At length, after a pause, Louis made an original remark on the beauty of the weather, which was immediately responded to by his companion, who added that he had not known such a fine day since Miss Wilkinson's wedding.
“Don't you think so?” said Louis; “I think we had one or two Sundays quite as fine.”
“Perhaps I thought that day so very fine, because I wanted to go out,” said Alfred.
“What do you mean?” asked Louis: “we had a holiday then.”
“Yes, I know, but I was not allowed to go out because I had been idle, and had spoken improperly to Mr. Norton. I remember it was so sad. I assure you, Louis, I cried nearly all day; for I was shut up in your class-room, and I heard all the boys so merry outside. The very thought makes me quite sorrowful now.”
A thought flashed across Louis' mind, and he asked quickly—
“Were you shut up in our class-room that holiday, Alfred? I never saw you when I went in.”
“But I saw you once,” said Alfred, “when you came in for an atlas; and I saw Mr. Ferrers, and afterwards Edward and Mr. Salisbury and Mr. Trevannion come in; but I was ashamed, and I did not want any one to see me, so I hid myself between the book-case and the wall.”
“Did your brother know you were there?” asked Louis.
“Not there,” replied Alfred. “He thought I was to go into Dr. Wilkinson's study; but I could not go there, and I didn't want him to speak to me.”
“Did Ferrers come to fetch any thing, Alfred?”
Alfred laughed. “It won't be telling tales out of school to tell you, Louis. He came for a key to the first-class exercise book.”
“How do you know it was a first-class exercise book, Alfred?” asked Louis, with a glowing face and beating heart.
“I know Edward does Kenrick's Latin Exercises, and I know the key because it's just like the book, and I have seen Mr. Ferrers with it before. I remember once on a half-holiday he did his lessons in the school-room at my desk, and he had it open in the desk, and as I wanted something out. I saw it, though he did not think I did.”
“Oh Alfred, Alfred!” cried Louis, clasping him very tightly. “Oh Alfred! dear Alfred!”
The child looked up in astonishment, but Louis was so wild with excitement that he could not say any more.
Just at that moment there was an abrupt movement in the wagon, and Ferrers' head was put over the side.
Alfred uttered an exclamation of fear. “Oh, there's Mr. Ferrers!”
“What rubbish have you been talking, you little impostor?” cried Ferrers. “How dare you talk in such a manner? I've a great mind to kick you from Land's End to John o' Groat's house.”
Two young boys under a tipped wagon being verbally threatened by a third boy in the wagon.
Ferrers begins to be found out.
“Ferrers, you know it's all true,” said Louis.
Ferrers' face was white with passion and anxiety. “Get along with you, Alfred, you'd better not let me hear any more of your lies, I can tell you.”
“If you had not been listening you would not have heard,” replied Alfred, taking care to stand out of Ferrers' reach. “Listeners never hear any good of themselves, Mr. Ferrers: you know it's all true, and if I'd told Edward, you wouldn't have liked it.”
“Alfred dear, don't say so much,” said Louis.
Alfred here set off running, as Ferrers had dismounted in a very threatening attitude, but instead of giving chase to the daring fugitive, the conscience-stricken youth drew near Louis, who was standing in a state of such delight that he must be excused a little if no thought of his school-fellow's disgrace marred it at present. A glance at the changed and terror-stricken countenance of that school-fellow checked the exuberance of Louis' joy, for he was too sympathizing not to feel for him, and he said in a gentle tone,
“I am very sorry for you, Ferrers,—you have heard all that Alfred has said.”
“Louis Mortimer!” exclaimed Ferrers, in agony; and Louis was half alarmed by the wild despair of his manner, and the vehemence with which he seized his arm. “Louis Mortimer—it is all true—but what shall I do?”
Louis was so startled that he could not answer at first: at last he replied,
“Go and tell the doctor yourself—that will be much the best way.”
“Listen to me a moment—just listen a moment—as soon as Dr. Wilkinson knows it, I shall be expelled, and I shall be ruined for life. What I have suffered, Louis! Oh—you see how it was; I dared not tell about it—how can I hope you can forgive me?”
“I think you must have seen that I forgave you long ago,” replied Louis; “I wish I could do any thing for you, Ferrers, but you cannot expect me to bear the blame of this any longer. I think if you tell it to the doctor yourself, he will, perhaps, overlook it, and I will beg for you.”
“Oh, Louis!” said Ferrers, seizing the passive hand, and speaking more vehemently; “you heard what the doctor said, and he will do it—and for one fault to lose all my prospects in life! I shall leave at the holidays, and then I will tell Dr. Wilkinson; will you—can you—to save a fellow from such disgrace, spare me a little longer? There are only four weeks—oh, Louis! I shall be eternally obliged—but if you could tell—I have a father—just think how yours would feel. Louis, will you, can you do this very great favor for me? I don't deserve any mercy from you, I know; but you are better than I am.”
All the bright visions of acknowledged innocence fled, and a blank seemed to come over poor Louis' soul. The sacrifice seemed far too great, and he felt as if he were not called to make it; and yet—a glance at Ferrers' face—his distress, but not his meanness, struck him. A minute before, he had indulged in bright dreams of more than restoration to favor—of his brother's delight—of his father's and mother's approbation—of his grandfather's satisfaction—and Hamilton's friendly congratulations. And to give up this! it was surely too much to expect.
During his silence, Ferrers kept squeezing, and even kissing, his now cold hand, and repeating,
“Dear Louis—be merciful—will you pity me?—think of all—I don't deserve it, I know.” And though the meanness and cowardliness were apparent, Louis looked at little else than the extreme agony of the suppliant.
“Don't kiss my hand, Ferrers—I can't bear it,” he said at length, drawing his hand quickly away; and there was something akin to disgust mingled with the sorrowful look he gave to his companion.
“But Louis, will you?”
“Oh Ferrers! it is a hard thing to ask of me,” said Louis, bitterly.
“Just for a little longer,” implored Ferrers, “to save me from a lasting disgrace.”
Louis turned his head away—it was a hard, hard struggle: “I will try to bear it if God will help me,” he said; “I will not mention it at present.”
“Oh! how can I thank you! how can I! how shall I ever be able!” cried Ferrers: “but will Alfred tell?”
“He does not know,” replied Louis, in a low tone.
“But will he not mention what has passed?”
“I will warn him then,” said Louis.
Ferrers then in broken sentences renewed his thanks, and Louis, after hearing a few in silence, as if he heard nothing, turned his full moist eyes on him with a sorrowful beseeching look,
“You have done a very wicked thing, Ferrers. Oh do pray to God to forgive you.”
“I will try to do any thing you wish,” replied Ferrers.
“A prayer because I wished, could do you no good. You must feel you have sinned against God. Do try to think of this. If it should make you do so, I think I could cheerfully bear this disgrace a little longer for you, though what it is to bear I cannot tell you.”
“You are almost an angel, Louis!” exclaimed Ferrers.
