I'll tell you what it is,” interrupted Lawless; “it's my belief that Wilford's
behaviour to you to-night was only assumed for the sake of provoking
Oaklands. Master Stephen hates him as he does the very devil himself, and
would like nothing better than to pick a quarrel with him, have him out,
and, putting a brace of slugs into him, leave him—”
“Quivering on a daisy,” said Archer, completing the sentence. “Really I
think,” he continued, “what Lawless says is very true; you see Oaklands'
careless, nonchalant manner, which is always exactly the same whether he
is talking to a beggar or a lord, gives continual offence to Wilford, who has
contrived somehow to exact a sort of deference and respect from all the
men with whom he associates till he actually seems to consider it his right.
Then, Wilford's overbearing manner irritates Oaklands; and so, whenever
they have met, the breach has gone on widening, till now they positively
hate one another.”
“How is it you are so intimate with him?” asked I; “for nobody seems
really to like him.”

“Well, hang me if I can tell,” replied Lawless; “but, you see he has some
good points about him, after all; for instance, I never saw him out with the
hounds yet that he didn't take a good place, aye, and keep it too, however
long the run and difficult the country. I killed the best horse I had in my
stables trying to follow him one day in Leicestershire last season; my horse
fell with me going over the last fence, and never rose again. Wilford, and
one of the whips, who was merely a feather-weight, were the only men in at
the death. I offered him three hundred guineas for the horse he rode, but he
only gave me one of his pleasant looks, and said it wasn't for sale.”
“You've seen that jet-black mare he rides now, haven't you, Fairlegh?”
asked Archer.
“Yes; what a magnificent creature it is!” was my reply.
“Did you ever hear how he came by it?”
On my answering in the negative, Archer continued: “Well, I wonder at
that, for it was in everybody's mouth at one time: it's worth hearing, if it
were but to show the determined character of the man. The mare belonged
to Lord Foxington, Lord Sellborough's eldest son. I believe he gave five
hundred guineas for her. She was a splendid animal, high-couraged, but
temperate. In fact, when you were on her she hadn't a fault, but in the stable
she was a perfect devil; there was only one man who dared go near her, and
he had been with her from the time she was a filly: so that, when Foxington
bought the mare he was forced to hire the groom too. The most difficult
thing of all was putting on the bridle; it was generally half an hour's work
before she would let even this groom do it. After dinner one day Foxington
began talking about this animal, saying what a brute she was to handle, and
adding what I have just told you, as to the impossibility of putting on the
bridle, when Wilford, who was present, made some remark, which showed
he did not believe in the impossibility. Upon which Foxington inquired
whether he doubted the fact he had just heard? Wilford replied that he was
sure his lordship fully believed in the truth of what he had just stated; but,
for his own part, he had so often found impossibilities of this nature yield to
a little courage and determination, that he confessed he was somewhat
sceptical. Now, it so happened that Foxington, soon after he bought the
mare, had thought just as Wilford did, and determined that he would put the
bridle on. Accordingly he attempted it, and the matter ended by his getting
regularly driven out ol the stable by the animal, with a tolerably severe bite

in the fleshy part of his shoulder. Wilford's remark, therefore, as may be
imagined, rather nettled him; and he inquired, somewhat tartly, whether
Wilford believed he could put the bridle on? and, if so, whether he were
willing to try? Wilford replied, in his usual cool tone, that he had an idea he
could do so, but that he had no particular inclination to try, as it would
probably be some trouble, and the weather was too hot to render active
exertion desirable. At this Foxington laughed derisively, saying that it
sounded very like a put-off. 'Not at all,' returned Wilford; 'and to show you
that I never say a thing without being ready to act up to it, I am willing to
stake five hundred guineas against the mare herself that I go up to her and
put the bridle on without any assistance, and without a stick or anything
whatsoever in my hands.' Foxington accepted the bet gladly, reckoning
himself safe to pocket the five hundred guineas. The affair was to come off
the next morning at Foxington's stables, at eleven o'clock. His lordship had
invited all the men who had been present when the bet was made to come
and witness the event, expecting a complete triumph over Wilford. While
they were standing about waiting Foxington told them of his own attempt,
and his conviction, from the experience he had then gained, that the thing
could not be done; and the general opinion was that Wilford, under the
influence of wine, had foolishly boasted of a thing which he would not be
able to accomplish, and was certain to lose his money. As the time drew
near, and he did not make his appearance, an idea began to gain ground that
he meant to shirk the affair altogether; and Foxington was becoming
exceedingly irate, when, just as the clock was on the stroke of eleven, the
sound of a horse's feet was heard, and Wilford cantered quietly up, looking
as if he felt no personal interest whatever in the event. On his arrival they
proceeded at once to the stable in which the mare stood. She was kept in a
loose box, with her clothes on, but her head entirely free.
“I ought, by-the-by,” said Archer, interrupting himself, “to have told you
that I had the account from a man who was there at the time, and saw the
whole thing.
“Well, as soon as they went into the stable, the mare left off feeding, and,
turning round so as to face them, stood with her ears pricked up, gazing
wildly at them. Wilford just glanced at her, and then leisurely divested
himself of his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, turned up the wristbands of
his shirt, and, taking the bridle from the groom, announced that he was
ready. As soon as the door was open, Wilford fixed his eyes sternly on the

