CHAPTER VI.

“EHRENBREITSTEIN.”

WILFRED, the youngest of the Holmcastle Family, after following his brother to Eton, where, however, he did not remain long, was sent, in order to prepare for Oxford, to a private tutor, named Massenger, who lived in a house to which he had given the pedantic name of “Ehrenbreitstein,” at Fisherswick, near Ossington, on the borders of Cheshire.

Marmaduke Massenger, although of English parentage, had begun his education at the University of Glasgow, but before he took his degree he removed to Bonn, and afterwards to Heidelberg, where, in due time, he became Doctor of Philosophy. Returning to England, in the full pomp of his new Doctorate, Dr. Massenger commenced a career as private tutor, and soon became celebrated for his success in that capacity. Nor, indeed, was this without reason, for he was a really good scholar, had the art of instruction, and was successful with his pupils. His charges were high, but he justified them by keeping a most liberal table, by making his pupils work hard, and by working hard himself. Dr. Massenger was suspected by some of being a freethinker; but he took his pupils to the Parish Church, and, unlike most freethinkers, did not attempt to proselytize. That, he felt, would not pay in his profession. Out of work hours, the Doctor did not trouble his head about his young men, but let them go and come as they liked, and, so long as they were back by work hours, do exactly as they please. “I am a cramming machine,” he once said to an intimate friend, “and am paid for cramming. I don’t pretend to teach morality according to English notions, and I object to be a spy or a policeman after the ideas of the French. I teach Greek, and Latin, and Philosophy, and Mathematics, and History, as far as I know them; if parents want anything else, they must go to another shop.” The Doctor professed to be very particular as to the pupils whom he vouchsafed to take, and seldom took one who had not a handle to his name. For this reason perhaps his house was always full. Dr. Massenger’s weakness, indeed, was that he was a tuft-hunter of the deepest dye, and he tacitly held that a nobleman could do no wrong. As the young noblemen committed to his charge sometimes _did_ do wrong, this propensity occasionally led to scandals and awkward circumstances, but the tutor would not see it, and remained as oblivious of any moral failings in the character of his aristocratic pupils as he was before. In person he was a large, fat man, with big fubsy hands and a square red face, with a close-trimmed beard and moustachios of pale hair much speckled with grey. His wife was a showy, vulgar woman, with an auburn front, who dressed in ill-assorted colours, wore showy jewellery, and loved to talk about what she called “the Upper Ten,” and she was never so happy as when she could get up a mild flirtation with some young sprig of nobility.

When Wilfred Manwaring arrived at “Ehrenbreitstein,” he found two pupils in the house, another, Lord Montauburn, having left the previous term. The elder of these was the Honourable Augustus Cubleigh, only son and heir of the head of the great Banking firm, Cubleigh and Cubleigh, who, for services rendered at a critical period to the Government, had recently been created Lord Guttleborough of Hampstead, in the County of Middlesex. Cubleigh was a fat, languid, effeminate young fellow, with a pale, flabby face, full sensual lips, sandy-red hair, which he wore long, and furtive eyes of a greenish tint. He eschewed all manly games, professed himself to be æsthetic in his tastes, and consumed immense quantities of pastry and sweet stuff, for which he had previously acquired an inordinate taste at Harrow, on which account, and with a delicate reminiscence of the title of his noble father, his schoolfellows had distinguished him by the expressive and suggestive _soubriquet_ of “Young Guttles.” At the present time, he was in the receipt of an allowance by no means equal to the gratification of his tastes, for his extravagance at school had been great, and his father had determined to make an attempt to teach him economy. It may be doubted, however, whether the peer went the right way to work to attain that desirable end.

The other pupil was the young Duke of Ribblesdale, a handsome, unaffected lad, full of high spirits and good temper, whom Wilfred had already known slightly at Eton. These two lads were delighted to renew each other’s acquaintance, and soon became fast and inseparable friends. This friendship soon excited the jealousy of Cubleigh, who was held by Ribblesdale in great contempt, and Mrs. Massenger, on more than one occasion in the silent watches of the night, expressed to her lord and master her surprise that the Duke should find anything to like in “that Manwaring.” The good lady, you see, spited Wilfred because he had no handle to his name, and made the common mistake of supposing that, to be of good blood, a man must needs be an aristocrat.

