“Now, how did this happen?” he said.
No one spoke, and the silence was only broken by the sound of sobs from the further end of the room.
“Who did this?” asked the doctor again.
“I did, sir,” said Reginald, in a broken voice.
“Come forward. Who is it that speaks?” said Doctor Wilkinson. “Mortimer! is this some passion of yours that has so nearly caused the death of your cousin? I am deeply grieved to find that your temper is still so ungovernable. What was the matter?”
Reginald was incapable of answering, and none of his companions understood the quarrel; so Doctor Wilkinson left the room, determined to make a strict investigation the next morning.
Poor Reginald was almost overwhelmed: he knelt with his brother after their candle was extinguished, by their bedside, and both wept bitterly, though quite silently. Distress at his own fault, and his brother's new trouble, and deep thankfulness that his cousin was alive, and not dangerously hurt, filled Reginald's mind, and kept him awake long after all besides in the room were asleep.
Chapter IV.
The next morning, after the early school-hours, Doctor Wilkinson kept Reginald back as he was following the stream to breakfast, and led the way into the class-room, where, after closing the door, he seated himself, and motioning Reginald to draw closer to him, thus opened his inquiry.
“I wish to know, Mortimer, how this affair began last night: it appears, from all I can make out, to have been a most unprovoked attack on your part, but as there is often more than appears on the surface, I shall be glad to hear what you have to allege in extenuation of your savage conduct.”
Reginald colored very deeply, and dropping his eyes under the piercing gaze of his master, remained silent.
“Am I to conclude from your silence that you have no excuse to make?” asked the doctor in a tone of mixed sorrow and indignation; “and am I to believe that from some petty insult you have allowed your temper such uncontrolled sway as nearly to have cost your cousin his life?”
“I had very great provocation,” said Reginald, sullenly.
“And what might that be?” asked his master. “If the wrong be on Digby's side, you can have no hesitation in telling me what the wrong was.”
Reginald made no answer, and, after a pause, Dr. Wilkinson continued: “Unless you can give me some reason, I must come to the conclusion that you have again given way to your violent passions without even the smallest excuse of injury from another. The assertion that you have been ‘provoked’ will not avail you much: I know that Digby is teasing and provoking, and is therefore very wrong, but if you cannot bear a little teasing, how are you to get on in the world? You are not a baby now, though you have acted more like a wild beast than a reasonable creature. I am willing and desirous to believe that something more than usual has been the cause of this ebullition of temper, for I hoped lately that you were endeavoring to overcome this sad propensity of yours.”
“I assure you, sir,” said Reginald, raising his open countenance to his master's, “I tried very much to bear with Frank, and I think I should if he had not said so much about—about—”
Here Reginald's voice failed; a sensation of choking anger prevented him from finishing his sentence.
“About what?” said the doctor, steadily.
“About my brother,” said Reginald, abruptly.
“And what did he say about your brother that chafed you so much?”
Reginald changed color, and his eyes' lighted up with passion. He did not reply at first, but as his master seemed quietly awaiting his answer, he at length burst out,—
“He had been going on all the afternoon about Louis: he tried to put me in a passion; he said all he could—every thing that was unkind and provoking, and it was more than a fellow could stand. I bore it as long as I could—”
“You are giving me a proof of your gentle endurance now, I suppose,” said the doctor.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I can't help it,—I feel so angry when I think of it, that I am afraid I should knock him down again if he were to repeat it.”
“For shame, sir!” said the doctor, sternly; “I should have thought that you had already had a lesson you would not easily have forgotten. What did he say of your brother that irritated you? I insist upon knowing.”
“He said Louis was—that Louis did not speak the truth, sir. He said that I believed it—that I believed it”—and Reginald's passionate sobs choked his utterance.
“Believed what?” asked the doctor.
“Something that happened yesterday,” said Reginald; “he said that—he was a hypocrite, and he went on taunting me about last summer.”
“About last summer!” repeated the doctor.
“Yes, sir—about a mistake. Nobody makes allowances for Louis. I could have borne it all if he had not said that I knew Louis was a liar. I'd knock any one down that I was able who should say so! Indeed,” continued Reginald, fiercely, “I begged him to leave off, and not provoke me, but he would have it, and he knew what I was.”
“Enough—enough—hush,” said Dr. Wilkinson: “I beg I may hear no more of knocking down. Don't add to your fault by working yourself into a passion with me. Some provocation you certainly have had, but nothing can justify such unrestrained fury. Consider what would have been your condition at present, if your rage had been fatal to your cousin; it would have availed you little to have pleaded the aggravation; your whole life would have been embittered by the indulgence of your vengeful feelings—one moment have destroyed the enjoyment of years. Thank God, Mortimer, that you have been spared so terrible a punishment. But you will always be in danger of this unless you learn to put a curb on your hasty temper. The same feelings which urge you into a quarrel as a boy, will hurry you into the duel as a man. It is a false spirit of honor and manliness that makes you so ready to resent every little insult. In the life of the only perfect Man that ever lived, our great Example and Master, we do not see this impatience of contradiction: ‘When He was reviled, He reviled not again;’ and if He, the Lord of all, could condescend to endure such contradiction of sinners against Himself, shall it be too much for us to bear a little with the contradiction of our fellow-creatures? My boy, if we do not strive to bear a little of the burden and heat of the day, we are not worthy to bear the noble name of Christians.”
“I am very sorry, sir,” said Reginald, quite softened by the earnest manner of his master; “I am very sorry I have been so hasty and wrong. I dare not make any promises for the future, for I know I cannot certainly keep them, but, with God's help, I hope to remember what you have so kindly said to me.”
“With His help we may do all things,” said Dr. Wilkinson; “you may by this help overcome the stumbling-stone of your violent passions, which otherwise may become an effectual barrier in the way of your attaining the prize of eternal life; and remember that ‘he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.’ ”
There was a minute's silence, which Reginald broke by asking if he might attend on Frank until he was well.
“Can I hope that you will be gentle,” said the doctor; “that you will remember he is in invalid—one of your making, Mortimer; and that if he is impatient and fretful, you are the cause?”
“I will try, sir, to make amends to him,” said Reginald, looking down; “I hope I may be able to be patient.”
“I will give orders that you may go to him,” said the doctor; and after a pause, he added, “another offence of this kind I shall visit with the heaviest displeasure. I am in hopes that the anxiety you have undergone, and the present state of your cousin, may be a lesson to you; but if I find this ineffectual, I shall cease to consider you a reasonable creature, and shall treat you accordingly.”
Dr. Wilkinson then rose and left the room. Reginald lingered a few minutes to compose himself before joining his school-fellows; his heart was very full, and he felt an earnest desire to abide by his master's counsel, as well as grateful for the leniency and kindness with which he had been treated, which made him feel his fault much more deeply than the severest punishment.