“Oh don't say such things to me, Ferrers,” said Louis, “pray don't. I am not more so than I was before this—I am but a sinful creature like yourself, and it is the remembrance of this that makes me pity you. Now do leave me alone; I cannot bear to hear you flatter me now.”
Ferrers lingered yet, though Louis moved from him with a shuddering abhorrence of the fawning, creeping manner of his school-fellow. Seeing that Ferrers still loitered near him, he asked if there were any thing more to say.
“Will your brother know this?”
“Reginald?” replied Louis. “Of course—no—I shall not tell him.”
“A thousand thousand times I thank you,—oh Louis, Louis, you are too good!”
“Will you be kind enough to let me alone,” said Louis gently, but very decidedly.
This time the request was complied with, and Louis resumed his former seat, and fixing his eyes vacantly on the sweet prospect before him, ruminated with a full heart on the recent discovery; and, strange to say, though he had voluntarily promised to screen Ferrers a little longer from his justly merited disgrace, he felt as if it had been only a compulsory sense of duty and not benevolence which had led him to do so, and was inclined to murmur at his hard lot. For some time he sat in a kind of sullen apathy, without being able to send up a prayer, even though he felt he needed help to feel rightly. At length the kindly tears burst forth, and covering his face with his hands he wept softly. “I am very wrong—very ungrateful to God for His love to me. He has borne so much for me, and I am so unwilling to bear a little for poor Ferrers. Oh what sinful feelings I have! My heavenly Father, teach me to feel pity for him, for he has no one to help him; help him, teach him, Thyself.”
Such, and many more, were the deep heart-breathings of the dear boy, and who ever sought for guidance and grace, and was rejected? and how unspeakably comfortable is the assurance, that for each of us there is with Christ the very grace we need.
The sullen fit was gone, and Louis was his own happy self again, when little Alfred came to tell him that Mr. Witworth had given the order to return home,—“And I came to tell you, dear Louis, for I wanted to walk home with you. What a beast that Ferrers is! see if I won't tell Edward of him.”
“Hush, Alfred!” said Louis, putting his finger on the little boy's mouth. “Do you know that God is very angry when we call each other bad names, and surely you do not wish to revenge yourself? I will tell you a very sweet verse which our Saviour said: ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you, that ye may be the children of your Father who is in heaven.’ ” As the little monitor spoke, the soft consciousness of the comfort of those sweet words rushed over his own mind, “children of your Father who is in heaven.”
“And am I a child—His child indeed! I will try to glorify my Saviour who has given me that great name.”
That is a sure promise that “they who water shall be watered,” and who is there that has endeavored to lead another heavenward, that has not felt, at one time or another, a double share of that living water refreshing his own soul?
With one arm round his little friend's neck, Louis wandered home, and, during the walk, easily persuaded Alfred not to say a word of what had passed; and as for Louis—oh, his eye was brighter, his step more buoyant, his heart full of gladness!
A little word, and I will close this long chapter. It is good for us to consider how unable we are to think and to do rightly ourselves: we must do so if we would be saved by Christ. When we have done all, we are unprofitable servants; but oh, how gracious—how incomprehensible is that love that puts into our minds good desires, brings the same to good effect, and rewards us for those things which He Himself has enabled us to do!
Chapter VIII.
“Charity suffereth long, and is kind.”—1 Cor. xiii. 4.
Louis entered the class-room sooner than usual one evening, and sitting down by his brother, spread before him a few strawberries and some sweet-cakes, inviting him and one of Salisbury's brothers who was on the other side of him to partake of them.
“What beauties they are!” exclaimed John Salisbury; “have you had a box, Louis? How did you get them?”
“Guess,” said Louis.
“Nay, I can't guess. Strawberries like these don't come at this time of the year in boxes.”
“I guess,” said Frank Digby from the opposite side of the table, in a tone as if he had been speaking to some one behind him. “Fudge has a dinner party to-night, hasn't he?”
“Yes,” said Louis, laughing; “how did you know that?”
“Oh, I have the little green bird that tells every thing,” replied Frank.
“What's that, Frank?” cried Salisbury; “Fudge a dinner party? How snug he's kept it!”
“Why you don't suppose that he's obliged to inform us all when he has some idea of doing the genteel,” remarked one of the first class.
“Are Hamilton and Trevannion invited?” asked Salisbury.
“In good troth! thou art a bat of the most blind species,” said Frank; “didn't you see them both just now in all their best toggery? Trevannion went up to his room just after school, and has, I believe, at last adorned his beauteous person to his mind—all graces and delicious odors.—Faugh! he puts me in mind of a hair-dresser's shop.”
“He declares that his new perfumes are something expressly superior,” said another. “He wouldn't touch your vulgar scents.”
“His millefleurs is at all events uncommonly like a muskrat,” said Salisbury.
“And,” remarked Frank, “as that erudite youth, Oars, would say, ‘puts me in mind of some poet, but I've forgotten his name.’ However, two lines borrowed from him, which my sister quotes to me when I am genteel, will do as well as his name:
“ ‘I cannot talk with civet in the room—
A fine puss gentleman, that's all perfume.’ ”
Reginald laughed. “I often think of the overrun flower-pots in the cottages at Dashwood, when Trevannion has been adorning himself. I once mortally offended him by the same quotation.”
“Had you the amazing audacity! the intolerable presumption!” cried Frank, pretending to start. “I perceive his magnificent scorn didn't quite annihilate you; I think, though, he was three hours embellishing himself to-night.”
“Frank, that's impossible!” cried Louis, laughing, “for it was four o'clock when he went, and it's only half-past six now.”
“Cease your speech, and eat your booty: I dare say it is sweet enough; sweetness is the usual concomitant of goods so obtained.”
“What do you mean, Frank?” asked Louis.
“Sweet little innocent; of course he don't know—no, in course he don't—how should he? they came into his hand by accident,” said Frank, mockingly; “I wish such fortunate accidents would happen to me.”
“They were given to me, Frank,” said Louis, quietly. “Mrs. Wilkinson gave them to me when she told me I must not stay in the study.”
“What a kind person Mrs. Wilkinson is!—oh! Louis, Louis, Tanta est depravitas humani generis!”
“Frank!” shouted Reginald, “at your peril!”
“Well, my dear—what, is my life in peril from you again? I must take care then.”
“Come, Frank, have done,” cried one of his class-fellows, “can't you leave Louis Mortimer alone—it doesn't signify to you.”
“I only meant to admonish him by a gentle hint, that he must not presume to contradict gentlemen whose honor and veracity may at least be on a par with his own.”
“Frank,” said Louis, “I cannot think how you can suppose me guilty of such meanness.”
“The least said, the soonest mended,” remarked Salisbury. “We must have large powers of credence where you are concerned. Clear off your old scores, and then we will begin a new one with you.”
Reginald started to his feet. “You shall rue this, Salisbury.”
“Two can play at your game,” rejoined Salisbury, rising.
Reginald was springing forward, but was checked by Louis, who threw himself on him. “Do not fight, dear Reginald—do not, pray.”
