A BREAK-UP.
[Illustration: "IN A MOMENT, MR. FEATHERSTONE WAS STANDING ON THE ROCK."]
Pacing up and down the river bank in a terrible excitement, or sitting in
some solitary place with his eyes staring vacantly, or with head buried in
his trembling hands, through which the tears would trickle, a man might
have been seen haunting the neighborhood of Blackrock. It was Mr. Morton,
so altered that those who knew him best almost failed to recognize in him
the same man.
Let us not inquire too narrowly into the causes of this remarkable change.
It was not until all hope with regard to the recovery of Digby's body was
abandoned, that it was so strikingly apparent. At first there was the
rebellious cry from his heart, "It cannot be true; it shall not be true,"
and then a gentler and more subdued frame of mind ensued, as he prayed,
"Oh that it may not be true," until at length it was useless to hope
against hope, and the strong man bowed down his broken heart, as he said,
"O God! it is true."
And what of Ethel?
It was her first loss, poor child, and her first contact with a great
appalling sorrow. She was perplexed and stunned with the dreadful blow.
She seemed utterly alone now; whether or not she really could have relied
on Digby in the past for advice and guidance, does not matter--she felt
she could, and now this source of reliance had gone. Her father was
changed, so changed that he seemed almost a stranger, and now in this
crisis of her need she felt that he could yield neither help nor sympathy
to her, while she was impotent to minister to him.
It was well for Ethel that at the time of her sad visit to Blackrock,
Madeleine Greenwood was there, for in her she found a companion of her own
age, and a comforter as well as friend.
As the time drew near for Mr. Morton to return to Ashley House, the
attachment which had sprung up between the two girls became closer and
more intimate, and when Ethel returned to Ashley House, it was a very
great satisfaction to her to have Madeleine with her for a lengthened
visit, a concession which Mr. Morton could not deny to her earnest
entreaties.
The clothes of poor Digby, his books and school treasures, were packed up
and sent away. The Doctor held a funeral service with the boys on the
Sunday after the catastrophe, and addressed them briefly, but with great
earnestness and emotion, on the loss they had sustained, and the awful
suddenness of death, urging upon all the necessity of preparation, as none
knew the day nor hour when the change would come.
A week later a marble column was raised upon the spot where the clothes
were found, bearing this simple inscription: "In loving memory of D. M.,
who was drowned while bathing, June 18, 18--, aged 17 years."
On the evening of the day when the stone was raised, Martin and Howard sat
together beside it.
Howard was very pale, and looked as if he had gone through a severe
illness. He sat for some time gazing at the monument, until a tear dimmed
his eye.
"My good fellow," said Martin, "why do you give way to so much useless
regret? You are so morbidly sensitive that you seem to blame yourself as
though you had been guilty of poor Digby's death."
Howard made no reply to his friend's remark, and for some moments remained
quite silent. Then he said; "Martin, I shall never forgive myself about
poor Digby. I fear I have wronged him."
"You wronged him? What do you mean?"
"I mean that in that miserable affair about the miniature, I reflected the
blame in some degree upon him; I could not at the time help thinking that
he knew something about it, and I fear I caused a wrong suspicion to rest
on him. It is useless to give way to regret, but I do so wish I could
speak to him just once again, to say that I now feel that I wronged him by
my suspicions."
"Are you quite satisfied in your own mind, that you did wrong him?" asked
Martin.
"Yes; something has happened which I have not mentioned to a soul, and
shall not, except to you. Since poor Digby's death, I have lost my
overcoat. I wore it on that cold Sunday night, and afterward hung it up in
my room. I should not have missed it, but that I had left in the pocket my
Bible--you remember the one, it was given to me by my father when I first
left home for school. I have searched everywhere for the coat, and cannot
find it. It is a great loss to me, for I would have parted with anything
else in the world rather than lose that Bible."
"Have you not mentioned it to my uncle?" asked Martin, his face taking on
a sharper look.
"No; he is worried and sad as it is, and I hate the idea of reflecting
upon fellows in the school. It will turn up in time, perhaps, but I can't
help thinking that there must be some thief in the school, and that the
coat has gone where the miniature went."
"I really think it would be well to tell the Doctor," said Martin.
"Well, I may do so yet; but we break up next week, and if the truth should
not be discovered, every boy will leave with a suspicion resting upon
him,--for this is not confined to the twenty,--and it will do the school a
great injury. But I tell it to you, Martin, because as I shall not return
after this term, you know, you can keep your eyes open in case anything
should turn up about it."
"What a wretched break-up we are having, altogether!" said Martin, after a
little pause, in which he was thinking whether to take Howard's view of
the case, or to still persuade him to make the matter known. "A break-up
of Mr. Morton's home; a break-up of the Doctor's health, I fear, for all
this anxiety has distressed him sadly; and a break-up of our little
fraternity here, for now that you are going, and Digby gone, and Aleck
Fraser is on the move, our 'set' will never be made up again. I hope,
though, that our friendship will not be broken up."
"It never shall, if I can help it," said Howard; "and now while we are
talking about it, will you promise to write to me, and tell me all about
the school, as long as you stay in it, and about the Doctor, and Mrs.
Brier, and especially all about yourself?"
The promise was duly made, and unlike many promises of a similar nature,
was faithfully fulfilled.
The day before the breaking up, Dr. Brier asked Howard to speak with him
in the library.
"My dear Howard," said the Doctor, putting his hand on his shoulder, "I
cannot let you leave the school without telling you how deeply I regret
parting with you. Your conduct has always been exemplary, and your
influence beneficial in the school. I am sorry that the clouds have
gathered round us so darkly lately, but some day we shall see through
them, if we cannot at present. I want you to know that throughout, I
consider you to have held a manly and a Christian course, and you have my
unqualified approval of your conduct, as you have my sincere belief in the
uprightness and integrity of your character. God bless you, my dear lad,
wherever you go, and make those principles which have distinguished you in
your school-life, useful to the world, in whatever part of it your lot may
be cast! And now I wish to give you this little present, as a token of
friendship, and let it serve as a reminder to you, that as long as I
live, I shall be glad and thankful to serve you."
It was a handsome set of books the Doctor gave him, and more than all his
other treasures of prizes and friendly presents, was this one preserved,
for it assured him that the Doctor, who never said what he did not
believe, regarded him with the same trust as ever.