CHAPTER I. ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S SCHOOL AND EASTHAM.
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Although our story lies at least as much among
grown-up people as among boys, yet we begin it among
these, because our hero happens to be one of them.
Saint Bartholomew's School in Eastham, or St.
Bart's, as it is called for shortness, or Bartlemas, as
the boys call it in kindly nickname, stands, or ought to
stand, on high ground of easy climbing, surrounded by
higher ground on all the colder sides. Below, between
it and the town, lies a pretty lake, three-quarters of a
mile or a mile across, shored with in-and-out grassy or
wooded slopes, green in summer, almost or quite to the
water's edge, on all sides but the eastern. On that shore
is a shelving beach of sand and gravel. Near that side
lies the highway going up northward, white against the
high bank of the lake. There is a green and pretty
winding lane at the western side; and on the northern
bank, approached by an irregular path from the school-buildings
above, are two or three boat-houses, two of
which are surmounted by flag-staffs.
The school buildings, which are a good mass of brick,
make a pretty broad show, and are already kindly taken
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into fellowship by great Nature, although at first foreign;
for her friendly grass has drawn up close to their feet,
and She is encouraging woodbine and ivy to play, as
they do, gracefully and freely on the brick walls, while
awnings over windows, here and there, match, with
their green or blue stripes, the earth or sky.
The house is somewhat impressive in the daytime
by its size; and in the earlier hours of night glowing
with bright light through a long row of windows in the
lower story, and here and there above.
What may be called a lawn — for it is a good stretch
of green, though broken by scattered trees and shrubs,
and clumps of trees and shrubs — spreads outwards and
downwards to the bank of the lake.
About these school-buildings of St. Bart's there is a
story, — a story not indeed so long as that of St.
Martin's Church in the Strand, or University College,
Oxford, or the Round Mill at Newport even, and yet a
story which might, with pains enough taken, be worked
up into romance.
These ample buildings the local memory reports to
have been first thrust up into the air, boldly and ambitiously,
among the standing and living things of the
universe, for a “hat manufactory;” and in that capacity
to have “made a failure of it,” as the neighbors express
themselves. They were still standing up, empty and
desolate, among the other things of the universe, when
the infatuation about “The Midland Summer House”
went through that part of the country.
Under the influence of this epidemic, which rose and
spread like any fever, one or two retired city-men, and
three or four brisk men still in business in the city,
but lodging and spending their spare time among the
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fields and trees, had put in their few thousands apiece;
a country merchant or two had been moved to do as
much; and two or three scores of saving farmers and
other country people had put in their hundred, or their
fifty, or their less; and so altogether they had turned the
big building into a hotel and boarding-house. The huge
rooms had been cut up with partitions into dining-hall,
dance-hall, parlors, and chambers; a wing, two-thirds
as long as the main building, and one story lower, had
been pushed back from the western end, and filled, like
a beehive, with small cells, called bedrooms, on both
sides of a long, narrow passage on each floor; verandas
had been run along the front and wing; and a consistent
cupola, above every thing, caught the fresh breezes and
surveyed the broad country.
“The Midland Summer House,” when finished, was a
joy to the neighborhood, and a hope and expectation to
the shrewd investors, and the no less shrewd holders-off;
for it was to bring society to the city-men's families,
easy and profitable practice to the medical men, a
market for the country-people, employment to all the
washerwomen, chore-women, masons, carpenters, painters,
and whom not?
Besides all this, it was to add one-half to the worth
of every foot of ground within five miles from that
centre, or, in other words, within a circle of ten miles
diameter.
Mr. Thomas Parmenter, of Eastham, was very energetic
and public-spirited about it. Mr. Parmenter, once
a country merchant, had now for some years had a
handsome place in the city, where (without a sign) he
dealt in choice foreign fruits and flowers, including,
somehow, the specialties of “Aqua-rose” and “
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Melitrech.” He had been twice married, and twice a
widower. His experience, as we see, had been large
and varied.
He, like the others, had invested his money; and, for
his own good and theirs, was busy in all the planning
and building; and then had a chief voice in securing
one Mr. Sharon Andrews, a bright-colored, pleasant-spoken
man, who was understood to have been making
money in keeping “The Great European Casino” at
the corner of Utopia and Back-bay Streets in Boston,
and was willing to come for a year or two to “set the
enterprise on its legs.”
With this successful gentleman, things lived and
flourished at the Summer House through one season of
free invitations, and of neighborhood assessments of
milk, butter, and vegetables, in which Mr. Parmenter,
and some of his rich city-men, bore their shares.
During this time its passages and doorways and
piazzas swarmed with guests; the roads of Eastham
flashed, and were lively with carriages and saddle-horses,
and scarfs and ribbons; the passages of the
house were redolent with “Parmenter's Aqua-rose,” and
all the tables bright with crystal vases of “Parmenter's
Melitrech.” It had its “hops” and balls, and concerts,
sacred and others; it had its private theatricals, and
almost its oratorio, which two members of the Handel
and Haydn Society nearly succeeded in getting up; it
had its moonlight serenades, and pic-nics, and chowders,
and clam-bakes, on the lake and its shores, and its
ramblers and strollers in the woods. In short, it had
all the forms of elegance and intelligence which are
usually exhibited by a good many (not perhaps first-rate)
fashionable young men and women, and a few
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“fast” young men and some foolish young women,
when they are enjoying themselves and showing themselves
off in the sight of rustics. It wound up the season
with dinners of “The Agricultural Union,” of which
Dr. Evans was president, and of “The Farmers' Reserves,”
of which Mr. Waite, manufacturer at Weston,
was president. It had paragraphs in the papers. It had
done something toward making a name.
The second year it advertised early, and opened a
little late, with the launch of the yacht “Iris” on the
lake, and a reunion of “The Three Counties' Medical
Association;” languished through three rainy weeks;
and then — Mr. Parmenter, having called a meeting of all
the persons interested, and then having furnished them
with a reasonable feeding of cold chicken and pickles in
the dining-room of the hotel, addressed them all as
fellow-investors with himself; proposed a plan by which
Mr. Sharon Andrews — who had been absent for a few
days — should accept an extraordinary opening just
offered him in Chicago, and a committee of their own
appointing should wind up the affairs of the Summer
House, and secure the buildings and property to the
common benefit of those concerned. One of the city-men
moved the appointment of three gentlemen whom
he named, — a farmer, the merchant of the place, and
Mr. Parmenter; and, after the going over several
times of the whole matter, the committee was appointed.
Almost everybody grumbled, especially those
who “had always said so when they first put in their
money.” Mr. Parmenter undertook to “run the house”
for the two and a half months remaining, in connection
with its clerk; he carried it through; lost only eleven
hundred dollars, he said, where he had expected to lose,
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at the least, thirty-five hundred; the buildings and
furniture, after a year or two, were sold by auction, in
lots to suit purchasers; Mr. Parmenter had bought the
land and buildings, and the bulk of the household stuff;
and, within a month after that, Mr. Parmenter had got
together a set of gentlemen, of different professions and
more or less note, as a Board of Trustees for a school.
Within three months they had secured an Act of
Incorporation for St. Bartholomew's School, Eastham.
On the Board there were two ex-judges, — Allen and
Pearson, — of one court or other; one law lecturer,
Pethrick; the Rev. Dr. Cruden Baxter, one of the
editors of “The Supplementary Cyclopedia of the
Bible,” now abroad; the Rev. Dr. Farwell, a member
of several Committees and Boards; Dr. Button, whose
name we will spell, if we have occasion to use it, with
two n's, to show that the accent falls upon the last
syllable (Dr. Buttonn was once accountant in a boot-factory,
and now for many years a priest); the Rev.
Mr. Manson, rector of the little parish in Eastham, and
editor of “The Church Post,” which he pleasantly called
a pillar of the church; the Rev. Mr. Merrill, a long,
sober-looking clergyman, member of half as many
Boards and Committees as Dr. Farwell; the enterprising
Mr. Thomas Parmenter; Mr. Isaiah Don, who, though
a man of business, a director in a savings bank, last
year a compromise member of the legislature, was after
all most notable for being an admirer of Mr. Parmenter
and his success, and Mr. Pettie, a man with a face
like one of the lesser quadrupeds, but who had become
of some account on 'Change by shrewd management of
an unexpected legacy. He was the eleventh member
of the Board.
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As indicating the individual standing of the members
and their importance in the community, the Rev. Dr.
Farwell, one of them, a man of very moderate size, but
of large manner, after studying the written list for some
time, remarked to Mr. Manson, a strong, hearty, and
hale man, who was a brother clergyman and brother
trustee, —
“Among these
Eleven Trustees
Are three LL.- and three D.D.'s.”
To this the other added, —
“Two un-Doctored parsons, or chicka-D.D.'s.
“We must bring in two more, — Mr. Parmenter and
Mr. Don. Well, we can bring them both in, in some
such fashion as this, I suppose: —
“And a couple of men representing I D's.”
“There's ten,” said Dr. Farwell. “Who's left out?”
Mr. Manson looked at the list. “Mr. Pettie,” said
he.
“Well,” answered Dr. Farwell, with a solemn jocosity
of manner, “we can't make poetry of him.”
There was the Board of Trustees of St. Bartholomew's
School.
The change in the buildings from the Midland Summer
House to St. Bart's School was easily made. The
long rows of little bedrooms were thrown open to the
long passages between, and then hung with curtains
instead of doors; and in this way made as good alcoves
for a boys' dormitory as if at first planned for them.
Larger rooms were kept here and there for tutors, and
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for household purposes; some parlors became recitation-rooms;
the dining-room stayed much as it was; the
ball-room became a school-room; a handsome share of
the main house was given to family use; and the cupola
became an astronomical observatory, to be furnished
when the time should come. The thing was done, and
well done; and, what was more, the buildings looked
well, and answered their purpose.
Thereafter the liveliness of boys, and the public
and private spendings of a large establishment, and the
success of a great institution, were to take the place of
the fashion and show which had so soon and so utterly
fleeted with the second season of the Midland Summer
House.
The town of Eastham, in which St. Bart's School
stands, and is the chief thing, is as pretty as almost any
country place with neat houses and some fine trees, and
that which gives it its greatest beauty, — its lake.
As we shall have many readers who are very studious
and scholarly persons, and as some of them have already
got map in hand to fix their memory of our geography,
and as a lake is one of the best things in any landscape,
and people know it, we must be a little precise here
about this great treasure of St. Bart's and Eastham, and
show how it comes that there is a conflict of names in
maps and in people's mouths.
Now, all learned readers are, of course, aware of the
way in which the human race always makes its additions
to the stock of names bestowed by Adam. In all essential
respects that way was followed by those members
of the race who took upon them the naming of this
lake at the seventeenth meeting of “The St. Bart's
Boat Club.”
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Two classical factions in the school laid claim to the
privilege of giving it a Greek and a Roman name respectively:
the one, on the ground that the Greeks were
the finest men that ever lived, and the Greek language
was the finest language that ever existed, the Caput
said so; the other, because it was a self-evident proposition
that the Romans had whipped the Greeks. At
length it was reluctantly arranged between the leaders—
Gaston, then in the third form, and Burgess, in the
fourth, — and accepted with acclamations by the multitude
on both sides, who were heartily tired of the discussion,
that the water should bear a “Græco-Roman”
name, by the combination of the two proposed, which
were “Copais,” from a lake in Bœotia, the largest that
the Phil-Hellenes could find in Greece, and “Trasymenus,”
from a pond in Etruria. “Copais-Trasymene”
it was to be for ever called; Gaston, the Hellene, having
secured that ending, which he said was musical and
poetical; and a committee, consisting of the aforesaid
leaders, was appointed to convey the results of this
important deliberation to the map-makers and writers
of gazetteers throughout the land, and throughout the
world.
The committee, having divided the labor between
them, sent carefully written, and of course carefully
worded, notes in abundance to the Messrs. Thompson
and Mr. Sharpe, and to Mr. Lock, and to Mr. Ledwaite,
and to all the rest of the map and atlas men, and in the
end achieved this success: one of those publishers got
it printed “Eastham P.,” and underneath, in parenthesis,
(“L. C. T.”); three of them returned answer that
“they would attend to it when they made new plates”
(which Gaston, who was a learned fellow, said was
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putting off to the Greek Kalends); one got it down as
“Copious P.,” and in explanation wrote that he
“thought the rest was only boys' fooling.”
A party in the school strongly set about nicknaming
it “Cop;” another tried to call it “Trasy;” and the
school settled down upon “Lake Thrash,” and there it
is this day with that name belonging to it; and the
boys of St. Bart's are resolutely determined never to
buy map or atlas made by any one of those men.
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CHAPTER II. MYSTERY ABOUT ANTONY BRADE.
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Young Antony Brade had come to St. Bart's only
that fall, and, as has been seen, the boys soon found, or
fancied a mystery about him. It would have been difficult,
perhaps, to trace the prevailing opinion to any definite
source; but it had spread through the school, and
had stayed there, more or less strong and active, according
as it was fed, more or less often, from without
and within, by fresh supplies of conjecture. He was
generally thought to belong to some very important
family abroad; he either might be the heir-apparent of
royalty, for some reason sent off and concealed a great
way from home, or he might be a son of some family
lower than royalty, who, for whatever reason (as above),
had been sent away to be educated in this country;
most likely because this country was the greatest in the
world; and sent to the Rector of St. Bart's because “the
Caput” was one of the most illustrious scholars and
teachers in the world. It was not settled in this community
whether the Rector was in the secret of Antony's
origin, or partly in the secret, or not at all in the secret;
but it was a thing of course to the boys that the lad's
guardian in the city knew nothing further than that the
boy was to be watched over carefully, and that there
was plenty of money appropriated to his bringing-up.
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Outside the school, among the families that called
themselves “society” in Eastham, an opinion of a somewhat
definite character had found a place, — that young
Brade was a Russian of high extraction and very great
expectations.
This started from some unknown source; but gained
its chief circulation from the lively interest taken in it
for several days together by Mr. Greenwood, who talked
with as many people, and said as many things, as anybody
in Eastham. He had got most of his education at
Harvard, and a degree in law from Michigan, and was
now occupied, as it was understood, with “railroad
business,” which allowed of his living quietly here, and
being one of the liveliest, if not most useful, members
of Eastham society, and of his having all the daytime
and evening to himself, and working only at such convenient
times as would not interfere with his own
pleasure, or that of others.
Mr. Greenwood had repeatedly discussed this subject
with much interest, never absolutely pronouncing for or
against the opinion; but, as he said, “A story, starting
from an unknown source in this way, and which cannot
be referred to any author, is precisely the material of
all early history in every country, — in Greece, in
Persia, in Rome, in Germany, in Scandinavia, in England,
in Peru, — and nobody can remember how many
other countries.”
This consideration weighed strongly with many intelligent
persons.
At St. Bart's, in spite of the greatness of this mystery,
or because of the mysteriousness of Antony's greatness,
the boys took him among them pretty quietly, much like
any other boy; yet there had been not a few silent
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onlookers, when his trunk was unpacked, who expected to
see a crown roll out, or a purple robe unfolded, or some
strange implement or other fall to the floor. All these
were disappointed; for young Brade's clothes (though
of better quality than usual perhaps) were much like
the clothes of other young boys, — so many jackets and
trousers, so many shirts, so many pairs of socks, so many
drawers, so many flannel waistcoats. To be sure, a crown
stamped in gilding was indeed spied upon his prayer-book;
but, as it surmounted a stamped cross, almost
every one agreed that it marked no definite distinction
between Antony Brade and other Christians, although
one — Will Hirsett — held out as long as he could that
there was “just a little mite of difference — he could
see it well enough, though he could not point it out —
between that crown and others.”
When the Russian theory made its way within the
school limits, the boys were not long in applying their
quick wit and broad intelligence to the investigation in
the new direction. Hutchins, or Towne, or some one,
started the thought of putting in Brade's way a thing
which was especially national, and so would be a touchstone
that would bring the secret out at once. Such a
thing exactly, the boys thought, was the famous “Russian
Imperial Kezan Soap” of Mr. Diogenes Smith, Pharmacopeist.
Half a dozen cakes of this “inimitable article”
they procured, through Mr. Parmenter going to the city,
at wholesale price; and one or more of these, in flaming
labels, they put in the supposed young Russian's way,
but all without appreciable result.
Boys are not slow or scrupulous, within certain limits,
short of what seems to them unkind or rude, about
seeking to make their fellows satisfy curiosity; and so
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the mysterious new-comer had, from time to time, been
questioned, but as he had, the first time the subject of
his family was directly inquired into, galloped off with
a laugh, and said, “Oh, yes! I'm a very great man, of
course;” and the next time had told his curious young
friends that he had neither father nor mother, and was
embarrassed and pained whenever it was approached,—
the result was supposed to have confirmed the mysteriousness
of his origin; and if the curiosity was not so
sharp after a little while as at the outset, the only reason
probably was that curiosity will, like other things, lose
its edge and become dull when tried upon something
too hard for it. That he was an excellent scholar, and
as willing to work as he was quick at learning, no one
could help seeing, and no one could deny that he was a
very kind-hearted, obliging young fellow. So he was
a leading scholar in the Third Form, though one of the
youngest boys in it, and bade fair to be a distinguished
member of the school, as time went on.
Several things which bore upon the question, the boys
had observed about him. No parent or other relation
had visited him at the school; his letters at first had
come addressed by his guardian on the outside, although
more than one boy was sure of having seen a lady's
delicate writing enclosed, which, from Antony's eagerness
to read it, and tenderness after reading it, was concluded
to be his mother's. Latterly — some said, since
this woman in black came — he had received no letters
and wrote none; and it was observed that, when others
were writing or reading letters, he generally kept away.
This at least was the rumor among the younger boys
with whom he most associated.
Now, however convenient this might be to somebody
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(perhaps his father and mother, who might be pretending
to be dead), or whatever purpose it might answer,
yet practically it deprived the young fellow of a home,
or made him homeless. All this had been often enough
discussed, and public opinion at St. Bart's held itself in
suspense.
This last circumstance — the loneliness of young Antony,
in spite of his supposed lofty extraction — occasioned
a pretty general feeling of compassion for him,
until it was found that he needed nothing of that sort;
and then, as he was very likable in himself, all the boys
of the school held him in more or less of tender regard,
as no other boy at the time was held. He was nicknamed
sometimes “King,” sometimes “Duke,” sometimes
“Royalty,” sometimes “Your Highness;” but
boys' nicknames are never meant to hurt each other,
and are given and taken with equal indifference, and in
this case Antony answered to any of these names as
readily and as gravely as he would have answered to
the name of his family, or to that given him in baptism.
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CHAPTER III. TALK AT THE BONFIRE.
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The time at which our story begins was the early
October, and the day was going down cloudless. If any
good eyes were scanning the heavens, and had known
where to look, they might perhaps have seen a faint
smoke rising from somewhere between the school buildings
and the horizon. The observer, then, if he had
gone till he came to it, would have found a group
of boys gathered about a fire, and in all sorts of attitudes, —
lying, sitting, leaning, standing, and, for the
most part, silent, as we are apt to be (even boys) in
declining day, and about a dying fire. A man in plain
working clothes, whom they addressed as “Mr. Stout,”
had just passed by, stopping to look at the state of
things, and taking, unmoved, while he stopped, a scattering
volley of teasings for leave to break up all sorts
of things for fuel.
Of course the little party had had its subjects of conversation
before this time, and just now only one — a
curly-headed, black-eyed young fellow — is speaking,
leaning on his elbow, with his chin in his hand.
“That's her goin' along West Road, now” —
“Where, Hutchins? Where?” asked several voices,
as most of the company turned and looked. He went
on: —
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“In black clo'es: she brings that swell girl with her to
church, that never looks at any of the fellahs. I s'pose
her mother tells her not to. They ain't what you may
call exactly ladies. Some o' the fellahs were with Brade
t'other day when he met her, and she only jest looked
sideways at him (I don' know whether she did look at
him), and he turned all over first red, and then as pale
as a ghost. I shouldn't wonder if she was a watch over
him. They do have such things, — I've read of 'em, —
`dianas' they call 'em, — to watch over girls, and see
that they don't get married, in Spain and Italy, and all
those places. I suppose Peters can tell us how it used
to be in those times of his knights and maidens and
things he's so proud of.”
A fair-haired, large-eyed, thoughtful-looking boy, on
whom the flame into which he had been gazing shone
brightly, at the moment, looked up at this appeal, but
seemed not to think it worth while to answer, although
at first his lips parted, and a voice seemed about to
come forth.
Hutchins's story had gone on swimmingly so far, and
his conjectures would, no doubt, have been equally
successful, if one of the company — a thin, straightnosed,
nervous-looking fellow — had not spied here a
weak spot.
“Diana was a goddess. They don't call 'em `dianas,'
I know. I forget what they do call 'em; but I know it
ain't that.” But here the rest of the company, who had
tolerated the intrusion so long as they did not know
what effect it was to have upon the substance of Hutchins's
story, now finding that the objection only touched
a very immaterial point in it, cried out to him to go on,
and never mind about the goddess Diana. Indeed, one
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small fellow, who seemed to have studied to some purpose,
supported Hutchins, by saying that “the goddess
Diana did keep girls from getting married as much as
she could.”
“There, Remsen! Meadows knows,” said another,
a big and rather loutish fellow, whose hat, turned inside
out, sat on the back of his head. “Hooray for Third
Form! Hooray for the Great Middle Class!”
Then, as the young mythologist was about to follow
up his success (as even grown-up human nature will
sometimes do) with communications of learning at
greater length, the new speaker set himself against any
indulgence of this sort.
“That'll do, Meadows,” he said: “you ain't reciting
now;” and the young scholar, discomfited, resorted to
the feeding of the fire.
Hutchins, however, came to the rescue of his learned
supporter:
“Yes, Meadows has done very well. Towne, you
may go on where Meadows left off.”
And a laugh went up against Towne, who said, —
“Oh, I don't pretend to know any thing.”
Hutchins, now re-enforced by Meadows's classical contribution,
restored himself again to his own satisfaction,
and to his leadership, by saying, —
“I knoo she did something o' the sort,” but then
seemed at a loss where to begin again.
One of the company — a pretty large little fellow —
set him going once more.
“But that ain't boys. Because they have 'em for
girls, that don't show that they have 'em for boys.”
“Hooray for Villicks!” said Towne, at the expiration
of this speech.
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Now Hutchins recovered the full swing of his argument.
“Why should n't they have 'em for boys jest as well
as for girls? Can't a woman watch, I should like to
know? `The Black Watch' I call her.”
“The Black Watch was an English regiment,” said
Towne, who seemed to have read something, and to
have information of some sort.
“Don't I know that?” retorted the chief speaker.
“Haven't I got the book? But if she's black, and if
she watches, ain't she a black watch?”
Having thus settled Towne, he took up his interrupted
story about Brade.
“Well, after that he turned and looked after her ever
so many times, and began to cry, too.”
This story seemed to have gained and grown in its
travels, not otherwise than as men's stories generally
gain; for the same boy who had taken exception to
the name “diana” now undertook to set Hutchins
right in other points.
“Why, I was there, and he didn't keep turning
round, and he didn't cry. He only looked queer-like.
Perhaps it wa'n't at her at all, — bashful.”
“There!” said Hutchins again, “I leave it to anybody
if Remsen ain't backing up all I said. I said she
was most likely watching him; and Remsen says he
was frightened as soon as he saw her. Where's the
difference? I shouldn't wonder but what she'd had
the charge of him before he came here. I shouldn't
think he'd had much schooling.”
“That's a likely story!” said Remsen. “He must be
a very smart fellow, indeed, if he hasn't had much
schooling, to get on the way he's got on. An' I don't
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say he was frightened, — he was queer-like, jest for a
little; but he laughed and talked and played like any
person else after that.”
Tom Hutchins had no thought of giving in. Feeding
the bonfire with such sticks and bits of combustible
material as were at hand, he answered, —
“He signed his name in the big book, there, with a
kind of a tail to it, just like a y, jes 's if he was going to
write `Brady,' and then he made an e of it. Burgeon
told me, — he comes next to him. So he couldn't write
his own name very good, if that's the way. He's a
pretty educated man that can't write his own name
without blundering.”
“Much you know!” said the same thin, light-colored,
nervous fellow, who looked a little younger than the
other. He was still standing opposite, as if waiting his
chance. “He writes enough sight better'n you, Tom
Hutchins, any day. He writes better'n any fellow in
the school.”
“Don't be personal!” said the loutish young fellow
before-mentioned, and whom Hutchins had called
“Towne.”
Here several boys, — mostly pretty small, — as silent
as Indians before, broke in, —
“That's a likely story!”
“A fresh chap like that!”
“Better than Lawrence?”
“Better than Lamson?”
“Better than Mason?”
All which supplementary helps were gathered by
Tom Hutchins into one final and conclusive argument,—
“You tell that to your grand-aunt's granny, Nick
Remsen.”
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It was evident from the number and eagerness of the
interrupters that the point interested a good many.
“Well, I was going to say” — began the interrupted
speaker, rather confused, as if his explanation was not
quite ready.
“You want to make out that he's goin' to take the
shine off Gaston,” said Tom Hutchins, quietly, as an
elder, to Remsen, not heeding his attempt to right
himself with the company. “Now, I tell you it won't
be one, nor two, nor three Brades that'll do that, if he
does belong to Third Form, an' a big old Dutch family
as long as your arm.”
The incongruity of this descriptive phrase of Hutchins
seemed not to strike any of the boys; for with the
young race fancy adjusts itself more easily, and is less
hampered by taste, than in grown-up people; and Remsen
accordingly took no advantage of it.
“Who said he was a big Dutch family?” said he.
“He ain't Dutch at all, but some sort of a nobleman, or
something that nobody knows any thing about.”
“That's the way with a good many o' those kind o'
fellahs, — those noblemans and counts and kings, I
guess,” said Hutchins. “Nobody knows any thing
about 'em; and the first thing you hear one of 'em's
got cotched in the paper, an' they find out he wasn't
any king and nobleman and such stuff, but a great,
long-tailed Irishman.”
Hutchins had resented the comparison of the new-comer
Brade with Gaston. He was not the only one to
rate Gaston's scholarship highly.
“I believe that fellow Gaston could pretty nearly enter
college now,” said a boy, who had a large mouth, easily
worked, and which gave him a look of drollery in saying
a very common thing.
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“I guess he could enter that `Ulterior College' you're
always talking about, Blake,” said Hutchins. “What
do they ask there for admission?”
“When a fellow comes,” said Blake, “they ask him
whether he's made up his mind that he really wants a
degree, so that they can be sure he'll take it when they
give it to him. That's their examination. Then they
make him give bonds that he'll pay 'em five dollars for
his degree when he gets it.”
The boys laughed at Blake's way of saying this.
“But what do they do all the four years waiting till
it's time to take their degree?” asked Towne. “I guess
that's the college for me.”
“Well,” said Blake, “they take it as comfortably as
they can. Most o' their real work is writing petitions.
If it's a fine day, they send up a petition to the President,—
he's an old man, a hundred and fifty years old for all
I know, — and they tell him they think they should
enjoy a walk for their health; and the old gentleman
says `walking's very saluberous,' or some such word,—
he's awful good-natured, — `and he'll go with 'em;'
and so they send him back word `they're afraid they'll
walk too fast for him,' and he lets 'em go without him.”
“When 'tain't a fine day?” asked Hutchins; and
added, “How do you spell that college?”
“Ulterior;” said Blake. “I don't know how they
spell it. When 'tain't a fine day, they tell him the light
hurts their eyes. — Then he takes off a few days at the
beginning of a term, because they've just come, and a
few days at the end of a term, because they're just
going, and so” —
“Look here, old Ultimatum,” said Hutchins, “do they
use any books at that college?”
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“They say they do,” said Blake; “but they give 'em
three or four days to look over a book before they go
into it, and express their sentiments.”
“That's my college!” said Towne. “They'll hear
of me there some o' these days.”
“It's the only place you ever will be heard of, I
guess,” said Blake.
If our readers, further on in life, on the upper side of
that easy slope which leads from college or young ladies'
school straight up to the heights of fame and fashion
and fortune, and all that, object to the language of our
very young friends, that it is not elegant enough or
grammatical enough for the members of a great school
of the first class, let us remind them that most boys
disencumber themselves as readily of the hindrances of
grammar and spelling-book, when they can, as of those
of dress; and that even “lady teachers,” sharp and
sudden as they may be in rebuking mistakes, and
thorough in exacting spelling and parsing and syntax
and prosody in their classes, fall back easily from art to
second nature when out of recitation. For boys, too,
beside the attraction that other people find, common
old words and queer words have a little interest and
adventure, as well as homeliness, about them. These
boys will come to good English by and by.
The conversation (like most conversations of boys
round a bonfire, at any rate) was rather rambling; but,
as nobody was in a hurry, so there were some who
kept hold of the thread of the main subject. As soon
as the laugh settled down, Remsen began treating all
that had been said for some time back as altogether a
mere side-talk, and going back, —
“I don't say but what there are impostors; but Brade
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ain't one of 'em. Why, if you just barely look at him,
you can see he's a gentleman. He ain't a common
person. A common, vulgar man never has a handsome
skin, — soft, that way, like Antony Brade's got; and he
don't have handsome hair and handsome eyes, that
way.”
The late interrupters allowed all these points to go
unchallenged; and even Hutchins seemed not disposed
to argue them. He took another ground now: —
“All boys are gentlemen, ain't they?” he asked; but, as
objections were beginning of a sudden to rise from every
side, he changed the form of his expression, and limited
its generalization: “All our fellahs, I mean, of course.
What do you say, Wilkins?” he said, appealing to the
largish small boy, who was ready and waiting to speak.
Here many hands poked the pieces of wood and
brands together, and several mouths puffed up flames.
“To be sure, all Bartlemas fellows are gentlemen,” said
the boy who had been called upon, and whose features
and complexion perhaps imperfectly satisfied Remsen's
requirements; for he had a smooth skin and soft hair, if
not the very expressive eyes which made part of Remsen's
catalogue of gentlemanly qualities. “Every rich
man's son's a gentleman, ain't he?” he asked, a little
doubtfully; for, in truth, the question was a deep-going
one, and these boys were groping among the elements
of things.
“Not without you give him an education, an' make a
gentleman of him,” said Tom Hutchins; “and not always
then.”
Remsen was inclined to go further than this: —
“I know they used to say that anybody couldn't be
a gentleman if his father and grandfather wasn't one
too.”
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“And the boy himself, three (Arithmetic, ain't it?)”
said Tom Hutchins. “But look here!” he added, as a
still brighter play upon Remsen's words occurred to
him: “you say the father and grandfather were one
gentleman, — that makes each of 'em a half-gentleman,
don't it? Remsen's an old Dutchman. You go back
to Adam's flood, I guess, with your family, don't you?
Rem, Shem, and Jacob, — the three patri-arks, the fellows
that made the Ark, — Rem's son, you see: that's where
Remsen came from.”
Our smaller scholar of antiquity, who has been called
Meadows, undertook to correct Hutchins's loose and
latitudinarian quotation.
“It wasn't `Rem, Shem, and Jacob,' you old Hutchins,”
he objected.
Hutchins laughed with the most absolute confidence,
and answered the objector as if he had him safely in
the palm of his hand, to be crushed or let go.
“Why wa'n't it?” he asked. “Ain't his name Remson
to this day? And after he'd been so long in the
flood, didn't his family settle in Holland, where it's
always been half under water?”
While the conversation was beginning to lag in this
way, several members of the company got upon their
feet, as if to disperse, the chief subject having been quite
forgotten, and this last poor witticism of Hutchins's
serving, like the cracker in the bottom of the Roman
candle, to scatter them.
“Let the little fellows go home,” said Blake, “because
their legs are short, and they want to start early. I
propose to see this fire out.”
The natural effect of this speech was to stop all the
younger boys who had started to go.
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“My fathers and grandfathers,” said Wilkins, glad of
so large an audience, “were all gentlemen.” This he
said with much satisfaction, and with that kindliness,
and that condescension, and that easiness to be propitiated,
which mild people show who are secure in the
enjoyment of a privilege which cannot be shared by
others.
“Your father used to make real good clo'es, I know,”
said Hutchins; “but” —
“But he didn't make 'em himself: his men made
'em,” said the scion of a noble stock. “He had ever so
many men.”
Wilkins's gentility was allowed to stand where he
put it. Hutchins's attention was drawn to something
else.
“There's Brade, now, ain't it? Don't he walk like a
lordship?” he said; and a boy drew near, with one of
those gaits peculiar to childhood, — a sort of canter, —
in which that age, feeling (no thanks to Mr. Darwin) its
born sympathy with lower living beings, expresses it
often by imitation.
Instead of coming up to the ring round the fire, the
subject of Hutchins's remark turned off down the play-ground
toward the West Road.
The boys, remembering suddenly, began to ask, —
“Where's the woman in black clothes?”
While they are waiting and watching, we leave them,
to take the reader to the house of a person who is growing
interested in the mystery of our hero.
-- -- p637-040
CHAPTER IV. MRS. WADHAM IS INTERESTED.
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In Eastham, at that time, was living a Mrs. Malvina
Wadham, who had two sons at St. Bart's, and who
heard, in due course, the defective and conjectural
story of Antony Brade. For her, indeed, all ears
were wells into which ran countless underground rills
of information, and out of which she drew, as she
pleased.
To Mrs. Wadham few things were impossible. Her
style of self-assertion was of this sort: “When I say
a thing's got to be done, it must be a very strange
case, — that don't often occur, — or it's got to be done,
just as I say. When I put down my foot” (and she
was in the habit of putting down one of her solid
instruments of locomotion), “something” (very emphatically,
and with a pause) “has got to start.” She
had sent her husband out to some far land of promise
to make his fortune, while she administered, at home,
what was generally thought to be a pretty snug fortune,
already made. That she should take comfort out
of it, if she did (“though Dear knows,” she said, “the
worry of managing so much — the brain-work and
the mind-work — is worth more than any satisfaction
there is in it),” — but if she did take comfort in it, she
“had a good right to,” she said, “for it was by her
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advice, and by her lookin' to things, and seein' to
every thing and advisin', that it was what it was. She
hoped his children would realize that. Her advice
had always been jest right, — jest the thing that was
wanted.”
The name was said to have come, by some law of
“development,” through “Wad-DELL” from — shall we
say it? We do not like to confess, but yet, after all,
do find a certain pleasure in it. The “origin” of this
“species” was “Waddle.”
This lady lived in Eastham, in a house which illustrated
her assertion of herself. She had bought a small
bit of ground, and run up upon it a slight, thin, spreading
structure of boards, with gables and bows, and
bays, and pinnacles, and pendicles, and dormer-windows,
and (for any thing that we know) a clere-story,
and something atop that was not a clear story, but
half-roof; and so had covered her ground up. Then
she had hired a barn, of a farm-house close by, for
“her carriages and horses,” and she was complete.
“It's only a summer veranda — I call it. That's just
what it is, — only a summer veranda. It'll do for me
in my widowhood,” she said pleasantly, “and when
I go away, I shall sell it; and that's the last of it, as
far as I'm concerned. — That's all there is about it.”
Climbers and creepers everywhere, and flowers in
pots on the piazzas and window-sills, had supplied the
place of trees and shrubs in summer; and now what
were left of them made a fresh and cheery house inside.
A good solid wood fire was blazing one November
morning, on handsome French andirons, toward which
Mrs. Wadham was stretched nearly at full length in
her chair.
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This lady, as we have said, had heard of Antony
Brade and what there was of his story, and still more
what there was not of it, and she reasoned about it in
this way: “Who says you can't find out a boy's history,
and his antecedents?” (this word with much distinctness).
“I should like to see a boy that I couldn't find
out, if I tried to” (and it is to be borne in mind that
her face was very square, and very set, — when it was
set, — and rather hard).
Her daughter Minette (whom, for some reason of
their own, the young men of her acquaintance called
“Toby”) was much like her mother, perhaps, in substance,
but smoothed off considerably by some years
of costly education. To her, too, it seemed that the
secret of the boy might be found out. They both
agreed, — the mother that any thing of that sort ought to
be known; and the daughter, that any thing of that sort
might as well be known. “There was no occasion for
any concealment,” the mother said: “if a thing was
honest and honorable, there was no necessity for it;
and if there was any thing wrong about it, it hadn't
any right to be concealed, and the sooner it was known
the better for all parties.”
The mysterious character of the Ryan family was by
no means unknown or unconsidered by the Wadhams.
“I'm sure, Ma,” said the daughter, “there's nothing
about them: they're just like any other family that
has risen up. The mother 's not educated much, — a
foreigner. The girl's a bright girl, — I know from
having her in my Sunday class, — and she's lady-like
enough, considering she can't have had advantages of
society, and all that; and then,” continued Miss Minette,
making a concession that not every young lady
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will make, even in case of a person whom she does not
consider quite on her own level, “she's pretty.”
“Yes, baby-pooty,” said the elder: “big blue eyes,
and a smooth skin and a dab of red; but then, as you
say, where does all their money come from? I say
they're employed, most likely, to have an eye to this
young heir to — whatever he's heir to; for I take it”
(dropping her voice, and giving a tone of inquiry to it,
and looking scrutinizingly at her single listener) “he's
heir to something, if it's only a common fortune, and
no title nor nothing.”
But the daughter had either heard much less, or
attached much less importance to what she had heard,
for she said, —
“I can't see exactly what ground there is for supposing
any connection between that boy and this
family. Why couldn't he be as great as you please,
and yet go to school, like anybody else, without a
family set to watch over him secretly?”
The mother was equal to meeting this suggestion.
“Why! that's their way of doing things, that's all.
Yes, that's their way. Why! he bears it on his front,
I'm sure, unmistakable; and he has the finest of every
thing, — no matter how I know it, but I know it, —
the finest of cloth for his coat, and his vest, and his
pants, and the best of shirts, French fashion, and
handkerchiefs, plenty of 'em all, and all of the best
(I've seen 'em); and all marked and numbered just as
pooty”—
“But all that,” said the daughter, who seemed to
have powers of reasoning at least equal to those of her
mother, “don't show what the Ryans have to do with
him. It may all be, — and I don't say it is not; only I
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don't see what reason there is for thinking so. I don't
see any objection to any one's following up this clue (in
a proper manner, of course); and if it leads to the
Ryans, or through the Ryans, why, then he'll find out
two secrets, instead of one.”
The good-natured tone in which she spoke disarmed
the otherwise formidable and murderous-sounding
words “to the Ryans or through them” of any terrors.
“Then you agree,” said the mother, as if right and
wrong, in any case about which they formed judgments,
were settled by the agreement of the court,—
“you agree that it would be well to find this thing
out, — to probe it to the bottom. Now my way would
be this: I should go straight to head-quarters. I
should” —
“But, Mother,” said the daughter, “you can't make
it your business” —
“That isn't the way I should do it, at all,” interrupted
the mother, in her turn. “You don't understand. I
shouldn't make it my business. I should go — where's
Eldridge?” she asked, interrupting herself in the middle
of a sentence; and then, looking round and not seeing
him, she proceeded: “I should go to Saint Bartholomew's
School, and I should say, `I want to see your
alcoves' (any parent, or anybody, has a right to go and
demand to see every alcove at any time, to see what the
accommodations are, and how they're kep' up). Mr.
Parmenter maintains that principle. He likes to have
'em goin' and then comin' and tellin' him, so's to show
that he looks after things up there. Anybody is; an'
I've got two sons there.”
“But, Mother,” interposed Miss Minette, “you
wouldn't want to go and demand” —
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“That isn't the way I should do it,” said the mother,
who seemed equal to any emergency. “You don't
understand. I say anybody's got the right. I wa'n't
a-goin' to use it. I should go there to see the alcoves.
I should find out from Albert — no, from Edmund (our
Edmund) — which Brade's was, and one or two more.
I should have a friend with me. I should say, `Look
here! this alcove is very pooty, or neat, or snug,' whichever
it might be; and I should see all there was there.
Then I should send for the boys, `with Mrs. Wadham's
compliments,' and apologize to 'em for having made free
with their alcoves; and I should send for Brade last,
and I should compliment him, and put him in good
humor; and then I should mention, incidentally, souveneers
from home, and make alloosions; and then, if I saw
that he was close, I should say, `Never mind, dear, —
another time: it'll do jest as well.'”
As Mrs. Wadham said this, in a very small and tender
voice, she patted, with fat and many-ringed fingers, the
air, which, perhaps, to her quick mind, represented the
head of the mysterious boy. Having finished this scene,
she presented another.
“And if I should find his heart tender, and his eyes
swimmin', I should jest draw him up to me” (here she
suited the action to the word, and drew up to her the
shapeless air), “and tell him to put his head on my
bosom, and think I was his mother, and what a tender
name that was! — there wasn't any thing like a mother;
and not to be afraid to confide in me, for I was used to
such things. So I should sort o' pave the way, you
see.”
Here she made a gesture with both hands, not quite
like any form of paving, but something like brushing
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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
slight trifles out of the way, which, perhaps, was as
much in her thoughts.
“Well, — but, Mother, what would Mrs. Warren
think?” asked the daughter.
“Fiddles!” said Mrs. Wadham, loftily, “for what any
body thinks, when you're in the right.” Then, being
carried off her feet (metaphorically) on the tide of her
own words: “Civility is a very good thing; and
courtesy is a very good thing; and ceremony, and
politeness, and all that, — all very good things; but
not to interfere with dooty. Ceremony's one thing,
dooty's another.”
“But, Mother,” interposed the daughter once more,
“Mrs. Warren might be hurt, if you” —
“I shall make it all right with Mrs. Warren,” said Mrs.
Wadham with dignity, feeling that she was older than
her daughter. “I shall make a point of sending for
Mrs. Warren, and tell her, in a lady-like way, `I hope I
haven't interfered with any of her arrangements in
exercising my privilege of visitation; and I'm happy to
find (if it should be so) that she doesn't need any sudgestions,
' — not reproof, nor instructions, — I shouldn't
use that word, — `doesn't need any sudgestions.' That
will make that all right.”
The daughter, who bade fair to be one day as big as
her mother, and perhaps to carry as much moral weight,
was not yet quite able to withstand the solid bulk of
her mother's advance, and perhaps, indeed, was inclined,
by curiosity, to let her go on.
At the moment, catching sight of some one coming
toward the open parlor-door, she got up from her chair
and walked toward him; but her mother, who kept herself
in the practice of putting things together, having
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observed her look, or hearing a footstep, called out
promptly, —
“Eldridge! Oh, it ain't Eldridge,” she said, as no
answer came.
“Mr. Greenwood,” said the daughter, and a small,
soft-voiced, sharp-faced, and rather melancholy-looking
gentleman, wishing the ladies “good day,” came in and
was made welcome.
“Fine growing weather!” he said, as he sat down, after
squeezing his soft hat into a pocket, and rubbed his hands
together.
“I do'no' what you'd grow in it,” said Mrs. Wadham,
“unless you mean grow cold. It's cold enough, I'm sure,
for this time o' the year,” and so she poked the fire, and,
with a vigorous thrust or two, brought forth obedient
flames.
“Oh!” said Mr. Greenwood, stretching out one leg,
and rubbing the side of the knee, “didn't they use to
call these growing pains?” and the face looked suddenly
and unaccountably droll.
Miss Minette smiled an appreciative smile. The
mother set her face with a special grimness, and then
formally relaxed the special grimness, and said, —
“Oh, a joke!” then paused. “What do you think of
our mystery now?” she added, after giving time for
things to settle from her guest's humorous effort, which
chilling pause he seemed to enjoy under his sadness, as
did Miss Minette, who laughed a short laugh.
“Oh,” said Mr. Greenwood, “isn't that all settled yet?
I hear but one opinion; but then you know I live a very
retired and studious life.”
“Settled! How?” exclaimed the solid lady of the
house, turning round upon her chair and facing him,
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with the poker in her hand, and a fixed and steadfast
gaze in her face, her chin being a little dropped, and
her mouth hanging a little way open.
Mr. Greenwood certainly could be as sad-looking at
times, by nature or habit, as if the whole of life and
the world, and whatsoever is and whatsoever appears,
were a standing painful mystery to him. He was, when
one looked into his eyes, especially sad-looking. Miss
Minette seemed already amused, or ready to be
amused.
“I thought it was all settled that he was a young
foreigner,” said the visitor, giving little encouragement
to any expectation of fun, but speaking very seriously
and gravely.
“Oh!” said the lady, with a toss of her poker, “that's
an old story, — that isn't up to the times. He's a foreigner,
we know. Now the question is, what sort of a
foreigner? If we've got a young dooke, or a prince, or
a premier among us, I think we ought to know it, —
I do! I think it's no more than our dooty to society.”
And again she fixed her gaze upon him squarely.
“Well,” said Mr. Greenwood, “society's a good
thing: let's discharge our obligations to her. You
say he's a Russian?”
“No, I didn't say he was a Russian; but it wouldn't
be strange if he was a Russian. But he may be a Russian,
or he may be a Cir-cassian. What's the great
difference, when you get to foreigners, provided, mind
you, that they belong to the upper classes? Only, if
there's any deception, we ought to know it. Deception's
tryin' to outwit us, — that's what deception is;
and we mustn't let 'em.”
“I'm sure,” said Mr. Greenwood, solemnly and
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
earnestly, “I'm willing to give my little help to the detection
of a plot against society.”
“'Taint consistent with our republican institootions,”
she said, taking a fresh start.
To this Mr. Greenwood answered deliberately that
“he was not sure that it was.” “And then,” said he,
“if your sons are likely to be associating with a duke
in disguise, or a Czar of Bohemia, you've a right to
know what company they're keeping.”
Mrs. Wadham's face relaxed; but she could not
accept the political geography. “I guess you won't
find any Czar of Bohemia. Bohemia's a part of the
empire of Austria. I've been through it. Come to
Russia, and you're more like it. But the next thing
is,” she continued, “what you're going to do about
it?”
“That's it,” said her visitor, “what are you going to
do about it? If a little knowledge of foreign languages—
but I hear the boy don't know any thing
but English.”
Mrs. Wadham did not overwhelm this suggestion
about English with irony or with scornful eloquence;
but she met it with much shrewdness:
“He don't know! What's he going to know except
just what's put into his mouth? But ain't he goin' to
have memories of his native land? Squeeze a leaf, and
ain't there an aroma?” She illustrated this with a
geranium leaf, successfully.
Mr. Greenwood, in a low voice, said that, “if it was a
memory of the native land brought that out, he wondered
what sort of country one particular kind of
cabbage remembered so strongly, that Mr. Parmenter
was raising, on his low grounds?”
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She continued, without check: “Yes! can't you
appeal to 'em? Haven't we known of foreigners that
were as hard as you please; but give 'em a little toone
upon your dulcinets and your castanets” (here Mrs.
Wadham illustrated, with her fingers, first the twanging
of melodious chords, as of a stringed instrument, and,
next, the airy touch which draws the responsibe soul
from ivory keys), “and then you've got 'em.” (Mr.
Greenwood applied his handkerchief to his eyes, but
only passingly, and said “that was human nature.”)
Miss Minette was a musical person, and sat a little
impatient under this figurative representation. “I
don't know about those musical instruments,” she said,
“but, Ma, that's the way it is in story-books.”
“No, it isn't story-books! That great, fat Gretkins
Warter wasn't a story-book, that fell down flat, like a
shot, and kicked out her two great feet, as stiff as that
poker! Now,” said she, “that's just what I should try,—
that's just what I should try.”
Now Mrs. Wadham had said enough to warrant
her sitting still, and looking him broadly and steadily in
the face again, as having presented him with a very
complete “case.”
“I think that's just what I should like to see tried,”
said Mr. Greenwood. “It's like a chemical process, I
suppose,” he continued, in a pleasant voice. “You” —
“That's just it, exactly,” she said, accepting the simile
as soon as she knew that a simile was coming, and before
she heard it. So Mr. Greenwood did not follow
out the figure.
“Or like a mechanical appliance.”
“Yes, yes, — `a mechanical appliance.' It's like a good
many things. Now what we want,” she said, getting
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
the lead again, as became her, “is a little — what shall
we say? — Russian? Yes! a little Russian.”
“I thought,” said Mr. Greenwood, diffidently, “that
we'd got a little Russian, and wanted to get into our
little Russian.”
Miss Minette smiled. Mrs. Wadham did not recognize
this harmless attempt as a joke, but took it seriously,
and wasted no time over it.
“Well, we want the Russian language,” she said.
“If you say so,” he said, accommodatingly, “let's
have the Russian language. What's the evidence that
he's Russian? That's settled, is it? Certainly, his
hair curls, — that's like Peter the Great; and he's thinskinned.
The air in those northern countries is so sharp
it takes off all the outside, — `the cuticle,' as the doctors
call it.”
“Let's see the book! Where's Peter the Great!”
cried the mother; and as Miss Minette turned to a
bookcase, Mr. Greenwood added one little particular,
to prevent a possible disappointment: —
“Unless they've got him there in his wig, which was
straight.”
Miss Minette smiled. Presently, having found the
book, and opened it, she proclaimed the result: “You're
right: his hair is curly.”
“What else is the child?” Mrs. Wadham asked,
with a conclusive air, and repeated, “What else is
he? He ain't an American, — that we know; nor he
ain't an Englishman, nor a Frenchman. Then what is
he? Why, here's a story that says `he's Russian.'
Now where does that come from? Where there's a
grain of fire, I say, there's a spark. I mean where
there's a spark, there's fire.”
-- 039 --
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“Both propositions are true and logical,” he answered.
“I suppose we may say that where rumor
asserts a thing persistently, when there's no reason for
it, there must be something in it.”
Mrs. Wadham was too close and clear a reasoner, as
we have seen, to accept any poor work, for her argument.
“How do you mean `there's no reason for it'?”
she asked, looking at him with a most searching and
unflinching stare.
“Why, in this case,” answered the acquiescing visitor,
“there's no interest to be served by representing him as
Russian. Nobody's going to gain any thing by it.”
“Now, I see, you talk reason,” she said. “What we
want is to try the boy with something that'll remind
him of his far-off home, you know; and my opinion is
if we try him with a pretty little scene from his native
land, and a little song, or a few words of his mother-tongue,
we shall do it. Who is there that can talk
Russian? There must be Russian ships coming into
Boston and Noo York every day.”
“Not so often as that,” said Mr. Greenwood, — “not
so often as that.”
“Well, they must have Russian Bibles; and if I had
a Russian Bible, and a dictionary, I'd get enough, in
half an hour, to find him out, I'll be bound. He's only
a boy.”
“You wouldn't undertake to make a `Ranz des
Vaches' out of a Russian Bible and a dictionary, in
half an hour, Mother!” said Miss Minette, laughing.
“I should like to see her have a fair chance,” said
Mr. Greenwood, gravely. “She wants to prove to this
little chap at St. Bart's, and the rest of us, that he's a
Russian, of noble birth; and if she could take him
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
unawares, and sing him a little simple, artless song, in
what she calls his mother-tongue, who knows what the
effect would be?”
But this was going beyond Mrs. Wadham's limit, and
she applied a check.
“I haven't said any thing about singing a song,
vaches or ren-dez-vous. No, I beg you not to
mistake me. I know very well what I'm saying. I
say, if somebody, — not I, — not I, — if somebody would
only sing a few words to him, — a song of infancy, — a
song of home, — he'd touch the hidden springs, and
there'd be a gush” (there was a little confusion in the
imagery, here, but she evidently knew what she was
saying) “and a rush, and there it would be, — you'd
have him.”
Mr. Greenwood, before the weight and force of these
words, sat very meekly, and at the end he said, “Of
course you wouldn't sing it. Miss Minette would have
to do that for us” — (“I beg you'll excuse me from
singing Russian,” said Miss Minette) “of your mother's
composing,” continued he, turning to her, with much
earnestness and a wave of the hand, all which randes-
the young lady into a fit of laughter, in which he
left her and turned, gravely and silently, to listen to the
mother.
“It needn't be poetry,” she said. “If I had to get it
out of the Bible, I should, most likely, choose an appropriate
text: `We confess we're strangers and pilgrims;
we want a better country, for this isn't our home.'
That would do! that would do! something like
that.”
“Why not?” asked Mr. Greenwood, “if you could
only get the Russian Bible and the dictionary?”
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
“They'd have 'em at the Depository, to give to the
sailors as they come in.”
“Well,” said Mr. Greenwood, modestly, “if we could
be sure, now, that every man in New York or Boston,
with a Bible under one arm and a dictionary under the
other, was a Russian sailor — don't the Swedes, and the
Danes, and the Portuguese, go the same way?”
Mrs. Wadham was not to be led off by any senseless
suggestions of this sort.
“What are we going to go round the streets after
sailors for? What I say is, `Go to the Depository;'
there you'll get your Russian Bibles, as many's you
want.”
“The trouble is,” said Mr. Greenwood, “Russian ships
don't come to this country, and so they wouldn't keep
any Bibles for 'em, — that is, I don't think they would.”
But Mrs. Wadham knew something about trade: —
“Why don't they come to this country? Who brings
all the Russia duck and” —
“Why, I suppose,” said Mr. Greenwood modestly, like
a man ready to learn, “Russia ducks, like other ducks,
are migratory” —
“Well, well!” said the lady, “this doesn't bring us
any nigher to our point. If you can't try one thing, try
another, I say,” and she looked straight forward into the
boundless realms of thought, abstractedly, to see what
that other thing should be.
“You want to touch his feelings,” said Mr. Greenwood,
now proving himself more serviceable and purpose-like.
“How would it do to show him some
affecting scene from his native land, — the murder of
Peter the Great, or something like that?”
“Was Peter the Great murdered?” asked the lady,
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
turning from her meditation, and speaking like one who
was not in the habit of taking things upon trust.
“A great many Peters were, at any rate. Peter
something was; and, I suppose, you'd be safe in saying
any Peter, for you know what the Russian way is.
They take the rightful heir, and put a crown on his head
(a splendid crown, — heavy gold, and all covered over
with jewels), and then he sits on a great throne, —
you've seen representations of them. Well, then any
man in the Empire has one shot at the crown, — I don't
remember what the distance is, — and, if he knocks it off,
then the emperor abdicates, and the man has the first
jewel he can pick up. `Succession by Shot,' I believe
it's called.”
“Suppose the emperor gets hit?” asked the lady, not
committing herself by look to a favorable or unfavorable
estimate of this information.
“If he dies, then that's called `Succession by natural
Order' (or `by the Order of Nature,' I forget which);
if he doesn't die, they try it over again.”
Miss Minette was not as gravely affected by the
tragical character of the tenure of the Russian throne
as this story was calculated to make her. Indeed, she
laughed at it, and said it was a pretty state of things in
the Empire of all the Russias if that was the way with
them.
“This may be a little Czar sent here to escape that
ordeal,” said Mr. Greenwood, diffidently.
“Well, well,” said the mother, “that's neither here
nor there. You might have something out of history
that everybody would know. There was that burning
of Moscow, — they used to have a panorama of it going
round. That would do, — that would do. We could
easily get that up.”
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
“How was it got up? I haven't been in the world
as long as that?” said her visitor.
“Why,” said Mrs. Wadham, “here were great flames
darting out, and smoke rollin' off, and a drumming and
a thundering, and the Kremlin Tower comin' down” —
“The Crum'lin' Tower you mean, perhaps, if it was
coming down in that style?”
“No, I don't: I mean the Kremlin Tower. I know
very well what I mean; and then the great bell come
down, — ding-dong! ding-dong! — and then the curtain
fell.”
“And speaking of bells reminds me of the fair,” said
Mr. Greenwood, with a great bow to Miss Minette.
“We can have the Fair of Nijni-Novgorod, on the Ice;
and we're pretty sure of killing one bird with two
stones, — if there's no member of the `Prevention of
Cruelty' about.”
“`Two birds with one stone' it is, I believe,” said
Mrs. Wadham, gravely; for it was evident that he had
got the proverb wrong.
“You're right, it is so,” he answered, accepting the
correction handsomely; “but why can't we have some
tableaux, whether we catch this little chap or not? It
would be fun for the Bartlemas boys, if you can get
them, and fun for everybody.”
“Why shouldn't we?” asked Miss Minette, eagerly.
“It would be just splendid, wouldn't it?”
“Now you're on the track of something,” said the
elder lady, who had set them upon this track. “Now
there's some prospect. Well, Mr. Greenwood, say the
word. When shall it be? You shall be stage-manager
and costumer.”
“Are we going to have `The Russian Succession,'
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
too? or only `The Burning of Moscow'?” he asked.
“We can have the one, or the two, or the three. The
Succession would be very effective, especially as we
should have to put Brade through it.”
“Oh, let's have it by all means!” said Miss Minette,
to whom the prospect seemed very suggestive of fun.
“We must have your mother close by to catch him,
if we knock him over, and to take his head in her
bosom,” said Mr. Greenwood, whose plastic eye set up
for him already the future mimic scene.
“No, you don't, I thank you,” answered that sensible
lady. “I ain't a-goin' to stand up and be shot at, — not
for nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars a second.
He'll have to have somebody else for his mother, if
that's what she's got to do,— I can't mother him.”
“We can take out the balls, for any but the good
shots,” said Mr. Greenwood.
“No, you won't catch me, good shots or bad shots, if
it's only pop-guns.”
“Well, somehow, we must get his head into your
hands, and have that little song of home.”
“That you won't get from me, I guess,” said the
matron, again smiling, but with decision.
“And where are you going to get your Russian
words?” asked Miss Minette, conclusively.
“I suppose we could get those on a pinch,” said the
future stage-manager.
“Then you begin to think there are ships coming in,”
said the matron.
“No, no; but men who know Russian. I didn't mean
to mention it though.”
“You don't know Russian?” asked Miss Minette,
apparently in doubt whether he was in jest or earnest.
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“You say so;” said Mr. Greenwood, with a tone of
regret: “I wish I could say as much. I had a painful
experience in that way.” (Both ladies looked at him
with great interest and curiosity.) “I shouldn't like it
mentioned, for the aspirations of an ambitious young
man were crushed. I was appointed Secretary of Legation
to Pekin, — St. Petersburgh, I mean; but Mr.
Everett died, and the embassy didn't go. Nobody
knows that here, and you won't tell it, will you? Now,
I am just working very hard, in a respectable and
remunerative way; but that was a sad damper.
N'importe!” he added, with a manly spirit. “Good
morning,” and bowed himself out of the room, —
followed hospitably through the entry by the younger
lady, — and left the house.
-- -- p637-059
CHAPTER V. THE BLACK WATCH.
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
Our young friends at the bonfire were questioning
where the lady in black clothes, who had gone up the
West Road, now was; and began to answer themselves.
“It's getting dark, down there: soon you couldn't tell
her.”
But in every boys' gathering, as in every gathering
of men, there are always some who, finding themselves
gifted with extraordinary faculties, are not disposed to
keep the discovery to themselves.
“Oh, I could!” said one of these lucky young persons;
and his reputation was at once extended by
Towne, who caught up his words and proclaimed
them.
“Will Hirsett says he can see in the dark!” which
gave Tom Hutchins a chance to try his hand at one
out of the stock of figures of speech to which each
generation comes fresh: —
“Oh, yes! he's an owl.”
Meadows took a higher flight for himself: —
“I could see in pitch dark, — I always could.”
Another, a doughy-looking boy, having witnessed
the strength and dexterity with which Hutchins had
wielded a grown-up man's metaphor, in calling Hirsett
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
an owl, immediately handled one which he thought
as good, or better: —
“Meadows is a fowl. Look here, fellows! Meadows
is a fowl.”
If Meadows was quick at his lessons, he was also
quick in his temper, too; and so he took this latter
right up: —
“And Fatty Dover is something else which begins
with f and ends with l.”
Here Hutchins, who had all along been the chief
speaker, hastened to use another opportunity: —
“Take care, Meadows! If you ain't a fowl, don't get
afoul of him.”
But before the audience could fairly see this joke,
Remsen, Brade's champion, exclaimed in a low voice: —
“There she is, now! She's coming back!”
“The Black Watch!” said Hutchins; and the time
being propitious for the taking up and fastening of a
name, several voices adopted it.
“Well! Meadows and Hirsett are bright fellows to
see so fast, ain't they?” said Hutchins. “Now for
magic and mystery! Where's old Peters, with his
`shrivelry,' or whatever it is, he's always bragging
about? I should like to see him stick his nose into
any thing that's got any `adventure' in it, as he calls
it!”
The boys started from the fire, and hurried over to
that side on which the mysterious woman (dressed just
like a mysterious woman) and their own school-fellow,
with whom they supposed her darkly connected, were
approaching each other. They were away before Peters
had found utterance for the assertion that “they'd find
he wasn't a coward, when the time came.” Squads of
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
twos or threes got behind any thing (trees, or whatever
else) which offered a pretence of a screen. Some — as
Will Hirsett, Fatty Dover, and others — kept themselves
aloof from all entanglements, on the open ground.
“He ain't a bit afraid,” said a low voice.
“That's what you'd be, Fatty, if you were down
there,” said another, louder, which might be recognized
as Towne's.
“He don't care any thing about her, I bet,” said Will
Hirsett, still, however, keeping his face toward the
centre of all interest. By degrees all came forth of
their hiding-places, but it was to draw down nearer to
the West Road. It was strange how they had wrought
themselves up.
“Look here, fellows!” cried Tom Hutchins, “I don't
think this is very gentlemanly. I'm going off,” and
accordingly he and others left the ground.
Remsen had not, like the rest, gone into covert, but
had followed Brade, at a slower pace, down toward the
road.
The silent figure in the black dress went steadily onward;
and Brade and she, without ever showing any
consciousness of each other's neighborhood, or ever
turning toward each other, were drawing nearer to the
same spot.
“Hold on!” said the boys on the lookout, and Will
Hirsett as eagerly as any of the others. They even
advanced a few steps toward the two, over whom, to
the eyes of these fresh wearers of manhood, a mist of
glamour was thrown (how easily these things happen
to childhood!).
“I bet ye he's got to go,” said Will Hirsett, getting
a little behind two or three boys.
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
“Hold on! hold on, fellows!” said others. “Le's go
down!” said one or two, who were soon checked.
At length, while they looked, Brade stood still, just
as the dark figure went by (“Now! now!” said excited
voices). Remsen hastened to join him, when suddenly,
with a shout or cry, Brade started up the hill, eluding
all Remsen's efforts to stop him, and then Remsen, too,
followed him at full speed. The dark figure, as some
boys said, turned once; but the general impression
was that it moved on with the forward steadiness of
Fate.
But there was a commotion among the watching
boys; and Will Hirsett ran round the corner of the
laundry, from behind which he peeped out.
As the two boys came on, Brade slackened his pace,
and then stopped. Remsen, in his furious speed, was
carried on beyond him.
“What did she say? What did she do?” asked the
boys of Remsen; Will Hirsett's curiosity overcoming
his fear, and bringing him forward from his hiding-place
doubtless, with his eyes staring and mouth
yawning.
“Nothing,” answered Remsen, panting and out of
breath.
“No, no! but what did she say? what did she do?”
the boys persisted in asking.
“Why, I told you the exact truth,” answered the
besieged boy. “Now you want the exact falsehood,
do you?”
“Yes, yes! do tell us what she said,” they besought
him.
“Run for your lives!” said Remsen, in so peremptory
and threatening a voice that Will Hirsett and
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
Dover instinctively started to run, although, to be sure,
they soon checked themselves, under the laughs of their
companions, and put the best (metaphorical) face upon
it that they could. Will Hirsett said that he “was in
fun,” and Dover claimed that he “only just thought he'd
go away.”
The appetite of these boys was not satisfied with
what they had already got. Some of the smaller fellows
began again the inquiry: —
“Did she really say that, Remsen?” which, though a
rhythmical utterance (indeed, not a bad `trochaic
dimeter acatalectic' for young scholars, if we take accent
in English for quantity in Greek), had no effect
upon the obdurate ears to which it was addressed; for
Remsen was already running off; and now, calling Brade,
he, with his friend, left the company to themselves.
Towne was moving about, as if particularly important
and full of meaning: —
“I know something,” said he, mysteriously; and notwithstanding
Arthur Meadows's joke (which Arthur, at
least, enjoyed exceedingly), that “he was glad to hear
that; for he had always supposed that Towne didn't
know any thing,” Towne lost no time by attending to
him, but began bestirring himself, and calling out, —
“Wilkins! Wilkins! Say! look here, Willicks!” and,
having brought that worthy to himself, said loudly
enough for others to hear, “I've got a way to find
out!” and then, in a low voice, drawing Wilkins apart,
at the same time began detailing to him some plan, over
which he himself chuckled a good deal as he told it.
Then, aloud again, he asked his confidant “if that
wouldn't be splendid,” and received his assurance that
it was “first-rate.”
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
If nothing has yet been cleared up, possibly this plan
(still more possibly something else) is yet to give us all
more light.
Here, as we wish to keep the good opinion and good
will of all our readers, we advise those who have no
mind for thought, to skip over this next half page or so,
which is written for such as will read it, — if there are
any such.
As mysteries in human life are things which have
their whole being in human consciousness, and that is an
element more changeful and shifting, more full of tides
and currents, and waves and eddies, than is the ever-flowing
sea itself, so a mystery may, like a thing afloat
upon the water, be wafted into a sheltered cove, where
it falls and rises with the ebb and flow of tide, and is
left behind when the water has run out; or it may be
flung aloft into sight on the cresting top of a breaker,
and drawn back in the blind disorder of its recoil, and
carried off; or it may be cast up and abandoned on a
beach, a thing of no account, or a clean and harmless
thing, or a thing foul, offensive, and pestilential; or it
may, ere it be borne fairly within grasp of hand or ken
of eye, sink into the depths, and never more come up
to light of day.
This mystery of young Brade may be perhaps but a
harmless, pretty thing, — perhaps no mystery at all;
perhaps, if we may keep up our figure, not more a
mystery than a summer boat, riding in still water a little
way off shore and not adrift, but fastened, although the
moorings chance to be on the further side from us
unseen.
Perhaps, too, there is more in it than this.
-- -- p637-065
CHAPTER VI. THE BOY'S OWN ACCOUNT OF IT.
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
Meantime, it must be supposed that the boy himself,
though generally seeming indifferent, as boys do in
such cases, was sometimes annoyed at being the object
in this way of constant conjecture and occasional
watching.
That afternoon, when they had got a little way from
the rest, he stopped, hot and panting, from his run with
Remsen, and said, after some delay and with some
difficulty, though at the same time without whimpering
or breaking down: —
“Remmy, I wish the fellows would stop, now! They
might plague me, or just us boys in the school, but
they've got no business with other people.”
Remsen, for his part, was willing to take a friend's
share: —
“I'm sure they're welcome to plague me, too, Anty,
if they want to; I don't care,” he said.
“But,” said Antony, seriously, “they've no business
to bring Mrs. Ryan into it.”
“Oh!” said Remsen, “that's only their nonsense, and
it won't do any harm. They've got a notion she's put
here to watch over you.”
To Remsen, at his time of life, a romance of that
sort would, perhaps, seem as natural as any other
happening.
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
“But I never made-believe I was any lord, or any
thing; so I don't care about that,” said Brade. “I don't
suppose any person believes it, and I don't mind” —
His young companion was not quite so ready to let a
romance go out of life: —
“But I do believe you are something, Bradey; I'm
pretty sure of it; every thing looks like it,” answered
Remsen, laying on piece after piece of probability, until
he had a pretty good pile. “And they do send away
their sons in disguise: don't we read about 'em in
books?”
“But I told you I wasn't, Nick, — I said I wasn't. I
never told anybody such nonsense. I'm just a man's
son, like any of the boys.”
“But you never saw your father, Anty,” argued
Nicholas; “nor your mother.”
“No, I never saw them,” said Antony; “but, then,
I know about them.”
“But what was he?” asked his friend. “Do you
really know?” and it might have seemed as if he were
at the very brink of the mystery.
Brade was a little fellow to have the keeping of a
secret big enough for a man; but for a moment he was
as thoughtful as a man, and then said: —
“I know a good deal about him, — to be sure I do;”
and now again it might have seemed as if the mystery
were already almost open to the eye.
As they were drawing near to the buildings, they
turned off toward the play-ground again.
“Well, won't they let you tell?” asked his companion,
eagerly.
Again Brade was silent, as they walked, and then
answered: —
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
“All I know isn't much of a secret. I should like
to tell you, I'm sure, Rem. I will, some time;” and he
locked his arm with Remsen's. “I can tell you my
mother was very beautiful, and very good,” — and he
hesitated and was bashful, as most boys would be, —
and he put up his free hand and clasped it with that
which held Remsen's arm.
“Oh, I know she was! I'm sure of it! She must have
been!” said Remsen, who evidently felt almost, if not
quite, as strongly as his friend, and whose voice hesitated
just about as much. He drew Antony's arm in
closer to himself as he spoke. “And what was your
father, Anty?” he asked.
The fading of the daylight and the chilling of the
air very likely intensified the feeling of both, although
they probably had no thought that coldness and darkness
were symbols of separation and mystery. Here
there was a silence again, as they walked, and then
what seemed like an agitated movement of the young
sharer in (more or less of) a great social or family
secret. Remsen hastened with his sympathy: —
“Oh, no matter, Bradey!” he said: “if you can't tell,
I won't ask.”
“It isn't any thing very strange, only I can't, now,”
said Brade. “You tell people there isn't any thing at
all, won't you, Remmy? There really isn't, — I'm sure
there isn't. If anybody asks you, you won't tell them
there is any thing, will you?”
Remsen promised, as strongly as if he knew the
whole already; and they turned again toward the
buildings.
After another silence as before, Brade went a little
further in his confidence: —
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
“I know my father was an honorable man.”
Remsen was quick to take this up. “There, that's
it! I knew it!” he said.
“Oh, I don't mean that!” said Antony. “I don't
mean so; but she always said `he was a man I might
be proud of.'”
“Why, I thought she died before you knew any
thing,” said his friend. “I didn't know you ever saw
her.”
Here was another bit of mystery.
“Oh! my mother died before my father did,” said
Brade, not clearing it up much.
“I'm just the same way,” said Remsen, glad to be
able to share his orphanhood, “only I've got a father.
But who was it told you?”