The breakfast time was very unpleasant for Louis that morning; he was full of anxiety as to the result of Mr. Witworth's discovery, and his sickness of heart entirely deprived him of appetite. When the meal was dispatched, Reginald went off to Frank, whom he found in a darkened room, very restless and impatient. He had passed a very bad night, and was suffering considerable pain. Reginald had to endure much ill-nature and peevishness; all of which he endeavored to bear with gentleness, and during the time Frank was ill, he gave up all his play-hours to wait on him and to amuse him as he grew better; and the exercise of patience which this office entailed was greatly beneficial to his hasty and proud spirit.
Mr. Danby was in the midst of the second-class lessons that morning, when one of the first class brought him a little slip of paper. Mr. Danby glanced at the few words written thereon, and when the class had finished he desired Louis to go to Dr. Wilkinson. All remnant of color fled from Louis' cheek, though he obeyed without making any reply, and with a very sinking heart entered the room where the doctor was engaged with the first class. The keen eye of his master detected him the instant he made his appearance, but he took no notice of him until he had finished his business; then, while his pupils were putting up their books he turned to Louis, and pointing to a little table by his side, said, “There is a volume, Louis Mortimer, with which I suspect you have some acquaintance.”
Louis advanced to the table, and beheld the Key to Kenrick's Greek Exercises.
“You know it?” said the doctor.
“Yes, sir, but I did not use it,” said Louis.
“You will not deny that it was found among your books in the school-room,” said the doctor.
“I know, sir, Mr. Witworth found it, but I assure you I did not put it there,” replied Louis, very gently.
“Have you never used it at all?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“Never, sir,” replied Louis, firmly.
At this moment, he met the eye of Hamilton, who was standing near Dr. Wilkinson, and who looked very scornfully and incredulously at him as he paused to hear the result of the inquiry. Louis remembered that Hamilton had seen the key Churchill had left, and he hastily exclaimed, “I assure you, Mr. Hamilton, I did not.”
“What is this, Hamilton?” said Dr. Wilkinson, turning round. “Do you know any thing of this matter?”
“I would much rather not answer,” said Hamilton, abruptly, “if you will excuse me, sir.”
“I must, however, beg that you will, if you please,” replied the doctor.
“I really know nothing positively, I can say nothing certainly. You would not wish, sir, that any imagination of mine should prejudice you to Louis Mortimer's disadvantage; I am not able to say any thing,” and Hamilton turned away in some confusion, vexed that he should have been appealed to.
Dr. Wilkinson looked half perplexed—he paused a moment and fixed his eyes on the table. Louis ventured to say, “Mr. Hamilton saw a book once before with my lesson books, but I never used it.”
“What do you mean by saw a book?” asked the doctor. “What book did Mr. Hamilton see? How came it there, and why was it there?”
“It was ‘Kenrick's Greek Exercises,’ sir.”
“You mean the ‘Key,’ I suppose?”
Louis answered in the affirmative.
“Whose was it?” asked the doctor, with a countenance more ominous in its expression.
“It was the one you took from Harrison, sir,” replied Louis.
“Humph! I thought I took it away. Bring it here.” Louis obeyed, and the doctor having looked at it, continued, “Well, you had this with your lesson books, you say. How did it come there?”
“One of the boys gave it to me, sir,” replied Louis.
“And why did you not put it away?”
“I was going, sir;” and the color rushed into Louis' pale face. “I did not use it—and I hope I should not.”
“Who left the book?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“Churchill, sir.”
“Call Churchill, Salisbury.”
Salisbury obeyed; and during his absence a profound silence reigned in the room, for all the first class were watching the proceedings in deep interest. Dr. Wilkinson seemed lost in thought; and Louis, in painful anxiety, scanned the strongly marked countenance of his master, now wearing its most unpleasing mask, and those of Hamilton and Trevannion, alternately. Hamilton did not look at him, but bent over a table at a book, the leaves of which he nervously turned. Trevannion eyed him haughtily as he leaned in his most graceful attitude against the wall behind the doctor's chair; and poor Louis read his condemnation in his eyes, as well as in the faces of most present.
Salisbury at length returned with Churchill, who was the more awe-struck at the unwonted summons, as he was so low in the school as seldom to have any business with the principal.
“Churchill,” said the doctor, gravely, “I have sent for you to hear what is said of you. Now, Louis Mortimer, who gave you this book on the day Mr. Hamilton discovered it in your possession?”
“Churchill, sir,” replied Louis, in great agitation; “you did, Churchill, did you not? Oh! do say you did.”
“Hush,” said the doctor. “What have you to say against this, Churchill?”
“Nothing, sir—I did—I gave it to Louis Mortimer,” stammered Churchill, looking from Louis to the doctor, and back again.
“And how came you to give it to him?”
Churchill did not reply until the question was repeated, when he reluctantly said, he had given it to Louis to assist him in his exercise.
“Did Mortimer ask you for it?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he wish for it?”
“No, sir, not that I know of.”
“You know, Harry, that I asked you to put it away—did I not?” cried Louis.
“I don't know—yes—I think you did,” said Churchill, growing very hot.
“Why did you not put it away?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“Because I thought he wanted it, please sir.”
“But I did not, Harry! I told you I did not,” said Louis, eagerly.
Dr. Wilkinson desired Louis to be silent, and continued his questions—
“Did you try to persuade him to use it?”
Again Churchill paused, and again confessed, most unwillingly, that he had done so—and received a severe reprimand for his conduct on the occasion, and a long task to write out which would keep him employed during the play-hours of that day.
He was then dismissed, and Dr. Wilkinson again addressed himself to Louis: “I am glad to find that part of your story is correct; but I now wish you to explain how my key found its way into the school-room yesterday, when discovered by Mr. Witworth. The book must have been deliberately taken out of this room into the school-room. You appear to have been alone, or nearly so, in the school-room the greater part of yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Witworth found the book half concealed by your lesson books while you were writing your exercises.”
“I assure you, sir, I did not take it,” said Louis.
“Unhappily,” replied Dr. Wilkinson, “I cannot take a mere assurance in the present instance. Had not the case been so palpable, I should have been bound to believe you until I had had reason to mistrust your word—but with these facts I cannot, Louis;” and he added, in a very low tone, so as to be heard only by Louis, who was much nearer to him than the others, “Your honor has not always been sacred—beware.”
His school-fellows wondered what made the red flush mount so furiously in Louis' forehead, and the tears spring to his eyes. The painful feelings called forth by his master's speech prevented him from speaking for a few minutes. He was roused by Dr. Wilkinson saying—
“The discovery of this Key in your possession would involve your immediate dismissal from the second class, a sufficient disgrace, but the matter assumes a far more serious aspect from these assertions of innocence. If you had not used the book when discovered, it must have been taken either by you, or another, for use. The question is now, who took it?”
“I did not, sir,” said Louis, in great alarm.
“Who did, then? Were any of your class with you?”
“No, sir.”
“Was any one with you?”