“I will—unhand me, Louis! I tell you I will—let me go.”
“Dear Reginald, not for me—wait a minute.”
At this moment the form behind them fell with a heavy bang, and in struggling to release himself, Reginald fell over it, dragging Louis with him. Louis was a little hurt, but he did not let go his hold. “Reginald,” he said, “ask Mrs. Wilkinson to say so herself; they will believe her, I suppose.”
The fall had a little checked his rage, and Reginald sat brooding in sullen anger on the ground. At last he started up and left the room, saying to Louis, “It's all your fault, then—you've no spirit, and you don't want me to have any.”
Louis mechanically assisted in raising the form, and stood silently by the table. He looked quickly round, and pushing the little share of his untasted fruit from him, went into the school-room. He did not recover his spirits again that evening, even when Reginald apologized to him for his roughness, pleading in excuse the extreme trouble it gave him to prevent himself from fighting with Salisbury.
As they went up stairs that night, in spite of the cautions given by the usher to be quiet, a sham scuffle ensued on purpose between Salisbury and Frank Digby, during which the former let his candle fall over the bannisters, and they were left in darkness; though, happily for the comfort of the doctor's dinner party, the second hall and back staircase arrangement effectually prevented the noise that ensued from reaching the drawing-room.
“Halloa there—you fellows! Mortimer, ahoa!” cried one of Salisbury's party; “bring your light.”
“You may come and fetch it if you want it,” shouted Reginald from his room.
“We're in the dark,” was the reply.
“So much the better,” said Reginald: “perhaps you will behave a little better now; if you want a light you may come and light your candle here.”
“Our candle's on the hall floor,” said another voice, amidst suppressed laughter.
“Pick it up, then.”
“We're desperately afraid of hobgoblins,” cried Frank, rushing into his room and blowing their candle out.
“What did you do that for, Frank?” asked several indignant voices.
“Because Salisbury and his myrmidons were coming to carry it off by a coup de main—he-he-he—” giggled Frank.
“And so you've given your own head a blow to punish your tooth! well done,” exclaimed another voice at the door.
“Peters, is that you?”
“What's to be done now?”
“How shall we get a light?”
“If you will give me the candle I will get one,” said Louis.
Accordingly, the extinguished candle was delivered into his hands, and he felt his way to the kitchen door, where he obtained a light, and then, picking up the fallen candle, tried to arrange its shattered form, and replace it. While thus employed, Ferrers joined him, and offered his aid, and on Louis' accepting it, said in a low tone,—
“Louis, I am a wretch, I am so very miserable. I can't think how you can bear so much from one who has never done you any thing but harm.”
Louis raised his head from his work in astonishment, and saw that Ferrers looked as he said, very miserable, and was deadly pale.
“I do so despise myself—to see you bearing all so sweetly, Louis. I should have been different, perhaps, if I had known you before—I love, I admire you, as much as I hate myself.”
“Are you coming with the candle there?” cried a voice from above: “Louis Mortimer and William Ferrers in deep confabulation—wonders will never cease.”
Ferrers jumped up and ran up stairs with his candle, and Louis followed more leisurely to his own room, nor could any thing induce him that night to tell a story. How long and earnest was his prayer for one who had injured him so cruelly, but towards whom he now, instead of resentment, felt only pity and interest!
Ferrers, after tossing from side to side, and trying all schemes for several hours, in vain, to drown his remorse in sleep, at last, at daybreak, sank into an uneasy slumber. The image of Louis, and his mute expression of patient sorrow that evening, haunted him, and he felt an indefinable longing to be like him, and a horror of himself in comparison with him. He remembered Louis' words, “Pray to God;” and one murmured petition was whispered in the stillness of the night, “Lord have mercy on a great sinner.”
Since his disgrace, Louis generally had his brother for a companion during their walks; but the next morning Ferrers joined him, and asked Louis to walk with him to the downs. They were both naturally silent for the beginning of the walk; but on Louis making some remark, Ferrers said, “I can't think of any thing just now, Louis; I have done every thing wrong to-day. My only satisfaction is in telling you how much I feel your goodness. I can't think how you can endure me.”
“Oh, Ferrers!” said Louis, “what am I that I should not bear you? and if you are really sorry, and wish to be better, I think I may some day love you.”
“That you can never do, Louis,—you must hate and despise me.”
“No, I do not,” said Louis, kindly; “I am very sorry for you.”
“You must have felt very angry.”
“I did feel very unkind and shocked at first,” replied Louis; “but by God's grace I learned afterwards to feel very differently, and you can't think how often I have pitied you since.”
“Pitied me!” said Ferrers.
“Oh yes,” replied Louis, sweetly; “because I am sure you must have been very unhappy with the knowledge of sin in your heart—I don't think there is any thing so hard as remorse to bear.”
“I did not feel much sorrow till you were so kind to me,” said Ferrers. “What a wretch you must think me!”
“I have sinned too greatly myself to judge very hardly of you; and when I think of all the love shown to me, I feel anxious to show some love to others; and I should be afraid, if I thought too hardly of you, I should soon be left to find out what I am.”
Ferrers did not reply; he did not understand the motives which induced Louis' forbearance and gentleness, for he was an entire stranger to religion, and never having met with any one resembling Louis, could not comprehend, though he did not fail to admire, his character, now its beauty was so conspicuously before him. He felt there was an immeasurable distance between them—for the first time he found himself wanting. Mentally putting himself in Louis' place, he acknowledged that no persuasion could have induced him to act so generously and disinterestedly; and knowing the keen sensitiveness of Louis to disgrace, he wondered how one so alive to the opinion of others, and naturally so yielding and wavering, could steadily and uncomplainingly persevere in his benevolent purpose; for not by word or sign did Louis even hint the truth to Reginald—the usual depository of his cares and secrets.
Louis, imagining the silence of his companion to proceed from shame and distress, proceeded after a few minutes to reassure him.
“You must not think that I am miserable, Ferrers, for lately I have been much happier than even when I was in favor, for now I do not care so much what the boys will think or say of me, and that thought was always coming in the way of every thing; and there are many things which make me very happy, often.”
“What things, Louis?”
“I do not think you would understand me,” replied Louis, timidly; “the things and thoughts that make me happy are so different from what we hear generally here.”
“But tell me, Louis. I want to know how it is you are so much better than any one else here. I want to be better myself.”
“Oh, dear Ferrers,” said Louis, gazing earnestly in Ferrers' face, “if you do want to be better, come to our Saviour, and He will make you all you want to be. It is the feeling of His goodness, and the happy hope of being God's children, and having all their sins forgiven, that make all God's people so happy; and you may have this happiness too, if you will. I do not think we think enough of our great name of Christian.”
“You read your Bible a great deal, Louis, don't you?”
“Not so much as I ought,” replied Louis, blushing, “but I love it very much.”
“It always seems to me such a dull book, I am always very glad when our daily reading's over.”
