“EHRENBREITSTEIN.”
WILFRED, the youngest of the Holmcastle Family, after following his
brother to Eton, where, however, he did not remain long, was sent,
in order to prepare for Oxford, to a private tutor, named Massenger,
who lived in a house to which he had given the pedantic name of
“Ehrenbreitstein,” at Fisherswick, near Ossington, on the borders of
Cheshire.
Marmaduke Massenger, although of English parentage, had begun his
education at the University of Glasgow, but before he took his degree
he removed to Bonn, and afterwards to Heidelberg, where, in due time,
he became Doctor of Philosophy. Returning to England, in the full pomp
of his new Doctorate, Dr. Massenger commenced a career as private
tutor, and soon became celebrated for his success in that capacity.
Nor, indeed, was this without reason, for he was a really good scholar,
had the art of instruction, and was successful with his pupils. His
charges were high, but he justified them by keeping a most liberal
table, by making his pupils work hard, and by working hard himself.
Dr. Massenger was suspected by some of being a freethinker; but he
took his pupils to the Parish Church, and, unlike most freethinkers,
did not attempt to proselytize. That, he felt, would not pay in his
profession. Out of work hours, the Doctor did not trouble his head
about his young men, but let them go and come as they liked, and, so
long as they were back by work hours, do exactly as they please. “I am
a cramming machine,” he once said to an intimate friend, “and am paid
for cramming. I don’t pretend to teach morality according to English
notions, and I object to be a spy or a policeman after the ideas of the
French. I teach Greek, and Latin, and Philosophy, and Mathematics, and
History, as far as I know them; if parents want anything else, they
must go to another shop.” The Doctor professed to be very particular as
to the pupils whom he vouchsafed to take, and seldom took one who had
not a handle to his name. For this reason perhaps his house was always
full. Dr. Massenger’s weakness, indeed, was that he was a tuft-hunter
of the deepest dye, and he tacitly held that a nobleman could do
no wrong. As the young noblemen committed to his charge sometimes
_did_ do wrong, this propensity occasionally led to scandals and
awkward circumstances, but the tutor would not see it, and remained as
oblivious of any moral failings in the character of his aristocratic
pupils as he was before. In person he was a large, fat man, with big
fubsy hands and a square red face, with a close-trimmed beard and
moustachios of pale hair much speckled with grey. His wife was a
showy, vulgar woman, with an auburn front, who dressed in ill-assorted
colours, wore showy jewellery, and loved to talk about what she called
“the Upper Ten,” and she was never so happy as when she could get up a
mild flirtation with some young sprig of nobility.
When Wilfred Manwaring arrived at “Ehrenbreitstein,” he found two
pupils in the house, another, Lord Montauburn, having left the previous
term. The elder of these was the Honourable Augustus Cubleigh, only son
and heir of the head of the great Banking firm, Cubleigh and Cubleigh,
who, for services rendered at a critical period to the Government,
had recently been created Lord Guttleborough of Hampstead, in the
County of Middlesex. Cubleigh was a fat, languid, effeminate young
fellow, with a pale, flabby face, full sensual lips, sandy-red hair,
which he wore long, and furtive eyes of a greenish tint. He eschewed
all manly games, professed himself to be æsthetic in his tastes, and
consumed immense quantities of pastry and sweet stuff, for which he had
previously acquired an inordinate taste at Harrow, on which account,
and with a delicate reminiscence of the title of his noble father, his
schoolfellows had distinguished him by the expressive and suggestive
_soubriquet_ of “Young Guttles.” At the present time, he was in
the receipt of an allowance by no means equal to the gratification of
his tastes, for his extravagance at school had been great, and his
father had determined to make an attempt to teach him economy. It may
be doubted, however, whether the peer went the right way to work to
attain that desirable end.
The other pupil was the young Duke of Ribblesdale, a handsome,
unaffected lad, full of high spirits and good temper, whom Wilfred
had already known slightly at Eton. These two lads were delighted to
renew each other’s acquaintance, and soon became fast and inseparable
friends. This friendship soon excited the jealousy of Cubleigh, who was
held by Ribblesdale in great contempt, and Mrs. Massenger, on more than
one occasion in the silent watches of the night, expressed to her lord
and master her surprise that the Duke should find anything to like in
“that Manwaring.” The good lady, you see, spited Wilfred because he had
no handle to his name, and made the common mistake of supposing that,
to be of good blood, a man must needs be an aristocrat.