Louis paused. A sudden thought flashed across him—a sudden recollection of seeing that book passed over and slipped among his books; an action he had taken no notice of at the time, and which had never struck him till this moment. He now glanced eagerly at Ferrers, and then, in a tremulous voice, said, “I remember now, Ferrers put it there—I am almost sure.”
“Ferrers!” exclaimed the young men, with one voice.
“What humbugging nonsense!” said Salisbury, in a low tone.
“Do you hear, Mr. Ferrers?” said the doctor: “how came you to put that Key among Louis Mortimer's books?”
“I, sir—I never,” stammered Ferrers. “What should I want with it? What good could I get by it? Is it likely?”
“I am not arguing on the possibility of such an event, I simply wish to know if you did it?” said the doctor.
“I, sir—no,” exclaimed Ferrers, with an air of injured innocence. “If I had done it, why did he not accuse me at once, instead of remembering it all of a sudden?”
“Because I only just remembered that I saw you moving something towards me, and I am almost sure it was that book now—I think so,” replied Louis.
“You'd better be quite sure,” said Ferrers.
Dr. Wilkinson looked from one to the other, and his look might have made a less unprincipled youth fear to persist in so horrible a falsehood.
“Were you learning your lessons in the school-room yesterday afternoon, Mr. Ferrers, at the same time with Louis Mortimer?” Ferrers acknowledging this, Dr. Wilkinson sent for Mr. Witworth, and asked him if he had observed either Ferrers or Louis go into the study during the afternoon, and if he knew what each brought out with him. Mr. Witworth replied that both went in, but he did not know what for.
“I went in to get an atlas for Ferrers,” cried Louis, in great agitation.
“I got the atlas myself, Mortimer, you know,” said Ferrers.
Louis was quite overcome. He covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
“This is a sad business,” said Dr. Wilkinson, very gravely; “much worse than I expected—one of you must be giving utterance to the most frightful untruths. Which of you is it?”
“What would Ferrers want with the Key to The Greek Exercises sir?” suggested Trevannion, “unless he wished to do an ill turn to Mortimer, which you cannot suppose.”
“I have hitherto trusted Mr. Ferrers,” replied Dr. Wilkinson; “and am not disposed to withdraw that confidence without sufficient cause. Mr. Ferrers, on your word of honor, am I to believe your statement?”
Ferrers turned pale, but the doctor's steady gaze was upon him, and all his class-fellows awaited his reply—visions of disgrace, contempt, and scorn were before him, and there was no restraining power from within to check him, as he hastily replied, “On my word of honor, sir.”
“I must believe you, then, as I can imagine no motive which could induce you to act dishonorably by this boy, were I to discover that any one in my school had acted so, his immediate expulsion should be the consequence.”
The dead silence that followed the doctor's words struck coldly on the heart of the guilty coward.
“Now, Louis Mortimer,” said the doctor, sternly, “I wish to give you another chance of confessing your fault.”
Louis' thick convulsive sobs only replied to this. After waiting a few minutes, Dr. Wilkinson said, “Go now to the little study joining my dining-room, and wait there till I come: I shall give you half an hour to consider.”
Louis left the room, and repaired to the study, where he threw himself on a chair in a paroxysm of grief, which, for the first quarter of an hour, admitted of no alleviation: “He had no character. The doctor had heard all before. All believed him guilty—and how could Ferrers act so? How could it ever be found out? And, oh! his dear father and mother, and his grandfather, would believe it.”
By degrees the violence of his distress subsided, and he sent up his tearful petitions to his heavenly Father, till his overloaded heart felt lightened of some of its sorrow. As he grew calmer, remembrances of old faults came before him, and he thought of a similar sin of his own, and how nearly an innocent person had suffered for it—and this he felt was much easier to bear than the consciousness of having committed the fault himself; and he remembered the sweet verses in the first Epistle of St. Peter: “What glory is it if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye take it patiently; but if when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God. For even hereunto ye were called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that we should follow His steps: who did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth; who, when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, He threatened not; but committed Himself to Him that judgeth righteously,”—and the feeling of indignation against Ferrers was gradually changed into almost pity for him, for Louis knew by experience the pain of a loaded conscience. While his thoughts thus ran over the past and present, he heard the firm step of Dr. Wilkinson crossing the hall, and nearly at the same moment that gentleman entered the room. There was no pity in his countenance—the dark lines in his face seemed fixed in their most iron mould; and briefly announcing to his trembling pupil that the time allowed him for consideration had expired, he asked whether he were prepared to acknowledge his fault. Louis meekly persisted in his denial, which had only the effect of making the doctor consider him a more hardened offender; and after a few words, expressing the strongest reprehension of his wickedness and cowardice, he gave him severe caning, and sent him immediately to bed, although it was but the middle of the day. In spite of the better feelings which urged poor Louis to acknowledge the justice, under the circumstances, of his master's proceedings, he could not help thinking that he had been very hardly treated. He hurried up stairs, glad to indulge his grief in silence. How many times, in the affliction of the next few hours, did he repeat a little hymn he had learned at home:
“Thy lambs, dear Shepherd, that are weak,
Are thy peculiar care;
'Tis Thine in judgment to afflict,
And Thine in love to spare.
“Though young in years, yet, oh! how oft
Have I a rebel been;
My punishment, O Lord, is mild,
Nor equals all my sin.
“Since all the chastisements I feel
Are from Thy love alone,
Let not one murmuring thought arise,
But may Thy will be done.
“Then let me blush with holy shame,
And mourn before my Lord,
That I have lived to Thee no more,
No more obeyed Thy word.”
—“Hymns for Sunday-Schools”
At last he fell asleep, and oh! to wake; from that sleep! It was surely good to be afflicted, and in the happiness of his mind Louis forgot his trouble. But he had yet to endure much more, and the bitterest part of his punishment came the next morning, when, according to his master's orders, he repaired to the study with his books. He had been desired to remain in this room out of school-hours, and was forbidden to speak to any of his school-fellows without leave. While he was sitting there the first morning after the inquiry related in this chapter, Dr. Wilkinson entered with a letter, and sat down at the table where Louis was reading. As he opened his desk, he said, “I have a painful task to perform. This is a letter from your father, Louis Mortimer, and he particularly requests that I should give him an account of your conduct and your brother's; you know what an account I can give of you both.”
Louis had listened very attentively to his master's speech, and when it was concluded he gave way to such a burst of sorrow as quite touched the doctor. For some minutes he wept almost frantically, and then clasping his hands, he implored Dr. Wilkinson not to tell his father what had happened: “It will break mamma's heart, it will break mamma's heart, sir—do not tell my father.”
“Confess your fault, Louis, and I may then speak of amendment,” said the doctor.
“I cannot, indeed—indeed I cannot. It will all come out by and bye: you will see, sir—oh! you will see, sir,” sobbed Louis, deprecating the gathering of the angry cloud on the doctor's face. “Oh! do not tell mamma, for it is not true.”