This question seemed to throw Antony all back. “I
don't know; let's let it all alone,” he answered. “Mr.
Warren knows. Only I know there isn't any thing
very wonderful; and there isn't any harm in it, I know
that.”
To this last assertion Remsen answered: “Oh!
nobody ever thought of that! What bad would there
be, if you had a great title?”
Young people are pretty much like older people in
the matter of curiosity, only more frank and straight-forward
with it. So Remsen tried once more at another
point, leaving these that his friend might be expected
to feel too strongly about.
“Has Mrs. Ryan got any thing to do with you?” he
asked, in this way bringing them back to the point from
which they had wandered.
Poor Antony seemed to be struggling with the difficulties
of his position, — unwilling to be so reserved
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with his friend, and yet unable to speak freely to
him.
“Remsen!” he said, pulling the arm which was
between his two hands, “I don't want to talk any
more about my things. You see, if I know any thing,
I can't tell, because I haven't got any right to; but it
isn't much.” And, when his companion had promised,
Antony made a little further advance: —
“Now mind, Nick, you won't say there is any thing,
if anybody asks you or not.” Remsen promised
again, and Brade continued: “Then I'll tell you as
much as I can. She doesn't meddle with me at all,
but I know she's good. She's one of the best persons
that ever lived in the world, — everybody'd like her,—
and the boys mustn't insult her!”
Nothing that he had said had shown more feeling
than this; and Remsen, too, was very much moved.
They were near the buildings again, and lingered.
Remsen answered for the boys: “Oh! they won't,
Bradey! they didn't mean any harm, — they won't!”
Remsen's question had been fairly answered; and yet,
if the boy thought it all over, he would see that little
change had been made in the mystery. Who Mrs.
Ryan was, and what she used to have to do with
Brade, was rather deeper in the dark than ever, because
now it was plain that there was something
between them; and yet they had nothing to do with
each other. Moreover, it had been told him that
Brade's father was a “man to be proud of,” and an
“honorable man;” but who, or what, or where the
father had been, was still as unknown as before. And
then, too, there were some people that were keeping
Antony Brade from telling all he knew, which might
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be little or much, but which was, of course, not so
much as those other people knew.
Some writers of novels describe what passes in the
minds of their several characters, as positively and
minutely as what these say and do. We cannot treat
the personages of our little drama in this way: they
seem to us too real. And so, of Remsen, we can only
say that boys of just about his cleverness, and bearing
such a relation as he bore to Brade, are capable of good
argument (wanting only experience of life), and are
more under the influence of feeling than men. The
track of reasoning which we have pointed out, Remsen,
we think, would be likely to take; and we think that
Brade's positive statements, as to what his father was
and was not, being both few and slight, would be likely,
as time went on, and as he thought the whole thing
over, now and then, to grow less and less, in proportion;
while that which was unknown and behind the
bars of secrecy, being capable of shaping into grandeur
and wonder, which Brade would well befit both in body
and spirit, and also, being capable of unstinted stretch
and growth, would be likely to fill more and more
place in his thought and memory.
The lamps were lighted when the two young friends
went in, and streams of boys, up stairs and down, and
this way and that, in the entries, were moving, as they
usually move in idle times. One boy, occupied with a
book, and another, idle, were standing under a lamp, in
a corner.
Boys never escape banter, from some one or other
of their fellows, when there is any occasion for it; and
traces of the strong feeling which Remsen and Brade
had so lately gone through were still to be seen,
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when they showed themselves in the hall, to the knots
and pairs of standers and walkers there.
“Hillo! what's the matter, Emperor?” called out
one of the loiterers, as the light fell upon Brade, who
was hurrying quietly past toward the school-room.
Brade neither stopped, nor made answer of any sort;
but Remsen took his place, and, going up to the boy
who had spoken, said quietly, —
“Look here, Charley Leavitt! he's just been telling
me about his father and mother, and he feels bad:
don't trouble him!”
“Why, can't a fellow talk about his father and
mother, without feeling bad about it?” Leavitt asked,
but lowering his tone, considerately. “His father and
mother may be very big; but I suppose every fellow's
father's the same to him.”
“Well, but his father and mother are dead,” answered
Remsen, “and he don't know very much about
'em, because they died before he was born” —
Just then an unexpected diversion was made, which
drew the conversation away from Brade, as well as
could have been wished.
“Look here!” said Towne, who was just coming
from the school-room, as Remsen had reached this
point, “how's a fello' goin' to be born when his
father and mother's dead?”
Blake, who was standing, reflectively, under the lamp,
now showed that he had his ears open.
“You needn't try that now, Towne,” he said very
gravely. “It's how you can get along, now you are
here.”
Brade and his orphanhood, and all that was unknown
about him, were forgotten by this time; so Remsen
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followed his friend into the school-room, and found
him there, surrounded by half a dozen others, who were
making out their Latin, asking him questions which he
answered without book.
Brade himself seemed entirely happy now; and, when
their hanging light needed turning up, mounted to the
top of a desk with great alacrity, before any one else,
to set it right.
As he stood there, for a moment, he was certainly a
bright-looking fellow, and, to those who can be influenced
by looks, decidedly interesting. He happened,
to be sure, to be a well-dressed boy, — and, for that
matter, altogether well-dressed: from his collar and
neck-ribbon down to his well-cut shoe, with silken
braid for tie, all having the air of a refinement inborn
in him, and showing itself in every bend and joint of
his body; and it was his good shape and features that
made his dress particularly becoming. Two or three
words more, as he is the hero of this story, we will add,
with our reader's leave, to his portrait. He had dark
hair, cut short, after the manner of school-boys of the
day, but wavy even in its shortness. A few freckles,
on his cheeks and across his nose, did not disfigure him,
but only showed the fairness and delicacy of his skin.
In fact he was, outwardly, a very good specimen of
school-boys.
An odd-looking, indeed a fantastical-looking boy
had been hovering not far away from this group during
the time that Brade had been among them, and with
his eyes very often turned to Brade, — eyes which
showed a good deal of white between the iris and the
lower lid, and gave their owner a dreamy expression.
Sometimes he drew near, and was apparently just
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ready to speak, and sometimes moved off again, but
never to any considerable distance. As Brade jumped
down to the floor, the boy, starting suddenly forward,
took him by the arm, drawing him toward the side of
the room, and saying, at the same time, —
“Look here, Bradey! I want to tell you something.”
“Never mind Peters, Brade! he can wait. What
does `obvenerat' mean?” called out one of the studious
company engaged at the desk. “Oh! here's Meadows!
Come along, Meadows: we want to pump you.” But
the new-comer, winding between desks and across
seats, found his way to his own books, and sat down by
himself.
Brade, who had moved a little way off with Peters,
now stood still and asked, like one going against his
will, whether it was “any thing very particular.”
“Yes, yes!” said Peters, “something very particular,
indeed. It won't take a minute;” and he tried to
draw Brade aside still further.
“He wants to tell you about St. George and the
Dragon, or Sir William Wallace, or something he's
been reading!” Nick Remsen called out.
“No, I don't, — really and truly. Really I don't,”
pleaded Peters. Brade yielded again, and went a little
way further apart.
“May I trap with you?” Peters asked. “You know
I'm pretty lucky.”
“Oh! that's all!” said Brade. “You must ask Remsen:
I don't mind, if he doesn't. Was that all?”
“No, it wasn't all,” said the other boy, hesitatingly,
as if he had some reluctance about saying all that he
had to say. “Look here!” he began, with a queer
sort of abruptness, “you didn't want any succor out
there, to-night, did you?”
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The most important word in this sentence not being
a boy's word, he slurred over, in his pronunciation, as
if a little afraid of it.
“Why no! I didn't want any supper out there,” said
Brade, laughing. “I don't know what you're talking
about;” and he looked over toward the others, as if
to see if they were watching.
No one seemed to be attending to them (Remsen
being engaged in lively conversation with one or more
of the Latin-readers, the chief speaker of whom he
called Wadham); and Peters, having apparently satisfied
himself of the same fact, said with great earnestness,
as if he had something on his mind or conscience
till he could get rid of it, —
“They used to call it `succor' when they went round
helping everybody, in the old times,” — he did not say
days of chivalry, — “but I mean when that black lady
was there. You wasn't afraid of her, were you?”
The poor fellow was thinking more of what he wanted
to say than of his grammar.
“Afraid of her?” asked Brade, impatiently. “No!
what should I be afraid of?”
“You don't believe she's any thing but a common
woman; do you?” Peters asked.
Brade fired at this. “What do you mean by `a common
woman'?” he asked.
“Why, a woman with great power,” answered the
other, innocently, “one that can do more than a common
person. They were laughing at me about chivalry;
but I'd have dared to go, if it had been necessary. I
would, indeed!” Peters pleaded as if his character or
happiness depended upon Brade's believing him.
Antony's expression of indignation was changed, at
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[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
once, for an expression of contempt, which Peters
seemed to feel deeply.
“She can't do you any harm, can she?” Peters
asked.
To Brade, at this distance of time from the late
scene on the play-ground, and the talks with Remsen,
no painful recollections needed to have been called up
by such a reminder as this from Alonzo Peters; but
he seemed now inclined to be angry at any reference to
what had passed; and having turned his eyes again
toward the other boys in the school-room, as if to see
if any of them were hearing, he answered: —
“No! what harm do you suppose she's going to do
me? You needn't come meddling between me and anybody.”
“I don't want to meddle,” said poor Peters, who was
pitched upon such a key that he could not make himself
understood.
“I should think gentlemen's sons would know better
than to insult a woman,” said Brade. “If they want to
plague me, they may.”
“Did they insult her?” asked Peters. “That's just
what the knights were for, — to prevent people's being
insulted. But the fellows thought she was a sort of a
watch, or a sort of a woman with great power” —
Brade interrupted him: —
“But what fools they must be! They're not babies,
to believe any such nonsense.”
“Well,” said Peters, “I didn't mean to insult her (you
know I've only got a mother), — only, if you wanted
anybody to stand by you, I wouldn't be afraid.” (It
was strange what a valorous young person this slight,
large-eyed, flaxen stripling professed to be.)
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“I don't want anybody to stand by me about that,”
said Brade; “and I only wish not to hear any more
about it, please.”
At this moment they heard the Tutor's signal, and
became aware that every one was hurrying to his own
seat for roll-call; and so their conference suddenly
ended, with a hurried request from Peters, taking Brade
by a button, —
“I can trap with you, can't I?” so eager, that Brade
laughed, as he answered that “he didn't care.”
“What did that old Peters want?” asked Remsen,
as they went to supper; and when he heard the proposition
about trapping, which was all that Brade
reported, objected strongly to “taking that moony
fellow in.” He yielded, however, to his friend's good-natured
mediation, and was persuaded at last that they
could get along with Peters easily, — a conclusion which
he filled out by adding, “We needn't have him with
us much, anyhow.”
-- -- p637-077
CHAPTER VII. TOWNE'S PLAN.
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
Boys' secret plans may not be very deep; but there
is in laying them and carrying them out often immense
excitement and profuse concealment, which last, indeed,
sometimes defeats itself, and is the cause of discovery.
There are some boys who think themselves more cunning
than all the race of tutors, who may be abashed
perhaps, and depressed momentarily, by a discovery,
and then rally their self-confidence again, and brag as
before. So, too, there are others who accept these
heroes' estimate of their own capacity, and follow
them; and others again, who, whether they believe in
their leaders or not, are ready for a frolic or a plot, and
tumble into it as they would tumble into a boat which
another was pushing off shore. No adventure is without
attraction for boys. Towne, as we may remember,
had professed to know a trick for discovering the hidden
relation between the woman in black dress and
Antony Brade, and from the moment of its conception
worked pretty sedulously at it.
Wilkins was one of the first of his confidants, and
enjoyed the enterprise extremely. A good deal of this
confederate's activity was bestowed in giving intimations,
aside, to boys — particularly boys larger than
himself — that something good was going on. Others,
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[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
not saying much themselves, laughed meaningly, when
spoken to about the secret, and gave it to be understood
that they knew all about it. In this way was
created a pretty general expectancy in the school.
Towne himself was going about making requests or
holding conferences, apart, with different boys, generally
laughing and gesticulating much while he talked,
and having the appearance of being very busy.
He was not indiscriminate in these conferences, for at
the approach of certain boys — as Remsen and others—
he was at once silent, or drew away his listener.
Tom Hutchins he often addressed, and was listened to
a little loftily, as by one in advance of him. Most of
his confederates were of his own Form or lower. One
thing very inopportunely interfered with the devotion
of these cunning fellows to business, and very much
cut up the spare time which they could bestow on
their preparation for carrying out the plan, whatever
it was.
This inconvenient and ill-timed obstacle was the
keeping-in of many or most of the knowing ones —
Towne pre-eminently, always — for disorder somewhere
or other, in school or dormitory or wash-room,
or elsewhere; for not knowing lessons, or for chalking
backs, or kicking other fellows' feet, or tickling ears
in the recitation-room, or setting crooked pins, like
Bruce's caltrops at Bannockburn, with the point up, on
the seat of an unfortunate fellow reciting, who is using
all the wits he can find in his head upon Cæsar's accusatives
and infinitives and se and sibi, or the Greek aorist
participle, which he takes for a second person singular.
Day after day, as the sun slowly went down the western
side of the sky, he described his wide segment of a
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
circle over the head of Towne and his companions in
misfortune, scattered in the school-room with dreary
faces, sometimes bent over a book, and sometimes
turned reproachfully at the unsympathizing school-room
clock. The time had been when Towne had tried
the persistent practice of not learning, and persistent
assertion of his inability to learn the “lines” imposed,
quoting his father and possibly his grandfather in support
of the assertion; but as this, instead of bringing
him an easy remission, had heaped up the unlearned
lines unremittingly, he had of necessity conformed
somewhat to inexorable conditions, and taken to doing
some reluctant and indignant work at his task. He
made amends (as far as it would go) by complaining
aloud, out-doors, when at length, with all kept-in boys,
he was set free for the afternoon at half-past four
o'clock.
What time he had to himself, however, he used
pretty industriously. In a corner of the gymnasium,
seated on one of the mattresses, until the noise of foot-ball
or hockey grew too loud to be endured passively
by a boy who certainly had a constitutional love of
play, if he had not a constitutional inability to learn
“lines,” he was busy at “some black thing” (so it was
said), and had a door-keeper to watch against sudden
intrusion. As may be supposed, few of the boys cared
for Sam Towne's secret operations; and Blake, of “Ulterior-College”-
notoriety, said, in his absurd way, that
“old Towne was one of those fellows that would
climb up a tree to get a good tumble.” Almost everybody
would be content to wait the development of
time to know his great secret. The post of door-keeper,
therefore, even though it combined the duties
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
of general watch, grew tiresome and stupid, for there
was nothing to do in it. While things were in this
state, on the second or third afternoon, the shortening
days and chilly evenings giving warning of winter
coming, and making the blood in healthy boys run fast
to keep warm, Towne was singing “Dixie” in his corner,
when Nick Remsen walked quietly in, to look for
a hockey-stick, which, as he said, he had left there, and
(as it happened) under the very mattress on which
Towne was sitting.
That industrious fellow, almost before Remsen had
taken the place of his shadow inside the door, had
managed to thrust under himself, and to spread himself
over, the greater part of a quantity of black stuff on
which he had been working with needle and thread
while he sang.
The song he continued, looking aloft at the beams
of the ceiling, and trying to seem very much taken up
with it. As soon, however, as he allowed himself to
espy the intruder, which he could not help doing soon,
and had asked him the apparently purposeless question,
“Where he came from?” Towne rolled himself over,
carrying the mattress over him, and leaving the floor
bare for Remsen to satisfy himself. Now, of course,
Remsen, seeing so good a chance, instantly rolled the
mattress as far over as it would go, — suppressing
Towne entirely under it, — and then put himself on
top, to keep him down; and of course Towne, like
Enceladus under Ætna, made mighty struggles, which
Remsen set himself to resist. There is a wondrous
leverage in the joints of legs and arms, which, the moment
Towne could bring them to bear, carried mattress
and boy together right over, — for Remsen's weight
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
added to that of the mattress was not much; but, as
the mattress fell to the floor, there fell, at the same
moment, Towne's secret. This looked like a black
gown, but whether feminine or academic there was
scarce time to see; for Towne gathered it hurriedly up,
and, keeping it on the further side of himself, made it
into a parcel, while the other boy, swinging his hockey-stick,
departed, being met outside by Antony Brade.
At this juncture the door-keeper made his appearance,
and was sharply reproved; “for what business had
he to go away just when a fellow was going to poke his
nose in where he wasn't wanted?” Poor Wilkins (for
he it was who was officiating in the undesirable post of
watchman) excused himself on the ground that “he
hadn't been away more than a minute,” and also that
“he had been there all the time,” and ended with the
unanswerable appeal, “who could tell that a fellow
would be coming just then?” — which excuses, as there
was no help for it, and Towne was not an absolutely
irresponsible despot, with bowstring or beheading-block
at his service, were necessarily accepted.
Then Towne, taking the state of things as it was,
told Wilkins that “they must hurry up and get through
with the job, or their secret would be all found out;
that he himself was not quite ready, but was ready
enough, he guessed; and now was the time!” Wilkins
began at once to be impatient, and danced, and looked
out at the door for other untimely visitors. Then, by
the leader of the great secret, three extraordinarily significant
whistles were given, outside of the gymnasium,
and then (having failed of effect the first time) were
repeated, and again repeated, and again and again
repeated, until at length, as Towne kept marching
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about like a bagpiper, while he uttered his signals, one
boy after another, as if just waking up to the meaning
of things, came running to him, to the number of four
or five, — for the most part pretty small lads.
One of these was sent straight off, with much
authority, to summon Wadham First, who was within
sight, and the others were kept waiting till the leader
was ready for them.
Towne advanced, like a man full of a good deal, to
meet Wadham, and sent the messenger back to the
rest.
“Look here, Wadham,” said Towne, “I've got the
best thing! I want you to get a black dress from your
house, — I'll take good care of it. I'm going to dress
up like that Mrs. Ryan, — only in fun, you know, —
just to see what Brade 'll do. I was making one, but
they found me out, and I don't want 'em to know it.”
Wadham, if not as enthusiastic as the contriver of
this scheme, entered into it with some spirit, possibly
because he may have known the state of things at
home. Accordingly, he undertook to supply what was
wanted; and Towne, having pledged him to secrecy, left
him, to join his own followers.
These, with a lofty summons of “Come, fellows!” he
drew off, not into, but behind the gymnasium, and there
held a secret conference with them, laying out plans
and assigning duties.
Wilkins (of gentle blood, late door-keeper) claimed
and obtained the general office of what he called
“peekin',” asserting also that “a fellow'd got to know
what he was about to do `peekin” well.”
“Now, Wilkins,” said Towne, “you'll have to be
sharper'n you ever was in your life.” (“Why, I'm
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
always sharp,” said Wilkins.) “And,” continued
Towne, not heeding this suggestion, “you'll have to
give a signal, — you'll have to say something if a tutor
comes. But Fatty Dover's most importance. Now,
Fatty, you've got to rig right up, as soon's the lamp
goes out, and come to Royalty's alcove, and walk right
in, — you ain't to show your face, remember, — and,
quick as you come in (I shall be there, you know), quick
as you come in, I'll show the dark lantern right on you,
and say, `Why, Mrs. Ryan,' or something, you know,”
he said, with a little bashfulness, when he came to
authorship in the English language, however bold and
self-confident about the other effort of his mind, which
he was detailing. “I'll say something. Then you see
what he'll do.” So said the author of this cunning
plan, confidently. Whether one plot would or would
not have differed much from another, to their apprehension,
certainly this seemed to meet their approval.
Allowing a moment for his allies to take in the character
of his contrivance at this culminating point, and
taking as cheers and as what grammarians call “rhetorical
question” their inquiries, What he thought
Brade would do? would he fight her? or would he
be frightened? he then went on to show how he had
provided for all emergencies and contingencies; how
he first, and “Fatty” next, were to get out of Brade's
window, at the first alarm, and, as the contriver expressed
it, “put for bed, flat-footed, over the school-room
roof.”
“But they'll find that dress,” said Fatty Dover, looking
into the future, as so many plotters have done
before.
“No, they won't find that dress,” answered Towne.
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[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
“You strip it off, like a duck sheds water, and chuck it
right over the roof, and get into bed, — that's all you've
got to do; and after they've gone and all quiet, I'll go
down and fetch it. Well, suppose they did find it,” he
continued, second thoughts coming up to him, “it'll
be fun to have Wilson hold it up in the school-room.
Only,” — here third thoughts came in, showing that
our young friend had not bad feelings, — “I wouldn't
like any disrespect of a respectable woman; but I've
got that all fixed complete.”
From the smile which brightened the leader's face, as
he contemplated his own skill and sure success in providing
for the recovery of the dress, — a smile, indeed,
which might be said to pervade his whole body, for it
not only drew out the corners of his eyes, and mouth,
and nose, but drew his elbows out also, and bent his
back and knees, — it might be thought that, on the
whole, this last contemplated piece of cleverness was the
crowning contrivance of the whole plan.
The allies were eager to share in this part of the
secret, and in the leader's satisfaction; but he put them
all off, with the assurance that “they'd know, bymby.”
Wilkins claimed special confidence, on the ground that
“he was goin' to peek out for everybody.” But he
teased in vain, Towne telling him that if he used that
word so much they'd call him “Peak o' Gibraltar” next
(asking if he wasn't right in supposing there was a
Peak of Gibraltar). There were some things that, like
a leader, he knew how to keep to himself; and, in short,
Towne kept his secret, and, having cautioned Fatty
Dover and the rest not to say a word or give a look to
anybody about the business, he dismissed them.
Now, having Wilkins alone, he satisfied that worthy
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[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
confederate's curiosity; for by this time, very likely, he
was itching to communicate.
“Look here, Willicks,” said he, “if this ain't the best
thing yet. You know that old empty cask the masons
put there, by the school-room corner? Well” (and here
he chuckled), “a fellow that's only half good at gymnastics
can let himself down off the roof there, as easy's
not. But that ain't all: it's big, you know; and I
wouldn't be afraid but what I could hide in there
against anybody, — if he wa'n't too near. There ain't
any moon, now; and you know my gymnastic dress is
all gray. Well, you can't see that, in the night.”
“Loose, too,” said Wilkins, “so you would not look
so solid, would you?”
This support from the science of Optics, Towne
neither accepted nor rejected, in words, but continued
on his own line: —
“You know the rebel cruisers were painted gray, in
the war, and our vessels couldn't see 'em. They'd run
right before their noses, an' they couldn't see 'em. As
quick's he'd gone by, I'd go up on the roof in a jiffy,
and into bed, before he'd get along upstairs.”
To most of us the American navy is synonymous
with whatever is daring and successful; and no doubt
these two American boys had the true feeling of American
boys toward the pet and pride of the nation.
But Wilkins had yet a standard of comparison which
held its own, even in face of the American navy.
“Would you run in those clo'es, right before a
Tootor's nose?” he asked.
If we had heard this sentence spoken, we should
very likely have laughed at the ludicrous figure presented
of Towne, in his athletic suit, capering invisibly
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
before the unsuspecting eyes of an official, or we should
have seized upon the rhyme, and rung the changes on
it, perhaps. But Towne heard it in the same sense,
probably, in which the author conceived it, and to him
one word drew off the force of all the rest. “Yes,
sir,” said he, “I don't believe but what I could.”
“I don't believe you could before Mr. Bruce,” said
the propounder of the question, — “you, nor nobody
else.”
The conversation had been turned aside by this new
element brought in; and, as if the private conference
were over, the two boys walked away. As they passed
the gymnasium door, a new turn was given to their
thoughts; for Remsen and Brade were chasing each
other on the ladders, up one, across another, down the
third, by the hands, as busily and as noisily as if their
lives depended on it.
“There's Remsen and Royalty!” said Towne. “I
wonder we didn't hear 'em. I hope they didn't hear
us, — there's a window open.”
Wilkins found comfort in the fact, to which he called
his friend's attention, that the two boys were a great
way off from the window. But this did not satisfy
Towne, who said that “boys could move.”
“Let's go in and chase 'em all over those timbers, in
the gymnasium,” he proposed; and added, in a whisper,
“if they've been listening, and heard what we're
going to do, you take Royalty (he's the smallest), and
I'll take Remsen, and if I catch him, won't I —?” And
he slapped his thigh with strong emphasis.
The notion of the wise contriver, Towne, seemed to
be that a little advantage gained over the two boys
would keep up the ascendency of the great plot. Let
-- 074 --
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us, therefore, look upon the athletic contest which is coming
as a little skirmishing before the lines of the great
battle; boyish, indeed, but into which, for the time, is
turned the whole current of young life.
Wilkins excused himself from his share, as not being
“much of a gymnast,” and being obliged to save “himself
for bymby, when he'd have to be pretty sharp.”
“Come on, old Gray-breeches,” cried Brade, who,
though a good way off, seemed to have overheard the
conversation. “Wilkins is pretty sharp, and he won't
try me. You're the man, and I'll give you plenty of
chance. I'm so `small,' you know.”
That epithet “Gray-breeches” might or might not
refer to the “gymnasium suit” which was to play an
important part in the approaching adventure. Brade's
face did not show whether it had or had not any
special application, for he was full of excitement for
the play.
Towne, too, as soon as Brade, sliding down a rope,
began to “dare” him, set off, at the utmost speed of
longer legs than Brade's, in pursuit.
Then, if their mothers could have seen them, there
would have been many a shriek, and possibly some
hysterics. Up and down ladders, up ropes and down
ropes, and down and up the same rope, along crossbeams,
springing and catching by the hands, swinging
up and catching by the legs, heels over head and head
over heels, — what a race that was, with Remsen and
Wilkins cheering! Remsen, it must be confessed, twice
to Wilkins's once.
Where length and strength would have an advantage,
Towne gained; where litheness and nimbleness, used as
fearlessly as on flat ground, could play their full part,
there Brade got the better, for he turned faster.
-- 075 --
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Towne tried familiar sleights, to lure his antagonist
within his reach. He sat up, with folded arms and
closed eyes, at a beam's end. He sat, with back turned,
in the middle of a beam, and counted aloud. He
asked such thoughtful and abstracted questions as
whether his hearer, whoever he might be, “supposed
there really ever was such a man as Duncigetorix,” or
“What's the cube-root of a quotient?” He busied
himself with carefully untying and tying a shoe. By
all these devices he got nothing but to be told that there
was such a place as Dunci-Towne, and he had better
not try scholarship.
Great struggles have their breathing-times; and
when, flushed and panting, the two antagonists sat
astride of different beams, watching each other, then,
too, Towne offered, like greater generals, when worsted
or unsuccessful, — like Artaxerxes to the Ten Thousand
Hellenes, or Pyrrhus, the Epirote, to the Romans,—
that “Royalty” should give in. In return he received
a shout of scorn, and a challenge to reverse the order
of things: he might run, and Brade would follow.
This he accepted, and again the flight and chase began,
hotter than ever.
Brade got, every now and then, near the shod ends of
Towne's long legs and close to his hands. But once,
as he came, in the eagerness of pursuit, to the top of a
rope which Towne had just slid down and clutched it,
he swung over, and falling came down in a heap on
one of the mattresses, as still as a stone. Remsen
rushed up with a cry of alarm, and Wilkins, too, rushed
up; and although Towne held off, and called it a “make-believe,”
yet when he saw the two sympathizers in earnest,
and the lithe and handsome boy lying silent and
helpless, he also hurried forward to help.
-- 076 --
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Remsen had not succeeded in getting the cap off the
face over which it had been thrust in the fall, and Wilkins
had not yet thought of any thing to be done.
Towne had probably seen or heard of such things
before.
“Stretch him out! stretch him out!” said he, bending
over, and laying hold of one of the half-doubled
hands: “that's the way they do.”
In an instant he was dragged down, and had taken
Brade's place, receiving, as he went to it, two or three
sharp applications of the two friends' hands, such as he
had himself intended to apply. Then Wilkins, his supporter,
was tumbled down on top of him, with as many
or more like applications; and then Brade made his
escape by the door, followed by Remsen.
“I knoo he was only makin' b'lieve,” said Wilkins.
“Let 'em go!” said Towne, not questioning his ally's
sagacity, but wiping his own wet forehead with a great
colored handkerchief. “He can't try that dodge again.
Come along, and I'll show you something. Look out
for those two fellows.”
The coast was clear outside; and Towne, with Wilkins
in company, went warily but quickly over to the
hogshead.
“Look here!” said he, peering in and lifting up a
piece of board, “I'd squat down low under this, and
then, if anybody should feel in, he'd think it was the
bottom, in the night, or he'd think there was something
under it, and he wouldn't want to feel down. Hullo!
there's some water! it's good I saw it. Villicks, you
pour it out, while I look out for those two fellows.”
Wilkins proceeded with alacrity to his task, but
made no more impression upon the strongly grounded
-- 077 --
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hogshead than he might have made upon the crater of
Vesuvius, by pulling at one side of it. Then Towne
gave his length of arm and weight of body to the
work; and then the two together soon brought the
further chines of the huge vessel over, and, as they got
it to a balance, Towne cautioned his far-descended
friend “not to let it come down too hard, or they
would have Mr. Stout after them, for he was in the
barn.”
Slowly and wisely they were lowering it, — Towne,
with successive mechanical appliances, was at the same
time working and teaching. They were standing now
at that angle at which Atlas is represented in his most
authentic portrait, where his great hands grasp his
knees and prop his body, on which the world is resting.
The boys' hands were at the level of their knees, on
which the lower lip of the hogshead was resting, while
the experienced Towne was showing his subordinate
how “they were going to lower it to its side so
softly it wouldn't break a robin's egg,” when, without
the slightest warning, while the boys were thus stooping, —
one talking and one listening, as they worked, —
the storm-house door, close by, burst open, a rush was
made, “Oppidum!” cried Brade's voice, and down
upon the most prominent and exposed part of each
laboring workman fell a flat blow, loud and farresounding.
The effect was instantaneous.
“Outch!” cried Wilkins, at his share of the infliction.
“Hold on!” said Towne, in spite of his. But at the
word the hogshead went heavily to the earth, rolled
swashing and lumbering down the little slope, gained
strength with going, broke short off at the ground one
weakly clothes-post, and laid it low with a crash, then,
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
sidling round, was making across the green for another,
with a hollow rumbling, that sounded as if it enjoyed
mischief. Towne and Wilkins, with one glance, seeing
most likely from the beginning what was likely to be the
end, followed the two aggressors, overtook Brade, whom
they treated as he had served them, and could not
overtake Remsen, who in running easily kept out of
reach. As Mr. Stout came from the barn, with a quiet
but quick and business-like step, to the late scene of
action, Towne and his follower began to come back,
having evidently no intention of running away.
Mr. Stout was a thin, middle-aged man, with a strong
New England face. He walked with a hitch in his step,
as if from rheumatism.
Now he, having cast a look after the riotous hogshead,
and also called to it to “stop when it got ready to,”
proceeded to the broken and overthrown post, lifted its
lower end, and gave a short glance at the break, and
ended by a nod of the head. The vagrant hogshead
had by this time missed the other clothes-posts and
brought up, lengthwise, against a bank of earth. Mr.
Stout called to Towne and Wilkins.
“I want you boys should bring that cask back, as
fast as it went away, and set it up just where it came
from.” And this he said like a man that was accustomed
to do what he ought to do himself, and have
other people do what they ought to do.
“I'll do it, Mr. Stout,” answered Towne, with great
alacrity.
“And when you've got it there, I want you should
leave it there,” continued that definite man.
“Mr. Stout!” said Towne, “we didn't roll it down
at all, sir: all we did was, we tipped it down just as
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
carefully as we could, or as anybody could, — I don't
care who he is, — we did, really.”
“Yes, that's plain to be seen,” said Mr. Stout, grimly,
as he set up the late involuntary agent of mischief
firmly on its broad base again. “You found him here
so dreadful uneasy and mischievous, and thrashing all
round, you thought you'd just lay him down where he'd
be quiet. I see all that plain enough. But now, boys,
I want you should let it stand where I put it, and I
guess it'll take about as good care of itself as you'll
take care of it.”
“We will,” said Towne, leading off. “Yes, we will,”
added Wilkins. Then, turning back, the leader asked,
“Do you want us to put that water in again, that was
spilt?”
“No, — I thank you,” said Mr. Stout, with a pause before
the thanks.
Towne led off again, saying aside to Wilkins, “All
we wanted was to get the water out. Let's go and have
a turn at shinney.” And they ran off.
As they disappeared, the other two came up hastily,
after stopping to confer a little on the way, and caught
Mr. Stout half way back to the barn again. Brade
planted himself in front of the busy-looking man, and
with a strongly persuasive look in his face, and holding
by the front of Mr. Stout's waistcoat, and being drawn
along, he said, —
“Mr. Stout! Mr. Stout! Won't you put that water
in again, with your hose? and won't you let us see
you? Do, Mr. Stout! won't you?”
“Boys are very good at asking for what they want,
don't you think they be?” said Mr. Stout, walking on,
as straight as he could.
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
“The engine's pumping now,” urged the boy.
“And we'll see how long it takes to fill it half full
with the hose,” said Remsen, adding an inducement to
Mr. Stout's curiosity.
“May we?” asked Brade, shaking the front of the
waistcoat which he held.
“We never saw it go; and I've got a watch,” said
Remsen, continuing the line of his appeal. “Oh! do
now, Mr. Stout!”
“S'pose I should, what's the great hurry?” asked the
man, used to boys.
“We want to do it before the other fellows come,”
said Remsen.
Mr. Stout during all this urgency did not change a
muscle of his face, and now, with the same unchanged
look, he brought the colloquy to a happy end, by saying, —
“Well, there's no getting away from boys;” and he
turned and walked back with them, amid their profuse
thanks.
Brade was stationed near the corner of the laundry,
to watch and give warning; and Remsen took upon
him to handle the hose.
-- -- p637-094
CHAPTER VIII. ON THE EDGE OF IT.
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
Time was going on: the dark evening was drawing
near, and with it that chill was closing in, which seems
to wait a little way off for twilight. The shouts and
cries of boys engaged, not far away, “at shinney” or
“hockey,” came round the corner of the house, while
Brade stood anxiously on watch, and Remsen impatiently
coaxed the utmost out of the hose. Just as the
quarter-bell before tea began to ring, Remsen gave
a shout of success, to which Brade answered.
Towne had not stopped to look on at hockey, but had
with all his might, and with his friend behind him, gone
in for a share in that eager play. With no fear of consequences,
he rushed into the thick of the game, while
Wilkins, acting like a fellow who had knowledge
enough of anatomy to know where his own shins were,
and had sense enough to take care of them, kept well
outside.
On his way to the wash-room, and afterward, on his
way to tea, Towne was a little noisy and exultant over
some “high old time” that he was going to have. He
and Wilkins each got a few “lines” for disorder at the
table; and in the school-room, after tea, “lines” fell
upon them and others of their allies from time to time,
for idleness and whispering, and passing notes; and
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when, at last, the signal for First Bedtime was given,
Towne and Wilkins and Fatty Dover were all called
back and received a few more lines for disorder in
hurrying out of the school-room.
“Never mind, fellows,” said Towne, partly in a loud
whisper, and partly in a low voice, as he saw the coast
clear of the departing tutor, “now for it! You, Fatty,
must get your dress on as soon as the light's out in the
dormitory, and tutor all gone. I'll give the signal this
way: `Ahem! ahem!' You'll have to be listening, for
it won't be loud, but just the way you heard, — `ahem!
ahem!' Nobody'll ever suspect that;” and, to do him
justice, the signal had a very innocent sound. But
Fatty Dover was in a condition to need stiffening. He
did not seem to himself at all calculated to carry out
the chief part.
“'Tain't the chief part,” said Towne; and as Dover
objected that Towne had told him it was, he was
assured by the leader that “it was the principal part,
but it hadn't got any talking, and it wa'n't dangerous,
for he, the leader, was to be in there, and he was the
only one that had got any thing to say.”
The irresolute subordinate objected that “it was
close by Mr. Cornell's door.”
“Do you s'pose I haven't looked out for that?” asked
Towne, scornfully. “What sort of a fellow should I
be to manage things, if I didn't know enough to look
out for that? Mr. Cornell's going out, and he's going
to be out the whole evening. I heard him say so to
Mr. Bruce.”
“So did I,” said Wilkins. Others confirmed this
statement.
“You've only got to be spunky!” said Wilkins, whose
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
blood of generations was in a glow. “Why, I've got
to be peekin' out all the time, and that's more dangerous
than any thing else, ain't it, Towne?”
Without heeding this question, in the press of his
duties, Towne gave or repeated his hurried directions.
“There's the five-minute bell!” said he. “Now remember!
You, Fatty, get ready, as soon as the lamp goes
out, and start out when I give the signal, and come
right to Brade's alcove; and, Wilkins, you come out by
Mr. Cornell's door, and watch; and, if you hear any
stirring, ask if you may go and get a drink; and,
Fatty, that's the signal; quick's you hear that, follow
me right out the window, and then shut the window
down, and along the roof, just the way we've been
doing; and, Leavitt, you and Ransom have got to make
sure and light a light in the wash-room, as quick as the
tutor's gone, and be washing away there like every
thing, — all over your heads. There! there!” said he,
summarily bringing his instructions to an end, as the
tutor called out, “Towne! Dover! Wilkins! Ransom!
Leavitt! Tarleton! late!”
Towne tried the persuasiveness of words, and began
pleading that “he had had something very particular
to say to those boys, and they didn't know how time
went.” But this well-devised though not strictly original
phrase fell flat, and answered no good purpose:
the leader and his followers were hurried away to their
alcoves, and left to find comfort in the coming success
of their scheme. In due course the lamp was put out,
and the tutor departed.
-- -- p637-097
CHAPTER IX. THE DOING.
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
Whoever has lifted the curtains of boys' alcoves,
soon after their inmates have gone to bed, and has
looked lovingly in, has seen a pretty sight. Generally,
the faces are lying most restfully, with hand under
cheek, and in many cases look strangely younger than
when awake, and often very infantile, as if some trick
of older expression, which they had been taught to
wear by day, had been dropped the moment the young
ambitious will had lost control. The lids lie shut over
bright, busy eyes; the air is gently and evenly fanned
by coming and going breaths; there is a little crooked
mound in the bed; along the bed's foot, or on a chair
beside it, are the day-clothes, sometimes neatly folded,
sometimes huddled off, in a hurry; bulging with balls,
or, in the lesser fellows, marbles; stained with the earth
of many fields where woodchucks have been trapped,
or perhaps torn with the roughnesses of trees on which
squirrels' holes have been sought; perhaps wet and
mired with the smooth black or gray mud from
marshes or the oozy banks of streams, where muskrats
have been tracked. Under the bed's foot, after a
hard share in all the play and toil of the day, lie the
shoes, — one on its side, — with the gray and white
socks, now creased and soiled, thrown across them; a
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
cross is at the head, some illuminated text at the side;
and there, in their little cells, squared in the great mass
of night, heedless how the earth whirls away with
them or how the world goes, who is thinking of them
or what is doing at home, the busiest people in the
world are resting for the morrow.
All was still, that night, after the Tutor's going.
Then, as the great constellations, made up of tremendous
worlds, and the huge separate glowing stars, were
all going through their vast turning in the boundless
emptiness of space, so the lesser plan of Towne began
its working in the Lower Dormitory at St. Bart's.
Scarcely had all grown still, when two sounds, by no
means noisy, from the throat of the leader, announced
to the associates in enterprise and peril that the work
was to begin. A flash of light might have been seen in
the dormitory, and possibly something like a chuckle from
some young voice was followed by another chuckle from
another young voice. As the light lasted, many curtains
were shaken, and many faces appeared looking
out from them as suddenly as flashes of northern lights
show themselves all over the side of the sky. All in
the same moment came a cry of alarm from the upper
end of the dormitory, something like, “Get out, you!”
and in that part might be seen, by a dim light prevailing
there, a female figure in black dress and hat, retreating
precipitately from a counterpart female figure in ghastly
white dress and hat, precisely like, in shape and making,
to the other, though on a somewhat larger scale.
In another moment the black female had scrambled
away from before the white, and disappeared behind
the curtain of an alcove, from which came forth
repeated cries of, “Keep it off! keep it off!”
-- 086 --
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All this could not be gone through with without
excitement, as indeed what street is there, in what
town, where a scene like this could be enacted, with
faces on all sides looking out upon it from windows,
without a good deal of excitement? Curtains were
suddenly drawn aside, and now a gathering of young
figures in long white dresses began to take place in the
middle of the room, the white counterpart of the
woman in black having disappeared as effectually as
the black figure. There was still a faint light at the
upper end where the two apparitions had been.
The elder boys were asking and answering questions,
with here and there a little fellow standing near; but,
of the small boys, most stood in the doorways of their
alcoves, holding the curtains aside and looking forth
with curiosity or apprehension.
Even the younger boys at school learn a good deal
of self-control; and therefore none of these committed
himself, hastily, by words. Two or three seemed to
understand the whole thing, and were laughing heartily,
and trying to keep down the sound.
One voice was heard, but half-restrained, exclaiming,
“What a fool that fellow is, to be frightened! He
thought it was a ghost, most likely; and ghosts have
been dead these thousand years, — there ain't any now!”
And so, venting his indignation, the owner of this
voice was walking up towards the light which still
burned at the upper end, when all at once there was a
general flutter and dispersion of the small boys; the
light went out, a tone of authority was heard, close by
the side of this malcontent, saying, “Towne, go to Mr.
Cornell's door, and wait there!” and a whining sort of
appeal from a third voice, “Mr. Bruce, sir! please, sir,
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
may I go and get a drink?” at which there was a
many-throated laugh of derision from curtained alcoves
at the untimeliness of this request. Towne, also,
laughed a short laugh, as he walked. Moreover, while
these things were going on, all at once the larger boys
in the middle of the floor at the same moment were
saying, “We didn't have any thing to do with it, sir; we
only came out to see what was going on,” and were
told mildly to go to their alcoves, and thereupon dispersed.
Mr. Bruce had lighted a candle which he carried, and
went straight to the alcove in which the black figure
had disappeared, and from which the cries of terror
had come, but which was now as silent as all the
others.
“Dover!” said he, drawing aside the curtain; and
Dover, in his usual voice, answered. All around was
altogether still.
“What were you making all that noise about?” asked
the Tutor.
“I didn't know I was making a noise,” said Dover.
“I judge it was you by the voice,” Mr. Bruce said,
“calling, `Get out!' or something like it.”
“I was frightened, sir,” answered Dover, treading
along the dizzying brink of discovery, if not with strong
and dauntless stride, yet with unexpectedly firm step,
if one might judge by his voice.
The Tutor bade Dover come to him after breakfast,
and in the mean time to keep his bed and go to sleep;
and then went across the dormitory to the opposite
alcove. Here Remsen was in bed, and, like a sensible
fellow, was not making-believe to be asleep; and near
the curtain, as the candle showed, was standing our
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
young friend Antony, looking somewhat sheepish, but
quite as much amused at the recognition.
Mr. Bruce did not smooth the front of authority: —
“I'm sorry to have to speak to you” (Brade, though
he said nothing and looked down, had certainly not a
very guilty expression). “You know it's a very serious
offence, Brade,” he said, “to be found in another's
alcove.”
Young Brade looked up, ready to speak, but did not
interrupt. The Tutor paused.
“I didn't come to anybody's alcove, sir,” he answered.
“Of course you know what you're saying,” said Mr.
Bruce. “You were in Remsen's alcove a minute ago:
do you mean to say you were brought there?”
The boy stood in his long white night-gown, with
his bare feet on the bare floor, half full of fun, half full of
fear.
“Oh, no, sir, not that,” said Antony. “But I mean
I didn't come up the dormitory to go to anybody's
alcove: I only ran in there to hide away.”
Mr. Bruce's voice changed, decidedly for the softer,
and doubtless his face showed as great a change.
“Come to me immediately after breakfast,” he said,
as he had said to Dover. “Now go to bed instantly,
Brade, and go to sleep as soon as possible.”
Before the words were well spoken, Brade, in his
white night-gown, was scampering down to the other
end, and across the dormitory.
Mr. Bruce looked into each alcove as he went down, and
then up the other side. Towne, meanwhile, danced and
took different attitudes, as if to keep himself warm
and occupied, at his tiresome post. At length the Tutor
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
came back and found time to attend to him, making
this little address: —
“Now, Towne, it's very unpleasant to find you at the
bottom of all the mischief that's going on.”
“I don't see how that is, sir,” said Towne. “You only
found me walking along the dormitory as peaceable as
could be.”
“Where do you belong, sir?” asked the Tutor,
sharply.
“In Brunswick, sir. No, I wasn't thinking, sir: my
alcove's” —
“Twenty lines for impertinence! (Not a word, sir!)
Go straight to your alcove, and don't be found out here
again,” said the Tutor.
“I won't, if I can help it, sir,” answered poor Towne.
“I didn't mean” —
“Not a word, sir!” said Mr. Bruce; and Towne went
away, with an inarticulate murmur, to his place. The
Tutor, having seen all safe, went his way.
When the flap of the spring-door, at the further wash-room,
showed that he was out of hearing, Towne exulted
as loudly as he dared, that, by that cunning trick of
impertinence, he had made Mr. Bruce forget to tell him
to come after breakfast.
Mr. Cornell's door was ajar, as it had been all the
evening, with a light shining through; but no change
had taken place there implying that the occupant had
come in. Mr. Bruce had left every thing, outwardly, as
it ought to be. The dormitory had taken on again the
stillness of night, broken very slightly by what seemed to
be calls from one side to the other at the upper end. The
adventures of the night were not over, however, for that
unrestful place of rest. Towne's alcove and Dover's
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
adjoined each other; Towne's being the uppermost, on
the right hand, on that floor. Between those two went
a loud whispering, growing often to a deeper voice.
“I want to go to sleep,” said Dover, at last, a little
more loudly; “and Mr. Bruce told me to. I chucked
'em over on to the ground,” he added peevishly; but
the other's success in pulling the wool over one tutor's
eyes made him anxious for further adventures.
“Good boy!” said Towne, patronizingly. “If you're
afraid, I ain't: so here goes!”
A voice from the opposite side came across the six-foot
alley-way, sounding like Ulterior Blake's: —
“I say, Oppidum, you daresn't go out! Mr. Cornell
'll snap you up. He'll be just coming home, humming
a toone, just now, and he'll snap you up just as a toad
does a fly. I'll bet you two cents you don't dares't to
go out!”
No answer came from Towne, though the speech was
intelligible, if not good English. In the stillness which
followed, a window might have been heard slowly opening.
Immediately a boy came from the opposite alcoves,
and, in a whispered shout, called out: —
“Fellows! fellows! Look out on the roof! Towne's
gone out, in invisible clo'es, to dodge Mr. Cornell!
Won't there be fun!”
“It's dark as Erebus!” said a very assured voice,
louder than the rest, as many windows were hastily
thrown up. “
Ο&sbugr;δ&egvgr;ν
ο&sbuacgr;τ&aposgr;
&sbagr;κο&utigr;σαι
ο&sbuacgr;τ&aposgr;
&sbigr;δε&itigr;ν
&sbeacgr;στι. Remsen,
how do you expect us to see?”
“Hear that fellow!” said another. “I say, Gaston,
do keep your” —
“Fellows! fellows!” said another voice, which was
certainly our friend Brade's, almost bursting with fun
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
and excitement, as he ran by several alcoves, “Towne
has gone out there to run before Mr. Cornell in his
gymnasium suit, so that he shouldn't see him;” making
pretty clear, in spite of the confusion of personal pronouns,
that Towne had gone out on the roof to execute
some daring and hazardous feat of activity, with which
Mr. Cornell, the Tutor, was in some way associated.
There was a stir and flurry on all sides. Objections
and hasty discussions took place in several alcoves on
the school-room side, as between boys wanting to go
through and boys not willing to let them.
“Fellows! you'll catch your death o' cold! What's
the use?” said some elder, gravely, probably the deliberate
Blake.
Then a more authoritative voice: —
“Thompson! Mason! Lawrence! don't let those little
fellows out on the roof! Do make 'em go back to bed!”
And, in compliance with this exhortation, Brade, Ransom,
Leavitt, and others, were called by name, as if
already on the roof, and bidden (without apparent
effect) to go to bed.
“We've got blankets round us,” answered several
voices. “Russell better come out himself.”
Meanwhile, from the slight murmur to be heard outside
the windows, and the low cries of “Look out!”
“Isn't it dark?” “Don't walk off!” it might be known
that many boys had got through all difficulties to be
near Towne's feat. Cold had not stopped them; darkness
had not stopped them; and there they were.
“Sh! — sh!” — was cried, to enforce silence; Remsen,
as before, explaining that there was going to be great
fun.
“Have you got it?” whispered a voice, somewhere
in the darkness below the common level.
-- 092 --
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“Yes!” answered another, somewhere in the same
direction, speaking in his ordinary tone, and therefore
easily recognized as Towne, and going on like a hero,
as he evidently felt himself.
“Now don't I wish Mr. Cornell was about three rods
off! — but it's cold, I tell you!”
The words reminded some of the others that their
clothes were thin, and they began to move; but the
boys' proverb about the nearness of a person talked of
was strikingly illustrated on this occasion, as on so
many others. A good, manly tenor voice, a little way
off, was heard singing “Days of Absence.”
“Mr. Cornell! Mr. Cornell!” was the cry. “Down!”
and some were heard fleeing; and some were heard
going down on the tin roof, with a sudden thud; and
some were heard struggling with laughter.
“Sh! — sh!”— said that fearless and eager lad,
Remsen, again, going about. “Hold on! Towne hasn't
got through yet,” and the audience was still enough to
catch the faintest sound.
Feet without shoe-soles scurried over the ground
below.
“Sh!” said the same eager lad. “Now look out!
sh!”
There was a sort of scramble down there below,
where Towne seemed to be, and then a splash! with a
suppressed shuddering “Oh-h-h!” and Towne had evidently
met with a sudden surprise.
A roar of laughter started from many of the boys on
the roof, suppressed as soon as possible, and as much as
possible, but beginning, as hearty and genuine laughter
will, to spread.
“Get under the cover, Towne! get under the cover!”
-- 093 --
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said Brade, his voice scarcely recognizable, for trembling
so with laughter.
“You better hold your clack, Royalty, or I'll crack
your crown!” retorted the poor fellow, splashing.
“How do you suppose that water got back?” asked
a quavering voice. “'Tain't rained, has it?”
This sounded like Wilkins.
“Wilkins, why didn't you let that water out?” said
Remsen.
Down below, the state of things had changed within
a few seconds essentially. Towne, whose leap to the
back of his great adventure (to use a figure), had been
so vigorous and masterful, now— soused in chilly water—
was not the same boy. His stout and tutor-defying
voice was changed.
“I ain't a-goin' to stay here and freeze! I don't care
if he does catch me!” he muttered. “I'll give it to
somebody for this!” and then a floundering, and the
brattle of the water in the cask, — cold-sounding
enough to make the very listeners shudder, — implied
that the unexpectedly immersed hero was retreating
from his position.
“It is written,” said Gaston's voice, “that the Greek
philosopher lodged in his cask; but, as Towne ain't a
Greek philosopher, I don't see what he wants to take
up his habitation in a hogshead for.”
Strangely enough there was no interference of the
much-talked of Mr. Cornell.
“Are you visible, Towne?” Brade asked.
“I'll visible you!” said the interrupted adventurer.
“He can't see you in that gray suit,” said Remsen
“Look out, fellows, if you don't want to get spattered,
if he comes up. Mr. Cornell wa'n't there at all,” he
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
continued, confidentially turning to those near him.
“That was Lawrence: we got him to sing like Mr.
Cornell.”
But now a new element came in.
“Towne!” cried Mr. Bruce's voice, which had been
heard so often that evening, and which now came,
not from the ground, but from one of the dormitory
windows, showing that he had stolen a march upon the
absent inmates. The boys on the roof scuttled or
fluttered, — whichever may be the better expression
for a noisy motion, which partook of those of tortoises
or seals, or the like, at the water's edge, and birds
startled from a brake.
“Come to that storm-house door, and I'll let you in,”
continued Mr. Bruce.
“Whoever put that water,” — said Towne, going
away shivering, “wish I had him — head in it.”
The boys — silently retiring at the presence of the
Tutor — began to giggle, as poor Towne vented his
threats.
Mr. Bruce, having lighted the dormitory lamp, went
down, being doubtless listened to closely as he went,
step by step, and heard to turn the key of the back
door.
“Wait a moment, Towne,” said the Tutor, who
seemed to find it necessary to repress the boy's eagerness
to reach his alcove. “Follow me, if you please;”
and then might be heard, coming along the hall and up
the crooked stairs, two sets of steps, — one brisk and
trig, the other heavy, flat, and wet, even to the ear.
In the “Cross Dormitory” the boys were sitting up
in their beds, as the Tutor, with great gravity, and poor
Towne, looking pretty sulky and savage, went by.
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
From the sounds which came forth, it would seem that
neither admiration nor sympathy was the overpowering
emotion with the witnesses of the adventurous Towne's
present condition. Mr. Bruce stopped, just inside of
the large dormitory and near the lamp; and near him,
of course, stopped Towne. The Tutor did not look
strictly along the alcoves, or he would have seen that
many faces, with very slight effort at concealment, were
peering out at the sides of the curtains.
The victim of misfortune was certainly a most ridiculous
figure; for, whether the hogshead had been nearly
full, or whether he had gone into it “squatting,” he was
soaked and streaming from his neck to his feet.
“Move about, Towne, until I've done with you,” said
the Tutor, “or you'll spoil all the ceiling of the school-room
below. Distribute your streams a little.” And
poor Towne began traversing, like a machine, a large
circle, laying the dust (if there was any) effectually.
“Mayn't I go to bed, sir?” asked Towne, in a voice
intended, perhaps, to be severe and distant, but which
came near setting the whole dormitory off in a fit of
laughter. Tittering and repressed sobs did make themselves
heard. Towne, nevertheless, kept up his best
dignity, and uttered one more sound: —
“I'm” —
“Oh!” said Mr. Bruce, “you've been going through
a preparation for going to bed, have you, sir? Where
have you been since I saw you last? I told you not to
let me see you here again.”
“No more I wouldn't, sir,” said Towne, “if you'd let
me have my way; but you wouldn't.”
Even the gravity of Mr. Bruce gave way a little
before the boy's pitiable figure. “You didn't
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
remember the rules about bathing, I think?” he asked,
smiling.
“I'm sure, sir,” said Towne, stopping his round, and
dripping where he was, “this is pretty good keeping
the rules; for if I went `a-bathin' out of doors' it can't
be said but what I had a tootor to see to me.”
This time the furtive laughter may have been with
Towne instead of at him. His pluck appealed to the
boys' sympathy, and possibly conciliated also the kindliness
of the Tutor; for he certainly immediately released
the unsuccessful adventurer from his enforced round.
“Come, Towne! have you got a rough bathing-towel?”
said he; and, having secured one from some
volunteer in an alcove, he took him into a bath-room,
where, after making him strip himself of his slight
clothing, which clung closely to him, and throwing the
soaked garments into the bath-tub, he gave him so
thorough a rubbing-down that poor Towne more than
once cried out, and came out of the operation glowing
all over.
Then Mr. Bruce sent him to bed in a night-gown,
borrowed, like the towel, and bade him “good-night!”
“Isn't that hogshead a good place, Towne?” “Did
the water fit you, Townie?” were questions addressed
to the retiring adventurer, interrupted suddenly by the
arrival of Mr. Cornell in his room.
The dormitory, after this, was still.
-- -- p637-110
CHAPTER X. THE NEXT MORNING.
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
The sun came up, next day, as he usually comes up
at St. Bart's, at that time of the year. First comes a
scattering of golden largess far forward on the sky;
then a crowing of all the cocks, as if they had not
begun and kept it up for three or four hours already,
to be sure to hit the time when it did come; a general
standing-round of all trees, damp and frosty from the
night; next the comfortable salutation of farmers,
smock-frocked and respectable, across the way; then
the blowing of the horrid steam-whistles; next the
cheery ringing of St. Bart's bell; then the slow, sober
sun himself.
The first use that Fatty Dover made of his morning
strength and intelligence, that next day, was to rush
out of the storm-house door, and by the hogshead, and
over the triumphant part of Towne's track of the night
before, searching all sides with his eyes, as he ran.
He went the length of the school-room, and along the
western end; and then from where he stood he surveyed
anxiously the neighborhood, and then, disappointed,
turned back.
The wash-rooms were noisy that morning, with
anecdote and laughter, all drawn from the fruitful
experience of the night before. The jokes were poor,
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
as most men's, and almost all boys' jokes are; but boys'
jokes, if not those of men, also, answer as good a purpose
in the world as a great many devout and unselfish
writers profess to expect or to hope from their books,
which, as their authors say, will have answered their
purpose if one pious soul shall have received comfort
or edification from them. The amount of gratification
given to at least one person by each witticism here
would have pleased those friends of mankind.
Gaston, who ventured more into the province of classic
history and invention than his neighbors, had given
Towne the nickname of “
&sbAgr;ναδυ&oacgr;μενος” (anadyomenos),
which, as it was not generally understood, he explained
at large. “As Venus,” he said, “had risen from the
sea, so Towne had risen” —
“From the sea-a-s-k,” said Thompson Walters, trying
a pun of his own.
This proceeding necessarily took from the freshness
of Gaston's joke; but the boys, in the end, got as much
satisfaction out of it, for they called the hero of the
last evening “Venus;” and young Meadows, who, like
Gaston, in lesser degree, had pushed into mythology,
started a demand of him for apples.
The hero himself tried to show that “that water was
one of the best things for him that could be; for, if
anybody had tried to find him in it, ten to one he'd
have put his hand on the water, instead of him.”
Remsen was spoken of as having been the woman in
the white dress, or the ghost, and commended; but
Dover was quizzed by pretty nearly everybody who
knew how to quiz after any fashion. It seemed a
tender point with him, this morning, that he had not
been able to find the black dress, which Towne in his
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
adventures had dropped and left behind; and he was
asked “how he would feel if he should see Mr. Wilson
in that gown, making a fool of him before the whole
school.”
Russell, a Fifth Form boy, had caught, and brought
away, a “poetical” outpouring of Antony Brade. This
Russell read, with great enthusiasm, and it was received
with much appreciation by the public in the wash-room: —
“`A Towne leaned over a hogshead's brim,
To see its own face far down;
And tumbled in. If it could not swim,
What else could it do but drown?'”
“Pooh!” said Hutchins, almost as soon as the reading
began, “you say Royalty wrote that? I'm sure he
never wrote that! I know I've heard something like
that, — something about a `town' and a `cask,' — a
Senior in college couldn't do that.”
“Blake's the fellow to tell what college fellows can
do,” said Gaston.
“Where's Blake?” asked several voices; and when
Blake appeared, with his face and hair all dripping
from a wash-basin, and blowing water from his nostrils,
Hutchins appealed to him, —
“Look here, old Ultimatum! wouldn't it take a
`Senior' to write that?”
“He hasn't heard it,” said the chorus.
Blake, however, was above any such necessity: —
“That don't make any difference,” he said. “At my
college, out there, the fellows get through with all their
literary work before they get to be Seniors. Seniors, at
Ulterior, do as they like. It's all practical work, then,
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
— `scientific' they call it, — they keep tally at base-ball,
and keep `time' for fellows rowin'.”
“Let's have the rest o' the poem,” said Thompson
Walters; and Russell went on reading: —
“`A Tutor's summons came o'er the spot:
That Towne began to rise:
A very wet Towne, — by no means hot, —
But all right otherwise.'”
So well received was this second stanza that when
Hutchins began to object that he “knew a poem by
some great poet, — De Kalb, or De Forest, or something,” —
he was called upon by many voices, in language
more vigorous than elegant, to “shut up.”
“That isn't all of it?” said Thompson Walters.
“Oh, `lame and impotent conclusion'!” said Gaston,
quoting, no doubt, from some of his great books.
Russell was not inclined to forsake the rhyme, or
hear it disparaged: —
“You'd better try it yourself, Gaston,” he said.
“And do it in Latin,” said Walters.
“I can,” said Gaston, “if I try,” and began to
think: —
“De Oppido audivisti,
Et ejus sorte tristi” —
He had gone pretty glibly over two lines, — as far
as most rhymesters go well, — and the flow of verse
was obstructed.
“And there you grow rather misty,” said Walters.
“Now give it me, please, Russell,” said the author of
the English verse, who stood at the wash-room door,
blushing; and, receiving it, blushing he disappeared.
In the younger wash-room a crowd of lesser fellows
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
surrounded him and teased him for a sight, for the
fame of it had already reached them; but he tore it
into a hundred pieces, and flinging them into Leavitt's
face escaped again.
At this point the veritable Towne himself appeared,
and a sudden whim seized several boys, all at once, to
shoulder him, and give him a triumph. There was
little time, but that only made them go about it the
more quickly; and for the first thing had him up with
his head pretty hardly thrust against the ceiling. Gaston
called out from a distance, —
“`Sublimo vertice sidera feriam.' Fellows! Fellows!
you've made him see stars!” which could hardly give
Towne any comfort.
The rest, full of their work, said that “Towne had
taken cold, in saving himself from drowning;” and
were just going to toss him in a blanket to cure him,
when suddenly the two-minute bell (which they might
have expected) struck. Down tumbled Towne, as
many a hero before has tumbled from a triumph, and
was left sprawling, to gather himself up, and go back,
as he was, to every-day life. The others scampered
up stairs or down, according as they were, or were not,
nearly enough dressed.
Many were the delinquencies, besides Towne's, at
roll-call that morning, and many the losses of breakfast;
but among those who were in their places at that
meal were Dover and Wilkins, both of whom had been
summoned to Mr. Bruce's room after breakfast. Dover
had begun to eat and drink with his usual appetite,
which was one of the best; but a certain piece of intelligence
which gave, as it passed about, a pleasurable
excitement to his neighbors, disturbed Dover to such an
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
extent that he accomplished far less than he was in the
habit of doing; and when the tables were dismissed, he
rushed hatless and breathless out of doors, and then —
with a question at random, “Where is it?” — forward,
toward a most conspicuous object which had already
attracted the attention of passers-by on the road.
This object was a black dress, hung up and spread
out, to full length and width, on one of the pear-trees,
and surmounted by a woman's black hat. At first a
sort of astonishment seemed to open his eyes and to
slow his steps. He may have wondered, perhaps, how
it got there; he may have been questioning how it
could be got down; but, with his eyes wide open and
his lips apart, he made steadily for it, as if nothing else
existed.
Already boys began to pelt this tempting object with
whatever they could find; and then (alas for Dover!)
a large boy (Phil Lamson) set himself, as large boys
sometimes will, directly in the way, and faced him off
from whatever way of escape he tried. The shower
of missiles, for some reason, slackened and then suddenly
ceased; and then Dover tried as hard as he could,
and entreated his stopper to let him go. It was all in
vain.
Dover saw Brade under that tree; and with him Remsen,
longer-armed than he.
He begged and besought to be let alone (“There's
Brade and Remsen now!” said he), but could not get
away.
The cause of the stoppage in the flight of stones and
sticks was soon evident. “Dover!” said a voice behind
him, as exactly measured as the fling of a lasso,
“I thought I told you to come to me after breakfast;”
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[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
and Mr. Bruce appeared, with Mr. Cornell, walking
leisurely.
“So you did, sir; and I'm coming, sir; but” — answered
the boy, looking round toward the tree.
“If you don't want to make a butt of yourself,
Fatty,” said Phil Lamson, aside, “clear out and thank
me.”
On the South Road, close by the school-grounds, a
carriage had stopped in the way, within near sight of
the tree with the black dress.
“Eldridge!” said a lady's voice, of that courageous
sort that is not afraid to go across any open space, and
encounter any ears (as in this case, Mr. Bruce's and
Mr. Cornell's), “how much time have we got? I don't
want to miss that train. There! that's an effigy! It's
something those boys have been getting up. It's Science
or Learning, or something. (I wonder Mr. Bruce don't
see us.)”
The proper name she pronounced with great distinctness.
“Ma!” said Miss Minette Wadham, who was with
her, “don't you see what that is?”
“To be sure I do!” said the mother. “I understand
it. Boys” —
Eldridge ventured an assertion that “it looked to
him amazin' like one o' Miss Wadham's dresses.”
“What? No!” exclaimed the lady, in excess of
amazement. “What? That ain't the dress I lent” —
While the occupants of the carriage gazed at this
extraordinary exhibition, Antony and his taller companion
were very busy at the tree, but without climbing
into it.
“Brade!” said Mr. Bruce, calling from a little distance.
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
Just as he spoke, — almost at the very word, — a
sudden flame began to creep, and then to climb, and
then to leap up and over the dress, which was of some
flimsy cotton fabric; and in a few moments the tree
showed nothing on its leafless limbs but rags of glowing
red, and then of black tinder. There was no wind,
and the boys had had to run away from the falling
shreds of flame which for an instant came down
thickly. The two Tutors continued their leisurely
walk to the scene.
While this was going on, Mrs. Wadham worked
about in her seat, and seemed on the point of speaking,
and of course looked very red. It could not be
but that she should feel her dignity involved, at this
public destruction of a garment formally borrowed of
her; and her daughter, we may suppose, could not
help sympathizing, as daughters do. Miss Minette,
however, had a smile on her face; and, turning herself
away from the scene of the catastrophe, looked steadfastly
in the opposite direction.
“It was loaned,” said Mrs. Wadham, beginning the
process of recovering her self-assurance, “for the purposes
of investigation, — of an investigation. Well,”
she continued, a little flurried, but showing her native
strength, “all are to perish in the using. It ain't
showing much ceremony; but we'll sacrifice ceremony
on the altar of investigation! — Yes, on the altar
of investigation! — Drive on, Eldridge! Do your
pootiest!”
“There's the Caput!” was cried; and there, sure
enough, — not on the ground, but at his study window,
looking out, — he stood.
Most of the boys were already hurrying away, to
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[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
make the utmost of their short time between breakfast
and prayers. Foot-ball was already in active play, and
foot-ball was the only thing in the world, now, to every
boy but Dover, Brade, and Remsen, and such others as
might have to do with the authorities, for the activities
of last night.
“I set it on fire, sir,” said Brade to Mr. Bruce.
“And I gave him the match, — I did, indeed, sir,” said
Remsen, seeing the Tutor smile.
The scene at the tree over, the Tutors sought the
Rector.
They felt clear that the thing had been a masquerade,
to look like Mrs. Ryan (“the lady that came to
church with her daughter,” as Mr. Bruce explained),
“because the boys thought she was a watch over
Brade.”
“And Brade has set it on fire, I suppose,” said the
Rector, “and no wonder.”
Mr. Bruce added another piece of information, —
that “he believed the dress was one of Mrs. Wadham's.”
“Well, certainly, if she lent it, that's her look-out,”
said the Rector. “We must punish playing with fire;
but I'll take off a good deal for the provocation. I'm
sorry to have Brade's score lose by another boy's
fault. Towne may learn wisdom some of these days.”
Though the few minutes before Prayers, and the
Recess in the forenoon together, were not enough for
the examination of the young fellows engaged in the
fun of last night, it was all done with before dinner,
in time to go on the school-room slate that afternoon.
The result was that Towne came out, poor fellow, with
a special infliction of lines and bounds, as the chief
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[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
offender; and the rest of the boys in that dormitory
were treated pretty evenly with lines proportioned to
their technical age or standing in the School, in order
of Forms.
The fire was not forgotten, but handled lightly this
time, with the reason given.
With this all were pretty well satisfied, except poor
Towne, who muttered that “when a fellow got wet
through and shivering, the way he'd been, they ought
to have compassion on him, and not punish him hard,
like that.”
-- -- p637-120
CHAPTER XI. MR. PARMENTER DRAWN TO THE FLAME.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
The blaze of that dress of Mrs. Wadham's, if it had
not flashed into a great many eyes of Eastham people,
had yet been heard of in the post-office and the store,
and in many a private house and homestead of the
town, within a few hours after that dress had become
tinder. Public opinion had not satisfied itself “how
Mrs. Wadham's dress came to be on that tree,” or
“how it came to be set on fire.” That “she had lent
it to be a sacrifice or something,” was part of the general
information, and was wrought-in through the
public discussions of the subject, but did not help to
make things plainer.
This contribution to the fund of general knowledge
was, most likely, made by Eldridge, who, in coming
back from the cars, made visits of some length to both
store and post-office.
One man there was in Eastham to whom the affairs
of Town and School were alike near; and to him was
many a question proposed, to find out “what those
boys had been up to, there, at Saint Bartholomew's
School.”
Mr. Parmenter, a leading man and a leading trustee
of St. Bart's, had the reputation of keeping himself
pretty closely informed of whatever took place there.
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The School, as it had happened, though still in its early
infancy, had had the benefit of more than half as many
heads as it had seen years; and this variety and abundance
was said to be owing to the vigilant supervision
and unremitting interest of that active trustee.
Sometimes he was coming out of the stable; sometimes
he was looking into the kitchen; sometimes he
was talking or asking about arrangements in the cellar.
He was occasionally bringing information to the Rector
of the School, and occasionally asking information from
him; he was corresponding with parents, and he kept
up continual intercourse with the under-masters and
the boys.
This assiduous devotion was said not to have been
approved by any of the different heads, so far; and
one after another, like swiftly circling stars, had rolled
off into space.
Mr. Parmenter's way of discharging the duties of his
office of trustee, if not properly appreciated by the
several rectors, was very efficient in its kind. He never
left the other members of the Board in ignorance of
weak points in the administration of the School; and
he never failed to administer comfort to the existing
Rector, and to excite him to noble effort, by showing
him how inferior his predecessor had been, and making
him familiar with the chief short-comings of the former
administrations.
With this active spirit in him, we may be sure that
it was not long before Mr. Parmenter put himself in the
way of possessing all the information that was to be
had.
The Reverend Mr. Warren, Rector of St. Bart's
School, was walking up and down upon the piazza, and
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[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
apparently in that state of settled thoughtfulness in
which one rests himself now and then, or draws himself
off from his care by looking for a while at this thing,
or listening for a while to that person.
