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

“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.”

The usher was listening, with a look of impatience, to all this.

“Oh, I know; he’s the son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme,” he observed, with a laugh, which Digby understood, for he spoke exactly with the expression of the boys who had heard him announced.

“I will take him with me, and introduce the young gentleman to his future playmates. I hope that he may get on well with them.”

“Do, Mr Tugman, do,” said Mr Sanford, languidly. “I wish that my health would allow me to afford greater support to my assistants, efficient as I am bound to say that they all are.”

Mr Tugman did not seem to listen to the compliment, but, with a slight good evening, taking Digby by the shoulder, walked him off to the schoolroom.

Digby felt somewhat like a fly in the grasp of a spider, for there was very little of the suaviter in modo, however much there might have been of the fortiter in re, in Mr Tugman’s proceedings. They passed a large glass door, guarded on both sides by wire-work.

“These are your future companions,” he said, opening it, and pointing to a wide-extending gravel space at the back of the house, which Digby guessed was the playground. Though it was growing dark, the boys were still there; but all he could see was a confused mass of fellows rushing about, hallooing, and shouting: some with hoops, against which their sticks went clattering away incessantly; others driving, with whips cracking and horns tootooing; some were running races; others playing leap-frog, or high cock-o’-lorum; indeed, nearly every game which could make the blood circulate on a cold winter’s evening, had its advocates. From the darkness, and from the state of constant movement in which they all were, there appeared to be double the number of boys Mrs Pike had mentioned.

“Well, what do you think of them?” asked Mr Tugman.

Digby said, “That he could form no opinion from the slight view he had of them.”

“Not badly answered,” observed Mr Tugman. “Now I will show you the schoolroom before they come in, and select a desk, so that you may make yourself at home at once.”

Going down a few steps, Digby found himself in a large and lofty room, or hall, lighted by lamps from the ceiling, with rows of desks across it, and two large fire-places at the sides towards each end. At one end was a high desk, and there were five or six smaller desks, intended for the masters, down the hall, flanking the rows, as the sergeants stand in a regiment, drawn up on parade. The hall ran at right angles to the back of the house, by the side of the playground, and had evidently been built for a schoolroom.

Mr Tugman took Digby to the further end, where his own desk was, and lifting up several in one of the last rows, he came to one which was entirely empty.

“Seventy is the number, is it not?” he asked, going to his own desk. “Now, take this key, lock up whatever you like. I dare say you have some good things in your play-box, or valuables of some sort; put them there, and make yourself at home.”

Scarcely had these arrangements been concluded, when a bell rang, and the boys came trooping into the schoolroom. He was fairly caught, like a mouse in a trap. At first he was not perceived; but it was soon buzzed about, that the new boy was there, and he was quickly saluted by —

“How do you do, Master Digby Heathcote, son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall?”

“Pretty well, I thank you, young gentlemen,” answered Digby, determined not to be outdone, and resolved to put a bold face on the matter. “I shall be happy to make the acquaintance of any of those who will favour me with their cards, and an account of their own family, parentage, and connexions.”

“He is a pert little chap,” observed one. “Plenty of impudence in him,” said another. “A plucky little cock, though, I think,” remarked a fourth. Opinions among the bigger fellows varied considerably as to his character, and how he was to be treated.

Seldom is there a school without a bully, and Grangewood was no exception to the rule. The chief bully was a big, hulking fellow, called Scarborough. He remarked, “That there was a great deal to be taken out of the little cock, and that he purposed having the satisfaction of taking it.”

“I’m in the habit of giving small change, remember that,” said Digby, who had overheard the remark – as it had been intended he should.

Scarborough turned white with rage on this being said; and would then and there have inflicted condign punishment on the daring upstart, had not the bell rang, and the boys been called to order by Mr Yates, the head usher, who, entering Mr Sanford’s desk, assumed command in the evening. He only deferred doing so, however, till another opportunity.

The little fellows, and those about Digby’s own age, listened with eager and surprised ears to what he said; and at once looked upon him as one likely to prove their champion. In a very short time he had made a number both of friends and foes; but, curiously enough, he knew none of them by sight, as he could only distinguish the countenances of the few who sat immediately about him. They being mostly about his age, and having suffered from the tyranny of Scarborough, were inclined to side with him.

