Ferrers had nearly reached the upper end of the table before any one was aware of his vicinity, when Trevannion, looking up from his writing to dip his pen anew in the ink, caught sight of him, recognizing him so suddenly that even his equanimity was almost surprised into a start. He colored slightly, and coldly acknowledging his presence by a stiff bow and a muttered “How do you do,” returned to his work, not, however, before his movement had attracted the attention of one or two others. The intimation of his presence was conveyed almost talismanically round the room, and a silence ensued while the young gentlemen looked at one another for an example. These unfriendly symptoms added considerably to Ferrers' embarrassment. Pale with anxiety, he affected to notice nothing, and looked for a place at one of the tables where he might lay the books he had brought in with him. The silence, however, had made Hamilton now very conscious of what, till this moment, he had been in blissful ignorance—that his voice was raised to nearly a shouting pitch to make his admonitions sufficiently impressive to his protegé—and the sonorous tones of his voice, delivering an emphatic oration on weakness and perseverance contrasted, were so remarkable that the attention was a little drawn from Ferrers by this unusual phenomenon.
“What a burst of eloquence!” exclaimed Frank, who, on the first sound of the kingly voice, had begun to attitudinize; while Trevannion gazed on his friend with a quiet, gentlemanly air of inquiry, that was not to be put out of countenance by any circumstance how ludicrous soever, “His majesty's in an oratorical vein to-night. Such a flow of graceful language, earnest, mellifluous persuasives dropping like sugar-plums from his lips!”
“Three cheers for his majesty's speech,” cried Salisbury.
These comments were hailed by a hearty laugh, mingled with clapping of hands, and an effort on the part of a few to raise a cheer. Hamilton joined in the laugh, though he had been so intent upon his lecture that at first he hardly comprehended the joke.
“Your majesty's been studying rhetoric since we had the pleasure of a speech,” remarked Reginald, when a little lull had succeeded to the uproarious mirth. “Mercury himself couldn't have done better.”
“Considering that the speeches of Edward the Great usually savor of Spartan brevity,” said Smith, “we couldn't have hoped for such a masterpiece.”
“You don't understand his most gracious majesty,” said Frank; “depend upon it he's a veritable cameleon.”
At this juncture, Louis, whose eyes had a sad habit of wandering when they should be otherwise employed, caught sight of Ferrers, and, starting up, he welcomed him with the utmost heartiness.
Hamilton looked round and colored furiously, but before Ferrers had time to make any answers to Louis' rapid questions, he rose, and, stepping forward, held out his hand—
“How are you, Ferrers?” he said, in a cheerful tone, “I neither saw nor heard you come in just now. You have not been here long, have you?”
Ferrers grasped Hamilton's hand and looked in his face, astonished and overcome with gratitude for this unexpected welcome. The silence of the few minutes before was resumed, and every eye was riveted on Hamilton, who, perceiving from the tight grasp on his hand and the crimsoned countenance of Ferrers, his utter inability to speak, and being anxious to remove the insupportable feeling of awkwardness under which he felt sure he labored, continued, without waiting for an answer—
“You are very late this half. We have expected you every day.”
He then sat down and went on telling Ferrers about the new-comers, and the present condition of the first class, asking him some questions about his journey, and all so quickly and cleverly as neither to appear forced, nor to oblige Ferrers to speak more than he chose. While Hamilton spoke he only now and then glanced at him from his work, which he had apparently resumed as soon as he sat down.
“His majesty's taken Fudge's hint,” said Frank, in a low, discontented tone.
“Hamilton can, of course, do as he likes, but I won't,” said another, with a nod of determination. “We're not obliged to follow his lead.”
“Trevannion won't, you'll see,” muttered Peters.
“Be kind enough to lend me your lexicon, Salisbury,” said Trevannion, who had, since Hamilton's notice of Ferrers, assumed an air of more than ordinary dignity, and now reached across Ferrers for the book, as if there were no one there. Ferrers made an effort to assist in the transition of the thick volume, but all his politeness obtained was a haughty, cold stare, and a determined rejection of assistance. Louis was sure that Hamilton observed this action, from the expression of his face, but he made no remark, and continued to talk to Ferrers a little longer, when he laughingly pleaded his avocations as an excuse for being silent; but Louis was now disengaged, and Reginald had happily followed Hamilton's example, for though at first inclined to be on Trevannion's side, he could not help pitying his evident distress, and, touched by the emotion he exhibited, he exerted himself to smooth all down. Had all been as cold and repulsive as Trevannion and his advocates, Ferrers would have been dogged and proud, but now the sense of gratitude and humility was predominant, and at last so overpowered him, that he was glad to get away in the playground by himself. As he closed the door, the buz was resumed, and an attack was made on Hamilton by those who had determinedly held back.
“Your royal clemency is most praiseworthy, most magnanimous Edward,” said Frank Digby.
“Worthy of you, Hamilton,” said Trevannion, sneeringly. “Ferrers is a fit companion and associate for gentlemen.”
“My manners not bearing any comparison with yours,” replied Hamilton, coolly, “I am not so chary of contamination.”
“That's a hit at your slip just now, Trevannion,” said Smith. “How could you commit such a what-do-you-call it? gooch—gaucherie.”
“You had better take lessons of the old woman over the way,” said Salisbury; “she only charges twopence extra for them as learns manners.”
“A good suggestion,” said Trevannion, laughing; “will you pay for me, Hamilton?”
“Willingly,” replied Hamilton, in a low, deep tone, “if, on inquiry, I find her good manners are the result of good feeling.”
“I am excessively indebted to you,” replied Trevannion, coloring; “and feel exceedingly honored by the solicitude of Ferrers' friend.”
“Just as you choose to feel it, Trevannion,” said Hamilton; “but I had better speak my mind, gentlemen,—I do not think we have, as a body, remembered the doctor's injunction.”
“How could we?” “Is it likely?” “No, indeed.” “I dare say!” “Very fine!” sounded on all sides.
“Hear me to the end,” said Hamilton; “I have not much to say.”
“Two speeches in one night!” said Jones. “Never was such condescension.”
Hamilton took no notice of the jeering remarks round him, but having obtained a little silence, continued—
“We have made enough of this business. It is cruel now to carry it on further. I confess myself to have felt as much repugnance as any one could feel, to renewing any thing beyond the barest possible intercourse with Ferrers; but let us consider, first, that it becomes us, while we are Dr. Wilkinson's pupils, to pay some respect to his wishes, whether they coincide with our feelings or not; and next, whether it is charitable to shut a school-fellow out of a chance of reformation. Let us put ourselves in his place.”
“A very desirable position; rather too much for imagination,” remarked Trevannion.
“It is a miserable position,” said Hamilton; “therefore we should do well to endeavor to help him out of it. I have no doubt if we had been once in so painful a situation, we should not have considered ourselves as hopeless or irremediable characters—nor is he; he is quite overcome to-night because all have not been quite such savages as he expected.”
“As he would have been. He wouldn't have been merciful!” exclaimed Meredith.
