THE GUARDIAN’S LETTER.
When supper was over, the boys took a walk, bringing round by the large
square house occupied by Dr. Burton for his boarding-school. They had
got within a few rods when John observed one of the younger boys running
towards them.
“There’s little Evans,” he said. “He looks as if he had a message for
you, Gilbert.”
“From the doctor, I suppose. I’m in for a scolding, probably.”
By this time Evans had reached them.
“You’re wanted, Greyson,” he said. “Why weren’t you home to supper?”
“Is the doctor mad?”
“I don’t know. He seems anxious to see you.”
“All right. Then I’ll go in. I must bid you good-night, John. Business
before pleasure, you know, or rather business after pleasure.”
“I hope the business won’t be serious.”
“I hope not. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Gilbert.”
There was a small room about twelve feet square, which was known as Dr.
Burton’s study. There was a desk beside the window, and book-shelves
occupying the sides of the room. Hither it was that refractory or
disobedient pupils were summoned, to receive admonition from the
principal. In his early experience as teacher he had employed a sterner
sort of discipline, but later he had substituted words for blows—very
wisely, as I think.
Gilbert went at once to the doctor’s study.
Dr. Burton was a tall, spare man, with strongly marked features, and on
the whole rather a stern face. He looked toward the door as Gilbert
opened it.
“Good-evening, sir,” said Gilbert.
“You were absent from supper without notice or permission, Greyson,” the
doctor began.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where were you?”
“I walked home with John Munford, and was invited to take supper there.”
“I should have had no objection, if you had asked me. John Munford is
one of my most reliable pupils, both in study and deportment.”
Gilbert was pleased at this commendation of his friend.
“I hope you will excuse me for absence without permission,” he said,
apologizing with a good grace.
“You are excused, Greyson.”
Supposing that the interview was over, Gilbert bowed, and was about to
leave the room, but was stopped by the doctor.
“Stay,” he said; “I have something more to say to you.”
“What else have I done?” thought Gilbert, in surprise.
“Sit down,” said the teacher.
Gilbert seated himself.
“How long have you been here, Greyson?”
“Six years, sir.”
“In a year more you would be ready for college,” said the doctor,
musing.
“Why does he say ‘would’? Why not ‘will’?” thought Greyson.
“Am I to go to college?” asked Gilbert.
“I thought it probable; but I have just learned that your guardian has
other views for you.”
“Have you a letter from my guardian?” asked Gilbert, eagerly.
“Yes; it only reached me this afternoon. Would you like to read it?”
“Very much, sir.”
“Here it is,” said Dr. Burton, opening his desk, and drawing therefrom a
letter enclosed in a buff envelope.
Gilbert quickly reached out for it.
This was the material portion of the letter, which Gilbert read with
hurried interest:—
“Circumstances will not permit my ward remaining with you another
year. I may say plainly that, should he do so, I should be compelled
to defray the expense out of my own pocket, and consideration for my
own family will not justify me in doing that. I have never, as you
know, promised positively that he should go to college. It was barely
possible that funds would be forthcoming which would admit of such a
course; but it is now quite certain that there is no chance of it.
“He has already, as I should judge from your letters, considerably
more than an average education,—more, indeed, than I had when I began
my career,—and he ought to be satisfied with that. He has led an easy
life hitherto. Now it is time that he did something for himself. Upon
receipt of this letter, will you, as soon as may be, send him to me in
New York? I will then confer with him as to his future plans.”
This letter was signed Richard Briggs.
Gilbert read it with a mixture of feelings. He was making an unpleasant
discovery. Though he knew little about his own affairs, he had always
cherished the idea that he had considerable property, and that his path
in life would be smoothed as only money can smooth it. He was not
especially fond of money, nor did he ever presume on its supposed
possession, but it was certainly comfortable to think that he was not
poor.
Now it appeared that he had been all his life under a mistake. He was
not a favored child of fortune after all, but a poor boy,—as poor, very
likely, as his friend John Munford, from whom he had just parted. No
wonder he looked with some bewilderment in the doctor’s face when he had
completed reading the letter.
The doctor, though a stern man, felt for the boy’s disappointment. He,
too, had been under the impression that Gilbert was at least comfortably
provided for.
“Well, Greyson,” he said, “I suppose this letter surprises you.”
“Yes, sir, it does,” answered Gilbert, slowly. “I always supposed that I
had money to depend upon.”
“I don’t like to reflect upon your guardian, but it seems to me he ought
to have apprised you beforehand of what you had to expect.”
“I wish he had.”
“Do you feel very much disappointed?” asked the doctor, eying his pupil
with interest.
“Considerably, sir. It is hard to fancy myself a poor boy, with my own
way to make in the world.”
“It might have been worse. You have, as your guardian suggests, more
than an average education.”
“Thanks to you, sir.”
“And to your own application,” added the doctor, gratified by this
tribute.
“I am glad you think so, sir. I hope it will help me in life.”
“Undoubtedly it will. Besides, you will have the influence of your
guardian to assist you. He will probably procure you a good place in
some counting-room.”
“I wish he had told me something about myself; where the money came from
which had paid my bills hitherto.”
Gilbert looked inquiringly at the doctor, as if to ask whether he could
throw any light upon these points. But he was destined to be
disappointed, for the doctor said, “He has not seen fit to take me into
his confidence. I know no more than you do on this subject. Perhaps, in
your approaching interview with him, he may give you information on the
subject.”
“I will ask him, at all events,” said Gilbert. “When do you think it
best that I should leave, Dr. Burton?”
“He wishes you to be sent ‘as soon as may be,’” said the doctor,
consulting the letter. “I should think you had better go to-morrow, or
the next day.”
“I will go to-morrow,” said Gilbert, promptly.
“Can you get ready so soon?”
“I will pack to-night, sir.”
“That shall be as you wish. If you would prefer to wait till another
day, you can of course do so.”
“Thank you, sir; but I want to see my guardian as soon as possible. Will
you permit me, as the cars start early to-morrow, to go to-night, and
bid good-by to John Munford?”
Under ordinary circumstances Dr. Burton would have declined this
application, but he felt that it was only natural, and he gave the
required permission without hesitation.
John Munford was astonished when, on opening the front door, he saw the
school-fellow from whom he had so recently parted.
“What’s the matter, Gilbert?” he asked; “has anything happened?”
“Yes,” answered Gilbert. “Get your hat and take a walk with me. I’ll
tell you on the way.”