"One of Miss Chandos's tricks for serving us out," I heard Jackson whisper to Tom,
"Well, that's all very well, you see, Stewart, but you've been using cribs with us for ever so long, and so you must stick to them now."
"I shan't," I said. "I mean to act on the square."
"Go on the square for anything else you like, but you mustn't throw us overboard in this crib business. We're all in the same boat, you see, Charley, and it won't do; the other fellows don't like it."
"Then they can lump it," I said; and I was turning away, but Tom ran after me.
"Now, be reasonable, old fellow; I've stuck up for you," he said, "for Jackson and the rest wanted to kick up a row as soon as they found you were doing your lessons on the square; but I said, 'Let him be a bit, and have his own way; he'll soon be glad of cribs again.'"
"But I don't mean to have anything to do with them again, I tell you, Tom; it's downright dishonest."
"Hoighty toighty—dishonest! You'll tell us next we're all thieves!" said Tom, angrily.
"What's that he says?" asked Collins, who happened to hear the last words.
"Oh, he's setting up for a Solomon after the Chandos pattern; says we are all dishonest—little better than thieves, of course."
"What do you mean, Stewart?" said Collins, turning upon me fiercely.
"Just what I say—what I told Tom—it isn't honest to use cribs, and I've done with them."
"You'll have to ask us about that now, Stewart; we've helped you, and we'll do it again, though you have served us this shabby trick, for it won't do, you know, to have another kick-up with Swain about your wretched construing. This may blow over, but the next won't, and then we shall all be in for it."
"Why don't you give the muff a good pommelling?" said Jackson; "he's done no end of mischief. It's no better than peaching to serve us such a shabby trick. Swain suspects us, I know."
"Look here, Jackson, a fight will just bring the whole thing out, and we shall all be condemned to no end of grind if it does. There'll be no time for the playground or cricket-field or anything else; we shall just be worked like galley-slaves, for the governor will have all the old lessons done over again by way of extra impositions. I know him better than you; but if you'll just keep cool and take my advice we may all escape."
"Now then, boys, listen to the words of the sage," said one of the fellows, elbowing his way to the front.
"Go on, Collins, make us a speech," said another.
"It ain't much of a speech. You must give up cribs now."
"Oh, that's all cram; we can't do it," said Tom.
"We must."
"We shall all look as interesting as Stewart did to-day when we go up. I say, why didn't you put your finger in your mouth, Stewart?" he asked.
I was too angry to answer, but the rest burst into a loud laugh, and I punched one fellow's head, but Collins wouldn't let us have a fair stand-up fight, and so I walked away, leaving them to settle about the cribs as they liked; but Tom came to me afterwards, and said that the fellows had agreed to use no more cribs for a fortnight, but after that I must do as the rest did, or they would send me to Coventry.
February 20th.—Mrs. Chandos is still here nursing Frank. I go into his room to see him every day for a few minutes; but there isn't time for anything now except on half-holidays, for it is grind, grind, grind all day long, and the worst of it is we get impositions, and the masters are cross because all the construing is done so badly. I wonder who invented cribs. It's an easy way of getting over the lessons at first, but a fellow is nicely floored if he has to do without them for a bit, as we have just now. I fancy, too, that Swain suspects what is going on, and is watching to catch some of us, for we have heard nothing since the day of the row—not a word more about my being sent to the governor.
I wish it wasn't so hard to do everything on the square. Chandos says I find it hard because I made a bad beginning when I came here, and the longer I go on without altering this the harder it will be to alter. He gave me quite a lecture about this last night—about everything in my life depending upon the sort of beginning I make now. I laughed, and told him he ought to be a parson, and I should expect to see him preaching at some street corner if they wouldn't give him a gown and pulpit; but though I laughed I cannot help thinking he may be right after all. I suppose these lessons they give us to learn will be useful in some way, and when I leave school I shall be supposed to know all about them, as Swain thinks I know all about the construing in my exercise-book, and it may be more awkward by-and-by not to know it than it is now. I'll try to think of this. Dear old Chandos, I like to tease him a bit about his lectures, and yet I like him to talk to me as he does.
I can understand now how it is he is so grave and quiet. He is the eldest son, and his mother talks to him as though he was Frank's father. What a pity it is he cannot have his wish and be a doctor. It's cruel, I think, that people can't have their own way about things like this. I couldn't give up going to sea, as Chandos has given up his wish.
March 4th.—The fortnight is up, and cribs are coming in fashion again, but everybody is very careful, for Swain is still on the look-out, I can see. Last night I had a talk with Chandos about it, and he says if I am firm the boys will not send me to Coventry, as they threaten. Jackson and a few others may bully me a bit, but the school will not be led by them.
To tell the truth, I am not so much afraid of Jackson and that lot as of the endless grind I shall have to do to keep on the square and do without cribs. I wish I'd never begun with them, and it wouldn't be so hard now, but once begun, it seems almost impossible to leave them off.
I said something of this to Chandos, and he said if I asked God's help I should not find things so difficult; but I don't see how praying can help me with my lessons or make them any easier, but still I mean to keep on.
March 12th.—The fellows are awfully rusty because I won't use cribs. Yesterday Tom came to talk to me about it—the first time he has spoken for a week, for most of the fellows have kept their word, and sent me to Coventry for it.
"Now look here, Charley, the fellows have sent me to speak to you once more—mind, it's the last time—and if you ain't reasonable now you won't have another chance."
"If it is about cribs you can hold your tongue, for I've made up my mind long ago," I said.
"Oh, that's all cram. It won't do to come over us with that tale, you know, Charley; you've used 'em for months and months before you came here, I know, and you'll be glad enough to use 'em again; but you'll find then the fellows won't help you, and so I've come to give you one more chance. Now then, yes or no?"
"No," I said, firmly.
"Oh, I'm not going to take your answer in such a hurry as all that. Just think a bit, old fellow, what you'll do when the summer comes, and you have to sit stewing over your lessons in that musty old class-room while we are in the cricket-field. Why, you'll never get that big ship of yours finished unless you take to cribs again."
"I can't help it," I said, sulkily, and wishing all the time I could get my lessons done sooner.
"Oh yes, you can, and you needn't think to cram me with the tale that you are fond of grind, because I know better. You hate it like poison, and if you weren't afraid of Miss Chandos and her slow-going lot you'd take to cribs again like a sensible fellow."
"Who says I'm afraid of Chandos?"
"I do, and so do the other fellows; and she's just taking all the spirit out of you, and making you as big a coward as she is herself."
"I tell you, Tom, you're mistaken in thinking Chandos is a coward, and I'll fight any fellow that dares to say so."
"Oh, everybody knows you can fight, but that isn't the thing. I haven't come to quarrel with you, Charley, but to talk over this. Look here now, things are getting awfully dull and slow. We haven't had a real good lark this half, for all our time has to be spent in grind."
"You and Collins and Jackson always get done in good time."