“That's nothing to the purpose,” said Hamilton. “We have only to act rightly ourselves. Give him a chance. If he forfeit it by a similar offence, I will not say another word for him.”
There was a dead silence when Hamilton had finished. His appeal had the more effect, that he was usually too indolent to trouble himself much about what did not immediately concern him or his, but took all as he found it.
“In giving what you call a chance, Hamilton,” said Trevannion, who alone, in the indecision evident, remained entirely unmoved; “in giving what you call a chance, you forget that we implicate ourselves. As honorable individuals, as gentlemen, we cannot admit to fellowship one who has so degraded himself. To be ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ with him, were to lower ourselves. We do not prevent his improving himself. When he has done so, let us talk of receiving him among us again. In my opinion, Dr. Wilkinson's allowing him to return is as much, and a great deal more than he could expect.”
“I shall say nothing more,” said Hamilton. “I do not often make a request.”
“I know what Louis would say,” said Salisbury, who had been watching Louis' earnest, gratified gaze on Hamilton for the last few minutes; “I think we ought to be guided by him in this matter.”
“I! oh, I wish just what Hamilton has said—you know I wished it long ago.”
“What Louis says shall be the law,” said Jones. “We won't refuse him any thing.”
“Especially in this matter,” said Salisbury. “He's a brick, and so is his majesty, after all. My best endeavors for your side, Louis.”
“And mine,” said Jones.
“I'll outwardly forgive the culprit, at any rate,” said Frank. Several others expressed their desire to abide by the same resolution; Hamilton looked his satisfaction, Trevannion sulkily recommenced his work, and Louis stole out of the room to find Casson, that he might finish telling him his lesson, according to promise. When Dr. Wilkinson arrived, he narrowly watched the manners of his pupils towards Ferrers, and was satisfied with his scrutiny, though he was, of course, unconscious of the means by which the civility shown had been procured. It is to be hoped that we have not gone so far in the delineation of Dr. Wilkinson's school, without discovering that the spirit of honor and confidence was generally high among the young gentlemen, and, consequently, having promised to be friendly to Ferrers, each individual, in duty bound, did his utmost to fulfil that promise, and in a little while the stiffness attendant on the effort wore off, and Ferrers was, in appearance, in precisely the same position as before, to the great satisfaction of the doctor, who was much pleased with his pupils' conduct on the occasion.
Chapter XV.
“Where is Louis Mortimer?” asked Hamilton, the next Saturday afternoon, about a quarter of an hour after dinner. “Does any one know where Louis Mortimer is?”
“Here I am, Hamilton, prèt à vous servir, as Monsieur Gregoire would say!” cried Louis, starting from behind the school-room door.
“Are you engaged this afternoon?”
“Never, when you want me!” exclaimed Louis.
Hamilton looked gratified, but checked the expression as soon as he was aware of it.
“That is not right, Louis; I never wish, and never ought, to be an excuse for breaking an engagement.”
“But suppose I make your possible requirements a condition of my engagements,” said Louis, archly; “you have no objection to that, have you?”
“Only I cannot imagine such a case.”
“Such is the case, however, this afternoon. I had the vanity to hope you would let me walk with you, and so only engaged myself conditionally.”
“To whom were you engaged in default of my sufferance?”
“I was going to stay with Casson,” replied Louis, hesitatingly. “He has a cold and headache, and he asked me if I would stay with him in the class-room, where he is obliged to stay while we are out.”
“Casson!” said Hamilton, contemptuously; “you were not talking to him just now?”
“No; I was only listening to Ferrers. He was telling me about a wager Frank had just laid with Salisbury.”
“How is it you prefer Casson to your friend Clifton?”
“Oh, Hamilton, I don't much like Casson; but he asked me, poor fellow. Charlie's engaged to West—our days are Sunday, Monday, and Thursday.”
“Which of you is first now?”
“Charles is, to-day,” said Louis; “he is so very clever, Hamilton.”
“I know he is; but you are older, and not a dunce, if you were not idle, Louis. Louis, I shall repudiate you, if you don't get past him.”
“That would be a terrible fate,” said Louis, slipping his hand into Hamilton's. “I cannot tell you how I should miss your kind face and help. You have been such a very kind friend to me: but I have not been so very idle, Hamilton.”
“Yes, you have,” returned Hamilton; “I am vexed with you, Louis. If I did not watch over you as I do, you would be as bad as you were last half. Don't tell me you can't keep before Clifton if you choose.”
Louis looked gravely in Hamilton's face, and put his other hand on that he held. Hamilton drew his own quickly away.
“Lady Louisa,” he said, “these affectionate demonstrations may do well enough for us alone, but keep them for private service, and don't let us play Damon and Pythia in this touching manner, to so large an audience. It partakes slightly of the absurd.”
Louis colored, and seemed a little hurt; but he replied, “I am afraid I am very girlish sometimes.”
“Incontrovertibly,” said Hamilton, kindly laying his hand heavily on Louis' shoulder. “But we have no desire that any one should laugh at you but our royal self.”
“Are we going to the downs?” asked Louis.
Before Hamilton could answer, Frank Digby, one of the large audience alluded to, came up. “Of course,” he replied; “Hamilton is one of our party.”
“One of your party?” asked Hamilton.
“Your majesty's oblivious of the fact,” said Frank, “that among the many offices, honorary and distinctive, held by your most gracious self, the presidency of the ‘Ashfield Cricket Club’ is not altogether one of the most insignificant.”
“We will thank our faithful amanuensis to become our deputy this afternoon,” said Hamilton; “having a great desire to refresh ourself with a quiet discourse on the beauties of Nature.”
“No cricket this afternoon, Hamilton!” cried Louis; “I shall be so much disappointed if you go!”
“No cricket!” exclaimed Frank: “we will enter into a conspiracy, and dethrone Edward, if he refuses to come instanter.”
“Dethrone me by all means, this afternoon,” said Hamilton; “my deposition will save me a great deal of trouble. I am only afraid that my freedom from state affairs would be of short duration; my subjects appear to be able to do so little without me.”
“Hear him!” exclaimed Jones, laughing; “hear king Log!”
“No favoritism!” cried Smith; “I bar all partiality. We'll treat you in the Gaveston fashion, Louis, if you don't persuade your master to accede to our reasonable demands.”
“That would be treason against my own comforts,” said Louis, laughing, and struggling unsuccessfully to rise from the ground, where he had been playfully thrown by Salisbury. “To the rescue! your majesty; I cry help!”
“To the rescue!” shouted Reginald, pouncing suddenly upon Salisbury, and diverting his attention from Louis who would have recovered his feet, but for the intervention of one or two of the party.
“Your majesty perceives,” said Frank, “that a rebellion is already broken out. A word from you may compose all.”
“I have engaged to walk with Louis Mortimer, and I declare I will not stir anywhere without him,” said Hamilton.
“We cannot do without you, Hamilton,” said Trevannion, who had just joined the council. “You are engaged for all the meetings.”
