Maister Dunn.
Were I inclined to moralize, I might here make a few remarks on waste of money, &c., but my business being merely to relate incidents at present, I shall only say that there they stood, the old man and his assistant, with the boys in constant motion and murmur around them.
Frank Digby and Hamilton were in the outer circle, the latter having walked from a direction opposite to that from which Frank and Reginald came, but whose dignity did not prevent a certain desire to purchase if he saw fit, and if not, to amuse himself with those who did so. He stood watching the old man with an imperturbable air of gravity, and, hanging on his arm in a state of listless apathy, stood Trevannion, another member of the first class.
Frank Digby took too active a share in most things in the establishment to remain a passive spectator of the actions of others, and began pushing right and left. “Get along, get away ye vagabonds!” he politely cried: “you little shrimps! what business have you to stop the way?—Alfred, you ignoramus! Alfred, why don't you move?”
“Because I'm buying something,” said the little boy addressed, looking up very quietly at the imperious intruder.
“Da locum melioribus, Alfred, as the poet has it. Do you know where to find that, my boy?—the first line of the thirteenth book of the Æneid, being a speech of the son of Anchises to the Queen of Carthage. You'll find a copy of Virgil's works in my desk.”
“I don't mean to look,” said Alfred, “I know it's in the Delectus.”
“Wonderful memory!—I admire that delectable book of yours,” cried Frank, who talked on without stopping, while forcing himself to the first rank. “How now, Maister Dunn!” he said, addressing the old man, “I hope you b'aint a going to treat us as e did last time. You must be reasonable; the money market is in a sadly unflourishing condition at present.”
“You always talk of the money market, Frank,” said little Alfred: “what do you mean by the money market?”
“It's a place, my dear—I'll explain it in a moment. Here, Maister Dunn;—It's a place where the old women sell sovereigns a penny a measure, Alfred.”
“Oh, Frank!” exclaimed Alfred.
“Oh! and why not?” said Frank; “do you mean to say you don't believe me? That's it,—isn't it, maister?”
“Ah, Maister Digby! ye're at yer jokes,” said the old man.
“Jokes!” said Frank, with a serious air. “Pray, Mr. Dunn, did you ever happen to notice certain brass, or copper, or bronze tables, four in number, in front of the Bristol Exchange!”
“Ay sure, maister!”
“Well, I'll insense you into the meaning of that, presently. That, my good sir, is where the old women stood in the good old times, crying out, ‘Here you are! sovereigns a penny a measure!’ And that's the reason people used to be so rich!”
“Oh, Frank! now I know that's only your nonsense,” said Alfred.
“Well, I can't give you a comprehension, and if I could buy you one, I couldn't afford it,” answered Frank. “Now here's my place for any one; Louis, I'll make you a present of it, as I don't want it.”
“I don't want to buy any thing,” said Louis.
“Rubbish!” cried Frank. “Every one does. Don't be stingy.” And so Louis allowed himself to be pushed and pulled into the crowd, and bought something he would much rather have been without, because he found it inconvenient to say no.
The two upper classes were privileged to use the largest of the class-rooms as their sitting-room in the evenings; and here Reginald introduced his brother after tea; and, when he had shown him his lessons, began to prepare his own. Most of the assembled youths were soon quietly busy, though some of the more idly disposed kept up a fire of words, while turning over leaves, and cutting pens to pieces. Among the latter class was Frank Digby, who was seldom known to be silent for a quarter of an hour, and who possessed the singular power of distracting every one's attention but his own; for, though he scarcely ever appeared to give his lessons a moment's attention, he was generally sufficiently prepared with them to enable him to keep his place in his class, which was usually two from the bottom.
Louis saw that he must give his whole mind to his work; but being unused to study in a noise, it was some time before he was well able to comprehend what he wanted to do; and found himself continually looking up and laughing at something around him, or replying to some of Frank's jokes, which were often directed to him. When, by a great exertion, he had at last forced himself to attend to Reginald's repeated warnings, and had begun to learn in earnest, the door softly opened, and the little boy he had noticed in the crowd that afternoon came in.
“Halloa! what do you want?” cried one of the seniors; “you have no business here.”
“Is Edward here, Mr. Salisbury?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is, please?”
“With the doctor,” replied the young gentleman.
“Oh dear!” sighed the little boy, venturing to approach the table a little nearer.
“What's the matter with you?” asked Reginald.
“I can't do this,” said the child: “I wanted Edward to help me with my exercise.”
“My little dear, you have just heard that sapient Fred Salisbury declare, in the most civil terms chooseable, that your fraternal preceptor, Edwardus magnus, non est inventus,” said Frank, pompously, with a most condescending flourish of his person in the direction of the little boy.
“And, consequently,” said the afore-mentioned Mr. Salisbury, “you have free leave to migrate to York, Bath, Jericho, or any other equally convenient resort for bores in general, and you in particular.”
“Please, Mr. Digby,” said the little boy, “will you just show me this?”
“Indeed I can't,” said Frank; “I can't do my own, so in all reason you could not expect me to find brains for two exercises.”
“Oh! please somebody show me—Dr. Wilkinson will be so angry if Mr. Norton sends me up again to-morrow.”
“Will you go?” shouted Salisbury, with such deliberate energy of enunciation that Alfred shrunk back: “what's the use of your exercises, if you're shown how to do them?”
“Come here, Alfred,” said Louis, softly. Alfred readily obeyed; and Louis, taking his book, began to show him what to do.
“Louis, you must not tell him word for word,” said Reginald: “Hamilton wouldn't like it—he never does himself.”
“But I may help him to do it for himself, may I not?” said Louis.
“Yes; but, Louis, you have not time—and he is so stupid,” replied Reginald; “you won't have time to do your own.”
But Louis thought he should have time for both, and, putting his arm round Alfred, he kindly and patiently set him in the way of doing his lesson properly, and then resumed his own disturbed studies.
Hardly, however, was he settled than he found himself listening to Frank, who remarked, as Alfred left the room, “We shall be sure to have ‘Oars’ in soon!”
“Who do you mean by Oars?” asked Louis.
“Churchill,” said Reginald, laughing.
“What an extraordinary name!” said Louis.
“I say, Digby,” cried a boy from the opposite side of the table, “they give you the credit of that cognomen—but we are all in the dark as to its origin.”
“Like the origin of all truly great,” answered Frank, “it was very simple: Churchill came one day to me with his usual ‘Do tell us a bit, that's a good fellow,’ and after he had badgered me some minutes, I asked him if he had not the smallest idea of his lesson—so, after looking at it another minute, he begins thus, ‘Omnes, all.’ ‘Bravo!’ replied I. ‘Conticuere—What's that, Frank?’ ‘Were silent,’ I answered: ‘Go on.’ After deep cogitation, and sundry hints, he discovered that tenebant must have some remote relationship to a verb signifying to hold fast, and forthwith a bright thought strikes him, and on we go: ‘Intentique ora tenebant—and intently they hold their oars,’ he said, exultingly. ‘Very well,’ quoth I, approvingly, and continued for him, ‘Inde toro pater—the waters flowed glibly farther on, ab alto—to the music of the spheres; the inseparable Castor and Pollux looking down benignantly on their namesake below.’ Here I was stopped by the innocent youth's remark, that I certainly was quizzing, for he knew that Castor and Pollux were the same in Latin as in English. Whereupon, I demanded, with profound gravity, whether gemini did not mean twins, and if the twins were not Castor and Pollux—and if he knew (who knew so much better than I) whether or no there might not be some word in the Latin language, besides gemini, signifying twins; and that if it was his opinion that I was quizzing, he had better do his lesson himself. He looked hard, and, thinking I was offended, begged pardon; and believing that jubes was Castor and Pollux, we got on quite famously—and he was quite reassured when we turned from the descriptive to the historical, beginning with Æneas sic orsus infandum—Æneas was such a horrid bear.”
“Didn't you tell him of his mistake?” asked Louis, who could not help laughing.
“What! spoil the fun and the lesson I meant to give him?—not I.”
“Well, what then, Frank?” said Reginald.
“Why, imagine old Whitworth's surprise, when, confident in the free translation of a first-class man, Oars flowed on as glibly as the waters; Whitworth heard him to the end in his old dry way, and then asked him where he got that farrago of nonsense;—I think he was promoted to the society of dunces instanter, and learns either Delectus or Eutropius now. Of course, he never applied again to me.”