As he paced to and fro, he stopped at one time, and
fixed his eyes steadily, though not very actively, on the
figures of a horse and rider coming along the South
Road, and leaving behind them a little cloud of dust,
such as can be raised, even just before winter, in certain
conditions of our soil. The horse, as could be seen,
even from a distance, was a good one; and his gait,
an easy gallop, showed good training. Having looked
in that direction for a moment or two, Mr. Warren
turned and walked again.
The rhythmic sound of iron-shod hoofs drew nearer,
was deadened for a moment, and then clattered up the
short road-way to the School buildings. The walker had
turned, at the end of his beat, and was coming back,
just as the rider was close at hand.
About the latter there was something of what is
called “air,” as he sat his horse, with his heels decisively
down, the rein held lightly, and the whip
under his arm. He was a little stiff, perhaps, but looked
as if he knew that he was right, and as if there was no
other way of doing what he was doing than that. His
salute was something very definite also.
“Good morning, sir!” he said, from the little distance
near the side-gate. “You've been having quite a piece
of fireworks, I hear.”
“Why, no; nothing of any consequence, that I remember,”
answered Mr. Warren, and invited Mr. Parmenter,
his visitor, to come in.
The horseman excused himself for want of time.
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“One of our ladies has lost a portion of her wardrobe,
I'm told,” he continued, smiling. “No disorderly
conduct among the boys, I hope? — It occurred to me
that it might be necessary to make some atonement.
Of course, we couldn't offer compensation exactly.”
“I don't think any thing is to be done on our side.
If the lady lends a dress to her son or another boy, she
must look to the boy,” said Mr. Warren. “I don't propose
to do any thing about it.”
— “If it don't bring the School into any trouble,” said
Mr. Parmenter, like one who felt that there were a good
many things to be thought of by men in responsible
positions. “People have a way of talking. You find
Brade, I suppose, a high-spirited fellow?” he continued,
changing the subject a little, after having given his
hint.
“A very fine boy, and a very promising boy, every
way,” answered the Rector of the School; “with the
stuff in him to make a good Christian man, and a
satisfaction to his friends.”
This thorough commendation apparently gave much
satisfaction. Mr. Parmenter called to Mr. Stout, and
very courteously desired him to take his horse (“he
would be only a minute or two”). Then he formally,
and with precision, dismounted, and, coming upon the
piazza, seated himself on one of the settees, and busied
his hands with setting right some of the twisting of the
rattan, of which it was made, while he talked.
“I believe,” he said, “young Brade's birthday comes
to-morrow.” Then, after a pause to give effect to his
minuteness of information, he said, “Am I right, sir?
Perhaps it has occurred to you already, without any
suggestion. Of course” (with a bow, and interrupting
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himself) “I haven't any fear of your neglecting any
thing that concerns the intellectual part of the boys'
education. There were some things it was impossible
to make your prede —”
Mr. Warren's face, it must be confessed, showed
less interest than annoyance. Mr. Parmenter proceeded: —
“It's the custom, I believe, in foreign countries, —
and a very graceful one, as it strikes me” (the word
“graceful” he made emphatic), — “to have a good
deal of ceremony on birthdays. We can't make a
difference between one boy and another, but Brade is
a little homesick, and we might” —
“Brade isn't homesick,” said Mr. Warren. “There
isn't a happier fellow in the school.”
“Perhaps our information differs,” said Mr. Parmenter,
with sufficient gravity. “I commonly have independent
sources. I thought you might make a little
more of him. Perhaps a little special attention” —
Mr. Warren had changed color, for some reason or
other, during this speech. He answered: —
“Thank you: he won't be neglected.”
Mr. Parmenter changed the subject again.
“I saw a very beautiful drawing, — by one of your
family, I think, sir. Would it be too much trouble to
let me see it? It was lying on the table in the front
room. That's it, I think,” he added, having left his
seat and looked through the window.
Mr. Warren obligingly brought it, — a crayon drawing.
“By your sister, sir, I think I understood?” continued
Mr. Parmenter. “There's a great deal of depth”
(emphatic) “in that. Is it after an old master?”
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The drawing was of a western sky and sunset, as was
indicated by the attitudes of such animated figures as
appeared in it. It was really so good that the splendors
flung upon the clouds, and showing through a row of
leafless larches and other trees, on a rising ground,
seemed scarcely to want the gorgeous hues of gold and
scarlet or crimson.
It even seemed to change, under the eye, to deepening
or lightening of red, and burnishing or dimming of
yellow, as the colors change aloft while the sun is going
down, and promising a fine to-morrow.
“That impresses me very much, sir,” said Mr. Parmenter.
“I wish you'd allow me to have it framed.
It's a jewel worthy of being set in an appropriate
case.”
Mr. Warren excused himself, very absolutely, with
thanks.
Mr. Parmenter drew a parcel from his pocket.
“Perhaps you'd do me the favor, sir, to give that to
Brade, with my wishes for `many happy returns'?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Warren, “unless you'd like to
give it yourself.”
On this point Mr. Parmenter, a man of business and
experience, had notions of propriety, and said: —
“I think it better to have every thing, as far as
possible, pass through the Rector's hands. You haven't
observed any communication between Mrs. Ryan and—
you know, I suppose, they say she's a watch over
him.”
“Oh, no!” said Mr. Warren, impatiently. “There
would be no harm if there were.”
“I don't feel so sure of that,” said Mr. Parmenter,
deliberately, like one who felt his own responsibilities, if
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not those of others also. “I'm not clear that it would
be safe to shut our eyes to any possible harm which
might befall one committed to our care. Have we? I
think not.”
With this expression of opinion Mr. Parmenter took
his leave; mounted his horse in true style, grasping the
reins and a lock of the mane in his left hand; setting
his foot deliberately in the stirrup, while Mr. Stout held
the head; springing and swinging himself over the
saddle. When he found himself handsomely in his
seat, he promised to do as much for Mr. Stout when
Mr. Stout should need his services in the same way,
and, putting his horse to an easy gallop, rode off.
-- -- p637-127
CHAPTER XII. A DISTINGUISHED FOREIGNER, WHO, PERHAPS, HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT.
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The main building of St. Bart's was large; but the
chief merit in its appearance lay in the variety of its
outline, occasioned by the additions of different shapes
and sizes, according to the need of the time.
Its front doorway was good and substantial, a fair
oval of plate-glass showing, when the door was shut, a
large hall, with a handsome, winding staircase, on the
first landing of which stood one of those long clocks,
which hold so fast a place in the mind of one who knew
them in childhood. Over the doorway, and in front
of a lengthwise window, was a carving, which, to an
intelligent eye, was evidently heraldic: a “wreath,” or
“torse,” of red and white, bore an upright something,
which one, who knew the name of the School, and the
conventional symbol of its saint, might recognize as a
dagger or knife. The blade and handle of this were of
the same colors respectively, or, as they would be called
in heraldry, gules and argent. Beneath, in golden
church text, was the legend, “Sursum,” (upwards).
It was a harmless joke of successive Forms, as they
advanced in Latinity, to say that this motto was an
invitation to the Rector's study, in the second story.
The implement which, as described, decorated the
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entrance to St. Bart's, had puzzled a good many visitors.
It was popularly called among the boys “St.
Bart's whittle;” and new-comers to the School were
mystified, where they were capable of it, by hearing it
called his “whistle.” The Rev. Mr. Merritt, one of the
Trustees, when fresh in office, had innocently taken it
for illustration one day as a church steeple, exhorting
the assembled boys to “remember the badge of their
school, — that sky-pointing spire, — and direct their
flight with unflagging wing still upwards;” and when
some one whispered an explanation, as he sat down,
astonished at the laughter which greeted what was
intended to be, and doubtless was, the point of his
speech, said that “the fault was the carver's, and not
his.”
At this door, surveying this heraldic device, and
whatever else ornamented and distinguished the place
of entrance, was standing, on an afternoon in early
autumn, a foreign-looking gentleman, of large size and
distinguished air. He had tried the knocker with little
effect. Apparently those who ought to have heard and
come to this inanimate call were away, or were napping;
and the only result of his experiment with the knocker
was the stopping of a little girl in the road, at a short
distance, who curiously watched his movements. He
proceeded next to ring the door-bell. While he was
still waiting, a small, slight, neatly-dressed man came
up (whose most noticeable feature, perhaps, was a set
of squarely trimmed whiskers and moustache), and said
politely: —
“Perhaps I can help you, sir. I'm at home here. I'm
a trustee of the institution. Did you want to see the
Rector, sir? the Rev. Mister Warren?”
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The foreign-looking gentleman turned at this address,
and, like a very courteous and distinguished foreigner,
saluted the Trustee, who had thus come to his help, and
thanking that gentleman for his kind offices, — approving,
perhaps, in his foreign heart,
στηθ&eacgr;σσι
&rbegr;ο&itigr;σι
(stethessi
heoisi), as the boys of the Fifth Form might say, after
Dan Homer, this American habit of keeping Trustees
about the premises to wait upon strangers, — inquired
whether the building was a hotel.
The Trustee, smiling as one whom a consciousness of
wit made good-humored, informed him that, “though
they had a good many boarders” (this, as conveying a
joke, and that in a language foreign to the hearer, he
pronounced quite distinctly), “this was not a hotel.”
Answering this assurance with a simple interrogative
“So?” and then asking pardon, the distinguished foreign
gentleman, declining to go in, accepted a seat outside,
and listened attentively to an account of the character
of the institution, of which his informant was a trustee.
Having heard this account through to the end (or at
least to a convenient place for the end), the foreigner,
drawing out his watch, said in outlandish but very intelligible
English that “he wished the manufactories of
Weston to see. Might the gentleman only be so good
and tell him when he could next take the cars?”
Having been informed by the Trustee that he had
“some two hours to wait,” and having met this second
disappointment with the same interrogative monosyllable
as before, “So?” he returned his watch (a rich-looking
and very foreign-looking watch) to his pocket, and
addressed the courteous and communicative Trustee: —
“This is a school for boys?”
The Trustee accepted this interrogative affirmation
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with a readiness which implied satisfaction at having
made himself so well understood; and the stranger
continued: —
“If it pleases, how is called that little boy, with curly
head, who plays?”
“That is Brade,” answered the ready Trustee.
“`Bread'?” asked the foreign gentleman, giving a
foreign turn to the name. “That is the best thing: the
first one of whom I ask is `Bread'!” And he smiled,
repeating the name, “`Bread'! that is good; that is the
first wish. Might I with the young gentleman speak?”
And to the Trustee's assurance that he might certainly
speak with any boy, if he wished it, he asked pleasantly,
“You think?”
“He is a foreign child, of very high family, it is supposed, —
some think a Russian,” said the Trustee,
emphasizing the word, as if this intelligence would
give the stranger an interest in the school or in the
scholar.
To this information the distinguished-looking gentleman
listened attentively, but showed no surprise, and
answered only by the expressive monosyllable which he
had several times before employed to so good effect.
The Trustee hastened to call the boy; and Brade, with
cheeks glowing and eyes bright from play, came forward,
turning to bid the “fellows” go on.
The stranger rose at his approach, went forward to
meet him, and at once engaged him in a conversation
of question and answer; the Trustee having first discharged
what he evidently considered a duty, to be
gravely and seriously performed, by informing the boy
that “the gentleman wished to speak with him.” This
duty done, the Trustee stood not far away from the
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interview, occupying himself, rather faintly, with several
boys, who, under the pretence of “tag,” or some other
pretence, had contrived to bring themselves within
hearing.
“You have a good name,” said the stranger. “You
are not of this country?”
“My name is Brade, sir,” answered Antony, looking
down a little and blushing, “and I came from Philadelphia.”
At the same time he showed the letters carved,
in the fashion of other boys, upon a hockey-stick which
he had in his hand.
“Ah! so!” said the stranger, looking to the Trustee,
who drew a little nearer, as if invited by the stranger's
look. The name the foreign gentleman, smiling,
spelled out carefully, letter by letter, “B-R-A-D-E,
Brade;” and then, giving back the stick to its owner,
repeated, “B-r-a-d-e, Brade.”
“You love to study very much?” the foreign gentleman
continued; and having received the usual answer,
“Pretty well, sir,” asked again, “You like not to play
at all?” and being answered that Antony “liked play
very much,” he laughed and said, —
“Your father liked to play when he was boy: this
gentleman, also, I think,” looking with a pleasant smile
to the official of the institution for confirmation.
“Omnes, pueri, ludendi avidi fuimus: know you what
means that?”
This sentence, Brade, with the gentleman's good-natured
help in repeating the words, and asking,
“What is subjectum of `fuimus'?” translated pretty
well: “We all, as boys, have been eager for play.”
This translation was accepted with a kindly smile,
and the gentleman asked: —
“You learn Greekish? Not?”
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Brade looked round, a little bashfully, to where the
other boys were, and then answered modestly that he
“had begun Greek.”
At the mention of this new language the Trustee,
who had not been unintelligent or unmindful, at once
drew nearer.
“We teach Greek here, sir, of course,” he said, “and
I'm aware that it is the language of the Russians, —
that is, of the Russian Church.”
“You are learned in Greek, self?” asked the courteous
foreigner.
The Trustee took care not to be drawn into a conversation
in that tongue, if the lively foreigner had any
intention of substituting it for honest English.
“You must excuse me, sir,” said he. “I have two
daughters that know botany, and talk about their
`monogramic' and `cryptogramic;' but education was
not so much attended to in my day. I can do one
thing in Greek that not everybody can do, perhaps:
I know how to make Greek Fire,” he added, smiling
with the consciousness of wit, and emphasizing the two
important words.
The foreign gentleman recognized the witticism, and
acknowledged it by a good-natured laugh. Some words
in a very foreign tongue he uttered, at which the Trustee
went through a shoulder-shrugging and grimacing
and gesticulating action, which no doubt seemed to him
most familiar and intelligible to a foreigner, and was
then asked, —
“You were not soldier of the Greek-landish Freeings-war, —
the Liberation-war, perhaps? Too young,
I think.”
The Trustee modestly disclaimed the martial
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character also, as well as the scholarly, “though he must
confess that he loved freedom, of course,” he said. “He
had found out the Greek Fire when he was in the East
Bartlett Chemical Works.”
The polite stranger seemed to get no definite information
from that hard proper name, although the
Trustee repeated it very distinctly. The latter polite
gentleman therefore changed the subject for one which
he, doubtless, thought more hopeful.
“I believe, sir, if I'm not mistaken,” he said, “Greek—
the Greek language — is still the language of the
Church?” Then, to make his meaning plainer, he
added, “I think the service-books — the sacred books—
are written in Greek?”
The stranger caught his meaning (as he testified by a
courteous wave of both hands with a bow of the head),
and answered, —
“`The Sacred Books,' yes; the evangelium, certainly.”
“And of the Greek Church, I believe?” interposed
the Trustee, with mild pertinacity. “The Russian is
the same, sir, if I am not mistaken,” looking as if he
had “got” the stranger now.
The boys, who had contrived to come within hearing,
at the beginning of this conference with Brade, now
seeing what turn the conversation was likely to take,
began quietly to withdraw. The stranger-gentleman,
seeing this, hastened to take a formal leave of the little
fellow with whom he had been talking, asking, however,
very courteously, “permission” of the trustee. Having
obtained this, the polite stranger turned to
Brade: —
“I will give you,” said he, “according to your name:
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you are called Brade; I will give you some Greek by
your name.” And, taking a heavy gold pencil from
his pocket, he wrote upon a plain card these words:
“
Βραδ&ugvgr;ς
&sbiacgr;σθι
ε&sbigr;ς
&sbogr;ργ&eeacgr;ν
” (Bradys isthi, eis org&ebar;n), and
gave it to the boy; and, as he gave it, said mysteriously,
“There is a great secret for you to find out.
Some time you will find your name. I liked very
much to talk with you. Adieu!”
So saying, with a very respectful gesture, he took
leave of little Antony, who made his acknowledgments
not uncourteously, though hastily, and who immediately,
folding and putting away in a pocket the writing,
ran after his fellows. These, of course, seeing him
coming, loitered for him; and then, having apparently
persuaded him to show them the paper, seemed to be
for a few moments puzzling their boys' brains over it,
as they walked with their heads all crowded together,
the most pushing of them being Will Hirsett; and
presently after were all at play once more, as at first.
While the stranger had been engaged in writing, the
Trustee, seeing some one whom he addressed as “Mr.
Stout” pass, begged “to be excused for a moment while
the gentleman was engaged,” and joined him, saying to
any who might hear, that “he would be back immediately.”
“A moment” is always longer than a speaker or
caller or shopper (or any one except a person waiting)
expects it to be. The strange gentleman, finding himself
alone, walked quietly round the corner of the
house, in the direction which the Trustee had lately
taken, and looked. The broad barn-door stood invitingly
open, and sounds, such as men make, were coming
forth. He walked to it and entered.
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Presently, from the opposite side, appeared the Trustee.
He looked hurriedly this way and that; went
round the corner of the school-room, as he had just
come, and cast a hasty glance toward the boys' play-ground.
Then he looked toward the different roads;
then went to the other corner, and looked toward the
barn, now sending forth no sound; then came hastily
back to the front steps.
Here, having taken one last look all round, he
opened, and shut behind him, the front door, and
like one familiar with the ways of the place passed
up the stairs.
-- -- p637-136
CHAPTER XIII. MR. DON FOLLOWS IT UP A LITTLE.
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Hanging on the staircase was a very tolerable
painting, on a large scale, of the Acropolis at Athens,
and its ruins, by moonlight. Further up, on the same
wall, was a smaller painting of the Field of Marathon.
Upon each of these, whether intending it or without
any thought, the lively Trustee turned his eyes in passing.
So, too, he looked in passing upon two engravings
of the Coliseum and the Tomb of Adrian, which were
hung upon the opposite wall of the upper entry. He
smelt of one of the flowers, and plucked a leaf from
one of the geraniums, which were standing in tiers in
a sunny bay-window at the front of the entry; but he
scarcely made the slightest pause until, with a familiar
and assured tread, he reached a door, which he gently
and slowly opened to himself, passing into the room
beyond. Here he did stand still.
The character of this room which the Trustee had so
confidently entered would have declared itself to any
intelligent eye; for books, on their shelves, made its
chief furniture and ornament. These were arranged,
not straight along its sides, and from floor to ceiling,
but in double cases, standing out as wings from the
walls and reaching about two-thirds up, having books
on the two sides and one end.
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Busts and statuettes stood atop of the several cases,
and behind and above these the room on the walls was
given to handsome photographs and engravings. A
long black cross occupied the middle of the chimney,
with a strong-lined engraving of Rubens's Descent
from the Cross on one side, and a like engraving of
Raphael's Transfiguration on the other. Underneath
the cross was an illuminated legend, “
Γ&iacgr;νου
πιστ&oacgr;ς
.”*
Perhaps a single intelligent glance would have taken
in all this; and there was a moment or two that the
Trustee lingered after coming inside the room, for the
gentleman who was busy at the study-table took no
notice of his entrance. Presently, without looking up,
the student asked, “Who's there?”
“It's I, sir,” said the Trustee, with a gentle voice and
in unexceptionable grammar, such as became an official
of a great institution of learning, “Mr. Don. I didn't
wish to disturb you. How is Mrs. Warren, sir? She's
well, I hope? and the children? I wanted to inquire,
sir, if any one — a foreign gentleman — had been to
see you this afternoon.”
Mr. Warren laid down, open, a book on which he
was engaged, and turned round to his visitor, deliberately,
a large-eyed, thoughtful face, of thirty four or
five years, needing a moment to bring his eyes to
bear.
“Oh, Mr. Don, excuse me!” he said, smiling at the
other's eagerness. “You came in so quietly that I
thought it must be one of the family. No; no one has
been here.”
“You were not far wrong, sir, I believe,” said the
social Trustee. “I presume all who are connected with
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Saint Bartholomew's School are, in one sense, of a
family: are they not, sir? Have you a few moments
to spare (I'll lay my things down here, if you please,”
proceeding to dispose of his hat and gloves, with much
kindness and courtesy, on the study-table, and seating
himself near them) — “for something,” he then added,
“which has an interest for us all, I think.”
An announcement of this kind made a strong claim
for attention; and Mr. Warren assented, very readily
and definitely, and turned his open book, whose leaves
had been a little fluttered by Mr. Don's movements,
over upon its face, and sat all ready to hear.
“I was very happy, sir,” continued Mr. Don, seriously,
as if he were beginning an autobiography (and
Mr. Warren listened with proportionate respect), — “I
don't know what you may think of it, — in being on the
spot as a representative of Saint Bartholomew's School,
when something happened which, I think, may prove
an entering-wedge, — a turning-point, perhaps, sir, in
the history of young Brade.” (At this name his hearer
looked still more curious for what was to follow.)
“Young Brade, you know, when he came to us was
reported as fatherless and motherless, if I am not mistaken?
I believe the conclusion now is, that he's a
young nobleman from abroad, — ah! of course from
abroad, if he's a young nobleman at all, for we don't
have them here.”
By this time his listener had changed his attitude,
and his expression had become a mixed one of amusement
and annoyance. As Mr. Don was about beginning
again after this correction of himself, Mr. Warren
said decidedly: —
“Oh, no; no, no! he's a particularly fine little fellow,
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[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
but I don't think there's any such mystery about Brade.
I know some nonsense has been talked about him, in
Eastham, — fun of Mr. Greenwood's, probably, — and
the boys have got up wonderful fancies;” but, after
this rather unsympathizing dash of cold upon Mr.
Don's account of his marvellous incident, he stopped.
Mr. Don himself was for a moment quite taken
aback; indeed, it might well be asked, Now, even if
Mr. Warren's mind, being sedentary and studious, was
not so active as those of others in inquiry, why should
he feel inclined to set himself against so natural and
reasonable an opinion? Mr. Don's face was clouded.
“Pardon me, sir:” he said, when he began to recover
himself, and with a look of honest astonishment at the
backwardness of the Head of the School in information
about a boy under his charge which the community
about him were well advanced in. “I thought it was
taken for granted that there was a mystery about the
boy, although we possessed a clue to it, or to a part
of it.”
“Oh!” said the Rector of the School, pleasantly, “I
won't go so far as to say that there is nothing which
might be called a sort of mystery in the case. I'm
only saying that I'm sure there isn't a particle of that
particular mystery about him.”
“In your opinion, sir, if I may be allowed to suggest,”
said the Trustee, very gravely, proposing a correction;
“but I must be pardoned if I can't quite agree
with you, sir. I'm surprised that there should be so
great a difference.” Then he added very patiently,
“Perhaps you will allow me to give an account of the
adventure in which I was a party myself, and which is
certainly not a little remarkable. It may affect your
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[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
own opinion, sir. I hold in my hand an important
testimony to the character of the stranger,” and he produced
what seemed a letter, or the envelope of a letter.
“Of course,” said the Rector of the School, cheerfully,
“I shall be glad to hear about the adventure, by all
means;” and (having for whatever reason committed
himself already to the other side) he looked both amused
and curious.
“We may differ, sir, as to the bearing of the incident,”
said Mr. Don, who was at no loss for well-chosen
words; “but I think we shall hardly differ as to its
interest and importance. As I came up toward the
School, about half an hour ago, I observed quite a
foreign-looking gentleman — a man of distinction, I
think I may say, sir — standing at the front door, looking
at our emblem. I offered my services, and told
him the character of our institution. At the time, a
number of boys were playing on the upper ground: he
singled out Brade, and asked if he might speak with
him; said a great deal to him about his name, and said
there was a mystery about it, which Brade would find
out some day; said that Brade was like his father in
being fond of play. Oh! I almost forgot, sir: he said
it was his first wish to see Brade, and he gave the boy
a Greek sentence, as he said, `for his name.' The Greek
was very striking, sir. If all I supposed was Greek
was Greek, he talked it as I talk English. The remarkable
thing about that is, that Greek, if I'm not
misinformed (perhaps you can instruct me better, sir),
is the language of the Greek Church, — I should say,
of the Russian Church. That seems to me an important
item, sir.”
During the telling of this story, Mr. Warren's look
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of amused curiosity had undergone some change, and
he now looked a little puzzled besides.
“If it had been so, why should he say so much, and
yet say no more? And did this remarkable foreigner
say all this before you?” he asked.
“Not exactly before me, sir, — I was at some distance.”
“He was at the house-door?” asked Mr. Warren,
again.
“But he wouldn't come in, sir. I asked him, of
course, and he made a pretence of inquiring whether
this was a hotel.”
“People do that, now and then: we're a big building,
and look something like it, outside; and we were a
famous hotel, you know, once.”
“But you see, sir,” said the Trustee, who looked
deeper into things, “he would very naturally do that,
if he was desirous of concealment.”
Mr. Warren smiled; but it may have been that the
Trustee was too much taken up with what he was telling,
to see the smile.
“And where's the wonderful paper that he gave
Brade for his name?” asked the Rector of St. Bart's
School.
“Yes, sir,” said the Trustee, with alacrity, “I took the
precaution; but I would first take the liberty of suggesting,
sir, might it not be well, in view of the peculiar
character of the case, to send Mr. Stout after him? A
little attention, perhaps, might not be altogether thrown
away. Beside the immediate result to Brade, I see the
possibility of an important connection for our school
in the future.” (Mr. Don was a business man.)
“But, if he declined to come in, I don't think we
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can well force him in, can we? He's gone away?”
said Mr. Warren. “If he had wished to come in, I
should have been glad to see him.”
“Yes, sir: he's gone away; but it'll be an hour or
two before he can take the cars for Weston,” said Mr.
Don, taking out and consulting his watch.
“He's going to Weston, then, is he?”
“Yes, sir: `to see the manufactories,' he said; though
I suppose it would be easy to explain that consistently
with the theory: he comes here first and sees Brade,
and then says `he has made a mistake, and is on his
way to see the Weston factories.' I should say that
might be easily reconciled: doesn't it strike you so,
sir? It seems to me nothing is simpler,” said the Trustee,
with much animation over a living secret involving
foreigners (perhaps, too, foreigners of the most exalted
rank) which was now passing toward its discovery, in
open air, through the channel of his own intelligence.
“Perhaps, if it wouldn't be too much trouble for you,
sir, to make a chance for a few words with him, you
would easily” —
“No,” said the Rector, with singular indifference to
the opportunity, “I think I won't do any thing about
him. You've got the paper that you were going to
show me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Don, with less animation, “I
took the precaution (you think nothing is to be done,
sir) to go round the house and head Brade. It was
then he disappeared. I made this copy, however,
hastily,” — and here he presented an envelope. “If
it will give you too much trouble, sir,” he added, in a
tone of disappointment, “Mr. Parmenter, I know, has
Greek dictionaries.”
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“Oh! I'll give what help I can; but why not the
paper itself, instead of a copy?”
“Why not, indeed, sir? You remind me; I didn't
think of that. I'll get it, and return it to the boy;”
and Mr. Don disappeared, after snatching up his hat
and gloves, and bowing to the Rector of the School, who
was sitting at the moment thinking, and smiling at his
thought.
Mr. Warren, now, as his visitor was departing, recalled
himself, and turned to his work again.
eaf637n1* “Be faithful.” — Rev. ii. 10.
-- -- p637-144
CHAPTER XIV. MR. DON HAS HOLD OF A CLUE.
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
Looking neither at the Tomb of Adrian, nor at
the Coliseum, nor at the Field of Marathon, nor at
the Acropolis of Athens, on his way, Mr. Don, full
of his business, went straight about his errand. The
boys had moved; but he sought them out, secured
Brade, and then, followed at a little distance by the rest,
came back. It was a coincidence that, while with a
single purpose he was walking toward the play-ground,
the mysterious stranger came quietly along from the
barn, and with Mr. Stout, acting apparently as guide,
went toward the eastern road.
Mr. Don ascertained from the boy, as they walked,
that he had no recollection of ever having seen the
stranger before that day; and he also made sure, by
judicious questions, that Antony had had no sympathetic
or instinctive drawings toward the supposed
agent. While Mr. Don, and Antony in his company,
were thus making their way through the front door,
and up the main staircase, the rest of the boys —
Brade's playmates — went as straight to the back door
and up by their own way, to the neighborhood of the
Rector's study. From that room a sharp ear might
have caught the confused sound of feet and murmur of
young tongues after the door had opened and let in
Antony Brade, together with the returning Trustee.
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The mysterious boy (looking not at all mysterious)
was affectionately saluted by the Head of the School,
and was invited to a seat, but managed nevertheless to
keep his feet; and then, with his cap in his hand, looked
from side to side at the throng of books.
“They followed me, sir. I thought you'd allow them
to come as far as the entry outside,” said Mr. Don, as
if in explanation of the sounds which had attended
him. (“This is the paper, sir, that I spoke of. I
brought Master Brade with me.) The others may possibly
afford additional information.”
Mr. Warren was looking at the card which had been
put into his hand.
“Shall I find a lexicon, sir? (I think that's what we
used to call them when I went to Master Bradish, at
the Hollow, in our town”). And the intelligent gentleman,
who with his eye-glasses was already scrutinizing,
at random and afar, the backs of books in different
directions, on the shelves, was eager to search.
At the word “lexicon,” Antony first allowed his eyes
to wander about the crowded bookcases, and then
turned them timidly at the lofty embodiment of scholarship
who presided over St. Bart's School, and to whom
was referred now a question of interpretation in which
the boy was himself concerned. Very possibly, if he
knew of Pericles and Plato (and he at least knew of
Xenophon), there may have been a question in his
mind whether Greek was about as easy to the Rector
as it had been to the men of old days. If so, he was
probably comforted when he heard the Head of St.
Bart's thank Mr. Don, and decline the help proposed;
and he showed all interest when that learned man
began to read from the paper: —
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“`
Β ρ α δ &ugvgr; ς
&sbiacgr;σθι
ε&sbigr;ς
&sbogr;ργ&eeacgr;ν
.' That seems plain
enough, and a good motto too, — `Be slow to wrath.'
The first four letters are emphasized” —
“Oh! that's it,” said the Trustee. “I saw they were
written wide” (which showed that the worthy man had
good eyes). Then he added, with the scrupulous politeness
which seemed habitual with him, “May I inquire
what they are, sir, if you please?”
“They spell `Brad,'” said the reader, who perhaps
had some curiosity to know what all this inquiry of Mr.
Don's was going to lead to.
“Would you be kind enough, sir, to read the original—
the Greek — once more?” said the inquiring
Trustee, sliding forward on his chair, to bring both
ears nearer to the reader.
Antony listened in very good humor, if not so
eagerly.
The interpreter of the cabalistic sentence complied
at once, very obligingly, and read aloud the words,
emphasizing distinctly the syllable which, as he said,
was written as emphatic. “That first syllable `Brad,'”
said he, “must be, as the mysterious gentleman said,
`for our young friend's name.'”
“Yes, sir,” said Antony, to this about his name; and
then, when he found that he had spoken impulsively,
without having been addressed, he blushed and looked
abashed, like a modest young fellow, well brought up.
The Rector of the School smiled upon him, and
said, —
“It's near enough, you see, Anty, for a play upon
words. The truth is, a foreigner couldn't get our
English a in your name very easily, and couldn't
put it into Greek; but I think he must have been a
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pretty learned Theban. Did he talk a great deal of
Greek?”
“I said I thought I could make Greek Fire,” said
Mr. Don, “and then he went off with what I supposed
was Greek.”
“A happy thought of yours, certainly,” said Mr. Warren,
laughing.
Antony modestly inquired whether the Thebans
were very learned; Mr. Don listening, as to something
which might or might not bear upon the main
question.
“No,” said the Head of the School, going very readily
into the subject with the boy, “the Thebans were
Bœotians. Pindar was a Theban, to be sure; but they
were contrasted with the Athenians, though no part of
their country was more than fifty miles, perhaps, from
Attica. `Boiotum crasso jurares aëre natum,' Horace
says, as you'll find some day when you get to him.
They were stupid.”
By this time the Trustee was only politely waiting
for a pause.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said, as soon as he civilly might.
“That first word or syllable, whichever it may be, I
think you said was `Brad,' without the e, if I understand
rightly. Would you be so good as to read the
next two syllables, or words, as the case may be?”
Mr. Warren at once complied, and read with patient
distinctness: —
“'
&ugvgr;ς
&sbiacgr;σ
'” — (us, is).
“Ah!” said the Trustee, whose ears must have been
as good as his eyes, “there was another sound. What
is the next syllable, if you please?”
Mr. Warren again complied obligingly, and read the
syllable '
θι
,' (thi).
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“Thank you, sir; that's the sound that I missed.
The two would make `isthy.' Now, sir, pardon me for
troubling you with another question (I think we may
come to something). Are the syllables which, if I
heard you rightly, you pronounced `isthy,' emphatic,
as you said `Brad' was?”
Being assured that the two syllables were not emphatic,
he continued, with animation enough to draw
Antony's attention, and very likely to excite some
curiosity in the Rector of St. Bart's School: —
“Then, sir, one more question: Could that be made
`inski' or `iski'?” Then he added, as if repeating to
himself, “Bradinski, — Bradiski.”
“No: I wish it might, if it would do you any good;
but Greek is as definite as any thing ever was. '
&sbIacgr;σθι
' is
&sbiacgr;σθι
” (isthi is isthi).
“Perhaps, sir,” said the unwearied investigator, “you
would do me the favor to write `iski' and `inski' in
Greek?” and he supported his request by holding out
his paper and pencil.
Mr. Warren wrote as he was desired, saying, while
he wrote, —
“Now shall I dispose of your boys, outside there,
and Master Brade, here? I suppose they would like
to be off.”
“Oh! certainly, sir; certainly,” said the Trustee.
“I thought you might wish to question them.”
“Call them in, please, Anty,” said the Rector; and in
a moment three or four boys were ushered in, among
whom was Remsen, and among whom, too, was Will
Hirsett, conspicuous by the grinning of his broad
mouth.
“Boys!” said the Rector, “we hear that there was a
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wonderful learned gentleman here this afternoon. Mr.
Don says he talked Greek; and I want to see if we can
make out what it was he said.”
Will Hirsett hitched himself up a little, as if preparing
for his part of witness. The other boys looked a
little blank.
“Mr. Don told him something about `Greek Fire,'
and then the gentleman said some Greek.”
“We can't remember Greek, sir,” said Remsen. “If
it had been English, we might.”
“If you was to say it over, sir,” said Will Hirsett,
less afraid of trying to fill a few gaps in authentic history
than Remsen appeared to be.
The Rector laughted. “I must guess, you know,”
he said. “Was it `
τ&ogvgr;
π&utigr;ρ
τ&ogvgr;
&rbegr;λληνικ&oacgr;ν
'?* or `
&rbeegr;
φλ&ogvgr;ξ
γραικη
'?Ӡ
“Yes, sir,” said Will Hirsett, with gratifying promptness.
“Which, Will?” asked his Master, while the boys
laughed.
“I think that was it, sir, — what you said,” answered
the well-inclined witness. Even Mr. Don seemed
amused.
“
&rbEEgr;
φλ&ogvgr;ξ
γραικ&eeacgr;
?Ӡ asked his examiner.
“Yes, sir,” said Will. “I think that was it.”
“Or
τ&ogvgr;
π&utigr;ρ
τ&ogvgr;
&rbegr;λληνικ&oacgr;ν
?”*
“It's one or the other, sir,” answered Will Hirsett,
with unvarying satisfaction at being able to confer a
favor of this sort upon the head of the school.
“Thank you, William,” said the Rector, sending a
glow of added pleasure over the boy's beaming face.
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[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
“Your testimony is worth fully as much as a good deal
that people give, about a thing they don't know.”
This commendation completed William's gratification;
and he handled his hat as if expecting that they
would all be dismissed now, because nothing could well
be added to what he had done.
So it was.
“Now you may go and play. Don't forget that
Greek, Will.” And, promising not to forget, Hirsett
modestly led the way from the Rector's study.
Mr. Warren took his book once more.
“How do you get on with `inski' and `iski'?” he
asked of the thoughtful Trustee.
“If you say, sir, that `isthi' couldn't be a hint for
`inski' or `iski' — (certainly the sound might suggest—).
I won't take up your time,” said Mr. Don, regretfully
or almost reproachfully, as if, somehow, the Rector
of the School was a little obstructive to science; and so
he took his leave.
eaf637n2* Hellenic Fire.
eaf637n3† Greek flame.
-- -- p637-151
CHAPTER XV. THE MAKING OF A LANGUAGE.
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There are very pretty walks, in different directions,
near St. Bart's School. One of the most beautiful of
these, up hill and down, and with many windings
among barberry-bushes and other shrubs and low trees,
was, in spite of its beauty, very little used; for it was
only a short lane off West Road, not leading through
to any road, and was in one place — beyond the houses—
wet, where it met a marsh. Just beyond that marsh
it came to an end, near a disused brick-kiln.
It is not always bright weather, even in the wholesome
country; and those rains had apparently now set
in which are said to “fill the streams before winter.”
It was on a day which gave little encouragement to
walking (for it had rained a good deal) that there were
sitting on a smooth rock, under very thick evergreen
branches, at the side of this lane, a girl and a boy.
The grass which bordered the roadway was, by this
time of the year, scanty and weak, and the leaves of
most trees were much thinned out; but everywhere,
unless under the covert where the children sat, was
moist.
The boy we have seen so often before that we know
him at once as Antony Brade: the girl, who was
dressed in plain black, was pale, with an interesting
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and thoughtful face, but brightened now, as by the
boy's company. She was rather older and taller than
her companion, — possibly wiser also, for, at least just
now, she talked less and listened more. Now and then
she leaned forward, — sometimes leaving her seat and
walking a step or two into the road, and looked each
way. Then she took her old position and listened,
smiling, and as if ready for her turn to speak. Young
Brade was beating the damp ground with a stick, — his
hat lying meanwhile beside him on the rock, — and all
the time he was speaking in rather a low voice, but
earnestly, and, as it would seem, upon the same subject
which had occasioned so much speculation and discussion
among people, young and old, of his acquaintance,—
his origin or condition.
“Oh! I can do it!” he said. “But it'll be pretty
hard, sometimes; but you'll see. Some things I don't
like, — if I could only have your house for home: it's
just as if I'd got no home and no family.”
The girl very cheerfully answered, tossing her head
with each merry exclamation of contempt: —
“Pooh! pooh! pooh! pooh! pooh! poo-ooh! Master
Antony, never mind! it'll come right, by and by, please
God;” (and she seated herself on her seat, adjusting her
dress). “It won't be long, first, and then you can be
as happy as you please, Master Antony Brade.”
This she said with a tone of good cheer, that comes
by natural gift to womanhood, young or old. The
boy's spirits seemed more like the sky and the weather:
still, as we have already seen, it was not another's
strong spirit or cheery voice that was needed to give
him strength. He turned to her, with a pretence of
frowning, and raised his stick, threateningly: —
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“Don't call me that! don't call me Master Antony!”
he said drolly. “When we are all by ourselves, I am
sure you might call me `Anty' or `Tony.'”
“No, no!” she said, shaking her head and smiling
as she did so, and with a very lively and determined
tone, indeed, “No!”
Then she added, with a very ceremonious voice and
manner, “When would I do it at all, Master Antony,
if not when we are all by ourselves? Come! we mustn't
lose our time. Isn't it good we've got our bower?”
(spreading her arms, but rather narrowly, as if to avoid
shaking down the wet, and looking about upon their
quarters), “and we are able to meet, so that any
way we'll not forget each other.” This, too, she said
mirthfully, emphasizing rather excessively the last
words. Here she turned her face round in front of his,
putting up her chin pertly, and receiving in return
a little slap upon the cheek. So their narrow retreat
was pretty merry and comfortable.
“Well, we'll begin our language right off,” said
Antony, in his enthusiasm throwing up the stick with
which he was beating the earth so high that he struck
one of the heavy, low-hanging, evergreen boughs, and
brought a whole shower of raindrops down upon them
both. At this both burst into happy laughter, and he
shook his curly head, and she wiped her dress with a
handkerchief.
“Suppose,” said he, as older philosophers have
made their suppositions, sometimes stretching very far
out into moving causes and into the strengths and
fastnesses of nature, and sometimes, too, bringing
great discoveries to men, — “suppose we should shake
all the wet down, and then there wouldn't be any more
to come.”
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Here was a philosophical principle involved which
the girl seemed to regard with little respect. “Why,
you foolish boy!” she said, laughing heartily again,
“wouldn't you get all wet yourself, shaking it down?
and wet all our bower, and our seats? What a boy
you are!”
His foolish supposition coming back to him in this
shape of absurdity, he could not help laughing again;
so, under those trees, damp as things were all about,
was as cheery a place as under many a well-shingled
or well-slated shelter from the weather. The girl ran
quickly forward to make her usual reconnoissance, and
back again, and, having seated herself as before,
smoothed out her lap, and said with great spirit: —
“Now let's begin! Who's got any paper?” and she
felt, long and thoroughly, in the only pocket she had,
without bringing out any thing more to the purpose
than a crumpled bit, on which were what looked like
sums in Arithmetic. This, they both said, would not
do; and Antony kept on going through his pockets,
which he had already gone through more than once;
but his search resulted in his finding nothing more than
a few small rolls and foldings and crumples of paper, —
all of which, he said, were precious, as having parts of
a WORK in Greek and Latin on them, — and a single
brown scrap, in which were wrapped up three or four
small stones, a few black seeds or berries, and a tangle
of twine. He restored the first, carefully and ceremoniously,
to his waistcoat, and folded and squeezed up the
latter again, and put it back into his coat, and then
they both agreed that perhaps they could find a place
on the rejected sum-paper, and ended by saying that
“there was plenty of room, and it would do splendidly.”
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Now they spread it all out, and, after hastily looking
it all over, set themselves to their work; and with what
spirit they went about it! One corner of Brade's
pocket furnished a pencil, caught in inextricable
meshes of pack-thread, and released after Alexander
the Great's fashion.
Nothing (unless looks) was ever so touching, so moving,
so overcoming, so full of life and kinship as words;
and how hard it is for the fire of life to die out of them!
Language — any worthy and noble language that we
know — is so great and wonderful that men of long
thought and study are arguing, in books, whether
speech is a gift straight from God, or was felt out and
followed on by men's own wit and need. But who has
not, with some school-crony, knowing or not knowing
what Cadmus did for Greece, boldly made up a language
and sported it sometimes in the hearing of
grown-up men; and initiated, with some show of form,
a playmate or two into its secrets; dropped some of its
words upon the pages of a letter sent home, and left
them unexplained, — his heart beating pretty high, and
his eye glistening at thought of what conjectures would
be there indulged, about the very deep things that
school boys get into! Let our readers who are curious
in philepy, or speech-liking, look closely to the doings
of these two intelligent children of different sexes.
Here they will be likely to get as reasonable and fair
an account of the way in which languages originate, as
from the twins of Psammitichus, who
Β&eacgr;κος
&sbegr;φ&ohacgr;νησαν
(made the sound of the goat) or made their first utterance
in Scythian, or those of the Scottish king who
pushed straight out into the world of speech with wellformed
Hebrew.
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Antony Brade and the young girl, his companion, were
now set down to the making of a language. A difficulty
presents itself before they begin.
“There are as many words in the English language,”
said Antony, “as one hundred thousand! we couldn't
make as many as that;” and he laughed.
“Why, we don't want as many as that, to say all
we've got to say,” said the girl; and she belonged to
the sex who make the most use of that and other languages,
and might be expected to know. “We could
say every thing with only a few.”
“How many should we have to have, Kate?” asked
Brade, — “two hundred? We couldn't get along with
two hundred, could we, if people use a hundred thousand?”
“Let's begin,” said Kate; “only you must remember
and call me `Miss Ryan.'”
“Pooh!” said Brade, at the last part of the sentence.
She looked thoughtfully at her paper.
There they sat, and did not begin. The first start
was made by Brade: —
“Let's call mud `modo,'” he proposed, working the
end of his stick in the earth, “and we must change
all the letters of the alphabet: how shall we do
that?”
“We shan't have to do that,” said Kate. “Different
languages have the same letters, and yet that doesn't
make the languages the same. If you changed all the
words as much as `modo,' you wouldn't have to change
the letters.”
“Oh, well,” said Antony, brightening up as the task
was narrowed down, “if you only want words, I know
a way Russell made when he was in the Second Form;
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[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
but then he let everybody into it at last, so that a
great many people could read it. We've got to have
one that nobody can read but just us two.”
“But we needn't do just the same that he did. How
did his way go, Master Antony?” she asked, emphasizing
the name, but looking up and smiling.
He was thinking; but, as soon as he understood what
she had just been saying, he raised his stick, which he
had still held, though no longer playing with it, and
threatened her, drawing a frown upon his face over the
smile which kept place at his roguish young mouth.
Then he came back to business.
“Oh! let me see,” said he, conning the composition
which was to be the ground on which they were to
work out their language.
“I must look out,” said the watchful girl; and made
her walk to the road, and turned her eyes up and down
it quickly, and then came quickly back.
He had been studying the written words.
“Russell's way was to leave a letter out,” said Brade.
“But I don't believe he meant it to be hard; and, if a
word was a long word, he'd leave out two. But anybody
could find that out. Suppose we should leave
out half a word?”
“Well, don't let's begin to write, until we've chosen
what we'll have; because we haven't got much paper,”
said Kate. “Take a word.”
Antony looked up into the air, as if words and
ideas floated there, and before long had got a word.
“`Therefore' 's a good word. Suppose I want to write
to you, `therefore I can't come.' I'd write `fore,' but
then,” continued he, hesitating, — “you can't take half
of `I'” —
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“Make it small,” said Kate, — “make it little `i,' with
a dot: `fore (little) i, not me.' There! they couldn't
make that out.”
“Now, suppose I want to say, `I've got another ball,'
or `I've caught a muskrat,' — little `i'-`e' (how far
have we got?) `I've-got-a-muskrat,' — I, — no, little
i-e, — how are you going to divide `got'? — leave the
t on? — No: I'll tell you. He had another way. It
was: Take a letter from one place and put it in another
place; take a hind-letter and put it in front. He left
his book down for anybody to find out; but nobody
but me ever found out, and I never told anybody. It's
a real good way. Let's try that.”
Now that things looked more definite, the paper
came forth and was put to use. Antony had a pencil,
and Kate Ryan wrote for both. Brade proposed
the making of a regular letter, which was to run in this
way: —
“`Dear Kate, I got your letter, and was very glad
when I got it. I got it last evening. I am glad to
hear that all are well. I went a trapping, and I'” —
“Not so fast!” said Kate, whose fingers went pretty
well, considering the dampness. “There! now you've
got enough for a beginning. There! you can take
that” (tearing off what was already written). “Let's
keep `THE LANGUAGE' all on a separate piece.
You read.”
To this arrangement the boy assented with great
readiness.
“You must only say `Kate,' not `dear Kate.'”
(“Well!” said he, as if he did not care to argue that
point any more). “`Ekat,'” — she continued, writing.
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“Let's always put `I' on to another word,” suggested
Antony, following his paper.
“Well,” she continued, “`Ekati-tgo-'” (following his
dictation, which he said was like Cæsar's, — only he
wanted a few more scribes) “`ryou — rlette — dan —
swa — yver — dgla — nwhe — itgo — ti.'”
They did not get along quite so fast as we have gone,
for they made and corrected a mistake or two; but this
was the result which they came to, at the end of the
first sentence; and there they stopped a little while,
to compare notes and exult. They were satisfied with
the look of it. They longed to put the acquired language
to use in their correspondence; and, after the
first flush of excitement over their success, went on to
translate the whole of Antony's composition into their
own private language. The preliminary `Ekati' they
changed, on Kate's urgency; and at last the whole work
stood complete before their eyes in this shape: —
“Smis nryai tgo ryou rlette dan swa yver dgla nwhe
itgo ti. imdgla ot rhea ttha lal ear lwel. itwen gatrappin
dnai tcaugh eon tmuskrai. lwil eb ta rbowe sa lusua.
B. A.”
And then one thing struck one of the authors, — Kate
Ryan: “Where a letter is doubled in a word, like
two p's in `trapping,' why can't we leave out one? and
so in `letter'? I'm afraid somebody will guess `trapping'
and `letter.'”
In the making of so important a thing as a language,
the girl seemed to think the world interested, and
likely to be curious. Young Brade accepted at once
the proposition, and the dangerous `t' and `p' were
taken out, leaving the words to which they belonged
much less suspicious-looking and much less liable
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to detection, now that the letters had been taken
away.
“Now,” said Antony, “we must both have copies
exactly alike, so that we can remember, and we can put
a particular mark at those two words, so as to show
that the letters were left out on purpose. Now can't
we do any thing else to it?”
The makers examined the effect of several proposed
improvements; but, because these did not make either
The Language any better or the secrecy any greater,
they were all abandoned; and it was resolved that, for
the present, the language should be tried as it was.
Brade, with many bows and much ceremony, and with
some laughter, practised the “Smis Nrya” with which
the letter opened, at first joining to these words others
in the ordinary vernacular, but at length turning all
into the Secret Language which had just come into
being, as “Smis Nrya, who od uyo od?”
Now they did not believe that anybody in the whole
world could make it out; and Brade would not fear to
leave a piece lying on the ground so that anybody could
see it.
“Wouldn't it be good,” he asked, “if one of those
great men that read inscriptions, or the Postmaster-General,
should try a piece of it?”
These words apparently reminded Kate of her watchfulness,
for she hurried to the road, looking longer than
she had yet looked toward the highway.
“There's something stopping away over on the hill,”
she said, hurrying back. “Now we must be quick.
Have you made a new one? If we could rub out one
t and one p from this, it would do just as well as writing
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it over. Quick! quick! quick!” and she spread out
the paper.
With all the hurry, Antony took occasion to show a
little learning, acquired, as we may suppose, not long
before in the class-room, and still fresh to him, that
“the Ancients used to write with one end and rub out
with the other, — vertere sty” —
Kate unceremoniously broke in, bursting into a laugh
(children in good spirits are so ready to laugh): —
“Never mind the Ancients!”
The Third-Form boy took good-naturedly this slight
upon his Latin, and, turning his pencil, began to rub
out the objectionable letters with its india-rubber; and,
while he was busy with that work, Kate, finding the
freest and cleanest part of her paper, made a copy for
Antony, keeping for her own the first.
Then going into the road, and looking each way, as
before, she called hastily to him: “There! go you right
in back there, into the `cuddle'” (this very likely was
their private name for some inner retreat or fastness),
and as she spoke she pushed him inwards from the
road. “Mr. Parmenter's coming!”
“I don't mean to hide!” said the boy, positively.
“You must!” she answered, with equal positiveness;—
“but I can't stay!” — and immediately set out in
the direction of the main road, and of what had given
her the alarm, walking steadily and quietly, without
once looking back or turning her head.
She bowed quietly on meeting a vehicle in which
were Mr. Parmenter and another person, to whom, as
they drove slowly, Mr. Parmenter was pointing out
with his whip, to the prospect on the grounds at the
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side. It was not likely that they would observe the
young girl in black, who brushed the moist bushes in
turning out for them. After passing them, in like manner
she kept her way without turning, as wisely as any
woman who wished not to show curiosity nor to attract
attention.
-- -- p637-163
CHAPTER XVI. MR. PARMENTER STUMBLES UPON A SPECIMEN.
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The carriage which Kate Ryan had just met went
on at a walk, but was soon opposite the place where,
in his nook of damp shelter, our young friend, the associate
language-maker, had been left.
Mr. Parmenter's eyes, as he drove, were still fixed
upon the fields, at the opposite side.
“We must turn before long,” he said, “for there's a
bad place in the road, just beyond here, that our townauthorities
will have to look to; but I've shown you
the whole ground.”
His companion, whose tall neck showed a white cravat,
implying that he was a clergyman, was perhaps less
occupied with field and road than he, and at this moment
exclaimed, —
“Well! there's a young chap has found a snug place
for himself!” and Antony Brade appeared, sitting on
his rock as before, — though not now with his head
bare, — and beating the moist earth with his stick.
The boy looked a little conscious and confused, perhaps,
but possibly not more than any boy of his age
might appear, when found in a strange situation like
this by two gentlemen, and having had their attention
directed to him.
“Good afternoon, Brade,” said Mr. Parmenter, in a
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gracious tone, and lifting his hat from his head; ceremoniously,
in return for the salutation of the boy.
“I'm glad to hear you're such a good scholar, Brade.
Don't you feel afraid of taking cold in there? I should
think Mrs. Wales might have to prescribe for you, if
you sit in such places.”
Then turning to the clergyman he said: “Brade is
the first scholar in his Form, I understand, Mr. Merritt.”
“So this is Brade,” said the other, looking well at
him. “I'm glad to see you, sir, and hope you'll live to
be the first scholar in the School.” To Mr. Parmenter,
he added, smiling, “Boys have boys' constitutions.”
The boy, after the way of boys, made no answer
to the compliments and complimentary wishes, but by
this time had found an answer to some one of the several
suggestions about dampness and danger, and was
saying, “It's very dry after we've sat here a little
while.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Parmenter, graciously, “this is a
place of resort for boys, is it? Rather a dangerous
practice,” he added, turning to his companion. “I
think I shall have to speak to Rector Warren about it.
Well, Brade, I shall be glad to see you at my house.
Are you interested in works of art and taste? You
know, Brade, where my house — Mr. Parmenter's
house — is? I suppose all the boys of Saint Bartholomew's
School know my house? Would you like to
come?”
To this invitatory address, which was palpably at
the same time dignified and elegant and hospitable,
the boy answered very much as modest boys generally
do.
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“Then I shall expect you, Brade: I shall request
Rector Warren to give you leave,” said Mr. Parmenter,
even more graciously, and saluting him punctiliously.
He then backed his horse and turned his buggy, neatly,
on the narrow road.
“Did you observe any thing particular about that boy,
sir?” he asked, in his formal way, of his companion.
“You know he's the mysterious boy.”
“Not very different from other boys in the same
condition, I should say,” answered the clergyman. “So
that's the mysterious Brade?” and then he added, with
a touch of that humor which is peculiar to a certain
class of minds, “`Braid broad braids, brave maids.'”
“Yes,” said Mr. Parmenter, accepting the quotation,
with a courteous smile, “I suppose there may or may
not be something under it? It might be quite an
important thing for our School? You observed I mentioned
`works of art.' I don't go so far as some of our
neighbors, in concluding right off that he used to live
in a palace; but it might remind him of former associations
and surroundings” (Mr. Parmenter showed a
good choice of words). “I don't know whether you
observed any effect? How do his manners strike you,
sir?”
“I don't know how a nobleman ought to look” (“I
don't,” said Mr. Parmenter, without interrupting).
“Doesn't somebody say he's a nobleman?” continued
Mr. Merritt. “I should easily say he might be foreign.”
“There's a strong feeling in Eastham, you know; and
Mrs. Wadham and Mr. Don have got a theory, I believe,”
said Mr. Parmenter with an impartial dignity,
like one who was ready to accept either side, according
to the weight of evidence. “They think he's a Russian,
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and Brade stands for Bradinski or Bradisloff (I don't
know Russian” —). (“Who does?” asked Mr. Merritt.)
Mr. Parmenter smiled and went on: “or some other
he mentioned, — a very distinguished family. Dr.
Farwell's got a Scotch theory” (“I know he has,” said
Mr. Merritt), “a great family of Breadalbanes,” continued
Mr. Parmenter, dividing the stress of voice
between the first and last syllables.
“Breadalbane,” said Mr. Merritt, showing superior
knowledge by accenting the second syllable.
“If he should be a Russian,” continued Mr. Parmenter,
going on to weigh that side, “it might be an important
thing for St. Bartholomew's School to be a
connecting link between our Christian education and
the highest classes in that country (they all belong, I
think, to `the Greek Church,' or to `the Holy Eastern
Catholic Church,' — you know about those things better
than I do), and it might be a step toward intercommunion.”
“Rather a short one, I fear,” said the clergyman,
again opening his vein of humor.
“I should think so,” said Mr. Parmenter, smiling as
before, impartially, as if this were just as much his
opinion as the other.
“Don't you think it might be worth while to follow
it up a little, in a quiet way? Haven't we a right, in
justice to a pupil under our charge, and in justice
to ourselves, to ascertain the facts about a boy that
we're educating, if we can do it without exciting suspicion?”
Mr. Merritt smiled, as if catching his friend's
thought.
“I suppose,” said he, “we may gratify our curiosity,
-- 154 --
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
if we can do it without exposing ourselves: is that
it?”
“Mrs. Wadham puts it `on strong moral grounds,'”
said Mr. Parmenter, by way of answer. He smiled as
he spoke, but added: —
“I confess it admits of a question. Isn't it a moral
duty to know all we can about one of our pupils? in
case of wrong, for example, or danger. There may be
something kept from him. Can't we, if we choose, put
it upon the ground of moral obligation? — that is, if
we think best. I should say it depended entirely upon
that.”
This last he said as if not committed to any
course, but as being capable of seeing his way pretty
clearly.
“Well, I don't know,” said Mr. Merritt; “we might
kick up a good deal of a mess. Somebody said (I believe
it was Dr. Farwell) that Mr. Bates, the agent, or
guardian, or whatever you may choose to call him, said
Mr. Warren knew all about the boy.”
Mr. Parmenter was hardly prepared for that supposition: —
“I think that can't be so,” he said, coloring. “I
presume that Mr. Warren would recognize my claim to
be informed.”
Here was a slight pause, and then he said, —
“The Rector is pretty clear-headed and sharpsighted,
I suppose, about learned questions, — the
question whether Hector (wasn't it Hector?) killed
Andromache; — but bring him down to daily life, and
it doesn't follow that he'd use his eyes as well as those
of us that have to keep our wits about us all the time.
He doesn't think there's any thing foreign or remarkable
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[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
about Brade (I should judge from what he told me).
What should you say?”
“I should think there might be something a little
foreign in his accent, — possibly Irish,” said Mr. Merritt.
“But I should be prepared to believe one thing
as well as another.”
“That's it,” Mr. Parmenter said. “The ladies suggest
that naturally, under the circumstances, — being
incog, — he would be left a good deal to servants. I
believe, however, Irish gentlemen have that — and
Scotch, too — as well as the common people. In this
country,” he continued, drawing an appropriate reflection
from his fact, “we should think it strange if any
educated man was to have a peculiar accent. I believe
I'm right, ain't I?”
Mr. Merritt assented, and then, sticking like a parson,
as he was, to his text, said, —
“I think you told me once that you had never
known of any foreign communication with him?”
“No: I ascertained that without raising any suspicion
or any curiosity. I got our post-master, old
Mr. Bancroft, to keep account of all the foreign letters
that went through our office, so as to show the importance
of the Eastham post-office. That took the old
gentleman, and he kept account for two months. You
see I looked out for that.”
“What visitors has he had?” Mr. Merritt asked, at
the end of the sentence.
“He hasn't had any, till the other day. I never told
you about the stranger?”
Taking his answer from his friend's face, Mr. Parmenter
went on: “Quite a distinguished-looking man.
I tried to get him to ride up with me from the cars;
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[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
but he preferred walking. I went up afterwards to
the School, and Mr. Don told me he had singled out
Brade from quite a number of boys, and talked with
him; asked what his name was, and when he said
`Brade,' he laughed, and asked him if he knew who his
father was; and then `if he knew any thing.' Brade
said, `Not much,' and then the man said, `Good,' and
`he was just the boy he wanted to talk to.' I found,
from the little conversation I had with him, that he
was a foreigner; but I could not hear any thing about
him, afterwards. Nobody, except just at the school,
had seen him, or heard of him.”
“That ought to be one of Robert Dale Owen's stories,”
said Mr. Merritt. “I don't see but what we're
coming on in the world, at St. Bart's.”
Mr. Parmenter had still his comments to make, and
he made them, as follows: —
“What he said to Brade might mean a great deal, or
nothing, just as you choose to take it. `Does Brade
know who his father is?' `Does he know any thing
about the mystery?' `It's good he doesn't know much.'
`He's just the boy that was wanted.'”
“Well, but you don't suppose so much of a plot as
all that?” said the other.
“I suppose,” said Mr. Parmenter, confidently and
sagaciously, smiling, “that a plot's a plot, ain't it? a
spade's a spade. If there's a plot at all, why not a
whole plot? It's just as cheap, while you're about it.”
The sky had not ceased to threaten, and now looked
more threatening than ever; and the clergyman, like
a sensible man, held out his hand to the weather.
“Here it comes!” said Mr. Merritt; and, while he
spoke, the two drew over and fastened the leathern top,
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and sheltered themselves, besides, with the boot. The
rain came quietly and steadily down, in the surest way
to soak the earth and all things on it. At the same
time the horse took the road handsomely, laying himself
down to his work, and the lumps of wet sand and
gravel began to fly from his hoofs and from the wheels.
Mr. Parmenter had pretty well explained Mr. Don's
views and his own upon the subject, when Mr. Merritt
gave another turn to his thoughts.
“Our young friend 'll stand a pretty good chance of
getting soaked, if he camps out there much longer.
His high family won't keep the rain out. All the
Braids-in-skies and out-of-skies won't help him.”
“Suppose we turn back and take him in?” said Mr.
Parmenter, reining up; and, Mr. Merritt assenting, he
turned with some little manœuvring in the narrow
roadway, and went back as fast as they had been
coming.
“This was the place, surely,” he said, stopping his
horse at a particular spot, and looking out. “There's
where we turned round before. Surely, that's where
the boy was.”
He drove on slowly, turned round in the former
tracks, and came slowly back to the same spot.
This time, however, no opening in the shrubbery by
the roadside appeared. They laughed.
“This is one of the old stories of enchantment that
we used to read, — invisible gates and so on. You see
what he's done, don't you? fastened those two boughs
together,” said Mr. Merritt.
“That's very well done, Brade,” said Mr. Parmenter,
in a very considerate tone; “but I wouldn't stay out
here any longer, now it's raining. We've come to offer
you a ride.”
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There was no stir or sign of animation behind the
green door; nor to their repeated calling was there any
answer, any more than if the boy had not understood
English.
One part of the gentlemen's performance consisted
of a repeated blowing by Mr. Merritt through his thumbs
into his hands, so as to make a loud whistle. This he
repeated many times, because, as he said, “he knew from
his own experience that every boy understood that.”
Mr. Parmenter was, it would seem, a man of resolution.
“I should like to see,” he said, aside, “what has
become of him;” and, giving the reins ceremoniously
to his companion, he jumped out and set himself to
opening the way into the hiding-place. At the expense
of a pretty thorough wetting from the drops shaken
down and brushed through, he made an entrance, only
to find the bare rock, and the place empty.
“That's the Russian way, I suppose,” said Mr. Merritt,
“though I should have called it rather `French
leave.' But you're dripping, my dear sir,” as from
his secure retreat he saw his friend come back.
“Where's he gone, do you suppose?” he asked, his
curiosity again overcoming, for the moment, his sympathy
and good manners.
“That I can't tell you, sir,” said Mr. Parmenter, with
several slight coughs.
“What's that paper?” Mr. Merritt asked. “Perhaps
that's his father's patent of nobility.”
Mr. Parmenter picked up the paper, — a damp and
not over-clean bit, — and, glancing at it, said: “It's
something I can't make out, — a strange language.”
“A find! Suppose you bring it home,” said his
friend; “perhaps we can make some hand at it.” And
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Mr. Parmenter, having folded and put it into his pocket,
took his place, wet and chilling; drew up the boot, and
soon had his horse going faster than before.
Through that side-road, so pretty in bright weather,
they splashed, and into the main road. Here was
some moving life.
“That's a remarkably nice-looking girl ahead there,”
said Mr. Merritt: “we met her before. What new
family have you got here? She'll get a precious soaking,
though, won't she?”
“Yes, but there's Mr. Manson offering to hold his
umbrella over her!” said Mr. Parmenter. “He doesn't
care for weather either.”
“But what's he got in his arms?” asked Mr. Merritt, —
“a sheep?”
Mr. Manson (whom our readers may remember, the
Rector and editor) had certainly something large on his
arm, under his cloak.
“I see his feet hanging down,” said Mr. Parmenter:
“it's little Billy Carnes, the cripple. I saw him in Mrs.
Rainor's window, as we came by.”
“We'll say it's a lamb, then. If it wasn't so rainy, I
should like to try Manson with your `strange language,'”
said Mr. Merritt.
“Yes!” Mr. Parmenter answered, keeping up his
horse's pace. “That girl belongs to a very respectable
family, lately moved in. Some people say the mother
is most likely the person that had the charge of Brade,
or else is appointed to look after him. I haven't made
out yet, to my own satisfaction, whether there's any
thing in it. There's no intercourse between Brade and
them, that anybody knows of; but they're very well
off.”
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“In a country place,” said Mr. Merritt; “the neighbors
would soon know it, if there was any intercourse,—
to say nothing of scores of boys with two eyes and
ears apiece.”
“I should know it as soon as any one,” said Mr. Parmenter,
in a tone that implied a large reserve of power
and means within him: “my position is such, you
know, that not much is said or done that doesn't find
its way to me. It's important that it should be so.”
The rain came steadily down, in a way to check conversation;
and the rate at which they were driving
brought their faces and hats and clothes against it, and
made it necessary to meet it manfully, or shelter themselves
from it, as best they might. So, splashing
through shallow puddles, and flinging the mud from
wheels and hoofs, with now and then a snort from the
horse and a cough from his driver, they made their
way home.
-- -- p637-174
CHAPTER XVII. MR. DON AND ANOTHER JOIN FORCES.
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The reader will not expect that Mr. Don, who does
not live in Eastham, should give up all his time to St.
Bart's, or to his friends in our town. He is a snug
man of business at home, and quietly thriving in the
world; and this he would not be, if he did not look
after his own business, which is that of calico-printing,
on a good scale. It is because his business is in a safe
way, and that he conscientiously follows up his duties
in all other directions, that we find him so often treading
the soil of Eastham, and making himself seen and
felt at the School.
More than one thing here now took up his time.
We have seen that Miss Minette Wadham was not
disinclined to let her mother go forward and work out
her plan, if only she could be kept within certain
bounds of propriety. We have seen the plan formed
in their house to give harmless pleasure and to develop
a most interesting and attractive mystery. It is while
things are just in this state that our small but intelligent
and courteous friend made his way in; and, in
answer to the salutations of the ladies, said that “his
wife assured him that he was looking very well; that
he was not quite clear that she was right; but supposed
that it was a proper compliment to her to think
so.”
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Having thus smilingly introduced himself as put
forward and sustained by his wife, and having next
complimented the ladies on looking well, and remarked
the beauty of their flowers, and the comfort of a wood-fire,
he diverged a little. “You find your residence in
Eastham still agreeable, I suppose, Mrs. Wadham?”
he asked. “Our boys — the boys of Saint Bartholomew's
School — don't disturb you?”
This he said like one who, though he felt responsible
for the conduct of the boys, yet was pretty well assured
that there was little misconduct to account for. The
lady answered: —
“I've got two boys there myself, you know, Mr.
Don; and my boys were always brought up to respect
their mother, — to respect their father and their
mother my boys were brought up; and, if boys
respect their mothers, they can't be very bad.”
This little sentence was uttered with so much decision
as to make it clear that she considered Mr. Don's
question met and answered. Mr. Don accepted it,
apparently, in that understanding.
“True, ma'am,” he said, “the parental principle —
the principle of parental respect — in my opinion
underlies (I think that's the phrase now), it's at the
root of every thing. You commonly observe” —
Mrs. Wadham plunged into speech: —
“As for the parental principle, I say, teach 'em to
know their mothers. I know it's said, `it's a wise child
that knows his father;' but I say let 'em know their
mothers, and then you keep 'em in connection with all
that's pure and holy.”
“It may be as you say, ma'am,” answered Mr.
Don. Then gathering up again the thread of
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discourse, which had been brushed out of his hand, he
followed it: —
“I've seen young men left orphans who have been
brought up without that restraining influence. I have
one in particular in my mind now” —
“Yes: speaking of that, what do you think of the
mystery of St. Bartholomew's — I call it; there was a
`Massacre of St. Bartholomew's' once, you know.”
Mr. Don moved in his seat, and looked intelligently
at her; for, as our readers will believe, here was a
subject that he was ready for. He answered cordially: —
“I think we're in a way to get nearer to it.”
The answer was so ready that Mrs. Wadham seemed
to doubt whether he could have understood her.
“About this young chap at the School, I mean, —
nobleman's son, or whatever he is.”
“That's the subject I had in my mind, ma'am,” said
Mr. Don.
“It's the subject a good many people have got in
their minds, I guess,” said the lady.
“But, excuse me, ma'am,” said Mr. Don. “You
spoke of a `Massacre.' Am I to understand that you
connect something of that sort with the history of the
young person we referred to?”
“That I can't say,” answered Mrs. Wadham, with
much meaning and authority in her look and voice.
“Mystery is what it is, now. I ask” (with a sort of
official tone) “what you think of it?”
“Oh!” said Mr. Don, seriously, “I'm convinced there's
something in it, ma'am. I think it altogether likely
he's a nobleman's son, — my own opinion is, a Russian
nobleman.”
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Mrs. Wadham looked as if she carried in her pocket
a pass-key to the House of Things Unrevealed. “I
suppose it can be known,” she said, and sealed the sentence
with a single nod, as significant, if not as conclusive,
as that of Jove.
Mr. Don was not the man to shut the mouth of an
oracular cave, or to put brakes upon the wheels of advancing
discovery, nor was he the man to precipitate
things. “You think it could be discovered, ma'am,
do you?” he asked. “I remember a remark our Rector,
Dr. Nattom, once made, that `if we could encourage
the hidden thing to come out of its shell, without
rudely breaking it ourselves, we were following the
order of nature.'”
“The `order of nature' is all good,” she answered;
“but I take it we're meant to be lords of nature. I
should say this secret will be discovered!” and, having
nodded decisively, she looked steadily in his face.
“There's Eldridge!” she said, suddenly, showing that
she could attend to two men at once. Then, throwing
up the window, she called out, “Eldridge! I want you
to put Tommy directly into the light carriage, to drive
me.”
