by G. A. Henty
ONE OF THE 28TH
A Tale of Waterloo
by
G. A. HENTY
Author of _Bonnie Prince Charlie_, _With Clive in India_, _The Dragonand the Raven_, _The Young Carthaginian_, _The Lion of the North_
Illustrated
A.L. Burt CompanyPublishers, New York
PREFACE
Although in the present story a boy plays the principal part, andencounters many adventures by land and sea, a woman is the realheroine, and the part she played demanded an amount of nerve andcourage fully equal to that necessary for those who take part inactive warfare. Boys are rather apt to think, mistakenly, that theirsex has a monopoly of courage, but I believe that in moments of greatperil women are to the full as brave and as collected as men. Indeed,my own somewhat extensive experience leads me to go even further, andto assert that among a civil population, untrained to arms, theaverage woman is cooler and more courageous than the average man.Women are nervous about little matters; they may be frightened at amouse or at a spider; but in the presence of real danger, when shellsare bursting in the streets, and rifle bullets flying thickly, I haveseen them standing kitting at their doors and talking to their friendsacross the street when not a single man was to be seen.
There is no greater mistake than to think women cowards because theyare sometimes nervous over trifles. Were it necessary, innumerablecases could be quoted from history to prove that women can, uponoccasion, fight as courageously as men. Caesar found that the women ofthe German tribes could fight bravely side by side with the men, andthe Amazons of the King of Dahomey are more feared by the neighboringtribes than are his male soldiers. Almost every siege has its femaleheroines, and in the Dutch War of Independence the female companies atSluys and Haarlem proved themselves a match for the best soldiers ofSpain. Above all, in patient endurance of pain and suffering, womenare immeasurably superior to men. I emphasize this point because Iknow that many boys, simply because they are stronger than girls, areapt to regard them with a sort of contempt, and to fancy themselveswithout the least justification, not only stronger but braver and morecourageous--in fact superior beings in every way.
G. A. HENTY
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Unexpected News
CHAPTER II. A Country Visit
CHAPTER III. Run Down
CHAPTER IV. The Privateer's Rendezvous
CHAPTER V. The British Cruisers
CHAPTER VI. Home Again
CHAPTER VII. A Commission
CHAPTER VIII. Startling News
CHAPTER IX. Mr. Tallboys' Visitor
CHAPTER X. On Detachment
CHAPTER XI. Still-Hunting
CHAPTER XII. The Cave Among the Rocks
CHAPTER XIII. More Startling News
CHAPTER XIV. The New Housemaid
CHAPTER XV. In Belgium
CHAPTER XVI. Found at Last
CHAPTER XVII. Quatre Bras
CHAPTER XVIII. Waterloo
CHAPTER XIX. The Rout
CHAPTER I.
UNEXPECTED NEWS.
"I have written to ask Ralph Conway to come and stay for a time withme." The announcement was a simple one, but it fell like a bombshellin the midst of the party at breakfast at Penfold Hall. The partyconsisted only of the speaker, Herbert Penfold, and his two sisters.The latter both exclaimed "Herbert!" in a tone of shocked surprise.Mr. Penfold was evidently prepared for disapprobation; he had spokenin a somewhat nervous tone, but with a decision quite unusual to him.He had finished his last piece of toast and emptied his last cup oftea before making the announcement, and he now pushed back his chair,rose to his feet, and said: "Yes; I have been thinking of having himhere for some time, and I suppose that as master of this house I am atliberty to ask whom I like; at any rate I would rather have nodiscussion on the subject."
So saying, without giving his sisters time to reply, he walked hastilyto the door and went out. Miss Penfold and Miss Eleanor Penfold gazedat each other in speechless astonishment. So accustomed were they tosettle everything that took place at Penfold Hall, that this suddenassumption of authority on the part of their brother fairly staggeredthem. Miss Penfold was the first to speak:
"This is terrible, Eleanor! To think that after all these yearsHerbert's thoughts should still be turning toward that woman. But itis only what might be expected. The ingratitude of men is terrible.Here we have for the last twenty years been devoting our lives tohim--not only keeping his house for him, but seeing that he did notfall a victim to any of the designing women who would have insinuatedthemselves into his good graces, and preventing him from indulging inall sorts of foolish tastes and bringing himself to ruin; and now yousee he turns again to that artful woman, and, without saying a word tous, invites her son to come here. It is monstrous, sister!"