"Yes, and a few others besides, but some of them talk about giving up cribs through you, and it ain't fair. Swain will find out about the cribs if you are so much longer over your lessons than we are. Mind, this isn't the only thing, Charley. We're old chums—"
"We were at one time, Tom, but I can't forget that farm-yard business," I put in.
"Oh, botheration to the farm-yard! That was months and months ago, and everybody has forgotten that, if you haven't."
"I'm not so sure of that, Tom," I said.
Tom put his hands into his pockets and whistled. After a minute or two he said, "Well, Charley, you'll never be the sailor I thought you would."
"Bother being a sailor! What's that got to do with it?" I said. "You were talking about our being chums."
"Well, only this—sailors don't bear malice like you."
"I don't bear malice. It isn't that at all. You didn't hurt me, except that I felt I'd lost my old chum, when you did that sneaking business, and let Chandos take your punishment."
"Oh, bother Chandos! I'm sick of hearing the young lady's name, and I didn't come to talk about her, but about these cribs. I tell you, Charley, if you don't take them up again there'll be no fun this half."
"We can live without fun, I suppose," I said, crossly.
"I suppose we can, but you were always up to anything in that line. But now—well, there's been nothing since the skating but just maundering about like a parcel of girls."
"Would you like that skating business over again?—because I shouldn't! I do like a good lark as well as anybody, but I may as well tell you straight out, Tom, I mean to go on the square with our larks as well as with lessons. I shan't forget how near Frank Chandos was to dying for one while, and I mean to be careful in that direction for the future, for I shouldn't like to be a murderer, even in fun."
CHAPTER VI.
WAS IT ROBBERY?
April 13th.—A month since I wrote up my log. I have been home for a few days' holiday, but the rest has been all grind, and not a single lark. I'm afraid I shan't be able to hold out much longer; and yet it seems jolly mean when God has made Frank Chandos almost well, and saved me from being miserable all my life.
I had a letter from Frank yesterday, and he says he can run about—clamber over the rocks and build castles in the sand now. I wish I was at the seaside, though it would be better to be on the sea. I shall run away soon to get away from this grind if something don't happen, though I'm not sure that it wouldn't be as mean as cribbing. The fellows have sent me to Coventry over that, and everything is as dull as can be. I wish something would happen; even a row would be a change.
April 20th.—Something has happened, or is going to happen, at least; and I've laughed so much already over it that my sides ached. Yesterday morning I heard a knocking at our bedroom door just before the dressing-bell rang.
"Who's there?" I called out.
"Hush up and come out here," came a whisper through the keyhole.
I knew it was Tom, and though I felt inclined to give him a turn at Coventry at first, I got up and opened the door.
"Now then, what's the row? Have you set all the water-jugs on fire?" I asked.
"We want you in our room a minute. Is Miss Chandos asleep?" he added.
"It ain't likely, with all the row you've been making at this door. What do you want, Tom? You know I'm in Coventry."
"Well, you won't be much longer. We'll give up about the cribs, Charley; you've beat us. But slip on some of your things and come into our room. Collins wants to speak to you. He's got some news."
"And a hamper too, hasn't he?"
"Yes, but there wasn't much besides clothes, and that's what's put him out."
"Does he think I'm to blame, then?" I said.
"No, but he thinks you might help him fill it. But come on, Charley, now, before Swain comes. We must think of something at once."
"I shan't be a minute, Chandos," I said, slipping my head inside the door; and then I followed Tom to his room. This is a good deal larger than ours, and has six beds in it, Jackson, Collins, and Tom, with three others, sleeping here. They were all perched on Collins's bed when we went in, talking over the matter upon which Tom had been dispatched.
"I say, Stewart, you'll promise us, first of all, not to tell what goes on here, even if you shouldn't join the fun?"
"Did you ever know me to turn sneak, any of you fellows?" I asked, rather angrily.
"You need not get your back up, Stewart; we only asked you a civil question, and you might give us a civil answer. It's all right, though; I don't believe you'd peach."
"No, I wouldn't."
"Well, I believe you. Now, look here. The governor's birthday is on the twenty-fourth, and we shall have a holiday—a whole holiday, this year, as I happen to know; for I overheard Swain talking about the weather being unusually fine, and the boys having worked very steadily lately; they were to have the whole day to spend at Dinglewell. You've never been to Dinglewell, have you, Stewart?"
"No, but I've heard about it."
"Oh, it's the jolliest place! and we can do pretty much as we like in the woods. There's only one thing they're mean about, and that's the grub. Sandwiches and stale buns I don't relish, especially when I think of the pantry shelves almost cracking with the good things at home; for you must know there's always a grand dinner-party in the evening, and cook begins preparing for it days beforehand. I tell you, Stewart, it's enough to make a fellow's mouth water to see the pies and tarts and custards standing there."
"You're not obliged to look at them, I suppose?"
"Oh, it's not the looking at them I object to, but the not tasting; and I mean to remedy that this year. Are you game for a lark?"
"Just try me, that's all!" I said.
"Charley's good for any lark that don't hurt anybody," said Tom.
"Then this will fit him as nicely as possible, for nobody will be hurt. Even the governor himself will laugh over it, and we shall have a jolly feed into the bargain."
"You mean to have some of the pies and tarts out of cook's pantry, then?"
"Exactly, old fellow. You'd help us, I know."
"What am I to do?" I asked; "and how are you going to get them away—put them in your pockets?"
"Pockets be bothered! No, everybody knows I had a hamper from home yesterday, and I mean to let the school think it was stuffed full of good things, and that I mean to save them until we go to Dinglewell."
"Oh, I see," I said, laughing; but there wasn't time to say any more, for the bell rang, and I was obliged to hurry back to my room, for there's no telling when or where Swain will turn up in the morning.
Chandos looked at me when I got back, but he would not ask any questions, and of course I can't split on the other fellows.
Later in the day I had another talk with Collins about clearing the larder, and we agreed to do it the night before we went to Dinglewell; and the things were to be packed in his hamper, and Swain is to be asked beforehand to let it go in the cart with the other grub and things. This is the best of the whole fun, to think Swain should help us clear the governor's larder. I laughed until Collins declared I should bring it all out and spoil it. I wouldn't be out of this fun for anything. I only wish I could be at home when cook finds it out. I'd give my share of the fun to see the scare.
April 23rd.—I've only time for a line before Chandos comes in, and the other fellows don't want him to know anything of what's going on. We've done it—cleared the larder of every pie and custard we could get hold of. I thought we should be caught once, and my hair almost stood on end as I heard cook's voice outside the door; but she went on, and so did we. I handed the things to Collins through the window, and each fellow in the secret took something and stole up to his room with it, and now they are all safely packed in the hamper, and Swain has promised it shall go in the cart. Poor old Swain, if he only knew what he had promised! But he'll never know that he helped to clear the governor's pantry, although he'll pull a long face to-morrow when he comes home and finds there's precious little to eat. The best of the fun is, they won't find out that they're gone until dinner is nearly ready, for the precious things were packed on the top shelves out of the way, and I nearly broke my neck once trying to reach them. I wonder what Chandos will say about this when he hears of it? He is looking forward to the fun we shall have in the woods to-morrow as much as anybody. I wonder whether he would think this innocent fun? I don't think I shall go to the feed, though I helped to get the things, for Collins won't ask him, which I think is rather mean of him, considering that Chandos had to stay here for the Easter holidays, while the rest of us went home for a fortnight.
