were open, Matthew Cooper, though nearly twenty years her senior, asked
Bess to be his wife!
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THE SNAKE.
However ambitious either Jabez or his kind fosterers had been to see
him a Blue-coat boy, the parting between them was a terrible wrench.
They were to him all the friends or parents he had ever known.
Then there were his playmates in the yard, with liberty to run in and
out at will; and lastly, there were his dumb pets—his kitten (grown to
a cat), his pigeons, and the lame linnet, hopping from perch to finger,
and paying him for his love with the sweetest of songs.
He was not more stunned by the noise and Easter Monday bustle in the
College Yard, or more awed by the imposing presence of Governor Terry
and the feoffees, than by the magnitude, order, and antique grandeur of
the building henceforth to be his home. Nevertheless, wide open as the
gates were for the day, he felt that they would close, and shut him in
among the cold strong walls and strangers, never to see his pets or his
loving friends again until Whitsuntide should bring another holiday.
They older, more experienced, with a better knowledge of all the boy
would gain—all the privation and premature labour he would escape—felt
only how dull their humble home would be without the willing feet and
hands, the smiling face, and the cheerful voice of the sturdy little
fellow who for more than seven years had been as their own child.
He had given his last charge respecting his furry and feathered brood,
exchanged the last clinging embrace under the dark arch, then tore away
in quest of a deserted corner, where he might hide the tears he could
not wholly restrain.
At first the new dress of which he was so proud, the blue stockings
and clasped shoes in place of clogs, the yellow baize petticoat, the
long-skirted blue overcoat or gown, the blue muffin-cap, the white
clerical band at the throat (all neat, and fresh, and unpatched as they
were), felt awkward and uncomfortable—the long petticoat especially
incommoded him. But in a few days this wore off. There were other lads
equally strange and unaccustomed to robes and rules. Fellow-feeling
drew them towards each other, and with the wonderful adaptability of
childhood, they fell into the regular grooves, and were as much at home
as the eldest there in less than a fortnight. And from the Chetham
Gallery in the Old Church he could see and be seen by Simon and Bess on
Sabbath mornings from the free seats in the aisle, and that contented
them.
The training and education of the Chetham College boys was, and is,
conducted on principles best adapted for boys expected to fight their
own way upwards in the world. They were not cumbered with a number
of “ologies” and “isms” (the highest education did not stand on a
par then with the moderate ones of this day); their range of books
and studies was limited. Reading, writing, and arithmetic, sound and
practical information, alone were imparted, so much as was needed to
fit the dullest for an ordinary tradesman, and supply the persevering
and intelligent with a fulcrum and a lever. Nor did their education end
with their lessons in the school-room, nor was it drawn from books and
slates alone.
Their meals were regular, their diet pure and ample, but plain.
They rose at six, began the day with prayer, and retired to rest at
eight. Besides their duties in the school-room, they darned their own
stockings, made their own beds, helped the servants to keep their rooms
clean, and six of the elder boys were set apart to run errands and
carry messages beyond the precincts of the College.
Strength of muscle and limb were gained in the open courtyard in such
games as trap and football; patience and ingenuity had scope in the
bead purses, the carved apple-scoops and marrow-spoons, the worsted
balls and pincushions they made to fill their leisure hours indoors.
There was no idleness. Their very play had its purpose.
Let us set Jabez Clegg under the kind guardianship of Christopher
Terry, the governor, and under the direct supervision of the Reverend
John Gresswell, the schoolmaster, to con his Mavor, and make
pothooks-and-ladles, on a form in the large school-room at the west end
of the College; and to rise, step by step, up the first difficult rungs
of that long ladder of learning which may indeed rest on our common
earth, but which reaches far above the clouds and human ken.
Christmas and Midsummer vacations came and went, so did those
red-letter days of his College life, Easter and Whitsuntide, when he
was free to rush to the old yard, so near at hand, and after hugging
Bess and Simon, whom he astonished with his learning, could assure
himself his dumb family had been well cared for.
And if those passing seasons traced deeper lines on Simon’s brow, gave
more womanly solidity to Bess’s form and character, they brought no
change the foundling could mark. Tom Hulme’s whereabouts was still
undiscovered. Matt Cooper was still a widower. But they and his masters
could note the steady progress _he_ made, and his chivalrous love of
truth and sense of honour shown in many ways in little things. Yet
there was one event a grief to him. His little brown linnet pined for
its young friend, and died before the first Whitsunday came.