mare, and walked towards her. To the surprise of every one the animal
allowed him to approach quietly and pat her, without showing any
symptoms of vice. Men began to exchange inquiring glances with each
other, and those who had betted heavily against him trembled for their
money; but Foxington, who was better acquainted with the animal,
exclaimed, 'Wait a minute, he has not tried to touch her head yet'. Wilford
now moved his hand forward along the neck, patting her, and speaking
soothingly to her as he advanced; but, as he approached the head, she
became impatient and fidgety, and when he attempted to take hold of the
ear, in order to put on the bridle, she flung up her head, reared, and ran back
a few steps, where she stood, shaking her mane and pawing the ground.
After remaining in this position a few seconds, she suddenly laid back her
ears, and, showing the whites of her eyes, ran at Wilford with her mouth
wide open, and as soon as she got within distance made a ferocious bite at
him. By springing on one side with great agility he just contrived to avoid
it; then, dropping the bridle, he threw himself into a sparring attitude (you
know he's a capital boxer), and, as the mare again ran at him, hit out, and,
striking her just on a particular spot by the ear, brought her down like a
bullock. As soon as she recovered her legs she renewed the attack, and
Wilford received her as before, delivering his blow with the same coolness
and precision. When the animal rose the second time she seemed partially
stunned, and stood for a moment with her head hanging down and her ears
drooping; but on Wilford's making a step towards her she again plunged
forward, and attempted to seize him with her teeth. Once more did Wilford
evade her bite by springing on one side, and seizing his opportunity
succeeded in planting his hit, and, for the third time, felled her to the
ground. When she again rose, however, she showed no disposition to renew
the attack, but stood trembling violently, with the perspiration running
down her sides. She now allowed Wilford to approach her, to stroke her
head, pull her ears, and finally to put the bridle on, and lead her out,
completely conquered; and so my Lord Foxington lost the best horse in his
stables, and Wilford gained his bet, and added to his character for
invincibility, which, by the way, he cared about much the most.”
“It was a bold deed,” returned I, as Archer concluded his story, “but one
does not like a man the better for having done it; there seems to me a degree
of wanton cruelty in punishing an animal so severely, unless he had been
actually forced to do it. Public executioners may be necessary for the

prevention of crime; but that is no reason why one need volunteer as an
amateur hangman.”
“Everybody thought it an uncommonly plucky thing at the time, and
there was an immense fuss made with him afterwards,” replied Archer.
—“Why, Lawless, are you asleep? rouse up, man—to bed—to bed. Good-
night, Fairlegh, you'll sleep all the better for knowing you are not to be shot
at cock-crow.”
So saying, he took Lawless by the arm and marched him off, though, it
must be confessed, his gait, as he descended the stairs, was somewhat
unsteady.

CHAPTER XXIII — WHAT HARRY AND I
FOUND WHEN WE LOST OUR WAY
“It is too true an evil—gone she is.

Unhappy girl! Ah! who would be a father!”

“Far in the lane a lonely hut he found,
No tenant ventured on th' unwholesome ground,
Here smokes his forge: he bares his sinewy arm,
And early strokes the sounding anvil warm;
Around his shop the steely sparkles Hew,
As for the steed he shaped the bending shoe.”
—Gay's Trivia.

“'Be who thou wilt... thou art in no danger from me, so
then tell me the meaning of this practice, and why thou drivest
thy trade in this mysterious fashion——'

“'Your horse is shod, and your farrier paid—what need you
cumber yourself further, than to mount and pursue your
journey?'”

—Kenilworth.

ON the afternoon of the day after Lawless's wine-party Oaklands and I
were walking down to the stables where his horses were kept (he having, in
pursuance of his plan for preventing my over-reading myself, beguiled me
into a promise to ride with him), when we encountered Archer.
“I suppose you have heard the news par excellence,” said he, after we
had shaken hands.
“No,” replied I, “what may it happen to be?”
“Only that Lizzie Maurice, the pastry-cook's daughter, disappeared last
night, and old Maurice is going about like a distracted creature this
morning, and can't learn any tidings of her.”
“What, that pretty girl with the long ringlets, who used to stand behind
the counter?” asked I. “What is supposed to have become of her?”
“Yes, that's the identical young lady,” returned Archer. “All that seems to
be known about her is, that she waited till her father went out to smoke his
pipe, as he usually does for an hour or so every evening, and then got the
urchin who runs of errands to carry a bundle for her, and set out without

saying a word to any one. After she had proceeded a little way, she was met
by a man muffled up in a cloak, who took the bundle from the boy, threw
him a shilling, and told him to go home directly. Instead of doing so,
however, he let them proceed for a minute or two, and then followed them.
They went at a quick pace along one or two streets, and at length turned
down a lane, not far from the bottom of which a gig was waiting. Another
man, also muffled up, was seated in the gig, into which the girl was handed
by her companion, who said to the second man in a low tone, 'All has gone
well, and without attracting notice'. He then added in a warning voice
—'Remember, honour bright, no nonsense, or'—and here he sunk his voice
so that the boy could not catch what he said; but the other replied, 'On my
word, on my honour!' They then shook hands; the second man gathered up
the reins, drew the whip across the horse, which sprang forward at speed,
and they were out of sight in a moment. The person who was left gazed
after them for a minute or so, and then, turning briskly on his heel, walked
away without perceiving the boy, who stood under the shadow of a
doorway. On being questioned as to what the men were like, he said that the
first kept his face entirely concealed, but he was rather tall, and had black
hair; the second was a stout man, with light hair and a high colour—for a
dark lantern which he had in the gig with him happened to throw its light on
his face as he was lighting it.”
“At what time in the evening did all this take place?” inquired Oaklands.
“Between nine and ten,” replied Archer. Oaklands and I exchanged
glances; the same idea had evidently struck us both.
“Has any one seen Wilford this morning?” asked Oaklands.
“Seen him!” returned Archer; “yes, to be sure, he and Wentworth have
been parading about arm and arm all over the town: they were with me
when I met poor old Maurice, and asked him all sorts of questions about the
affair. Wilford seemed quite interested for him.”
“Strange!” observed Oaklands musing. “I don't make it out. I would not
willingly wrong, even in thought, an innocent man. Archer,” he continued,
“you have a shrewd keen wit and sound judgment; tell me in confidence,
man, who do you think has done this?”
“Nay, I am no diviner to guess other men's secrets,” replied Archer; “and
these are subjects about which it is not over safe to hazard conjectures. I
have told you all I can learn about it, and it is for you to draw your own

