The next Saturday afternoon proving unusually fine, the community at
Ashfield House sallied forth to enjoy their half-holiday on the downs.
A few of the seniors had received permission to pay a visit to Bristol,
and not a small party was arranged for a good game of cricket. Among
the latter was Reginald Mortimer, whose strong arm and swift foot were
deemed almost indispensable on such occasions. As he rushed out of the
playground gates, bat in hand, accompanied by Meredith, he overtook his
brother, who had discovered a poem unknown to him in _Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner_, and was anticipating a pleasant mental feast in its perusal.
"Louis, you lazy fellow," cried Reginald, good-temperedly, "you shan't
read this fine afternoon--come, join us."
"I don't play cricket, I have not learned," replied Louis.
"And you never will," rejoined Reginald, "if you don't make a beginning:
I'll teach you--now put away that stupid book."
"_Stupid!_" said Louis. "It's Coleridge, that mamma promised to read
to us."
"I hate poetry," exclaimed Reginald; "I wonder how anybody can read such
stuff. Give me the book, Louis, and come along."
"No, thank you, I'd rather not."
"What a donkey you are!" said Meredith: "why don't you learn?"
"Perhaps my reputation may be the safer for not divulging my reasons,"
said Louis, archly: "it is sufficient for present purposes that I had
rather not."
"_Rather not_--_rather not_," echoed Meredith: "like one of your
sensible reasons."
"He has refused to give them, so you cannot call that his reason,
Meredith," remarked Reginald; "but let us be off, as Louis won't come."
Away they ran, and after looking at them for a minute, Louis turned
off his own way, but it was destined that he should not read the
_Ancient Mariner_ that day, for he was presently interrupted by
little Alfred Hamilton, who pounced upon him full of joy.
"Louis," he cried, "I am so glad to speak to you! I don't know how
it is that I have not been able to speak to you lately: I half thought
Edward did not like it, but he asked me to-day why I did not come to
you now."
"Did he?" exclaimed Louis, with joyful surprise; "I am very glad you
are come. I think we shall have a beautiful walk."
"I can't think how it is, Louis, that everybody is either so grave or
rude when I speak of you. What is the matter?"
"A mistake; and a sad one for me," said Louis, gravely. "But don't say
any thing about it, Alfred; they think I have been doing something very
wrong; but all will come out some day."
"I hope so," replied little Alfred; "I cannot think what you can have
done wrong, Louis, you always seem so good."
The child looked wistfully up in Louis' face as he spoke, and seemed
to wait some explanation.
"That is because you do not know much about me, Alfred," replied Louis;
"but in this one case I have not done wrong, I assure you."
Alfred asked no more questions, though he looked more than once in the
now sorrowful young face by him, as they sauntered along the wide downs.
"Here come Edward and Mr. Trevannion," said Alfred, turning round;
"and there is Frank Digby, and Mr. Ferrers, too. I think Edward is
going to Bristol this afternoon."
This intimation of the august approach of his majesty and court was
hardly given when the young gentlemen passed Louis. Hamilton, with
Trevannion, as usual, leaning on his arm, and Frank Digby walking
backwards before them, vainly endeavoring to support a failing
argument with a flood of nonsense, a common custom with this young
gentleman; and, by the way, we might recommend it as remarkably
convenient at such times, to prevent the pain of a total discomfiture,
it being more pleasant to slip quietly and unseen from your pedestal
to some perfectly remote topic, than to allow yourself to be hurled
roughly therefrom by the rude hand of a more sound and successful
disputant.
"Enough, enough, Frank!" exclaimed Hamilton, laughing. "I see through
your flimsy veil. We won't say any more: you either argue in a circle,
or try to blind us."
Louis looked up as Hamilton passed, in hopes that that magnate might
give him a favorable glance, in which he was not mistaken, for Edward
the Great had been watching him from some distance, and was perfectly
aware of his near approach to him.