I wonder what we shall do with the dishes when we've eaten the pies! We can't bring 'em home, that's certain, and Swain mustn't see them either, and he'll expect to be invited, for Collins has pitched him a fine yarn about the things his mother has sent for this feed. I must ask Collins what he means to do about this, for if we don't look out the crockery will spoil the whole game. What a pity it is they can't make pies without dishes! I almost wish I'd only brought those little tarts that Collins carried away in his handkerchief. They got broken a bit, and some of the jam ran out, but they're just as good broken as whole, and there's no dishes to worry about. Bother the dishes! I must go and speak to him about them before Chandos comes up. I wonder why he is downstairs so long after time. Surely he can't have any mischief on hand!
April 25th.—Our holiday is over, and the fun too; but I'm afraid we haven't heard the last of the governor's pies. If he only knew what a bother they were to us after all, and how often we wished them back in the pantry even before we had eaten them, he would feel more comfortable about it, I should think, for it's the last time I'll ever have anything to do with robbing a larder, even for a lark. It was all through the dishes. Nobody knew how we were to get rid of them, and some of the fellows got so frightened they wanted to pitch the whole lot away. But we couldn't do that, even if Collins and Jackson would have agreed to it, for the hamper had gone in the cart, and we couldn't get at it until Swain said, soon after we reached Dinglewell, "Would you like your hamper left with the other things until dinner-time, Collins?"
"I don't think so, sir, Stewart and Jackson, and a few more of us, are going to look for ferns, and so we can carry the hamper, and if we shouldn't get back by dinner-time it won't matter."
"I don't know so much about that," said Swain, turning rather rusty; "I cannot let you stray miles off. You may take the hamper, of course, but you must not go beyond the old tower, and then I shall know where to find you if you are wanted."
"The contrary old hunks—he's never done that before!" grumbled Collins, as we turned away, carrying the hamper between us.
We didn't feel very jolly about the thing now, and I wished I could back out of it and join the football party with Chandos and the rest. We might have been carrying a coffin with the body of somebody we'd killed, by the solemn way we marched along. As soon as we were away from Swain and the rest I said, "Now let's pitch all the rubbish down the first hole we can find."
"That's your own throat, I suppose, Stewart," said Jackson.
"No, I don't want a bit; I've had enough thinking of the dishes," I said.
"Oh, hang the dishes! I wish you hadn't thought of them at all, or had left them in the pantry," said Collins.
"Well, I like that—after dragging me into the scrape to grumble at me for helping! Now, look here, I've had enough of the fun, and will give up the feed to you, and go back to the rest, if you like."
"And leave me to take care of the precious dishes! I knew you were a coward, Stewart."
"No, I'm not a coward, and I'll stay and see it out, if you like. We must smash the dishes up, you know, and throw the bits about. Swain will never see anything of them then."
"Bravo, Charley! What a pity we hadn't thought of that before! Now, then, let's find a place where we can be sure to be to ourselves, and when we've cleared out the good things we'll begin the smashing business."
It did not take us long to demolish the pies and custards, and each dish as it was emptied was broken into pieces, and we amused ourselves by throwing these as far as we could in every direction.
It was quite a relief when the last tart was eaten and the last dish scattered, and I then proposed returning to the others, for, our penance over, surely we might have some play now.
"You forget we've come fern-grubbing," said Collins. "I propose that, as we have robbed the governor of his dinner, we should take him something for his fernery. It will help to ward off suspicion, too, I should think; it ought, I am sure."
"I am not at all sure," I said, "and I know nothing about ferns either."
"He wants to get back to his nurse," laughed Jackson.
"Miss Chandos said he mustn't be long," put in Tom, provokingly; but the next minute he had measured his length on the ground, for if I did want to have a game with Chandos I wasn't going to be told of it by Tom.
Then the fellows all turned rusty, and there was something of a fight, until about the middle of the afternoon we were so tired of each other and our fruitless search for ferns that we threw the hamper away and went back to the rest.
"I knew you wouldn't get any ferns," said Swain, when he heard of the result of our expedition. "I suppose you have had your dinner?" he added, speaking rather stiffly.
"Yes, sir," answered Collins; and we were glad to turn away, for we fancied he looked at us very suspiciously.
We had certainly missed the fun to-day in our eagerness to grasp it; for seven more disagreeable, disconsolate boys it would be hard to find than we, as we sauntered towards the two football parties, who were running, shouting, laughing, and evidently enjoying the game wonderfully.
There seemed to be no room for us now, and we stood about watching the fun as it grew more fast and furious. Chandos saw me at last, and ran across to where I was standing.
"Why, Stewart, where have you been all day? What made you run away from this football? It has been such glorious play!"
"I'm glad you've enjoyed it. I've been with Collins and the rest to look for some ferns."
"To look for ferns! Why, Collins must know that ferns don't grow in Dinglewell Forest; at least, I never saw any," said Chandos.
"I don't think they do, for we couldn't find them either, and so we came back."
"Well, you'll join the game now, won't you? Come on, we'll make room for you."
"No, I don't care about it to-day," I said, for I began to feel a kind of dizziness in my head. I had felt sick for the last hour, but this pain in my head was something quite new, and I began to fear I should be ill. Certainly I had no inclination to join in the mêlée over the ball, and only wanted to be left alone.
The miserable day came to an end at last, and I was glad enough to go home and go to bed, and I fancy Tom and one or two of the others felt as bad as I did, although nobody complained or even owned to having a headache, for fear Swain should suspect us when he heard of the robbery. Robbery! what an ugly word that is! But of course it isn't as though we really stole things; we only took the pies for fun, which is different from common stealing, only we missed the fun altogether this time.
We expected to hear all about the affair when we came home—that the cook had gone into hysterics and the governor fainted, or something like that; but we did not hear a single word, and of course we couldn't ask.
Yesterday we did hear a little bit from the housemaid; but she didn't know who the governor suspected. She thought it was burglars, and of course we said it must be, and sent the whisper through the school that burglars had broken into the pantry.
One of the juniors was so frightened at the word "robbers," that he went and asked Swain if he thought they would come any more, or whether he had better write and ask his mamma to send for him.
"Who has been telling you this tale about burglars and robbers? It is nothing to be afraid of. Burglars such as you are thinking of don't come to steal pies and custards. We shall find out the thief or thieves very soon, I have no doubt."
I have been wondering ever since I heard this whether Swain suspects us after all, or whether he just said it to pacify the youngster. Not a word has been said about it by the governor, and so I am inclined to think we shall get off without any further punishment. It will only be fair after all, for if the governor knew how his precious pies spoiled all our holiday, and how miserable and sick they made us feel, he wouldn't want to serve us out any more by way of making us remember it. I'm not likely to forget or repeat it again, for a day like that is worse than the hardest grind at Euclid.