As, of course, he had nothing to do, he was able to sit quiet, and observe what was going forward. Each of the masters called up a class to say lessons, while the rest of the boys had to prepare them for the following day. Books were got out, and a murmur of voices was heard through the school. A stranger coming in might have fancied that everybody was very studiously employed; but although all had piles of books before them, on a closer inspection he would have seen, as Digby did, that very few were really learning their lessons; some were drawing, others playing games, draughts, or spillikins, or dominoes, and some even had cards; many were cutting out things in card-board or wood, making models of carriages, and houses, and boats. It had become the practice of the school at that time of the evening, especially as they would have another half hour in the morning to look over the lessons they were then supposed to be learning. Digby was surprised, and thought that he had come to a very slack sort of school. He was not particularly shocked, for he could not fancy that what everybody was doing was so very wrong.

The classes had just been dismissed, when another bell rang, and everybody hurried away out of the schoolroom. Digby, not knowing what was to take place, sat still.

“Come with me,” said a boy, who looked rather smaller than himself. “I am delighted with the way you answered that big bully, Scarborough. Keep up to it; don’t give in, and I will stick by you. We are now going into tea. I will find a place for you near myself, and tell you all about the fellows.”

Digby was very glad to fall in at once with a friend; and he at once accepted the little boy’s offer.

“My name is Paul Newland,” said his new companion, as they followed the rest into the tea-room. “I am rather older than I look, for I am not very big; but I intend to grow some day. You will be in my class, I suspect. I’m at the top of it, and expect to get into the sixth soon; that is, under Mr Moore, who is a very quiet sort of fellow. You must try and work up along with me. There is nothing like working, I find. I came in at the lowest, and got up three classes in one half year. But this is the tea-room. Come along; don’t mind what fellows say.”

This was not an unnecessary caution, for Digby found himself saluted as he went along by the boys turning sharply round and saying —

“How do you do, Master Digby Heathcote, son and heir of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall? Welcome to Grangewood House, most noble young Squire.”

It need not be said how Digby felt, but he fortunately kept his temper; nor did he lose his appetite in consequence of these sarcastic greetings.

“I wish that John Pratt had not announced me in that way. Of course it would make a capital joke for the fellows,” he said to himself, as he took his seat at the table.

The boys near nodded to him, holding up their mugs of tea with mock gravity.

“Your health, Master Digby Heathcote, son and heir of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall,” was repeated over and over again, in various tones.

Digby was determined not to be put out, whatever was said or done. He lifted his mug to his lips – it was filled with a liquid he thought most execrable – some one had evidently put salt in it; but he pretended not to have discovered the bad taste.

“Young gentlemen,” he said, holding up his mug, and mimicking the tones of those who had spoken to him, “I beg to return you my thanks for the honour you have done me. When I know your names and places of abode, as well as you appear to know mine, I can address you more personally. As neither tea nor salt-water are the proper things to drink to the health of one’s friends, I will make a libation with the contents of my mug into the slop-basin, which you will receive as a mark of the honour I wish to do you.”

Digby was sorely puzzled to pump up all these words. He had never made so long a speech in his life before; but the importance of the object inspired him; and a large slop-basin standing before him to receive the dregs of the mugs, put the idea into his head. He had been afraid at first that he should have been obliged to drink the salted tea.

His young friend, Paul Newland, inquired why the boys addressed him as they had been doing; and he then explained that it was owing to John Pratt’s desire to give him importance; instead of which, as is often the case, a contrary effect had been produced.

“I need not tell you not to mind, for I see you don’t,” observed Paul. “Everybody has to go through something of the sort when they first come, and some remain butts all the time they stay. That sort of thing matters very little if a fellow keeps his temper, and pretends not to notice it. They soon grow tired of a joke when it produces no effect. They bothered me a great deal when I first came, and called me Paul Pry, and Paul the Preacher, and Little Bank Note, and Pretty Poll, and Polly, and all sorts of names, and they played all sorts of tricks; but I pretended not to mind, though I was really very much annoyed; and, at last, they gave it up, and it is only occasionally that I now get addressed in that way.”

Digby thanked Newland for his good advice, and promised to follow it as far as his temper would allow.

