← catalogue

Foxholme Hall, and Other Tales

by William Henry Giles Kingston · English · Gutenberg #40692 · 516,004 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Foxholme Hall, and Other Tales
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Foxholme Hall, and Other Tales

Author: William Henry Giles Kingston


        
Release date: September 6, 2012 [eBook #40692]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40692

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOXHOLME HALL, AND OTHER TALES ***

Foxholme Hall
And other Tales
By WHG Kingston
Published by Virtue and Co, London.
This edition dated 1867.

Foxholme Hall, by WHG Kingston.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
FOXHOLME HALL, BY WHG KINGSTON.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER ONE.

STORY ONE--FOXHOLME HALL; OR, CHRISTMAS AT AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE.

We had our choice given us whether we would spend our Christmas holidays
with our most kind and estimable old relative, our mother's cousin, Miss
Gillespie, in Russell-square, and go to the theatre and panoramas, and
other highly edifying entertainments, or at Foxholme, in the New Forest,
with our great uncle, Sir Hugh Worsley.  "Foxholme for ever, I should
think indeed!" exclaimed my brother Jack, making a face which was not
complimentary to Cousin Barbara.  "But she is a good kind old soul, if
she wasn't so pokerish and prim; and that was a dead-alive fortnight we
spent with her two winters ago.  I say Foxholme for ever."

"Foxholme for ever," I repeated.  "Of course there couldn't be the
thinnest slice of a shadow of doubt about the matter.  There'll be
Cousin Peter, and Julia, and Tom and Ned Oxenberry, and Sam Barnby, and
Ponto, and Hector, and Beauty, and Polly; and there'll be hunting, and
shooting, and skating, if there's a frost--and of course there will be a
frost--and, oh, it will be such jolly fun!"

A few weeks after this we were bowling along the road to Southampton on
the top of the old Telegraph, driven by Taylor--as fine a specimen of a
Jehu as ever took whip in hand--with four white horses--a team of which
he was justly proud.  I see him now before me, his fine tall figure,
truly Roman nose, and eagle eye, looking as fit to command an army as to
drive a coach, with his white great-coat buttoned well up to his
gay-coloured handkerchief, a flower of some sort decking his breast, a
broad-brimmed beaver of white or grey, and a whip which looked as if it
had just come from the maker's hands--indeed, everything about him was
polished, from the crown of his hat to his well-fitting boots; and I
believe that no accident ever happened to the coach he drove.  There was
the Independent, also a first-rate coach, and, in those days, Collier's
old coach, which carried six inside, in which we once made a journey--
that is, Jack and I--with four old ladies who ate apples and drank gin,
with the windows up, all the way, and talked about things which seemed
to interest them very much, but which soon sent us to sleep.

The sky was bright, the air fresh, with just a touch of a frosty smell
in it, and we were in exuberant spirits.  We had our pea-shooters ready,
and had long been on the watch for the lumbering old vehicle, when we
saw it approaching.  Didn't we pepper the passengers, greatly to their
indignation!  What damage we did we could not tell, for we were by them
like a flash of lightning.

At Southampton we changed into a much slower coach, which, however,
conveyed us safely through the forest to the neighbourhood of Lyndhurst,
when, waiting in the road, we espied, to our intense delight, a
pony-carriage driven by Sam Barnby, who held the office of extra
coachman, gamekeeper, and fisherman, besides several other employments,
in the establishment at Foxholme.  With us he was a prodigious
favourite, as he was with all the youngsters who went to the place; and
Sir Hugh, I know, trusted him completely, and employed him in numerous
little private services of beneficence and charity when a confidential
agent was required.  He was the invariable companion of all the
youngsters in our boating, fishing, and shooting excursions.

It was dusk when we got into the carriage, and as our way lay for some
distance through the thickest part of the forest by a cross-road which
few people but Sam Barnby would have attempted to take at that late
hour, we could often scarcely distinguish the track under the thick
branches of the leafless trees which, stretching across it, formed a
trellis-work over our heads, while the thick hollies and other
evergreens formed an impenetrable wall on either side.  Now and then,
when the forest opened out and the forms of the trees were rather more
clearly defined, they often assumed shapes so fantastic and strange,
that I could scarcely prevent a sort of awe creeping over me, and half
expected that the monsters I fancied I saw would move from their places
and grab up Jack, Sam Barnby, the carriage, and me, and bolt off with us
into some recess of the forest.  Jack was talking away to Sam.  I had
been up bolstering the night before, and had not slept a wink.  Suddenly
the carriage stopped, and I heard Sam and Jack utter an exclamation.  I
echoed it, and pretty loudly too; for I thought that one of the monsters
I had been dreaming about had really got hold of us.

"Hillo! who have we got here?" exclaimed Sam.  "Do you hold the reins,
Master Jack, and I'll get out and see."

I was now fully awake.  I asked Jack what it was.

"We nearly drove over somebody; but the pony shied, fortunately.  There
he is; I can just see him moving."

"Why, I do believe it's poor silly Dick Green!" exclaimed Sam.  "Is it
you, Dicky?  Speak out, man!  How came you here?"

"Yes, it be I," said the idiot.  "Can't I sleep here?  It's very
comfortable--all clean and nice--no smoke, no noise."

"Why, you would be frozen to death, man, if you did," answered Sam.
"But, I ask, what brought you here?"

"That's a secret I bean't a-going to tell thee," whispered the idiot.
"But just do thee stop here; thee'll foind it very pleasant."

"No, thank you; we'd rather not," said Sam.  "But just do thee get into
the carriage alongside Master William there, and we'll take thee to the
Hall, and give thee some supper--that's what thee wants, lad."

"Well, now, that's kind like," simpered the idiot.  "I know thee well,
Sam Barnby; thee had'st always a good heart."

"Well, well, lad, don't stand talking there, but scramble in at once,"
cried Sam, as he forced the poor creature down by my side.

Soon afterwards we passed a woodman's or a keeper's hut, from the window
of which a gleam of light streamed forth on the idiot's face, and a
creeping feeling of fear stole over me as I caught his large lack-lustre
eyes peering into mine, the teeth in his ever-grinning mouth looking
white and shining under his upturned lip.  I knew that he was said to be
perfectly harmless and good-natured, but I would have given anything if
Jack would have changed places with me.  I did not drop off to sleep
again, that is very certain.  The way seemed far longer than I had
expected, and I almost fancied that Sam must have mistaken his road--not
a very likely thing to occur, however.

As we neared the lodge-gate of Foxholme, I shut my eyes, lest the light
from the window should again show me the poor idiot's face staring at
me.  All disagreeable feelings, however, speedily vanished as we drove
up in front of the chief entrance, and the hall-door was flung open, and
a perfect blaze of light streamed forth, and the well-known smiling
faces of Purkin, the butler, and James Jarvis, the footman, appeared;
and the latter, descending the steps, carried up our trunk and hat-boxes
and a play-box we had brought empty, though to go back in a very
different condition, we had a notion.  Then we ran into the
drawing-room, and found our uncle Sir Hugh, and our kind, sweet-smiling
aunt, and our favourite Cousin Julia--she was Sir Hugh's only daughter
by a first marriage--and our little Cousin Hugh--his only son by the
present Lady Worsley; and there, too, was Cousin Peter.  He was Sir
Hugh's cousin and Aunt Worsley's cousin, and was cousin to a great
number of people besides--indeed everybody who came to the house called
him cousin, it seemed.

Some few, perhaps, at first formally addressed him as Mr Peter, or Mr
Peter Langstone; but they soon got into the way of calling him Mr
Peter, or Cousin Peter, or Peter alone.  He wasn't old, and he couldn't
have been very young.  He wasn't good-looking, I fancy--not that we ever
thought about the matter.  He had a longish sallow face, and a big mouth
with white teeth, and lips which twisted and curled about in a curious
manner, and large soft grey eyes--not green-grey, but truly blue-grey--
with almost a woman's softness in them, an index, I suspect, of his
heart; and yet I don't think that there are many more daring or cool and
courageous men than Cousin Peter.  He had been in the navy in his youth,
and had seen some pretty hard service, but had come on shore soon after
he had received his promotion as lieutenant, and, for some reason or
other, had never since been afloat.  Sir Hugh was very much attached to
him, and had great confidence in his judgment and rectitude; so that he
tried to keep him at Foxholme as much as he could.  He might have lived
there and been welcome all the year round.

I have said nothing yet about Cousin Julia.  She was about twenty-two,
but looked younger, except when she was about any serious matter.  I
thought her then the most lovely creature I had ever seen, and I was not
far wrong.  There was a sweet, gentle, and yet firm expression in her
face, and a look--I cannot describe it--which would have prevented even
the most impudent from talking nonsense or saying anything to offend her
ear.

Our uncle, Sir Hugh, was tall and stout, with a commanding and dignified
manner.  No one would have ventured to take liberties with him, though
he was as kind and gentle as could be.  He had been in the army when he
was young, and seen service, but had given it up when he succeeded to
Foxholme, and the duties attached to its possession.  "I should have
been ill serving my country if I had remained abroad and left my tenants
and poor neighbours to the care of agents and hirelings," I heard him
once observe.  He was very fond of the army, and it was a great trial to
him to leave it.

Our aunt was a very pretty, lively, kind, amiable woman, and devotedly
attached to our uncle.  She was small, and slight, and young-looking,
though I don't think that she was so very young after all.

Hugh was a regular fine little chap, manly, independent, and yet very
amiable.  He might have been rather spoilt, because it was a hard matter
not to make a good deal of him.  People couldn't help thinking of him as
the long-wished-for heir of the old place and the old title, and what
joy he had brought to Sir Hugh's heart and what pride and satisfaction
to that of his mother, and that he would some day be the master of
Foxholme (all hoped that day might be far distant); and they prayed that
he might worthily represent his honoured father.

After all, however, there was no one we thought so much about as Cousin
Peter.  How full of life and spirits and fun he was!  A shade, however,
of gravity or melancholy occasionally stole over him.  He had an inner
deeper life of which we boys knew nothing.  We used to be surprised,
after he had been playing all sorts of pranks with us, to go and see him
sit down as grave as a judge along with Sir Hugh, and talk as seriously
as anybody else.  Then he would jump up and say something quiet and
confidential to some young lady, and crack a joke with some old one; and
again he would be back among us, baiting the bear, standing on his head,
or doing some other wonderful out-of-the-way thing.  I remember that
even then I more than once remarked that whenever he drew near our
Cousin Julia, there was a greater sobriety and a wonderful gentleness
and tenderness in his manner; and often, when she was not looking, and
he thought no one else was looking, his eyes were turned towards her
with a look which older people would easily have interpreted.  I thought
myself, "He must be very fond of her; but that is but natural--everybody
is."

STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWO.

I should like to give a full description of the events of those
never-to-be-forgotten Christmas holidays.  Besides ourselves, we had two
cousins and the sons of some of Sir Hugh's friends, and no end of
grown-up guests, young ladies and their mammas and papas, and several
gentlemen who were in no ways stiff or distant, and we didn't mind
saying what we liked to them.  I remember that Christmas-day--how
happily it began--how, on a fine frosty morning, we all walked to the
village church--how we found it decked with hollies, reminding us that,
even in mid-winter, our merciful God never withdraws His blessings from
the earth--how we could not help listening with attention to the sermon
of the good vicar, who reminded us that we were assembled to commemorate
the greatest event that has occurred since the creation of the world.
He bid us reflect that the Christ who was on that day born into the
world, a weak helpless infant, prepared to endure a life of toil, of
poverty, and of suffering, and at the same time of active unwearied
usefulness, was our Lord the Son of God himself; that He took our sins
upon Him, shed His blood on the Cross, suffering agony and shame, which
we had merited, that He might wash our sins away; died and was buried,
that He might, though sinless himself, for our sakes endure the curse
sin brought on mankind, and thus accomplish the whole of the work He had
undertaken to fulfil; how He rose again, ascending into Heaven
triumphant over death, that He might then, having lived and suffered as
a man on earth, feeling for our infirmities, plead effectually for us;
that He had suffered the punishment due to us, before the throne of the
Almighty, an offended but a just and merciful God, full of love to
mankind.

I never before understood so clearly that the whole work of redemption
is complete--that Christ has suffered for us, and that, therefore, no
more suffering is required.  All we have to do is to take advantage of
what He has done, and put our whole faith and trust in Him.  The vicar
then described most beautifully to us how Christ lived on earth, and
that He did so that.  He might set us an example, which we are bound in
ordinary love and gratitude to imitate, by showing good-will, love,
kindness, charity in thought, word, and deed, towards our fellow-men.
How beautiful and glorious sounded that Christmas hymn, sung not only by
all the school-children, but by all the congregation.  Sir Hugh's rich
voice, old as he was, sounding clearly among the basses of the others.
He did his best, and he knew and felt that his voice was not more
acceptable at the throne of Heaven than that of the youngest child
present.  Then, when service was over, Sir Hugh came out arm-in-arm with
our aunt, followed by Julia and little Hugh, and talked so friendly and
kindly to all the people, and they all smiled and looked so pleased, and
replied to him in a way which showed that they were not a bit afraid of
him, but knew that he loved them and was interested in their welfare;
and Lady Worsley and Cousin Julia talked in the same kind way, and knew
everybody and how many children there were in each family, and asked
after those who were absent--some at service, and some apprentices, and
some in the army or at sea.  Master Peter also went about among them
all, and seemed so glad to see them, and shook hands with the old men,
and joked in his quiet way with the old women.  He contrived to have a
word with everybody as he moved in and out among them.  Then the vicar
came out, and a few friendly loving words were exchanged with him too.

"We shall see you and Miss Becky at dinner as usual, Mr Upton," said
Sir Hugh, as they parted.

"I should be sorry to be absent, Sir Hugh.  On twenty-nine
Christmas-days have we taken our dinner with you, and this will make the
thirtieth, if I mistake not," answered the vicar.

"Ah, time flies along, and yet Miss Becky does not, at all events,
remind us of it," said Sir Hugh.  Whereat Miss Becky, who was very fair
and somewhat fat, laughed and shook hands heartily with Sir Hugh and
Lady Worsley, and smiled affectionately at Julia and little Hugh, and we
commenced our homeward walk.  How enjoyable it was--how pleasant was,
our light luncheon! for we dined at five that we might have a long
evening.  We all looked forward to the evening with great delight.
Scarcely was dinner over than a sound was heard--a bell in the hall
striking sweetly.  We all jumped up, led by Master Peter, and arranging
ourselves, some on the great oak staircase and others in a circle at its
foot, we stood listening to the Christmas chimes and other tunes struck
up by a dozen or more men with different-toned bells--one in each hand.
Scarcely had they ceased and received their accustomed largesse from Sir
Hugh's liberal hands, than some young voices were heard coming up the
avenue.  They, as were the rest, were admitted at a side-door, through
the servants' hall, where tea and ale, and bread-and-cheese, and cakes,
and other good things, were ready to regale them.  The young singers
came trooping into the hall, one pushing the other forward; shy and
diffident, though they well knew that they had no reason to fear the
lord of that mansion nor any one present.  At length they arranged
themselves, and the leader of the band beginning, they all chimed in,
and sang, if not in a way to suit a fastidious taste, at all events,
with feeling and enthusiasm, a beautiful Christmas carol.  The words are
simple, but often as I have heard them I have never failed to feel my
heart lifted up to that just and merciful God who formed and carried out
that great and glorious work, the scheme of the Redemption, thus
wonderfully reconciling the demands of justice with love and mercy
towards the fallen race of man.  Surely this is a theme on which angels
must delight to dwell, and to which they must ever with joy attune their
voices and their harps; so I used to think then and so I think now, and
hope to think till I reach the not unwelcome grave, and find it a happy
reality.  Several hymns and other appropriate songs were sung by the
children, and then the leader began to sidle towards the door, while the
rest nudged and elbowed each other, and at length they all shuffled
demurely out again, but not a minute had passed before they were heard
shouting and laughing right merrily in the servants' hall.  Their places
were quickly supplied by a very different set of characters.  They were
dressed with cocked hats and swords, and uniforms of generals and
princes, which, though highly picturesque, were not of a very martial
character, or calculated to stand much wear and tear, being chiefly
adorned with coloured paper and tinsel.  The tones of their voices
showed that, notwithstanding the lofty-sounding names they assumed, they
were not of an aristocratic rank, nor, though they all spoke in poetry,
was that of a very marked order.  There was Julius Caesar, and Mark
Antony, and Caractacus, and the Black Prince, and King Arthur, and
Richard the Third, the Emperor Alexander, Marshal Blucher, and several
other heroes, ancient and modern, including Napoleon Bonaparte and the
Duke of Wellington.  Some were tall, and some were short, and some fat,
and others thin, and I had, even then, strong doubts whether they bore
any similarity to the heroes they represented as to figure, while,
certainly, they were not in any way particular as to correctness of
costume.  One little chap, who was evidently looked upon as a star, came
forward and announced that he was Julius Caesar, and a short time
afterwards he informed us that he was Marshal Blucher.  Having marched
round the hall in a very amicable way, they ranged themselves in two
parties opposite each other.  One hero on one side defying another on
the other, they rushed forward and commenced, in the ancient Greek and
Trojan fashion, a furious verbal combat, always in verse, the last lines
in one case being:

  "I tell thee that thou art but a traitrous cheat,
  So fight away, or I will make thee into mince-meat."

They were not in the least particular as to who should fight one with
the other.  Julius Caesar and the Black Prince had a desperate combat,
and so had Mark Antony and King Arthur, the two British heroes coming
off victorious, and leaving their opponents dead on the field.  The most
terrific combat was that between the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon
Bonaparte.  For folly five minutes they walked about abusing each other
in the most unmeasured versification, I was going to say language,
flourishing their swords, and stamping their feet.  They put me much in
mind of two turkey-cocks preparing for a fight.  It might be remarked
also that in this, as in the previous instances, the modesty of the
heroes did not stand in their way, when singing their own praises:

  "I am that hero, great and good,
  Whom France and Frenchmen long withstood.
  I beat them all well out of Spain
  And I will beat them all again.
  And Bony, as you know 'tis true,
  I thrashed thee well at Waterloo
  So if you have not had enough,
  All will allow you're very tough;
  Come on, I say, I do not mind thee,
  For as I was, you still will find me."

Thus spoke the great Duke of Wellington.  Bony answered in a similar,
only in a somewhat more abusive strain, when, throwing the sheaths of
their swords on the floor, they commenced a furious and deadly combat.
At length Napoleon was slain; but, somewhat outraging our school notions
of history, Julius Caesar rushed forward to avenge his death.  He,
however, got more than he expected, and was soon laid alongside Bony.
One hero after another rushed forward, but all were finally slain, and
the Iron Duke remained master of the field.  He, however, overcome by
fatigue and numberless wounds, sunk down at last, and died also.  Now a
new character appeared at the door, in the person of a doctor, with a
long nose and a stick, which he held constantly to it.  Having explained
who he was and what he would do, or rather what very few things he
couldn't do, he produced a huge snuff-box from his pocket, and first
approached the slain hero of Waterloo, saying,--

  "Take some of my sniff-snuff,
  Up thy riff-ruff,
  And rise up, brave Duke of Wellington."

Up jumped the Duke with wonderful agility, and began dancing about right
merrily.  The same words produced a similar effect on all the late
combatants, and, the doctor helping them up, they were all soon dancing
and jumping about as merrily as the Duke.  This amusement was of short
duration, and a moral was taught us as to the brevity of all worldly
happiness, for suddenly, the door bursting open, in rushed a huge figure
like a moving holly-bush, but it had a head and arms and legs.  It was
of an allegorical character, intended to represent Time; but, instead of
a scythe, the arms held a broom, by lustily plying which, he speedily
swept all the heroes and the great doctor off the stage.  These mummers,
as they are called in that part of the country, always used to excite my
warmest admiration.  We used to call them jiggery-mummers at Foxholme,
because they danced or jigged in the peculiar fashion I have described.
They are a remnant of the morris-dancers of olden days.  They were
generally called on to repeat this play in the servants' hall, and often
in my younger days did I steal down to witness the exhibition.  This
closed the public amusements of the evening.  The evening of that holy
day at Foxholme was always spent in a quiet, though in a cheerful way.
Sir Hugh would have preferred having the mummers perform on another day,
but the custom was so ancient, and the people were so opposed to the
notion of a change, that he permitted it to exist till he could induce
them to choose of their own accord another day.  We spent a very
pleasant, happy evening, and we knew that for the next day Master Peter
had prepared all sorts of games for our amusement.  Little Hugh had been
with his mother watching the mummers, and highly amused, giving way to
shouts of hearty laughter.  Then he ran off to Julia, while Lady Worsley
was attending to some of her guests; next he attached himself for a time
to Master Peter, and from him made his escape into the servants' hall to
witness the mummers' second representation.  I remember that Jack and I,
with several other boys, went out before returning into the drawing-room
to smell the air, and to discover if there was a frost.  How pure and
fresh and keen it was.  The gravel on the walk felt crisp as we trod on
it.  The stars in countless numbers shone with an extraordinary
brilliancy from the dark cloudless sky.  There was no doubt about a
frost, and a pretty sharp one too, and our hopes rose of getting
sliding, skating, and snowballing to our hearts' content.  While we were
standing with our faces turned towards the park, I remember that Jack,
who had a sharp pair of eyes, said that he saw a deer running across it.
We declared that it must have been fancy, as it was difficult to make
out an object through the darkness, except it was against the sky, at a
distance even of twenty yards.  As we had run out without our hats, we
very quickly returned into the warm house.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER THREE.

