A homely proverb recognises the existence of a troublesome class of
persons who, having an inch conceded them, will take an ell. Not to
quote the illustrious examples of those heroic scourges of mankind,
whose amiable path in life has been from birth to death through blood,
and fire, and ruin, and who would seem to have existed for no better
purpose than to teach mankind that as the absence of pain is pleasure,
so the earth, purged of their presence, may be deemed a blessed
place--not to quote such mighty instances, it will be sufficient to
refer to old John Willet.
Old John having long encroached a good standard inch, full measure, on
the liberty of Joe, and having snipped off a Flemish ell in the matter
of the parole, grew so despotic and so great, that his thirst for
conquest knew no bounds. The more young Joe submitted, the more absolute
old John became. The ell soon faded into nothing. Yards, furlongs, miles
arose; and on went old John in the pleasantest manner possible, trimming
off an exuberance in this place, shearing away some liberty of speech
or action in that, and conducting himself in his small way with as much
high mightiness and majesty, as the most glorious tyrant that ever had
his statue reared in the public ways, of ancient or of modern times.
As great men are urged on to the abuse of power (when they need urging,
which is not often), by their flatterers and dependents, so old John was
impelled to these exercises of authority by the applause and admiration
of his Maypole cronies, who, in the intervals of their nightly pipes and
pots, would shake their heads and say that Mr Willet was a father of the
good old English sort; that there were no new-fangled notions or modern
ways in him; that he put them in mind of what their fathers were when
they were boys; that there was no mistake about him; that it would be
well for the country if there were more like him, and more was the pity
that there were not; with many other original remarks of that nature.
Then they would condescendingly give Joe to understand that it was
all for his good, and he would be thankful for it one day; and in
particular, Mr Cobb would acquaint him, that when he was his age, his
father thought no more of giving him a parental kick, or a box on the
ears, or a cuff on the head, or some little admonition of that sort,
than he did of any other ordinary duty of life; and he would further
remark, with looks of great significance, that but for this judicious
bringing up, he might have never been the man he was at that present
speaking; which was probable enough, as he was, beyond all question,
the dullest dog of the party. In short, between old John and old
John’s friends, there never was an unfortunate young fellow so bullied,
badgered, worried, fretted, and brow-beaten; so constantly beset, or
made so tired of his life, as poor Joe Willet.
This had come to be the recognised and established state of things; but
as John was very anxious to flourish his supremacy before the eyes of Mr
Chester, he did that day exceed himself, and did so goad and chafe his
son and heir, that but for Joe’s having made a solemn vow to keep
his hands in his pockets when they were not otherwise engaged, it is
impossible to say what he might have done with them. But the longest day
has an end, and at length Mr Chester came downstairs to mount his horse,
which was ready at the door.
As old John was not in the way at the moment, Joe, who was sitting in
the bar ruminating on his dismal fate and the manifold perfections of
Dolly Varden, ran out to hold the guest’s stirrup and assist him to
mount. Mr Chester was scarcely in the saddle, and Joe was in the very
act of making him a graceful bow, when old John came diving out of the
porch, and collared him.
‘None of that, sir,’ said John, ‘none of that, sir. No breaking of
patroles. How dare you come out of the door, sir, without leave? You’re
trying to get away, sir, are you, and to make a traitor of yourself
again? What do you mean, sir?’
‘Let me go, father,’ said Joe, imploringly, as he marked the smile upon
their visitor’s face, and observed the pleasure his disgrace afforded
him. ‘This is too bad. Who wants to get away?’
‘Who wants to get away!’ cried John, shaking him. ‘Why you do, sir,
you do. You’re the boy, sir,’ added John, collaring with one hand, and
aiding the effect of a farewell bow to the visitor with the other,
‘that wants to sneak into houses, and stir up differences between noble
gentlemen and their sons, are you, eh? Hold your tongue, sir.’
Joe made no effort to reply. It was the crowning circumstance of his
degradation. He extricated himself from his father’s grasp, darted an
angry look at the departing guest, and returned into the house.
‘But for her,’ thought Joe, as he threw his arms upon a table in the
common room, and laid his head upon them, ‘but for Dolly, who I couldn’t
bear should think me the rascal they would make me out to be if I ran
away, this house and I should part to-night.’
It being evening by this time, Solomon Daisy, Tom Cobb, and Long Parkes,
were all in the common room too, and had from the window been witnesses
of what had just occurred. Mr Willet joining them soon afterwards,
received the compliments of the company with great composure, and
lighting his pipe, sat down among them.
‘We’ll see, gentlemen,’ said John, after a long pause, ‘who’s the master
of this house, and who isn’t. We’ll see whether boys are to govern men,
or men are to govern boys.’
‘And quite right too,’ assented Solomon Daisy with some approving nods;
‘quite right, Johnny. Very good, Johnny. Well said, Mr Willet. Brayvo,
sir.’
John slowly brought his eyes to bear upon him, looked at him for a long
time, and finally made answer, to the unspeakable consternation of his
hearers, ‘When I want encouragement from you, sir, I’ll ask you for
it. You let me alone, sir. I can get on without you, I hope. Don’t you
tackle me, sir, if you please.’
‘Don’t take it ill, Johnny; I didn’t mean any harm,’ pleaded the little
man.
‘Very good, sir,’ said John, more than usually obstinate after his late
success. ‘Never mind, sir. I can stand pretty firm of myself, sir, I
believe, without being shored up by you.’ And having given utterance to
this retort, Mr Willet fixed his eyes upon the boiler, and fell into a
kind of tobacco-trance.
The spirits of the company being somewhat damped by this embarrassing
line of conduct on the part of their host, nothing more was said for a
long time; but at length Mr Cobb took upon himself to remark, as he rose
to knock the ashes out of his pipe, that he hoped Joe would thenceforth
learn to obey his father in all things; that he had found, that day, he
was not one of the sort of men who were to be trifled with; and that
he would recommend him, poetically speaking, to mind his eye for the
future.
‘I’d recommend you, in return,’ said Joe, looking up with a flushed
face, ‘not to talk to me.’
‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ cried Mr Willet, suddenly rousing himself, and
turning round.
‘I won’t, father,’ cried Joe, smiting the table with his fist, so that
the jugs and glasses rung again; ‘these things are hard enough to bear
from you; from anybody else I never will endure them any more. Therefore
I say, Mr Cobb, don’t talk to me.’
‘Why, who are you,’ said Mr Cobb, sneeringly, ‘that you’re not to be
talked to, eh, Joe?’
To which Joe returned no answer, but with a very ominous shake of the
head, resumed his old position, which he would have peacefully preserved
until the house shut up at night, but that Mr Cobb, stimulated by the
wonder of the company at the young man’s presumption, retorted with
sundry taunts, which proved too much for flesh and blood to bear.
Crowding into one moment the vexation and the wrath of years, Joe
started up, overturned the table, fell upon his long enemy, pummelled
him with all his might and main, and finished by driving him with
surprising swiftness against a heap of spittoons in one corner; plunging
into which, head foremost, with a tremendous crash, he lay at full
length among the ruins, stunned and motionless. Then, without waiting to
receive the compliments of the bystanders on the victory he had won, he
retreated to his own bedchamber, and considering himself in a state
of siege, piled all the portable furniture against the door by way of
barricade.
‘I have done it now,’ said Joe, as he sat down upon his bedstead and
wiped his heated face. ‘I knew it would come at last. The Maypole and
I must part company. I’m a roving vagabond--she hates me for
evermore--it’s all over!’