GOOD NEWS.
R. BARDSLEY'S was rather a large day school, in a town about two miles distant from Wilbourne. His terms were low, and he was not particular who the boys might be that came to him, so that they behaved themselves when they did come; but he taught really well, and was very conscientious, and therefore even very careful parents allowed their sons to go to him, convinced that there they would be at least well grounded in classics and mathematics, and would learn nothing amiss from the general tone of the school, though individual pupils in it might not be all that could be wished.
'GOOD-BYE, CECIL.'
See page 124.
Cecil was to start from home each day about half-past eight, and not to return till after the school broke up at five o'clock, except on the two half-holidays—Wednesday and Saturday. Eight miles' walking would have been too much for him; and it had been arranged that on the four other days he should dine with Mr. and Mrs. Bardsley, and his hours of work would be from nine to twelve and from two to five, with tasks to prepare at home in the evening.
It seemed rather hard to begin this routine just in the first days of August, when the weather was so lovely, and the woods so enticing, and holiday cricket-matches going on in Wilbourne Park. Cecil's face was a little dismal at breakfast the first morning, and it was real self-government which kept him from grumbling when Jessie was helping him to put his schoolbooks together. Just as they were firmly strapped, his mother came to bid him 'good-bye for a few hours,' with a tender kiss and a few cheerful words, and after that his heart felt lighter, and he set out bravely; but he was just beginning to think what a long dull walk it was, and what a dusty road, and how delightful it would be if he might shy his books over the hedge and strike off across the meadows to join Percy, who had gone out fishing, when he heard steps behind him, and turning, saw the tall curate running along with rapid strides. His first impression was that something had happened at the Rectory since he started, and that Mr. Yorke was come to take him back; but he was soon undeceived.
'I've got business in Fairview,' the young clergyman explained, 'and I meant to go in early; and when I saw you pass by, I thought I might as well get ready and try to overtake you. I like company myself; don't you?'
'Yes, very much,' said Cecil, swinging his books over his shoulder cheerfully again, instead of dangling them drearily from the end of the strap, as he had been doing before. 'Lewis wanted to come with me, but mother wouldn't have liked his walking back alone; and besides, one doesn't always want a little chap like that after one.'
'I thought Percy might want to get his watch-chain mended,' said Mr. Yorke, with rather a droll expression in his eyes. 'Doesn't it require mending periodically? That was what he always used to tell me last vacation, when I met him going into Fairview.'
'He hadn't had his watch long then, and was always taking it out to look at it,' said Cecil, laughing. 'I think that was how the chain got broken. He's used to it now. I wonder if Uncle Percy will give me a watch when I'm sixteen. Of course Percy wanted one particularly, because of his going to Sandhurst. He's gone out fishing this morning: mustn't it be jolly in the water-meadows?'
'Very; but how well this part of the road is watered!—it's quite pleasant walking here. I suppose the Fairview water-carts come out as far as this.'
'I wish they'd come all the way,' said Cecil; 'I was just thinking how dusty it was before I met you.'
'And I was wondering whether you chose the road instead of the path on purpose, because you liked the dust: there's no accounting for tastes.'
'I'll try the path next time,' said Cecil with a smile. 'Do you know old Bardsley, Mr. Yorke?'
'Yes, I met him at the Institute one day, and we had a lively discussion about Greek roots. He's a clever man, I think, and has a real taste for teaching. When he gets hold of a fellow that cares to learn, I'm told there's no limit to the pains he'll take with him.'
'Jim Payne didn't like him at all,' said Cecil, alluding to the son of a small farmer in the neighbourhood; 'he said he was an awful brute.'
'Jim Payne likes nothing but idleness, and his father is mistaken enough to let him have his way.'
Cecil wisely suppressed some further quotations which he had meant to make from Jim Payne's account of Mr. Bardsley; and they walked on sociably together, talking of other things. It really seemed quite a short walk, after all, though Cecil had fancied it very long when he first set out.
He was in tolerably good spirits when he trod that road again in the evening, though this time he was alone the whole way. He did not dislike either the school or the schoolmaster as much as he had expected; and he felt that if he worked hard, and conformed to rules, there was no danger of his ever finding Mr. Bardsley the terrible monster that Jim Payne had described him to be.
It would, and did, seem a drudgery to prepare school tasks that evening, while Percy was enjoying 'elegant leisure;' but there was the Saturday half-holiday to look forward to, and Cecil's health was good, and not likely to suffer from his speedy return to work. Seeing him so patient and industrious, his father wondered how it was that he still expressed no sorrow for his past idleness, but did not press him for any such acknowledgment. He believed that it would come in time, and was quite content to take his present good conduct as a sign of penitence. 'He would not bear his punishment so well if he were not really sorry for his fault,' he said to himself.
'You are not angry with Cecil now, father, are you?' said Jessie softly the next morning, as they stood watching him trudge down the gravel path towards the gate on his way to school.
'No; very much pleased in some ways,' he answered. 'How late the post is this morning! I'm afraid old Hawkins is stopping for a long chat with Mrs. Giles. Just run down the lane and see; and if there is any letter for me, bring it at once to my study. I have to go out in five minutes.'
Jessie was running off directly, with her long hair streaming in the wind, when her mother called to her to put something on; and she came back, snatched her garden-hat and holland cape from their peg, and flew away again. Yes, the old postman was standing gossiping with Mrs. Giles at her garden gate, just as Mr. Cunningham had foreseen. When Jessie breathlessly inquired if there were any letters for the Rectory, the old man answered composedly, 'Yes, Missy, three letters for your house—two for your reverend father, and one for Miss Mary. Shall I take 'em round, or shall I give 'em to you?'