We were sitting round Master Peter, listening to an account he was
giving us of a trip he once made, when a midshipman, through Palestine,
when the drawing-room door opened, and Mrs Moss, little Hugh's nurse,
appeared, to beg that he might be sent up to bed.  There was nothing
unusual for Nurse Moss coming for Master Hugh, who always objected to be
sent off to bed, but I saw Lady Worsley turn suddenly pale.

"Why, nurse, I thought that he had gone to you nearly half an hour ago,"
she exclaimed.  "He has not come into the drawing-room since the mummers
were here.  Oh! where can he be?"

"Probably coiled up in an arm-chair in the other drawing-room, or in the
study," said Sir Hugh, calmly, seeing our aunt's agitation; but I
thought that even his eye looked anxious.  The next moment everybody was
hunting about in every possible direction.  The child was not in the
north drawing-room, nor in the ante-room, nor in the study.  That was
soon made clear.  Where was he, though?  Some of the party went
down-stairs, to help the servants look in that part of the house; others
searched through the bedrooms.  Every cupboard, every chest and box, was
opened.  We looked under every arm-chair, and bed, and sofa in the
house.  We boys were, I must say, the most active in our movements, and
it was a mercy that we did not set the house on fire.  We looked into
every attic--those inhabited and those full of lumber.  In the latter I
should not have been quite happy alone.  They were full of so many
strange articles of furniture and ornaments, or what were once
considered such, and pictures in corners, with eyes, as the light of our
candles fell on them, staring out so curiously, that I could not help
fancying that some person had got in there to frighten us.  Frequently
the cry was echoed through the house--"Is he found? is he found?" with a
reply in the negative.  Sir Hugh headed one party, Lady Worsley another,
Cousin Peter a third, and Julia a fourth.  After a most systematic
search not a trace of the lost child could be discovered.  Matters had
now become very painful.  Our aunt was almost overpowered with her
feelings of anxiety, and Julia was nearly as much agitated.  Sir Hugh
next summoned the servants, as well as all the family, into the hall,
and questioned every one to discover by whom his son had last been seen.
Several of the servants acknowledged to have observed him enter the
servants' hall, but no one could say positively that he had gone out
again.  No further information could be elicited from any one.  The
matter had become truly alarming and mysterious.  While the female part
of the household continued the search within the house, we, with all the
lanterns which could be mustered, and extemporised torches, began a
search outside.  The ringers and the singers and the mummers had taken
their departure.  Messengers were, therefore, sent after them to the
village, to call them back, that they might be questioned.  The child
would scarcely have left the house of his own accord, and yet, if not,
who would have ventured to carry him away?  What temptation, indeed,
would there have been for any one to do so?  That was the question.  I
had never seen Cousin Peter in such a state of agitation as he now was,
though he tried to be calm and composed.  Round and round the house we
went, and looked under every tree and bush, and into every dark corner.
At last the mummers, and the singers, and ringers, began to come up from
the village, accompanied by the greater part of the population of the
place, all anxious to know what had happened.  A variety of rumours were
afloat.  Everybody sympathised with our uncle.  As soon as they were
assembled he addressed them, and then begged those who had anything to
say to step forward that he might hear them one by one.  Not a word of
information, however, was elicited of any value.  They had seen little
Hugh in the servants' hall, and on one occasion he had darted forward
and run in and out among the mummers; but they thought that he had gone
back again among the servants.  Hopes had been entertained that he, for
a freak, had run off with the mummers or singers; but they all
positively asserted that he was not with them when they left the Hall.
Inquiries were made whether any suspicious characters had been seen in
the neighbourhood.  The people talked for some time among themselves.
Then John Hodson, the village blacksmith, stepped forward, and said that
two days before a stranger had spoken to him as he was working in his
smithy, and asked a number of questions about the place; but he didn't
mind them at the time, and thought that it was only for curiosity's
sake.  The cobbler, Ebenezer Patch, also recollected that a stranger had
spoken to him, but he didn't heed much at the time what questions were
asked or what were answered.

"What was he like, Patch?" asked Sir Hugh, in a hoarse voice, which
sounded strange to my ears.

"Why, Sir Hugh, he had, I marked, a very white, long face, and he had an
odd bend in his back, which made him look somewhat short.  He spoke
gently, I mind, just like a gentleman, and I made no doubt that he was
one," answered the cobbler.

The blacksmith gave the same account of the stranger.  It seemed to
agitate our uncle strangely; so it did Cousin Peter.  They talked aside
for some time.

"Can that wretched man have had anything to do with it?"  I heard Sir
Hugh say.

"Too probably, indeed, should he really have been in the neighbourhood.
I fear so," remarked Cousin Peter.  "At all events, we must endeavour to
discover where he has gone.  He is capable of any daring deed of
wickedness.  My only hope is that we are mistaken in supposing that the
person seen was he."

"The description suits him too closely to leave any doubt on my mind."

I did not hear more, and I had no idea who the person was of whom they
were speaking, except that he was the stranger seen in the village; nor
could I tell why they should fancy he had had anything to do with the
disappearance of little Hugh.

After a further consultation, Cousin Peter and two other gentlemen went
to their rooms, and returned booted and spurred, and, putting on their
great-coats, accompanied by Sam Barnby, rode off in two parties in
different directions.  Notwithstanding this, another search, intended to
be still more rigid than the first, was instituted, both inside and
outside the house.  Meantime, Sir Hugh had ordered lights into the
library, and spent the night writing letters to magistrates and others,
and papers of all sorts for printing, offering rewards for the recovery
of the lost child.  Lady Worsley was for most of the time in the
drawing-room with Julia and several other Indies, who were in vain
attempting to comfort her.  No one went to bed that night at Foxholme
Park.  We boys were called in by Sir Hugh, and highly proud at being
employed by him in copying notices to be sent out in the morning,
offering a reward for the discovery of little Hugh.  We were all very
sorry for the loss of our small cousin; but we liked the excitement
amazingly.  For my part, I must own that I could not, however,
altogether forget the games Cousin Peter had prepared for us, and the
amusement we had anticipated, and regret for the fun and frolic we
should miss, mingled somewhat with the sorrow I really felt for the loss
of little Hugh, and the trouble which had come on our uncle and aunt and
all the family.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER FOUR.

Morning came at last, and as the family assembled in the breakfast-room
with pale anxious faces, the question again and again was asked if any
trace had been found of little Hugh, Cousin Peter and the other
gentlemen, and Sam Barnby, came back; but they did not appear to have
anything satisfactory to communicate.  Poor Cousin Peter, I never saw
his face look so long and miserable.  I thought the anxiety would kill
him.  He deemed to feel the event even more than Sir Hugh, who several
times murmured, "God's will be done, whatever has happened to the
child."  It must be a great thing to be able to say that under all the
trials of life.  With daylight the search through the park and grounds
was recommenced.  I know that I cried outright when I saw men with nets
dragging the ponds.  I had not realised the possibility that the dear
little fellow might actually be dead, as this proceeding suggested.  I
was very thankful each time that I saw the drags come up empty.  As I
remarked, the ground had become so hard early in the evening, that no
footprints could have been left on it.  This circumstance made it
impossible to discover the direction little Hugh could have taken, had
he gone off by himself, which it was utterly improbable he should have
done, or that of anybody else.

Several gentlemen, county magistrates, and lawyers, and constables, came
during the day to see Sir Hugh, some to offer him advice and assistance,
others to receive his directions.  He and Cousin Peter seemed at last to
have made up their minds that little Hugh had been carried off by the
mysterious individual who had been seen by the blacksmith and cobbler;
but how he had contrived to get into the house, no one could tell.  The
mummers indignantly denied that any stranger could have come in with
them, while the servants as positively asserted that no one whom they
did not know had entered the house that evening.  Another guest had been
expected in the afternoon, a Mr Strafford.  I had remarked that
whenever his name was mentioned, Cousin Julia had looked very
interested, and once or twice I saw a blush rising on her cheek.  He had
been there before, and Sir Hugh spoke highly of him.  Julia had met him
at a house where she had been staying in the summer.  Cousin Peter, on
the contrary, looked sad and pained, I fancied, whenever he was spoken
of; and putting that and other things together, I had little doubt that
Mr Strafford was a suitor for Cousin Julia's hand.  I was, therefore,
curious to know what sort of a person Mr Strafford was.  Both Sir Hugh
and Julia expressed themselves anxious for his arrival, under the belief
that he would materially assist in discovering what had become of little
Hugh.  Why, I could not tell, except that he was a barrister, and that
barristers were supposed to be very clever fellows, who can always find
out everything.  It was late in the afternoon, growing dusk, when a
post-chaise drove up to the door, and a slight, active, very intelligent
and good-looking young man got out of it.  I was in a low window in the
ante-room reading, hidden by the back of a large arm-chair.  I looked
out of the window and saw the new arrival, who the next instant was in
the room, when Julia went out to meet him.  From the way they greeted
each other, I had no longer any doubt of the true state of the case.
They of course did not see me, or they might not have been so
demonstrative.  Mr Strafford listened with knitted brow to the account
Julia gave him of little Hugh's disappearance, or rather I may say of
his abduction, for she had no doubt of his having been carried off by
the mysterious stranger.

"It is a sad alternative, for the sake of the family; but I see no other
course to pursue," said Mr Strafford.  "The unhappy man must be
captured at all hazards.  If we attempt to make any private compromise,
he will escape, and too probably never allow us to hear more of your
brother.  For his own sake, I do not think that he will have ventured to
be guilty of violence."

"Oh! the disgrace, the disgrace to the family!" dried Julia.  "Yet he
cannot be so cruel, so ungrateful, so wicked, as to venture to hurt poor
dear little Hugh."

"On that score set your mind at rest," answered Mr Strafford.  "He will
try to escape with him, I suspect, to the coast of France, and his plan
will be to take him to some distant place where he thinks we shall not
discover him.  I have no doubt that your father and cousin have already
taken measures to stop him.  At all events we will see about it at once,
as there is no time to lose."  Mr Strafford now went on into the
drawing-room, where Sir Hugh and Lady Worsley were waiting to see him.
From what I had heard, I now began to suspect who the mysterious
stranger was.  I hurried off to consult with Jack on the subject.  He
agreed with me that he must be a cousin of Sir Hugh's, who, being his
nearest kinsman of the male branch of the family, would succeed to the
title and estates, should he die without a son.  This man, Everard
Worsley, was always a wild profligate character, and was at present
outlawed, so that he could not venture to show his face openly in
England.  Of course it would be a great thing for him to get the heir
out of the way, as should no other son be born to Sir Hugh, he would
probably be able to have the statute of outlawry removed (I think that
is the proper term), and come and take possession, and turn Lady Worsley
and Cousin Julia out of the house, and send all the old servants about
their business, and fill the place with his own abandoned, reprobate
companions, and hangers on.  This was a possibility, I had heard it
whispered, might occur.  It was the skeleton in the family cupboard; it
was the not improbable event of all others to be dreaded and deplored.
I had heard, too, that this disreputable kinsman was nearly related to
Cousin Peter, and that Cousin Peter had an unbounded abhorrence for him,
that is to say, as much as he could have for any human being.  I fancied
that Cousin Peter himself was in the line of succession, though I did
not know exactly where; but I was very certain that nothing would have
caused him more acute sorrow than to see those he loved so well removed
to make way for him.

I observed that Cousin Peter met Mr Strafford in the most frank and
cordial manner, and at once entered with him into a discussion as to the
steps which should next be taken for the recovery of the child.  I did
not hear all that was to be done.  I knew, however, that a number of the
most intelligent and trustworthy men in the neighbourhood were engaged.
Some were sent off to all the places on the coast whence boats could get
off, to ascertain if any had gone across the channel, and to examine any
which might be going, while other parties were, as soon as it was
daylight, to scour the forest in every direction.  We boys, under Sam
Barnby, were, much to our satisfaction, to engage in this latter
service.  Sir Hugh and the rest of the family, overcome with fatigue,
were compelled to go to bed; but all night long people were coming and
going with messages, showing that a very vigilant and active search was
being carried on.  Neither Cousin Peter nor Mr Strafford, however, went
to bed, as they had taken upon themselves the direction of the search.
Indeed, unless Everard Worsley had succeeded at once in getting away
from the neighbourhood, it seemed scarcely possible that he should now
be able to make his escape.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER FIVE.

Long before daybreak we boys were up, called by Sam Barnby, and, having
breakfasted, and by his advice, filled our pockets with bread and ham
and tongue and brawn, set off while the first streaks of dawn were still
in the sky, to commence our search through the forest.  The sky was
cloudless, the stars shining brightly at first, but one by one they
disappeared as the light streaming through the leafless trees on the one
hand, seemed to be rolling back the gloom of night on the other.  The
air was pure, but keen as razor-blades, as Sam observed, and would have
saved us shaving, if we had had beards to shave.  The crisply frozen
grass crackled under our feet as we trod rapidly over it, with
difficulty restraining our inclination to sing and shout out, so high
were our spirits raised by the exhilarating atmosphere.

We walked on rapidly, covering, by Sam Barnby's directions, as much
ground as possible, while, however, keeping each other in sight, which
could be more easily done at that time of the year than in the summer.
Every now and then we came on a herd of forest ponies, which went
scampering away, shaking the hoar frost from the bushes as their shaggy
coats brushed them in passing.  Less frequently we encountered herds of
the fallow deer, once so numerous.  They would stand for an instant
gazing at us, as if wondering why we had invaded their domains, and
then, fleet as the wind, they would fly, following one after the other,
till they reached some knoll or thicker wood, where they would stop and
scrutinise us as we passed.  We were all soon in a thorough glow from
the exercise we were taking, for the ground was far from level.  Now we
had to ascend a height, now descend into a valley, circuit a marsh, or
leap across a stream--a feat not always easily accomplished.

We passed many spots of historic fame which I cannot here stop to
describe.  Many were highly picturesque and beautiful, and had
attracted, I doubt not, the pencil of Gilpin, who was minister of
Boldre, not far off.  On we went, hour after hour, unflaggingly, till
Sam called a halt, and each of us produced the provender we had brought.
Sam had strapped a large fishing-basket to his back, and to our
infinite satisfaction, when we found that our own supplies were totally
inadequate to satisfy the cravings of our keen appetites, he brought
forth an abundance of eatables and a bottle or two of the stoutest of
stout ales, that, as he remarked, a little might go a long way.  There
must have been real stuff in it, for, though he gave us each but a few
thimblefuls, it set us up amazingly, and away we went as full of spirit
and strength as when we first started.

I cannot describe all the adventures we met with.  Jack was on the right
of the line, I was next to him.  Suddenly I heard him cry out.  I ran up
to him, calling to the others to halt.  Jack pointed to an object under
a bush.  It was the body of a man.

"Is he asleep?"  I asked.

"He is very quiet," said Jack.

Indeed he was quiet.  All our shouting did not arouse him.  He was
dressed in a smock frock and long brown gaiters; but his hands were
white, and his face fair.  "He is dead, young gentlemen!" said Sam
Barnby, gravely, when he came up.  "Who can he be?"

We all stood aloof.  None of us had ever seen a dead mail.  It was a sad
object.  Sam, stooping down, examined the body.

"To my mind, this is no other than the unfortunate gentleman we are
looking for.  He is no carter, and under his smock his dress is that of
a gentleman."

This was indeed valuable information to carry home.  Sam wanted as to
help him remove the body, but we had no fancy to do that.  What,
however, had become of little Hugh?  If the miserable man had really
carried him off, where had he bestowed him?  Could he have murdered the
child first, and then destroyed himself?  The thought was too dreadful
to be entertained.  How had he met with his death?  That was another
question.  Again Sam examined the body.

"This tells a tale, at all events," he exclaimed, holding up a little
shoe.

It was evidently Hugh's.  This man had carried him off--of that there
was no longer a shadow of doubt.  What had become of him though?  We
searched round and round the spot, under every bush, and in the hollow
of every tree.  Not a further sign of the child could we discover.
There would be still daylight sufficient for us to go to the Hall with
the information, and to return.  The question was who should go and who
should stay by the dead body, which we considered that we ought not to
leave.  Without Sam we could not find our way, so it was necessary that
he should go, at all events.  At last my brother Jack asked me if I
would remain with him.  I own that I did not like it.  There was
something terrible at the thought of being out alone with the dead body
of our wicked kinsman, as we supposed the man to be.  Yet I did not wish
to exhibit any fear, and put as bold a face on the matter as I could.

"Yes, of course, if you wish it, Jack, I'll stay with you," I answered
at once.  "Somebody must stay, and I suppose that we are the right
people to do so.  We can run about to keep ourselves warm.  I shan't, of
course, mind it a bit, if you don't.  You'll not be long gone, will you,
Sam?"

"Oh, no fear, Master William," answered Sam Barnby; "we'll be at the
Hall and back in no time.  We've come a long round to get here."

This answer encouraged me a little, and I managed, I flatter myself, to
look thoroughly unconcerned.  We had each of us thick sticks: not that
there was anything to fight with; for even wild hogs don't attack people
who let them alone; but I know that I clutched mine very tightly as the
rest of the party disappeared among the trees of the forest, and Jack
and I were left on guard.  As to looking on the dead man, that was more
than I dared do; so I walked about, flourishing my stick and talking to
Jack, as far as I could get from the spot where the dead man lay,
consistently with my undertaking to keep guard over it.  Jack did not
seem to care very much about the matter.  Now he walked close up to the
spot; then he joined me and talked on indifferent subjects, though I
don't think that even he cared to look directly at the dead man.  We
began at last to become very tired of our guard, and to wish that our
friends would return and relieve us.  I had no watch.  Jack had
forgotten to wind up his, so we could not tell how time sped.

Not far off was a dark clump of hollies, to which I had extended my
walk.  As I was turning round, I heard a slight rustling of the leaves,
and, to my inexpressible horror, I caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes
gleaming out at me through an opening in the boughs.  I instantly
connected them somehow with the man supposed to be dead, and, when I
hurried back to Jack, I half expected to find that the body had got up,
and, by some means or other, gone round into the holly-bush.  No; there
it lay, quiet enough, never more to move of its own accord.  But to what
could those eyes belong?

"Jack!  Jack!"  I stammered out, feeling that I must look very pale and
frightened, "I have seen a pair of eyes!"

"Whereabouts?" asked Jack.  "I suppose that they are in somebody's head,
then?"

"That's the question," said I; "I am not quite so sure of it."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Jack; "let's have a look at the place.  Where did
you see them?"

I pointed to the spot, and plucking up courage as he walked up to it,
followed him, clutching my stick tightly.  The holly-bushes formed a
tolerably large screen, so that we should have to make a wide circuit to
get to the rear.  Nothing was to be seen in front.  No eyes were visible
where I had caught the glimpse of them.  Jack said it was fancy, but
still he had an inclination to examine further.  I would rather have
waited till the arrival of our friends, but he, telling me to go round
one end, ran round the other, that we might catch anybody who might be
there.  I didn't like it, but still I went, feeling that I was
performing a deed of mighty heroism.  I was resolved not to allow Jack
to call me a coward; indeed, he very seldom did so, because anything
that he dared do, I did; the only difference was that he liked it, and I
didn't.  I got round therefore as fast as he did, and just behind the
spot where I had seen the eyes, there they were again, but this time I
discerned a head and face into which they were fixed--a face I had seen
before.

"There, there!"  I cried, pointing to the face as Jack came up.

It was that of the poor idiot lad, Dicky Green.  He was crouching down,
evidently trying to conceal himself from us.

"Why, Dicky, what are you doing here?" cried Jack.  "We won't hurt you."

"I was a looking to see what'd happen next.  He's a sleeping, bean't
he?" answered the idiot, pointing in the direction of the dead man.

"It's a sleep from which he will never awake, lad," said Jack.  "He is
dead, lad."