He was not much over ten years old when he was proved to possess
courage, as well as truth and honour.
For some time Nancy, the cook, had observed that the cream was skimmed
surreptitiously from the milk-pans in the dairy, that the milk itself
was regularly abstracted, and she was loud in complaint. She could
scarcely find cream enough to set on the governor’s table, and servants
and schoolboys were in turn accused of being the depredators.
Complaints were made to Mr. Terry; servants and boys were alike
interrogated and watched, and punished on suspicion; but nothing could
be proved, and no precautions could save the milk. The lofty and
spacious kitchen had its entrance almost under the porch, and close
beside it was a flight of stone steps leading to the dairy, a cellar
below the kitchen, lit by a small window high up on the side towards
the river, and of course opposite to the steps.
Stone tables occupied the two other sides, on which were ranged a
number of wide shallow pans of good milk. In the extreme corner at
right angles with the door at the head of the stairs was another
entrance, a small open door in a Gothic frame, which opened on another
and shorter flight of steps, cut in the rock and washed by the river,
which sometimes rose and beat against the cellar-door for admission,
beat so oft and importunately as to wear away the oak where it met the
floor.
It was nearly breakfast time. Long rows of wooden bowls and trenchers
were ranged on the white kitchen-table. The oatmeal porridge was ready
to pour out. The cook ran short of milk. Through a window overlooking
the yard she espied Jabez, whip in hand, driving a biped team of
play-horses.
“Jabez, Jabez Clegg!” she called out at the pitch of her voice, “come
hither.”
Down went the reins, and the prancing steeds proceeded without a driver.
“Fetch a can of milk from the cellar, Jabez; an’ look sharp. an’ see as
yo’ dunna drink none!”
“I never do,” said Jabez, not overpleased at the imputation.
“Well, see as yo’ don’t, for some on yo’ do.”
Jabez took the bright tin can, without putting down the whip, and
descended the unguarded cellar-stairs, whistling as he went. He gave a
jump down the last few steps, and to his utter surprise, I cannot say
dismay, saw that he had disturbed a great greenish-brown snake spotted
with black, and having a yellowish ring round its neck. It lay coiled
on the stone table opposite to him, and with its head elevated above
the rim of a milk-pan was taking its morning draught, and in so doing
reckoning without its host.
“Oh, you’re the thief, are you, Mr. Snake? It’s you’ve robbed us of our
milk, and got us boys thrashed for it!” cried Jabez, without a thought
of danger, planting himself between the culprit and the small postern
door, as the snake, gliding from the slab, turned thither for exit,
putting out its forked tongue and hissing at him as it came.
Without thought or consideration—without a cry of alarm to those above,
he struck at the threatening foe with his whip; and as the resentful
snake darted at him, jumped nimbly aside, and struck and struck again;
and as the angry snake writhed and twisted, and again and again darted
its frightful head at him with distended jaws, he whipped and whipped
away as though a top and not a formidable reptile had been before him.
Cook, out of patience, called “Jabez Clegg!” more than once, in
anything but satisfactory tones; and then, patience exhausted, came to
the top of the dairy-stairs. Then she heard Jabez, as if addressing
some one, say: “Oh, you would, would you?” and the commotion having
drawn her so far down the steps that she could peer into the cellar and
see what was going on, she set up a prolonged scream. This was just as
Jabez, shifting the position of his whip, brought the butt-end down on
the head of the snake with all the force of his stout young arm, and
his exhausted foe dropped, literally whipped to death.
The woman’s screams brought not only the governor and the
school-master, but Dr. Stone, the librarian, to the spot. And there
stood Jabez, all his prowess gone, with his back towards them, his head
down on his arms, which rested on the stone slab, sobbing violently for
the very life he had just destroyed.
“Oh, he’s bin bitten—he’s been bitten! The vemonous thing’s bitten the
lad! He’ll die after it!” cried the cook in an ecstacy of terror.
“Stand aside, Nancy,” said Dr. Stone; “that snake is not venomous. If I
mistake not, the brave boy’s heart is wounded, not his skin.”