It is to be supposed that if Eldridge had received his
proportion of that domestic wisdom which, as we have
heard, had been applied to the sons of Wadham, he
would go straight to the execution of an order, or a
suggestion of Mrs. Wadham, with a readiness beyond
that of submission to authority, with a feeling as if he
were furthering the operation of one of the Elements
of Nature. This time he answered, not strongly, “I
haven't been to dinner yet, Miss Wadham.”
“Oh, yes!” she said; “but I want the horse and
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[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
light carriage, right away. — I sha'n't be gone long,”
she added, considerately, for his comfort.
“Now,” she said, “I'm goin' to St. Bartholomew's
School: I've got an end in view, — I've got a purpose, —
and a motive.”
Mrs. Wadham's way of speaking a sentence like this
was sententious: whether to choose the right words, or
to give them a chance to take their full effect upon her
hearers.
Mr. Don was a very good listener, — courteous and
grave, but not demonstrative. To what had just been
said, he answered, “Oh, yes, ma'am!”
Mrs. Wadham looked at him as if she were not sure
whether he had altogether understood her.
“I say,” said she, emphatically, “I've got a purpose
and a motive!”
This phrase had evidently been chosen with deliberation.
“Perhaps you'd like to go with me?” she asked,
and was assured that “he would certainly go, with
pleasure, if it wouldn't put her to any inconvenience.”
“No inconvenience about it!” she answered. “I
ain't a living skeleton, and I always have plenty of room
in my carriages. Now, Netta, you might go and set
and talk with Mrs. Warren, while I'm about business.
That'll be treating her with proper respect. — Yes.”
To many persons, if they had heard the whole of
Mrs. Wadham's plans, this proposition would seem like
that among thieves, by which the one is to draw off a
partner or a clerk, while the other robs the till. To
people like the author of it, it seems to provide for all
the demands of propriety and kindness, while it answers
the first object, which is to enable the contriver of it to
accomplish his own purpose.
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“So we'll put on our things and get ready, if you'll
go.”
The daughter had more delicacy of perception, if
not more kindliness of feeling than the mother, and
she objected, while she nipped dead leaves from the
plants: —
“But, mother, I don't see why you can't see Mrs.
Warren and ask leave to visit the dormitory. I don't
think there would be any difficulty” —
“That would just spoil my plan: I can do that afterwards,”
said the mother. “That is all very proper, no
doubt, in general: I make no objection; but there are
other considerations that outweigh propriety, this time.
Well, Mr. Don, I'll go and get ready.”
“And I'll beg off from going,” said Miss Minette.
“You'll have Mr. Don.”
“Perhaps I can take your daughter's place with Mrs.
Warren,” said that mild gentleman. “I can't fill it, of
course, — I wouldn't undertake to fill it; but just to
make a call upon Mrs. Warren, and I could join you
immediately, in the alcoves.”
Mrs. Wadham was going, large and heavy, to make
herself ready, and answered, turning to Mr. Don, as
she went, “Yes.”
“I can understand your feeling, — if you'll allow me
to say so,” said the gentleman to Miss Minette, who
was still engaged in trimming her plants. “I should
have some scruple myself, if I thought that any liberty
was going to be taken; but, of course, that isn't the
intention.”
“Mrs. Warren may make no objection, and may not
feel hurt,” said Miss Minette (“No!” interposed Mr.
Don); “but I don't like to ransack her house, without
leave” —
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oats.—Faith, very droll, indeed, ha, ha, ha! Yes, I
think I understand you now, sir. How silly I was to
have taken you seriously, in your droll conceits, too,
about having no confidence in nature. In reality you
have just as much as I have.”
“I have confidence in nature? I? I say again there
is nothing I am more suspicious of. I once lost ten
thousand dollars by nature. Nature embezzled that
amount from me; absconded with ten thousand dollars'
worth of my property; a plantation on this stream,
swept clean away by one of those sudden shiftings of
the banks in a freshet; ten thousand dollars' worth of
alluvion thrown broad off upon the waters.”
“But have you no confidence that by a reverse shifting
that soil will come back after many days?—ah, here
is my venerable friend,” observing the old miser, “not
in your berth yet? Pray, if you will keep afoot, don't
lean against that baluster; take my arm.”
It was taken; and the two stood together; the old
miser leaning against the herb-doctor with something of
that air of trustful fraternity with which, when standing,
the less strong of the Siamese twins habitually leans
against the other.
The Missourian eyed them in silence, which was
broken by the herb-doctor.
“You look surprised, sir. Is it because I publicly
take under my protection a figure like this? But I am
never ashamed of honesty, whatever his coat.”
“Look you,” said the Missourian, after a scrutinizing
pause, “you are a queer sort of chap. Don't know
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to the side of the house, where, from the top of a natural
rock which was as level and smooth as if made for
the purpose, Mrs. Wadham and her guest stepped
down through the doorway of the vehicle, and after
she had given her daughter a parting direction to
“keep Mr. Greenwood, if he should come, for she might
have some use for him, — and tell him, `Not a word!'”
they were driven off. “Mr. Greenwood's been away,”
she explained, “and I want to have my party.”
No prettier road has its flowers gathered in summer
by children's fingers, and its stones piled by them into
walls and causeways, and bridges and houses, and few
smoother country roads have their dust raised by flashing
wheels, than that over which they went. In the first
place, there was a hill, and there were windings; and
then the varied grouping and size and shape of trees
gave change and beauty, even now, when their chief
grace and glory was no longer hanging upon them, and
made a shelter from the chilly winds; while, through the
openings, the lake was seen, and the town, afar.
At St. Bart's, the cunningly devised programme was
carried out, with one chief exception. Before leaving
the carriage, Mr. Don had mildly expressed his purpose
of going with Mrs. Wadham first, and reserving his
visit to the Rector's family until afterwards. The
flowers were left lying on the seat.
“Just as you please,” said Mrs. Wadham, who would
gain by the change a witness to her own cleverness, and
an adviser, — and, moreover, a sharer in the questionable
proceeding in which she was engaged. “Now I
lead, and you follow. Eldridge, you'll walk the horse
along the road, up there, and mind and be here in
twenty minutes, — from fifteen to twenty minutes.”
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So saying, she led the way rapidly, and with her face
set gravely and resolutely forward, not to the front
door, but round to that storm-house with which the
reader is sufficiently acquainted. Mr. Don followed,
without trying exactly to overtake her. As she got
her hand upon the latch of the door, it was suddenly
pushed open with a force that, coming unexpectedly,
and striking her not well planted on the ground, nearly
thre her over backwards. Mr. Don supported her by
one arm, and she successfully withstood the shock.
“A mite more,” she said, gasping, “and my boys
would have been motherless, and I shouldn't have been
here to tell the tale!” She made the tragic character
of the unhappened incident complete, by adding: “And
it would have been their own school-house door that
did it!”
The three boys who had made the unintentional
assault stopped very politely to apologize, and Mrs.
Wadham received the atonement graciously: —
“Only,” she said, “I wouldn't come out of a door as
if I was fired out, for you may hit somebody.”
Mr. Don, for his part, addressed two of the boys as acquaintances,
“Brade” and “Remsen;” and Mrs. Wadham
promptly turned to one of them, whom the reader
knows as Nicholas Remsen, and expressed great interest
in him, as being in her son Edmund's Form. “Oh,
yes! I know it's Albert is in your Form,” she said, correcting
herself, as the boy corrected her; and then,
with great dignity, took leave of him, and said, —
“Now, Mr. Don!” and — the door having been
opened more deliberately than the last time — passed
through, into the house.
“You know Remsen, then?” Mr. Don asked.
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“Remsen? No! I know Brade, — I spoke to him
just now. I've looked at him, many's the time, in
church. Now, this is our way!” and she went straight
on upstairs, remarking, as she mounted stair after stair,
that “if people could go up a slope, as they used to have
it, up to the cupalo, in the State House” (Mrs. Wadham
very seldom miscalls a word, but that crowning
glory of the capitol is one that she names like most
people), “it would be ever so much more comfortable.”
“How d'y'do, Therese?” she said affably to a nice
person, with a bunch of keys at her girdle and a pile
of white clothing on her arm. “I'm come to look at
your rooms, you see, to see if you've got 'em all right.—
Mr. Don, you know,” she added, partly withdrawing,
so as to let a portion of the Trustee be seen. “I sha'n't
need any help, Therese. I know my way. Who's
next to my Edmund, now? Remsen? or Brade?”
Being informed that Thompson Walters was on one
side, and Blake on the other, she said adroitly, —
“Brade's the one they call `my lord.' I suppose his
room is very splendid. This is it, I believe?” and she
drew aside a curtain.
This time she had hit rightly, as “Therese,” who
kept close at hand, assured her, and disclosed a pretty
little place, — not, at the moment, absolutely neat, for
some shavings, with a piece or two of paper, lay upon
the floor, and a roughish bit of wood, with a knife
sticking in it, lay on the little table.
A good engraving, from one of Raphael's well-known
paintings of the Mother and the Child, hung over the
bed, and there were several pretty photographs upon
the walls.
Mrs. Wadham seemed to see every thing at a glance,
and she dropped the curtain.
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“Very pooty!” she said, — “plain, but very pooty.
Nothing very foreign-looking but the watch. Oh! perhaps
you didn't see that watch?” and she drew the
curtain again.
Mr. Don had entered into more general subjects of
conversation with “Therese,” whom he called “Mrs.
Latham.” He had started that of heating, and was on
his way, doubtless, to that of ventilation and the rest,
when this appeal was made to him. We may suppose
that, whatever he was talking about, his eyes and ears
were ready for discovery. The watch he set out for with
all the alacrity that was in him.
“Indeed, ma'am,” he said, as he surveyed it with his
glasses, “it's a very curious specimen!” for under their
eyes lay a large — as compared with watches of our
day, we might say a huge — machine of silver, with a
high and broadly-overarching dome of crystal; and
from this body came a great stalwart ticking, as unlike
the sound of modern time-pieces as was the accent of
our fathers of two or three centuries ago unlike our own.
“Two angels,” said Mr. Don. “Foreign!” Then,
looking closely, he read: “Diependorper, Haarlaem.”
“That ain't Russian, though!” said Mrs. Wadham,
thoughtfully. Soon she added, in a cheery tone: “But
we've got English watches and Swiss watches. — How
do you suppose they ever carried such a thing as
that?” asked the lady, having relieved her own
anxiety. “Had a servant, I suppose, to lug it in his
pocket, and take it out when his master wanted to
know what the time was. Silver, you see: couldn't
trust 'em with gold. That's the reason they did it,”
she continued, finding confirmations for her theory
multiplying as she went on.
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“Not very far out of the way,” said Mr. Don, comparing
the notes of time upon its face with those of a
very good-looking gold watch which he took out of his
pocket, and speaking a good deal as if the old horologe
had brought down with it a current of time from centuries
far off, and as if it were as marvellous that this
should hit that of to-day as that the eastern and western
shafts of the great tunnel should come so wonderfully
together.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, putting his forefinger to the
crystal. Mrs. Wadham's head went instantly down to
see.
“That's some sort of lingo that's too much for me,”
she said, leaving Mr. Don at work, with pencil and
paper, copying.
“Well, now for my boys!” said the lady, and she
started off. “Have they got bedclothes enough?” she
asked, feeling between the sheets. “Dear me! what's
the child got here? A turtle, I do believe!” and she
drew her hand hastily out again.
Mrs. Wadham was not a woman to take counsel
with her fears, when any thing was to be done; so she
assailed the work again, and flung the clothes down
over the bed's foot; and there, uncovered, on the middle
of the lower sheet, stood something more congenial
to boys than “turtles,” and perhaps less foreign to their
beds, something between two plates of crockery, and
looking like rich pastry. She lifted the upper plate,
and showed a delicate, flaky pie.
“What things boys are!” said the mother. “Now,
he's been home and got that, without letting anybody
know. That's my china. Well, we won't leave it
there,” she added, taking it and looking round the little
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room. “'Twon't do to put it where it'll get him into
trouble. (If a tootor should see it, he'd take possession
of it.) What's in here, I wonder?” and she opened
a small standing cupboard. “There! we'll put it in
here,” removing some of the rubbish of newspapers
which nearly filled it. “Ah! what's this?” and she
laid open another plate of pie, much like the former.
“Well done!” she said, and then proceeded to explain:
“That child has a very delicate stomach. He always
liked to have something a little nice, between his meals,
if he felt hungry: I was so before him. Entirely different
from his brother. He'll hardly take any thing,
if you'll give it to him, away from table.”
A human sound, evidently coming from some hidden
overhearers, not far off, showed that there were other
occupants of the dormitory, beside those in sight.
She shut the door of the cupboard, and then called
Mr. Don's attention to the furniture of the little room,
among which a pair of boxing-gloves was conspicuous,
with portraits of pointers and setters and some highly-colored
lady on horseback.
“Every thing's very neat, Therese, — very proper,”
she said to the respectable person whom Mr. Don and
she called by different names, and who, though she
had in some way disposed of her pile of clothes, was
still busy very near them. “Now we'll see the other,”
Mrs. Wadham said, and went across to the opposite side
of the dormitory.
“This boy ain't like his brother: this boy's all for
reading,” in confirmation of which assertion copies of
the “Youth's Magazine” and some closely-printed
newspapers might be seen upon his table.
Mrs. Wadham was not, like many persons, satisfied
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to have the character she had given her son rest upon
her own statement only, but was entirely willing to put
it to a test; either not observing or not regarding her
companion's looking at his watch, as if he were becoming
a little impatient, and felt the importance of time.
The lady walked straight up to this son's little private
lock-up, and, finding it fastened, went at once across, and
borrowed the other's key. The inside of the cupboard,
when opened, certainly showed a different set of contents
from that of his brother with the delicate stomach;
for here was an open box of “devilled” ham, and a
large bottle of mixed pickles, in which was a fork of
silver or plated ware. “He seems to be doing pretty
well, too,” said the mother, after a short pause. “But
this isn't business, you may say” (turning to Mr. Don).
“I ain't forgetting. Therese, I'm going to take home
this fork,” and shutting the cupboard-door, without any
further remark upon the different characters of her two
boys, she returned the key to its own lock, and, holding
the fork, said, “Now we'll go! I saw a scrap of
paper on the floor in a room we were examining: I don't
believe but what I could wrap this fork in it, without
hurting anybody;” and, going to Brade's sleeping-room,
she picked up a piece of paper, calling Therese's attention
to it, as she did so, and promising to return it,
“if it was of any consequence.”
“Let's see before we start,” she said. “We can tell
pooty well if it amounts to any thing,” and she looked
with some significance to Mr. Don, who was, or seemed,
entirely calm and unintelligent. “It's a boy's writing,”
she said, having spread it open. “`itwen gatrapin' she
read aloud, with growing animation, which seemed to
infect Mr. Don also, for he certainly listened, without
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pretending to be unconcerned. “Well,” she said, folding
her fork in the paper, “I can't make any thing out
of it, any how. Remember, Therese, I'm answerable.—
If you're ready,” she said, addressing her companion.
Then, in a low voice, “This 'll come in very
good at our tableau.”
Mr. Don turned and bade “good afternoon” to “Mrs.
Latham,” and then followed the large lady out, and
down the stairs. As they went, sounds of steps and
quick voices (among these some quieter tones of a
woman) could be heard in the dormitory which they
had just left.
She took her way this time through the front hall.
As they went, she said: “I've been put back a little
with my party. I depend upon Mr. Greenwood; and
he went off, just as I was giving out my invitations, to
his sister. It's a complimentary party to Brade, — dejooney,
in the afternoon, because Mr. Warren won't
let 'em come in the evening. I had to write to the
Russian Ambassador myself, and I did, — autograph.
I told him about his young countryman, of exalted
family. I said his interest in him would bring him;
but I wouldn't ask him to take that step. I'd bear all
expenses, both ways, here and back, gladly, gladly. I
wrote a second time, because I hadn't got any answer,
and set the day, and said my offer would hold good, if
he come without any warning. I hope you'll meet
him.”
Mr. Don expressed his pleasure at the prospect of
meeting so distinguished a personage, and they found
themselves near the door.
People are apt if their thoughts are sufficiently collected
in the moment of victory, to tax themselves
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with any excesses or short-comings which they can see
in their own conduct, in the pursuit of that glittering
prize. Mrs. Wadham said, as she went downstairs:
“There! I don't know as I've hurt anybody.”
“You haven't disturbed the arrangements of the
house, I think,” said Mr. Don.
“I think not!” she said. “Now,” — as she looked
about her, outside of the front door, which she had
chosen this time. “Oh! here! won't you take some
flowers for me, with a message, to Mrs. Warren?” she
asked of an abstracted-looking boy, so far off that he
was obliged to come near, and she to repeat the message,
before he could accept or decline it.
“A message,” she repeated, “and a bouquet to Mrs.
Warren, with my compliments, — Mrs. Wadham's compliments, —
and say that I didn't see any of the family
about. Eldridge! those flowers!” and having committed
them to her messenger, who, without her recognizing
him, was no other than our friend Alonzo Peters,
and having taken in Mr. Don, and having settled herself
thoroughly in her seat, she was driven away, at a
very good rate, by the undined (if he was still the
undined) Eldridge.
-- -- p637-190
CHAPTER XVIII. TRAPPING, AND SOME AFTER-TROUBLE.
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Brade had made his way thoroughly into the manifold
life of the School. Remsen and Antony (with
Peters added) trapped together; and it may be supposed
that neither of them was so entirely taken up with
lessons as not to have a considerable piece of his heart
left to bestow upon the making and setting and visiting
of traps. Cæsar, with his Belgæ and Ædui, and Allobroges,
and Aduatuci, and Helvetii, and his indirect
discourse, and whatever else there is about him, was
construed and parsed and understood. Some way was
made in Greek, too; and glimpses of flashing shields
and spears and helmets were beginning to gleam athwart
the lively boyish fancy. Already Antony, though
hardly out of the alphabet, even professed a strong
drawing toward this foremost of earthly tongues. On
the other hand, Remsen, who was a bright fellow,
though he did not get through his work always with
the same steadiness, very honestly acknowledged that
“he did not like either of 'em, but Latin wasn't as bad
as Greek.”
Trapping they both went into with equal heartiness.
Remsen had, possibly, a little more skill in getting up
traps; and Brade was as often good at choosing ground.
They were both equally untiring in following up their
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business; and as they had got leave to “set” in Mr.
Freeman's land, by being early in asking, they were
thought to have as good ground as any boys in the
School. In it was the pine wood, where, occasionally, a
hare, called by the boys from his winter dress a “white
rabbit,” used to be caught.
Their self-chosen partner, Peters, was endured, and
really showed himself to have some skill and a great
deal of willingness.
One thing will be observed, that, as Brade's fortune
has already brought him a good deal into contact with
Towne, though they are not in any way intimates, so
it happens that, somehow or other, they are still brought
together in the life of the School. In this trapping,
while on one side of them (for the whole neighborhood
was parcelled out and appropriated) Will Hirsett had
got leave, with Meadows; on the other, were Towne
and Wilkins and Tarleton. This last boy grumbled
much that his party had not got the other ground.
Babble-brook (or Brabble-brook) ran through the
whole; and one particular piece of marshy ground along
that stream was in that lot. There was the most
promising spot in the whole neighborhood (if not
π&aacgr;σης
τ&eetigr;ς
ο&sbigr;κουμ&eacgr;νης
,
as Brade exultingly said, when Remsen
and he were making their first survey of their
domain on a breezy, warm afternoon in early October)
for finding muskrats. Tom Spencer, late of St. Bart's,
had, as the tradition ran, been in the habit of catching
them there “hand over hand.” It was said that he
had bought with the proceeds the best pair of skates
in the School.
So now for the boys' trapping; and let the young
fellows skip straight over to Remsen and Brade, except
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such of them as are wise enough to go along with a few
of us old-time school-boys in two or three beautiful
reflections here.
Are there any such dewy mornings as those that we
look back to in the young days of life? Are there any
such warm, balmy, hazy afternoons as those that were
new to the fresh glance of the school-boy? Tell me, you
that are limping, now, on the sunny side of the city-street,
with well-wrapped throats and rheumy eyes, and flabby
old cheeks, and hands stiffened to the grip of the
accountant's pen and leaves; or you that, in close
chariot, behind high-stepping horses and arrogant coachman,
hold up a red nose and shift a gouty foot unseen,—
were there ever such goings-out as those, after school,
to the heart of the woods or the brook-side, forty-odd
years ago, before we knew enough to care for bonds
and stocks and shares, or to stop even for an instant,
on our way, or even to stay the busy blade of our knife
to hear the most startling story from 'Change? The
breaking-up of camp, with tramping and champing of
horses, and clanking of accoutrements, and roll and
rattle of drums, and tan-ta-ra, tan-ta-ra of trumpets,
and rumble and din and clash, is an exciting scene; and
so the sailing of the huge, far-bound ship, with the
jostle of luggage and package and crate and passengers,
and the driving up of carriages and drays and wagons,
and a clatter of block and tackle, and a sound of downkept
might of machinery, and a rush of steam, and a
flapping of sails, and a wafting of colors, is a scene of
life and bustle; so, too, the sympathy of a listening
crowd, with fixed, burning eyes and pale cheeks, or
sliding tears or sudden sobs, will draw the speaker out
to the larger outlines of humanity; and so the
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settingforth, in full dress, with some smell of flowers, and a little
stiffness of posture, in lamp-lighted and smoothly-running
coach, and with a sense of bustle and glare, as we
draw nearer to the house of many shining windows and
often-opening door where the ball or evening-party is
to be, keeps all the blood astir, if one is new to it.
But to get up early in the morning, with the mists,
all waiting for the sun to scatter them; to tramp over
damp earth and wet grass, mingling our white breath
with the other vapors; to feel, after a while, the slow
warmth of the great Heater on side or back; to go,
crumbling the rotten leaves and crackling the dry limbs
under foot, leaping the rail-fence and stone wall; to
come down on one knee at our figure-four traps, to scan
and then to climb our sapling hickory; to guess the
time from a watch that always acted with a happy
independence of every other regulator and keeper of
periodical succession, in the universe; to hurry back
through all the bright cheeriness and glitter of morning, —
this was life at its best; was it not? When,
since, has life been better? Now for the boys of
to-day.
It was on the morning of exactly such a day — school-life
not being yet fairly opened, and there being about
one good hour, and that not free of anxious care about
time — that Remsen and Brade were going down West
Road, while a fog still lay over the face of a deepish
valley, just as preparations were going on all over the
land for the sun's coming-up. They were not quite so
talkative as if the hour were later, but hurried on,
speculating a little upon chances, but stopping for
nothing. As the day grew brighter, so they, being a
part of nature, grew brighter with it.
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There had been just rain enough the night before to
soften the ground without making it muddy; but that
day all was clear.
From what they said, it appeared that, in spite of his
being “on bounds,” and so, of course, having no leave,
Towne had gone down, and Tarleton and Wilkins; and
moreover, from the hope which they expressed that no
“wolverine” had been along the line of traps, it seemed
that there was danger of some ill-minded persons
having stolen the “catch.”
On the second hill, they met one Phil Rainor, whose
reputation was not good, and whose relations to the
St. Bart's boys had not been always friendly, for he
had, at one time, been thought to make a great many
dishonest pennies with the proceeds of his robberies of
the St. Bart's traps. Indeed, violent suspicions had,
more than once, gone on through the process of absolute
demonstration to much more practical violence; in
which (beside others) Towne, for his party, and Remsen,
for himself, had used arguments more weighty and
effective than any that they knew how to make with
words.
Rainor was now, professedly, on the footing of a
mutual understanding, although the Bartholomæans
had not yet made up their minds that he was a changed
boy.
This time, at least, his hands were empty, and there
was no load in his pockets, or hanging about him.
This, the intelligent eyes of the two boys could see, at
a glance, almost as far as they could see him. There
was something, therefore, almost like cordiality, in their
hasty greeting as they ran by.
Phil Rainor, too, seemed more than usually hearty;
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for he called after them: “That's your snare (ain't it?)
down there by Indian Rock? Well, it's ketched a big
white rabbit!”
This news, as may be supposed, put new spirit into
every limb of our trappers. Over the first fence they
went at such a rate that Brade tripped on a branch of
a tree, inside, and went down sprawling with Remsen
on top of him; both picking themselves up in the shortest
possible time, and in excellent humor.
“Hurt your side, Anty?” asked Remsen, as Brade
held a hand to his bosom.
“It's the watch!” answered Antony, showing, when
he took away his hand, a lump very large to be made
by any ordinary time-piece.
“Don't stop to look at it now!” said Remsen; and
on they went.
“He knows everybody's traps, doesn't he?” said
Brade.
“Yes,” answered Remsen, “and I don't see what he's
round 'em for, unless for some badness;” but it was
bright morning, and the boys were in good cheer.
Besides, they agreed that he had given them good
news, and that, if he had had any plunder with him, they
would have seen some sign of it. So Phil Rainor went
out of their thoughts absolved, for this time.
What they had said about Towne and others being
before them was true; for Towne and Wilkins, with
Tarleton behind, were coming up before our two had
got to their ground. Towne was in luck, too, it would
seem, as well as they; for he swung in the air something
which their quick eyes recognized as “a big
white rabbit.” Beasts of that sort were rare; and it
must have been a sort of golden shower for Towne to
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have one, and for them to have one, on the same morning.
They quickened their steps; although they said, as if
the same reasoning had passed through both minds,
“We've got plenty of time.”
Towne added a caution that “they'd better hurry;”
a piece of advice which good people are pretty generally
ready to give to those later than themselves. Tarleton
added, quite as much in the usual style of boys, —
“Ho! you needn't hurry: you haven't got any thing.”
Remsen and Brade were already a good way on,
running helter-skelter, when Towne's warning reached
them.
“We're going
&rbohgr;ς
τ&aacgr;χιστα
* now,” said Brade, like a
little pedant, perhaps; but both were in fine spirits, and
so Remsen did not object, and Antony enjoyed it. If
Remsen did not understand, he was not at the trouble
to ask an explanation.
Time was short, and all the way was to be measured
back again to St. Bart's. So on they went, so fast that
they could not catch breath enough to make words
with.
“That fellow's cheated us!” cried one, or both, as
they came within sight of their snare, and stood for an
instant, looking first at that, and then toward the right
and left.
“Hold on!” said Remsen, “let's see! the string's
all gone close to the bough! see that bit dangling!”
Then, showing a bit of white fur, which his sharp and
practised eye had detected, “See here! there's been a
rabbit in it, and a white rabbit, too!”
“He's got away!” said Brade, mournfully.
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Remsen was a boy of experience in trapping, and he
said: “So he might; but,” he added, “no rabbit ever
got away from one snare and into another, right off!
And two such fellows ain't caught in one night, neither.
If any fellow'd do that, he ought to be horsewhipped!
He ought to be turned out of the school! 'Tain't likely
he'd break that big cord we had!”
There was much confusion of persons and things in
this speech, as, of course, in his mind; but the wrong
was clear, and so Remsen kicked the tree, and threw
his hat on the ground, and stamped it with his foot. It
was pretty hard, after their cheery hopes, to find worse
than nothing, and to have the evidence before their
eyes that their snare had had and lost its game! Brade
looked cast-down enough, while Remsen thus vented
his indignant anger on things in general.
“I tell you what,” said Remsen, “there's been foul
play! and look at the footsteps round here, — plenty of
'em!” and he turned away. “Well, leave 'em so!”
he said. “Don't go near 'em, so's to scrape 'em out.”
Brade proposed to make a round of their traps, as
fast as they could (for time was short); and Remsen
mechanically assented.
They made the round, with little hope, perhaps, but
in very short time. They found nothing.
“Well,” said Remsen, “we may as well go back;” and
they set out for home.
The day came up, not with the thick-springing bird-songs
of June or May, to be sure, — not with fragrance
of flower; but it came up with splendor of sky and
sparkle of earth, and cheery sounds from the farm-yards,
and hammering of some carpenter or carpentering
farmer.
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It might not be true that our two disappointed boys
saw or heard much of what was going on; but it was
true that their loss did not quite take away all spirit
from them, — perhaps because they had morning blood
in them.
“Certainly old Towne wouldn't take ours, to trick
us,” said Brade, “and give it to us when we get
up?”
“'Tain't likely,” said Remsen. “We sha'n't see our
rabbit very soon.”
There was a smithy on that road, and, as they came
up to it, Rainor came out to meet them, holding in one
hand a forge-hammer, and in the other a bit of iron, as
if just from the anvil.
“Where's your rabbit?” he asked, looking from one
to the other.
“We thought we'd leave him down there for somebody
to steal,” said Remsen.
“Why! hain't ye got him?” asked Rainor, again,
looking very much astonished. Then, as the boys went
on, he went on beside them, and kept up his talking.
“Ye see Towne's, didn't ye? Well, jest about s'ch
another whapper. I tell ye how you'll know your'n:
he had his right ear split down quite a ways, an' his
right fore foot bloody about the toes. I took p'ticklar
notice to him, for I come right down 'cross lots, jest
where he was. He was in your snare there, ketched
right round his belly. I should jest want to take a
look at Towne's, 'f I was you, — white, and a brown
spot on his nigh shoulder.”
“I suppose rabbits are all alike,” said Brade; “but
what's his `nigh' shoulder?” he asked, puzzled by this
rustic word.
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“Why!” said Rainor, “his left shoulder, of course;
but rabbits ain't alike, — not by a long chalk! Not that
sort, at no time o' year, — nary two of 'em, never.” The
negatives in this sentence would make a study for
philologists and grammarians, as showing the kindred
character and habit of two great sister-languages of
the Aryan stock, — the Greek and the English. He
finished in this way: “an' there ain't two of 'em ketched
in a — year, I was go'n' to say.”
Here he said “he must go back to the shop,” and
left them. From this time our friends, though they
kept up their rate of going, went silently.
For some while, Antony, still hurrying on, was pulling
earnestly at something which he seemed determined
to get out of his pocket, but which, for its part, was
equally resolute not to come. He bent over, and
wriggled his body (still going on), and put up one
knee, half stopping as he did so; he worked the thing
one way and the other; he pushed down, and then
pulled up again, until at length there came up to the
light of the morning a large, round, thick thing of
silver, — a strange-looking bivalve, with one of its
sides obscured by mist, doubtless from the heat of
the boy's body.
Nick Remsen wiped the mist off with his cuff; and
both Brade and he stopped and studied, confidingly,
the dial-face, which now stood revealed in silver, under
a crystal dome rounded like that of the Capitol, or (to
be classical) like the bossy shield of Achilles. On the
broad plain of silver was an outside circle of Arabic
numerals, and an inner circle of numeral letters, — the
former for minutes, the latter for hours. Other devices,
of angels and scrolls, we pass over for the time.
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The boys studied the pointing of the two strong
arms.
“Only a little over half-past!” said Remsen, wiping
once more the glass, which was still smeary. “We'll
see Towne before roll-call: there's time enough;” adding,
presently, “no Bartlemas fellow'd steal our rabbit,
of course, — that ain't to be thought of.”
As they came into the school-grounds, every thing
was quiet, with no signs of life abroad. Remsen led
the way over to the gymnasium. A board stood up
against the eastern end, on which was stretched, by
tacks, the fresh skin of a hare, or, as the boys called it,
“a white rabbit.” Brade could not yet have got over
the feeling of their own loss, and still, so strong was
instinct in him, that he began, as soon as he saw the
raw pelt, to say something about “Marsyas,” whose
skin Apollo had flayed off.
Remsen, for his part, was altogether in serious
earnest. He walked straight up, in silence, to the
board, and put his finger on the green skin, although
he hardly needed the assurance of touch to establish its
freshness.
“He's carried off the head,” said he, after looking
about hastily, on that side and on the back side of the
building. “There's the Tutor's bell!” he said. “Why,
it can't be so late! You saw what o'clock it was.”
In spite of the authority of the watch, coupled with
the testimony of common sense, the boys hurried over
to the storm-house door, Brade saying, as they went,
“I thought it was very still all about.”
Luckily for them, the boys were quiet in their seats;
and the two, as they came inside the hall, could see
that something had been going on. They went silently
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to their places, and evidently were each marked tardy;
but it was plain that the roll had not been called, and
they were safe for breakfast. Sam Blake looked half
across the school-room, till he caught Remsen's eye,
and then raised his brows, as if asking a question.
Remsen hastily shook his head.
The roll was called, and the boys went out orderly,
as usual, to their breakfast. Towne was inclined to be
communicative, as he commonly was, on the way, —
turning round and saying something to a boy behind,
or calling out, in a loud whisper, to some one in front.
Remsen and Brade were unapproachable. One thing
he seemed to think would prevail with the latter.
Turning round and facing him, he said rhetorically,
with a good deal of gesture, “Pediculum captavi!”
but he produced no effect on the boy whom he so
learnedly addressed. In his eagerness to vent his
Latin sentence, he probably had not known how loudly
he was speaking. Gaston heard it, at some distance in
front, and immediately, in spite of rules and tutors,
burst out laughing.
“Towne wants to say he's caught a rabbit,” said he,
“and he says he's caught a —!” The word was whispered
in the ear of the next boy, and while poor Towne
looked amazed, and presently very sheepish, the communication
passed from one to another as fast almost as a
message by telegraph, and everybody was laughing at
the Latinity which its author had uttered with so much
confidence and flourish. The smaller boys could hardly
walk for laughter.
“Towne!” said Mr. Bruce, the Tutor, “stand out
of the procession.” And he took his stand at one side,
evidently not understanding things.
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“What do you mean by such a disgusting sentence!”
asked the Tutor.
“Why, I don't see how it's disgusting, sir. All I
meant to say was, `I've caught a rabbit.'”
“Well, that isn't what you did say,” answered the
Tutor.
“Why, Gas—, why, sir, one o' the fellows gave it me
for good Latin. He told me that's what it meant, and
that's what I meant to say,” said Towne, with evident
honesty.
“Gaston's Latin is well enough,” said Mr. Bruce,
smiling; “but you'd better take care of people's giving
you Latin till you know enough to find out what it
means.”
“Oh! I don't mean to say it was Gaston” — began
Towne, but stopped there, and smiled, too, like the
Tutor.
The procession had gone into breakfast, the blessing
had been said, the clatter of chairs had ended, and the
boys' chatter and the clink of knife and plate had
begun. Mr. Bruce wanted breakfast, no doubt, but he
had not done with Towne.
“That mud looks fresh upon your clothes, Towne,”
said he; and it was only after acknowledging that he
had broken bounds, a thing which would bring a pretty
heavy penalty, that the poor lad was sent in to his fellows,
and Mr. Bruce followed.
The boys had gone to the dining-room in very good
humor, while the Tutors looked extraordinarily grave
and unconscious of the fun. As Towne came in, still
sheepish-looking, he nearly set the laughter all going
again: even Brade and Remsen could hardly resist the
influence; and, as Towne sat down at table, they both
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looked at him, not savagely. Presently, something
happened which changed the condition of things.
A smoking, savory-looking mess was brought in, with
much gravity, by the head waiter, and set down in
front of Towne. At the sight, his late discomfitures
seemed to slip out of his mind, and a look of good-nature
and hospitality took possession of his face.
With the courtesy customary at St. Bart's, he immediately
set his dish in progress, to share his dainties with
others. First it went to the Rector, and was duly
acknowledged, though not touched. Towne, though a
lazy fellow, and sometimes grumbling, was free-hearted
and loyal; and as he looked up, blushing, to the Rector's
table, wishing to see some of his rabbit accepted
by the Head of the School, his plain face was bettered.
“You fellows didn't get any thing this morning,” he
said, across the table, “take some of our rabbit, won't
you?” and he set it forward toward Remsen and Brade.
It had been served up in style; and the head and long
ears made quite a show, separated by a bit of toast
from the other members.
The two boys had already lost the expression which
they had brought in to the table; and they both coldly
declined, — Brade following Remsen. Towne, perhaps,
had not observed the distance of their manner, for
he pressed his kindness on them, telling them that
“there was plenty, and that they need not be afraid to
take it.”
Remsen went so far as to look closely at one of the
ears, while the head was near him; but he put no hand
to the dish. The owner was hurt.
“There are plenty more that'll take it, if you won't,”
he said; a sentiment which was heartily responded to
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by Arthur Dover, commonly called “Fatty,” and by
Wilkins and others. The dish circulated, — first to
Towne's two partners, then to others, — and came back.
considerably lessened, to the hospitable first partner.
He showed, by his way of dealing with it, that he
understood and appreciated it thoroughly, even though
he had not been able to give it its Latin name.
Breakfast passed: the rabbit was all consumed; but
with this gathering coldness and storm, which were evident
to all the boys in the neighborhood, there was an
uncomfortable silence at that part of the younger table;
and others after Brade and Remsen were rather awkward
in speaking to Towne and his partners. All of
them were observed, as if there was a general waiting
to know what was to come.
Doubts, suspicions, disagreements, quarrels (it is good
that we have to go out of kindly English to Latin for
these words) are very serious things with boys, as well
as with their elders. Boys of good feelings have not
yet brushed through and thrown aside, or trampled
down, many estrangements and embittered friendships,
and so grown heedless of them.
In a case like this, between Towne and the two other
boys, it would be impossible to believe, without overwhelming
proof, that any of their own companions
could be guilty of downright and low thieving. There
are, of course, boys, as there are men, who carry teasing,
and what they call “practical joking” to the
utmost stretch of falseness, short of making actual gain
of it, at last. But to take, and carry away, and skin
another boy's rabbit; to eat the flesh and keep the
skin, — this could scarcely be believed of school-fellows
anywhere; and, of course, of school-fellows at St.
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Bart's. Towne, or others, might make themselves exceedingly
disagreeable, — they might be even a standing
nuisance, as confirmed “practical jokers” always
are; but they would not steal, and then lie about the
theft.
Yet the thing looked badly, and must be explained.
This would be the natural reasoning of Remsen and
Brade.
As things stood, they could hardly get away from
the conclusion that he, or his fellows, had taken their
rabbit; but they had not asked him “up and down.”
This, therefore, they proposed to do.
Towne, sitting lower at the table, went out before
them; and, by the time they got well abroad, he was
already on the gravel, marking out the ground for some
purpose, attended by Wilkins and Dover. As Remsen
and Brade drew near, he stood up from his occupation,
and of himself addressed them.
Our readers already know the bright freshness of
that morning, and have felt the spirit and strength
which such a day brings up with it.
“What ailed you fellows, at breakfast? Anybody'd
have thought our rabbit was rotten, or something, by
the way you acted.”
This was certainly rather frank and manly.
“I should want to know where you got that rabbit,
first?” answered Remsen
“Why, we got him out of the field, like anybody,”
said Towne.
“But I should like to know whose snare you caught
him with,” said the other.
“I don't see what that has to do with the goodness
of the meat,” said Towne.
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Remsen made an emphatic gesture with his head, as
he answered, —
“A good deal to do with my eating him.”
“Why! why ain't Tarleton's trap as good as yours,
any day, I should like to know?” said Towne. “I guess
that's a noo idea, that one fellow's trap's wholesomer'n
another's.” He spoke like one that had common sense
on his side, but could not see what the other party were
driving at.
“And when did you ever know even a common rabbit
get caught in an iron trap?” asked the other.
Remsen was growing pale and agitated. Before he
spoke again, Brade, who had been entirely silent, spoke,
and it was plain that he, too, was very much excited,
though in another way, for he was flushed.
“But did you take him out of our snare?” he asked,
directly.
“Take him out of your snare!” exclaimed Towne,
now, for the first time, showing any understanding of
the case, or any real feeling. “No! of course we didn't
take him out of your snare! You don't suppose we're
thieves, do you?”
Now the thing was brought to a point. The boys
suspected had denied, absolutely, that they had done
the bad thing suspected.
Wilkins had come immediately forward at the first
question, and had stood ready to come into the conference,
whenever there should be a chance. Now, then,
Wilkins, the instant the denial had been made, supported
it by testimony of his own.
“Why, I was the first one that got there,” he said,
“and there he was in our trap when I got there.”
This testimony seemed clear and conclusive: that
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very rabbit which had been skinned and eaten had been
caught fairly in the other party's trap. What could be
said? Remsen, however, was still full of question.
Now, even lawyers, although they are men, and in
constant practice, seem sometimes to make poor work
of examining witnesses; and Remsen had not the
experience of a lawyer. His questions, therefore, were,
most likely, not so well aimed or so well expressed as
they might have been.
“You didn't know there was a rabbit in our snare,
this morning? and his left ear was split down? and his
right fore foot bloody, between the first and second
claws? and a brown spot on his left shoulder?”
“What are you fellows jawing about? How was I
going to know? I never went near your trap, — I, nor
any of us, either,” answered Towne. “Suppose I had
known? — what then?”
By this time, boys coming and going had begun to
stop, in the way, beside these excited disputants. Indeed,
quite a crowd was gathering. Outside of the
ring, Alonzo Peters was flitting about, paling and flushing,
and sometimes stopping, and seemingly on the point
of speaking.
“Let's go off, somewhere else,” said Brade to Remsen.
“We don't want the whole school round us.”
Remsen was too full of his subject to care about
surroundings. Towne, too, said that he “did not care
how many came round. They might come and welcome,
for all he cared.”
The bearing of Remsen's question is not, perhaps,
obvious to the reader; nor was it, very likely, obvious
to Towne. “What have I got to do with your rabbit?
Why didn't you bring up your rabbit, if you had one?
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What did you do with him?” And Towne laughed
scornfully.
Remsen drew his hand out of his pocket, and held up
a hare's head: —
“There's something just like ours, any way,” said he,
showing the ear split down.
“That looks amazingly like mine!” said Towne.
“My ear was so.”
Some of the crowd laughed.
“I do believe that's my head,” said Towne, — “I'm
sure of it,” he added, gaining strength of conviction, as
he looked at it longer.
Of course the chance of an easy joke was not lost
upon the crowd; and Tom Hutchins, accordingly,
made as much of it as he could, calling out, more than
once, —
“Towne's head! Towne says that's his head! Twig
the long ears it's got!”
“That's your head if you want it,” said Remsen, too
much in earnest to see any thing like a joke in the
case; “but I want you just to take notice to the way
that left ear is split down, — just the way ours was.”
“Well, what did you do with yours?” asked Towne.
“Did you let it go?”
“Let it go!” exclaimed Remsen: “it's likely we'd let
it go, — we never had it.”
“Well, if here ain't a pretty story!” said Towne:
“coming here, getting angry, and abusing a fellah like
a pickpocket! I can't make out what you mean, for
my part.”
Brade had had very little share of the controversy;
but he had stood close up to the two main speakers,
with his face flushed and his eyes sparkling, and he
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joined a good deal of dumb show to the discussion,
looking from one speaker to the other, and handling
the head when it was brought forward. He now
spoke: —
“Rainor told us he was in our snare,” he said.
“Then Rainor was mistaken in the place, I suppose,”
said Towne.
“No, he said our snare, by Indian Rock,” insisted
Brade.
“Well, then, Rainor lies, — that's all. If he says that
rabbit was in your snare, Indian Rock, or any rock, he
lies.”
“He told us right about the ear, any way,” said
Remsen; “and he said there was a brown spot on the
left shoulder. Dar'st you let us look at the skin?”
Towne turned with some dignity to the gathering of
boys before he answered, and having looked hastily
round, as if to see what shape public opinion was
taking, he said: —
“Of course I dare; but I say, before all these boys,
At first, I didn't know what you were driving at; but
if you're going upon the supposition that we're thieves
till we've proved we ain't, after I've told you we found
that rabbit in our trap, I won't have any thing to do
with it. I'll leave it out to any fair judges, — to any
two monitors, — I say Russell and Lamson.”
At this moment the bell, which had not improbably
been waiting the issue of the discussion, for its ringer
was mortal and a boy, began to roll over and over, and
sound its “Ding!” in one direction, and its “Dong!”
in another, and the gathering of boys began to move,—
some running off immediately to the house, some
walking leisurely in the same direction, and even those
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who did not yet leave the scene of controversy became
restless, as if keeping their legs ready to go at the last
moment.
“Rainor is a great liar,” said Brade, who seemed
ready to relent and to make up, and who was now
impatient to go, and had half started. “I believe
Towne.”
“But weren't the white hairs sticking right underneath
our snare, when we saw it?” asked Remsen; and
again the complexion of things changed.
“Here comes Russell, now!” said Brade. “Let's
leave it to him and Lamson, as Towne says.” And, as
Russell, in coming up from the home play-ground, was
turning towards the school-house, the crowd, foremost
of whom Brade was allowed to go, as being one of the
parties, and of the parties the one most impatient to
have the difficulty settled, joined him; and Brade and
Remsen hastily set the case before him, from their
side.
“And you got your information from Rainor, did
you?”
“And I say,” said Towne, “that that rabbit was in
our trap, when we came to it.”
“And I say that I came there first,” said Wilkins,
“and he was there when I got there.”
“And you all agree to take our judgment?” asked
Russell. “Where's Tarleton?”
“I will,” said Towne, “if you'll only agree to take
time to it, and find out all about it.” “And I,” said
Brade; “and I,” said Wilkins; “and I,” said Remsen.
“There ought to be some person to watch the traps,
till you get there,” said Towne.
“Well, the fellow for that is Jake Moody; and he'll
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do it, — if you could only get him,” said Russell, changing
to optative or potential, as he thought how little
time they could command.
Before the words were out of his mouth, and without
regard to time or season, Remsen went off, like a
flash.
“Then you're all agreed?” Russell asked, as they
reached the door.
All who were there answered “yes;” and the boys
went in, crowding and jostling and pushing, to be in
time.
Dover and Wilkins were compelled to give way to
every other member of the little throng; and then
Eugene Augustus Wilkins asserted himself upon Arthur
Dover, who was smaller, and succeeded in getting in
before him. Before the last boy was fairly in the
school-room, Remsen came, out of breath, but answering
the inquisitive look of Blake and others by a quick,
affirmative, satisfied nod of the head.
Outside stayed sunshine, on the hills behind; and
near the door a small litter of hockey-sticks and other
remains of boys. A smothered storm of bitterness
and angry feeling had come through the door.
eaf637n4* As fast as possible.
-- -- p637-212
CHAPTER XIX. SOME FIGHTING THAT WILL DISGUST BRUISERS.
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One of Towne's comrades in trapping was, as will
be remembered, one Guy Tarleton. This boy, by
some reasoning of his own, had convinced himself that
his party had been “choused out” of the best trapping-ground
by Remsen and Brade's party, and had borne
an undying grudge. He was counted a thick-headed
and rather brutal boy; but, in the opinion of the
School, had a sort of instinctive readiness and skill in
contriving and working against such lesser beasts as
lived in trees, in holes, and in stone fences.
He had been noisy in the few minutes after morningschool,
before dinner, over the suspicion which had
been thrown upon his partners and himself, and proposed
to “make those fellows eat dirt.” His bluster
had had, at that time, little notice taken of it. At
table he had been silenced by the Tutor for loud talking.
After dinner, the pent-up current of his anger
found its way again.
Towne told him that two of the monitors were going
to settle about the rabbit, and went off to some out-door
occupation, leaving him unappeased.
In the few minutes after dinner he had found out
Brade, reading, on one of the stairs, and tried to pick a
quarrel with him, but to no purpose; for Brade told
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him, pleasantly, that “he was reading about Franklin
and the icebergs, and wanted to be let alone; that
the monitors' settlement would all be fair, and that
he, himself, would have no quarrel;” and so kept on,
though not quite unruffled, with his book.
Even the words “cowardly” and “mean-spirited,”
uttered near him, disturbed him only long enough to
look up with a contemptuous and impatient smile, and
he was instantly at his book again, only begging Tarleton
to go off.
Of course, boys began to gather, for they could not
have the stairway to themselves; and things went
pretty fast, and a great many words were said in a
short time, as usual in such cases.
There were alert and wary bystanders, as usual.
“Look out!” said one of these, “you'll have old Cornell
after you!”
“No,” said another, of the same sort, “he isn't in:
go ahead!”
So Tarleton went on to say that he wanted satisfaction
from Brade, or Remsen, or Peters, — he did not
care which; he was not going to be called thief for
nothing. And when Brade told him that they had
not called his party thieves, it would have been just as
good to speak to a bull or a bull-dog. He then insisted
that they should say that they were a pack of liars,
and so on, in the usual way of blusterers. “He did not
care which it was, — some of them must give him satisfaction.”
“Remsen and I are the only ones,” said Brade:
“Peters isn't a strong fellow.”
“Then come on,” said Tarleton, “let's have a fair
fight!”
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“No,” said Antony, “I've got a particular reason.”
“Oh, yes!” said Tarleton, with the most emphatic
contempt. “Cowards always have.”
“But I have,” said Brade, notwithstanding the
cowardly sound of the words.
“Royal Highness is afraid, and Remsen daresn't, and
Peters is only just strong enough to take a licking,”
said Tarleton, in a triumphant tone.
“There's the bell!” said some one; but, after a moment's
hush, it proved a false alarm.
“Leave out Peters,” said Brade, “and you may come
at me.”
Now the bell struck, and at the same instant a boy
came down the upper stairs, to the first landing, at one
jump, while there was a general stir of the whole group
among whom he came so suddenly, and with such risk
to their limbs.
“Clear the way here, fellows! What's up now?”
said Phil Lamson, who had in this way so abruptly
come down to them; and after shoving the belligerent
Tarleton, and one or two others, up into a corner, he
seized Brade by the shoulders, and, by his own weight
and the force with which he was going, made him run
before him to the school-room door.
At the door Brade escaped from him, and, turning
back, met the little crowd of boys from the stairs, and
called to Tarleton, “Remember! I said I would.”
If a fight with fists be not quite so fearful a thing
to look forward to as the standing up to kill and be
killed with pistols or small swords, there is enough
about the looking forward to make the blood run
faster, and to lay strong hold of the thoughts of a
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boy with good feelings. So it must have been with
Brade.
The bell was still ringing, when Remsen made his
appearance, and Brade joined him, and went a little
aside with him, but keeping slowly on, toward the
school-room door.
“Perhaps two of 'em together will be able to do
something!” said Tarleton, sneering, as he went in.
“I've promised to fight Tarleton, and I couldn't help
it. I wish I could have kept out of it, but I couldn't,”
said Brade to his friend.
“Why, he can't whip you, I don't believe, Anty,”
said Remsen.
“But I wanted to be confirmed,” said Antony.
“Oh, well! I don't believe a fight'll stop you, if you
don't kill anybody, or gouge his eye out, or something.
If I had to fight, I'd fight.”
“I used to,” said Antony; “but I wanted to leave
off.”
The bell was silent, as he spoke; and every one hurried
into the school-room, and to his seat, for the half-hour
after dinner.
The Rector of the School, or “Caput,” as the boys
more often called him, coming in, as the bell stopped,
to read out the inflictions, was generally observed of
almost all the young eyes, and was thought by the
boys to represent dignity and scholarship and authority
very well; for though he was, if any thing, rather
short, yet he had thick, curling black hair, and a clear
eye and ruddy cheek, and a good strong voice.
When the lines were read out for that day, as
everybody had been predicting, in the school-phrase,
that “Towne would have to catch it” for breaking
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“bounds,” he sat up straight, like a man of mark, before
his name was reached, and exchanged side-glances
with Wilkins and Will Hirsett, who was always at
any one's beck in the school-room. Brade's five lines
for tardiness that morning, being his first, were remitted,
as usual in such a case.
Ten lines were read for Gaston, for disorder in going
to breakfast; and at this Towne nodded his head, emphatically,
to one side, with a smile of much content,
as if clinching that infliction for the trick played upon
him about the Latin for rabbit. Gaston, before he bethought
himself, made a half motion as if to rise and
protest on the spot, and sat looking indignant. Presently,
however, a happy thought seemed to strike him,
and he set himself to writing very fast.
And so the list went on: disorder, tardiness, noise in
dormitory, misbehavior at table, received their awards.
Remsen had his five lines for tardiness. Tarleton
came off clear, this time. Towne got double for breaking
bounds, and, with all his accumulation of lines
before, was in so bad a plight that he now looked quite
chop-fallen. Among his other companions in misery
was Wilkins, as usual; and Wilkins's look was one
combined of surprise and resignation.
Brade's hand went up, but was instantly dropped
again: he looked uncertain.
Gaston's hand was instantly up, after the reading-out
of the lines, and stayed up; and by this time he had a
smile of inward satisfaction on his face. His name was
called, and he stood up with a small paper in his hand,
and asked leave to read a plea for a mitigation of sentence.
“Well!” said the Rector.
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“`My offence, as I understand it, sir,'” said Gaston,
reading, “`was giving one of the boys the word pediculus,
which means lou—'” (“No matter what it
means,” said the Rector, “or say `small beast of prey.'”)
“`for cuniculus, which means rabbit. Now, with the
boys, a rabbit and a hare are the same thing; so,
in taking the word pediculus (lous— small prey —)
for hair, I have only used that figure of speech called
Synecdoche, which is `the taking of a part for the
whole.' Most respectfully submitted. Edward Gaston.
'”
The Tutor, who had doubtless heard the story of
the morning, began to turn over leaves, and to try to
smooth his face, so that the School began to smile.
When Gaston, being perfectly self-possessed and full
of fun, stopped, very meaningly, at the word “hair,” and
then at “Synecdoche,” little Meadows began to titter;
Thompson Walters, a big boy, to giggle; Hirsett (from
sympathy, of course), to snicker; Brade, however unpleasant
his deeper thoughts might be, could not help
smiling; Blake went down upon his desk in a sort of
convulsion. The Tutor gave way moderately, as Gaston
finished; little Meadows, Walters, Hirsett, Wilkins,
Blake, indiscriminately gave way, and the whole School
presently was in a roar, except Towne, who looked
indignant.
The Rector exchanged a few words with the Tutor,
and then announced that although Gaston had mistaken
a little the ground of his infliction, yet, considering the
ingenuity of his plea, the same figure of speech should
be applied to the penalty, — a part for the whole, —
leaving him two lines instead of ten. At this a great
many congratulatory eyes sought Gaston's, who
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handsomely acknowledged the indulgence, and sat down
very radiant with his success.
At this point, Brade had apparently made up his
mind and held up his hand resolutely; his request he
brought up to the ear of the Rector; and it was that,
as Remsen had to work out lines for tardiness, his own
might not be remitted. This was kindly refused.
Tarleton, whose ears were open to what was passing,
fashioned, out of white paper, something which,
from its shape and size, might be taken to be a paperknife,
or possibly a white feather, and this he set, for
a moment, against his head. It must have been recognized
in the school as a conventional symbol of
something; for Hirsett grinned, and Wilkins, as well as
others, looked intelligently at it during the moment
that it was displayed.
After denying Brade's request, the Rector, by way
of compensation, perhaps, gave him an outlined map
of Cisalpine Gaul to make, while Remsen was working
out his lines. This the boy did not accept so cheerfully
as might have been expected, and, turning a little
slowly away, was just in time to see, as he doubtless
did, Tarleton's contemptuous look, and the knowing
smiles of some others. He blushed most deeply.
The afternoon half-hour went by: the free boys were
dismissed, and the others set about their expiatory
tasks. Brade put himself strongly to his map of Gaul.
Remsen had the once honored but now discredited
old watch on his desk, where many laughed at it; some
of whom, perhaps, had wondered, heretofore.
Meantime, while, in the somewhat restless hush and
awe of the school-room, after school, as in the silent
Lower Places of the old Mythology, tasks were
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worked out, and fretful shades sought leave, again and
again, of the grim Ferryman (here it was Tutor Cornell)
to cross the boundary-stream, great things were
doing, out of doors.
As soon as school had been let out, Tarleton had begun
to grumble near the door, because he and his partners
had been accused of stealing another fellow's rabbit.
Remsen and Brade, as we have seen, were both in the
school-room; and, of that party of trappers, the only
free member was the slight and unpractical Alonzo
Peters. This day he was a little late in making his
appearance, being among the last boys to come out;
and there already was Tarleton, in a group of two or
three who had no play or business more urgent than
to stop and listen to him proclaiming his indignation.
Tarleton was a heavy fellow for his size, and not pleasant-looking;
and the expression and ways of dog or
cat, or man, or other beast, provoking fight, do not make
him look better.
Peters came on, with his head in the air, sauntering
and abstracted, and was passing by Tarleton and his
surrounders, without seeing any thing strange in them,
although the by-standers opened out to each side, with
their eyes fastened very meaningly on the unsuspecting
Peters.
“They'll have to give us satisfaction,” Tarleton was
saying. “We ain't to lose our trapping-ground, and
then be called a thief for nothing.”
Saying this, he walked away to one of the heaps of
autumn-leaves swept up to be carried away, and kicked
it asunder.
“Here's Peters!” said one of the by-standers. “He's
one of 'em, but you don't want” —
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“Peters ain't any thing!” said Tarleton, contemptuously.
“He wouldn't dare to say his hat was his own;”
and he looked at him with scorn.
This free use of his name attracted the attention of
the abstracted boy, and he stopped. “Why ain't I any
thing, Tarleton?” he asked, in a tone very far from
warlike, — indeed, in a deprecating and aggrieved
voice.
“You're no fellow to stand up for yourself: if a toad
jumped up at you, you'd go over,” said Tarleton to the
admirer of the institution of chivalry.
“Well, I don't like toads,” said Peters, taking this
for a serious accusation, whether it had been so intended
or not, and half confessing, while excusing it.
While he spoke, he resorted to the same pile of leaves,
and spread them asunder with his foot.
“Oh, well! I mean you're a coward. There's no
use talking to you,” said Tarleton.
“No, I ain't a coward,” said Peters, holding himself
up as awkwardly and absurdly as a dromedary or a
giraffe. The boys, who were looking on, laughed.
“I don't believe you'd strike a baby back,” said
Tarleton.
“No, that's just what I wouldn't do,” said Peters.
He was looking very pale, poor fellow! and yet it's
only for his sake, and certainly not for Tarleton's sake,
or for our own pleasure, that we write this part of our
story. “And I don't approve of bringing people all
up, because one says another's wrong: it isn't the right
way. But who's done any thing to you, I should like
to know?”
“I don't like to be called thief, just at this present
moment,” said Tarleton, walking up to him, with his
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two fists down at his sides, like fighters in drawings,
and very likely in real life.
“I didn't call you a thief,” said Peters, drawing backward.
It must be said, for the witnesses of the scene, that
they did nothing to help on a fight, or, as it would most
likely prove, a flogging for poor Peters.
“A pretty fellow you are, to be talking about knights,
when they were fighting all the time, and you daresn't
strike your shadow!” said Tarleton, as scornfully as
Goliath of Gath.
“I don't want to be swollen up, and all black and
blue,” answered Peters. “What good does that do?
You know very well it'll all be settled right; and nobody's
hurting you at all.”
“That's the way you like it!” said Tarleton. “You'd
better go, and send somebody else. Brade's showing a
pretty big white feather: a little piece of it'll do for
you.”
“I ain't a bit more afraid'n anybody else, and everybody
knows Brade isn't a coward,” said the pale, awkward
fellow: “but I don't see what good fighting'll
do.”
“Some of you have got to take back about our being
thieves, or else you'll all have to stand up to it. You'd
better leave it to somebody else, that ain't a coward,”
said Tarleton.
“Oh, no!” said Peters, as pale as possible, and with a
dampness on his forehead: “if anybody's got to do it,
I may as well as anybody. I'd rather do it than get
out of the way, and leave it for anybody, as if I was a
coward.” The boy, judged by his looks and voice,
seemed not very far from tears; but his speech was as
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stout as if he were master of all arts of attack and
defence, and ready to use them the next moment.
“Well, what you've got to do is just to say you
know we didn't steal your rabbit, and you fellows lied;”
said Tarleton, laying down pretty hard terms.
This, of course, Peters, though pale as a sheet, refused.
Judged by the sight, Alonzo Peters might have
been thought a flimsy fellow; and here he was, a sort
of champion for two others.
“Well, come on then!” said Tarleton, setting off up
the hill.
Peters went silently along; and the boys, who had
already given their time to listen to the preliminary
discussion in words, showed great alacrity in giving
more of it to the final discussion now proposed with fists.
“Old Wilson will find you out, and you'll have `The
Cap' down on you,” said one of these attendants, consolingly,
while he walked.
The two principals (if our flimsily-made and almost
feeble-looking friend, Alonzo Peters, could be called a
principal) went on in silence, Peters a little behind,
but now and then, with his quick, uneven steps, getting
on close to Tarleton, and then falling back. Neither
Brade nor Remsen appeared, and Peters must meet
the occasion.
The accompanying boys, leaving the two others to
keep silence, if they would, talked pretty freely.
“'Tain't fair, anyhow, Wadham,” said one, whom the
reader will recognize by his mouth and ears as Hirsett.
“Tarleton's twice as big as Peters any day,” — a statement
not literally true, if one judged by the eye, for
Peters was the taller, though the other might a good
deal outweigh him.
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“But didn't old Pete stick up for himself? I tell
you!” said Wadham, in a sentence of mixed construction.
“Who'd ever ha' thought it was in him?”
Certainly the ungainly and almost shambling admirer
of knights and their doings seemed a very poor
match for the closely-knit, square-built fellow, who was
leading the way to a convenient field of battle. Moreover,
while they were speaking, Peters might have been
heard saying, “I don't see what good there is in banging
and beating!”
There was a large oak standing not far behind the
gymnasium, spreading over a broad stretch of what in
summer was greensward, and was now brown sod, — a
favorite lounging-place for the boys during all the time
of out-door games. Under this stalwart tree was room
enough for all the clothing stripped off for base-ball;
and in any bright day of colder weather, when the
ground at its foot was fit, it has been still a favorite
resort for its summer friends, because it haughtily holds
fast its strong leaves against the fury of all winter
winds, both damp and dry, and looks like a great
shelter, when of its weaker neighbors Dante's simple
story has come true, —
“Come d'autunno si levan le foglie,
L'una appresso dell' altra, infin che il ramo
Rende alla terra tutte le sue spoglie.”*
Most boys care little for natural objects, which only
stand still, and can do nothing for them. This tree
was nearer than common trees to the Bartholomeans.
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“Old Quercus” the boys affectionately called it, out of
their books; and, of course, soon, if not from the outset,
gave to its surname a twist into English pronunciation,
which made two short words of it, and which led
Jake Moody to say that “he'd heard himself called a
`queer cuss' a hundred times; but he didn't know what
these boys wanted to go and call that tree so for.”
Near this fine old forest tree was a little group of three
or four evergreens, and straight on toward this Tarleton
strode, without stopping and without further speech.
He threw off, hastily, his jacket under the tree, as he
passed, and went straight on, till he got the little clump
of evergreens between him and the West Road, from
which, though at a little distance, there was nothing
else to hide him.
“Now,” said he, “if the fellow's got the heart of
a mouse as big as your thumb, let him show it! I'm
ready for him.”
Peters was not yet ready; for he fumbled at the buttons
of his jacket, and tried, more than once, to get it
off before it was unbuttoned.
“I don't suppose I have got one,” he answered to his
adversary's challenge; “but I guess I've got the heart
of a boy, as I ought to have.”
“I tell you what,” said Wadham, “that chap's got
grit in him! — Don't get flurried, Peters! Let me help
you;” and he began to unbutton Peters's jacket for
him, as the boy's own fingers found it hard to do.
“I don't want to fight a bit,” said this self-offering
champion; “and I don't see any good in it: but I ain't
a coward, — he'll find that out. I won't run away, and
let others take it;” and he half sobbed as he spoke,
while Tarleton seemed as steady as the old tree itself.
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“Now,” said Peters, moving up, as soon as he was
rid of his coat, to the other, who was waiting for him,
“what do you want to fight for?”
“Oh! I don't,” said Tarleton, in answer to this last
appeal, “I only just want to box a baby's ears;” and
he gave Peters a very solid slap on the side of the head
as he spoke.
Peters staggered, but came back again, facing his
antagonist. “Don't do that again!” he said; but
without making any assault, or even putting himself
in a posture of defence.
Meantime, neither Brade nor Remsen nor any one
else came near.
“No, I won't do that again,” said the self-possessed
Tarleton. “I'll try this;” and he struck him on the other
side of the head a heavy blow, which sent the victim
staggering in the other direction.
“I told you not to do that!” sobbed Peters, recovering
himself, and coming back face to face with the
fighter. Then, suddenly straightening himself and
throwing back his head, he followed his instinct,
rushed forward, and, instead of striking loose, wild
blows, flung his long arms round the other boy, who
was acting without the least caution and was not at all
prepared for any such movement. Immediately, the
long arms being locked behind Tarleton's back, held
him, like the hug of a cuttle-fish, just above the elbow,
so that he could not lift a hand.
Tarleton, thus unexpectedly seized, made a sudden
and violent effort to break out of it, but, tripping backwards
as he did so, fell to the ground, with Peters on
top of him. The on-lookers ran up.
“Don't touch 'em!” cried Wadham, — an injunction
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which neither of the others seemed inclined to violate.
“Old Peters will take care of himself.”
On the ground the fighter struggled fiercely; but
the long arms held him fast. “Keep still, now, — you'd
better!” said Peters.
“This ain't fighting!” cried Tarleton, from below.
“Why ain't it? It's my way of fighting,” answered
Peters, whose hands and arms, between the ground and
the other's body, must have been hurt in the struggle.
“You fought your way, and I fought my way. I showed
you I wasn't afraid.”
“You daresn't face me!” said Tarleton. “Let me up!”
Alonzo Peters, however, seemed to know what he
was about, and answered with spirit, —
“No, I won't! I won't let go till my arms come off.
I'm facing you now;” and he set his teeth together,
and held on with new strength. The other, being thus
grappled, grew more and more indignant and furious
to no purpose; and it may be supposed that, all this
time, his hair was tangling with dirt and grass and
chips, and his neck sharing in the discomfort.
“You shall get up when you promise to let us alone,”
said the upper one, who, if he could only keep his place
and keep the other down, was, to all intents, conqueror,
and could dictate his own terms.
Of the three partners, it was Peters who was champion.
Whether Tarleton's writhings might not, by and by,
have changed the condition of things, and brought him
to the top, is a question; but just now there seemed
little chance of this, for Peters, with his teeth set, was
exerting more will than strength of muscle, so long as
he could keep his wits about him. So far, although the
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two had worked themselves about on the ground a good
deal, and had ruffled the grass and disordered their own
clothing, it seemed to have been done chiefly at Tarleton's
cost; and, so closely had his grappler clung to
him, that he was still bound as fast as ever, and was
still as flat on the ground.
At this moment one of the by-standers raised the cry,
“There's the Cap!” and all but the two combatants
scattered hastily.
“Let me up, you coward!” cried Tarleton. “You
want me to be caught,” — speaking of himself as if he
were the only one concerned, as, in his own eyes, perhaps,
he was.
Peters saw things differently.
“I shall be caught myself, shan't I?” he said.
“You take that back, and promise not to insult us,
nor meddle with us, and I'll do it.”
Many an abusive and many a sulky answer came
from Tarleton first, and one promise ending in “but —”
At length, as solid steps were heard approaching, the
promise was given as the conquering Peters dictated
it, and with no reservation. Now Peters relaxed his
hold, and the two got up.
“I'm your witness, Peters,” said a strong, young
voice; and Russell, the monitor, appeared, ruddy and
tall and muscular.
“The Caput sent me up,” he said. “He saw you two
fellows.”
Russell then quietly helped the two to right themselves,
ridding Tarleton's hair of some of its gatherings
from the ground, and smoothing Peters. Beginnings
of angry words he cut off short.
The conflict was over; and the chief bodily harm
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had been done to Peters, both of whose cheeks were
swollen, and whose hands were a good deal scratched.
Meanwhile the late on-lookers, scattered just as the
contest was very near its end, must have spread abroad
their reports of it as they fled; for now, finding that
only Russell, a monitor, and not the Rector, had gone
to the scene of the battle, a good many boys — some at
full speed — were making the best of their way to the
spot.
Will Hirsett and Dover, with others, were walking
over the scene of the encounter. Not yet were Towne
and Wilkins, free from their imprisonment in the school-room,
to be found in this gathering, in which they had
a nearer interest than most others; nor were Remsen
and Brade to be seen. Will Hirsett and Dover were
scrutinizing the ground.
“Here's where old Tarleton tipped right over backwards,”
said Hirsett, beginning to do the honors of the
place and share his better knowledge with the less fortunate;
“and, I tell you, if old Peters didn't hang on to
him!” he continued, in that style of mixed construction
in which boys surpass all their examples in the classics.
“Look how they scraped the grass up! didn't they?”
“What was it about?” asked Meadows, who brought
to the field the curiosity which animated Old Caspar's
little grandchild Wilhelmine about the great Battle of
Blenheim.
“Why, you know,” said the young historian of Quercus-fight,
“Remsen and Brade and old Peters said they
lost their rabbit, and Tarleton wanted to fight somebody
for calling him a thief; and so Peters wouldn't back
out, and he took it for all three of 'em; an' he got old
Tarleton down” —
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“Which beat?” “Which beat?” asked several eager
voices. “Yes, which beat?” repeated Meadows, smoothing
over with his foot some of the ruffled grass, and
having his eyes fixed on the two combatants, while he
spoke to Hirsett. “Did Peters give in?”
“No! I didn't,” answered the undaunted champion
for himself; “ask Russell.”
“He was on top when I came,” answered Russell,
giving the fact in the form least offensive to the other
party.
“Oh, well! it wasn't a fair fight: I tripped up,” said
Tarleton.
“Peters got the best of it, that time,” said Russell;
and Peters's queer eyes proudly sought the recognition
of the cluster of boys who surrounded them.
“It was only chance that I went down. I could
flog him, any day: he daresn't try it over again,” said
the warlike and unsatisfied Tarleton.
“I never wanted to fight,” said Peters, as honestly
as before; “but I wa'n't afraid of being whipped, — you
found that out. I didn't wait for Remsen and Brade.”
“Hooray for old Peters!” cried Wadham. “The
prince of fire-eaters,” added Meadows, who, as the reader
already knows, had a studious and literary turn, and
had doubtless read The Poets. Then the mixed multitude
(half a dozen or so of the younger-form-boys)
took up the completed couplet, in chorus, half-laughing: —
“Hooray for old Peters,
The prince of fire-eaters!”
