But still, in the midst of all this, and though my mind was pained with shame and mortification, for the folly which had brought these evils upon me, I had a sense of peace and happiness shining through it all. This was wholly derived from the kindness of my friends. When Raymond sat by my bed, his benignant eye resting upon me, I felt an indescribable degree of delightful emotion, composed, I believe, partly of gratitude, and partly of a confidence that all that could be done, would be done, in my behalf. Often, as I awoke from my sleep, and saw him patiently watching by me, the tears would gush to my eyes; but they were not tears of unhappiness. I think he perceived my emotion, and I believe he understood my feelings. One thing is certain—that sick-bed was the best schoolmaster of my life; it brought me Raymond’s wise counsel; it brought me wholesome shame for my folly; it taught me my dependence on others. It also taught me one other lesson—and that is, never to distrust the kindness and virtue of my fellow-men. It seemed to open a window into the human heart, letting light and sunshine in, where people are too apt to see nothing but selfishness and darkness.
This latter lesson was enforced by many circumstances. Not only was my bosom touched by the kindness of Raymond, but also by that of my uncle. Twice each day did he come to see me, and he always treated me with more tenderness than seemed to belong to his nature. He was a hale man himself, and it was his boast that he had never had a sick day in his life. Indeed, he had little sympathy for sickness, and usually expressed himself in terms of contempt toward everybody that chanced to be less robust than himself. When I was at the height of my fever, he insisted that all I wanted, in order to make me well again, was some roast beef and raw brandy! Still, he did not interfere with the course prescribed by the physician, and took pains to see that every thing was done for me that was deemed useful or necessary.
My companions of the village often sent to inquire after me, and Bill Keeler frequently stole in just to look at me, and say, “God bless you, Bob!” All these things went to my heart; but nothing affected me more than an event which I must notice with some detail.
The schoolmaster of the village was one of those men who seek to accomplish every object by some indirect means. He was what is called a cunning man, and was, withal, exceedingly fond of power, in the exercise of which he was capricious, tyrannical and unjust. At first he treated me with the greatest attention, and in fact picked me out as one of his favorites, upon whom he lavished his smiles and his praises. He had great faith in flattery, and believed that any person, young or old, might be caught by it; and while it seemed to be his object to propitiate me, he laid it on pretty thick. I was well enough pleased with this for a time, though I had a sort of distrust of the man who could condescend to such means, and enter into such schemes of policy; and even though I yielded to his views, in many things, I had still no respect for, or confidence in, him.
There was in the school a boy by the name of William Bury, son of a poor Irishman, that lived in the village. He was remarkably small of his age, but exceedingly active, and withal lively and intelligent. At the same time he was shrewd and witty, and, perceiving the weak points of the schoolmaster’s character, occasionally made them the target of his wit. As the master rendered each boy in the school a spy upon his fellows, he knew everything that was said and done; and poor Bill Bury was often punished for the freedom with which he indulged his tongue.
In process of time, Will and myself became the antipodes of the school: I was the favorite, and he the reprobate. Whatever he did was wrong: whatever I did was right. Under such circumstances, it was natural that we should be rivals, and it was, no doubt, a part of the plan of the politic schoolmaster, to keep us thus divided, that he might rule the more effectually.
During this state of things, several of the school boys were one day skating upon a river that ran along the western border of the town—Will and myself being of the number. It had been filled with heavy rains, and was now of considerable width and depth. In the deepest part there was a breathing-hole in the ice, which, of course, we all sought to avoid. As I was swiftly skating toward this place, with the intention of turning aside as I approached it, one of my skates struck a small stick, which brought me down, and—carried forward by the impetus of my course—I was instantly plunged into the opening of the ice. I sunk beneath the surface of the water for a moment, but then rose, and caught hold of the ice, which, however, broke in my hands as I grasped it.
It was but a few seconds before I was completely chilled; but, by this time, the boys around had raised a shout of terror, and several of them had gathered at a little distance, and were soon either silent with dismay, or raising idle screams for help. Among the number I noticed Bill Bury, and though I had been accustomed to speak lightly of him, I confess that at that fearful moment my only hope rested in him. Looking at me intently for a moment, and then casting a searching glance around, he sped away like an arrow. in the space of a minute, he returned, bringing a rail which he had plucked from a neighboring fence. Calling aloud for all around to give place, he laid the rail down upon the ice, and dexterously slid it across the opening, pushing it so close as to bring it within my reach. I was, however, so benumbed, that, in attempting to take hold of it, I lost my grasp of the ice, and sunk senseless beneath the wave.
Will hesitated not an instant, but plunged into the water, and, as I rose, he caught me in his arms. Grasping me tight by the right arm, while he held on to the rail by the left, he supported himself and me; at the same time he commanded the boys to get two more rails. These were brought and laid across the opening, and thus support was furnished for two of them to come and lift us out.
In this way my life was saved: I owed it to the courage, skill, and devotedness of Will Bury—my rival, and, as I had esteemed him, my enemy. I was not so base as to overlook his generous conduct, or to permit the relation in which we stood to abate my praises of his noble action. But the schoolmaster, being one of those people who have always a selfish object in everything they say and do, fearing that his entire system of tactics would be broken up if Will and I should become friends, took a different course. He indeed praised Will for an act that no one, it would seem, could fail to admire; but, at the same time, he sought every occasion, from that day, to ruin him in my estimation. At the same time he tried, in many cunning and sly ways, to poison Will’s mind with jealousy of me.