'Oh, I'll take them, please,' said Jessie; and back she flew with them, and straight into the study she went, holding out the two that belonged to Mr. Cunningham.
'Thanks. This is the one I wanted, from your Uncle Percy,' he said as he took them from her; 'and this is from Dr. Lomax. What makes him write again, I wonder?'
'Oh, father, do open it, please!' said Jessie excitedly, a sudden hope springing up in her breast.
'My child, what can there be in it to signify? It is an account for some schoolbooks, perhaps,' said Mr. Cunningham, rather as if he thought her a very silly little girl. But when he looked up and saw her eager, quivering face, he added, with a smile, 'Well, to set your mind at rest, I will just take a glance.'
He opened the letter as he spoke, but it was much more than a glance which he gave it. A minute passed, two minutes, three, and still he read on and did not speak. Jessie never took her eyes off his face; hope and fear struggled together in her heart, and hope was uppermost. But for the gravity of her father's silence, she would have felt sure that all was coming right.
At last he spoke. 'There was a mistake, Jessie: the marks were counted up wrong, it seems, and your brother has not been to blame, after all.'
'And not lost the "exhibition?"'
'No; his marks more than entitle him to keep it.'
'And you will let him go back next month, father?'
'Certainly. Why, my dear——' For Jessie was off like an arrow from a bow, and did not even hear his exclamation.
He supposed she had gone to tell the others, and paused to read over the letter once more, with deep thankfulness, and much sympathy for Cecil. It was from young Mr. Lomax, not from the Doctor: the similarity in the handwriting had misled Mr. Cunningham. He said the mistake had been discovered by his father, but that, as it had been made by him, he could not rest without personally acknowledging it, and expressing his regret. He had been himself surprised, in the first instance, at the result of his addition; but as he had only to do with Cecil in mathematics, in which he was not remarkably proficient, it did not seem so astonishing to him as it did to his father, who had watched the boy's progress in classics. Dr. Lomax had not gone over the books himself at the time, but having occasion to refer to them for something the morning of the day on which Mr. Lomax wrote, he had counted up Cecil's marks throughout the year, just for his own satisfaction, and in doing so had discovered the mistake that had been made. 'We have since been over it all together,' continued the son; 'and being now fully convinced of my mistake, I hasten to apprise you of it, and to express my deep regret.' If Cecil had seen this sentence, and some which followed, he would certainly have abandoned his idea that 'young Lomax might have done it to spite him.'
'Mother!' called Mr. Cunningham, suddenly remembering the appointment which this letter had made him forget for a few minutes; and as his wife came running down in answer to his call, he went on: 'Has Jessie told you, love? I mustn't stay—but take the letter; I shall try to get down in time to meet that poor boy as he comes out from morning school.'
'I haven't seen Jessie,' Mrs. Cunningham answered; but she seemed to guess instinctively what the letter contained, and one glance at it confirmed her impression.
'My darling boy! oh, thank God!' she exclaimed. 'Lewis, you will bring him straight home with you, won't you?'
'If I don't, I shall have you following me and hugging him before the whole school,' said her husband, laughing, but almost with tears in his eyes; and he hurried away, while she went joyfully back to the drawing-room to tell Mary and Frances the good news.
They literally 'jumped for joy;' and there was a kind of triple hug between the mother and her daughters, from which Frances was the first to break away, crying, 'Oh, where's Jessie? do let me tell her! how glad she will be!'
'She knows, I think,' said Mrs. Cunningham; 'it was she who brought father the letter. But find her by all means, and Lewis too, that we may all be happy together.'
Lewis was easily found, but nothing could be seen of Jessie; and presently her little brother was sent to the meadows where Percy was fishing, to see if she had run there with the tidings; but there she was not, and there was some consternation at the Rectory when the fact was announced.
'I really think she must have gone to Fairview,' said Mary anxiously.
'Perhaps she thought she could overtake Cecil,' suggested Frances. And though they did not know it, this guess hit the exact truth.
When Jessie left the study, she firmly believed that if she were only quick enough she could catch Cecil, who was very likely to linger on his way; and she had a vision of finding him leaning over a certain gate which opened into a harvest-field, and which was a favourite halting-place with all the young people.
No, he was not at the gate; but Jessie, full of her one idea of overtaking him, flew on and on till she had reached the outskirts of the town, and still she saw nothing of him—the truth being, that not having allowed himself more than enough time for his walk that morning, he had hurried on instead of stopping anywhere, and was in school by this time. She was dismayed when the country road began to turn into a street, and realized for the first time how far she had come. She had not had a thought of doing wrong when she began to run after Cecil, but now she was struck with a sudden sense of misdemeanour, and a fear that 'mother' would be angry.
'I wonder if I ought to go back,' she said to herself, 'or whether I may just go on to Mr. Bardsley's! It isn't far now, and then Cecil could come back with me, I daresay. Perhaps I could still catch him just as he's going in.'
Inspirited by this thought, she began to run again, and in a little while she was standing opposite the square brick house which she knew to be Mr. Bardsley's. There was not a sign of a boy on the steps, nor was there any sound of voices from the playground; evidently Cecil and his companions were already at study. She stood there, panting and weary, not very well knowing what to do next.