Louis did not express his opinion that Frank was ill-natured, though he thought so, in spite of the hearty laugh with which his story was greeted. When he turned again to his lesson, he found his book had been abstracted.
“I tell you what,” cried Reginald, fiercely, “I won't have Louis tormented—who has taken his book? It's you, Ferrers, I am sure.”
“I! did you ever!” replied that young gentleman. “I appeal to you, Digby—did you see me touch his book?”
“I did not, certainly,” said Frank.
“Give me the book,” exclaimed Reginald, jumping upon the table, “give me the book, and let's have no more such foolery.”
“Get down, Mortimer, you're not transparent,” cried several voices.
Reginald, however, paid no attention to the command, but pouncing upon Ferrers at a vantage, threw him backwards off the form, tumbling over his prostrate foe, and in his descent bringing down books, inkstand, papers, and one of the candles, in glorious confusion.
“What's the row!” exclaimed Salisbury, adding an expression more forcible than elegant; and, starting from his seat, he pulled Reginald by main force from his adversary, with whom he was now struggling on the floor, and at the same instant the remaining candle was extinguished. Louis was almost stunned by the noise that ensued: some taking his brother's part, and some that of Ferrers, while, in the dark, friend struggled and quarrelled with friend as much as foe, no one attempting to quell the tumult, until the door was suddenly burst open, and Hamilton with Trevannion and two or three from the school-room entered. Hamilton stood still for a moment, astonished by the unlooked-for obscurity. His entrance checked the combatants, who at first imagined that one of their masters had made his appearance, if that could be said to appear which was hardly discernible in the dim light which came through the half-open door. Hamilton begged one of the boys with him to fetch a light, and taking advantage of the momentary lull, he called out, “Is this Bedlam, gentlemen? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! What's the matter, Mortimer?”
“Oh!” replied Ferrers, “they've been teasing his little brother, and he can't abide it.”
“I only mean to say, that Louis shan't be plagued in this manner,” cried Reginald, passionately; “and you know if the others were not here you wouldn't dare to do it, you bully!”
“For shame, Mortimer,” said Hamilton, decidedly; and coming up to Reginald he drew him a little aside, not without a little resistance on Reginald's part—“What's the matter, Mortimer?”
“Matter! why that they are doing all they can to hinder Louis from knowing his lessons to-morrow. I won't stand it. He has borne enough of it, and patiently too.”
“But is that any reason you should forget that you are a gentleman?” said Hamilton.
“My book is here, dear Reginald,” said Louis, touching his brother's shoulder.
Reginald darted a fierce glance at Ferrers, but not being able to substantiate an accusation against him, remained silent, and, under the eye of Hamilton and his friend Trevannion, the remainder of the evening passed in a way more befitting the high places in the school which the young gentlemen held; but Louis had been so much interrupted, and was so much excited and unsettled by the noise and unwonted scenes, that when Dr. Wilkinson came at nine to read prayers, he had hardly prepared one of his lessons for the next day.
Chapter II.
Louis soon made himself a universal favorite among his school-fellows; and, though he was pronounced by some to be a “softy,” and by others honored by the equally comprehensive and euphonious titles of “spooney” and “muff,” there were few who were not won by his gentle good-nature, and the uniform good temper, and even playfulness, with which he bore the immoderate quizzing that fell to his lot, as a new boarder arrived in the middle of the half-year. If there were an errand to be run among the seniors, it was, “Louis Mortimer, will you get me this or that?” if a dunce wanted helping, Louis was sure to be applied to, with the certainty in both cases that the requests would be complied with, though they might, as was too often the case, interfere with his duties; but Louis had not courage to say no.
In proportion, however, as our hero grew in the good graces of his school-fellows, he fell out of those of his masters, for lessons were brought only half-learned, and exercises only half-written, or blotted and scrawled so as to be nearly unintelligible; and after he had been a fortnight at school, he seemed much more likely to descend to a lower class than to mount a step in his own. Day after day saw Louis kept in the school-room during play-hours, to learn lessons which ought to have been done the night before, or to write out some long imposition as a punishment for some neglected duty that had given place to the desire of assisting another.
Louis always seemed in a hurry, and never did any thing well. His mind was unsettled, and, like every thing else belonging to him at present, in a state of undesirable confusion.
There was one resource which Louis had which would have set all to rights, but his weakness of disposition often prevented him from taking advantage of even the short intervals for prayer allowed by the rules of the school, and he was often urged at night into telling stories till he dropped asleep, and hurried down by the morning bell, before he could summon up courage to brave the remarks of his school-fellows as to his being so very religious, &c., and sometimes did not feel sorry that there was some cause to prevent these solemn and precious duties. I need not say he was not happy. He enjoyed nothing thoroughly; he felt he was not steadily in earnest. Every day he came with a beating heart to his class, never certain that he could get through a single lesson.
One morning he was endeavoring to stammer through a few lines of some Greek play, and at last paused, unable to proceed.
“Well, sir,” said his master quietly,—“as usual, I suppose—I shall give you only a few days' longer trial, and then, if you cannot do better, you must go down.”
“Who is that, Mr. Danby?” said a voice behind Louis, that startled him, and turning his blanched face round, he saw Dr. Wilkinson standing near. “Who is that, Mr. Danby?” he repeated, in a deep stern voice.
“Louis Mortimer, sir,” replied Mr. Danby. “Either he is totally unfit for this class, or he is very idle; I can make nothing of him.”
Dr. Wilkinson fixed his eyes searchingly on Louis, and replied, in a tone of much displeasure:
“If you have the same fault to find the next two days, send him into a lower class. It is the most disgraceful idleness, Louis.”
Louis' heart swelled with sorrow and shame as the doctor walked away. He stood with downcast eyes and quivering lids, hardly able to restrain his tears, until the class was dismissed, and he was desired to stay in and learn his unsaid lesson.
Reginald followed his brother into the study, where Louis took his books to learn more quietly than he could do in the school-room.
“My dear Louis,” he said, “you must try; the doctor will be so displeased if you go into a lower class; and just think what a disgrace it will be.”
“I know,” said Louis, wiping his eyes: “I can't tell how it is, every thing seems to go wrong with me—I am not at all happy, and I am sure I wish to please everybody.”
“A great deal too much, dear Louis,” said Reginald. “You are always teaching everybody else, and you know you have scarcely any time for yourself. You must tell them you won't do it; I can't be always at your elbow; I've quarrelled more with the boys than ever I did, since you came, on your account.”
“Oh dear! I am sorry I came,” sighed Louis, “I do so long to be a little quiet. Reginald, dear, I am so sorry I should give you any trouble. Oh, I have lost all my happy thoughts, and I know every thing is sure to go wrong.”
Louis remained sadly silent for a few minutes, and then, raising his tearful eyes to his brother, who was sitting with his chin on his hands, watching him, he begged him to leave him, declaring he should not learn any thing while Reginald was with him.
Thus urged, Reginald took his departure, though, with his customary unselfish affection, he would rather have stayed and helped him.
When he was gone, Louis began slowly to turn over the leaves of his Lexicon, in order to prepare his lesson. He had not been long thus employed, when he was interrupted by the irruption of the greatest dunce in the school, introduced to the reader in the former chapter as Churchill, alias Oars, a youth of fifteen, who had constant recourse to Louis for information. He now laid his dog's-eared Eutropius before Louis, and opened his business with his usual “Come now, tell us, Louis—help us a bit, Louis.”
“Indeed, Harry, it is impossible,” said Louis sorrowfully. “I have all my own to do, and if I do not get done before dinner I shall go into the third class—no one helps me, you know.”
“It won't take you a minute,” said Churchill.
“It does take much more. You know I was an hour last night writing your theme; and, Churchill, I do not think it is right.”
“Oh stuff! who's been putting that nonsense into your head?” replied Churchill. “It's all right and good, and like your own self, you're such a good-natured fellow.”
“And a very foolish one, sometimes,” said Louis. “Can't you get somebody else to show you?”
“Goodness gracious!” cried Churchill, “who do you think would do it now? and no one does it so well as you. Come, I say—come now—that's a good fellow,—now do.”
“But how is it that you want to learn your lesson now,” asked Louis? “Won't the evening do?”
