Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers. Stables Gordon

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      Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

      Chapter One

      Book I – Our Home by the Sea

      The Old Home by the Sea – Aunt Serapheema

      Reginald Augustus John Fitzmaurice Jones!

      That is my name in full.

      There is not the slightest occasion to remember it.

      The name is far and away too long, and too tall for ordinary use. Twice only have I taken it to church with me, namely, on the day of my baptism, and on my wedding morn. On both these occasions it was written on a bit of paper, and folded up for future use.

      On the first occasion it was carefully carried in my father’s waistcoat pocket, and I brought it home.

      On the second occasion it was carefully carried in my own waistcoat pocket, and brought home by one far dearer to me than even a father.

      But as regards a name or names rather, my brother did not fare a bit better than I did.

      Rupert Domville Ffoljambe-Foley Jillard Jones!

      That is my brother’s name in full. And, indeed, I think it will be readily admitted that his was a harder case than even mine, and seeing that I was the elder, this seemed scarcely fair.

      Reginald Augustus John Fitzmaurice Jones! Only fancy a spirited young man having to make his way in life, and drag through existence with such a name as that tagged on to him. For one young man even it would be bad enough, but there were two of us, and we always drove in couple.

      What a deal maiden aunts have to account for, as often as not! Yes, it was all owing to Aunt Serapheema, and even to this day I cannot help thinking she owes us a very ample apology.

      Here is how it occurred:

      Father – he was Captain Jones then – was sitting all alone one evening in the room which was designated by courtesy the study, though, as far as literature is concerned, it contained little else save a few magazines, the newspapers, and – father’s pipe rack. Well, father was enjoying a mild cigar by the open window – for it was spring, and the birds were singing in every bush – when there entered to him – Aunt Serapheema, who began to cough.

      Father put his cigar hastily down on the outside sill of the window, with a little sigh, for it was one of the Colonel’s – Colonel McReady’s – best, and only newly lit.

      He hastened to place the high-backed armchair for the lady. It was like herself, this chair – straight, tall, dark, and prim.

      “The smoke, I suppose, would have annoyed you?”

      “It would have, Harold.”

      “And the open window?”

      “That we can do with.”

      “Ahem!” continued my aunt, smoothing the long black silken mits she always wore on her hands and arms. “Ahem!”

      “Yes, sister,” said my father.

      “Yes, aunt, if you please. Remember that in future, Harold; and it will be as well if, instead of calling Dora, your wife, by the ridiculous name of Dot, you now address her as ‘mamma’ or ‘ma.’”

      The “now” in aunt’s last sentence referred to the birth of my brother and me.

      “If you do not so address her, before very long the boys themselves will be calling their mother Dot.”

      “Certainly,” said father, “as you wish, sist – I – I mean aunt.”

      “Well, and it is about the boys I have come to speak, if you will favour me with a moment’s attention.”

      “Assuredly, sis – a – auntie dear.” And my father pulled himself together, as if he had been on parade. “Nothing wrong with the twins, I trust?”

      “No, nothing wrong – as yet. But you know they must be baptised at an early date. Have you considered what names to give them?”

      “Well, really – no – I – ”

      “Of course not. Men are – merely men. Luckily your wife and I have been considering for you. But have you any suggestion to make?”

      “Ahem, well, a – my name has a John in it, and my brother’s is Jim. Short and sweet. Simple and all the rest of it. Eh? What?”

      I have been told that Aunt Serapheema did not answer him for fully half a minute, but subjected him to what might be called a process of ocular transfixion. Compared to such a punishment, to be face to face with Russian bayonets would have been child’s play to poor father.

      “John! and Jim!” she said at last, slowly rising. “You may resume your horrid cigar, Harold. I did not expect to get much sense out of you, and I am therefore not disappointed. On this sheet of paper you will find the names we have decided upon. You will note that – at the earnest request of your wife – the paternal name does find a place, but Jim!” She transfixed him again, then went gliding to the door, which father opened and bowed her away.

      Then he almost ran to the window, and like the naughty old boy he must have been, I fear he relit that horrid cigar, singing lightly to himself as he hunted for the matches.

      Now one’s birth and baptism may seem very trivial matters to linger over, especially when one has a life-story like my brother’s and mine to tell. But events and adventures too will crowd each other fast enough ere long. For the brief present I am like some strong swimmer, who is about to commit himself to battle with the waves of a storm-tossed ocean, and who, before he takes the plunge, gazes once around and casts a longing, lingering look behind.

      Besides, one’s boyhood’s days or childhood’s hours are the happiest, without doubt, that ever fall to our lot here below, and we do not know this till they are for ever fled. Yes, I grant you that this stage of our existence is not exempt from grief and sorrow, and very real these look while they last, though they are easily chased away or kissed away as the case may be. Then there is stern education to come up day after day like a terrible task-master.

      As far as my brother and I were concerned, education assumed the corporeal form of Aunt Serapheema. My father’s study – properly dusted and disinfected in order to thoroughly exorcise the ghost of Colonel McReady’s cigars – became our schoolroom, the high-backed armchair our prim preceptor’s throne. Mind you, we always did think auntie somewhat prim, though it would be neither polite nor politic to tell her so. Auntie was not only fearfully and wonderfully made as regards angularity, but she was wonderfully clever as well. I tremble even yet when I think of how she used to come down upon us with dates – figuratively speaking, and how appallingly she used to hurl “ographies” and “ologies” at our poor little frightened faces. I always did think that dates – with the exception of the sticky eating sort – and “ologies” and “ographies” were sent into the world like thorns and thistles, just to prick and punish unfortunate boys.

      Auntie used to wear glasses – two pairs at once; and it was not when she looked at you right straight through these glasses that she appeared dreadful, but when she glanced sternly over them.

      She carried, or swayed as a sceptre, a long oaken pointer. It was not very thick, but very hard and far-reaching, and when it came down on your knuckles – oh, it always left a red mark, and sounded as if the clock were striking one. It struck one very often every forenoon.

      Even out of school auntie had a way of addressing any person that commanded attention, but alone with her in the schoolroom her voice was positively thrilling.

      It was only natural that both my brother’s attention and mine should waver or wander at times. Well, my father’s first manly word in the barrack square used to make every soldier stiffen, as it were; but it was nothing to auntie’s caution. Nowhere near it in regal pomposity.

      “Reginald, look towards me!” or – “Rupert Domville, I am talking.”

      Oh, didn’t poor Jill used to jump!

      Yes, by Jill I mean my brother. We had got tired of calling each other Regie and Bertie, and one night held a consultation in our attic bedroom.

      “Your name,”