"Lor', be he?  Then you won't go for to tell of I?" exclaimed Dicky,
whimpering.  "Mother sent I to look for the little one's shoe, when I
told her how I'd got hold of him and gi'en the man as was a trying to
take him from me a pretty hard clout on the head.  I thought I'd made
him quiet, but I ne'er meaned to kill him, that I didn't."

"The little one!" cried Jack, a new light bursting on us.  "What do you
know of him?  Where is he?"

"Oh, he's all right, and happy as he can be, I wot," said Dicky, with a
grin, which made us doubt the truth of his assertion.

Our fear now, however, was that the idiot would escape from us before we
could ascertain whether or not he really did know where little Hugh was.
Still, we could not help hoping that the child was safe.  Jack
therefore did his best to keep him talking till our friends should come
from the Hull.  Happily, the poor creature was very fond of keeping his
tongue moving, as other people with a limited supply of brains are apt
to do.  Though he talked on, we could not make out more than we had
already.  To our great relief, we heard at length the sound of voices
approaching us.  Soon Sir Hugh, with Cousin Peter, Mr Strafford, and
several other gentlemen on horseback, with Sam Barnby and a whole posse
of men, appeared in the distance.  We shouted to them to come to us.  No
sooner did Dicky Green see them, than he began to tremble violently;
then, looking to the right and left, he bolted off through the forest.
Fortunately, Cousin Peter saw him, and gave chase on horseback; Sam
Barnby also followed in the direction we pointed.  Still Dicky ran very
fast, dodging in and out among the trees.  Meantime, Sir Hugh and Mr
Strafford rode up to where the dead body lay on the grass.  As soon as
Sir Hugh saw the features of the corpse, he said in a sad voice:

"It is that unhappy man, cut off in the middle of his career; but my
boy, my boy, where can he be?"

Though Dicky Green ran fast, he was ere long overtaken and brought back.
He stood before the gentlemen with one of his most idiotic looks, which
made it seem hopeless that anything could be got out of him.

"Come, come, Dicky, that will not do for us," said Cousin Peter; "rouse
yourself up and tell us all you know about this matter.  No one will do
you any harm, lad."

Thus spoken to kindly, after some time, Dicky looked up and said:

"Thee wants to know about the little chap, and if I tells thee, thee
won't ask how that one there came by his death?"

"If we do ask, it will not be to bring any harm on you, Dicky.  You may
be assured of that," said Cousin Peter.

Dicky thought for some time, and then began to move off through the
forest.

"He is going towards his mother's cottage; I shouldn't be surprised if
little Master Hugh be there safe enough," whispered Sam Barnby.

"Bless you, bless you, Sam Barnby, for those words, and I believe that
they are true," exclaimed Sir Hugh, as we all followed the idiot, except
a couple of men, who were left with the dead body.

In a short time we reached a wretched tumble-down hut of mud, with a
roof of thatch, green with age, and full of holes, in which birds had
built their nests.  There at one end we found a bed-ridden old woman,
the idiot's mother, and on a little pallet-bed in the further corner lay
a blooming child fast asleep.  Sir Hugh stepped forward, signing to us
not to make a noise, and lifting the child in his arms, bestowed a kiss
on its brow.  The boy awoke, and seeing his father--for it was our dear
little Hugh--threw his arms round his neck and exclaimed:

"You've come, papa, for Hugh at last; Hugh is so glad, so happy!"

It was a happy meeting we all had at the Hall that evening, and grateful
were the hearts of Sir Hugh and Lady Worsley at the recovery of their
darling boy.  I remember that afterwards there was an inquest, and that
the magistrates met, but, except from the ravings of poor Dicky Green,
there was no evidence how the deceased gentleman who was found in the
forest came by his death.  He was accordingly buried quietly in the
parish churchyard, and as little fuss as possible made about the matter,
though of course it had the usual run of a nine days' wonder.  I am
happy to say that little Hugh grew up, and as he is the father of a
number of boys, there is not much chance of the property going out of
the old line for want of a male heir.

STORY TWO, CHAPTER ONE.

STORY TWO--The Rocking-Stone: A Chronicle of the Times of the Wars of
the Roses.

Two of the most powerful nobles of England, the Duke of Somerset and the
Earl of Warwick, were one fine summer's day, in the year of our Lord
1449, walking together in the Temple Gardens, on the banks of the
Thames.  Their conversations were on affairs of state.  Ere long they
expressed decided differences of opinion.  Their tempers warmed up; the
dispute ran high.  They appealed to the nobles and gentlemen attending
on them, but all drew back.  They had long been rivals, each seeking for
power and influence.  Warwick possessed immense popularity both with the
soldiery and populace.  He is since well known in history as the
Kingmaker.  He was not a man to brook opposition.

"It is well that we should know our foes from our friends," he
exclaimed, plucking as he spoke a white rose from a bush which grew
near.  "Let all who claim to be my friends wear henceforth the white
rose in their helms or caps."

"And I, too, wish to know who are my friends and who my foes," said the
Duke of Somerset, walking on rapidly till he reached a red rose-tree
which he saw in the distance.  "I shall expect all those who love me, or
the cause I espouse, to wear this flower of blushing hue."

Several knights and gentlemen hurried after the duke, and imitated his
example in placing red roses in their caps.  The earl watched the
proceedings of his rival with a smile.

"My challenge is quickly accepted," he observed, turning to those who
surrounded him.  "But am I to stand alone?  Have I no friends who wish
to show that they are ready to espouse my cause?"

"Ten thousand swords would be ready to leap from their scabbards the
moment you summon them," answered a sturdy knight, Sir Herbert de
Beauville.  "I, for one, am ready to risk castle, and lands, and jewels,
and life itself, in your service; and as a pledge of my sincerity, I
place this white rose in my helm, and, so help me Heaven, may I ever be
true to it and to you while life remains!"

The rest of the party, following the knight's example, pledged
themselves to the earl, and placed white roses in their helms or caps.
It was curious to see the two parties, as they henceforth walked apart
with the insignia they had so hastily assumed prominently displayed,
eyeing each other with glances indicative, it might be, of that fearful
struggle which was so soon to commence, and to devastate the fair land
of England and deluge it with blood.  Some of those present turned
traitors to the cause they had espoused, and others more than once
changed sides, but amply did Sir Herbert de Beauville fulfil the pledge
he had given on that occasion.  He was one of those men who consider
that black is black, and white is white, and so, having passed his word
that he would wear the white rose and support the house of York, he
fought on, amid all its changing fortunes, till he had lost the larger
portion of his once ample possessions.  His ancestral castle of
Beauville, in the north of England, in a sadly dilapidated condition,
with its park and a few hundred acres of land, was at length all that
remained to him.  In the fatal fight on Bosworth Field, holding himself
bravely, as was his wont, he was desperately wounded.  He would have
fallen from his horse had not he been supported by his faithful
servitor, Roger Bertrand, who led him from the fight to a retired spot
near a brook, where he could attend to his gaping wounds, and stanch the
life-blood flowing from his veins.  In vain, however, the brave squire
exerted all his skill.  It was too clear to him that his beloved
master's hours were numbered.  The knight also was well aware that his
last blow had been struck for the cause he had so long espoused, and
that he should soon be numbered with the dead.  He committed, therefore,
his wife and young son, who was named after him, to Roger's care.

"Mark you, Roger, watch over the boy as a precious jewel.  Remember his
noble blood and parentage, bring him up as becomes both, and above all
things, when he comes to man's estate, take care that he finds a bride
befitting him, and does not wed beneath him.  I fear me much that I do
not leave him as rich a heritage as I received, but should quiet times
ever come back to this realm of England, with your careful nursing, it
may once more be made as profitable as of yore.  You know my wishes,
good Roger; I can speak no more.  Especially in that one point of
marriage guide the boy aright.  Lift me up.  How goes the fight?  Let me
behold the white rose of York once more triumphant.  See--see--they
charge forward!  No--alas! they turn and fly.  Then welcome death!"  The
old knight, pressing Roger's hand, uttered the word, "Remember," and
fell back and died.

The brave serving-man, rising to his feet, stood over the dead body of
his master with drawn sword, to protect it from spoliation, and
ultimately succeeded in bearing it off from the field, so as to give it
honoured sepulture in the precincts of the neighbouring church.  The
priests were desirous to keep the knight's armour in pawn, that masses
might be said for the repose of his soul.

"Thanks, reverend and worthy gentlemen," answered Roger, quietly.  "But
my dear master was as hearty a prayer as he was a fighter, and methinks
if he's failed while he lived to make his peace with Heaven, nothing
that you or any other can say will aid him now that he is gone, and
knows more about the matter than you and all the world besides put
together."

"What rank heresy is this you are speaking?" exclaimed the priest.  "The
prayers of the Church not of use to the dead, do you say?  This savours
strongly of the abominable tenets of Wycliffe.  Why, you must belong to
the abominable sect of the Lollards, Master Roger."

"Nay, but I was only speaking in the case of my good master," answered
the latter, in his quiet tone.  "I said that he was a hearty prayer; and
what is the use of a man's praying if his prayers are not to be heard?
But if my master's prayers were heard--and I am sure they were--then
there is no further need of any one praying for him.  I am a true son of
Holy Mother Church.  I know nothing of Master Wycliffe, and conclude
that he has been dead no small number of years."

The priest, not accustomed in those days to controversy, had nothing to
say in reply to Roger's remarks, though, still suspecting him strongly
to be a Lollard, he would have liked to entrap him, and have the power
to bring down punishment on his head.  Honest Roger, however, not aware
of the feelings of animosity he had excited, frankly wished the irate
ecclesiastic farewell, and with the arms and armour of his late master,
all that remained of him, took his departure for the now mourning castle
of Beauville.

It is not necessary to describe the grief of the Lady Beauville, nor of
the young Herbert, who was of an age to feel deeply the loss he had
suffered.  As may have been suspected, Roger Bertram was a Lollard, as
was also the mistress of the castle, though they had found it necessary
to conceal their opinions.  Young Herbert was accordingly brought up in
the principles of Wycliffe, a copy of whose New Testament was one of the
most prized possessions of his mother.  It was her chief delight to
instruct her son in the glorious truths it contained.  Alas! however,
the shock she received on hearing of the death of her beloved lord, and
the complete overthrow of the cause for which he had so long striven and
fought, was so great, that from that time she sank gradually, and ere
long followed her husband to the grave.

Roger Bertram thoroughly carried out his promise to his master.  Young
Herbert de Beauville grew up into a noble-looking youth, who, though he
did not possess any large amount of book-learning, was the leader in all
the manly exercises of the period.  He was brave and open-hearted, of a
kind and generous disposition, and had ever proved himself affectionate
and obedient to the guardian placed over him.  He had, however, a
determined will of his own, and Roger discovered that, if he wished to
retain his influence over his ward, he must not pull the reins of
authority too tightly.

As Herbert increased in years this became more and more evident,
especially when the youth mixed in the world, and there were not wanting
those who urged him to assert his own independence, and who hinted that,
now he had grown nearly to man's estate, it was no longer incumbent on
him to obey implicitly one who had merely been placed in authority to
watch over him while he was a boy.  Good Roger Bertram, though he was
able conscientiously to do his duty with regard to watching over his
young charge, found that it was a difficult matter to restore a fallen
house, and to bring long-neglected lands again into cultivation.  The
old retainers and tenants who once cultivated the fields had been
carried off by their feudal lord to the wars, and their bones lay
bleaching on many a battle-field.  The lands could not be let, and no
money was therefore forthcoming to restore the dilapidated castle fast
crumbling to pieces.  It had never been restored since the last siege
laid to it by the Lancastrians.  At that time a large portion of the
walls had been battered by cannon, then only recently introduced, and
another part had been undermined: the enemy, indeed, were on the point
of forcing an entrance, when it was relieved by the appearance of the
Yorkist party.  Roger's hope, therefore, was that as soon as his young
lord was of age he would retrieve his fortunes by a wealthy marriage.
Unfortunately there would, he knew, be much difficulty in finding a
bride for him among the fallen Yorkist families, us greedy King Henry
took good care to confiscate all the property he could from any excuse
lay hands on.  Roger was also himself much attached to the principles of
the Lollards, and he wished, if possible, that the young Herbert should
marry into a family which held them.  There were many families at that
time who read Wycliffe's Bible and Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales"--more,
indeed, than are generally supposed.  The English, as a nation, never
bowed the neck very readily to Rome, and even in the darkest days there
were some who put no faith in her assumptions and pretensions.  The more
enlightened had also ere this discovered what a clog to the prosperity
and progress of the country existed in the many thousands of lazy and
idle monks and friars, and other members of what were called religious
orders.  Still it may be considered that the lower classes generally,
and many of the upper, were ignorant in the extreme, and believed in all
those gross superstitions which have ever been the direct result of the
teaching of the Church of Rome, where no counteracting influences are at
work.  As Roger did not himself possess much book-learning, he was
compelled to leave young Herbert under the instruction of Father Mathew,
the curate of the parish, to whom Sir Herbert had confided the charge of
his education.  Not that the knight had any great esteem for the
learning of the father, but simply that he knew of no one else under
whom he could place his son.

Father Mathew was not a learned man, but he had cleverness enough to
conceal his ignorance, and Sir Herbert, who, though a brave soldier, was
no clerk, was not likely to find it out.  If the truth must be said, the
curate was himself fonder of hawk and hound than of his books, and it
was whispered that if a fat pullet came in his way, even on a fast day,
he did not always turn aside from the temptation.  He could, however, do
more than many of his brethren, for he could not only read his breviary,
but write a neat hand and copy manuscripts with precision--an art he had
learned in the cloister, and which was still the chief mode of
multiplying books; for printing had only been introduced into England
about twenty years before.  Such was Father Mathew; in the main, with
all his faults, an honest man.  Roger, who had more shrewdness than his
late lord, was not altogether satisfied with him, but he consoled
himself with the thought that his young charge might have had a worse
preceptor when he saw him growing into a fine handsome young man, with
many noble and generous qualities, though certainly more addicted to
field sports and athletic exercises than to the study of any of those
branches of knowledge by which he might restore the fallen fortunes of
his house.

Meantime, Roger was not unmindful of his purpose to secure a rich wife
for his young lord.  He looked about in every direction, far and near;
but the only damsel he could hear of at all likely to prove suitable was
the Lady Barbara, the only child of the stout Baron Fitz Osbert.  She
was said to be fair to look on, and pious and good, and possessed of all
the accomplishments which distinguished well-brought-up young ladies in
those days.  There were difficulties to be overcome, however.  Herbert
had not seen her, and might not be willing to wed her when he did.  Her
father, the baron, had been a stout Lancastrian, and, although the rival
houses of York and Lancaster were now united under Tudor rule, he was
very likely to be prejudiced against the son of an old opponent.  While
the honest Roger was travelling about the country and troubling himself
greatly in search of the desired heiress, an event occurred which seemed
likely to bring his schemes to naught.  Herbert was one day returning
from hawking--the quarry having led him a long distance from home--when,
as he was passing through a wood of some extent, he heard a cry and loud
shouts for help.  Urging on his steed over the green sward, he saw two
persons on horseback endeavouring to escape from three armed men on
foot.  That the latter were robbers he had little doubt--Cornishmen,
from Lord Audley's wild troops, after the fight at Blackheath.  One of
the persons on horseback was a country damsel, and, from the panniers
between which she sat, it appeared she had been to dispose of the
produce of her farm at market; the other was a serving-man, or
farm-servant, apparently, for he also had a number of baskets slung
about his horse.  He had a bow at his back and a trusty sword by his
side, with which he might, if necessary, defend his young mistress.
These ideas passed through Herbert's mind the moment the scene appeared
before him.  The serving-man had drawn his sword, and was endeavouring
to keep the robbers at bay.  The robbers, however, seemed to be laughing
at his efforts, and while one of them was keeping him in play, the other
two had run round on either side, and were on the point of seizing the
reins of the damsel's pony, when Herbert appeared.  He dashed forward,
and, with the impetuosity of youth, without asking any questions, cut
down one of the robbers, and was about to treat the other in the same
way when he made his escape between the trees.  The serving-man had in
the meantime given a good account of the robber who had attacked him,
who lay wounded and, to all appearance, dying on the ground.  He had,
however, first contrived to give honest Rolfe a severe cut on the arm
and another on the side, which would probably have compelled him to
yield to the attacks of the other ruffians had not young Herbert de
Beauville come to his assistance.  The damsel had wonderfully maintained
her self-possession during the events which have been described; but
when Herbert reached her, and, taking her hand, assured her that all
danger was past, her pale cheeks and quivering lips told him that she
could not longer contain her feelings.  He helped her to dismount, and
placing her on the trunk of a fallen tree, endeavoured to calm her
spirits, while Rolfe limped off to fill a bowl, which he had just
purchased in the market, with water from a neighbouring brook.  This
revived the damsel, and, as soon as she was able to speak, after
thanking Herbert for the service he had rendered her, she told him that
her name was Gertrude Alwyn, and that she lived with her father, stout
John Alwyn, a yeoman, on his farm nearly a league off.

"Then I must offer my services to escort you to your home, sweet
Mistress Gertrude," said Herbert, in as courteous a tone as he would
have used towards a princess.  "I can take no denial, as it is
unbefitting that you should continue your journey alone.  Mayhap some
other robbers may meet you, or you may be beset by some other danger."

Whatever might have been the fears of the damsel, she was not unwilling
that so handsome and courteous a young man should escort her homewards.
Not till honest Rolfe had come up to hold her reins while she again
mounted, did she and Herbert discover how badly he had been hurt by the
robber who had attacked him.  He made light of his wounds to save his
young mistress pain, but she refused to proceed till they were bound up,
and some further time was lost in this operation.  Herbert rode by the
side of Gertrude, conversing with her as he went.  He thought that he
had never seen so fair a damsel, so gentle and so lovable, while she was
certain that she had never met so kind and courteous and noble a youth.
It was late when they reached Donington Farm.  Master Alwyn, the owner,
did not seem much surprised to see his daughter escorted by so gay a
cavalier as young Herbert de Beauville.  Having thanked him warmly for
the protection he had afforded to his daughter, and her deliverance from
the danger which had overtaken her, with much courtesy he invited him to
remain to supper, which meal was even then being placed on the table.

Young Herbert was not unwilling to accept the invitation, seeing that
already his heart, or fancy, or whatever organ or sense by which young
men are moved, had already been captivated by the bright eyes and sweet
face of the fair Gertrude.  There was a bright moon about to shine, and
he had no tender mother or loving sisters who would be anxious at his
non-appearance at the usual hour.  Gertrude did not omit to tell her
mother of the hurts Rolfe had received.  On hearing this, the dame, with
alacrity, examined them, dressing them with much skill, of the
possession of which she was not a little proud.

After this, three demure damsels and seven stout labouring men came into
the hall, and took their seats at the table.  They then ate in silence
the messes which Mrs Alwyn served out to them.  Master Alwyn, meantime,
kept up a very pleasant conversation with his guest.  He was evidently
far superior in attainments to men generally of his position in life,
for he could both read and write, and knew something of what was going
forward in the world.  In appearance he was not, however, superior to
other yeomen or well-to-do farmers; and his dame, though evidently a
notable thrifty housewife, was not above her class in manners or in
information.  As Herbert looked from one to the other, and then
exchanged a few sentences with their daughter, he wondered how so fair a
creature could have sprung from so rough a stock.  He sat on, unwilling
to leave the society of so charming a being, till at length he had no
excuse for lingering longer.

As he rode homeward, with his hawk sleeping on his shoulder, and his
hounds by his side, his thoughts were so completely occupied with the
fair Gertrude, that he reached the castle gates almost before he was
aware of it.  Good Roger was away on the errand which has been spoken
of, and Father Mathew had never been wont to chide his pupil very
severely.  Now that he had come to man's estate, he wisely abstained
altogether from doing so.  Herbert was therefore accustomed frankly to
tell him all that occurred.  He accordingly described how he had met the
damsel and her servant, and saved them from robbers.

"You have acted bravely, my son, and you deem the damsel fair to look
on?" said Father Mathew.

The last words were uttered quite in an indifferent tone, as if the
matter were of very little consequence.

"Oh yes; the damsel is perfectly beautiful," exclaimed the youth,
enthusiastically.  "I have never seen one I could so devotedly love and
adore."

The priest gave way to a low laugh, and remarked:

"Perchance the next time you see her she may not appear so charming, and
still less so the following.  Methinks, too, that she is not such a one
as the young lord of Beauville ought to wed."

"I have heard of noble knights wedding with maidens of low degree, whose
beauty and rare excellence made them fit to take their place among the
highest in the land.  Such is the damsel of whom I speak.  It would be a
grievous pity to let so charming a rose bloom unseen, or to allow her to
mate with some rough thistle or thorn unworthy of her."

