A SURPRISE.
April 30th.--There's been a most awful row, and the fellows say I
turned rat--at least, Jackson and Collins have sent me to Coventry
over it; but I should do it again if there was the same occasion, for
how could I let a poor servant lose her place and her character
through one of my larks? The governor must be a drivelling donkey
not to suspect us instead of the servants.
I always fancied that Swain did smell a rat until Young came tearing
up to me with the tale that the police were to be sent for to search
the kitchen-maid's boxes.
"Why, what's the row now?" I asked.
"They can't find out anything clear about those pies; but it's pretty
certain the kitchen-maid has been giving away bread and meat, which,
it seems, is against the rules, and they think she has handed the
pies away too--sold them, perhaps."
"Sold your grandmother! Young, you're not such a muff as to think
the servants did that, are you?"
"I don't know what to think. It couldn't be burglars, you know."
"Of course not, it was us. I did most of the business, and I'm off
to the governor now to tell him all about it;" and, leaving Young
staring with all his eyes, I rushed indoors past Swain, who stood
near the schoolroom door, and bolted on to the master's study. I
could hardly wait for him to say "Come in;" but when I opened the
door all my courage seemed to have gone, and I felt ready to run away
again.
"Did you wish to speak to me, Stewart?"
"Yes, sir; please, sir, it's about the pies," I said, hardly knowing
how to begin.
"You mean the robbery that has been committed lately?"
"Please, sir, I never thought about it's being a robbery when I took
them."
"You took them! You robbed my pantry, Stewart?"
"It wasn't a robbery, sir--it was only a lark. I did not want the
pies to eat; it was just for the fun."
"And what did you do with them?" asked the governor, sternly.
"Well, sir, Mr. Swain helped us get them away, although he didn't
know it;" and then bit by bit it all came out. I tried to screen
Collins and the rest, but somehow there was no getting over the
governor's close questions, and he sent for them, and gave us all a
lecture and then a long imposition. I hate impositions and all sorts
of grind, but I didn't mind that so much, for after all the governor
didn't give it us so stiff as he might--as I thought he would; and
that poor girl is not to lose her place after all.
I thought when the impositions were got over there would be an end of
the affair; but it seems I shall for ever be nagged about it--called
a rat, a sneak, a coward. Tom says I need not have been in such a
hurry to run off to the governor--that if the police had come they
would not have found the empty dishes in her box, and so she would
not have lost her place, and we could still have kept our secret.
Chandos, too, talks something like the governor. According to them
it was an actual robbery, although I did it in fun. The result was
the same, they say, and it might have led to disastrous consequences
if I had not told the whole truth about it; and then he went on to
say it was not keeping the promise I had made when Frank was so ill.
"Well, how in the world is a fellow to keep straight for ever?" I
said.
"What pleasure did you get out of this?"
"None at all, as it happened, and it's the last pantry I'll rob; but
still--" and there I stopped.
"I suppose you mean to say you will get into some other mischief at
the first opportunity?"
"Well, how am I to keep out of it?" I asked.
"What pleasure did you ever get by it? Now, I know you did not enjoy
the holiday at Dinglewell as I did, and yet--"
"No, that I didn't," I said; "it was the most miserable day I ever
spent, and I'll never rob a pantry any more, even for fun. I tell
you, Chandos, I'd like to keep straight if I could, but how can I?
I've tried, and tried hard, ever since that affair of poor Frank's.
I've never touched a crib since, I give you my word, and you don't
know how hard it is to leave off when once you've begun on that tack."
"I know it must be hard work, and I think you have done very well in
resisting as you have the temptation to use cribs; but you might have
done better, Stewart, if you were not so proud."
"Proud!" I said. "Nobody ever called me that before. Sailors are
never proud, you know."
"Well, you are, or you would accept the help a Friend is waiting to
give you if you were not."
"Now, Chandos, that isn't fair," I said. "I have always been willing
to accept help and take advice from you."
"I wasn't speaking of myself, but of One who cares for you far more
than I do, although I feel sorry enough when you go wrong, and get
into scrapes, and make people miserable, as you often do through your
thoughtlessness."
"I suppose you mean my mother? But I tell you, Chandos, she expects
it--she knows boys can't keep out of mischief."
