“Then, to every one's surprise, comes up Charles Clifton, and tells him coolly, that he was sure you had not stolen the apples, and that it was very likely to be Harris, Casson, and Churchill, and that Sally Simmons had, in his presence, given them apples, and they joked about the place where they came from. Sally was called, and at last confessed that she had let Casson know where the apples were kept; and they frightened her, or something, for she tried to bring you in as an accomplice, only Clifton was so manful, and braved her with so much spirit, that she soon quitted that ground, and departed under sentence of dismissal.”
“Oh, poor Sally! I am very sorry.”
“She is a bad girl,” said Hamilton; “I never liked Clifton so well as I did yesterday: there is a great deal of truthful independence about him.”
“Oh, Charlie's a very nice fellow!” said Louis, warmly. “Well, Hamilton.”
“Well, Casson and Harris bullied, talked of characters defamed, and stoutly protested innocence. The doctor looked so indignant; I think I never saw him so thoroughly convinced of the evil-mindedness of any one, as he appeared to be of Casson's. He heard all they had to say, and spoke to them seriously of the crime they were adding. Harris looked abashed, but Casson declared there was not enough to convict him in the evidence of a ‘liar like Sally, and a self-sufficient fellow like Clifton;’ when, to my astonishment, Trevannion came forward, and gave his pocket-book open into the doctor's hands.” Hamilton then proceeded to tell Louis what Trevannion had seen on the memorable Friday, and the great effect produced upon the school by the reading of the memorandum. Churchill confessed every thing, and cried, and begged pardon.
It seemed that they had gone no further than the gate leading to the field, on the Friday morning, as they saw some one in the distance; but that the plan had been renewed on Monday at twilight, when they were disturbed by a man with a lantern, coming into the yard as they left the stable, and, instead of going out the usual way, they scrambled over the wall, dropping the bag in their hurry, and had no opportunity the ensuing day to look for it.
“Harris,” continued Hamilton, “turned as white as a sheet, and murmured something that no one could understand. The doctor spoke really beautifully. I hope something of what he said may remain with them, at least, be remembered at some future time.”
“What did he say?” asked Louis.
“He spoke about the heinousness of the offences they had committed, and of his sorrow; and, Louis, he spoke as if he were sorry,” said Hamilton, looking down, and speaking gravely. “I felt as if I were wrong in being so rejoiced at their detection. He spoke of the necessity he was under, not simply of making an example of such offenders, which was a duty he owed to the others under his charge, but of that of marking also to themselves the great abhorrence he entertained of their conduct. He then spoke of the consequences of unchecked sin, and, in a few words, mentioned a very sad history of a former pupil of his who turned out very ill—he is dead, Louis; the manner in which he spoke of that prayer of the Psalmist's, ‘Make me not a rebuke unto the foolish,’ was very solemn; I assure you there were very few dry eyes.”
Louis' were filled with tears.
“Well, Hamilton,” he said, slowly.
“He then desired Casson to go directly and make preparations for leaving his house in less than an hour, and told Harris that he should not allow him to return after the holidays. There was not a sound when Casson left the room, Louis, except the sobbing of one or two of the little boys. I think I never felt any thing so solemn. It is a serious, a very serious thing.”
“Very, very,” said Louis. “Did Casson seem sorry, Hamilton?”
“He was very pale and silent—I think frightened, not sorry. Harris stood like a statue while the doctor was speaking; but, when he told him he was not to return, I heard him sigh so deeply, it was quite painful.”
“And Churchill?” said Louis, with difficulty.
“Churchill is to stay a week behind the others, and to write exercises every day till he goes home.”
“Oh, Hamilton, Hamilton!” cried Louis, bursting fairly into tears, “I am not crying wholly for sorrow; for I am, and ought to be, thankful that I have not been made a ‘rebuke unto the foolish.’ ”
Hamilton pressed his hand.
“I hope,” he continued, “that this may be a blessing to me; but I am very much afraid of myself, Hamilton, for I am constantly making good resolutions and breaking them—but, Hamilton, do you think they would suppose I had told of them?”
“Dr. Wilkinson told them you would not break your promise and clear yourself by betraying them,” replied Hamilton; “and he also said a great deal on the folly of rash promises, and the evil of covering sin. I wish you had heard it; but we must not talk any more, for here is Alfred, and we shall have the prayer-bell presently; so, if you have any thing to do before you go down, you had better make haste.”
Louis dried his tears, and obeyed the hint, after submitting, with no very great reluctance, to a mighty hug from Alfred, who would have given vent to his delight in a great flow of words had not his brother been present and waiting for him. There was little time for talking when Louis returned to his dormitory; but he and his brother made the most of it, and, arm in arm, they issued forth when the summons was heard. All the way down stairs Louis received the congratulations of his school-fellows. Everybody, even Trevannion, seemed to have forgiven him, and Norman held out his hand at the hall-door with a “Shake hands, old fellow!”