“I remember when I thought something in the same way,” said Louis: “only mamma used always to explain things so pleasantly, that even then I used to like to hear her read it to us. Papa once said to me that the Bible is like a garden of flowers, through which a careless person may walk, and notice nothing, but that one who is really anxious to find flowers or herbs to cure his disease, will look carefully till he finds what he wants, and that some happy and eager seekers will find pleasure in all.”
“Louis, you are very happy,” said Ferrers, “though very strange. I would give a world, were it mine, to lay this heavy burden of mine down somewhere, and be as light in disgrace as you are.”
Ferrers sighed deeply, and Louis said softly, “ ‘Come unto Him all ye that are heavy laden, and He will give you rest. His yoke is easy and His burden is light.’ ”
Here they parted. The last whispers of the Saviour's gracious invitation, those “comfortable words,” lingered in Ferrers' ears as he entered the house, and returned at night; but he did not throw himself and his burden at the Saviour's feet. And what hindered him? It was pride, pride—though forced to feel himself a sinner, pride still retained its hold, more feebly than before, but still as a giant.
Chapter IX.
The holidays were fast approaching. Ten days of the three weeks' examination had passed, and every energy was exerted, and every feeling of emulation called out, among those who had any hope of obtaining the honors held out to the successful candidates. It was surprising to see what could be, and what was, done. Even idle boys who had let their fair amount of talent lie dormant during the half year, now came forth, and, straining every nerve, were seen late and early at work which should have been gradually mastered during the last five months; denying themselves both recreation and sleep, with an energy, which, had it been earlier exerted in only half the degree, would have been highly laudable. Some of the latter, who possessed great talent, were successful, but generally the prizes fell to the lot of those who had throughout been uniformly steady, and who had gained an amount of thorough information which the eager study of a few weeks could not attain. Now there were beating hearts and anxious faces, and noisy summing up of the day's successes or losses, when the daily close of school proclaimed a truce to the emulous combatants. A few there were who appeared totally indifferent as to the issue of the contest, and who hailed the term of examination as entailing no set tasks to be said the ensuing day under certain penalties, and, revelling in extended play-hours, cared nothing for disgrace, having no character to lose.
Reginald bid fair to carry off all, or nearly all, the second-class honors; still, there were in his class several whose determined efforts and talents gave him considerable work in winning the battle.
Amongst all this spirited warfare, it is not to be supposed that Louis was tranquil; for, though naturally of an indolent temperament, there was in him a fund of latent emulation, which only wanted a stimulus such as the present to rouse him to action. Louis was a boy of no mean ability, and now, fired with the hope of distinguishing himself, and gaining a little honor that might efface the remembrance of past idleness, and give some pleasure to his dear parents, he applied himself so diligently and unremittingly to his studies during the last month, as to astonish his masters.
I do not mean to particularize the subjects for examination given by Dr. Wilkinson to the two upper classes, for this simple reason, that my classical and mathematical ignorance might cause mistakes more amusing to the erudite reader than pleasant to the author. It shall be sufficient to say, that whatever these subjects had been, the day's examination had gone through in a manner equally creditable to masters and pupils; and after a few turns in the fresh air when tea was over, a knot, comprising the greater part of the above-mentioned classes, assembled round their head man to congratulate him on his undoubted successes, and to talk over the events of the day elsewhere. Reginald and Louis could spare little time for talking, and were walking up and down the playground, questioning and answering each other with the most untiring diligence, though both of them had been up since four o'clock that morning. There were a few who had risen still earlier, and who now lay fast asleep on forms in the school-room, or endeavored to keep their eyes open by following the example of our hero and his brother.
“John's fast asleep,” said Salisbury, laughing; “he has a capital way of gaining time—by getting up at half-past three, and falling asleep at seven.”
“How does he stand for the prizes?” asked Smith.
“I'm sure I can't tell you; I suppose Mortimer's sure of the first classics and history—and he ought, for he's coming to us next half. John's next to him.”
“I hear little Mortimer's winning laurels,” remarked Trevannion.
“Oh! for him,” said Harris, a second-class boy, “because he's been such a dunce before;—I suspect Ferrers helps him.”
“Ferrers!” cried all at once, and there was a laugh—“Do you hear, Ferrers?”
“Of course I do,” replied Ferrers.
“He's not good-natured enough,” remarked another.
“He needs no help,” said Ferrers.
“You're sure of the mathematical prize, Ferrers; and Hamilton, of course, gets that for Latin composition.”
Ferrers did not reply—his thoughts had flown to Louis, from whom they were now seldom absent; and, though he had been generally successful, yet the settled gloom and anxiety of his manner led many to suppose that he entertained fears for the issue of his examination. There were others who imagined that there was some deeper cause of anxiety preying on his mind, or that he was suffering from illness and fatigue—and one or two made mysterious remarks on his intimacy with Louis, and wondered what all foreboded.
“I wonder who'll get the medal,” said one.
“Hamilton, of course,” replied Smith.
“You're out there,” said Frank Digby. “My magic has discovered that either the Lady Louisa or myself will obtain it. I admire your selfishness, young gentlemen—you assign to yourselves every thing, and leave us out of the question. If I can't be a genius, I mean to be a good boy.”
Many bitter remarks were then made on Louis' late good behavior, and a few upon his manner towards Ferrers, which, by some, was styled meanness of the highest degree.
Ferrers could not endure it—he left the circle and walked about the playground alone, full of remorse, thinking over every plan he had formed for making amends to Louis for all. He looked up once or twice with a gasping effort, and, oh! in the wrinkled and contracted forehead what trouble might be read. “Oh! that it were a dream,” he at last uttered, “that I could wake and find it a warning.”
There was a soft, warm hand in his, and Louis' gentle voice replied, “Do not grieve now about me, Ferrers, it will soon be over.”
Ferrers started and drew his hand away.
“You are not angry with me, are you?” said Louis; “I saw you alone, and I was afraid you wanted comfort—I did not like to come before, for fear the boys should make remarks, Reginald especially.”
Ferrers looked at Louis a minute without speaking, and then, pushing him off, walked quickly to the house, and did not show himself any more that evening.
Breakfast had long been finished, and the school was once more assembled; the second class was waiting impatiently on the raised end of the school-room for the doctor's entrance, or for a summons to his presence; and near, at their several desks, busily writing answers to a number of printed questions, sat the first class. It was nearly an hour past the time, and impatient eyes were directed to the clock over the folding-doors, which steadily marked the flying minutes.
“Where can the doctor be?” had been asked many times already, but no one could answer.
“We shall have no time—we shall not get done before night,” muttered several malcontents. “What can keep the doctor?”
At this moment the folding-doors were quickly flung open, and Dr. Wilkinson entered, and rapidly made his way towards the upper end of the school-room, but in such a state of unwonted agitation that the boys were by common consent hushed into silence, and every occupation was suspended to watch their master's movements. “How strange he looks!” whispered one; “something's the matter.” Dr. Wilkinson took no notice of the open eyes and mouths of his awe-struck pupils—all his aim seemed to be to reach his seat with the greatest speed.
