Читать книгу Julian Home - F. W. Farrar - Страница 8

“Most like a step-dame or a dowager

Long withering out a young man’s revenue.”

Shakespeare.

I must not chronicle Julian’s school-life, much as I should have to tell about him, and strong as the temptation is, but another event happened during his stay at Harton which affected so materially his future years that I must proceed to narrate it now.

Julian’s father had a sister much older than himself, who many years before had married a baronet-farmer, Sir Thomas Vinsear of Lonstead Abbey. It was certainly not a love match on the lady’s side, for the baronet was twenty years her senior, and his tastes in no respect resembled hers. But she was already of “a certain age,” and despairing of a lover, accepted the good old country squire, and was located for the rest of her life as mistress of Lonstead Abbey.

As long as he lived all was well; Lady Vinsear, like a sensible wife, conformed herself to all his wishes and peculiarities, and won in no slight degree his gratitude and affection. But he did not long survive his marriage, and after a few years the lady found herself alone and childless in the solitary grandeur of her husband’s home.

Her brother Henry, the Rector of Ildown, had always been her special favourite, and she looked to his frequent visits to enliven her loneliness. But she was piqued by his having married without consulting her, and behaved so uncourteously to Mrs. Home, that for a long time the intercourse between them was broken.

One day, however, shortly before his death, she had written to announce an intended visit, and in due time her carriage stood before the rectory door. It so happened that it was Julian’s holiday-time, and he was at home. Changed as the old lady had become by years and disappointment, and the ennui of an aimless widowhood, little relieved by the unceasing attendance of a confidante, yet Lady Vinsear’s childless and withered heart seemed to be touched to life again when she gazed on her brother’s beautiful and modest boy. Courteous without subservience, and attentive without servility, Julian, by his graceful and unselfish demeanour, won her complete affection, and she dropped to the family no ambiguous hints, that, for Julian’s sake, she should renew her intercourse with them, and make him her heir. Circumstanced as he was, Mr. Home could not but rejoice in this determination, and the more so from his proud consciousness that not even the vilest detractor could charge him with having courted his rich sister’s favour by open or secret arts. From Julian he would have concealed Lady Vinsear’s intention, but she had herself made him tolerably aware of it, after a fit of violent spleen against Miss Sprong, her confidante, who, seeing how the wind lay, had tried to drop little malicious hints against the favourite nephew, until the old lady had cut them short, by a peremptory order that Miss Sprong should leave the room. That little rebuff the lady never forgot and never forgave, and, under the guise of admiration, she nursed her enmity against the unconscious Julian until due opportunity should have occurred to give it vent.

Every now and then, Julian, when wearied with study, would be tempted to think in his secret heart, “What does it matter my working so hard, when I shall be master of Lonstead Abbey some day?” And then perhaps would follow a rather inconsistent fit of idleness, till Mr. Carden, or some other master, applied the spur again.

“I can’t make you out, Julian,” said Lillyston; “sometimes you grind away for a month like—like beans, and then you’re as idle again for a week as the dog that laid his head against a wall to bark.”

“Well, shall I tell you, Hugh?” answered Julian, who had often felt that it would be a relief to put his friend in possession of the secret. And he told Lillyston that he was the acknowledged heir of his aunt’s property.

“Oh, well then,” said Lillyston, “I don’t see why I should work either, seeing as how Lillyston Court will probably come to me some day. I say, Julian, I vote we both try for lag next trials. It’d save lots of grind.”

All this was brought out very archly, and instantly recalled to Julian’s mind the many arguments which he had used to his friend, especially since his father’s death, to prove that, under any circumstances, diligence was a duty which secured its own reward; indeed, he used to maintain that, even on selfish grounds it was best, for in the long run the idlest boys, with their punishments and extras, got far the most work to do—to say nothing of the lassitude that usurps the realm of neglected duty, and that disgraceful ignorance which is the nemesis of wasted time.

He burst out laughing. “You have me on the hip, Hugh, and I give in. In proof whereof, here goes the novel I’m reading; and I’ll at once set to work on my next set of verses;” whereon Julian pitched his green novel to the top of an inaccessible cupboard, got down his Elegiacs for the next day, and had no immediate recurrence of what Lillyston christened the “pudding theory of work.”

