Louis and Meredith on Brandon Hill.
“Upon my word,” replied Meredith, “you are endowing those piles of stone with considerable potency. What becomes of commerce and—”
“I mean, of course,” interrupted Louis, “that it is religion that makes us a happier country than others. I love so to look at the churches; the sight of one sometimes, when all is fair and quiet, brings the tears into my eyes.”
“Hey-dey! quite sentimental! You'd better be a parson, I think.”
“I hope I shall be a clergyman—I wish very much to be one—there is not such another happy life. I was just thinking, Meredith, when you spoke to me, of a verse we read yesterday morning, which quite expresses my feelings: ‘One thing have I desired of the Lord which I will seek after, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in His temple.’ ”
Meredith looked with some surprise at Louis, and as they moved on he said carelessly, “I suppose somebody will have the gratification of beholding me in a long gown some day, holding forth for the edification of my devoted flock.”
“Are you going to be a clergyman?” asked Louis.
“Yes, I suppose I must. Don't you think I shall be a most useful character?”
“Oh! surely you wish it, do you not?”
“Well, I don't much mind,” replied Meredith, snatching a handful of leaves from the hedge near him; “I shall have a nice fat living, and it's a respectable kind of thing.”
Louis was horror-struck—he had not imagined such an idea—he almost gasped out, “Oh! Meredith, I can hardly understand you. Surely that is not your only wish about it: that cannot be a reason—not a right one.”
“Why, what's the harm?” said Meredith, laughing. “I only say outright what hundreds think. If I could choose, perhaps I might like the army best, but my father has a comfortable provision in the church for me, and so I, like a dutiful son, don't demur, especially as, if I follow the example of my predecessor, it will be vastly more easy than a soldier's life.”
“Meredith, Meredith, this is too solemn a thing to laugh about. I have often wondered how it is there are clergymen who can take their duties so easily as some do; but if they only undertake them for your reasons, I cannot feel so much surprised that they should be so careless. How can you expect any happiness from such a life! I should be afraid to talk so.”
Meredith stared contemptuously. “You are a Methodist, Louis,” he said; “I have no doubt I shall preach as good sermons as you: just put on a grave face, and use a set of tender phrases, and wear a brilliant on your little finger, and a curly head, and there you are a fashionable preacher at once—and if you use your white pocket-handkerchief occasionally, throw your arms about a little, look as if you intended to tumble over the pulpit and embrace the congregation, and dose your audience with a little pathos, you may draw crowds—the ladies will idolize you.”
“I should not think that such popularity would be very good,” replied Louis, “supposing you could do as you say; but it seems to me quite shocking to speak in such a slighting manner of so holy a thing. Were you ever at an ordination, Meredith?”
“Not I,” said Meredith.
“I should think if you had been you would be afraid to think of going to answer the solemn questions you will be asked when you are ordained. I was once with papa at an ordination at Norwich cathedral, and I shall never forget how solemnly that beautiful service came upon me. I could not help thinking how dreadful it must be to come there carelessly, and I wondered how the gentlemen felt who were kneeling there—and the hymn was so magnificent, Meredith. I think if you were there with your present feelings, you would be afraid to stay. It would seem like mocking God to come to answer all those solemn questions, and not mean what you said. I think it is wicked.”
Louis spoke rapidly, and with great emotion.
Meredith looked angry, struggling with a feeling of shame, and a wish to laugh it off. “You are exclusively precise,” he said; “others are not, and have as much right to their opinion as you to yours. Trevannion, for instance—he's going into the church because it is so genteel.”
“I hope you are mistaken,” said Louis, quickly.
“Not I; I heard him say the same thing myself.”
“I am very sorry,” said Louis, sadly. “Oh! I would rather be a laborer than go into the church with such a wish—and yet, I had rather be a very poor curate than a rich duke: it is such a happy, holy life.” The last part of Louis' speech was nearly inaudible, and no more was said until the afternoon.
It was Dr. Wilkinson's wish that the Sabbath should be passed as blamelessly as he had the power of ordering it in his household; but to make it a day of reverence and delight among so large a number of boys, with different dispositions and habits of life, was an arduous task. Mr. James Wilkinson was with the boys the whole afternoon, as well as his father, to whose utmost endeavors he joined his own, that the day might not be wholly unprofitable. In spite, however, of all diligence, it could not fail of often being grossly misspent with many of the pupils; for it is not possible for human power effectually to influence the heart, and, until that is done, any thing else can be but an outward form.
