Left at Home / or, The Heart's Resting Place

by Mary L. Code

The remainder of that day Arthur could scarcely think of anything else than the prospect that was before him on the morrow—his first entering on school-life. Many were the wonderings and conjectures that went on in his mind, as to what kind of a person the master would be—whether he would like the boys, if he would be strict and cross, and if the lessons would be very difficult. But he was quite decided on one point, that he would much rather be going to school every day, and have something to do, than loiter away his time in the house and garden at home.

So the next morning, after Arthur had finished his breakfast, it required little persuasion from his aunt to make him start for Mr. Carey’s school. The house was about an hour’s walk from Myrtle Hill, and it must be confessed that on his way Arthur’s heart began to fail him a little, when he thought of encountering so many strange faces. Just as he approached the house the clock struck nine; and as Arthur entered the large iron gate, he caught sight of some thirty or forty boys rushing across the play-ground, some tumbling over the others, to be in their seats by the time the last stroke of the clock sounded. Arthur thought the best thing he could do would be to follow them; so keeping in sight two or three boys who had loitered after the others, he walked behind them, up a long passage; till he reached a door leading into the school-room. He pushed it open so quietly that he was not heard, and had time to take a good view of the room and its occupants. It was large and spacious. All down one side there was a long desk fixed against the wall, where numbers of boys were sitting, engaged in writing or doing their sums. Then there were several tables, round which the different classes were seated on forms. The walls were hung with maps, and there were two large globes in a corner of the room. All this Arthur took in, in a very short time; and his eyes quickly travelled to the top of the room, where Mr. Carey was standing at his desk. He was rather thin and tall, with a very grave face, which made Arthur feel rather awed; but it was not a cross face.

Presently he looked up, and saw Arthur standing at the door. He had already been prepared for his appearance by a note from Mrs. Estcourt; so he knew at once who he was.

“So you have come, Vivyan,” he said. “Step up here, my boy.”

Arthur advanced to the desk with rather a trembling step, and then had to submit to a number of questions from Mr. Carey to test his knowledge; after which he was put into one of the lower divisions of the school. It was all new to him to-day; so the hours passed quickly away, and Arthur was quite ready again for afternoon school when the time came.

So the days went on—one very like the other—and things were seeming less strange as Arthur was getting to know the boys better, and to feel more at home with them.

There was one boy in Mr. Carey’s school who seemed different from all the rest. His name was Edgar North, and he was about Arthur’s own age. Some of the boys said he was delicate, and others told Arthur that he was a muff. Whatever it was, he seemed to stay outside the rest. He was very often in disgrace; not for lessons badly done, although it might have been so, but Mr. Carey was very indulgent to him, on account of his weakness, but for rules broken through, for quarrels with the other boys, or disrespect to the teachers. He did not seem happy; there was generally a cloud on his brow, and a weariness and discontent in his manner. Arthur sometimes wondered why. Might it be on account of his delicacy and his cough, that very often he was obliged to stay at home, when the others joined in some country expedition, and that sometimes, when the game was at its height of interest, his quick, short breathing obliged him to leave off and sit down away from the rest? It would be very trying, certainly; Arthur was quite sure of that. He thought a good deal about Edgar North, and he could see that the other boys did not like him; to tell the truth, Arthur did not himself, but he was very sorry for him when he saw him sometimes all alone, when the others were at play. One fine, sunny half-holiday, when school had been closed for the day, and both boarders and day-scholars were deep in the interest of cricket, Arthur had lingered behind the others to put his books together in readiness for going home, and a message from Mr. Carey to his aunt had detained him still longer, so that by the time he reached the cricket-ground the game had begun. One of the older boys called to him to make haste; but Arthur seemed in no haste, and, unlike his usual way at this time, he seemed to be in deep meditation.

“Come, make haste,” said his companion. “Why don’t you come on?”

But still Arthur stood; for something had made him pause. It was Edgar North’s listless figure, half sitting and half lying under a large tree in a field a little distance off, with a very discontented, unhappy face.

“I think I won’t play to-day, I’ve got something else to do; I’m going for a walk.”