The priest laughed outright.

"Certes, the charms of the damsel have made you poetical, my esteemed
pupil," he remarked.  "I must go forth to see this rare piece of
perfection.  I wonder whether I shall esteem her as you do."

Now, although Herbert had a great regard for his reverend tutor, he did
not altogether desire to have him become acquainted with the damsel, and
he at once, therefore, began to repent that he had praised her in such
glowing terms.  He scorned, however, to retract anything that he had
said, yet he determined to try and prevent Father Mathew from visiting
Donington Farm till he had secured, as he hoped to do, the affections of
its fair inmate.  It was not till late at night that the priest and his
pupil retired to their beds.  At an early hour the next morning the
young lord of Beauville was on his way to Donington to inquire if
Mistress Gertrude had recovered from the effects of the fright to which
she had been subjected.  He also persuaded himself that he was anxious
to learn how it fared with sturdy Rolfe.

He went well armed in case he should meet any of the band of robbers
whose comrades he had so roughly handled.  On reaching Donington, he saw
Father Mathew's grey mare at the gate.  The father must have left the
castle by break of day, and have ridden pretty fast to get there before
him.  Herbert met him coming out.

"Ah, my son, you said not that you were coming here to-day," he remarked
quietly.  "However, I am not surprised.  The damsel is truly fair to
look on, and calculated to win a young man's heart.  But beware, I say--
beware.  Now go in and pay your visit and inquire after her health, and
say all the foolish things you proposed saying, and then come out again.
I will wait for you, and we will ride back to Beauville together."

This was not at all according to Herbert's intentions, yet he could not
help himself without positively refusing to comply with the father's
wishes.  He found the dame and her fair daughter within.  There was some
constraint in their manner at first, but the latter was evidently
pleased to see him.  He thought her not less lovely than on the previous
evening.  The visit, however, was not such as he had anticipated.  In
vain he tried to learn what Father Mathew had been saying about him.  At
last he was obliged to take his leave and join the latter, who had been
walking his horse up and down, waiting for him.  The young man had
learned wisdom.

"I will be even with him," he thought to himself.  "I will let him
suppose that he is right, and that on a second visit I have not found
the damsel as charming as I at first described her."

He carried out his plan, but whether or not Father Mathew was deceived
he could not tell; for the wary priest made no reply to his remarks by
which he could judge what was passing in his mind.  When Roger returned,
Herbert took good care to say nothing to him about fair Mistress
Gertrude, and, somewhat to his surprise, Father Mathew was equally
reserved on the subject.

It was curious, however, that from that time forward his hounds or his
hawks always led him in the direction of Donington, and, though he
brought home less game than formerly, he never grumbled at his ill-luck.
Perhaps both Roger and Father Mathew were watching him, but, if so, he
was not aware of it, and was perfectly well satisfied with the course he
was taking.  He found that Mistress Gertrude was not over strictly
brought up, and that her parents did not object to her mixing with other
young people, and enjoying the spoils and pastimes suitable to their
age.  At all festivals and merry-makings Herbert became her constant
attendant.  He cared not if any one remarked that he demeaned himself by
associating as he did with a yeoman's family.  Master Alwyn did not
object to his consorting with his daughter, and therefore no one else
had any business to find fault with him.  He engaged warmly with other
young men of his age in the various athletic sports then generally
practised.  It was his delight to excel in them, and whenever he won a
prize, as he often did, he was wont to bring it and place it at the feet
of the fair Gertrude.  He did so with a right noble air, and it was
often remarked that she received these attentions with a grace which not
the first lady in the land could surpass.  He was not without rivals who
desired to gain the chief place in her affections; not that she gave
them any encouragement, for her heart was already entirely surrendered
to Herbert.

Among the many devices employed by that money-loving monarch, Henry the
Seventh, was that of confiscating the property of any of his nobles or
other wealthy persons who gave him cause of offence by rebelling or
intriguing with his enemies.  Not far off resided a certain Master John
Fisher, once a wealthy merchant in London, who had in an evil hour for
himself purchased one of these estates, lately belonging to a Lord
Nevile, of ancient lineage, much beloved in the country.  Master Fisher
was a worthy honest man, and would have proved a greater benefactor to
the people among whom he came to reside than he had afterwards the power
of being, had not the king looked on his hordes as a mine of wealth from
which it was his royal privilege to extract whatever he might require.
The merchant had several sons, who naturally desired to live like the
young lords and gentlemen around them.  One of them, Thomas Fisher, had
set his eyes on Mistress Gertrude.  He had more fortune than his
brothers, money having been bequeathed to him by an uncle, also a
merchant.  His personal appearance was in his favour, and, altogether,
he might have been considered a very good match for the yeoman's
daughter.  Master Fisher, his father, however, did not approve of it,
and desired that he should wed into some noble family, which would give
him a better standing in the country than he could otherwise obtain.
Thomas, however, was of an obstinate disposition, and would by no means
give her up.  Wherever there was a prospect of meeting her there he was
always to be found, though he had to confess that of late she certainly
had given him very little encouragement.

There was in the neighbourhood of Beauville Castle a large open common,
in the centre of which were certain Druidical remains--huge blocks of
stone, some like pillars standing upright, and others placed on a pivot
over another by means the knowledge of which appears afterwards to have
been lost.  One of these stones, the largest in the group, was so placed
that the slightest touch would set it vibrating.  It was generally
believed, however, that this could only be done by the good and
virtuous, and that any one not deserving that character, though they
might shake it ever so violently, could not move it.  Here, from near
and far, it had been the custom of the youths and lasses to assemble on
festivals and holidays to amuse themselves with the games and sports
then in vogue.  Archers came to exhibit their skill.  Quintains were set
up, at which young men delighted to run, with lance in rest, either on
foot or on horseback.  Here were practised hurling the bar, casting the
lance, running races, and other similar active sports; while on May-day
a pole was set up, round which the morris-dancers assembled, and the
Lord of Misrule held his court.  People of position in the county did
not disdain to come to these merry meetings.  One fine afternoon, on the
1st of May, 1493, a large number of persons of all ranks and ages were
assembled in the neighbourhood--of the rocking-stone.  The still wealthy
merchant, Master Fisher, and the yeoman, Master Alwyn, and Herbert's
faithful guardian, Roger Bertram, and several knights and justices with
their families, and Father Mathew, and other priests and curates, and
not a few monks and friars, who had come with the spirit of pickpockets
of the present day to try what they could filch from the pouches of the
merry-makers.

After the gay assemblage had got somewhat weary of the ordinary sports,
a number of persons repaired to the rocking-stone, where they amused
themselves by daring each other to give evidence of their virtuous lives
by setting the stone rocking.  Several had gone forward, when the stone
was clearly seen to vibrate.  At length the names of several damsels
were called out, and, among others, Mistress Gertrude Alwyn was summoned
to go forward and move the stone.  There might have been a slight blush
on her cheek at appearing before so many people on such an undertaking;
but yet, with a slight laugh and a smile on her lips, she advanced
towards the stone.  There was a perfect silence among the crowd of
spectators as she touched the stone.  It did not move.  Again and again
she touched it, with all the force she could exert.  The stone remained
as immovable as if part of the mass on which it rested.  There was a
general groan uttered by the crowd, an evidence of their full belief in
the truth of the legend, while, at the same moment, a piercing cry was
heard, and the unhappy damsel was seen to fall fainting to the ground.
Dame Alwyn ran forward to raise her daughter, followed by young Herbert
de Beauville, who declared aloud that, for his part, he believed the
stone might sometimes rock and sometimes cease to rock, but that this
had nothing to do with the virtue or want of that quality in those who
touched it.  There was a cry of "Heretic Lollard" from among the crowd,
but Herbert silenced it by declaring that he would slit the tongue and
break the head of any one who uttered it, or a word against the fair
fame of Mistress Gertrude Alwyn.  The poor girl was mounted on a pillion
behind her father and conveyed back to Donington, weeping bitterly.  A
number of persons collected round the stone, and soon afterwards, on
being touched by chance, it was seen to rock as before.

Herbert remained some time behind the Alwyn family, stalking about with
his hand on the hilt of his sword, evidently longing for an encounter
with some one; but as no person present seemed disposed just then to
beard him, he at length mounted his horse and rode after his friends.
Again and again he assured Master Alwyn, and his dame, and sweet
Mistress Gertrude of his disbelief in the knowledge of the stone of the
character of those who touched it, and that he would not credit a word
against her fair fame should the cardinal, or bishop, or the Pope
himself utter it.  Gertrude thanked him with tears in her eyes, but
begged him to return home and talk the matter over with Master Roger
before he took any steps to vindicate her character, which he told her
that he was resolved to do.  His worthy guardian did not look on the
matter in the light he did.  He confessed that he did not believe that
Mistress Gertrude was of light character, but that if the world did so,
it was nearly as bad, and that she was not a fit bride for him.  Herbert
did not see the matter in this light, and argued the point with great
vehemence, and declared that nothing should prevent him from vindicating
her character by marrying her forthwith.

In this same year a claimant to the throne of England appeared in the
person of a handsome youth, who pretended to be Richard Duke of York,
second son of Edward the Fourth.  He had married the Lady Catherine
Gordon, a cousin of the King of Scotland, who espoused his cause.  No
sooner did he appear in arms than Herbert, faithful to the traditions of
his family, prepared to join him.  He had no retainers, no money, only
his own good sword and ardent young heart.  Roger was now too old to
bear him company, much as he wished it.  He would, indeed, have
dissuaded his young master from the enterprise, on the ground that the
Houses of York and Lancaster were already united, and that, after all,
the new claimant to the crown might be only a pretender, as was
asserted, and not the true prince; but then he thought that absence
might cure him of his love for Gertrude, and that mixing in courtly
society might make him desirous of wedding with the fair Lady Barbara
Fitz Osbert.  Roger was, however, far too wise to hint anything of the
sort, and with inward satisfaction he saw him go to bid farewell to
pretty Mistress Gertrude, hoping that the young people might never meet
again.  Herbert, however, had no such thoughts in his mind.  Again and
again he repeated his promise to Gertrude that he would remain faithful
to her, and that, come weal or come woe, he would return, if alive, and
marry her.  The world might say what it dared--might traduce and scorn
her, but he would believe her true.  He spoke with so much earnestness
that she believed him, and pledged her own word to be faithful to him in
return.

Not till Herbert had paid this farewell visit to Mistress Gertrude did
the wily Father Mathew attempt to cast any slur on her character, or to
dissuade his pupil from his intended marriage.  He left nothing unsaid
which he thought could produce that result.  Every insinuation he dared
make he whispered into Herbert's ear.  Roger also was not slow to
support the curate's remarks, while at the same time he warmly praised
the charms of the Lady Barbara Fitz Osbert, the heiress of the castle of
Hardingham and its broad domains.  Herbert listened, pained in mind, and
moved, but not convinced.  "Should she be fake, there is no virtue or
faith in womankind, and I would as lief throw away my life in the first
battle in which I am engaged as live."  Many young men have thought the
same thing, and changed their mind.

No sooner had Herbert taken his departure than Father Mathew, who had
got into the confidence of Master Thomas Fisher, urged him to press his
suit.  Old Master Fisher had become very much averse to it, on account
of the reports which were current; but Thomas asserted that he
disbelieved them, and that, in spite of all that might be said against
Mistress Gertrude, he was resolved to marry her.

Years rolled on; news came of the expedition of the Scotch king and the
supposed prince into England, and of its failure.  After that nothing
more was heard of the unfortunate husband of the Lady Catherine Gordon
or of young Sir Herbert de Beauville, who had been knighted by the King
of Scotland.

Meantime a visitor had come to Donington.  He was evidently a man of
superior birth.  He was frequently seen in the company of Mistress
Gertrude, and various were the surmises about him.  Both Master Alwyn
and his dame paid him the greatest respect.  He was somewhat advanced in
life, though still strong and active.  His bronzed complexion, and more
than one scar visible on his cheek, showed that he had been engaged in
war in southern climes.  He did not appear to seek concealment, but at
the same time not a word did he let drop which could allow people to
guess who he was.  At length one day a dozen men-at-arms and several
knights, with two led horses, appeared at Donington, and the stranger
and Mistress Gertrude were seen to mount and ride away after an
affectionate farewell of Master Alwyn and his dame.  No people were more
puzzled than Roger Bertram and Father Mathew.  They remained at
Beauville, holding the castle for Sir Herbert, though it seemed very
doubtful whether he would ever return.  One day a wandering minstrel
came to the neighbouring hamlet.  He approached a house, the bush hung
over the door of which showed that entertainment for man and beast was
to be obtained in the establishment.  The minstrel took his seat in the
public room, and quickly entered into conversation with those around
him.  His object seemed to be to obtain information about the persons in
the neighbourhood.  Among others he asked after Master Alwyn and his
dame.  They were living as before in the old house, and enjoying good
health and strength.

"They had a daughter," observed the minstrel, in a calm voice.

"Oh, the hussy!--she long since went away with a gay knight, who came
with a band to carry her off, and no one knows what has become of her,"
answered his loquacious informant.

"It is false!" exclaimed the minstrel, starting up.  Then, suddenly
checking himself, he added: "I mean, such reports as these often get
about without due foundation."

However, he could not calm the agitation this information caused him,
and, having paid his reckoning and slung the harp he carried over his
shoulder, he left the house.  He took his way towards Beauville.  Father
Mathew was standing at the entrance as he approached the old castle.

"Go thy way--go thy way; we want no vagrants here.  We have enough of
our own starving poor to feed without yielding to the rapacity of
strangers," cried the father, eyeing him askance.

The minstrel humbly turned aside, and, not far off, met old Roger
Bertram.  He was about to avoid him, when Roger, eyeing him narrowly,
hobbled forward, for he could not run, and, taking him in his arms,
exclaimed:

"My son--my own boy--my young master--and art thou really come back
sound in limb and health?  Thrice happy is this day."

The minstrel was no other than Sir Herbert de Beauville.  He seemed too
much broken in spirits even to laugh at the way Father Mathew had
treated him.  He had escaped, not without difficulty, after the defeat
of the pretended Richard of York, who, acknowledging himself as Perkin
Warbeck, had surrendered to the King.  Herbert had now only one object
on earth for which he desired to live--to establish the fair fame of
Mistress Gertrude Alwyn; and he had resolved, he said, to trace out the
author of the calumnies he had heard against her, or, if he could not do
that, to punish every one who had been known to utter them.

It appeared that her disappointed suitor, Master Thomas Fisher, had been
heard to repeat the evil reports concerning her.  Here, then, was an
object on whom he could wreak his vengeance.  Master Fisher had, by
means of the wealth which had fallen to him, been able to purchase a
title and honours of the mercenary king, and he now gave himself all the
airs of an old noble.  When, therefore, Sir Herbert challenged him to
mortal combat on account of words uttered against the fair fame of a
damsel undeserving of such reproach, he was compelled to accept the
challenge.  Space does not permit a description of the combat.  The
newly-made baron was overthrown, and as Sir Herbert stood over him with
his drawn sword, he confessed that he had himself, in revenge, inserted
a small pebble in a hole under the rocking-stone, by which it became
fixed and incapable of moving.  On this Sir Herbert granted him his
life, on condition that he should repeat the statement whenever he
should so require him to do.  He had it also made out in writing and
duly attested, and, with this document in his hand, he set out to visit
Master Alwyn and his dame.  His heart sank within him when he learned
from them that Mistress Gertrude was not their daughter, but the only
child of the Earl of Fitz-Stephen, who had, by the sacrifice of a
portion of his patrimony, which had gone into the king's coffers, lately
regained the remainder.  His spirits, however, rose again when they
encouraged him to hasten forthwith to, the earl's castle and to try his
fortune with the lady, showing her the document he had brought with him.
He followed their advice; the Lady Gertrude received him in a way to
satisfy his utmost hopes, and presented him to her father as the only
person she would ever marry.  They were accordingly wedded, and by
living in privacy till the death of Henry, Sir Herbert escaped being
implicated in the attempts made by the pretended Richard of York to gain
the English crown.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER ONE.

STORY THREE--REGINALD WARRENDER; OR, EARLY DAYS AT ETON.

"Reginald, my boy, I was at Eton myself, and, in spite of some
drawbacks, I loved the old place right dearly, and so I intend to go
with you, and to introduce you to all the spots I remember so well; but
I don't suppose any of my old acquaintance and chums are still to be
found there.  However, the very sight of the walls and towers of the
school, the meadows, the river, and the Castle in the distance, will
make me young again.  You will find a good deal of difference between it
and where you have been before.  The discipline there is apt to take a
good deal of pride and self-sufficiency out of a fellow--not that you
have much of them, I hope.  The tutor I have chosen for you, Mr
Lindsay, is a first-rate man.  You are to live in his house.  I was at a
dame's--a real dame--a very good, old lady, though some are men you will
find.  There is much the same discipline and order kept in both.  We
will have our portmanteaus packed by Friday, so that we will sleep in
London, and go down there on Saturday morning, that you may have the
best part of that day and Sunday to look about you."

These remarks were made by Squire Warrender to his son, who had hitherto
been at a boarding-school, where he had received the first rudiments of
his education.

Reginald thanked his father for his intentions.

"It will be very delightful to have you with me, papa," he exclaimed;
"it will not feel at all as if I were going to school; and, besides,
Eton is the place of all others I wished to go to.  I don't much fear
the fagging or the bullying, and I can take pretty good care of myself
now."

In truth Reginald had no longer any dread about going to school.  He had
accepted schooling as a necessity of boyish existence, and had made up
his mind to endure all its ups and downs with equanimity.  The day for
their departure arrived.  Mary, his sister, did not fail to promise to
write as usual, and John assured his young master that he would take
good care of Polly, his pony, and Carlo and the other dogs, and the
ferrets, and all his other animate or inanimate treasures.  Reginald had
been disinclined to accept Mrs Dawson's offer to fill a hamper with her
stores; but the Squire recollected that in his time, at all events, such
things were not looked on at all with contempt by the youngsters at
Eton; so a hamper even better supplied than before was provided for him.
The Squire and he started away in very good spirits, cutting jokes to
the last as they drove off.  They had no time to see sights in London,
and early the next morning, after breakfast, they started off with all
Reginald's property for the Great Western station, and within an hour
the latter found himself in the long-thought-of and often-pictured town
of Eton.  He looked out eagerly on either side as they drove along
towards his tutor's.  So did the Squire, especially when they reached
the High Street.  Many a place did he seem to recognise.

"Ah! there it is just as it was," he was continually exclaiming.
"There's my old sock-shop--_soake_, a local term for baking, is the
better spelling.  I spent money enough there, so perhaps they will
remember me; so we will have a look in there by-and-by.  Ah! there's the
Christopher too, where we will go and dine.  I dare say Lindsay will ask
us; but I must be back in town to-night, and it would delay me to accept
his invitation, and perhaps we may fall in with some acquaintance whom
you may like to ask to dine with us."  The Christopher was an hotel,
Reginald found, much patronised by the boys and their friends.  Mr
Lindsay was in school, but Mrs Lindsay was at home, and received them
very kindly.  Reginald thought her a very nice person, and so she was,
and contributed much, as a lady always can if she sets the right way
about it, to make the house thoroughly comfortable and pleasant to its
inmates.  She told Reginald that his room was ready for him.  How proud
he felt to find that he was to have one entirely to himself!  His things
were at once taken up to it, and he begged the Squire to come up and
have a look at it.  It was not very large; but the walls were neatly
papered, and it looked perfectly clean.  Neither was the furniture of a
grand description.  There was a bedstead, which, when turned up, looked
like a cupboard, and a sideboard of painted deal, a small oak chest of
drawers, or rather a bureau, in the upper part of which cups and
saucers, and plates, and a metal teapot, and a few knives and forks and
a muffin-dish, were arranged, and there was a deal table covered with a
red cloth, and two rather hard horsehair-bottomed chairs.

"Here we are, sir," said Reginald, as the maidservant with considerable
discretion retired, that the young gentleman might look about him.  "Sit
down and make yourself at home; I feel so already.  The place has
capabilities, and I hope that the next time you pay me a visit, you will
find that I have taken advantage of them.  I will get some pictures, and
hang them up, and some pegs for my hats find fishing-rods, and hooks for
my bats, and then a Dutch oven, and a frying-pan, and a better kettle
than that will be useful in winter."

"Perhaps you will not object to an arm-chair or a sofa," observed the
Squire.

"An arm-chair, certainly," answered Reginald, "thank you; but with
regard to a sofa, they are all very well for women.  I think, however,
that if a fellow's legs ache, he may put them up on another chair, and
if he has got an arm-chair to lean back in, he will do very well."

