“He needs no help,” said Ferrers.
“You're sure of the mathematical prize, Ferrers; and Hamilton, of course, gets that for Latin composition.”
Ferrers did not reply—his thoughts had flown to Louis, from whom they were now seldom absent; and, though he had been generally successful, yet the settled gloom and anxiety of his manner led many to suppose that he entertained fears for the issue of his examination. There were others who imagined that there was some deeper cause of anxiety preying on his mind, or that he was suffering from illness and fatigue—and one or two made mysterious remarks on his intimacy with Louis, and wondered what all foreboded.
“I wonder who'll get the medal,” said one.
“Hamilton, of course,” replied Smith.
“You're out there,” said Frank Digby. “My magic has discovered that either the Lady Louisa or myself will obtain it. I admire your selfishness, young gentlemen—you assign to yourselves every thing, and leave us out of the question. If I can't be a genius, I mean to be a good boy.”
Many bitter remarks were then made on Louis' late good behavior, and a few upon his manner towards Ferrers, which, by some, was styled meanness of the highest degree.
Ferrers could not endure it—he left the circle and walked about the playground alone, full of remorse, thinking over every plan he had formed for making amends to Louis for all. He looked up once or twice with a gasping effort, and, oh! in the wrinkled and contracted forehead what trouble might be read. “Oh! that it were a dream,” he at last uttered, “that I could wake and find it a warning.”
There was a soft, warm hand in his, and Louis' gentle voice replied, “Do not grieve now about me, Ferrers, it will soon be over.”
Ferrers started and drew his hand away.