Digby Heathcote: The Early Days of a Country Gentleman's Son and Heir

Digby was a strong hardy fellow, but he was not made of iron; and, long before dinner-time, he gave signs of being very sleepy and tired. He consented to go to bed, provided he was called in time to get up and dress for dinner. When, however, he was called, he was so fast asleep that nothing could awake him; and so he was allowed to sleep on till the following morning. It was ever afterwards a constant joke against him, that, when he came down, he fancied that he was coming down to dinner, and was very much surprised to find breakfast on the table.

Arthur Haviland had pretty well kept him in countenance by sleeping the greater part of the time; and neither of them were quite themselves again for two or three days.

Their adventures were fully a nine days’ wonder; and the whole visiting acquaintance of the family called to hear about it. Indeed, Digby had to tell the story so often that he got weary of it; and at last insisted that Kate should represent him, and tell it instead, as if the events had happened to her. He did not, however, forget poor Dame Marlow, of the death of whose grandson he had heard from some of the smugglers. He told Mr Bowdler of the trick he had once played her, and begged him to go and break the news to the old woman before she heard it from any one else.

At first she would not believe that the only being she seemed to love was lost to her for ever; and at length, when the Vicar assured her that there was no doubt about the matter, she gave way to a fit of tears such as she had not shed for years. Her heart was softened. The clergyman placed before her in the clearest way the great truths of the Gospel. Many days passed away, and many visits he had to pay, before she at all seemed to comprehend them; but he persevered – as every true and faithful minister of the Gospel will persevere – when he feels that a lost soul is to be saved. At length the light seemed to dawn on her long-benighted mind.

“You tell me wonderful things, Mr Bowdler, which I never before understood,” she said, at last. “I am a sinner, I feel that; and if I was left to myself, I am sure that I should be lost, for I don’t think that I could undo a quarter, nor an hundredth part, for that matter, of the sins I have committed; but as you say, that if I repent I may go to One who will wash away my sins, I will go to Him; and I am sure, from everything he has caused to be said in the Bible, that he will wash away my sins, and save my soul from death.”

Much more she said, showing that she fully comprehended the great truths of the Gospel; find now her great anxiety was to warn those she had so long misled, and she was never weary of going about, and telling them of the Bible, and of the comfort it had been to her. At first, people could scarcely believe their senses when they heard her talk, so completely changed she had become, and so anxious she was to be doing all the good in her power. She tried to make her old husband comprehend the truths she had imbibed; but he afforded one of the numberless examples of the danger of putting off repentance to another day. His mind was dead, though his body was still alive, and in a short time he sunk into the grave. Her great grief was about her grandson, to whom she had set so bad an example, and whom she had never attempted to direct aright. He was gone, and nothing she could do would now have any power over his fate.

Oh, may all those who read this reflect on the incalculable harm which a bad example may do to those younger, or in an inferior station to themselves. If they could see it, they would start back with horror and dismay at the result of their conduct. An idle word, an idle expression, or an irreverent joke, may seem a light thing in their eyes, but even words may produce a great deal of harm; much more will a continual course of idle, careless, and bad conduct; and depend upon it, many a younger brother and companion has been lost, body and soul, who might have had a very different fate had those who had an influence over him endeavoured to lead him aright.

Digby was very glad to hear the account Mr Bowdler gave of Dame Marlow, though he probably did not understand the great importance of the change. Kate, however, whose comprehension was far more advanced than Digby’s, did understand it fully, and, of her own accord, went and explained the trick she had once played her, and expressed her sorrow for it.

Digby was not quite himself again for a week or more after his dangerous adventure, and very often in the night he used to start up in his sleep, dreaming that he was on board the lugger, and that she was being dashed on the rocks. The holidays, however, promised to be as pleasant as usual. Many a delightful ride Digby got on Sweetlips; while often Kate cantered gaily by his side, dispelling, by her cheerful conversation, any of the over-gloomy thoughts which, in spite of his well-strung nerves and constitutional hardihood, would occasionally occur.

The expected guests, also, arrived, and several of them had sons about Digby’s age; so that the house was full, and a very merry Christmas party were collected.