And the whole company began to follow from the field
the two late combatants, who were walking away, each
by himself, but both keeping in company with Russell.
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As the unwelcome song of triumph rose from the
boys behind, and urged its quick waves of sound into
the ears of the one whom it did not honor, he took it
hardly, and repeated his indirect challenge to a renewal
of the fight. This time the Monitor took it up.
“Look here, Tarleton!” he said: “we've had enough
of fighting. It isn't the way of this School: it isn't
Christian. If a fellow's got any wrong, it's easy to get
it made right without going to fisticuffs about it. Every
fellow, except you, has agreed to leave that about the
hare or rabbit to two, to find out all about it, and
we've been down already seeing to it. What's anybody
going to find out, any way, by fighting about a thing?”
he concluded.
Tarleton, without answering, turned as if he had forgotten
something, and went back.
eaf637n5* As by the autumn winds the leaves are lifted,
One after other, from the struggling bough,
Till to the earth all its green spoils are drifted.
Inferno, Canto iii.
-- -- p637-231
CHAPTER XX. WHAT HAPPENED TO REMSEN'S WATCH, AND TARLETON'S EXPERIENCE.
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
If the looking forward to a battle brings with it a
crowding of the brain and a clanging in the breast,
what a change does victory (especially one almost
harmless to both parties) bring! What a playing about
the casing of the heart by the late stormy and turbid
tide of blood! What a happy tingling, all over the
body, by things hurrying to get back into their old
ways!
The triumphant throng is half-way down the slope
toward the house.
Here Peters, the awkward hero of the day, suddenly
started forward; for, as they were coming down, they
saw in front of them the storm-house-door open, and
Remsen and Brade sallying forth. Having hurried a
little way forward toward them, Peters then seemed to
falter in his purpose, and stopped.
Remsen was swinging, with one hand, by its long
chain, what any eye, almost, in the School could recognize
afar, the famous time-piece of his forefathers, and
apparently threatening to let it go; but the attention
of both Remsen and his companion was soon drawn to
the unusual appearance of the little throng which was
approaching them. The newly made triumphal song
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was raised with much vigor by the accompanying choristers
as the two parties approached each other.
While Brade and Remsen questioned, Alonzo Peters,
like a modest hero, had withdrawn a little, as if conscious
of having deserved well of them and of the
community. The story was told with a little plain web
from Russell, and little varied and fanciful bits of warp
from members of the chorus. The story, of course, culminated
in the unexpected but entire success of Peters.
“How did he get into it?” asked Remsen, looking at
Peters in the new character of a hero in single combat,
but taking things in a business-like way.
Wadham and Hirsett both undertook to answer, as
having had a large share in the encounter by looking
on at it.
“That trapping business;” said one. “He said you
three were liars;” added the other, leaving the subject
of his sentence a little hard to define. “He wanted
Peters to confess you were liars.”
“What a fool he was, not to wait till we got out!
He might have got an awful licking;” said Remsen, as
unsympathizingly critical as if Peters were a thousand
miles off in space, and further off in spirit.
The modest and withdrawing hero was quick to hear
this disparaging speech. “I showed I wasn't a coward,”
he said: “I stood up for everybody.” Having said so
much, he began to walk away by himself. Russell
looked after him, and said, —
“He's a spunky old fellow, though, Remsen; and he
did it for you.”
“He's a regular old brick!” said Wadham, not so
much seeking novelty as fitness in his phrase. “If
you'd seen him walk up!”
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“I think you ought to speak pretty well of him,
Remsen,” said Russell.
“Well,” said Remsen, smiling not ill-naturedly, and
addressing the younger by-standers, “tell him I think
he's as brave as Archimedes — or Achilles — and William
Wallace, and Robert Bruce.”
Meadows, laughing at Remsen's “Archimedes,” set
off to give the message with much alacrity, as if he
thought that Peters would enjoy it as much as himself.
Now that every thing connected with the late battle
had been done with, Russell turned to Remsen, who
was still carrying the heirloom swinging by its chain,
and said curiously, “Oh, let's see the old watch!” and,
as Remsen held it up, Russell remarked upon the carvings
and lettering of its face, turning the long-time
implement round. “What does
&sbegr;ξαγορε&uacgr;σατε
(exagoreusate)
mean?” he asked, reading the very word, most
likely, which Mr. Don had carefully copied.
“My grandfather told me,” said Remsen, “it was out
of the Bible, and meant `redeeming,' or something.”
“Ho!” said Will Hirsett, who, though young in
years, was already a little advanced in his acquaintance
with Language, “twig the old turnip!” and he, too,
stared with all his eyes.
Others came up, and there was quite a gathering
about the venerable relic.
“Who wants to buy?” asked the owner. “This old
thing got me kept in to-day.”
He did not add what very likely had touched him
more than any thing, that the old thing had become a
laughing-stock, that day.
A timid voice from Meadows, already back at the
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outskirts, asked what the owner would take for it.
Many curious eyes gazed upon the small mass of machinery,
incased in glass and silver, which had timed,
most likely, many a meal, and possibly some lovers'
meetings; had been held to the delighted ear of many
a toddler, and allowed to go to his mouth without fear
of its getting into his throat.
“Ain't it a buster?” asked Will Hirsett, keeping
safely outside of any competition or curious questioning
about its market-worth, — perhaps because he had no
money, perhaps because he had no faith in Remsen's
intention of selling his heirloom.
“Will you sell it?” asked Meadows.
“No!” said Remsen. “Here goes!” And, in spite of
several outcries, such as “I wouldn't,” from Russell,
and “Oh, don't!” “Give it to a fellow!” “Give it to
me!” from younger boys, he whirled it out of his hand,
and it struck with a thud, and a rattle or jingle, on the
bank near the gymnasium.
“Oh, too bad! wasn't it?” said Meadows and others;
and a race began toward the spot where the longvalued,
but just now dishonored, relic had fallen.
“Let it alone!” said Remsen; and all but little
Meadows stopped short of the place. He went up to
it, and took a good look at it, as it lay.
“Shall I take it, and get it mended?” asked Meadows;
but the owner said, “No!” without giving any
explanation of his unwillingness to have any one else
own what he himself was willing to throw away.
Such things — indeed, most things — make only a
short-lived impression upon boys, even as upon men.
The by-standers began to disperse, remarking Remsen's
queer way of treating his watch: “If he didn't care
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any more for it than to fling it away, why shouldn't he
let another fellow have it, that would take care of it?”
“I shouldn't think Brade would let him,” said Hirsett,
“because he liked it so.”
“Where is Brade?” asked Wadham. “He isn't
there. — He was there.”
“Oh, yes! I saw him there,” said Meadows.
But when they looked, with all their eyes, he was
not there.
Before this time the famous Peters had come back,
looking now contented and restored to every-day life;
and the knot of boys, considerate (like men) of the
lustre that was fresh on him just now, stopped to give
him an account of the treatment of the historic time-piece,
and pointed to the spot where it was lying.
Thereupon Peters, with his head in the air, walked
slowly up to the borders of the little knot, which still
stood, of that which had been gathered about Russell
and Remsen and the watch, and there stood looking
first over toward the rejected heirloom, and then toward
the doer of the strange deed, as if to establish
some fanciful explanation between them.
When Brade appeared presently, coming from the
direction of the gymnasium, Peters ran to him, with
much alacrity, and gave him, volubly, such information
as he himself had gained.
Remsen, who heard it, laughed at Peters's manner, or
at what he said, but did not interfere; and Brade, who
could hardly forget with what pride and confidence, no
longer ago than that morning, he had borne the longdescended
relic in his pocket, ran to the spot, with
Peters following, while Remsen and Russell walked
leisurely up to join them.
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Brade looked at it, for a moment, as it lay in the
brown turf, on its back, like a stranded Gallipagos
turtle, with his upper shell knocked in. He kneeled
and put his ear to it, and proclaimed that it was “all
going;” for the stout old thing had kept its honest
“works” together, and with a steady ticking was doing
its best to bear up. He took it tenderly in hand,
and looked it over carefully, and put it carefully in his
pocket.
If Remsen had been inclined to say any thing about
this disposition of the watch, something even more
pressing called his attention.
“What's happened to you, Bradey?” he asked of
his friend, who was hot and flushed, and looking as
if he might have fallen in the gymnasium. “You're
hurt, man! How did you do it?”
“Oh, it isn't any thing. It doesn't hurt: it's only
a little scratch,” said Brade. “Does it show much?”
And, putting his hand to his face, he examined it as if
to see whether any blood had come away.
“What ails Tarleton?” Russell asked, while Remsen
was occupied; for Tarleton might be seen coming
down also, but walking fast over toward the kitchen
part of the house, and holding a handkerchief over
his face.
Boys' lives have a great many happenings; for boys
are almost always trying at one or other of all the laws
of the universe, and practising with one or more of the
great elements of things. So they are never surprised
at what happens to each other.
Russell walked away to meet or overtake Tarleton,
and the others took the same direction, at different
rates of speed. The by-standers (for we still have a
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part of our chorus with us) went fast, of course, to be
first on the spot. The principals — as Remsen and
Brade, and (for the present, at least) Peters — followed
more slowly.
Tarleton had stopped at a pump which stood near
one of the doors, and was washing his face.
“Let me see, a minute, will you?” said Russell,
kindly, coming up and putting his hand under the
boy's forehead, and lifting up his face. The poor fellow,
what with one or more black eyes, and a nose out
of shape, and lips all swollen, and a general smearing
of blood, was, certainly, a very sorry sight to see, and
our “chorus” looked at him in wonder, and then proceeded
to do as Quintus Horatius Flaccus advises all
right-minded choruses to do: they began to pity the
wretched, and to speculate about the case.
“He's got a bad face, hasn't he?” said Meadows.
“Did Peters do all that to him?”
“No, I don't believe,” said the conquering Peters,
“I hurt him so much as that: I didn't mean to. I don't
believe I did. Oh, no! I'm almost sure I never did.
It almost makes me sick.”
The bruised and disfigured object of their pity here
uttered himself, but very obscurely, because the gates
of his speech would not open very readily; but he
seemed to say, turning to these speakers, “Do clear
out!” or “You clear out! will you?” an injunction
with which they partly complied, by withdrawing into
themselves, and keeping silence.
“I'll get something for you,” said Russell. “Don't
wash any thing except just the blood;” and, after a
moment's disappearance, came back with Mr. Stout,
who brought in his hand a piece of raw beef.
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“Fell right against two fists, I suppose, and hit
just on his face. This had ought to be goose-skin
or ass-hide, by good rights,” said the head man, not
unkindly; and some of the boys, accustomed to his
style of satire, laughed. He added, gravely: “but
this'll have to do: it's the best I've got.”
How Tarleton came to this condition our faithful
chorus of intelligent by-standers have not settled, and
are still discussing, with many looks at Brade.
Russell, turning for a moment from his attendance,
took up the public expectation by announcing the
Referees' report, immediately; then wrapped the meat
in a handkerchief, and led off the disfigured Tarleton
to the house.
Mr. Stout made this reflection: —
“The strangest piece of the business is, that where
there's one chap that's met with an accident like that,
there's always another, close by, that's just like him, —
and mebbe more so, — and perhaps neither one of 'em
can tell how they got it.”
He had not scrutinized the group of boys, to see
whether this general principle would apply to any of
them, but, without looking, he said, —
“I see Brade has had a little tumble, too. I suppose
there's been some blowing. High winds are apt to
bring a good many things down.”
Saying this, Mr. Stout took his wheelbarrow and
rake, which were close at hand, and went about gathering
his fallen leaves, of which one pile, at least, we know
to have been disturbed during the wordy encounter of
Tarleton and Peters.
“Here come the Monitors!” said the crowd, as
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Russell and Lamson drew near, followed by Towne. And
now all was expectation.
“Fellows!” said Russell, “I see all but Tarleton are
here” —
“If he hadn't been a fool, he'd have been here, too,”
said Towne.
Russell went on: “We've been to the ground. Jake
Moody had taken his dinner down, and been there all
day. We found Remsen and Brade's track down and
back from the fence, — Jake showed it. Then there
was one down by their snare, where Rainor says he
came, and a track just like it from there to Tarleton's
trap, and none the other way. Rainor's gone away.
We think none of the fellows ever went to any trap
but their own; but probably Rainor knows about it, if
any one.”
“I didn't believe they ever did!” said Brade, giving
his hand to Towne, who shook it heartily. Remsen
assented, without shaking hands.
No one could make out why Rainor should have put
one party's hare into the other party's trap; but everybody
reserved his judgment.
The crowd dispersed, — Brade loitering near Russell, —
and soon these two had a clear place to themselves,
with no one in sight except Mr. Stout; and he
was a little way off.
-- -- p637-240
CHAPTER XXI. THE CAPUT MEETS BRADE.
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
When the two boys found themselves alone, as they
were left in the last chapter, Russell turned to Brade,
and asked: —
“Did you do that to Tarleton?”
“Yes; and I feel ashamed of pounding into a fellow;
only then I couldn't help it,” said Brade, apologetically.
“He called me all sorts of names, and abused us all,
and said he'd whip Peters or any of us he could get
hold of; and at last I had to tell him to let Peters
alone, and he might fight me. But he took hold of
Peters, you know; and when I went up there, he came
at me in an awful way. He gave me this knock before
I stirred. I had to hit him; and I'm sure I did not
give him more than half a dozen licks before he gave
out, and said I `didn't let him have a chance.'”
“Well, it'll do him good, perhaps. It's his own
fault,” said Russell.
A new voice spoke: —
“Tarleton's got a pretty hard way o' gettin' a false
face,”* said Mr. Stout, who, following his rake, had
come near them before they were aware, but who said
his say, as if not at all connected with their conversation.
“It wouldn't cost much money to buy one, at a
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store; and I guess he'd be just as well satisfied, and it
would do him just as much good.” And Mr. Stout
moved on at his work.
“Now, what do you think about it, Russell? I didn't
want to fight,” said Brade, seriously.
“Oh! I think he won't show it much in the course
of an hour or two,” said Russell, “and it will do him
good.”
“But it isn't like a Christian to fight,” said Brade.
“I know that, very well; and I wanted to be fit to be
confirmed! But can you help it, always?” Here,
after a pause, he shook his head, and added: “you
can't, can you?”
He was evidently appealing as to an older and wiser
Christian than himself.
“I don't suppose you can always keep out of it,” Russell
answered. “It isn't Christian to be quarrelsome,
or to abuse another fellow, or to be a tyrant; but you
may get into it by taking another fellow's part, or you
may have to defend yourself; and, if you don't want
to, or only do it in self-defence, why I suppose it'll be
looked over, — and if you're sorry for it,” he added, as
if he had forgotten a part of his argument. “You
know it's the heart, Brade: it mustn't be in your
heart.”
“I'm sure it isn't in my heart,” Antony said, decisively;
“that I'm sure: it isn't in my heart.”
“You get a chance and go and ask the Caput. You
can talk to him as easily as you can to me,” said his
adviser.
“But I couldn't tell him about Tarleton?”
“He wouldn't ask you about any boy; but he'll go
into it, and he'll tell you every thing.”
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There was a short silence after these words, while
Brade stood thinking. Then he said, “I'll try,” and
they parted.
Opportunities, in this world, often come very timely
to our wants; and so Brade found it now. He had
scarcely walked a dozen steps, after leaving Russell,
before the Rector of the School came suddenly upon
him, and called him by name, as he was slowly walking
and thinking.
“Let's go on together,” said the Rector.
So here was a chance for the boy.
“Well, Antony, school-life seems to agree with you
pretty well. Was it Remsen's family-watch that made
the mistake about time, this morning? The hands
were caught together? Old fellows (or young fellows)
mustn't fold their hands in the midst of things,—
at any rate, if they do, people must look to other
guides. But, if that's the only fault, it'll be easily set
right, in the watch. I suppose trapping, just now,
doesn't leave time for the `Notes on Cæsar'?”
“I found the men's notes were better,” answered the
boy, with a pleasant laugh, “and so I stopped.”
“Well, that's just honest modesty. I suppose the
men's notes were better, no doubt. Yours were very
good practice, though,” said the Rector. “I'd keep on
making notes upon things as they come, in lessons, and
reading, and any thing. Sometimes even boys strike
out something good; and, at any rate, they learn to
handle things for themselves.”
“I always keep a sort of a note-book,” said Antony,
modestly.
“So do; and tell me about your notes, sometimes,”
said the Caput, — “will you?”
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They had turned the corner of the gymnasium, and
had passed “Quercus,” and were now on the field of
the late conflicts. The spot must have urged upon
Tarleton's unwilling antagonist the question that he
was longing to ask.
As they crossed the ground on which Peters had won
his unbloody laurels, and on which Tarleton had been
a second time worsted, not without blood, the Rector's
foot slipped on the damp earth. He probably had not
forgotten that the fighting of an hour or two before,
had been done here, and was not speaking altogether
at random, when he said, —
“You haven't read, yet, about Nisus slipping in the
gore?”
It was too dark to have seen any thing, unless very
showy; and if Brade had thought of it, for an instant,
he might have felt sure that any slight blood drawn in
his encounter with Tarleton would hardly have fallen
to the ground at all, or, if it had reached the sod,
would have kept no place upon it; but his voice shook
a little, as he answered hastily, —
“I've heard the Fourth read it, sir, about the boxers.
It was pretty brutal, wasn't it?”
“Oh! Nisus wasn't one of the fighters: he was
running a race, and slipped in the blood of a victim.
That fighting was pretty horrible and disgusting
work.”
Now was Antony's chance, and he used it.
“If that had been now, sir, those fighters couldn't
have been Christians?” he asked; and while he asked
turned his face over towards the horizon, as if the
answer did not concern him much.
“I think not,” said the Rector. “We excuse wars,
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because nations make their people go into them: they
ought to have been done away with eighteen hundred
years ago. Mangling and slaughtering honest husbands
and sons is too wickedly foolish to think of, quietly.
Fighting, for the love of it, or for anger, or for mastery,
is brute's work. If you see a beast attack a person,
you may fight him; if you see a ruffian attack a person,
he's no better; if a ruffian attacks you, you may
knock him off.”
“That's all I did,” said Brade, without thinking, his
spirits rose so suddenly. The Rector did not show any
consciousness of the slip.
“I should like to be confirmed, sir,” said Antony,
with a steady voice, “if you think I'm fit,” and so
brought his timid desire to a head, at once.
To those who serve at heavenly altars; to those who
are, by ordination or occasion, ambassadors for Christ
to souls of others; to those who love God, or believe in
God; to those who have any awe for God's breath of
life in the young, a call like this is both holy and touching.
It is the seeking of the soul, already, when blind
and helpless, blessed and gifted by its Maker and Redeemer,
to come consciously into communion with Him.
The moments in which this vital work is going on are
moments of trembling precaution and hope, and waiting,
until the soul, still very new to our manhood, has
laid hold, and steadied itself, and is walking in the
Spirit.
“Of course, Antony, if you have the right understanding
and feeling about it, it's just what you ought
to desire, of all things,” said his spiritual pastor.
“Let's have a very high notion of it. The Christian
life is the living in the Spirit, instead of the flesh; and
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`the Spirit' is the Holy Spirit. You were taken into
God's family before you knew any thing, and now
you're to declare openly — being old enough to know—
that you choose God's life, of yourself, and want to
live in it for ever. That's what you're doing, my young
brother; and the Spirit takes part in it, and His part
He'll do.”
“That's just what I want to do, — whatever is to be
done,” said Brade, simply. “God will have to help
me, I know; and He will do that, of course. He helps
everybody.”
“Of course He will. It's only through the Spirit
that we can live that life; and He dwells in the Church,
for ever, to be with those that are living that life.
Jesus, our Lord, is that Life, and the Raising-up from
the Dead; and it's the Spirit that enables us to partake
of Christ, in worship, and in self-denial, and in kind
doings, and in the great commemorative sacrifice of the
Lord's Supper. `He that eateth my flesh and drinketh
my blood hath everlasting life, and I will raise
him up at the Last Day.' All that's as high as it
can be.”
“And what'll I have to do?” asked Brade, as simply
as before.
“What great thing, to match this great thing?” said
the Rector, smiling, as one might judge from his voice.
“Just what the Catechism teaches about Baptism, that
Confirmation follows: — `Repentance, whereby we forsake
sin, and Faith, whereby we steadfastly believe the
promises of God;' and the Spirit works these in us;
and we must pray to get the Spirit; and it is He that
teaches us to pray. You see that, the moment we
begin, He does it for us by making us do it.”
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They had been drawing nearer, in the dusk, to the
noise of the play-ground, though they had walked
slowly. The rush of the tireless foot-ball kickers could
be seen, as well as heard, through the murk. The
Rector changed the subject of the conversation.
“We haven't had any more of the distinguished
stranger?” he said.
Brade laughed, as he answered, “No, sir. The boys
made plenty of talk out of that.”
“Well, we've got great times coming, — Mrs. Wadham's
party and Benefactors' Day. Every invited boy,
with a good record, shall go to Mrs. Wadham's.”
Then, sending the boy off happy to his fellows, the
Rector kept on in his walk.
eaf637n6* Mask.
-- -- p637-247
CHAPTER XXII. THE RECTOR OF THE PARISH AND ONE OF HIS PEOPLE.
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In the middle of one of the afternoons — a beautiful
afternoon — there was driving slowly down what is
called West Road one who, if judged by his appointments
of dress and horse and buggy, and his way of saluting
and being saluted by a neighbor or two, felt himself to
be, and doubtless was, a noted man of Eastham. In
short, it was no other than Mr. Thomas Parmenter.
As he was just coming to the turn by the wood from
which we see out over the valley to the hills and the
one mountain-top beyond the Gap, a gentleman bounded
over the rail-fence at that place to the bank above the
road, startling the horse, and bringing him to a standstill.
This gentleman was tall, large, — a little solid
and heavy, perhaps, but strong and healthy, as his
action and figure and cheek and eye all showed. His
dress was that of a clergyman, ending in good thicksoled
shoes, now pretty dusty.
If both parties had timed the meeting, they could not
have met more exactly; but the walker apparently had
his thoughts upon the landscape; for, in coming over
the fence, he turned toward the open West, and it was
only after a steadfast look to the hills and sky that he
became aware of horse-hoofs and wheels, and the man's
voice; then, turning to the driver, whose horse seemed
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to be recovering himself from a short fright, but was now
only backing on his legs, and starting with pricked-up
ears and moving nostril, saluted him cheerily and apologetically: —
“Oh! Pardon! How are you, sir?” he said, lifting
by the rim a soft felt hat, and showing dark, auburn,
curling hair. Do you see that atmosphere? (I wish
we had a good English word.) It's happiness to breathe
it, isn't it? And only look at those hills! as if they
were just standing still to enjoy themselves! That's
for my little cripple, Billy Carnes” (showing his coat-pocket
full of what, from shape and sound, might be
supposed to be nuts), “and this” (opening the breast
of his coat, and showing fern-leaves) “is for poor Mrs.
Rainor.”
Whatever might be the reason, there was no corresponding
flow of kindliness from the other party to the
meeting, who was pretty evidently in a graver humor;
nor had his blood been wholesomely stirred up and
warmed like the parson's. After exchanging salutations,
he had listened patiently while the clergyman uttered
his cheery speech, assenting with “Very fine, sir,”
to that part about the landscape; and, when it was
done, said, smiling rather ironically, “You're quite
an athlete, sir (I believe that's the word). I don't
know what our friend Mrs. Weatherbee would say to
such agility. — She's a candidate for Confirmation, I
believe?”
“How do you mean: `What would she think?'”
asked the clergyman; then added, good-naturedly, “You
mean, How would she like to do it herself? I can
easily conceive of her objecting.”
The other explained himself: —
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[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
“I didn't know whether, with her habits, she might
consider the Rector altogether clerical.”
“What!” asked the active parson, with look and
tone of amused astonishment. “Pooh!”
“She's been brought up an Orthodox,* you know,”
answered the driver. Then, after a preparatory smile,
he said, “I believe she thinks Mr. Manson's sermons are
so short she can't make head or tail of 'em. She's
more critical, perhaps, than old Church people.”
“Mr. Manson must look out,” answered the Rector
again, good-naturedly; “but I think Mrs. Weatherbee
and I'll get along pretty well together.”
The parishioner had not yet said all that he had in
his mind.
“The Church Post is quite satirical, in its last number,
I'm told,” he said, touching his horse with the
snapper of his whip; making him start, and then holding
him in. “You know, of course, better than I can tell
you. You know every thing that comes out in it, I
suppose. That's the understanding, I believe.”
“Of course, I'm supposed to, and bound to, and do,
generally,” said Mr. Manson.
Mr. Parmenter continued: —
“The article I refer to is upon influential laymen,
I believe. The title is not very elegant, — `Lay-popes
and Nincom-popes,' or some such word, though not
very choice language, I should think. Perhaps you've
read it, sir?”
“Certainly,” answered Mr. Manson, smiling.
“I should think it might be somewhat unwise to
assail the great lay-body, which supports the Church,
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and furnishes the means for all its work, and all its
growth,” said the objector.
“I should think so, too,” Mr. Manson answered, still
smiling.
“Laymen don't like to be called asses; and the great
business-men of the country consider themselves as
having some judgment, and being fit to exercise some
influence.”
“To be sure,” said Mr. Manson; “but you don't
object to asses being called asses? and you don't object
to silly actions being treated as silly, do you? I don't
know what a paper would be worth, that could not tell
the truth?”
“Then I understand you to approve the sentiments
of that article?”
“I wrote it,” said the hearty priest, laughing; “but,
Mr. Parmenter, let's understand one another: attacking
abuses or wrongs isn't attacking the laity, — it isn't attacking
persons at all. Only, if you fired at offences
that nobody was doing, you'd waste ammunition.
Sometimes a man's so close to a thing that he gets
hit with it, to be sure: that can't be helped, and there's
no reason to be sorry for it. It'll do 'em good.”
“Sometimes no pains are taken to make distinctions
where laymen are using a legitimate influence,” said
Mr. Parmenter, “and the public are apt to look upon it
as a personal attack.”
“But you speak as if you'd been hurt; you don't feel
personally aggrieved, do you?” asked the cheery Rector-and-Editor,
upon whom Mr. Parmenter's steady
gravity and tone of grievance began to make impression.
“I can scarcely suppose that the Rector of this parish
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would make an attack on me,” said Mr. Parmenter, with
dignity. “The parish would all take it home to themselves,
if the attack was made, — as one man.”
The cheery priest easily recovered his equanimity.
Here he laughed, as he answered, in a jesting
tone, —
“There is only about one man of them, altogether,
to `take it home.'” Then, with a good-natured attempt
to overcome Mr. Parmenter's gravity, he added, in the
same strain, —
“Happily our constituency isn't very large, — counting
the six men that don't yet come to church, with the
two that have begun to.”
Mr. Parmenter seemed to be in no humor for jests
upon so serious a subject. He answered: —
“That's rather a strong way of putting it, I think.
Our parish is growing: the soil is uncongenial, but the
growth is steady. I don't know what the result of the
last year or two has been; but it was counted a very
respectable parish when it was put into your hands.
A parish that contributed, if I recollect rightly, last
year, one hundred and eighty-seven dollars and over —
forty-three cents, I think — to diocesan missions, isn't
insignificant, I should say.”
This answer seemed to be dictated by a wish to show
that the parish was doing as well as could be expected;
that possibly it might do better; and, if so, better work
was needed from the Rector.
“Oh, no! I was only in fun,” said Mr. Manson. “I've
brought in a family or two, thank God! If we had an
enrolment of bona-fide names, I fancy we could make
the beginning of a list. But let me tell you about that
article on nincompoops. It was made upon
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communications from half a dozen different places, and not out
of my own hand at all.”
“You seem to have made it your own, pretty well,”
said Mr. Parmenter; then added: “That is, I judge so,
from what I hear.”
“Certainly I went against the abuses full tilt, as
usual.”
“So I suppose,” said the other, with grave civility.
“Are you going my way, sir?” Mr. Parmenter continued,
drawing up his reins before starting.
“Thank you, no,” said Mr. Manson, jumping from the
over-hanging gravel-bank as he spoke; but taking care,
this time, to alight behind the carriage.
So, with mutual salutations, the Rector and his “influential
layman” separated; Mr. Parmenter rumbling
rapidly away, and raising a dust as he went.
eaf637n7* In New England, “Orthodox” means Trinitarian Congregationalist.
-- -- p637-253
CHAPTER XXIII. A YOUNG REPROBATE.
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The Rector-editor followed, for some distance, the
same road with the buggy, which soon went out of
sight. Before long, unmindful of Mrs. Weatherbee
and of Mr. Parmenter, he crossed the bars by a leap, as
before, into a pasture where a dozen or more of fine
cows were feeding.
As he walked, with a quick, steady step, across the
field, turning his head from side to side to look it all
over, a figure of a boy rose from behind one of the
cows, a good way in front of him, and, turning away,
walked, as steadily as he, down toward the wood, in
the hollow. Mr. Manson did not quicken his pace;
but he called after the boy by Christian and surname.
“Philip! Philip! Rainor!” he shouted, not with
much effort, but still loudly enough to be heard by any
intelligent ears. The call was altogether unheeded:
the boy neither quickened nor slackened his steps, but
walked straight on. The gentleman, smiling, with a
shake of the head, walked steadily after him.
At the rate at which the two were going, the distance
between would never have been shortened; but the boy
scarcely entered the wood, and, passing behind two or
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three of the outermost trees, was seen immediately
coming back, — not exactly over the same ground as
in going down, but aslant; and now it might be seen
that he was carrying a book, which he seemed to be
closely reading, in such a way that his voice was heard,
now and then, through the still air of the afternoon,
as also was seen the emphatic accompaniment of his
hand as he read.
The clergyman smiled at this exhibition, and said
aloud, so that he might have been heard a good way
off, “Um!” then turned a little from his own course,
so as to bring the two paths together. As they drew
near, the boy, at the sound of footsteps, looked up from
his book, and, like one that had been taught manners,
bowed his head, and said, “A good evening, sir!”
Our readers will remember this boy's encounter with
Brade and Remsen, on one bright memorable morning.
He was a shabby lad, with ragged clothes and shoes,
and a sun-burnt cap hanging at the back of his head,
with the visor half-ripped off. His face was pale, surrounded
by straight, light-colored hair, and opened by
watery, bluish eyes, and a watering wide mouth, partly
open, showing large teeth.
This was the boy whom the reader has already met,
in the matter of the traps.
Mr. Manson returned a kindly greeting, and, as he
spoke, held out, in such a way as to be readily seen by
the other, a squared, even, and apparently unbroken
package of paper “currency,” from which an outside
paper-wrapper was turned back.
A change flitted over the boy's flabby face, and, by a
sort of instinctive motion, he put his free hand to his
trousers' pocket, while he fastened his eyes upon the
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package of currency. The pocket seemed to be a
pretty full one.
“I want to have a little talk with you, Philip,” said
the clergyman.
“I've got to drive Mr. Bancroft's cows home,” answered
the boy, but standing still, with his eyes upon
the package, and with a very wakeful look.
“Would you rather meet me by-and-by, or stop
now?” asked Mr. Manson.
“Well,” said the lad, “I dono's I care about doin' ary
one of 'em.”
The healthy-looking man who was talking with him
seemed in no way surprised or disconcerted by his ungracious
tone, and answered gravely and decidedly, —
“But I must have a talk with you; and, as it wants
some time of sunset, perhaps I may as well do it now.”
The boy answered in a surly way, “I dono's the's
any `must' about it;” but he stood still, nevertheless,
and, with stealthy glances at the parcel of currency,
proceeded, deliberately, to put a grass-stalk into his
open book. Then reading aloud, “Page forty-eight:
`and that was the last of him,'” he shut the book, and
put it away into a jacket-pocket. Another grass-stalk
he put into his mouth, and chewed diligently.
“You and I may differ very much in our ways of
looking at things,” said the clergyman, with a large and
confident kindliness, which seemed to take for granted
that he could interest the boy; “but I'll tell you what
I go upon: I'm sent out with a message to anybody
that's going wrong, to try to bring him right.”
“You can preach that in church, can't ye?” asked
the boy, looking away: “I don't belong to your church,
nor yet no other church.”
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“That's just one part of it,” said Mr. Manson; “but
I've got just as much to say in a sitting-room, or in this
field. You needn't hear, if you don't choose to; but
that doesn't make any difference to me about my duty.”
“Don't it make some odds if I don't choose to hear
ye?” asked Phil Rainor, but yet without moving to
go away.
“I'll try it,” said the other, still holding the package
before him: “I want to help you to be a good boy.”
“S'pose I want to be such a kind of a boy's I please,
hain't I got a right?” asked the young good-for-nothing,
pulling and chewing a second grass-stalk or
two, with much seeming indifference.
“If you mean whether I can tie you up, and” —
The boy interrupted: —
“I guess you'd hev' to ketch me fust, f' one thing,”
said he, shying to one side, to show how he would
escape, if an attempt were made.
“Yes, yes; that I shan't try to do: all I want is a
very few words,” said Mr. Manson, waiting and giving
him time; and, after hearing him, going on, quietly and
patiently, “There's a right and a wrong.”
“Who says so?” asked Rainor, who seemed likely
to permit no common ground to be established between
them, even upon truisms which had been accepted ever
since the world began.
The moralist allowed time for this interruption,
though he took no notice of the question, but repeated: —
“There's a right and a wrong,” making a good pause.
“A man that does right goes on well.”
“Yes, Jim Fiske, that made so much of other folks'
money,” said the boy.
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“He was murdered by another man as bad as himself,”
answered the clergyman.
“Wall, Stokes, then, that murdered him,” said the
young vagabond, readily, but not looking at the respectable
and kindly person, who was listening with
all patience, and who now answered, —
“So far he hasn't gained, and he hasn't got through
yet. Well, now it's you that I want.”
“You shall hev' me if ye can get me,” said the boy.
“So I suppose; and that's just what I expect to do.
Now, Rainor, did you ever feel ashamed or sorry for
any thing that you'd done?” asked the moralist, beginning
from a new position a direct assault upon this
thoroughly entrenched young outlaw.
“I dono but what I have. Pooty sure I must
have, when it didn't turn out the way I wanted it
to,” Rainor answered, promptly, from his (imaginary)
fortress. “I've felt 'shamed 'nough 'f other folks, sometimes.”
“Why, I know better of you than that,” said the
beleaguering moralist, heartily. “I've heard of your
having been a leading scholar in Sunday school.”
The boy answered both bitterly and contemptuously,
chewing faster, and pulling and thrusting into his mouth
new grass-stems: —
“Plaguy sight o' good goin' to Sabbath school done
me. To hev' a teacher come along, 'th kid gloves,
right afore the class, when ye'd got your lesson all
perfict, an' was the best scholar 'n the class, 'n' look
fierce, 'n' say, `ye'd ought t' look better'n that, to
come to Sabbath school;' 'n' I'd been half 'n hour
fixun up, a-purpose, 's happy 's could be.”
The kindly man who was listening attentively threw
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up his head in a mute gesture of sympathy, and was
just about to speak, for the boy's lips quivered, and
tears actually showed themselves on his lids; and there
he was — this hopeless-seeming young rascal — showing
good feeling, and proper pride, and worthy ambition,
and a very serviceable regard for the opinion of
others; but there was more yet: —
“I never went to Sabbath school agin, an' in two-three
months they sent me round a one-legged doll,
or something, f' my Noo-Year's present; 'n' a tract
roun' it, — `Let not the sun go down 'pon your
wrath!' — I made a hole 'n it, and stuck it on our
old sow's tail; an' she thrashed round, an' lay down on
it, an' mashed it, an' trampled it all into muck, in no
time.”
The listener, being a parish-priest, may have known
from experience that there are a great many Sunday-school
teachers (one-third, two-thirds, occasionally
three-thirds of them, in a given school) who have no
training, or calling, or liking for their work: at any rate,
he did not, in any way, undertake the defence of that
Sunday-school teacher, or of the race of such teachers.
The little confidence which had been just brought
about by the sharing of this painful experience in the
boy's life promised much easier work in the establishing
of a common understanding between them than
had at first seemed likely. As moisture, whether
spread through miles of earth or air, or rounded into a
drop, is a good conductor of heat and electricity, so is
it of feeling; so it was with these tears of Phil Rainor.
But if the package of “currency” was the subject to
be come at, they seemed to be no nearer, and getting
no nearer, as yet.
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“But then, I suppose, somebody called, to say that
there'd been a mistake, and to make it right, and to see
after you?”
“Oh, yes! ever so much! 'N about three weeks,
teacher come to the door, 'n' stood a-talking 'th mother
on her bed, inside there, 'n' I was a-doin' chores, in the
yard, close by, 'n' said, `Th' object was to teach the
children self-respect, 'n' respect for teachers'” — (“But
respect for God, first,” suggested the listener.) “That
wa'n't it, fust n' last, nary one; the' wa'n't no r'spect
for Him about it; 'twas all 'bout the teachers and
scholars, an' that `the' was a good many nice-dressed
children there, an' a fullah hadn't ought to be shabby
'n' dirty' (I wa'n't dirty, 'f I was shabby”), — here was
a little spasm of feeling and stoppage of speech, —
“`an' the' hoped I'd show a proper sperit 'n' be p'lite
'n' 'umble;' 'n' about a peck 'f apples come round to
mother 'n' a bottle o' rawsb'ry vinegar.”
“There's where you `felt ashamed for' your teacher,
I suppose?”
“I guess I did,” answered the boy, with a peculiar
“rising inflection,” as elocutionists call it, at the
end.
“I don't wonder, and I can't say that I blame you:
you weren't well dealt with. Well, now I know where
you felt ashamed of yourself, — when you left your
mother, and the neighbors came in and saved her.”
A dark turn came over the boy's face at this; and,
glancing at the sinking sun, he repeated what he had
said at the beginning, that “he must be looking after
Mr. Bancroft's cows;” and he was turning off, accordingly.
“Stay!” said Mr. Manson; and then, adopting the
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boy's vernacular, repeated the synonyme, “Hold on, boy!—
that isn't all of it. Do you remember how faithful
you were, when you came back, and how she said `there
wasn't such another son in Eastham'?”
“That wa'n't nothin',” said the boy, not yet fairly
turning away, and even looking almost, if not quite,
bashful, under the effect of this commendation. In a
moment, he even came nearer than this to the fellowship
of good morals and good feelings within which
stood the respectable person who was now dealing with
him, and toward which the respectable person was trying
to draw him. Of himself he offered an explanation
of the dark-looking place in his history, which had
been just brought up.
“Why I left mother that time was 'cause she took
part against me, and pretended to scold me for not
bein' careful 'nough 'bout m' clo'es. I went off an' got
a place to work, for next to nothin', 't fust, an 'hev' my
clo'es an' board. I was goin' to giv' 'most all I earned
to mother, an' do her chores; an' the' wa'n't no danger
'f her dyin' nor nawth'n like it, no time; the' wus al'ays
plenty o' neighbors comin' in, an' hangin' roun'.”
Whatever was in Mr. Manson's mind, he made no
attempt to interrupt or divert the boy from his story:
it seemed to suit his purpose very well. He helped
him on in it by asking, briefly, —
“Did you stay in that place?”
“No!” said the boy, with a strong emphasis; and
there followed something which seemed like a choking
in his scrawny throat, and something which seemed like
a heaving of his chest; and these, with his turning-round
and kicking at a tuft of grass, showed a deeper
up-stir in his bosom than any thing yet.
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This unwilling show of feeling was not meddled
with, and there was a dead silence.
“B'cause I had a little sore,” Rainor began again,
after a while (and over-dainty and even delicate readers
must put up with the mention of the not-nice
ailments of their poor fellows, if they wish to come
near them and do any thing for them). Then there
was another pause and a dead silence.
“I couldn't help it; an' I done the best I could
about it.” (This came out piecemeal.) “I kep' it
washed out clean, an' put in a plug o' cotton-wool, —
an' done the best I could,” said the poor fellow, repeating
himself, while he handled his unsavory subject with
as much delicacy, perhaps, as he knew how to use.
“The' said `I wasn' nice to hev' roun';' said `the'
was sorry' (teacher'd ben givin' 'em a little moral
'dvice about me).” Here, with a last definite kick at
the tuft of grass, the much-broken explanation ended.
The thing had touched him deeply, and the hurt was
rankling still.
“That was all!” said his sympathizing hearer cheerily.
“Well, you'll do yet, Philip, never fear.” The
voice brought Rainor round again; and he looked up
also before he was aware.
“Now, look here!” said Mr. Manson, holding out
the package of scrip, upon which the boy fixed his
eyes, as he was asked to do, but with a very unintelligent
look at first, so much was he still occupied with
the painful thing just laid open. His look was, for
a while, as unrecognizing as if he had never seen any
thing of the kind before, or did not know enough of it
even to desire it.
This expression, however, did not last very long, and
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was followed by a look of something like confusion,
and then by a smile, which seemed as separate from the
rest as one of the little side-scenes on the stage is
separate from every other, however often made to combine
in order to some desired effect. There the smile
was; but the face was not made up into any definite
expression, and so the smile was unemployed.
“You dropped this, and I picked it up. Now don't
let's lose the good understanding we've gained. Let
us keep on understanding each other” (for he might
not be sure that the boy was not sinking back again
into the saucy doggedness from which he had, with a
little timely and skilful help, just scrambled out).
“If you say I dropped it, I s'pose ye're goin' to give
it to me,” Rainor said.
“No, I'm not, at all,” said the clergyman. “I suppose
you know that one of these bits of paper would
send a man to the state's prison? Now, don't say a
word yet; for I'm going to keep on the right side of
you. I'm a friend; and I'm perfectly willing to have
you know it. — Now any one of a hundred of these
bits of paper would send a man to state's prison, by the
law of every country on earth.”
“Some of 'em haven't got no state's prisons, nor yet
no money, neither,” said the boy, proposing a correction,
with a smile.
“Stay!” said Mr. Manson, shaking his head. “No
mocking, now, my boy! I'm going to keep you on
your best side. Remember that we understand each
other: I know your discouragements and mortifications.
You remember your geography, from school? Do you
remember the name of any of those countries?”
“Over'n Afriky, I s'pose, somew'e's, — f' one place.”
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“Savage? or civilized? (I'm glad you recollect.)”
“Oh! savage, I s'pose: I shouldn't say they was very
civilized.”
“Yes: all civilized nations make a great crime of
passing counterfeit money; in some, the punishment is
death.” (The boy began to grow paler, even, than was
natural to him.)
“I hain't put off 'n atom 'f it. But what's the
odds?” he exclaimed: “it's jest exactly 's good 's any
the' is goin'. 'Tain't none of it real money: they called
it merchandise.” (This reference to third parties he
seemed to make unwittingly.) “It's wuth jest 'xactly 's
much as folks 'll take it for. What's two-three inches
o' paper wuth, any how?”
“Now, stop! — that'll do,” said Mr. Manson, very
quietly. “Let's try to speak truth to each other. Have
you passed any counterfeits?”
“No, I hain't; but I know 'bout it.”
“Well, don't talk to me as if you thought I hadn't
common sense, or didn't know how much you knew.
That's nonsense. You know, very well, that this is
wicked stuff, and the men you got it of wouldn't dare
to acknowledge it. It's only in the dark, and under
lies and cheats, that a man can pass them off.” (All
this time Rainor looked agitated.) “Now, you've got
yourself into a very bad position, and it's hard to get
you out of it. If you were a man, you'd deserve to go
to state's prison for having those on you.”
“Who says I've got any on me?” asked the boy, looking
half-up, askant.
“This parcel's enough,” answered Mr. Manson.
Instantly, as suddenly as if he had been preparing
for it, Rainor sprang toward the hand that held the
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fatal package, and made a snatch for it. Quick as he
was, however, he did not find this good-natured gentleman
off his guard. Not only did the spring and
snatch accomplish nothing; but the man, quicker than
he was, putting one hand in front and one behind, laid
the boy on the ground almost before he had made his
spring.
“It wouldn't be hard to search you, you see,” said the
conqueror, putting his hand quietly at his throat, with
just effort enough to keep him down.
“No, ye don't pick none of my pockets!” answered
the young prisoner, trying to speak and act like a
desperate fellow, and drawing a pistol from inside his
jacket, where he had kept one hand.
“Pooh! pooh!” said Mr. Manson, with a laugh:
“you don't think you can frighten me, do you? That
thing isn't loaded, and, if it were, you wouldn't use it.”
The boy said nothing, and certainly made no formidable
demonstration with the weapon, which was, apparently,
an old, six-inch smooth-bore of the cheapest sort.
The unwilling captive, however, began to squirm
upon the ground; and, as he writhed about, another
package, like the first, found its way out of his trousers-pocket.
“Come, come!” said Mr. Manson, taking possession
of this booty: “I'm not going to hold you or hurt
you. Get up, and put away that silly thing.”
The late would-be ruffian, looking rather sheepishly,
obeyed; but, as he got up to his feet, he said, glancing
at the hand which now held two packages, —
“You hain't got any right to pick my pockets.”
“Now, Philip,” said the clergyman, in a patient,
kind voice, “this wicked stuff is no more property than
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the runnings of small-pox are property. I'm only your
friend: I'm not a constable, and I want to help you
out of trouble. You're worse than I thought, — some
people would say you were too bad to do any thing
with, — but I see you're not very far in yet.”
“Pooty much 's they say, I guess: I s'pose they
wouldn't give me a trial,” said the boy, answering one
part of the sentence.
“No, I think there's plenty in you to go upon: we
must make something of you.”
“Not much, I guess,” said the boy, not yet facing the
eyes that were looking steadfastly and thoughtfully at
him.
“You wouldn't have gained any thing, by getting
these,” said Mr. Manson.
“You wouldn't have had no proof,” interrupted
Rainor.
“You're mistaking fearfully. But we won't argue;
and time's going. You'll have to drive your cows
shortly.” (Philip looked, as if mechanically, toward the
sun.) “I want to get you out of this ugly business, —
out of the men, and out of the thing.”
“I haven't said nothing about no men,” said the boy.
“I mean the men that sold you this vile stuff, and
called it `merchandise.' Don't talk. Let's consult as
friends. I want to get you out of this first, and then
make an honest boy of you. You're pretty deep in
this,” he said, gravely and thoughtfully; “but there must
be a way of getting you out, and then I know you're not
lazy, though, I hear, you've been a thief and a liar, and
I don't know what else.”
“I hain't lied to you,” said poor Philip, “'n' I guess
the most stealin' ever I done was I took a St. Bart's
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trap I thought they'd left. An' I put it back; but
they wouldn't hear to no reason.” Then, with a look
of satisfaction, — “Got into a squabble, though, 'mong
'emselves, t'other day; but 'twan't the right ones,
'xac'ly.”
“Was that something between you and the St.
Bart's boys, lately?”
“About the trap, was quite a spell ago; but I played
a trick on 'em, jest to show 'twan't so easy, all'a's, to
find out. I meant it for Remsen, there, 'n' Towne;
but two-three others got into a tussle about it. I
wouldn't 'a' done it 'f they'd ben any ways reas'nable
'bout the trap; nor I didn't want to set 'em fightin'
nuther.”
“What was it that you did?” Mr. Manson asked.
“Changed a white rabbit over from Remsen's snare
into the other fullah's trap,” said the boy. “I wanted
Towne 'n' Remsen t' have a jaw over it, an' try an' find
out; 'n' then not be so quick to think they knoo all
about it, an' another fullah didn't know nothin' an' was
all lies, to boot.”
Ridiculous as the thrusting-in of bungling machinery
like this into the workings of the moral universe might
appear, Phil Rainor's story had the appearance of
truth.
“We'll have a better way than that, next time,”
said the clergyman, smiling. “Do the boys know yet?”
“I told Tarleton, — one that fought about it.”
“Well, I'll see that all made right. Now, we must
keep you out of state's prison.”
“There's a plaguy sight o' smart fellahs, by all the
talk, gets” —
Mr. Manson caught him up: —
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“A set of thieving, lying, gambling, swearing, fighting,
house-breaking, murdering, defiling villains! You
must have done with all that sort of thinking, or the
One that I act for won't help you.”
“'Taint Tom Parmenter?” the boy asked, making
free with the name, as country people are apt to do,
about any one who has grown rich among them. “My
gran'ther picked his'n” —
Mr. Manson, with little curiosity to know what might
have happened between these ancestors, — whether one,
more lucky, had picked the other's metaphorical pinfeathers
for him, or had picked him up where he had
fallen, or whether for an honest wage that one had
picked the other's peas or appeals for him, — cut short
the story: —
“No, it isn't Mr. Parmenter,” he said: “it's God. —
Your father was respectable. — Come, I'll walk with
you, while you gather your cows.”
“My father worked himself into a hactic, an' went
off, 'fore I ever knoo him.”
“Well, we must try to get you up to something respectable;
but we've got to go on with it, — no thieving,
no cheating, no lying, — we're to stop short off, and
start from where we are.”
“If I say I will, I will,” said the boy. “I'll keep to
it, 'f I die for't.”
“I'll trust you,” said his friend.
He paused as if to give Rainor a chance to meet him
half way; but the boy was silent. Suddenly he broke
out: —
“Sh'll hev' to do it m'self, — 'n' I tried once and
failed. 'Tain't 's if I had any friends, or en'thin' to go
'pon. Who's a-goin' to git me a place?”
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“You'll have to take your chance for that,” said the
adviser, quietly; “but to be somebody, and not a villain
or a scoundrel, is worth all risks. You'll have to stick
fast. You're looking at it in the right way: only, if
you do go at it yourself, there's One to help you that
you don't believe in yet.”
They walked on silently for a few steps, down the
field.
“You'd better give me that currency,” said Mr. Manson,
decidedly. “Of course I shall see that not one
bit of it ever passes.”
“I give cash for that scrip,” said Phil Rainor; “but
I s'pose I must lose it.”
“Yes, that's a loss I can't help: you'll have to bear
it. If you waked up, you know, with walls of fire
all round you, you'd jump through, though you might
lose some of your clothing, and get scorched, too.”
Here was a pretty strong obstacle to meet, at the
outset, with a subject to work upon whose habit of well-doing
was so fresh and unstiffened as that of this lad;
but his befriender left it just as it was.
Rainor, without another word, began emptying his
pocket. The vile stuff Mr. Manson received with an
expression of disgust. Then, having longer and larger
experience of human nature, and of how things go in
it, he said (and pretty much in the boy's own vernacular): —
“Perhaps you won't feel better right off;” then, as
he handled the wretched stuff, — “Enough to make an
honest fellow sick, to look at it!” and he read, from the
wrapper of one of the packets, “`Patent Exemption
Matches: open the other End;' and a counterfeit
Revenue Stamp!”
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All this, except the first few words, might as well
have been an aside, as far as Rainor was concerned.
He seemed to have heard only those.
“Yes, I do, though,” answered the poor scapegrace,
who had really made a very heroic move for a boy like
him, and might have been excused, if he had felt, as
yet, pretty much like one who has had a loathsome
tooth wrenched out, and has not got himself back quite,
and therefore does not quite know how he feels. “I feel
better, an' plaguëd glad I be I didn' git any further
into it, though one thing you can tell 'em, — I never had
a mite 'f it 'fore this; an' I hain't put off an atom o'
this.”
“Remember we're on the way upward: we've made
a start,” said his adviser.
As he spoke he took a penknife from his pocket, and
then, laying the packets, of which there were five, on
their edges, in one body on the ground, he slashed
deeply into and across them, in several places, and then
said, as he lifted himself up: —
“Now, what we want is a match, to get rid of these
things on the spot, and put them out of the way of
doing harm.”
Upon the word, Rainor, as such boys always can,
produced a match from his pocket, and Mr. Manson,
thus supplied, broke every package, and stirred the
whole pretty thoroughly up into a loose heap, inside
the newspaper in which they had been wrapped; and
then laid the parcel upon the bare top of an imbedded
stone, repeating, as he did so, a line which, though of
course lost upon Rainor, doubtless brought some satisfaction
to himself: —
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“`Lustramurque Deo, votisque incendimus aras.'”*
Then, setting fire to the easily kindled mass, he formally
took off his hat, and said to the boy (what he
could understand): —
“Now, Philip, may God accept this as a little sacrifice!”
and he fanned the flames with the hat, till a
bright, strong blaze had got possession.
The boy must have both understood and sympathized
pretty well; for he, too, took off, a little sheepishly, his
hard-worn cap, and applied himself to pushing together
the fast-burning pieces of paper to make sure that
nothing should be left of any of them.
The very last bit of paper was, before long, burned
into black and brittle uselessness, and was ground under
Mr. Manson's heel, and then scattered with his foot to
the air and the earth.
“There, Philip,” said he, “you've done the first thing
well. There'll be plenty more of it for you, like the
rest of us, if you live long enough. Doing right, after
wrong, will be hard, sometimes, and cost something;
but it's the only thing. You'll hear from these scoundrels
and their `merchandise,' very likely, and you'll
have to be strong. Mind you, Philip, no giving-in, a
hair's breadth! Let me tell you. Tell them, at once,
that you've burned their vile stuff, and that I know all
about it. Will you? Promise me!” (holding out his
hand). “On your honor!” (as Rainor promised).
“That'll do. God bless you!” and he left the boy to
his cows.
eaf637n8* æn. iii. 279: “We purify ourselves to God, and with vows
we kindle our altar fires.”
-- -- p637-271
CHAPTER XXIV. A BREATH OF FRESH AIR.
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The elements of which this world is made up are,
happily, very different; and as our healthy priest, with
every reason to feel thankful and happy over his work,
left the field and took the road, the musing stillness
of nature was broken only by his own quick and springing
footsteps; while before him was the broad waste
of the sun's abandoned gold which the clouds were
decking themselves with.
Before long, there came up from some turn below
a very clear voice from a girl, as separate and free as
steam in cooler air, —
“A little rose peeped through the fence
To find the golden sun;
But careless fingers plucked it thence
Before the hour was done.”
Mr. Manson quickened his pace; and soon, turning
into a cross-road, came upon a bevy of young people,
of whom one was our friend Kate Ryan, and three
others he addressed, in returning their salutations, by
three different Christian names with the one surname
of Bemis.
He complimented Kate cheerily on her song, and,
failing to draw from her a second stanza (for, as she
said, “she knew no more of it”), applied a little moral
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of his own, that “peering after `golden suns' was dangerous
business,” he gave his voice decidedly with those
of the Misses Bemis, that no one could so well as Kate
represent, at Mrs. Wadham's party, some character,
whatever it was (from which, as it would appear, she
wished to escape), and received sudden thanks from a
voice which had not before spoken for itself, and to
which he returned some pleasant compliment to “Mrs.
Ryan.”
Then taking leave of them, after this momentary
encounter, which must have given a pleasant waft to
his spirits, he went on; gladdened with the present of
nuts little Billy Carnes, the cripple, who was sitting at
a window, watching the not very abundant life upon
the road; and ended by finding Mrs. Rainor waiting,
and a little impatient, for Philip's coming home. Very
naturally, as soon as a footstep was heard near the door,
a weak and rather peevish voice called “Philip!” But
she was glad to see her visitor.
Her room showed many little contrivances in carpentering, —
as shelves for flowers, and book-shelves, and
the like.
Poor Mrs. Rainor was not alone as the clergyman
entered; for a pleasant-faced neighborly-looking woman,
to whom Mr. Manson's coming in seemed to give much
satisfaction, was sitting in a corner.
Mrs. Rainor had already set in motion her intelligent
consciousness and appreciation of her forlorn condition,
and they were expressing themselves in words. Mr.
Manson's strong, healthy nature could not only meet
and neutralize a great deal of this, but also give back
far more of cheerful and hopeful feeling. He listened
attentively and respectfully, with well-timed
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monosyllables of sympathy, while Mrs. Rainor, in a sharp, plaintive
voice, was giving a faithful account of “that
old trouble she took in the spine of her back the
February that father died; and then this one, that
come on her at the pit of her stomach, and from that
straight to her right side.” Then, as the thought of
supper (perhaps a little later than usual) grew strong
to her, she explained that “the way with her was, she
would have a good appetite, and think she could eat
hearty, and enjoy any thing; and when it come to the
scratch, 'twa'n't there, and every thing went against
her;” and, as she added plaintively, “she was a woman
that did set a great store by her victuals.” This appeal
to a character which, if nowhere else recorded to her
credit, was doubtless cherished in the memories of her
friends, seemed to bring some relief, — comfort, perhaps,
could not be expected.
Mr. Manson got the conversation turned to her son,
of whom the mother seemed to have formed a pretty
impartial opinion: that “he was thoughtless, like
boys, and yet for all he was pooty thoughtful, and,
no doubt, he had considerable to try him; but he
meant to be good to her. There was a time when he
and the St. Bart's boys didn't seem to get along very
well together for a spell; but she didn't hear no complaints
now. Poor old `mother,' she expected, was a
burden; but it was about as bad for her as anybody
else to be layin' there; for, you know, Mrs. Weatherbee”
(to the neighbor in the corner, and in a high,
wailing tone, which contrasted strongly with the energetic
vigor of the words which it faltered forth), “when
I was any ways myself, I used to flax round lively, —
I tell you.”
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The Parson was just showing, to Mrs. Weatherbee's
admiration, as well as to the quiet gratification of Mrs.
Rainor, his gathering of ferns, taken up with little
clumps of earth. They were very insignificant-looking
in their winter state; but he was setting forth the
beauties of a green forest under glass, for which Philip
should make the frame-work, with Mr. Manson's superintendence.
The son came in while he was speaking; and he
considerately interrupted himself at once, and took his
leave, after giving Philip notice of the job in store for
him.
-- -- p637-275
CHAPTER XXV. SOME BOYS VENTURE ON THE FAIR SEA OF PHILOLOGY.
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The days of boyhood, as we need hardly tell those
who ever went through them alive, are days in which
we are sure that there is a world close by us, and open
to us, in which are Greatness and Glory and Beauty;
into which world we shall, some time, go to get them.
Those are days in which hope is stronger than any
thing it meets; in which, without consciousness of our
own riches, we have hold of a share of eternity, because
things past, — the achievements of the race, men
of the furthest ages, — their words; the stands that
they made; their daring, their indignation, their endurance,
their faithfulness, their chances, failures, triumphs, —
are not gone out of being, but are all
there.
The wondrous tongues of Greece and Rome are
great to the boyish fancy, because, as boys, we come,
through them, into a sort of common nationality and
relationship with all the wise and great who breathed
the earlier air of our earth. Latin and Greek live
yet, and thrill from mighty brains and hearts within
the same nature with ourselves.
Now there were boys of fancy at St. Bartholomew's
School; and at least one current of ambition was
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setting, at this time, toward discoveries in Language.
We have heard already of “Notes on Cæsar,” and
have heard the friendly encouragement to Brade. Now
it was understood in the School that a couple of Bartlemas
fellows were doing what probably had never
been tried by any boys of any school: Brade, of the
Third Form, with help from Gaston, of the Fourth,
the foremost scholar, was making a book about
Greek and Latin!
Such boys as had mouths most ready to open, as
Will Hirsett, for example, were open-mouthed about
this forthcoming wonder, but doubted whether the
Caput knew of it. Hirsett said “he knew that Brade
had an awful heap of paper to write it on” (which is
certainly one step toward book-making), and Ransom,
or somebody, “had seen him looking out ever so many
words in the dictionary, — Greek words, — when he
wasn't learning his lesson, and writing them down.”
To questions asked directly of himself about this
great work, Brade answered, with a very natural look
of satisfaction qualified with mystery, that it was not
any thing yet, but perhaps it would be; and Remsen,
when he was appealed to on the same subject, had said
that “Brade had got a notion in his head that would
astonish the world, as he (Remsen) thought. He did
not know exactly what it was himself; but it was a
very bright thing.”
Mr. Hamersley, the new tutor, in whose recitation-room
was the largest table of all, had given Brade
leave to take his books into that room, for the purpose
of this work, for two hours, every other afternoon;
and certain specified boys were to be allowed to go into
it with him.
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On the second of these afternoons, there were seated
in this room Gaston and Brade; and on the great table
were two or three large books (like lexicons) lying
open, and a good deal of writing-paper, and an inkstand
and pens. All this looked like a preparation for
business; but the two, like other boys, were as yet
engaged in conversation, and both looking at a transparency
in one of the windows which seemed not like
a part of the regular furniture of the room. This was
a copy of Collins's admirable painting of the “Sale
of the Pet Lamb,” from Mrs. Howitt's story. It had
all that exquisite and wonderful shading which is
characteristic of fine specimens of that sort of art-work,
and the boys were duly impressed.
“It's too bad, isn't it?” said Gaston. “Do you suppose
they did really let it go? That girl's pushing the
butcher's boy. — She couldn't do any thing that way!”
he continued, with the wisdom of a boy a little older
than the girl, and who had sisters at home, and knew by
experience their faults. Then he laughed, as he saw a
new part of the scene.
“Look at that youngster pointing off into the woods.
proposing to carry the lamb off, and hide it, isn't he?
But they couldn't do it: they'd have to bring it back,”
said he again, after a pause. “No, they needn't, though.
Why couldn't they keep it off in the woods, somewhere,
and carry food to it?”
Brade was silently watching the picture (if we may
so call a thing which is without color, but which represents
most faithfully a scene of many-colored life), and
said, —
“I don't know what they did do: I only just got it
to-day,” and he looked a little longer. Then he said,
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“But there's the mother; and the butcher is paying
down the money. If they sell it, they'll have to let it
go. They're poor, and they can't keep it: poor people
have to sell their things. It is too bad, isn't it?”
“Well, I'll tell you what it is,” said Gaston, smiling,
“a fellow mustn't be poor. If you get money, you can
take care of yourself, and have what you want to.”
“But there are a good many poor,” said the other,
“and they can't help themselves.”
“Well, all I say is, you mustn't be poor. If a fellow
can learn his lessons, he can learn a profession, and
then he can make his way.”
“It would be good if we could stop the poor from
losing their things,” said Brade. “That's one thing
Peters is after, isn't it? He's always talking about
helping people.”
“Peters has got some smartness in him,” said Gaston;
“but he hasn't got any gumption. I don't believe it'll
come to any thing. I'll tell you, you'll have to get rich
yourself first: oh, you are; but I ain't. You won't
have to do any work, if you don't want to; but I shall.
And my father always said, `Work earns pay; and good
work earns good pay.'”
“I mean to work all my life, just as hard as I'm
working now,” said Antony, with quiet determination.
“Every man ought to work.”
“If you don't work any harder than you're working
now,” said Gaston, laughing, “I don't think it'll amount
to much;” and then, without further words, but laughing,
Brade gathered the papers toward himself.
“I'll take it down now,” he said, “and then we sha'n't
look at it;” and he went toward the window.
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“You won't have to do that, though,” said Gaston.
“We needn't look at it.”
“We've talked about it long enough,” said Brade;
and so he laid the transparency down on the table.
“What do you think we ought to call it?” he
asked, his mind now full of the other subject.
Gaston seemed as full of it as he, and answered
readily: —
“My father always says, `You ought to have something
steadily in your mind, and keep to it;' but he
says, `It don't matter about naming a book till you've
got through;' and he's written books. He's written
several books.”
“Wouldn't `Analogy of Languages' be good?”
Brade asked. “Analogy means that, doesn't it?”
Here there was a knock at the door; and after a
parley, to make sure who it was, Remsen was let in.
“Yes, I should think that would do,” said Gaston.
“Well, how much have you got, so far?”
Antony was busy writing down the name, which he
read, as he finished, “The Analogy of Languages.”
“You can't say Greek and Latin, can you? because
there'll be others: there'll be English, and others.”
“Why, there's Sanscrit!” exclaimed Gaston, “that
everybody's making so much of: my father says
`they'll find out every thing by that,' and he knows
a great deal about languages.”
“Oh, yes!” said Brade, eagerly, but modestly, “I
think I've thought something about that, that I can't
find in any book I've got.”
“Yes!” said Remsen, “he's made a discovery, I do
believe.”
“Don't you suppose,” asked Antony, glowing with
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his expectation, “that it was called `Sanscrit' because
it wasn't written?” — He was a little nervous, as he
spoke.
“I don't know,” said Gaston: “I've thought of that;
but I never remembered to ask my father. I've heard
him talk of it, many and many a time. Let's see:
`sans' is French for `sine, without,' — that we know.
How do you make `crit'? Let's see: `écrire' is French
for `scribere, to write,' — `sans-écrit.' If it's French,
I should think everybody would know it,” and he was
evidently puzzled. Presently he assailed it again;
“`Sine scripto,' — `sin-script,' — `san-scrit,' — it might
go so, couldn't it? and then people would forget what
it came from, perhaps. — There's a word,” — he continued,
thoughtfully, — “look here! 'tisn't the one
I was thinking of; but there's `doubt' with the
`b'” —
“Look here!” exclaimed Brade, triumphantly,
“`manuscrit' is French, — with the `p' left out.”
“So it is!” cried Gaston, slapping the table. “Good.
In `doubt' you don't pronounce `b,' but then you write
it.”
“Hooray!” said Remsen, beginning to dance, for his
part. “What have you got to now? Isn't it fun?
St. Bart's School is going to be heard from.”
Our philologists must have made more noise than
they were aware of; for a giggling was heard at the
outside of the door, which showed that there were
more persons privy to the gratifying discovery just
announced than were contained within the walls of the
room. The faces, however, of the successful scholars,
radiant with joy, showed little concern about the promiscuous
crowd of nameless plodders in the ways of learn
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ing who might be loitering on the other side of the
secure fastening of their own retreat. They said no
word to them; and Brade, in the full flush of the
achievement, occupied himself with making a record
of it, in enduring ink, his face all glowing with enthusiasm.
“One trouble will be that we don't know all the
languages,” said Gaston. “We know,” he continued,
confidently, “Greek and Latin and French and English,
and you know German. How many is that?”
“Six,” said Remsen, like a ready reckoner.
“Well, that's a good many, ain't it?” said Gaston.
“As far as it goes, you know, it'll be good. Come!
let's go on!”
“Shouldn't you like to take it up to the Caput?”
asked Brade.
“Yes; but let's get some more down first,” said
Gaston.
Antony began pulling forth with his forefingers, from
his waistcoat-pockets, little rolls of paper, which he
proceeded to unfold, one after another, spreading them
out upon the table. Gaston seemed disposed to depend
upon his own head: at least he made no show of producing
memoranda.
“I've got a few,” said Brade, and he began to read.
“Here's a queer one,” said he, laughing in anticipation,
“'
Σμ&ohacgr;κω
:'* in Greek that means to chew.”
“Now, how do you suppose that ever came?” said
Gaston, with the eagerness of a scholar. “The curiosity
of it is that a fellow that smokes don't generally
chew, and a fellow that chews don't generally smoke:
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I've heard my brother say so. There's a change that,
I suppose, might come round in the course of ages.
Chewing, probably, comes before smoking. They
used to chew, now they smoke. I wonder if there's
any Latin word like that. Look out smoke, or any
thing like it, in Andrews. I'm pretty sure there
isn't.”
Remsen entered into this very readily, and turned
over the leaves so fast as to get beyond it, each way,
before he hit the place; but then he proclaimed that
“there was nothing like it there. There was `smaragdus'”
(“Oh! that's Greek,” said Gaston, who had a
quick ear), “and `smilax' and `smintheus'” (“We all
know that's Greek,” said Gaston), “`and smyr —'”
“But there's nothing like `smoco,'” said Gaston;
“but I'll tell you, — we had something in our French,
to-day, `s'moquer'” — (Antony looked up from his
papers, at this new `analogy,' if that is the name; and
Remsen was tilting backward in his chair, awaiting,
with much equanimity, the progress of science. Gaston
went on), “`s'moquer,' to laugh at a fellow; when you
find him out, when you `smoke' him” —
“But that's short `o,' `moq-uer,'” said Brade, learnedly:
“in Greek it's `omega.' Besides, it's two words, —
se moquer. Oh! you're only joking. We mustn't have
any thing but what's pretty solid. I know the German:
it's schmauchen; but in German it only means `smoke.'
We've got German and Greek and English,” he added,
summing up complacently. “There's another word I
don't suppose we could bring in, — that's `schmuck,'
dress. You see `smock' 's the same word, I'm pretty
sure; and farmers wear `smocks;' but then there's
some kind of a woman's dress called that, too. If it
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wasn't for that, we could bring it under `smoke,'
couldn't we? You see it's very light: they could make
tinder of it, and that's a sort of smoke.”
“I shouldn't wonder if you could bring it in so,”
said Gaston.
“If it wasn't a woman's dress,” said Brade, doubtfully.
“Well, here's another!” and he smiled pleasantly
again, in anticipation, as before his first word, and
showed no trace of that excessive irritability which
seems to belong to men of words, but was apparently
happy in the harmless rewards which science herself
gives, “`
Σκ&ohacgr;ρ
' (sc&obar;r): that means `dirt,' `filth.' That's
just like `SCOUR,' isn't it? I could not find any German
for that” —
“They don't have any filth in Germany, perhaps,”
said Gaston, laughing.
“Or they don't have it scoured up,” said Remsen,
who, as it will be remembered, comes of Holland-Dutch
stock.
“There's French, I found, — `scorie,'” said Antony,
resuming.
“Hah! from the Latin!” exclaimed Gaston, promptly;
for Gaston, as we have seen, has a sharp nose. “Isn't
it Greek, too? Where's the Lexicon?” looking to
Remsen, apparently content with head-work for himself.
“Haven't you got enough?” said Remsen, to whom
the manual and mechanical part of science seemed to
come much like what would be drudgery, in any other
department. “I can't find Greek.”
Brade hastened to fill the gap: “Yes, yes, it's the
same thing as `
Σκ&ohacgr;ρ
:'* it's from that.”
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“Haven't you got enough?” asked Gaston: “that
is, for a beginning?” Then, himself suddenly feeling
the breath of science, he was carried away. “Oh!”
said he, “do you suppose our word `score' comes from
that, because it's put down in black?”
“Come!” said Remsen, “now let's stop!”