"You are right, Reginald; I hate luxurious habits," said the Squire.
"Do not give way to them.  They are not so bad in themselves as in
consequence of what they lead to--self-indulgence and indolence: this is
the vice of the present day.  But come along, we have plenty to do."

The Squire, leaving word that he would call again, took Reginald back
into the town.  They were getting hungry, so very naturally they
proceeded in the first place to the well-remembered sock-shop, known by
the world at large as a pastry-cook's.  A supply of ices and strawberry
messes was at once ordered and discussed with great gusto, buns and
other cakes giving some consistency to the repast.  Who would have
expected to see Squire Warrender, of Blessingham, who had not perhaps
for years taken any other than a solid meat luncheon, with bottled
stout, or a biscuit and a glass of wine, lunching off sweet cakes and
strawberries and cream?  But the truth was, that he did not feel just
then a bit like Squire Warrender, of Blessingham; he was once more
little Reginald Warrender, somewhat of a pickle, and very fond of those
said luscious articles.  To be sure another Reginald Warrender stood by
his side; but he was, as it were, a part of himself, or it might he
himself, or a younger companion.  At all events he felt a great deal too
young just then to be anybody's father, and was quite surprised that the
young women behind the counter did not recognise him.  Surely they were
the very same he must have known.  While they were eating away, an old
lady with spectacles on her nose, and a high white cap on her head, came
into the shop.

"I have come with this youngster here to show him about the place," said
the Squire.  "This is a shop I used to know well once upon a time; but
the young ladies here don't seem to recognise me."

"I should think not," said the old lady, laughing, as did the young
ones.  "Perhaps I might though, if I knew your name.  What years were
you here?"

The Squire told her.

"I was about their age then, and stood where they now stand," she
observed, as she went into an inner room, and brought down a longish
parchment-covered volume.  "Oh, I now remember you perfectly well,
Master Warrender," said she, turning over the pages, and evidently also
forgetting how many years had rolled away since the Squire was Master
Warrender.  "You were a very good customer of ours, that you were,
indeed.  You had a good healthy appetite: six dozen oranges, three dozen
queencakes, a couple of dozen hot-cross buns for breakfast on one
occasion.  I suppose you didn't eat them all yourself though.  And now I
see you left owing us a little account.  It was no great matter; only
fifteen and sixpence for cherries and strawberries."

"Sold, papa!" whispered Reginald, aside, and highly amused.  "It is
pleasant, however, to be able to pay off old scores."

"I fear that the account is too correct," said the Squire.  "Let me see,
how was it?  Ah, I recollect--a wager, I am afraid.  Cleveland and I.
We tried to see which could eat the most in a given time.  Don't you go
and do such a silly thing though, Reginald, or I'll disinherit you.  He
ought to have paid, for I beat him; but I ordered them.  Well, I will
pay you now with interest."

"Oh no, no, sir, thank you; I could not think of it," said the old lady.

However, as she said the words in a tone which evidently did not mean
that she positively would not receive the amount, the Squire pulled out
a sovereign, and handed it to her.

"There is the sum with interest--very small interest though," he
observed.  "I wish that I could pay all the debts of my younger days as
easily."

The old lady was highly pleased, and promised to stand Reginald's
friend, and to give him good advice whenever he would come to her.

"And I wish, sir," said she, "that I could as easily get in all the
debts owing to me."

Thereon the Squire took occasion to impress very strongly on his son the
importance of not running into debt.  "If you cannot pay for a thing,
you should not get it," he remarked.  "Never mind how much you may want
it.  You may fancy that you can pay some day; but before that day comes
you will have wanted several other things, all of which have to be paid
for out of this sum in prospect, which may possibly never come at all.
Then one person will press for payment, and then another, and then you
will think that there can be no harm in borrowing, and the chances are
that you become the slave of the person from whom you borrow.  Take my
advice, Reginald, keep out of debt and be free.  I have spoken only of
worldly-wise motives for keeping out of debt, but it is morally wrong--
it is dishonest.  The Bible says, `Owe no man anything.'  That is right,
depend on it.  Some fellows fancy that it is fine and gentlemanly to run
into debt, and that it is a spirited thing to bilk a tradesman.  I
think, and I am sure you will, that it is one of the most ungentlemanly
and blackguardly things to deprive any man of his just rights, not to
say unchristianlike and despicable."

This conversation took place as the Squire and his son were walking
towards the school-house.  They walked about the noble edifice, under
the fine arched gateway, and beneath its venerable walls.  Then they
looked out upon the rich green meadows, and the avenue of lofty elms,
and Reginald thought it a remarkably fine place, and began already to
feel proud at being able to call himself an Eton boy.  As the boys were
still "up," that is, in school, the Squire proposed walking down the
town to have a look at the Castle, and some of the old places on the
way.  As they were leaving the building, they met an old man with a
vehicle loaded with tarts and buns, and cakes of all sorts.  As they
passed close to him, he looked hard at the Squire, and said, "Beg
pardon, sir, but I think I know you, sir, though it is a good many years
since you ate any of my buns."

"And I am very certain that I know you, old fellow," answered the
Squire, highly delighted.  "You are Spankie himself, or I am very much
mistaken."

"You are right, sir, the same, and that young gentleman is your son just
come up here; I should have known him in a moment from his likeness to
you," said old Spankie.  "Never forget anybody I have once known.  Now I
think of it, were not you one of those young gentlemen who played the
trick to Mr Fowler, I think it was, or one of the masters of his time?
What a good joke it was!  Ha, ha, ha!"

"What joke do you mean?" asked the Squire.  "I remember no good joke
that I ever played.  I am afraid that I had not wits enough."

"I'll tell you, sir; if you were not one of them, it was somebody else,"
answered old Spankie, who probably knew that well enough, but wanted to
tell a good story to gain time that he might find out, if possible, who
the old Etonian was--a fact of which he was in reality perfectly
ignorant.  "Two of the young gentlemen, tall big lads for their ages,
took it into their heads to dress up as foreigners of distinction, with
moustaches and beards, and corked eyebrows, and spectacles, and large
shirt-collars, with no end of gold chains, and such flash waistcoats,
all of satin, and covered over with green and yellow and pink flowers.
One was a Greek prince, and the other a Polish count, travelling for the
improvement of their own mind, and with the intention of establishing a
great public school like Eton in Greece or Turkey, or some outlandish
place or other.  Well, there they were walking arm in arm through the
High Street, looking into the shops and around them on every side, and
stopping to admire the prospect whenever there was a prospect to admire,
just for all the world like strangers who had never seen the place
before.  They caught sight of Mr Fowler coming along; so says one to
the other, `Let's sell him, and make him show us over the place.'
`Agreed,' answers the other.  They had been keeping up all their airs,
and they knew that he had seen them, so they marched boldly up to him,
and making him a polite bow, says one of them, `Saire, I see dat you are
one academic gentleman, and if you will be kind to two strangers vill
you have de great goodness to show us over dis grand, dis magnificent
town?'  Mr Fowler, who was born and bred in Eton, and was very proud of
it, was highly delighted, and said that he would have the greatest
pleasure in doing what they wished.  They knew that, and so they knew
when to lay it on the thickest.  And so didn't they just praise the
place and the masters, and everything they saw, and a great deal they
said that they had heard, till he was quite beside himself.  Then they
began talking Greek and Latin to him, and if he hadn't been so pleased
he would have found them out.  Then they asked all sorts of questions
about the school, and he promised to write out all the rules and
regulations, and the whole plan on which it was conducted, and a good
deal of its history, and all his own ideas about founding a school.  The
more inclined they found him to write, the more questions requiring
answers they plied him with; and ever after they boasted of the long
imposition they had set him.  They gave him an address of a friend of
theirs in London, and begged him to send what he had written there.  He
did send it, and they got it too, and they used to show his lucubrations
with no little pride, and all he had said about the school.  He would
have been in a rage had he found them out.  They asked to see one of the
houses just as they were passing their own tutor's, with whom they knew
he was intimate, and they actually made him show them their own rooms.
It was a wonder they were not discovered, for there on the table in one
of the rooms was a wig and a false pair of moustaches.  They hurried out
in a great fright, saying that they did not think it was right to
intrude on the privacy of any young students.  At last, when they had
pretty well walked Mr Fowler off his legs, and got tired themselves,
they wished him good-bye, with a profusion of thanks, and betook
themselves to the Christopher.  They had invited him to dine with them
at an hour they knew he could not come--not but what they would have
been very happy to see him, but they thought the risk was too great--he
might have found them out eating.  They had a jolly good dinner at the
Christopher, and then they paid their bill and waited till dark, when
they pulled off their moustaches and beards, and put on pea-coats,
slipping out unobserved, and so got back safe to their rooms.  One of
them told me all about it afterwards, and I couldn't help thinking you
was him, sir."

The Squire was milch amused, and encouraged old Spankie to continue his
narrations.

"Well, sir, if it wasn't you sold Mr Fowler so cleverly, it surely was
you who got up the great donkey race on the Slough road, just outside
Eton."

"Suppose it was me, or suppose it was not, just do you tell my boy here
all about it.  I like to hear you speak of old times," answered the
Squire.

"Well, sir, the young gentlemen got hold of two fine donkeys, and turned
out in regular jockey costume,--caps, silk jackets, top boots, and all.
Great swells they looked, and there was no end of boys went out to see
them.  The whole road was full for a mile or more.  A course was formed,
and off they set; but donkeys never will run when you want them, or,
rather, they always will run when you don't want them.  As ill-luck
would have it, who should come by but the Doctor.  He wasn't a man a bit
less than the present to play a joke with.  What should one of the
racers do but run right against his carriage, and make the horses kick
and rear, and, in spite of all the unhappy jockey could do, he couldn't
get him away.  The Doctor just saw who they were, and though it may be
supposed he was in a towering rage, says he quietly enough, `Go to your
tutors and report yourselves, and come to me this evening.'  Of course
they knew that they would get flogged, and so one of them provided
himself with a pair of wicket-keeping gloves, and went in quite boldly.
`It's my duty to flog you,' says the Doctor--`strip.'  `It's my duty to
save my skin,' says the young gentleman, putting on his gloves quite
deliberately; and when the Doctor began, he warded off all the cuts till
the master grew weary.  Then he handed them to his friend, who put them
on and saved himself in the same way.  Of course they got all the credit
of being flogged, and were laughed at for their pains, till they told
how they had saved themselves with their cricketing gloves."

"Tell that story to the marines," said the Squire.  "However, I dare say
some of it is true enough; but I wasn't one of the jockeys, and I
wouldn't advise my son to imitate them either.  However, old friend, I
like to hear you talk of bygone days, and here's a five shilling piece.
Let my son take it out in buns and tarts when he has a mind to do so."

"Thank ye, sir, thank ye," said old Spankie, and the Squire walked on,
knowing that he had secured another friend for Reginald.  They hurried
on to Windsor Castle, which had been much altered and beautified since
the Squire had seen it, and certainly, rising up as it does from its
richly-green forest, with its terraces and towers, it has a peculiarly
handsome and regal appearance.  When they got back, the boys were just
coming out from two o'clock absence, and were running off to their
dames' and tutors' houses.  The Squire looked narrowly at them as they
passed, to try and find the sons of any of his acquaintance who might be
there.  Had he written to ascertain the houses they belonged to, he
would easily have discovered them.  Suddenly Reginald left his father's
side, and ran after a boy whose hand he seized and wrung warmly.

"What, Warrender, are you come here?" asked his friend.

"Indeed I am," answered Reginald; "but I had no notion that you were
here, Power.  How very fortunate I am to find you!  But come along, I'll
introduce you to my father.  He'll want you to dine with us."

Of course Power was nothing loth to accept the invitation.  He had come
up just in time, before he was too old, and had at once taken a fair
standing in the school, being in the upper division of the Fourth Form,
and about to go into the lower remove.  He was, too, in Reginald's own
house, which was a very great satisfaction.  The Squire at length found
out the son of a friend of his--young Anson, and invited him to join his
dinner-party at the Christopher.  As he wanted to see the cricketing and
boating in the afternoon, he had ordered dinner early; and, saying he
might not exactly know what Eton boys of the present day liked, he had
left the selection of the dishes to the landlord.  A very merry party
they were seated round the dinner-table at the Christopher, and ample
justice did they all do to the dinner provided.  The Squire wished to
give the boys the best of everything, so he ordered champagne and
claret.

"Wine?" said Anson, looking at Power.

The latter nodded, and with due gravity they hobnobbed together, tossing
off the sparkling contents of their tall glasses.

"Very good wine they give at the Christopher," observed Anson to the
Squire; "in my opinion, this Chateau Margaux claret is about as
first-rate tipple as one finds anywhere."

"I fancied their Lafitte was better, and ordered it accordingly,"
answered the Squire, much amused at his young friend's remarks.

"Oh, certainly, I am very glad of that," quickly replied Anson.  "The
fact is, I had not tasted their Lafitte, and supposed that they could
have nothing better than their Chateau Margaux."

"Try this, then," said the Squire, pushing a bottle of freshly-decanted
claret towards him; "say what you think of it."

"Perfect nectar," answered the young gentleman, smacking his lips.
"This beats the other hollow.  I must row mine host for not giving us
his best wine the last time I dined with my uncle here."

"We were not so particular in my days," observed the Squire; "good
honest port and sherry sufficed us.  But I tell you what, lads, stick to
the light wines, and a moderate quantity of them will do you no harm;
but eschew spirits-and-water, or spirits in any shape, as you would
poison, and when you drink beer, don't go swilling away huge quantities,
as I see some fellows doing, as if their insides were mere tuns made to
hold liquor.  Just look at the great, fat, pursy, bloated fellows you
often meet, and think how you would like to become as they are.  Well,
they brought themselves to that state by swilling beer and
spirits-and-water.  Others have sent themselves to their graves by the
same means, and others, though not pursy, have lost their health and
stamina, and spirits, and are burdens to themselves, and useless in the
world."

Reginald used to say of his father that he did not preach much, but that
he had a wonderful way of bringing in good advice, and sugaring it at
the same time.  In the present instance he was washing down a temperance
harangue with champagne and claret.  He knew that his advice would much
more likely be taken than if he had ordered toast-and-water and small
beer for dinner.

In very good humour with themselves, with the world in general, and with
Eton in particular, which Reginald thought a first-rate place indeed,
they sallied forth into the playing-fields, where several cricket
matches were going on.  One, Oppidans against Collegers, excited most
interest, because there always is, though there ought not to be, a good
deal of party-feeling between the collegers, the boys on the foundation,
and those who are not; the latter, who are more frequently sons of men
of wealth and influence, looking down upon those who have gained their
position by their talents and industry.  The broad smooth green meadows,
with the fine grey school buildings, and their magnificent trees rising
up behind them, presented a very gay and animated appearance.  Numbers
of boys in their picturesque cricketing costumes were lying about in all
directions--England's nerve and spirit, and head and heart--those who
were hereafter to head her armies and guide her councils.  Little wotted
they then of the destinies in store for some of them.  A stranger might
have said, as he saw their active forms bounding here and there--There
is England's bone and muscle.  So there was, but that is to be found
rather in her wide fields, in her mines, her coal-pits, on her broad
quays, in her manufactories, in her towns, and on her railroads.  The
different games were sufficiently apart, so as not to interfere with
each other.  Round each of the scorers knots of amateurs were collected,
watching the game with intense interest, and applauding or condemning,
as each hit was well or ill made or fielded.  At a respectful distance
from the wide-flying balls, a number of ladies, and children, and
nurses, and other spectators, wandered about admiring the play or the
cricketers.

"Come along here," said Power to the Squire and Reginald, as he led them
up to one of the best spots for witnessing the sport; "it's a hard-run
game--well hit, Hawkins--beautifully run!--he's my tutor's pupil--the
others will have hard work to get him out--I've known him score twice as
many as any other fellow in the eleven--bravo, Langdale!--a first-rate
hit--well fielded, too--he'll get caught out though--he often does--he
hits too wildly."

So Power ran on.  The Squire at once entered into the spirit of the
game.  He clapped his hands as enthusiastically as any boy.  "Capitally
hit!--Smartly run!" he shouted.  "Reggie, my boy, I wish that you were
playing.  Well done!  Who is that tall fellow with the light hair?  He
caught out Langdale in fine style.  You said he would be caught out."

"Oh, that's Gull, an Oppidan," answered Power; "he's one of their best
fielders.  Who is going in next, I wonder?  Beaumont, I see.  Ah, he's
one of our crack players."

"Beautiful! beautiful!" shouted the Squire, as other hits were made.
"Capital--first-rate--bravo--bravo--well run--a superb hit!"

His animated remarks soon drew the attention of the boys towards him.
When they heard from Anson that he was an old Etonian, they regarded him
with a respect he might not otherwise have obtained, and all were eager
to show him any attention in their power.  They went on end had a look
at the other games, and at last the hour came when it was necessary for
the Squire to turn his steps towards the station.  He had also on his
way there to introduce Reginald to his tutor, Mr Lindsay.  Old Spankie
had been looking out for them.  He had seen Power with him, and thus
learned his name and all about him.

"Ah, Mr Warrender," quoth the man of buns and tarts; "it's a great
pleasure to feel that you remembered me, as well as I remembered you.
The moment I set my eyes on that young gentleman, I was certain that he
was your son.  If he had come alone, I should have known that his name
was Warrender."

This assertion was even more than the Squire could well swallow.

"I used to find your buns more digestible than your word; I hope they
are so now," he answered, laughing.

The Squire did not forget a good thing when he said it himself, and this
saying was many a time afterwards repeated to his own infinite
satisfaction at Blessingham.  He was able most conscientiously to
introduce Reginald with a very good character to Mr Lindsay, who being
a good physiognomist, was satisfied that he had got a tractable pupil.
The three boys accompanied the Squire to the station.  Reginald did not
feel a particle of sadness till just as the Squire was getting into the
carriage, and then a suffocating sensation rose up in his throat which
made him feel that he must have a good hearty cry--not for himself, but
it was a reminder of how much he loved his father.  Away rattled, and
puffed, and smoked, and steamed the train, and Reginald Warrender was
left to his own resources.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER TWO.

Reginald, with Power and Anson, as soon as they had seen the Squire off,
hurried back to the Brocas--some fields on the banks of the river.  The
rapidly-flowing stream passes by them, and on its smooth but somewhat
sedgy current all sorts of boating were taking place, and Reginald was
quickly initiated into a knowledge of the variety of craft used by the
boys.  As he was very well up to boating, he found no difficulty in the
matter.

"Here, you see," said Power, "we have one ten-oared and six eight-oared
boats.  Any boy in the Fifth form may join them.  There is another upper
and four lower Fifth-Form boats.  We speak of the three upper and four
lower boats.  There is a captain for each of them, and he selects his
crew from among the fellows who wish to join.  You observe that the crew
of each boat has a different uniform, and on grand occasions, when all
appear in full dress, we flatter ourselves that we appear to great
advantage.  Besides these, there are what we call outriggers, and
tunnies, and tubs; and, of course, you will at once have one of them."

"Which do you intend to be, Warrender, a `dry bob,' or a `wet bob'?"
said Anson, coming up to them.  "I hope the latter."

Reginald did not exactly know what this meant; but as Anson had given
him a hint, he answered, "Oh, of course a wet bob."

"Oh, ah, that's the swell thing.  I am glad of it.  I thought you were
the sort of fellow for wet-bobbing."

Reginald found that wet-bobbing consisted in paddling about in a boat of
one's own, even though it might be only a "tub," or dinghy.

"But, I say, can you swim?" asked Anson; "because you know that you will
not be able to boat till you have `passed.'"

"What's passing?" asked Reginald.