It was during his last year at Harton that Lady Vinsear, in consequence of one of her sudden whims, wrote to invite him to Lonstead, with both his brothers; for she never took any notice of either Violet or Mrs. Home. The time she mentioned was ten days before the Harton holidays began. So that Frank and Cyril, (who came back from Marlby just in time), had to go alone, rather to their disgust; Julian, however, promising to join them directly after he returned from school. The wilful old lady, urged on by the confidante, took considerable umbrage at this, and wrote that “she was quite sure the Doctor would not have put any obstacles in the way of Julian’s coming had he been informed of her wishes. And as for trials, (the Harton word for examination), which Julian had pleaded in excuse, he had better take care that, in attending to the imaginary trials of Harton, he didn’t increase his own real trials.”

This sentence made Julian laugh immoderately, both from his aunt’s notion of the universal autocracy of her will, and from her obvious bewilderment at the technical word “Trials,” which had betrayed her unconsciously into a pun, which, of all things, she abhorred. However, he wrote back politely—explained what he meant by “Trials”—begged to be excused for a neglect of her wishes, which was inevitable—and reiterated his promise of joining his brothers, as early as was feasible, under her hospitable roof.

It was not without inward misgiving that Cyril and Frank found themselves deposited in the hall of their glum old aunt’s large and lonely house, the very size and emptiness of which had tended not a little to increase the poor lady’s vapours. However, they were naturally graceful and well-bred, so that, in spite of the patronising empire assumed over them by the vulgar and half-educated Miss Sprong—which Cyril especially was very much inclined to resent—the first day or two passed by with tolerable equanimity.

But this dull routine soon proved unendurable to the two lively boys. They found it impossible to sit still the whole evening, looking over sacred prints; and this was the only amusement which Miss Sprong suggested to Lady Vinsear for them. Of late the dowager had taken what she considered to be a religious turn; but unhappily the supposed religion was as different from real piety as light from darkness, and consisted mainly in making herself and all around her miserable by a semi-ascetic puritanism of observances, and a style of conversation fit to drive her little nephews into a lunatic asylum.

Though they both felt a species of terror at their ungracious aunt, and the ever-detonating Miss Sprong, the long-pent spirit of fun at times grew too strong in them, and they would call down sharp rebukes by romping in the drawing-room, so as to disturb the two ladies while they read to each other, for hours together, the charming treatises of their favourite moderate divine.

The boys were seated on two stools, in the silence of despair, and at last Cyril, who had been twirling his thumbs for half an hour, and listening to a dissertation on Armageddon, gave a yawn so portentous and prolonged that Frank suddenly exploded in a little burst of laughter, which was at once checked, when Miss Sprong observed—

“I think it would be profitable if your ladyship,”—Miss Sprong never omitted the title—“would set your nephews some of Watts’ hymns to learn.”

The nephews protested with one voice and much rebellion, but at last their irate aunt quenched the unseemly levity, and they were fairly set to work at Dr. Watts—Frank getting for his share “The little busy bee.” But instead of learning it, they got together, and Cyril began drawing pictures of cruet-stands and other impieties, whereby Frank was kept in fits of laughter, and when called up to say his hymn, knew nothing at all about it. Cyril sat by him, and when Frank had exhausted his stock of acquirements by saying, in a tone of disgust—

“How doth the little busy bee—”

Cyril suggested—

“Delight to bark and bite.”

“Oh, yes—

“How doth the little busy bee

Delight to bark and bite—

“How does it go on, Cyril?” said Frank.

“To gather honey all the day,

And eat it all the night,”

whispered the audacious brother, conjuring into memory the schoolboy version of that celebrated poem.

Frank, who was far too much engrossed in his own difficulties to think of what he was saying, artlessly repeated the words, and opened his large eyes in amazement, when he was greeted by a shout of laughter from Cyril, and a little shriek of indignation from Miss Sprong, which combined sounds started Lady Vinsear from the doze into which she had fallen, and ended in the summary ejectment of the young offenders.