“Oh! not yet, not yet! a little more!” said Antony,
disappointed. Then, with a generalship suggested by
the occasion, as Quintus Horatius* says, and possibly
some other people have said, a leader's genius is displayed,
at a pinch, he secured Remsen's patience. “I've
got one of Nick's coming directly,” he said. Gaston,
though restless, had enough of a turn for philology to
make him sure, for a while.
“There are not a great many,” said Brade: “`
τεμνω
'
(temno), I cut; Latin, `temno,' I despise; for despising
is very cutting to the feelings, you know” —
“Ho! look here!” burst out Gaston, laughing, “if you
despise a fellow, you cut him, don't you know you do?
Yes, put that down! put that down!” and it was evident
that Gaston's interest in the work was blazing up.
“What's Remsen's?”
“`
Δ&iacgr;ψις
'” (dipsis),” said Brade, “Greek, `thirst;'
Remsen found that. He says `dip' is the same thing;
for when you're thirsty, you dip up something to
drink.”
“Is that for fun, or serious earnest, Remsen?” asked
Gaston, smiling.
“No,” said Remsen: “why shouldn't it be, if there's
any thing between Greek and English?”
“Well, what next?” asked Gaston: “that's not bad
for Remsen. Put it down.”
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“Here's one,” said Brade, hesitating. “I don't know
about it: I don't feel quite sure.”
“Give it to us, and let us judge for ourselves,” said
Gaston.
“Well,” said Brade, “it's `
Χε&itigr;μα
' (Hheima*), Greek,
`winter;' `hiems,' Latin, `winter.' — What I was thinking
of was,” continued Brade, hesitating, modestly,
over a venture of his own, in language, “`heimat,'
in German, means `home:' now, a man cares more for
his home, in winter, when he wants fire, and to be
warm and comfortable.”
“Pretty good!” said Gaston. “Besides, perhaps
their houses didn't amount to much, except in winter:
I don't believe they did. And there was one time, I
suppose, when they dug their houses in the snow, —
that would be their home, — winter-quarters, you
see.”
With all this, time was going by, and the light was
lessening, as Remsen reminded them; so even Antony
seemed inclined to hurry. He turned over, hastily, his
scraps of paper, and put away one or two of them in
his pocket again. Then, turning to Gaston, he asked
for his contributions to the stock.
“I thought of one,” said Gaston: “`
πειθω
' (peitho), to
`persuade:' the stem of that is `pith' (
πιθ
in Greek).
Now, isn't that just like it? A fellow that's got pith
in him is the fellow to persuade.”
“Come, fellows,” said Remsen, “ain't you ready to
stop yet? You've got enough to carry up to the
Caput, and show him what you're doing.”
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“Would you put that in?” asked Brade of the
author of the last contribution.
“Well, I don't know,” answered Gaston. “Do as
you please. What hard work those Ancients must
have had, in thinking, when they'd got to turn it all into
Greek and Latin, in their heads!” he added, showing
by the words a glimpse of boyishness rather surprising
in one who learned like a man, and often thought and
talked like one.
“Why couldn't they think as easily as we can?”
inquired Remsen, in a matter-of-fact way.
“Why! ain't it harder to think in Latin and Greek
than it is in English?” asked Gaston, with smiling
assurance.
“But it was their own language, you know, just as
English is ours,” said Brade, — “except us Russians,” he
added.
“Well, but I appeal to you: ain't Greek or Latin
harder to think in than English? Take `
νομ&iacgr;ζω
'
(nomizo), to `think;' you've got to have `think' in
your mind first, and then `
νομ&iacgr;ζω
'; but in English it's
all one thing, isn't it?”
To this ingenious and well-put argument, neither of
the other boys answered, — perhaps not seeing their
way well through it; but Brade, setting up again his
transparency in the window for the entertainment of
his friends, while he should be occupied, professed his
own purpose of writing out, very carefully, what they
had got already, in order to carry it to the Head of the
School.
“You've got that about the Sanscrit first, haven't
you?” asked Gaston; and being assured that that was
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at the top of the page, and should be made very plain,
he turned slyly to Remsen, as if leaving Brade buried
in his work, and therefore not capable of hearing or
seeing any thing besides.
“Look here!” said he, aside, laughing. “Let's get
up a little more by ourselves. You write, and I'll tell
you what to put down. First say, —
“`Greek'” —
“I can't write Greek,” pleaded Remsen.
“Well, there!” said Gaston, taking Remsen's pencil,
and writing, —
“`
Μ&ohtigr;σαι
' [M&obar;sai], the same as `
Μο&utigr;σαι
' [Mousai],
the Muses; from
μ&ohtigr;σαι
[mosai]'” —
Here, notwithstanding his being so busy, his brother
philologist, Brade, slackened the steady working of his
pen, and was evidently listening in spite of himself.
Gaston went on: —
“This verb means `to seek,' or `mouse out'” —
As he got so far, Brade's pen went on again; but the
smile on his face showed that he had been allured
before he detected Gaston.
“Oh, don't!” said he. “You put me out.”
“You put yourself out,” said Gaston. “You've no
business to listen. Here, Remsen, let's have one more”
(Brade kept himself hard at work): —
“
Σκ&eacgr;λος
[skelos], Greek, `leg:' Neuter, Third Declension,
Genitive (old) skelesos. Skelus, Latin, `wickedness:
' Neuter, Third Declension, old Genitive
skelesis, — `is,' in Latin, answers to `os' in Greek, in
the genitive. Wickedness is transgression; transgression
is walking over: with the leg you walk over.
That's the way it came to mean `leg' in Greek, and
`wickedness' in Latin.”
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“Now, Gaston, stop, please!” said Brade, “and let
me write.”
At this request, made with much urgency, Gaston
abandoned active exertion in philology, and now proceeded
to examine again and remark upon the transparency.
“Isn't the little sister pretty, kneeling down and
giving it milk?” asked Remsen.
Brade, busy as he was, looked up, as if he did not
hear, but still turning his silent and abstracted look
toward the subject of Remsen's criticism; then, without
saying any thing, looked down, and busied himself
with his work again.
“There!” said he, in a few moments, rising with a
smile of satisfaction, and laying down his pen with so
little thought that it rolled off the table and was
picked up by Remsen. “Look here! `Sanscrit: the
name probably derived from having no writings.'”
“That's as plain as printing,” said Remsen.
“Do you suppose we can be the first that found
that out?” asked Brade. “I hadn't any book to
look it out in exactly,” he said, with some appearance
of apprehension because of the importance of the thing
which was at stake. — “Oh, see!” he said, as he caught
sight of one of his scraps of paper which had escaped
being put into his pocket, and had fallen to the floor,
“I didn't know whether I ought to put this in or not:
`Limn (Latin, illumino; French, enluminer), to draw,
to paint, particularly in water-colors.' I think that
might come from
λ&iacgr;μνε
(limne), a lake, — don't you
think it might, Gaston? — because a lake reflects every
thing, just like a drawing. What do you think of
that? I haven't put it down yet, because I don't
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want to put any thing down that we're not pretty
sure of.”
This wise regard for the necessity of having all evidence
weighed, and judgment and deliberation used, in
whatever they did for a science so exact as philology,
met Gaston's approbation, too, who said at once, “Oh,
no! it wouldn't do.” The conscientiousness of our
young friends will be gratifying to men with the true
scholarly instinct, who know what Gaston and Brade
perhaps never thought of, that the happiness, if not
the lives of some hundreds of persons (philologists) is
depending upon that science's being not hastily nor
easily developed.
“Water-colors! water-colors! Has that got any
thing to do with it, do you suppose?” said Gaston.
“It can't, though, can it? That only means mixed in
water.”
“Come, Anty!” said Remsen, with a tone of good-natured
indulgence, “don't find any more; and when
you've been up, and got through, we'll go out.”
The papers were gathered together, the books shut,
the transparency taken down, and then, apportioning
a load for each, they went forth and locked Mr. Hamersley's
recitation-room, the scene of hopeful and successful
work, behind them.
“Perhaps, some of these days, they'll say it was done
in there,” said Brade, as many a discoverer or inventor
has said, with his lips or in his heart. “You'll go, too,
Gaston?” he asked, taking Remsen's going for granted;
and Gaston assented, only insisting that Brade should
be spokesman.
As the little procession approached the Rector's
door, Antony's heart began to feel more and more
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strongly, perhaps, the greatness and the boldness of
their venture, for he began to lag. Gaston, however,
showed no apprehensions, and after a word or two,
to keep his more bashful comrade up to the purpose,
went straight up to the door of the Rector's study,
and knocked.
There was no answering sound. He knocked again:
there was no answer, still. Gaston began to laugh,
Remsen to caper, and Brade, raising his head from
listening, came forward, and Remsen followed.
“The Captain isn't in,” said Nicholas. “Now, let's
be off.”
Gaston, who was at home in any circumstances, flung
out his arm, and took an attitude. “`No hope of gilded
spurs, to-day!'” he said, like an orator; “`O spem
falla —!'” when suddenly the study-door opened,
and the Head of the School stood smiling at Gaston's
attitude and the expressions of the group, and then
invited them in. This introduction took off a good
deal from the solemnity of the occasion, but it also put
Brade at his ease; and Brade was not only the bearer
of the treasures of learning and intelligence contained
in their papers, but was the chief author of them.
Gaston was not a bit abashed, and at once mentioned
the purpose of the party, beginning with an explanation
of the circumstances in which they had been found at
the moment of the opening of the door.
“We thought you weren't in, sir,” he said, smiling as
he thought of it, “and so we were just beginning to
express ourselves” —
“Pretty well done, I thought, so far as I heard and
saw,” said Mr. Warren; and, having seated them comfortably,
asked, “And what now?”
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“Brade,” said Gaston, continuing to be spokesman,
“has got something he wanted to show you, sir. We
boys talk over the meanings of words sometimes, and
we thought we'd found out a few things that looked
right to us. We wanted to show them to you before
we did any more.”
During this speech, Antony may be supposed to have
been sitting in a state of trembling eagerness and apprehension
also; and, as the Rector turned to him,
he got up, and modestly offered the manuscript. There
was no great deal of it as yet in amount; but it was
evident, to a glance, that what was there was made
very plain upon the paper, in clear, fair letters.
“Some more of our Greek, Antony?” the Rector
asked, as he took the paper.
“All sorts of languages, sir,” said Brade: “I mean
different languages we're learning, — two or three.”
“Oh, ho!” said the Rector, “we start with Sanscrit,
do we? That's pretty far up.”
Neither Antony nor Gaston offered a word, leaving
him to inform himself, as he would in a moment when
he began to read.
Mr. Warren read, and, as he read, he smiled. Gaston
began to smile contagiously. Antony began to blush
all over. The Rector looked up.
“Did you ever see Dean Swift's fun about Greek,”
he asked Gaston, “where he says that `Andromache'
was the daughter of an honest Scotsman named Andrew
Mackay, and kept his name; and `Pygmalion' was
really Pigmy-lion, because he was a wonderfully brave
little fellow; and so on?”
Gaston, who, as we have seen, had a turn for those
things, and was not altogether blind to fun, even where
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it made against himself, pricked up his ears at this, and
laughed, while he confessed that he had never read
Dean Swift. As for Antony, his face showed a mixture
of feelings; for, while he smiled for `Pigmy-lion' and
`Andrew-Mackay,' he looked as if he did not yet know
whether his own house of words had been blown down
or not, and was not quite content.
“I think you've got some pretty good things here,”
said the Rector, encouragingly. “You've made a
capital beginning.” Then, seeing the expression of
Brade's face, he added, “Why, beginners in science pick
up pebbles and clam-shells. You've done better.”
“Some of it was half fun,” said Brade, “and some of
it” (looking round at the others) “we thought might
be something, possibly. — We didn't know.”
“Well, I'd keep on with it: it's very good practice.
There's one thing you didn't think of here. Sanscrit,
you know, is a written language” (Brade blushed
more than ever, and his head went down a little, in
spite of himself; for, as the reader knows, the boys'
definition of Sanscrit was one of their strongest points;
but a smile came out at the corners of his mouth); “in
fact,” continued the Rector, “as thoroughly written
up and written down as any language ever was: but,
while you were about it, trying to make something out
of the name, I wonder you didn't get in `Sanct-script,
sant-scrit, san-scrit,' because it's the sacred language
of the Hindus.”
“Is that it?” asked Gaston. “We didn't think of
that,” said Brade; but both looked encouraged, as if
they had been feeling in the right direction, after all.
“No: I believe it means `perfect,' or polished,' or
something of that sort, really,” said the Caput.
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“That dishes our definition, sir, pretty well,” said
Gaston.
“I hope to see something more of you, in this line,
yet,” said the Rector: “as any thing turns up in your
lessons or in the lexicon, put it down, by all means.”
So here the philologists took their leave, and brought
away their papers. Once fairly out of hearing, they
stopped to consult.
“We weren't so bad, after all, were we?” said
Gaston. “Live and learn. I'm rather proud of that
`Sanscrit:' the Cap did something like it, that wa'n't
much better. I think we've come off pretty well for a
beginning.” And now three pairs of nimble feet were
skurrying downstairs.
eaf637n9* “Smoko,” if our readers will allow us to put it in English
letters.
eaf637n10* Pronounced “score.”
eaf637n11* Satirar, II. viii. 73.
eaf637n12* The double H will represent, perhaps, to English readers, as
well as any thing, the strong aspirate of this word, and leave its
shape as Brade had it.
-- -- p637-294
CHAPTER XXVI. A FIELD-DAY OF THE TRUSTEES.
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St. Bartholomew's School had no endowment but its
buildings, most of which it had paid for itself already.
This fall, an announcement had appeared in the papers
“that Thomas Parmenter, Esq., of Eastham, had
begun a system of graduated endowment” in St. Bartholomew's
School in that town; and, as he wished to
benefit by the wisdom and experience of others, he
would be glad of communications from persons familiar
with the subject of higher education and the operation
of endowments. This piece of information was worded
in much the same way in different papers in which it
appeared, as any inquiring man, who read different
newspapers, could easily assure himself. It was, in
substance, taken from a sort of circular letter which
the originator had sent to faculties of colleges, to heads
of schools, and to eminent literary men and scholars.
Of course, this publication and Mr. Parmenter's action
were early known in Eastham. In the first place,
the Trustees of St. Bart's School had been officially
notified of the munificent disposition of their fellowmember,
and had convened at the School, in unusual
numbers; Mr. Parmenter's carriage having gone ten
miles to bring Judge Pearson, who was hard to get.
This meeting had received an explanation of his plan
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from its author in person; his purpose being, as he
explained it, to endow by instalments. “For this reason,”
he said, “he had used the word `graduated.'
There were dangers in too sudden inflation by very
large endowments; and there was, at least, safety in
endowing by degrees or step by step, as he believed
(in deference to classical scholars who were present) the
word `graduated' implied.”
At this appeal to classical scholars, Mr. Manson
said, in an aside, “I'm afraid that word `graduated'
often implies very partially endowed, — indeed, chiefly
endowed by their degrees.” The members of the
Board generally smiled; and Mr. Parmenter, having
accepted the interruption with a smiling bow, began
again: —
“It wouldn't do for him to question the attainments
of college-men; he took it for granted that they were
all learned, — as Shakspeare, he believed, said, `all
honorable men.' Possibly, too, the Trustees would
pardon in him, as a man of business, a natural anxiety
to see to the operation of his own plan, and to help in
the administration of it.”
Mr. Parmenter then informed the Board that “Mr.
Don, who was one of their number, would, he was
sure, do him the favor to furnish any explanation which
might be desirable for the action of the Board, while
he himself withdrew, in order to leave their consultation
quite unembarrassed. He was aware that the
question of endowment was not perfectly simple. There
were evils to be guarded against. Endowments sometimes
checked the spontaneous flow of liberality, were
sometimes a hindrance to life and progress, and occasionally
furnished incentives to extravagance. Perhaps
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[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
he would be pardoned for using an illustration from his
experience in the country. The Trustees were aware
that he had devoted himself a good deal to the interests
of the country, and, among other things, to the
development of agriculture, — indeed, from early life,
he had been more or less practically familiar with agriculture.
Now, he had had occasion, in connection
with agriculture, to use guano, as well as other kinds
of manure; and he had observed that, while the manure
helped the development of good crops, it helped the
development of weeds too. He would here leave the
matter, — asking the indulgence of the Trustees for
having occupied them so long, and referring to his
friend Mr. Don for any information which might be
needed in his own absence.”
He then took his hat, and withdrew; and the Trustees
had the matter before them, after a grave set of
vibrations from different members of the Board in
returning Mr. Parmenter's parting salutation.
There was the very moderate-sized and large-mannered
Dr. Farwell, with one long-necked, sober-looking,
white-cravatted man; one short and squat man, in
white cravat; several respectable gentlemen not noticeable
for their dress; and one perhaps as likely to catch
the eye of a stranger as any, the hearty, wholesome-looking
Mr. Manson, who, partly behind the capacious
chair-back which rose above Dr. Farwell's head, was
reading, and with a pencil making notes. The life
of this organized Board soon began to show itself
after its manner.
“The first motion in order, I suppose,” — said the
long-necked serious clergyman.
“I think, myself,” said the Reverend Dr. Farwell,
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beginning in a tone, slow, measured, and important,
which implied keeping on, “that we have arrived
at an important era — I think we may, perhaps, fairly
call it AN ERA — in the affairs of this School. The
communication which has just been laid before us, as
a Board, strikes my mind — I don't know how it may
strike other members of the Board, but, I confess, it
strikes my mind — as what may be the inauguration —
I will use the word `inauguration' for want of a better—
the inauguration of a Great Day!” (This last expression
was pronounced with strong emphasis.) “The
general question of endowments — particular endowments,
profuse endowments — I am not at this moment
prepared to go into myself; but I think we can't be
mistaken in regarding this benefaction as an accession
of just so much power and force to this School.”
“Yes,” said a gentleman opposite with a face somewhat
like that of a reflective racoon, though with much
more solid whiskers: “five thousand dollars is five
thousand dollars;” and he relaxed the gravity of his
face, with a smile, for that expressed the thing, and
implied that the speaker knew more than that.
“I agree with Mr. Pettie,” said the short and stout
clergyman, as if he, too, understood that thing about as
well as anybody: “five thousand dollars is five thousand
dollars.”
“There is more involved in this case than that,” said
a thoughtful gentleman, taking off gold spectacles and
holding them in his hand. “I don't wish to interfere
with any expression of opinion, or the offering of any
motion; but, if agreeable to all the members of the
Board, I should like to call upon Mr. Don for an explanation
of the plan proposed.”
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The President bowed, saying that the suggestion
seemed a very reasonable one.
Mr. Don assured the meeting that “it would give
him much satisfaction to comply with Judge Allen's request;”
and the general silence indicated that everybody
present agreed with him. Dr. Farwell, seeing
an occasion to give to that silence fitting expression,
said: —
“Undoubtedly — he spoke for himself — it was eminently
proper, before any action was taken, that they
should have the case in its length, and in its breadth,
and in all its dimensions, before them, that they might
act understandingly.”
When Dr. Farwell had thus put himself in the
proper attitude to the business, Mr. Don began: —
“It had been (he believed) the intention of Mr.
Parmenter — until diverted, perhaps, by a suggestion
of his own (the speaker's) — to give a full explanation
of his plan to the Trustees in person. The suggestion
referred to was one made by himself, without premeditation, —
a mere thought of the moment, — that the
Trustees would like to testify by some action their
appreciation of his liberality. This was simply his
own natural feeling. Mr. Parmenter's explanation to
himself had been brief. As he understood Mr. Parmenter,
the plan was to endow with five thousand dollars
now, and, after an interval, with five thousand
dollars more; after another interval, five thousand
dollars more; and so on. How long it was to go on,
he could not say.”
There was a pause, and, in the silence, a gentleman
who had not yet spoken, but who seemed as if he had a
good deal to say, inquired: —
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“Do we understand, then, that five thousand dollars
is already presented, is already in hand? That is part
of the statement, I think? — I wish simply to put the
thing into shape.”
“Certainly, sir,” answered Mr. Don; then, being
familiar with propriety and parliamentary usage, turning
to the President, he said, “If I may reply to Judge
Pearson,” and received a bow from the presiding officer.
Then he proceeded, “I should say, in the absence of the
Treasurer, that that amount, or its equivalent, is in the
Treasurer's hands.”
“It is in the Treasurer's hands, sir, at this moment?”
repeated Judge Pearson, blandly.
“Yes, sir, so I understand, — some days ago,” said
Mr. Don.
“That seems to be conclusive, upon that point,” said
the Reverend Doctor Farwell.
“Then I should like to inquire — if there is no objection,
and if I'm not taking the place of any other
gentleman,” said the Honorable ex-Judge Allen, — “for
the purpose of laying the subject still further open, —
whether the principal or the interest is available for the
School.”
“The interest, sir,” said Mr. Don: “the principal is
part of a permanent fund.”
“Then,” said the Reverend Doctor Farwell, who had
a faculty for knowing just when he ought to speak, “the
case, as I understand it, is in this way: The principal
of five thousand dollars — or five thousand dollars —
is in fund; is, to all intents and purposes, the commencement
of a fund, which fund is to be increased.
The interest of the five thousand dollars is to be used
for the School, as it comes in.”
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“Will the gentleman,” said Judge Allen, as soon as
Dr. Farwell had put things into a shape satisfactory to
himself, “pardon my asking one farther question: I
wish to know the conditions attached to the donation;
or whether the interest is placed unreservedly at the
disposal of the Trustees.”
“As I understand,” said Mr. Don, in answer, “there
are no conditions whatever, except the general condition
that the interest of the fund shall be devoted to
the payment of the teachers of Saint Bartholomew's
School.”
“That seems to settle the matter,” said the long and
serious-looking clergyman, who had not sat impatiently
under the interruption of Dr. Farwell and the rest, but
had entertained himself partially, in the mean time, by
side-talk with different persons near him till his time
should come. “Whenever the Board is ready for my
motion, I am ready to put it.”
“It will be proper, I suppose, to accept the endowment
formally, and to thank the donor,” said Judge
Allen.
“Without passing judgment upon the plan of occasional
endowment, which is only partially before us,”
said Judge Pearson.
“What we've got, we've got,” said Mr. Pettie, with a
smile.
“But expressing our willingness to take a few
more of the same sort,” said Dr. Buttonn (whose name
we write with a second `n,' to suggest its own pronunciation).
“My motion” — said the clergyman, who had waited
so long.
“I cannot feel willing,” said Dr. Farwell,
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sententiously, “I am decidedly unwilling to allow this subject
to pass to a vote without” —
“We haven't any thing to vote upon yet,” said the
mover. “My motion” —
“I will wait for Mr. Merritt's motion,” said Dr.
Farwell, “of course.”
“My motion is,” said Mr. Merritt, reading, “`That the
Trustees accept, with much satisfaction, the munificent
gift of T. Parmenter, Esq., one of their number, and
place upon record their grateful appreciation of the
same; that the Clerk be directed to forward a copy of
this resolution to Mr. Parmenter,' — simply a formal
resolution of acknowledgment. We can now consider
the matter, and take such action as we may see fit.”
“Whatever action the gentlemen may take will, of
course, be agreeable to me,” said Judge Allen, putting
on his coat, which he had left on a chair. “I shall be
obliged to excuse myself.”
Judge Pearson, too, “had engagements, and would
be glad of Judge Allen's company;” and so the two
ex-judges took their leave.
“I was merely going to say,” said Dr. Farwell, begining
another speech, with something of his large manner,
and gaining more of it as he went on, “and I am glad
to have an opportunity of giving expression to my decided
conviction that this day may prove a turning-point
in the history of our School. Already, without
help, and under the excellent management of the
Rector of the School, we are paying our way, and
more, — we are more than paying our way, — I suppose
I might say, we are prosperous, — without endowment.
Now we shall be able to do more” (emphatic) “than
we could before” (emphatic).
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This was a good place to stop at; and, at this place,
Mr. Manson, who had kept himself quietly occupied
with his book and pencil until the judges, by going
away, had left the burden of debate and deliberation to
be borne by fewer members, said: —
“Verse again: `Do more, Than we could before.'
That's like your rhyme upon the Trustees.”
Whether Dr. Farwell would have taken with perfect
equanimity this obstruction to the flow of his
speech, if there had not been in it the reference to his
former success in a still higher department of letters,
we will not say; but, as it was, he at once, with a wave
of the hand, disposed of the rest of his speech: —
“That was all that I think it necessary to say;” and then
turned, smiling pleasantly, to his neighbor, and said, —
“This, of course, was nothing: that was an accident,
and was entirely unintentional, — unpremeditated. I
wasn't conscious, at the time of making that rhyme
(there it is again), that I was saying any thing more
than plain prose, — the plainest prose. You know, of
course, I didn't mean to call that poetry; but (you're a
literary man) did it ever occur to you that poetry might
not be confined to a few, the Sacra Vates, (what was
it we used to learn in our Horace?) but was rather
appropriated to certain states of mind” (with a very
definite emphasis, for the doctor had thought these
things over), — “states of exaltation? So that we're
poets, just as we're eloquent, under what you may call
an exaltation of the faculties. You're a poet when you
feel lofty emotions. You're an orator the same way. I
don't know whether this ever occurred to you so; but
it seems to me often that I could be a poet, — that I
wanted only `the divine afflatus,' the breathing.”
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“It seems very probable,” said Mr. Manson. “As an
editor, I should say that was all that was wanting with
most of our contributors.”
“I never tried it on a large scale,” continued Dr.
Farwell, sententiously, as usual; “but I suppose that a
man does it when he's in the state to do it. You put
water into one condition, and it freezes: you put it
into another, and it boils. You put a man into the
condition, and he's a poet.” (Here the vote was taken,
and Dr. Farwell interrupted himself long enough to
say “ay,” and then continued.) “That idea struck me
so forcibly that I wrote a sermon on that subject once,—
`All Scripture is given by inspiration,' — first showing
the general meaning of `scripture' (writing).”
“Mr. Don is coming with a proposition,” said Mr.
Manson, and so lost (if he had never heard it before)
a summary of that discourse; for the speaker recovered
himself easily from his flight, and alighted in silence
among the discussions of the Trustees of St. Bartholomew's
School.
“I had in mind, sir,” said Mr. Don, who had not been
in the Legislature for nothing, “that it seems proper
to make some substantial recognition of the liberality
which has been announced to us, — something more than
a passing vote of thanks. I know that it is not uncommon
to do it, in a lasting way. There's the Hemingway
Classical Institute and the Phillips Exeter Academy,
and others of that character.”
“How would you propose to do in our case?” inquired
Dr. Farwell. “`Parmenter's St. Bartholomew's'
or `St. Bartholomew's Parmenter's' would be a little
harsh, wouldn't it?”
“Somebody else may give us five thousand dollars,”
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said Dr. Buttonn, with a smile. “I don't object: I
only think that we may be put to inconvenience if we
undertake to name the School after every donor. I
don't object.”
“Couldn't we make it understood,” asked Mr. Merritt,
smiling, “that we'll adopt anybody's name that'll
give us so many thousand dollars, and put the sum
pretty well up?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Pettie, “a prospective endowment
isn't an endowment in hand.”
“Suppose we adopt a system of graduated naming,”
said Mr. Manson, “at ten thousand dollars a letter, — or
twenty thousand,—beginning with the Christian name?”
“All this perhaps, which is only intended for fun, is
very well,” said Dr. Farwell, with a genial smile. “I
should be sorry to check the flow of fun: it wouldn't
be good for boys, it wouldn't be good for men. I'm
inclined to join in it, I'm inclined to make it at proper
times; but it is not business. As Beauregard, or whoever
he was, at Balaklava, said of the charge of the
Six Hundred (I'm no Frenchman; indeed, I'm pretty
much an Englishman about French): `Say magnific,
but non la gare,* — it isn't war.' Is there any further
business? If there is not, I think we may as well be
going about our own business.”
Mr. Merritt, during Dr. Farwell's modest utterance
of his quotation from Balaklava, had slyly remarked to
Dr. Buttonn that “what was not French in it was
pretty good English, which was probably better than
their Mr. Sabot-Roquelaire would have done.”
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This criticism Dr. Farwell overheard, and answered
good-naturedly: —
“Don't you meddle with my French! it's the French
of the Academy.”
“Yes, you'd have learned better, in College,” said
Mr. Merritt, facetiously.
While this little by-play was going on, other members
of the Board were engaged in conversation. There
was by this time a general readiness of the Trustees to
adjourn, when Mr. Don, saying that he saw the difficulties
about the name, suggested that there might be
some other way in which the Board could testify its
appreciation.
“You've voted to thank Mr. Parmenter,” said Mr.
Pettie. “That's a beginning.”
“If you do too much for one, you'll never be able
to encourage anybody else,” said Dr. Buttonn; “but I
don't object to any thing, — I only make that suggestion.”
“As I understand it, sir,” said Mr. Don, holding
faithfully to his purpose, “Mr. Parmenter is beginning
a series of endowments” —
“You might combine two things in this way,” said
Mr. Pettie. “The boys have a `Pro-St.-Bart's-Day,'
in December, because St. Bartholomew's comes in
Vacation: you can have something special, on that
day. Mr. Don tells me Mr. Parmenter's birthday
comes about that time. You might put 'em together.”
“That would be a very proper subject for future consideration,”
said Dr. Farwell, and, with general assent,
the Trustees rose and adjourned.
eaf637n13* A sentence much like this of Dr. Farwell's, in sound, is said
to have been uttered by Marshal Canrobert: “C'est magnifique;
mais ce n'est pas la guerre.”
-- -- p637-306
CHAPTER XXVII. MR. DON CALLS UPON MR. PARMENTER, ON BUSINESS.
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Near the top of one of the most eminent hills, and
just in the middle of Eastham, commanding a wide
view in all directions, was a large and very architectural-looking
house, which, as any one could tell you, was Mr.
Parmenter's. This gentleman our readers have already
met; and to this house we shift for a while the scene
of our story, because Mr. Parmenter is not only a great
man in Eastham, and has a good deal to say and do in
town affairs, but also, as has been seen, carries great
weight in the affairs of St. Bart's School, and influences,
moreover, the fortunes of our Antony Brade. It is in
the forenoon of one of those fine days that make the
fall in New England the loveliest season of the world's
year.
A flag-staff went up from the top of the roof into
upper air, from which was commonly flying, in the latter
part of the day, a red flag, with an angular device
of some sort, which the neighbors differently explained.
“Old Uncle Nat Burrows,” at the foot of the hill (very
often to be found, in pleasant weather, leaning on his
stick, at his front gate), would say that “Tom Parmenter
was jes' like a boy about that: 's quick 's ever he got
home from his store, he set to work an' histed that
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thingumy, to let folks know he was there, — the way
they did at the State House;” but what device it bore
neither he nor any one near him would pretend to say,
with certainty, — most of the neighbors having settled
it that “it was some nonsense;” and Mr. Chambers, the
carpenter, who had done “a sight of work in that house,
first and last,” saying that he “didn't know, but had
always thought it was a square.”
A short way went straight and steeply up — in some
places by stone steps let into the sod — to a little flat,
in front of the house; while a carriage-road wound
up, with easy and leisurely bend, to the same place.
The house had a great arch-way through the middle,
from front to back, and had plenty of windows in front,
and chimneys atop.
On both sides of the archway were verandas whose
floors were continuous with opposite platforms inside
the arch, on each of which opened handsome doors, —
one from its size and style, evidently, the main
entrance.
Up the side-path to this house, that day, the reader's
friend, Mr. Don, had climbed, with some loss of breath
and weariness of legs, if one might interpret his attitude
and gait, as he stooped over, with his hand at
his side, after getting to the gravelled flat before the
house.
“`Ah! — who can tell — how hard it is — to climb —
The heights where Fame's proud pinnacle'” —
he uttered, as he could catch breath.
“Allow me to correct you, sir,” said Mr. Parmenter,
who was opportunely in front of his archway, at the
moment: “`The height where Fame's proud temple
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shines afar.' I'm familiar with that stanza, for I print
a very large edition of it every year, you know.”
“No: you surprise me, sir,” answered Mr. Don, recovering
his wind, and speaking a little like books of
the last century. “I wasn't aware of it, sir. I remembered
the verse (or stanza), from the girls speaking it,
at school, when I was a boy. You publish, then?”
“Yes, in connection with my business, I publish a
large edition of “Standard Selections from the Poets.”
“Certainly a very desirable thing, sir, to have your
productions associated with the flower of our literature.
As I frequently say, I can compare your situation
here to nothing but a lord of the manor; that is,
just about my ideal of what a lord of the manor would
be.”
Mr. Parmenter loked very modest at this compliment,
and, turning, instinctively glanced over the front
of his house, architectural and capacious, and answered,
with befitting self-depreciation: —
“In a small way, only, sir, I'm afraid. We can't
have the reality, here.”
Mr. Don had followed the direction of the owner's
eyes, and in looking upward caught the slow waving
of the emblematic flag (of which, indeed, if he had
known or remembered the habits of great families
abroad, he might have made good use in the carryingout
of his comparison of Mr. Parmenter's position to
theirs), and found in it matter for conversation and
compliment.
“That flag is a great convenience. I had a little
business, and I knew I should find you at home. One
of your neighbors, sir, with whom I was talking as I
came, asked me what that figure was on it. I couldn't
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[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
tell him. It had never occurred to me to ask. If you
were a druggist, I should say a hand and a pestle, sir.
Connected with `Melitrech'? A very good device (or
whatever it's called): `Melitrech' helped to build the
house, I suppose?”
“No: that comes from a different source,” said Mr.
Parmenter, seriously. “My relation to my neighbors—
and the town — and Saint Bartholomew's School —
is such that there may be a little curiosity to know some
circumstances about my family, — a little more than
just `he lived and died!' There has been a proposition
to secure my portrait by Rose, the eminent artist, for
the Town Hall” (“I'm not surprised at it, sir,” said
Mr. Don), “and,” continued Mr. Parmenter, “I suppose
I shall be obliged to yield to the pressure, ultimately.
That's the result generally, I believe, in such cases. I
believe we generally yield.”
This plural pronoun which he turned off so lightly
might represent the human race at large, or that upper
rank of it, — the heroic, — a sight of whom or of whose
photographs so many long to see.
“I'm assured that the name is of some note: French,
I think, in very early times, — Parlementer. You see
the French, — `parley,' `parlez-vous,' `Parliament,' `Parmenter.
' Mr. Merritt knows French, and has taken
some trouble about it: I haven't given much time to
those things.”
Mr. Don's face had assumed an expression of good-natured
amusement, which gained strength, and became
more and more pronounced, as the speaker went on;
but when Mr. Parmenter stopped, and looked inquiringly
at his smiling visitant, Mr. Don hastened to remove
any thought of incivility: —
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“Pardon me, sir,” he said. “I was thinking you
might well say your pennon (if that's the word) was
not `pestle-lential;'” and it was evident that it was
only the fun of this joke, within him, which had put
him into such merry humor, in spite of himself.
His host accepted the explanation, pleasantly, explaining
that the device was one which Dr. Farwell
had found in a book, and was a hand flourishing a
scroll; and this gave Mr. Don an opportunity to use
that vein of ready wit and compliment which is seldom
at a loss in this world: —
“Every thing flourishes with you, sir, I believe,” said
he.
“That might be a little too much to say, perhaps,”
answered Mr. Parmenter, modestly; and here, like a
man of business, he left off his dissertation on the
probable eminence of his family, among the early
French, and turned to other things: —
“Oh! I see,” he said, “about the flag. Yes: I didn't
go to the city. I was contriving a little improvement
here.” (“I think you're never satisfied without
perfection,” said Mr. Don.) “I want,” continued Mr.
Parmenter, “to put something in the style of a platform-balance
here, that will throw up a draw-bridge,
under the arch, when a carriage comes upon it.” (“Very
ingenious, truly,” said Mr. Don: “we can always learn
something, by coming up to Mount Fairfield.”) “Then,
you see, with my draw-bridge down, anybody can walk
across from one side to the other, without being obliged
to touch the ground at all. Then, when a carriage
drives up, it comes upon the platform; the draw-bridge
is lifted and caught by a self-acting hold, or spring. —
Walk in, sir,” and, leading his visitor up stone steps
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under the arch-way, he ushered that polite person, who
made several bows, and uttered several compliments,
in undergoing the treatment, into the chief door of
what the proprietor called, as he opened it, “Fairfield
House.”
“It wants a lady of the manor, sir, does it not, to
make it complete?” said Mr. Don, modestly, though
possibly not for the first time. “There are some
charming housekeepers, I understand, in Eastham, and
of course plenty of them in other places. I did hear
that Mrs. Osborn was likely to be the favored one.”
“Perhaps they wouldn't come,” said Mr. Parmenter,
smiling serenely around upon the furnishing of his
house.
“I've no fear of that, sir,” said Mr. Don. “You have
but to ask, I think.” Then, without impatience to press
the “business” which he had mentioned, he left the
subject of a lady for the house. “I believe, sir, I never
come into this room without thinking of some of the
apartments in the noble mansions abroad. This was
always a particular favorite of mine,” he said, setting
himself before a picture on the wall, in which was a
hooded face, with a good deal of blue and some darkred
drapery. “It may not be finer than many others
in your — gallery, I call it, sir, I don't know whether
I am technically right, — but there's a religious repose,
to my eye, about this” —
“That's counted very fine, sir; though I have several
as fine, or finer,” said the owner, letting his eyes wander
over the richly framed treasures on his walls. “I think
I've often called your attention to this,” waving with
his hand, and leading up to a corner of the room, where
heavy silken cords and tassels were arranged, as he
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[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
showed, to draw and draw back a heavy silk-demask
curtain, so as to let in more or less light upon a freshhued
painting in which some pretty beings — nymphs,
or sylphs, or fairies, — merry and roguish-looking —
were blowing, with fanciful and be-ribboned bellows,
on rosebuds and buds of morning-glories, which were
opening, at the breath. A good deal of really life-like
and comely drawing and coloring had been put into
this fanciful extravagance.
“A very happy conceit, sir, you observe, It's called
`The Blowing of the Flowers.'”
“And yet I think (if you'll allow me, sir) you're not
conceited,” said Mr. Don, emphasizing just so much,
and smiling just so much as was becoming to a man
who felt that he could, and wanted others to feel that
he could, make a very neat joke without any appearance
of effort. “I have often admired this painting,
sir. I think, with you, that it's a very happy conceit, all
but the word `blowing,' which strikes me as a little
ordinary. Doesn't it strike you so?”
“Worcester, sir, I believe,” said Mr. Parmenter,
like one who could quote authorities.
“I should suppose `bloom' was the more elegant
English,” said Mr. Don, like one who, for his part, had a
choice in such things, and knew how to use our tongue.
“It's Worcester, sir. Mr. Merritt objected a little,
too; but I satisfied him.”
Now Mr. Don saw a favorable opening for his business,
and mentioned it again. Mr. Parmenter accordingly
led the way to a smaller room, which he pronounced
to be his `Study.' He did not, however, omit to say,
as he passed a tall rosewood stand, on which, in the
middle of a purple-velvet cushion, lay a very black and
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[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
somewhat odd-looking fiddle. “This is probably the
gem of my collection, — a genuine Stradivarius, —
a Cremona of the sixteenth century, one of the only
five known to exist in the world.”
“I'm aware, sir; but it's all lost upon me, I'm sorry
to say. I've no music in my soul, sir. Somehow, it was
left out. — The business on which I came,” continued
Mr. Don, as they seated themselves near a large desk in
Mr. Parmenter's “study,” in the presence of an inkstand,
a broad, open dictionary, an illustrated almanac, a
Prayer-book, and a Bible, which gave a literary cast to
the room, “is partly public, and partly personal to yourself. —
You mentioned, if you remember, the custom of
having some public recognition of those who have made
great endowments; and you thought it might be as well,
in your case, to wait for the future, — till after your demise.
I found myself unable to agree with you, sir;
and the more I have reflected on it, the more it seems
to me eminently appropriate that it should be done
now. The living example, sir, to my mind, is a great
thing; and I think you should be willing to waive personal
feelings for the sake of principle, as I make no
doubt you would.”
“I'll do any thing that's thought best, if I approve
of it,” said Mr. Parmenter, in a business-like tone; and
he looked into the blaze of the fire. Then he turned to
Mr. Don, with a smile, and added: —
“I won't do any thing I don't approve of.”
“What I should propose — and I think it would meet
the views of the other Trustees — would be to have a
celebration by the School, on some particular day, —
your birthday, for example” —
Mr. Parmenter sat, not as if taken by surprise, although
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it seems always possible, in such cases, to take great
men by surprise.
“How does the suggestion strike you, sir?” asked
Mr. Don, after waiting for some expression.
Mr. Parmenter left his abstraction.
“I think,” said he, “a proposition of that sort will
keep;” and he smiled pleasantly. “There's no hurry
about doing me honor;” and he stroked his face with
his broad hand.
Mr. Don was not to be easily moved from his purpose.
“That's your way of looking at it, sir: I must take
leave to differ. It isn't every day that a man gives
five thousand dollars to endow tutorships in a school,—
at any rate, our school has never had any such benefactions.
The question of a proper name, or title, has
been raised,” he went on, as if the first point was by
this time pretty well disposed of: “how would `Patron'
do?”
“Oh, no!” answered Mr. Parmenter, decidedly: “I
should object to that name, as unpopular and invidious.”
Mr. Don was embarrassed, but not long. He made
another proposition: —
“It's proposed to call that fund `The Sustentation
Fund:' how would `Sustentator' do? A little too
unusual?”
“Too Latiny, ain't it?” asked Mr. Parmenter, who
occasionally fell to plain English. “How do you spell
it?” and he drew the open dictionary to himself.
“There is no such word in `Worcester,'” he added,
after searching.
“An idea occurs to me, which might need further
development,” said Mr. Don, by no means at the end
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[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]
of his resources. “We have an American word —
suggested to me by the circumstances of your position” —
and here, sitting up straight, and looking earnestly
into the fire, he thought vigorously.
The idea was, perhaps, a little crude as yet; for
Mr. Don's active mind labored with it in silence for
a moment, and then put it forth diffidently: —
“`Patroon' was the word which I had in my mind,
sir. Your position, here, makes it natural. A patroon,
as I understand it, is the chief man in the neighborhood,
and owns most of the land there. That corresponds
very well with your case, sir, I think.”
“We never had any thing of that sort in this part
of the country,” said Mr. Parmenter, rising, but not as
if he must absolutely reject it on that score: “do you
think it would go down?”
“I put it forth as a suggestion: we can take it into
consideration,” said Mr. Don, rising too; “and I shall
feel it my duty to bring up that subject of a demonstration
on your birthday, at the next meeting of the
Trustees. You haven't heard any thing more, I suppose,
about our mysterious boy, since the Stranger's
visit, the other day? You were going to make inquiry
at Weston, sir.”
“Yes: there was such a man there, with a letter.
He'd been at Wale, Leavett, & Co.'s. Mr. Wale read his
letter; but couldn't recollect his name. He said it was
some sort of a jaw-breaking name” —
“Has he got the letter?”
“No; and he can't remember who it was from,
whether it was from the Governor, or LieutenantGovernor,
or President of the Senate, or Speaker of
the House, or who. All he can remember is, it was
from some `big bug,' as he said.”
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[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
“We might inquire of every one of those, if it was
important; but they wouldn't be likely to remember.”
“No, sir; and we shouldn't want to make the matter
too public by pushing it too hard. I wouldn't
recommend being apathetic, like Rector Warren, — he
made it almost a personal matter, you know, sir, —
but I think we can afford to wait;” and, after this
hopeful forestalment of the future, he took his leave, as
courteously as he had entered.
-- -- p637-317
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE ROSICRUCIANS.
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While affairs, in the busy circle of the boys of St.
Bart's, and in the wise counsels of its Trustees, were in
this condition, there happened something to give a
little new interest to the every-day life of the School,
and concerning Brade and some of his friends.
Secret societies, which have come to the playing of
so important a part in many of our colleges, and which
have found their way into some schools, were forbidden
here, as not being open and manly. Perhaps the
Rector's eye and the practised intelligence of tutors
may have been now and then eluded for a while, and
some transient and timid organizations may have had
two or three stealthy meetings, at long intervals, undiscovered;
yet every thing of the kind was pretty thoroughly
put out, and it might be said that no lasting
combination of that sort existed here.
Of this halcyon state of things an invasion seemed
now to be threatened.
A certain mysterious handbill, over copies of which
small groups of boys had talked and wondered, was read
by several tutors, and was made the subject of a little
comment, even among them. It was a printed bit of
paper, on which the first thing to draw the eye was a
red cross. Above this were the letters “B. R. C.,” and
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underneath it, “Rosicrucians. — This Brotherhood defends
the widows and fatherless, provides for the poor
and needy, and encourages each other. — No initiationfee
required. One black ball excludes from admission.—
Per order G. M.”
These — though not arranged as on that paper nor
printed in the same type — were the contents of the
handbill. The younger boys discussed it, when first
found, as it was, in several of their rooms, remarking
upon the cheapness of it, and “where they got money
from, to do all their works, if their members didn't pay
any thing;” and so dismissed it. It appeared again;
and then the boys, having ascertained that the wording
was just the same, and the printing just the same,
began to wonder “what fellow was sticking these
things about?” Towne applied to it a witticism of
his own, which made no one laugh but himself, although
it was about as good as the average of boys' jokes.
“The Rosy-crutchers!” he said: “who'll be a rosy
crutch?” Wilkins uttered another, about as good as
this: he called the name “Rosy Christians.” Sam
Blake, coming along while several boys were making
their comments upon it, said it was just the thing that
he wanted; for he “had been obliged to leave a disconsolate
widow and several fatherless children behind
him, when he came to get an education, and he wanted
them provided for.” Peters, though he read the paper,
with the others, made no comment; perhaps because of
his general sympathy with chivalry. Brade had as
many of these thrust into his alcove as any one.
Night after night these things found their way into
the dormitories, and always into the same rooms, one
of which was Brade's, another Remsen's, and another
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[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]
Towne's. Where they were made, or how they were
distributed, no boy could tell. Several printing-presses
were owned in the School, and, except the red cross,
more than one of them was competent to do the printing
of this strange bill; but then none of these presses
had done the work. Of course, if the printers had put
their name at the bottom of the paper, it would have
been a simple matter to read it; but no such help to
discovery was there. There was the name “Rosicrucians,”
and there were the letters “B. R. C.” and “G. M;”
but these gave no information, and were, in themselves,
mysterious.
If the scattering of these handbills had happened
only once, all interest in them and curiosity about
them would have died out with the first reading, and
with the application to them of the usual amount of
comment and discussion and witticism; but, coming
again and again, as they did, they kept discussion
astir; and, of course, the Tutors very early, and in
time the Rector, became aware of the strange fact.
Meanwhile, as much in fun as in earnest, one of the
base-ball nines called itself `Rosicrucian,' by anticipation
of the next season; beginning so early in order to
secure the name. This, as may be supposed, was not
of the older boys, for they had attained to too much
gravity and dignity to apply to any organization of
theirs a name from a mere transient occasion; but
the “Rosicrucian” Nine was not the youngest, nor the
worst in the School; for it took in Brade and Remsen
and Hirsett, and Albert Wadham and Towne, and
others of less note. Tarleton had been in it; but had
withdrawn, on finding the general feeling to be strong
against him, and Peters half-filled his place.
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In adopting the name, the Nine adopted the device
of the red cross, to be worked upon a blue lozenge, or,
as they called it, “a diamond,” on the shirt-front.
This adoption into the life of the School ought, perhaps,
to have satisfied the unwearied originators of this
handbill; and it showed that, whatever unexplained
mystery there might be about it, there was, at least, no
apprehension of it, or scruple about meddling with it.
Still, at short intervals, the production of the papers
went on, and there was added, at the foot of them, in
print, “Seek the Association.”
“Who can be doing it?” everybody in that dormitory
asked, and “What's it for?”
When the new words appeared, a gathering of boys
discussed the subject in Brade's alcove, three of his
visitors occupying places on his bed, and the rest sitting
and standing as they might.
“It's the way fellows get people to attend to 'em,”
said Tom Hutchins, — “by keeping on. It's the way
with advertisements. Why, look at Parmenter! Do
you suppose anybody'd ever hear of Melitrech and that
other stuff if he didn't advertise 'em? He sends thousands
of advertisements away out West (he don't care
who sees 'em out there), and puts rhymes to 'em.
Blanchard told me so. `A man out West Thought he
would test A better thing than honey: He drew a check
For Melitrech, And found 'twas worth the money!'
That's the way he does it.”
“You made that up, Tom Hutchins,” said Towne,
who was within hearing.
“No, I didn't, fact. Blanchard out here told me.
You ask him, sometime. He's got some prettier than
that, — real poetry. I shouldn't wonder if he kept
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poets. They're poor, and don't have any thing to eat.
Look here!” and then he began to repeat, “`The
south-west wind'” —
“You've got it wrong!” said Blake, as Hutchins
stopped. “Let a fellow try it, that's got a little poetry
in him;” and, having sniffed, as if he were drawing in
some fragrance, he repeated, in a dainty voice: —
“`Of all the scents that load the air,
Where'er the zephyr blows,
The sweet wind leaves the others there,
And bears off Aqua-rose.'”
Blake left off, with his face and eyes lifted up, and
his right hand spread aloft, heedless of the “Encores”
which greeted this recitation.
“Well, but what's this fellow going to sell?” asked
Leavitt. “He hasn't got any thing to sell, unless it's
red crosses.”
“Well,” said Hutchins, who, as we know, is something
of a reasoner, “I tell you this chap's got deep
thoughts. He wants to make out of it.”
“I don't believe it's any thing but trying to fool us,”
said Remsen. “What do you say, Brade? Don't you
believe it's just trying to fool us?”
Brade laughed: “We haven't got any widows and
orphans,” he said.
“Yes, we have, too,” said Alonzo Peters, in an awkward
sort of way. “My mother's a widow, and there
are ever so many widows and orphans in the world.”
“Oh, well!” said Remsen, “the orphans are to take
care of their own widows. Everybody hasn't got to
take care of all the widows and orphans.”
“But who's going to look after the orphans, your
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way, Remsen?” asked Tom Hutchins, who has encountered
Remsen before.
“I tell you,” said Peters, fortified by this unlookedfor
support, “people have got to join together, to look
after 'em, and the poor: the Church is for that.”
“Gentlemen,” said Towne, taking from his mouth,
and holding like a cigar, a bat, which he was pretending
to smoke, “you're wandering from the subject.
What's this fellow printing these things and putting
'em in here for?”
“Oh! it's some fellow that's doing it, of course,” said
Remsen, giving, as the Chinese do, by his emphasis, an
entirely different meaning to the word emphasized.
“If we don't take any notice of it, he won't do it, —
you see if he does,” said Hutchins. “'Tain't worth
making a fuss over, any how.”
To this they generally agreed, and dropped the subject.
In the School at large, it was not talked of,
now.
A night or two passed by, and then the printed things
appeared in a new guise, in the same rooms as before.
This time, there was a triplet printed below, in which
“land,” “holy band,” and “heroes stand” rhymed
together, as well as they rhyme in high verse like
“Hail Columbia;” perhaps caught from that fountain,
perhaps original with the author, or some one else.
As this came soon after the talk of the different
visitors in Brade's room, and Tom Hutchins's rhyme,
quoted from Mr. Parmenter, had not yet been forgotten,
and as this doggerel appeared so soon after, the boys
began to say that it was a joke of Hutchins's, and not a
very bright one. Hutchins denied it, entirely, and said
“they must not put such stupid stuff on him: if he was
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going to make any thing, he'd make something better
than that.”
The mystery, therefore, such as it was, had kept itself
mysterious, up to this point. Here a sort of jog was
given to it, which changed the condition of things.
There had been a foot-ball match between the Great
Middle Class, as the Third proudly and facetiously
called themselves, with the Fifth, on one side, and the
rest of the School on the other. Towne had kicked
hard enough for any three: every one had done his
best. Once Brade had run the ball up among everybody,
till Russell got a chance at it, and followed it
nearly out, when Lamson had gone at it and kept it, in
such a way that he ran it all the way down again.
Gaston had done wonders; Wadham, the elder, had
distinguished himself; Burgess had done as well as
ever; Peters had run the risk of personal harm, in an
astonishing way. Hutchins, Remsen, — who had not
done honor to themselves, and worked hard for the
victory?
In short, the field was manfully contested; and all
who were engaged got hot, and pretty tired, when at
last the challengers (the Third) with their allies, the
Fifth, came out the conquerors by two out of three.
Gaston and Hutchins happened to leave the ground
together, and happened to be followed by Brade, whom
Peters joined himself to. It was not yet late, and the
greater part of the boys stayed where they were, for
more play.
Gaston and Hutchins had taken a short run, to try
their speed, and so had got a good way ahead. They
reached the house, while still the other two were so far
off that Peters's voice could not be perfectly heard, as
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he discussed the varied fortunes of the afternoon.
Already, though it was not dark out doors, some lamps
were burning in the house, and as they stopped not far
from the back-kitchen door, which stood ajar, and indulged
their curiosity by looking in, as they passed,
they saw the cook, to be sure, in the inner room, and
other women, too; but they saw something nearer,
which drew all their eyes.
“Ain't he too handsome to be lying there?” asked
Gaston.
Now, though the reader may be too old and wise to
care, or may be impatient to see the connection of all
this with the Rosicrucians, we must linger a moment
here. This beauty, which delighted the clever Gaston, lay
not in wholeness, nor in symmetry; for that which had
been a full-fleshed, evenly browned bird of the mid-day
board had been impaired a good deal in his integrity.
Much of his mighty breast had been cut off, and one of
his stalwart thighs. A broad, steep-sloping smooth of
white stretched down from his breast-bone — which Gaston,
learned fellow, while he stood there, with grinning
face and watering mouth, twice told Hutchins was his
“sternum” — under his strong pinion. About a fourth
part as much of a gray, mottled substance stretched
out, in like unbroken smoothness, beyond this white,
to where the neck, cut off, bounded the view. Under
the pinion, squeezed against his breast, — “the way a
fellow carries a book,” as the bookish Gaston reminded
Hutchins, who, all this short while, was talking only
with his eager eyes, — was a stout gizzard. Such was
this sight; and in such a state of incompleteness was
this once-splendid roasted bird, when seen by these
two hot and hungry boys.
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“There!” said Gaston, who could not keep his learning
down, and who, perhaps, having nothing better to
do, thought he could wear away a little time, while
still enjoying, with the sight, a feast on which his more
substantial senses were forbidden to make inroad,
“there! that stuffing — just that sort of mixture of
colors — is what the Greeks called `
ποικ&iacgr;λος
' (poikil'os).
It's a sort of” —
“I should like to try whether it would `kill us,' I
know,” said Hutchins, for the first time breaking silence,
and not only taking patiently his companion's learning,
but taking the trouble to make a play of words on what
he said. “Well, it's no good standing here: it only
makes a fellow hungrier and hungrier.”
Gaston, however, was not so minded.
“Hold on a minute!” he said. “Let's show it to
these other fellows.”
Upon the word, the other boys drew near, of whom
the fantastic Peters was the most heard, discoursing of
the doughty deeds that had been done that day.
“Somehow,” he was then just saying, “you don't care
when you get into it, do you?”
Gaston nudged his companion, and repeated aside his
request: “Hold on, now, Hutchins!”
“We're waiting for you fellows,” he said to Brade
and Peters, as soon as they were near enough to hear
him in his common voice. “Now's your chance! You
haven't been in, yet. That's for the conquerors,”
(Peters and Brade, as the reader knows, were both
Third-formers, while Gaston and Hutchins were of the
Fourth), and, drawing back, he left room for them to
come between him and the coveted sight.
“What do you mean?” asked Peters, looking
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through the chink of the partly open door, and seeing,
of course, that dainty dish which stood upon the table.
“That ain't for us?”
“We didn't open the door, really: did we, Hutchins?”
said Gaston. “They opened it. Now, you've just got
to go right in, and ask for your share. There's Mrs.
Porter; and there's Christina: they're all there, ready
to wait on you.”
Brade, whether through wisdom and wariness, or
whether because he happened, at the moment, not to
have what healthy boys are hardly ever without, an
appetite at any time, for any good thing, and for almost
any amount of it, said that “he was not hungry, and
did not want any thing.”
This statement Gaston treated with contempt.
“You don't know what you're talking about, man!”
he said. “Look there!” and then poured forth a
polyglot profusion of exclamations, as “En tibi!
&sbigr;δο&uacgr;
!
Voilà! There you have it!” and he pointed to the
turkey.
Brade still declined; but Peters said “he guessed
that he'd go in: he felt pretty hungry, for they'd
worked hard.”
“That's sensible!” said Gaston. “I wish I had your
chance. Only be quick! There isn't much gone yet;
but there'll be plenty of fellows here, before long;” and
he looked up the road that led by the gymnasium to
the play-ground.
“Come, Brade!” said Peters, not stirring yet: “you
come with me, won't you?”
For some reason or other, this seemed not to be
according to Gaston's plan.
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[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]
Before Brade could answer, Gaston “took the word,”
as Frenchmen say.
“He'll come right in: she likes one at a time best. I
want to ask Brade a question.”
So, pushing Hutchins to one side, and drawing Brade
by the button to the other, while the often-abstracted
Peters seemed about lifting his foot to enter, Gaston
addressed his captive thus: —
“Look here! What do you suppose `turkey' is in
Latin?” (Peters still lingered, but with his queer
eyes fixed hard at the temptation: “Go on, Peters!
don't be too long!” said Gaston, by way of parenthesis.)
“Don't you suppose” (to Brade, again) “they
had a” —
“But they didn't know about turkey,” said Brade.
“It's a new thing, isn't it?”
“The Romans must have known!” said Hutchins.
“The Turks are a big people.”
“Don't you suppose,” Gaston continued, without
changing the character of his sentence, “they had a
word `dindo'? You know the French — (Rush in,
Peters!)” Gaston's voice trembled with the excitement
of the occasion. Then to Brade, again: “It
sounds like Greek
Διν
” (din—). Peters was slowly,
and with a very uncertain hand, opening the door a
little, when the cook, whose ears were good, looked
toward them, and Peters started; the other boys keeping
themselves out of sight, at each side.
Peters went, with his usual wavering and unsteady
step, across the floor of the back kitchen, and presented
himself, awkward and hesitating, to the authorities of
the inner room.
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[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]
Peters began to speak, and immediately there was a
laugh of scorn from within.
“I won't leave him,” said Brade.
“No,” said Gaston, whose plan now seemed to admit
of a change. “Go in and bring old Peters off!” and
he made way, and Brade went in. “Now, Hutchins!”
said the chief speaker: “there's a towel!”
Brade went in to the relief of the undaunted
Peters, and found, when he got to his side, that that
boy had not succeeded. The cook was just saying, with
the utmost downrightness, to the applicant, “that it
would be a pretty thing for her to be giving a bit of
turkey to every boy that played foot-ball;” and one
of those attendant women, who were to have been so
ready to help in the distribution of the reward to the
conquerors, craftily advised that “the turkey should be
looked after, where it was.” Things therefore gave
little hope of rewards to the strenuous victors from the
play-ground.
The cook sent an assistant to bring the great fowl
in, and to begin cutting slices for the table; and Brade
and Peters turned to go from the fruitless errand,
when suddenly there rose a cry from the assistant that
“the turkey was gone! there wasn't sight nor sign of
it!”
Then was there running and crying out, among the
maid-servants of St. Bartholomew's School; and, as
may be supposed, the two members of the victorious
Third were given to understand, in very plain English,
that their room was better than their company; that
“the Rector would find it out, and then they'd have to
take their deserts; that if boys went on in this way,
there would be no living at St. Bart's;” and as much
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[figure description] Page 316.[end figure description]
more of wise thought and earnest exhortation, as half
a dozen excited and indignant women could put into
words in the space of a minute.
It was to no purpose, of course, that Peters rather
indignantly denied any business but just the honest one
of asking for a bit of turkey; and said that he had not
got even that. All eyes, his own included, although
they were different from other people's, could see that
where a turkey had been was nothing now but a large
empty dish, on which were a very few and slight, however
savory-looking, traces of the great roasted bird
which a boy could not look at without wanting.
Brade assured the cook that “Peters was perfectly
innocent, and that he himself had only come in to keep
Peters company, for he did not want any turkey.”
The cook's answer to all this was, “Of course not;
what would he want turkey for? Boys didn't eat turkey, —
oh, no!” and another less angry, but not less
indignant female explained that “these two were only
blinds; and, while they were talking, others were carrying
off the fowl. That was the way of it.”
Brade's face, as we know, was a very sympathetic
and communicative one; and at this explanation it
went through sudden conscious changes. He had too
much presence of mind to call out to their late comrades
at the door; and, after insisting upon giving his
word that they knew nothing about it, he hurried away
the unpractical Peters, who wished to stay and clear
himself, and got him out of the door.
Strangely enough, their troubles seemed only to have
begun within the house; they went on worse, as soon
as the boys set their disappointed and indignant feet
upon the great earth that holds up every thing.
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Just by the door, apparently attracted by the turmoil,
were Tutors Bruce and Hammersley, who had been
down at the play-ground when the match was played.
Gaston and Hutchins were no longer to be seen.
The women, who had been so hard when talking to
the boys about the punishment that they deserved, now,
when they saw the Tutors, drew in, or threw away, a
good share of their hardness. “The turkey was gone,”
they said; “and it had been stolen. Orders had come,
express from the Rector, to have some for the boys'
supper, and it had been standing right there, upon that
dish, in open sight. The cook had seen it, and Christina
had seen it; anybody might see it, up to the time
these boys came in, five minutes ago, or less than that.
Then these came in, asking for a bit, because they'd
beat the foot-ball, and while they were standing there
the bird was gone, — just the way it was then;” and
here two of the speakers pointed to the sad emptiness
of the dish; and one, to make the expression stronger,
took the goodly-sized and shapely piece of stone-china
between her two hands, and showed how light and how
utterly empty it then was. It was the opinion of the
cook and her chief associates that “the Rector ought
to know how high-handed the boys were getting.”
The Tutors, without expressing any opinion, set up a
preliminary court of inquiry on the spot; and the two
boys told their story, leaving out, of course, all other
names than those of one another. Peters came nearest
to mentioning a third party, when he said that “they
told him that any of the Third and Fifth could have
some turkey, by only going in and asking for it. That
was all he did: he just asked civilly, and they told him
he could not have any.” The reader knows the story.
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“If boys tell you, up and down, a thing, you must
believe 'em,” said Peters.
“It ought to be so,” said the Tutors. “Did you believe
them, too, Brade?”
“I didn't ask for any, sir,” said Brade. “I didn't
want any. The girls were all laughing at Peters, and
so I went in, to stand by him and bring him out.”
This story furnished a very imperfect explanation of
the turkey's disappearance, for it left that point untouched:
it accounted for the doing of these two boys,
supposing it to be true; and a boy's word, at St. Bart's
School, was always taken to be true, unless overwhelmingly
contradicted, which seldom happened.
So Brade and Peters, coming home as victors from
the well-fought field, are caught suddenly in unsuspected
toils. They had nothing to do with the carrying off
of the turkey: they can fancy how it went, but cannot
open their mouths, except to assert their own innocence.
The Tutors go in before them, and Mr. Bruce turns
off (as the boys can easily understand), to report to the
Caput.
“Well, don't let's tell Gaston and Hutchins about
the Tutors,” said Peters. “It'll serve 'em right, for
playing us such a trick.”
To this Brade readily agreed, laughing at the prospect;
but soothing his aggrieved companion with the
assurance that “those boys did not mean to get them
into trouble”
-- -- p637-332
CHAPTER XXIX. THE TURKEY FOUND, BUT NOT THE SECRET SOCIETY.
[figure description] Page 319.[end figure description]
Mr. Bruce went straight to the Rector's study, and,
being admitted, found Mr. Wilson, the Head-Tutor,
already there.
“Something more about the Rosicrucians?” asked
the Rector. “Mr. Wilson has just brought one bit of
information,” and he handed to the last-comer one of
the now long-familiar cards of the “B. R. C.” and the
Red Cross.
“Turn it over,” said Mr. Wilson to his brother-tutor;
and on the back appeared “Cœna Lux. Reg. ap. Hol.
XXIV. Hor. 8½, Hod.”
“It would be astonishing,” said the Rector, “if a
secret society, with feasting, could have been going on
under our noses, and with our leading scholar in it.
I'm told that Gaston calls his room `Holworthy 24,'
after his brother's in college; and this looks like a notification
to supper, there, to-night.”
“And there are only two boys in School that use
Greek or Latin that way, — Gaston and Brade,” added
Mr. Bruce.
“Our two philologists!” said the Rector, with a shake
of the head.
“And I've got something about Brade,” said Mr.
Bruce.
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The Rector looked rather blank at this announcement,
as if the clouds were unexpectedly thickening;
and Mr. Bruce proceeded to tell his story about the
pillage of the lordly turkey, during Brade's and Peters's
visit to the kitchen.
“There's something much wholesomer in it, from its
all being under our own roof, at least,” said the Rector.
“Then Brade and Peters say that they went in to
ask?”
Mr. Bruce explained their story, that Peters went in,
because he was told that he might, and Brade to bring
off Peters.
“Then you'll accept this invitation,” said the Rector
to Mr. Wilson, “(it's at First Bed-time) and we'll wait
for further developments. They'd better be allowed
about three minutes to get comfortably together; but
not more, for they'll be quick.”
This arrangement having been made, the council
broke up.
At tea, Gaston and Hutchins, whom the reader will
remember to have been at the back-kitchen door while
the turkey lay on the dish, ate their supper like other
boys; and certainly, if they had any consciousness of
a coming feast, they did not, by way of preparation,
spare the sliced turkey on the table.
After tea Gaston and Hutchins used the few minutes
of free time as industriously in play as any of the boys.
School went in, and time went on, to first bed-time.
Then Gaston and Hutchins went quietly out with the
lower-form boys.
There was no disorder in entry or room: the younger
fellows had their own subjects of conversation, among
which, as may be supposed, Brade's adventure with
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[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]
Peters, and its probable consequences were discussed,
with much prudence about pronouncing any other
names than those of the two.
Among the rooms of larger boys all was quiet; and
about Gaston's room, or “Holworthy 24,” all was particularly
still.
Within a few minutes Mr. Wilson quietly made his
appearance in the passage-way; and then, if any heads
had before been appearing now and then at doorways,
if any occasional missile had before been hurled now
and then from one room to another, all sight and
almost all sound of boyish life was gone.
In this state of things, the Head Tutor walked
silently straight to Gaston's door, and without formality
entered. Two lamps were burning on the
bureau; but, by a contrivance familiar to boys, the
unusual light was hindered from making a more than
usual show by barricades of books.
Four boys — Gaston and Hutchins and Towne and
“Ultimatum” Blake — were standing with their backs
toward the door, or rather with all their faces toward
the well-lighted top of the bureau. Towne had “got
himself up” in what he perhaps considered a holiday
rig; for not only was his hat turned inside out, as we
have seen it before, but he had managed to put on his
coat upside down, with the tails falling like a cape down
his back. Hutchins and Blake were in their usual
dress, — Blake at one end, where half of his face could
be seen drawn into a very comical expression, but
intensely silent, and with his eyes fastened unwaveringly.
Gaston had on what may have been meant for
a priestly garb from old Rome. His chief garment was
a sheet fastened about his neck and trailing to the
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[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]
ground, except where one foot, in a stocking, was thrust
out behind. About his head he had a band of twisted
cotton-batting, and round that a purple neck-tie whose
ends hung down at the back. His face could be seen
in the looking-glass which hung over the chest of
drawers; and it was overflowing with satisfaction. The
glass also showed, what the shoulders of the boys
otherwise hid, the ample remains of a huge roasted
turkey.
“Gentlemen,” Gaston was saying, in a voice narrowed
down to the necessity of the case, “I bid you welcome
to this auspicious feast! Under the nose of Wilson,
most vigilant of observers; between the hands, as you
may say, of Bruce, most sagacious of tutors, per tela,
per hostes, have I, with the help of Hutchins, borne
this bird. Time fails. Draw swords, and march into
the beast, as I do!” and thereupon he cut a thick
slice of breast and stuffing, and three knives more
assailed the savory meat.
There was a hurried noise of cutting, with a glad
murmur of voices and then a general munching of the
festive viands, all in a moment, when a new voice was
heard: —
“I've come upon this invitation,” said Mr. Wilson,
showing the card, while, before he had spoken three
words, the four feasters had faced about to any quarter
but toward the bureau. Gaston, whose eyes had taken
in the card and the Tutor at once, still kept a good
deal of the merriment in his face, with his cheeks stuffed
full of turkey. Blake increased the drollery of his look
at this unexpected diversion. In one hand stretched
out, he held his knife; in another a large piece of unbitten
flesh from the great fowl.
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[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]
“I'm authorized to invite the whole company to the
Rector's study,” said Mr. Wilson, “with the turkey.
Gaston, you'll lead, with the turkey in the napkin; and
all of you follow, just as you are. I'll come behind,
with one of these lights.”
In this order, therefore, the procession set forth;
all but Gaston following Blake's example, in eating
most diligently as they went. Gaston's hands were
so occupied with the larger burden that he was denied
that comfort. Towne, having a leg and drumstick,
could hardly hope, even with the most frantic
efforts, to make his bit much less conspicuous by the
time he reached the Rector's presence.
A strange-looking company they were; but the Rector
maintained his gravity.
“So these are some of our Rosicrucians, are they?”
he asked. “And who's the head of your society?
You, Gaston?”
“There's no society, sir,” said Gaston. “I happened
to have a turkey” —
“Yes, I know the history of the turkey,” said the
Rector. “First explain that card,” — pointing to it
in Mr. Wilson's hand. — “Put all your bits of turkey
here,” he added, spreading several thicknesses of newspapers
on the floor, on which they all made their
deposits. “Now, Gaston, explain that card, if you
please.”
“This side of it is my side,” said the boy. “I don't
know any thing about the other. This is just one that
I picked up.”
“Read and explain your own side, then,” said the
Rector; and Gaston read and explained, a little awkwardly: —
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[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]
“`Cœna regalis luxus, apud Holworthy Vigintiquatuor,
hora octava et dimidia, hodie,'— a supper of
royal luxury, at Holworthy 24, at eight-and-a-half
o'clock, to-day.”
