"Reginald, my boy, I was at Eton myself, and, in spite of some
drawbacks, I loved the old place right dearly, and so I intend to go
with you, and to introduce you to all the spots I remember so well; but
I don't suppose any of my old acquaintance and chums are still to be
found there. However, the very sight of the walls and towers of the
school, the meadows, the river, and the Castle in the distance, will
make me young again. You will find a good deal of difference between it
and where you have been before. The discipline there is apt to take a
good deal of pride and self-sufficiency out of a fellow--not that you
have much of them, I hope. The tutor I have chosen for you, Mr
Lindsay, is a first-rate man. You are to live in his house. I was at a
dame's--a real dame--a very good, old lady, though some are men you will
find. There is much the same discipline and order kept in both. We
will have our portmanteaus packed by Friday, so that we will sleep in
London, and go down there on Saturday morning, that you may have the
best part of that day and Sunday to look about you."
These remarks were made by Squire Warrender to his son, who had hitherto
been at a boarding-school, where he had received the first rudiments of
his education.
Reginald thanked his father for his intentions.
"It will be very delightful to have you with me, papa," he exclaimed;
"it will not feel at all as if I were going to school; and, besides,
Eton is the place of all others I wished to go to. I don't much fear
the fagging or the bullying, and I can take pretty good care of myself
now."
In truth Reginald had no longer any dread about going to school. He had
accepted schooling as a necessity of boyish existence, and had made up
his mind to endure all its ups and downs with equanimity. The day for
their departure arrived. Mary, his sister, did not fail to promise to
write as usual, and John assured his young master that he would take
good care of Polly, his pony, and Carlo and the other dogs, and the
ferrets, and all his other animate or inanimate treasures. Reginald had
been disinclined to accept Mrs Dawson's offer to fill a hamper with her
stores; but the Squire recollected that in his time, at all events, such
things were not looked on at all with contempt by the youngsters at
Eton; so a hamper even better supplied than before was provided for him.
The Squire and he started away in very good spirits, cutting jokes to
the last as they drove off. They had no time to see sights in London,
and early the next morning, after breakfast, they started off with all
Reginald's property for the Great Western station, and within an hour
the latter found himself in the long-thought-of and often-pictured town
of Eton. He looked out eagerly on either side as they drove along
towards his tutor's. So did the Squire, especially when they reached
the High Street. Many a place did he seem to recognise.
"Ah! there it is just as it was," he was continually exclaiming.
"There's my old sock-shop--_soake_, a local term for baking, is the
better spelling. I spent money enough there, so perhaps they will
remember me; so we will have a look in there by-and-by. Ah! there's the
Christopher too, where we will go and dine. I dare say Lindsay will ask
us; but I must be back in town to-night, and it would delay me to accept
his invitation, and perhaps we may fall in with some acquaintance whom
you may like to ask to dine with us." The Christopher was an hotel,
Reginald found, much patronised by the boys and their friends. Mr
Lindsay was in school, but Mrs Lindsay was at home, and received them
very kindly. Reginald thought her a very nice person, and so she was,
and contributed much, as a lady always can if she sets the right way
about it, to make the house thoroughly comfortable and pleasant to its
inmates. She told Reginald that his room was ready for him. How proud
he felt to find that he was to have one entirely to himself! His things
were at once taken up to it, and he begged the Squire to come up and
have a look at it. It was not very large; but the walls were neatly
papered, and it looked perfectly clean. Neither was the furniture of a
grand description. There was a bedstead, which, when turned up, looked
like a cupboard, and a sideboard of painted deal, a small oak chest of
drawers, or rather a bureau, in the upper part of which cups and
saucers, and plates, and a metal teapot, and a few knives and forks and
a muffin-dish, were arranged, and there was a deal table covered with a
red cloth, and two rather hard horsehair-bottomed chairs.
"Here we are, sir," said Reginald, as the maidservant with considerable
discretion retired, that the young gentleman might look about him. "Sit
down and make yourself at home; I feel so already. The place has
capabilities, and I hope that the next time you pay me a visit, you will
find that I have taken advantage of them. I will get some pictures, and
hang them up, and some pegs for my hats find fishing-rods, and hooks for
my bats, and then a Dutch oven, and a frying-pan, and a better kettle
than that will be useful in winter."
"Perhaps you will not object to an arm-chair or a sofa," observed the
Squire.
"An arm-chair, certainly," answered Reginald, "thank you; but with
regard to a sofa, they are all very well for women. I think, however,
that if a fellow's legs ache, he may put them up on another chair, and
if he has got an arm-chair to lean back in, he will do very well."