“My love,” answered the Doctor of Philosophy, “it’s only human nature.
As long as they are young, the children of the aristocracy would make
mud puddings in a gutter with a pack of young beggars, if only you let
’em. Ribblesdale will learn wisdom when he grows older.”
Little, however, cared the two friends either for Cubleigh’s jealousy
or Mrs. Massenger’s wonder. Together they rode, and fished, and shot,
and bathed. Together they explored on foot every old church, and
ruin, and camp within twenty miles of “Ehrenbreitstein.” Together
they made railway excursions, and got out at remote stations, and
then started walking. Together they read poetry and novels, together
pursued those severer studies which their tutor, always conscientious
in that respect, rigorously exacted from them. Once--we need not go
into details--Wilfred discovered that his friend was about to commit
an act unworthy of his high character, and which could not have
failed to entail sin and shame upon the actor, and it was Wilfred’s
tears, and Wilfred’s tender pleadings, and Wilfred’s firmness which
turned the young Duke from his purpose. Ribblesdale never forgot this
circumstance, and respect and gratitude were henceforward added to the
love which he bore to his friend. Thus, then, lived on the two fine
lads, rejoicing in each other’s companionship, and exulting in each
other’s love.
In the course of the second term of Wilfred’s residence, an event
occurred which increased the coldness which subsisted between him and
Cubleigh.
A small shopkeeper at Fisherswick, named Slocombe, who was also the
village postmaster, had a handsome but slatternly daughter named
Betsey, for whose society Cubleigh had a great predilection, and when
his fellow pupils were riding, or scouring the neighbourhood on foot,
he spent a great deal of his time in the shop. As time went on, he was
there more and more, and at length scarcely a day elapsed when he
could not be found ostensibly assisting the girl in sorting or stamping
the letters which were put into the post-box. This sort of familiarity
would have been resented by any prudent father, but Mr. Slocombe rather
encouraged it than not, and often remarked, when he was in a boozy
condition, which was by no means an uncommon occurrence, “what a foine
thing it ’ud be if his smart gal Bet was to ’ook a young lord.”
One day Wilfred went to the post-office to purchase stamps, and,
entering the shop, saw Betsey Slocombe and Augustus Cubleigh in
the little compartment which shut out the letter department from
the groceries. The two were laughing and talking together very
confidentially, and occasionally burst out laughing as they examined
the letters one by one. Presently Cubleigh exclaimed, “Look here,
Betsey, here’s one of that muff Manwaring’s letters; I wonder what he’s
got to say to his sister, he writes to her twice a week, I declare;”
and so saying, he held the letter close to the window on his left hand,
and tried to make out through the envelope what was written inside. In
a moment Wilfred had leaped over the counter, and had seized the letter
out of Cubleigh’s hands. “Look here, Cubleigh,” he cried with flashing
eyes, “don’t let me see you touching a letter of mine in that way
again. It’s a sneaking, blackguardly action which you are committing;
you’ve no business among the letters at all, and if I see you there
again, I’ll give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life.
Letters are sacred amongst _gentlemen_.”
The Honourable Augustus seemed thoroughly cowed by this address, and by
the demeanour of the speaker, and his green eyes glared furtively, like
those of a cat caught stealing cream. “I beg your pardon, Manwaring,”
he said at length, as he sneaked round the end of the counter into the
shop, “but really you needn’t be so fierce. I was only helping Betsey
to stamp the letters;” and so saying, he walked out of the shop. The
next moment the postmaster entered. “What’s all this row about, Bet, my
gal?” he said, addressing his daughter.
“It means this, Mr. Slocombe,” said Wilfred, before the girl could
reply, “that if ever again I find anyone with your daughter tampering
with the letters, I will write to the Postmaster-General and get you
turned out of the place;” and so saying, he left the shop abruptly.
After this circumstance, as has already been mentioned, a greater
coldness than ever prevailed between the two lads; but Wilfred, at all
events, was not of a disposition to bear malice, and so the quarrel was
patched up, and before long the two were, at least outwardly, on civil,
if not on friendly terms.