The next day, to their own great relief and delight, they were sent home in disgrace; and knowing that their mother would not be angry with them for a piece of childish gaiety under such trying circumstances, they were surprised and pained to see how grave she and Violet looked when they told their story. But Mrs. Home’s thoughts had reverted to Julian, and she knew Miss Sprong too well not to be aware that she had designs on Lady Vinsear’s property, and would excite against Julian any ill-will she could.

That her fears were not unfounded was proved by the fact that, in the middle of trial-week, Julian received an altogether intolerable epistle from Miss Sprong, written, she said, “at the express request and dictation of his esteemed aunt,” calling him to account for this little incident in a way that, (to use Lillyston’s expression), instantly “put him on his hind legs.” He read a part of this letter to Lillyston, and, with his own comments, it ran thus:—

“Lady Vinsear desires me to say,” (Hem! I doubt that very much), “that the rudeness of those two little boys, to say nothing of their great immorality and impiety,” (I say, that’s coming it too strong, or rather too Sprong), “is such as to reflect great discredit on the influences to which they have been lately—”

“By Jove! this is too bad,” said Julian, passionately; “when she adds innuendoes against my mother to her other malice—I won’t stand it,” and, without reading farther, he tossed the letter into the fire, watching with vindictive eyes its complete consumption—

“There goes the squire—revered, illustrious spark!

And there—no less illustrious—goes the clerk!”

he said, as he watched the little red streams flickering out of the black paper ashes. “And now for the answer! Bother the woman for plaguing me, (for I know it’s none of my aunt’s handiwork), in the middle of trial-week.”

“I say, Julian, don’t be too fiery in your answer, you know, for you really ought to appease the poor old lady. Only think of that impudent little brother of yours! I must make the young rogue’s acquaintance some day.”

But Julian had seized a sheet of note-paper, and wrote to his aunt, not condescending to notice even by a message her obnoxious amanuensis:—

“My Dear Aunt—I cannot believe that the letter I received to-day really emanated from you, at least not in the language in which it was couched.

“I have neither time nor inclination,” (‘Hoity, toity, how grand we are!’) “to attend to the foolish trifle to which your amanuensis,” (‘Meaning me!’ screamed the irrepressible Sprong), “alludes; but I am quite sure that, on reflection, you will not be inclined to judge too hardly a mere piece of fun and thoughtless liveliness; for that Frankie meant to be rude, I don’t for a moment believe. I shall only add, that if I were not convinced that you can never have sanctioned the expressions which the lady,” (Julian had first written ‘person,’ but altered it afterwards), “who wrote for you presumed to apply to my brothers, and above all, to my mother, I should have good reason to be offended; but feeling sure that they are not attributable to you, I pass them over with indifference. I am obliged to write in great haste, so here I must conclude.

“Believe me, my dear Aunt, your affectionate nephew,

“Julian Home.”

Lady Vinsear was secretly pleased with the spirit which this letter showed, and was not sorry for the snubbing which it gave to her lady-companion; but she determined to exercise a little tyranny, and fancied that Julian would be too much frightened to resent it. Accustomed to the legacy-hunting spirit of many parasites, the old lady thought that Julian would be like the rest, and hoped to enjoy the sight of him reduced to submission and obedience, in the hopes of future advantage; not that she would exult in his humiliation, but she was glad of any pretext to bring the noble boy before her as a suppliant for her favour. Accordingly, setting aside her first and better impulses, she wrote back a sharp reply, abusing Cyril and Frank in round and severe terms, and adding some bitter innuendoes about the poverty of the family, and their supposed expectations at her decease. Miss Sprong lent all the venom of her malicious ingenuity to this precious performance, which fortunately did not reach Julian until trials were nearly over. Tired with excitement and hard work, the boy could ill endure these galling allusions, and wrote back a short and fiery reply:—

“My Dear Aunt—If any one has persuaded you that I am eager to purchase your good-will at any sacrifice, and that in consideration of ‘supposed advantages’ hereafter to be derived from you—I shall be willing to endure unkindly language or groundless insinuations about my other relatives—then they have very seriously misled you as to my real character. This is really the only reply of which your letter admits. I shall always be ready, as in duty bound, to bestow on you such respect and affection as our relationship demands and your own kindness may elicit, but I would scorn to win your favour at the expense of a subservience at once ungenerous and unjust.

