Before they entered the hospital, however, another encounter happened of a very different character. Strolling along in the centre of the pavement, endeavouring after the almost impossible combination of a yawn and a cigar, they perceived a large figure in a very long greatcoat, and with an aspect of languor and ennui which was unmistakable a hundred yards off. This apparition called a sudden exclamation from Northcote.
“If it was possible,” he said, “I should imagine I knew that man. Are there two like him? but I can’t fancy what he can be doing here.”
“That fellow!” said Reginald. “It’s a pity if there are two like him. I can’t tell you what a nuisance he is to me. His name is Copperhead; he’s my father’s pupil.”
“Then it is Copperhead! I thought there could not be another. He gives a sort of odd familiar aspect to the place all at once.”
“Then you are a friend of his!” said Reginald, with a groan. “Pardon the natural feelings of a man whose father has suddenly chosen to become a coach. I hate it, and my dislike to the thing is reflected on the person of the pupil. I suppose that’s what my antipathy means.”
“He does not merit antipathy. He is a bore, but there is no harm in him. Ah! he is quickening his pace; I am afraid he has seen us; and anybody he knows will be a godsend to him, I suppose.”
“I am off,” said Reginald; “you will come again? that is,” he added, with winning politeness, “I shall come and seek you out. We are each the moral Antipodes of the other, Miss Beecham says—from which she argues that we should be acquainted and learn the meaning of our differences.”
“I am much obliged to Miss Beecham.”
“Why, Northcote!” said Clarence Copperhead, bearing down upon them in his big grey Ulster, like a ship in full sail. “Morning, May; who’d have thought to see you here. Oh, don’t turn on my account! I’m only taking a walk; it don’t matter which way I go.”
“I am very much hurried. I was just about to hasten off to an appointment. Goodbye, Northcote,” said Reginald. “We shall meet again soon, I hope.”
“By Jove! this is a surprise,” said Clarence; “to see you here, where I should as soon have thought of looking for St. Paul’s; and to find you walking about cheek by jowl with that muff, young May, who couldn’t be civil, I think, if he were to try. What is the meaning of it? I suppose you’re just as much startled to see me. I’m with a coach; clever, and a good scholar and a good family, and all that; father to that young sprig: so there ain’t any mystery about me. What’s brought you here?”
“Work,” said Northcote, curtly. He did not feel disposed to enter into any kind of explanation.
“Oh, work! Now I do wonder that a fellow like you, with plenty of money in your pocket, should go in for work as you do. What’s the good of it? and in the Dissenting parson line of all things in the world! When a fellow has nothing, you can understand it; he must get his grub somehow. That’s what people think of you, of course. Me, I don’t do anything, and everybody knows I’m a catch, and all that sort of thing. Now I don’t say (for I don’t know) if your governor has as much to leave behind him as mine—But halt a bit! You walk as if we were going in for athletics, and doing a two mile.”
“I’m sorry to see you so easily blown,” said Northcote, not displeased in his turn to say something unpleasant. “What is it? or are you only out of training?”
“That’s it,” said Clarence, with a gasp. “I’m awfully out of training, and that’s the fact. We do, perhaps, live too well in Portland Place; but look here—about what we were saying—”
“Do you live with the Mays?”
“Worse luck! It’s what you call plain cooking; and bless us all, dinner in the middle of the day, and the children at table. But I’ve put a stop to that; and old May ain’t a bad old fellow—don’t bother me with work more than I like, and none of your high mightiness, like that fellow. I’ll tell you what, Northcote, you must come and see me. I haven’t got a sitting-room of my own, which is a shame, but I have the use of their rooms as much as I like. The sisters go flying away like a flock of pigeons. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have you asked to dinner. Capital fun it will be. A High Church parson cheek by jowl with a red-hot Dissenter, and compelled to be civil. By Jove! won’t it be a joke?”
“It is not a joke that either of us will enjoy.”
“Never mind, I’ll enjoy it, by Jove!” said Copperhead. “He daren’t say no. I’d give sixpence just to see you together, and the Bashaw of two tails—the young fellow. They shall have a party; leave it all to me.”
XXVIII
The New Pupil
Mr. May, since the bargain was fairly concluded with the Copperheads, had thought a great deal about the three hundred a-year he was to get for his pupil. It almost doubled his income in a moment, and that has a great effect upon the imagination. It was true he would have another person to maintain on this additional income, but still that additional person would
