It will scarcely be imagined that Mr. Norman allowed his protégé to disappear so suddenly and mysteriously from the Rectory without instituting an active search for him. He was in reality deeply grieved and concerned, for he had already begun to conceive an affection for the child, and had not unfrequently laid to rest his conscience, which sometimes troubled him on the score of duties neglected, with the subtle reflection that in adopting this little outcast of society he was performing a service to his fellow-men capable of counteracting many shortcomings. But now all at once this opportunity was snatched from his hands. In vain the whole country-side was searched for more than a week. It scarcely occurred to the rector that Arthur could have returned to London; the distance was comparatively great, and he knew that the boy had no money. But when at length all inquiries had failed, the labourer of whom Arthur had inquired his way on the morning of his flight, suddenly came forward and gave his testimony to that fact. The matter was put into the hands of the Metropolitan police, who forthwith made inquiries at Mrs. Blatherwick’s abode. By this time, however, Arthur had gone to live in Little St. Andrew Street, and no tidings of him were forthcoming. Accordingly the Rector was at length obliged to surrender all hope of recovering his charge. With a sigh of regret he settled down again to the epicureanism of his wonted life — epicureanism, that is, in its truer and less ignoble sense — and the episode formed in the life of the Rectory by the arrival and the departure of little Arthur Golding passed away as the bubbles pass from a pool into which a stone has been cast.
For a short time after this unfortunate occurrence Mr. Whiffle was disconsolate. Though latterly Arthur’s progress under his tuition had been very far from satisfying his requirements, the curate had still clung to the hope of being the instrument whereby that somewhat intractable young nature should be modelled into that form of spiritual and intellectual nullity most adapted to ecclesiastical preferment. To instil his favourite doctrines into the mind of an apt and ready listener was Mr. Whiffle’s ideal of happiness, and to have such a chance as this suddenly withdrawn was grievous, to say the least of it. In speaking to Mr. Norman of their mutual loss, he waxed eloquent on the glowing future which he had planned out in his own thoughts, tracing in imagination the whole life of his former pupil from a curacy upwards, and well nigh weeping when he came back to the sad reality. Mr. Whiffle had somewhat of a fondness for theatrical display, and it is not at all improbable that he used the present occasion to the profit of his eloquence long after his veritable chagrin had worked itself off.
“Such a boy, sir!” he exclaimed, on one occasion. “Bishop was written upon every line of his countenance! What an opportunity for putting into practice the precepts contained in my (as yet unpublished) pamphlets on the Principles of Education, and on the Rudiments of Ecclesiastical Training! I assure you, sir, I could sit in sack-cloth and ashes for the loss of that child. He was already more than a son to me.”
“And yet you have sons of your own, Mr. Whiffle,” interposed the Rector. “Would it not be easy and natural to transfer to your eldest boy the care you would have bestowed on poor Arthur?”
“My eldest boy?” exclaimed Mr. Whiffle, as if in astonishment. “That — that young scamp? Upon my word I never thought of it.”
This was doubtless very true. In all likelihood the curate did not think of his family once in a month. The most distant object of interest had a closer claim upon his attention than the inmates of his home.
“Upon my word, that’s quite a new idea to me!” he cried. “Ah! now suppose I were to tackle young Augustus. I don’t know. He might turn out something, with a little care.”
“I think it very possible,” replied Mr. Norman.
“You do really sir? Well, very possibly you are right. Young Augustus! Ha, ha, ha! The young dog!”
Mr. Whiffle laughed heartily, rising the while on his toes and falling back again on to his heels alternately. The idea had evidently all the charm of novelty for him.
“Upon my word, I think I shall try. When I come to think of it, I believe the youngster has brains, if only he can be made to use them. And if he won’t take his learning patiently, why it can be licked into him, like doses of physic. An admirable idea!”