“No; Dr. Wilkinson has given me leave to go out with my uncle this afternoon, if I learn this and say it to old Norton before I go; and I am sure I shan't get it done if you don't help me.”
“I cannot,” said poor Louis.
“Now I know you're too good-natured to let me lose this afternoon's fun. Come, you might have told me half.”
And against his better judgment, Louis spent half an hour in hearing this idle youth a lesson, which, with a little extra trouble he might easily have mastered himself in three quarters of an hour.
“Thank you, Louis, you're a capital fellow; I know it now, don't I?”
“I think so,” replied Louis; “and now you must not talk to me.”
“What are you doing?” said Churchill, looking at his book; “oh, ‘Kenrick's Greek Exercises.’ If I can't tell you, I can help you to something that will. Here's a key.” As he spoke, he took down the identical book taken from Harrison on the day of Louis' arrival, and threw it on the table before him.
“Is that a key?” asked Louis, opening the book; “put it back, Harry, I cannot use it.”
“Why not?”
“It would not be right. Oh no! I will not, Churchill; put it up.”
“How precise you are!” said Churchill; “it's quite a common thing for those who can get them—Thompson and Harcourt always use one.”
“Thompson ought to be ashamed of himself,” cried Louis, “to be trying for a prize, and use a key.”
“Well, so he ought, but you won't get a prize if you begin now, and try till breaking-up day; so you hurt nobody, and get yourself out of a scrape. Don't be a donkey, Louis.”
When Churchill left him alone Louis looked at the title-page, and felt for an instant strongly tempted to avail himself of the assistance of the book; but something checked him, and he laid his arms suddenly on the table, and buried his face on them. A heavy hand laid on his shoulder roused him from this attitude; and looking up, with his eyes full of tears, he found Hamilton and Trevannion standing beside him.
“What's the matter, Louis?” said the former.
“I have so much to do;—I—I've been very careless and idle,” stammered Louis.
“I can readily believe that,” said Hamilton.
“A candid confession, at any rate,” remarked Trevannion.
“And do you imagine that your brains will be edified by coming in contact with these books?” asked Hamilton. “What have you to do?”
“I have this exercise to re-write, and my Greek to learn,—and—and—twenty lines of Homer to write out. I can't do all now—I shall have to stay in this afternoon.”
“I should think that more than probable,” said Trevannion.
“What have we here?” said Hamilton, taking up the key. “Hey! what! Louis! Is this the way you are going to cheat your masters?”
“Pray don't think it?” said Louis, eagerly.
“If you use keys, I have done with you.”
“Indeed I did not,—I never do,—I wasn't going. One of the boys left it here. I am sure I did not mean to do so,” cried Louis in great confusion.
“Put it back,” said Hamilton, gravely, “and then I will go over your lessons with you, and see if I can make you understand them better.”
“Thank you, thank you,—how kind you are!” said poor Louis, who hastily put the dangerous book away, and then sat down.
Hamilton smiled, and remarked, “It is but fair that one should be assisted who loses his character in playing knight errant for all those who need, or fancy they need, his good services: but, Louis, you are very wrong to give up so much of your time to others; your time does not belong to yourself; your father did not send you here to assist Dr. Wilkinson—or, rather, I should say, to save a set of idle boys the trouble of doing their own work. There is a vast difference between weakness and good-nature; but now to business.”
Trevannion withdrew with a book to the window, and Hamilton sat down by Louis, and took great pains to make him give his mind to his business; and so thoroughly did he succeed with his docile pupil, that, although he had come in rather late, all, with the exception of the imposition, was ready for Mr. Danby by the time the dinner-bell rang.
Louis overwhelmed Hamilton with the expression of his gratitude, and again and again laid his little hand on that of his self-instituted tutor. Hamilton did not withdraw his hand, though he never returned the pressure, nor made any reply to Louis' thanks, further than an abrupt admonition from time to time to “mind what he was about,” and to “go on.”
Several inquiries were made at the open window after Louis, but all were answered by Trevannion, and our hero was left undisturbed to his studies.
That evening Louis had the satisfaction of being seated near his friend Hamilton, who, with a good-natured air of authority, kept him steadily at work until his business was properly concluded. Unhappily for Louis, Hamilton was not unfrequently with the doctor in the evenings, or he might generally have relied on his protection and assistance: however, for the next two or three days, Louis steadily resisted all allurements to leave his own lesson until learned; and, in consequence, was able to report to Hamilton the desirable circumstance of his having gained two places in his class.
Chapter III.
For some time before Louis' arrival at Ashfield House, preparations had been making in the doctor's domestic ménage for the approaching marriage of Miss Wilkinson, the doctor's only daughter. The young gentlemen had, likewise, their preparations for the auspicious event, the result of which was a Latin Epithalamium, composed by the seniors, and three magnificent triumphal arches, erected on the way from the house-door to the gate of the grounds. Much was the day talked of, and eagerly were plans laid, both by masters and pupils, for the proper enjoyment of the whole holiday that had been promised on the occasion, and which, by the way—whatever young gentlemen generally may think of their masters' extreme partiality for teaching—was now a greater boon to the wearied and over-fagged ushers, than to the party for whose enjoyment it was principally designed.
The bridal day came.—No need to descant on the weather. The sun shone as brightly as could be desired, and as the interesting procession passed under the green bowers, cheer after cheer rose on the air, handfuls of flowers were trodden under the horses' feet, and hats, by common consent, performed various somersaults some yards above their owners' heads.
There was a long watch till the carriages returned, and the same scene was enacted and repeated, when the single vehicle rolled away from the door; and the last mark of honor having been paid, the party dispersed over the large playground, each one in search of his own amusement. Louis wandered away by himself, and enjoyed a quiet hour unmolested, and tried, with the help of his little hymn-book, and thinking over old times, to bring back some of his former happy thoughts. There were more than ordinary temptations around him, and he felt less able to resist them; and this little rest from noise and hurry was to him very grateful. When, at length, a little party found out his retreat and begged him to join in a game of “hocky,” he complied with a light and merry heart, freer from that restless anxiety to which he had been lately so much subject.
In the afternoon, determining to let nothing interfere with the learning of his lessons, Louis sat down in the school-room to business. There were but two persons besides himself in the room, one of whom was an usher, who was writing a letter, and the other, his school-fellow Ferrers. The latter was sitting on the opposite side of the same range of desks Louis had chosen, very intently engaged in the same work which had brought Louis there.
Louis felt very happy in the consciousness that he was foregoing the pleasure of the merry playground for the stern business that his duty had imposed on him; and the noise of his companions' voices, and the soft breezes that came in through the open door leading into the playground, only spurred him on to finish his work as quickly as possible.
Ferrers and his younger vis-à-vis pursued their work in silence, apparently unconscious of the presence of each other, until the former, raising his head, asked Louis to fetch him an atlas out of the study.
“With pleasure,” said Louis, jumping up and running into the study; he returned almost immediately with a large atlas, and laid it down on Ferrers' books. He had once more given his close attention to his difficult exercises, when a movement from his companion attracted his notice.
“Did you speak?” he said.
“Will you—oh, never mind, I'll do it myself,” muttered Ferrers, rising and going into the class-room himself.
Louis had become again so intent upon his study, that he was hardly aware of the return of his school-fellow, nor did he notice the precipitation with which he hurried into his place, and half hid the book he had brought with him, a book that he imagined to be a key to his exercises, but which, in fact, was a counterpart to that taken away from Harrison, though bound exactly like the one Ferrers had gone for, and so nearly the same size as easily to be mistaken for it in the confusion attendant on the abstraction of it.
Just at this moment, Hamilton, Trevannion, and Salisbury, with one or two more of the first class, entered from the playground, and walked directly across to Ferrers.
Alive to all the disgrace of being found by his class-fellows in possession of a key, and unable to return it unobserved, Ferrers, in the first moment of alarm, tried to push it into the desk at which he was writing, but finding it locked, he stood up with as much self-possession as he could assume, and pretending to be looking among his books and papers, managed, unobserved, to pass the obnoxious volume over to Louis' heap of books, laying it half under one of them. Louis was wholly unconscious of the danger so near him, and did not raise his held from his absorbing occupation when the fresh comers approached the desk.
“Ferrers,” said Salisbury, as they came up, “we want your advice on a small matter; come with us into the class-room.”