"It is monstrous," Miss Eleanor Penfold repeated, with tears in hereyes. "It is like flying in the face of Providence, sister."
"It is flying in our faces," Miss Penfold replied sharply; "and justat the present moment that is of more importance. To think that thatman must have been brooding over this, and making up his mind to actin this way for weeks perhaps, and never to say a word to us upon thesubject. I wonder he didn't ask the woman herself down!"
"He never could have done such a shameless thing, Charlotte," hersister said much shocked. "Of course, we must have left the houseinstantly."
"I should not have left the house," Miss Penfold said firmly. "If thewoman comes--and now he has asked the boy it is quite possible that hemay ask the mother--our duty will be to remain here. You know we havebeen uneasy ever since her husband died. Herbert's infatuationconcerning her has been pitiable, and we have always believed it hasbeen that alone which has caused him to refuse so obstinately to enterinto our plans, or to pay even decent courtesy to the variousexcellent young women we have from time to time asked down here, andwho were in every way suitable for the position of mistress of thishouse--women full of sense, and who, with right guidance, would havemade him perfectly happy. And now he flies in our faces and asks theboy down. I have had an idea for some little time that he has hadsomething on his mind; he has been more nervous and fidgety thanusual, and several times he has seemed to be on the point of sayingsomething, and then changed his mind. Of course, one can understand itall now. No wonder he was ashamed to look us in the face when he wasmeditating such a step as this. The duplicity of man is somethingshocking!"
It was not surprising that Herbert Penfold's sudden assertion of hiswill was a shock to his sisters. These ladies had so long beenaccustomed to rule absolutely at Penfold Hall that Mr. Penfold'sassertion of his right to act as he pleased in his own house came uponthem like an act of absolute rebellion. At their father's death theywere women of twenty-seven and twenty-six years old respectively.Herbert was a lad of sixteen. He was of a gentle and yieldingdisposition; and as their father for some years previous to his deathhad been a confirmed invalid, and they had had the complete managementof the house, it was but natural that at his death they shouldcontinue in the same position.
Owing to weak health, Herbert had not been sent to school, but hadbeen educated under the care of a tutor. He had wished when he reachedthe age of nineteen to enter one of the universities; but his sistershad been so opposed to the idea, and had represented so strongly tohim his unfitness to take part in the rough sports of the young men,and how completely he would feel out of place in such companionship,that he had abandoned the idea, and had traveled on the Continent forthree years with his tutor, his sisters being for most of the time ofthe party. Soon after his return he had fallen in love with thedaughter of Colonel Vernon, an officer living
on half-pay at Poole,which was the nearest town to Penfold Hall. The announcement of hisengagement came like a thunder-clap upon his sisters, who had agreedthat it would be in all respects desirable that Herbert should notmarry for some years.
They had, however, been wise enough not to offer any open oppositionto the match. Three months later the engagement was broken off. How itcame about no one exactly knew. Unpleasant reports were set on foot;there were misunderstandings which should easily have been cleared up,but which grew until they gave rise to serious quarrels. Letters whichmight have set matters straight somehow failed to come to hand; and soat last things went from bad to worse until there was a final quarrel,a return of letters and presents on both sides, and a final breakingoff of the engagement. A year later Mary Vernon married Mr. Conway, anarchitect, resident in London.
Mr. Penfold had before this become convinced that Mary Vernon had notbeen to blame in the matter, and that he had in some way or othertaken an altogether mistaken view of the subject. He knew by thecomments of such friends as were intimate enough to speak, and thecoolness of many others, that he was considered to have behaved verybadly toward her. And this thought was a most distressing one, for hewas deeply attached to Mary; and had he not been convinced that fromsome reason or other she herself had ceased to care for him, and wasanxious to break off the engagement, he would have gone any lengthtowards healing the breach. When it was too late he bitterly regrettedhis own weakness in submitting to the domination of his sisters, andfelt a deep though silent resentment against them for the share thathe was convinced they had taken in causing the breach between himselfand Mary Vernon; but although he resented, he had neither the will norfirmness to free himself from their domination.