And, coming down, the kind, discerning librarian lifted the snake with
the one hand, and took hold of Jabez with the other, simply saying to
him—
“Come into the governor’s room, Jabez, and tell us all about it.”
And Jabez, drying his red eyes on the cuff of his coat, was ushered
before the Doctor up the stairs, and into the governor’s room, where
breakfast was laid for the three gentlemen. There he briefly told how
he had found the snake drinking the milk; and having intercepted the
reptile’s retreat, had been obliged, in self-defence, to fight with
it until he had whipped it to death—a consummation as unlooked for as
regreted.
He had not, as at first surmised, escaped unwounded in the contest;
but, as Dr. Stone had said, and the surgeon who dressed the
bites confirmed, the terrible-looking reptile was but the common
ringed-snake, which takes freely to the water; and its bite was
harmless. From the dais in the refectory both snake and whip were
exhibited to the boys after breakfast.
“My lads,” said the governor, “I daresay you will all be glad to know
that the thief who stole the milk has been taken.”
There was a general shout of assent, with here and there a wondering
glance at the vacant seat of Jabez, who, having his wounds washed and
bound up, had not sat down with them, but had a sort of complimentary
breakfast with the servants in the kitchen.
“And I daresay you would like to see the thief, and know how he was
caught.”
There was another general “Ay, ay, sir!”
“Well, here he is,” (and he held the snake aloft); “but I don’t think
any of you will be thrashed on his account again. Jabez Clegg, here”
(and he pulled the reluctant boy forward by the shoulder), “caught the
sly robber drinking the milk, and, with nothing but this whip and a
fearless resolute arm, put a stop to his depredations, and restored the
lost character of the school.”
There was a loud hurrah for Jabez Clegg, who, for the time being was a
hero. Then, the snake being carried to the school-room, the Rev. John
Gresswell improved the occasion by a lesson on snakes in general, and
that one in particular. But when he dissipated the popular belief that
all snakes were venomous, and assured the boys that the bite of this
was innocuous, more than one of the Blue-coated lads thought Jabez was
not such a hero after all.
The heads of the College thought otherwise. The snake, and whip
also, were placed high up against a wall in the College museum,
close beside the “woman’s clog which was split by a thunderbolt, and
hoo wasn’t hurt.” They made part of the catalogue of the Blue-coat
guides—nay, even Jabez may have run the rapid chronicle from the reel
himself; but the pain and shock of having wilfully killed a living
creature neutralised and prevented the harm which might have followed
self-glorification.
The long unknown secret spoiler of the dairy had been such a blemish on
the spotless character of the Chetham Hospital—such a scandal in its
little world—that its capture became of sufficient importance for Dr.
Thomas Stone to communicate to the Reverend Joshua Brookes on his next
visit to the library, Jabez being considered a sort of _protege_ of his.
Before the day was out the parson found his cough troublesome, and of
course went to Mrs. Clowes for horehound-drops.
“Well, what do you think of young Cheat-the-fishes now?” came raspily
from his lips, as he leaned on the counter, evidently prepared for a
gossip, shop-chairs being unheard-of superfluities in those days.
Mrs. Clowes knew perfectly well whom the parson meant by “young
Cheat-the-fishes”; indeed, the boy, on his rare holidays, had been a
customer, as were the boys of College and Grammar School generally.
“Now! Why, what’s th’ lad been doing? Naught wrong, I reckon?”
You see she had faith in the boy’s open countenance.
“Humph! that’s as folk think,” he growled, keeping his own opinion to
himself. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you the hubbub there’s been
over there” (jerking his finger in the direction of the College) “about
the stolen milk? That tale’s old enough.”
Mrs. Clowes nodded her mob-cap in assent.
“Well, that lad Jabez found a snake, four feet long, with its head in
the milk pans the other morning. The sly thief turned spiteful, and the
two had a battle-royal all to themselves in the cellar. The pugnacious
rapscallion had a whip in his hand, and he—lashed the snake to death!”
Mrs. Clowes echoed his last words, and uplifted her hands in amazement.
A snake was a terrible reptile to her.
“Ah! and then blubbered like a cry-a-babby because he had killed it!
What do you think of that, Dame Clowes?”
“Eh! I think he was a brave little chap to face a sarpent, but I think
a fine sight more of his blubbering, as you call it,” said she, taking
a tin canister from a shelf, and putting it on the counter with an
emphatic bounce.
