The Interpreter: A Tale of the War

  CHAPTER IX

  ROPSLEY

  Ropsley smoked his cigar on the trunk of the old tree, and Manners drankin worldly wisdom from the lips of his junior, whom, however, heesteemed as the very guide-book of all sporting and fashionable life.It was the ambition of our usher to become a thorough man of the world;and, had he been born to a fortune and a title, there was no reason whyhe should not have formed a very fair average young nobleman. Histastes were frivolous enough, his egotism sufficiently developed, hismanner formed on what he conceived the best model. All this was onlyabsurd, I presume, because he was an usher; had he been a marquis, hewould have shown forth as a "very charming person." His admiration ofRopsley was genuine, the latter's contempt for his adorer equallysincere, but better concealed. They sit puffing away at their cigars,watching the smoke wreathing up into the summer sky, and Manners coaxeshis whiskers and looks admiringly at his friend. Ropsley's cigar isfinished, and he dashes it down somewhat impatiently.

  "What can have become of that little wretch?" says he, with a yawn and astretch of his long, well-shaped limbs; "he's probably made some stupidmistake, and I shall have to lick him after all. Manners, what have youdone with the old dog-whip we used to keep for the lower boys?"

  "Safe in my desk," replies Manners, who, being a good-natured fellow,likes to keep that instrument of torture locked up; "but Egerton's agood little fellow; you mustn't be too hard upon him this time."

  "I never could see the difference between a good fellow and a bad one,"replies Ropsley. "If I want a thing done I choose the most likelyperson to do it; and if he fails it's his fault and not mine, and hemust suffer for it. I've no prejudices, my good friend, and nofeelings--they're only different words for the same thing; and, dependupon it, people get on much better without them. But come: let's walkdown to the village, and look after him. I'll go and ask March if hewants anything 'down the road.'"

  Luckily for me, my chastiser had not proceeded half a mile upon his way,ere he met the "King of Naples" in person, hot and breathless, flusteredwith drink and running, and more incoherent than usual in hisconversation and demeanour. He approached Ropsley, who was the mostmagnificent of his patrons, with hat in hand, and somewhat the air of adog that knows he has done wrong.

  "What's up now, you old reprobate?" said the latter, in his mostsupercilious manner--a manner, I may observe, he adopted to all whom hecould influence without conciliating, and which made the conciliationdoubly winning to the favoured few--"What's up now? Drunk again, Isuppose, as usual?"

  "Not drunk, squire--not drunk, as I'm a livin' man," replied thepoacher, sawing the air in deprecation with a villainously dirty hand;"hagitated, perhaps, and over-anxious about the young gentlemen--Oh!them lads, them lads!" and he leered at his patron as much as to hintthat he had a precious story to tell, if it was only made worth hiswhile.

  "Come, no nonsense!" said Ropsley, sternly; "out with it. What's thematter? You've got De Rohan and Egerton into some scrape; I see it inyour ugly old face. Tell me all about it this instant, or it will beworse for you."

  "Doan't hurry a man so, squire; pray ye, now, doan't. I be only out o'breath, and the lads they be safe enough by this time; but I wanted foryou to speak up for me to the master, squire. I bain't a morsel toblame. I went a-purpose to see as the young gents didn't get into nomischief; I did, indeed. I be an old man now, and it's a long walk forme at my years," whined the old rascal, who was over at the Manor threenights a week when he thought the keepers were out of the way. "And thedog, he was most to blame, arter all; but the keepers they've got theyoung gents safe, enough,--and that's all about it." So saying, hestood bolt upright, like a man who has fired his last shot, and is readyto abide the worst. Truth to tell, the "King of Naples" was horriblyafraid of Ropsley.

  The latter thought for a moment, put his hand in his pocket, and gavethe poacher half-a-crown. "You hold your tongue," said he, "or you'llget into worse trouble than any of them. Now go home, and don't let mehear of your stirring out for twenty-four hours. Be off! Do you hear?"

  Old "Nap" obeyed, and hobbled off to his cottage, there to spend theterm of his enforced residence in his favourite occupation of drinking,whilst Ropsley walked rapidly on to the village, and directed his stepsto that well-known inn, "The Greyhound," of which every boy at EverdonSchool was more or less a patron.