He certainly did not seem displeased, though the grave countenance bore
no marks of particular satisfaction at the rencontre. He spoke carelessly
to his brother, and then, addressing Louis, said, "You must look after
him, Louis, if you wish for his company; if not, dismiss him at once."
"I do wish for him," said Louis, with a bright look of gratitude;
"I promise to take care of him. Mr. Hamilton, I am getting up in my
class--I am fifth now."
The latter communication was made doubtfully, in a tone indicating
mixed pleasure and timidity.
"I am glad to hear it," was Hamilton's laconic reply. He did not quicken
his pace. "What have you there?" he asked, noticing his book.
"Coleridge's _Ancient Mariner_; I was going to read it," replied Louis;
"but now Alfred has come we shall talk: shall we not, Alfred?"
This was accompanied by another look of grateful pleasure at Alfred's
brother.
What was passing in Hamilton's mind was not to be gathered from his
countenance, which exhibited no emotion of any kind. He turned to
Trevannion, as their party was strengthened by Churchill, remarking,
"Here comes the sucking fish."
"It's _uncommon_ hot," said Churchill, taking off his hat, and fanning
himself with his handkerchief.
"_Dreadful_ warm," said Frank Digby, in exactly the same tone.
"And there is not a breath of wind on the horrid downs," continued the
sapient youth, perfectly unconscious of Frank's mimicry.
"What will the fair Louisa do?" cried Frank: "O that a zephyr would
have pity on that delicate form!"
Across their path lay a wagon, from which the horses had been detached,
and which now offered a tempting though homely shelter to those among
the pedestrians who might choose to sit on the shady side, or to avail
themselves of the accommodation afforded by the awning over the interior.
Ferrers threw himself full length inside the cart: and Louis, drawing
Alfred to the shady side, seated himself by him on the grass. His example
was followed by Churchill, who exclaimed rapturously as he did so, "How
nice! This puts me in mind of a Latin sentence; I forget the Latin, but
I remember the English--'Oh, 'tis pleasant to sit in the shade!'"
"Of a wagon," said Frank, laughing. "Remarkably romantic! It is so
sweet to hear the birds chirp, and the distant hum of human voices--but
language fails! As for Lady Louisa, she is in the Elysium of ecstasy.
It's _so_ romantic."
"Are you going to Bristol, Frank, for I'm off?" said Hamilton.
"Coming," replied Frank. "We'll leave these romantic mortals to their
sequestered glen. There ain't nothing like imagination, my good sirs."
As he joined his companions, Trevannion remarked to Hamilton, "Little
Mortimer is so much the gentleman, you never know him do or say any
thing vulgar or awkward. It is a pity one can't depend upon him."
"I am not quite sure that you cannot," replied Hamilton.
"How!" said Trevannion, in astonishment.
"Are you going to turn Paladin for her ladyship?" asked Frank.
"I have been watching Louis very carefully, and the more I see,
the more I doubt his guilt," replied Hamilton.
"After what you saw yourself? After all that was seen by others?
Impossible, my dear Hamilton!" exclaimed Trevannion. "You cannot
exonerate him without criminating others."
"We shall see," replied Hamilton; "and more than that, Trevannion,
I am certain that Dr. Wilkinson has his doubts now, too."
"But does Fudge know any thing about his old pranks?" asked Frank,
incredulously.
"I cannot say," replied Hamilton; "but I think that he probably does;
for what is so well known now among ourselves, is likely enough to reach
his quick ears."
"But knowing all you do, my dear Hamilton," said Trevannion,
expostulatingly, "you must be strongly prejudiced in your protege's
favor to admit a doubt in this case. Has Dr. Wilkinson told you that
he has any doubts?"
"No," replied Hamilton; "you know the doctor would not reveal his mind
unless he were confident, but I have noticed some little things, and am
sure that though he seems generally so indifferent to Louis' presence
and concerns, and so distant and cold towards him, he's nevertheless
watching him very narrowly; and I, for my part, expect to see things
take a new turn before long."