Accordingly Ferrers obeyed, glad to leave the dangerous spot, and Louis was left in undisturbed possession of the apartment for more than half an hour, at the end of which time the party returned from the inner room laughing, and all walked out of doors. Just as they passed out, Mr. Witworth, the usher, approached Louis, and asked him if he could lend him a pencil. Louis laid his pen down, and began to search his pockets for a pencil he knew should be there, when he was startled by the ejaculation of the master:
“Hey!—what!—This is it, is it? So I have found you out, sir.”
Louis looked up in alarm. “Found me out, sir?” he said, in a terrified tone: “what have I done?”
“Done!” exclaimed Mr. Witworth,—“done, indeed: what are you doing there?”
“My exercise, sir.”
“To be sure, to be sure. What's the meaning of this, sir?” and he held up the key. “What have you done, indeed!—you hoped that it was nicely concealed, I dare say. I wonder how you can be so artful.”
“I am sure I don't know any thing about that book,” said Louis, in great agitation.
“Admirably acted,” said Mr. Witworth. “It wouldn't walk here, however, Master Mortimer: some one must have brought it.”
“I am sure I don't know who did—I don't indeed,” said poor Louis, despairingly.
“Perhaps you'll try to make me believe you don't know what it is, and that you never saw the book before,” remarked Mr. Witworth, scornfully.
“I do know what it is, but I never used it, I do assure you, sir, and I did not bring it here. Will you not believe me?”
“It is very likely that I should believe you, is it not? Well, sir, this book goes up with you to-morrow to Dr. Wilkinson, and we shall see how much he will believe of your story. This accounts for your apparent industry lately.” So saying, Mr. Witworth walked off with the book in his hand, leaving Louis in the greatest distress.
“And all my pains are quite lost!” he exclaimed, as he burst into tears. “The doctor is sure not to believe me, and there will be—oh, who could have left it there?”
“Louis, are you coming out this afternoon; what's the matter?” exclaimed the welcome voice of his brother.
“What, Lady Louisa in tears! Here's the ink bottle; do let me catch the crystal drops,” said Frank Digby, who accompanied Reginald in search of his brother.
“Oh, Reginald!” exclaimed Louis, regardless of Frank's nonsense, “some one has left a key to my exercises on my books, and Mr. Witworth has just found it. What shall I do?”
“Some one has left,” ejaculated Frank. “That's a good story, Louis; only one can't quite swallow it, you know. Who would leave it, eh?”
“How? where, Louis?” said Reginald.
“It was just here it was found. I am sure I cannot think who put it there.”
“Well of all the”—began Frank; “my astonishment positively chokes me. Louis, are you not ashamed of yourself?”
“Oh, Frank! I am speaking the truth; I am, indeed, I am—Reginald, I am, you know I am.”
“It is very strange,” remarked Reginald, who was standing with a clouded, unsatisfied brow, and did not exhibit that enthusiasm respecting his innocence which Louis expected from him. Reginald knew too much, and dared not yet be certain when appearances were so sadly against him.
“Reginald, dear Reginald, tell me,” cried Louis, almost frantically; “surely you believe me?”
“Believe you!” echoed Frank, scornfully; “he knows you too well, and so do I. Remember last year, Louis: you'd better have thought of it sooner.”
Reginald cast a threatening glance on his cousin, who undauntedly replied to it.
“You can't gainsay that, at any rate, Reginald.”
“Reginald, dear Reginald,” cried Louis, with streaming eyes, “you know I always spoke the truth to you; I declare solemnly that I am speaking only the truth now.”
Reginald looked gloomily at his brother.
“Indeed it is. If you will not believe me, who will?”
“Who, indeed?” said Frank.
“I do believe you, Louis,” said Reginald, quickly, “I do believe you; but this matter must be sifted. It is very strange, but I will make all the inquiries I can. Who sat with you?”
“Ferrers was sitting there,” replied Louis.
“Any one else?”
“No,” replied Louis.
“I'll answer for it, it was Ferrers,” said Reginald.
“A likely story,” said Frank.
“I think it very likely,” said Reginald, firmly, “and woe be to him if he has.”
As he finished speaking, Reginald ran off in search of Ferrers, whom he found in a group of the head boys, into the midst of which he burst without the smallest ceremony.
“Manners!” exclaimed Hamilton; “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mortimer, for standing in your way.”
“I am very sorry,” said Reginald, bluntly, “but I can't stand upon ceremony. Ferrers, what have you been doing with Kenrick's Exercises—I mean the key to it?”
“I!” cried Ferrers, reddening violently; “what—what do you mean, Mortimer?”
“You have left the key on Louis' desk, to get him into a scrape—you know you have.”
“Upon my word, Mortimer! what next!” exclaimed Salisbury. “Who do you think would fash themselves about such a little hop-o'-my-thumb?”
“Will you let Ferrers answer!” cried Reginald, imperiously.
Unconscious of the mistake he had made, Ferrers felt exceedingly uncomfortable in his present position, and, assuming an air of contemptuous indignation, he turned his back on Reginald, saying as he did so, “Such impertinence merits nothing but silent contempt.”
“You did it, you coward!” cried Reginald, enraged almost beyond control. “I know you did, and you know you did. Will you answer me?”
“Answer him, Ferrers, answer him at once, and let us have an end of his impertinence,” cried several voices: “he's like a wild-cat.”
“Well then, I did not,” said Ferrers, turning round with a violent effort; “will that satisfy you?”
Reginald glared angrily and doubtfully on the changing countenance of the speaker, and then burst out vehemently,
“I don't believe a word you say: you did it either to spite him, or you mistook your aim. Do you never use keys, Mr. Ferrers?”
“Really, Mortimer!” exclaimed Trevannion, “your language is very intemperate and ungentlemanly. I have no doubt your brother knows how to help himself; and now, for your comfort, know that I saw him the other day with that same book, and here is Hamilton, who can corroborate my statement.”
“Where? when?” asked Reginald, in a subdued tone.
“In the class-room alone, when he was writing his exercise. Hamilton, am I not right?”
Hamilton nodded.
“Dr. Wilkinson will do justice to-morrow,” said Reginald, as after a moment's painful silence he looked up with assumed confidence, and turned proudly away from Ferrers' reassured look of exultation, though the latter hardly dared exult, for he thought Reginald had mistaken the book, and feared the suspicions that might rest on himself when it should be discovered that it was not a second-class key. “And now, Mortimer, let's have no more of this violent language,” said Hamilton. “If the matter is to come before the doctor, he will do all justice; let him be sole arbitrator; but I would not bring it before him were I in your place. Make an apology to Ferrers, and say nothing more. You will do your brother more harm than good.”
“Make an apology,” said Reginald, ironically; “I haven't changed my mind yet. It must come before the doctor. Mr. Witworth found the book, and has carried it by this time, or certainly will carry it, to head-quarters.”
“Come along with me, and tell me the whole affair,” said Hamilton.
While Reginald was unfolding the matter to Hamilton, the party they had left was reinforced by Frank Digby, who warmly took Ferrers' part, and enlightened the company as to many particulars of his cousin's former character: and so much was said about the injury Reginald had done to Ferrers by his suspicions, that when that youth discovered the certainty of the mistake he had made, he was so far involved as to render it impossible to him to acknowledge that even out of a spirit of teasing he had placed the book near Louis; and his anxiety was so great to free himself from any suspicion, that he was selfishly and ungenerously insensible to the trouble entailed upon Louis, whom he disliked on account of his superiority to himself, but on whom he had not seriously contemplated inflicting so great an injury—so imperceptibly does one fault lead to another, so unable are we to decide where the effects of one false step, one dishonest thought, shall end.
The story was soon spread among Louis' immediate companions, who were anxious to learn the cause of his swollen eyes and sad demeanor, and Louis had to endure many sneers, and, what was still harder to bear, much silent contempt from those whose high sense of honor made them despise any approach to the meanness of which he was supposed guilty. Hamilton, though in the study the whole evening, took no notice of him, and when his eyes met Louis', they bore no more consciousness of his presence than if he had been a piece of stone. Frank Digby did not tease Louis, but he let fall many insinuations, and a few remarks so bitter in their sarcasm, that Reginald more than once looked up with a glance so threatening in its fierceness, that it checked even that audacious speaker. Even little Alfred was not allowed to sit with Louis; though Hamilton made no remark, nor even alluded to the subject to his brother, he called him immediately to himself, and only allowed him to leave him at bed-time.