"But I know they can; and it wasn't your mother I was thinking of
just now, but God."
"But--but you don't think He cares much about it, do you, Chandos?
He can't, you know."
"You believe that I care, don't you--at least a little?"
"Well, yes, I do, for you have always been my friend, and helped me
out of a scrape, and given me good advice; but--but it's different
about God," I said.
"Why is it different? He is your Friend, who cares far more for your
welfare than I do, and He is more anxious to see you do well--live a
pure, honest, upright life--than I can be; and yet you will not
accept the help He alone can give, and by which alone you can conquer
this inclination to get into mischief and often do such great wrong."
"God is my Friend?" I repeated. "Look here, Chandos, if I could
believe that--well, I don't know what I should do, but somehow I
should want to be different. I almost wish it could be true."
"It is true, Stewart, as true as truth, as true as you and I are
standing here. I wish you would believe that God feels a personal
interest in you, as much as though you were the only schoolboy in the
world."
"I wish I could. But somehow, Chandos, it seems so strange--too
wonderful, you know, to be true, that God--the great God who made
heaven and earth--can care for a harum-scarum lot like us."
"Yes, it is wonderful; but you know the Lord Jesus Christ cared so
much for this harum-scarum world and all the people in it that He was
content to die--to lay down His life to bring them to God."
"Yes, I've heard something about it in church; and since I've been
trying to do the square thing and write bits of the sermon, I've
heard about it there too; but then it never seemed to me that it
could be for boys. God the friend of boys like me? Why, look here,
Chandos; if the governor was to proclaim himself my friend it would
be an honour, you know; but look at the difference! I take it that
you mean I could go and tell God about every little scrape and
trouble I got into, and He would help me out of it?"
"Or help you to bear it, as the case might be. That is exactly what
I do mean, Stewart."
"You do; and you believe it?"
"Believe it; of course I believe it. I don't know how I should get
on if I did not," said Chandos; and I am sure he spoke truly.
"Well, perhaps I may come to believe it too some day, but I can't
now--not just in the way you do. Of course I know we ought to pray
and do the square thing; but as long as we do that and go to church
it always seemed to me that God wouldn't trouble Himself about us any
further. I have been doing the square thing too lately; at least,
I've tried at it, and isn't that enough?"
"But, Stewart, according to your belief, we should all be the slaves
of God--doing just what we were obliged, for fear of punishment, and
no more. God does not ask, will not accept such service as that.
Don't you remember the text of last Sunday, 'My son, give Me thine
heart,' and what the minister said of God desiring our will, our
affection to be given to Him? The service would follow then quite
naturally, he said; and when I heard it I was thinking of
you--thinking you had begun at the wrong end, trying to force
yourself into giving God service without any heart or love or
pleasure in it."
"Yes, you're about right, Chandos," I said; "but I don't see how it
could be different. God made Frank well, and I promised that if He
would do that and save me from being miserable all my life I'd do the
square thing; and I'm not mean enough to back out of the bargain if I
can help it."
"But, Stewart, you do not surely think that God answered our prayers
for Frank just because He wanted to tie you to this miserable
bondage--for it is bondage, slavery--this service which you know
ought to be and is 'perfect freedom' to those who begin at the right
end, and not the wrong--by giving their hearts--their will and love
to God."
"Well, I don't know. Of course God wants me to be good, I suppose."
"But He would never take such an advantage of us as you
suppose--making a bargain with us, as it were. No, no, Stewart, you
have made a great mistake about this. God heard and answered our
prayers because He pitied our distress and loved you too well to let
the miserable consequences of your thoughtless mischief follow you
through all your life; and you ought to return love for love, and not
treat God as though you thought Him a hard taskmaster."
"Well, I don't know; you may be right, Chandos, but I don't see how I
am to begin. What a pity it is you are not going to be a parson!"
I couldn't help saying that, and I meant it too.