“Ah! I thought I could match the young fool with an old one,” said he
derisively, to hide his own satisfaction, as he took his short legs to
the door.
But Mrs. Clowes called him back, put a large paper parcel in his hand,
and said,
“Here, Jotty, see you give these sweetmeats to your cry-a-babby, and
tell him an old woman says there’s no harm in fighting in self-defence
with any kind of a snake, or for his own good name, or to protect the
helpless; but, if he fights just to show off his own bravery, he’s a
coward. And you tell him from me never to be ashamed of tears he has
shed in repentance for injury he may have done to any living thing. Now
see you tell him, parson; and maybe my preachment may be worth more to
him than my cakes and toffy, or your sermons.” And she nodded her head
till her cap-border flapped like a bird’s wings.
“Ugh! dame, you’ll be for wagging that tongue and mutch of yours in my
pulpit next,” said he, gruffly.
But he delivered the parcel and the “preachment” both faithfully,
and, moreover, turned over his stores of old school books for a Latin
grammar, which he put into the hand of Jabez, with a promise to
instruct the boy in the language, if he would like to learn.
Forthwith Jabez, not caring to seem ungracious, though without any
special liking for the task, had to encroach upon his playhours for a
new study, under-rated by the pupil, over-rated by the teacher.
Could Joshua Brookes have put mathematical instruments within his
reach, or given him pencils and colours, the boy’s eyes would have
sparkled, and study been a pleasure.
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
FIRST ANTAGONISM.
The extensive oblong enclosure known as Ardwick Green, situated at
the south-eastern extremity of the town, on the left-hand side of
the highway to Stockport and London, was in 1809 part of a suburban
village, and from Piccadilly to a blacksmith’s forge a little
beyond Ardwick Bridge, fields and hedges were interspersed with the
newly-erected houses along Bank Top.
The Green, studded here and there with tall poplars and other trees,
was fenced round with quite an army of stumpy wooden posts some six
feet apart, connected by squared iron rods, a barrier against cattle
only. A long, slightly serpentine lake spread its shining waters from
end to end within the soft circlet of green; and this grassy belt
served as a promenade for the fashionable inhabitants. And there must
have been such in that village of Ardwick early in the century, as
now, for the one bell in the tiny turret of St. Thomas’s small plain
red-brick chapel, rang a fashionable congregation into its neat pews,
to listen to the well-toned organ and the devoutly-toned voice of
the perpetual curate, the Reverend R. Tweddle, if we may credit an
historian of the time.
Red-brick church, red-brick houses, hard and cold outside, solid
and roomy and comfortable within as Georgian architecture ever was,
overlooked green and pond, but, luckily, overlooked them from a
reasonable distance, and, moreover, did not elbow each other too
closely, but were individually set in masses of foliage, which
toned down the staring brickwork, Time and smoke have done so more
effectually since.
One of the best, and best-looking, of these houses, near the church,
was the one in which the delicate Mrs. Aspinall had presided for a few
brief years. An iron palisade, enclosing a few shrubs and evergreens,
separated it from the wide roadway, but behind the screen of brick ran
a formal but extensive garden and orchard, well-kept and well stocked,
with a fish-pond as formal in the midst.
Fish-ponds encourage damp, and damp encourages frogs, efts, and their
kin. Here they abounded, and Master Laurence had a sort of instinctive
belief that they were created solely for his sport and amusement. Mr.
Aspinall, his father, immersed in business during the day, and occupied
with friends at home or abroad until late hours at night, saw very
little of his son, who was thus consigned to servants during those
hours not spent, or supposed to be spent, at a preparatory school close
at hand.
The boy was quick and intelligent, had his mother’s amber curls and
azure eyes, her delicate skin and brilliant colour, but the handsome
face had more of the father therein, and was too unformed to brook
description here.
What he might have been with other training is not to be told,
but under the supposition that he inherited his mother’s fragile
constitution, he had been woefully spoiled and pampered. Opposition to
his will was forbidden.
“Bear with him, Kitty, for my sake, and do not thwart him, or you
will break his fine spirit,” had been Mrs. Aspinall’s dying charge to
her old nurse; and as every demonstration of temper was ascribed by
both parents to this same “fine spirit,” what wonder that he grew up
masterful—and worse?
