THE FALL OF WILFRED.
WILFRED MANWARING’S favourite branch of study was history, and to this
he added a taste for antiquities, which, in part perhaps, though with
a different effect, he had inherited from his father. When he had
been at “Ehrenbreitstein” nearly six months, and shortly before the
Christmas vacation, an old gentleman in the neighbourhood, who was a
noted antiquary, and had a fine collection of ancient coins and medals,
invited Dr. Massenger’s pupils to come over to inspect them. On the
appointed day, it chanced that the young Duke had another engagement,
but Wilfred gladly availed himself of the opportunity of seeing objects
so closely connected with his favourite branch of study, and went over
to Holborough for the purpose, accompanied by Cubleigh, who professed
himself interested in such things, “from a purely æsthetic point of
view.” Mr. Wilmot--for so the old gentleman was named--was delighted
to obtain an audience to whom he might descant upon the beauty and
the rarity of his treasures, and when he had finished displaying his
coins, he turned to open a cabinet full of choice antique gems. While
thus engaged, Mr. Wilmot chanced to be called out of the room, and
left his guests to examine the precious stones by themselves. This
was a great delight to Wilfred, who had never seen such fine works of
art before, and he was soon engrossed in the examination of heads,
figures, and groups cut by the subtle fingers of long-dead Greek and
Roman artists. The gems, however, did not seem to suit the taste of
Cubleigh, who presently left the recess in which the cabinet was
placed, and went, as he said, to look at the pictures, of which there
were some fine specimens by ancient masters upon the walls. In a few
minutes Mr. Wilmot returned, and closed his coin chest regretfully,
remarking, as he did so, that he had no one in the neighbourhood to
sympathise with him in his taste for numismatics, and that his medals,
which had scarcely seen the light for years, might be years longer
before they were again brought out for exhibition. The old gentleman
then proceeded to launch out into eulogiums upon his intaglios,
in which Cubleigh now affected to take great interest; and so the
morning passed away. After a good lunch, the two young men returned to
“Ehrenbreitstein,” one of them at least well pleased, and the other
perhaps well satisfied, with the morning’s excursion.
About a week after this visit, when the three young men were all
sitting at their studies, according to their wont, in the dining-room,
an old-fashioned, ramshackle gig drove furiously up to the front door,
and a moment afterwards the servant entered, and informed Dr. Massenger
that Mr. Wilmot was in the drawing-room, and desired to see him
immediately on important business.
In half-an-hour’s time, during which Cubleigh kept evincing a restless
anxiety as to why “the old beggar” had come, and had left the room for
some minutes, and had again returned, Dr. Massenger burst into the
room in a state of violent excitement. “My Lord Duke and gentlemen,”
he cried, “I regret, and am ashamed to inform you, that my worthy
neighbour, Mr. Wilmot, has come over to tell me of a most unpleasant
circumstance. He has been robbed--robbed of a number of his most
valuable gold coins--and I am sorry to say he suspects my pupils;
mine, the sojourners in ‘Ehrenbreitstein,’ to be the robbers. I
have indignantly repelled the base insinuation, but I regret to say
the old man, who I imagine must have lost his wits, is firm in his
determination to place the matter in the hands of the detective police,
unless those gentlemen who visited him at Holborough last week consent
to have their rooms and effects searched in his presence. My Lord Duke,
I remember you were not one of the party; but you, Mr. Cubleigh, and
you, Mr. Manwaring, what do you say?”
“I say it is an insult even to think of such a thing,” cried Wilfred,
colouring deeply.
“And what do you say, Mr. Cubleigh?” asked the Doctor.
“Why,” answered he, as, _more suo_, he bent his furtive eyes upon
the ground, “it seems to me the proposal is a very reasonable one, and
I for my part shall be most happy to assent to it, for of course we
know nothing of the old gentleman’s trumpery, which, after all, has
most likely been stolen by some footman or housemaid.”
“Right,” cried Dr. Massenger, “excellently right indeed; that is just
the sort of sentiment which I should have expected to hear from the
mouth of the son of Lord Guttleborough; and I _do_ wish,” he
added, turning to Wilfred, “I _do_ wish, Mr. Manwaring, I could
more often see you guided by mature reason, like that of Mr. Cubleigh,
rather than by those youthful impulses which are so peculiarly your
own. Ribblesdale, I trust your Grace will accompany us, as, in order to
satisfy my good, although somewhat unreasonable friend and neighbour,
we go through the form of searching the sleeping apartments.”
So saying, the Doctor, who prided himself on his art of mingling the
familiarity proper to a pupil with the respect due to a nobleman of
exalted rank, pompously led the way upstairs, the party being joined in
the hall by Mr. Wilmot.
The first room which Dr. Massenger entered was that of Cubleigh, he
having probably a floating idea that it was one of the prerogatives
of a person of noble birth to take precedence of a mere commoner, in
having one’s room searched in quest of stolen goods. The walls of
this apartment were covered with Japanese fans and handscreens made
of peacocks’ feathers, and they were further decorated with numerous
photographs of ladies in a somewhat _décolleté_ style of costume,
and by crayon drawings of gentlemen with long hair, and faces which
betokened excruciating pains in the stomach.