This afternoon the boys were scattered over the large playground. In one corner was the doctor, with twenty or thirty boys around him, and in other directions, the different ushers hearing Catechisms and other lessons. Some of the parties were very dull, for no effort was made by the instructor to impart a real delight in the Word of God to his pupils; and religion was made merely a matter of question and answer, to remain engraved in such heartless form on the repugnant mind of the learner. And, alas! how can it be otherwise, where the teacher himself does not know that religion is a real and happy thing, and not to be learned as we teach our boys the outlines of heathen mythology?
Sitting on the ground, lolling against one of the benches under a tree, sat Hastings Meredith and Reginald and Louis Mortimer; and one or two more were standing or sitting near; all of whom had just finished answering all the questions in the Church Catechism to Mr. Danby, and had said a Psalm.
Louis was sitting on the bench, looking flushed, thinking of holidays, and, of course, of home,—home Sabbaths, those brightest days of home life,—when Trevannion came up with his usual air of cool, easy confidence. Trevannion was the most gentlemanly young man in the school; he never was in a hurry; was particularly alive to any thing “vulgar,” or “snobbish,” and would have thought it especially unbecoming in him to exhibit the smallest degree of annoyance at any untoward event. It took a good deal to put him out of countenance, and he esteemed it rather plebeian to go his own errands, or, indeed, to take any unnecessary trouble.
“Were you in Bristol this morning, Meredith?” he said.
“Yes, sure, your highness,” replied Meredith, yawning.
“Tired apparently,” said Trevannion ironically, glancing at the recumbent attitude of the speaker.
“Worried to death with that old bore Danby, who's been going backwards and forwards for the last hour, with ‘What is your name?’ and ‘My good child,’ &c. I'm as tired as—as—oh help me for a simile! as a pair of worn-out shoes.”
“A poetical simile at last,” remarked Reginald, laughing.
“You would have a nice walk,” said Trevannion.
“Very! and a sermon gratis to boot,” replied Meredith. “It would have done you good, Trevannion, to have heard what shocking things you have done in being so very genteel.”
“What do you mean?” said Trevannion, coolly.
“Louis Mortimer was giving me a taste of his Methodistical mind on the duties of clergymen generally, and your humble servant especially.”
“I presume you do not include yourself in the fraternity yet?” said Trevannion.
“Not exactly; but having informed him of my prospects, the good child began to upbraid me with my hypocrisy, and, bless you, such a thundering sermon,—positively quite eloquent.”
“Perhaps I may be allowed to profit by the second part of it,” said Trevannion, turning to Louis; “will you be kind enough to edify me?”
Louis did not reply, and Trevannion's lips curled slightly as he remarked, “There is an old proverb about those who live in glass houses—‘Physician, cure thyself.’ ”
Poor Louis turned away, and Meredith, stretching himself and yawning terrifically, continued, “You must know, Trevannion, that it is very wicked to be any thing but a Methodist, very wicked for a clergyman to be genteel, or to wish to make himself comfortable.”
“Hastings, I did not say so,” said Louis, turning his head.
“And so,” continued Meredith, without noticing Louis, “if we dare to follow up our own or our fathers' wishes, we must listen to Louis Mortimer, and he will tell us what to do.”
“Much obliged to him, I am sure,” said Trevannion.
“Yes, so am I,” rejoined Meredith, “though I forgot to tender my thanks before; and hereby give notice, that when I am in orders, I will not hunt more than convenient, nor play cards on Good Friday, nor go to dancing parties on Saturday evening.”
“Pshaw, Meredith,” said Trevannion: “it is very unbecoming to talk in this manner of so sacred a profession. A hunting and card-playing clergyman ought to be stripped of his gown without hesitation. Any right-minded person would recoil with horror at such a character. It is a great disgrace to the profession; no clergyman ought to enter into any kind of improper dissipation. Your ideas are very light and indelicate.”
“Will you be kind enough to define that term, improper dissipation,” said Meredith, carelessly. “I presume you have no objection to a quiet dance now and then, only they must not call it a ball.”
“A clergyman ought not to dance,” replied Trevannion, in precisely the same cool, dictatorial manner.
“He may look on them, may he not?” said Meredith.
“A clergyman has many serious duties to perform, and he should be very careful that he does not degrade his office,” replied Trevannion. “He has to uphold the dignity of the church, and should take care that his conduct is such that no reproach can fall on that church from his inconsistency.”
“Well, for my part,” said Meredith, lightly, “I think the church too important to miss the weight of my example. I mean to have a most exemplary curate.”