Cousin Giles was the life and soul of the younger portion of the community. He started all the games in the evening, and arranged all the out-door amusements. A hard frost set in, and, as soon as the ice bore thoroughly, skating became the order of the day. Neither Digby nor Arthur Haviland had ever skated; indeed, only two of the boys had begun the previous year, and they were no great adepts at the art. Skates were, therefore, sent for, and cousin Giles undertook to be the instructor of the party. As he said that he should be frozen if he fastened on all the skates to his pupil’s feet at the pond, he had them all fitted and secured in the house, and then procured a small cart, and carried them all down bodily in it to the pond. He allowed those who wished it a kitchen chair to shove before them; but Digby and Arthur disdained such assistance, and preferred trusting to a stout stick and their own legs to keep them from falling. Cousin Giles having taken them out of the cart, arranged them in line about two yards apart.

“Now, boys, watch me,” he cried out, putting himself before them. “Stand upright, as I do, feet a little apart, ankles stiff. Don’t tremble; you won’t tumble if you do properly. Just give a slight touch with the point of the right skate and away you go on your left foot; now touch the ice with the point of your left foot, and you slide on with your right. Away we go. Who’s that tumbled down? Oh, Benjie Bowland. Never mind; up, Benjie; at it again. Bravo, Arthur. Bravo, Digby. You get on better than the fellows with the chair. You’ll skate in a day or two, do the outside edge in four or live days, and the spread-eagle in a week.”

With such assistance and encouragement the boys got on rapidly, and enjoyed their skating. Digby beat all the others by perseverance and pluck. The moment he tumbled, he picked himself up, never minding the bruises; while his sturdy little legs soon got the entire command of his skates. He did not promise to make a peculiarly graceful skater, but it was evident, from the rapid progress he made, that there were very few things he would not be able to do.

At last, however, a heavy fall of snow came on, and completely covered up the ice. Though men were set to work with brooms to sweep passages across and round the pond, yet a second fall again covered them up. This happened three or four times. A small space was still cleared every morning, but only the most persevering skaters frequented it; and the boys expressed a wish for some other amusement.

“I vote we build a snow-man, the largest snow-man that ever was built,” exclaimed Cousin Giles, while all the party were assembled at breakfast.

The idea took, and was hailed with enthusiasm.

Cousin Giles went about everything he undertook systematically. He set John Pratt to work to cut out a number of bits of board, with handles, to serve as trowels, and he collected all the wheelbarrows and hand-barrows, and spades, on the premises. John Pratt and three other men were called in to assist. A sheltered place on the lawn was chosen for the erection of the snow-giant, while a large field on one side, through a shrubbery, would afford an amply supply of snow, when that on the lawn was exhausted. All hands, with great glee, set to work; some were to bring the snow up to the spot, others were to act under Cousin Giles, as masons.

“He will be very imposing if we make him like an ancient king, seated on his throne, with a huge staff in his hand,” he observed. “We will make him hollow, with steps in his inside, so that we may climb up, and look out of his eyes, and halloo out of his mouth – eh, boys? Then we must have a seat in each arm, and another in his crown, where one of you must get up, and make a speech from. You see we have undertaken to perform a gigantic labour; we must lose no time, therefore, though, luckily, our material is not difficult to work.”

First, Cousin Giles marked the foundation of the giant’s throne; the sides of it were five feet thick, so that a large quantity of snow was required for that alone. The greater part of it was scraped up from the lawn. While that was being done, Cousin Giles made a model of the proposed giant in snow, a couple of feet high, and that very much assisted his young workmen in their undertaking, as they at once saw the figure he had conceived, and which they wished to produce. Everybody labouring with a will, and systematically, the work went on rapidly, and the chair assumed gigantic proportions. The giant’s feet, which were placed on a footstool, were four feet long, and his legs were eight feet high up to his knees. Ladders were soon required to reach the seat of his chair; and then his body was commenced. A young pine-tree was procured, and that supported one of his arms, while the other rested by his side. Some pretty severe tumbles were got from the top of the chair, but no one was much hurt. Cousin Giles arched the greater part of the inside, but he did not disdain to make use of some timber to strengthen his erection.