"The boy seems quite to have won your heart," said Trevannion.
"Poor fellow," replied Hamilton, smiling. "He is a sweet-tempered,
gentle boy; a little too anxious to be well thought of, and has,
perhaps, too little _moral courage_. I own he has interested me.
His very timidity and his numerous scrapes called forth pity in the
first instance, and then I saw more. I should not have been surprised
at his telling a lie in the first place, but I do not think he would
persist in it."
"I'm afraid wisdom's at fault," said Frank, shaking his head:
"you would not say that Ferrers helped him?--I mean took the key
to get him into a scrape."
"I accused no one, Digby," replied Hamilton, in a reserved tone;
"nor am I going to wrong any one by uttering unformed suspicions."
"Enough has been said," remarked Trevannion; "let us drop the subject,
and talk of something more interesting to all parties."
While these young gentlemen pursue their walk, we will retrace our
steps to the wagon, where Louis and his little friend have taken
shelter.
Churchill, finding neither seemed very much inclined to encourage his
conversational powers, took himself off, after remaining in the shade
long enough to cool himself. After his departure Louis and Alfred talked
lazily on of their own pleasant thoughts and schemes, both delighted at
being once more in each other's society. They were within sight of the
masters out on the downs, and who had forbidden them to wander beyond
certain limits, but still so far from their school-fellows as to be able
to enjoy their own private conversation unmolested, and in the feeling
of seclusion.
At length, after a pause, Louis made an original remark on the beauty
of the weather, which was immediately responded to by his companion,
who added that he had not known such a fine day since Miss Wilkinson's
wedding.
"Don't you think so?" said Louis; "I think we had one or two Sundays
quite as fine."
"Perhaps I thought that day so very fine, because I wanted to go out,"
said Alfred.
"What do you mean?" asked Louis: "we had a holiday then."
"Yes, I know, but I was not allowed to go out because I had been idle,
and had spoken improperly to Mr. Norton. I remember it was so sad. I
assure you, Louis, I cried nearly all day; for I was shut up in your
class-room, and I heard all the boys so merry outside. The very thought
makes me quite sorrowful now."
A thought flashed across Louis' mind, and he asked quickly--
"Were you shut up in our class-room that holiday, Alfred? I never saw
you when I went in."
"But I saw you once," said Alfred, "when you came in for an atlas;
and I saw Mr. Ferrers, and afterwards Edward and Mr. Salisbury and
Mr. Trevannion come in; but I was ashamed, and I did not want any
one to see me, so I hid myself between the book-case and the wall."
"Did your brother know you were there?" asked Louis.
"Not _there_," replied Alfred. "He thought I was to go into
Dr. Wilkinson's study; but I could not go there, and I didn't
want him to speak to me."
"Did Ferrers come to fetch any thing, Alfred?"
Alfred laughed. "It won't be telling tales out of school to tell you,
Louis. He came for a key to the first-class exercise book."
"How do you know it was a first-class exercise book, Alfred?"
asked Louis, with a glowing face and beating heart.
"I know Edward does Kenrick's Latin Exercises, and I know the key
because it's just like the book, and I have seen Mr. Ferrers with
it before. I remember once on a half-holiday he did his lessons in
the school-room at my desk, and he had it open in the desk, and as
I wanted something out. I saw it, though he did not think I did."
"Oh Alfred, Alfred!" cried Louis, clasping him very tightly. "Oh Alfred!
_dear_ Alfred!"
The child looked up in astonishment, but Louis was so wild with
excitement that he could not say any more.
Just at that moment there was an abrupt movement in the wagon,
and Ferrers' head was put over the side.
Alfred uttered an exclamation of fear. "Oh, there's Mr. Ferrers!"
"What rubbish have you been talking, you little impostor?" cried Ferrers.
"How dare you talk in such a manner? I've a great mind to kick you from
Land's End to John o' Groat's house."
[Illustration: Ferrers begins to be found out.]
"Ferrers, you know it's all true," said Louis.
