He looked round with a commiserating glance. “Come, come, Master Evson,” he said, “you’ve no call to give way so, sir. If you’ve done wrong, the wrong’s done now, and frettin’ won’t help it. There’s them above as’ll forgive you, and make you do better next time, lad, if you only knew it. Here, you must eat some of this dinner, Master Evson, and leave off cryin’ so; cryin’s no comfort, sir.”
He stood by and waited on Walter with the greatest kindness and respect, till he had seen him swallow some food, not without difficulty, and then with encouraging and cheerful words left him, and once more locked the door.
The weary afternoon wore on, and Walter sat mournfully alone with nothing but miserable thoughts—miserable to whatever subject he turned them, and more miserable the longer he dwelt on them. As the shades of evening drew in he felt his head swimming, and the long solitude made him feel afraid as he wondered whether they would leave him there all night. And then he heard a light step approach the door, and a gentle tap. He made no answer, for he thought he knew the step, and he could not summon up voice to speak for a fit of sobbing which it brought on. Then he heard the boy stoop down, and push a note under the door.
He took it up when he heard the footsteps die away, and by the fast failing light was just able to make it out. It ran thus—
“Dear Walter,—You can’t think how sorry, how very, very sorry I am for you. I wish I could be with you and take part of your punishment. Forgive me for being cold and proud to you. I have been longing to speak to you all the time, but felt too shy. It was all my fault. I will never break with you again. Good-bye, dear Walter, from your ever and truly affectionate, Harry Kenrick.”
“He will never break with me again,” thought Walter. “If I’m to go to-morrow I’m afraid he’ll never have the chance.” And then his saddest thoughts reverted to the home which he had left so recently for the first time, and to which he was to return with nothing but dishonour and disgrace.
At six o’clock the kind-hearted Famulus brought him a lamp, some tea, and one or two books, which he had no heart to read. No one was allowed to visit the private room under heavy penalties, so that Walter had no other visitor until eight, when Somers, the monitor who had taken him to Dr Lane, looked in and icily observed, “You’re to sleep in the sickroom, Evson; come with me.”
“Am I expelled, Somers?” he faltered out.
“I don’t know,” said Somers in a freezing tone; “you deserve to be.”
True! oh lofty and pitiless Somers. But is that all which you could find to say to the poor boy in his distress? And if we all had our deserts...?