THE ACCIDENT.
February 5th.--It helps to pass some of the time I am obliged to
spend alone to write in my log, and so I will go on from where I left
off yesterday.
I found everybody was on the ice, the masters enjoying the fun as
much as the boys, and Chandos the merriest of the lot. He and two or
three of his friends were racing, curveting, cutting figures in the
ice, for I found that Frank had been glad to give up the skates and
take to sliding.
"It's rather crowded here," I said, as I ran the youngster down, and
then stopped and wheeled round to help him up.
"It's crowded everywhere, and the fellows with skates seem to think
they ought to have it all their own way," he grumbled.
"Come over here; there are some good slides at the farther end of the
pond;" and I helped the youngster over, purposely going close to Miss
Chandos.
But she didn't smell mischief, or was too much occupied with her own
fun to notice us, and we soon came up with Jackson and the rest.
"It's dreadfully cold here," said young Chandos, shivering.
"Yes, it is cold," said Tom; "the wind sweeps down upon us, freezing
our very marrow if we don't keep moving."
"The best place for sliding would be the alder pond. That is
sheltered a good deal from this cutting wind," said Jackson.
"But it isn't safe," said Frank Chandos.
"Safe! As if they'd let us come near this place at all if all the
ponds were not safe! I tell you it will bear as well as this," said
Jackson.
"Shall we go there?" proposed Tom.
"Mr. Swain said we were not to go near it," feebly ventured Frank.
"Oh, well, if you're afraid, stay where you are, but I'm going," said
Jackson. "Stewart, will you come? Tom will, I know."
"Yes, I'm off," said Tom, nodding to me; but I wanted Miss Chandos to
see where we were taking her duckling, to give her a fright.
The youngster saw me looking towards his brother, and said, in a
whisper, "If we mean to go, Eustace had better not see us. You're
sure it's safe?" he added.
"Safe as the schoolroom floor," I said; and then we went after the
others; but I kept looking back towards Miss Chandos as we went
towards the alder pond.
We got out of sight as soon as we could, and, screened by the
close-growing trees, the bitter east wind did not sting us quite so
much. Jackson and Tom were soon skimming across the pond.
"I wonder where the holes are they make such a fuss about?" said Tom.
"I don't believe there are any," said Jackson.
"Well, holes or no holes, I think we had better keep near the edge,"
I said; but young Chandos did not hear me, he says, and went at once
towards the trees for shelter from the wind. The ice was very thin
there, and the next minute there was a crack, a splash, and a scream,
and young Chandos had gone down.
"Run for help!" I called to Tom, and then I skimmed across what I
thought was the strongest part of the ice to help Frank. But before
I could reach him the ice gave way, and we were both struggling for
life.
I don't remember much of what happened beyond telling Frank to catch
hold of some of the branches of the trees that were close to the
water, and hearing the shouts of the boys when Tom gave the alarm. I
could hear them coming, but it would be too late to save me, for my
heavy clothes kept me down in the water, and I sank, never to rise
again, I thought. I seemed to see my mother at that moment more
plainly than I had ever seen her before, and to understand her grief
for my death in a way that I could not have thought possible. But
still, although I longed to escape for her sake, I seemed bound by
invisible fetters that were, in reality, my heavy wet clothes. They
have told me since that this probably saved me, although they thought
I was dead when they got me out of the water.
Once out, however, I soon began to revive, for I am strong and
healthy; but poor Frank Chandos lay hovering between life and death
for nearly a week afterwards. I shall never forget that terrible
time. I felt if he died I should be a murderer, for he would never
have gone to the alder pond if I had not taken him there. Poor Miss
Chandos, too, who had promised his mother to take good care of the
lad, he was almost stunned with grief; and it was not until after his
mother had come that he could be persuaded to leave his brother even
for five minutes. Tom and the other fellows who came to see me told
me all about it, for I was ill too, from cold and fright, but nothing
to cause any alarm, and little notice was taken of me or my ailments,
and I did not let any one know how miserably unhappy I was. I tried
to talk to Tom about it once, but he only laughed, and said, "Oh,
it's no good crying over spilt milk; let's forget all that miserable
affair now. Of course we were all in the wrong box, I suppose; but
then it was only done for a lark, and we've all been punished for it
pretty stiffly. Jackson and I had a hundred lines of Milton to learn
in after hours that took no end of time to get perfect, for the
governor was so crabby he wouldn't let us off a single word, and
actually heard us himself, so if you don't think that has squared
accounts for us, then I don't know what will."