“I do not wish to hear any more, sir,” said the doctor, sternly.
“Oh! what shall I do—what shall I do!” cried Louis; and he pushed his chair quickly from the table, and, throwing himself on his knees by Dr. Wilkinson, seized the hand that was beginning to date the dreaded letter—“I assure you I did not, sir—I am speaking the truth.”
“As you always do, doubtless,” said the doctor, drawing his hand roughly away. “Get up, sir; kneel to Him you have so deeply offended, but not to me.”
Louis rose, but stood still in the same place. “Will you hear only this one thing, sir? I will not say any thing more about my innocence—just hear me, if you please, sir.”
Dr. Wilkinson turned his head coldly towards him.
Louis dried his tears, and spoke with tolerable calmness: “I have one thing to ask, sir—will you allow me still to remain in the second class, and to do my lessons always in this room? You will then see if I can do without keys, or having any help.”
“I know you can if you choose,” replied Dr. Wilkinson, coldly, “or I should not have placed you in that class.”
“But, if you please, sir, I know all,”—Louis paused, he had promised to say no more on that subject.
There was a little silence, during which Dr. Wilkinson looked earnestly at Louis. At last he said, “You may stay in the class; but, remember, you are forbidden to speak to any of your school-fellows for the next week without express permission.”
“Not to my brother, sir?”
“No; now go.”
“May I write to mamma?”
“Yes, if you wish it.”
After timidly thanking the doctor, Louis returned to his seat, and Dr. Wilkinson continued his letter, which went off by the same post that took Louis' to his mother.
Chapter V.
“Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.”—Heb. xii. 11.
“Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept Thy word.”—Psalm cxix. 67.
Perhaps there is no state more dangerous to a Christian's peace of mind than one of continual prosperity. In adversity even the worldly man will sometimes talk of resignation, and feel that it is a good thing to be acquainted and at peace with God, and that when all human help is cut off, it is a sweet thing to have a sure refuge in an almighty Saviour. But in prosperity the ungodly never look to Him; and His own children, carrying about with them a sinful nature, against which they must continually maintain a warfare, are too apt to forget the Giver in his gifts, and to imagine that all is well because nothing occurs to disturb the regularity of their blessings.
Our little Louis, though the trial he now underwent was a bitter one, and though at times it seemed almost too hard to be endured, learned by degrees to feel that it was good for him. He had been in too high favor, he had trusted too much in the good word of his school-fellows, and had suffered the fear of man to deter him from his duty to God; and now, isolated and looked upon as an unworthy member of the little society to which he belonged, he learned to find his sole happiness in that sweet communion which he had now solitary leisure to enjoy. His very troubles carried him to a throne of grace; his desolate condition made him feel that there was only One who never changed nor forsook His people; only One who could understand and feel for the infirmities and sorrows of a human creature; and though to the ungodly it is a terror to know that there is “nothing that is not manifest in God's sight,” to the true child of God it is an unspeakable comfort to feel that his thoughts and actions are “known long before” by his unwearied Guardian.
The effects of Louis' lonely communings were soon visible in his daily conduct, and after his term of punishment had expired, the meekness of his bearing, and the gentle lowliness of his demeanor, often disarmed the most severe and unpitying of his youthful judges. There was no servility in his manner, for he neither courted nor shunned observation; nor, though he was as willing as ever to do a kind action for any one, did he allow himself to be persuaded to give up all his time to his idler school-fellows. There seemed more firmness and decision in his naturally yielding disposition, and those who knew not the power of assisting grace, looked and wondered at the firmness the sweet but weak boy could at times assume. He would have told them it was not his own. He was very quiet, and spoke little, even to his brother, of what was passing in his mind, and sometimes his thoughts were so quietly happy that he did not like to be spoken to. To Ferrers, Louis was as gentle and courteous as to the rest of his companions, and, indeed, he had now little other feeling towards him than that of sorrow and pity.
There had been an unusual noise in the study one evening, while Louis was absent, and when he entered it, he found the confusion attendant on a grand uproar. Very little was doing, and tokens of the late skirmish lay about the floor in torn and scattered books, and overthrown forms. Among others, Ferrers was hunting for a missing book, but to discover it in such a chaos was a difficult task, especially as no one would now allow the candles to be used in the search.
With many expressions, so unfitted for refined ears that I do not choose to present them to my reader, Ferrers continued his search, now and then attempting to snatch a candle from the table, in which he was regularly foiled by those sitting there.
“Well, at least have the civility to move and let me see if it is under the table,” he said at length.
“You have hindered us long enough,” said Salisbury; “Smith, Jones, and I have done nothing to-night. If you will have rows, you must e'en take the consequences.”
“Can't you get under the form?” asked Smith, derisively.
Ferrers was going to make some angry, reply, when Louis dived between the table and the form, with some trouble, and, at the expense of receiving a few unceremonious kicks, recovered the book and gave it to Ferrers, who hardly thanked him, but leaning his head on his hand, seemed almost incapable of doing any thing. Presently he looked up, and asked in a tone of mingled anger and weariness, what had become of the inkstand he had brought.
“Loosing's seeking,
Finding's keeping,”
said Salisbury. “Which is yours? Perhaps it's under the table too.”
“Hold your nonsense,” cried Ferrers, angrily. “It's very shabby of you to hinder me in this manner.”
Louis quietly slipped an inkstand near him, an action of which Ferrers was quite aware, and though he pretended not to notice it, he availed himself presently of the convenience. A racking headache, however, almost disabled him from thinking, and though he was really unwell, there was only the boy he had so cruelly injured who felt any sympathy for his suffering.
Louis carefully avoided any direct manifestation of his anxiety to return good for evil, for he felt, though he hardly knew why, that his actions would be misconstrued, but whenever any little opportunity occurred in which he could really render any service, he was always as ready to do it for Ferrers as for another; and now, when from his classmates Ferrers met with nothing but jokes on his “beautiful temper,” and “placid state of mind,” he could not help feeling the gentleness of Louis' conduct, the absence of pleasure in his annoyance, and the look of evident sympathy he met whenever he accidentally turned his eyes in his direction. For a few days after this he was obliged to keep his bed, and during this time, though Louis only once saw him, he thought of every little kind attention he could, that might be grateful to the invalid. Knowing that he was not a favorite, and that few in the school would trouble themselves about him, he borrowed books and sent them to him for his amusement, and empowered the old cake man to procure some grapes, which he sent up to him by a servant, with strict orders to say nothing of where they came from. The servant met Hamilton at the door of the room, and he relieved her of her charge, and as she did not consider herself under promise of secrecy towards him, she mentioned it, desiring him at the same time to say nothing to Ferrers.