CHAPTER VII.
A SURPRISE.
April 30th.—There's been a most awful row, and the fellows say I turned rat—at least, Jackson and Collins have sent me to Coventry over it; but I should do it again if there was the same occasion, for how could I let a poor servant lose her place and her character through one of my larks? The governor must be a drivelling donkey not to suspect us instead of the servants.
I always fancied that Swain did smell a rat until Young came tearing up to me with the tale that the police were to be sent for to search the kitchen-maid's boxes.
"Why, what's the row now?" I asked.
"They can't find out anything clear about those pies; but it's pretty certain the kitchen-maid has been giving away bread and meat, which, it seems, is against the rules, and they think she has handed the pies away too—sold them, perhaps."
"Sold your grandmother! Young, you're not such a muff as to think the servants did that, are you?"
"I don't know what to think. It couldn't be burglars, you know."
"Of course not, it was us. I did most of the business, and I'm off to the governor now to tell him all about it;" and, leaving Young staring with all his eyes, I rushed indoors past Swain, who stood near the schoolroom door, and bolted on to the master's study. I could hardly wait for him to say "Come in;" but when I opened the door all my courage seemed to have gone, and I felt ready to run away again.
"Did you wish to speak to me, Stewart?"
"Yes, sir; please, sir, it's about the pies," I said, hardly knowing how to begin.
"You mean the robbery that has been committed lately?"
"Please, sir, I never thought about it's being a robbery when I took them."
"You took them! You robbed my pantry, Stewart?"
"It wasn't a robbery, sir—it was only a lark. I did not want the pies to eat; it was just for the fun."
"And what did you do with them?" asked the governor, sternly.
"Well, sir, Mr. Swain helped us get them away, although he didn't know it;" and then bit by bit it all came out. I tried to screen Collins and the rest, but somehow there was no getting over the governor's close questions, and he sent for them, and gave us all a lecture and then a long imposition. I hate impositions and all sorts of grind, but I didn't mind that so much, for after all the governor didn't give it us so stiff as he might—as I thought he would; and that poor girl is not to lose her place after all.
I thought when the impositions were got over there would be an end of the affair; but it seems I shall for ever be nagged about it—called a rat, a sneak, a coward. Tom says I need not have been in such a hurry to run off to the governor—that if the police had come they would not have found the empty dishes in her box, and so she would not have lost her place, and we could still have kept our secret.
Chandos, too, talks something like the governor. According to them it was an actual robbery, although I did it in fun. The result was the same, they say, and it might have led to disastrous consequences if I had not told the whole truth about it; and then he went on to say it was not keeping the promise I had made when Frank was so ill.
"Well, how in the world is a fellow to keep straight for ever?" I said.
"What pleasure did you get out of this?"
"None at all, as it happened, and it's the last pantry I'll rob; but still—" and there I stopped.
"I suppose you mean to say you will get into some other mischief at the first opportunity?"
"Well, how am I to keep out of it?" I asked.
"What pleasure did you ever get by it? Now, I know you did not enjoy the holiday at Dinglewell as I did, and yet—"
"No, that I didn't," I said; "it was the most miserable day I ever spent, and I'll never rob a pantry any more, even for fun. I tell you, Chandos, I'd like to keep straight if I could, but how can I? I've tried, and tried hard, ever since that affair of poor Frank's. I've never touched a crib since, I give you my word, and you don't know how hard it is to leave off when once you've begun on that tack."
"I know it must be hard work, and I think you have done very well in resisting as you have the temptation to use cribs; but you might have done better, Stewart, if you were not so proud."
"Proud!" I said. "Nobody ever called me that before. Sailors are never proud, you know."
"Well, you are, or you would accept the help a Friend is waiting to give you if you were not."
"Now, Chandos, that isn't fair," I said. "I have always been willing to accept help and take advice from you."
"I wasn't speaking of myself, but of One who cares for you far more than I do, although I feel sorry enough when you go wrong, and get into scrapes, and make people miserable, as you often do through your thoughtlessness."
"I suppose you mean my mother? But I tell you, Chandos, she expects it—she knows boys can't keep out of mischief."
"But I know they can; and it wasn't your mother I was thinking of just now, but God."
"But—but you don't think He cares much about it, do you, Chandos? He can't, you know."
"You believe that I care, don't you—at least a little?"
"Well, yes, I do, for you have always been my friend, and helped me out of a scrape, and given me good advice; but—but it's different about God," I said.
"Why is it different? He is your Friend, who cares far more for your welfare than I do, and He is more anxious to see you do well—live a pure, honest, upright life—than I can be; and yet you will not accept the help He alone can give, and by which alone you can conquer this inclination to get into mischief and often do such great wrong."
"God is my Friend?" I repeated. "Look here, Chandos, if I could believe that—well, I don't know what I should do, but somehow I should want to be different. I almost wish it could be true."
"It is true, Stewart, as true as truth, as true as you and I are standing here. I wish you would believe that God feels a personal interest in you, as much as though you were the only schoolboy in the world."
"I wish I could. But somehow, Chandos, it seems so strange—too wonderful, you know, to be true, that God—the great God who made heaven and earth—can care for a harum-scarum lot like us."
"Yes, it is wonderful; but you know the Lord Jesus Christ cared so much for this harum-scarum world and all the people in it that He was content to die—to lay down His life to bring them to God."
"Yes, I've heard something about it in church; and since I've been trying to do the square thing and write bits of the sermon, I've heard about it there too; but then it never seemed to me that it could be for boys. God the friend of boys like me? Why, look here, Chandos; if the governor was to proclaim himself my friend it would be an honour, you know; but look at the difference! I take it that you mean I could go and tell God about every little scrape and trouble I got into, and He would help me out of it?"
"Or help you to bear it, as the case might be. That is exactly what I do mean, Stewart."
"You do; and you believe it?"
"Believe it; of course I believe it. I don't know how I should get on if I did not," said Chandos; and I am sure he spoke truly.
"Well, perhaps I may come to believe it too some day, but I can't now—not just in the way you do. Of course I know we ought to pray and do the square thing; but as long as we do that and go to church it always seemed to me that God wouldn't trouble Himself about us any further. I have been doing the square thing too lately; at least, I've tried at it, and isn't that enough?"
"But, Stewart, according to your belief, we should all be the slaves of God—doing just what we were obliged, for fear of punishment, and no more. God does not ask, will not accept such service as that. Don't you remember the text of last Sunday, 'My son, give Me thine heart,' and what the minister said of God desiring our will, our affection to be given to Him? The service would follow then quite naturally, he said; and when I heard it I was thinking of you—thinking you had begun at the wrong end, trying to force yourself into giving God service without any heart or love or pleasure in it."
"Yes, you're about right, Chandos," I said; "but I don't see how it could be different. God made Frank well, and I promised that if He would do that and save me from being miserable all my life I'd do the square thing; and I'm not mean enough to back out of the bargain if I can help it."