"If learning two hundred lines would square things, I'd do it; but
think of poor Frank Chandos lying there dying, and all our fault."
"How can it be our fault? We didn't carry him to the pond. He came
to please himself, and if he wasn't ill he'd have an imposition as
well as us. I wonder whether the Doctor will give you one when you
get well, Charley?"
"I wish he would," I said, bitterly. "Oh, I dare say it's all very
well for you to talk when it isn't likely to happen, for I expect the
governor will think it punishment enough for you to be kept up here
and fed on slops for ever so long. I don't know myself that I would
not rather have the imposition."
How glad I was when poor Chandos came to see me at last. I almost
wished we really had been girls then, that I might have thrown my
arms round his neck and kissed him and asked him to forgive me, for I
could see he felt sorry for me, and the first words he spoke were
meant to comfort me, only somehow they seemed to make me miserable.
"You did not mean to do any harm, Stewart, I know," he said, his
voice shaking as he spoke.
"Will he die?" I asked. "It don't matter about me and what I meant
about it, but tell me about him; is there any hope, Chandos?"
"Not much, I am afraid. Only God can save him; the doctor can do no
more, he says. Stewart, you'll pray for him, won't you--pray that
God will give him back to my mother, for she is almost heartbroken
over it?"
"Me pray! What is the good? I don't know how; I never prayed in my
life. I've said my prayers; but it's different, that is, from what
you mean, and I haven't done that since I was a little chap."
"Then begin again now, Stewart. Pray for poor Frank. I know you
feel unhappy about him."
"Yes, I do. I'd do anything I could; but that's just it; I can't do
anything, and it seems mean to go sneaking to God now, when I didn't
care a pin about the whole business until I got into this trouble;
and I can't do it."
"Oh, but you mustn't think of it--think of God in that way. If you
had been very ill you would have liked your mother sent for, wouldn't
you? and she would have liked to come, I am sure."
"Yes, I expect there will be a row that she was not sent for as it
is. But what has that to do with it?"
"Everything. God feels as kindly towards us as our mother and
father, and He wants us to go to Him when we are in trouble, although
we may have kept away before. My mother says He often sends trouble
to be His messenger and make us come, so that He will not be offended
if you should begin to pray now."
"I can't, Chandos. It's just the meanest business I ever heard of to
go sneaking to God whenever I'm in trouble and can't help myself, and
forget Him directly afterwards."
"But why should you forget Him afterwards? Why not make Him your
Friend, as He desires to be?"
"What, be religious and grumpy, and lose all the fun of life?" I
said, staring at Chandos in amazement.
"You need not be grumpy, Stewart, and you can have just as much fun,
only I think you will be more careful not to let the fun do harm to
other people."
"Well, I will be more careful in future, I promise you that, Chandos;
but about being religious, why, I never heard of a schoolboy being
religious unless he was a dreadful muff and a sneaking prig, and I
hate sneaks of all sorts."
"So do I," said Chandos; "and if I thought praying to God and trying
to live in fear and love of Him would make you one, I wouldn't ask
you to do it. But it won't. Look here, you've heard of General
Havelock, haven't you? and Hedley Vicars, that fought in the Crimean
war? Did you ever hear that they were sneaks, or anything but brave,
noble men--brave enough to serve God openly and fearlessly? I tell
you, Stewart, it takes a brave man, not a coward, to declare himself
determined to serve God. But I have said enough about this, perhaps,
and you look tired."
"My head aches," I said; "but I should soon be all right if I could
only know there was a chance for poor Frank to get better too."
"I wish I had better news for you, Stewart. My mother and I can only
pray for him."
Chandos was going away as he said this, but I caught his hand and
held him back. "I will pray too," I whispered; "but if God hears me
now, how shall I ever keep square afterwards? and I must, you know,
to keep from being a sneak."
"Look here, Stewart; you are mistaken altogether in thinking God's
service such a dreadful bondage. He knows you are a boy, and does
not expect you to be prim and precise and always praying and singing
psalms. I am not sure that it would not displease Him if you tried
to do that, for He knows it would be a poor preparation for our work
in the world by-and-by."
"But what would He want me to do, then?" I said.
"First of all to think of Him as your friend. The Lord Jesus was a
boy Himself once, you know, and so He knows all about a boy's
feelings and temptations. Almost my father's last words to me were,
'Be honest and upright and pure;' and I know God will help me to keep
my father's command if I seek His help, as He will you if you will
take Him to be your Friend."
