“Take this to Sir Thomas Crawley, and tell him I am waiting.”
The servant to whom the above direction was given, carried the card to
which it referred to his master, who, lifting it from the silver waiter
on which it was presented, read the following name--“The Rev. Ernest
Carrington.”
“Show the gentleman into the library, and bring candles there directly,”
said Sir Thomas; then, thrusting his fingers through the short, stiff,
grey bristles, suggestive of a venerable and well-worn scrubbing-brush,
which constituted his head of hair--an action which, to any one
acquainted with his habits, would have proved that he was anxious and
excited--he turned, and left the apartment.
When he entered the library, his excitement seemed to have increased and
taken a crabbed turn, for it was in no very cordial tone of voice that
he addressed his visitor.
“If, as I presume, you have come here in consequence of my letter, I
must say you have chosen a somewhat late hour for a business visit,
young gentleman.”
“I lost no time, sir, in making the necessary inquiries,” was the reply.
“Immediately on receiving your letter I hastened to London, saw your
solicitor, perused my grandfather’s will, obtained the information I
required, and came down by the first train that stopped at the
Flatville station; and, as your man of business informed me time was of
importance, I would not wait till to-morrow, lest the delay might cause
you inconvenience. If that is not sufficient apology for my untimely
visit, I have none other to offer.”
The calm, respectful, but at the same time perfectly self-possessed
manner of the speaker, appeared to have the same land of effect upon
his auditor that the keeper’s eye has upon some savage animal, for he
replied, in a more civil tone than he had yet used,--
“Yes, well--I see--yes. I am obliged to you for the prompt attention
you have paid to my letter.” He paused, then added, with affected
indifference,--“About the entail; you find, of course, that the point
raised was a wholly unnecessary one, and that your signature is a mere
matter of form, to satisfy the absurd scruples of the party negotiating
for the purchase; some people are so ridiculously cautious, ha! ha!” and
here he laughed a forced, uneasy laugh.
“Such was by no means the view the solicitor whom I consulted in town
appeared to take of the matter,” was Ernest’s quiet reply. “So far from
it, that he declared, without my signature, the title was worthless; and
that, if I were inclined to litigate the question, he had not a
doubt that I should gain my cause. The estates, he said, were clearly
entailed; and, therefore, my grandfather could not alienate them without
my father’s consent, which, I need scarcely tell you, he never attempted
to obtain.”
Sir Thomas Crawley’s brow grew black as midnight. “Preposterous,” he
said, “quite childish and preposterous. I have taken counsel’s opinion
on the point, and they say you haven’t a leg to stand on. You must have
consulted some very ignorant person.”
“On the contrary, it is Mr. S., of -------- Street,” replied Ernest,
naming a gentleman whose reputation for legal knowledge and acumen
was undeniable; “but,” he continued, “it matters little, for I have no
intention of raising the question. The _animus_ of my grandfather’s will
is unmistakable; he meant to leave every acre away from my father; and I
should scorn to hold the estate on no better tenure than the juggling of
a legal-quibble.”
“Then you are prepared to sign the paper resigning all claim upon the
entailed estates, are you?” inquired Sir Thomas, eagerly.
“Yes, this very moment, if you choose,” was the ready answer.
Sir Thomas paused an instant in thought ere he replied.
“There is no such extreme hurry: Mr. Selby, my country agent, will be
here to-morrow morning, and can witness your signature. I am glad to
find that you take such a sensible view of the matter. I feared you
might have formed some rash hopes on the strength of my application; in
fact, I was most unwilling to apply to you; but--but--”
“You found it impossible to make out a title which could sell the estate
without so doing,” interposed Ernest in a tone of quiet politeness, in
which it would have required perceptions quicker and more delicate than
those of Sir Thomas Crawley to have distinguished the covert satire that
lurked beneath it.
“Exactly: one of those contemptible legal quibbles which you so justly
reprobate,” returned Sir Thomas; “however, I am glad to perceive you
feel with me so completely. You will dine with me? and I have a bed very
much at your service.”
Ernest thanked him, but civilly declined. Sir Thomas however,
persisted--he would take no denial; and at length a compromise was
effected, Ernest consenting to dine with his rich relative, on condition
that he might return to the inn where he had left his valise, in time to
write one or two letters of importance to go by the early post the next
morning.
The dinner passed off agreeably enough; Ernest being one of those
happily endowed individuals who, without falsifying their own opinions,
or seeming the thing they are not, yet possess the talent of adapting
their conversation to those with whom they are thrown in company, in
such a manner as to set them at ease, and draw out the best points of
their characters.