conclusions, It is no use repeating things to you of which you are already
aware; I might as well tell you dogs bark and cats mew—that Wilford has
black hair, and Wentworth is a stout man with a high colour—or any other
well-known truism. But I am detaining you—good-morning.” So saying, he
shook hands with us and left us.
After walking some distance in silence Oaklands exclaimed abruptly: “It
must be so! it is Wilford who has done this thing—you think as I do, do you
not, Frank?”
“I am sure we have not evidence enough to prove it,” replied I; “but I
confess I am inclined, as a mere matter of opinion, to agree with you,
though there are difficulties in the way for which it is not easy to account.
For instance, why should Wilford have gone to that party last night and
have incurred the risk of entrusting the execution of his schemes to another,
instead of remaining to carry them out himself?”
“That is true,” said Oaklands thoughtfully, “I do not pretend to
understand it all clearly; but, somehow, I feel a conviction that Wilford is at
the bottom of it.”
“You should recollect, Harry, that you greatly dislike this man—are, as I
conceive, prejudiced against him—and are therefore, of course, disposed to
judge him harshly.”
“Yes I know all that; still you'll see it will come out, sooner or later, that
Wilford is the man. Her poor old father! I have often observed how he
appeared to doat upon that girl, and how proud he was of her: his pride will
be converted into mourning now. It is fearful to think,” continued Oaklands,
“of what crimes men are guilty in their reckless selfishness! Here is the fair
promise of an innocent girl's life blighted, and an old man's grey hairs
brought down with sorrow to the grave, in order to gratify the passing fancy
of a heartless libertine.” He paused, and then continued, “I suppose one can
do nothing in the matter, having no stronger grounds than mere suspicion to
go upon?”
“I should say nothing likely to be of the slightest benefit,” replied I.
“Then the sooner we get to horse the better,” returned Oaklands; “hearing
of a thing of this kind always annoys me, and I feel disposed to hate my
species: a good gallop may shake me into a better humour.”
“And the dolce-far-niente?” I inquired.

“Oh! don't imagine me inconsistent,” was the reply. “Only somehow, just
at present, in fact ever since the breeze last night, I've found it more trouble
to remain quiet than to exert myself; so, if you would not tire me to death,
walk a little faster, there's a good fellow.”
After a brisk ride of nearly two hours along cross-roads, we came out
upon a wild heath or common of considerable extent.
“Here's a famous place for a gallop,” exclaimed Oaklands; “I never can
make up my mind which is the fastest of these two horses; let's have a race
and try their speed. Do you see that tall poplar tree which seems poking its
top into the sky on the other side the common? that shall be the winning-
post. Now, are you ready?”
“All right, go ahead,” replied I, bending forward and giving my horse the
rein. Away we went merrily, the high-couraged animals bounding beneath
us, and the fresh air whistling round our ears as we seemed to cut our way
through it. For some time we kept side by side. The horse Oaklands rode
was, if anything, a finer, certainly a more powerful animal than the one on
which I was mounted; but this advantage was fully compensated by the fact
of his riding nearly a stone heavier than I did. We were, therefore, on the
whole, very fairly matched.
After riding at speed, as well as I could reckon, about two miles,
Oaklands, to his great delight, had gained nearly a horse's length in advance
of me—a space which it seemed beyond my powers of jockeyship to
recover. Between us, however, and the tree he had fixed on as our goal lay a
small brook or water-course near the banks of which the ground became
soft and marshy. In crossing this the greater weight of man and horse told
against Oaklands, and gradually I began to creep up to him. As we neared
the brook it struck me that his horse appeared to labour heavily through the
stiff clay. Now or never, then, was my opportunity; and shouting gaily,
“Over first, for a sovereign—good-bye, Harry,” I gave my horse the spur,
and, putting him well at it, cleared the brook splendidly, and alighted safely
on the farther bank.
Determined, if possible, not to be outdone, Harry selected a point, by
crossing at which he could contrive to cut off a corner, and thus gain upon
me considerably. In order to accomplish this it was necessary for him to
take his leap at a spot where the brook was some feet wider than ordinary.
Relying, however, on the known good qualities of the animal he rode, he

resolved to attempt it. Settling himself firmly in his saddle, he got his horse
well together, and then throwing up his whip-hand and (as Lawless would
have termed it) “sticking in the persuaders,” he charged the brook at speed.
It was a well-imagined and bold attempt, and, had his horse been fresher,
would have succeeded in winning the race; but we had kept up a fair pace
during the whole of our ride, and now our gallop across the common, and
more particularly the severe pace over the marshy ground, had tried his
horse's wind considerably. Still, however, the noble animal strove to the
utmost of its power to answer the call made upon it, and by a vigorous
effort succeeded in clearing the brook; but the ground on the other side was
rugged and broken, and, apparently exhausted by the exertion he had made,
he stumbled, and after a slight struggle to preserve his footing fell heavily
forward, pitching Harry over his head as he did so.
Fortunately the ground was soft and clayey, and neither man nor horse
seemed to have sustained any injury, for I had scarcely time to draw rein ere
they were on their legs again, and, as Harry's first act was to spring lightly
into the saddle, I determined to secure the race at once; and cantering up to
the poplar tree, which was now within a hundred yards of me, I snapped off
a bough in token of victory. As I turned back again I observed that Harry
had dismounted and was examining his horse's foot.
“Nothing wrong, is there?” asked I, as I rejoined him.
“Yes, everything's wrong,” was the reply; “you've been and gone and
won the race, you villain you—I've tumbled nose and knees into a mud-
hole, and spoiled my white cord oh-no-we-never-mention-ums—and 'the
Cid' has wrenched off one of his front shoes in the scrimmage.”
“And that's the worst of all the misfortunes,” said I, “for here we are
some ten or twelve miles from Cambridge at least, in a region utterly
unknown, and apparently devoid of inhabitants; so where we are to find a
smith passes my poor skill to discover.”
“You're wrong about the inhabitants, I flatter myself,” replied Harry. “Do
you see the faint white mist curling above those trees to the right? I take
that to be smoke; where there's smoke there must be fire; fire must have
been kindled by some human being or other—through that individual we
will endeavour to obtain an introduction to some blacksmith, conjointly
with sufficient topographical information to enable us to reach our
destination in time for a certain meal called dinner, which has acquired an