His imperious disposition early ingratiated him into the favour of Bob,
his father’s groom; and this man, thinking no evil, ignorantly sowed
the seeds of cruelty in his young heart.
When the horses were singed, the boy was allowed to be a spectator; if
a whelp had his ears cropped, or the end of its tail bitten off, he
was treated to a sight. If a brood of kittens or a litter of puppies
had to be drowned, Master Laurence was sure to be in at the death. He
was taken to surreptitious cock-fights and rat-hunts; and though, when
too late, Mr. Aspinall turned the man away for inclining his son to
“low pursuits,” nothing was said or done to counteract these lessons
of cruelty! No wonder, then, that to him the sight of pain inflicted
brought pleasure, or that inhumanity went hand-in-hand with self-will.
One incident—a real one—will suffice to show what Laurence Aspinall
was, when Jabez Clegg shed tears over the snake he had killed perforce.
Kitty was in the kitchen alone. The maids were in other parts of the
house. She was sitting close to a blazing fire on account of her
“rheumatics,” and was in a doze. The evening was drawing in. Master
Laurence, coming direct from the garden and the fish-pond, burst open
the kitchen door with a whoop which made Kitty start from her nap
in a fright. Thereupon he set up a loud laugh as the poor old woman
held her hand to her side, and panted for breath. In his hand was his
pocket-handkerchief, tied like a bundle, in which something living
seemed to move and palpitate. They were young frogs in various stages
of development.
“Now, Kitty,” said he, “I’ll show you some rare sport!” and taking one
of the live frogs out of the handkerchief deliberately threw it into
the midst of the glowing fire.
“There, Kitty; did you hear that?” cried he in rapture, as the poor
animal uttered a cry of agony almost human, whilst he danced on the
hearth like a frantic savage round a sacrificial fire.
“Oh, Master Laurence! Master Laurence! don’t do that—don’t be so
cruel!” appealed Kitty, piteously.
But he had drawn another forth, and crying, “Cruel! It’s fun,
Kitty—fun!” tore it limb from limb, and threw it piecemeal into the
blaze.
“There’s another! and there’s another!” he shouted in glee, as the rest
followed in swift succession; and Kitty, shrieking in pain and horror,
ran from the kitchen, bringing the cook and housemaid downstairs with
her cries.
For the first time in his life Mr. Aspinall administered a sound
castigation to his son, regretting that he had not done it earlier.
No more was said of his son’s fine spirit; but, prompt to act, he lost
no time in seeking his admission into the Free Grammar School; and
either to spare him the long daily walk in tenderness for his health
(Ardwick was more than a mile away), or to place him under strict
supervision, boarded Laurence with one of the masters.
Yet he gave that master no clue to his son’s besetting sin; so he was
left free to tantalise and torment every weaker creature within his
orbit, from the schoolmaster’s cat, which he shod with walnut-shells,
to the youngest school-boy, whose books he tore and hid, whose hair he
pulled, whose cap and frills he soused in the mud.
It was a misfortune for himself and others that his pocket money was
more abundant than that of his fellows. Never had the apple-woman
or Mrs. Clowes a more lavish customer, or one who distributed his
purchases more freely. Boys incapable of discriminating between
generosity and profusion dubbed him generous; and that, coupled with
his handsome face and spirited bearing which they mistook for courage,
brought him partisans.
Thus, long before his first year expired, and he was drafted from the
lower school to the room above, where he came under the keen eye and
heavy ferule of Joshua Brookes, he had a body of lads at his beck (many
older than himself), ready for any mischief he might propose.
As may well be supposed, there was a natural antagonism between the
boys of the Grammar School and of Chetham’s Hospital. As at the
confluence of two streams the waters chafe and foam and fret each
other, so it is scarcely possible for two separate communities,
similar, yet differing in their constitutions, to have their gateways
close together at right angles without frequent collision between the
rival bodies.
In the great gate of the College, only open on special occasions, was a
small door or wicket, for ordinary use; and some of the Grammar School
boys, under pretence of shortening their route homeward, finding it
open, would make free to cross the College Yard at a noisy canter,
and let themselves out at the far gate on Hunt’s Bank. It was a clear
trespass. They were frequently admonished by one official or another;
their passage was disputed by the Blue-coat boys; but they persisted in
setting up a right of road, and opposition only gave piquancy to their
bravado.