“Percy, I _have_ been quiet _so_ long, and you say I must not stand
upon my head, because it disturbs mamma; do come out and let us ride the
pony by turns,” implored little Hugh Colville in a strenuous
whisper; which was, however, clearly audible throughout the small
breakfast-parlour, which was the scene of our family picture.
Percy Colville, the shy, handsome boy of our sketch, looked up with a
pensive smile from the writing on which he was engaged, and shook his
head negatively, in token that he felt obliged to refuse the request
of his younger brother, in whom the reader will recognise, with little
difficulty, a certain Murillo-like urchin to whom he has been already
introduced. But the petition of her youngest born had reached the
ears of the widow, who (if she had a virtue which had outgrown its
due proportions till cavillers might deem it a fault), was, perhaps, a
little over indulgent to Master Hugh.
“My dear Percy, you have been writing for me long enough,” she said,
“you will be ill if you shut yourself up too much; besides, Hugh has
been so good that he deserves his ride, and you know I don’t like to
trust him by himself.”
Percy hesitated: the writing on which he was engaged was the copy of a
surveyor’s report concerning that _vexata quaestic_, dilapidations. Some
difference of opinion had arisen on this subject between the agent of
the patron of the living and Mrs. Colville’s solicitor, and a copy of
the report was to be forwarded by the next post to Mr. Wakefield, Mrs.
Calville’s legal adviser. The matter was of importance, involving a
considerable sum of money. Percy was aware of these facts: he knew,
also, that he could only just finish his task by the time the village
post went out; and he was about to declare that Hugh must give up his
ride for that day, when his mother, reading his thoughts-, stooped over
him, and, kissing his pale brow, whispered--
“Do not refuse him, dear Percy: remember, he will not have many more
rides----”
She paused, for her composure was failing, then finished in a trembling
voice--
“You know the pony must be sold when we go away.”
As she spoke, an expedient suggested itself to Percy’s mind, and
pressing his mother’s hand affectionately, he closed his writing-desk,
and, carrying it off under his arm, exclaimed--“Come along, Hugh! we’ll
take old Lion (he wants a run, poor dog) as well as the pony, and have a
glorious scamper.”
And a glorious scamper they had, only Hugh rode the whole way, and
Percy ran by his side, declaring that he greatly preferred it, which was
decidedly a pious fiction, if a fiction can ever be pious.
“Oh! mamma, mamma! do make breakfast--come, quick! there’s a good mamma!
for I’m as hungry as--as--several sharks,” exclaimed Hugh, rushing
like a small express train into the breakfast-parlour, on the following
morning.
“Oh, you naughty mad-cap, you’ve shaken the table, and made me blot
‘That Smile’ all over!” cried his sister Emily, in vain endeavouring to
repair the misfortune which had accrued to the “popular melody” she was
copying.
We suppose it is scarcely necessary to reintroduce you to Emily, dear
reader. You have not so soon forgotten the rosebud of a mouth, or the
dangerous dimple--trust you for that.
“Well, I declare, so I have,” rejoined the culprit, a little shocked and
a good deal amused at the mischief he had occasioned; then striking into
the tune of the outraged ditty, he sang in an impish soprano, and with
grimaces wonderful to behold--
“‘That smile--when once--de-par-ar-ar-arted,
Must leave--me bro--ken har-ar-ir-arted.’
“Oh! Emily, what a mess we have made of ‘broken-hearted,’ to be sure I’m
so sorry, but what fun!”
And then came a burst of ringing, happy, childish laughter, which, of
course, sealed his forgiveness: no one could think him to blame after
_that_.
“I wonder where Percy is; I scarcely ever knew him late before,”
observed Mrs. Colville, when quiet had been restored.
“Sarah tells me he is out riding,” returned Emily, applying herself with
very unnecessary energy to cut bread and butter.
As she spoke, the clatter of horses’ feet became audible, and, in
another moment, Percy cantered past the window.
“Where can the boy have been?” ejaculated Emily, holding the loaf
lovingly, as though she was afraid of hurting the poor thing.
“I know, I do!” observed Hugh, from under the table, whence, having in
his mind’s eye metamorphosed himself into a wolf, he was preparing to
spring out and devour Emily.
“_You_ know, Hugh!” repeated Mrs. Colville in surprise; “come from under
the table, then, and tell me.”
“But, mamma, I’m a wolf, and just going to eat up Emily.”
“Not now, dear,” was the calm reply, as if a daughter more or less
devoured by wild beasts was of little moment to that un-anxious mother;
“come here, and tell me about Percy.”
“Well, you know, mamma,” began Hugh, emerging from his hiding-place, and
assuming the grave air of a _raconteur_, “when Percy came to bed last
night, he did not go to bed at all--that is, not for a very, very, very
long time. Do you know, I think”--and here he put on a solemn face,
and spoke with an air of mystery--“I think he was not in bed at twelve
o’clock, perhaps not till almost one!” Having disclosed this frightful
fact, he paused and nodded like a bird, for the greater effect, ere
he continued: “I went to sleep long before, but, whenever I opened my
eyes, there he sat, still write, write, writing on, as if he was writing
his life, like Robinson Crusoe--only,” he added, parenthetically--“only
he’s got no man Friday.”