At times he struggled feebly against it; and on two or three occasionshad suddenly gone up to town, and thence on to the Continent, and hadtraveled there for weeks. On one of these occasions he had written tothem saying that he thought it would be for the happiness of them allif they were to leave Penfold Hall and set up an establishment oftheir own. But upon his return he found things going on exactly asbefore, and Miss Penfold had spoken somewhat severely of the sillyletter he had written to them, a letter displaying at once suchingratitude and folly that it had been beneath them to notice it. AsHerbert Penfold was in a way really fond of his sisters, who spared noeffort in making his home comfortable for him, and who allowed him tohave his own way in all minor matters, he could not bring himself torepeat when face to face with them the opinion he had expressed inwriting; and so things had gone on for years.
The Miss Penfolds were really anxious to see their brother married.Provided only that it was to a lady who would be, in their estimation,fitted for him, and who would also have a feeling of gratitude towardsthemselves for their share in installing her as mistress of the Hall,they were quite prepared to abdicate in her favor, and to retire tosome pretty house near a pleasant watering-place, paying visits onceor twice a year to the Hall.
The listless life their brother led was a source of grief to them; forthey were really attached to him, and believed that they had in everyway been working for his happiness.
They had no shadow of regret for the part they had played in breakingoff his engagement with Mary Vernon. Having once convinced themselvesthat she was a frivolous girl, quite unsuited for the position ofmistress of Penfold Hall, they had regarded it as an absolute duty toprotect Herbert from the consequences of what they considered hisinfatuation. Consequently, for years they were in the habit ofinviting for long visits young ladies whom they considered in everyway eligible as their successor, and had been much grieved at theirwant of success, and at the absolute indifference with which Herbertregarded the presence of these young women. When, four years after hismarriage to Mary Vernon, Mr. Conway had died suddenly they had beenseized with a vague disquiet; for they believed that the remembranceof his first love was the real cause of Herbert's indifference toothers, and considered it probable he might still be sufficientlyinfatuated with her to attempt to undo the past.
To their gratification Herbert never alluded to the subject, never, sofar as they knew, made the slightest effort to renew her acquaintance.In fact, Herbert Penfold was a diffident as well as a weak man. Onceconvinced that he had acted badly toward Mary Vernon, he was equallyconvinced that she must despise him and that he was utterly unworthyof her. Had it been otherwise he would have again entered the listsand tried to recover the love he had thrown away.
Although he occasionally yielded to the entreaties of his sisters andshowed himself with them at county gatherings, gave statelydinner-parties at regular intervals, and accepted the invitations ofhis neighbors, he lived the life almost of a recluse.
His sole companion and friend was the rector of the parish, who hadbeen his tutor during his Continental tour, and whom he had presentedwith the living which was in his gift, to the secret dissatisfactionof his sisters, who had always considered that Herbert's tutor hadendeavored to set him against them. This had to some extent been thecase, in so far, at least, that Mr. Withers, who had left college onlya short time before starting with Herbert, had endeavored to give himhabits of self-reliance and independence of thought, and had quietlystriven against the influence that his sisters had upon his mind. Itwas not until after the Mary Vernon episode that the living had fallenvacant; had it been otherwise things might have turned outdifferently, for Herbert would certainly have sought his friend'sadvice in his troubles.
After that it was too late for his interference. Mr. Withers hadwatched the state of matters at the Hall, and his young wife had oftenurged him to try to induce Herbert Penfold to rouse himself and asserthimself against his sisters, but the vicar remained neutral. He sawthat though at times Herbert was a little impatient at the dominationof his sisters, and a chance word showed that he nourished a feelingof resentment toward them, he was actually incapable of nervinghimself to the necessary effort required to shake off their influencealtogether, and to request them to leave the Hall.
Nothing short of this would suffice to establish his independence; forafter a mere temporary assertion of authority he would, if theyremained there, assuredly speedily allow affairs to lapse into theirpresent state, and the vicar thought that harm rather than good wouldbe caused by his interference, and that, as his influence would besure to be suspected, there would be a breach between the Hall and theRectory. As it was the connection was an intimate one. Herbert wasalways glad to see him when he came in for a talk in the course of hisrounds, or when he and his wife would come up to dine quietly. TheMiss Penfolds were always ready with their purses to aid him to carryout his schemes for the good of the parish, and to sympathize with hisyoung wife in her troubles; for of these she had a large share--allher children, save one girl, having been carried off in their infancy.