"Oh, I'll tell you," said Anson.  "A good number of fellows from time to
time got drowned from boats being capsized, and at last a law was passed
that no fellow should be allowed to boat till he had passed a swimming
examination before certain of the masters.  We have an old waterman,
Harry Cannon, who teaches the lower boys to swim at Cuckoo Weir.  As
soon as he thinks a fellow can swim well enough he advises him to have a
try the next passing day.  It's great fun to see the weather-beaten old
fellow Harry in his Eton blue coat and Eton arms worked in silver on his
sleeve, as he sits in his punt from one end to the other of a summer's
day, dangling lower boys at the end of a short blue pole.  Often
fellows, if they have any pluck, can swim in two or three weeks.  They
make nothing of bathing three times a day in summer when they are
learning to swim.  Just go any warm summer day to Cuckoo Weir, after
twelve, or after four, or after six, and you'll find it crowded with
fellows bathing, and many of them waiting till Harry can give them a
turn in his belt.  On a passing day two or three of the masters come
down and take their stand just above `Middle Steps.'  A punt then
carries out a number of shivering and rather funking fellows into the
middle of the stream, and as the master gives the word, one after
another jumps overboard, and according to his pluck takes a `rat's
header' or `forter.'  Then away they swim to the lower steps, and if
they get there in safety and in pretty good style, they have to swim out
again from where the master is standing, turn, and come back when he
calls.  If they sing out like Caesar, `Help me, Cassius, or I sink,'
they are handed over again to Harry Cannon for further instruction; but
if the master says `You'll do,' then the chances are that some of the
friends of the fellow who has passed have come up in a boat, and they
say that they will take him down to the Brocas if he will steer them.
The probabilities are, that he knows nothing about steering, and as
little about the sides of the river he ought to keep; so, of course, he
will run them into the bank once or twice, if not oftener, before they
get into the real river at `Bargeman's Bridge,' and he is certain to get
in the way of an eight just below Brocas Clump, from not crossing over
soon enough.  But you'll know all about this before long, so I needn't
have told you, except that it is useful to know what you have to go
through.  I forgot to tell you that the bathing-place to which the fifth
form go is called Athens, and of course it is a good deal better than
Cuckoo Weir."

Reginald thanked Anson very much for his graphic account of their
bathing and boating, and he said that he should, thanks to Toby Tubb's
instruction, get passed on the first passing day, that he might at once
begin boating.

This resolution was very much applauded, for both Power and Anson were
warm advocates of boating.  It was now nearly lock-up time, so they had
to go back to their tutors.  On their way Reginald was accosted by a
number of boys, who, in pretty sharp tones, inquired his name.

"Are you at a dame's house?"

"No; I am in Mr Lindsay's house," he answered.

"I say, are you come to school here?  What's your name, then?" asked
another.  "What house are you in?"

Reginald told him.  So on it went till nearly a hundred boys had made
the same inquiries, and received the same answer.  Reginald was not
sorry to get back to Mr Lindsay's, for he was really beginning to get
tired, and be a little hungry, too, in spite of his dinner at the
Christopher.  Power and Anson came to his room to help him put it in
order; but he had a considerable number of other visitors, mostly
Fourth-Form boys, who came in to ask him his name, and to make him tell
all about himself.

"I knew a Warrender," said one.  "Are you his cousin?  He was a fellow
with a hooked nose and hawk's eyes."

"Warrender you mean," put in another; "Warrender who was here was a very
good-looking fellow, only he squinted with one eye, and never could
parse a line of Horace correctly."

Reginald said that he had no cousin that he knew of, though he might
possibly be related to the talented individual spoken of.  The answers
he made to the very miscellaneous and unexpected questions put to him
satisfied them that the new boy was no "muff."  The lower boys
especially felt a great respect for him, because he acted in so very
different a way from what they had done, and took all things so
completely us matters of course.  He went into Power's room to take tea,
where Anson and two or three other fellows of Power's standing joined
them.  He was in the lower Fifth Form.  Shortly before bed-time they
went down to the hall to supper.  Here he, of course, had again to reply
to the various questions put to him by boys he had not before met.  Then
Mr Lindsay invited him to come and have some conversation, and seemed
tolerably satisfied by the answers he made to all the questions put to
him.  A bell then rang, and the names of all the boys belonging to the
house being called over by one of the praepositors, to ascertain that
none were missing, prayers were read by Mr Lindsay, after which all the
boys retired to their rooms to go to bed.  Reginald, as may be supposed,
very quickly tumbled into his, and went to sleep.  Thus ended the first
day at Eton.

At his age we are apt to count time by days, and to note especially the
events of each day.  As we grow older, we reckon oftener by weeks--
advancing, we think it enough to note what has happened during each
month, till at last the years themselves slip by with almost the
rapidity, we fancy, of our earlier days.  Two important things with
reference to this remark should be remembered when we are young.  One
is, that we must prepare for the future, or the future which we have
fancied so far off will come suddenly and find us unprepared; another
is, that we should learn to wait patiently for events till they occur,
being assured that they will occur, and that we should, in the meantime,
endeavour to employ ourselves to the best possible advantage.  Many a
young man fancies that it is not worth while preparing for what cannot
happen for so long a time; or again, that the time has already passed
for doing a thing, and that it is useless to attempt it.  This is
especially the case with regard to commencing some useful employment, or
preparing for a profession.  It is never too late to be employed
usefully.  Many a man has risen high in a profession into which he has
not entered till late in life.

Sunday is truly a day of rest at Eton.  Reginald found that he was not
expected to get up till nearly nine o'clock.  As he was always an early
riser, he was dressed before eight, and set to work systematically to
unpack his clothes and to put them away.  Then he sat down to read, and
the book he read every boy will do well to read, not only on Sundays,
but on other days in the week.  After he had read a couple of chapters,
he found that he had still some time to spare, so he arranged the books
he had brought on some book-shelves hanging against the wall, and then
Power came in and told him that he must come and breakfast with him.
Prayer bell next rang, and all the boys in the house assembled in the
hall, when, as usual, Mr Lindsay read prayers.

Reginald was much surprised to find so many big fellows either in the
sixth form, or in the upper Middle-Fifth--from fifteen years old up to
nineteen and even twenty--in every respect full-grown men.  As he looked
at them he thought to himself, "I suppose that I shall have to be fag to
some of those big fellows--clean their boots, and brush their clothes.
Well, patience; many a better fellow than I am has done the same thing,
and not been the worse for it.  Whoever fags me shall not have to
complain that I am in a sulky pet--that I'm determined."  Prayers over,
they all hurried to breakfast.

Reginald accompanied Power to his room, where three or four other
fellows were assembled.  He was scarcely prepared for the capital repast
he found spread.  There were a couple of cold chickens and a tongue,
some potted meat or other, and his well-known acquaintance, a pot of
orange marmalade, one of strawberry jam, and some honey.  There were
both tea and coffee, a good allowance of butter (there is a regular
quantity served out), and a large pile of hot rolls,--three, he found,
being served every day to each boy.

Breakfast occupied nearly an hour, and very pleasant Reginald found it.
He then had to get ready for morning chapel at eleven.

"I am glad to see that you have brought a couple of good hats," observed
Power.  "I was afraid that you might have thought that you could go
about Osberton fashion in a cap or tarpaulin.  We here, you see, never
wear anything but black hats, except with cricketing and boating
dresses.  Remind me to have a look at your other things to see that they
are all right.  It's as well to be particular.  If you are, you'll take
a good standing at once in the school among the fellows: better by half
be a dandy than a sloven or a muff."

On their way to chapel Reginald was accosted continually as on the day
before by fellows asking his name and all sorts of questions, but he had
a ready and a good-natured answer for all.

He did not think that there was much devotion at chapel, especially as a
great number of the boys came provided with a store of sacking things,
with which they were continually filling their mouths, such as
lollipops, sugar-candy, barley-sugar, and other sweet compositions.

It is extraordinary what an amount of these inside-deranging mixtures,
supplied by the renowned Spankie and other men at the Wall, lower boys
at Eton will consume.  The Wall, _par excellence_, Reginald soon found
out is a low wall in front of the upper school, outside the school-yard.
"The men at the Wall" are sellers of "sock;" that is, eatables--sweet
mixtures generally.  They are so called from usually taking their stand
there.  Old Spankie has been described as a soft-tongued fat old man,
who professed to know about everything and about everybody.  He carries
a tin, and deals mostly in buns and jam.  Another man wheels in a
hand-cart after every school-time, from which he produces ices,
strawberry messes, and sucking-things of all sorts.

"You remember the Squire's advice," observed Power; "I adhere to his
principles, but all the fellows don't.  It is extraordinary how they
will run into debt with those men, and more than anticipate their next
half-year's pocket-money--little geese that they are.  It enrages me to
see some of them sucking and eating away all the day long, as if that
was their chief object in life.  I call them sucking babies, but it
would be difficult to break them of the practice.  I have known fellows
at the beginning of the half obliged to dodge those cake-men as if they
were bum-bailiffs and they gentlemen in difficulties, either going into
the school-yard by the lower school passage, or else sneaking in close
behind a master, knowing that they would not attempt to attack them in
his presence.  It is extraordinary what some of them will eat.  I was
once fagged by two Fifth-Form boys who were `staying out,' that is,
supposed to be too unwell to go into school, and what do you think it
was for?  You would scarcely believe me when I tell you that these sick
fellows, and I suppose that there was something the matter with them,
had laid a wager one against the other, that they would eat six dozen
oranges a-piece.  The one who could not manage it was, of course, to be
the loser.  The two dozen I got them was, I know, the fifth instalment.
One ate rather more than six dozen, the other was very sick when he had
finished the fifth; but you may depend on it, both of them had to `stay
out' for two or three days after it, and to take no end of medicine."

"I should think so, nasty pigs!" exclaimed Reginald, who, although he
could make very good play with his knife and fork at dinner or
breakfast, had a great contempt for sweatmeat and sugar-plum eaters.

"You are right," said Power.  "Those sort of fellows are mere gratifiers
of a low animal propensity, like the unlicked cubs of a bear, who will
steal sugar wherever they can find it.  I never put much confidence in
such fellows, and I wish Etonians could be cured of the habit."

Reginald was very anxious to have an insight into the plan of the school
arrangements, and Power undertook to enlighten him.

"In the first place," he observed, "you must understand that there is
the Lower School, and whatever the boys belonging to it may think of
themselves, it is but a very insignificant appendage to the
establishment of Eton.  It is generally composed of small boys, who have
been to no other school.  It is, indeed, more of a private school with
none of the advantages of one, and all the disadvantages of a public
school.  So I will say no more about it, and you, at all events, will
not belong to it.  The Upper School, which is really Eton, is divided,
in the first place, into Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Forms.  The Fourth
Form is again separated into two parts--the lowest retains its name, and
the other is called the Remove.  The Fourth Form is subdivided into
Lower, Middle, and Upper, and the Remove into Lower and Upper.  The
Fifth Form is also divided into Lower, Middle, and Upper, and these
divisions are again subdivided according to convenience, usually into
three divisions each.  The Sixth Form consists of twenty fellows,
namely, ten Oppidans and ten Collegers.  The boys on the foundation are
called Collegers: the management of the College and the Collegers is a
very complicated matter.  They are the fellows you see going about in
heavy black cloth gowns.  They go by the name of `Tugs,' which is short
for tug muttons, because they used, it is said, to be fed on tough
mutton.  The lower boys treat Tugs with great contempt, because they
look down upon them as belonging to an inferior class.  This they should
not do, and it is arrant folly into the bargain; for many a Tug has
risen to be a Lord Chancellor, or to fill one of the highest offices of
the State, while the self-satisfied Oppidan, who has snubbed him as a
boy, has ended his days as a sub in a marching regiment, having run
through all his property before he was of age.  High up in the school
there is a good deal of party-feeling indulged in by fellows who ought
to know better.  It comes out when `Collegers and Oppidans' are being
played, either at football or cricket."

"I do not think that I shall ever be able to remember all about the
Fourth and Fifth Forms and Removes," said Reginald.

"Here you have it in black and white, then," said Power.  They were
sitting in his room after chapel, enjoying that _otium cum dignitate_
which an Etonian learns so well to value.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

1.  Lower School, composed of small boys neither learned nor wise.

Fourth Form: 2.  Lower. 3.  Middle. 4.  Upper.

Remove. 5.  Lower. 6.  Upper.

Fifth Form.

7.  Lower, with about three divisions.

8.  Middle, with about three divisions.

9.  Upper, with about three divisions.

10.  Sixth Form, composed of ten Oppidans and ten Collegers.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"When a fellow like you, for instance, arrives first, if he has been at
a good private school, his tutor examines him.  If he thinks well of him
he is placed in the Upper Fourth, or perhaps in the Remove at once.  If
he is not above the average, he joins the Lower Fourth, with the rest of
the unplaced.  He remains in it till `Trials,' which come off about a
month after the beginning of the half.  According to his knowledge, he
is then placed finally in the Lower, Middle, or Upper Fourth.  Now you
must understand that although Fourth Form is in the Upper School, yet
all below Fifth Form, that is, Upper and Lower Remove, and Fourth Form,
are called `Lower Boys.'  All Lower Boys are liable to be fagged, so
that `Lower Boy' is equivalent to `Fag.'  Lower Fourth is generally in
the hands of a young master, and, like puppies not yet broken in, they
are consequently very disorderly.  There are also always a few fellows
at the top of the division who have come out of Lower School, and take
considerable delight in putting the new-comers up to mischief.
New-comers have a fortnight's `law' before they are liable to be fagged.
This is to give them time to look about them, and to learn the ways of
the school.  At the end of that time the captain of their house allots
them to some master.  As to fagging, I decidedly say in a large school
like this it is a very great advantage, and wonderfully assists the
governing powers by giving a number of fellows who would otherwise be
idle something to do.  It teaches, also, fellows to take care of
themselves, as well as some accomplishments which they may find very
useful in after-life, when they come to knock about the world.  After
all, too, what are the hardships?  A fellow has to lay his master's
cloth for breakfast, get his muffins and eggs, make his tea and his
toast, and be ready to cook a mutton chop and anything else he may
require.  He may also have to clean his shoes and brush his clothes, but
in that there is nothing very terrible.  The only disagreeable part of
house fagging is being sent out at odd hours or in bad weather to get
things when a fellow would be rather sitting in his own room.  There is
no cricket or football fagging here, but out of doors a Fourth Form boy
is liable to be fagged by any one in the Upper or Middle Fifth Form,
either to run on errands, to buy things for him, or to stand behind a
Five's court, and to pick up the balls, or to carry books for him.  This
may be called miscellaneous fagging.  The captain of Upper Remove is
excused fagging by custom.  Lower Fifth neither fags nor can be fagged.
`Upper Lower' can fag miscellaneously, but cannot own private fags.
Middle Fifth seldom have fags `of their own,' as the captain of their
house probably appropriates three or four, and gives the second captain
two or three, and so on, and thus uses up the `Lower boys,' before they
come to the end of the Upper Fifth.  The most unpleasant fagging
certainly is behind the `Five's walls.'  The old ones, you will find,
are between the chapel buttresses in the school yard.  You are fortunate
in having come up in the middle of the half, because you will have time
to become known to fellows, and will be saved a considerable amount of
annoyance.  If you had come at the beginning of the half, you would have
found that the Fifth Form arrived two or three days after you.  The next
day all the Lower boys are collected together, and are then allotted to
the Fifth Form, as I have described.  The Fourth Form are made to do the
greater part of their lessons under their tutor's eye, but boys higher
up in the school do nearly all their work in their own rooms, and only
just go over it with their tutor when it is known.  This, of course, is
a great advantage, as we can learn all our lessons when we like, and are
not tied down in any way.

"There are two examinations--one from Upper Fourth into Lower Remove;
and the second, which is the hardest, from Lower Fifth into Upper and
Lower Fifth.  A boy takes a step upwards twice a year, unless he should
be plucked at one of these examinations; so that suppose he is placed in
the Middle Fourth--about the average place occupied by a new boy--it
will take him two years to get into Lower Fifth, the ambition of every
one, as he is then, as I have said, exempted from fagging.

"Every saint's day here is a whole holiday.  Saturday is always a
half-holiday, and there is one other half-holiday every week; so that
the number of hours we are in school is very limited.  Yet it is so
contrived that we have at no time but a little over two hours to
ourselves.  On whole holidays there are two chapels--one at eleven
o'clock, and another at three o'clock.  There is a roll-call at two
o'clock, just before dinner, and another at six o'clock.

"Generally speaking, we get up at half-past seven.  There is school for
three-quarters of an hour.  We have repetition usually for most days in
the week.  Breakfast always at nine.  School at eleven, as also at
three, and a quarter-past five.  School lasts only about three-quarters
of an hour at a time.  Dinner always at two.  Lock-up at night varies
from five to a quarter to nine.  We have supper at nine, and go to bed
at ten.  So you see, in the natural order of events, we have no very
overpoweringly hard work.  The time from morning school to breakfast is
known as `After Eight,' because, you see, we come out of school at
eight.  From breakfast till school again, `After Ten,' because breakfast
is supposed to be over at ten; and for the same reason from school to
dinner is called `After Twelve,' from dinner to school `After Two,' from
school to school `After Four,' and in summer from school till lock-up
`After Six.'  There is, I should have said, also every week one play
after four, which means three o'clock school, but none at five o'clock.
On half-holidays there is `absence,' that is, calling over names at two
o'clock, and in summer at six; and on half-holidays there is church at
three instead of school.  On whole holidays there is `absence' at a
quarter-past nine, and church at eleven as well as at three.

"Of late years, mathematics, which used to be neglected entirely, have,
with great advantage, been introduced at Eton.  There are several
mathematical masters, who have their different schools.  Each division
goes to the mathematical school three times a week.  At first the
fellows set their faces very much against the system, and even the
classical masters didn't seem much to approve of the innovation; but
they now all see the importance of it, and mathematical studies are now
as popular as any other.  The Reverend Stephen Hawtrey is the principal.
Donkeys may sneer and bray at him, which donkeys always find it very
easy to do; but a more philanthropical, kind-hearted, sensible, and
religious man is not to be found.  I remember when the mathematical
schools were first opened, the fellows tried to cough down the masters
when they began to lecture.  They got also cat-calls, penny-trumpets,
and all sorts of things to make a noise, and then had strings made fast
to them, which they carried up their sleeves.  Scarcely had the masters
begun to speak than they commenced their row.  Now one of the masters
was an old naval officer who had been to Cambridge, and not at all a
sort of person to play tricks with.  They tried it on once or twice with
him, and he seemed not to take much notice of their proceedings.  His
eye, however, was marking those who were making most noise, and in the
midst of the greatest row down he pounced upon them, and, feeling for
the strings inside their waistcoats, made a grand seizure of
penny-trumpets, whistles, cat-calls, and similar musical instruments.
He told them quietly that he did not wish to have any of them flogged,
but that if it occurred again he should desire the praepositor to put
them `in the bill.'  This is, as you will find, for a fellow to have his
name written on a slip of paper, and sent up to the Head Master.  The
fellow whose name is in the bill is told `to wait,' which means that he
is to go to the Head Master's room after school to be flogged.  It is an
unpleasant operation, and a fellow looks thoroughly foolish when he
comes down after it, and his friends kindly ask him how he likes it--
what he thinks of it--how he feels?  On the occasion I am speaking of,
the fellows did try it on again the very next day of attendance, and
half a dozen of them got a good flogging for their pains.  After that
they behaved with much more quietness."

While they were talking, Anson came in.

"There is one more point I have to tell you about," said he, "and very
important too: it is as to the rules of `shirking.'  You must know that
everywhere except just in college,--that is, about the school, and in
the playing-fields, or on the way to your dame's or tutor's,--is `out of
bounds.'  Therefore, if you meet a master, you have to get out of his
way into some hiding-place.  In the country you get under a hedge or
behind a wall.  In the town you run into a shop, and if you do this at
once, so as to show respect to the master, very few will say anything to
you, though they see you as clearly as possible, and know perfectly well
who you are.  The Sixth Form need not shirk, as they may go anywhere.
Of course, there are certain places if a fellow is seen in, a master
will follow him, otherwise he never attempts to do so.

"There is a small house just outside the bounds, where the people are
licensed to sell beer.  It is called the Tap.  It is used almost
exclusively by us.  If a fellow is caught going in or out, he is pretty
severely punished, and yet no master ever thinks of coming in to look
for us.  Not long, ago a number of our fellows were in the passage, when
who should walk in but one of the masters to order some beer for
himself.  He couldn't with a very good conscience punish us, so he took
not the slightest notice of us, though we made sure he would.  To our
great satisfaction, away he walked again as if we had not been there.
They keep there a long glass, which is brought out and emptied on
important occasions by certain fellows, such as the winners of the
pulling or sculling races--the eleven who have gained a well-contested
match.  It is a long tube with a bulb at the bottom, and holds about a
pint and a half.  Its contents must be drunk off without stopping to
take breath, and the difficulty is when one gets down to the bulb to
prevent it all rushing out at once, and running over one: a fellow
stands by and marks the time one takes to drink the contents.  I must
take you there some day.  There are several places of the sort up the
river, where we are pretty well known.  I must introduce you also to our
favourite liquor, and I think that you will agree with me that it is
first-rate.  We call it `Shandy Gaff.'  It's a mixture of beer and
ginger-beer in equal portions, and on a hot day I know nothing more
refreshing."

"I feel as if I knew all about Eton already," said Reginald; "you have
told me so much."