Amid the discomfiture of the feasters, this glowing
announcement fell absurdly.
“Now for the other side of the card, — this stuff
about the Rosicrucians, — who can explain it?”
Here Blake spoke: —
“Nobody knows any thing about that, sir. That's a
sort of ghost: none of the fellows know any thing
about it.”
“None of you know any thing about it?” asked the
Rector.
To this question all gave so definite and evidently
honest an answer in the negative as to make it clear
that Gaston's entertainment had nothing to do with
the Rosicrucians or any other secret society, and that
the “B. R. C.” and the Red Cross were as much mysteries
as ever.
The boys looked down at the booty on the floor.
“A liking for turkey's not a bad taste, Edward,”
said the Rector; “but a liking for turkey that isn't
yours is.”
“Blake and Towne hadn't any thing to do with
getting the turkey,” said Gaston; “and Brade and
Peters. They didn't know any thing about it. — I
don't believe they do yet,” he added, smiling at the
thought.
But the end was come.
The little company of revellers was dealt with, first
of all, by ordering them, just as they were, down to
the kitchen, to restore their stolen food. Their proper
punishment was to come in due course the next day.
-- -- p637-338
CHAPTER XXX. MR. PARMENTER MORE THAN EVER ACTIVE.
[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]
People with a strong turn for being busy have their
times and seasons, like other things and beings, and
sometimes are stirred up to special busyness. Our Mr.
Parmenter had his busier times. If we might use a
poetical figure about a man who was not poetical, we
should say that that strong sea-swell which had floated
on its bosom the grand project of “Graduated Endowment”
broke itself up into many wavelets of lesser
activity, before sinking back to the common level of the
sea.
The noise of the fights had reached the alert and
active ears of Mr. Parmenter, and not less the story
of Gaston's and Brade's ambitious adventures among
Words and Languages. The turkey, stolen and recovered,
had occupied his attention; the traps, and Rainor's
supposed connection with them, had not escaped him;
he knew of the Rosicrucian mystery.
In all these, Mr. Parmenter interested himself, and
with an amount of bustle unwonted even in him.
About the traps he satisfied himself from boys of the
School; as to the turkey he made, in passing, personal
inquiry at the scene of the marauding; complimented,
with dignity, the cook and Christina, in turn, on their
carefulness and skill, — receiving, in his face, a smiling
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expression of satisfaction at being appreciated, and in
his back, when he turned it (alas! cooks are not choice
in their English) the comment that “there were some
would be always sticking their noses where they
thought there was a hole: couldn't he leave the Rector
of the School to look after his own kitchen?”
He had convinced both Mr. Don and the Rev. Mr.
Merritt that they ought to go (as they accordingly did)
to ascertain whether discipline had been wisely administered
in the case of Tarleton and his two unwilling
antagonists.
Lastly, he came himself on a friendly visit to Rector
Warren's study; and, after a preliminary compliment,
as he looked round with a sort of salutatory wave of his
hand and hat to the books and other ornaments of the
room, that “he always felt awed, in such an atmosphere
of learning and taste,” went on to speak of the various
happenings and doings in such a way as to show his
familiarity with School-topics, and his never-flagging
interest in them.
“The Trustees felt,” he said, “that the School was
in able hands. He regretted that a secret organization
seemed to baffle the authorities, — that sort of thing had
been too much for former Rectors.”
Then he smilingly changed the subject to Brade's
treatment of Tarleton. He “supposed that some
people would recognize Brade's conduct as high blood
showing itself, — a flashing-out of the diamond. He
didn't attach much importance to those things; but
there was no knowing how strong blood wa,s that might
be said to have filtered for centuries through pretty
choice clay. And then, he supposed, it wouldn't do”
(this he said by way of parenthesis, and with very
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evident embarrassment) “for people who had some pretensions
that way themselves to be hasty in saying that
old blood was not a very powerful instrument. He
himself, perhaps, was drawn by his descent to French
manners and tastes.”
To this, of course, the Rector of the School, being a
well-bred and sensible man, assented, and said that “it
was very possible.” This gentleman, as we have already
seen, was not enthusiastic on the subject of Brade's
mysterious birth.
Mr. Parmenter enlarged a little: —
“He was glad to find that Brade's abilities kept pace
with his future station, — in this or any other country”—
(a difficult figure, but boldly managed), “and that
he was going to turn out an honor to his position.
Mightn't it be well,” he asked, “to put a boy like that,—
like Gaston and Brade, for example, — forward, without
spoiling them? There were not many public occasions,
to be sure; but a classical speech assigned to two
such boys as Gaston and Brade, for instance, on some
public occasion, might be a good thing; for their
scholarship was creditable to the School.
There was a tone of recommendation through all
this, that, very likely, did not make it more pleasant to
the Head of St. Bartholomew's School.
He answered simply, “Yes; very likely.”
Mr. Parmenter, with much definiteness of purpose,
went on: —
“There was one thing which, he thought, it might be
well to mention. Not many things, generally, escaped
him; but he had observed Brade particularly, at Church,
for the last Sunday or two, because (he believed) Brade
was a candidate for confirmation. Now, of course, his
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behavior was always like a young gentleman; but Mr.
Parmenter had observed one practice, which, perhaps,
might be corrected at once. All through the prayers,
Brade appeared to have his eyes shut, while his lips
were moving. Now Mr. Parmenter did not know what
might be the custom in foreign churches; but it would
not do to make exceptions or allowances here. St.
Bartholomew's was a Church School, and it must be
understood that whoever came to it must conform.
The rule of the Church was to follow the book with
the eyes open, was it not? Mr. Parmenter thought
it might be well to speak to Brade privately. There
were other things, about the deportment of different
boys at their prayers, which he would reserve for another
time. He thought Brade's case important as a
candidate for confirmation, and brought up, perhaps, in
another way.”
The Rector of the School, as we should expect, having
seen him through former visits of this sort, had sat
impatiently under the latter part of this speech, and had
risen from his seat before it was finished.
He answered a little unceremoniously: “He thought
very well of encouraging Gaston's and Brade's scholarship;
but the other suggestion he could not accept.
He must take leave to be guided, in such matters, by
his own discretion. There was no question about
indulging foreign habits. The boy, he believed, had
never been inside of any place of worship in his life
but one sort; and he was going to be confirmed just as
he had been brought up. But the boy was singularly
truthful and earnest, as sensitive boys were apt to be;
and in spiritual things must be treated with great reserve
and delicacy.”
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Mr. Warren spoke hastily; but his visitor, with only
a slight change of countenance, accepted the difference
of opinion. It had not been without moral benefit,
probably, that he had had the practice, for many years,
of managing his temper and manners, in dealing with
customers from behind a counter. His control of himself,
now, was just about of the same sort that we have
seen him apply to his horse, and with the same apparent
consciousness that what he was doing was the right
thing, and done just rightly.
“He was sorry that their views did not entirely
coincide,” he said; but then, by a sort of transition
that seemed habitual with him, changed the subject,
and congratulated the Rector of the School on “having
so good a set in his kitchen.” He finished, in his usual
handsome way, by saying that “he had observed a
vacant place for a statuette” (the word seemed familiar
to him): “might he be allowed to present a mate to
the figure of a martyr, in the corresponding place?”
Mr. Warren thanked him, but declined: “the place
was already provided for.”
The visitor departed ceremoniously, and in the hall
was probably unconsciously rehearsing the interview;
for, with hat in hand, he was in the midst of an elaborate
bow to the emptiness before him, when the cheery
salutation of Mr. Manson, from below, interrupted.
Mr. Parmenter recovered himself; and, having ascertained
that his pastor “had a few moments' leisure,” led
the way to the outside of the house, and there addressed
himself to the Rector of the Parish. To him he represented
the propriety of exact conformity by the boys of
their School, when in Church; and testified, from his
own observation, to sundry discrepancies.
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“How do you manage,” asked the parson and editor,
“to keep such a strong eye to earth when you're praying?
I couldn't for the life of me. I think the boys
behave very well; and it isn't a good thing to meddle
too much.”
“It's as well to have things right, I suppose?” said
Mr. Parmenter.
“Oh, yes! but meddling too much is what I'm talking
about. Here's one of the leading places in this
country: its Dutch neighbors, in Colony times, for
always trying to domineer, called it Boss*-town, and
the name's stuck to it ever since, — just as the thing
has too, for that matter.”
“I don't quite see the connection,” said Mr. Parmenter:
“you can hardly call doing your duty `meddling,'
I think.”
“I'll tell you where to begin, though,” said the parson.
“Begin at the older people. There are some of
your Trustees that kneel in a very trusteeical way when
they're here, — with nothing but their heads. There's
a missionary field for you to expatiate in. You'd better
go at them. It'll do 'em good.”
Mr. Parmenter was grave and in earnest:
“The cases are not quite parallel, I think, sir,” he
said. “The boys are under our control, to be brought
up as they ought to be. We can hardly apply the
same rule to grown-up people, who are their own
masters.”
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Here Mr. Parmenter, by an easy diversion, changed
the subject a little, changing his mind also.
“You're aware that there's to be a meeting of the
Trustees on Thursday, sir?” he asked; and having
given this turn to things, and received Mr. Manson's
answer, he courteously left him to pursue his visit to
the Head of the School.
As the visit does not directly concern our story, we
leave the account of it untold.
eaf637n14* To be exact as a philologist, Mr. Manson ought to have given
the true Dutch form, “Baas” (pronounced Baws), and not the
American form of it, “Boss.” The Bostonians show the force of
traditional habit, in pronouncing the name “Baws-ton,” to this
day.
-- -- p637-345
CHAPTER XXXI. THE TRUSTEES MEET.
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The meeting of the Trustees had been called to
occupy Mr. Parmenter's house on an evening during a
three-days' absence of the owner.
The day had been rainy, and the night was so; but
the room was bright with chandelier and candles, and
a quiet blaze of cannel coal from a long and very low
and open iron basket, laid across a pair of handsome
andirons.
A majority of the Trustees came. The Judges were
absent. Counsellor and Law-lecturer Pethrick had been
made sure of.
Dr. Farwell was bland to a high degree. Dr. Buttonn
twirled his thumbs, while he awaited whatever
action might be proposed. Mr. Manson was not, this
time, reading and pencil-marking, but apparently indulging
himself in absolute leisure; talking, listening,
keeping silence, as might happen. Mr. Pettie wakefully
held his place, looking out from under his eyebrows,
and entered into little conversation, as if afraid
of delaying the opening for business. Mr. Don was in
a condition of grave importance, as having been the
chief occasion of this meeting, and likely to have a
chief hand in the furtherance of its action. Mr. Merritt
was in a state corresponding to that of Dr. Farwell:
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where the Doctor was more than commonly spreading
and wise and beaming, the other was, perhaps, more
than usually quick and to the point.
Between Dr. Farwell and his friend a by-play had
been going on, in which more than one familiar,
and therefore inoffensive, joke had been let off by
familiar hands. The younger divine had been already
called, with emphasis, a Merritt-orious trustee, and a
Merry-ttorious man, and also an e-Merritt-us officer.
Very likely even then the reverend Doctor had not
emptied his quiver of half the bright-tipped weapons
with which he wore it loaded.
The meeting was called to order; and Mr. Merritt
retaliated by saying, as he leaned over, “And now Farwell,
a long Farwell, to all thy brightness!”
Dr. Farwell entered upon business in the happiest
state. His eyes twinkled at each side of his nose like
lighted windows in fishers' cots nestling at each side of
a jutting promontory. (There's a pretty figure for our
tasteful readers!) He sat there, ready to do justice to
every thing in turn, and to carry all, if needful, along
with him. His last private act was to call Mr. Manson's
attention, aside, to the artistic taste and beauty of a
pair of andirons, of gold bronze, on the hearth, and
which represented furnace-men, shielding their faces
with mittened hands from the heat.
The minutes of the last meeting having been read,
and a pause ensuing, Counsellor Pethrick employed the
empty time in laying out the business, as “it seemed to
divide itself naturally, into two parts, each of which
was capable of further subdivision: I. Shall the Trustees
institute commemorations of benefactors? a. Shall
individual benefactors be recognized in their several
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[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
capacities? b. Shall Mr. Parmenter be so recognized?
II. What shall be the character of the commemoration?
a. Shall it take the shape of a School holiday?
b. What shall be the character of the public celebration?”
This systematic treatment of the subject had an
effect which it often has, of making everybody ready
to proceed to the immediate consideration, and, if possible,
the speedy settlement of the business. Dr. Farwell
felt that it was his time to give that direction to
things. There was in him now no trace of pleasant
levity: he was all himself.
“We have heard,” he said, “the matter well laid
out, — laid out with the largeness of scope and accuracy
of definition of a legal intellect. It was proper —
it was fitting — that it should be so laid out. He had no
doubt that every one present felt, as he did, the eminent
propriety of the thing. The word which he [Dr. Farwell
] had in his own mind to say was that, as there
were moments for reflection and deliberation, so there
were moments for action. It seemed to him that the
time had now come for action.”
At this point his friend Mr. Merritt “moved that, in
order to bring the subject in a tangible shape before
them, the propositions which they had just heard
should be reduced to resolutions and acted upon separately.”
Mr. Pettie offered a ready pencil to the mover
for this purpose.
The subject was now open for discussion, in the consideration
of the first resolution: Shall the Trustees
institute commemorations of benefactors?
Upon this point the opinions seemed already pretty
well made up. Dr. Buttonn, smiling, said that “those
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[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]
sort of things tickled benefactors, amazingly.” Mr.
Pettie “saw no objection: people when they give like
to be recognized.” Dr. Farwell “did not know that
there was any objection: people give, because they
have got something to give. There is the broad fact.
The question is, Shall the fact be recognized? Well,
Shall the sun be recognized? Will you recognize the
rain? Then, as to a public recognition. We are a
public body; the world looks upon us as a public
body: we can't hide ourselves, — we can't put ourselves
out of sight, — as a public body. We” —
Mr. Merritt “thought that, if the Trustees were
ready, the first resolution might be submitted to a
vote;” and Dr. Farwell, falling back into his armchair,
expressed all the rest of his sentiments, as well as
his concurrence in the general tide of opinion, by a
wave of the hand. The resolution was adopted.
Upon the second resolution, about recognizing individual
benefactors, a great deal of good sense and
discrimination was shown. Dr. Buttonn expressed a
large truth when he said that “there were but three
hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and if you have
three hundred and sixty-five benefactors you may
have three hundred and sixty-five holidays; and then
you'd have no time for school.”
To this Mr. Manson answered that “each might take
his turn — one a year — for three hundred and sixty-five
years.”
A difficulty was apparent here. Mr. Manson's proposition
could hardly be intended seriously to meet it.
Dr. Buttonn inquired whether “you could set a certain
stent, and say all who came up to that stent should
have a day?”
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It “struck” Mr. Counsellor Pethrick “that this arrangement
might be inconvenient; for, unless you set
your mark pretty high, you would not obviate your
difficulty, and, if you set it high, you seem to cut off
Mr. Parmenter, who (as the Counsellor understood it)
was only giving five thousand dollars.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Mr. Don, for the first time
taking part. “I understand Mr. Parmenter to be giving
five thousand dollars at a time: he may give ten times
five thousand dollars, or he may give twenty times five
thousand dollars.”
“But five thousand at a time?” said Counsellor
Pethrick, “and not more than five thousand, yet?”
“Suppose we lump 'em all together, as I believe was
proposed last time,” said Mr. Merritt, “and that'll
settle two of your resolutions” (looking at his paper).
“You'll recognize individuals, and you'll recognize
Mr. Parmenter, who is your first benefactor;” and he
moved the adoption of a resolution to that effect. It
was carried.
It was now proposed that the Counsellor's second
head, with its two subdivisions, should be disposed of
in the same compact way: “There shall be a School-holiday,
with such arrangements for the celebration
as a committee may determine.” The resolution was
adopted, and Dr. Farwell, Mr. Merritt, and Mr. Pettie
were appointed the committee.
Every thing seemed to have gone well. The evening
was rainy: the Trustees were all to sleep in Eastham,—
there was no hurry. Instead of adjourning, therefore,
when the business was done, the members stayed
together, talking; the chairman of the Committee, Dr.
Farwell, remarking that, “in making their plans, the
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Committee would have the advantage of hearing an
expression of the views of the Trustees.”
“The Committee,” said Dr. Farwell, “are establishing
a precedent for posterity, — for all time. They will
want to have large views. They cannot prevent their
action from being scrutinized ages hence, — it's one of
the conditions of their office. Posterity will say, `Here
was a committee, composed of such and such members,—
why did they make this arrangement? We see the
name of one Farwell here. What was the determining
consideration in his mind? What was the ground of
his action?'”
Mr. Manson suggested that the chairman of the Committee
might leave on record, for posterity, an account
of the processes of his mind, in coming to a conclusion.
Dr. Farwell, acknowledging that this might be done,
thought that it would be better to have their action
explain itself, so that it might be said, “Here was such
a one (Farwell or any other): his course is a track of
light.”
“Suppose we talk it over,” said Mr. Merritt. “What
is proposed? You want something that the boys can
take part in.”
“It occurred to me, sir,” said Mr. Don, modestly,
“that a procession, with some decorations, — perhaps
some exercises —. There are two boys, — Gaston
and” —
“You must remember you've got winter,” said Mr.
Merritt.
Dr. Buttonn, who had seen the inside of trade himself
said: “It'll be a pretty good advertisement.”
“Suppose it is,” said Mr. Pettie: “it's all fair and
legitimate.”
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“Oh!” said Dr. Buttonn, “I don't object at all. I
wouldn't object to any thing that's proposed.”
Mr. Counsellor Pethrick, the moment it had been
understood that the Board was going to relax a little
of its order and stiffness, and be informal, had lighted a
cigar, and stretching out his legs, and resting his head
on the back of his chair, was comfortably and reflectively
blowing slow and long streams of smoke up
towards the ceiling. Acting on his suggestion, the
Reverend Doctor Buttonn had cloven a huge lump of
cannel coal, and brought forth a blaze of light and
warmth.
Out of his serene infolding, the lawyer spoke: —
“Parmenter's made a wonderfully good thing out of
that `Melitrech.' Who gave him the name?”
“One of the results of having a classical school at
his elbow,” said Mr. Manson.
“And now he wants to have a Latin speech, on the
Great Day, eh?” asked the lawyer.
“You'll have to have your `exercises' in-doors, if the
weather isn't good,” said Mr. Merritt. “It's proposed,
I believe, to give a Latin speech to one or two of the
best scholars, — Brade, the Great Unknown, and Gaston” —
“There is something about that boy, isn't there?”
Counsellor Pethrick asked. “Mr. Parmenter went at
the guardian, or agent, Bates; but Bates got his funds
through other people, and when Parmenter tried that
string he found there was a lawyer at the other end,
and it wouldn't come. Is he Russian? or what?”
“I don't believe he's any more Russian than I am,”
said Mr. Manson. “He's quick at languages, — you've
heard of that funny paper Gaston and he got up, — but
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doesn't know a word of Russian. By all accounts, he's
a fine-spirited, generous-hearted fellow.”
“I shouldn't like to dismiss the subject too hastily,
sir,” said Mr. Don.
“Talking of a turn for languages,” said Mr. Merritt,
drawing from a pocket a scrap of paper, crumpled and
soiled, “can anybody make something out of this? —
You've seen it before,” he added to Mr. Don, who, after
eying it sharply, said, —
“The same document that was picked up, I think,
sir?”
“Yes: `Ekat Nryai,'” said the possessor of the paper,
reading, with some grimace, and handing it to his next
neighbor, who happened to be the Rector of the Parish
and Editor of the “Church Post.” “There's one curious
thing about it, certainly: `swa' is a good Anglo-saxon
word, I find, in the books.”
Mr. Manson did not keep the paper; but having
glanced hastily at its front, and then at its back, put it
out of his hand. “Yes,” said he, in answer to the last
speaker, “I believe there is such a word as `swa' in
Anglo-saxon.”
The Trustees, in one way or other, gave more or less
attention to the paper; Mr. Pettie scrutinizing it closely
for a few moments, and handing it on, without comment;
Dr. Buttonn holding it long enough to say that
“he could understand the arithmetic, but wasn't any
hand at languages;” Mr. Pethrick eyed it only from his
comfortable distance as it traversed the circle; Dr. Farwell,
with a face of happy blandness, read some of the
words, with emphasis and gesture, and called upon the
company to say how it compared with the Classic
Tongues, but hoped that he might not be asked to
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commit himself to a judgment. “There seems,” said he,
“to have been some little doubt about the spelling,
here: `gaterrapin,' — no, it's `gatrapin,' first with two
p's, and then one scratched out.” He turned with a
knowing look to Mr. Manson, sitting at his right: “you
know something about this, — I saw you smile.”
Mr. Manson disclaimed all knowledge of it, and “had
no opinion about it at all.”
Mr. Don, as the attention to Mr. Merritt's paper
flagged, produced one of his own, containing a single
word, of which no one present could make any thing.
“We shall have to make ourselves into an Inscription-society,
if this goes on,” said Mr. Manson. “Where
did this last come from?”
“I copied it from a very ancient and curious watch,
belonging to Brade” —
“That old silver watch?” asked Mr. Merritt. “Oh!
I know all about that: that isn't Brade's, it's Remsen's.
It never was Brade's; only Brade had it. There's one
thing more about that other paper,” he continued, returning
to his own, after having dismissed Mr. Don's,
“It's written in a girl's hand. — That `swa,' I think, is
rather curious.”
“So you're going to have the celebration, and speechifying;”
said Counsellor Pethrick, who had taken no active
part in the examination of the papers. “You've
settled that?”
“That's a sudden pop given to the Committee;” said
Dr. Farwell, condescending to a familiar word capable
of a sudden emphasis, which he gave it, with his
lips, in uttering it. “Shall we resume our deliberations?”
“I'm getting a little sleepy,” said Dr. Buttonn, who
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[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]
was a solid man: “there's a general understanding.
We can trust the Committee. Suppose we adjourn.”
No one was unwilling; and gathering itself up again,
from its relaxation, into an official body, the Board formally
adjourned.
“An informal Committee-meeting at Mrs. Wadham's
party?” asked Mr. Pettie, of the Chairman, as they
shook off the weariness of sitting. So it was agreed, it
being understood that one or two others of the Trustees
were likely to be there.
-- -- p637-355
CHAPTER XXXII. MRS. WADHAM'S PARTY.
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Mr. Greenwood, as we have already heard, had been
away, just when his help was wanted, in correspondence
with the Russian Ambassador. He did not, however,
stay away for ever, and had, some time since, come back,
ready (and perhaps a little more than ready) to lend
himself to the carrying out of the projected party, and
all that belonged to it.
Yet weeks had gone on into the Uncounted Past,
since the first forecasting, in Mrs. Wadham's parlor,
and still the party had not come. This delay could not
have been owing to any fear of expense, for, as we have
seen, the lady was not niggardly. It was not owing
to the want of Mr. Greenwood, for Mr. Greenwood had
for some time been upon the spot; yet already all the
almanacs had counted into December. The Trustees
had appointed “Benefactors' Day” to come on the
Fifteenth.
The truth was, that Mrs. Wadham herself had been
away, on a short visit to the city.
Before going down, she had expressed to Rector
Warren her sympathy for “that young motherless boy
that they called a Russian,” and had got leave for him
to come to her house to dinner. She had had him all
by himself; had had a most excellent chance to impress
upon him, with delicacy and good judgment, the
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loneliness of a boy who had “no mother to come and tell
his little secrets to, and lay his head on her bosom;”
and then, when doubtless his heart was tender, she had
adroitly touched upon languages, and asked him how
many he knew. To this Brade, like any reasonably
modest fellow, and also a free-hearted boy, as he was,
had answered that he supposed he did not know any
one language really, but he was learning; and so he
gave her a short list of the tongues which a boy commonly
learns at school, in fitting for college. Russian
was not among them.
In making his answer, it may be, indeed, that he recalled
to his mind, with some tenderness, his late work
on “The Analogy of Languages;” and he may have
been even more tenderly conscious of his share in the
authorship of a whole Language; but his list took in
a couple of old-time tongues, and a couple of those of
to-day, and there it stopped.
Mrs. Wadham had drawn things very skilfully to
this point; and, now, to get one step further! This she
did also skilfully, by saying that “there were some fine
languages that they did not teach at St. Bartholomew's
School,” and then suddenly, but with great delicacy,
springing upon him the word “Russian.”
For an instant, Brade looked as if he thought that she
was making fun of him; but presently he laughed, and
confessed that “he ought to know Russian, but he did
not.” And when she asked him slowly, — not with
“archness,” which was not her style, but with broadness
and massiveness, lightened by a smile of intelligence, —
“`Smis nryai, isn't it? Smis nryai?'” then,
as she would have said, she “had got him.” As
soon as he fairly took in the two cabalistic words, he
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laughed, to be sure; but at the same time he blushed
all over. She had touched a tender place. — “It's all
safe with me,” she said, to reassure him.
“That was a secret,” Brade told her. “That was a
kind of unknown tongue;” but Mrs. Wadham, though
(as she might have said) “very much the mother in her
disposition,” was a woman of observation and experience.
She saw for herself his blushes; she saw his embarrassment.
She might, perhaps, with some reason,
think that she had the key in the very wards of the
lock now.
If the reader will remember that these two words represented,
in the private language which we saw undergoing
its making, the beginning of a letter, — “Miss
Ryan, I,” — he will not wonder at a little confusion, on
the boy's part; but if he recalls that wish expressed
when “The Language” was made, that the Postmaster-General,
or some great person, might light upon
it, he will believe that our young author must have felt
a stir and glow of pleasurable mystery and importance
at seeing Mrs. Wadham try her teeth upon the secret.
“Are we beginning to have a little confidence?” she
asked; and then, applying the method which she had
announced from the beginning, cemented the “confidence:”
“That'll do for the present. It's all perfectly safe
with me;” and put him under her daughter's charge to
look at flowers and books, and whatever he liked.
Then Mrs. Wadham had made a visit to the city.
Her daughter cautioned her, beforehand, “not to make
a fool of herself with that language,” and was assured
that she “would do just right about it, exactly, — no
more and no less.”
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Mrs. Wadham had been away from home, day after
day, for a good many days. No letters came from her;
and it was thought at home, by Mr. Greenwood, who
smiled over it, and Miss Minette, who assented with a
smile, that “she must be pretty hard at work.” “He
thought the first one she met, with a Russian Bible and
Dictionary under his arms, would satisfy her.”
At length she had come back. “One thing,” she
said, “she had found out, at any rate: it wasn't Russian, —
that was a clear case. It wasn't Russian.”
“Well, let's see: how did the impression first get
about that the boy was a Russian?” asked Mr. Greenwood,
thoughtfully.
Mrs. Wadham was not easily stirred from her strong
and solid standing, wherever she might have set herself.
“I hope you don't think I mean to give up every
thing, when I say he ain't a Russian?” she said. “A
boy may be a foreign nobleman, without being a Russian,
I suppose.”
“Oh, certainly!” said Mr. Greenwood, whose stores
of education were always at his command, “a Livonian,
Lithuanian, Esthonian, Tongusian” —
“Well, we'll take the rest for granted,” said Mrs.
Wadham. “He can be something besides Russian?”
“Why, he can be something else and Russian, too,”
said Mr. Greenwood. “He can be a Finnish gentleman, —
that is, a gentleman from Finland, — or he
may be a Kalmuc Tartar, that's harder to catch than
a Parisian accent, or Greek, either. The Emperor's
`Emperor of All the Russias:' there are plenty of 'em.
They all talk different tongues, and one can't understand
a word the other says, and not more than every
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other word he says himself. I doubt if I could have
understood the Russian Ambassador. It would depend
upon what part of the country he came from, — it
would be just as it happened.”
“I thought you knew Russian?” said the lady, whose
memory was good.
“Ah! I don't make myself clear,” he said. “I was
just saying that one Russian don't understand another,
and he may be a Russian in every hair of his head.
If you can't know 'em all, you take any one. I chose
Old Muscovite, as central, including Cossack.”
“I don't see much use in having Russians, at that
rate,” said Mrs. Wadham. — “Well, that doesn't any
ways excuse the Russian Ambassador. My note was
English; and there's only one English, I think.”
What methods she had used in her research —
whether she had shown her manuscript to some one in
the peculiar guise of a Russian seafarer, as Mr. Greenwood
thought likely, or had been in correspondence
with men learned in languages — she carefully kept to
herself. From her saying that “she had naturally,
during her visit, met with several distinguished scholars,”
it might be thought that she had communicated
with professors of the neighboring university.
One thing she was emphatic about: that “she herself
was as near to that boy, and as near to his secret,
as anybody was: she had touched a chord; she had
opened an avenue.”
Mr. Greenwood and Miss Minette were anxious about
the party and the tableaux and the fun; but Mrs.
Wadham set all apprehensions at rest. “The party,”
she assured them, “would go on. She should give a
particular character to it. The boy might not be
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Russian; but that didn't matter. He was something. Mr.
Parmenter had, most likely, thought it was pretty
sharp, going to Mr. Bates. Who couldn't go to Mr.
Bates? Anybody would think of that. Mr. Bates
didn't know any thing. All Mr. Bates knew was the
money was sent him, twice a year, as regular as the
clock. If he wanted more, all he had to do was to
say so. That was what Mr. Bates knew. The party
was for her sons and their friends, and she should give
a particular character to it.”
Mrs. Wadham needed no long time to feel again the
influences of home and habit; to be full of herself
again and of her plans; to be well seated, and to get
the reins of things well into her hands, and well-charged
with electric sympathy between the driver and
the animated and inanimate things that she controlled.
The eyes of Eastham had soon followed her progress
on more than one errand to and from the pretty cottage
in which Mrs. Ryan lived with Kate and one domestic.
The general mind of Eastham, too, to which that of
Eldridge contributed, and also that of Uncle Nat Borrows,
who hobbled about Mrs. Ryan's out-door chores,
exercised itself daily, at store or post-office, with these
and other things. It knew that one of Mrs. Wadham's
visits — and this, as it happened, on a very raw
and chilly December's day — had been “to see the fruit-trees;”
and recalled the fact that “there wasn't but
about one old gnarled apple-tree and two-three damsonplums,
on that place; and they couldn't be expected
to be doing a dreadful sight, not at that season of the
year.” The general mind drew forth from its stores
the fact that “there was some folks that wanted to
make out that there was something underhand between
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the Ryans and that handsome-looking Brade boy, up
there, to the School.”
So, in discussing this visit, the general face of Eastham
wore a smile of wonder; and it was “guessed
them fruit-trees wa'n't all.”
Much the same process was gone through with, in
the discussion of another visit, “to taste Mrs. Ryan's
water.” The public said: “To be sure, there wa'n't no
water in Eastham but what was good; but, if there
was any water in Eastham that most gen'lly had a
kind of a washy taste, spring and fall times, it was on
that Farebrother place. Most likely Miss Wadham
wanted something more'n that.”
Therefore the public smiled at this also.
Then there was at least one other visit, “to ask
Miss Kate to take part in a tableau at her house”
(Mrs. Wadham's). “This,” in the opinion of the same
public, “looked all square and business-like; but it
was well known to them (the public) she'd praised up
the Roossians to Miss Ryan, and Miss Ryan told her she
didn't know nothing about the Roossians. Now, what
she wanted was to find out if there was any thing
between that boy and them; and, if she'd only asked
the neighbors, they could ha' told her fast enough that
he'd been seen with one or t'other of 'em more'n once”
(“yes, time an' time again,” Jake Moody said) “'thout
any smellin' round apples an' plums that wa'n't there,
an' drinkin' water that wa'n't no great, no time o' year;”
“an' that wouldn't show that he was a Roossian,” added
the public; “if any thing, jest the exact contrary, for
the Ryans wasn't Roossians.”
The public, therefore, felt reasonably hurt at Mrs.
Wadham's taking such a method, without availing
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herself of the information already possessed by the
public.
The lady had her own way of going on, and went
her own way.
As for the coming festivity at her house, we know
what amount of information she has shared with Mr.
Don, and we remember how she enjoined secrecy upon
Mr. Greenwood. Now Mrs. Wadham had given it to
be understood that the forthcoming affair at her house
“was not going to be a great climax of a party, — a
ball, or any thing like that. It was just a pleasant little
entertainment, — that's what you might call it, — an
entertainment, pleasant and agreeable, of course (she
couldn't have any thing that wasn't pleasant and
agreeable). It was for her sons' friends, and to show
a little attention to that young stranger in Albert's
Form.”
Now, to the Eastham circle that festivity, however
it might rank in its relations to the great world of
fashion, was not a small thing. It was an approaching
event; and intimations had been fleeting through the
community, keeping men's minds, and maiden's minds,
astir.
As before the strong wind from the north comes
down and possesses the lands, we see, up towards the
pole, a flashing and glancing like that from icy scimitars
and javelins of a dread spectral army of fleet Scythians,
gathering from all the frozen seas and lands; or as, on
or about the morning of the great St. Martin of Tours,
the wise eyes that greet the earlier day see everywhere
a staid, still-standing fog, and brighten with the
hope of “Indian Summer,” and, hoping, watch the
hours until the sun, all things now being ready, sends
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off the fog, by this time thinned to mist, and lays all-open
the smoky haunts of vales and woodlands where,
never to be caught, if followed after, all things seem
offering up their incense; or, as when beneath the
league-deep and unlighted seas, while one or other continent
is trembling with the shock of hosts, or feels the
crash of rotten empire or of heart-eaten party going
down, the Nereid or Triton, whose head is pillowed on
the twisted cable, conscious, in sleep, of thrilling messages
that are passing to and fro between the two
halves of the world, turns on the other side, — so, before
Mrs. Wadham's “entertainment,” there were flashing
intimations and waiting hopes and thrilling communications,
and watching of signs and tokens.
The boys of St. Bartholomew's had caught an inkling
of the preparations that “Wadham's mother was
making for a jolly show;” and we are very sure that
the lucky fellows, of the three upper forms, who, it was
understood, were going, wished it might come, although
they took the time between in comfort. Blake regretted
that “he had an engagement for that afternoon, but he
hoped to see part of it.”
On the other hand, of the younger girls of Eastham,
those who, under the self-adjusting machinery for intaking
and out-shutting the rising candidates for “society,”
might look forward to being present, some
doubtless felt, as some good and pretty girls, elsewhere,
that “they didn't want to see those nasty boys
(or those great ugly boys),” while, to others, these
youthful men were radiant with all that gelatinous and
phosphorescent glory and beauty which, to the females
of different degrees of age, dwelling in college towns,
clothe the young forms of Juniors, Sophomores (shall
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we say Freshmen too?) preparing to be the hope and
light of the world.
Mrs. Wadham had become all strong again, evenly
weighted, equal to every thing.
The party came. Between the hours of half-past
two and half-past five o'clock in the afternoon, all was
to begin, go on, and be done.
The boys were early, and the elders were not late.
The lady of the house was red and hot, in contrast to
the wondrous coldness out of which her guests came in;
for of the energetic atoms of her blood great numbers
were rushing this way and that, and of these a great
many were crowded behind the thick, but porous
covering of her face, and busied themselves with putting
forth, in countless beady drops, a dew like that
upon the garden's broader leaves; but, hot or otherwise,
she was Mrs. Wadham.
Miss Minette had on a gay company manner, and was
very lively with the gentlemen from St. Bartholomew's,
and with some of its boys.
The house was fragrant with sweet flowers, and warm
as the balmiest days of spring; and so Mr. Parmenter,
and so others, told the hostess.
Mr. Greenwood, bright and bustling, moved about
the rooms with prompt and lively bow and recovery,
making every one feel at home and curious for the
pleasant little entertainment, which was to make one
of the chief occupations of the afternoon.
Among the guests the city-gentlemen of the neighborhood,
with their families, appeared, of course. Mr.
Manson, with the Rector of the School and one or two
of the Trustees (of course, Dr. Farwell, and his Committee),
were there. There, too, of course, was Mr.
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Parmenter. A select number of the younger Eastham
people, including the young Misses Bemis and Miss
Ryan, were there; and, not to be too particular, there
was the estimable widow, Mrs. Osborn, sought out
by all the more gallant gentlemen as very bright and
chatty.
Brade was presented to Mrs. Osborn and some
younger ladies, and satisfied all reasonable demands,
in being neither pert nor sheepish. Remsen shared in
the attention paid to his friend. Brade himself put
forward Peters, and brought him out as much as he
would bear.
Russell was there, and Lamson, and Gaston, and
Meadows, and Hutchins, and Towne. Our friend Blake
was missed.
Boys, with fresh-trimmed hair and careful neck-ties,
in twos and threes and half-dozens, ready for fun, and
more or less full of it, were everywhere.
The Russian Ambassador, “without,” as Mrs. Wadham
said, “affording any explanation — not the least”—
was absent. “Mr. Greenwood,” she said, “had done
the best he could, under the circumstances;” and this
information Mr. Greenwood supplemented by saying
modestly that “he had told 'em to scare up the foreignest-looking
fellow they could find, among those Russian
consuls, and send him on.”
This was Mr. Greenwood's information to the company;
but to Mrs. Wadham he had given privately a
much more important piece of intelligence: “He was
sure, he told her, there was something between Brade
and that Count Blakisoff.”
“How do you mean something between 'em?” she
asked, gravely, being not disposed to accept statements
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without sufficient examination, even when time was
very pressing, and not disposed to have other people
thread her mysteries for her, or get the start of her in
finding information.
“Nearly connected,” said Mr. Greenwood, feeling the
pressure of time, — “family relation. That's why the
Count's round here incog. He's under an assumed
name.”
“What do you mean by an assumed name?” she
asked. “You mean that Blacksop isn't his name?
What is his name?”
It was evident that, even if time pressed, she felt the
importance of using time.
“I don't believe it's very far off, a little disguised.
When there was a king of Naples, he travelled as Conte
di Palermo; King of France, Comte de Versailles;
Benjamin Thompson, Count Rumford. — Must have an
eye to this fellow. Watch him with Brade.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Wadham, receiving his information
without any formal acknowledgment, and reserving
herself for her own judgment and guidance.
This hurried conversation had been snatched in the
very midst of the throng of duties.
The Count Blakisoff's remarkable appearance more
than confirmed Mr. Greenwood's account of the standard
by which he had been picked out for a guest of
Mrs. Wadham. Although, like many eminent men
from other lands, he was not large, yet he had his
sandy, northern hair brushed down over his forehead,
and yet brushed out to right and left with such perfect
soldierly smoothness, and on his face bore such
an amount of sand-colored hairy clothing, trimmed
to so great variety of ornamental shape, — as
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whiskers sweeping out over his shoulders; lip-locks drawn
across each way so stiffly and so far as to seem
to court collision and affront; his very eyebrows
spreading out strongly to each side beyond his temples;
beside these a chin-beard going down and
tapering to a strong point; to say nothing of his
yellow gloves and the “frogs” upon his queer-looking
coat, enough to overrun half Lower Egypt, — that whoever
lifted up his eyes in any direction could not fail to
see this wondrous man. Many were looking at him almost
all the time; and some of them, considering that he
was a foreigner, took turns in staring at him and then
facing about and making fun of him. The lady of the
house herself talked of him at a short distance, much
as she might talk of a horse or a lamp-post.
She carefully discharged the duties of a hostess by
bringing up one and another with the address “Count—
(I don't remember his name), this is my friend
(Dr. Farwell, or Mr. Parmenter, or Mr. Merritt, or Mr.
Don),” and commending them (to herself) as they
bowed and were bowed at with the brief words, halfaside,
“That's it,” as if both she and they had acquitted
themselves well in a foreign language.
Of all the Russian nationalities, the general conclusion
was that this gentleman was a Cossack; and most
people were satisfied with Mr. Greenwood's assurance
that “he himself was one of the few persons in this
country, probably, to whom the Cossack language
presented no difficulty whatever.”
Now, foreigners are not insensible; and, where their
honest ears have never been attuned to the jargon of
our English speech, their eyes are delicate of intuition,
and their hearts quick to feel, in a strange land. Mr.
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Greenwood was not unmindful of the claims of hospitality,
but came from time to time (of course his time
was precious), and made a point of treating the well-bearded
guest with marked attention. He told Mrs.
Wadham, aside, on one of those excursions, that “he
had not shown him Brade, till by and by; and this was
the most extraordinary fellow, — Russian to the backbone, —
not an English word in him.”
To Mr. Greenwood's ceremonious attentions, the
foreigner responded, mostly, by solemn inclinations of
the body. His words were very few, although these
few were often so effective as to amuse the only intelligent
hearer (Mr. Greenwood) very much, and make
him, before returning a sprightly answer, look round to
see whether some little intelligence of the wit or wisdom
might not make its way to others. “He's a Russian
of the first water, — or rather ice,” he assured the
company, on leaving him. It added to the force of the
Cossack gentleman's wit that he was never once seen
to smile.
“But how's he going to do business at the Custom
House,” asked one of the city-men, “if he don't know
any English?”
Antony Brade, of whom all the guests had doubtless
heard more or less, not only had much made of him
by the hostess, and was encouraged by Mrs. Osborn's
amusing herself with him, and was introduced to the
Misses Bemis and others, but also, we may be sure, exchanged
a look or two (not many), and a word or two
(under a little embarrassment) with Miss Kate Ryan, who
was with them. As it was he, chiefly, with whom this
“entertainment” of Mrs. Wadham's was associated, he
was well looked at and admired, — mostly by the female
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part of the company, — while there were some, both
male and female, who said that he looked much like
any other boy. He certainly took things very quietly,
and enjoyed himself simply and freely, as a boy with
fresh clean blood in him ought to enjoy himself. The
boys, generally, talked and laughed, among themselves,
and moved about; and so did Brade.
Mr. Don confessed that he had two desires which he
hoped, somehow, to have gratified, in the course of the
evening; and these were to have a little communication
with the Count Blakisoff, “who had to him,” he
said, “very much the appearance of the ideal Russian,”
and to bring young Brade into communication with that
nobleman.
The hostess had arranged for the boys having a good
feed, soon after they got to the house. “Boys like to
eat,” she said, “and I'd give 'em plenty. 'Taint as 'tis
with grown-up people: after they've eaten, boys want
to go right at something. We can put 'em to acting
right away. My Edmund and Albert'll both be there,
among 'em,” she added.
This plan, therefore, was adopted; and while the elder
guests, among themselves, talked of the last change of
hours upon the Railway; of whether anybody could remember
a year in which the Rock-crystal Ice Company
had begun cutting so early as that year (having, as one
of the city-men said, a heavy contract to fill); of the
last demand of “The Welded Workingmen” (of whom
Mr. Greenwood absurdly said that “he would rather
hear of a few well-doing workingmen, than of any number
that had well-did”); and while they handled the
statuettes, and pulled some leaves of the geraniums,
there came in to them such sounds as a crowd of boys
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make, when they are stuffing their mouths so fast and
so full that the words have to climb over lumps of
frozen cream or salad, and junks of cake, and yet are
jabbering with every mouth of them all. These things,
taken together, were appetizing to mouths and stomachs
more advanced in years.
“Did you ever observe,” asked Dr. Farwell of Mr.
Manson, — and his eyes twinkled merrily, — “what a
sympathy there is between people's stomachs? You
may convince their heads” (emphatic, with an accompanying
gesture of the shut hand, with the thumb on
top, brought toward the breast), “you may persuade
their hearts” (with like emphasis and gesture); “but
give 'em roast turkey” (emphasis and gesture as before),
“give 'em fried oysters, give 'em chicken salad, and you've
got 'em `ung rapaw!'* (Now, Merritt, don't you be
laughing at my French: it's very good French).”
Mr. Parmenter was mannerly and inclined to impressive
conversation. His approach to Mrs. Osborn was
particularly ceremonious and polite; Mr. Don, at the
same time, retiring from her side with the remark that
“he was glad to have his place so well occupied.”
The din of boys began to slacken; and Mr. Greenwood,
who had appeared and disappeared, continually,
announced from the middle of the folding-doors, “An
entertainment consisting of a piece of the life of a great
foreign people, — the Russian.” The word caught the
general ear; and a little buzz of questioning, together
with a looking round to see where the exhibition was
or what place it was to come from, followed. Boys
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with marks of feeding on them began to come in; little
Meadows, with his mouth still full and active, and with
a piece of cake in his hand.
A most inspiriting strain from a French horn, which
the boys all greeted, with subdued acclamation, as
“Ned Prouty, from the village,” stirred up the blood
in an instant, and then stopped as suddenly, in the
midst of a note, as if it had been killed. Then, at a
side of one of the larger rooms, into what some of the
gentlemen, who were not unintelligent, thought was
surely the supper-room, but afterwards determined to be
“that big library-room of Mrs. Wadham's,” folding-doors
were opened, and then silence crept over almost all the
company. A movement took place to secure good
stands for seeing; Mr. Parmenter gallantly helping
Mrs. Osborn forward, and Hutchins and Remsen and
Towne and Wadham First doing the same for the
Misses Bemis and others. Kate Ryan, who, as Hutchins
said, was, by all odds, the prettiest girl in the room, was
not to be found.
The hostess, having seen her guests arranged, took
the foreign nobleman, with words in English, and a
wave of the hand in the language of nature, and stationed
herself and him at a side door from the entry, in
full view.
Mrs. Wadham announced that “all this was Mr.
Greenwood's, she had left it all to him.”
The room which had just been opened had been
wondrously fitted up. An ice-hill, down which a host
of capped and furred and mittened people were going
on hand-sleds, as if for their lives, made a side scene.
An icy plain stretched from this side to the other, with
booths and tents, and a prospect of domes and towers
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beyond. At the left side was a throne, gorgeous to
look at, and on it sat a royally-dressed young person,
with a resplendent and far flashing diadem above his
commanding brow. Over his head was a rich canopy, on
whose front was an eagle, with a most imperial crown.
“The river Neva, in winter,” said Mr. Greenwood.
“St. Petersburg close by!”
It was a splendid scene of ice and snow.
“It makes you cold all over, doesn't it?” said a boy's
voice. It was from Peters, whose fancy was lively, and
whose speech was impulsive. He had not heeded the
general stillness, and was abashed, when he found that
he had made himself heard by the whole company.
“Wouldn't I like to be on one of those hand-sleds?”
said Towne, with much less unconsciousness.
“Who's that king or whatever he is?” asked a good
many of the company. “Is this Master Brade?” Mr.
Parmenter asked.
The boys applauded; a buzz of approbation went
over the whole room; while in a little louder voice,
but not obtrusively, Mr. Parmenter called Mrs. Osborn's
attention to “the happy effects of the various-colored
booths;” and Mr. Don, to Miss Minette, admired the
general gorgeousness of every thing. Mrs. Wadham
announced that Mr. Greenwood would explain.
Mr. Greenwood, the Master of Ceremonies, spoke
aloud: —
“It had been the purpose of his Majesty, the Emperor,”
said he, “in providing this entertainment, to have
it accompanied by a series of Russian airs; but, as the
Russian air is harsher than we are accustomed to
breathe (and our own” — shrugging his shoulders —
“is cold enough, just now, in all conscience), it was
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thought best to modify the programme. You have before
you, ladies and gentlemen, in a compact form, `the
Heir of all the Russias.'”
Miss Minette made her part of the room very lively,—
a little noisy, perhaps, but very lively.
There was a general good-nature, and everybody
laughed, unless, perhaps, the Cossack gentleman; and
then a dead silence came again, into which was uttered
the last part of some pointed sentence which Mr. Merritt
was uttering to Dr. Farwell, under cover of the
general excitement.
“— the air of it, hasn't he?”
As soon as a new buzz of applause, at the Czarevitch's
graceful salutation of the company, offered another
“cover,” the Doctor reciprocated (for wise men show
their wisdom in nothing better than in their unbending)
by saying, with his eyes twinkling, “He's an airrogant-looking
fellow, certainly.”
So the divines were evidently not without their share
of the general hilarity.
The Master of Ceremonies continued: —
“The Czarevitch (vitch is the Czar that's going to
be), on coming to his throne, takes it out with him, and
seats himself upon it. The scene that follows is to
exhibit to the world the fact that that which is supposed
to be one of the strictest despotisms is consistent with
the most absolute democracy. You will see the Russians
exercise one of their dearest prerogatives, — that
of shooting at the crown. This privilege is common to
the lowest and the highest, and lasts three days. We
shall let you off with two of them. The weather, you
observe, is wintry; but it's warm work, as you may
suppose; so the Czarevitch will be able to keep himself
comfortable, in that respect.”
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Mr. Don, while the amateur Master of Ceremonies
was giving this information, had, on his tiptoes, lightly
found his way across, and taken his silent stand beside
the Cossack, to whom, on approaching, he had gone
through with a lavish dumb show, of bows and wavings
of the hand; and pointing to himself and then to the
floor, by way of implying, in the language of universal
nature, that he intended to occupy that spot; while a
third pointing, to the courteous foreigner, implied that
its being near him gave the place its great attraction.
Mr. Don was not wrong in expecting to be met half-way,
in the language of universal nature. The foreign
gentleman talked it with shoulders and elbows, and
hand laid to his frog-covered heart, wonderfully.
The performance divided the attention of a considerable
part of the company, even with the lively Master
of Ceremonies and the counterfeit presentment of
the Czarevitch; and the sight of this intelligent foreigner
engaged in a well-meant attempt to exchange courtesies
with a polite American was too much for the self-control
of most of the younger, and a good many of the
older witnesses of it. It must be confessed that there
was something extremely droll — at times, perhaps, to
excitable spirits, overpoweringly droll — in the look of
the distinguished guest.
Our young friend who represented Russian empire
showed himself made of stuff like other mortals, when
the man happened, while looking his very solemnest, to
lay his foreign forefinger by his nose. The Cossack
gentleman was again the object of thoughtless mirth.
His own behavior, meanwhile, was exceedingly dignified,
as he employed his hands on the abundant hair
of his face.
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The breach of good manners grieved those who had
good manners most at heart. Mr. Parmenter had not
been unobservant or indifferent; and, in behalf of propriety
and hospitality, uttered aloud the statement
that “he should be sorry to see any forgetfulness of the
laws of courtesy, and was confident that nothing of
that sort would take place.”
The lady of the house was herself mistress of the
occasion.
“Tell him,” she said, “that we enjoy him” (“His appearance
is certainly peculiar,” she said, without much
sinking of voice, to those about her, because she knew
that he could not understand more than one person in
the room, or, possibly, two), “and tell him there'll be
refreshments after the play about his country. That
goes to foreigners' hearts as quick as anybody's: everybody
understands eating.”
While Mr. Greenwood was giving this agreeable
message to the noble foreigner, a voice was heard, in
moderate but prevailing tones, from a corner in which
a number of gentlemen were gathered: —
“That's singular, now. How can you account for
that coincidence? That's the very thing I was saying
a little while ago.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Manson, “and you observe she says
there'll be `ung repaw' pretty soon, too.”
“Not quite the Parisian accent, perhaps, but” —
“Pretty good!” said Mr. Merritt, who, as we have
seen, can make some pretensions in the languages:
“un repas, a feed.”
Mr. Greenwood was quick-witted and ready enough
to devote a little side attention to his Cossack nobleman.
He interrupted himself: —
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“My friend,” he said, “the Count Ultrovian Blakisoff
has the remarkable versatility and the wonderful facility
for languages which make his countrymen so desirable
to colleges and places of education. Entirely unacquainted
with English, he can instantly master the
phonetic signs, when written distinctly, which represent
it on paper. While the Czarevitch is waiting impatiently,
as you see him, for the performances of his
dilatory subjects to begin, the Count may, perhaps, be
persuaded to gratify us in a way that will astonish
those to whom opportunities of witnessing such accomplishments
are rare.”
There was now a decent silence, and the faces of the
company were generally smoothed. The representative
of Muscovite majesty recovered himself. Mr. Greenwood,
with an elegant stride, and placing the heel of
his right foot in the hollow of his left, with such an
air as almost to disturb again the general gravity,
planted himself in front of the Count, and, drawing
with a flourish from his pocket a paper on which were
a few musical notes and some words, presented it with
a low bow to the foreigner, and said something which
was not English. He then hastened to the side of
the scenes, and apparently gave a direction.
The Count took the paper with as much gesture as
he had before bestowed upon Mr. Don, held it at arm's
length, and suddenly burst forth in song: —
“Mee langguidge ees the Roosshin tongs:
Hi spake hit like a buck;”
And then, with the modesty and simplicity characteristic
of accomplished foreigners when they have distinguished
themselves, solemnly handed the paper back.
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“Do they grow Cossacks in Ireland?” asked one of
the city-men; and to more purpose was heard the
wise voice of Dr. Farwell, asking whether a phenomenon
of that sort — a man's singing right off, in a
language that was perfectly strange to him — was to
be explained in the same way that a stutterer could
sing a thing that he couldn't read a word of.
This revelation was, as Mr. Greenwood had predicted,
sufficiently astonishing; and the rooms were all in a
flutter. It would be too much to say that all faces
were serious; for there had been something a little
peculiar, after all, in the pronunciation and accent,
and the voice — for a voice coming out of such an
ambush of hair — was rather slender; but just then
Ned Prouty's all-enlivening horn took captive every
ear, as it struck up “March to the Battle-field!”
Mr. Don was a man ready for occasions. With an
intelligent look he presented to the eyes of the foreign
linguist a soiled and crumpled bit of paper, like the
“document” which we have seen, to which paper he
pointed, and of which he asked, with a most expressive
raising of the eyebrows and throwing of the head on
one side, a question whose “waste” alone, like water
from a mill-wheel, ran out in the words: “This? anything?”
its strength having been spent in the face
above.
The stranger, with his hand again upon his frogenveloped
heart, looked at the paper, and to the question
in the universal language assented strongly with
his head.
This scene had not been lost upon the eyes of Mrs.
Wadham, who turned and watched it closely.
Suddenly a shot was heard, and the representative of
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majesty put his hand to his head. Of course all eyes
were fixed upon the stage, and all was still; a smell
of gunpowder mingled itself with the sweet scents
of flowers and pocket-handkerchiefs.
This time no harm had been done apparently.
Mrs. Wadham declared that “she supposed her time
was come: she never could stand fire-arms.” Some of
the gentlemen jocosely asked “Champagne?”
The Manager assured the company that “probably
few, if any, bullets of lead remained in the rifles, as he
had employed a careful hand, with a No. 3 Faber's
lead-pencil, to draw all the balls, and substitute something
more comfortable.”
The little descent from dignity in this about the
pencil was probably intended for a certain class of
minds. The boys appreciated it.
“I think I may safely assure the ladies, on Mr. Greenwood's
authority,” said Mr. Parmenter, “there is not
the slightest danger.”
A voice from the group of Trustees in the corner,
which our readers may be able to assign to its owner,
said, “I think I should bawl if I was that chap on the
throne.”
The ladies moved uneasily. Some of the gentlemen,
laughingly, thought it was time to adjourn. A
lovely female figure rushed upon the stage, in splendid
robes that matched the Czarevitch's. “That's Miss
Ryan!” said the Bemises; and then a Russian of the
Russians, with sheepskin hat, coat, trousers, mittens,
and boots, and a beard of much the same general
character, appeared. He and his wife and seven children,
in a line, bore his formidable weapon. He kneeled
upon his knees, first took off his hat in obeisance to his
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liege lord, and then, resuming it, he and his family
arranged the gun upon their shoulders, in a slope up to
the wife! and so it reached from him, squatting at one
side of the stage, close up to the princely potentate's
crown, with his head inside, at the other.
“Your scene is very well got up indeed, sir,” said
Mr. Don; “but I hardly think they would let the man
get quite so close.”
“True, sir,” said the Master of Ceremonies. “In
point of fact they do not allow such dangerous proximity.
It's only the exigency of circumstances. Our
room is so narrow that we have to crowd a little. You
see a gun fifteen feet long (the usual length of the weapons
used on these occasions), in a room eighteen or
twenty feet wide, crowds us.”
This was a mere mimic scene; and yet, when this
long, dreadful-looking weapon reached to such fatal
neighborhood of the boy's head, the Count, clasping his
hands, threw himself into a marvellous foreign attitude
of despair. This Mr. Don, as we should expect, appreciated;
while the boys, and many beside them, seemed
not at all touched by the gravity of the situation.
Mrs. Wadham, almost pale at the appearance of the
gun, but bravely keeping her ground, at the crisis,
turned away from the threatening weapon; but did
not forget to see what the Count was doing.
Mr. Parmenter gallantly advanced Mrs. Osborn
nearer to the scene, remarking that “there was a
great deal of merit in it, — it would bear inspection.”
He delicately replaced her light shawl which had fallen
from one shoulder.
“The Grand Duchess Alexandrovna” (explained Mr.
Greenwood) “interposes her efforts (which the law of
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Russia provides for) to persuade this resolute Muscovite
to forego his privilege. You see her appealing to his
veneration for the sacred person on the throne: he
squats unmoved: to his humanity: he puts tobacco in
his cheek, and lays his finger — I should say his mitten—
on the trigger!”
Here Mr. Greenwood made what might be called a
rhetorical pause, to let the scene take its full effect.
“That fellow with the gun's Gaston — or Lamson:
where's Lamson?” said Tom Hutchins. — “Ain't Brade
good?” said Peters.
The Czarevitch sat with a lofty indifference to danger
becoming his high blood: his look of disgust, as he
saw the death-dealing muzzle so near, and glanced
down the sloping backs of the enterprising family
which bore it, and as he shook out his dainty pocket-handkerchief
and held it between the frightful instrument
and himself, called forth immediate and universal
applause.
“A good deal of the dramatic gift there,” said Mr.
Parmenter, who generally spoke well. “That fellow's
got it in him.” “There's fun in that boy,” said the
city-gentlemen: and indeed he was excellent, and handsome,
too. The Grand-duchess, who at the applause
had glanced that way, seemed struck, and apparently
forgot herself; and then came back with a little
start.
While this was going on, the Count (not unobserved
by that considerate man, Mr. Don) was restless, and
seemed about to go forward. The mind of Mr. Don
was active, and doubtless weighed the emotions by
which the bosom of the foreigner was agitated.
Did he understand that this was only “acting”?
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Perhaps he was a partner in the scene. Mr. Don
humanely and politely (whatever might be the case
with the Count) addressed him, and accompanied the
address with lucid gesture. He smiled also, at the
same time, as if to show that he knew perfectly how
intelligent the Count was.
“Of course, sir, there's no danger,” he said; “they've
taken all precautions,” shaking his head vehemently,
and throwing his hands asunder, rapidly, several times.
“Ha! I can't make him understand. I suppose he
knows.” Then to the stranger again, with new energy,
“Of course it's all make-believe!” and he shook his
head vehemently again. “Nothing in it, sir.” Then
he smiled strongly, and said, “You understand, of
course.”
Mrs. Wadham, divided between alarm for the issue
of the Princess's entreaties to stay the deadly firearm,
and her interest in the secret whose development was,
perhaps, to be hastened by the progress of the play,
held up her fan between herself and the actors, and from
time to time looked over it. Mr. Greenwood went on: —
“The Princess having failed in her appeal to his veneration,
and to his humanity, now addresses the father
of a family with another argument. See how she lays
her hand first upon the bending wife, looking appealingly
to him; and then upon each successive bearer
of that frightful weapon, from the first-born daughter,
down through alternate sons and daughters to the last,
the joy of his father's eyes, whom you see innocently
occupied and amused with his own small nose. At
each she utters a few heart-moving words, and casts the
same pathetic and appealing glance to the father. She
is urging upon him the likelihood (too often warranted
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by melancholy facts, in that country) that his gun will
burst, and so kill every member of his household. He
is unmoved. Now, having, with the instinctive sagacity
of a woman, reserved her crowning argument for the
last, she shows him that, in all probability, it will kill
him, too. He wavers. He might get along without his
family; how could he get along without himself? Now
she lays her gentle hand upon the instrument of death,
to draw it from its fatal aim.”
The “Princess Alexandrovna,” of this little stage,
was certainly a lovely being. If royal or imperial
houses have so fair daughters often, they are happy;
and so the company seemed to think; for, led by Mr.
Parmenter, there was a general round of applause, in
which Tom Hutchins and the boys helped, to the echo.
Even the Count joined the prevailing enthusiasm; but,
in his foreign way, checked himself, after a few most
hearty clappings of his yellow-gloved hands, while all
the rest were going on, and stood mute and wonderful to
look at as before; but every one, unless the Czarevitch,
was looking at the stage. No one seemed to enjoy himself
with more quiet thoroughness than the Rector of the
School, to whom Mr. Manson called his neighbors'
attention.
The Czarovna Alexandrovna was drawing the gun
with a gentle energy, by its barrel, at a point somewhere
between the second son and third daughter, when the
extraordinary weapon gave way in the middle, and, at
the same time, the catastrophe against which she had
warned the unreflecting Muscovite took place: there
was an explosion, — not loud, but effectual, — and the
whole family, father, seven children, mother, struck
with a marvellous accuracy, fell at once to the
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ground, and lay motionless. The Princess, to the joy
of the audience, shown by much clapping of hands
and waving of handkerchiefs (from Mrs. Osborn first,
and then from all the ladies), in this happy administration
of poetical justice, stood unharmed, and, of course,
lovelier than before. She was very modest, and yet
became her part extremely well.
“There ought to be a patent for that powder,” said
one of the city-gentlemen.
“Very moderate cost of ammunition,” said Mr.
Parmenter.
“How are we meant to account for it,” said a sagacious-sounding
voice from the corner, which, though
doubtless addressed to some particular neighbor, was
permitted by the speaker, in a friendly way, to pervade
the several rooms, “that a whole family — a whole Russian
family, or, you may say, any other family, can be
put out of existence by a puff— by a flash” —
“I am glad that firin's over,” said Mrs. Wadham,
“and no more harm done.”
The Count with an animated action of the foot
showed that he would like to kick the prostrate father
of a family.
“The accident which has just occurred, such as very
often happens on these occasions,” said the gentleman
manager, “will release the Czarevitch and give him command
of his time. He attends the funeral, in state, accompanied
by the nation at large. (“Neighborly people!”
said Mr Merritt.) “The Princess and the Czarevitch,”
continued Mr. Greenwood, “congratulate one another;
and presently, with your permission, ladies and gentlemen,
our little play will come to an end.”
“I don't see as we've discovered much,” said Mrs.
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[figure description] Page 371.[end figure description]
Wadham, without much reserve, “unless you can make
something out of that Count.”
“Well, keep an eye to the Count,” said Mr. Greenwood,
privately.
A lovely blush suffused the cheek of the representative
of the Princess Alexandrovna, as also those of
the young representative of imperial majesty, who now
descended from his throne and took her by the hand.
The reigning house of Romanoff is counted handsome,
but we doubt whether it ever appeared to better advantage
in any two of its members, than here. One
thing distinguished these young persons from many
others: they were very delicate and distant in their
intercourse with each other. “Make a handsome
couple, — that boy and girl, wouldn't they? eh! Mrs.
Osborn,” said a city-gentleman.
Mrs. Osborn, who carried on a lively conversation
with three or four gentlemen at once, as well as with
Mr. Parmenter, remarked pleasantly that “she liked
Mr. Greenwood's disposal of his characters better than
Shakespeare's; for here he killed off only just those that
were wanted out of the way.” Mr. Greenwood bowed,
with much flourish. Mrs. Wadham was not a person
to lose sight of a great purpose.
“What did you make out of that Count?” she asked,
turning promptly to the intelligent inquirer, Mr. Don.
“Did he understand that paper?”
“Well, ma'am, I can judge only by the eye, you
know,” he answered, “as I unfortunately cannot talk
Cossack. He seemed to recognize it, instantly, and to
be quite struck by it. The impression upon my mind
was a strong one; though, as I say, I couldn't hold
conversation with him.”
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“Mother,” said Miss Minette, behind her fan, having
worked her way to the neighborhood, “I'd let that
language go.”
“I'll do what's right;” said the mother. — “Who's
found out most about it, so far?”
Instead of being ready to dismiss the pretty pageant
at the end, the public, if it might be judged by its
uproarious and long-kept-up applause, would gladly
have had the whole thing over again; but the good
sense of the elders was convinced, and yielded. The folding
doors were slowly closing on the imperial pair; and
Ned Prouty, who had a soul of music in him, and a
sure taste which came of no passing fashion, sounded,
with really delicate feeling and tenderness, an Irish air,
which was lost, perhaps, on most of the company, but
to which Mrs. Osborn at once gave its name, and a
little more, — “Though 'twas all but a dream at the
best, And still, when happiest, soonest o'er.”
Mr. Parmenter assured her that “her way of uttering
the words (certainly very clear and graceful) gave them
a charm.”
Everybody called for keeping the doors open till it
was done, and for the Czarevitch and Czarovna to stay
before admiring eyes; but things in this world march
with inexorable steadiness toward their endings; and
so, while Prouty's bright coil of brass was making all
the unseen air musical, certain young fellows in the
attire of pages rushed in upon the stage and set themselves
to the dragging off of the lifeless bodies of the
Muscovite family sacrificed in the exercise of their prerogative.
The jolting shook out from the father some
words which had, perhaps, lodged in his throat: “Heu,
me mis —.” To which of the many tongues of the Great
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[figure description] Page 373.[end figure description]
Empire they belong, our young readers must find
out.
In the hasty and rather rough handling which these
remains received, a mitten worked off from the hand of
the youngest born and fell near Mrs. Osborn's feet. She
picked it up, smiling, and examined it; while Mr.
Greenwood, whose eyes were quick, begged her to keep
it as a little token of the afternoon's amusement.
Mr. Parmenter suggested that a mitten was an awkward
present to receive; and Mrs. Osborn, in her prettiest
way, told him that “she must ask him to relieve
her of it;” and persisted, prettily, in making over to
him all her property in it.
At this the city-men made some pleasant remarks
among themselves; and, as good jokes always bear
repetition, one of them good-humoredly told Mr.
Parmenter “they were just saying Mrs. Osborn had
given him the mitten.”
“We'll call it a glove,” said Mr. Parmenter,
gallantly, and putting it in his bosom: “any thing
from Mrs. Osborn is worth keeping.”
While this lively scene was going on, the hostess
was expressing to the two chief actors her solid approval
and thanks for their performance. The Czarevitch
was in good spirits, but not inclined to accept
any praise “for just sitting still. Gaston and the rest
had done something.” The Princess Alexandrovna was
a good deal excited at what she had been through.
“I hear the Count understands that unknown language
we talked about the other day,” said Mrs.
Wadham to the former. The Czarevitch looked embarrassed.
The two young authors and owners of “The
Language” glanced at each other, but said nothing.
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[figure description] Page 374.[end figure description]
Mrs. Wadham went on: “Mr. Don showed it to him. —
Don't go, Miss Ryan: we ain't going to talk any secrets;”
and when Kate, like a simple girl, expressed
her anxiety “to change those things for her own,”
Mrs. Wadham assured her strongly: —
“They're monstrously becoming, though, let me tell
you, young lady.”
As Kate Ryan disappeared, the representative of the
Czarevitch, whom we may now, we suppose, call Antony
Brade, hastened to tell Mrs. Wadham, like an ingenuous
boy, something to which she listened, very gravely,
looking him steadily in the face, in such a way as almost
to disconcert him. A sort of working seemed to be
going on in her, as palpably as that of swallowing goes
on: the whole Wadhamic system seemed to be engaged
in appropriating the communication.
“Yes,” she said, taking a breath, when he had done;
then, after looking at him another moment, to see if he
had any thing more to say, “Of course that's what it
was, — of course it was. It was fun. — Now we'll have
something else! Yes.”
The boys' time was not up, nor were Mr. Greenwood's
resources for their amusement exhausted.
“It was our intention,” said Mr. Greenwood, “to
give you a list of all the passages from history which
we have omitted to represent to-day, and which are, of
course, reserved; but the list was rather long” (here he
showed a monstrous roll. At which some shrewd
observer said, “Have you got 'em all there? No, you
don't, then!”) Mr. Greenwood went on: “The reading
will therefore be dispensed with.”
The party was chiefly for the boys: the Muse of History
must therefore condescend with a good grace in
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[figure description] Page 375.[end figure description]
speaking of the entertainment. Charades were acted,
in which “buff-fell-oh!” and “hip-hop-pop-what-a-muss,”
and “blunder-buss,” and “mag-pie” and “fileand-throw-pie,”
and others, were spelled out, with great
energy; but they have no special bearing upon our
story, and we shall therefore ask the reader to fancy
and act them over for himself.
When the boys went away, Brade, at Mrs. Wadham's
solicitation, had special leave (considering his part, considering,
also, his yet undiscovered relationship to the
Count) to stay an hour longer. Mr. Parmenter, who was
not now confining himself to any one person, but taking
a general interest in things, congratulated Brade, with
dignity, upon this privilege, as well as upon his acting;
of which the boy, like an intelligent and ingenuous fellow,
as before, said that “being dressed up and keeping
still wasn't any thing.” He looked pleased, of course, at
having succeeded.
“It's a great part of king-craft, though;” said Mr.
Manson, going into high thought.
“The effect of blood, I suppose;” said Mr. Parmenter,
partly but not wholly aside, and with a bow.
eaf637n15* The French of our excellent divine is a little peculiar.
Judged by the ear, this was probably meant for what some would
pronounce “en rapport.”
-- -- p637-389
CHAPTER XXXIII. WHAT THE COUNT IS TO BRADE.
[figure description] Page 376.[end figure description]
A little ceremony was to be used in going to the
dining-room. It was understood that the late Czarevitch
should lead in the late Princess Alexandrovna;
the Cossack Count, of course, conducting the lady of the
house.
Mr. Don, before this took place, was apprised of a
discovery which Mrs. Wadham had made, nearly affecting
his document: “I suppose you know that strange
language everybody was puzzled about was all made
up. Oh, yes! entirely, — altogether. A pretty good
language to be made up for fun?”
“You surprise me, ma'am!” Mr. Don said, a good
deal astonished. “Well, I think with you it was worthy
of a better fate.”
He at once explained the state of things to the Rev.
Mr. Merritt.
“Then my Anglo-Saxon goes to the bottom;” Mr.