Mabel Withers was as much at home at the Hall as at the Rectory. Shewas chief pet and favorite with Mr. Penfold; and although his sistersconsidered that the rector allowed her to run wild, and that undersuch license she was growing up a sad tomboy, they could not withstandthe influence of the child's happy and fearless disposition, and werein their way very kind to her.
Such was the state of things at Penfold Hall when its owner's suddenannouncement that he had invited young Ralph Conway to come to staythere had fallen like a bombshell upon his sisters.
The invitation had caused almost as much surprise to Mrs. Conway as tothe Miss Penfolds. Her father had died a few months after hermarriage, and at the death of her husband she found herself left withan income of about a hundred a year--the interest of the sum for whichhe had insured his life.
To her surprise she had a month or two later received an intimationfrom the lawyer who managed her business that a friend had arranged topay the sum of a hundred pounds every quarter to her account, oncondition only that no inquiry whatever should be made as to his orher identity. Mary Conway had thankfully accepted the gift, which had,however, caused her intense wonderment and curiosity. So far as sheknew neither her fa
ther nor her husband had any relations who couldhave afforded so handsome a gift. She knew that Colonel Vernon hadbeen most popular with his regiment, and the supposition at which shefinally arrived was that some young officer whom he had befriended indifficulties had, on coming into a large property, determinedsimilarly to befriend the daughter of his former colonel.
Had she been alone in the world she would have declined to accept thisaid from an unknown benefactor, but for her son's sake she felt thatit would be wrong to do so. The idea that the money might come fromHerbert Penfold had once or twice occurred to her, only to be at oncedismissed, for had she really believed that it came from him she couldnot, even for Ralph's sake, have accepted it. He had, as she believed,quarreled with her altogether without cause, her letters had beenunanswered, and she considered the quarrel to have been simply apretext upon the part of Herbert to break off an engagement of whichhe was tired. Words dropped, apparently by accident, by Herbert'ssisters had, before the misunderstanding commenced, favored this idea,and although she had really loved him her disposition was too spiritedto allow her to take the steps she otherwise might have done to setherself right with him.
At any rate she had no ground whatever for believing that Herbert,after the breach of the engagement, entertained any such feelingstoward her as would have led him to come forward to assist her in anyway after she had become the wife of another; and so for twelve yearsshe had continued to receive her quarterly income. She had establishedherself in a pretty little house near Dover, where several old friendsof her father resided, and where she had plenty of pleasant societyamong the officers of the regiments stationed there. Although far fromrivaling Portsmouth or Plymouth in life and bustle, Dover was a busytown during the time of the great war. The garrison was a large one,the channel cruisers often anchored under the guns of the castle, andfrom the top of the hills upon a clear day for months a keen lookoutwas kept for the appearance from the port of Boulogne of theexpedition Napoleon had gathered there for the invasion of England.
The white sails of the English cruisers as they sailed up or down thechannel were clearly visible, and occasionally a privateer could beseen making its way westward with a prize it had picked up off Texel.Military and naval matters were the sole topics of conversation, andby the time he was fifteen Ralph had fully determined to follow in hisgrandfather's footsteps and to become a soldier. Having passed almostall her life among military men Mrs. Conway had offered no objectionsto his wishes, and as several of her father's old friends had promisedto use their influence on his behalf, there was little doubt that hewould be enabled to procure a commission as soon as he reached theregulation age.
It was not often that the postman called at Mrs. Conway's withletters; for postage was expensive, and the people in those days onlywrote when they had something particular to say. Mrs. Conway had justmade breakfast when Ralph came in with a letter in his hand.
"Here is a letter for you, mother; but please don't open it until youhave given me my breakfast. I am very late now, and shall barely havetime to get through with it and be there before the gates close."
"Your porridge is quite ready for you, Ralph; so if you are late itwill be your own fault not mine. The eggs will be in before you haveeaten it. However, I won't open the letter until you have gone,because you will only waste time by asking questions about it."
Ralph began his bread and milk, and Mrs. Conway, stretching out herhand, took the letter he had laid beside his plate, and turning itover glanced at the direction to ascertain from which of her fewcorrespondents it came. For a moment she looked puzzled, then, with alittle start, she laid it down by the side of her plate. She hadrecognized the handwriting once so familiar to her.
