Bob Cheriot, Esq.; or, The Tragedy at Chelmsford

by Warren Walters

I invited Robert Cheriot, Esq., to Chelmsford to pass Christmastide. Chelmsford was my father’s home in Lancashire. Emma and Angelica were the reigning deities of the place. My dear mother was sleeping in the quiet kirkyard, and my father was one of those quiet old gentlemen whose peculiarities are indigenous to the English nation. Mrs. Rulison, governess to Frank and Gertie, was the only other person beside myself who dined at the family table. It was two years since my mother’s death, and my sire wished to celebrate the holidays after the old fashion, and had invited a great number of people to the manor—old friends and schoolmates with their full complement of wives and daughters. I, of course, had my friends and my sisters theirs. A goodly crowd there was, too. I was glad of this change, for at times I detected a little morbidness in the genial composition of my father. Bob Cheriot was the one of all others I desired to see, as I had not met him for four or five years, and he had just returned from a tour in America. Bob was quite the best style of a fellow one would wish to meet with. He and I were of the same class in college, inseparable “in the cups,” on the race-course, at the battle, and over the precious little intellectual oil we consumed. It makes me glow when I think of those by-gone days, and it seems as if every character made upon this paper ought to dance at the mere recollection. Bob had saved me from “the Jews,” carried me home when wine had caused my walk and conversation to be anything but correct. Bob had saved me from an almost certain death. God bless him! Bob had proved the best-hearted, loyal friend I ever had or expect to have among men. I do not think he was particularly brilliant in the way of studies, but his high spirits and bright manner gave him an entree into all men’s confidence and… Read More