"You are right, Reginald; I hate luxurious habits," said the Squire.
"Do not give way to them. They are not so bad in themselves as in
consequence of what they lead to--self-indulgence and indolence: this is
the vice of the present day. But come along, we have plenty to do."
The Squire, leaving word that he would call again, took Reginald back
into the town. They were getting hungry, so very naturally they
proceeded in the first place to the well-remembered sock-shop, known by
the world at large as a pastry-cook's. A supply of ices and strawberry
messes was at once ordered and discussed with great gusto, buns and
other cakes giving some consistency to the repast. Who would have
expected to see Squire Warrender, of Blessingham, who had not perhaps
for years taken any other than a solid meat luncheon, with bottled
stout, or a biscuit and a glass of wine, lunching off sweet cakes and
strawberries and cream? But the truth was, that he did not feel just
then a bit like Squire Warrender, of Blessingham; he was once more
little Reginald Warrender, somewhat of a pickle, and very fond of those
said luscious articles. To be sure another Reginald Warrender stood by
his side; but he was, as it were, a part of himself, or it might he
himself, or a younger companion. At all events he felt a great deal too
young just then to be anybody's father, and was quite surprised that the
young women behind the counter did not recognise him. Surely they were
the very same he must have known. While they were eating away, an old
lady with spectacles on her nose, and a high white cap on her head, came
into the shop.
"I have come with this youngster here to show him about the place," said
the Squire. "This is a shop I used to know well once upon a time; but
the young ladies here don't seem to recognise me."
"I should think not," said the old lady, laughing, as did the young
ones. "Perhaps I might though, if I knew your name. What years were
you here?"
The Squire told her.
"I was about their age then, and stood where they now stand," she
observed, as she went into an inner room, and brought down a longish
parchment-covered volume. "Oh, I now remember you perfectly well,
Master Warrender," said she, turning over the pages, and evidently also
forgetting how many years had rolled away since the Squire was Master
Warrender. "You were a very good customer of ours, that you were,
indeed. You had a good healthy appetite: six dozen oranges, three dozen
queencakes, a couple of dozen hot-cross buns for breakfast on one
occasion. I suppose you didn't eat them all yourself though. And now I
see you left owing us a little account. It was no great matter; only
fifteen and sixpence for cherries and strawberries."
"Sold, papa!" whispered Reginald, aside, and highly amused. "It is
pleasant, however, to be able to pay off old scores."
"I fear that the account is too correct," said the Squire. "Let me see,
how was it? Ah, I recollect--a wager, I am afraid. Cleveland and I.
We tried to see which could eat the most in a given time. Don't you go
and do such a silly thing though, Reginald, or I'll disinherit you. He
ought to have paid, for I beat him; but I ordered them. Well, I will
pay you now with interest."
"Oh no, no, sir, thank you; I could not think of it," said the old lady.
However, as she said the words in a tone which evidently did not mean
that she positively would not receive the amount, the Squire pulled out
a sovereign, and handed it to her.
"There is the sum with interest--very small interest though," he
observed. "I wish that I could pay all the debts of my younger days as
easily."
The old lady was highly pleased, and promised to stand Reginald's
friend, and to give him good advice whenever he would come to her.
"And I wish, sir," said she, "that I could as easily get in all the
debts owing to me."
Thereon the Squire took occasion to impress very strongly on his son the
importance of not running into debt. "If you cannot pay for a thing,
you should not get it," he remarked. "Never mind how much you may want
it. You may fancy that you can pay some day; but before that day comes
you will have wanted several other things, all of which have to be paid
for out of this sum in prospect, which may possibly never come at all.
Then one person will press for payment, and then another, and then you
will think that there can be no harm in borrowing, and the chances are
that you become the slave of the person from whom you borrow. Take my
advice, Reginald, keep out of debt and be free. I have spoken only of
worldly-wise motives for keeping out of debt, but it is morally wrong--
it is dishonest. The Bible says, `Owe no man anything.' That is right,
depend on it. Some fellows fancy that it is fine and gentlemanly to run
into debt, and that it is a spirited thing to bilk a tradesman. I
think, and I am sure you will, that it is one of the most ungentlemanly
and blackguardly things to deprive any man of his just rights, not to
say unchristianlike and despicable."