Near these speakers sat Mr. James Wilkinson, with a few little boys, whom at this moment he hastily dismissed, for the sound of the light conversation reached him, and he arose quickly and introduced himself to the little côterie just as Reginald exclaimed, “For shame, Meredith!”
“Ay, for shame,” said Mr. James: “I have heard a little of what has been going on among you, and am really very sorry to hear such expressions on a subject so solemn and important. Meredith, you cannot be aware of what you are saying. I should like to have a little talk about this matter; and, Mr. Trevannion, if you will give me your attention for a few minutes, I shall be obliged to you.”
Trevannion seated himself on the bench, and folding his arms, remained in an attitude of passive attention.
“Lend me your prayer-book, Mortimer,” said Mr. James, and he quickly turned to the service for the ordering of deacons. “The first question here put to the candidate for holy orders is, ‘Do you trust that you are inwardly moved by the Holy Ghost, to take upon you this office and ministration, to serve God for the promoting of His glory and the edifying of His people?’ Now, Meredith, I ask you to think, whether, with such sentiments as you have just expressed, you can dare to answer, ‘I trust so?’ ”
“I never thought very seriously about it,” said Meredith, rather abruptly.
“But you know these things must be thought of seriously and prayerfully. It is required of a man in every station of life, that he be faithful and diligent, serving the Lord, and whoever does not remember this, must answer for his neglect of such duty to his Maker. It will not do to say that our individual example can be of no importance; the command, ‘Occupy till I come,’ is laid upon each one of us; but what must be said of him who, in a careless, light frame of mind, takes these holy vows upon him, knowing in his own mind that he intends to break them; that his sole desire to be put into the priest's office is to eat a morsel of bread? What shall be said of him who goes into the house of God, and in the presence of His people declares that it is his intention, ‘to search gladly and willingly for the sick and poor of his parish, to relieve their necessities; to frame his own life and the lives of his family according to the doctrine of Christ; to be diligent in prayers and in reading of the Holy Scriptures, laying aside the study of the world and the flesh,’ and yet knows that he intends to enjoy himself in the things of this world—a very hireling who forgets that his master's eye is upon him. It is a fearful thing. It is coming before the Almighty with a lie. Nay, hear me a little longer. The clergyman's is a glorious and exalted path, the happiest I know of on earth. It is his especially to bear the message of salvation from a tender Saviour. It is his to go forth with the balm of heavenly comfort, to bind up the wounds sin and grief have made. It is his indeed pre-eminently to dwell in the house of his God, to be hid away from the world and its many allurements; but as every great blessing brings with it a great responsibility, so the responsibility of the minister of Christ is very great, and if he turn from the commandment delivered to him, his condemnation is fearful. I should be much obliged to you, Meredith, if you would read me these verses.”
Meredith took the open Bible from Mr. Wilkinson's hand, and read aloud the first ten verses of the 34th of Ezekiel.
“In this holy word, which must be the standard for all our conduct, we do not find that the Almighty looks upon this office as a light thing. In the thirty-third chapter there is so solemn a warning to the careless watchman, that I wonder any one who does not steadfastly intend to give himself to his sacred duties, can read it and not tremble. ‘If the watchman see the sword come, and blow not the trumpet, and the people be not warned; if the sword come, and take away any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at the watchman's hand. So thou, O son of man, I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou shalt hear the word at my mouth, and warn them from me. When I say unto the wicked, Oh wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand.’ This is the second solemn warning to the same purport given to Ezekiel; for, in the third chapter, we find the same thing; and these are awful truths engraved in God's everlasting word, by which we are to be judged at the last day. You must excuse me,” continued Mr. Wilkinson, and his eyes glistened with emotion; “but I am a watchman, and I must warn you of the fearful sin you are contemplating.”
Meredith was silent. He was impressed with the earnestness displayed by Mr. Wilkinson, and the solemn truths he had brought before him—truths it would be well if all those who are looking forward to entering the sacred ministry would seriously and prayerfully consider.
The tea bell ringing at this moment, the conversation was necessarily concluded; but that evening after prayers, Mr. Wilkinson put into Meredith's hand a piece of paper, on which were written the following references: Num. xvi. 9; Isaiah lii. 7, 8; lxii. 6, 7; Jer. xxiii. 1-4; Ezek. iii. 17-21; xxxiii. 1-9; xxxiv. 1-10; John xxi. 15-17; 1 Cor. ix. 16, 17, 19; and both the Epistles to Timothy; and underneath the references was the Apostle's injunction, “Meditate upon these things; give thyself wholly to them, that thy profiting may appear unto all.”