unusual degree of importance in my eyes within the last hour or so. I have
spoken!”
“Like a book,” replied I; “and the next thing is to bring your sapient
deductions to the test of experiment. There is a cart-track here which
appears to lead towards the smoke you observed; let us try that.” So saying,
I also dismounted, and throwing my horse's bridle over my arm we
proceeded together on foot in the direction Oaklands had indicated.
Ten minutes' walking brought us into a rough country lane, winding
picturesquely between high banks and green hedges, affording an agreeable
contrast to the flat, unenclosed tracts of corn-land so general throughout
Cambridgeshire. After following this lane about a quarter of a mile, we
came upon a small, retired ale-house, surrounded by trees. As we
approached the door a stout, vulgar-looking woman, dressed in rather
tawdry finery, ran out to meet us; on coming nearer, however, she stopped
short as if surprised, and then re-entered the house as quickly as she had left
it, calling to some one within as she did so. After waiting for a minute or
two she came back, accompanied by a tall, disagreeable-looking man in a
velveteen shooting-jacket, with a remarkably dirty face, and hands to
match.
“Is there a blacksmith living anywhere near here, my good man?”
inquired Oaklands.
“Mayhap there is,” was the reply in a surly tone. “Can you direct us how
to find him?” continued Oaklands.
“What might you want with him when you've found him?” was the
rejoinder.
“My horse has cast a shoe, and I want one put on immediately,'” replied
Oaklands, who was getting impatient at the man's unsatisfactory, not to say
insolent, manner.
“Mayhap you won't get it done in quite such a hurry as you seems to
expect! There's a blacksmith lives at Stony End, about five miles farther on.
Go straight up the lane for about three miles, then turn to the right, then
twice to the left, and then you'll see a finger-post that ain't got nothing on it
—when you come to that——”
“Which I never shall do, depend upon it,” replied Oaklands. “My good
man, you don't imagine I'm going to fatigue myself and lame my horse by

walking five miles up this unlucky lane, do you? If things really are as bad
as you would make them out to be, I shall despatch a messenger to summon
the smith, and employ myself in the meanwhile in tasting your ale, and
consuming whatever you may happen to have in the house fit to eat.” I
observed that the landlord and his wife, as I presumed her to be, exchanged
very blank looks when Oaklands announced this determination. When he
ceased speaking she whispered a few words into the ear of the man, who
gave a kind of surly grunt in reply, and then, turning to Harry, said,
“Mayhap I'll shoe your horse for you myself if you'll make it worth my
while”.
“You will? why, I thought you said there was not a smith within five
miles?”
“No more there ain't, only me.”
“And you've been worrying me, and tiring my patience all this time,
merely to secure yourself a better bargain? Oh, the needless trouble people
give themselves in this world! Shoe the horse, man, and make your own
charge; be sure I'll not complain of it, only be quick,” replied Oaklands.
“P'r'aps that worn't all,” returned the fellow gruffly; “but if ye be in such
a mighty hurry, bring 'un along here, and I'll clap a shoe on 'un for ye in a
twinkling.”
So saying, he led the way through an old gate, and down a stable-yard
behind the public-house, at the bottom of which, under a kind of half-barn,
half-shed, was a blacksmith's shop, fitted up with a forge and other
appliances for shoeing. Our conductor (who having divested himself of the
velveteen jacket, which he replaced with a leather apron, seemed now much
more in his proper element) displayed greater quickness and skill in making
and applying the shoe, than from his previous conduct I should have
anticipated; and I began to flatter myself that our difficulties were in a fair
way to be overcome.
I was drawing up the girths of my horse's saddle, which had become
somewhat loosened from our gallop, when Oaklands, who had been sitting
on a gate near, industriously flogging his boot with his riding-whip, jumped
down, saying, “If you'll keep an eye to the horses, Prank, I'll go and see if I
can get some of the worst of this mud brushed off”.
“Better stay where you are! I shall a done direc'ly,” observed the smith;
“you ain't wanted at ther house, I tell yer.”

“You should stick to your original trade, for your manners as an
innkeeper are certainly not calculated to fascinate customers, my friend,”
replied Oaklands, walking towards the house.
The man muttered an oath as he looked after him, and then applied
himself to his work with redoubled energy. Above ten minutes had elapsed,
the shoe was made, fitted to the hoof, and the process of nailing on nearly
concluded, but still Oaklands did not return. I was tying my horse's rein up
to a hook in the wall, with the intention of seeking him, when I heard the
noise of wheels in the lane, followed immediately by the clatter of a horse's
feet, ridden at speed—both sounds at the moment ceased, as if the parties
had stopped at the inn-door. The blacksmith also heard them, and appeared
for a moment uncertain whether to continue his work or not; then, uttering
an impatient exclamation, he began twisting off and clenching the points of
the nails as though his life depended on his haste. Perceiving that Oaklands'
horse would be ready for him to mount directly, I turned to unfasten my
own, when the sound of men's voices raised high in angry debate became
audible; then a confused noise as of blows and scuffling ensued, mingled
with the screams of women; and immediately the blacksmith's wife ran out,
calling to her husband to hasten in, for that “they had come back and
quarrelled with the strange gentleman, and now they were fighting, and
there would be murder done in the house”.
Without waiting to hear more I ran hastily up the yard, followed by the
blacksmith and the woman. On reaching the front of the house I perceived,
waiting at the door, a gig, in which was seated a man, dressed in a suit of
rusty black, while under the shade of the trees a boy was loading up and
down a magnificent black mare, which I instantly recognised as the
identical animal Wilford had become possessed of in the manner Archer had
related to me. The sounds of blows and struggling still continued, and
proceeded, as I now ascertained, from the parlour of the ale-house. As the
readiest method of reaching the scene of action, I flung open the window,
which was not far from the ground, and without a moment's hesitation
leaped into the room.

CHAPTER XXIV — HOW OAKLANDS BROKE
HIS HORSEWHIP
“Away to heav'n, respective lenity,
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.”

“Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape
whipping?”

“He swore that he did hold me dear
As precious eyesight, and did value me
Above this world, adding thereto moreover
That he would wed me.”

“Men's vows are women's traitors.”

“To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance
is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in
his judgment that makes it.”

—Shakspeare.

THE sight which met my eyes as I gazed around was one which time can
never efface from my memory. In the centre of the room, his brow darkened
by the flush of concentrated indignation, stood Oaklands, his left hand
clenching tightly the coat-collar of a man whom I at once perceived to be
Wilford, while with his right hand he was administering such a horse-
whipping as I hope never again to see a human being subjected to. Wilford,
who actually writhed with mingled pain and fury, was making violent but
ineffectual struggles to free himself. Near the door stood Wentworth, the
blood dropping from his nose, and his clothes dusty and disordered, as if
from a fall. Crouching in a corner at the farther end of the room, the tears
coursing down her fear-blanched cheeks, and her hands clasped in an agony
of terror and despair, was a girl, about nineteen years of age, whom I had
little difficulty in recognising as Lizzie Maurice, the daughter of the old
confectioner, of whose elopement we had been that morning informed. On
perceiving me she sprang forward, and clasping my knees implored me to
interfere and endeavour to separate them. I was not, however, called upon to
do so, for, as she spoke, his riding-whip broke short in Oaklands' hand, and
dashing down the fragments with an exclamation of impatience, he flung
Wilford from him with so much force that he staggered forward a few

paces, and would have fallen had not Wentworth caught him in his arms,
just in time to prevent it.

