If I give one day of my life, I give, with very nearly exactness, the
unbroken course of my existence. I rose very early--hours ere the rest
of the household was stirring--to work at my lessons, which Mr. Eccles
apportioned for me with a liberality that showed he had the highest
opinion of my abilities, or--as I discovered later on to be the truth--a
profound indifference about them. Thus, a hundred lines of Virgil,
thirty of Xenophon, three propositions of Euclid, with a sufficient
amount of history, geography, and logic, would be an ordinary day's
work. It is fair I should own that when the time of examination came, I
found him usually imbibing seltzer and curacoa, with a wet towel round
his head; or, in his robuster moments, practising the dumbbells to
develop his muscles. So that the interrogatories-were generally in this
wise:--
“How goes it, Digby? What of the Homer, eh?”
“'It 's Xenophon, sir.”
“'To be sure it is. I was forgetting, as a man might who had my
headache. And, by the way, Digby, why will your father give Burgundy
at supper instead of Bordeaux? Some one must surely have told him
accidentally it was a deadly poison, for he adheres to it with desperate
fidelity.”
“I believe I know my Greek, sir,” would I say, modestly, to recall him
to the theme.
“Of course you do; you'd cut a sorry figure here this morning if
you did not know it. No, sir; I 'm not the man to enjoy your father's
confidence, and take his money, and betray my trust His words to me
were, 'Make him a gentleman, Eccles. I could find scores of fellows to
cram him with Greek particles and double equations, but I want the man
who can turn out the perfect article,--the gentleman.' Come now, what
relations subsisted between Cyrus and Xenophon?”
“Xenophon coached him, sir.”
“So he did. Just strike a light for me. My head is splitting for want of
a cigar. You may have a cigarette too. I don't object Virgil we'll keep
till to-morrow. Virgil was a muff, after all. Virgil was a decentish
sort of Martin Tupper, Digby. He had no wit, no repartee, no smartness;
he prosed about ploughs and shepherds, like a maudlin old squire; or he
told a very shady sort of anecdote about Dido, which I always doubted
should be put into the hands of youth. Horace is free, too, a thought
too free; but he could n't help it. Horace lived the same kind of life
we do here, a species of roast-partridge and pretty woman sort of life;
but then he was the gentleman always. If old Flaccus had lived now,
he'd have been pretty much like Bob Eccles, and putting in his divinity
lectures perhaps. By the way, I hope your father won't go and give
away that small rectory in Kent. 'We who live to preach, must preach
to live.' That is n't exactly the line, but it will do. Pulvis et umbra
sumus, Digby; and take what care we may of ourselves, we must go back,
as the judges say, to the place from whence we came. There, now, you 've
had classical criticism, sound morality, worldly wisdom, and the rest
of it; and, with your permission, we'll pack up the books, and stand
prorogued till--let me see--Saturday next.”
Of course I moved no amendment, and went my way rejoicing.
From that hour I was free to follow my own inclinations, which usually
took a horsey turn; and as the stable offered several mounts, I very
often rode six hours a day. Hotham was always to be found in the
pistol-gallery about four of an afternoon, and I usually joined him
there, and speedily became more than his match.
“Well, youngster,” he would say, when beaten and irritable, “I can beat
your head off at billiards, anyhow.”
But I was not long in robbing him of even this boast, and in less than
three months I could defy the best player in the house. The fact was,
I had in a remarkable degree that small talent for games of every kind
which is a speciality with certain persons. I could not only learn a
game quickly, but almost always attain considerable skill in it.
“So, sir,” said my father to me one day at dinner,--and nothing was more
rare than for him to address a word to me, and I was startled as he did
so,--“so, sir, you are going to turn out an Admirable Crichton on my
hands, it seems. I hear of nothing but your billiard-playing, your
horsemanship, and your cricketing, while Mr. Eccles tells me that your
progress with him is equally remarkable.”
He stopped and seemed to expect me to make some rejoinder; but I could
not utter a word, and felt overwhelmed at the observation and notice his
speech had drawn upon me.
“It's better I should tell you at once,” resumed my father, “that I
dislike prodigies. I dislike because I distrust them. The fellow who
knows at fourteen what he might reasonably have known at thirty is not
unlikely to stop short at fifteen and grow no more. I don't wish to be
personal, but I have heard it said Cleremont was a very clever boy.”
The impertinence of this speech, and the laughter it at once excited,
served to turn attention away from me; but, through the buzz and murmur
around, I overheard Cleremont say to Hotham, “I shall pull him up short
one of these days, and you 'll see an end of all this.”
“Now,” continued my father, “if Eccles had told me that the boy was a
skilful hand at sherry-cobbler, or a rare judge of a Cuban cigar, I
'd have reposed more faith in the assurance than when he spoke of his
classics.”
“He ain't bad at a gin-sling with bitters, that I must say,” said
Eccles, whose self-control or good-humor, or mayhap some less worthy
trait, always carried him successfully over a difficulty.
“So, sir,” said my father, turning again on me, “the range of your
accomplishments is complete. You might be a tapster or a jockey. When
the nobility of France came to ruin in the Revolution, the best blood of
the kingdom became barbers and dancing-masters: so that when some fine
morning that gay gentleman yonder will discover that he is a beggar,
he 'll have no difficulty in finding a calling to suit his tastes, and
square with his abilities. What's Hotham grumbling about? Will any one
interpret him for me?”