Louis had now established a regular time for doing his own lessons, and kept to it with great perseverance to the end of the half-year, with one exception, when he had been acting prisoner in a trial performed in the school-room, by half his own class and the third, and let the evening slip by without remembering how late it grew. His class-fellows were in the same predicament as himself, and as they had barely time to write a necessary exercise, they agreed among themselves to learn each his own piece of the lesson they had to repeat. Louis did not seriously consider the deceit they were practising, and adopted the same plan. One of the number, not trusting to his memory, hit upon the singular expedient of writing the whole of his piece and the next on a piece of paper, and wafering it to the instep of his shoe when he went up to his class. Unhappily for his scheme, he was so placed that he dared not expose his foot so as to allow him to avail himself of this delectable assistance, and consequently, after much looking on the floor for inspiration, and much incoherent muttering, was passed over, and the order of things being thereby disturbed, of course no one could say the missing lines until the head boy was applied to, and the lower half of the class was turned down, with the exception of Louis, who, standing on this occasion just above the gentleman of shoe memory, had been able to say his share.
As they were breaking up, Mr. Danby said to Louis, “You have been very industrious lately, Louis Mortimer: I am glad you have been so correct to-day.”
Louis blushed from a consciousness of undeserved praise; but though his natural fear of offending and losing favor sprung up directly, a higher principle faced it, and bearing down all obstacles, forced him to acknowledge his unworthiness of the present encomium.
“I ought to learn mine, sir,—I learned my piece to-day.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Danby.
“I learned my part of the lesson, as well as Harris, Williams, Sutton, and Charles Salisbury. We forgot our lessons last night, but it is quite an accident that I have said mine to-day.”
“I am glad you have had the honor to say so,” said Mr. Danby. “Of course you must learn yours, but let me have no more learning pieces, if you please.”
Chapter VI.
“Blessed are they that dwell in Thy house, they will be still praising Thee. For a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.”—Psalm lxxxiv. 4, 10.
Dr. Wilkinson's school was too large to be entirely accommodated with sittings in the nearest church—and, consequently, was divided into two bodies on Sunday, one of which regularly attended one of the churches in Bristol, where Mr. Wilkinson, the doctor's son, occasionally did duty. It fell to Louis' lot, generally, to be of the Bristol party, and unless the day was rainy he was not ill-pleased with his destiny, for the walk was very pleasant, and there was something in the chorus of bells in that many-churched city, and the sight of the gray towers and spires, very congenial to his feelings. It happened that the Sunday after Louis had received permission to mix as usual with his school-fellows was one of those peculiarly sunny days that seem to call upon God's people especially to rejoice and be glad in the Works of His hand. Louis' mind was in a more than usually peaceful state, and his heart overflowed with quiet happiness as he looked down from the height of Brandon Hill upon the city below. He and his companion had walked on rather faster than the rest of their school-fellows, and now stood waiting till they came up.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mortimer,” said his companion, a pleasant-looking boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age; “you are very silent to-day—what may be the subject of your profound meditations?”
Louis hardly seemed to hear the question, for he suddenly turned his bright face to his interrogator, and exclaimed, “What a beautiful sight it is to see so many churches together, Meredith! I think our churches make us such a happy country.”
Two school-boys talking on a hill overlooking a town.
Louis and Meredith on Brandon Hill.
“Upon my word,” replied Meredith, “you are endowing those piles of stone with considerable potency. What becomes of commerce and—”
“I mean, of course,” interrupted Louis, “that it is religion that makes us a happier country than others. I love so to look at the churches; the sight of one sometimes, when all is fair and quiet, brings the tears into my eyes.”
“Hey-dey! quite sentimental! You'd better be a parson, I think.”
“I hope I shall be a clergyman—I wish very much to be one—there is not such another happy life. I was just thinking, Meredith, when you spoke to me, of a verse we read yesterday morning, which quite expresses my feelings: ‘One thing have I desired of the Lord which I will seek after, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in His temple.’ ”
Meredith looked with some surprise at Louis, and as they moved on he said carelessly, “I suppose somebody will have the gratification of beholding me in a long gown some day, holding forth for the edification of my devoted flock.”
“Are you going to be a clergyman?” asked Louis.
“Yes, I suppose I must. Don't you think I shall be a most useful character?”
“Oh! surely you wish it, do you not?”
“Well, I don't much mind,” replied Meredith, snatching a handful of leaves from the hedge near him; “I shall have a nice fat living, and it's a respectable kind of thing.”
Louis was horror-struck—he had not imagined such an idea—he almost gasped out, “Oh! Meredith, I can hardly understand you. Surely that is not your only wish about it: that cannot be a reason—not a right one.”
“Why, what's the harm?” said Meredith, laughing. “I only say outright what hundreds think. If I could choose, perhaps I might like the army best, but my father has a comfortable provision in the church for me, and so I, like a dutiful son, don't demur, especially as, if I follow the example of my predecessor, it will be vastly more easy than a soldier's life.”
“Meredith, Meredith, this is too solemn a thing to laugh about. I have often wondered how it is there are clergymen who can take their duties so easily as some do; but if they only undertake them for your reasons, I cannot feel so much surprised that they should be so careless. How can you expect any happiness from such a life! I should be afraid to talk so.”
Meredith stared contemptuously. “You are a Methodist, Louis,” he said; “I have no doubt I shall preach as good sermons as you: just put on a grave face, and use a set of tender phrases, and wear a brilliant on your little finger, and a curly head, and there you are a fashionable preacher at once—and if you use your white pocket-handkerchief occasionally, throw your arms about a little, look as if you intended to tumble over the pulpit and embrace the congregation, and dose your audience with a little pathos, you may draw crowds—the ladies will idolize you.”
“I should not think that such popularity would be very good,” replied Louis, “supposing you could do as you say; but it seems to me quite shocking to speak in such a slighting manner of so holy a thing. Were you ever at an ordination, Meredith?”
“Not I,” said Meredith.
“I should think if you had been you would be afraid to think of going to answer the solemn questions you will be asked when you are ordained. I was once with papa at an ordination at Norwich cathedral, and I shall never forget how solemnly that beautiful service came upon me. I could not help thinking how dreadful it must be to come there carelessly, and I wondered how the gentlemen felt who were kneeling there—and the hymn was so magnificent, Meredith. I think if you were there with your present feelings, you would be afraid to stay. It would seem like mocking God to come to answer all those solemn questions, and not mean what you said. I think it is wicked.”
Louis spoke rapidly, and with great emotion.
Meredith looked angry, struggling with a feeling of shame, and a wish to laugh it off. “You are exclusively precise,” he said; “others are not, and have as much right to their opinion as you to yours. Trevannion, for instance—he's going into the church because it is so genteel.”
“I hope you are mistaken,” said Louis, quickly.
“Not I; I heard him say the same thing myself.”
“I am very sorry,” said Louis, sadly. “Oh! I would rather be a laborer than go into the church with such a wish—and yet, I had rather be a very poor curate than a rich duke: it is such a happy, holy life.” The last part of Louis' speech was nearly inaudible, and no more was said until the afternoon.