"What is it, mother? You look quite startled. Who is it from?"
"It is from no one you know, Ralph. I think it is from a person I havenot heard from for some years. At any rate it will keep until you areoff to school."
"It's nothing unpleasant, I hope, mother. Your color has quite gone,and you look downright pale."
"What should be the matter, you silly boy?" Mrs. Conway said, with anattempt to smile. "What could there be unpleasant in a letter from aperson I have not heard from for years? There, go on with yourbreakfast. I expect you will hear some news when you get down into thetown, for the guns in the castle have been firing, and I suppose thereis news of a victory. They said yesterday that a great battle wasexpected to be fought against Napoleon somewhere near Leipzig."
"Yes; I heard the guns, mother, and I expect there has been a victory.I hope not."
"Why do you hope not, Ralph?"
"Why, of course, mother, I don't want the French to be beaten--notregularly beaten, till I am old enough to have a share in it. Justfancy what a nuisance it would be if peace was made just as I get mycommission."
"There will be plenty of time for you, Ralph," his mother saidsmiling. "Peace has been patched up once or twice, but it never lastslong; and after fighting for the last twenty years it is hardlyprobable that the world is going to grow peaceful all at once. Butthere, it is time for you to be off; it only wants ten minutes to nineand you will have to run fast all the way to be in time."
When Mrs. Conway was alone she took up the letter, and turned it overseveral times before opening it.
What could Herbert Penfold have written about after all these years?Mrs. Conway was but thirty-six years old now, and was still a prettywoman, and a sudden thought sent a flush of color to her face."Never!" she said decidedly. "After the way in which he treated me hecannot suppose that now--" and then she stopped. "I know I did lovehim once, dearly, and it nearly broke my heart; but that was years andyears ago. Well, let us see what he says for himself," and she brokeopen the letter. She glanced through it quickly, and then read itagain more carefully. She was very pale now, and her lips trembled asshe laid down the letter.
"So," she said to herself in a low tone, "it is to him after all I oweall this," and she looked round her pretty room; "and I never oncereally suspected it. I am glad now," she went on after a pause, "thatI did not; for, of course, it would have been impossible to have takenit, and how different the last twelve years of my life would havebeen. Poor Herbert! And so he really suffered too, and he has thoughtof me all this time."
For fully half an hour she sat without moving, her thoughts busy withthe past, then she again took up the letter and reread it severaltimes. Its contents were as follows:
"Dear Mrs. Conway: You will be doubtless surprised at seeing my handwriting, and your first impulse will naturally be to put this letter into the fire. I am not writing to ask you to forgive my conduct in the old days. I am but too well aware how completely I have forfeited all right to your esteem or consideration. Believe me that I have suffered for my fault, and that my life has been a ruined one. I attempt to make no excuses. I am conscious that while others were to blame I was most of all, and that it is to my own weakness of will and lack of energy that the breach between us was due. However, all this is of the past and can now interest you but little. You have had your own sorrows and trials, at which, believe me, I sincerely grieved. And now to my object in writing to you. Although still comparatively a young man, I have not many years to live. When last in London I consulted two of the first physicians, and they agreed that, as I had already suspected, I was suffering from heart disease, or rather, perhaps, from an enfeebled state of my heart, which may at any moment cease to do its work.
"Naturally then, I have turned my thoughts as to whom I should leave my property. My sisters are amply provided for. I have no other near relatives, and therefore consider myself free to leave it as I choose. I have long fixed my thoughts upon the daughter of a dear friend, the rector of Bilston; she is now thirteen years old, and half my property is left her. I have left the other half to your son. The whole subject to an annuity to yourself; which you will not, I trust, refuse to accept. I have never thought of any woman but y
ou, and I hope that you will not allow your just resentment against me to deprive me of the poor satisfaction of making what atonement lies in my power for the cruel wrong I formerly did you.
"Were I strong and in health I can well imagine that you would indignantly refuse to receive any benefits from my hands, but knowing your kindness of heart, I feel sure that you will not sadden the last days of a doomed man by the knowledge that even after his death his hopes of insuring the comfort of the one woman on earth he cared for are to be disappointed.
