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.”