“Oh, that is the very thing; you must keep in your temper,” answered Newland. “I don’t mean to say that you may harbour revenge, or that you intend to pay them off another day. Far from that; that would be horrid, you know, not like a Christian or an honest Englishman; but that you may disarm them, make them ashamed of themselves, or tired of their stale tricks or jokes.”

Paul went on talking in a quiet, low tone, while Digby was munching a thick slice of bread-and-butter. He sent up his cup for some more tea by one of the attendant maid-servants; but was told by Mrs Pike, who had seen him throw the first away, that he could have no more.

“But some salt had got into the mug, marm; and salt with tea is not pleasant, I assure you,” exclaimed Digby, feeling very indignant, notwithstanding Newland’s exhortations and his own resolutions.

“We only use sugar at Grangewood House, young gentleman,” answered Mrs Pike, looking angrily at the bold assertion of the new boy. “Those who throw their tea away can have no more. That is the rule here; is it not, Mr Tugman?”

The third master, thus appealed to, replied, with what he intended to be a bland smile, though it had very much the look of a grin —

“Certainly, marm, certainly. Master Digby Heathcote, of Bloxholme, has been brought up with rather extravagant notions, and has been accustomed to take salt as well as sugar in his tea.”

This sally produced a grin from the surrounding boys who heard it; for the big fellows considered him a great wit, and a jolly cock, a character he had striven to obtain from some, that he might the more easily manage, or rather bully, the rest.

“Never mind,” whispered Paul; “wait a moment till no one is looking, and take mine. I’ll get some more presently, if I want it. Mrs Pike likes me, as I never bother her. She’ll like you some day, if you are quiet and well-behaved. She’s not ill-natured at bottom, but her temper gets put out very often. She almost manages the school now, since Mr Sanford has been ill.”

Digby accepted the offer; and Newland soon afterwards got a fresh and ample supply for himself. Perhaps Mrs Pike winked at the arrangement, after she had duly asserted her authority.

Digby had been accustomed to very different tea arrangements, and did not admire those he now saw. The tea was made in great urns, and there were huge jugs of milk, or, as the boys declared, of milk-and-water, and basins of brown sugar. The mixture was served out in blue and white mugs, which did duty as beer mugs at dinner; while trays, with slices of bread-and-butter, were continually being handed round. Of the latter, the boys might have as much as they wanted; and their tastes were so far consulted, that they might have milk-and-water without tea and sugar, if they wished for it. They sat at table chattering away, or playing tricks with each other, or reading, if they liked, provided the books were not on the table, till the bell again rang, and they hurried back into the schoolroom.

Other classes were now called up, and more lessons were supposed to be learned; but nothing was very strictly attended to at that time in the evening. In summer, they would have been out in the playground. The boys in those classes which had said their lessons were allowed to amuse themselves as they liked at their desks, either in reading, or writing, or making some of the nine hundred and ninety-nine curious articles which boys are wont to manufacture.

As Digby had nothing to do, Newland lent him an interesting book – “The Swiss Family of Robinson” – which he had never seen. He was soon absorbed in it, and not at all inclined to be interrupted. The shipwreck he had suffered enabled him to realise that described in the book. At length, however, he heard somebody speak to him. What was said he did not understand. He turned round, thinking it was Newland; but, instead of him, he saw a much older, taller boy, with a fair complexion, and greyish eyes. At the first glance, he did not like the expression of his countenance; and he was not over-pleased at being interrupted.

“What do you think of our school?” said the boy. “Some of the fellows have been trying to make fun of you, but you do not mind that. I hate that sort of thing myself. We have got some tremendous bullies here. I’ll point them out to you, and show you how to avoid them. Where do you live?”

Digby told him.

“I live in Berkshire, some miles away from here, though. My name is John Spiller. I manage to get on very well with the fellows, and I’ll put you up to a thing or two which will be of great assistance to you. Now, about your play-box; you haven’t unpacked it yet, I suppose?”

“No,” said Digby; “not yet.”

“All right. Don’t till I can help you, or you’ll have everything carried off by the fellows,” observed Spiller. “While you are looking to see who has got hold of a knife, or a saw, or a cake, or a boat, others will be carrying off a pot of jam, or a Dutch cheese, or some gingerbread, or a pot of anchovies, or a parcel of herrings, or – ”