A great deal had been done by luncheon time, when all the party assembled, with very good appetites, in the dining-room; but Cousin Giles begged that none of the visitors would go out to see their little man till he was complete.

After luncheon, they all went back; but though they worked away till dark, the giant still wanted his head and crown. It was agreed that though they might continue labouring with lanterns, they could not complete it before dinner. Not to lose time, however, they all joined in bringing in snow, and piled it up near the figure, ready to begin work the next morning.

They had a very merry evening, and all sorts of games were played. Cousin Giles, however, disappeared earlier than usual, and they were afraid that he was tired with his labours during the day, and had gone to bed.

The next morning the party assembled at breakfast, and, after it was over, and the letters had been read, and the newspapers glanced at, Cousin Giles invited everybody to see their little man.

“But we have to finish his head,” was the general exclamation from the boys.

“Never mind,” was his answer. “Head or no head, or crown or no crown, I beg that he may be looked at.”

Great coats and cloaks, and hats and bonnets, were procured, and the party assembled. A sheet was seen thrown over the top of the figure, and behind it was a tall pole, at the foot of which stood John Pratt.

“Here is our snow-giant, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Cousin Giles. “Though so large, he is perfectly harmless, and no one need be afraid of approaching him.”

He then made a signal to John Pratt, who, hauling away on the rope, withdrew the sheet, and beneath it appeared not only the giant’s head, and a large pair of black eyes, and a red mouth, but a crown of gold a foot or more high, on the top of it; while in the centre stood Kate Heathcote, waving a flag, with Digby on one side, and Arthur Haviland on the other.

Loud shouts from the spectators greeted them; and everybody complimented the architect on the execution of his vast undertaking. No one present had ever seen so huge a man. He was said to be even larger than the idols of the Assyrian temples, represented at the Crystal Palace.

As Kate and her young companions found it somewhat cold on the top of the giant’s head, they very soon descended; and then all the boys amused themselves by climbing up and about the monster, till they ran no small risk of pulling him bodily down. He was, however, so scientifically and securely built, that he withstood all the rough usage he received. The snow-giant afforded a fund of amusement for a long time. The next morning, his crown was gone, and a huge broad-brim hat was on his head. Another morning, a pipe was found in his mouth actually smoking, and for some time he continued to blow his cloud. Another day, he had a large branch of holly in his hand, and a wreath of holly, with red berries, round his head. Once he appeared in a high conical cap, very like a fool’s-cap, while in front hung a placard with “Won’t say his lessons,” painted on it. Indeed, there was no end of the changes the snow-giant underwent. Then he was seen to appear with a post-bag hanging from his arm; and, on its being opened, it was found to contain a variety of letters to different people present, mostly the younger ones of the party. They were from very odd correspondents. One was from the Man in the Moon; another signed himself – Your affectionate cousin, Timothy Tugmutton; the Antipodes. The King of the Cannibal Islands wrote two letters; and the Polar Bear another. They were very amusing epistles; and the writers seemed to know in a wonderful way what was going forward in the house. The arrival of the snow-giant’s post-bag was looked forward to with even more interest than had been the changes which had taken place in his head-dress.

Thus the early weeks of winter passed pleasantly by. Mr Nugent tried to induce Digby to give some time in the morning to study, to prepare himself for the new school, to which it was arranged he should go after the Christmas holidays; but he appeared always to be in too great a hurry and bustle to sit down quietly to his books, so as to imbibe any information from them.

“You will be sorry for your idleness, my dear boy,” said his uncle. “Not only are you acquiring no knowledge, but you are altogether getting out of the habit of study – out of training, I will call it. Suppose that you were to give up running for some months, do you think that you would be able to move your legs as fast as when you were constantly using them? Or if you were not to employ your arms for the same length of time, you would be very unwilling, I suspect, to climb a tree. The mind, in the same way, requires constant and regular exercise, or it very rapidly gets out of use, and it takes a great deal of trouble to bring it into working condition again.”

Digby listened respectfully to what his uncle said; and though the next morning he got out his books very manfully, one of his young friends coming in, made him put them up again, and they were not looked into that day.