As the elder boys went up stairs to bed, Frank continued his aggravating allusions to Louis' weakness, but in so covert a manner, that no one but those acquainted with Louis' former history could have understood their import. For some time Reginald pretended not to hear them; there was a strong struggle within him, for his high spirit rose indignantly at his cousin's unkindness, yet was for some time checked by a better feeling within; but, at length, on Frank's making some peculiarly insulting remark in a low tone, his pent-up ire boiled forth, and, in the madness of his fury, he seized on his cousin with a strength that passion rendered irresistible. “You've tried to provoke me to this all the evening—you will have it, you dastardly coward! you will have it, will you?”
These exclamations were poured forth in a shout, and Reginald, after striking his cousin several violent blows, threw him from him with such force that his head struck against the door-post, and he fell motionless to the ground, the blood streaming from a wound in his forehead.
There was an awful silence for a minute. The boys, horror-struck, stood as if paralyzed, gazing on the inanimate form of their school-fellow. Reginald's passion subsided in an instant; his face turned pale, the color fled from his lips, and clasping his hands in terror, he muttered, “Oh! what have I done!” and then there was a shout, “Oh, Frank Digby's killed! Digby's killed—he's dead!”
Hamilton at length pushed forward and raised Frank's head. And at this moment Mr. Norton and Dr. Wilkinson, with two or three of the servants, came from different directions. The crowd round Frank made way for the doctor, who hurriedly approached, and assisted Hamilton to raise Frank and carry him to his bed.
“He's dead, he's dead!” cried the boys all round.
“How did this happen?” asked the doctor, and without waiting for an answer he tore open the handkerchief and collar of the insensible youth, and dispatched some one immediately for a medical man. One was sent for a smelling-bottle, another for some water, and Mrs. Wilkinson soon made her appearance with a fan, and other apparatus for restoring a fainting person. But it was long before there were any signs of returning life. It was a terrible time for Reginald. It was agony to look on the motionless form, and blood-streaked countenance before him—to watch the cloud of anxiety that seemed to deepen on his master's face as each new restorative failed its accustomed virtue,—to listen to the subdued murmurs and fearful whispers, and to note the blanched faces of his school-fellows. He stood with clasped hands, and there was a prayer in his heart that he might not be called to suffer so very deeply for this sinful expression of his temper. What if he should have sent his cousin unprepared into eternity? Oh, what would he give to see one motion; what, that he had been able to restrain his ungovernable fury! There was almost despair in his wild thoughts, when at last Frank sighed faintly, and then opened his eyes. He closed them immediately, and just then the surgeon arriving, more potent remedies were used, and he was at length restored to consciousness, though unable to speak aloud. Doctor Wilkinson had him removed to another room, and after seeing him comfortably arranged, returned to Reginald's bedroom.
“Now, how did this happen?” he said.
No one spoke, and the silence was only broken by the sound of sobs from the further end of the room.
“Who did this?” asked the doctor again.
“I did, sir,” said Reginald, in a broken voice.
“Come forward. Who is it that speaks?” said Doctor Wilkinson. “Mortimer! is this some passion of yours that has so nearly caused the death of your cousin? I am deeply grieved to find that your temper is still so ungovernable. What was the matter?”
Reginald was incapable of answering, and none of his companions understood the quarrel; so Doctor Wilkinson left the room, determined to make a strict investigation the next morning.
Poor Reginald was almost overwhelmed: he knelt with his brother after their candle was extinguished, by their bedside, and both wept bitterly, though quite silently. Distress at his own fault, and his brother's new trouble, and deep thankfulness that his cousin was alive, and not dangerously hurt, filled Reginald's mind, and kept him awake long after all besides in the room were asleep.
Chapter IV.
The next morning, after the early school-hours, Doctor Wilkinson kept Reginald back as he was following the stream to breakfast, and led the way into the class-room, where, after closing the door, he seated himself, and motioning Reginald to draw closer to him, thus opened his inquiry.
“I wish to know, Mortimer, how this affair began last night: it appears, from all I can make out, to have been a most unprovoked attack on your part, but as there is often more than appears on the surface, I shall be glad to hear what you have to allege in extenuation of your savage conduct.”
Reginald colored very deeply, and dropping his eyes under the piercing gaze of his master, remained silent.
“Am I to conclude from your silence that you have no excuse to make?” asked the doctor in a tone of mixed sorrow and indignation; “and am I to believe that from some petty insult you have allowed your temper such uncontrolled sway as nearly to have cost your cousin his life?”
“I had very great provocation,” said Reginald, sullenly.
“And what might that be?” asked his master. “If the wrong be on Digby's side, you can have no hesitation in telling me what the wrong was.”
Reginald made no answer, and, after a pause, Dr. Wilkinson continued: “Unless you can give me some reason, I must come to the conclusion that you have again given way to your violent passions without even the smallest excuse of injury from another. The assertion that you have been ‘provoked’ will not avail you much: I know that Digby is teasing and provoking, and is therefore very wrong, but if you cannot bear a little teasing, how are you to get on in the world? You are not a baby now, though you have acted more like a wild beast than a reasonable creature. I am willing and desirous to believe that something more than usual has been the cause of this ebullition of temper, for I hoped lately that you were endeavoring to overcome this sad propensity of yours.”
“I assure you, sir,” said Reginald, raising his open countenance to his master's, “I tried very much to bear with Frank, and I think I should if he had not said so much about—about—”
Here Reginald's voice failed; a sensation of choking anger prevented him from finishing his sentence.
“About what?” said the doctor, steadily.
“About my brother,” said Reginald, abruptly.
“And what did he say about your brother that chafed you so much?”
Reginald changed color, and his eyes' lighted up with passion. He did not reply at first, but as his master seemed quietly awaiting his answer, he at length burst out,—
“He had been going on all the afternoon about Louis: he tried to put me in a passion; he said all he could—every thing that was unkind and provoking, and it was more than a fellow could stand. I bore it as long as I could—”
“You are giving me a proof of your gentle endurance now, I suppose,” said the doctor.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I can't help it,—I feel so angry when I think of it, that I am afraid I should knock him down again if he were to repeat it.”
“For shame, sir!” said the doctor, sternly; “I should have thought that you had already had a lesson you would not easily have forgotten. What did he say of your brother that irritated you? I insist upon knowing.”
“He said Louis was—that Louis did not speak the truth, sir. He said that I believed it—that I believed it”—and Reginald's passionate sobs choked his utterance.
“Believed what?” asked the doctor.
“Something that happened yesterday,” said Reginald; “he said that—he was a hypocrite, and he went on taunting me about last summer.”
“About last summer!” repeated the doctor.
“Yes, sir—about a mistake. Nobody makes allowances for Louis. I could have borne it all if he had not said that I knew Louis was a liar. I'd knock any one down that I was able who should say so! Indeed,” continued Reginald, fiercely, “I begged him to leave off, and not provoke me, but he would have it, and he knew what I was.”
“Enough—enough—hush,” said Dr. Wilkinson: “I beg I may hear no more of knocking down. Don't add to your fault by working yourself into a passion with me. Some provocation you certainly have had, but nothing can justify such unrestrained fury. Consider what would have been your condition at present, if your rage had been fatal to your cousin; it would have availed you little to have pleaded the aggravation; your whole life would have been embittered by the indulgence of your vengeful feelings—one moment have destroyed the enjoyment of years. Thank God, Mortimer, that you have been spared so terrible a punishment. But you will always be in danger of this unless you learn to put a curb on your hasty temper. The same feelings which urge you into a quarrel as a boy, will hurry you into the duel as a man. It is a false spirit of honor and manliness that makes you so ready to resent every little insult. In the life of the only perfect Man that ever lived, our great Example and Master, we do not see this impatience of contradiction: ‘When He was reviled, He reviled not again;’ and if He, the Lord of all, could condescend to endure such contradiction of sinners against Himself, shall it be too much for us to bear a little with the contradiction of our fellow-creatures? My boy, if we do not strive to bear a little of the burden and heat of the day, we are not worthy to bear the noble name of Christians.”
“I am very sorry, sir,” said Reginald, quite softened by the earnest manner of his master; “I am very sorry I have been so hasty and wrong. I dare not make any promises for the future, for I know I cannot certainly keep them, but, with God's help, I hope to remember what you have so kindly said to me.”