Oaklands then turned to the girl, whom I had raised from the ground and
placed on a chair, and addressing her in a stern impressive manner, said: “I
will now resume what I was saying to you when yonder beaten hound dared
to lay hands upon me. For the last time the choice is offered to you—either
return home, and endeavour, by devoting yourself to your broken-hearted
old father, to atone as best you may for the misery you have caused him; or,
by remaining here, commence a life of infamy which will end sooner or
later in a miserable death.” He paused; then, as she made no reply, but sat
with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break, he
continued, “You tell me, the vile tempter who has lured you from your duty

promised to meet you here to-day, and, bringing a clergyman with him, to
marry you privately; now if this is the truth——”
“It is, it is,” she faltered.
“If so,” resumed Oaklands, “a knowledge of the real facts of the case
may yet save you. This scoundrel who has promised to marry you, and who
belongs to a rank immeasurably above your own, is already notorious for
what are termed, by such as himself, affairs of gallantry; while the wretched
impostor whom he has brought with him to act the part of clergyman is the
marker at a low billiard-table, and no more a clergyman than I am.”
“Is this really so?” exclaimed the girl, raising her eyes, which were
swollen and red with weeping, to Wilford's face; “would you have deceived
me thus, Stephen—you, whom I have trusted so implicitly?”
Wilford, who, since the severe discipline he had undergone, had
remained seated, with his head resting on his hand, as if in pain, apparently
unconscious of what was going on, glared at her ferociously with his
flashing eyes, but made no reply. The girl waited for a minute; but,
obtaining no answer, turned away with a half shudder, murmuring,
“Deceived, deceived!” Then addressing Oaklands, she said, “I will go home
to my father, sir; and if he will not forgive me, I can but lie down and die at
his feet—better so than live on, to trust, and be deceived again”.
“You have decided rightly, and will not repent it,” remarked Oaklands in
a milder tone of voice; then, turning to the blacksmith (who had made his
appearance, accompanied by his wife, the moment the affray had ended), he
continued: “you must procure some conveyance immediately to take this
young person back to Cambridge, and your wife must accompany her”.
Observing that the man hesitated, and cast an inquiring glance towards
Wilford, he added sternly, “If you would not be compelled to answer for the
share you have taken in this rascally business before the proper authorities,
do as I have told you without loss of time”.
The man having again failed in an attempt to attract Wilford's attention,
asked in a surly tone, “Whether a spring-cart would do?” and, being
answered in the affirmative, left the room.
Lizzie Maurice withdrew to prepare for her return home, the woman
accompanied her; Oaklands strode to the window, and remained watching
the operation of harnessing the horse to the tax-cart. Wilford still retained
the same attitude, and neither spoke nor moved. Wentworth having glanced

towards him once or twice, as if to divine his wishes, receiving no sign, lit a
cigar, and leaning His back against the chimney-piece began to smoke
furiously, whilst I devoted myself to the pages of an old sporting magazine.
Thus passed five minutes, which seemed as if they would never come to an
end, at the expiration of which time the tax-cart, driven by a stout country
lad, drew up to the door, and the two women making their appearance at the
same moment, Oaklands turned to leave the room. As he did so Wilford, for
the first time, raised his head, thereby disclosing a countenance which, pale
as death, was characterised by an expression of such intense malignity as
one might conceive would be discernible in that of a corpse reanimated by
some evil spirit. After regarding Oaklands fixedly for a moment, he said, in
a low, grating tone of voice, “You have foiled me once and again—when
next we meet, it wilt, be my turn!” Oaklands merely smiled
contemptuously, and quitted the house.
Having mounted our horses, we ordered the lad who drove the spring-
cart to proceed at his fastest pace, while we followed at a sufficient distance
to keep it in sight, so as to guard against any attempt which might be made
by Wilford to repossess himself of his victim, without positively identifying
ourselves with the party it contained. We rode in silence for the first two or
three miles; at length I could refrain no longer, and, half uttering my
thoughts aloud, half addressing my companion, I exclaimed, “Oh, Harry,
Harry, what is all this that you have done?”
“Done!” replied Oaklands, with a heightened colour and flashing eyes,
“rescued an innocent girl from a villain who would have betrayed her, and
punished the scoundrel about half so severely as he deserved; but that was
my misfortune, not my fault. Had not the whip broken——”
“You know that is not what I mean,” returned I; “but this man will
challenge you, will—you are aware of his accursed skill—will murder you.
Oh! that fiendish look of his as you left the room—it will haunt me to my
dying day.”
“And would you have had me leave the poor girl to her fate from a
coward fear of personal danger? You are strangely altered since you defied
a room full of men last night rather than allow Clara Saville's name to be
uttered by their profane lips; or, which is nearer the truth,” he continued
with a kind smile, “your affection for me blinds you.”