When Louis was fairly in bed that night, he was called on for a story.
“Tell us the end of the princess Rosetta, Louis,” cried Frank; “I want to know how the fair animal got out of her watery bedroom, and whether the green dog ever got his nose nipped by the oysters he was so fond of snapping up.”
“Yes, Rosetta!” cried several voices. “Did she ever get to the king of the peacocks, Louis?”
“No, no,” cried Reginald; “it is not fit for Sunday.”
“I am sure we have been doing heaps of good things to-day,” replied Frank, lightly; “come, Louis.”
“I must not,” said Louis, gently. “I do not like telling stories at night at all, because I think we ought not to fill our heads with such things when we are going to sleep; but I must not tell you Rosetta to-night, Frank.”
“Get along,” said Frank, contemptuously; “you are not worth the snap of a finger. All you are ever worth is to tell stories, and now you must needs set up for a good, pious boy—you, forsooth of all others!”
“Indeed, Frank, you will not understand me.”
“If you dare to say any more to Louis,” cried Reginald, “I'll make you—”
Louis' hand was upon Reginald's mouth.
Frank replied, tauntingly, “Ay, finish your work this time, that's right. Come boys, never mind, I'll tell you a wonderful tale.”
“I think we'd better not have one to-night,” said one; “perhaps Mortimer's right.”
“Don't have one, don't!” said Louis, starting up; “do not let us forget that all this day is God's day, and that we must not even speak our own words.”
“None of your cant,” cried one.
“Well, I propose that we go to sleep, and then we shan't hear what he says,” said Meredith. “They talk of his not having pluck enough to speak, but he can do it when he pleases,” he remarked in a low tone to his next companion, Frank Digby, who rejoined,
“More shame for him, the little hypocrite. I like real religious people, but I can't bear cant.”
What Frank's idea of real religion was, may be rather a difficult matter to settle. Probably it was an obscure idea to himself,—an idea of certain sentiment and no vitality.
Chapter VII.
The next Saturday afternoon proving unusually fine, the community at Ashfield House sallied forth to enjoy their half-holiday on the downs. A few of the seniors had received permission to pay a visit to Bristol, and not a small party was arranged for a good game of cricket. Among the latter was Reginald Mortimer, whose strong arm and swift foot were deemed almost indispensable on such occasions. As he rushed out of the playground gates, bat in hand, accompanied by Meredith, he overtook his brother, who had discovered a poem unknown to him in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, and was anticipating a pleasant mental feast in its perusal.
“Louis, you lazy fellow,” cried Reginald, good-temperedly, “you shan't read this fine afternoon—come, join us.”
“I don't play cricket, I have not learned,” replied Louis.
“And you never will,” rejoined Reginald, “if you don't make a beginning: I'll teach you—now put away that stupid book.”
“Stupid!” said Louis. “It's Coleridge, that mamma promised to read to us.”
“I hate poetry,” exclaimed Reginald; “I wonder how anybody can read such stuff. Give me the book, Louis, and come along.”
“No, thank you, I'd rather not.”
“What a donkey you are!” said Meredith: “why don't you learn?”
“Perhaps my reputation may be the safer for not divulging my reasons,” said Louis, archly: “it is sufficient for present purposes that I had rather not.”
“Rather not—rather not,” echoed Meredith: “like one of your sensible reasons.”
“He has refused to give them, so you cannot call that his reason, Meredith,” remarked Reginald; “but let us be off, as Louis won't come.”
Away they ran, and after looking at them for a minute, Louis turned off his own way, but it was destined that he should not read the Ancient Mariner that day, for he was presently interrupted by little Alfred Hamilton, who pounced upon him full of joy.
“Louis,” he cried, “I am so glad to speak to you! I don't know how it is that I have not been able to speak to you lately: I half thought Edward did not like it, but he asked me to-day why I did not come to you now.”
“Did he?” exclaimed Louis, with joyful surprise; “I am very glad you are come. I think we shall have a beautiful walk.”
“I can't think how it is, Louis, that everybody is either so grave or rude when I speak of you. What is the matter?”
“A mistake; and a sad one for me,” said Louis, gravely. “But don't say any thing about it, Alfred; they think I have been doing something very wrong; but all will come out some day.”
“I hope so,” replied little Alfred; “I cannot think what you can have done wrong, Louis, you always seem so good.”
The child looked wistfully up in Louis' face as he spoke, and seemed to wait some explanation.