May 5th.--Something has happened that I never thought did happen
anywhere except in books. Chandos, that so many of the boys have
looked down upon as being poor and beneath them, because he never
seemed to have any pocket money to spend, like the rest of us, has
suddenly become a baronet--Sir Eustace Chandos, of Chandos Court, and
I don't know how many other places besides. It came upon us like a
thunderbolt, for Chandos never told us his uncle was a baronet, or
that he had any relatives but the merchant uncle. He did tell me a
few weeks ago that he had just heard of the sudden death of his two
cousins, but he did not say any more, except that he had not seen
them above twice in his life. I suppose he may have thought it would
make no great difference to him, as his uncle was not a very old man;
but now his uncle has just died too, and our Miss Chandos becomes Sir
Eustace. Well, I only wish his uncle had put off dying a little bit
longer--just till I felt more settled about things; but now I feel
sure I shall run away to sea if the mother don't come round and give
her consent.
May 12th.--Bravo! Sir Eustace is not going to leave us just yet. It
seems his brother Frank is just coming back, and he prefers to stay
another year, and then he will go to college, I suppose. It don't
seem to have made a bit of difference in him either. I thought
perhaps he might like to drop our friendship now he was so rich and I
still poor Charley Stewart, but he seemed hurt at the bare
suggestion, and so I am to call him Chandos as usual, and we shall
share the room just the same as though nothing had happened. I have
thought a good deal about this the last two days. I know a good many
fellows would have packed up their traps and gone off at once, or
else held their heads so high that a poor chap like me would never be
able to speak to them; and I've been wondering whether it's Chandos
having learned so many things about God that makes him different in
this. I've thought, too, that perhaps after all, as Chandos is just
as willing to be my friend now he is Sir Eustace, that God may be my
friend, as he said, though I can hardly get used to the thought yet.
May 20th.--There has been a tremendous row over the prize essay by
which Tom won the watch last Christmas. After all this time, when
everybody thought it was forgotten--though a good many of us did
wonder then how Tom managed it--now it is found out that it was all
made up of cribs, some taken from books, and some from notes that one
of the older fellows lost. Somebody must have turned rat, Tom says.
He is in an awful rage at having to give up the watch, but the
governor insisted; and now Tom is as dull and looks as miserable as
he can be, for the school has sent him to Coventry over it, which is
very mean, I think, seeing they upheld him last winter, when a good
many at least knew he had no right to try for this prize. He must
wish he had let Chandos take his chance now, I should think. I
cannot help pitying him, and Chandos and I have agreed not to join
the school this time, though the other fellows threaten us with
Coventry for speaking to Tom as we do.
The sea fever, as Chandos calls it, has suddenly seized Tom again,
and he is always talking about it, as though we were both sure of
going. I wish we were; but Tom's father says he has no real liking
for it, and therefore won't let him go, and my mother is afraid. Oh
dear! if mother would only give her consent! but she never will, I am
afraid, and there will be nothing for it but to run away. Tom says
we had better make up our minds to go from here before next
Christmas. If it wasn't for the talks I've had with Chandos I'd do
it; but I think I must give the mother one more chance, and see if I
can't persuade her in the holidays to let me go. I wish I could
think of something to please her very much; I'd do anything to get
her consent to my going to sea.
June 4th.--I've been talking to Chandos. He says I have got the sea
fever very bad this time, and he is afraid some of the other boys
will catch the infection. I know what he means. He is afraid his
brother may learn to like the sea from hearing so much about it from
Tom, for the two are always together now. But I don't think he need
to be afraid, Frank would never do for the sea, I am sure. He has
persuaded me not to tease my mother too much about these plans of
mine these holidays, but to go in for lots of grind next half, and
get a prize at Christmas, and then, perhaps, when she sees I have
really been industrious with my lessons, and yet love the sea as
dearly as ever, she will be more likely to yield.
The plan may be a good one--I think it is, but it's precious hard.
Grind is not quite such a trouble as it was at first, but still it's
bad enough; and what with no cribs, and the extra I shall have to do
if I am to have a chance of taking a prize, it is just enough to turn
my brain. I scratch my head and pull a long face every time I think
of it, but still I think I will try it, hard as it is.
June 12th.--Mrs. Chandos has sent a very pressing invitation for
mamma and me to pay them a visit at Chandos Court, and of course Sir
Eustace is quite eager that I should accept it. Not that he wants to
show off his grandeur, I could never believe that of Chandos.