“Not so, Harry,” replied I; “but it is the recollection of my own feelings,
when, while waiting for Lawless's report last night, I believed I should be
forced to meet this Wilford—it is the misery, the self-reproach, the bitter
penitence of that moment, when, for the first time, I was able to reflect on
the fearful situation in which by my own rashness I had placed myself, a
situation in which crime seemed forced upon me, and it appeared
impossible to act rightly—it is the remembrance of all these things which
causes me to lament that you, my more than brother, should have involved
yourself in similar difficulties.”
“But, Frank,” he began—then, interrupting himself, he seized my hand,
and pressing it warmly between his own, exclaimed, “My dear old fellow,
forgive me if I have spoken unkindly to you; but this man has maddened
me, I believe”. He paused, and then continued in a calmer voice, “Let me
tell you how it occurred, and you will see I could scarcely have acted
otherwise than I have done. You know I went into the public-house to brush
off the mud after my tumble. The instant my step sounded in the passage, a
girl tripped lightly down the stairs and ran towards me, exclaiming joyfully,
'You have come at last, then!' On finding that it was not the person she
expected she stopped in alarm, and I perceived to my astonishment that it
was Lizzie Maurice. She recognised me at the same moment, and
apparently a new idea struck her, for she again approached me, saying, 'Mr.
Oaklands, tell me, sir, for heaven's sake, has anything happened to Wilford?'
Then, with woman's tact, perceiving her mistake, she blushed deeply,
adding in a timid voice, 'I fancied you might have been riding with that
gentleman; and seeing you alone, I was afraid some accident might have
befallen your companion'. All this convinced me that my suspicions had not
been misplaced; and the thought occurred to me that possibly it might not
yet be too late to endeavour to restore her to her father, while the
recollection of Archer's account of the old man's distress determined me to
make the attempt.
“Taking her, therefore, by the hand, I led her into the parlour, and,
begging her to listen to me for five minutes, told her I was aware of her
elopement, and entreated her to return home again, adding that her father
was brokenhearted at her loss. She shed tears when I mentioned the old
man's grief, but positively refused to return home.

“Finding persuasion to be of no avail, I thought I would appeal to her
fears: so I informed her that I was aware of the name of the villain who had
enticed her away; that I would seek him out and expose him, and that I
should instantly acquaint her father with her place of refuge, and advise him
to come provided with proper powers to reclaim her. This produced more
effect, and, after some hesitation, she told me proudly that I had done her
foul wrong by my doubts; that Mr. Wilford meant to make her his lawful
wife; but that, in order to prevent his great relations hearing of it till he
could break it to them cautiously, it was advisable to keep the affair quiet—
(the old story, in short, private marriage and all the rest of it)—a friend of
Wilford's, therefore, to avoid exciting suspicion, had kindly driven her over
there the night before, and she was now expecting her lover to come, and
bring a clergyman with him, who would marry them by licence on the spot;
when she heard my step she thought they had arrived. The air of truth with
which she told her tale carried conviction with it.
“I was about to represent to her the improbability of Wilford's intentions
being as honourable as she fondly imagined them, when a gig drove up to
the door, containing Wentworth and a fellow whom I recognised as one of
the billiard-markers in —— Street, dressed in a seedy suit of black for the
occasion; immediately afterwards Wilford arrived on horseback. The whole
thing was now perfectly clear. Wilford, having made the girl believe he
intended to marry her, persuaded Wentworth, who is completely his tool, to
carry her off for him; after which he went to Lawless's wine-party, in order
to show himself and thereby avert suspicion. He then bribed the billiard-
marker to play parson, got Wentworth to bring him, and going out as if
merely for a ride had joined them here. I was considering what would be the
best course to pursue, and was just coming out to consult you, when the
door was flung open, and Wilford and Wentworth entered hastily. The
moment Wilford's eyes fell upon me he started as if a serpent had stung
him, and his brow became black as night.
“Advancing a step or two towards me, he inquired, in a voice hoarse with
rage, what I was doing there. I replied, 'Endeavouring to prevent some of
his evil designs from succeeding'. He tried to answer me, but his utterance
was literally choked by passion; and turning away, he strode up and down
the room gnashing and grinding his teeth like a maniac. Having in some
degree recovered his self-control, he again approached me, drew himself up
to his full height, and, pointing to the door, desired me to leave the room.

“I replied I should not do so until I had given the young lady a piece of
information respecting the character of one of the party—and I pointed to
the billiard-marker, who had not yet alighted—I should then, I added, learn
from her own lips whether she still wished to remain there, or would take
my advice and return to her father.
“Again Wilford ground his teeth with rage, and desired me, in a voice of
thunder, to 'leave the room instantly '; to which I replied flatly that I would
not.
“He then made a sign to Wentworth, and they both approached me, with
the intention of forcing me out. Fearing that their combined efforts might
overpower me (for Wentworth, though short, is a broad-shouldered, strong
man, and Wilford's muscles are like iron), I avoided their grasp by stepping
backwards, and, hitting out with my right hand as I did so, caught
Wentworth full on the nose, tapping his claret for him, as the pugilists call
it, and sending him down like a shot. At the same moment Wilford sprang
upon me with a bound like a tiger, and seizing me by the throat a short but
severe struggle took place between us. I was too strong for him, however;
and finding this, he would gladly have ceased hostilities and quitted me,
kindly postponing my annihilation till some future day, when it could be
more conveniently accomplished by means of a pistol-bullet. But, as you
may imagine, my blood was pretty well up by this time, and I determined
he should not get off quite so easily. Seizing, therefore, my whip in one
hand, I detained him without much trouble with the other—his strength
being thoroughly exhausted by his previous exertions—and administered
such a thrashing as will keep him out of mischief for a week to come, at all
events. It was while this was going on that you made your appearance, I
think; so now you are au fait to the whole affair—and pray, what else could
I possibly have done under the circumstances?”
“It is not easy to say,” replied I. “I think the horse-whipping might have
been omitted, though I suppose the result would have been the same at all
events, and it certainly was a great temptation. The brightest side of the
business is your having saved the poor girl, who I really believe is more to
be pitied than blamed, having only followed the dictates of her woman's
nature, by allowing her feelings to overrule her judgment.”
“You have used exactly the right expression there,” said Oaklands; “in
such cases as the present, it is not that the woman is weak enough to be