It was Dr. Wilkinson's wish that the Sabbath should be passed as blamelessly as he had the power of ordering it in his household; but to make it a day of reverence and delight among so large a number of boys, with different dispositions and habits of life, was an arduous task. Mr. James Wilkinson was with the boys the whole afternoon, as well as his father, to whose utmost endeavors he joined his own, that the day might not be wholly unprofitable. In spite, however, of all diligence, it could not fail of often being grossly misspent with many of the pupils; for it is not possible for human power effectually to influence the heart, and, until that is done, any thing else can be but an outward form.
This afternoon the boys were scattered over the large playground. In one corner was the doctor, with twenty or thirty boys around him, and in other directions, the different ushers hearing Catechisms and other lessons. Some of the parties were very dull, for no effort was made by the instructor to impart a real delight in the Word of God to his pupils; and religion was made merely a matter of question and answer, to remain engraved in such heartless form on the repugnant mind of the learner. And, alas! how can it be otherwise, where the teacher himself does not know that religion is a real and happy thing, and not to be learned as we teach our boys the outlines of heathen mythology?
Sitting on the ground, lolling against one of the benches under a tree, sat Hastings Meredith and Reginald and Louis Mortimer; and one or two more were standing or sitting near; all of whom had just finished answering all the questions in the Church Catechism to Mr. Danby, and had said a Psalm.
Louis was sitting on the bench, looking flushed, thinking of holidays, and, of course, of home,—home Sabbaths, those brightest days of home life,—when Trevannion came up with his usual air of cool, easy confidence. Trevannion was the most gentlemanly young man in the school; he never was in a hurry; was particularly alive to any thing “vulgar,” or “snobbish,” and would have thought it especially unbecoming in him to exhibit the smallest degree of annoyance at any untoward event. It took a good deal to put him out of countenance, and he esteemed it rather plebeian to go his own errands, or, indeed, to take any unnecessary trouble.
“Were you in Bristol this morning, Meredith?” he said.
“Yes, sure, your highness,” replied Meredith, yawning.
“Tired apparently,” said Trevannion ironically, glancing at the recumbent attitude of the speaker.
“Worried to death with that old bore Danby, who's been going backwards and forwards for the last hour, with ‘What is your name?’ and ‘My good child,’ &c. I'm as tired as—as—oh help me for a simile! as a pair of worn-out shoes.”
“A poetical simile at last,” remarked Reginald, laughing.
“You would have a nice walk,” said Trevannion.
“Very! and a sermon gratis to boot,” replied Meredith. “It would have done you good, Trevannion, to have heard what shocking things you have done in being so very genteel.”
“What do you mean?” said Trevannion, coolly.
“Louis Mortimer was giving me a taste of his Methodistical mind on the duties of clergymen generally, and your humble servant especially.”
“I presume you do not include yourself in the fraternity yet?” said Trevannion.
“Not exactly; but having informed him of my prospects, the good child began to upbraid me with my hypocrisy, and, bless you, such a thundering sermon,—positively quite eloquent.”
“Perhaps I may be allowed to profit by the second part of it,” said Trevannion, turning to Louis; “will you be kind enough to edify me?”
Louis did not reply, and Trevannion's lips curled slightly as he remarked, “There is an old proverb about those who live in glass houses—‘Physician, cure thyself.’ ”
Poor Louis turned away, and Meredith, stretching himself and yawning terrifically, continued, “You must know, Trevannion, that it is very wicked to be any thing but a Methodist, very wicked for a clergyman to be genteel, or to wish to make himself comfortable.”
“Hastings, I did not say so,” said Louis, turning his head.
“And so,” continued Meredith, without noticing Louis, “if we dare to follow up our own or our fathers' wishes, we must listen to Louis Mortimer, and he will tell us what to do.”
“Much obliged to him, I am sure,” said Trevannion.
“Yes, so am I,” rejoined Meredith, “though I forgot to tender my thanks before; and hereby give notice, that when I am in orders, I will not hunt more than convenient, nor play cards on Good Friday, nor go to dancing parties on Saturday evening.”
“Pshaw, Meredith,” said Trevannion: “it is very unbecoming to talk in this manner of so sacred a profession. A hunting and card-playing clergyman ought to be stripped of his gown without hesitation. Any right-minded person would recoil with horror at such a character. It is a great disgrace to the profession; no clergyman ought to enter into any kind of improper dissipation. Your ideas are very light and indelicate.”
“Will you be kind enough to define that term, improper dissipation,” said Meredith, carelessly. “I presume you have no objection to a quiet dance now and then, only they must not call it a ball.”
“A clergyman ought not to dance,” replied Trevannion, in precisely the same cool, dictatorial manner.
“He may look on them, may he not?” said Meredith.
“A clergyman has many serious duties to perform, and he should be very careful that he does not degrade his office,” replied Trevannion. “He has to uphold the dignity of the church, and should take care that his conduct is such that no reproach can fall on that church from his inconsistency.”
“Well, for my part,” said Meredith, lightly, “I think the church too important to miss the weight of my example. I mean to have a most exemplary curate.”
Near these speakers sat Mr. James Wilkinson, with a few little boys, whom at this moment he hastily dismissed, for the sound of the light conversation reached him, and he arose quickly and introduced himself to the little côterie just as Reginald exclaimed, “For shame, Meredith!”
“Ay, for shame,” said Mr. James: “I have heard a little of what has been going on among you, and am really very sorry to hear such expressions on a subject so solemn and important. Meredith, you cannot be aware of what you are saying. I should like to have a little talk about this matter; and, Mr. Trevannion, if you will give me your attention for a few minutes, I shall be obliged to you.”
Trevannion seated himself on the bench, and folding his arms, remained in an attitude of passive attention.
“Lend me your prayer-book, Mortimer,” said Mr. James, and he quickly turned to the service for the ordering of deacons. “The first question here put to the candidate for holy orders is, ‘Do you trust that you are inwardly moved by the Holy Ghost, to take upon you this office and ministration, to serve God for the promoting of His glory and the edifying of His people?’ Now, Meredith, I ask you to think, whether, with such sentiments as you have just expressed, you can dare to answer, ‘I trust so?’ ”
“I never thought very seriously about it,” said Meredith, rather abruptly.