“Which meetings have no right to be convened without the concurrence of the president;—eh, Mr. Secretary?” rejoined Hamilton.
“Of course you can please yourself,” said Trevannion, proudly.
“Let Louis get up, Jones,” said Hamilton.
“Does your majesty concede, or not?” said Jones, who was sitting upon Louis.
“I will answer when you let him get up.”
Jones suffered Louis to rise, breathless and hot with his laughing exertions to free himself from durance vile.
“I will come, on condition that Louis comes too.”
“Certainly,” said Salisbury.
“And join our game, mind,” said Hamilton.
“Oh!” exclaimed Smith; “that's decidedly another affair. You can't play, Sir Piers, can you?”
“He can learn,” said Hamilton, who was perfectly aware of his ignorance.
“I've not the smallest objection,” said Jones, “as I'm on the opposition side.”
“Nor I,” cried Salisbury; “though I should be a loser, as is probable.”
“Really, Hamilton,” exclaimed Trevannion, sulkily, “it's impossible! He'll only be in the way. I never saw such a fuss about a boy; it's quite absurd. If you want him, let him look on.”
“I don't like cricket,” said Louis.
“Humbug!” exclaimed Salisbury.
“I shall be in the way, as Trevannion says,” continued Louis; “I am sure I shall never learn.”
“ ‘Patientia et perseverantia omnia vincunt,’ ” remarked Frank; “which may be freely translated in three ways:
‘If a weary task you find it,
Persevere, and never mind it;’
or,
‘Never say die;’
or, thirdly,
‘If at first you don't succeed,—try, try again,’ ”
“Louisa, I am ashamed for you,” said Hamilton; “and insist on the exhibition of a more becoming spirit.”
“That's right, Hamilton,” cried Reginald; “make him learn.”
Louis pleaded as much as he dared, in dread of a few thumps, friendly in intent, but vigorous in execution, from Salisbury, and a second shaking from Hamilton, but all in vain, and they sallied forth. Trevannion fastened on Hamilton, and grumbled ineffectual remonstrances till they reached a convenient spot for their game. Here, under the active supervision of Hamilton, Salisbury, and Reginald, Louis was duly initiated; and after a couple of hours' play they returned home, Louis being in some doubt as to whether his fingers were not all broken by the concussion of a cricket-ball, but otherwise more favorably disposed towards the game than heretofore. He was, likewise, not a little gratified by the evident interest most of the players took in his progress. Hamilton had entirely devoted himself to his instruction, encouraged him when he made an effort, and laughed at his cowardliness, and Salisbury had been scarcely less kind.
As they entered the playground, Salisbury held up a silver pencil-case to Frank:
“Remember, Frank,” said he, warningly.
“Do you think I've forgotten?” said Frank; “my memory's not quite so treacherous, Mr. Salisbury.”
“What's that, Salisbury?” said Jones.
“Only my wager.”
“Wager!” repeated Hamilton. “What absurdity is Frank about to perpetrate now?”
“He is going to make Casson swallow some medicine of his own concoction. My pencil-case against his purse, contents and all, he isn't able to do it. Casson's too sharp.”
“I am surprised,” said Hamilton, “that Frank is not above playing tricks on that low boy. I thought you had had enough of it, Frank.”
Frank laughed;—“No, he has foiled me regularly twice lately, and I am determined to pay him off for shamming this afternoon.”
“I think it is real,” said Louis.
“Then he has all the more need of medicine,” said Frank; “and if he supposes it, my physic will do him as much good as any one else's.”
“You'll certainly get yourself into some serious scrape some day with these practical jokes, Frank,” said Hamilton. “It is a most ungentlemanly propensity.”
“Hear, hear,” said Reginald.
“What's that? Who goes there?” said Frank, directing the attention of the company to the figure of a tall woman neatly dressed in black silk, with an old-fashioned bonnet of the coal-scuttle species, who was crossing from the house to the playground at the moment; the lady in question being no other than the housekeeper, clothes-mender, &c., to Dr. Wilkinson introduced by Mr. Frank Digby as Gruffy, more properly rejoicing in the name of Mrs. Guppy.
“It's Gruffy, isn't it? Where is she going, I wonder.”
Without waiting for an answer, Frank flew round the house, and disappeared in the forbidden regions of the kitchen.
“What is he after?” said Meredith. “I suspect we shall have some fun to-night.”
“I do wish Frank wouldn't be so fond of such nonsense,” said Hamilton, angrily. “Come, Louis, and take a turn till the tea-bell rings.”
They had taken two or three turns up and down in front of the school-room, when the bell rang, and Frank Digby came back full of glee.
“I've done it, Salisbury,” he cried, as he threw his hat in the air. “I've done it. I shall kill two birds with one stone. I'm sure to win; it's all settled; only I must be allowed to put the school-room clock forward half an hour.”
“That wasn't in the bargain,” said Salisbury.
“It wasn't out of it, at any rate,” said Frank.
“It's all fair,” said several voices; “he may do it which way he pleases.”
“Remember, tace,” said Frank. “Tace is the candle that lights Casson to bed to-night.”
“I promise nothing, Frank,” said Hamilton.
“Nevertheless you'll keep it,” said Frank, laughing.
When tea was over, Frank disappeared rather mysteriously.
Salisbury had just begun to make use of one of the pile of books he had brought to the table in the class-room, when a notification was brought to him from the school-room, that Mrs. Guppy wanted to speak to him.
“Bother take her!” he exclaimed. “Why can't she come and speak to me? Interrupting a fellow at his work! Don't take my place; I shall be back presently.”
Some time, however, elapsed, and no Salisbury. Now and then a few wonderments were expressed as to how Frank's wager would be won, and as to what Mrs. Guppy could want with Salisbury.
“Where is Frank, I wonder?” said one. “Just see, Peters, if Casson's gone yet.”
Peters departed, and returned with the news that Casson had gone to bed a little while before.
“The farce has begun, I suspect,” said Meredith. “It's more than half an hour since Salisbury went,—and depend upon it, wherever he is, there is Frank.”
At this moment Salisbury rushed into the room, and throwing himself in a sitting posture on the floor, with his back against the wall as if completely exhausted, laughed on without uttering a word, till his mirth became so infectious, that nearly all the room joined him.
“Well, Salisbury!” “Well, Salisbury!” “What is it?” “Tell us.” “Have done laughing, do, you wretch, you merry-andrew.” “Do be sensible.”
“Sensible!” groaned Salisbury, laying his head against a form; “oh, hold me, somebody—I'm quite knocked up with laughing. It's enough to make a fellow insensible for the rest of his life.”
“Well, what is it, madcap?” said Reginald, jumping up from his seat, and approaching him in a threatening attitude.
“Frank Digby!” said Salisbury, going off into another paroxysm of laughter.
“Shake him into a little sense, Mortimer,” said Jones.
“Come, Salisbury, what is it?” said several more, coming up to him.
Salisbury sat upright and wiped his eyes.