gulled by every plausible tale which may be told her, but that she has such
entire confidence, such pure and child-like faith in the man she loves, that
she will believe anything rather than admit the possibility of his deceiving
her.”
“The deeper villain he, who can betray such simple trust,” replied I.
“Villain, indeed!” returned Oaklands. “I would not have been in Wilford's
place, to have witnessed that girl's look when the conviction of his baseness
was forced upon her, for worlds; it was not a look of anger nor of sorrow,
but it seemed as if the blow had literally crushed her heart within her—-as
if the brightness of her young spirit had fled for ever, and that to live would
only be to prolong the duration of her misery. No; I would rather have faced
death in its most horrible form, than have met that look, knowing that my
own treachery had called it forth.”
We rode for some little distance in silence. At length I inquired how he
meant to arrange for Lizzie Maurice's return to her home, as it would not do
for us, unless he wished the part we had taken in the affair to be known all
over Cambridge, to escort her to her father's door in the order of procession
in which we were then advancing.
“No, I was just thinking of that,” replied Oaklands. “It appears to me that
the quietest way of managing the affair will be to pay the boy for the horse
and cart at once, telling him to set Lizzie Maurice down within a short
distance of her father's shop, and then to drive back with the woman. Lizzie
can proceed on foot, and will probably at this time of the evening (it was
nearly seven o'clock) be able to enter the house without attracting attention:
we will, however, keep her in sight, so as to be at hand to render her
assistance should she require it. I do not myself feel the slightest doubt that
her father will believe her tale, and treat her kindly. I shall, however, leave
her my direction, and should she require my testimony in support of her
veracity, or should the old man be unwilling to receive her, she must inform
me of it, and I will call upon him, and try to bring him to reason.”
“That will not be necessary, depend upon it,” returned I; “he will only be
too glad to recover her.”
“So I think,” replied Oaklands.
“What course shall you take with regard to Wilford?” inquired I.

“I shall never mention the affair to any one, if he does not,” answered
Oaklands; “neither shall I take any step whatever in the matter. I am
perfectly satisfied, with the position in which I stand at present, and if he
should not enjoy an equal share of contentment, it is for him to declare it—
the next move must be his, and it will be time enough for me to decide how
to act when we see what it may be. I shall now tell Lizzie Maurice of my
plan for her, and inform her that as long as I hear she is living quietly at
home, and leading a respectable life, my lips will be sealed with regard to
the occurrences of to-day.” So saying, he put his horse into a canter, and
riding up to the side of the cart, conversed with the girl in a low tone of
voice for several minutes; then, drawing out his purse, handed some money
to the driver, and rejoined me. “She is extremely grateful to me for my
promise of silence,” he commenced; “seems very penitent for her fault, and
declares that this is a lesson she shall never forget. She agrees to my plan of
walking, and tells me there is a side-door to the house, by which she can
enter unobserved. She promises to confess everything to her father, and
hopes to obtain his forgiveness; and appears altogether in 'a very proper
frame of mind,' as the good books say.”
“Long may she remain so,” returned I; “and now I am happy to say there
are some of the towers of Cambridge visible, for, like you, I am becoming
fearfully hungry.”
“And for the first time during the last twenty-four hours I am actually
beginning to feel as tired as a dog,” rejoined Harry, shrugging his shoulders
with an air of intense satisfaction.

CHAPTER XXV — THE CHALLENGE
“Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.”

“More matter for a May morning.”

“Here's the challenge, read it.”

“If this letter move him not, his legs cannot.”

“Ominous! he comes to kill my heart.”
—Shakspeare.

OLD MAURICE, the pastry-cook, had welcomed his daughter gladly, as
one returned from the grave, and had learned from her own lips, with
mingled tears of joy and gratitude, how, thanks to noble Harry Oaklands,
she had escaped unscathed from the perils and temptations to which she had
been exposed; many days had elapsed, the Long Vacation had commenced,
and the ancient town of Cambridge, no longer animated by the countless
throngs of gownsmen, frowned in its unaccustomed solitude, like some City
of the Dead, and still no hostile message came from Wilford. Various
reports were circulated concerning the reappearance of Lizzie Maurice; but
none of them bore the faintest resemblance to the truth, and to no one had
the possibility of Oaklands' interference in the matter occurred, save, as it
afterwards appeared, to Charles Archer.
For above a week Wilford was confined to his room, seeing only
Wentworth; and it was given out that he had met with a severe fall from his
horse, and was ordered to keep perfectly quiet. At the expiration of that
period he quitted Cambridge suddenly, leaving no clue to his whereabouts.
This strange conduct scarcely excited any surprise amongst the set he
moved in, as it was usually his habit to shroud all his proceedings under a
veil of secrecy, assumed, as some imagined, for the purpose of enhancing
the mysterious and unaccountable influence he delighted to exercise over
the minds of men.
Oaklands remained a few days at Cambridge after Wilford's departure, as
he said, to pack up, but, as I felt certain, to prevent the possibility of

Wilford's imagining that he was anxious in any way to avoid him. Finding
at length that his rooms were dismantled, and that he would not in all
probability return till the end of the Long Vacation, Harry ceased to trouble
his head any further about the matter, and we set off for Heathfield,
accompanied by Archer, whom Harry had invited to pay him a visit.
We found all well at our respective homes; my mother appeared much
stronger, and was actually growing quite stout, for her; and Fanny looked so
pretty, that I was not surprised at the very particular attentions paid her from
the first moment of his introduction by the volatile Archer (who, by the
way, was a regular male flirt), attentions which I was pleased to perceive
she appreciated exactly at their proper value. We soon fell into our old
habits again, Oaklands and Archer setting out after breakfast for a stroll, or
on a fishing expedition, which usually ended in Harry's coming to an anchor
under some spreading oak or beech, where he remained, “doing a bit of the
dolce,” as Archer called it, till luncheon time; whilst I, who could not afford
to be idle, read hard till about three o'clock, and then joined in whatever
amusement was the order of the day.
“Frank, may I come in?” exclaimed Fanny's silvery voice outside my
study door, one morning during my working hours when I had been at home
about a fortnight.
“To be sure you may, you little torment,” replied I; “are you coming to
learn mathematics, or to teach me crochet? for I see you are armed with that
vicious little hook with which you delight to torture the wool of innocent
lambs into strange shapes, for the purpose of providing your friends with
innumerable small anomalous absurdities, which they had much rather be
without.”
“No such thing, Mr. Impudence, I never make any article which is not
particularly useful as well as ornamental. But, Frank, dear,” she continued,
“I should not have interrupted you, only I wanted to tell you something—it
may be nothing to signify, and yet I cannot help feeling alarmed about it.”
“What is it, darling?” said I, putting my arm round her taper little waist,
and drawing her towards me.
“Why, Mr. Oaklands has been here this morning; he came to bring
mamma a message from Sir John, inviting us all to dine with him to-
morrow.”
“Nothing very alarming so far,” observed I; “go on.”