"I should like to know your son. Would it be too much to ask you to spare him for a while from time to time so long as I live? I have a double motive, I say frankly, in thus asking him to come here. I wish him and my little pet, Mabel Withers, to come to like each other. I wish to divide my property between them, and yet I should be glad if the whole estate could remain intact.
"I should not be so foolish as to make a proviso that two persons who are as yet so young, and who may not in any way be suitable to each other, should marry, but nothing would please me so much as that they should take a fancy to each other; and thrown together as they would be here, for Mabel is constantly at the house, it is just possible that one of those boy and girl affections, which do sometimes, although perhaps rarely, culminate in marriage, might spring up between them. Whether that may be so in the present case I must leave to fate, but I should at any rate like to pave the way for such an arrangement by bringing the young people together. I need not say that it will be best that neither of them should have the slightest idea of what is in my mind, for this would be almost certain to defeat my object.
"If the proposal is agreeable to you, I hope that you will let Ralph come to me at the beginning of his holidays; which must, I fancy, be now near at hand. I think it will be as well that he should not know of my intention as to the disposal of my property, for it is better he should think that he will have to work for his living; but at the same time there would be no harm in his knowing that it is probable I shall help him on in life. This will make him bear better what would otherwise be a dull visit. But I leave this matter entirely in your hands. You know the boy and I do not, and you can therefore better judge what will be best for him to know. And now, dear Mary, if you will pardon my once again calling you so,
"I remain,
"Your affectionate friend,
"HERBERT PENFOLD."
It was characteristic of Mrs. Conway that at the first reading of thisletter she thought rather of the writer than of the bright prospectswhich his offer opened to her son. She thought rather of HerbertPenfold, her first love, now ill, if not dying, of the days of theirengagement and its rupture, than of the fact that her son was toinherit half the Penfold estates. She had been sorely hurt at thetime; and even after all these years it was a pleasure to her to knowthat the quarrel was not as she had often thought at the time, a merepretext for breaking off the engagement, but that Herbert had reallyloved her, had cared for her all these years, and had been themysterious friend whose kindness had so lightened her cares.
"I did not throw away my love after all," she said to herself, as withher eyes full of tears she stood at the window and looked out towardsthe sea. "He cared for me enough to be faithful all this time and tothink of me constantly, while I had almost forgotten the past. I oughtto have known all the time that he was acting under the influence ofothers--those sisters of his, of course. I was always certain theyhated me--hated the thought of my becoming mistress of Penfold Hall. Iknew the influence they had over him. Herbert had no will of hisown--it was the only fault I ever saw in him--and they could twist himround their little fingers. And now he is going to make Ralph hisheir, or at least his heir with the girl he speaks of. It is a grandthing for Ralph; for the estates were worth, he told papa, eightthousand a year, and if Herbert's little romance comes off Ralph willhave all."
Then she thought over the years he had been befriending her, andwondered what she should do about that. Finally, being a sensiblewoman, she decided to do nothing. Had she known it before, or learnedthe truth by other means, she would have refused absolutely to touchHerbert Penfold's money; but it would be indeed a poor return for hiskindness were she now, when he was ill and feeble, and was about tobestow still further benefits upon her, to refuse to permit him anylonger to aid her. She wished, as she read the letter over again, thathe had expressed some desire to see her. She should have liked to havethanked him in person, to have told him how grateful she felt for hiscare and kindness, to have taken his hand again if but for a minute.
But he had expressed no wish for a meeting, had never all these yearsmade an effort to see her. She could read in the wording of the letterthat he had been principally deterred from making any attempt to seeher by the feeling that he had entirely forfeited her regard, and hadoffended her beyond chance of forgiveness. And had she been asked theday before she would doubtless have replied that she had no wishwhatever ever again to meet Herbert Penfold; whereas now she feltalmost aggrieved that he should express no wish to meet her, shouldhave stayed away so long without making one effort to bring aboutreconciliation.
"Of all faults that a man can have," she said pettishly, "I do notthink there's one so detestable as that of self-distrust. Why could henot have said ten years ago, 'I behaved badly, Mary; I treated youabominably; but forgive me and forget. I was not wholly to blame,except that I allowed others to come between us?' If he had come andsaid that, we could at least have been good friends. I have nopatience with men who cannot stand up for themselves. Now, how muchshall I tell Ralph?" and she again read the letter through.