“My love,” answered the Doctor of Philosophy, “it’s only human nature. As long as they are young, the children of the aristocracy would make mud puddings in a gutter with a pack of young beggars, if only you let ’em. Ribblesdale will learn wisdom when he grows older.”

Little, however, cared the two friends either for Cubleigh’s jealousy or Mrs. Massenger’s wonder. Together they rode, and fished, and shot, and bathed. Together they explored on foot every old church, and ruin, and camp within twenty miles of “Ehrenbreitstein.” Together they made railway excursions, and got out at remote stations, and then started walking. Together they read poetry and novels, together pursued those severer studies which their tutor, always conscientious in that respect, rigorously exacted from them. Once--we need not go into details--Wilfred discovered that his friend was about to commit an act unworthy of his high character, and which could not have failed to entail sin and shame upon the actor, and it was Wilfred’s tears, and Wilfred’s tender pleadings, and Wilfred’s firmness which turned the young Duke from his purpose. Ribblesdale never forgot this circumstance, and respect and gratitude were henceforward added to the love which he bore to his friend. Thus, then, lived on the two fine lads, rejoicing in each other’s companionship, and exulting in each other’s love.

In the course of the second term of Wilfred’s residence, an event occurred which increased the coldness which subsisted between him and Cubleigh.

A small shopkeeper at Fisherswick, named Slocombe, who was also the village postmaster, had a handsome but slatternly daughter named Betsey, for whose society Cubleigh had a great predilection, and when his fellow pupils were riding, or scouring the neighbourhood on foot, he spent a great deal of his time in the shop. As time went on, he was there more and more, and at length scarcely a day elapsed when he could not be found ostensibly assisting the girl in sorting or stamping the letters which were put into the post-box. This sort of familiarity would have been resented by any prudent father, but Mr. Slocombe rather encouraged it than not, and often remarked, when he was in a boozy condition, which was by no means an uncommon occurrence, “what a foine thing it ’ud be if his smart gal Bet was to ’ook a young lord.”

One day Wilfred went to the post-office to purchase stamps, and, entering the shop, saw Betsey Slocombe and Augustus Cubleigh in the little compartment which shut out the letter department from the groceries. The two were laughing and talking together very confidentially, and occasionally burst out laughing as they examined the letters one by one. Presently Cubleigh exclaimed, “Look here, Betsey, here’s one of that muff Manwaring’s letters; I wonder what he’s got to say to his sister, he writes to her twice a week, I declare;” and so saying, he held the letter close to the window on his left hand, and tried to make out through the envelope what was written inside. In a moment Wilfred had leaped over the counter, and had seized the letter out of Cubleigh’s hands. “Look here, Cubleigh,” he cried with flashing eyes, “don’t let me see you touching a letter of mine in that way again. It’s a sneaking, blackguardly action which you are committing; you’ve no business among the letters at all, and if I see you there again, I’ll give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life. Letters are sacred amongst _gentlemen_.”

The Honourable Augustus seemed thoroughly cowed by this address, and by the demeanour of the speaker, and his green eyes glared furtively, like those of a cat caught stealing cream. “I beg your pardon, Manwaring,” he said at length, as he sneaked round the end of the counter into the shop, “but really you needn’t be so fierce. I was only helping Betsey to stamp the letters;” and so saying, he walked out of the shop. The next moment the postmaster entered. “What’s all this row about, Bet, my gal?” he said, addressing his daughter.

“It means this, Mr. Slocombe,” said Wilfred, before the girl could reply, “that if ever again I find anyone with your daughter tampering with the letters, I will write to the Postmaster-General and get you turned out of the place;” and so saying, he left the shop abruptly.

After this circumstance, as has already been mentioned, a greater coldness than ever prevailed between the two lads; but Wilfred, at all events, was not of a disposition to bear malice, and so the quarrel was patched up, and before long the two were, at least outwardly, on civil, if not on friendly terms.