“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