Thus the holidays glided by, and the day of his departure approached. He liked having so many guests in the house, but they prevented him from enjoying Kate’s society as much as formerly, and he was not sorry when all of them, with the exception of Arthur Haviland, went away.

Everybody liked Arthur. He was a great favourite with Mrs Heathcote, as well as with the Squire and Digby’s eldest sisters; and Kate thought him a first-rate fellow; he was so very different to Julian Langley.

Digby was very sorry to part from Arthur. He, as it had been arranged, was to go to Mr Sanford’s school, in Berkshire, while Arthur returned to one in Hampshire, of which he spoke in the highest terms, and regretted that his friend was not to accompany him.

Digby pressed Arthur warmly to come back and spend the summer holidays. This, however, he could not promise to do.

“My father may wish me to accompany him somewhere, and I, of course, shall wish to go with him,” said Arthur. “But I will promise not to let a year pass, if I can help it, without our meeting.”

No one ever quitted a house having more completely secured the regard of all the family than did Arthur Haviland.

Cousin Giles, who had great discernment of character, spoke very highly of him, and regretted much that Digby could not have been more with him.

To Digby’s surprise, a day or two before he was to leave home, his father called him into his study; not that the Squire ever did study anything there beyond the newspaper, or a compendium of information for justices of the peace, or some similar work.

“So, my dear boy, you are going away again from us,” he began. “I wish that you could stay with us always, and have John Pratt to look after you, as he did when you were a little chap; but as that can’t be, you must make the best use of your time when you are away from us. What I want to talk to you about is this – your mother and I intended that you should spend a couple of years or so at Mr Sanford’s, at Grangewood House, and then go to some public school; however, we shall talk about that by-and-by. I wish to see how you get on at the school to which you are going. It will be a very different sort of life to that to which you have hitherto led. You’ll get some hard knocks and kicks, but you’ll not mind them; and you will have to fight your way upward, but that you are well able to do; and I have little fear that you will take good care of yourself. I am not much in the habit of giving advice, as you know, my boy; but there is one thing I must charge you, never to forget that you are a Christian, and a gentleman. I have done my best to make you hate and scorn to tell a lie, and the consequence is, that I would sooner take your word than I would the oath of any man I know. And now I charge you to fight against every bad thought which comes into your mind, and to scorn to do a mean or ungenerous action. Guard especially against selfishness; nothing so quickly grows on a person by indulgence. Fight for your undoubted rights, but gladly give up anything which may conduce to the pleasure of others, or benefit them. I don’t mean, of course, that you are to let a bully take anything he may fancy from you, that is quite a different matter; but never try to get hold of what you know another person wishes for, and of which you will thus deprive him.”

Much more the Squire said to the same effect. Digby grasped his father’s hand.

“Yes, papa, I will do my best, indeed I will, to act as you tell me,” he answered. “I have done a good many things I have been sorry for, but yet I don’t think there has been anything which would make you ashamed of calling me your son.”

Such were the sentiments with which Digby went to school. His parting was not a very melancholy one. Kate and Gusty cried, but he held up very bravely; and when a postchaise came to the door, and his boxes were secured, and he had manfully stepped in, and John Pratt, who was to accompany him all the way, had taken his seat on the box, and the postilion had cracked his whip, he was able to wave his cap out of the window, and to sing out, in a cheerful voice – “Hurra for the Midsummer holidays!”

Chapter Eleven

Digby’s New School – How he was received there – He learns the Inconvenience of Want of Discipline – His Companions and their Characters – Advantage of a Bold Front in a Good Cause

“Is this Grangewood House, John?” asked Digby, as he looked out of the window of the fly which had brought them from the railway station, and which was now stopping at a large white gate, which John Pratt had got off the box to open.

“Yes, sir; this be Mr Sanford’s academy for young gentlemen. There’s a great many on ’em comes backwards and forwards by me at times,” answered the driver, instead of John, who did not hear the question.

It was a substantial, large, red-brick house, completely in the country, with a circular drive up to it, and a meadowish piece of lawn, with some fine elms, in front. The place was not picturesque, but well suited for the requirements of a school. There were wide-spreading wings on either side, with a walled enclosure on the right, from which proceeded the sound of many young voices, shouting, bawling, and laughing, showing Digby that it was the playground. He altogether liked the look of things outside.