His friends laughed.  "There are a good many more things which you will
have to learn not yet dreamed of in your philosophy," answered Power.
"I haven't told you anything yet about our games--football, cricket,
running, jumping, steeple-chasing.  They are very different from those
at most private schools.  It will take you the best part of a year to
learn all the rules of football alone.  It will take you nearly as long
before you know all the regulations about boating.  However, now, when
Eton is in its glory, is the time of the year to pick up all that sort
of information.  We think more of play than lessons, and even the
masters never expect to get more than the regular schoolwork out of the
boys.  You'll probably stay on till you have worked your way up to Sixth
Form, which just now perhaps looks at a very unapproachable distance.  I
forgot to tell you that the Sixth Form have the power of setting
`poenas;' Collegers sometimes do it, and are thought great `brutes' for
so doing.  Oppidans rarely ever use their power.  It assists them
somewhat in keeping the Lower boys in order.  You'll observe, too, how
particular we are about our costume.  Those who wear jackets always keep
to black ties, and those who have taken to tail-coats invariably appear
in white ties.  These sorts of customs may appear trifles, but they all
contribute to keep up discipline and order in the school.  I, at first,
thought them very nonsensical; I now see their use."

Reginald, when he went to his snug little room that night, thought that
he knew a great deal more about Eton than he did in the morning; and
though he was glad to be there, he felt altogether thankful that he had
not come at an earlier age.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER THREE.

The important day arrived when Reginald was to be examined by his tutor,
that it might be ascertained where he was to be placed in the school.
He got up before the bell rang, soused his head thoroughly in cold
water, and, having sponged himself all over, dressed briskly, and sat
down to look over some of the books he knew.  He was pretty well up in
Greek as well as in Latin, though he had not gone very deep into the
intricacies of either language.  Mr Nugent, his tutor, had grounded him
well also in mathematics, so that he was in no particular fright as to
the result of his examination.  He wanted, however, to be as well placed
as possible, if the truth might be known, to get out of fagging as soon
as he could.

After prayers, Mr Lindsay told him to come to his room with his books.
He went there with a good heart also.  His Latin construing and parsing
seemed to satisfy his tutor, and then he read some Greek.  Mr Lindsay
looked pleased.  This encouraged him.  He went over book after book with
perfect ease.  The chances are, that he knew less than many a boy who
had passed a much worse examination; but he had the advantage of
possessing well-strung nerves, and of not feeling that he was doing
anything dreadful or out of the way.  Whatever he did know he recalled
at once to his memory.  He had also no wish to pretend to know more than
he did.  All was perfectly natural with him.  His head and his voice
were clear, and so on he went without the slightest hesitation.  Had he
been suddenly asked to sing a song which he knew, he could have done so
with ease.

"You have got through very well," said Mr Lindsay; "I am happy to say
that I shall be able to get you very satisfactorily placed."

Reginald was not a little pleased.  He would have liked to ask "Where?"
but he thought that might not be etiquette; so he restrained his
curiosity, and ran off with a light stop to deposit his books in his
room, and afterwards to join Power at breakfast, with a remarkably good
appetite.

"Where do you think I shall be, though?" he asked more than once.  Power
guessed, but did not like to run the risk of disappointing him, so
wisely would not give an opinion.  At last, a short time before eleven
o'clock, he set off with Mr Lindsay to make his _debut_ in school.  He
was left by himself in the school-yard while Mr Lindsay, as did most of
the masters, went into "Chambers," to have a talk with the Doctor.  He
felt for a moment a little forlorn, standing in that wide place with so
many boys around him, and yet not one he could call a friend or even an
acquaintance; for neither Power nor Anson had yet come.

The boys now began to pour into the school-yard.  Many came up to him
and began the old standard questions.

"What's your name?" asked one; "any relation of Warrender at Rowley's?"

"No," answered Reginald.  "I have had no relation here since my father
was at Eton, that I know of."

"Oh, yes--but surely you're a cousin of Tom Jones?" observed one who was
looked upon as a great wag.

"I am not aware that I have that honour," answered Reginald.

Several similar questions he had to answer, which he did in perfect good
humour.  At last a big, hulking fellow, who looked as if he had got fat
on sucking-things, rolled up to him.  There was something in the boy's
air which reminded him wonderfully of a bully at his former school.

"How are you, Master Jones?" said the fellow, with a supercilious look.

"Pretty well, Tommy Green," answered Reginald, giving him back glance
for glance.

"How dare you call me Green!" exclaimed the big boy, looking angry.

"Because you have a remarkably verdant hue about you," answered
Reginald, who felt galled by the tone of bullying superiority assumed by
the other.

The big boy's rage at the unusual impudence of a new fellow instantly
blazed forth.  "Take that for your pains, young one!" he cried out,
giving Reginald a blow on the chest; "and that--and that--and that."

Reginald was for a moment staggered, but instantly recovering himself,
he flew at the big fellow, and returned the blows with interest.

"A mill--a mill--a mill!" was the cry, and fellows rushed up from all
parts of the yard, and closely surrounded the combatants.  Reginald
defended himself as well as he could from his big antagonist, who,
fortunately, though evidently inclined to bully, was no great adept in
the science of pugilism.  At another time Reginald would have fought
with the hope of victory; now his chief object was to defend his face,
so that he might not have to make his appearance before the Doctor with
a black eye or a bleeding nose.  He made up for want of size and weight,
and science also, for he had not much of it, by his activity, and
consequently the big fellow exhausted his strength by frequently
striking at the air, when he thought that he was going to put in an
effective blow.  As Reginald's courage and coolness manifested
themselves, he gained plenty of supporters, and he soon guessed that his
opponent was no great favourite.  The exclamations and cries in his
favour every moment grew warmer and warmer.  This encouraged him, or
rather, for he did not want much encouragement, discouraged the other.
He continued fighting as cautiously, but commenced more aggressive
operations, very much to the astonishment of the big fellow, who had
fancied that he was going to gain an easy victory,--in fact, intended to
give the new-comer a thrashing for his impudence.

"Well done! well done!  Famously hit!  Bravo!  Pitch into him, little
one!" were the exclamations over and over again repeated by his friends;
while the opposite party kept shouting, "Go it, Cicester!--Give it him
soundly!--Hit him hard!"  Cirencester, however, did not seem to be very
successful in putting this advice into execution, and impartial
observers were of opinion that Warrender was getting the best of it,
when the cry was raised of "All up--all up!" and the masters were seen
coming out of the Doctor's door.  After stopping a minute to have a
short chat together, they proceeded to the school.

The moment the masters appeared, the combatants were separated, and
Cirencester drew off without making any remark.  The delay enabled
Reginald to arrange his neck-tie, smooth his hair, and shake himself
into his jacket.  He felt rather bruised and heated, but he bore
fortunately no remarkable outward traces of his combat.  He soon
rejoined Mr Lindsay, who took him to the Doctor, who looked, he
thought, benignantly at him, and great was his satisfaction to find that
he was placed in the Lower Remove.

From that moment he resolved to show that he had not been wrongly
placed.  It was a great satisfaction to feel that he should have only to
remain a year numbered among those who could be fagged.  He was thus
also only one division below Power.  He found that unless he was
"plucked," he should rise one division every half-year, with certain
trials and examinations interposed, into Fifth Form, and so on, but that
there was no trial into Sixth Form, the vacancies in it being filled up
by seniority.

Power and Anson congratulated him on his successful _debut_ in the
school-yard.

"Cicester, big as he looks, is below you in the school," observed Anson.
"He is an earl, but we don't take note here of titles.  He eats too
much to be strong, and thinks too much of himself to have many real
friends.  I am very glad that you treated him as you did, because I
think that it will sicken him of attacking you again, and make other
fellows treat you with respect.  Of course, however, there are
tuft-hunters here as well as elsewhere, and as some of the Fifth Form
are among his friends, you must expect to be fagged a little sharply by
them occasionally, if you get in their way.  However, you'll know how to
manage to keep out of rows.  One thing I have found out; there is no use
attempting to shirk fagging.  A fellow is always certain to get the
worst of it.  There is no dodge a fellow can try which the Fifth Form
are not up to, because you see that they have tried them all themselves.
The worst thing a fellow can do is to show the sulks.  He is certain to
take nothing by it.  I always find it best to do a thing willingly and
promptly, however disagreeable it may be."

Reginald thanked his friends for their advice, and moreover took care to
follow it.

The next day, when he went into school, he was found to have prepared
his lessons particularly well, and the master looked at him with an
approving eye, as a boy likely to do credit to himself, and some little,
perhaps, to the school.  From the very first Reginald set himself
against the use of cribs.  He was rather laughed at for this, at first,
by his associates, who were aware of what they considered his peculiar
crotchet.

"I have just a question to ask you fellows," he observed one day.  "Do
you think it right or gentlemanly to tell a lie?  Answer me seriously,
not in joke."

It was agreed that a lie was ungentlemanly and wrong.

"Well, is it not equivalent to the telling a lie to pretend to have
obtained knowledge in one way, when you have obtained it in another?  Is
it not the same to take up a copy of verses or an exercise which you did
not write, and to pretend that you wrote them?  That is one reason why I
will not use a crib.  I should feel ashamed of myself, and disgraced
every time I did so.  Another reason is, that we came to school to gain
knowledge, to prepare ourselves for college, and for our future course
in life, as completely as we can; and the use of cribs prevents our
doing this, for though they may enable us to get through a lesson,
depend on it a lesson learnt with them is very quickly again forgotten.
There is nothing like having to turn over the leaves of a dictionary
that we may find a word, to enable us to remember it."

"Yes, but few fellows can turn over the leaves as quickly as you can,"
observed Anson.

"I learned the knack at a private tutor's long ago," answered Reginald.
"I thought it a bore at first, but he showed us how to do it properly,
and I very soon found the advantage of what he insisted on."

Power supported Reginald in this and many other respects, when he held
out boldly against what his straightforward, honest mind at once saw to
be bad practices.  He made enemies by so doing, but he also made
friends; the enemies he made were the least worthy, and the friends the
most worthy of his school-fellows--many of them becoming and continuing
firm and fast ones.

Reginald very soon made acquaintance with old Harry Cannon, the waterman
at Cuckoo Weir.  Fully thirty fellows were either standing on Lower
Steps or in punts, without a rag on them, ready to plunge into the clear
stream; or were swimming about by themselves, spluttering and coughing;
or were being dangled at the end of old Harry's blue pole.  Reginald had
thought that it was necessary to go, at all events, in the first place,
to old Harry.  Many of the fellows, not knowing that he could swim,
tried to frighten him; but, without much ceremony, he doffed his
clothes, and in he went with a "rat's header" at once, and swam boldly
up the stream, stemming it lustily; then he turned a sommersault, trod
water, and went through a variety of manoeuvres to which the youngsters
present were but little accustomed.

"You'll do, sir; you'll do," shouted old Harry, quite delighted with the
spirited way in which he took to the water; "a Newfoundland dog couldn't
have done it better."

Of course, on the first "passing day," Reginald--who was to be met by
Power, Anson, and some others of his new friends, in a boat--started off
for Middle Steps.

The masters stood ready.  Reginald jumped into the punt, and, with
several others, was carried out into mid-stream.  Several were ordered
to plunge overboard before him.  Most of them went in with "footers,"
and now two or three were ordered to come out and take further lessons
from old Harry.  Reginald waited patiently till his turn came, and then
overboard he went with a fine "rat's header," and downwards he dived.
He did not come up.  The masters were alarmed, and shouted to old Harry
to look for him.

"What can have become of the boy?" exclaimed one of them, in real alarm.

Suddenly, not far off, up came Reginald, with a big stone in his hand.

"All right!" he exclaimed.  "I wanted to bring a trophy from the
bottom;" and, depositing it on Middle Steps, away he swam in good style
to Lower Steps.  Just touching them, away he went--now swimming with one
arm, now with the other, now with both hands like a dog, now turning on
his back and striking out with his feet.

"You'll do, and do famously!" exclaimed the master, who was not famed
for bestowing unnecessary compliments on any one.

Reginald came out with no little feeling of allowable pride, and,
dressing quickly, stepped on board the boat, when, taking the yoke-lines
in a knowing manner, he steered away for Bargemen's Bridge, where the
stream once more joins the river.

Reginald at once threw himself into boating most zealously.  He was
always on the water, practising away, and soon became as proficient with
oars as with sculls--his great ambition being to belong to an eight-oar.
He and Power took a lock-up between them, for which they paid five
pounds; and though they liked it very much, they agreed that it was not
half so much fun as their boating in old days at Osberton, with Toby
Tubb as coxswain.  Reginald did not neglect cricket, however; but as he
was still numbered among the Lower boys he could only belong to the
Sixpenny Club.

The playing-fields at Eton are divided between different clubs.  The
boys subscribe to one or the other according to their position in the
school.  Above the Sixpenny, to which the entrance is only one shilling,
is the Lower Club, to which those in the Fifth Form belong who are
considered not to play well enough to belong to the Upper Club.  To the
Upper Club the clever and all the first-rate players alone belong.  The
grand cricketing time is "after six," when, in the playing-fields, the
balls are flying about as thickly as in a general action, or, at all
events, as at "Lord's" on practising days; while, especially at the
great matches in the Upper Club, the non-players lie on the turf,
indulging largely in Bigaroon cherries and other fruits in season, and
making their remarks on the game.

Such is the every-day Eton life in which Reginald found himself placed.
There was abundance of occupation to pass the time, and yet no very
salient events worthy of description.  After he had been there about a
fortnight, he found himself apportioned, by the captain of his house, to
a master who had already another fag.  That fag, Cross, had been all his
school-life at Eton, and was well accustomed to the work, so thought
nothing of it; but when Reginald first found himself ordered to perform
some menial office, he could not help his spirit rising in rebellion;
but he soon conquered the feeling, the absurdity of which he
acknowledged to himself, and he at once set about his task with a
cheerful countenance and willing hands.  The out-of-door fagging went
more against the grain, as he did not like to be sent here or there by
any stranger about some trifle, when he wanted to be doing something
else; but he soon got reconciled to that also, with the reflection that
all Eton fellows had to go through it.

Cross and he got on very well together.  They were not great friends,
but they never quarrelled.  Their master, Coventry, was good-natured,
though strict in having the duties they owed him performed, and his
orders obeyed.

Reginald was talking over Coventry's character with Power, and
observed--"I would fifty times rather serve a strict master like him
than one of your easy-going, idle fellows, who all of a sudden takes it
into his head that he will have everything in apple-pie order, and
thrashes you because you do not know what he wants."

"Certainly," answered Power.  "When I first came I had a master who
never by any chance was in the same mind two days together.  He would
have different things for breakfast and tea, and everything in his room
arranged differently.  He kept my mind on a continual stretch to guess
what he would want, till he made me very nearly as mad as himself.  At
last I informed him that I would do anything that he told me, but that I
could not undertake to guess his wishes.  He could not see the
reasonableness of my arguments, and so I at length gave up any attempt
to please him--he of course never being satisfied; and thus we went on
till the end of the half."

What with observation, conversation, and his own personal experience,
Reginald daily gained a larger amount of knowledge of the world in which
he was destined to move--not of the bad which was taking place, but of
the way to conduct himself in it.

STORY FOUR, CHAPTER ONE.

STORY FOUR--THE CREW OF THE ROSE.

A crew of Johnians were rowing down the Cam on a fine summer day, in
their own boat Two of them were freshmen--sixth form boys in manners and
pursuits; the coxswain had entered on his third year, and was reading
for honours.  These were English youths.  The fourth--Morgan ap
Tydvill--was from Wales, a pleasant, companionable fellow, proud of his
country, proud of his own family in particular, and proud of the boat,
of which he was part owner; generous and friendly, but very choleric,
though easily calmed down.  The fifth was Gerald O'Mackerry, of Irish
genealogy, as his name intimates, and his patronymic was a subject of
much harmless pride with him.  These two latter personages were in their
second year.

For some time the four rowers bent earnestly to their oars, the coxswain
doing the principal part of the talking work; but as the stream carried
the boat along, and there was no necessity for constant pulling, they at
times restrained their arms to let their tongues run free.  The chatting
commenced thus:--

"We haven't given a name to the boat yet."

"Well, I vote for the `Hose.'"

"I think the `shamrock' sounds well," said O'Mackerry.

"The Leek," was Ap Tydvill's suggestion.

"`_Leek_!'--an unlucky name!" observed Green, the coxswain, who, though
a gentlemen and a scholar, was sadly addicted to punning; but they were
all of Saint John's College, and therefore punsters by prescription.
This bad pun let out a good deal of punning; when it ceased to flow, the
original subject was renewed.

"Will the Trinity boat beat us next month?  They have a choice crew, all
in capital condition, and heavy men.  O'Mack is the only twelve stone
man here," (all gownsmen, you know, are _men_, however boyish in years
and appearance), "and Tyd is such a little fellow!"

"I'm five feet seven," replied he, rather snappishly; "and I can tell
you that the mean height of a man's stature is but five feet four.
(Murmurs of dissent.)  O'Mack is about ten inches above the standard;
but I'll back a man of my own height (drawing himself up majestically)
against him for walking, jumping, running, fighting, wrestling,
swimming, throwing a bar, or rowing a long distance--if he have my
breadth of chest and shoulders, and such an arm as this," displaying a
limb as hard and muscular as that of a blacksmith.  By his own estimate
he was of the perfect size and form.

  "In wrestling nimble, and in running swift;
  Well made to strike, to leap, to throw, to lift."

His vanity, however, though quizzed unmercifully, was not humiliated by
any detected failure in his bodily proportions, which he submitted to
measurement.  The circumference of his arm and wrist was considerable--
the whole limb and his chest brawny, hirsute, and muscular.

"I'm not afraid of Trinity," shouted he loudly, if not musically.
"_Sumamus longum haustum et fortem haustum, et haustum Omne simul_, as
Lord Dufferin said at the Norwegian Symposium, and we shall bump them."

At the spirited Latin watchword, our Cantabs commenced a chorus, "_Omne
simul, omne simul_," etc, etc, which Tyd himself had set to an old Welsh
tune of the Bardic days.  The effect was thrilling--the coxswain, both
sonorously and with a correct ear, singing, "_Omne simul, omne simul_,"
and beating time with his feet against the stretcher, while the rowers,
arms and lungs and all, pulled and chorused sympathetically.

This sport lasted about half an hour, and then the question was again
mooted, "What name shall we give to the boat?"

Green, the steersman, put the question: "Those who vote for the Rose
will say ay--three ays; those who vote for the Shamrock--one; those who
vote for the Leek--one."

"The ays have it."

Three triumphant cheers for the majority.

The freshman, quite cockahoop at the victory gained over Ap Tydvill and
O'Mackerry, ventured to ask the Welshman "how it happened that a leek
became the national emblem of Wales?"  He readily answered, "When my
country was able to lick (query: leek) your country,--I don't include
yours, O'Mackerry,--one of our jolly old princes having gained a great
victory over one of your Saxon leaders and his army, took up a _chive_,
which he found growing somewhere near the Wye, and said, `We'll wear
this henceforward as a memorial of this victory.'"

"Pooh, pooh," said the coxswain; "the true version is this.  Once upon a
time, Wales was so infested with monkeys that the natives were obliged
to ask the English to lend them a hand in destroying them.  The English
generously came to their assistance; but not perceiving any distinction
between the Welsh and the monkeys, they killed a great number of the
former, by mistake of course; so, in order to distinguish them, clearly,
they requested that the Welshmen would stick a leek in their bonnets."
A running fire (though on water) commenced against poor Monsieur Du
Leek--as the bantering youngsters, with profound bows and affected
gravity, chose to name Ap Tydvill--of pedigree immeasurable.

However, he recovered his serenity, after an explosion of wrath somewhat
dangerous for a moment; and, on the free trade principle, began to quiz
some one else.

"Mack," said he, "do you remember the ducking you got _there_, among the
_arundines Cami_?" pointing to a deep sedgy part of the river.

"I do; and I had, indeed, a narrow escape from drowning, or rather from
being suffocated in the deep sludgy mud."

"How was it?" one of the others asked.

"I was poling a punt along the bank, looking for waterfowl to have a
shot, you know, and I pulled myself into the river!"

"You mean, Paddy," said Mr Tydvill, "that you pulled yourself out of
the river."

"No; I mean what I say; there is no blunder for you to grin at.  I stuck
the pole so firmly into the deep mud, that I could not pull it out; but
it pulled me in."

"Why didn't you let go at once?"

"I hadn't time to think of that; instinctively I grasped the pole, lost
my balance, and tumbled into the river."

The unfortunate youth was extracted from the deep slime among osiers by
a labourer near hand, and he dried his clothes in a cottage--

  "Quae villula tectum,
  Praebuit--"

without any bad results.