“That is because you do not know much about me, Alfred,” replied Louis; “but in this one case I have not done wrong, I assure you.”
Alfred asked no more questions, though he looked more than once in the now sorrowful young face by him, as they sauntered along the wide downs.
“Here come Edward and Mr. Trevannion,” said Alfred, turning round; “and there is Frank Digby, and Mr. Ferrers, too. I think Edward is going to Bristol this afternoon.”
This intimation of the august approach of his majesty and court was hardly given when the young gentlemen passed Louis. Hamilton, with Trevannion, as usual, leaning on his arm, and Frank Digby walking backwards before them, vainly endeavoring to support a failing argument with a flood of nonsense, a common custom with this young gentleman; and, by the way, we might recommend it as remarkably convenient at such times, to prevent the pain of a total discomfiture, it being more pleasant to slip quietly and unseen from your pedestal to some perfectly remote topic, than to allow yourself to be hurled roughly therefrom by the rude hand of a more sound and successful disputant.
“Enough, enough, Frank!” exclaimed Hamilton, laughing. “I see through your flimsy veil. We won't say any more: you either argue in a circle, or try to blind us.”
Louis looked up as Hamilton passed, in hopes that that magnate might give him a favorable glance, in which he was not mistaken, for Edward the Great had been watching him from some distance, and was perfectly aware of his near approach to him.
He certainly did not seem displeased, though the grave countenance bore no marks of particular satisfaction at the rencontre. He spoke carelessly to his brother, and then, addressing Louis, said, “You must look after him, Louis, if you wish for his company; if not, dismiss him at once.”
“I do wish for him,” said Louis, with a bright look of gratitude; “I promise to take care of him. Mr. Hamilton, I am getting up in my class—I am fifth now.”
The latter communication was made doubtfully, in a tone indicating mixed pleasure and timidity.
“I am glad to hear it,” was Hamilton's laconic reply. He did not quicken his pace. “What have you there?” he asked, noticing his book.
“Coleridge's Ancient Mariner; I was going to read it,” replied Louis; “but now Alfred has come we shall talk: shall we not, Alfred?”
This was accompanied by another look of grateful pleasure at Alfred's brother.
What was passing in Hamilton's mind was not to be gathered from his countenance, which exhibited no emotion of any kind. He turned to Trevannion, as their party was strengthened by Churchill, remarking, “Here comes the sucking fish.”
“It's uncommon hot,” said Churchill, taking off his hat, and fanning himself with his handkerchief.
“Dreadful warm,” said Frank Digby, in exactly the same tone.
“And there is not a breath of wind on the horrid downs,” continued the sapient youth, perfectly unconscious of Frank's mimicry.
“What will the fair Louisa do?” cried Frank: “O that a zephyr would have pity on that delicate form!”
Across their path lay a wagon, from which the horses had been detached, and which now offered a tempting though homely shelter to those among the pedestrians who might choose to sit on the shady side, or to avail themselves of the accommodation afforded by the awning over the interior. Ferrers threw himself full length inside the cart: and Louis, drawing Alfred to the shady side, seated himself by him on the grass. His example was followed by Churchill, who exclaimed rapturously as he did so, “How nice! This puts me in mind of a Latin sentence; I forget the Latin, but I remember the English—‘Oh, 'tis pleasant to sit in the shade!’ ”
“Of a wagon,” said Frank, laughing. “Remarkably romantic! It is so sweet to hear the birds chirp, and the distant hum of human voices—but language fails! As for Lady Louisa, she is in the Elysium of ecstasy. It's so romantic.”
“Are you going to Bristol, Frank, for I'm off?” said Hamilton.
“Coming,” replied Frank. “We'll leave these romantic mortals to their sequestered glen. There ain't nothing like imagination, my good sirs.”
As he joined his companions, Trevannion remarked to Hamilton, “Little Mortimer is so much the gentleman, you never know him do or say any thing vulgar or awkward. It is a pity one can't depend upon him.”
“I am not quite sure that you cannot,” replied Hamilton.
“How!” said Trevannion, in astonishment.
“Are you going to turn Paladin for her ladyship?” asked Frank.
“I have been watching Louis very carefully, and the more I see, the more I doubt his guilt,” replied Hamilton.
“After what you saw yourself? After all that was seen by others? Impossible, my dear Hamilton!” exclaimed Trevannion. “You cannot exonerate him without criminating others.”
“We shall see,” replied Hamilton; “and more than that, Trevannion, I am certain that Dr. Wilkinson has his doubts now, too.”