“But what could he be writing?” exclaimed Emily, coquetting with the
large bread-knife.
“I know,” resumed Hugh; then, having paused to balance himself on one
leg, and spin round like a teetotum, he continued very fast, and without
any stops, for Percy’s footsteps sounded in the hall: “he was writing
the paper he had not time to finish yesterday, because I wanted him to
go out with me and the pony; and this morning he got up at six o’clock
to ride over to Staplehurst, seven miles there, and I don’t know how
many back again, to catch the post, and make it all the same as if it
had been put in yesterday; I know he did, because Sarah says so.” And,
having delivered himself with the greatest vehemence of this somewhat
incoherent account, he rushed up to his brother, then entering the room,
and, throwing his arm as round his waist, exclaimed, “Oh, Percy! I’ve
gone and told them all about your great letter, and sitting up late,
and everything, and never remembered till now that you said I wasn’t to
mention it to anybody. Oh, I am so sorry, but what fun!” and, assured
by the expression of Percy’s face that his crime was not quite
unpardonable, Hugh’s merry, childish laugh again rang through the
apartment.
The mother’s heart was full: tears stood in her eyes as, pressing her
elder son to her bosom, she murmured,--
“Dear, dear Percy, you must not overtask your strength thus.”
The post that morning brought the following letter directed to Mrs.
Colville:--
“My dear Sister,--That I have the will to aid you in your distress you
cannot doubt; that the power to do so effectually is denied me, adds
one more to the troubles of life. My imprudent marriage (he had run away
with a pretty governess at eighteen), and its subsequent consequences
(he had nine healthy children), force me to work like a horse in a mill,
in order to make both ends meet. Of this I am not complaining.. I did
an unwise thing, and must pay the necessary penalty. But I mention these
facts to prove to you the truth of my assertion, that my power is not
coequal with my will. The little I can do is this: I am shareholder
in an excellent proprietary school, where boys are taught everything
necessary to fit them for a commercial life; Wilfred Jacob has been
there two years, and is already conversant with, or, as he familiarly
terms it, ‘well up in’ tare and tret. I trust Adolphus Samuel, Albert
John, Thomas Gabriel, and even the little Augustus Timothy, will soon
follow, and profit equally. I therefore propose to send your two boys to
this school at my own cost; and, if the eldest distinguishes
himself, as I am proud to believe Wilfred Jacob will do, a desk in
my counting-house (No. 8, Grubbinger Street, City) shall reward his
diligence. Clementina Jane desires her kindest regards, and begs me
to say that, should you finally determine upon settling in London, she
shall have much pleasure in looking out a cheap lodging for you in some
of the least expensive streets in the vicinity of Smithfield. I am, dear
Margaret, ever your affectionate brother,
“Goldsmith and Thryft.
“P.S.--So much for habit: I have become so accustomed to sign for the
firm, that I actually forget that my name is Tobiah.”
Mrs. Colville closed the letter, with a sigh, and placing it in her
pocket, waited till the boys had breakfasted. As soon as they had
quitted the room she handed it to her daughter, saving. “Read that, dear
Emily: it is very kind of your uncle, but----”
“Percy at a desk in Grubbinger Street! Oh, my dearest mamma, what a
dreadful idea!” exclaimed the Rosebud, arching her brows, and pursing
up her pretty little mouth with an expression of the most intense
disapproval: “Uncle Tobiah means to be very kind, but he forgets what
Percy is.”
Mrs. Colville shook her head mournfully. “I am afraid it is we who
forget, love,” she said: “Percy can no longer hope to pursue the career
marked out for him--with the very limited means at my disposal, college
is quite out of the question; nay, if Sir Thomas Crawley persists in
his demand for the incoming tenant’s claim to these dilapidations, and
should prove his right to it, I shall be unable to send the boys to
school at all; indeed, I must not reject your uncle’s offer rashly.
I shall consult Mr. Slowkopf on the subject; he is a very prudent
adviser.”
“Oh! if you mean to ask _him_, the matter is as good as settled, and poor
Percy chained to a desk for life,” cried Emily. “Ah!” she continued, as
a tall, thin, gaunt figure, clothed in rusty black, passed the window,
“here he comes--the creature always puts me in mind of that naughty
proverb about a certain person: one no sooner mentions him than there he
is at one’s elbow;--but, if you really want to talk sense to him, mamma
dear, I’d better go, for I shall only say pert things and disturb you:
he is so delightfully slow and matter-of-fact, that I never can resist
the temptation of plaguing him;” and as she spoke, the Rosebud laughed a
little silvery laugh at her own wickedness, and tripped, fairy-like, out
of the apartment.