“With His help we may do all things,” said Dr. Wilkinson; “you may by this help overcome the stumbling-stone of your violent passions, which otherwise may become an effectual barrier in the way of your attaining the prize of eternal life; and remember that ‘he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.’ ”
There was a minute's silence, which Reginald broke by asking if he might attend on Frank until he was well.
“Can I hope that you will be gentle,” said the doctor; “that you will remember he is in invalid—one of your making, Mortimer; and that if he is impatient and fretful, you are the cause?”
“I will try, sir, to make amends to him,” said Reginald, looking down; “I hope I may be able to be patient.”
“I will give orders that you may go to him,” said the doctor; and after a pause, he added, “another offence of this kind I shall visit with the heaviest displeasure. I am in hopes that the anxiety you have undergone, and the present state of your cousin, may be a lesson to you; but if I find this ineffectual, I shall cease to consider you a reasonable creature, and shall treat you accordingly.”
Dr. Wilkinson then rose and left the room. Reginald lingered a few minutes to compose himself before joining his school-fellows; his heart was very full, and he felt an earnest desire to abide by his master's counsel, as well as grateful for the leniency and kindness with which he had been treated, which made him feel his fault much more deeply than the severest punishment.
The breakfast time was very unpleasant for Louis that morning; he was full of anxiety as to the result of Mr. Witworth's discovery, and his sickness of heart entirely deprived him of appetite. When the meal was dispatched, Reginald went off to Frank, whom he found in a darkened room, very restless and impatient. He had passed a very bad night, and was suffering considerable pain. Reginald had to endure much ill-nature and peevishness; all of which he endeavored to bear with gentleness, and during the time Frank was ill, he gave up all his play-hours to wait on him and to amuse him as he grew better; and the exercise of patience which this office entailed was greatly beneficial to his hasty and proud spirit.
Mr. Danby was in the midst of the second-class lessons that morning, when one of the first class brought him a little slip of paper. Mr. Danby glanced at the few words written thereon, and when the class had finished he desired Louis to go to Dr. Wilkinson. All remnant of color fled from Louis' cheek, though he obeyed without making any reply, and with a very sinking heart entered the room where the doctor was engaged with the first class. The keen eye of his master detected him the instant he made his appearance, but he took no notice of him until he had finished his business; then, while his pupils were putting up their books he turned to Louis, and pointing to a little table by his side, said, “There is a volume, Louis Mortimer, with which I suspect you have some acquaintance.”
Louis advanced to the table, and beheld the Key to Kenrick's Greek Exercises.
“You know it?” said the doctor.
“Yes, sir, but I did not use it,” said Louis.
“You will not deny that it was found among your books in the school-room,” said the doctor.
“I know, sir, Mr. Witworth found it, but I assure you I did not put it there,” replied Louis, very gently.
“Have you never used it at all?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“Never, sir,” replied Louis, firmly.
At this moment, he met the eye of Hamilton, who was standing near Dr. Wilkinson, and who looked very scornfully and incredulously at him as he paused to hear the result of the inquiry. Louis remembered that Hamilton had seen the key Churchill had left, and he hastily exclaimed, “I assure you, Mr. Hamilton, I did not.”
“What is this, Hamilton?” said Dr. Wilkinson, turning round. “Do you know any thing of this matter?”
“I would much rather not answer,” said Hamilton, abruptly, “if you will excuse me, sir.”
“I must, however, beg that you will, if you please,” replied the doctor.
“I really know nothing positively, I can say nothing certainly. You would not wish, sir, that any imagination of mine should prejudice you to Louis Mortimer's disadvantage; I am not able to say any thing,” and Hamilton turned away in some confusion, vexed that he should have been appealed to.
Dr. Wilkinson looked half perplexed—he paused a moment and fixed his eyes on the table. Louis ventured to say, “Mr. Hamilton saw a book once before with my lesson books, but I never used it.”
“What do you mean by saw a book?” asked the doctor. “What book did Mr. Hamilton see? How came it there, and why was it there?”
“It was ‘Kenrick's Greek Exercises,’ sir.”
“You mean the ‘Key,’ I suppose?”
Louis answered in the affirmative.
“Whose was it?” asked the doctor, with a countenance more ominous in its expression.
“It was the one you took from Harrison, sir,” replied Louis.
“Humph! I thought I took it away. Bring it here.” Louis obeyed, and the doctor having looked at it, continued, “Well, you had this with your lesson books, you say. How did it come there?”
“One of the boys gave it to me, sir,” replied Louis.
“And why did you not put it away?”
“I was going, sir;” and the color rushed into Louis' pale face. “I did not use it—and I hope I should not.”
“Who left the book?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“Churchill, sir.”
“Call Churchill, Salisbury.”
Salisbury obeyed; and during his absence a profound silence reigned in the room, for all the first class were watching the proceedings in deep interest. Dr. Wilkinson seemed lost in thought; and Louis, in painful anxiety, scanned the strongly marked countenance of his master, now wearing its most unpleasing mask, and those of Hamilton and Trevannion, alternately. Hamilton did not look at him, but bent over a table at a book, the leaves of which he nervously turned. Trevannion eyed him haughtily as he leaned in his most graceful attitude against the wall behind the doctor's chair; and poor Louis read his condemnation in his eyes, as well as in the faces of most present.
Salisbury at length returned with Churchill, who was the more awe-struck at the unwonted summons, as he was so low in the school as seldom to have any business with the principal.
“Churchill,” said the doctor, gravely, “I have sent for you to hear what is said of you. Now, Louis Mortimer, who gave you this book on the day Mr. Hamilton discovered it in your possession?”
“Churchill, sir,” replied Louis, in great agitation; “you did, Churchill, did you not? Oh! do say you did.”
“Hush,” said the doctor. “What have you to say against this, Churchill?”
“Nothing, sir—I did—I gave it to Louis Mortimer,” stammered Churchill, looking from Louis to the doctor, and back again.
“And how came you to give it to him?”
Churchill did not reply until the question was repeated, when he reluctantly said, he had given it to Louis to assist him in his exercise.
“Did Mortimer ask you for it?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he wish for it?”
“No, sir, not that I know of.”
“You know, Harry, that I asked you to put it away—did I not?” cried Louis.
“I don't know—yes—I think you did,” said Churchill, growing very hot.
“Why did you not put it away?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“Because I thought he wanted it, please sir.”
“But I did not, Harry! I told you I did not,” said Louis, eagerly.
Dr. Wilkinson desired Louis to be silent, and continued his questions—
“Did you try to persuade him to use it?”
Again Churchill paused, and again confessed, most unwillingly, that he had done so—and received a severe reprimand for his conduct on the occasion, and a long task to write out which would keep him employed during the play-hours of that day.
He was then dismissed, and Dr. Wilkinson again addressed himself to Louis: “I am glad to find that part of your story is correct; but I now wish you to explain how my key found its way into the school-room yesterday, when discovered by Mr. Witworth. The book must have been deliberately taken out of this room into the school-room. You appear to have been alone, or nearly so, in the school-room the greater part of yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Witworth found the book half concealed by your lesson books while you were writing your exercises.”
“I assure you, sir, I did not take it,” said Louis.
“Unhappily,” replied Dr. Wilkinson, “I cannot take a mere assurance in the present instance. Had not the case been so palpable, I should have been bound to believe you until I had had reason to mistrust your word—but with these facts I cannot, Louis;” and he added, in a very low tone, so as to be heard only by Louis, who was much nearer to him than the others, “Your honor has not always been sacred—beware.”
His school-fellows wondered what made the red flush mount so furiously in Louis' forehead, and the tears spring to his eyes. The painful feelings called forth by his master's speech prevented him from speaking for a few minutes. He was roused by Dr. Wilkinson saying—
“The discovery of this Key in your possession would involve your immediate dismissal from the second class, a sufficient disgrace, but the matter assumes a far more serious aspect from these assertions of innocence. If you had not used the book when discovered, it must have been taken either by you, or another, for use. The question is now, who took it?”
“I did not, sir,” said Louis, in great alarm.
“Who did, then? Were any of your class with you?”
“No, sir.”
“Was any one with you?”