“What's the row?” muttered Salisbury, in an under-tone to Hamilton, having some idea that the latter could afford a clue to the clearing up of the mystery. “Do you know of any thing, Hamilton?” Hamilton shook his head, and fairly stood up to see what was going on.
Dr. Wilkinson at length reached his place, and there stood a few minutes to collect himself. He then looked around, and asked, in a quick, low tone, for Louis Mortimer. Louis was almost behind him, and in some terror presented himself; though he was unconscious of any misdemeanor, he did not know what new suspicion might have attached to him. His gentle “Here, sir,” was distinctly heard in every part of the large room, in the breathless silence which now ruled. Dr. Wilkinson looked on him, but there was no anger in his gaze—his eyes glistened, and though there might be indignation mixed with the many emotions struggling for expression in his countenance, Louis felt, as he raised his timid eyes, that there was nothing now to fear. The doctor seemed incapable of speaking; after one or two vain efforts he placed both hands on Louis' head, and uttered a deep “God bless you!”
It would be impossible to describe the flood of rapture which this action poured upon poor Louis. The endurance of the last few weeks was amply repaid by the consciousness that somehow—and he did not consider how—his innocence was established, and now, in the presence of his school-fellows, publicly acknowledged.
For another minute Dr. Wilkinson stood with both hands resting on the head of his gentle pupil, then, removing one, he placed it under Louis' chin, and turned the glowing face up to himself and smiled—such a smile none remembered ever to have seen on that stern face.
“Have you found all out, sir?” cried Reginald, starting forward.
The doctor's hand motioned him back, and turning Louis round, so as to face the school, he said in a distinct, yet excited manner,
“Young gentlemen, we have been doing a wrong unconsciously, and I, as one of the first, am anxious to make to the subject of it the only reparation in my power, by declaring to you all that Louis Mortimer is entirely innocent of the offence with which he was charged; and I am sure I may say in the name of you all, as well as of myself, that we are very sorry that he should have suffered so much on account of it.”
A teacher with hand on a boy's head standing in front of a class.
Dr. Wilkinson proclaims Louis innocent.
There was a hum all around, and many of the lower school who knew nothing of the matter, began whispering among themselves. But all was hushed directly the doctor resumed his speech.
“There are some among you who are not aware, I believe, to what I allude; but those who do know, can bear testimony to the gentle endurance of false accusation that Louis Mortimer has exhibited during the whole time he has been made to suffer so severely for the fault of another. I cannot express my admiration of his conduct—conduct which I am sure has had for its foundation the fear and love of God. Stay, gentlemen,” said the doctor, stilling with a motion of his hand the rising murmur of approbation, “all is not yet told. This patient endurance might be lauded as an unusual occurrence, were there nothing more—but there is more. Louis Mortimer might have produced proofs of his innocence and cleared himself in the eyes of us all.”
“Louis!” exclaimed Reginald, involuntarily.
Louis' head was down as far as his master's hand would allow it, and deep crimson blushes passed quickly over the nearly tearful face—and now the remembrance of Ferrers, poor Ferrers, who had surely told all. Louis felt very sorry for him, and almost ashamed on his own account. He wished he could get behind his master, but that was impossible, and he stood still, as the doctor continued, “Three weeks ago Louis discovered that a little boy was in the study on the day when Kenrick's Key was abstracted, who could, of course, bring the desired information—the information which would have righted him in all our eyes; but mark—you who are ready to revenge injuries—because this would have involved the expulsion of one who had deeply injured him, he has never, by sign or word, made known to any one the existence of such information, persuading the little boy also to keep the secret; and this, which from him I should never have learned, I have just heard from the guilty person, who, unable to bear the remorse of his own mind, has voluntarily confessed his sin and Louis' estimable conduct. Young gentlemen, I would say to all of you, ‘Go and do likewise.’ ”
During this speech, Reginald had hardly been able to control himself, especially when he found that Louis had never mentioned his knowledge to himself; and now he sprang forward, unchecked by the doctor, and, seizing his brother, who was immediately released, asked, “Why did you not tell me, Louis? How was it I never guessed?”
While he spoke, there was a buz of inquiry at the lower end of the school, and those who knew the story crowded eagerly up to the dais to speak to Louis. Alfred's voice was very distinct, for he had worked himself up to his brother:
“Edward, tell me all about it. I'm sure if I'd known I'd have told. I didn't know why Louis was so joyful.”
Edward could answer nothing: his heart was as full as the doctor's, and with almost overflowing eyes and a trembling step, he pushed his way to Louis, who had thrown himself on Reginald and was sobbing violently.
“Louis, I'm very sorry,” said one. “Louis, you'll forgive me—I'm sure I beg pardon,” said other voices; and others added, “How good you are!—I shouldn't have done it.”
Louis raised his head from that dear shoulder, so often the place where it had rested in his troubles, and said, amidst his sobs,
“Oh! don't praise me. I was very unwilling to do it.”
“Let him alone,” said the doctor. “Reginald, take him up stairs. Gentlemen, I can do nothing more, nor you neither, I think, to-day. I shall give you a holiday for the remainder of it.”
There was a lull in the noise as Dr. Wilkinson spoke, but just as Louis was going out, there arose a deafening cheer, three times repeated, and then the boys picked up their books and hurried out of doors.
Louis' heart was full of gratitude, but at the same time it was sobered by the recollection of what Ferrers must now suffer, and the doubt he felt respecting his fate; and as soon as he had recovered himself, he sought the doctor to beg pardon for him.
“As he has voluntarily confessed his fault, I shall not expel him,” replied the doctor; “but I intend that he shall beg your pardon before the school.”
Louis, however, pleaded so earnestly that he had already suffered enough, and begged as a favor that nothing more might be said, that at length Dr. Wilkinson gave way.
The sensation that this event had caused in the school was very great: those who had been loudest in condemning Louis, were now the loudest in his praise, and most anxious to load him with every honor; and when he made his appearance among them with Reginald, whose manly face beamed with satisfaction and brotherly pride, he was seized by a party, and against his will, chaired round the playground, everywhere greeted by loud cheers, with now and then “A groan for Ferrers!”
“Louis, my man, you look sorrowful,” said Hamilton, as he was landed at last on the threshold of the school-room door.
“No, no,” said Salisbury, who had been foremost in the rioting; “cheer up, Louis—what's the matter?”
“I am afraid,” said Louis, turning away.
“Afraid! of what old boy?” said Salisbury. “Come, out with it.”
“I am afraid you will make me think too much of what ought not to be thought of at all—you are all very kind, but—”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Salisbury; “we're all so vexed that we have been such bears, and we want to make it up.”
“I am sure I do not think any thing about it now,” said Louis, holding out both his hands and shaking all by turns; “I am very happy. Will you let me ask one thing of you?”
“A hundred,” was the reply; “and we'll fly on Mercury's pennons to do your bidding.”
“Put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes,” said Frank Digby.