"But, do you remember, Master Tydvill," said O'Mackerry, "the day when I
was so near catching you and throwing you into the deep hole--clothes
and all?  Ay, and you deserved a ducking?"

"But really, Mack, would you have pitched me in, when you knew that I
was a bad swimmer, especially when dressed?"

"Assuredly I would have done so, for I was unusually hot in my temper,
though very cold in my body at that moment; however, I suppose that I
should have acted the part of the Newfoundland dog, and dragged the
puppy by his neck out of the water."

This complimentary part he addressed to the crew at large, and then
described the incident.

He had been sitting on the top bar of a ladder, of which the lower end
rested on the bottom of a very deep part of the river under a high and
steep bank, for the purpose of aiding a swimmer in his ascent from the
water.  The day was cold, and O'Mackerry remained in a crouching posture
for a few moments on the ladder, meditating the plunge, but not taking
it.  His playful friend stole behind and jerked him, heels over head,
into the water, and immediately ran away.  O'Mackerry, after recovering
from the shock and getting out of the river, pursued the offender nearly
half a mile, and happily without catching him.  Tydvill rather
unhandsomely afterwards caricatured his friend as a barometrical green
frog in a broad pellucid bottle partly filled with water, squatting on a
rung of a ladder, ingeniously serving as a graduated scale, to show the
condition of the atmosphere; the frog rising or descending as its
sensations led it to immerse its body in water, or rise more or less
above it.  O'Mackerry was a capital swimmer, and was sometimes seen to
capsize himself from an Indian canoe, which he had purchased somewhere
on the river Shannon, into its tidal waters with his clothes on, for the
purpose of habituating himself to swim under such difficulty.  He had
the satisfaction of saving the lives of two persons in danger of
drowning, by his skill, courage, and presence of mind.

"But how did you learn to swim and dive so well?"

"When I was a little boy, I was fond of books of Voyages, and I liked,
above all things, to read the description of the bathing pranks of the
Otaheite savages, who were such active divers, that when a nail was
thrown overboard, they would plunge after it, and catch it before it
reached the bottom.  I thought that I could do what a savage did so
easily, and I soon learned to do what so many animals do without any
instruction at all.  If you want a model, take a frog, and imitate its
motions in the water.  Courage is everything."

"But, Mack, every one hasn't such long and strong legs and arms as you
have--just like a frog's."

"Thank you for the comparison--not for the first time, Master Tyd--but I
have not a great belly like a frog's, which is useful in swimming--at
least in floating.  A large pot-bellied man may lie on the water as long
as he likes, if he keeps his head well back so as to have it supported
by the water--and with his heels closed and neck up."

"But surely in that position he would be like a log on the water, and
make no way," remarked some one of the listeners.

"True, but he can rest himself in that position until he chooses to
strike out again.  Just fancy yourself a fish: you are specifically
lighter than water, and you can lie as near the surface as you please;
use your fins and you can move about to the right or left--as a boat is
moved by its oars; use your tail and you steer in any direction--as the
rudder turns the direction of the boat.  Then fancy your fins and tail
cut off--there you lie like a raft--without poles or oars--but you do
not sink.  If you have one fin, or part of one, you move like a boat
with one whole or broken oar.  Now our bodily apparatus is not designed
like that of a fish for swimming, but it is capable of enabling us to
swim sufficiently well for our necessities.  Just read Old Franklin on
the art of swimming, and you will understand the theory of the matter at
once.  The great difficulty in practice is the fear which people have of
being drowned, and this can only be overcome by accustoming ourselves to
the water."

"Now, Mack," said Tydvill, "you know I cannot swim; what ought I to have
done if you had pitched me into that awful hole?"

"You should have kept yourself from struggling and plunging, letting the
back of your head lie quietly under the water, with your mouth free for
breathing--but not for screaming and water-drinking--till I had taken
the trouble of catching hold of you."

"But surely," replied Tydvill, "the weight of my clothes would have sunk
me?"

"I think not," rejoined his friend; "the water would have supported them
too, though you'd have found them very heavy when you came out of it.
Will you try the experiment?"

"The theory is sufficient for me," concluded the sprightly Welshman.
However, another of the crew put this question:--

"Since the body can be supported on the surface of the water, as
O'Mackerry has said, and with little exertion, or without any, as in
swimming on the back, how is it that a drowned body sinks, and often
rises some days afterwards?"

"Because," said our philosopher,--who had been crammed on the
subject,--"the lungs of a drowning person become filled with water, and
therefore the body, becoming specifically heavier, sinks.  The body
remains at the bottom only until the water has been quite freed from it
by _compression_; it then is swelled and expanded by gases generated
within, and becoming lighter than the water, rises to the top."

They had for some time been leaning on their oars, enjoying this chat,
and were about to retrace their course, when one of the English lads
asked O'Mackerry if he had ever been in real danger in a boat.  The
other reflected a little, and then thought of an incident which had
occurred to him some years ago, before he had learned to swim.  "Yes,"
said he, "but for God's good providence I would have been," ("You mean
_should_, I suppose," said Coxswain Green, in an under tone) "assuredly
drowned.  I had been contriving how to put out striker lines in a deep
loch near my father's house, and, not having a boat, I substituted a
stable door, taken from its hinges, as a raft for my purpose.  I had
read of rafts on the Rhine with whole families on them--with a cabin and
cow-house and pig-sty; and why should not my miniature raft support my
weight?  I floated the door--balanced myself nicely upon it--put out for
the middle of the loch, gently paddling it with a pole, and fearful of
the slightest change of my position, which would have destroyed the
horizontal equilibrium of my feeble raft.  When I had gone far enough--
into water thirty or forty feet deep--I sent off the strikers, but
unfortunately flung away my paddle along with them.  My insensibly
nervous movements caused the door to incline into the water at one side
an inch or two.  I moved a hair's breadth; it then declined to the other
side.  It would sink.  I had no doubt of this.  Then I gently stooped to
try if I could unfasten a shoe; but this was impracticable.  I tried a
balancing movement again, and the door righted, but not entirely.  My
presence of mind, however, did not fail me.  I took off my hat, and
paddled myself with this from side to side alternately, until I reached
the strand--through thick masses of aquatic plants--the water-lily in
particular, whose long and interlacing stems would have embraced me to
death, if I had fallen among them.  I have never known any one to swim
or bathe in that dangerously deep loch.  I do not see how I could have
escaped drowning at that time if I had slipped from the raft."

This led the adventurous youth to narrate another difficulty from which
he had been mercifully extricated by God's providence.  He had been
snipe-shooting in an Irish hog, and thoughtlessly trod upon a green,
firm, and sound-looking, but very treacherous quagmire, us he was
watching a snipe which had just sprung up.  He was suddenly immersed in
the semi-fluid peat to his shoulders, and only saved from quickly
subsiding into the depths of the morass by a solid bed of clay, at the
depth of five feet and a half.  He sank to his under lip, barely
escaping suffocation, and having his breath spared for shouting.  He was
pulled up by various contrivances, a reeking column of black mire.  As
it seemed clear that Mr O'Mackerry must have been engulfed in the bog
if he had been half an inch under six feet two in stature, it was
illogically argued that it would be a general advantage to manhood if
all were exceedingly tall--suppose of the height of the suite of the
Duke of Brunswick (composed of men some inches above seven feet), which
came to London a hundred years ago.

"Of course," said Tydvill, "Churchill is right in the Rosciad when he
says:

"`Your hero should be always tall, you know.'"

But the wiser ones of the crew showed that the ordinary height, as fixed
by the Almighty, is the best.  If the scale of men were raised a foot or
so, with proportioned frame and weight, horses and other beasts of
burden should be increased also; else the giants could neither hunt nor
even travel, nor find beef and mutton, etc, for their support.  And if
the animals were larger, more grass, etc, would be required than at
present.  The whole scale of proportions would require alteration.  Who
can dare to think that God's design is not the best?  Neither giants nor
dwarfs form the general rule, and extreme exceptions are happily very
rare.

"What became of the gun?" inquired one of the party.  "I hope that was
not swallowed up?"

"No; that was pulled up with me.  I had kept fast hold of it; we fell
and rose together, and so I was not--

  "`Doomed to perish by the slaughtering gun.'"

However, it was unfit for service, like its owner, for the remainder of
that day; its chilled barrel looked as if it were moaning forth to me,
in hollow tone,--

  "`Stay by me--thou art resolute and faithful;
  I have employment worthy of thy arm.'"

It will be seen that Mr O'Mackerry had a smattering of classical lore.
He was asked to name his last poet.

"Dryden," said he, off-hand.

"You hadn't a _dry_ den when you were up to your chin in the wet, black
hole," quickly added Tydvill.  Here there was unanimous applause.

This led to some conversational nonsense about punning.

"What is a pun?"

"Don't you know," said O'Mackerry, "Swift's definition in the essay
which he entitled `The Ars Punica sive flos linguarum, by Tom-Pun-Sibi,
Dublin?'"  None other of the crew knew anything concerning it; O'Mack
therefore gave them the concluding part as a specimen, and in reply to
the question.  "Punning is an art of harmonious jingling upon words,
which, passing in at the ears and falling upon the diaphragms, excites a
titillatory motion in those parts, and this being conveyed by the animal
spirits into the muscles of the face, raises the cockles of the heart,
and promotes the end of good fellowship, which is laughing."

Just at that moment the crew in training for the coming race between the
rival universities neared the Rose, for so the boat must now be called,
and, as in duty bound, the latter drew to the opposite bank to allow the
eight-oared cutter to pass at fullest speed, and then following in her
wake, the rest of the trip was passed in comparative silence, so eagerly
did our freshmen note each movement of that skilful crew.

STORY FIVE, CHAPTER ONE.

STORY FIVE--THE FORCE OF CONSCIENCE--A TALE BY A NAVAL CHAPLAIN.

Soon after I entered Holy Orders I joined the old ---, 74, in the West
Indies.  As we were for a considerable time stationary at Port Royal,
Jamaica, and my health was suffering from the climate, I obtained leave
to take a few weeks' cruise with an elder brother, who commanded a brig
of war on the station.  While I was on board the brig, she was sent in
search of a piratical craft, which had of late been committing great
depredations on British commerce in those seas.  At length, after a long
search, we sighted her, made chase, attacked, and, after a desperate
fight, captured her, with a loss of several of our own men, and
one-third of the pirates killed and wounded.

Among the pirate crew a young man was brought on board badly wounded,
whose countenance exhibited such an expression of deep melancholy and
despair, that I could not help feeling compassion for him; indeed, I
persuaded myself that he must be less guilty than his companions.  They
were, or their physiognomies woefully belied them, as villainous a set
of scoundrels as were ever collected together, and their captain, if
report spoke true, was the greatest miscreant of them all.  I attended
daily by the bed-side of the unhappy youth I speak of, and had hopes,
although he said little, that I had worked on his mind some impression
of the awful state in which he was placed; but as he recovered his
strength his obduracy of heart appeared to return, and he seemed to have
persuaded himself that he should escape the punishment of his crimes.

After a long beat we at length entered Port Royal in triumph with our
prize, and were thanked by all the merchants for the service we had
rendered them.  The pirates were tried without delay, one of them
turning king's evidence, and being all convicted of the most atrocious
murders on the high seas, with this single exception, they were all
sentenced to death.

The evening before his execution the young man I spoke of sent to
entreat me to visit him.  I gladly acceded to his wish.  I found him
heavily ironed and chained to the ground, in a room with a
strongly-grated window, where three of his piratical shipmates were also
confined.  These latter were Spaniards, and dark ferocious-looking
ruffians they seemed--more like beasts than men with immortal souls, so
brutalising are the effects of habitual crime.

They regarded me as I entered with glances of furious hate, for they
recognised me as having belonged to the ship which captured them, and,
had they not been manacled, they would, I truly believe, have rushed at
me to satisfy their longing for vengeance, but their chains, fortunately
for me, holding them down, they again sank into the sullen apathy from
which my appearance had roused them.

Sitting down on a low stool, furnished by the gaoler, I expressed my
willingness to afford the prisoner every aid in my power that his awful
state demanded.

"You were kind to me, sir, when I lay wounded, from the first, on our
passage here, and I thought you would excuse me speaking to you," he
answered, looking furtively around as if some one was watching him.
"Oh, sir, there are many, many things weighing like hot lead upon my
mind, and I must tell them to some fellow-creature before I am sent on
my last voyage, or I should have to come back again to haunt this world,
which is already sick of me and my crimes.  Oh, sir, it is dreadful to
think of dying when one has lived as I have done; yet my life for some
years has been one of misery, ever haunted by a hideous spirit or a
being of--There it is, sir! see, see!  I knew that I could not talk of
him without his coming!  There, there, there!" he shrieked out.

I exerted all my powers to soothe the mind of the poor wretch, throwing
in such observations as I thought might tend to bring him to think on
the new state of existence he was about to enter.  Pirate as he was, I
felt that he was still a fellow-creature, and who can tell what strong
temptations might have led him into crime?  Who among us can say how we
should have withstood the same?  Let us feel grateful that we have
received the benefit of a religious education, and pray Heaven to keep
us from sin.  Seeing that until he had relieved his mind by a narration
of the circumstances in his career which pressed most heavily on it, he
would be unable to attend to me, I told him that I was prepared to
listen to anything he might have to say.  On this he immediately
commenced a sketch of his life in almost the following words:--

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Confessions of a Pirate.

"I am a Devonshire man, and was born near Salcombe.  A wild-looking
place is Salcombe Range.  My father's cottage stood on the hill facing
directly down the bay, or range, as they call it in the west country, so
that the only view I remember in childhood was that of the dark cliffs
on each side of its entrance, with its heaving and foaming waters; the
only music I ever heard, their hollow melancholy sound.

"My father had been an officer of excise at Plymouth, and, having
somehow or other made his fortune, retired here to end his days.  This
he soon did, for, shortly after I was born, my mother dying, he took to
drinking harder than ever--he was never a very sober man--and before I
was seven years old I was left an orphan.  I had now no one to look
after me, except an old woman, whose chief occupation was mixing
smuggled spirits to fit them for the market; when she used to taste and
taste the stuff till she went reeling to bed.  I consequently had plenty
of time and opportunity to follow my own inclinations, and was early
taught all sorts of wild pranks by boys older than myself.

"For some time my principal employment consisted in dodging the steps of
the revenue officers, both when a run was about to be made, and
afterwards when the tubs and cases were to be carried up the country.  I
could neither read nor write, and as for religion, I never heard of it;
indeed, I was as ignorant as could well be.  At last, the clergyman of
the parish took compassion on my unprotected state; and the old woman
who had charge of me dying, like my father, in a fit of drunkenness, he
sent for me up to his house, and asked me if I should like to go to
school.  Though I did not know what school meant, I answered `Yes,' for
I wanted to go somewhere; it little signified to me where.  As I was
treated kindly I got on very well, so that in three years I was
considered one of the best scholars in the school, though at the same
time one of the wildest.  The vicar was a strict man, and, though he
expressed himself satisfied with my progress, I was never a favourite of
his.

"Although I had continued my intimacy with several of my early smuggling
companions, I managed to reach my eighteenth year without being
considered worse than a wild sort of chap.  About this time I formed an
acquaintance with a pretty girl, the daughter of a respectable farmer in
the neighbourhood.  Her old father spoke to me on the subject.  I
knocked him down and fled.  I had behaved like a villain.  I knew it
then; I feel it now.  The poor girl refused to see me when I afterwards
tried to meet her, and soon died of a broken heart.  The neighbourhood
was no longer to my liking.  I felt that every finger was pointed at me;
but I stifled conscience, and tried to appear indifferent as to what
folks said of me.  Oh, that I had listened to that small voice then!  My
after-life would have been very different.

"I had always been accustomed to get about in boats; and having just
before formed the acquaintance of a noted smuggler, one Brand Hallton by
name--I then thought him one of the finest fellows on either side of the
channel--I made my first trip across to the coast of France in his
company.  That man was the chief cause of my subsequent career in crime
and misery--my evil genius.  Oh, sir, warn all the young men you may
meet to shun the company of the wicked and immoral as they would a
pestilence!  They are the instruments with which the devil works out his
deeds of darkness.  I did not know how bad he was, or, perhaps, I might
have avoided him and been saved.  For two years or more, I was
constantly in some smuggling craft or another; and though we frequently
lost a cargo, we managed to escape being taken and sent on board a
man-of-war to serve the king.  This hazardous varied sort of life just
suited my taste, and, as I had more learning than the rest of my
companions, I was looked up to by most of them.  However, our success
was not to last for ever: through the treachery, as we afterwards
discovered, of one of the people we employed on shore, we were unusually
unfortunate; and, suspecting what was the case, we vowed to be revenged
on whomever it might be.

"I had never seen blood shed--my hands were free from that crime.  Oh
that they were so now, I should not care so much about dying!  We had a
large cutter, carrying four guns, with forty stout hands on board, Brand
Hallton being our captain; so that we could easily beat off any revenue
boats which might attempt to board us.

"Every one was armed to the teeth; and on the occasion I am about to
speak of, the word was passed that all the helpers on shore should come
prepared for resistance, in case of being molested.  We took in our
cargo, consisting of silks, laces, tea, and other valuable commodities,
at Cherbourg, and made the land just before sunset.  We stood in at
once, and found the spotsman at his post, with a signal that all was
clear.  The night was pitchy dark, though calm; and, except the signals,
not a light was shown.  About fifty men were stationed on shore, to
carry the things inland.

"We set to work as fast as possible getting the things into the boats,
and all went on well for some time.  I, with some others, in one of the
boats, had left the cutter, when a pistol was flashed from the shore as
a signal for us to return; but, before we had pulled many strokes, there
was a rapid discharge of fire-arms, while loud shouts, oaths, and cries
arose: torches were kindled, and by their light we could see our friends
on shore mixed in a hot fight with a number of red-coats.

"As soon as we made out what was going forward, we pulled back as fast
as we could to the vessel, to put the bales into her, intending to
return to assist our people; but, before we reached her, a splash of
oars was heard close to us, and in a moment a large boat was alongside
our galley.  At the same time, a loud voice ordered us to surrender;
but, as we were not the chaps to do that in a hurry, our coxswain drew
his pistol, and fired it towards the boat.  A deep groan was the answer,
and immediately other pistols were fired on each side.  By the flashes
we saw a number of men, their cutlasses shining brightly, about to
spring into our boat; but, at the same time, we knew that we must beat
them or die.  They were brave fellows, and would, perhaps, have taken us
all; but we were fighting with halters round our necks; for after the
resistance we had offered, we knew that, if made prisoners, we should be
hung.  They had already cut down two or three of our people, when
another of our boats came up, and attacked them on the other side.
There was now little chance for them: we dared not save them if we
would.  They fought bravely to the last--every one of them was killed.

"They were countrymen, and were only doing their duty.  That night's
work, sir, weighed like lead upon my conscience, till other crimes drove
the thoughts of it out, and my heart became seared.  It is only now that
I am about to quit the world that my conscience is roused up.  It is
very terrible, sir.  My life seems a dreadful dream; and I cannot even
now believe that I am to die to-morrow to go where I have already sent
so many others, not more fit to die than I am.  It is too much to think
of.  I wonder what sort of a place I shall be in to-morrow at this
time!" he suddenly exclaimed, after a long silence.

"You must trust in the mercy of One who is all merciful," I answered,
"and repent of your crimes, and then be assured, as was the thief on the
cross, you will be forgiven."

"I wish I thought it might be so, sir," he observed, "but I have been
too wicked--too great a reprobate for pardon; and _he_--_he_ knows
better!--that ghastly figure there!--_he_ shakes his head, and grins at
me, mocking at the very idea of it!  Oh, that I could have another spell
of life to get free of him!  Is there any chance of being let off?" he
asked, with sudden animation.

"Not the slightest," I answered.  "Do not for a moment indulge in such a
hope."

"Well, sir, well--perhaps it is best as it is.  I have thought a good
deal about death since I lay wounded, and have made up my mind to the
worst.  My life has long been a burden to me; but it is the future--the
future which makes me tremble; and then that dreadful ghost-like figure
unnerves me.  Off with you--off!" he shrieked out.  "Leave me for this
once at rest!"

The Spaniards, aroused by his cries, scowled fiercely on him, and
cursing him for a noisy madman, again sank back upon the stone floor.
After being silent for a minute, he appeared to have perfectly recovered
his senses, and continued--

"I will go on, sir, with what I was telling you about--I want to get it
off my mind.  Well, after we had killed the people in the revenue boat,
we hove the things into the cutter, and pulled again to the shore to
assist our friends.  It was fortunate for them that we did so, for the
soldiers had come down in great numbers, and complet

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/40692