"But, Stewart, you do not surely think that God answered our prayers for Frank just because He wanted to tie you to this miserable bondage—for it is bondage, slavery—this service which you know ought to be and is 'perfect freedom' to those who begin at the right end, and not the wrong—by giving their hearts—their will and love to God."
"Well, I don't know. Of course God wants me to be good, I suppose."
"But He would never take such an advantage of us as you suppose—making a bargain with us, as it were. No, no, Stewart, you have made a great mistake about this. God heard and answered our prayers because He pitied our distress and loved you too well to let the miserable consequences of your thoughtless mischief follow you through all your life; and you ought to return love for love, and not treat God as though you thought Him a hard taskmaster."
"Well, I don't know; you may be right, Chandos, but I don't see how I am to begin. What a pity it is you are not going to be a parson!"
I couldn't help saying that, and I meant it too.
May 5th.—Something has happened that I never thought did happen anywhere except in books. Chandos, that so many of the boys have looked down upon as being poor and beneath them, because he never seemed to have any pocket money to spend, like the rest of us, has suddenly become a baronet—Sir Eustace Chandos, of Chandos Court, and I don't know how many other places besides. It came upon us like a thunderbolt, for Chandos never told us his uncle was a baronet, or that he had any relatives but the merchant uncle. He did tell me a few weeks ago that he had just heard of the sudden death of his two cousins, but he did not say any more, except that he had not seen them above twice in his life. I suppose he may have thought it would make no great difference to him, as his uncle was not a very old man; but now his uncle has just died too, and our Miss Chandos becomes Sir Eustace. Well, I only wish his uncle had put off dying a little bit longer—just till I felt more settled about things; but now I feel sure I shall run away to sea if the mother don't come round and give her consent.
May 12th.—Bravo! Sir Eustace is not going to leave us just yet. It seems his brother Frank is just coming back, and he prefers to stay another year, and then he will go to college, I suppose. It don't seem to have made a bit of difference in him either. I thought perhaps he might like to drop our friendship now he was so rich and I still poor Charley Stewart, but he seemed hurt at the bare suggestion, and so I am to call him Chandos as usual, and we shall share the room just the same as though nothing had happened. I have thought a good deal about this the last two days. I know a good many fellows would have packed up their traps and gone off at once, or else held their heads so high that a poor chap like me would never be able to speak to them; and I've been wondering whether it's Chandos having learned so many things about God that makes him different in this. I've thought, too, that perhaps after all, as Chandos is just as willing to be my friend now he is Sir Eustace, that God may be my friend, as he said, though I can hardly get used to the thought yet.
May 20th.—There has been a tremendous row over the prize essay by which Tom won the watch last Christmas. After all this time, when everybody thought it was forgotten—though a good many of us did wonder then how Tom managed it—now it is found out that it was all made up of cribs, some taken from books, and some from notes that one of the older fellows lost. Somebody must have turned rat, Tom says. He is in an awful rage at having to give up the watch, but the governor insisted; and now Tom is as dull and looks as miserable as he can be, for the school has sent him to Coventry over it, which is very mean, I think, seeing they upheld him last winter, when a good many at least knew he had no right to try for this prize. He must wish he had let Chandos take his chance now, I should think. I cannot help pitying him, and Chandos and I have agreed not to join the school this time, though the other fellows threaten us with Coventry for speaking to Tom as we do.
The sea fever, as Chandos calls it, has suddenly seized Tom again, and he is always talking about it, as though we were both sure of going. I wish we were; but Tom's father says he has no real liking for it, and therefore won't let him go, and my mother is afraid. Oh dear! if mother would only give her consent! but she never will, I am afraid, and there will be nothing for it but to run away. Tom says we had better make up our minds to go from here before next Christmas. If it wasn't for the talks I've had with Chandos I'd do it; but I think I must give the mother one more chance, and see if I can't persuade her in the holidays to let me go. I wish I could think of something to please her very much; I'd do anything to get her consent to my going to sea.
June 4th.—I've been talking to Chandos. He says I have got the sea fever very bad this time, and he is afraid some of the other boys will catch the infection. I know what he means. He is afraid his brother may learn to like the sea from hearing so much about it from Tom, for the two are always together now. But I don't think he need to be afraid, Frank would never do for the sea, I am sure. He has persuaded me not to tease my mother too much about these plans of mine these holidays, but to go in for lots of grind next half, and get a prize at Christmas, and then, perhaps, when she sees I have really been industrious with my lessons, and yet love the sea as dearly as ever, she will be more likely to yield.
The plan may be a good one—I think it is, but it's precious hard. Grind is not quite such a trouble as it was at first, but still it's bad enough; and what with no cribs, and the extra I shall have to do if I am to have a chance of taking a prize, it is just enough to turn my brain. I scratch my head and pull a long face every time I think of it, but still I think I will try it, hard as it is.
June 12th.—Mrs. Chandos has sent a very pressing invitation for mamma and me to pay them a visit at Chandos Court, and of course Sir Eustace is quite eager that I should accept it. Not that he wants to show off his grandeur, I could never believe that of Chandos.
CHAPTER VIII.
RUNNING AWAY TO SEA.
August.—We are back at school once more, and I am going to begin grinding in real earnest for this prize. The mater has half consented, or at least half promised, to give her consent if I get this prize. Mrs. Chandos talked her into this, I fancy, while we were staying at the Court. What a jolly time we had there, in spite of its being awfully grand! Everybody calls Chandos the "young baronet" about there, and people touch their caps to him as though he were a great swell, as I suppose he is. I never thought there was so much fun in him as I know there is now. He seems to love fun as much as any of us, only he is very careful that his pleasure does not give any one else pain, which makes all the difference in our way of getting fun; and I fancy his enjoyment of it is deeper after all.
September 1st.—There is to be an extra prize given for Latin this year, and the examination is to take place early in December. Chandos wants me to go in for this, but I am half afraid. It will want such lots of grind. He says learning would not be so much trouble to me if I would only make up my mind to like it; but I don't think I shall ever do this. But still I must get one prize at Christmas somehow; and having done my lessons so long on the square, without even touching a crib, I think I may manage it without quite killing myself.
September 14th.—I wish prizes had never been invented—never been thought of. I believe it's done just to plague boys. Here we are working like galley slaves; and if I don't go on grind, grind, Chandos whispers, "You forget the prize—you are going to sea." No, I don't forget it; I have been thinking of it more than ever lately, and so has Tom. He means to run away and get to Liverpool before the winter sets in, and of course he wants me to go with him, and calls me "rat" and "coward" because I will not promise. Of course I don't mean to split on him, for I can't help wishing I could go too; but somehow, now that it seems possible I may get my mother's consent to go in a proper manner—go as a midshipman in the Navy—I would rather wait, although I do hate the grind.
Chandos says I shall have to grind harder still if I go to the Naval College at Greenwich; but I won't mind that so much, for the grind will be about ships and navigation, and not the stupid things we have to learn here.