This conversation took place as the Squire and his son were walking
towards the school-house. They walked about the noble edifice, under
the fine arched gateway, and beneath its venerable walls. Then they
looked out upon the rich green meadows, and the avenue of lofty elms,
and Reginald thought it a remarkably fine place, and began already to
feel proud at being able to call himself an Eton boy. As the boys were
still "up," that is, in school, the Squire proposed walking down the
town to have a look at the Castle, and some of the old places on the
way. As they were leaving the building, they met an old man with a
vehicle loaded with tarts and buns, and cakes of all sorts. As they
passed close to him, he looked hard at the Squire, and said, "Beg
pardon, sir, but I think I know you, sir, though it is a good many years
since you ate any of my buns."
"And I am very certain that I know you, old fellow," answered the
Squire, highly delighted. "You are Spankie himself, or I am very much
mistaken."
"You are right, sir, the same, and that young gentleman is your son just
come up here; I should have known him in a moment from his likeness to
you," said old Spankie. "Never forget anybody I have once known. Now I
think of it, were not you one of those young gentlemen who played the
trick to Mr Fowler, I think it was, or one of the masters of his time?
What a good joke it was! Ha, ha, ha!"
"What joke do you mean?" asked the Squire. "I remember no good joke
that I ever played. I am afraid that I had not wits enough."
"I'll tell you, sir; if you were not one of them, it was somebody else,"
answered old Spankie, who probably knew that well enough, but wanted to
tell a good story to gain time that he might find out, if possible, who
the old Etonian was--a fact of which he was in reality perfectly
ignorant. "Two of the young gentlemen, tall big lads for their ages,
took it into their heads to dress up as foreigners of distinction, with
moustaches and beards, and corked eyebrows, and spectacles, and large
shirt-collars, with no end of gold chains, and such flash waistcoats,
all of satin, and covered over with green and yellow and pink flowers.
One was a Greek prince, and the other a Polish count, travelling for the
improvement of their own mind, and with the intention of establishing a
great public school like Eton in Greece or Turkey, or some outlandish
place or other. Well, there they were walking arm in arm through the
High Street, looking into the shops and around them on every side, and
stopping to admire the prospect whenever there was a prospect to admire,
just for all the world like strangers who had never seen the place
before. They caught sight of Mr Fowler coming along; so says one to
the other, `Let's sell him, and make him show us over the place.'
`Agreed,' answers the other. They had been keeping up all their airs,
and they knew that he had seen them, so they marched boldly up to him,
and making him a polite bow, says one of them, `Saire, I see dat you are
one academic gentleman, and if you will be kind to two strangers vill
you have de great goodness to show us over dis grand, dis magnificent
town?' Mr Fowler, who was born and bred in Eton, and was very proud of
it, was highly delighted, and said that he would have the greatest
pleasure in doing what they wished. They knew that, and so they knew
when to lay it on the thickest. And so didn't they just praise the
place and the masters, and everything they saw, and a great deal they
said that they had heard, till he was quite beside himself. Then they
began talking Greek and Latin to him, and if he hadn't been so pleased
he would have found them out. Then they asked all sorts of questions
about the school, and he promised to write out all the rules and
regulations, and the whole plan on which it was conducted, and a good
deal of its history, and all his own ideas about founding a school. The
more inclined they found him to write, the more questions requiring
answers they plied him with; and ever after they boasted of the long
imposition they had set him. They gave him an address of a friend of
theirs in London, and begged him to send what he had written there. He
did send it, and they got it too, and they used to show his lucubrations
with no little pride, and all he had said about the school. He would
have been in a rage had he found them out. They asked to see one of the
houses just as they were passing their own tutor's, with whom they knew
he was intimate, and they actually made him show them their own rooms.
It was a wonder they were not discovered, for there on the table in one
of the rooms was a wig and a false pair of moustaches. They hurried out
in a great fright, saying that they did not think it was right to
intrude on the privacy of any young students. At last, when they had
pretty well walked Mr Fowler off his legs, and got tired themselves,
they wished him good-bye, with a profusion of thanks, and betook
themselves to the Christopher. They had invited him to dine with them
at an hour they knew he could not come--not but what they would have
been very happy to see him, but they thought the risk was too great--he
might have found them out eating. They had a jolly good dinner at the
Christopher, and then they paid their bill and waited till dark, when
they pulled off their moustaches and beards, and put on pea-coats,
slipping out unobserved, and so got back safe to their rooms. One of
them told me all about it afterwards, and I couldn't help thinking you
was him, sir."
The Squire was milch amused, and encouraged old Spankie to continue his
narrations.
"Well, sir, if it wasn't you sold Mr Fowler so cleverly, it surely was
you who got up the great donkey race on the Slough road, just outside
Eton."
"Suppose it was me, or suppose it was not, just do you tell my boy here
all about it. I like to hear you speak of old times," answered the
Squire.
