 | CHAPTER XVI.
MR. PARMENTER STUMBLES UPON A SPECIMEN. Antony Brade |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
MR. PARMENTER STUMBLES UPON A SPECIMEN.
The carriage which Kate Ryan had just met went
on at a walk, but was soon opposite the place where,
in his nook of damp shelter, our young friend, the associate
language-maker, had been left.
Mr. Parmenter's eyes, as he drove, were still fixed
upon the fields, at the opposite side.
“We must turn before long,” he said, “for there's a
bad place in the road, just beyond here, that our town-authorities
will have to look to; but I've shown you
the whole ground.”
His companion, whose tall neck showed a white cravat,
implying that he was a clergyman, was perhaps less
occupied with field and road than he, and at this moment
exclaimed, —
“Well! there's a young chap has found a snug place
for himself!” and Antony Brade appeared, sitting on
his rock as before, — though not now with his head
bare, — and beating the moist earth with his stick.
The boy looked a little conscious and confused, perhaps,
but possibly not more than any boy of his age
might appear, when found in a strange situation like
this by two gentlemen, and having had their attention
directed to him.
“Good afternoon, Brade,” said Mr. Parmenter, in a
in return for the salutation of the boy.
“I'm glad to hear you're such a good scholar, Brade.
Don't you feel afraid of taking cold in there? I should
think Mrs. Wales might have to prescribe for you, if
you sit in such places.”
Then turning to the clergyman he said: “Brade is
the first scholar in his Form, I understand, Mr. Merritt.”
“So this is Brade,” said the other, looking well at
him. “I'm glad to see you, sir, and hope you'll live to
be the first scholar in the School.” To Mr. Parmenter,
he added, smiling, “Boys have boys' constitutions.”
The boy, after the way of boys, made no answer
to the compliments and complimentary wishes, but by
this time had found an answer to some one of the several
suggestions about dampness and danger, and was
saying, “It's very dry after we've sat here a little
while.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Parmenter, graciously, “this is a
place of resort for boys, is it? Rather a dangerous
practice,” he added, turning to his companion. “I
think I shall have to speak to Rector Warren about it.
Well, Brade, I shall be glad to see you at my house.
Are you interested in works of art and taste? You
know, Brade, where my house — Mr. Parmenter's
house — is? I suppose all the boys of Saint Bartholomew's
School know my house? Would you like to
come?”
To this invitatory address, which was palpably at
the same time dignified and elegant and hospitable,
the boy answered very much as modest boys generally
do.
“Then I shall expect you, Brade: I shall request
Rector Warren to give you leave,” said Mr. Parmenter,
even more graciously, and saluting him punctiliously.
He then backed his horse and turned his buggy, neatly,
on the narrow road.
“Did you observe any thing particular about that boy,
sir?” he asked, in his formal way, of his companion.
“You know he's the mysterious boy.”
“Not very different from other boys in the same
condition, I should say,” answered the clergyman. “So
that's the mysterious Brade?” and then he added, with
a touch of that humor which is peculiar to a certain
class of minds, “`Braid broad braids, brave maids.'”
“Yes,” said Mr. Parmenter, accepting the quotation,
with a courteous smile, “I suppose there may or may
not be something under it? It might be quite an
important thing for our School? You observed I mentioned
`works of art.' I don't go so far as some of our
neighbors, in concluding right off that he used to live
in a palace; but it might remind him of former associations
and surroundings” (Mr. Parmenter showed a
good choice of words). “I don't know whether you
observed any effect? How do his manners strike you,
sir?”
“I don't know how a nobleman ought to look” (“I
don't,” said Mr. Parmenter, without interrupting).
“Doesn't somebody say he's a nobleman?” continued
Mr. Merritt. “I should easily say he might be foreign.”
“There's a strong feeling in Eastham, you know; and
Mrs. Wadham and Mr. Don have got a theory, I believe,”
said Mr. Parmenter with an impartial dignity,
like one who was ready to accept either side, according
to the weight of evidence. “They think he's a Russian,
know Russian” —). (“Who does?” asked Mr. Merritt.)
Mr. Parmenter smiled and went on: “or some other
he mentioned, — a very distinguished family. Dr.
Farwell's got a Scotch theory” (“I know he has,” said
Mr. Merritt), “a great family of Breadalbanes,” continued
Mr. Parmenter, dividing the stress of voice
between the first and last syllables.
“Breadalbane,” said Mr. Merritt, showing superior
knowledge by accenting the second syllable.
“If he should be a Russian,” continued Mr. Parmenter,
going on to weigh that side, “it might be an important
thing for St. Bartholomew's School to be a
connecting link between our Christian education and
the highest classes in that country (they all belong, I
think, to `the Greek Church,' or to `the Holy Eastern
Catholic Church,' — you know about those things better
than I do), and it might be a step toward intercommunion.”