“It was the clearest case of stabbing a man with his own sword I ever saw. I don't know whether I shall ever get it out for laughing, but I'll try.”
Louis looked up at Hamilton, rather anxious to get nearer to Salisbury, but Hamilton wrote on as if determined neither to let Louis move, nor to pay any attention himself, and Louis dared not ask.
“Well, you know, Mrs. Guppy sent for me. I went off in a beautiful humor, as you may imagine, and found her ladyship in a great dressing-gown, false front, and spectacles, surrounded by little boys in various stages of Saturday night's going to bed, tucking up Casson very comfortably.
“ ‘Oh, Mr. Salisbury,’ said she, ‘I'll speak with you presently,—will you be so good as to wait there a minute?’
“Well, I thought she looked very odd, but she spoke just the same as ever; and being very cross, I said, ‘I am in a hurry; perhaps when you've done you'll call on me in the study,’ Whereupon her ladyship comes straight out of the room, and says on the landing, in Frank Digby's voice, ‘Know me by this token, I am mixing a black draught by the light of a Latin candle.’ ”
Salisbury burst out into a fresh fit of laughter, in which he was joined by all present except Hamilton, who steadily pursued his work with an unmoved countenance.
“Well, you may imagine,” said Salisbury, when he had recovered himself, “I wasn't in a hurry then. I came back and waited behind the door very patiently. You never saw any thing so exact—every motion and tone. He had pulled the curls over his eyes, and tied up his face with a great handkerchief over the cap, as Gruffy has been doing lately when she had the face-ache, and he went about among the little chaps in such a motherly, bustling way, it was quite affecting. Sally, who helped him, hadn't the least idea it wasn't Gruffy. However, the best of it is to come,” said Salisbury, pausing a moment to recover the mirth which the recollection produced:—“He was stirring up a concoction of cold tea, ink and water, slate-pencil dust, sugar, mustard, and salt, when I thought” (Salisbury's voice trembled violently) “that I heard a step I ought to know, and I had hardly time to get completely behind the door when it was widely opened, and in walked the doctor!”
A burst of uproarious mirth drowned the voice of the speaker. There was a broad smile on Hamilton's face, though he did not raise his head. As soon as Salisbury could speak, he continued:
“ ‘Oh!’ said I to myself, ‘it's all up with you, Mr. Frank,’ and I felt a little desirous of concealing my small proportions as much as might be. What Frank might feel I can't say, but he seemed to be very busy, and, as he turned round to the doctor, put up his handkerchief to his face.
“ ‘Does your face ache, Mrs. Guppy?’ says the doctor; and—imagine the impudence of the boy—he answered, it was a little troublesome. ‘How is Clarke this evening?—I hear he has been asleep this afternoon.’ I imagine Frank has as much idea of the identity of Clarke as I have—I don't even know who he is, much less that he was ill—but he answered just as Gruffy would do, with her handkerchief up to her mouth, ‘Rather better, sir, I think—he was asleep when I saw him last, and I didn't disturb him.’ ‘Hem,’ said the doctor, ‘and who's this?’ ”
The audience was here so convulsed with laughter that Salisbury could not proceed; Louis could not help joining the laugh, though rather checked by the immovable gravity of Hamilton's countenance.
“Really, Hamilton,” he said, “I wonder how Frank could tell such stories.”
“He doesn't think them so,” said Hamilton, abruptly.
“Well, Salisbury!” “Well, Salisbury!” exclaimed several impatient voices. “The impudence of the fellow.” “How will he ever get out of it?” “Get on, Salisbury.” “The idea of joking with the doctor.” “Go on, Salisbury.” “What a capital fellow he'd make for one of those escaping heroes in romances—he'd never stay to have his head cut off.”
“Well, and the doctor says, ‘Who's this, Mrs. Guppy? Casson? How—what's the matter with you? How long have you been here?’ ‘Just come to bed, sir,’ says Casson; and then the doctor makes a few inquiries about his terrible headache, et cetera; and Mrs. Guppy had a twinge of the toothache, and could only let the doctor know by little and little how she had thought it better to put him to bed.
“ ‘And that is medicine for him?’
“The doctor looked very suspiciously at the cup, I fancy, for his tone was rather short and sulky. Frank seemed a little daunted, but he soon got up his spirits again, and, stirring up the mess, was just going to give it to Casson, when, lo! another strange footfall was heard; doctor turned round (I was in a state of fright, I assure you, lest he should discover me) and in marched the real Simon Pure! It was a picture—oh! if I had been an artist:—there stood Gruffy, in her best black silk, looking more puzzled than angry; Frank—I couldn't see what he looked like, but I'll suppose it, as he says—and doctor turning from one to the other with a face as red as a turkey-cock, and looking so magnificent!”
A boy in bed being attended to by a ‘woman’, the headmaster, and other boys.
The counterfeit Mrs. Guppy.
“Poor Frank!” exclaimed several laughing voices.
“Well, at last Fudge found words, and in such a tone, exclaimed, ‘Mrs. Guppy! who is this, then?’ Then she stormed out; ‘Ay, sir, who is it, indeed? perhaps you will inquire.’ I didn't see what followed, for my range of vision was rather circumscribed—but I imagine that doctor pulled off part of Frank's disguise, for the next words I heard were, ‘Digby, this is intolerable!’ uttered in the doctor's most magnificent anger—‘What is the meaning of this?’ Frank said something about a wager and a little fun, meaning no harm, et cetera; and Fudge gave him such a lecture, finishing off by declaring, that ‘if he persisted in perpetrating such senseless follies he should find some other place to do so in than his house.’ All the little boys were laughing, but doctor stopped them all with a thundering ‘Silence!’ and then he asked what Frank had in that cup. ‘Cold tea, sir,’ said Digby, quite meekly. ‘And what's this at the bottom?’ ‘Sugar, sir,’ I saw the doctor's face—it was not one to be trifled with, but there seemed a sort of grim smile there, too, when he gave the cup to Frank and insisted upon his drinking it all up; and Digby did it, too—he dared not refuse.”
Another peal of laughter rang through the room, in which Hamilton joined heartily.
“Then,” continued Salisbury, “doctor said he hoped he would feel a little better for his dose—and, becoming as grave as before, he desired he would return Mrs. Guppy's things, and beg her pardon for his impertinence.”
“He didn't do so, surely?” said Jones.
“He did, though,” replied Salisbury; “and I wouldn't have been him if he'd been obstinate; but he added—I wondered how even he dared—I've saved you a little trouble, ma'am, there are six of them in bed.”
“Oh! oh! disgraceful!” exclaimed Hamilton.
“What did Fudge say?” asked Smith.
“ ‘This to my face, sir!’ and then, what he was going to do I don't know, but Frank was quite frightened, and begged pardon so very humbly that at last Fudge let him off with five hundred lines of Virgil to be done before Wednesday evening, and then sent him to bed—and there he is, for he was too much alarmed to play any more tricks.”
“I'd have given something to have seen it,” cried one, when the laugh was a little over.