Sir Thomas experienced the full influence of this fascination, and
talked largely of his schemes for the amelioration of his tenantry;
of plans for the revision and modification of the poor-laws; of the
advisability of erecting model lodging-houses for the industrial
classes, &c., &c., until he had deceived his companion, and almost
persuaded himself into the belief that he was an enlightened
philanthropist, overflowing with the milk of human kindness.
On his return to the inn at Ashburn, Ernest wrote the following letter
to an old college friend, who was junior partner in the office of the
legal luminary to whom he had alluded in his interview with Sir Thomas
Crawley.
“My dear Milford,--Since I saw you two days ago, I have got through a
considerable amount of business, met with an adventure, and, in short,
condensed more active existence into the last eight-and-forty hours than
one often accomplishes in as many days. One thing I am delighted to tell
you,--I have succeeded in procuring employment, which will more than
provide for the few requirements without which one must degrade from the
rank of a gentleman. You can now, therefore, carry out the arrangement
I explained to you, and settle the small residue of my poor father’s
property upon my sisters;--my mother, as you are aware, having (I own,
against my wishes) married again. Thanks to those unnaturally amiable
railroad shares which my father bought just before his decease, and
which have turned out a really good investment (I look upon any one who,
having gambled in railroads, leaves off a winner, as I should at a rat,
who, nibbling at a baited trap, carried off the cheese scatheless),
they will thus be able to live in comparative comfort, especially on the
Continent, which their tastes lead them to prefer. The employment I have
obtained is not exactly to my liking, but I shall look out for a curacy
if I find the duties of my position unbearably irksome. Owing to my
wrangler’s degree I distanced some half-dozen competitors, and obtained
the post of classical and mathematical master at Doctor Donkiestir’s
well-known school, almost as soon as I had entered my name as candidate.
I begin my new duties the day after to-morrow, at which time the school
meets.
“Having been thus enabled to place my sisters beyond the reach of
poverty, my last scruple, in regard to that which you are pleased to
call my absurd Quixotism, about the entailed estates, has vanished;
and I, this evening, signified _in proprid persona_ to Sir Thomas,
my willingness to ‘do a little bit of Esau,’ as you irreverently term
signing away my birthright--and here, _par parenthèse_, let me observe
that you are too much addicted to this style of scriptural jesting--a
fault the more to be reprehended because (as I find to my cost) it is
decidedly infectious: _verbum sat!_ The aforesaid ‘Sir Thomas’ seems,
as far as one can judge on so short an acquaintance, by no means so
black as he is painted; indeed, upon many of the great social questions
of the day, his ideas coincide wonderfully with my own: he was polite
in the extreme, though I must confess his amiability _followed_ my
declaration that I was willing to meet his wishes in regard to the
entail.
“This epistle has run to such an unexpected length, that I have no room
to detail my adventure, and will merely stimulate your curiosity
by adding that it was intensely romantic, and that it contained the
elements of the two things which, in the old Trinity days, we esteemed
the greatest pleasures in life--viz., a fight and a flirtation.
“In consideration of my cloth, I indulged, in the first sparingly, and
abstained from the last entirely; though, as far as the twilight enabled
me to judge, the provocation was a very fair one. I know the epithet
this confession will obtain for me; but I had rather bear the ignominy
of being considered a ‘muff,’ than merit the designation of a ‘fast
parson;’ and so fare thee well.
“Yours ever,
“Ernest Carrington.”
“P.S.--Remember, my sisters are not to know that I am sacrificing
anything to add to their income; you are merely to inform them that, my
father’s affairs being at length arranged, they will for the future be
in the receipt of six hundred and fifty pounds per annum, instead of
the four hundred which you before paid to them; and the delightful
mist through which all women regard business matters, will effectually
prevent their making any further discoveries.”
Having sealed his letter, Ernest betook himself to bed, and fell asleep
as contentedly as if he had not sacrificed an estate worth £10,000 to
a chivalrous scruple, and a patrimony of £200 a-year to brotherly
affection.
Sir Thomas Crawley might consider him a weak-minded, good-natured fool;
Milford designate him a “muff.” But if there were a few mere such muffs
and fools in this realm of good King Mammon, that same kingdom might be
better worth living in.
By ten o’clock the next morning he was again at Ashburn Priory; signed
the deed relinquishing all claim upon the entailed estates; shook hands
cordially with the rich man who was thus scheming to defraud him; and
started with a light heart, and still lighter purse, to carry his own
carpet-bag seven miles to the railroad. About a mile from the station, a
pony-chaise overtook him, driven by a stout serving-lad, and containing
two gentlemanly-looking boys, dressed in mourning, and a ponderous
trunk, carefully corded and directed. As this vehicle approached,
Ernest, who had walked fast, paused to wipe his brow, at the same
time resting his carpet-bag--which he had carried on a stick over his
shoulder--upon the top of the last milestone.