“But you know these things must be thought of seriously and prayerfully. It is required of a man in every station of life, that he be faithful and diligent, serving the Lord, and whoever does not remember this, must answer for his neglect of such duty to his Maker. It will not do to say that our individual example can be of no importance; the command, ‘Occupy till I come,’ is laid upon each one of us; but what must be said of him who, in a careless, light frame of mind, takes these holy vows upon him, knowing in his own mind that he intends to break them; that his sole desire to be put into the priest's office is to eat a morsel of bread? What shall be said of him who goes into the house of God, and in the presence of His people declares that it is his intention, ‘to search gladly and willingly for the sick and poor of his parish, to relieve their necessities; to frame his own life and the lives of his family according to the doctrine of Christ; to be diligent in prayers and in reading of the Holy Scriptures, laying aside the study of the world and the flesh,’ and yet knows that he intends to enjoy himself in the things of this world—a very hireling who forgets that his master's eye is upon him. It is a fearful thing. It is coming before the Almighty with a lie. Nay, hear me a little longer. The clergyman's is a glorious and exalted path, the happiest I know of on earth. It is his especially to bear the message of salvation from a tender Saviour. It is his to go forth with the balm of heavenly comfort, to bind up the wounds sin and grief have made. It is his indeed pre-eminently to dwell in the house of his God, to be hid away from the world and its many allurements; but as every great blessing brings with it a great responsibility, so the responsibility of the minister of Christ is very great, and if he turn from the commandment delivered to him, his condemnation is fearful. I should be much obliged to you, Meredith, if you would read me these verses.”
Meredith took the open Bible from Mr. Wilkinson's hand, and read aloud the first ten verses of the 34th of Ezekiel.
“In this holy word, which must be the standard for all our conduct, we do not find that the Almighty looks upon this office as a light thing. In the thirty-third chapter there is so solemn a warning to the careless watchman, that I wonder any one who does not steadfastly intend to give himself to his sacred duties, can read it and not tremble. ‘If the watchman see the sword come, and blow not the trumpet, and the people be not warned; if the sword come, and take away any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at the watchman's hand. So thou, O son of man, I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou shalt hear the word at my mouth, and warn them from me. When I say unto the wicked, Oh wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand.’ This is the second solemn warning to the same purport given to Ezekiel; for, in the third chapter, we find the same thing; and these are awful truths engraved in God's everlasting word, by which we are to be judged at the last day. You must excuse me,” continued Mr. Wilkinson, and his eyes glistened with emotion; “but I am a watchman, and I must warn you of the fearful sin you are contemplating.”
Meredith was silent. He was impressed with the earnestness displayed by Mr. Wilkinson, and the solemn truths he had brought before him—truths it would be well if all those who are looking forward to entering the sacred ministry would seriously and prayerfully consider.
The tea bell ringing at this moment, the conversation was necessarily concluded; but that evening after prayers, Mr. Wilkinson put into Meredith's hand a piece of paper, on which were written the following references: Num. xvi. 9; Isaiah lii. 7, 8; lxii. 6, 7; Jer. xxiii. 1-4; Ezek. iii. 17-21; xxxiii. 1-9; xxxiv. 1-10; John xxi. 15-17; 1 Cor. ix. 16, 17, 19; and both the Epistles to Timothy; and underneath the references was the Apostle's injunction, “Meditate upon these things; give thyself wholly to them, that thy profiting may appear unto all.”
When Louis was fairly in bed that night, he was called on for a story.
“Tell us the end of the princess Rosetta, Louis,” cried Frank; “I want to know how the fair animal got out of her watery bedroom, and whether the green dog ever got his nose nipped by the oysters he was so fond of snapping up.”
“Yes, Rosetta!” cried several voices. “Did she ever get to the king of the peacocks, Louis?”
“No, no,” cried Reginald; “it is not fit for Sunday.”
“I am sure we have been doing heaps of good things to-day,” replied Frank, lightly; “come, Louis.”
“I must not,” said Louis, gently. “I do not like telling stories at night at all, because I think we ought not to fill our heads with such things when we are going to sleep; but I must not tell you Rosetta to-night, Frank.”
“Get along,” said Frank, contemptuously; “you are not worth the snap of a finger. All you are ever worth is to tell stories, and now you must needs set up for a good, pious boy—you, forsooth of all others!”
“Indeed, Frank, you will not understand me.”
“If you dare to say any more to Louis,” cried Reginald, “I'll make you—”
Louis' hand was upon Reginald's mouth.
Frank replied, tauntingly, “Ay, finish your work this time, that's right. Come boys, never mind, I'll tell you a wonderful tale.”
“I think we'd better not have one to-night,” said one; “perhaps Mortimer's right.”
“Don't have one, don't!” said Louis, starting up; “do not let us forget that all this day is God's day, and that we must not even speak our own words.”
“None of your cant,” cried one.
“Well, I propose that we go to sleep, and then we shan't hear what he says,” said Meredith. “They talk of his not having pluck enough to speak, but he can do it when he pleases,” he remarked in a low tone to his next companion, Frank Digby, who rejoined,
“More shame for him, the little hypocrite. I like real religious people, but I can't bear cant.”
What Frank's idea of real religion was, may be rather a difficult matter to settle. Probably it was an obscure idea to himself,—an idea of certain sentiment and no vitality.
Chapter VII.
The next Saturday afternoon proving unusually fine, the community at Ashfield House sallied forth to enjoy their half-holiday on the downs. A few of the seniors had received permission to pay a visit to Bristol, and not a small party was arranged for a good game of cricket. Among the latter was Reginald Mortimer, whose strong arm and swift foot were deemed almost indispensable on such occasions. As he rushed out of the playground gates, bat in hand, accompanied by Meredith, he overtook his brother, who had discovered a poem unknown to him in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, and was anticipating a pleasant mental feast in its perusal.
“Louis, you lazy fellow,” cried Reginald, good-temperedly, “you shan't read this fine afternoon—come, join us.”
“I don't play cricket, I have not learned,” replied Louis.
“And you never will,” rejoined Reginald, “if you don't make a beginning: I'll teach you—now put away that stupid book.”
“Stupid!” said Louis. “It's Coleridge, that mamma promised to read to us.”
“I hate poetry,” exclaimed Reginald; “I wonder how anybody can read such stuff. Give me the book, Louis, and come along.”
“No, thank you, I'd rather not.”
“What a donkey you are!” said Meredith: “why don't you learn?”
“Perhaps my reputation may be the safer for not divulging my reasons,” said Louis, archly: “it is sufficient for present purposes that I had rather not.”
“Rather not—rather not,” echoed Meredith: “like one of your sensible reasons.”
“He has refused to give them, so you cannot call that his reason, Meredith,” remarked Reginald; “but let us be off, as Louis won't come.”
Away they ran, and after looking at them for a minute, Louis turned off his own way, but it was destined that he should not read the Ancient Mariner that day, for he was presently interrupted by little Alfred Hamilton, who pounced upon him full of joy.
“Louis,” he cried, “I am so glad to speak to you! I don't know how it is that I have not been able to speak to you lately: I half thought Edward did not like it, but he asked me to-day why I did not come to you now.”
“Did he?” exclaimed Louis, with joyful surprise; “I am very glad you are come. I think we shall have a beautiful walk.”
“I can't think how it is, Louis, that everybody is either so grave or rude when I speak of you. What is the matter?”