“I think,” said Jones, “all things considered, that the doctor was tolerably lenient.”
“Oh! Digby's a little bit of a favorite, I fancy,” said Meredith.
“Not a bit,” said Reginald. “What do you say, Hamilton?”
“Nothing,” said Hamilton, shortly.
“One would think you never liked a joke, Hamilton,” said Peters.
“Nor do I, when it is so low as to be practical,” said Hamilton. “I feel no sympathy whatever with him.”
The event furnished idle conversation enough for that evening, and it was long before it was forgotten; and, in spite of Frank's reiterated boast that he did not care, and his apparent participation in the mirth occasioned by his failure, it required the utmost exercise of his habitual good-humor to bear equally the untiring teasing of his school-fellows, and the still more trying coldness and sarcasm of his master, whose manner very perceptibly altered towards him for some time after. Casson took care that no one in the lower school should be ignorant of Frank's defeat, and stimulated the little boys to tease him—but this impertinence, being an insult to the dignity of the seniors, was revenged by them as a body, and the juvenile tormentors were too much awe-struck and alarmed to venture on a repetition of their offence.
Chapter XVI.
During Louis' frequent walks with Hamilton, it must not be supposed that his home and home-doings were left out of the conversation; before very long, Hamilton had made an intimate mental acquaintance with all his little friend's family, their habits of life, and every other interesting particular Louis could remember. Hamilton was an excellent listener, and never laughed at Louis' fondness for home, and many were the extracts from home-letters with which he was favored; nay, sometimes whole letters were inflicted on him.
Among the many delightful topics of home history, Louis dwelt on few with more pleasure and enthusiasm than the social musical evenings, and said so much on them, that Hamilton's curiosity was at length aroused, after hearing Louis sing two or three times, to wonder what a madrigal could be like. Louis tried to satisfy this craving by singing the treble part, and descanting eloquently on the manner in which the other parts ought to come in; but all in vain he repeated, “There now, Hamilton, you see this is the contralto part; and when this bit of the soprano is sung, it comes in so beautifully, and the bass is crossing it, and playing hide and seek with the tenor.”
Hamilton was obtuse, but at length, by fagging very hard with one or two boys in the school-room, and getting one of the ushers, who generally performed a second in all the musical efforts in the school, to make some kind of bass, Louis presented his choir one evening in the playground, and made them sing, to the great rapture of the audience.
After this exhibition, the whole school seemed to have a fever for madrigals; nothing was heard about the playground but scraps of that which Louis had taken pains to drill into his party; and one or two came to Louis and Reginald to learn to take a second part. In play-hours, nothing seemed thought of but part-singing, and suddenly the propriety of giving a grand public concert was started; and after a serious debate, a singing-class was established, Louis being declared president, or master of the choir.
We will not say how fussy Louis was on the occasion; but he went about very busily trying the voices of his school-fellows for a day or two after his appointment, and picking out the best tones for his pupils. Casson owned a very fine singing voice, though it was one of the most rude in speaking, and having been partially initiated in the mystery before, by Louis was declared a treasure. Frank Digby was another valuable acquisition; for, joined to an extremely soft, full contralto voice, he possessed, in common with his many accomplishments, a refined ear and almost intuitive power of chiming in melodiously with any thing. Salisbury was a very respectable bass, as things went; and Reginald, who was certainly incapacitated for singing treble, declared his intention of assisting him, being quite confident that his voice would be a desirable adjunct. The members of the class having at last been decided on, a subscription was raised, and Hamilton was commissioned to purchase what was necessary, the first convenient opportunity; and accordingly, the next half-holiday, he obtained leave for Louis to accompany him, and set off on his commission. He had scarcely left the school-room when Trevannion met him, and volunteered to accompany him.
“I shall be very glad of your company,” said Hamilton; “I am going to choose the music. You may stare when I talk of choosing music—it is well I have so powerful an auxiliary, or I am afraid I should not give much satisfaction to our committee of taste.”
“What powerful auxiliary are you depending on?” said Trevannion; “I shall be a poor one.”
“You—oh, yes!” exclaimed Hamilton; “a very poor one, I suspect. I was speaking of Louis Mortimer; he is going with me.”
“Indeed,” said Trevannion, coldly; “you will not want me, then!”
“Why not?” asked Hamilton. “We shall, I assure you, be very glad of your company.”
“So will Hutton and Salisbury,” said Trevannion; “and I can endure my own company when I am not wanted;”as he spoke, he walked away.
Hamilton turned, and looked after his retreating figure, as, drawn up to its full height, it quickly disappeared in the crowd of boys, who were chaffering with the old cake-man. His puzzled countenance soon resumed its accustomed gravity, and with a slight curl of the lip, he laid his hand on Louis' arm, and drew him on.
“Trevannion is offended,” said Louis.
“He's welcome,” was the rejoinder.
“But it is on my account, Hamilton,” said Louis, anxiously; “I cannot bear that you should quarrel with him for me.”
“I have not quarrelled,” said Hamilton, coldly. “If he chooses to be offended, I can't help it.”
“But he is an older friend than I am in two senses—let me go after him and tell him I am not going. I can go with you another afternoon.”
Louis drew his arm away as he spoke, and was starting off, when Hamilton seized him quite roughly, and exclaimed in an angry tone, “You shall do no such thing, Louis! Does he suppose I am to have no one else but himself for my friend—friend, indeed!” he repeated. “It's all indolence, Louis.”
Louis looked up half alarmed, startled at his vehemence.
“Perhaps,” said Hamilton, relaxing his hold, and laughing as he spoke, “perhaps if I had not been so lazy, I should have found a more suitable friend before; as it is, I do not yet find Trevannion indispensable—by no means,” he added, scornfully.
“Dear Hamilton,” said Louis, “I shall be quite unhappy if I think I am the cause of your thinking ill of Trevannion. You used to be such great friends.”
“None the worse, perhaps, because we are aware of a common absence of perfection in each other,” replied Hamilton, whose countenance had gradually regained its calmness. “It is foolish to be angry, Louis, but I was; and now let there be an end of it—I don't mean to forsake you for all the Trevannions in Christendom.”
They had by this time reached the playground gates, and were here overtaken by Frank Digby, who had before engaged to be one of the party.
“Better late than never,” said Louis, in reply to his breathless excuses. “I had my doubts whether your pressing engagements with Maister Dunn would allow you to accompany us.”
“Why, I got rid of him pretty soon,” said Frank; “only just as I had wedged myself out of the phalanx, who should appear but Thally.”
“Who?” said Louis.
“Tharah,” repeated Frank.
“Sally Simmons, the boot-cleaner, Louis,” said Hamilton; “you are up to nothing yet.”
“She's a queer stick,” said Frank.
“What a strange description of a woman!” remarked Louis. “It is as clear as a person being a brick.”
“And so it is,” replied Frank; “only it's just the reverse.”