  In ten minutes' time there was much ringing of bells and generalconfusion pervading that establishment; the curly-headed waiter (why doall waiters have curly hair?) rushed to and fro with a glass-cloth inhis hand; the barmaid drooped her long ringlets over her ownwindow-sill, within which she was to be seen at all hours of the day andnight, like a pretty picture in its frame; the lame ostler stumped aboutwith an activity foreign to his usual methodical nature, and a chaiseand pair was ordered to be got ready immediately for Beverley Manor.

  Richard the Third is said to have been born with all his double teethsharp set, and in good masticatory order. It is my firm belief thatRopsley was also ushered into the world with his wisdom teeth in a stateof maturity. He had, indeed, an old head upon young shoulders; and yetthis lad was brought up and educated by his mother until he was sent toschool. Perhaps he was launched into the world too early; perhaps hisrecollections of home were not vivid enough to soften his character orawaken his feelings. When I first knew him he had been an orphan foryears; but I am bound to say that the only being of whom he spoke withreverence was his mother. I never heard him mention her name but twice,and each time a soft light stole over his countenance and altered thewhole expression of his features, till I could hardly believe it was thesame person. From home, when a very little boy, he was sent to Eton;and after a long process of hardening in that mimic world, wastransferred to Everdon, more as a private pupil than a scholar. Here itwas that I first knew him; and great as was my boyish admiration for thehaughty, aristocratic youth just verging upon manhood, it is no wonderthat I watched and studied his character with an intensity born of myown ardent disposition, the enthusiasm of which was all the stronger forhaving been so repressed and concealed in my strange and solitarychildhood. Most children are hero-worshippers, and my hero for the timewas Ropsley.

  He was, I think, the only instance I can recollect of a mere boyproposing to himself a certain aim and end in life, and going steadilyforward to its attainment without pause or deviation. I often thinknow, what is there that a man with ordinary faculties might not attain,would he but propose to himself at fourteen that position which he wouldwish to reach at forty? Show me the hill that six-and-twenty years ofperseverance would fail to climb. But no; the boy never thinks of it atall--or if he does, he believes the man of forty to be verging on hisgrave, and too old to enjoy any of the pleasures of existence, should hehave the means of indulging them. He will not think so when he hasreached that venerable period; though, after all, age is a relativeterm, and too often totally irrespective of years. Many a heart isruined and worn out long ere the form be bent or the head grown grey.But the boy thinks there is time enough; the youth grudges all thatinterferes with his pleasures; and the man only finds the value ofenergy and perseverance when it is too late to avail himself of them.Oh! opportunity!--opportunity!--phantom goddess of success, that not onein a million has decision to seize and make his own:--if hell be pavedwith good intentions, it might be roofed with lost opportunities.

  Ropsley, however, was no morbid whiner over that which is irretrievable.He never lost a chance by his own carelessness; and if he failed, as allmust often fail, he never looked back. _Aide-toi, et Dieu t'aidera_, isa motto that comprises in five words the noblest code of philosophy; thefirst part of the sentence Ropsley had certainly adopted for hisguidance, and to do him justice, he never was remiss in any sense of theword in helping himself.

  Poor, though of good family, his object was to attain a high position inthe social world, power, wealth, and influence, especially the latter,but each and all as a mean
s towards self-aggrandisement. The motivemight not be amiable or noble, but it was better than none at all, andhe followed it out most energetically. For this object he spared nopains, he feared no self-denial, he grudged no sacrifice. He was ascholar, and he meant to make the most of his scholarship, just as hemade the most of his cricket-playing, his riding, his skill in allsports and exercises. He knew that his physical good looks andcapabilities would be of service to him hereafter, and he cultivatedthem just as he stored and cultivated that intellect which he valued notfor itself, but as a means to an end.

  "If I had fifty thousand a year," I once heard him say to Manners, "Ishould take no trouble about anything. Depend upon it, the real thing tolive for is enjoyment. But if I had only forty-five thousand I shouldwork like a slave--it would not _quite_ give me the position I require."

  Such was Ropsley at this earliest period of our acquaintance.

  "Drive to Beverley Manor," said he, as he made himself thoroughlycomfortable amongst the cushions, let down all the windows, and settledhimself to the perusal of the last daily paper.

  Any other boy in the school would have gone in a gig.