"Well, sir, the young gentlemen got hold of two fine donkeys, and turned
out in regular jockey costume,--caps, silk jackets, top boots, and all.
Great swells they looked, and there was no end of boys went out to see
them. The whole road was full for a mile or more. A course was formed,
and off they set; but donkeys never will run when you want them, or,
rather, they always will run when you don't want them. As ill-luck
would have it, who should come by but the Doctor. He wasn't a man a bit
less than the present to play a joke with. What should one of the
racers do but run right against his carriage, and make the horses kick
and rear, and, in spite of all the unhappy jockey could do, he couldn't
get him away. The Doctor just saw who they were, and though it may be
supposed he was in a towering rage, says he quietly enough, `Go to your
tutors and report yourselves, and come to me this evening.' Of course
they knew that they would get flogged, and so one of them provided
himself with a pair of wicket-keeping gloves, and went in quite boldly.
`It's my duty to flog you,' says the Doctor--`strip.' `It's my duty to
save my skin,' says the young gentleman, putting on his gloves quite
deliberately; and when the Doctor began, he warded off all the cuts till
the master grew weary. Then he handed them to his friend, who put them
on and saved himself in the same way. Of course they got all the credit
of being flogged, and were laughed at for their pains, till they told
how they had saved themselves with their cricketing gloves."
"Tell that story to the marines," said the Squire. "However, I dare say
some of it is true enough; but I wasn't one of the jockeys, and I
wouldn't advise my son to imitate them either. However, old friend, I
like to hear you talk of bygone days, and here's a five shilling piece.
Let my son take it out in buns and tarts when he has a mind to do so."
"Thank ye, sir, thank ye," said old Spankie, and the Squire walked on,
knowing that he had secured another friend for Reginald. They hurried
on to Windsor Castle, which had been much altered and beautified since
the Squire had seen it, and certainly, rising up as it does from its
richly-green forest, with its terraces and towers, it has a peculiarly
handsome and regal appearance. When they got back, the boys were just
coming out from two o'clock absence, and were running off to their
dames' and tutors' houses. The Squire looked narrowly at them as they
passed, to try and find the sons of any of his acquaintance who might be
there. Had he written to ascertain the houses they belonged to, he
would easily have discovered them. Suddenly Reginald left his father's
side, and ran after a boy whose hand he seized and wrung warmly.
"What, Warrender, are you come here?" asked his friend.
"Indeed I am," answered Reginald; "but I had no notion that you were
here, Power. How very fortunate I am to find you! But come along, I'll
introduce you to my father. He'll want you to dine with us."
Of course Power was nothing loth to accept the invitation. He had come
up just in time, before he was too old, and had at once taken a fair
standing in the school, being in the upper division of the Fourth Form,
and about to go into the lower remove. He was, too, in Reginald's own
house, which was a very great satisfaction. The Squire at length found
out the son of a friend of his--young Anson, and invited him to join his
dinner-party at the Christopher. As he wanted to see the cricketing and
boating in the afternoon, he had ordered dinner early; and, saying he
might not exactly know what Eton boys of the present day liked, he had
left the selection of the dishes to the landlord. A very merry party
they were seated round the dinner-table at the Christopher, and ample
justice did they all do to the dinner provided. The Squire wished to
give the boys the best of everything, so he ordered champagne and
claret.
"Wine?" said Anson, looking at Power.
The latter nodded, and with due gravity they hobnobbed together, tossing
off the sparkling contents of their tall glasses.
"Very good wine they give at the Christopher," observed Anson to the
Squire; "in my opinion, this Chateau Margaux claret is about as
first-rate tipple as one finds anywhere."
"I fancied their Lafitte was better, and ordered it accordingly,"
answered the Squire, much amused at his young friend's remarks.
"Oh, certainly, I am very glad of that," quickly replied Anson. "The
fact is, I had not tasted their Lafitte, and supposed that they could
have nothing better than their Chateau Margaux."
"Try this, then," said the Squire, pushing a bottle of freshly-decanted
claret towards him; "say what you think of it."
"Perfect nectar," answered the young gentleman, smacking his lips.
"This beats the other hollow. I must row mine host for not giving us
his best wine the last time I dined with my uncle here."
"We were not so particular in my days," observed the Squire; "good
honest port and sherry sufficed us. But I tell you what, lads, stick to
the light wines, and a moderate quantity of them will do you no harm;
but eschew spirits-and-water, or spirits in any shape, as you would
poison, and when you drink beer, don't go swilling away huge quantities,
as I see some fellows doing, as if their insides were mere tuns made to
hold liquor. Just look at the great, fat, pursy, bloated fellows you
often meet, and think how you would like to become as they are. Well,
they brought themselves to that state by swilling beer and
spirits-and-water. Others have sent themselves to their graves by the
same means, and others, though not pursy, have lost their health and
stamina, and spirits, and are burdens to themselves, and useless in the
world."