“Up comes Thally with my Sunday boots as bright as her fair hands could make them, and wanted me to look at a hole she had scraped in them, nor, though I promised to give her my opinion of her handiwork when I came back, was I allowed to depart till she had permission to take them to her ‘fayther.’ ”
Nothing worthy of record passed during the walk to Bristol till the trio reached College Green. Here Louis began to look out for music-shops, while Frank entertained his companions with a running commentary on the shops, carriages, and people. It was a clear, bright day, and Clifton seemed to have poured itself out in the Green.
“Look there, Hamilton, there's a whiskered don! What a pair of moustaches! Hamilton, where is your eye-glass? Here's Trevannion's shadow—was there ever such a Paris! Good gracious! as the ladies say, what a frightful bonnet! Isn't that a love of a silk, Louis? Now, Hamilton, did you ever see such a guy?”
Hamilton was annoyed at these remarks, made by no means in a low tone, and, in his eagerness to change the conversation and get further from Frank, he unfortunately ran against a lady who was getting out of a carriage just drawn up in front of a large linen-draper's shop, much to the indignation of a young gentleman who attended her.
Hamilton begged pardon, with a crimson face; and, as the lady kindly assured him she was not hurt, Louis recognized in her his quondam friend, Mrs. Paget, and darted forward to claim her acquaintance.
Two boys looking on as a lady exits a carriage.
The meeting with Mrs. Paget.
“What, Louis! my little Master Louis!” exclaimed the lady; “I did not expect to see you. Where have you come from?”
“I am at school, ma'am, at Dr. Wilkinson's, and I had leave to come out with Hamilton this afternoon. This is Hamilton, ma'am—Hamilton, this is Mrs. Paget.”
“Our rencontre, Mr. Hamilton,” said the lady, “has been most fortunate; for without this contretemps I should have been quite ignorant of Master Louis' being so near—you must come and see me, dear. Mr. Hamilton, I must take him home with me this afternoon.”
“It is impossible, ma'am,” said Hamilton, bluntly; “I am answerable for him, and he must go back with me.”
“Can you be so inexorable?” said Mrs. Paget. “Will you come, too, and Mr. Francis Digby—I beg your pardon, Mr. Frank, I did not see you.”
“I beg yours, ma'am,” replied the affable Frank, with a most engaging bow; “for I was so taken up with the tempting display on the green this afternoon, that I only became aware this moment of my approximation to yourself.”
“The shops are very gay, certainly; but I should have thought that you young gentlemen would not have cared much for the display. Now, a tailor's shop would have been much more in your taste.”
“Indeed, ma'am, we came out with the express purpose of buying a silk for the Lady Louisa.”
“I wonder any lady should commission you to buy any thing for her.”
“Oh!” replied Frank, “I am renowned for my taste; and Hamilton is equally well qualified. Can you recommend us a good milliner, ma'am?”
“I am going to look at some bonnets,” said the lady. “But, Mr. Frank, I half suspect you are quizzing. What Lady Louisa are you speaking of?”
Frank had drawn up his face into a very grave and confidential twist, when Mrs. Paget's equerry, the young gentleman before mentioned, offered his arm, and, giving Frank a withering look, warned the lady of the time.
“You are right. It is getting late,” she said. “Good-bye, dear boy. Where are you now? Dr. Williams?”
“Dr. Wilkinson's, Ashfield House,” said Louis.
“Henry, will you remember the address?” said the lady.
The young gentleman grunted some kind of acquiescence; and, after due adieus, Mrs. Paget walked into the shop.
“Frank, I'm ashamed of you,” said Hamilton.
“I am sure,” replied Frank, “I've been doing all the work; I'm a walking exhibition of entertainment for man and beast.”
Hamilton would not laugh, and, finding all remonstrances unavailing, he quickened his pace and walked on in silence till they reached the music-seller's, where, after some deliberation, they obtained the requisite music, and, after a few more errands, began to retrace their steps.
The walk home was very merry. Louis, having unfastened the bundle, tried over some of the songs, and taught Frank readily the contralto of two. Then he wanted to try Hamilton, but this in the open air Hamilton stoutly resisted, though he promised to make an effort at some future time. After Frank and Louis had sung their duets several times over to their own satisfaction while sitting under a hedge, all the party grew silent: there was something so beautiful in the stillness and brightness, that none felt inclined to disturb it. At last, Louis suddenly began Eve's hymn:
“How cheerful along the gay mead
The daisy and cowslip appear!
The flocks, as they carelessly feed,
Rejoice in the spring of the year;
The myrtles that shade the gay bowers,
The herbage that springs from the sod,
Trees, plants, cooling fruits, and sweet flowers,
All rise to the praise of my God.
“Shall man, the great master of all,
The only insensible prove?
Forbid it, fair gratitude's call!
Forbid it, devotion and love!
Thee, Lord, who such wonders canst raise,
And still canst destroy with a nod,
My lips shall incessantly praise,
My soul shall be wrapped in my God.”
—Dr. Arne.
Frank joined in the latter part of the first verse, but was silent in the second.
“Why did you not go on, Frank?” asked Hamilton.
“It was too sweet,” said Frank. “Louis, I envy you your thoughts.”
“Do you?” said Louis, looking up quickly in his cousin's face, with a bright expression of pleasure.
“When you began that song,” continued Frank, “I was thinking of those lines,
‘These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!’ ”
“ ‘Thyself how wondrous then!’ ” repeated Hamilton, reverentially.
“I don't know how it is, Louis,” said Frank; “in cathedrals, and in beautiful scenery, when a grave fit comes over me, I sometimes think I should like to be religious.”
Louis squeezed his hand, but did not speak.
“Take care, Frank,” said Hamilton with some emotion. “Be very, very careful not to mistake sentiment for religion. I am sure it is so easy to imagine the emotion excited by beauty of sight or sound, religious, that we cannot, be too careful in examining the reason of such feelings.”
“But how, Hamilton?” said Frank. “You would not check such impressions?”
“No; it is better that our thoughts should be carried by beauty to the source of all beauty; but to a poetical, susceptible imagination this is often the case where there is not the least vital religion, Frank. The deist will gaze on the splendid landscape, and bow in reverence to the God of nature, but a Christian's thoughts should fly to his God at all times; the light and beauty of the scenes of nature should be within himself. When a person's whole religion consists in these transient emotions, he ought to mistrust it, Digby.”
“But, dear Hamilton,” said Louis, after a few minutes' silence, “we ought to be thankful when God gives us the power of enjoying the beautiful things He has made. Would it not be ungrateful to check every happy feeling of gratitude and joy for the power to see, and hear, and enjoy, with gladness and thankfulness, the loveliness and blessings around?”
“The height of ingratitude, dear Louis,” said Hamilton, emphatically. “But I am sure you understand me.”
“To be sure,” said Louis. “Many good gifts our Almighty Father has given us, and one perfect gift, and the good gifts should lead us to think more of the perfect one. I often have thought, Hamilton, of that little girl's nice remark that I read to you last Sunday, about the good and perfect gifts.”