Merritt said good-naturedly, as if a great part of the
world was still standing.
The Count seemed not quite to understand the duty
expected of him.
Mr. Greenwood was for the moment not to be found.
Thereupon, the lady, in a very purpose-like way, walked
up to the eminent foreigner, and showed, in the same
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way in which Robinson Crusoe expressed himself to
the savages, that she would take his arm, and they
would go yonder, and, as she explained by forcible
action of the jaws, would there put their mouths to the
best use that most mouths are capable of. The Count,
with his facility at language, caught the meaning
readily; and having gone through with the same
symbolic representation in his turn, and occasioned
another breach of good manners on the part of the
impulsive young people and others, he made a profound
bow and gave the hostess his arm.
It was a disappointment to the company that Brade
and Kate Ryan had abandoned their splendid dresses
(for the boy had been as much in a hurry to get back
to his own, as the girl had shown herself); but it was
still generally agreed that they were an uncommonly
good-looking couple, and well matched.
They were not at all upon the easy and familiar
footing with each other that we once saw, but rather
on that which Kate made a condition of their correspondence
in “The Language.” He addressed her as
“Miss Ryan;” and she (we believe) called him “Mr.
Brade.” They talked together with plenty of reserve
and courteous distance.
The mysterious link of relationship between the
Count and Brade had not been broken when the unknown
tongue was stripped of all mystery; and it was
arranged that they should come next each other, in the
dining-room. The clerical party were not far off; and
Dr. Farwell, very happily, as usual, hit the feeling of
the guests by saying, in his pleasant way, —
“Now here's a place where action is better than
speech.”
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The Count's formal salutation of his young kinsman
(if Brade was his kinsman), and the look with which it
was accompanied, had a strangely exhilarating effect
upon the boy and those near, although Brade, as we
know, was no giggling fellow, to be carried off his
gravity by every trifle.
Mr. Merritt saw the state of the case, and considerately
came in: —
“The foreign Count will be too much for that youngster,”
he said: “some of us older people better take
him.”
Meantime the foreigner, unwilling to remain a stranger,
and wishing to tighten the cords of human brotherhood,
had adopted the readiest way he knew to that
end; and forgetting even, for an instant, the immediate
claims of the lady of the house, whom he had had the
honor to bring in, presented Brade ceremoniously
with a card. But this was only for a moment: then
he turned diligently to the discharge of his duties,
and showed himself more practised in the arts of civilization
and usages of the table than many of his titled
brethren have appeared in this country.
It has been already said that the Rev. Mr. Merritt
professed to have kept by him a good deal of his school-boy
associations; in like manner he had not forgotten
his school-boy manners. He now beckoned for a sight
of this paper, much as any of Brade's comrades might
have done. Brade, smiling, handed him the card; and
Mr. Merritt, turning his back and drawing some of his
neighbors to do the same, evidently enjoyed himself
heartily. The Count, getting no answer, devoted himself
the more strenuously to the comfort and refreshment
of the hostess.
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“This is about as good as my unknown tongue —
Anglo-Saxon and all,” Mr. Merritt said.
“`Kollidg tis kontra gif digri tu mi on languidg?'”
“`Give degree,' sir, is what he means evidently;”
said Mr. Don, good-naturedly giving his help.
“That's plain enough,” said Mr. Merritt; “but what
does the rest of it mean? Will a college in this country
give a degree in his language, or to a man of his
language? I should say he ought to be encouraged,
somehow, to go on. — I thought,” he said, showing the
card to Mr. Greenwood, who happened to pass, “you
told us he didn't know a word of English.”
“I said `there wasn't an English word in him:' well,
I don't see any thing there against it.”
Dr. Farwell's wisdom was close at hand, and came to
the rescue: —
“But these,” said he, “are the phonetic signs: he
sings by the phonetic signs; he spells by the phonetic
signs. `K-o-l-l-i-d-g' isn't according to our spellingbooks;
but isn't it according to another principle, — perhaps
a better principle? The American child says `B'e'd,'
when he's hungry; and `Bed,' when he's sleepy. Now
may not that sound — I put the question as a question
in science — may not that sound represent to that
child — be associated in that child's mind — with the
general idea of comfort? — comfort?”
While this thoughtful speculation was going on,
emphasized, at emphatic points, with the peacefullyshut
fist, across the chest, the great order of things had
also been going on. Ices, salads, jellies, oysters, confectioneries,
in many a tempting form, were carried
about; and trustees and clergymen could not keep
their backs set against them. It happened ill for
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[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]
science that this strong diversion came just as the
Reverend Doctor had been called upon by Mr. Pettie
or some one, to explain “how the Cossack Count
could spell `college,' or `give,' or any of his other
words, in `phonetic signs,' if he hadn't first got the
words that he wanted to spell.” The answer was lost
in the general occupation that followed.
The Count by no means confined himself in his
attentions to his young relative, nor to the lady of the
house; but in active dumb show, with a noble flourish
of manner, he helped half the young ladies near him,
before their attendant gentlemen knew where they
were, — to the amused fright of the young ladies
themselves.
Mr. Merritt's wit was alive, and found vent, confidentially,
but in a pretty loud confidence, to his friend
the Doctor (and a few others): —
“Though the Count don't understand English, I
think, looking at his performances, we should hold him
a-count-able, shouldn't we?”
“I was expecting to make two or three very good
jokes out of that word,” said Dr. Farwell; “and now
here's Merritt spoiled one of 'em, right off.”
The Count, who, of course, heard but a confused
jargon of speech all about him, unless when, like a
warble from his native woods, or a strain from his own
ancestral halls, or, in short, like just what it was, a word
or two came to him from Mr. Greenwood, did not despair
of communicating, in his own way, with the intelligent
life around him. Again he presented a card to
Brade, and accompanied it with a look of inquiry, and
an inquiring attitude of the different members of the
body, eminently foreign. The card this time bore upon
its face the words: —
-- 381 --
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“Konow Russik?”
The Trustees happened at the moment to be engaged
in discussing the arrangement for “Benefactors'
Day,” — the “Triumphal Arch,” or the “Arch of Welcome,”
or whatever it should be called; the Latin
speech, to be in two parts, for Gaston and Brade, but
very short, so as to be fitted for out-door delivery, if
the weather should not be too cold or stormy. Dr.
Farwell was just settling things in their places, as they
ought to be settled, — “that seems conclusive as to
that thing, at that point,” — when Mr. Merritt nudged
his elbow, and it was astonishing, considering the speed
and force with which he moved, how soon he checked
himself to see what Mr. Merritt wished him to see.
Brade, not thinking himself seen, was answering
Count Blakisoff's card as well as he could; showing,
in his eyes, a feeling of the drollness of his own appearance,
and that of the Count, who was gesticulating in
sympathy, and with that gravity which belongs to well-bred
foreigners. Catching sight of the clerical party,
Brade politely presented them with the card, and, leaving
them busy, took the opportunity to make his
modest leave-taking and get away. A more conspicuous
part was played by the Count, who hastily followed
him, after a very low bow to the hostess, and
another to the company; Mr. Greenwood explaining
that “he was drawn by strong ties.”
The air was sharp and biting, as Brade, followed
closely by the noble foreigner, left behind the house
full of pleasant warmth, and sounds of mirth.
“Brade!” said the Count, in a strange accent; and,
as Antony turned, he could see that some change had
taken place in the stranger.
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“Ha!” said the Count, in the cold air, but speaking
as good English as Russian, and putting his hand to
his face.
Antony waited to join him; and, as the Count withdrew
his hand, a great part of the hair of his face came
with it.
“`Kollidg gif digri tu mi on languidge,'” said the
Count, making out pretty well to repeat the words on
his first card.
Brade laughed. “Ulterior College might do it, I suppose,”
he said.
“Didn't you find me out before?” asked Blake, —
for Blake it was, rid of his hair, but still wearing his
frogged coat. “Really? — The trouble about getting
an `honorary' from Ulterior,” said he, running on, in
his old way, “is, if you haven't been there four years,
you've got to prove you wa'n't bright enough to get
through College; or you want to preach or teach, and
people think you don't know enough.”
Some boys, who were out with their sleds, espied
the two, and, after gazing at them, broke forth in shouts:
“Hooraw for Count Blakisoff!” — “Hooray!” “Hooraw
for Imperial Highness!” and escorted them home
in triumph.
-- -- p637-396
CHAPTER XXXIV. BENEFACTORS' DAY.
[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]
Mr. Parmenter's “evening,” after Mrs. Wadham,
was handsome and costly. Except the boys, he had
most of her guests, and some others. The weather had
grown still colder; but there was to be a full moon;
and, as snow already covered the ground, the night
would be a fine one, and everybody was in good spirits.
Mrs. Osborn was not there, and there were those who
said that “that giving of the mitten was a genuine
thing;” others “didn't believe it: it was only fun
before people.” But she was not there.
Mrs. Wadham was at Mr. Parmenter's, and gave a
good deal of tone to things, in whatever part of the
house she was. The rumor of Blake's transformation,
and changing-back, had found its way up; and the city-gentlemen,
having got an inkling of the supposed relationship
to Brade, laughed heartily, and said a good
many funny things about “the other boy's Cossack
uncle,” and called him “a first-rate actor.”
Mrs. Wadham, when the intelligence first reached
her, treated it as a deliberative body treats a report from
a committee, and “accepted” it, as it were, for her
own consideration, by saying “Yes.” She changed
color a little, to be sure; and then was silent over it,
until she had disposed of it within herself, and, as it
-- 384 --
[figure description] Page 384.[end figure description]
were, “adopted” it. This all took place at Mr. Parmenter's;
and Mr. Greenwood had been so occupied
with different gentlemen as not to have been able to
exchange any conversation with her, further than a
hurried exclamation, in passing: “How that chap did
impose upon us!”
Mrs. Wadham made her answer, in the hearing of
those who were near: “I'm sure I gave 'em chance
enough to find him out. I introduced Dr. Farwell to
him; and I introduced Mr. Parmenter, and Mr. Merritt,
and Mr. Don. They had chance enough.”
The buzzing of animated conversation; the admiring
exclamations; the compliments paid to the host; the
moral reflections and sagacious observations made
about him and his fortunes; the arrangement of
lights, so as to “bring out” the pictures; the glances
of eyes and of speech, — all this would make a very
good subject for the pen; but we pass it, and even the
talk about Benefactors' Day, and the boys' coming match
on the ice, as not necessary to our story. One happening
we describe, as connected with Brade and with
what is coming.
It had become known throughout the company that
Mr. Parmenter was looking for a very distinguished
guest; the wiser ones said, “for an eminent musician.”
An hour or two late, there was a stir outside, and a
busy-looking movement on the part of the host, and
little eagernesses among the guests; and a man with a
military cloak thrown over his cap, and high boots,
with fur tops, meeting the cloak, was brought through
the rooms, with much ceremony on Mr. Parmenter's
part and very little on his own, and taken into a room
beyond, where, as some of the gentlemen remarked,
-- 385 --
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“that foreign fellow was getting some grub, after his
sleigh-ride.” “He ain't another Cossack Count, is
he?”
After a while he came out, having his cloak now
hanging from his shoulders (his boots still on), and
was wiping his chops and beard with his fingers. Mr.
Parmenter made it to be understood that this was
“The Maestro!” (with much accent: it was repeated
as “the Maelstrom!” by one of the ready wits)
“Volkov, the great composer!” In that character,
he was looked at and commented upon, as he stood
with his back to the piano, uttering occasional very
“basso” words and laughs. “Queer-looking `company
'-rig,” some said. “Becoming, though,” others
thought. “Genius does so,” was a third opinion. A
crashing sound, from the heavy cords of the piano
behind him, brought a sudden stillness, during which
Mr. Volkov, without heeding either sound or stillness,
kept on, at intervals, uttering his deep-toned speech
and laughter. A tinkling, as of fairy sheep-bells, but
rhythmical and melodious, came from the piano (so Mr.
Manson enthusiastically described it): all ears were
strained to catch it. A sound, as of a fairy people
dancing to the pipe and tabor, followed; then a march;
then a dirge; and while all ears, except of the artist,
were strained to hear, he stood with his back to the
piano, asking questions about the snow in different
winters, — how deep, how early, how late.
“Why don't Parmenter show him his fiddle?” some
asked; and in a moment were answered. There was a
sudden blaze of light thrown on the Stradivarius. The
host had been standing near the artist, and listening,
with bowed head. He now ceremoniously spoke: —
-- 386 --
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“I'm very sorry to interrupt you, sir, and to deprive
us of the treat we're enjoying; but many of my friends
are a little impatient to have you see a very precious
relic in my possession, — a genuine Stradivarius!”
“Stradivarius!” said the Maestro, leaving the piano,
and following. (Of course the golden thread of music
broke, when he walked away.)
The Stradivarius of Mr. T. Parmenter, as Mr. T.
“Parmenter's fiddle,” was as well known, almost, as
the regalia in Edinburgh Castle, or elsewhere, and the
company flocked over to its stand.
Here, having allowed a little time for things to settle,
Mr. Parmenter drew from his pocket a package of worn
and yellow papers; and, holding them in his hand,
smiling, made a little speech: —
“You know, better than I can tell you, sir, that the
violin of Cremona is very famous and very rare. I
think there were three houses most eminent for making
them. They are so scarce as to command a fabulous
price. — I suppose I ought to be ashamed,” he added,
bashfully, “to confess what I paid for this; but the
evidence” —
The great artist looked glum at the sight of the
papers, as if he feared the having to read them all
through, and proceeded to his own line of evidence.
Taking the “Cremona” from its cushion, he tightened
up the old strings, whose fibre had been toughened by
the goat's milk and mutton of Padan fields, and first
attuned to music in the open night-air of Cathedralleads
or humbler roofs, or in the little-frequented and
much-resounding halls of the University. The Maestro
ran his fingers up and down and across the tightened
strings, faster than common ears could follow; then
-- 387 --
[figure description] Page 387.[end figure description]
rapped hard on the back of the instrument with his
knuckles; then squeezed with his two thumbs the
front, as if he would break it in, like the breast of a
chicken; then, with a nail of one of his many-ringed
fingers, scraped at the dark crust; and then loosened
the strings, and laid down the Stradivarius, saying that
“he was yoost so goot als how he ever was. He never
was goot for nodsing, 't all. — They had sheeted the goot
friend, Parmenter.”
At this candid announcement, the sudden expressions
in the many faces gathered about were worth a painter's
study. Many glances were interchanged; some mouths
were pursed up, and eyelids rounded; some tongues
were thrust into cheeks; a back was significantly
scratched; shoulders were shrugged to the ears. One
face, staring with all its eyes, hearing with all its ears,
was particularly amusing: it was that of Mrs. Wadham's
man, Eldridge, who, somehow, happened to be
among the foremost by-standers. The lady herself had
not observed him. She had received the artist's words
with silent, open mouth, and had closed upon it with a
deep “Um!”
Mr. Parmenter took the event gallantly: —
“I suppose, sir,” he said, smiling, though very red,
“you would hardly care to read these vouchers,” and
he put them back in his pocket. “We must accept the
verdict — unless” (looking round at his guests) “we
can get it amended.” Then, spying Eldridge, now
engaged in searching the faces of the on-lookers, he
said: “You were looking for Mrs. Wadham, I suppose;”
and having recalled that intelligent observer
to himself and his business, he said, pointing to the
Cremona, “This needs a taste for antiquity to appreciate
-- 388 --
[figure description] Page 388.[end figure description]
it. Perhaps, sir, you'll favor us with a little music from
an instrument of to-day, which, you have shown us, can
`discourse' very sweet sounds.”
So, with this pretty speech, Mr. Parmenter turned
off his disappointment. Mr. Don said, “I think he
didn't make allowance for the age of the fiddle, sir. I
think you told me it was three hundred years old.”
Mrs. Wadham asked, “You've kept your vouchers, I
suppose?” much as she might ask if his securities had
escaped a fire.
Mr. Parmenter devoted himself to his guests. The
Maestro, after bestowing an hour or more on this social
gathering, out of his way, was whirled off again to a
railroad station, and in due time the guests were scattered.
The public, in its informal assemblings at the store
and the post-office, did its duty by all parties, — the
host, the great musician, and the fiddle. We have seen
that one of its channels of information lay through
Eldridge; and Eldridge had had special advantages.
Several intelligent persons had also questioned Mr.
Parmenter, before twenty-four hours had gone by,
whether “it was true that that musical man had
knocked the old fiddle all to smash?” and whether
“that foreigner hadn't ben ruther aggravatin'?” and
Mr. Parmenter had taken every thing very quietly, saying
that “the fiddle was safe in its place, where he
should be glad to have any of his neighbors come and
see it;” and that “Volkov was considered the greatest
living authority in music.”
Now, the public, taking the whole thing in hand,
sifting and weighing, came to the conclusion that “Parmenter
was awful cut up, when the Dutchman spoke
-- 389 --
[figure description] Page 389.[end figure description]
up, as pert as could be, and said `his fiddle wa'n't wuth
a snap, then, nor wouldn't be, if he kep' it a thousand
year.'”
All now was looking forward to the new “Benefactors'
Day,” and working for it: the great doings of the
forenoon and the great match on the ice. “An arch was
to be made by Mr. Chambers, the carpenter, and decorated
by the boys, and then set up on one of the
school-roads or paths, and somewhere where it would
be sheltered, because it would have to be all covered
up till it was unveiled, and, if the winds should get at
it, they'd make short work of it.” So ran the talk
of the School; and accordingly Mr. Chambers built it
on the large barn-floor, and Lawrence and Lamson and
Mason were busy for all the spare time of three days,
in illuminating the front with the words “Hail, Benefactors!”
in beautiful Church-text.
A steady, soaking rain set in during this time, threatening
a thaw; but it cleared off, and cold came steadily
on again.
The arch, as decorated, and covered three or four feet
down by canvas which was to be drawn away at “The
Unveiling,” was set where no wind could reach it, and
neatly held up at the back by shores let into the icecovered
ground. The monitors undertook the charge
of it, in high hope; for all was ready, and the evening
promised a fair morrow. It was dark when the
last cluster of boys broke up; and Brade, in a sudden
freak of liveliness and nimbleness, as soon as the rest
were gone, set out to climb the arch, and climbed it
safely, in spite of Peters's earnest remonstrances, urging
what a risk and how needless a risk he was taking,
“with that canvas on it,” and that he himself “could
not bear to see it.”
-- 390 --
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As Brade sat astride at the top, and waved his hat in
the faint light of the rising moon, with one hurrah, Mr.
Parmenter, unseen, wished him “Good evening!” and
complimented him as “an aspiring genius;” advising,
however, his speedy coming down, for his own sake
and that of the arch. So Brade made his harmless
boy-brag that he was not afraid, and came down;
receiving the benefactor's very courteous expression of
“hope to see him to-morrow in an honorable position.”
Then, with Peters, who “was glad to see him on dry
land again,” at which blunder both laughed, he went
into the house.
The next dawn rose over the earth as if all things
above and around were ready to make a fine winter's
day for the new holiday.
The younger boys were astir early, their blood all
bustling; and the elders were full also of the great
match and the doings at the arch beforehand, and
talked them over. Gaston and Brade, as we know,
were to come out in Latin; and each had contrived a
little joke to give point to his short speech. One was
going to wish that “it might hail benefactors,” and the
other that “the benefactors might be hale and hearty.”
This latter, being hard to make telling in Latin, was to
be clapped till hands were sore. Some of the Trustees
were to speak, — not too many, the boys hoped.
At ten of the clock in the forenoon, Rector Warren
was at the arch, with his boys: Gaston and Brade wearing
badges of red and blue ribbon. At ten of the
clock, a handsome open sleigh, bearing Mr. Parmenter,
handsomely furred, and Dr. Farwell in a skull-cap and
muffled thoroughly, and Mr. Merritt, and Mr. Don,
drew up. Sleighs full of neighbors, and a small crowd
of neighbors on foot, had gathered, and were gathering.
-- 391 --
[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]
Mr. Parmenter sat combining a look of dignified indifference
with a look of modest consciousness.
Dr. Farwell rose, and, on a hint from Mr. Merritt,
stood upon the seat.
“I am called upon,” he said, his eyes twinkling from
beside his nose, and from among his mufflings, “to
make a speech. It seems to be thought that I know
how to do that thing which is called a speech.” (His
hands being in his coat-pockets, the gestures were
chiefly made with the shoulders, and by a flapping of
the arms against the sides; and in this way, considering
his greatness of manner, he was stately and
emphatic.) “Have any of the boys who hear me thought
what an occasion is? An `occasion' is a time. If I
act at the proper time, I act on the proper occasion.
Now an occasion may be a great occasion; and men
are said to rise” (here the gesture was easy, — a going
up upon the toes, and down again) “to the greatness
of the occasion. — This is a great occasion! —
Perhaps benefactors need institutions: institutions also
need benefactors. This occasion brings the two together:
the institution welcomes its benefactors with
a simple and significant display” (Mr. Parmenter was
moved, and lifted his hat). “The taste and judgment
of teachers, the zeal and skill of pupils.” — Here,
bowing his head, he gave the signal for withdrawing
the canvas. Russell and Lamson ran it off; and the
arch, with its illuminated inscription, was left bare.
The orator started: everybody was astonished: there
was the illumination; but there was, moreover, dangling
below by a bit of tarred cord, the wreck of a junk
bottle, to which was fastened a great sprawling inscription,
“MELLO TRICK;” and, furthermore, there was a
-- 392 --
[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]
strange-looking black fiddle, with “Stradle various”
upon it, hanging by another bit of tarred string.
The orator paused; but the intelligent neighbors
began to question: “What d'ye s'pose that's for?” “'S
he goin' to read his dokyments 'n public?” — “You'd
better get a little nearer, Eldridge,” said a resolute
female voice in one of the sleighs.
The reader knows that boys are boys, but will
believe that the St. Bart's boys kept pretty steady.
Meantime, the combined expression of Mr. Parmenter's
face had become simplified and more intense. He
was standing, now, in his sleigh, handsomely furred,
as he was, and spoke with a hastiness unwonted in
him: —
“Any thing like good discipline in the School,” he
said, “would have prevented” —
The orator spoke again: —
“It is hardly to be supposed that boys of Saint Bartholomew's
School” —
Mr. Don also opened his mouth: —
“I can hardly conceive” —
“I saw one young gentleman on top of the arch
after it was set up last night,” said Mr. Parmenter,
still not using his self-control.
“Of course you don't think I did that,” said Brade, as
hastily.
Peters stood forth like a born champion: —
“Brade only climbed up for fun,” he said: “I was
there.”
Mr. Parmenter was either too angry or too much
occupied to answer; and Brade walked straight over
to Rector Warren, who was just coming forward, and
said, “I hope you'll excuse me, sir: I can't speak this!”
-- 393 --
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Rector Warren, also, seemed too much occupied to
give him much heed, and came forward in a hasty
mood, like the rest, and said: —
“This is some mischievous prank. Of course no boy
in School”—
The orator, who had kept his stand on the seat, here
began again: —
“I can hardly suppose that any one of those” (from
the rhyme he seemed unconsciously to take strength)
“imbued with the spirit of St. Bartholomew's School
would insult this solemnity — I speak advisedly —
this solemnity” —
“If he did, he ought to smoke for it! that's all I've
got to say,” said Mr. Merritt.
By this time Russell, with help from Blake and
others, had rid the arch of its incongruous hangings.
The fiddle (a very rough thing) was handed about
among the boys with some laughter, — Will Hirsett,
with a grin, trying to play upon it like a banjo. Mr.
Parmenter had recovered himself.
“We've had our little interruption,” he said, smiling.
“One of the poets assures us that `the wisest plans of
mice and men often go wrong.' Our young orators
won't be in the mood for speaking. I've just got from
town a quantity of West India fruit. With the consent
of the Trustees and the Rector of the School, I will
ask the Rector's acceptance of it, for the boys, and
propose to adjourn till the great match on the ice,
with three cheers for St. Bartholomew's School.”
“I'd sooner break up the fiddle than break up the
meeting,” said Mrs. Wadham.
Mr. Parmenter's proposition was at once adopted by
everybody, and, after three huzzas, in which the
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[figure description] Page 394.[end figure description]
bottleneck and the fiddle bore a conspicuous part, the gathering
broke up.
“How strangely we are made!” said Dr. Farwell
comfortably, having sunk down in a corner of the
sleigh and drawn up the robes. “Sometimes it seems
as if we had the wrong parts: my heart was meant for
a soldier, — a Cæsar or a Bonaparte. If there'd been a
concealed rebellion under that bottle and that violin, I
felt when I was speaking as if I wanted to face it, to
put it down!” His hands being still in his coat-pockets,
he emphasized by setting his lips firmly together, and
flapping his elbows against his sides.
“It won't do to let that stop here,” said Mr. Merritt.
-- -- p637-408
CHAPTER XXXV. THE MATCH ON THE ICE.
[figure description] Page 395.[end figure description]
“The Great Middle Class,” the self-confident Third
Form, had got the Fourth to join them, and had challenged
the rest of the School, at hockey, on Lake Thrash;
and the school was eager to “stop the bragging of those
everlasting Thirds.” Stores of hockey-sticks had been
laid in; Blake making much fun with his queer-looking
set, and Towne much show of his, while Gaston bragged
of one favorite that it was “tough as the oak on Alpine
heights, that wrestles with the winds, this way and that,
at ipsa hœret scopulis.”
The boys had not been to the lake since the beginning
of the rain; but there had been a day or two of
steady freezing.
The day, as we have seen, was splendid; and nothing
that had happened, or “might, could, would, or
should” happen, was to hinder or hamper the sport of
that afternoon. All day the flags were flying on the
boat-houses at the lake. All day the whole landscape—
beautiful as it was, with ups and downs, and sweeping,
wooded dales — was sending back to the sun, from
its smooth, icy crust, a dazzling splendor. No wind
was blowing, and the steady cold seemed breaking
again.
The match was to come off at two o'clock, precisely.
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Russell was to call the game at that hour; and, after
that, “whoever was not on the spot, it was his own
loss.” Dinner was hurried, as we may suppose, and but
half eaten, and then, in troops, the boys went down,
the smallest ones, of course, leading the rest. All were
merry as kids and kittens.
One company, in which are Will Hirsett, Wilkins,
Dover, Ransom, and Wadham, Second, are rehearsing
the more eminent attractions.
“Ned Prouty is to be there with his French horn;”
and “there's to be the biggest bonfire that was ever
seen, — Mr. Stout has carried down ever so much cordwood;”
and “there's to be coffee, and chocolate, and
lemonade, just as people like.” “Do you hear that?
There's Prouty! There ain't a man in the United
States can beat him!”
Our readers, to have the scene well before them, must
remember that one of the chief beauties of this lake
abounding in beauties (may ruthless and tasteless roadmakers
never spoil it!) is St. Bart's Bay. To make this,
the western shore, at less than half a mile's distance
from the northern, trends away, rounding Crystal Point;
and then the bay, or cove, sets in for three-quarters of
a mile to the westward. The southern or further shore
of this bay is winding and wooded, with granite cliffs
half-way toward the west, and then a beach. The northern
shore winds less. On this, and about as far from
the west as Crystal Point, stand the boys' boat-houses.
The scene now lies before us. Yonder up the bay, and
over, near the southern shore, are people gathering. On
the road, along the western end, can be descried horses
and sleigh-loads of people; and there are janglings and
tinklings of sleigh-bells on the way. From the lake
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[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]
a blue smoke is beginning to curl upward in the still
air; and there are boys, we may be sure, busy as ants,
feeding and fanning the flames.
A line of flags, on short staves, stretches across from
inside of Boat-house-pier to the shore inside of Crystal
Point.
From the far gathering comes, now and then, a single
living note or two of Prouty's French horn, as if
thrown out to stir and waken, as they do, the merriment
and happiness of every thing about.
“What flag is that?” asked Russell, as soon as the
turn on the lake-path brought the boat-houses into
sight. “There's the Caput, already!”
“Why, that's the old Admiral's bunting!” said Blake.
“Don't you see the S. B. and the dagger?”
“No, no,” said Russell. “I don't mean that: what's
that one over the `eight-oar'? I never saw it before.
It wasn't there this morning.”
“That's Peters's,” said Meadows, who was within
hearing. “His mother made it for the Rosicrucian
Nine; and they're going to wear their red-cross shirts
to-day. It's all silk.”
Russell spoke again: —
“Now, see here, fellows! just at this turn, where
nobody can help seeing, we've got a sign up, `WARNING!
Look out and don't go east of the flags, for
your life!' Mr. Folsom made us ten of 'em, and
we've got some on the flag-staffs, and some all round.
There's been notice given twice in school, and we've
got to do it again down here. Has Brade come down
yet? He's got the ball.”
“Maybe he feels badly about this morning, and won't
come,” said Hutchins.
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“Poh! That isn't the stuff he's made of, let me tell
you,” answered Blake. “Mr. Parmenter don't get over
it so easy, I bet you! Wa'n't the Caput wrathy?”
“Brade was mad: who wouldn't be?” said Russell.
“But when he found everybody knew he was right, he
didn't care. Now, fellows, the sun lies too much on our
side of the bay; we've got to work over toward the other
shore, so we've had the floats* from the boat-houses,
and any thing else we could get, carried over that way
for seats and standing. Look at the spectators! All
Eastham 'll be down, you see if they don't. Call all
the fellows up here, will you? Where's Prouty?”
Straightway began all manner of calls and cries, for
Prouty was over near the other side; but the boys
gathered as dutifully as bees to kindred music.
“There's a squad of fellows coasting down that bank!
call 'em, Walters, will you?” said Russell, whose eye
was, as it ought to be, over the whole field of sight.
“The Caput's there, and Mr. Bruce and Mr. Hamersley;
and there's Mr. Manson; and there are the Wadhams,
and Mr. Parmenter, and Dr. Farwell, and lots of 'em.
Now, fellows, look here!” he said, as the boys on this
side of the lake gathered, “there isn't any safety outside
of the line from here to Crystal Point, because
they've been cutting ice. The place is all up in our
bay; and then we've got to go away over to the other
side to get out of the sun. (Wilkins! don't make such
a noise, please, we're laying down the rules again, and
the lives of some fellows may depend upon it. Everybody's
got to listen.) Now, we've got four base-ball
-- 399 --
[figure description] Page 399.[end figure description]
flags set right across, clear of all danger. (You see
where Lamson's looking at 'em.) Nobody's to go outside
of that line to the eastward; inside there's no danger.
If you see anybody undertaking to pass that line,
knock him down! Now we've got seven minutes to
get over there and begin.”
A shout followed Russell's laying down of the law,
showing the School's acquiescence in the requirements
of recognized authority. The sound of Ned Prouty's
horn came, smooth, and clear, and inspiring, across the
ice. A Scots tune, — “Come through the heather!
Around him gather! Ye're a' the welcomer early,” and
so on, Prouty was playing; and away the boys went, large
and small, Russell, and Blake, and Walters, no less than
Hirsett, and Wilkins, and Meadows, and lesser ones, to
the edge of the ice, and put on their skates, and were
off to see which would come first to the ground. Prouty
was beginning Yankee Doodle.
“There's Brade, now!” cried some of the hindmost,
who began beckoning with hands, and arms, and hats,
and caps, to hurry the loiterers, — two or three boys
who were now doing their best to make up for lost
time.
Yankee Doodle, well played, is enough, almost, to
set the very trees off their standing. The boys from
the edge of the lake were all scampering over the ice
toward the further side, after giving their last shout to
Brade and his friends to hurry; and, hurry-scurry down
the hill, come the three laggards.
They near the bend in the boat-house path, by which
the warning-board is set, in full sight; and Peters cries
out, in triumph, —
“There she is! Look at her! Isn't the red cross a
beauty!”
-- 400 --
[figure description] Page 400.[end figure description]
They all look over at the flags.
Peters was strongly inclined to linger and admire;
but there was no time. Panting, they all agreed, as
they ran, that the red cross was the handsomest flag in
the School.
“There's the Caput, and everybody!” cried Brade,
panting. “Down with us!”
Ned Prouty's music came as fresh and clear across
the lake as if on its way it had gathered sparkle and
tinkle from the frozen water; and it seemed to be
joined by accordant notes from hill and dale.
The three late-comers are at the bank. An inarticulate
noise of voices from the further side comes to their
ears, and they can understand it, without distinguishing
a word, to be a call, from fifty tongues, to hurry.
One or two boys set off from the crowd to meet them.
“If it hadn't been for this ball!” said Brade; and he
held up to be seen, if it might, at the other side, the
ball which he had in charge.
“Plaguy thing!” said Peters. “Long enough we
looked for it!”
“Play's called! They're at it now! Those fellows
are going back!” cried Remsen; and, in an instant, the
three were on the lake.
The French horn had ceased to play.
“There it goes!” said Brade, who tripped at the
edge of the ice, and lost the ball from his hand. The
ball skimmed over the smooth surface, and the loser
started after it. Remsen, as he put on his skates, called
out, —
“Look out for thin ice!”
Peters started up. “Where's the line?” he cried,
frightened, and set off, without his skates, as Brade was,
-- 401 --
[figure description] Page 401.[end figure description]
to follow. Already Brade had come so near the ball
as to have touched it with his hockey-stick, but, failing
to catch it, he had, of course, given it a new start.
Now, from the other side, came one far shout, whose
words were indistinguishable. Then arose an inarticulate
din, and a rush. Peters called to Brade to stop,
but followed on himself as fast as he could run on the
glossy level, still shouting. The din from the crowd
became an uproar.
“I've got it!” cried Brade; and at the very instant
there was a sound of rending of the ice in all directions,
and a dreadful plunge, and the boy was in the lake,
where the water was deep enough to float a ship of
the line like a leaf.
The din, which had been continually drawing nearer,
suddenly became an utter stillness, as if the splash in the
deadly water had swallowed up every living soul, except
one figure not far away from the frightful scene,
and one among the on-lookers afar.
Peters uttered a shriek, and for an instant faltered.
A terrible cry of agony, in a girl's voice, clear as the
track of lightning through the air, and leaving a stillness
as utter as is the blackness after the flash, came from
the bay.
“Stop, Peters!” shouted the Caput's voice; “and
everybody that can't help, do keep away! Keep back!
Keep back! Where are the floats?”
Mr. Parmenter appeared at his best here, and was
quick and business-like. He sent for medical men; he
sent for ropes. Everybody was eager to help, — to go
or stay. Horses and sleighs were ready; lives, — every
thing.
Peters half turned his head; but all along now he
-- 402 --
[figure description] Page 402.[end figure description]
guided himself by some rule of his own. He did not
rush headlong a single heedless step, and yet he hurried
forward, bending over, steadied by his hockey-stick,
and peering at the ice as he went, and never
taking off his eyes from the faithless and dangerous
ground on which he was setting his feet.
Shouts that he could not have failed to hear called
him by name. He never turned; he never gave the
least heed. Every thought, and all his life, seemed
to be given to the one thing that he was doing.
A gasping, choking cry came from the drowning
boy; and the noise of ice breaking again and again, as
Brade, in his struggle to save himself out of death, in
which he was already, clutched again and again the
treacherous water's crust. Peters groaned.
“Keep up! keep up!” he shouted. “I'll help” (the
word he was so fond of), and, never lifting his eyes
from the ice, he went on.
Now, suddenly, he changes his way; and, never stopping,
goes down, full length, upon the ice, and pushing
his hockey-stick before him, works himself forward
with his left hand, slowly perhaps, but he has not far
to go.
“Catch hold of me! Remsen! some one!” he cried,
working himself forward.
By this time the noise from all sides had gathered,
till it had become like the roar of the sea. Some sounds
might be distinguished; but there was one that made
itself felt, as if it were from the very soul of the scene,—
a pleading cry from that girl's voice, which had been
heard before.
Meantime, and all the while, the mass of human life
that was near this struggle with sudden death was
-- 403 --
[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]
hurriedly bringing all it had, of strength and wisdom,
to the rescue. Dr. Evans and Dr. Mott, of Weston,
had been sent for by Mr. Parmenter. It seemed long,
long; but it was only two or three minutes since the
boy had broken through. There had been a half mile
to come over; but the rush to the rescue had begun
the moment that Brade started the wrong way from the
shore.
“Catch hold!” cried one of the foremost of those
who were running upon the ice, but still a little way
off. He seemed to be repeating Peters's call.
It was the new tutor, Mr. Hamersley, deathly pale.
He stripped himself of his outer coat, as he ran, and
let it fall.
“Make a line of men, right here, at these flags!”
said Rector Warren, assisted by Mr. Parmenter and
others, who all were near enough now to help.
“The ropes are coming,” said Mr. Parmenter, beckoning
to bring them.
There was a hurried sound of trampling and of sleigh-bells
close at hand, and a confused shout, and the line
opened. A horse came through, and behind him, on a
large boat-house-float, to which he was harnessed, was
Mr. Stout, with three or four boys. Others of the
Tutors, too, were close by to give their help.
Mr. Hamersley, following Peters's plan, had already
gone down flat upon the ice, and was working himself
forward, as Peters had done; but the leader was still
many yards ahead, and working on.
Oh, what a sight it was! Amid the broken floes of
ice, Brade's head could be descried, and his arms, laying
themselves on one support after another, which
gave way as he tried it. A sort of drowning moan
came from him.
-- 404 --
[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]
“Here! Here!” cried Peters; and Brade struck out
for him. The hooked stick, thrust out ahead, was nearing
the water; but the ice broke, as Brade put up his
arms upon it. The haggard boy already looked like
one belonging to The Dead.
“I'm coming, Peters, — brave boy!” said Mr. Hamersley.
Without a single word, but with his lips set fast
together, Mr. Stout had unhitched his horse, as soon as
he got a little way clear of the throng, and had given
him in charge to Lamson, to lead back. Between the
silent man and the three silent boys who stayed with
him (Remsen was one, and Blake was one, and Towne
was one), there seemed a perfect understanding. All
four worked together as instantly as if they had a single
will, and had done this same work many a time
before. The Rector of the School came up. He saw
that all was going well, and, saying nothing, joined himself
to the party, looking agonizingly towards the fatal
struggle, and laying hold, with the foremost, of one of
the fasts of the float, to urge it forward.
“One o' them ropes! from Prouty!” said Mr. Stout,
briefly, to Blake; “and follow right up!” The kindly
French-horn-player was already near.
Before the words could have been understood, the
Rector had rushed toward the advancing messengers,
and in another moment was back again, close upon the
light raft of boards now sliding fast over the glossy ice
to the danger, and had flung a coil of rope upon the
middle of it.
There was a great noise of men's and women's voices,
and yet there were those who marked the frightful,
haggard face of Kate Ryan, as, yielding and trusting to
-- 405 --
[figure description] Page 405.[end figure description]
Mr. Manson, she was led and half borne away by
him.
But a cry suddenly goes up, — “He's got him!” and a
sort of unthinking start forward was made by the
crowd, but instantly checked.
Peters's hook seemed to have caught Brade's clothing,
or to have been grappled by the drowning boy.
Some sound was made by Peters, as if he would speak;
but no words were heard. Mr. Hamersley pushed himself
forward.
“Hold on! hold on, Peters!” he said, — “hold on!”
“That other boy ought to be stopped!” the crowd
shouted; but Peters heeded nothing but his purpose.
Mr. Stout, with his crew, had never halted or hesitated
for the twinkling of an eye.
“Now, Blake, there's new ice,” he said. “You and
I stay back” (all the while he was fastening a rope with
a long free end to the front part of the float, then going
to the back and making a running noose there).
“Towne!” — he began.
Another of the fatal crackings of the ice was heard,
and Peters was in the ice-cold water! A shout of
horror went up from those who were looking on and
could not help. Again a start was made by the crowd;
but it was checked.
Mr. Stout cast one glance. “Be we all going in?”
he said; but his hands kept about their business all
the time.
“Stop that man! Don't let anybody else be drowned!”
shouted the crowd.
“Bring on your raft!” called Mr. Hamersley, now
rising to hands and knees, and so still making his way
forward, almost as if he were running.
-- 406 --
[figure description] Page 406.[end figure description]
“O great and loving God! Help! help! for Jesus's
sake!” cried Rector Warren, baring his head, and flinging
his arms forth.
“Amen! Lord! Lord!” cried many a voice.
“Where's that other float?” Mr. Stout called, as he
finished with the first. “Towne, you and Remsen
must do it now. Down on your bellies!” (it was done
before it was said) “I won't tie you; trust to your grip,
if the world goes, and look to God!” said Mr. Stout.
The boys were off, shoving the raft from behind,
while Mr. Stout and Blake “paid out” the rope, flinging
the end back to be grasped by those behind, — the
first of whom, of course, was the most interested, Rector
Warren. “Wait, Hamersley!” he shouted.
A crash, and Tutor Hamersley was in the icy water,
as if of his own will. He did not sink, and, to the horror
of the lookers-on, his was the only head to be seen
among the floes.
“Keep your fast grip!” said Mr. Stout, in a clear,
low voice. “Cling to your raft!” and so the boys
pushed forward, and the rope slid through his hand.
Already Mr. Wilson and others had brought a second
float, and made it ready. The Rector seized and helped
it forward. Mr. Parmenter expostulated against his
running needless risks; but, with his hired men, helped.
The Tutor struck out among the floating ice, and
grappled something.
“Now, now!” he cried.
“Now!” said the crowd, “on with your raft!”
Remsen and Towne pushed forward bravely. Mr.
Hamersley seized their raft, and got one elbow up upon
it. Instantly Mr. Stout called to his boys to back
away, and they came safely out.
-- 407 --
[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]
Meanwhile, with both hands and his one free arm,
Mr. Hamersley strove to heave a senseless, heavy mass
out of the water. The second raft went forward, a
little way off.
“Here, boys!” said Mr. Stout, shoving with his foot
a piece of scantling. “Tilt your float up with this, and
while you're doing it keep tight hold to your raft!”
Even while he was speaking to them, he flung a rope
to Mr. Hamersley. Then to the boys, again: “Now
prize it up, further along; but look out and hold tight!”
he added.
The work went on as fast as speech almost, and yet
the time seemed to be wasting.
“Quick! quick! can't anybody help him?” said
the crowd.
Beloved and esteemed as Brade was, the persevering
heroism of the boy who had fearlessly, and not at all
unwisely, but thoughtfully, bestowed his life to save the
other, had so impressed all witnesses that a cry went
up, “Have you got Peters? Is it Peters?”
The lifting and sloping of the raft was not all that
was wanted; but yet it helped the faithful worker in
that chilling water.
“Haul! haul!” he cried out, huskily.
There seemed a great throb in the air from the crowd,
and a low sobbing, as from one man, while the soaked,
heavy, lifeless mass was dragged over the cracking
ice.
“Brade! Brade!” said the crowd.
“Now one tremendous shove! with all your might!”
cried Rector Warren, whose movements had been little
noticed, but who was working in a sort of frenzy. As
the new float darted forward, he flung himself at full
-- 408 --
[figure description] Page 408.[end figure description]
length on it, and went out. The ice cracked, but did
not give way.
“Who's saving that man?” cried the crowd. “He
can't live there.”
“Get Hamersley out!” said Dr. Evans, who had just
come, “or you'll have another patient for me. Take
this boy carefully, and carry him gently. Don't jolt
him. As fast as you can go, and go gently. The
School's the nearest place.”
Ned Prouty took the heavy, dripping mass like a
baby, and bore it tenderly. Remsen and others followed.
Mr. Stout kept steadily at his work, without a word;
and, before the poor boy's body had been taken off, its
rescuer had been dragged to solid ice, sinking, and
shivering, and shaking, livid and nearly dead, but
mindful enough to gasp a single word, “Peters!”
Two of his brother-tutors bore him off.
Now all thoughts were turned to Peters.
The Rector of the School, on hands and knees,
peered for an instant from the float, which had been
checked just as it reached the edge, and then threw
himself in among the floating cakes of ice and struck
out definitely.
“He sees the other!” was the cry of strangers. Many
said, “He's after Peters!”
He had got something, and among cakes of ice made
his way back and got the rope in some way fastened
round his burden, then helped it up.
“Remember bones and flesh, men! pull easy!” said
Mr. Stout; and the neighbors were gentle and tender
enough. It was drawn out as fast as a heavy and
jointed body could be drawn out of the water, and
-- 409 --
[figure description] Page 409.[end figure description]
over the breaking, thin ice. Once on the float, and it
was in their hands in a moment.
There was no crowding or rudeness. There was no
cry, as there had been before. The crowd of neighbors
held themselves back; the boys kept a little aloof.
“There's a hero, if ever anybody was!” said Mr.
Stout, still working. No one else spoke; but there was
a reverent and tender way about all, which showed that
they all thought one thing.
“It isn't the first brave thing he's done,” said Blake,
with tears in his eyes.
Mr. Stout's float was shoved out to the Rector without
an instant's delay.
As the Red Cross came to sight, on Peters's bosom,
Towne said, kindly, “Those flags ought to be half-mast!”
but Blake said, “I wouldn't fuss with 'em; I
believe that's death!” Russell approved.
As they bore off the body, tenderly and reverently,
the Rector, with help, followed. Mr. Parmenter's sleigh
was ready for him; but it seemed best that he should
walk; and so, with help, he followed the bearers up
the hill.
The crowd broke up. Many followed; many lingered;
many went sadly from the gloomy spot, in
different directions across the ice.
Mr. Stout steadily gathered up the ropes; gave to
some of the men, who offered themselves freely, a few
directions about gathering the property together and
putting it back; then glanced at the fire, blazing alone
upon the ice, and the flags flying for the holiday, and
turned to go.
“It's my opinion,” said he, “if there'd ben another
-- 410 --
[figure description] Page 410.[end figure description]
boy to follow Peters and hang on to him, they'd all
have been here alive.”
“You mean Remsen?” asked Towne, who had
waited, silently.
“I don't say that, but if there'd been somebody to
follow up. But — 'tis so, and I suppose 'twas meant
to be so.”
eaf637n16* So the landing-bridges were called at St. Bart's; rafts hinged-up
to the boat-houses, and with the lower ends floating freely on
timbers.
-- -- p637-424
CHAPTER XXXVI. OUR STORY IS ENDED.
[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]
This great happening will bring the end to our
story.
A telegraphic message was at once sent to a friend
of Mrs. Peters, to be conveyed to the widow.
Almost as soon as Prouty had borne Brade's body in,
came Mrs. Ryan, agonized with grief and fear, and insisted
upon being “let go in to the child.” Mrs. Wadham,
who during that dreadful time had planted herself
in the house, and was anywhere at any moment, to be
of use, was at that moment within sight and hearing,
and tried to take charge of her and prevent her intrusion
upon Dr. Evans and his helpers.
“Bring me to the Rector! — Mr. Warren!” cried
the other, almost frenzied.
“But Mr. Warren's in the water himself, or drowned,
by this time,” answered Mrs. Wadham, solemnly.
The sad procession with Peters's body struck all
dumb; but Rector Warren, who followed, weak and
shivering, called Mrs. Wadham, and begged her to tell
the doctor that “Mrs. Ryan had a right to be in the
room, if any one.”
Mr. Parmenter, who had come up with him, asked
“whether that would be entirely wise,” but did not
press his objection; and Mrs. Wadham undertook the
-- 412 --
[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]
charge, following close upon the bearers. Philip Rainor,
who, with a strange pertinacity, tried to force himself
in, Mr. Parmenter effectually kept out.
“Nobody has any right here but my helpers,” said Dr.
Evans when the message was delivered to him: “we
cannot be hindered.”
“Try me, only! Try me!” Mrs. Ryan said, with
hands clasped, and was let in.
There was one short outburst; but she only threw
herself on her knees against the wall, without hindering
the work which, under quick orders of Dr. Evans,
went on. Then she found herself a place among the
workers, and was most ready.
How skill and hopefulness and untiring effort were
used to set in motion again in these young bodies the
many-working powers of life before they should be
once for ever set fast in stillness, we need not tell.
Before fairly recovering himself, Mr. Hamersley sent an
urgent request to be allowed to help, but was enjoined
to keep his bed. Mr. Bruce was there at work.
Slowly and painfully, but like true life, the life came
back to Brade, and instantly Mrs. Ryan, who had
already not failed to give tender help to those who
were working upon the other body, left him entirely
for the other. But here all warm chafing, all gentle
forcing in and out of the life-feeding air, all scourging
of the water-soaked soles and palms of feet and hands,
showed only that the life which Peters had without
fear risked was lost out of this world for ever.
Brade was taken away in warm blankets to a bed
elsewhere; and the faithful, loving work upon the body
of his true-hearted friend went on untired far into the
night through six or seven long, slow hours. The last
-- 413 --
[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]
who left it were Mrs. Ryan and the Tutor. But all had
long been done: life was not to come back, and it was
left for dead. As these two were folding carefully
the clothes which had been stripped off Peters, there
fell out a small plate of silver, on which was rude,
boyish engraving. Mr. Bruce read it aloud: —
“`B. R. C. — Rosicrucians. — Inst. Oct. 8, 18—, by
me, A. P.'”
“Poor fellow! So he was the whole of that `secret
society'!” he said.
“The poor, dear child, indeed!” said Mrs. Ryan,
kissing his forehead.
Meantime the hours and bells went on, and the
Rector made a point of having all in their places at
tea; but the house was still, as if no boys were in it but
two, — the half-living and the dead, — save for the noise
of doors, as many neighbors came and went, or of
voices, as when Mrs. Wadham asked, and perhaps asked
again, a question of some one passing the room in
which she sat. She had sent often to her own house
for whatever she thought might be of service, and kept
Eldridge waiting at call. She explained that “she had
scarcely seen Mrs. Warren; but that wasn't strange.—
That Mrs. Ryan's the mother of him, — that's plain
enough!” she said.
“I hope it's something as creditable as that,” said
Mr. Parmenter.
The boys were cheered by knowing that Brade was
saved, and some of them reasoned that Peters had
been less time in the water. Among the guests in the
sitting-room more was known, and the evening as
gloomy. Mrs. Wadham meant to spend the night;
Mr. Parmenter, and Dr. Farwell and Mr. Don, who
-- 414 --
[figure description] Page 414.[end figure description]
were his guests, stayed late. All talked in lowered
voices of the sad things which had made the afternoon
so long as seemingly to sunder them by many a day
from its own forenoon. Late in the evening Mr. Manson
came, having made an arrangement with the Rector
of the School to watch with Antony Brade.
“The mystery about him seems to be clearing off,”
said Mr. Parmenter.
“What's a mystery for, if it ain't to be cleared up?”
asked Mrs. Wadham.
“I take it,” said Dr. Farwell, his elbows resting on his
chair, and his hands spread open, “that mysteries may
sometimes baffle investigation or elude investigation.
On the other hand, there are times” —
“This seems to have been a very harmless mystery,”
said Mr. Manson.
“If it proves altogether harmless to the character of
the School,” said Mr. Parmenter, gravely.
“Exactly, sir! I hope it'll prove so,” said Mr. Don.
“I don't see how the character of the School is concerned.
He's an orphan, and Mrs. Ryan's his aunt.
That's all. She's an Irishwoman, and made a secret
of it.”
“It may not be quite so harmless,” said Mr. Parmenter.
“Possibly not, sir,” said Mr. Don.
“People sometimes have reasons,” said Mrs. Wadham,
with quiet authority.
“You shall judge for yourselves. Mr. Warren has
known her for years, and knows all about her. Brade,
her brother, looked high for his ancestors, among
`Macs' or `O's.' But then he made his living and a good
deal of money, with job-wagons or some such business.
-- 415 --
[figure description] Page 415.[end figure description]
Just then the family, every one, died off by fever,
except this boy; and his aunt brought him up, and, in
due time, put him here under Mr. Warren, and kept
the relationship to herself.”
There was a silence, which Mrs. Wadham broke by
saying, —
“I should think that was a very likely explanation:
yes.”
“It might explain some things about the boy,” said
Mr. Parmenter. “Well, I suppose when arrangements
are made, we'd better go.”
“Mr. Stout will sit up with poor Peters; but he's
willing to let Rainor stay with him,” said Mr. Manson.
“Why, I've told that Rainor we didn't want him
round here,” Mr. Parmenter said hastily.
“Now,” said Mr. Manson, “he's not so bad: you
didn't give yourself a chance to hear what he came
for. He came to say he put those things on the
arch.”
“That shows some degree of grace, now,” said Dr.
Farwell.
-- -- p637-429
CHAPTER XXXVII. A PURPOSE FOR LIFE.
[figure description] Page 416.[end figure description]
Brade gained; but he gained slowly. He had not
asked about Peters since the first day that he spoke,
although he constantly talked of him. At length Mr.
Manson sat down, and tenderly and freely told him
all: that “Peters had ended his life well, and entered
into his rest in Him who gave His life a ransom for
many.” Mrs. Peters was in the room, — looking like her
son. She heard the ords and said, “Yes: he had
ended his life well. She had often feared for him in
the world: now she should be at peace. But she must
look to the boy for whom” —
“I can't stay here, after Peters,” said Brade, trying
to lift himself; “but, if I live, I'll never forget Peters,
and I'll try to do as he said, and help.”
“God give you grace to do it, dear Antony!” said
his aunt.
Mrs. Peters took the boy's hand, and kneeled, with
her face bowed upon the bed, as if she prayed the same
thing in secret.
Mr. Manson, standing, said, —
“Amen!”
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“Make their acquaintance; for Amy will be
found delightful, Beth very lovely, Meg beautiful,
and Jo splendid!”
— The Catholic World.
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LITTLE WOMEN. By Louisa M. Alcott.
In Two Parts. Price of each $1.50.
“Simply one of the most charming little books that have fallen into our hands
for many a day. There is just enough of sadness in it to make it true to life, while
it is so full of honest work and whole-souled fun, paints so lively a picture of a home
in which contentment, energy, high spirits, and real goodness make up for the lack
of money, that it will do good wherever it finds its way. Few will read it without
lasting profit.”
— Hartford Courant.
“Little Women. By Louisa M. Alcott. We regard these volumes as two
of the most fascinating that ever came into a household. Old and young read them
with the same eagerness. Lifelike in all their delineations of time, place, and
character, they are not only intensely interesting, but full of a cheerful morality,
that makes them healthy reading for both fireside and the Sunday school. We
think we love “Jo” a little better than all the rest, her genius is so happy tempered
with affection.”
— The Guiding Star.
The following verbatim copy of a letter from a “little woman” is a specimen
of many which enthusiasm for her book has dictated to the author of “Little
Women:” —
— March 12, 1870.
Dear Jo, or Miss Alcott, — We have all been reading “Little Women,” and
we liked it so much I could not help wanting to write to you. We think you are
perfectly splendid; I like you better every time I read it. We were all so disappointed
about your not marrying Laurie; I cried over that part, — I could not help
it. We all liked Laurie ever so much, and almost killed ourselves laughing over
the funny things you and he said.
We are six sisters and two brothers; and there were so many things in “Little
Women” that seemed so natural, especially selling the rags.
Eddie is the oldest; then there is Annie (our Meg), then Nelly (that's me),
May and Milly (our Beths), Rosie, Rollie, and dear little Carrie (the baby).
Eddie goes away to school, and when he comes home for the holidays we have
lots of fun, playing cricket, croquet, base ball, and every thing. If you ever want
to play any of those games, just come to our house, and you will find plenty children
to play with you.
If you ever come to —, I do wish you would come and see us, — we would
like it so much.
I have named my doll after you, and I hope she will try and deserve it.
I do wish you would send me a picture of you. I hope your health is better
and you are having a nice time.
If you write to me, please direct — Ill. All the children send their love.
With ever so much love, from your affectionate friend,
Nelly.
Mailed to any address, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised
price.
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers,
Boston
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“Miss Alcott is really a benefactor of House-holds.”
— H. H.
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LITTLE MEN: Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys.
By Louisa M. Alcott. With Illustrations. Price
$1.50.
“The gods are to be congratulated upon the success of the Alcott experiment
as well as all childhood, young and old, upon the singular charm of the little men
and little women who have run forth from the Alcott cottage, children of a maiden
whose genius is beautiful motherhood.”
— The Examiner.
“No true-hearted boy or girl can read this book without deriving benefit from
the perusal; nor, for that matter, will it the least injure children of a larger growth
to endeavor to profit by the examples of gentleness and honesty set before them in
its pages. What a delightful school `Jo' did keep! Why, it makes us want to
live our childhood's days over again, in the hope that we might induce some kind
hearted female to establish just such a school, and might prevail upon our parents
to send us, `because it was cheap.'... We wish the genial authoress a long
life in which to enjoy the fruits of her labor, and cordially thank her, in the name
of our young people, for her efforts in their behalf.”
— Waterbury American.
“Miss Alcott, whose name has already become a household word among little
people, will gain a new hold upon their love and admiration by this little book.
It forms a fitting sequel to `Little Women,' and contains the same elements of
popularity.... We expect to see it even more popular than its predecessor, and
shall heartily rejoice at the success of an author whose works afford so much hearty
and innocent enjoyment to the family circle, and teach such pleasant and whole
some lessons to old and young.”
— N. Y. Times.
“Suggestive, truthful, amusing, and racy, in a certain simplicity of style which
very few are capable of producing. It is the history of only six months' school-life
of a dozen boys, but is full of variety and vitality, and the having girls
with the boys is a charming novelty, too. To be very candid, this book is so
thoroughly good that we hope Miss Alcott will give us another in the same genial
vein, for she understands children and their ways.”
— Phil. Press.
A specimen letter from a little woman to the author of “Little Men.”
June 17, 1871.
Dear Miss Alcott, — We have just finished “Little Men,” and like it so
much that we thought we would write and ask you to write another book sequel to
“Little Men,” and have more about Laurie and Amy, as we like them the best.
We are the Literary Club, and we got the idea from “Little Women.” We have
a paper two sheets of foolscap and a half. There are four of us, two cousins and
my sister and myself Our assumed names are: Horace Greeley, President: Susan
B. Anthony, Editor; Harriet B. Stowe, Vice-President; and myself, Anna C.
Ritchie, Secretary. We call our paper the “Saturday Night,” and we all write
stories and have reports of sermons and of our meetings, and write about the
queens of England. We did not know but you would like to hear this, as the
idea sprang from your book; and we thought we would write, as we liked your
book so much. And now, if it is not too much to ask of you, I wish you would
answer this, as we are very impatient to know if you will write another book; and
please answer soon, as Miss Anthony is going away, and she wishes very much to
hear from you before she does. If you write, please direct to — Street, Brooklyn,
N.Y.
Yours truly,
Alice —
Mailed to any address, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised
price, by the Publishers,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston
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AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL. By Louisa
M. Alcott. With Illustrations. Price $1.50.
“Miss Alcott has a faculty of entering into the lives and feelings of children
that is conspicuously wanting in most writers who address them; and to this cause,
to the consciousness among her readers that they are hearing about people like
themselves, instead of abstract qualities labelled with names, the popularity of her
books is due. Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy are friends in every nursery and school-room,
and even in the parlor and office they are not unknown; for a good story is
interesting to older folks as well, and Miss Alcott carries on her children to manhood
and womanhood, and leaves them only on the wedding-day.”
— Mrs. Sarak
J. Hale in Godey's Ladies' Book.
“We are glad to see that Miss Alcott is becoming naturalized among us as a
writer, and cannot help congratulating ourselves on having done something to
bring about the result. The author of `Little Women' is so manifestly on the
side of all that is `lovely, pure, and of good report' in the life of women, and
writes with such genuine power and humor, and with such a tender charity and
sympathy, that we hail her books with no common pleasure. `An Old-Fashioned
Girl' is a protest from the other side of the Atlantic against the manners of the
creature which we know on this by the name of `the Girl of the Period;' but the
attack is delivered with delicacy as well as force.”
— The London Spectator.
“A charming little book, brimful of the good qualities of intellect and heart
which made `Little Women' so successful. The `Old-Fashioned Girl' carries
with it a teaching specially needed at the present day, and we are glad to know it
is even already a decided and great success.”
— New York Independent.
“Miss Alcott's new story deserves quite as great a success as her famous “Little
Women,” and we dare say will secure it. She has written a book which child
and parent alike ought to read, for it is neither above the comprehension of the one
nor below the taste of the other. Her boys and girls are so fresh, hearty, and natural,
the incidents of her story are so true to life, and the tone is so thoroughly
healthy, that a chapter of the `Old-Fashioned Girl' wakes up the unartificial better
life within us almost as effectually as an hour spent in the company of good, honest,
sprightly children. The Old-Fashioned Girl, Polly Milton, is a delightful
creature!”
— New York Tribune.
“Gladly we welcome the `Old-Fashioned Girl' to heart and home! Joyfully
we herald her progress over the land! Hopefully we look forward to the time
when our young people, following her example, will also be old-fashioned in purity
of heart and simplicity of life, thus brightening like a sunbeam the atmosphers
around them.”
— Providence Journal.
Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised price, by
the Publishers,
ROBERTS BROTHERS,
Boston
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HOSPITAL SKETCHES AND CAMP AND
FIRESIDE STORIES. By Louisa M. Alcott.
With Illustrations. Price $1.50.
“Miss Alcott performed a brief tour of hospital duty during the late war. Her
career as nurse was terminated by an attack of dangerous illness. But she made
good use of her time, and her sketches of hospital life, if briefer than could be
wished, make up in quality what they lack in quantity. They are, indeed, the most
graphic and natural pictures of life in the great army hospitals that have yet
appeared. Free from all affected sentimentalism, they blend in a strange and
piquant manner the grave and gay, the lively and severe.”
— Phila. Inquirer.
“It is a book which is thoroughly enjoyable, and with which little fault need be
found. It is not a pretentious work, and the author has only aimed at telling the
story of her experience as an army hospital nurse, in an easy, natural style; but the
incidents which she has given us are so varied, — sometimes amusingly humorous
and sometimes tenderly pathetic, — and her narrative is so simple and straight-forward
and truthful, that the reader's attention is chained, and he finds it impossible
to resist the charm of the pleasant, kindly, keen-sighted Nurse Perriwinkle.”
—
Round Table.
“Such is the title of a volume by Miss Louisa M. Alcott, author of `Little
Women,' one of the most charming productions of the day. Miss Alcott is a New
England woman of the best type, — gifted, refined, progressive in her opinions,
heroic, self-sacrificing. She devoted her time and means to the service of her
country in the darkest days of the Rebellion, visiting the camp and the hospital,
devoting herself to the care of the sick and the dying, braving danger and privation
in the sacred cause of humanity. The results of her experience are embodied in
these `Sketches,' which are graphic in narrative, rich in incident, and dramatic
in style. Miss Alcott has a keen sense of the ludicrous, and, while she does not
trifle with her subject, seeks to amuse as well as instruct her reader. She has the
sunniest of tempers, and sees a humorous side even to the sad life of the hospital.”
— San Francisco Bulletin.
“This volume illustrates excellently well the characteristics of Miss Alcott's
talent as a novelist. Her subjects are always portions of her own experience; her
characters always the people she has known, under slight disguises, or strangely
metamorphosed, as may happen, but easily to be recognized by those who have
the key to them. In this she resembles many other writers; but there is a peculiar
blending of this realism with extreme idealization in most of her stories. She
succeeds best — indeed, she only succeeds at all — in her real pictures. Her descriptions
are as faithful and as varied in their fidelity as life itself, so long as she
restricts herself to what she has actually seen and known. When she cleaves to
real experiences, she is sure of her effect; and her success is always greater in
proportion to the depth of the experience she has to portray. For this reason
we have always thought `Hospital Sketches' her best piece of work.”
— Springfield
Republican.
Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised price, by
the Publishers,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston
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MESSRS. ROBERTS BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS.
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Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag.
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
Vol. I. Comprising “My Boys,” &c. 16mo. Cloth, gilt.
Price $1.00.
From the London Athenæum.
A collection of fugitive tales and sketches which we should have been sorry to
lose. Miss Alcott's boys and girls are always delightful in her hands. She
throws a loving glamour over them; and she loves them herself so heartily that it
is not possible for the reader to do otherwise. We have found the book very
pleasant to read.
From the New York Tribune.
The large and increasing circle of juveniles who sit enchanted year in and out
round the knees of Miss Alcott will hail with delight the publication of “Aunt
Jo's Scrap-Bag.” The most taking of these taking tales is, to our fancy, “My
Boys;” but all possess the quality which made “Little Women” so widely popular,
and the book will be welcomed and read from Maine to Florida.
Mrs. Hale, in Godey's Lady's Book.
These little stories are in every way worthy of the author of “Little Women.”
They will be read with the sincerest pleasure by thousands of children, and in
that pleasure there will not be a single forbidden ingredient. “My Boys,” which,
opening upon by chance, we read through at a sitting, is charming. Ladislas, the
noble, sweet-tempered Pole, is the original of Laurie, ever to be remembered by
all “Aunt Jo's” readers.
From the Providence Press.
Dear Aunt Jo! You are embalmed in the thoughts and loves of thousands
of little men and little women. Your scrap-bag is rich in its stores of good things.
Pray do not close and put it away quite yet.
This is Louisa Alcott's Christmas tribute to the young people, and it is, like
herself, good. In making selections, “Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag” must not be forgotten.
There will be a vacant place where this little volume is not.
Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.
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Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag.
By LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
Vol. II., comprising “Shawl-Straps.”
16mo. Cloth, gilt. Price $1.00.
From the Morning Star.
Nobody expects from Miss Alcott any thing but books of the raciest qualities
and the choicest flavors. This story of her foreign travel, in company with two
female friends, is just as vivacious and unique as any thing previously issued with
her name on the title-page. One may have read the narratives and notes of forty
tourists over the same field, but he cannot afford to neglect this story. He will
find nothing repeated either in substance or form. It is a new vein that is here
worked, and the products are all singularly fresh. It is a rare literary bundle
which these shawl-straps enclose.
Mr. Whipple, in the Boston Globe.
Roberts Brothers have published a small volume the mere announcement of
which is enough to insure its circulation. This volume is “Shawl-Straps,” a
second part of “Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag,” by Louisa M. Alcott, — a name well
known to all “little men,” and “little women,” and “old-fashioned girls,” now
inhabiting the country. The book is a racy, almost rollicking account of the personal
experiences of three American women travelling in France, Switzerland,
Italy, and England.
Miss Alcott carefully abstains from writing what is called a book of travels,
and confines herself to giving an amusing account of what really occurred to
herself and her two companions. Thus, in London, the party devoted much
more time in hunting up Dickens's characters than in visiting “leading objects of
interest.” They nearly succeeded in finding Mrs. Gamp, and actually took “weal
pie and porter” at Mrs. Todger's. The description of Spurgeon and his congregation
is the most life-like we have ever read. Indeed the whole tone of the book
is that of conversation, in which the familiarity of ordinary talk is accompanied
with more than ordinary certainty of phrase, so that her readers may, in some
sense, be said to join the party and become “Shawl-Strappists” themselves. It
may be added that one is never tired of any record of a foreign tour which makes
him or her a companion of the journey; and, as Miss Alcott succeeds in doing
this, the principal objection which will be made to her book is its shortness.
Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.
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WORK:
A STORY OF EXPERIENCE.
By LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
Author of “Little Women,” “An Old-Fashioned Girl,
“Little Men.”
With Character Illustrations by Sol Eytinge.
16mo, cloth, gilt. Price $1.75.
Rev. H. W. Beecher, the Editor of the “Christian Union,” says: —
“This week our columns witness a parting which, we believe, will be matter
of regret to thousands of our readers, — between `Christie' and all who have
followed her fortunes in Miss Alcott's serial. We owe to the author our hearty
editorial acknowledgment for the great pleasure, and the something more than
pleasure, which she has furnished to our wide-spread family of readers. With
most of them, we doubt not, her heroine has been `first favorite,' since her
appearance, six months ago. Right well we know that our solemn editorial
preachments, nay, our very best editorial attempts at being wise and witty together,—
with all the learning, poetry, orthodoxy, and heresy of the other departments, —
have been utterly slighted by most readers of the `Christian Union' until they
had eagerly followed the fortunes of Christie and her friends down to the unwelcome
`To be Continued,' until, this week, is reached the still more unwelcome
`The End.'”
The New Bedford “Standard” says: —
“It is seldom that an author can achieve four successive triumphs such as
Miss Alcott has in `Little Women,' `Little Men,' `Old-Fashioned Girl,' and
now in this new candidate for public favor.”
The New York “Mail” says: —
“No novel can be purposeless which brings sunshine into the home or the
heart, and to say that Miss Alcott's books hitherto have been without purpose is
to use the word in very limited meaning. She has done a vast deal of good. But
now she has reached that higher stage of development in which purpose is not
simply a factor, but the chief factor of writing. She would do something more
than entertain, however blessed that in itself be; she would exert her utmost
powers directly in uplifting. That is good for her and for her readers. She is
proving herself even a greater writer than her admirable `Little Women' series
asserts. For that canon of art which rules out work because it is purposeful
restrains the scope of art within too narrow bounds. Purpose is the inspiration
of the highest art.”
Sold by all Bookseller. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.
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“As there was nobody to see, he just sat down and cried as hard as Dotty
herself.”
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The above picture is one of twenty-seven which illustrate
THE NEW-YEAR'S BARGAIN.
By Susan Coolidge.
The author of this book must soon be exalted in the hearts of children by
the side of Miss Alcott: for it is as original, as quaint, and as charming as
any thing of “Aunt Jo's,” though totally different in character and style.
Max and Thekla, the hero and heroine, live in the famous Black Forest.
Wandering in the woods one day, they came across an old man who was
making some images. This old man was Father Time, and the images were
the twelve months. He had a jar full of sand, — the “sands of time,” — and
Max put some of it in his pocket, when old Father Time wasn't looking, and
carried it home.
This stealing from Time caused a great commotion, though Max contended
that “Time belongs to us all;” but it resulted in a “Bargain,” which
the book will tell you all about.
“The New-Year's Bargain” is an elegant volume, bound in cloth, gilt
and black-lettered, and sells for $1.50.
The new book by the author of “The New Year's Bargain,”
WHAT KATY DID.
A story With Illustrations by Addie Ledyard Price $1.50.
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston
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Lowell, Robert, 1816-1891 [1874], Antony Brade. (Roberts Brothers, Boston) [word count] [eaf637T].