October 12th.—Tom means to go. Everything is so miserable here, he says. The fellows have been rather hard upon him, I think, considering they all backed him up to keep Chandos out of trying for the watch last year. Well, he don't want a watch now, but he's going in for as much grind as though he did, or as though he was still poor, and going to mount his uncle's office stool, instead of living in all the glory of Chandos Court. But I began about Tom. He means to be missing some fine morning, and to make his way to Liverpool. He thinks he shall be sure to get a ship there, and is to write to me and his father just before he sails. He don't mean to write to the governor at all, because he was so mean about the watch. We always talked about selling that to pay our expenses on the road, for of course Tom don't want to beg; and to save him from this I have given him all the pocket-money I had left, which was only half-a-crown and twopence, for I never can keep money long, now that old woman with the bulls'-eyes comes to the playground gate so often. Poor Tom! I wish I had more I could give him, for things have been pretty hard for him here lately, though I dare say he deserved it for the mean trick he served Chandos. What a scare it will be when they first find out that Tom has gone! I shall have to keep quiet, though—hear, see, and say nothing, as they tell the youngsters, for I cannot pretend to be anxious when I know all about it, and I don't mean to split on Tom. Sometimes I fancy that Chandos minor is in the secret. Tom is stupid if he lets too many know what he is up to. I should have kept my own counsel, and not let Chandos know this.
October 14th.—The house is all in commotion. Nothing has gone on in its proper order, and everybody seems to be wondering what will happen next. Tom has gone—run away to sea, as the boys are whispering to each other; but that is not the worst. I knew he meant going when he said "Good night" to me last night, and so I risked the imposition I might get, and stayed in my room this morning until Chandos came rushing in, looking white and scared.
"Is Frank here, Stewart?" he said.
"Frank?—no, I haven't seen him," I said.
"Then he's gone—gone with Haslitt," he said, dropping into a chair. "Did you know anything about this, Stewart?" he asked.
"I knew that Tom meant to go some time. I've told you the same."
"But about Frank—what have you heard about him? Tell me instantly, Stewart. Think of my poor mother."
"I don't believe your brother has gone with Tom. He isn't such a muff as to do that."
"You forget the sea fever that we used to tease him about in the holidays."
"Yes, I know we teased him, but nobody could ever think Frank would be fit for sea. Tom didn't, I know."
"But he's taken him—they're gone away together, I'm certain."
"Oh, nonsense, Chandos. Look here, now, you mustn't split on Tom, or say a word to the governor that I know anything about it; but I've talked to Tom lots of times about this, but he never said a word about anybody else going with him. He wanted me to go, of course, but, failing me, he should have to go alone, he said."
"But where can Frank be? Nobody has seen him this morning, and most of his clothes and all his money have gone—I have been to look."
"Well, if I thought—" and then I stopped. "Look here, I can't split on Tom unless I am quite sure that young muff has really gone. Don't tell what I have said, Chandos; but if they are together, Tom is the greatest stupid I ever heard of, for he might be sure I should tell all I knew then, and I will too. Fancy that poor little muff Frank handling tarred ropes—he'd want to put his gloves on first!" and I burst out laughing at the thought of Chandos minor going to sea. Chandos Court would do for him nicely, but on board a ship he would be in misery.
Chandos left me laughing, but soon came back.
"Stewart, you must go to the governor and tell him all you know about this affair. There is no time to be lost, you see, for somebody must go after them. A carriage has been ordered, and Swain is to go with a policeman; but if they find out before starting which road they have probably taken, perhaps it may save hours, perhaps days, of delay."
"Well, I know Tom meant to go to Liverpool; he told me so over and over again."
"Well, come and tell the Doctor before he sends off the telegram to Haslitt's father."
"Is he going to send to your mother too?" I asked.
"Not just yet. I want to spare my mother this anxiety if I can. It was for this—to look after Frank a little longer, because he is inclined to get into mischief, that I decided to stay here for the rest of the year, but it seems I am of little use in preventing the mischief. But come now, Stewart, every moment is precious."
So we tore off to the Doctor's study, where he was closeted with a policeman.
"If you please, sir, Stewart has come to tell you something about Haslitt," said Chandos, pushing me forward.
"I don't know much, sir, only he said he was going to Liverpool. I shouldn't have split about it only for little Chandos, and he—"
"When did he tell you this, Stewart? You came to school together, I remember."
"Yes, sir, we are old chums, and he had talked about going to Liverpool lots of times."
"You meant to go together, then, young gentleman?" said the policeman.
"Yes; I mean to go to sea, but I'll wait till I get my mother's consent now. Young Chandos, though, isn't fit for the sea, and he mustn't go."
"And you think they have taken the road to Liverpool, young gentleman?"
"I am sure they have."
"And how do you think they meant to travel?" asked the policeman again.
"Oh, they'd walk, unless Chandos junior had lots of tin, and that ain't likely; for Mother Brown makes us shell out for her bulls'-eyes."
"Do you know how much money your brother had, Chandos?" asked the governor.
"Not much, sir, I should think. He came to borrow some of me yesterday, but I only gave him a shilling."
"Then we may conclude they are walking," said the policeman; and a few minutes afterwards he and Swain drove away, and we have been wondering ever since whether they would catch the runaways."
October 20th.—Nobody heard anything about Tom and Chandos until yesterday, for they didn't go to Liverpool after all, and so Swain and the policeman had their journey for nothing. Mr. Haslitt got here a few hours after the telegram was sent, and asked me all about Tom; but he was too impatient to wait until Swain got back at night, as everybody expected he would do, but went off to London to set people to work at once, in case they were not heard of. It was just as well he did, too, for Tom must have changed his mind at the last minute, and started for Plymouth instead of Liverpool, for that was where he was found—he and Chandos—wandering about the docks asking everybody if they wanted a boy to go to sea. Fancy anybody taking that poor little muff Chandos! And it seems Tom might have got a berth for himself, but he wouldn't go without Chandos, so they were both caught, and I'm glad of it—glad at least that they found Chandos minor, though I can't help feeling sorry for Tom, for he'll have a harder time of it than ever now, I fancy.
"DO YOU WANT A BOY TO GO TO SEA?"
His father is very angry with him, not only for this last scrape, but about pretty well everything that's happened since he's been here; for of course it all came out in talking to the governor and the boys, and that watch affair he is mad about, and thinks it began all the mischief. But I think the beginning of it was when he let Chandos into that scrape about the farm-yard—that was the first mean thing I ever knew Tom to do; and now if it wasn't actual stealing it was next to it, for he put Chandos minor up to taking his brother's studs and a locket that was with them. The police found that out; I don't know what those London fellows could not find out if they tried. Nobody had missed the things until we heard they had been found, and then Chandos went to the drawer where he had put them and found they were gone, and some money too; but he won't say a word about the money, it seems. He is dreadfully upset, I know, although he is very quiet about it; but I have come in rather suddenly once or twice in the middle of the day, and found him kneeling down, and though he has tried to hide it, I know he was crying too. He need not be afraid of me now, though, for I'd—well I'd rather kick up a row and laugh in church than tell the other fellows of it. I'm in the secret a little. I know he feels it awfully about Frank, and I suppose it helps him a bit to go and tell God all about it. That's just what it is, I know. He prays as though God was as much his friend as I am and just as ready to help him as I should be if I could; and I know if I'd only got the chance I'd do it.
