Digby Heathcote: The Early Days of a Country Gentleman's Son and Heir. Kingston William Henry Giles

voice was now heard inquiring what was the matter, when a dozen people tried to give their own versions of the state of affairs.

      “Very well, my friends,” said Mr Heathcote, after listening to them patiently, “keep the peace among yourselves for the present, and if the culprits can be discovered, I will take care, I promise you, that they shall be properly punished. And John Pratt, get more lanterns, and have all the things in the carriages collected, and distributed to the proper owners as they are claimed.”

      Having said this, the master of the house returned to his guests. Julian and Digby, when they heard what Mr Heathcote had said, were in a great fright. Digby knew very well that what his father said he would do – that he assuredly would do. He had no hope of escaping detection, and was certain that he should be punished. Of course, he remembered that he had not actually taken the linch-pins out of the carriages, but he had stood by, if not aiding and abetting, at all events not making any strenuous effort to prevent the deed. He, therefore, never for a moment dreamed of sheltering himself under the plea that he had not touched the linch-pins. It scarcely occurred to him that Julian might have exonerated him in a great degree by generously declaring that he himself had proposed the trick and had carried it out. Had he been in Julian’s place, that is what he would have done; but he did not ask Julian to act thus for him, and he made up his mind to abide the consequences. He felt that any excuse he could offer for himself would throw more blame on Julian, and it did occur to him that even then his word might be doubted.

      In the meantime Mrs Fuller’s carriage was put to rights, the coachman mounted on his box, the ladies were handed in, and the young gentlemen got up once more on the rumble, all of them very angry and annoyed, as well they might be, and some not a little bruised. Mr Heathcote assured them of his vexation at what had occurred, and promised them, as he had the coachmen, that he would get the culprits properly punished.

      The party at length separated, and Digby, more unhappy and discontented with himself than he had been for a long time, went to bed and cried with very vexation till he fell asleep. It was a pity that his repentance was not of a more permanent nature.

      The next morning he arose refreshed, and though he felt an unusual weight at his heart, yet he looked at things in a brighter light. Julian looked immaterial (as Kate called his expression of countenance) when he came down to breakfast, and had evidently made up his mind to brazen out the affair, should suspicion fall on him. The event of the evening naturally, however, became the subject of conversation, and Digby felt conscious that he was blushing, while he dared not meet the eye of any one present. He eat away perseveringly at his breakfast, and bolted so hot a cup of tea, that he scalded his mouth, and was about to make his escape, when his father’s eye fell on him. Digby knew it, though he did not dare to look up, and Mr Heathcote felt very nearly certain that the culprit was his own son. Had he doubted it much, he would have asked him, in joke, if he could tell how the affair happened; but he was silent, and felt sad and annoyed. He was sorry to suppose that Digby had been guilty of so foolish and really wicked an act, and his pride too, of which he had a good deal, was hurt at the thought of having, in accordance with his word, publicly to punish him.

      All doubts were at an end when, in a short time, Mr Bowdler appeared, mentioned what he had ascertained, and firmly recommended the course he thought ought to be pursued.

      “You are right,” answered Mr Heathcote, “but he is such a child – it seems to me but the other day that he was a baby. Let me see, how old is he? Ah, to be sure, I went to school at an earlier age. Old or young, I am bound to punish him, however. Yet stay, we have no right to condemn him unheard.”

      Mr Heathcote rang the bell, and ordered the servant to send in Master Digby to him. He felt very like that Roman father we read about, who condemned his own son to death.

      “Digby,” said Mr Heathcote, when his son and heir stood before him, “did you take the linch-pins out of the carriages last night?”

      Digby thought a moment.

      “No, I did not,” he answered firmly.

      “Do you know anything about the matter,” said Mr Heathcote, somewhat astonished but firmly believing the assertion. Oh what a blessed thing is that perfect confidence in the honour and truthfulness of those connected with us.

      “Do you say that I must answer that question, papa?” said Digby.

      “I do not wish to force you to say anything,” remarked Mr Heathcote, “but I do wish to ascertain how the circumstance occurred.”

      Digby thought for some time, while his father sat looking at him.

      “I should like to know how you intend to punish the person who committed the mischief,” he said at last.

      “If you had done it, I should probably have flogged you, and have sent you off to school, as soon as I could find a suitable one. That would have been a lenient punishment for you. A poor boy would be flogged and sent to the house of correction.”

      “Then you must send me to school, papa, though I should be glad if you would omit the flogging,” replied Digby, frankly. “I will not say who played the trick; but, as I see somebody ought to be punished, I’m ready to suffer, as I think I ought.”

      Mr Bowdler was very much interested in hearing this conversation, and certainly thought very much better of Digby than he had before been inclined to do. “There is a great deal in that boy which may bring forth good fruit, if it is properly developed,” he said to himself. It made him very anxious that Digby should go to some school where the moral as well as intellectual qualities of the boys were attended to.

      Mr Heathcote did not wish to press the matter further on his son. He was convinced that he was innocent of the act committed, and he had no doubt of the real delinquent. Still he was very unwilling to have to punish Julian, and he wished to pass the matter over, unless the boy was positively accused before him of the crime. Digby was told that he might go back to the schoolroom and prepare for Mr Crammer.

      Mr Bowdler had heard Mr Nugent, Mrs Heathcote’s brother, very highly spoken of, and he recommended that Digby should be placed under him till a good school could be found.

      Mr Heathcote liked the notion. He could not bear the idea of having Digby far separated from him. Not that he saw much of the boy, but he liked to feel and know that he was near him. He fancied that he was getting on very well with Mr Crammer, and, now that so excellent a governess had come to instruct him, he thought that his education would be well provided for. He promised Mr Bowdler, therefore, that he would ride over to Osberton and get his brother-in-law to take charge of Digby.

      Mr Bowdler, on his part, undertook to make inquiries for a good school for the boy.

      “I will send young Julian home,” said Mr Heathcote. “I see no particular harm in him. He seems a quiet, inoffensive lad; but, as you think it advisable, it will be a good excuse for separating the two.”

      “Yes, a very good excuse,” said Mr Bowdler.

      Julian had been with Digby when the footman summoned him into his father’s presence. He waited anxiously for his return.

      “You’ve not peached, I hope, Digby?” said he.

      “No, indeed,” answered Digby, rather proudly. “I wasn’t going to tell a story, either. Your name wasn’t mentioned, so you need not be afraid.”

      “That’s jolly,” exclaimed Julian, brightening up. “I was afraid that you would be letting the cat out of the bag.”

      “I don’t know exactly what that means,” answered Digby; “I said that if some one was to be punished I was ready to suffer, and so I’m to be sent off to school, and that’s not very pleasant, let me tell you. Not that I mind the idea of school. It may be a very good sort of place; but I don’t like to have to leave so many pleasant things behind me. What will my poor dear old dog Tomboy do without me? And there’s my pretty pony Juniper, which papa only bought last spring for me, and which I’ve taught to know me and follow me about the field like a dog. How many pleasant rides I expected to have on him; and he will have forgotten all about me when I come back. Then I was to have gone out shooting with John Pratt in September; and I’m pretty certain papa would have