Hamilton did not reply, and for a minute or two longer they sat in silence, when the report of a gun at a little distance roused them, and almost at the same instant, a little bird Louis had been watching as it flew into a large tree in front of them, fell wounded from branch to branch, until it rested on the lowest, where a flutter among the leaves told of its helpless sufferings.
“I must get it, Hamilton!” cried Louis, starting up. “It is wounded.”
“The branch is too high,” said Hamilton. “I dare say the poor thing is dying; we cannot do it any good.”
“Indeed I must try!” exclaimed Louis, scrambling partly up the immense trunk of the tree, and slipping down much more quickly. “I wish there were something to catch hold of, or to rest one's foot against.”
“You'll never get up,” said Hamilton, laughing; “if you must get it, mount my shoulders.”
As he spoke he came under the tree, and Louis, availing himself of the proffered assistance, succeeded in reaching and bringing down the wounded bird, which he did with many expressions of gratitude to Hamilton.
“I am sure you ought to be obliged,” said Frank. “Royalty lending itself out as a ladder is an unheard-of anomaly. Pray, what are you going to do with cock-sparrow now you have got him?”
Louis only replied by laying some grass and leaves in the bottom of his cap, and putting the bird on this extempore bed. He then seized Hamilton's arm and urged him forward. Hamilton responded to Louis' anxiety with some queries on the expediency of assisting wounded birds if pleasant walks were to be thereby curtailed, and Frank, after suggesting, to Louis' horror, the propriety of making a pie of his favorite, walked on, singing,
“A little cock-sparrow sat upon a tree,”
which, with variations, lasted till they reached the playground gates, where Louis ran off to find Clifton, that he might enter into proper arrangements for due attendance on his sparrow's wants.
Chapter XVII.
“In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin; but he that refraineth his lips is wise.”—Prov. x. 19.
“Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth; a stranger, and not thine own lips.”—Prov. xxvii. 2.
We are now considering Louis Mortimer under prosperity; a state in which it is much more difficult to be watchful, than in that of adversity. When he first came to school, his struggle was to be consistent in maintaining his principles against ridicule and fear of his fellow-creatures' judgment. In that he nearly failed; and then came the hard trial we have related, the furnace from whose fires he came so bright: and another trial awaited him, but different still.
By the beauty of conduct Divine grace alone had enabled him to observe, he now won the regard of the majority of his school-fellows; and no one meddled with him or his opinions. He was loved by many; liked by most, and unmolested by the rest. We are told, “When a man's ways please the Lord, even his enemies are at peace with him;”and this was Louis' case. If a few remarks were now and then made on the singularity and stiffness of his notions, the countenance of the seniors, and the general estimation in which he was held, prevented any annoyance or interference. His feet were now on smooth ground, and the sky was bright above his head; and he began to forget that a storm had ever been.
One day between school-hours, when Louis and his brother were diligently drilling the chorus, they were summoned to the drawing-room, where they found the doctor standing talking with a lady, in the large bay-window. Her face was turned towards the prospect beyond, and she did not see them enter; and near her, leaning on the top of a high-backed chair, stood a tall gentlemanly youth, whom Louis immediately recognized as Mrs. Paget's esquire. The lady was speaking as they entered, and her gentle lady-like tones fell very pleasantly on Louis' ears, and made him sure he should like her, if even the words she had chosen had been otherwise.
“I have been quite curious to see him; my sister has said so much, poor little fellow!”
Dr. Wilkinson at this moment became aware of the presence of his pupils, and, turning round, introduced them to the lady, and the lady in turn to them, as Mrs. Norman.
“I am personally a stranger to you, Master Mortimer,” said Mrs. Norman; “but I have often heard of you. You know Mrs. Paget?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Louis.
“She is my sister, and, not being able to come herself to-day, she commissioned me to bring an invitation for you and your brother to spend the rest of this day with her, if Dr. Wilkinson will kindly allow it.”
A lady being directed to a particular boy.
The invitation.
Louis looked at Dr. Wilkinson; and Reginald answered for himself—
“I am much obliged, ma'am; and, if you please, thank Mrs. Paget for me, but as it is not a half-holiday, I shall not be able to come this afternoon. I shall be very glad to come when school is over, if Dr. Wilkinson will allow me.”
Dr. Wilkinson smiled. “Mrs. Norman will, I am sure, excuse a school-boy's anxiety to retain a hard-earned place in his class,” he said. “I have given my permission, you may do as you please.”
“Mrs. Paget will be so much disappointed,” said Mrs. Norman; “are you anxious about your class, too, Master Louis?”
Louis blushed, hesitated, and then looked from Reginald to the doctor, but Dr. Wilkinson gave no assistance. Louis demurred a little; for he had a place to lose that he had gained only the day before, and that, probably, he might not be able to gain from Clifton for the rest of the half-year. But at length, on another persuasive remark from Mrs. Norman, he accepted the invitation in rather a confused manner; and, it being decided that Reginald was to join them at dinner, he went away to make some alteration in his dress. When he returned, Mrs. Norman carried him off in her carriage, which was waiting at the door, having first introduced him to her companion, as her son, Henry Norman.
During the ride to Clifton, Louis became very communicative. He liked Mrs. Norman very much, she was so very sweet, and now and then made little remarks that reminded Louis of home; and then he was sure she liked him; even if he had not guessed that the few words he first heard from her lips referred to him, her very kind full eyes and affectionate manner spoke of unusual interest, and Louis felt very anxious to rise in her estimation. Things that are not sinful in themselves, become sins from the accompanying motives; the desire of favor in the eyes of so excellent a person was not wrong, had it been mixed with a wish to adorn the doctrine of Christ, and thankfulness for the love and favor given; but now Louis talked of things which, though he really believed them, and of feelings which, though he had once really experienced them, were not now the breathings of a heart that overflowed with all its fulness of gratitude. He had quickness enough to see what was most precious in his new friend's sight, and tried to ingratiate himself with her, by dwelling on these subjects, and showing how much he had felt on them. Had felt, for he had “left his first love.”
Let it not be supposed that Louis meant to deceive—he deceived himself as much as any one; but he was in that sad state when a Christian has backslidden so far as to live on the remembrance of old joys, instead of the actual possession of new.
The carriage stopped, at length, at a house in York Crescent, where the trio alighted. Mrs. Norman led Louis up stairs into the drawing-room, while her son, who had scarcely spoken a word during the drive, stayed a minute or two at the house-door, and then ran down the nearest flight of steps leading to the carriage-road, jumped into the carriage, which was just driving off, and paid a visit to the stables.
The room into which Louis entered was very large, and littered so with all descriptions of chairs, stools, and non-descript elegancies, that it required some little ingenuity to reach the further end without upsetting the one, or being overthrown by the others. Near one of the three windows, reclining on a sofa, was Mrs. Paget, who welcomed Louis with her usual warmth.
“You see,” said she, “I am a prisoner. I sprained my ankle the very day I saw you; and I am positively forbidden to walk. But where is Master Reginald?”