October 24th.—Frank Chandos is back in his place once more, but Tom has gone home with his father. I don't think anybody is likely to try running away again in a hurry, for to see Tom and Chandos minor when the policeman brought them in was enough to make anybody think twice before they tried that game. That poor little muff Chandos cried like a girl, but Tom tried to brave it out until he saw his father. He gave it up then, and I almost wished for his sake that we were all on the alder pond again, for a more miserable look I never saw on any face than that on Tom's. His head drooped, and he never raised his eyes from the floor again while we were there.
Poor old Tom! if he could only have been brave enough to speak out the truth last year about that farm-yard business, all the rest might not have followed.
But this fuss about him and Chandos minor has put everything else out of my head, and I have forgotten all about the prize and the grind too. What a bother prizes are! I'm afraid I shall stand a poor chance of getting this one now, for the other fellows who mean to go in for it have been working like galley slaves all the time this row was going on, but I couldn't, and Chandos seemed to forget everything but that little muff, and so I am all behind, I know.
Chandos says I shall be able to make up for lost time now if I only work steadily every day, but there's the rub. How can I be sure that I can work steadily for more than a month? Fancy grinding without a lazy spell for a whole month! I'm sure I couldn't do it, and so I may as well give up at once. I think I will, for what is the use of trying now? It will be so much grind thrown away. And we are having such splendid weather now, that won't last much longer, that it seems a pity to be boring over a book a single minute longer than I am obliged. I shall tell Chandos to-morrow that I mean to give up the whole thing, for I can't do it.
November 1st.—I am grinding still, for Chandos won't hear of my giving up. He says the things I learn—the grind—will be more useful than the prize by-and-by; and then he reminded me of my mother, and how very pleased she would be if I gained this prize. I know that, and I should like to please her for once, independent of the sea scheme. This is the prize to me, for I don't care much about the watch for itself; it will remind me too much of poor Tom and his watch. As to the grind, what do I care about Julius Cæsar and Hannibal and Rome and Carthage? If it was about Nelson and Howe, and Abercrombie and Cook, and a few more like them, I'd grind away, never fear. Why can't they let us know what the questions are going to be—a few of them at least? and then we might manage; but to be expected to know all about everything, and the fellows that lived hundreds of years ago, is rather too stiff, and if it wasn't for Chandos I should give it up, I know, much as I want to please my mother.
November 7th.—I've had a letter from Tom. Fancy Tom writing a letter! He says everything is just as miserable at home as it was here, and he has to do no end of grind shut up in his father's room. He saw my mother last week, and his father told her she need not be afraid I should run away to sea now, for I had learned a few things at school I was not likely to forget in a hurry. Well, that's true enough; but I don't think Tom's father knows what it is I have learned that prevented me going with Tom, and I am not sure myself that I have learned all the secret that makes such a difference between Chandos and two or three others and the rest of us at school, that makes everybody take their word for anything, and be sure they would not do a mean, sneakish trick. I feel as though I was stopping just outside this secret, for God is not my friend—at least I cannot feel that He is, as Chandos does. Sometimes I wish I could, for I know this is more to him a great deal than being Sir Eustace Chandos; but somehow I don't seem able to get hold of it, although I do believe it's true—all that Chandos says about God being his friend.
CHAPTER IX.
CONCLUSION.
November 14th.—I'm in for it again. It isn't much this time—only a trick we played off on Mother Brown. The mean old hunks! to say she never gave credit, when she's cleaned us all out with her nasty bulls'-eyes. I'll never eat another, that I won't. The governor has heard of this lark, and my share in it, I suppose, for I'm ordered to go to his study at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Well, I don't care what the punishment is, so long as Mother Brown don't hear of it; but she would glory in that, I know, for I've led her a nice life lately.
November 17th.—I wish I could hang Mother Brown, and choke her with her own precious bulls'-eyes. A nice imposition I've had through her! This fresh hindrance would have taken away my last chance of the prize; but now—well, I did not go looking for the prize questions, but when they were there right before my eyes, and nobody else in the room, how could I help seeing them? I don't see that it's much of a cheat either, for of course I shall answer them all by myself, and if it helps me to know where to read up—well, I've had a good many hindrances, so that it's about fair after all.
November 20th.—I'm getting along famously with my grind, I think, although I almost wish I could forget those questions sometimes. But I can't, and without meaning it I turn over the leaves of the book that will answer some of them. Yesterday Chandos came and looked over my shoulder, and when he saw where I was reading he said, "Halloa, Stewart, I thought you said you shouldn't look at that?"
"Did I?" I stammered, and I shut the book.
"Don't shut it up; I don't want to hinder you. I'm glad you're going in for it so thoroughly," he said.
"Oh, don't bother!" I said, crossly; for somehow I can't think of these questions and Chandos at the same time, and I shall tell him not to interfere if he comes poking round again.
November 21st.—We have just heard that our examination is to take place the second of next month—about ten days hence. I wish it was over, or that I had never made up my mind to go in for it. I hate the very name of prizes, and if I get it I'll shy the watch down the first well I see. What a fuss Chandos is making too! He says I am so cross and touchy he cannot understand me. I suppose not, for I cannot understand myself just now. I know one thing, though; I hate Mother Brown and her bulls'-eyes, for if it hadn't been for her I couldn't have seen these questions, but now I have seen them I can't forget them. I've tried—I've turned to another part of the book, and tried to read and learn all about that, but although I began to feel some interest in that before, I couldn't now, and I was soon turning the leaves again. I wish I had given it up when Tom went away. I'd do it now if it wasn't for Chandos, but I should not like him to know anything about this, and so I suppose I must go on. I can do one thing, though; I can answer the questions so badly that I shall lose the prize, and that is how I must manage, though it's rather hard after doing such lots of grind for it.
November 25th.—I've just had a letter from mamma. I wish it had not come yet, for it makes me wish to get this prize more than ever. I feel as though I must get it, must have it now, and yet I have not touched a book the last two days. Chandos is puzzled and concerned, I can see, and I hardly know how to avoid him, and yet I try to do so all I can. Oh, why did the governor leave those questions about? It was dreadfully careless of him. If he had only locked them up in his desk when he went to breakfast, as he ought to have done, I couldn't have seen them, and I shouldn't be in this trouble now. I wonder whether Tom's prize essay worried him as much! If I could only get out of it without letting anybody know of that sneaking trick of peeping I'd do it; but how could I tell them I was every bit as mean as Tom, when I raved so about him last year? Everybody would remember that, and throw it up in my teeth, and they would say I had learned it of Chandos too, and I couldn't bear that. It's precious hard, but I shall have to go on. I must and I will get this prize, if I can, though I shall hate the sight of it, and hate myself too.