“When poor Ferrers comes among us, for my sake, do not take any notice of what has happened.”
There was a dark cloud on the faces before Louis, and Hamilton's lip trembled with scorn. No reply was made.
“I am the only one who has any thing to forgive; please promise me to leave him alone.”
“Then,” said Salisbury, abruptly, “whenever he comes in, I walk out, for I can't sit in the same room and be civil.
“I shan't be particularly inclined to favor him with my discourse,” said Frank; “so I promise to leave him alone.”
“Will you try to be the same as you were before? Do!” said Louis.
“That's impossible!” they all cried; “we cannot, Louis.”
“If you only knew how unhappy he has been, you would pity him very much,” said Louis, sorrowfully. “He has been so very sad—and do not talk of this to other people, please. I should be so much more happy if you would try to be the same to him.”
“All we can promise, is not to notice it, Louis,” said Hamilton; “and now, don't be sad any longer.”
Yet Louis was sad and anxious; though now and then a thought that all was clear, darted like a sunbeam across his mind, and called forth a grateful emotion. He longed for the holidays to come,—the favor he was in was almost painful.
Ferrers was invisible till the next evening, when he joined his class-fellows at prayers. In spite of the half-promise Louis had obtained from them, a studied unconsciousness of his presence, and a chilling coldness, greeted him. Louis alone stood by him, and looked in the deadly white countenance by him with heartfelt sympathy and compassion; and glanced at several of his companions to remind them of his wish. Ferrers seemed hardly the same; the proud, bullying air of arrogance had given place to a saddened, subdued despair; and yet his expression was far more pleasing in its humility than the natural one.
One or two, noticing Louis' anxiety, addressed him civilly, and even wished him “Good-night!” which he did not return by more than an inclination of the head. He expected no pity, and had nerved himself to bear the scorn he had brought on himself; but any attention was a matter of surprise to him.
Chapter X.
Wearily and joylessly had the last week of the examination passed away for Ferrers; although in one branch he had borne away the palm from all competitors. His confession had, in some measure, atoned for his great fault, in the eyes of his judicious master; for, however much it called for the severest reprehension, the fact of the mind not being hardened to all sense of shame and right feeling, made the doctor anxious to improve his better feelings; and, instead of driving them all away by ill-timed severity, considering how lamentably the early training of Ferrers had been neglected, he endeavored, after the first emotion of indignation had passed away, to rouse the fallen youth to a sense of honor and Christian responsibility; and sought to excite, as far as he was able, some feeling of compassion for him among his school-fellows.
There were, however, few among them who had learned the Christian duty of bearing one another's burdens; few among them, who, because circumstances over which they had had no control, had placed them out of the temptations that had overcome their penitent school-fellow, did not esteem themselves better than he, and look scornfully upon him, as though they would say with the proud Pharisee of old, “Stand by, for I am holier than thou!” And is it not the case around us generally? Alas! how apt we are all to condemn our fellow-creatures; forgetting that, had we been throughout similarly situated, our course might have been the same, or even worse. “Who is it that has made us to differ from another?”
Louis, as I have mentioned, felt very deeply for Ferrers; for, besides their late close connection, had he not known what it was to suffer for sin? He knew what it was to carry about a heavy heart, and to wake in the morning as if life had no joy to give; and he knew, too, what it was to lay his sins at a Saviour's feet, and to take the light yoke upon him. How anxious was he to lead his fellow-sinner there! Though his simple efforts seemed impotent at the time, years after, when his school-fellow had grown a steady and useful Christian, he dated his first serious impressions to this time of disgrace; and the remembrance of Louis' sweet conduct was often before him.
Louis' mind had been so chastened by his previous adversity that his present prosperity was meekly though thankfully borne. It came like sunshine after showers, cheering and refreshing his path, but not too powerful; for he was gradually learning more and more, to fear any thing that had a tendency to draw his mind to rest complacently on himself.
But the prize-day came—the joyful breaking-up-day—the day that was to bring his dear parents; and of all the bounding hearts, there were none more so than those of the two brothers. Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer had given their boys reason to expect them in the afternoon of that day, and they were to go from Clifton to Heronhurst before returning home.
Although Dr. Wilkinson's breaking-up-day was not ostensibly a public day, yet so many of the pupils' friends claimed admittance to the hall on the occasion, that it became so in fact, and was usually very respectably attended. Many of the doctor's old pupils came, to recall their old feelings, by a sight of this most memorable exhibition. And on this day, Vernon Digby was present with a younger brother, not to witness Frank's triumph, for that young gentleman had none to boast of, but to look on the theatre of his former fame, and to see how his place was now filled.
Dr. Wilkinson's high desk had been removed from the dais, and in its place stood a long table covered with a red cloth, on which were arranged a number of handsomely bound books of different sizes; and in front of the dais, in a semicircular form, were placed the rows of seats for the boys. On each side of this semicircle, and behind and parallel with Dr. Wilkinson's seat, was accommodation for the spectators. The room was in the most inviting order, and had been hung with garlands of flowers by the boys. At eleven o'clock the pupils assembled, and under the inspection of two of the under masters, seated themselves in the places assigned them, the little boys being placed in the front row.
As the exact fate of each was unknown, though tolerably accurately guessed, there was much anxiety. Some of the youths were quite silent and pale, others endeavored to hide their agitation by laughing and talking quietly, and some affected to consider their nearest companion as more sure than themselves. Even Hamilton was not free from a little nervousness, and though he talked away to Vernon Digby, who was sitting by him, he cast more than one fidgety glance at the red-covered table, and perceptibly changed color when the class-room door opened to allow the long train of ladies and gentlemen to enter, and closed after Dr. Wilkinson, and a few of his particular friends, among whom were two great scholars who had assisted in the examination of the past week.
When every one was comfortably settled, Dr. Wilkinson leaned forward over the table, and drew a paper towards him. His preliminary “hem” was the signal for many fidgety motions on the forms in front of him, and every eye was riveted on him as he prefaced his distribution of the prizes by a short statement of his general satisfaction, and a slight notice of those particular points in which he could desire improvement. He then spoke of his pleasure at the report his friends had made of the proficiency of the upper classes, and particularly alluding to the first class, stopped and mentioned by name those who had especially distinguished themselves. Among these, as a matter of course, Hamilton stood foremost, and carried away the prize for Latin composition, as well as another. Ferrers gained that for mathematics—and two other prizes were awarded to the next in order. Dr. Wilkinson mentioned Frank Digby as having taken so high a place during the examination, as to induce one of the gentlemen who assisted him to consider him entitled to one of the classical prizes; but the doctor added that Frank Digby's indifference and idleness during the term had made him so unwilling that he should, by mere force of natural ability, deprive his more industrious class-fellows of a hard-earned honor, that he had not felt himself justified in listening to the recommendation, but hoped that his talents would, the following term, be exerted from the beginning, in which case, he should have pleasure in awarding to him the meed of successful application.