The elder of the two boys regarded him attentively; then whispered
something to the younger, who nodded and smiled in reply; making a sign
to the driver to stop, the elder boy, addressing Ernest, began--
“I beg your pardon, sir, but you seem tired: we are going to the
Flatville station, and have a vacant seat at your service, if you please
to accept it.”
“I will with the greatest pleasure,” returned Ernest, “if you are sure
we shall not overweight the pony.”
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid--you need not be in the least afraid of that,
sir,” interposed the younger boy confidently. “Samson can draw us;
Samson is as strong as----”
“His Israelitish namesake, perhaps,” suggested Ernest, placing his
carpet-bag on the top of the trunk, and springing lightly into the
pony-chaise.
“Well, _I_ was going to say, as strong as the Elephant and Castle,”
remarked the younger boy, with a look of profound sagacity; “but,
perhaps, the original Samson will do as well. What do you say, Percy?”
“I say that you are an absurd little chatterbox, Hugh, and I have little
doubt the gentleman thinks so too,” returned his brother,--for the
reader need scarcely read the direction on the trunk, albeit written in
Percy’s plainest hand, to inform him that the boys were the two young
Colvilles, then leaving home for the first time in their lives.
The parting had been a trying scene for all the persons concerned; and
poor Hugh had only just recovered from the hearty cry, in which even his
incipient manly dignity could not preserve him from indulging, when they
overtook Ernest.
“A chatterbox, perhaps, but not an absurd one,” was the good-natured
reply. “I feel particularly interested about the pony, I can assure you;
have you had him long? I daresay he is a-great favourite.”
This speech, which was addressed to. Hugh, was too much for the poor
little fellow’s fortitude, and, after a vain struggle to repress them,
his scarcely dried tears sprang forth anew.
Percy threw his arm around him, and drew him affectionately to his side,
as he said, in an explanatory whisper, “He is going to school for the
first time, sir; and before he comes back, the pony we are so fond of
must be sold.”
“And you?” inquired Ernest, interested by the boy’s manner and
appearance.
“I am older, and therefore better able to bear such little trials,”
was the reply. “Besides,” Percy continued, in a lower tone, “my mother
depends upon me to take care of him, and keep up his spirits, for he
has no father now to protect him.” Ernest glanced involuntarily at
their deep mourning, and there was a pause; for the circumstance brought
vividly before his recollection a similar period of sorrow, when death
had been busy among his own loved ones, and his father and a younger
brother, of whom Percy strongly reminded him, had been called from this
world of care, and sin, and sorrow, to that better land, “where the
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” The silence was
at length broken by Hugh, whose grief was a very April kind of affair,
even at the worst of times.
“I suppose you are not going to school, sir, too?” he said, addressing
Ernest, while a merry sparkle in his eye belied the {implicit}’ the
question indicated.
“Perhaps I may be,” returned Ernest, smiling at the applicability of the
question to his own situation. “If I should tell you that I were going
to do so, would you believe me?”
“I don’t think I should,” replied Hugh, regarding him attentively.
“People don’t usually go to school when they’ve these things on their
faces;” and, as he spoke, he, with a gesture half coaxing, half arch,
gave a gentle twitch to Ernest’s curling whiskers.
Percy, afraid Hugh’s sudden rush into intimacy might annoy the stranger,
attempted to restrain him, but Ernest, with a good-natured smile,
prevented him.
“Do not check him,” he said; “our friendship will not end any sooner
because it has begun rather rapidly.” He then, entered into conversation
with the boys, choosing subjects in which he imagined they would feel
interest, and enlarging upon them so cleverly and amusingly, that ere
they reached the station, he had completely captivated the fresh, warm
hearts of his young-companions.
“What will you say if I guess where you are going to?” he inquired of
Hugh, as they drove up to the station.
“Why, if you guess right, I shall say you must be a conjuror,” was the
reply.
“I think you are going to Doctor Donkiestir’s school, at Tickletown. Am
I right?”
“Quite, quite right,” exclaimed Hugh, clapping his hands in delighted
surprise; “but you _must_ be a conjuror; how did you contrive to find it
out?”
Ernest enjoyed the mystification for a minute or so; then, casting his
eyes on the box, observed quietly, “I was taught to read when I was a
good little boy; and your brother has written that direction so plainly,
that I must have been blind if I had not been able to decipher it.”
“Oh, you cheat! anybody could have done that,” returned Hugh,
contemptuously; “and I to think you a conjuror: Why, I expected to
see you take twenty eggs out of an empty bag, and make a boiled
plum-pudding in your hat, like the man we-saw perform last year. I say,
Percy, it strikes me I’ve been making a goose of myself.”
“Very decidedly,” was Percy’s quiet reply.