The fly stopped in front of the house; a flight of stone steps led up to the chief door. John descended, and rang the bell, and, while it was being answered, busied himself in taking his young master’s things out of the fly.

“Is this Mr Sanford’s school, young woman?” he asked of the maid-servant, who opened the door.

“It is, young man, and my name is Susan,” was the quick reply; some people might have called it pert.

“Then, Susan, do you just tell your master that young Master Digby Heathcote, the eldest son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme, has come,” answered John, letting down the steps, and handing Digby out with an air of the greatest respect. He unintentionally spoke, too, in a tone which sounded not a little pompous.

Several boys, who had been passing through the hall at the time, and, of course, followed Susan to the door, to have a look at the new comer, overheard the announcement. A loud shout of laughter from many voices followed, in a variety of tones, as they retreated down a passage. Digby heard them repeating one to the other “Young Master Digby Heathcote, the eldest son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme, has come. Ho, ho! young Master Digby, what an important person you are – ha! ha! ha! – we don’t think.” Great emphasis was laid on the words young master, and eldest son. Digby knew quite enough of boys to wish heartily that poor John had held his tongue.

“You’ll go round to the back door; or are you going away in the fly?” said the maid-servant, addressing John, with rather a scornful glance.

“Neither one nor t’other, Mistress Susan,” answered John. “I’m going to stay with Master Digby for the present.”

“You can’t do that; Master Digby has to go at once to Mr Sanford,” replied Susan.

“That’s where I’m going to, young woman, let me tell you,” exclaimed John, bristling up. “He has been spirited away once, and we had a hard job to get him back; and I’m not going to lose sight of him till I see him safe in Mr Sanford’s hands, who must be answerable for him whenever he is sent for. A pretty thing to leave him with such as you, indeed, who might go and declare that you never got him. No, Master Digby, dear – that’s what I’m going to do, I know my duty, and I’m going to do it.”

The last remark was made to Digby, who was expostulating, by signs, with John, fearing that he would offend Susan. The damsel, however, seemed not to care a bit for what John said; and would have shut the hall-door in his face, but he would not let go of Digby’s hand.

“Well, I don’t know what master will say to you,” exclaimed Susan, as John entered the hall, evidently resolved not to lose sight of Digby, or his boxes, till he had delivered them into what he considered proper custody. Susan, meantime, disappeared at a door on one side of the hall. She soon returned.

“You are to go in there,” she said, addressing Digby. “Not you,” she said, looking at John.

“There are just two opinions about that,” answered John, coolly opening the door, and walking with Digby into a handsome library.

A tall, delicate-looking man, was reclining in his dressing-gown on a sofa, with a book in his hand. He looked up with an expression of surprise on his countenance on seeing John; and then glanced at Digby, but did not rise.

“Bee’s you Mr Sanford, sir?” asked John, pulling the lock of his hair he usually employed for that purpose.

“Yes, I am, and the head of this school; and who are you?” said the gentleman, but not at all in an angry tone.

“I’m Squire Heathcote’s man, of Bloxholme, and this is his son, Master Digby Heathcote; and I’m to deliver him safe and sound into your hands, to keep him carefully till he is sent for home, or till you send him back,” answered John, firmly. “I suppose it’s all right, sir?”

“I will give you an acknowledgment in writing that I have him all safe,” said Mr Sanford, much amused at John’s mode of proceeding. “Go into the kitchen, and get something to eat and drink after your journey.”

“No, thank you, sir; I’d rather have the writing. I’m not hungry. We had something, Master Digby and I, as we came along; and I have to go back to the station with the fly.”

“Very well; push that table with the desk on it near me. I will give you what you require.”

John did as he was desired; and Mr Sanford wrote a short note, which he gave him.

John forthwith handed it to Digby. “I suppose it’s all right, Master Digby, dear,” he whispered. “I bean’t no great scholard, sir, and so I just wanted the young master to see that the lines was all right and proper. No offence to you, sir, you know,” he added, turning to Mr Sanford.