December 3rd.—It's over. I could answer every question, of course; but—but, oh! how I wish I had been ill, or something had happened to prevent my going in for it at the last minute. I don't want this prize now, and if I don't get it I shall be almost as thankful as I was when Frank Chandos began to get well. I wish I could feel that God was my friend, and would help me out of this scrape, but I can't ask Him. I've felt afraid somehow to kneel down since I turned sneak yes, I am a sneak, a mean, miserable sneak, and I hate myself more than I hated Tom, and I said hard things enough about him; but I never thought then I should ever come to do the same myself.
December 4th.—I had dropped my pen and was actually crying yesterday, when Chandos came in and caught me.
"What is the matter, Stewart? Are you ill, old fellow?" he asked, and he put his arm round me, so that there was no getting away from him.
"Don't, Chandos," I said, "I can't bear it! I'm a miserable, mean sneak, and if you were to kick me out of the room I should feel better, for that's what I deserve. Mind, I never meant to be a sneak, and I didn't think I ever should do such a mean trick, but now you do know it you'd better turn me up as I did Tom."
"Well, I don't know what you've done yet, we'll talk about that afterwards; but just tell me this, would you do the same thing again if you had the chance?"
"Do it again? I tell you I hate myself for it; but the worst of it is, it won't undo it now it's done. I never thought I could be so mean, Chandos."
"I suppose not; but bad as it is, you need not give up all hope. God knew how mean you could be, and yet He will be your friend if you would let Him. Is it about the prize, Stewart?"
"Oh yes; I do hope I shan't get it," I groaned.
"Well, you shall tell me all about it by-and-by if you like, but now just let me say a word. You never felt before that you were a sinner—that you could do anything bad?"
"I've been trying to keep straight and do everything on the square, but I may as well give up now, for I see I can't do it."
"No, no, you won't give up, Charley. I'm going to call you Charley now, because I hope we shall be better friends than ever after this. I was just as miserable once as you are now. I had told a lie, and I felt I could never be forgiven; but my mother talked to me, and I'll tell you as well as I can remember what she said:
"'You've been very proud, my boy, and thought you could get on very well without any help but your own determination to do right.'"
"Well, what more do we want?" I said.
"Has it been enough, Stewart? Hasn't this been a miserable failure? and are you not complaining now that you are more wicked than you thought possible?"
"Well, yes, that's true enough," I confessed.
"Now let me tell you, Stewart, what mother told me. God knew you would fail. He knew when He put Adam into the garden of Eden that he wouldn't keep straight long; but He gave him a fair chance, and He loved him so much that He provided a remedy at once for the sins he and all men would commit. The Lord Jesus Christ agreed then to bear the sins of the whole world—yours and mine among them, Stewart—and this is what is meant by forgiveness of sins. You never felt you needed forgiveness before for you never felt the burden of sin."
"But look here, Chandos, I don't see how God is going to forgive me, because, you see, I knew better."
"Of course you did. But have you never read in your Bible, 'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.' 'If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us'? but God is showing you the truth now—that you need pardon and forgiveness, and He is willing to give you these; pardon for the sins already committed, to wash them all away in the blood of His dear Son, who gave His life for you; and not only pardon, but grace and strength for the future to enable you to resist the temptation to do wrong at any future time."
"Look here, if God would help me like that, I shall feel so glad," I said; "it's no good for me to say I'll always keep on the square any more after this mean trick, for I may do another, as Tom did. He didn't stop at the first, and I'm afraid I shan't if God don't help me. Oh, Chandos, I do want Him to help me out of this scrape, and keep me from doing anything like this again."
"Well, Charley, suppose we kneel down now and ask God for this, and then you shall tell me all about it if you like."
"I think I had better tell you first," I said, "and then you can tell God for me. I'll try and do it myself by-and-by, but I can't just at once. I'm not good enough to kneel down at all."
Then I told Chandos about the questions, and we kneeled down together, and he asked God to forgive me and help me to do what was right.
"If God will only let me lose this prize now I shan't care," I said, when we got up.
"But—but I don't think we ought to wait for that," said Chandos.
"What can I do?" I said.
"Suppose you get it—and you may, you know," said Chandos; "you would be obliged to do something then."
"Oh, I can't bear to think of that. Won't God help me by giving it to another fellow?
"God will never help us to be cowards; He will help you to do the brave and right thing, which is to go to Dr. Mellor at once, tell him all about it, and ask him to destroy your papers."
"Tell the governor I'm a mean sneak! I couldn't do it, Chandos."
"Then God cannot help you in any other way, nor I either. I tell you He helps people to be brave and do the right; but don't expect He is going to screen you from the consequences of sin, because He cannot and will not; and to expect it would be like sawing your finger with a sharp knife and not expecting to cut it. I will not attempt to persuade you, Charley; but if you are sincere in asking God's pardon now, and His help for the future, you will not hesitate about this long."
"But it is so hard to do this, Chandos."
"Yes, and God knows exactly how hard it is better than I do; but as soon as He sees you are willing to bear this, and do the right, He will give you the strength and courage necessary."
When I lifted my head from my arms I found that Chandos was gone. I sat for nearly an hour thinking over what he had been saying—dear old Chandos! who is so good himself, and yet not half so proud as I was about poor Tom. I wonder whether God will help me as he says. I don't deserve it one bit, any more than I deserve that the Lord Jesus should forgive me.
December 5th.—I am sure God has begun to help me. I went and made a clean breast of it to the governor this morning, and he has promised to burn my papers, and keep the whole thing a secret from the rest. It was pretty hard to begin telling him, but when once I had begun I did not feel a bit afraid, and I must say he behaved splendidly. He didn't blow me up or order me an imposition for prying round his table, but he said, quite kindly,
"I am very sorry for you, Stewart. I wish you had come to me before, or told me you had seen these questions, and I might have saved you a great deal of unhappiness—for I am sure you have been unhappy—and not deprived you of all chance of getting the prize. Try and remember this for the future—I am your friend as well as your schoolmaster, and if there is any difficulty in which I can help you I hope you will trust me as a friend. I am glad to see you and Chandos get on so well together;" and then he actually shook hands with me as I was going out of the door.
I told Chandos all about it afterwards and he said, "You know now how God helps those who trust in Him; I hope you will never forget it again."
I don't think I ever shall. I don't feel afraid to kneel down and ask His help now, and I know I need it, for who can tell what I might do next after this mean trick?
December 7th.—I have written and told mamma how I have lost the prize. I thought I had better do this, for she had made so sure I should get it if I really tried that I did not like to go home without telling her first. Poor mamma! I am sorry, for she is dreadfully disappointed, I know, and I am afraid she will not let me go to sea either. I wonder whether I shall be able to give up this wish entirely, as Chandos did his? I am afraid not, for often in my dreams I seem to be on the sea, and how can I ever forget it? But I must try to settle down, I suppose. God will help me in this, I know, as He did to go to the governor, only it makes me feel dreadfully old to think of it.