Frank colored, half angrily, but said, sotto voce,
“I don't care—I just like to see whether I can't do as well as any one else without fagging.”
Vernon was half provoked and half amused at his brother's discomfiture.
Then came Reginald's turn, and he carried off three out of the four prizes of his class, leaving one for John Salisbury.
As each one was called up to receive his reward, an immense clapping and stamping took place, and Louis, all exuberance, stamped most vigorously when his brother and his particular friends went up. There were very slight manifestations when poor Ferrers was summoned, but Louis exerted himself so manfully in the applauding department, that the contagion spread a little before the despised recipient was seated.
The other classes were taken in order; and when all was finished, Dr. Wilkinson took up a little morocco case, and, after clearing his throat once or twice, began anew:
“There remains now but one reward to be assigned, but it is the greatest of all, though undoubtedly that one which it is the most difficult to adjudge rightly. It is the medal for good conduct. Hitherto it has been my practice never to give it to any one who has not been with me the whole term, but on the present occasion I am inclined to depart from my custom in favor of a young gentleman whose conduct has been most praiseworthy, though he has only been with me since Easter. Before adjudging it, I will, however, appeal to the young gentlemen themselves, and ask them who they think among them is the most deserving of this honor?”
Dr. Wilkinson paused, and immediately a shout, led by Hamilton, arose, of “Louis Mortimer.”
“I expected it,” said the doctor, with a smile: “Louis Mortimer has been placed, perhaps, in a situation in the school a little beyond him, and has, therefore, made no great figure in the examination, but of his conduct I can speak in the highest terms, and believe that his sense of duty is so strong that he only wants the conviction that it is his duty to exert himself a little more, to make him for the future as habitually industrious as he has been during the last six weeks.—Louis Mortimer!”
Almost overcome with astonishment and delight, Louis hardly understood the summons, but Reginald whispered, “Go, Louis, the doctor calls you,” and all made way for him with the most pleasant looks of sympathy and congratulation. His modesty and elegance prepossessed the spectators greatly in his favor, as he passed timidly along the ranks to the table. Dr. Wilkinson smiled kindly on him as he delivered the bright silver medal, in its claret-colored case, saying as he did so,
“I have the greatest pleasure in giving this to you, and trust that you will be encouraged, when you look on it, to go on as you have begun.”
Louis was covered with blushes—he bowed, and as he turned away, the most deafening applause greeted him; and, as the last prize was now given, the boys left their seats and mingled among the company. Louis was drawn immediately into a little côterie, composed of Hamilton, Reginald, his three cousins, and one or two others, all of whom congratulated him upon his distinction.
“And so, Louis, you are the hero,” said Vernon; “and what is the drama in which you have been acting so much to your credit?”
“Too long a tale to tell now,” replied Hamilton, smiling on Louis; “we will talk over it by and by. We have been treating him very ill, Digby, but next half-year we shall understand him better—shall we not, Louis?”
Louis was so full of delight that he could hardly speak—it was especially a happy moment to stand before his cousin Vernon with a right fame and well-established character.
“I said my magic knew who would gain the medal,” said Frank.
“But your magic did not anticipate such magnificent honors for yourself, I imagine,” said Vernon.
“I was a little out,” said Frank, carelessly; “for it has proved that Lady Louisa has all the goodness, and I the genius. My head is quite overloaded with the laurels Fudge heaped on me: I shan't be able to hold it up these holidays.”
“A good thing that something will press it down: it is generally high enough,” remarked Hamilton.
“How delighted father and mother will be to hear of your industry!” said Vernon.
“I am sure,” replied the incorrigible youth, “they ought to be proud of having a son too clever to win the prizes. Louis, it puts me in mind of the man in your tale, who had to bind his legs for fear he should outrun the hares. I am, however, heartily glad for you, and amazingly sorry we should have so misunderstood you.”
“Louis Mortimer,” cried a little boy, very smartly dressed, “mamma wants to look at your medal—will you come and show it to her?”
“And go off, Reginald, with him, and tell Lady Stanhope all the news,” said Vernon, as Louis went away with little Stanhope; “I will come and pay my respects as soon as it is convenient for me to be aware of her ladyship's presence.”
Louis' medal was examined and passed from hand to hand, and many compliments were made on the occasion. Lady Stanhope was very kind, and would hear the history, a command Reginald was by no manner of means unwilling to obey, though he suppressed the name of the guilty party. The doctor was in great request, for many of the ladies were very anxious to know more of “that lovely boy,” but he was very guarded in his accounts of the matter, though bearing the strongest testimony to Louis' good conduct. He turned to Mr. Percy, who was present, and said, quietly, “That, sir, is the boy you mentioned to me at Easter; the son of Mr. Mortimer, of Dashwood.”
The excitement was almost too much for Louis, tried as he had been lately by unusual fagging and early rising. He was glad to get away into the playground, and after watching one or two departures he ran wildly about, now and then laughing aloud in his delight, “Oh! papa and mamma, how glad they will be!” and then the well-spring of deep gladness seemed to overflow, and the excess of happiness and gratitude made him mute. His heart swelled with emotions too great for any words; a deep sense of mercies and goodness of which he was unworthy, but for which he felt as if he could have poured out his being in praise. Oh the blessing of a thankful heart! How happy is he who sees his Father's hand in every thing that befalls him, and in whom each mercy calls forth a gush of gratitude!
“Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a thankful heart,
To taste those gifts with joy.”
—Addison.
The playground was empty, for the boys were either engaged with their friends, or else departing; and Louis, from his little nook, saw many vehicles of different descriptions drive away from the door. When the dinner-bell rang he re-entered the house, but the dinner-table looked very empty—there was not half the usual party.
“Where have you been, Louis?” asked Reginald, as he entered; “I have been looking everywhere for you. Hamilton was quite vexed to go away without bidding you goodbye, and he begged me to do it for him.”
“I am very sorry, indeed,” said Louis; “I have been in the playground. Reginald, does it not make you feel very pleasant to see the heap of boxes in the hall? I stood a long time looking at our directions.”
“I am almost cracked,” cried Reginald, joyously;—
“ ‘Midsummer's coming again, my boys,
Jolly Midsummer and all its joys!’ ”
How far Reginald's reminiscences of his holiday song might have continued, I cannot pretend to say, had it not been interrupted by a desire from the presiding master, that “he would recollect himself, and where he was;” but order was out of the question, most of the party being in Reginald's condition—and, after several useless appeals to the sense of gentlemanly decorum proper to be observed by the noisy party, Mr. Witworth found his best plan would be to let every thing pass that did not absolutely interfere with the business in hand, and, dinner being over, the ill-mannered troop dispersed. Several of them, among whom were Reginald and Louis, stopped in the hall to feast their eyes on the piles of trunks and portmanteaus; and Reginald discovered that a direction was wanting on one of theirs; “And I declare, Louis, see what Frank has been doing.”