From that day Mr. Whiffle took his eldest son in hand, and proceeded very vigorously with his education, which had hitherto been entrusted to a village schoolmaster of no very distinguished abilities. Master Augustus, whom we have already seen receiving personal chastisement at the hand of his father, was a lanky, overgrown lad of some twelve years, bearing a rather striking resemblance in outward characteristics to Mr. Whiffle himself. He was by no means destitute of ability, but had acquired the unfortunate habit of employing it in the service of a somewhat impish disposition, the result being that he was in constant trouble, at home and abroad. It was to the young gentleman’s considerable surprise, and very little to his satisfaction, when he became aware of his father’s intention to devote an unusual degree of care to his future progress in the paths of literature. The first few days of the new régime were stormy in the extreme. As Mr. Whiffle had feared, young Augustus took by no means kindly to the strong food thus suddenly administered to him, and in consequence the curate, to use his own expression, “licked it into him.” The lessons took place in Mr. Whiffle’s study, whilst the rest of the family were assembled in the usual manner in the parlour. Mrs. Whiffle, whose nerves were sadly out of order, had a tremulous anticipation of the character of these interviews in the study, and sat, with her attention on the alert, to catch the least sounds which should issue from thence. As a rule she was rewarded at the expiration of the first ten minutes, when Mr. Whiffle’s shrill tones, and Master Augustus’ still shriller piping, would be heard rising to an ominous pitch. These sounds would increase, till at length both attained the character of a prolonged and piercing squeal, amid which would be heard the peculiar wish produced by the sharp descent of a cane upon tightened clothing. At this point poor Mrs. Whiffle would burst into tears, and, when at length she could bear her suffering no longer, would step sobbing to the study door and knock. As a rule her knock was either unheard or unheeded, and she would hurry back with her fingers in her ears, throw herself in her chair, and, encircling all her brood within her arms, weep till the termination of the lesson. When that moment happily arrived, the study door opened and Mr. Whiffle came into the parlour, followed, at a slinking pace, by Master Augustus, carrying his books and slate under his arm, both perspiring and both very much out of temper. Then, as a rule, Mr. Whiffle would set out on a walk, to restore his habitual calm, and Master Augustus would be pressed in his mother’s arms with the rest of the brood, sobbing out the while that “it is a jolly shame to be so hard on a fellow,” and that “I wish there was no such thing as a church in the world,” whereupon Mrs. Whiffle would cast up her eyes in horror, or ask him where he expected to go to after his death, if he allowed himself to give utterance to such sentiments.
Evidently affairs could not long rest at this stage, which was, in the nature of things, transitional, Mr. Whiffle persevering, for a wonder, in the task to which he had applied himself. Master Augustus did not lack the wit to observe that he would gain very little save beatings by an obstinate persistence in a refractory course of behaviour, whereupon he gradually adopted a more conciliatory attitude, and before long discovered that he could, at the expense of very little trouble, master such tasks as were daily set him, earning in consequence a degree of liberty during the remainder of the day to which he had by no means been accustomed. Finding that the show of interest and attention was what his father principally required, and seeing how easily he was pleased with the recitation of a few stock phrases and formul? which it was by no means difficult to remember, young Augustus ere long progressed very considerably in the art of hypocrisy. If before he had been a noisy, careless young imp, it took only a year or so of Mr. Whiffle’s discipline to convert him into a demure-faced, canting little rascal, always ready on the sly for freaks quite remarkable for precocious villainy, but always preserving before his father and mother a sobriety of demeanour and facility in the quotation of text and rubric which constituted the delight of Mr. Whiffle’s soul. Verily, he said to himself, the seeds of his sowing were already bearing fruit.
In the meantime the Rectory was also the scene of parental instruction — instruction however, somewhat different in its character and its aims. However much Mr. Norman might feel justified in neglecting the duties of his care of souls, his constitutional idleness never led him to neglect the intellectual welfare of his little daughter Helen. When she reached the age of nine, Mr. Norman took her away from the school in which she had been taught to read and write, and devoted himself henceforth to her education, as to the main object of his life. During certain hours every day the two were alone together in the study which looked out upon the lawn, the little girl reading aloud, her father commenting upon what she read, and smoothing away all difficulties.