Louis paused. A sudden thought flashed across him—a sudden recollection of seeing that book passed over and slipped among his books; an action he had taken no notice of at the time, and which had never struck him till this moment. He now glanced eagerly at Ferrers, and then, in a tremulous voice, said, “I remember now, Ferrers put it there—I am almost sure.”
“Ferrers!” exclaimed the young men, with one voice.
“What humbugging nonsense!” said Salisbury, in a low tone.
“Do you hear, Mr. Ferrers?” said the doctor: “how came you to put that Key among Louis Mortimer's books?”
“I, sir—I never,” stammered Ferrers. “What should I want with it? What good could I get by it? Is it likely?”
“I am not arguing on the possibility of such an event, I simply wish to know if you did it?” said the doctor.
“I, sir—no,” exclaimed Ferrers, with an air of injured innocence. “If I had done it, why did he not accuse me at once, instead of remembering it all of a sudden?”
“Because I only just remembered that I saw you moving something towards me, and I am almost sure it was that book now—I think so,” replied Louis.
“You'd better be quite sure,” said Ferrers.
Dr. Wilkinson looked from one to the other, and his look might have made a less unprincipled youth fear to persist in so horrible a falsehood.
“Were you learning your lessons in the school-room yesterday afternoon, Mr. Ferrers, at the same time with Louis Mortimer?” Ferrers acknowledging this, Dr. Wilkinson sent for Mr. Witworth, and asked him if he had observed either Ferrers or Louis go into the study during the afternoon, and if he knew what each brought out with him. Mr. Witworth replied that both went in, but he did not know what for.
“I went in to get an atlas for Ferrers,” cried Louis, in great agitation.
“I got the atlas myself, Mortimer, you know,” said Ferrers.
Louis was quite overcome. He covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
“This is a sad business,” said Dr. Wilkinson, very gravely; “much worse than I expected—one of you must be giving utterance to the most frightful untruths. Which of you is it?”
“What would Ferrers want with the Key to The Greek Exercises sir?” suggested Trevannion, “unless he wished to do an ill turn to Mortimer, which you cannot suppose.”
“I have hitherto trusted Mr. Ferrers,” replied Dr. Wilkinson; “and am not disposed to withdraw that confidence without sufficient cause. Mr. Ferrers, on your word of honor, am I to believe your statement?”
Ferrers turned pale, but the doctor's steady gaze was upon him, and all his class-fellows awaited his reply—visions of disgrace, contempt, and scorn were before him, and there was no restraining power from within to check him, as he hastily replied, “On my word of honor, sir.”
“I must believe you, then, as I can imagine no motive which could induce you to act dishonorably by this boy, were I to discover that any one in my school had acted so, his immediate expulsion should be the consequence.”
The dead silence that followed the doctor's words struck coldly on the heart of the guilty coward.
“Now, Louis Mortimer,” said the doctor, sternly, “I wish to give you another chance of confessing your fault.”
Louis' thick convulsive sobs only replied to this. After waiting a few minutes, Dr. Wilkinson said, “Go now to the little study joining my dining-room, and wait there till I come: I shall give you half an hour to consider.”
Louis left the room, and repaired to the study, where he threw himself on a chair in a paroxysm of grief, which, for the first quarter of an hour, admitted of no alleviation: “He had no character. The doctor had heard all before. All believed him guilty—and how could Ferrers act so? How could it ever be found out? And, oh! his dear father and mother, and his grandfather, would believe it.”
By degrees the violence of his distress subsided, and he sent up his tearful petitions to his heavenly Father, till his overloaded heart felt lightened of some of its sorrow. As he grew calmer, remembrances of old faults came before him, and he thought of a similar sin of his own, and how nearly an innocent person had suffered for it—and this he felt was much easier to bear than the consciousness of having committed the fault himself; and he remembered the sweet verses in the first Epistle of St. Peter: “What glory is it if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye take it patiently; but if when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God. For even hereunto ye were called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that we should follow His steps: who did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth; who, when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, He threatened not; but committed Himself to Him that judgeth righteously,”—and the feeling of indignation against Ferrers was gradually changed into almost pity for him, for Louis knew by experience the pain of a loaded conscience. While his thoughts thus ran over the past and present, he heard the firm step of Dr. Wilkinson crossing the hall, and nearly at the same moment that gentleman entered the room. There was no pity in his countenance—the dark lines in his face seemed fixed in their most iron mould; and briefly announcing to his trembling pupil that the time allowed him for consideration had expired, he asked whether he were prepared to acknowledge his fault. Louis meekly persisted in his denial, which had only the effect of making the doctor consider him a more hardened offender; and after a few words, expressing the strongest reprehension of his wickedness and cowardice, he gave him severe caning, and sent him immediately to bed, although it was but the middle of the day. In spite of the better feelings which urged poor Louis to acknowledge the justice, under the circumstances, of his master's proceedings, he could not help thinking that he had been very hardly treated. He hurried up stairs, glad to indulge his grief in silence. How many times, in the affliction of the next few hours, did he repeat a little hymn he had learned at home:
“Thy lambs, dear Shepherd, that are weak,
Are thy peculiar care;
'Tis Thine in judgment to afflict,
And Thine in love to spare.
“Though young in years, yet, oh! how oft
Have I a rebel been;
My punishment, O Lord, is mild,
Nor equals all my sin.
“Since all the chastisements I feel
Are from Thy love alone,
Let not one murmuring thought arise,
But may Thy will be done.
“Then let me blush with holy shame,
And mourn before my Lord,
That I have lived to Thee no more,
No more obeyed Thy word.”
—“Hymns for Sunday-Schools”
At last he fell asleep, and oh! to wake; from that sleep! It was surely good to be afflicted, and in the happiness of his mind Louis forgot his trouble. But he had yet to endure much more, and the bitterest part of his punishment came the next morning, when, according to his master's orders, he repaired to the study with his books. He had been desired to remain in this room out of school-hours, and was forbidden to speak to any of his school-fellows without leave. While he was sitting there the first morning after the inquiry related in this chapter, Dr. Wilkinson entered with a letter, and sat down at the table where Louis was reading. As he opened his desk, he said, “I have a painful task to perform. This is a letter from your father, Louis Mortimer, and he particularly requests that I should give him an account of your conduct and your brother's; you know what an account I can give of you both.”
Louis had listened very attentively to his master's speech, and when it was concluded he gave way to such a burst of sorrow as quite touched the doctor. For some minutes he wept almost frantically, and then clasping his hands, he implored Dr. Wilkinson not to tell his father what had happened: “It will break mamma's heart, it will break mamma's heart, sir—do not tell my father.”
“Confess your fault, Louis, and I may then speak of amendment,” said the doctor.
“I cannot, indeed—indeed I cannot. It will all come out by and bye: you will see, sir—oh! you will see, sir,” sobbed Louis, deprecating the gathering of the angry cloud on the doctor's face. “Oh! do not tell mamma, for it is not true.”
“I do not wish to hear any more, sir,” said the doctor, sternly.
“Oh! what shall I do—what shall I do!” cried Louis; and he pushed his chair quickly from the table, and, throwing himself on his knees by Dr. Wilkinson, seized the hand that was beginning to date the dreaded letter—“I assure you I did not, sir—I am speaking the truth.”
“As you always do, doubtless,” said the doctor, drawing his hand roughly away. “Get up, sir; kneel to Him you have so deeply offended, but not to me.”
Louis rose, but stood still in the same place. “Will you hear only this one thing, sir? I will not say any thing more about my innocence—just hear me, if you please, sir.”
Dr. Wilkinson turned his head coldly towards him.
Louis dried his tears, and spoke with tolerable calmness: “I have one thing to ask, sir—will you allow me still to remain in the second class, and to do my lessons always in this room? You will then see if I can do without keys, or having any help.”
“I know you can if you choose,” replied Dr. Wilkinson, coldly, “or I should not have placed you in that class.”
“But, if you please, sir, I know all,”—Louis paused, he had promised to say no more on that subject.
There was a little silence, during which Dr. Wilkinson looked earnestly at Louis. At last he said, “You may stay in the class; but, remember, you are forbidden to speak to any of your school-fellows for the next week without express permission.”
“Not to my brother, sir?”
“No; now go.”
“May I write to mamma?”
“Yes, if you wish it.”
After timidly thanking the doctor, Louis returned to his seat, and Dr. Wilkinson continued his letter, which went off by the same post that took Louis' to his mother.