Louis felt rather afraid of entering the school-room, but Dr. Wilkinson made no comment, and, as far as he could judge from the doubtful light of a few candles struggling with the coming daylight, scarcely looked at him. The names were called over. At Harris's name there was a pause—-some one answered, “Not here, sir;”and, as Dr. Wilkinson, without any comment, proceeded, Louis caught a few whispered words near him:
“He's been moaning nearly all night, poor fellow! he's in a terrible way now;”and then the reply, “Ah, the doctor never unsays any thing!”
When prayers were over, Dr. Wilkinson called Louis into the study, and kept him till breakfast-time with him. What passed, never transpired; but that it was something serious was conjectured from Louis' exceedingly humble manner and red eyes, when he left the room—though every one was sure, from the subsequent manner of both master and pupil, that all was entirely forgiven, and Louis reinstated fully in Dr. Wilkinson's good graces.
But I must hasten to finish my story. The prize day arrived. It was a dismal, wet, dreary day; but the boys cared nothing for that, except that the audience was smaller than usual. Charles Clifton carried away all the first prizes of his class, except that for French, which was, contrary to his expectation, adjudged to Louis. Hamilton having privately signified to the doctor his wish to withdraw all claim to the medal, it was likewise bestowed on Clifton. Reginald was not successful in any branch this half-year, having so recently entered the highest class. As for Frank and Hamilton, the poems were considered so equal—Hamilton's being the more correct, and Frank's displaying the greater talent and brilliancy—that they each received a prize exactly alike. The doctor passed a high encomium on Frank's industry, and that original young gentleman had the satisfaction of bearing away two prizes in addition to that already mentioned, leaving another for Hamilton, one for Ferrers, and one for Norman.
Just as the boys had dispersed, and Reginald and Louis were arranging a snug place in their carpet-bag for Louis' prize, a letter was put into the hand of the former.
“From home, Reginald?” cried Louis; “I suppose it is to say who is coming for us.”
But, no;—it was to tell them of the illness of a lady who had been staying at Dashwood Priory, which had assumed so much the character of typhus fever, that Mr. Mortimer considered it unsafe for his boys to return; and the letter, which was from their mother, informed them, with many expressions of affectionate regret, that their father had written to ask Dr. Wilkinson to keep them a few days, till it could be decided how they were to be disposed of. Poor Louis was grievously disappointed, and Reginald, not less so, inveighed aloud on the folly and impertinence of ladies going to friends' houses to fall ill there and prevent their sons from enjoying their holidays, so long, that Louis at length could not help laughing.
“But what shall we do, Reginald? it will be so dull here.”
“I shall die of the vapors, I think,” said Reginald.
“Come home with me,” said Salisbury, “both of you—I am sure my father and mother will be very glad to see you.”
“I should like nothing better,” replied Reginald; “provided your father and mother prove of the same accommodating opinion when you sound them.”
“Charlie asked me last week to go with him, Reginald,” said Louis; “if you go with Salisbury, I shall go with him; but if you remain here, I shall stay with you.”
The brothers received invitations on all sides when their desolate condition was known, but none could be accepted without the consent of their parents, or in the mean time of Dr. Wilkinson, as their guardian. It was finally, settled, that as both Salisbury and Clifton lived in the neighborhood, their invitations might be accepted till further notice from Dashwood.
The lady proved very ill, though, as it was not any infectious disease, the brothers probably might have been sent for, had not a heavy fall of snow rendered the roads near Dashwood impassable.
Louis spent nearly the whole of his holidays very happily with Charles; becoming, during his stay with them, a great favorite with Mr. Clifton and his little girls, as well as their nurse. Salisbury had the benefit of Reginald's company for a fortnight, the rest of his time being bestowed upon Meredith.
When the holidays were over, Hamilton returned for his last half-year. The reflections induced by the preceding term were not transient. He struggled manfully with the constitutional indifference of his character; and though there were many failings, for the habits were too deeply rooted to be suddenly overcome, yet the effort was not without its use, both to himself and others. To Louis, he was a constant and useful friend, never flagging in his efforts to make him more manly and independent in his conduct, as regarded the opinion of others; and also quietly strengthening, by his example and encouragement, every good feeling and impression he noticed. There were no tears shed, but Louis felt very low when he bade good-bye to Hamilton, at the close of the next half-year.
“Oh, Hamilton! I owe you a great deal. What shall I do next half without you? Who will help me?”
“Thy God, whom thou servest,” said Hamilton, reverentially. “The thanks are not to me for the help of the last few months, Louis. Good-bye, my dear fellow—our friendship does not end here; we are friends forever.”
They shook hands warmly and parted.
Louis continued at school for two or three years longer, and passed through the ordeal of school-life with credit to himself and his relations. I would not be thought to mean that he never did wrong, or was always equally steady in his Christian course; for the Christian's whole life is a continued fight against the evil of his nature. He still retained his strong desire to enter the ministry of the Church, and his studies and pursuits were principally directed to that end. It was one of his fairest day-dreams, to be his father's curate when old enough to be ordained, and though that might not be, he still felt, wherever he might be placed, his language would be that of the Psalmist, when he said—
“My soul hath a desire and a longing to enter into the courts of the living God.” “For I had rather be a door keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.”
THE END