“Believe me to remain, your affectionate nephew,

“Julian Home.”

This letter decided the matter. Lady Vinsear wrote back, that as he obviously cared nothing about her, and did not even treat her with ordinary deference, she had that day altered her will. Poor old lady! Julian’s angry letter cost her many a pang; and that night, as she sat in her bedroom by her lonely hearth, and thought over her dead brother and this gallant high-souled boy of his, the tears coursed each other down her furrowed cheeks, and she could get no rest. At last she had taken her desk, and, with trembling hands, written:—

“Dearest Julian—Forgive an old woman’s whim, and come to me and comfort my old age. All I have is yours, Julian; and I love you, though I wrote to you so bitterly.—Your loving aunt,

“Caroline Vinsear.”

But when morning came, Sprong resumed her ascendency, and by raking up and blowing the cooled embers of her patroness’ wrath, succeeded once more in fanning them to the old red heat, after which she poured vinegar upon them, and they exploded in the pungent fumes of the note which told our hero that he was not to hope, for the future, to be one day owner of a handsome fortune.

Of course, at first he was a little downcast; and in talking to Lillyston, compared himself to Gautier sans avoir, and “Wilfred the disinherited.”

“Never mind, Julian; it matters very little to you,” said Lillyston proudly.

“Anyhow I must have no more fits of idleness,” answered Julian.

And indeed the only pain it caused him arose from the now necessary decision that he must go to Saint Werner’s College as a sizar, or not at all. But for all that he went home with a light heart, and had once more gained the proud distinction of head-remove—one for which, at that time, I very much doubt whether he would have exchanged the prospect of a rich inheritance.

And the misfortune proved an advantage to Cyril too, as we shall see.

“So here’s the little rogue who has lost me a thousand a year,” said Julian laughingly, when he got home, and took Cyril on his knee by the fireside after dinner. The next moment he was very sorry he had said it, for Cyril hung his head, and seemed quite disconcerted; but his brother laughed away his sorrow, as he thought, and no further allusion to the subject was made.

But that night, as Julian looked into his brother’s bedroom before he went to bed, he found Cyril crying, and his pillow wet with tears.

“Cyril, what’s the matter, my boy?—you’re not ill, are you?”

Cyril sat up, his eyes still swimming, and threw his arms round his brother’s neck. “I’ve ruined you, Julian,” he said.

“My dear child, what nonsense! Nay, my foolish little fellow,” answered Julian, “this is really a mistake of yours. Aunt Vinsear was angry with me for my letters—not with you. Don’t cry so, Cyril, for I really don’t care a rush about it; but I shall care if it vexes you. But shall I tell you why you ought to know of it, Cyril?”

“Why?”

“Because, my boy, it affects you too. You know, Cyril, that we are very poor now. Well, you see we shall have to support ourselves hereafter, and mother and Violet depend on us so you must work hard, Cyril, will you? and don’t be idle at Marlby, as I’m afraid you have been. Eh, my boy?”

The boy promised faithfully, and performed the promise well in after days; but that night Julian did not leave him until he was fast asleep.

We shall tell only one more scene of Julian’s Harton life, and that very briefly.

It is a glorious summer afternoon; four o’clock bell is just over, and it is expected that in a few minutes the examiner, (an old Hartonian and senior classic), will read out the list which shall give the result of many weeks’ hard work. The Newry scholarship is to be announced at the same time: Bruce and Home are the favourite names.

A crowd of boys throng round the steps, but Julian is not among them; he is leaning over the rails of the churchyard, under the elm-trees by Peachey’s tomb, filled with a trembling and almost sickening anxiety. Bruce, confident of victory, is playing racquets, just below the schoolyard.

The Examiner suddenly appears from the speech-room door. There is a breathless silence while he reads the list, and then announces, in an emphatic voice—

“The Newry scholarship is adjudged to Julian Home!”

Off darts Lillyston, bounds up the hill into the churchyard, and has informed the happy Julian of his good fortune long before the “three cheers for Mr. Burton,” and “three cheers for Home,” have died away.