“Hotham is saying that this claret is corked,” said the sea-captain,
with a hoarse loud voice.
“Bottled at home!” said my father, “and, like your own education,
Hotham, spoiled for a beggarly economy.”
“I 'm glad you 've got it,” muttered Cleremont, whose eyes glistened
with malignant spite. “I have had enough of this; I 'm for coffee,” and
he arose as he spoke.
“Has Cleremont left us?” asked my father.
“Yes; that last bottle has finished him. I told you before, Nixon knows
nothing about wine. I saw that hogshead lying bung up for eight weeks
before it was drawn off for bottling.”
“Why didn't you speak to him about it, then?”
“And be told that I'm not his master, eh? You don't seem to know,
Norcott, that you 've got a houseful of the most insolent servants in
Christendom. Cleremont's wife wanted the chestnuts yesterday in the
phaeton, and George refused her: she might take the cobs, or nothing.”
“Quite true,” chimed in Eccles; “and the fellow said, 'I 'm a-taking
the young horses out in the break, and if the missis wants to see the
chestnuts, she'd better come with _me_.'**
“And as to a late breakfast now, it's quite impossible; they delay and
delay till they run you into luncheon,” growled Hotham.
“They serve me my chocolate pretty regularly,” said my father,
negligently, and he arose and strolled out of the room. As he went, he
slipped his arm within mine, and said, in a half-whisper, “I suppose it
will come to this,--I shall have to change my friends or my household.
Which would you advise?”
“I 'd say the friends, sir.”
“So should I, but that they would not easily find another place. There,
go and see is the billiard-room lighted. I want to see you play a game
with Cleremont.”
Cleremont was evidently sulking under the sarcasm passed on him, and
took up his cue to play with a bad grace.
“Who will have five francs on the party?” said my father. “I 'm going to
back the boy.”
“Make it pounds, Norcott,” said Hotham.
“I'll give you six to five, in tens,” said Cleremont to my father. “Will
you take it?”
I was growing white and red by turns all this time. I was terrified at
the thought that money was to be staked on my play, and frightened by
the mere presence of my father at the table.
“The youngster is too nervous to play. Don't let him, Norcott,” said
Hotham, with a kindness I had not given him credit for.
“Give me the cue, Digby; I 'll take your place,” said my father; and
Cleremont and Hotham both drew nigh, and talked to him in a low tone.
“Eight and the stroke then be it,” said my father, “and the bet in
fifties.” The others nodded, and Cleremont began the game.
I could not have believed I could have suffered the amount of intense
anxiety that game cost me. Had my life been on the issue, I do not think
I could have gone through greater alternations of hope and fear than now
succeeded in my heart Cleremont started with eight points odds, and made
thirty-two off the balls before my father began to play. He now took his
place, and by the first stroke displayed a perfect mastery of the game.
There was a sort of languid grace, an indolent elegance about all he
did, that when the stroke required vigor or power made me tremble for
the result; but somehow he imparted the exact amount of force needed,
and the balls moved about here and there as though obedient to some
subtle instinct of which the cue gave a mere sign. He scored forty-two
points in a few minutes, and then drawing himself up, said, “There 's an
eight-stroke now on the table. I 'll give any one three hundred Naps to
two that I do it.”
None spoke. “Or I 'll tell you what I 'll do. I 'll take fifty from each
of you and draw the game!” Another as complete silence ensued. “Or here
's a third proposition, Give me fifty between you, and I 'll hand over
the cue to the boy; he shall finish the game.”
“Oh, no, sir! I beg you--I entreat--” I began; but already, “Done,” had
been loudly uttered by both together, and the bet was ratified.
“Don't be nervous, boy,” said my father, handing me his cue. “You see
what's on the balls. You cannon and hold the white, and land the red in
the middle pocket. If you can't do the brilliant thing, and finish the
game with an eight stroke, do the safe one,--the cannon or the hazard.
But, above all, don't lose your stroke, sir. Mind that, for I've a pot
of money on the game.”
“I don't think you ought to counsel him, Norcott,” said Cleremont. “If
he's a player, he's fit to devise his own game.”
“Oh, hang it, no,” broke in Hotham; “Norcott has a perfect right to tell
him what's on the table.”
“If you object seriously, sir,” said my father proudly, “the party is at
an end.”
“I put it to yourself,” began Cleremont.
“You shall not appeal to me against myself, sir. You either withdraw
your objection, or you maintain it.”
“Of course he withdraws it,” said Hotham, whose eyes never wandered from
my father's face.
Cleremont nodded a half-unwilling assent.
“You will do me the courtesy to speak, perhaps,” said my father; and
every word came from him with a tremulous roll.
“Yes, yes, I agree. There was really nothing in my remark,” said
Cleremont, whose self-control seemed taxed to its last limit.
“There, go on, boy, and finish this stupid affair,” said my father, and
he turned to the chimney to light his cigar.
I leaned over the table, and a mist seemed to rise before me. I saw
volumes of cloud rolling swiftly across, and meteors, or billiard-balls,
I knew not which, shooting through them. I played and missed; I did
not even strike a ball. A wild roar of laughter, a cry of joy, and a
confused blending of several voices in various tones followed, and
I stood there like one stunned into immobility. Meanwhile Cleremont
finished the game, and, clapping me gayly on the shoulder, cried, “I 'm
more grateful to you than your father is, my lad. That shaking hands of
yours has made a difference of two hundred Naps to me.” I turned towards
the fire; my father had left the room.