Ferrers' face was white with passion and anxiety. "Get along with
you, Alfred, you'd better not let me hear any more of your lies, I
can tell you."
"If you had not been listening you would not have heard," replied Alfred,
taking care to stand out of Ferrers' reach. "Listeners never hear any
good of themselves, Mr. Ferrers: you know it's all true, and if I'd
told Edward, you wouldn't have liked it."
"Alfred dear, don't say so much," said Louis.
Alfred here set off running, as Ferrers had dismounted in a very
threatening attitude, but instead of giving chase to the daring
fugitive, the conscience-stricken youth drew near Louis, who was
standing in a state of such delight that he must be excused a little
if no thought of his school-fellow's disgrace marred it at present.
A glance at the changed and terror-stricken countenance of that
school-fellow checked the exuberance of Louis' joy, for he was too
sympathizing not to feel for him, and he said in a gentle tone,
"I am very sorry for you, Ferrers,--you have heard all that Alfred
has said."
"Louis Mortimer!" exclaimed Ferrers, in agony; and Louis was half
alarmed by the wild despair of his manner, and the vehemence with
which he seized his arm. "Louis Mortimer--it is all true--but what
shall I do?"
Louis was so startled that he could not answer at first: at last
he replied,
"Go and tell the doctor yourself--that will be much the best way."
"Listen to me a moment--just listen a moment--as soon as Dr. Wilkinson
knows it, I shall be expelled, and I shall be ruined for life. What I
have suffered, Louis! Oh--you see how it was; I dared not tell about
it--how can I hope you can forgive me?"
"I think you must have seen that I forgave you long ago," replied
Louis; "I wish I could do any thing for you, Ferrers, but you cannot
expect me to bear the blame of this any longer. I think if you tell
it to the doctor yourself, he will, perhaps, overlook it, and I will
beg for you."
"Oh, Louis!" said Ferrers, seizing the passive hand, and speaking more
vehemently; "you heard what the doctor said, and he will do it--and
for one fault to lose all my prospects in life! I shall leave at the
holidays, and then I will tell Dr. Wilkinson; will you--can you--to
save a fellow from such disgrace, spare me a little longer? There are
only four weeks--oh, Louis! I shall be eternally obliged--but if you
could tell--I have a father--just think how yours would feel. Louis,
will you, can you do this very great favor for me? I don't deserve any
mercy from you, I know; but you are better than I am."
All the bright visions of acknowledged innocence fled, and a blank
seemed to come over poor Louis' soul. The sacrifice seemed far too
great, and he felt as if he were not called to make it; and yet--a
glance at Ferrers' face--his distress, but not his meanness, struck
him. A minute before, he had indulged in bright dreams of more than
restoration to favor--of his brother's delight--of his father's and
mother's approbation--of his grandfather's satisfaction--and Hamilton's
friendly congratulations. And to give up this! it was surely too much
to expect.
During his silence, Ferrers kept squeezing, and even kissing, his now
cold hand, and repeating,
"Dear Louis--be merciful--will you pity me?--think of all--I don't
deserve it, I know." And though the meanness and cowardliness were
apparent, Louis looked at little else than the extreme agony of the
suppliant.
"Don't kiss my hand, Ferrers--I can't bear it," he said at length,
drawing his hand quickly away; and there was something akin to disgust
mingled with the sorrowful look he gave to his companion.
"But Louis, will you?"
"Oh Ferrers! it is a hard thing to ask of me," said Louis, bitterly.
"Just for a little longer," implored Ferrers, "to save me from a
lasting disgrace."
Louis turned his head away--it was a hard, hard struggle: "I will
try to bear it if God will help me," he said; "I will not mention
it at present."
"Oh! how can I thank you! how can I! how shall I ever be able!"
cried Ferrers: "but will Alfred tell?"
"He does not know," replied Louis, in a low tone.
"But will he not mention what has passed?"
"I will warn him then," said Louis.