The schoolmaster was highly amused; but Digby was afraid that John had gone too far.

“It’s all right, John,” he exclaimed, taking his hand affectionately. “Good by, good by. My love to papa and mamma, and Kate and Gusty, and all; and don’t forget to look after Sweetlips, and tell Kate to write to me about him; but she’ll do that, I’m sure. You must go, John, I know you must.” Digby felt more inclined to cry than he had done before. John was the last link which united him with all the home associations he was conjuring up. John warmly returned Digby’s grasp. He went to the door, and opened it. He turned round once more with his hand on the lock.

“You has him in charge, sir,” he said, looking sternly at Mr Sanford. “Oh, take care of him, sir; he’s very precious down at Bloxholme there.”

John, afraid of trusting himself, bolted out of the door.

Digby overheard some words between John and Susan outside; they ended in a laugh, just before the fly drove off, so he had no doubt they had become good friends; and he afterwards had reason to believe that John had bestowed half a sovereign on her from his own pocket, to secure her good services for the young master.

“Sit down, young gentleman,” said Mr Sanford, in his usual languid tone, when John had taken his departure. “I am glad to have you as a pupil, for I find that you are a nephew of my old friend, Nugent, for whom I have a great regard. I dare say he has done you justice. What books have you read? – Latin and Greek, I mean?”

Digby told him; he had very little Greek to boast of, however.

“I thought that you were more forward,” observed Mr Sanford. “You will be placed under the third master, Mr Tugman, in his upper class, I hope. I must leave him to settle that. I will send for him, and he will take you round the school before tea-time, and introduce you to some of the boys. He may not be quite ready yet, so I will let Mrs Pike, the housekeeper, show you your dormitory, and have your things put away.”

Mr Sanford was taking unusual trouble about Digby. He rang the bell, and the usher and housekeeper were sent for. Mrs Pike appeared first; Old Jack, the boys called her. She had a stern, relentless expression of countenance, Digby thought. Her dress was black, with a plain white cap, and a large serviceable apron. There was business in her.

“Come along, young gentleman,” she said, taking Digby by the arm, when she had received the master’s directions. “It will be time for tea soon, and I shall have to go and look after it.”

She first showed Digby a large room fitted all round with lockers, or drawers, and numbers on each. Into this his things had been wheeled on a truck.

“Here is your drawer, Master Heathcote,” she observed. “You will remember the number – sixty-five. We had a hundred and thirty not long ago. Here you will keep your clothes; your play-box you can have with you in the play-room to-morrow; it can stay here till then. Now, come along to your dormitory. Susan will unpack your trunk; and if there is anything in it you want, you can have it when you come back.”

All this sounded very well. There were a dozen rooms on the first and second floors appropriated as bedrooms; some had eight or ten beds in them, others only three or four. Digby was shown a room looking out at the back of the house, with eight beds, in one of which Mrs Pike told him he was to sleep. There were wash-hand basins and tubs, and a drawer for each boy to hold his dressing things. All looked very neat and well-arranged. Mrs Pike prided herself on having her department in good order. She looked as if she could have said, “Better washed and fed than taught at this establishment.”

Digby returned well satisfied to the study, where Mr Sanford was still reading his book. He looked up, and was putting a question, in a kind tone of voice, to Digby, when the door opened. Digby looked up. A broad-shouldered, pock-marked man, with sandy hair and small grey eyes, entered. His costume, which consisted of a green coat, with a reddish handkerchief, a many-coloured waistcoat, and large plaid trousers, did not improve his appearance. He threw himself into a chair, if not with grace, at all events with ease, and observed, in an off-hand way, that it was a chilly day – a fact about which Mr Sanford did not seem inclined to dispute. He looked at Digby with no pleasant expression, and Digby looked at him, and hoped that he was not the usher under whom he was to be placed.

All doubt, however, about the matter was quickly removed by Mr Sanford saying – “I have sent for you, Mr Tugman, to beg that you will take charge of this new boy, Digby Heathcote. Examine him to-morrow, and place him as you judge best. I hope that he will be in the highest of your classes, as he has been lately under a clever man, an old college friend of mine, his uncle, for whom I have a great regard.”