“I am glad your mother is not by to hear you.
You will think differently one of these days.
Meanwhile, to turn to the other sex, is there no young
man of your own rank with whom you would like to travel?”
“Certainly not. I hate quarrelling.”
“As you please. But you cannot go quite
alone: I will find you a good travelling-servant.
I must write to town to-day about your preparations,
and in another week or so I hope all will be ready.
Your allowance will be whatever you like to fix it
at; you have never been extravagant, and—boy—I
love you. Amuse yourself, enjoy yourself, and
come back cured of your oddities, but preserving your
honour.”
Sir Peter bent down and kissed his son’s brow.
Kenelm was moved; he rose, put his arm round his father’s
shoulder, and lovingly said, in an undertone, “If
ever I am tempted to do a base thing, may I remember
whose son I am: I shall be safe then.”
He withdrew his arm as he said this, and took his
solitary way along the banks of the stream, forgetful
of rod and line.
THE young man continued to skirt the side of the stream
until he reached the boundary pale of the park.
Here, placed on a rough grass mound, some former proprietor,
of a social temperament, had built a kind of belvidere,
so as to command a cheerful view of the high road
below. Mechanically the heir of the Chillinglys
ascended the mound, seated himself within the belvidere,
and leaned his chin on his hand in a thoughtful attitude.
It was rarely that the building was honoured by a
human visitor: its habitual occupants were spiders.
Of those industrious insects it was a well-populated
colony. Their webs, darkened with dust and ornamented
with the wings and legs and skeletons of many an unfortunate
traveller, clung thick to angle and window-sill, festooned
the rickety table on which the young man leaned his
elbow, and described geometrical circles and rhomboids
between the gaping rails that formed the backs of
venerable chairs. One large black spider—who
was probably the oldest inhabitant, and held possession
of the best place by the window, ready to offer perfidious
welcome to every winged itinerant who might be tempted
to turn aside from the high road for the sake of a
little cool and repose—rushed from its
innermost penetralia at the entrance of Kenelm, and
remained motionless in the centre of its meshes, staring
at him. It did not seem quite sure whether the
stranger was too big or not.
“It is a wonderful proof of the wisdom of Providence,”
said Kenelm, “that whenever any large number
of its creatures forms a community or class, a secret
element of disunion enters into the hearts of the
individuals forming the congregation, and prevents
their co-operating heartily and effectually for their
common interest. ’The fleas would have
dragged me out of bed if they had been unanimous,’
said the great Mr. Curran; and there can be no doubt