“Rather a short one, I fear,” said the clergyman,
again opening his vein of humor.
“I should think so,” said Mr. Parmenter, smiling as
before, impartially, as if this were just as much his
opinion as the other.
“Don't you think it might be worth while to follow
it up a little, in a quiet way? Haven't we a right, in
justice to a pupil under our charge, and in justice
to ourselves, to ascertain the facts about a boy that
we're educating, if we can do it without exciting suspicion?”
Mr. Merritt smiled, as if catching his friend's
thought.
“I suppose,” said he, “we may gratify our curiosity,
it?”
“Mrs. Wadham puts it `on strong moral grounds,'”
said Mr. Parmenter, by way of answer. He smiled as
he spoke, but added: —
“I confess it admits of a question. Isn't it a moral
duty to know all we can about one of our pupils? in
case of wrong, for example, or danger. There may be
something kept from him. Can't we, if we choose, put
it upon the ground of moral obligation? — that is, if
we think best. I should say it depended entirely upon
that.”
This last he said as if not committed to any
course, but as being capable of seeing his way pretty
clearly.
“Well, I don't know,” said Mr. Merritt; “we might
kick up a good deal of a mess. Somebody said (I believe
it was Dr. Farwell) that Mr. Bates, the agent, or
guardian, or whatever you may choose to call him, said
Mr. Warren knew all about the boy.”
Mr. Parmenter was hardly prepared for that supposition:
—
“I think that can't be so,” he said, coloring. “I
presume that Mr. Warren would recognize my claim to
be informed.”
Here was a slight pause, and then he said, —
“The Rector is pretty clear-headed and sharpsighted,
I suppose, about learned questions, — the
question whether Hector (wasn't it Hector?) killed
Andromache; — but bring him down to daily life, and
it doesn't follow that he'd use his eyes as well as those
of us that have to keep our wits about us all the time.
He doesn't think there's any thing foreign or remarkable
What should you say?”
“I should think there might be something a little
foreign in his accent, — possibly Irish,” said Mr. Merritt.
“But I should be prepared to believe one thing
as well as another.”
“That's it,” Mr. Parmenter said. “The ladies suggest
that naturally, under the circumstances, — being
incog, — he would be left a good deal to servants. I
believe, however, Irish gentlemen have that — and
Scotch, too — as well as the common people. In this
country,” he continued, drawing an appropriate reflection
from his fact, “we should think it strange if any
educated man was to have a peculiar accent. I believe
I'm right, ain't I?”
Mr. Merritt assented, and then, sticking like a parson,
as he was, to his text, said, —
“I think you told me once that you had never
known of any foreign communication with him?”
“No: I ascertained that without raising any suspicion
or any curiosity. I got our post-master, old
Mr. Bancroft, to keep account of all the foreign letters
that went through our office, so as to show the importance
of the Eastham post-office. That took the old
gentleman, and he kept account for two months. You
see I looked out for that.”
“What visitors has he had?” Mr. Merritt asked, at
the end of the sentence.
“He hasn't had any, till the other day. I never told
you about the stranger?”
Taking his answer from his friend's face, Mr. Parmenter
went on: “Quite a distinguished-looking man.
I tried to get him to ride up with me from the cars;
the School, and Mr. Don told me he had singled out
Brade from quite a number of boys, and talked with
him; asked what his name was, and when he said
`Brade,' he laughed, and asked him if he knew who his
father was; and then `if he knew any thing.' Brade
said, `Not much,' and then the man said, `Good,' and
`he was just the boy he wanted to talk to.' I found,
from the little conversation I had with him, that he
was a foreigner; but I could not hear any thing about
him, afterwards. Nobody, except just at the school,
had seen him, or heard of him.”
“That ought to be one of Robert Dale Owen's stories,”
said Mr. Merritt. “I don't see but what we're
coming on in the world, at St. Bart's.”
Mr. Parmenter had still his comments to make, and
he made them, as follows: —
“What he said to Brade might mean a great deal, or
nothing, just as you choose to take it. `Does Brade
know who his father is?' `Does he know any thing
about the mystery?' `It's good he doesn't know much.'
`He's just the boy that was wanted.'”
“Well, but you don't suppose so much of a plot as
all that?” said the other.
“I suppose,” said Mr. Parmenter, confidently and
sagaciously, smiling, “that a plot's a plot, ain't it? a
spade's a spade. If there's a plot at all, why not a
whole plot? It's just as cheap, while you're about it.”
The sky had not ceased to threaten, and now looked
more threatening than ever; and the clergyman, like
a sensible man, held out his hand to the weather.
“Here it comes!” said Mr. Merritt; and, while he
spoke, the two drew over and fastened the leathern top,
rain came quietly and steadily down, in the surest way
to soak the earth and all things on it. At the same
time the horse took the road handsomely, laying himself
down to his work, and the lumps of wet sand and
gravel began to fly from his hoofs and from the wheels.
