Sir John Constantine | Page 6

"Clivver boy, clivver boy!" said the voice of Billy Priske. "Lord, now,
what things they do teach here beside the Latin!"
The rogue said it, as I knew, to turn my father's suspicion, having
himself taught me the poacher's trick. But my uncle Gervase, whose
mind moved as slowly as it was easily diverted, answered with
gravity--
"It is hard knowing what may or may not be useful in after life, seeing
that God in His wisdom hides what that life is to be."
"Very true," agreed my father, with a twinkle, and took snuff.

"But--but what brings you here?" cried I, with a catch of the breath,
ignoring all this.
"Nevertheless, such comely lads as they be," my uncle continued, "God
will doubtless bring them to good. Comelier lads, brother, I never saw,
nor, I think, the sun never shined on; yet there was one, at the bowls
yonder, was swearing so it grieved me to the heart."
"Put on your clothes, boy," said my father, answering me. "We have
ridden far, but we bring no ill news; and to-morrow--I have the
Head-master's leave for it--you ride on with us to London."
"To London!" My heart gave another great leap, as every boy's must on
hearing that he is to see London for the first time. But here we all
turned at a cry from Billy Priske, between whose planted ankles Master
Fiennes had mischievously crept and was measuring the span between
with extended thumb and little finger. My father stooped, haled him to
his feet by the collar, and demanded what he did.
"Why, sir, he's a Colossus!" quoted that nimble youth;
"'and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peer about--'"
"And will find yourself a dishonourable grave," my father capped him.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Fiennes, sir; Nathaniel Fiennes." The lad saluted.
My father lifted his hat in answer. "Founder's kin?"
"I am here on that condition, sir."
"Then you are kinsman, as well as namesake, of him who saved our
Wykeham's tomb in the Parliament troubles. I felicitate you, sir, and
retract my words, for by that action of your kinsman's shall the graves
of all his race and name be honoured."
Young Fiennes bowed. "Compliments fly, sir, when gentlemen meet.
But"--and he glanced over his shoulder and rubbed the small of his

back expressively, "as a Wykehamist, you will not have me late at
names-calling."
"Go, boy, and answer to yours; they can call no better one." My father
dipped a hand in his pocket. "I may not invite you to breakfast with us
to-morrow, for we start early; and you will excuse me if I sin against
custom. . . . It was esteemed a laudable practice in my time." A gold
coin passed.
"Et in saecula saeculo--o--rum. Amen!" Master Fiennes spun the coin,
pocketed it, and went off whistling schoolwards over the meads.
My father linked his arm in mine and we followed, I asking, and the
three of them answering, a hundred questions of home. But why, or on
what business, we were riding to London on the morrow my father
would not tell. "Nay, lad," said he, "take your Bible and read that Isaac
asked no questions on the way to Moriah."
"My uncle, who overheard this, considered it for a while, and said--
"The difference is that you are not going to sacrifice Prosper."
The three were to lie that night at the George Inn, where they had
stabled their horses; and at the door of the Head-master's house, where
we Commoners lodged, they took leave of me, my father commending
me to God and good dreams. That they were happy ones I need not tell.
He was up and abroad early next morning, in time to attend chapel,
where by the vigour of his responses he set the nearer boys tittering;
two of whom I afterwards fought for it, though with what result I
cannot remember. The service, which we urchins heeded little, left him
pensive as we walked together towards the inn, and he paused once or
twice, with eyes downcast on the cobbles, and muttered to himself.
"I am striving to recollect my Morning Lines, lad," he confessed at
length, with a smile; "and thus, I think, they go. The great Sir Henry
Wotton, you have heard me tell of, in the summer before his death
made a journey hither to Winchester; and as he returned towards Eton

he said to a friend that went with him: 'How useful was that advice of
an old monk that we should perform our devotions in a constant place,
because we so meet again with the very thoughts which possessed us at
our last being there.' And, as Walton tells, 'I find it,'" he said, "'thus far
experimentally true, that