“Mamma said we should be extremely happy to do so, and quitted the
room to find a recipe she had promised to the housekeeper at the Hall.”
"And you were left alone with Harry—that was alarming certainly,” said
I.
“Nonsense,” returned Fanny, while a very becoming blush glowed on her
cheek; “how you do interrupt me! Mr. Oaklands had kindly offered to
explain a difficult passage in Dante for me, and I was standing on a chair to
get down the book—”
“Which he could have reached by merely stretching out his arm, I
daresay, only he was too idle,” interposed I.
“Indeed he could not,” replied Fanny quickly, “for he was sitting in the
low easy-chair, and trying to fasten mamma's spectacles on Donald's nose.”
(Donald being a favourite Scotch terrier belonging to Harry, and a great
character in his way.) “Well, I had just found the book,” she continued, “and
we were going to begin when a note was given to Mr. Oaklands, which had
been brought by a groom from the Hall, with a message that the gentleman
who had left it was waiting at the inn in the village for an answer. Mr.
Oaklands began to read it in his usual quiet way, but no sooner had he
thrown his eye over the first few lines than his cheeks flushed, his brow
grew dark, and his face assumed that fearfully stern expression which I
have heard you describe, but had never before seen myself. As soon as he
had finished reading it he crushed the paper in his hand, and sprung up,
saying hurriedly, 'Is Frank———?' He then took two or three steps towards
the door, and I thought he was coming to consult you. Suddenly, however,
some new idea seemed to cross his mind, and, stopping abruptly, he strode
towards the window, where he remained for a few moments, apparently
buried in thought. At length he muttered, 'Yes, that will be better, better in
all respects'; and turning on his heel, he was about to quit the room, leaving
his hat on the table, when I ventured to hand it to him, saying, 'You are
going without your hat, Mr. Oaklands'. He started at the sound of my voice,
and seeming for the first time to recollect that I was in the room, he took the
hat from me, begging pardon for his inattention, and adding, 'You must
allow me to postpone our Italian lesson till——till to-morrow, shall we say?
I find there is a gentleman waiting to see me.' He paused as if he wished to
say more, but scarcely knew how to express himself. 'You saw,' he
continued, 'that is—you may have observed that—that in fact there was

something in that note which annoyed me—you need not say anything
about it to Mrs. Fairlegh; she is rather given to alarming herself
unnecessarily, I fancy,' he added with a faint smile; 'tell Frank I shall not be
at home till dinner time, but that I shall see him in the evening.' He then
shook my hand warmly, and, holding it for a moment in his own, fixed his
eyes on my face with a strange, half-melancholy expression that frightened
me, and once more saying 'good-bye,' he pressed his hat over his brows, and
bounding across the lawn, was out of sight in an instant. His manner was so
very odd, so unlike what it generally is. Dear Frank, what is the meaning of
all this? I am sure there is something going to happen, something—”
“You silly child,” replied I, affecting a careless composure I was far from
feeling, “how you frighten yourself about nothing. Harry has probably
received a threatening letter from a Cambridge dun, and your lively
imagination magnifies it into a—(challenge, I was going to add, but I
substituted)—into something dreadful.”
“Is that what you really think?” questioned Fanny, fixing her large blue
eyes upon my face inquiringly.
I am the worst hand in the world at playing the hypocrite, and with ready
tact she perceived at once that I was attempting to deceive her.
“Frank,” she resumed, “you have seen but little of me since we were
children together, and deem, possibly, that—I am a weak, silly girl, unfit to
be trusted with evil tidings; but indeed, dear brother, you do me injustice;
the sorrows we have gone through” (and her eyes filled with tears as she
spoke), “the necessity for exertion in order to save mamma as much as
possible, have given me more strength of character and firmness of purpose
than girls of my age in general possess; tell me the truth, and fear not that
power will be given me to bear it, be it what it may; but, if I think you are
trying to hide it from me—and do not hope to deceive me; your face proves
that you are as much alarmed at what you have heard as I am myself, and
probably with far better reason—I shall be unable to forget it, and it will
make me miserable.”
“Well then,” replied I, “thus far I will trust you. I do fear, from what you
have told me, that Oaklands has received some evil tidings relative to a
disagreeable affair in which he was engaged at Cambridge, the results of
which are not fully known at present, and which, I am afraid, may yet
occasion him much care and anxiety.”

“And I had fancied him so light-hearted and happy,” said Fanny
thoughtfully; “and is this all I am to know about it then?”
“All that I feel myself at liberty to tell at present,” replied I; “recollect,
darling, it is my friend's secret, not my own, or you should hear
everything.”
“Then you will tell me all your secrets if I ask you?” inquired Fanny
archly.
“Whom should I trust or confide in, if not my own dear little sister?” said
I, stroking her golden locks caressingly. “And now,” continued I, rising, “I
will go and see whether I can do any good in this affair; but when Master
Harry is in one of his impetuous moods he gets quite beyond my
management.”
“Oh! but you can influence him,” exclaimed Fanny, her bright eyes
sparkling with animation; “you can calm his impetuosity with your own
quiet good sense and clear judgment—you can appeal to his high and
generous nature—you can tell him how dear he is to you, how you love him
with more than a brother's love: you can and will do all this—will you not,
dear Frank?”
“Of course I shall do everything that I am able, my dear child,” replied I,
somewhat astonished at this sudden outburst; “and now go, and be quiet,
this business seems rather to have excited you. If my mother asks for me,
tell her I am gone up to the Hall.”
“What warm-hearted creatures women are!” thought I, as I ran, rather
than walked, through the park; “that little sister of mine, now—no sooner
does she hear that my friend has got into a scrape, of the very nature of
which she is ignorant (a pretty fuss she would be in if she were aware that it
was a duel, of which I am afraid), than she becomes quite excited, and
implores me, as if she were pleading for her life, to use my influence with
Harry to prevent his doing—something, she has not the most remote notion
what. I wish she did not act quite so much from impulse. It's lucky she has
got a brother to take care of her; though it does not become me to find fault
with her, for it all proceeds from her affection for me; she knows how
wretched I should be if anything were to go wrong with Harry,”—and then I
fell into a train of thought as to what it could be which had so suddenly
excited him: something connected with Wilford, no doubt; but what?—my
fears pointed to a challenge, and my blood ran cold at the thought. He must