"Ralph," she said when he came in to dinner, "you remember that letterI had this morning?"
"Yes, I know, mother; the one that made you turn so white. You said itwas from an old friend, though why a letter from an old friend shouldupset any one I can't make out. What was it about, mother?"
"Well, my boy, it contains a pleasant piece of news. Mr. Penfold, thatis the name of the writer, was a friend of my family. He knew me longago when we were young people, and at one time it seemed likely thatwe should be married. However, as you know, that never took place.However, it seems, as he says by his letter, that he has neveraltogether forgotten me, and he intends to help you on in life if youturn out as he would like to see you. He wishes you to go down to staywith him when your holidays begin."
"That sounds nice," Ralph said; "and if he has got any boys about myown age it will be pleasant."
"He has no children, Ralph. He is what you may call an old bachelor,and lives with his sisters--or, rather, they live with him."
"That does not sound very cheerful, mother. An old gentleman with twoold ladies alone in the house can't make much fun."
"He is not an old gentleman, Ralph," Mrs. Conway said almost angrily."I told you we were young people together. Still it may not be verylively for you, but you must put up with that. He evidently means tobe very kind to you, and it will be of great advantage to you goingdown to stay with him."
"But what are you going to do with yourself, mother, all alone here? Ithink he might have asked you as well as me."
"I shall do very well, Ralph. I have plenty of friends here."
"Where does Mr. Penfold live, mother?"
"Down in Dorsetshire. It is a very nice place, and only about a milefrom the sea. But, as I say, I do not expect you will find it lively;but that you mustn't mind. It will be a very good thing for you, andwill be well worth your while putting up with a little dullness for atime. Mr. Penfold is one of the kindest of men, but I do not think youwill like his sisters much. Certainly you will not unless they are agood deal changed from what they were as I remember them. Still youmust try to get on with them as well as you can, and I dare say youwill find some pleasant companions in the neighborhood. I am sure youwill do your best when I tell you that I am most anxious for manyreasons that Mr. Penfold sho
uld like you."
"Of course I will do my best, mother, though I must say that thelookout is not, according to your description, a very cheerful one,and I would a deal rather stop at home with you."
"We can't always do exactly as we like, Ralph; though that is a lessonyou have as yet to learn. What day did you say your holidays began?"
"Next Monday week, mother. But I do hope I may have two or three days'sailing with Joe Knight the fisherman before I go."
"Mr. Penfold says he will be glad to see you as soon as your holidaysbegin, Ralph; still I suppose a day or two will make no difference, sowe will settle that you shall go on Friday. As you go down to schoolthis afternoon you had better tell Rogerson the tailor to come up thisevening to measure you for a suit of clothes. You must look decentwhen you go down; and you know except your Sunday suit, you have gotnothing fit to wear in such a house as that."
"I am afraid it's going to be a horrible nuisance altogether," Ralphsaid ruefully. "However, I suppose it's got to be done as you say so,mother; though it's hard breaking in on my holidays like that. Hemight just as well have asked me in school-time. One could have put upwith it ever so much better if it took one out of old Harper'sclutches for a bit. How long am I to stay there?"
"I expect the greater part of your holidays, Ralph. I think he wantsto get to know all about you."
Ralph groaned loudly. "He may intend very kindly," he said; "but Iwish he would keep his good intentions to himself."
"You think so now," Mrs. Conway said with a smile. "You won't think sowhen you are in the army, but will find a little extra allowance or atip now and then very welcome."
"I dare say I shall, mother," Ralph said, brightening. "Anyhow, if theold gentleman--that is to say, the gentleman--takes it into his headto make me an allowance, it will take me off your hands, and I shallnot be always feeling that I am an awful expense to you. All right,mother. I think I can promise that I will be on my best behavior, andwill try hard to get on even with his sisters. I wish he had askedPhil Landrey to go down with me. Two fellows can get on anywhere."
"I should have very little hope of your making a good impression ifyou went there with your friend Phil," Mrs. Conway said, smiling. "Ican believe in your good conduct while you are alone, but I shouldhave no hopes whatever of you if you and he were together."
"But how am I to go, mother? It seems such a tremendous way from heredown into Dorsetshire."
"I have not thought anything about it yet, Ralph; but probably Mr.Penfold will give some instructions as to your journey when he hearsfrom me that you are coming."