“But does Fudge know any thing about his old pranks?” asked Frank, incredulously.
“I cannot say,” replied Hamilton; “but I think that he probably does; for what is so well known now among ourselves, is likely enough to reach his quick ears.”
“But knowing all you do, my dear Hamilton,” said Trevannion, expostulatingly, “you must be strongly prejudiced in your protegé's favor to admit a doubt in this case. Has Dr. Wilkinson told you that he has any doubts?”
“No,” replied Hamilton; “you know the doctor would not reveal his mind unless he were confident, but I have noticed some little things, and am sure that though he seems generally so indifferent to Louis' presence and concerns, and so distant and cold towards him, he's nevertheless watching him very narrowly; and I, for my part, expect to see things take a new turn before long.”
“The boy seems quite to have won your heart,” said Trevannion.
“Poor fellow,” replied Hamilton, smiling. “He is a sweet-tempered, gentle boy; a little too anxious to be well thought of, and has, perhaps, too little moral courage. I own he has interested me. His very timidity and his numerous scrapes called forth pity in the first instance, and then I saw more. I should not have been surprised at his telling a lie in the first place, but I do not think he would persist in it.”
“I'm afraid wisdom's at fault,” said Frank, shaking his head: “you would not say that Ferrers helped him?—I mean took the key to get him into a scrape.”
“I accused no one, Digby,” replied Hamilton, in a reserved tone; “nor am I going to wrong any one by uttering unformed suspicions.”
“Enough has been said,” remarked Trevannion; “let us drop the subject, and talk of something more interesting to all parties.”
While these young gentlemen pursue their walk, we will retrace our steps to the wagon, where Louis and his little friend have taken shelter.
Churchill, finding neither seemed very much inclined to encourage his conversational powers, took himself off, after remaining in the shade long enough to cool himself. After his departure Louis and Alfred talked lazily on of their own pleasant thoughts and schemes, both delighted at being once more in each other's society. They were within sight of the masters out on the downs, and who had forbidden them to wander beyond certain limits, but still so far from their school-fellows as to be able to enjoy their own private conversation unmolested, and in the feeling of seclusion.
At length, after a pause, Louis made an original remark on the beauty of the weather, which was immediately responded to by his companion, who added that he had not known such a fine day since Miss Wilkinson's wedding.
“Don't you think so?” said Louis; “I think we had one or two Sundays quite as fine.”
“Perhaps I thought that day so very fine, because I wanted to go out,” said Alfred.
“What do you mean?” asked Louis: “we had a holiday then.”
“Yes, I know, but I was not allowed to go out because I had been idle, and had spoken improperly to Mr. Norton. I remember it was so sad. I assure you, Louis, I cried nearly all day; for I was shut up in your class-room, and I heard all the boys so merry outside. The very thought makes me quite sorrowful now.”
A thought flashed across Louis' mind, and he asked quickly—
“Were you shut up in our class-room that holiday, Alfred? I never saw you when I went in.”
“But I saw you once,” said Alfred, “when you came in for an atlas; and I saw Mr. Ferrers, and afterwards Edward and Mr. Salisbury and Mr. Trevannion come in; but I was ashamed, and I did not want any one to see me, so I hid myself between the book-case and the wall.”
“Did your brother know you were there?” asked Louis.
“Not there,” replied Alfred. “He thought I was to go into Dr. Wilkinson's study; but I could not go there, and I didn't want him to speak to me.”
“Did Ferrers come to fetch any thing, Alfred?”
Alfred laughed. “It won't be telling tales out of school to tell you, Louis. He came for a key to the first-class exercise book.”
“How do you know it was a first-class exercise book, Alfred?” asked Louis, with a glowing face and beating heart.
“I know Edward does Kenrick's Latin Exercises, and I know the key because it's just like the book, and I have seen Mr. Ferrers with it before. I remember once on a half-holiday he did his lessons in the school-room at my desk, and he had it open in the desk, and as I wanted something out. I saw it, though he did not think I did.”
“Oh Alfred, Alfred!” cried Louis, clasping him very tightly. “Oh Alfred! dear Alfred!”
The child looked up in astonishment, but Louis was so wild with excitement that he could not say any more.
Just at that moment there was an abrupt movement in the wagon, and Ferrers' head was put over the side.
Alfred uttered an exclamation of fear. “Oh, there's Mr. Ferrers!”
“What rubbish have you been talking, you little impostor?” cried Ferrers. “How dare you talk in such a manner? I've a great mind to kick you from Land's End to John o' Groat's house.”