Louis informed Mrs. Paget of his brother's intentions, and, after expressing her regrets at his non-appearance, the lady continued:
“Now, sit near me, and let us have a little talk; I want to hear how you are going on, and how many prizes you are likely to get. But, perhaps, my dear, you would like to go on the downs, or into the town, or to——Where's Henry, I wonder: where is Mr. Norman?” she asked of a servant who came to remove a little tray that stood beside her.
“Just gone round to the stables, ma'am.”
“Dear, how unfortunate! You can't think what a beautiful little horse he has; I tell him it is quite a lady's horse. He will show it to you. I can't think how he could go away this afternoon. You'll be very dull, my dear—but my sister will take you out.”
Louis assured her he should enjoy sitting with her.
“That is very kind of you; very few of your age would care about staying with a lame, fidgety, old woman.”
Louis protested against the two last epithets, and as Mrs. Norman had left the room he began talking of the pleasant ride he had had with her, and how much he loved her.
Mrs. Paget warmly admitted every thing, only adding that in some things she was a little too particular.
“But, dear me! you must be very hungry,” she exclaimed, interrupting herself. “How could I forget? Just ring the bell, dear boy—there's lunch down stairs. Oh, never mind, here is Charlotte.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Norman re-entered, and took Louis down to lunch.
When he returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Paget had her sofa moved so as to face the window, and a little table was placed in front of her. A low armchair was near her for Louis, and another quite in the window Mrs. Norman took possession of, when she had provided herself with some work.
“Oh, what a beautiful view!” exclaimed Louis, as he looked for the first time out of the window. “How very, very beautiful! I think this is the pleasantest situation in Clifton.”
“It is very beautiful,” said Mrs. Norman. “But you have a magnificent prospect at Dr. Wilkinson's.”
“Dr. Wilkinson's is a very nice place, I believe, is it not?” said Mrs. Paget. “It is a pity such a pretty place should be a school.”
“Nay,” said Mrs. Norman, smiling; “why should you grudge the poor boys their pleasure?”
“I don't think they appreciate it,” said Mrs. Paget; “and, poor fellows, they are always so miserable that they might as well be miserable somewhere else.”
“We are not at all miserable after the first week,” said Louis.
“I thought you were not to go to school again, my dear,” said Mrs. Paget.
“So I thought, myself, but papa wished me to go, and he is the best judge.”
“Well, dear it's a very nice thing that you are wise enough to see it,—and you are happy?”
“I should be very ungrateful not to be so ma'am; Dr. Wilkinson and all the boys are so kind to me this half. It is so different from the first quarter spent at school.”
“They are kind, are they? Well, I dare say; they couldn't help it, I'm sure,” replied Mrs. Paget. “I suppose you will have the medal again this half year. I am sure you ought to have it to make up.”
“Oh, but I shouldn't have it to make up for last half, ma'am,” said Louis, smiling.
“But you will get it, I dare say,” said the lady.
“I don't know,” said Louis; “perhaps—I think I have a very good chance yet, but we never can tell exactly what Dr. Wilkinson thinks about us. There are only one or two I am afraid of.”
“I should think you needn't be afraid of any,” said Mrs. Paget. “I told you, Charlotte, about that story we heard at Heronhurst last summer—dear boy—you know he bore—”
“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Norman. “You have a large number of school-fellows, Master Louis,” she added.
“Yes, ma'am, there are seventy-six of us this half, so many that we hardly know the names of the lower school.”
“Is that M. Ferrar or Ferrers there still?” asked Mrs. Paget.
“Yes, ma'am, and he is so much improved, you cannot think.”
Louis looked very earnestly at her as she spoke, and she put her hand on his forehead, stroking his hair off, while she replied,
“He is very happy in having so kind a friend, I am sure; he ought to have been expelled.”
“Oh no, ma'am—I think kindness was much the best way,” said Louis; and remembering how incautiously he had spoken of him before, he said all that he could in his praise.
The conversation then turned upon the school in general, and it was astonishing to watch how much Louis said indirectly in his own praise, and how nearly every thing seemed to turn in the direction of dear self, in the history of his lessons, progress, and rivals—and even when it branched off to his friends, among whom in the first rank stood Hamilton.
“You would so like Hamilton, he is so kind to me. I told you about him before,” said Louis, eagerly.
“Is that the young gentleman who had charge of you the other day?” asked Mrs. Paget.
Louis answered in the affirmative.
“I did not much like him, only one doesn't judge people fairly at first, often.”
“Oh, Hamilton's such a good creature!” exclaimed Louis, in his energy letting fall one end of a skein of silk he was holding. He gathered it up, apologized, and resumed his defence of his friend.
“He is, perhaps, a little blunt, but he is so sincere, and so steady and kind, Dr. Wilkinson is very, very fond of him, I know; he makes me sit by him every night, and I learn my lessons with him. I am sure if it were not for him I should be terribly behind Clifton.”
“I saw them coming out of Redland Chapel yesterday morning,” said Mrs. Paget. “At least I saw Mr. Hamilton, but I did not see you.”
Louis informed her of the division of the school on Sunday, and she continued,
“I noticed a very aristocratic young gentleman with Mr. Hamilton—quite a contrast, so very handsome and elegant; who was he?”
“Was he tall?” asked Louis; “and dressed in black, with a light waistcoat?”
“I don't know what waistcoat he had,” said Mrs. Paget, laughing. “His dress was in perfect gentlemanly taste. He was, I should think, tall for his age, and had dark hair and eyes.”
“I have no doubt it was Trevannion; he is the handsomest fellow in the school, except Salisbury.”
“That he is not,” said Mrs. Paget, significantly.
Louis blushed, and felt rather foolish, certainly not wholly insensible to the injudicious hint.
“Only Fred Salisbury is so different: he is not elegant, and yet he is not awkward; he is rough and ready, and says all kinds of vulgar things. He is very much liked among us, but I don't think Trevannion is, though he gets his own way a great deal: he thinks nobody is equal to himself, I know, but I am sure he is not a favorite.”
“Why not?” said Mrs. Paget.
“He is so very selfish, and so contemptuous, and so dreadfully offended if Hamilton does not treat him with the deference he wants. I think we know more of each other than any one else does, and no one would think, in company, when Trevannion is smiling and talking so cleverly, that he is so unamiable.”
“He does not look like an ill-tempered person,” said the lady.
“I don't think he is what is generally called an ill-tempered person; for he never puts himself into passions, nor does he seem to mind many things that make others very angry. But he is sometimes dreadfully disdainful and haughty when any one offends him, and especially when Hamilton seems to like anybody as well as himself. Only last Saturday he was so much affronted because Hamilton had asked leave for me to go into Bristol with him. When he found I was coming, he wouldn't go with us. I think he is very jealous of me, though I begged Hamilton to let me stay at home, and I was just going after him to call him back, only Hamilton wouldn't let me. I did not like to see such old friends quarrel. I am sure I would very gladly have stayed at home to keep peace.”