Ferrers then in broken sentences renewed his thanks, and Louis, after
hearing a few in silence, as if he heard nothing, turned his full moist
eyes on him with a sorrowful beseeching look,
"You have done a very wicked thing, Ferrers. Oh do pray to God to
forgive you."
"I will try to do any thing you wish," replied Ferrers.
"A prayer because _I_ wished, could do you no good. You must feel you
have sinned against God. Do try to think of this. If it should make
you do so, I _think_ I could cheerfully bear this disgrace a little
longer for you, though what it is to bear I cannot tell you."
"You are almost an angel, Louis!" exclaimed Ferrers.
"Oh don't say such things to me, Ferrers," said Louis, "pray don't.
I am not more so than I was before this--I am but a sinful creature
like yourself, and it is the remembrance of this that makes me pity
you. Now do leave me alone; I cannot bear to hear you flatter me now."
Ferrers lingered yet, though Louis moved from him with a shuddering
abhorrence of the fawning, creeping manner of his school-fellow. Seeing
that Ferrers still loitered near him, he asked if there were any thing
more to say.
"Will your brother know this?"
"Reginald?" replied Louis. "Of course--no--_I_ shall not tell him."
"A thousand thousand times I thank you,--oh Louis, Louis, you are
too good!"
"Will you be kind enough to let me alone," said Louis gently,
but very decidedly.
This time the request was complied with, and Louis resumed his former
seat, and fixing his eyes vacantly on the sweet prospect before him,
ruminated with a full heart on the recent discovery; and, strange to
say, though he had voluntarily promised to screen Ferrers a little
longer from his justly merited disgrace, he felt as if it had been
only a compulsory sense of duty and not benevolence which had led him
to do so, and was inclined to murmur at his hard lot. For some time he
sat in a kind of sullen apathy, without being able to send up a prayer,
even though he felt he needed help to feel rightly. At length the kindly
tears burst forth, and covering his face with his hands he wept softly.
"I am very wrong--very ungrateful to God for His love to me. He has borne
so much for me, and I am so unwilling to bear a little for poor Ferrers.
Oh what sinful feelings I have! My heavenly Father, teach me to feel pity
for him, for he has no one to help him; help him, teach him, Thyself."
Such, and many more, were the deep heart-breathings of the dear boy,
and who ever sought for guidance and grace, and was rejected? and how
unspeakably comfortable is the assurance, that for each of us there is
with Christ the very grace we need.
The sullen fit was gone, and Louis was his own happy self again, when
little Alfred came to tell him that Mr. Witworth had given the order to
return home,--"And I came to tell you, dear Louis, for I wanted to walk
home with you. What a beast that Ferrers is! see if I won't tell Edward
of him."
"Hush, Alfred!" said Louis, putting his finger on the little boy's mouth.
"Do you know that God is very angry when we call each other bad names,
and surely you do not wish to revenge yourself? I will tell you a very
sweet verse which our Saviour said: '_Love your enemies, bless them that
curse you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you,
that ye may be the children of your Father who is in heaven._'" As the
little monitor spoke, the soft consciousness of the comfort of those
sweet words rushed over his own mind, "_children of your Father who is
in heaven_."
"And am I a child--His child indeed! I will try to glorify my Saviour
who has given me that great name."
That is a sure promise that "they who water shall be watered," and
who is there that has endeavored to lead another heavenward, that has
not felt, at one time or another, a double share of that living water
refreshing his own soul?
With one arm round his little friend's neck, Louis wandered home,
and, during the walk, easily persuaded Alfred not to say a word of
what had passed; and as for Louis--oh, his eye was brighter, his
step more buoyant, his heart full of gladness!
A little word, and I will close this long chapter. It is good for us
to consider how unable we are to think and to do rightly ourselves:
we must do so if we would be saved by Christ. When we have done all,
we are unprofitable servants; but oh, how gracious--how incomprehensible
is that love that puts into our minds good desires, brings the same to
good effect, and rewards us for those things which He Himself has enabled
us to do!