Mr. Parmenter had pretty well explained Mr. Don's
views and his own upon the subject, when Mr. Merritt
gave another turn to his thoughts.
“Our young friend 'll stand a pretty good chance of
getting soaked, if he camps out there much longer.
His high family won't keep the rain out. All the
Braids-in-skies and out-of-skies won't help him.”
“Suppose we turn back and take him in?” said Mr.
Parmenter, reining up; and, Mr. Merritt assenting, he
turned with some little manœuvring in the narrow
roadway, and went back as fast as they had been
coming.
“This was the place, surely,” he said, stopping his
horse at a particular spot, and looking out. “There's
where we turned round before. Surely, that's where
the boy was.”
He drove on slowly, turned round in the former
tracks, and came slowly back to the same spot.
This time, however, no opening in the shrubbery by
the roadside appeared. They laughed.
“This is one of the old stories of enchantment that
we used to read, — invisible gates and so on. You see
what he's done, don't you? fastened those two boughs
together,” said Mr. Merritt.
“That's very well done, Brade,” said Mr. Parmenter,
in a very considerate tone; “but I wouldn't stay out
here any longer, now it's raining. We've come to offer
you a ride.”
There was no stir or sign of animation behind the
green door; nor to their repeated calling was there any
answer, any more than if the boy had not understood
English.
One part of the gentlemen's performance consisted
of a repeated blowing by Mr. Merritt through his thumbs
into his hands, so as to make a loud whistle. This he
repeated many times, because, as he said, “he knew from
his own experience that every boy understood that.”
Mr. Parmenter was, it would seem, a man of resolution.
“I should like to see,” he said, aside, “what has
become of him;” and, giving the reins ceremoniously
to his companion, he jumped out and set himself to
opening the way into the hiding-place. At the expense
of a pretty thorough wetting from the drops shaken
down and brushed through, he made an entrance, only
to find the bare rock, and the place empty.
“That's the Russian way, I suppose,” said Mr. Merritt,
“though I should have called it rather `French
leave.' But you're dripping, my dear sir,” as from
his secure retreat he saw his friend come back.
“Where's he gone, do you suppose?” he asked, his
curiosity again overcoming, for the moment, his sympathy
and good manners.
“That I can't tell you, sir,” said Mr. Parmenter, with
several slight coughs.
“What's that paper?” Mr. Merritt asked. “Perhaps
that's his father's patent of nobility.”
Mr. Parmenter picked up the paper, — a damp and
not over-clean bit, — and, glancing at it, said: “It's
something I can't make out, — a strange language.”
“A find! Suppose you bring it home,” said his
friend; “perhaps we can make some hand at it.” And
took his place, wet and chilling; drew up the boot, and
soon had his horse going faster than before.
Through that side-road, so pretty in bright weather,
they splashed, and into the main road. Here was
some moving life.
“That's a remarkably nice-looking girl ahead there,”
said Mr. Merritt: “we met her before. What new
family have you got here? She'll get a precious soaking,
though, won't she?”
“Yes, but there's Mr. Manson offering to hold his
umbrella over her!” said Mr. Parmenter. “He doesn't
care for weather either.”
“But what's he got in his arms?” asked Mr. Merritt,
— “a sheep?”
Mr. Manson (whom our readers may remember, the
Rector and editor) had certainly something large on his
arm, under his cloak.
“I see his feet hanging down,” said Mr. Parmenter:
“it's little Billy Carnes, the cripple. I saw him in Mrs.
Rainor's window, as we came by.”
“We'll say it's a lamb, then. If it wasn't so rainy, I
should like to try Manson with your `strange language,'”
said Mr. Merritt.
“Yes!” Mr. Parmenter answered, keeping up his
horse's pace. “That girl belongs to a very respectable
family, lately moved in. Some people say the mother
is most likely the person that had the charge of Brade,
or else is appointed to look after him. I haven't made
out yet, to my own satisfaction, whether there's any
thing in it. There's no intercourse between Brade and
them, that anybody knows of; but they're very well
off.”
“In a country place,” said Mr. Merritt; “the neighbors
would soon know it, if there was any intercourse,
— to say nothing of scores of boys with two eyes and
ears apiece.”
“I should know it as soon as any one,” said Mr. Parmenter,
in a tone that implied a large reserve of power
and means within him: “my position is such, you
know, that not much is said or done that doesn't find
its way to me. It's important that it should be so.”
The rain came steadily down, in a way to check conversation;
and the rate at which they were driving
brought their faces and hats and clothes against it, and
made it necessary to meet it manfully, or shelter themselves
from it, as best they might. So, splashing
through shallow puddles, and flinging the mud from
wheels and hoofs, with now and then a snort from the
horse and a cough from his driver, they made their
way home.
| CHAPTER XVI.
MR. PARMENTER STUMBLES UPON A SPECIMEN. Antony Brade | |