“Really,” cried Dr. Massenger, in affected rapture, “really I
was _not_ prepared for this, Mr. Cubleigh. I had really no
idea you had made such a remarkably chaste collection of er, er,
er--_likenesses_. Quite classical, to be sure! I am _quite_
surprised. Wilmot, my good friend, you are a judge of art; tell me what
you think of Mr. Cubleigh’s er, er, er, _gallery_.”
“A pack of rubbish, that ought to be put behind the fire!” answered the
old gentleman, testily.
The Honourable Augustus seemed somewhat disconcerted by this
unfavourable criticism upon his art treasures, but he, nevertheless,
showed every disposition to assist in the search which was forthwith
prosecuted amongst his numerous and gorgeous effects. With his own
hands he opened a gold-mounted dressing-case, threw the contents out of
a desk, took the lid off a pot of cold cream, and turned the pockets of
six pairs of trousers inside out. All, however, was in vain; none of
the stolen property was found, and Mr. Wilmot left the room snorting
with disappointment and dissatisfaction.
The whole party then adjourned to the room of Wilfred, which
indeed presented a great contrast to that last examined. Over the
chimney-piece was a large and fine photograph of the S. Cecilia of
Rafael, and beneath it was slung a cross-handled sword, which had
probably been used in the Wars of the Roses. Here hung a fishing-rod,
there were suspended a couple of cricket bats. In one corner stood
a new rifle, and on the walls were disposed at intervals several
water-coloured drawings of wild North-country scenery, and two or three
engravings of dogs after Landseer.
Wilfred’s conduct was certainly widely different upon this occasion
from that of Cubleigh, for he displayed no anxiety whatsoever to assist
in the examination of his goods and chattels. Rather he seemed to
submit to it as an unwelcome necessity, and as an overpowering wrong.
After long search, however, nothing was discovered, and the party
were about to leave the room, when Cubleigh, who had pulled down a
waistcoat from the top shelf of a wardrobe, suddenly cried out, “Hullo,
Manwaring, there’s the very waistcoat you wore the day we went to
Holborough; there’s nothing in it, is there? Dear me, how odd! There’s
something hard in the breast pocket, but of course that’s nothing! What
drawer shall I replace it in?”
“Let me look,” interposed Mr. Wilmot, nervously.
With great apparent reluctance Cubleigh placed the garment in the old
man’s hands, and the latter thrust his trembling fingers into the inner
pocket, and thence drew forth a small, carefully wrapped-up paper
packet, which, on being opened, displayed a broad gold noble of King
Edward the Third.
“My noble, my precious noble with the unique mint-mark,” quavered Mr.
Wilmot; “they’ve not got one like it in the British Museum, and I could
swear to it amongst a thousand. Well, I’m surprised, and I’m sorry, and
I’m shocked; but where are the rest? there are at least fifty coins
missing, and----”
The rest of the sentence was interrupted by a loud, despairing cry,
and then, with a heavy thud, Wilfred Manwaring fell senseless upon the
floor.
“I always feared I had committed an error,” said the Heidelberg Doctor,
“when I admitted to ‘Ehrenbreitstein’ the son of a mere commoner, but I
certainly never expected to find a thief amongst my pupils.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried the Duke of Ribblesdale; “there’s some
villainy here.”
“And I certainly could not have credited it,” said old Mr. Wilmot,
fidgetting about--“such a fine, open-countenanced young gentleman,
too; I certainly never _could_ have credited it.”
“And I,” said Cubleigh, “never would have believed my governor would
have sent me to a tutor’s where there was a thief in the house.
And, now I come to think of it, Manwaring went over to Ossington on
Saturday, and bought a new gun.”
“Ha!” cried Dr. Massenger, “that is important.”
“By Jove, Cubleigh,” exclaimed the Duke, “I think you are a beastly cad
yourself to talk so, when the poor dear fellow is lying on the ground
dead, for all we know to the contrary. Come, is no one going to help
me to lift him up upon the bed?” and so saying, he began to raise the
helpless body. But the Doctor and Cubleigh stood aloof.
“Let me help,” said old Mr. Wilmot, kindly, and the two lifted up the
unconscious frame, and laid it tenderly upon the bed, Doctor Massenger
strutting by their side, like a disconcerted turkeycock, but never
offering to assist. He was thinking how this unpleasant affair would
affect the prestige of his establishment, and of what the stern and
rigidly conscientious Lord Guttleborough would say when he came to hear
of the conduct of the fellow-pupil of his son. A medical man chanced to
be in the village, and was soon in attendance; but so great was the
shock that his nervous system had received, that it was long before
Wilfred recovered consciousness.
“Where am I?” he sighed at last, opening his beautiful violet eyes, and
trying to raise himself on the bed. “Oh! I remember”--and then he sank
back again in utter weakness and prostration.