The worthy Mr. Slowkopf, who had held the office of curate of Ashburn
for about two years, was a very good young man, and nothing else; all
his other qualities were negative. He wasn’t even positively a fool,
though he looked and acted the part admirably. He was essentially,
and in every sense of the word, a slow man: in manners, ideas, and
appearance, he was behind the age in which he lived; in conversation
he was behind the subject discussed; if he laughed at a joke, which,
solemnly and heavily, he sometimes condescended to do, it was invariably
ten minutes after it had been made. He never heard of Puseyism till
Tract Ninety had been suppressed, or knew of the persecutions and
imprisonments of Dr. Achilli till that amateur martyr was crying aloud
for sympathy in Exeter Hall; he usually finished his fish when the
cheese was being put on table; and went to bed as other people were
getting up. Still, he had his good points. Unlike King Charles, of
naughty memory,
“Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one,”
however dull and trite might be Mr. Slowkopf’s remarks, his actions
were invariably good and kind. The village gossips, when they were very
hard-up for scandal, declared that, insensible as he appeared to all
such frivolities as the fascinations of the softer sex, he was gradually
taking a “slow turn” towards the Rosebud of Ashburn. Nay, the rumour
was reported to have reached the delicate ears of the “emphatic she”
herself; who was said to have replied, that as she was quite certain he
would never dream of telling his love till he heard she was engaged to
be married to some one else--in which case she should have a legitimate
reason for refusing him--the information did not occasion her the
slightest uneasiness.
However this might be, certain it is, that on the morning in question,
Mr. Slowkopf, gaunt, ugly, and awkward, solemnly walked into the
breakfast-parlour, and that the widow, perplexed between her good
sense and her loving tenderness for her children, laid before him her
difficulties and her brother’s letter.
The curate paused about three times as long as was necessary, and then,
in a deep, sepulchral voice, observed--
“In order to attain to a sound and logical conclusion in regard to this
weighty matter, it behoves me first to assure myself that I rightly
comprehend the question propounded, and if, as I conceive, it prove to
be one which will not admit of demonstration with a mathematical
certainty; then, secondly, so to compare the different hypotheses which
may present themselves, that, sufficient weight being allotted to each,
a just and philosophical decision may be finally arrived at.”
Having, after this preamble, stated the case in language as precise
and carefully selected as though he were framing a bill to lay before
Parliament, and were resolved to guard against _the_ possibility of the
most astute legal Jehu driving a coach and four through it, he argued
the matter learnedly and steadily for a good half-hour, ere he dug out
the ore of common sense from the mass of logical rubbish beneath which
he had buried it, and decided in favour of Mr. Goldsmith’s proposal.
Pleased at his own cleverness in having solved this difficult problem,
and possessing unlimited confidence in his oratorical powers, he
volunteered to communicate the decision thus formed to the person most
nearly concerned therein, an offer to which Mrs. Colville, feeling her
strength unequal to the task, reluctantly consented.
Percy listened in silence till Mr. Slowkopf had talked himself out of
breath, which it took him some time to accomplish, for, in every sense
of the term, he was awfully long-winded; when at length he was silent,
the boy fixed his large eyes earnestly upon his face as he replied, “I
understand, sir, we are so poor that it is not possible to send me to a
public school, or to college as--as--my dear father wished; but I do
not see why I am necessarily obliged to become a merchant’s clerk, a
position which I shall never be fit for, and which I hate the idea of;
the Colvilles have always been gentlemen.”
“A man may work for his living in some honest occupation without
forfeiting that title,” returned Mr. Slowkopf, sententiously.
“Not as a merchant’s clerk,” was the haughty reply: “No; let me be an
artist, if I cannot receive a gentleman’s education in England. I know
I have some talent for drawing, let me study that, and then go to Italy,
beautiful Italy, for a few years; people can live very cheaply abroad,
and I will be very careful. When I become famous I shall grow rich, and
be able to support mamma, and send Hugh to college, and then I shall
care less for not having been there myself.”
“Without attempting to regard your scheme in its many complicated
bearings, or to argue the matter in its entire completeness, for which
time, unfortunately, is wanting,” remarked Mr. Slowkopf, deliberately;
“I will place before you, _in limine_, certain objections to it which
render the commercial career proposed by your excellent uncle, if not
in every point a more advantageous arrangement, at all events one more
suited to the present position of affairs. Your uncle proposes to take
upon himself all immediate expense connected with your education;
while, as a clerk in his counting-house, you will be in the receipt of a
gradually increasing salary. Your scheme would demand a constant outlay
of capital, for certainly the next five years; nay, it would be no
matter of surprise to me if ten years should elapse, ere, by the
precarious earnings of an artist’s career, you were enabled to render
yourself independent. In one case you will be an assistance to your
excellent mother, in the other a burden upon her.”
Percy walked to the window; the burning tears of disappointed ambition
and mortified pride rushed to his eyes, but he brushed them hurriedly
away, as he said in a firm, steady voice, “Thank you for telling me the
truth, Mr. Slowkopf; we will accept my uncle’s offer.”
Thus it came about that Percy and Hugh Colville were entered, as
boarders, at Doctor Donkiestir’s excellent proprietary establishment.