Louis laughed, as he perceived that one of the directions on his luggage was altered to “Lady Louisa Mortimer,” and ran away to rectify it. When he returned, the party in the hall was considerably enlarged, and Ferrers came towards him to wish him good-bye. “Good-bye, Louis, I am coming back next half-year,” he said, in a low tone; “and you must help me to regain my character.” Louis squeezed his hand, and promised to write to him, though he hoped, he said, that he should not come back himself; and when Ferrers left the hall, the business of affixing the necessary directions went on very busily. Reginald was in a state of such overflowing delight, as to be quite boisterous, and now and then burst out into snatches of noisy songs, rendered remarkably effective by an occasional squeak and grunt, which proclaimed his voice to be rather unmanageable.
“Now, Louis, here's a piece of string, and my knife.
‘Christmas is coming again, my boys!’ ”
“Christmas, Reginald—Midsummer!” cried Louis, laughing.
“Well then, ah, well! tie it tight.
‘Midsummer's coming again, my boys,
Jolly Midsummer, and all its joys;
And we're all of us cracked, so we'll kick up a noise.
Chorus. Ri-toorul-loor, rul-loor, rul-loor-rul. Hip, hip, hurrah!
Hollo!’ ”
The sensible chorus was shouted at the utmost pitch of the voices of the assembled youths, who waved hats, hands, and handkerchiefs, during the process.
“Bravissimo!” exclaimed Reginald, quite red with his exertions, and beaming with excitement. “But my beautiful voice is very unruly; the last few times I have tried to sing, it has been quite disobedient. I think it must be cracked, at last.”
“Are you not pleased?” said Louis, archly.
“Not particularly,” replied Reginald.
“You said you should be, last Christmas. Do you remember the ladies at grandpapa's?”
“Well, there is that comfort at any rate,” said Reginald, “we shan't have any more of their humbug; but think of the dear old madrigals, and—it's no laughing matter, Mr. Louis, for all your fun.”
“Acknowledge, then, that you spoke rashly, when you said you should be glad of it,” said Louis, who was full of merriment at his brother's misfortune.
And now Vernon, Arthur, and Frank Digby pressed forward, to bid good-bye.
As Vernon shook Louis' hand, he said, “I shall see you at Heronhurst, I suppose.”
“I suppose I mustn't dare to go,” said Frank.
“And now I shall go and gather some of those white roses by the wall, for mamma,” said Louis. “I hope it won't be very long, Reginald, they must be here soon—oh, how delightful it will be!”
Louis ran off, and succeeded in finding a few half-blown roses for his dear mother, and was engaged in carefully cutting off the thorns, when one of his school-fellows ran up to him, and called out that his father and mother were come.
“Papa and mamma! Where's Reginald?” he cried, and flew over the playground without waiting for an answer. “Where are papa and mamma? Where is Reginald?” he cried, as he ran into the hall. His hurried question was as quickly answered; and Louis, jumping over the many packages, made his way to the drawing-room. Here were his dear father and mother, with Dr. Wilkinson. Reginald had been in the room several minutes; and when Louis entered, was standing by his mother, whose arm was round him, and close behind him stood his father.
“My Louis!” was his mother's affectionate greeting, and the next moment he was in her arms, his own being clasped tightly round her neck, and he could only kiss her in speechless joy, at first; and then, when the kind arms that strained him to her bosom were loosened, there was his dear father, and then words came, and as he looked with flashing eyes and crimsoned cheek, from one to the other, he exclaimed, “Oh, mamma! I have a medal—mamma, it is all come out! Papa, I am innocent; I have a character now! Oh, dear mamma, I said it would—I am quite cleared!”
His head sank on his father's shoulder; a strange, dull sound in his head overpowered him; a slight faintness seemed to blow over his face; his eyes were fixed and glassy, and he became unconscious. Mr. Mortimer changed color, and hastily catching the falling boy, he carried him to the sofa. Dr. Wilkinson sent Reginald immediately for some water, but before he could return, and almost before Mrs. Mortimer could raise her dear boy's head from the pillow to her shoulder, the color came again, and his eyes resumed their natural expression.
“What was the matter, my darling?” said his mother, kissing him.
“I don't know, mamma,” replied Louis, sitting up. “I only felt giddy, and something like a little wind in my face.”
“I think he has been overwrought,” said Dr. Wilkinson, kindly; “he has gone through a great deal lately. We will take him up stairs and let him lie down; I think he wants a little quiet.”
“I am quite well now,” said Louis.
“I will sit by your side; you had better go up stairs, dear,” said his mother.
Louis yielded, and Mr. Mortimer assisted him up stairs, despite his declarations that he was quite strong and well, and, being laid on a bed, Mrs. Mortimer stationed herself by his side.
All they said I have not time to relate, but long Louis lay with his mother's hand in both of his, telling her of the events of the last two months, and often she bent her head down and kissed his broad forehead and flushed cheek; and when she would not let him talk any more, he lay very passively, his eyes filling with grateful tears, and now and then in the overflowing of his heart, raising them to his mother, with “Mamma, thank God for me. Oh, how very grateful I ought to be!”
At length he fell asleep, and his mother sat still, watching the quiet face, and the glittering tear-drop that trembled on his eyelash, and she too felt that her mercies were very great—she did thank God for him, and for herself.
Chapter XI.
“Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.”—Prov. iv. 23.
After a long and tedious journey Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, with their two boys, reached Heronhurst, where they met with the affectionate welcome usually given by Sir George and Lady Vernon to all so nearly related to them. The castle was full of visitors, amongst whom were Lady Digby and her two eldest daughters, and many young people—personages grandmamma never forgot in the holidays, however unimportant they may appear in the eyes of some. Children liked to come to Heronhurst, for there was always so much mirth and amusement, and Lady Vernon was so remarkably clever in arranging pleasant pic-nics and excursions. Vernon and Frank Digby arrived the same day as Mr. Mortimer, a few hours before him, and as Vernon had announced the fact of Louis' having gained the medal, every one was prepared to receive our hero with due honor.
It was with no little satisfaction that Louis felt in the hearty shake of the hand, and the kind tone, that he was now more than re-established in his grandfather's good opinion. Had it not been for the salutary effects of his former disgrace, and the long trial he had lately undergone, there would have been great danger now of his falling into some open fault, for he was praised so much by his kind relations, and flattered by the company, and his medal had so often to be exhibited, that it needed much that in himself he did not possess, to guard him from falling into the error of imagining himself to be already perfect.
It was settled that there was to be a fête on the 27th, which some of my readers may remember was Louis' birthday; and Sir George, anxious to efface from his grandson's memory any painful reminiscences of the last, arranged the order of things much in the same manner, taking care that Louis' protegés, the school-children, should not be forgotten.
This news had just been communicated to Louis by his grandfather, with many expressions of commendation, and he was in a state of complacent self-gratulation, that feeling which would have led him to say, “By the strength of my hand I have done this;” instead of, “My strength will I ascribe unto the Lord,” when a kind, soft hand, glittering with rings, was laid upon his arm, and the pleasant voice of his old friend Mrs. Paget greeted him.