Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/400

 28, 1860.] its expression, was more gloomy than usual, as Ainslie entered his study.

“Ainslie,” he said gently, “you must prepare yourself to hear some bad news. Your father is dangerously ill. You are to go home directly. If, as we must hope, your father should soon recover, I hope you will return to us as soon as you can leave him, for you have been doing very well lately, especially in mathematics: Mr. Angles spoke of you to me the other day, as being one of his best pupils. But again, before I say goodbye, I must caution you to prepare yourself for the worst; it is even possible that you may not find your father alive. Do not stay to pack up anything, as the post-chaise will be here immediately. I must go into school now. Goodbye.”

are few positions which are actually more wretched than that of a traveller upon a journey, which has been occasioned by the sudden illness of a friend. The reflection of how powerless man is to contend with the twin giants, Time and Space, is forced upon him in a thousand forms.

The express-train may bear him on its wings, but still he ejaculates, as he watches the long line of trees rushing past him, “No further yet!” He cannot turn his attention to anything. Each train into which his thoughts fall, leads to the same terminus. “How is he now? When shall I be there?”

When Frank Ainslie arrived at home, his father was dead.

I am now about to confide a secret to my readers. Their knowledge of it, I feel certain, will not cause Frank to fall in their estimation; for I know they would not suffer the disgrace of the father to extend to the children: but as Frank now occupies a respectable position in society, I must make it a point of honour, that they should communicate it to no one more prejudiced and less enlightened than themselves.

“Not to put too fine a point upon it,” Mr. Ainslie, senior, was a bank director.

Need I add, that he died insolvent.

When the faithful biographer has the opportunity of selecting from many thousands the individual upon whom he shall confer immortality, he can scarcely be blamed if he chooses some one whom it is pleasant to write about, rather than not. Acting upon this principle, I will mention at once that Frank Ainslie was as clever, agreeable, and good-looking a young fellow as you could find on the fifth form at Eton; and, I can assure my readers, that is saying a great deal. In fact, he was a young man whom you would have felt great pleasure in taking to Mrs. Cramvilles, if that lady hinted to you that she was likely to be short of beaux on her next Wednesday. If Jones introduced him, I know he would consider himself entitled to the reversion of a dinner for his trouble,—but then, a modest estimate of his own performance is not Jones’s forte.

With the qualifications at which I have delicately hinted, and plenty of money,—for his father was liberal as well as charitable (two qualities which are not necessarily concomitants either in the hearts of bank directors or anybody else),—Frank found his way into the best set at Eton, and was looking forward to a pleasant future,—Cambridge in two years, with some of his old set, and the new friends the university always brings; and then chambers in the Temple, and the bar.

It was some trial for the nerves of a young fellow of seventeen with these prospects, when a respected uncle with a large family informed him that he had not a halfpenny in the world, and the sooner he did something to get one, the better! But Frank had the pluck which enables a man to stand up against that swift and nasty bowler, Misfortune, without much padding.

So he answered his relative with a simple, but appropriate interrogative, “All right. What shall I do?”

“I think I might be able to get you into Mr. Grierson’s office.”

“Stockbroker, isn’t he?”

“Yes; a first-rate man upon ’Change.”

“Thank you, I am very much obliged. If you will allow me, I will take a walk for an hour or two, think it over, and give you my decision when I return.”

“Very good; so be it then; but I do not think there is anything better for you.”

And Frank set off, and walked very fast, and thought a great deal; both which operations I have found, from personal experience, have a tendency to produce thirst. Frank was by no means exempt from the weaknesses incident to humanity; so when he had just completed four miles and a quarter, an eligible inn meeting his eye, it occurred to him that some malt would be restorative, and he proceeded to have some accordingly. Perceiving a cheerful-looking sanded parlor, he thought some bread and cheese would meet his taste, and while the waitress brought him food for the body, he took up the advertisement sheet of the “Times” for his own mental recreation. Under his peculiar circumstances, he received that document with greater favour than it usually obtains from travellers, and he immediately began to peruse it with diligence.

He had gone through eleven columns and a half, when his attention was attracted by the following:

O GENTLEMEN READING FOR THE UNIVER- .—

“The pink ticket!” ejaculated Frank. “I must go there, read hard for two years, go up to Cambridge, get a scholarship, and try if I cannot live upon it. It has been done before, and, by Jove, it shall be again!” And in the excitement of the moment he folded up the paper, and was putting it in his pocket, when the landlady modestly suggested that it might be wanted again. Frank, however, easily obtained permission to cut out the particular advertisement in which he was interested.

His uncle did not coincide with his views, and told him frankly he could give him no assistance, except in the manner he had proposed: but