"And isn't that what I want?" I said; "to be honest and upright and
pure?"
"I believe you do, Stewart, and it's what God wants you to be, and
what He will help you to be if you will let Him."
"But what else must I do? Religious folks always are different from
others, you know."
"Well, they ought to be. A religious sailor ought to be the bravest
and most fearless man on board the ship, and do his work better and
more cheerfully than anybody else."
"Well, my uncle did tell me of a fellow like that once, and I thought
I should like all my sailors to be like him. He was a jolly,
good-natured chap, ready to spin a yarn to his mates, and they were
willing to listen to the moral he always contrived to bring in. He
was as brave as a lion, too, and yet as kind as a woman if any of the
others were sick. But there ain't many like him, you know, Chandos."
"You might make another, Stewart; and a captain--you mean to be a
captain, you know--and a captain of that pattern might do as much, or
even more, good than a common sailor."
"Yes, but it's the beginning. I don't see that boys have anything to
do with religion. What can they do?"
"Learn better--learn their lessons more thoroughly, so as to be
better fitted to do their work in the world by-and-by. I suppose
you'll admit that we shall be men by-and-by if we are spared?"
"Well, yes, of course; but then it's just that. Religion seems to be
for those who don't live, to prepare them for death and all that, you
know. If I was very ill and dying I should want to be religious, of
course, but now--"
"That's quite a mistake, Stewart, to suppose that because you are
likely to live many years this matter of serving God ought to be put
off. I might ask you how you can be sure that you will live even six
months longer, or that you may not be carried off by some sudden
accident. But I don't like to think of religion as just something to
sneak out of the world comfortably with. Religion is to fit us to
live--to live well, to fill life full of joy and happiness. You
stare, Stewart, but I can tell you the happiest people in the world
to-day are those who serve God best."
"Then what makes them pull such long faces, and look so wretched, and
talk about being miserable sinners?" I asked.
"Well, we are sinners, you know, Stewart, and one of the first things
we have to learn in coming to God is just this very thing. It is
because we have sinned that Christ died to put away our sins; but
some people don't seem to believe in this thoroughly. They know they
are sinners, and it makes them unhappy and they fancy they ought to
go mourning over them all the days of their life."
"That's just my Aunt Phoebe, and mamma says she is very religious,
and one of the best women that ever lived, which makes me say I hate
good women, and all religious people into the bargain. But, Chandos,
there are not many of your sort of religious people in the world."
"More than you think for. There are some of the fellows here in this
school; I won't mention any names, but two of the best and jolliest
in the cricket-field will be just such men, I believe."
"Boys here in this school are religious!" I said. "Of course, I know
you are, but--"
"You thought I was the only one, Stewart? Well, now, I'm glad to say
when I came here I found one or two trying to solve the problem you
think so improbable--how a schoolboy can serve God; and though it may
be difficult sometimes--I grant you that, for temptation to do wrong
even in fun must be resisted; and then lessons must be learned
fairly, not shirked, and no cribs must be used, or else where is our
honesty? But still, if a boy once starts to keep on the square all
round, things are not so hard as you might think. But I must not
stop any longer now, Stewart; I will come in and have another chat
by-and-by. But--but you will not forget to pray for poor Frank?"
Forget! Sometimes I wish I could forget that dreadful day and
everything that happened then. It isn't often, I suppose, that such
dreadful things happen through a little fun, or else it would help
Chandos's argument about the happiness of not doing wrong even in
fun, for this has made me miserable enough. I wish I could be the
sort of fellow Chandos talked about. It's different altogether from
what I thought, and to be fair and square and honest right through in
lessons and everything else has nothing of the sneak about it. But I
have promised I'd pray for Frank, and I mean to do it. How am I to
begin? Will God hear me? I'm not good like Chandos. He saw me
shooting the pellets at him from under the bedclothes only a little
while ago, I suppose, and won't He think I'm mocking Chandos now if I
kneel down as he did? What was it that he said, though, about the
Lord Jesus being a boy once? Well, if He was He'll know all about
me, and after all it's poor Frank I want Him to help. I wouldn't
venture to ask Him to help me yet; I want nothing now so much as for
Frank to get well.
After thinking like this for some time I locked the door, for fear
anybody should come in and see me, and then I kneeled down; but I
don't know what I said, only that it was about Frank and his getting
well, and that I'd try and do the square thing, and be honest and
upright and pure right through, if God would only make him well again.