Chapter V.
“Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.”—Heb. xii. 11.
“Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept Thy word.”—Psalm cxix. 67.
Perhaps there is no state more dangerous to a Christian's peace of mind than one of continual prosperity. In adversity even the worldly man will sometimes talk of resignation, and feel that it is a good thing to be acquainted and at peace with God, and that when all human help is cut off, it is a sweet thing to have a sure refuge in an almighty Saviour. But in prosperity the ungodly never look to Him; and His own children, carrying about with them a sinful nature, against which they must continually maintain a warfare, are too apt to forget the Giver in his gifts, and to imagine that all is well because nothing occurs to disturb the regularity of their blessings.
Our little Louis, though the trial he now underwent was a bitter one, and though at times it seemed almost too hard to be endured, learned by degrees to feel that it was good for him. He had been in too high favor, he had trusted too much in the good word of his school-fellows, and had suffered the fear of man to deter him from his duty to God; and now, isolated and looked upon as an unworthy member of the little society to which he belonged, he learned to find his sole happiness in that sweet communion which he had now solitary leisure to enjoy. His very troubles carried him to a throne of grace; his desolate condition made him feel that there was only One who never changed nor forsook His people; only One who could understand and feel for the infirmities and sorrows of a human creature; and though to the ungodly it is a terror to know that there is “nothing that is not manifest in God's sight,” to the true child of God it is an unspeakable comfort to feel that his thoughts and actions are “known long before” by his unwearied Guardian.
The effects of Louis' lonely communings were soon visible in his daily conduct, and after his term of punishment had expired, the meekness of his bearing, and the gentle lowliness of his demeanor, often disarmed the most severe and unpitying of his youthful judges. There was no servility in his manner, for he neither courted nor shunned observation; nor, though he was as willing as ever to do a kind action for any one, did he allow himself to be persuaded to give up all his time to his idler school-fellows. There seemed more firmness and decision in his naturally yielding disposition, and those who knew not the power of assisting grace, looked and wondered at the firmness the sweet but weak boy could at times assume. He would have told them it was not his own. He was very quiet, and spoke little, even to his brother, of what was passing in his mind, and sometimes his thoughts were so quietly happy that he did not like to be spoken to. To Ferrers, Louis was as gentle and courteous as to the rest of his companions, and, indeed, he had now little other feeling towards him than that of sorrow and pity.
There had been an unusual noise in the study one evening, while Louis was absent, and when he entered it, he found the confusion attendant on a grand uproar. Very little was doing, and tokens of the late skirmish lay about the floor in torn and scattered books, and overthrown forms. Among others, Ferrers was hunting for a missing book, but to discover it in such a chaos was a difficult task, especially as no one would now allow the candles to be used in the search.
With many expressions, so unfitted for refined ears that I do not choose to present them to my reader, Ferrers continued his search, now and then attempting to snatch a candle from the table, in which he was regularly foiled by those sitting there.
“Well, at least have the civility to move and let me see if it is under the table,” he said at length.
“You have hindered us long enough,” said Salisbury; “Smith, Jones, and I have done nothing to-night. If you will have rows, you must e'en take the consequences.”
“Can't you get under the form?” asked Smith, derisively.
Ferrers was going to make some angry, reply, when Louis dived between the table and the form, with some trouble, and, at the expense of receiving a few unceremonious kicks, recovered the book and gave it to Ferrers, who hardly thanked him, but leaning his head on his hand, seemed almost incapable of doing any thing. Presently he looked up, and asked in a tone of mingled anger and weariness, what had become of the inkstand he had brought.
“Loosing's seeking,
Finding's keeping,”
said Salisbury. “Which is yours? Perhaps it's under the table too.”
“Hold your nonsense,” cried Ferrers, angrily. “It's very shabby of you to hinder me in this manner.”
Louis quietly slipped an inkstand near him, an action of which Ferrers was quite aware, and though he pretended not to notice it, he availed himself presently of the convenience. A racking headache, however, almost disabled him from thinking, and though he was really unwell, there was only the boy he had so cruelly injured who felt any sympathy for his suffering.
Louis carefully avoided any direct manifestation of his anxiety to return good for evil, for he felt, though he hardly knew why, that his actions would be misconstrued, but whenever any little opportunity occurred in which he could really render any service, he was always as ready to do it for Ferrers as for another; and now, when from his classmates Ferrers met with nothing but jokes on his “beautiful temper,” and “placid state of mind,” he could not help feeling the gentleness of Louis' conduct, the absence of pleasure in his annoyance, and the look of evident sympathy he met whenever he accidentally turned his eyes in his direction. For a few days after this he was obliged to keep his bed, and during this time, though Louis only once saw him, he thought of every little kind attention he could, that might be grateful to the invalid. Knowing that he was not a favorite, and that few in the school would trouble themselves about him, he borrowed books and sent them to him for his amusement, and empowered the old cake man to procure some grapes, which he sent up to him by a servant, with strict orders to say nothing of where they came from. The servant met Hamilton at the door of the room, and he relieved her of her charge, and as she did not consider herself under promise of secrecy towards him, she mentioned it, desiring him at the same time to say nothing to Ferrers.
Louis had now established a regular time for doing his own lessons, and kept to it with great perseverance to the end of the half-year, with one exception, when he had been acting prisoner in a trial performed in the school-room, by half his own class and the third, and let the evening slip by without remembering how late it grew. His class-fellows were in the same predicament as himself, and as they had barely time to write a necessary exercise, they agreed among themselves to learn each his own piece of the lesson they had to repeat. Louis did not seriously consider the deceit they were practising, and adopted the same plan. One of the number, not trusting to his memory, hit upon the singular expedient of writing the whole of his piece and the next on a piece of paper, and wafering it to the instep of his shoe when he went up to his class. Unhappily for his scheme, he was so placed that he dared not expose his foot so as to allow him to avail himself of this delectable assistance, and consequently, after much looking on the floor for inspiration, and much incoherent muttering, was passed over, and the order of things being thereby disturbed, of course no one could say the missing lines until the head boy was applied to, and the lower half of the class was turned down, with the exception of Louis, who, standing on this occasion just above the gentleman of shoe memory, had been able to say his share.
As they were breaking up, Mr. Danby said to Louis, “You have been very industrious lately, Louis Mortimer: I am glad you have been so correct to-day.”
Louis blushed from a consciousness of undeserved praise; but though his natural fear of offending and losing favor sprung up directly, a higher principle faced it, and bearing down all obstacles, forced him to acknowledge his unworthiness of the present encomium.
“I ought to learn mine, sir,—I learned my piece to-day.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Danby.
“I learned my part of the lesson, as well as Harris, Williams, Sutton, and Charles Salisbury. We forgot our lessons last night, but it is quite an accident that I have said mine to-day.”
“I am glad you have had the honor to say so,” said Mr. Danby. “Of course you must learn yours, but let me have no more learning pieces, if you please.”
Chapter VI.
“Blessed are they that dwell in Thy house, they will be still praising Thee. For a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.”—Psalm lxxxiv. 4, 10.
Dr. Wilkinson's school was too large to be entirely accommodated with sittings in the nearest church—and, consequently, was divided into two bodies on Sunday, one of which regularly attended one of the churches in Bristol, where Mr. Wilkinson, the doctor's son, occasionally did duty. It fell to Louis' lot, generally, to be of the Bristol party, and unless the day was rainy he was not ill-pleased with his destiny, for the walk was very pleasant, and there was something in the chorus of bells in that many-churched city, and the sight of the gray towers and spires, very congenial to his feelings. It happened that the Sunday after Louis had received permission to mix as usual with his school-fellows was one of those peculiarly sunny days that seem to call upon God's people especially to rejoice and be glad in the Works of His hand. Louis' mind was in a more than usually peaceful state, and his heart overflowed with quiet happiness as he looked down from the height of Brandon Hill upon the city below. He and his companion had walked on rather faster than the rest of their school-fellows, and now stood waiting till they came up.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mortimer,” said his companion, a pleasant-looking boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age; “you are very silent to-day—what may be the subject of your profound meditations?”
Louis hardly seemed to hear the question, for he suddenly turned his bright face to his interrogator, and exclaimed, “What a beautiful sight it is to see so many churches together, Meredith! I think our churches make us such a happy country.”