In pursuance of a clearly defined theory, Mr. Norman directed his efforts mainly towards the development of the emotional part of the child’s nature, paying no attention whatever to many of the “branches” esteemed vital in the ordinary seminaries for female youth. Above all, first and foremost in his scheme of instruction, came the reading, marking, learning, and inward digestion of the poets. To know the poets, those who are unquestionably great in all ages, to read them with facility in the tongue they wrote in, this was the great end of his educational scheme. For inasmuch as poetry represents the highest phase of emotional activity, in that degree does it deserve to take a foremost place among the influences which may be relied upon for the moulding of the female character into the noblest form of which earth has knowledge. Not a day was allowed to pass on which Helen did not commit to memory, and carefully repeat to her father, certain verses, which the latter always chose with judicious consideration of the learner’s age and disposition. But when she had attained her eleventh year, Helen had already stored up in her mind a veritable thesaurus of English poetical gems, had brooded over them till they had become a part of her rich nature, till they seemed to endue her very form with the essence of their own rhythmic grace and sweetness.
For Helen Norman was a wonderfully beautiful child, and seemed to bear promise of a womanhood fertile in all perfection of female loveliness. By her eleventh year the light gold of her many curls had deepened to a rich chestnut hue, the face had developed to a perfect oval, the nose had become Grecian in type and of exquisite delicacy, the lips and chin were adapting themselves to an expression at once infinitely sweet, and indicating a character far above the more distinctly female feebleness in energy and decision. She was already tall for her age, and gave promise of a figure little less than stately; her walk was upright, her step at once light and firm, her face ever looking upwards. Her fingers, already skilled either to hold the needle, direct the pencil, or touch the keys, were models of fairy delicacy; the flowers which she loved to train in the garden were scarcely more beautiful, they seemed to revive always, instead of drooping beneath her touch. Already she was the directing spirit in the household, inspiring involuntary respect even in so respectable a retainer as Mrs. Cope. The poultry-yard owned her as its mistress, and to no one did the shaken orchard trees yield a more abundant shower of ripe autumn fruit. She had two especial pets, the one a parrot, the tale of whose years was lost in the backward abyss of time, the door of whose cage stood always open that its tenant might remain within or sally forth to pace the room as it saw fit; the other, a magnificent Angora cat, who was on very excellent terms with the parrot, and whose place was at Helen’s feet, whether she was sitting in the parlour, in the study, or in the garden. Master Augustus Whiffle, who occasionally visited at the Rectory and appeared to entertain a high esteem for Helen, had once brought her a lark of his own capture, securely fastened in a small cage, and offered it as a highly acceptable present; but Helen had cried at the sight of the poor bird’s struggles for freedom, and, instead of accepting it, had begged that it might be set loose again, which Master Augustus, immensely surprised, accordingly did. Ever since that Helen had declined to keep a caged bird. The parrot could not be regarded in that light, for if it had ever been free, it must have forgotten it, and ceased to regret freedom centuries ago; and, moreover, the joyous loquacity which it perpetually indulged in appeared to denote anything rather than painful restraint. Helen used to call this bird the Genius of the house, and it was indeed always the centre of domestic activity. There was no end of its good-natured merriment. Tom was the name of the Angora cat, and Polly learned to call its name in tones so exactly like those of its mistress that it was no unfrequent thing for puss to come running into the room in response to the call, only to be greeted by a loud “Ha, ha, ha!” from within the cage. Tom, however, bore no malice. If he appeared sulky for a moment, he would, immediately after, approach the parrot’s cage and put his head close against the bars, whereupon Poll would gently scratch it with her beak. After that Poll would in turn bow down her greyish-blue head close against the bars, and Tom would return the compliment by scratching it with his paw. This comedy was so frequently repeated that Helen came to observe it, and would often hide behind a curtain in the room to watch its occurrence. Sometimes she was unable to restrain her laughter to the end, and then her silvery voice would be echoed by a gruff “Ha, ha, ha!” from Polly, whilst Tom ran up to his mistress as usual, and crouched at her feet to be stroked.
To any child less wisely guided than Helen, and less blessed with natural gifts, this life at the Rectory would have been intolerable in its loneliness and monotony. Very rarely indeed did visitors cross the lawn, the most frequent stranger being Mr. Whiffle, with whom, as may be imagined, Helen could feel but little sympathy. Once a year, however, as a rule, the............