“A mistake; and a sad one for me,” said Louis, gravely. “But don't say any thing about it, Alfred; they think I have been doing something very wrong; but all will come out some day.”
“I hope so,” replied little Alfred; “I cannot think what you can have done wrong, Louis, you always seem so good.”
The child looked wistfully up in Louis' face as he spoke, and seemed to wait some explanation.
“That is because you do not know much about me, Alfred,” replied Louis; “but in this one case I have not done wrong, I assure you.”
Alfred asked no more questions, though he looked more than once in the now sorrowful young face by him, as they sauntered along the wide downs.
“Here come Edward and Mr. Trevannion,” said Alfred, turning round; “and there is Frank Digby, and Mr. Ferrers, too. I think Edward is going to Bristol this afternoon.”
This intimation of the august approach of his majesty and court was hardly given when the young gentlemen passed Louis. Hamilton, with Trevannion, as usual, leaning on his arm, and Frank Digby walking backwards before them, vainly endeavoring to support a failing argument with a flood of nonsense, a common custom with this young gentleman; and, by the way, we might recommend it as remarkably convenient at such times, to prevent the pain of a total discomfiture, it being more pleasant to slip quietly and unseen from your pedestal to some perfectly remote topic, than to allow yourself to be hurled roughly therefrom by the rude hand of a more sound and successful disputant.
“Enough, enough, Frank!” exclaimed Hamilton, laughing. “I see through your flimsy veil. We won't say any more: you either argue in a circle, or try to blind us.”
Louis looked up as Hamilton passed, in hopes that that magnate might give him a favorable glance, in which he was not mistaken, for Edward the Great had been watching him from some distance, and was perfectly aware of his near approach to him.
He certainly did not seem displeased, though the grave countenance bore no marks of particular satisfaction at the rencontre. He spoke carelessly to his brother, and then, addressing Louis, said, “You must look after him, Louis, if you wish for his company; if not, dismiss him at once.”
“I do wish for him,” said Louis, with a bright look of gratitude; “I promise to take care of him. Mr. Hamilton, I am getting up in my class—I am fifth now.”
The latter communication was made doubtfully, in a tone indicating mixed pleasure and timidity.
“I am glad to hear it,” was Hamilton's laconic reply. He did not quicken his pace. “What have you there?” he asked, noticing his book.
“Coleridge's Ancient Mariner; I was going to read it,” replied Louis; “but now Alfred has come we shall talk: shall we not, Alfred?”
This was accompanied by another look of grateful pleasure at Alfred's brother.
What was passing in Hamilton's mind was not to be gathered from his countenance, which exhibited no emotion of any kind. He turned to Trevannion, as their party was strengthened by Churchill, remarking, “Here comes the sucking fish.”
“It's uncommon hot,” said Churchill, taking off his hat, and fanning himself with his handkerchief.
“Dreadful warm,” said Frank Digby, in exactly the same tone.
“And there is not a breath of wind on the horrid downs,” continued the sapient youth, perfectly unconscious of Frank's mimicry.
“What will the fair Louisa do?” cried Frank: “O that a zephyr would have pity on that delicate form!”
Across their path lay a wagon, from which the horses had been detached, and which now offered a tempting though homely shelter to those among the pedestrians who might choose to sit on the shady side, or to avail themselves of the accommodation afforded by the awning over the interior. Ferrers threw himself full length inside the cart: and Louis, drawing Alfred to the shady side, seated himself by him on the grass. His example was followed by Churchill, who exclaimed rapturously as he did so, “How nice! This puts me in mind of a Latin sentence; I forget the Latin, but I remember the English—‘Oh, 'tis pleasant to sit in the shade!’ ”
“Of a wagon,” said Frank, laughing. “Remarkably romantic! It is so sweet to hear the birds chirp, and the distant hum of human voices—but language fails! As for Lady Louisa, she is in the Elysium of ecstasy. It's so romantic.”
“Are you going to Bristol, Frank, for I'm off?” said Hamilton.
“Coming,” replied Frank. “We'll leave these romantic mortals to their sequestered glen. There ain't nothing like imagination, my good sirs.”
As he joined his companions, Trevannion remarked to Hamilton, “Little Mortimer is so much the gentleman, you never know him do or say any thing vulgar or awkward. It is a pity one can't depend upon him.”
“I am not quite sure that you cannot,” replied Hamilton.
“How!” said Trevannion, in astonishment.
“Are you going to turn Paladin for her ladyship?” asked Frank.
“I have been watching Louis very carefully, and the more I see, the more I doubt his guilt,” replied Hamilton.
“After what you saw yourself? After all that was seen by others? Impossible, my dear Hamilton!” exclaimed Trevannion. “You cannot exonerate him without criminating others.”
“We shall see,” replied Hamilton; “and more than that, Trevannion, I am certain that Dr. Wilkinson has his doubts now, too.”
“But does Fudge know any thing about his old pranks?” asked Frank, incredulously.
“I cannot say,” replied Hamilton; “but I think that he probably does; for what is so well known now among ourselves, is likely enough to reach his quick ears.”
“But knowing all you do, my dear Hamilton,” said Trevannion, expostulatingly, “you must be strongly prejudiced in your protegé's favor to admit a doubt in this case. Has Dr. Wilkinson told you that he has any doubts?”
“No,” replied Hamilton; “you know the doctor would not reveal his mind unless he were confident, but I have noticed some little things, and am sure that though he seems generally so indifferent to Louis' presence and concerns, and so distant and cold towards him, he's nevertheless watching him very narrowly; and I, for my part, expect to see things take a new turn before long.”
“The boy seems quite to have won your heart,” said Trevannion.
“Poor fellow,” replied Hamilton, smiling. “He is a sweet-tempered, gentle boy; a little too anxious to be well thought of, and has, perhaps, too little moral courage. I own he has interested me. His very timidity and his numerous scrapes called forth pity in the first instance, and then I saw more. I should not have been surprised at his telling a lie in the first place, but I do not think he would persist in it.”
“I'm afraid wisdom's at fault,” said Frank, shaking his head: “you would not say that Ferrers helped him?—I mean took the key to get him into a scrape.”
“I accused no one, Digby,” replied Hamilton, in a reserved tone; “nor am I going to wrong any one by uttering unformed suspicions.”
“Enough has been said,” remarked Trevannion; “let us drop the subject, and talk of something more interesting to all parties.”
While these young gentlemen pursue their walk, we will retrace our steps to the wagon, where Louis and his little friend have taken shelter.
Churchill, finding neither seemed very much inclined to encourage his conversational powers, took himself off, after remaining in the shade long enough to cool himself. After his departure Louis and Alfred talked lazily on of their own pleasant thoughts and schemes, both delighted at being once more in each other's society. They were within sight of the masters out on the downs, and who had forbidden them to wander beyond certain limits, but still so far from their school-fellows as to be able to enjoy their own private conversation unmolested, and in the feeling of seclusion.