“Thank you,” said Sir Peter. “It
is a great comfort in life to find somebody who can
decide for one. I am an irresolute man myself,
and in ordinary matters willingly let Lady Chillingly
govern me.”
“I should like to see a wife govern me,”
said the stout Parson.
“But you are not married to Lady Chillingly.
And now let us go into the garden and look at your
dahlias.”
The youthful confuter of Locke was despatched
to Merton School, and ranked, according to his merits,
as lag of the penultimate form. When he came
home for the Christmas holidays he was more saturnine
than ever; in fact, his countenance bore the impression
of some absorbing grief. He said, however, that
he liked school very well, and eluded all other questions.
But early the next morning he mounted his black pony
and rode to the Parson’s rectory. The reverend
gentleman was in his farmyard examining his bullocks
when Kenelm accosted him thus briefly,—
“Sir, I am disgraced, and I shall die of it
if you cannot help to set me right in my own eyes.”
“My dear boy, don’t talk in that way.
Come into my study.”
As soon as they entered that room, and the Parson
had carefully closed the door, he took the boy’s
arm, turned him round to the light, and saw at once
that there was something very grave on his mind.
Chucking him under the chin, the Parson said cheerily,
“Hold up your head, Kenelm. I am sure you
have done nothing unworthy of a gentleman.”
“I don’t know that. I fought a boy
very little bigger than myself, and I have been licked.
I did not give in, though; but the other boys picked
me up, for I could not stand any longer; and the fellow
is a great bully; and his name is Butt; and he’s
the son of a lawyer; and he got my head into chancery;
and I have challenged him to fight again next half;
and unless you can help me to lick him, I shall never
be good for anything in the world,—never.
It will break my heart.”
“I am very glad to hear you have had the pluck
to challenge him. Just let me see how you double
your fist. Well, that’s not amiss.
Now, put yourself into a fighting attitude, and hit
out at me,—hard! harder! Pooh! that
will never do. You should make your blows as
straight as an arrow. And that’s not the
way to stand. Stop,—so: well
on your haunches; weight on the left leg; good!
Now, put on these gloves, and I’ll give you
a lesson in boxing.”
Five minutes afterwards Mrs. John Chillingly, entering
the room to summon her husband to breakfast, stood
astounded to see him with his coat off, and parrying
the blows of Kenelm, who flew at him like a young
tiger. The good pastor at that moment might certainly
have appeared a fine type of muscular Christianity,
but not of that kind of Christianity out of which
one makes Archbishops of Canterbury.