Reginald used to say of his father that he did not preach much, but that
he had a wonderful way of bringing in good advice, and sugaring it at
the same time. In the present instance he was washing down a temperance
harangue with champagne and claret. He knew that his advice would much
more likely be taken than if he had ordered toast-and-water and small
beer for dinner.
In very good humour with themselves, with the world in general, and with
Eton in particular, which Reginald thought a first-rate place indeed,
they sallied forth into the playing-fields, where several cricket
matches were going on. One, Oppidans against Collegers, excited most
interest, because there always is, though there ought not to be, a good
deal of party-feeling between the collegers, the boys on the foundation,
and those who are not; the latter, who are more frequently sons of men
of wealth and influence, looking down upon those who have gained their
position by their talents and industry. The broad smooth green meadows,
with the fine grey school buildings, and their magnificent trees rising
up behind them, presented a very gay and animated appearance. Numbers
of boys in their picturesque cricketing costumes were lying about in all
directions--England's nerve and spirit, and head and heart--those who
were hereafter to head her armies and guide her councils. Little wotted
they then of the destinies in store for some of them. A stranger might
have said, as he saw their active forms bounding here and there--There
is England's bone and muscle. So there was, but that is to be found
rather in her wide fields, in her mines, her coal-pits, on her broad
quays, in her manufactories, in her towns, and on her railroads. The
different games were sufficiently apart, so as not to interfere with
each other. Round each of the scorers knots of amateurs were collected,
watching the game with intense interest, and applauding or condemning,
as each hit was well or ill made or fielded. At a respectful distance
from the wide-flying balls, a number of ladies, and children, and
nurses, and other spectators, wandered about admiring the play or the
cricketers.
"Come along here," said Power to the Squire and Reginald, as he led them
up to one of the best spots for witnessing the sport; "it's a hard-run
game--well hit, Hawkins--beautifully run!--he's my tutor's pupil--the
others will have hard work to get him out--I've known him score twice as
many as any other fellow in the eleven--bravo, Langdale!--a first-rate
hit--well fielded, too--he'll get caught out though--he often does--he
hits too wildly."
So Power ran on. The Squire at once entered into the spirit of the
game. He clapped his hands as enthusiastically as any boy. "Capitally
hit!--Smartly run!" he shouted. "Reggie, my boy, I wish that you were
playing. Well done! Who is that tall fellow with the light hair? He
caught out Langdale in fine style. You said he would be caught out."
"Oh, that's Gull, an Oppidan," answered Power; "he's one of their best
fielders. Who is going in next, I wonder? Beaumont, I see. Ah, he's
one of our crack players."
"Beautiful! beautiful!" shouted the Squire, as other hits were made.
"Capital--first-rate--bravo--bravo--well run--a superb hit!"
His animated remarks soon drew the attention of the boys towards him.
When they heard from Anson that he was an old Etonian, they regarded him
with a respect he might not otherwise have obtained, and all were eager
to show him any attention in their power. They went on end had a look
at the other games, and at last the hour came when it was necessary for
the Squire to turn his steps towards the station. He had also on his
way there to introduce Reginald to his tutor, Mr Lindsay. Old Spankie
had been looking out for them. He had seen Power with him, and thus
learned his name and all about him.
"Ah, Mr Warrender," quoth the man of buns and tarts; "it's a great
pleasure to feel that you remembered me, as well as I remembered you.
The moment I set my eyes on that young gentleman, I was certain that he
was your son. If he had come alone, I should have known that his name
was Warrender."
This assertion was even more than the Squire could well swallow.
"I used to find your buns more digestible than your word; I hope they
are so now," he answered, laughing.
The Squire did not forget a good thing when he said it himself, and this
saying was many a time afterwards repeated to his own infinite
satisfaction at Blessingham. He was able most conscientiously to
introduce Reginald with a very good character to Mr Lindsay, who being
a good physiognomist, was satisfied that he had got a tractable pupil.
The three boys accompanied the Squire to the station. Reginald did not
feel a particle of sadness till just as the Squire was getting into the
carriage, and then a suffocating sensation rose up in his throat which
made him feel that he must have a good hearty cry--not for himself, but
it was a reminder of how much he loved his father. Away rattled, and
puffed, and smoked, and steamed the train, and Reginald Warrender was
left to his own resources.