"Charity suffereth long, and is kind."--1 Cor. xiii. 4.
Louis entered the class-room sooner than usual one evening, and
sitting down by his brother, spread before him a few strawberries
and some sweet-cakes, inviting him and one of Salisbury's brothers
who was on the other side of him to partake of them.
"What beauties they are!" exclaimed John Salisbury; "have you had a box,
Louis? How _did_ you get them?"
"Guess," said Louis.
"Nay, I can't guess. Strawberries like these don't come at this time
of the year in boxes."
"I guess," said Frank Digby from the opposite side of the table,
in a tone as if he had been speaking to some one behind him.
"Fudge has a dinner party to-night, hasn't he?"
"Yes," said Louis, laughing; "how did you know that?"
"Oh, I have the little green bird that tells every thing," replied Frank.
"What's that, Frank?" cried Salisbury; "Fudge a dinner party? How snug
he's kept it!"
"Why you don't suppose that he's obliged to inform us all when he has
some idea of doing the genteel," remarked one of the first class.
"Are Hamilton and Trevannion invited?" asked Salisbury.
"In good troth! thou art a bat of the most blind species," said Frank;
"didn't you see them both just now in all their best toggery? Trevannion
went up to his room just after school, and has, I believe, at last
adorned his beauteous person to his mind--all graces and delicious
odors.--Faugh! he puts me in mind of a hair-dresser's shop."
"He declares that his new perfumes are something expressly superior,"
said another. "_He_ wouldn't touch your vulgar scents."
"His _millefleurs_ is at all events uncommonly like a muskrat,"
said Salisbury.
"And," remarked Frank, "as that erudite youth, Oars, would say,
'puts me in mind of some poet, but I've forgotten his name.' However,
two lines borrowed from him, which my sister quotes to me when I am
genteel, will do as well as his name:
"'I cannot talk with civet in the room--
A fine puss gentleman, that's all perfume.'"
Reginald laughed. "I often think of the overrun flower-pots in the
cottages at Dashwood, when Trevannion has been adorning himself.
I once mortally offended him by the same quotation."
"Had you the amazing audacity! the intolerable presumption!" cried
Frank, pretending to start. "I perceive his magnificent scorn didn't
quite annihilate you; I think, though, he was three hours embellishing
himself to-night."
"Frank, that's impossible!" cried Louis, laughing, "for it was four
o'clock when he went, and it's only half-past six now."
"Cease your speech, and eat your booty: I dare say it is sweet enough;
sweetness is the usual concomitant of goods so obtained."
"What do you mean, Frank?" asked Louis.
"Sweet little innocent; of course he don't know--no, in course he
don't--how should he? they came into his hand by accident," said Frank,
mockingly; "I wish such fortunate accidents would happen to me."
"They were given to me, Frank," said Louis, quietly. "Mrs. Wilkinson
gave them to me when she told me I must not stay in the study."
"What a kind person Mrs. Wilkinson is!--oh! Louis, Louis, _Tanta est
depravitas humani generis_!"
"FRANK!" shouted Reginald, "at your peril!"
"Well, my dear--what, is my life in peril from you again? I must take
care then."
"Come, Frank, have done," cried one of his class-fellows, "can't you
leave Louis Mortimer alone--it doesn't signify to you."
"I only meant to admonish him by a gentle hint, that he must not presume
to contradict gentlemen whose honor and veracity may at least be on a
par with his own."
"Frank," said Louis, "I cannot think how you can suppose me guilty of
such meanness."
"The least said, the soonest mended," remarked Salisbury. "We must have
large powers of credence where you are concerned. Clear off your old
scores, and then we will begin a new one with you."
Reginald started to his feet. "You shall rue this, Salisbury."
"Two can play at your game," rejoined Salisbury, rising.
Reginald was springing forward, but was checked by Louis, who threw
himself on him. "Do not fight, dear Reginald--do not, pray."
"I will--unhand me, Louis! I tell you I WILL--let me go."
"Dear Reginald, not for me--wait a minute."
At this moment the form behind them fell with a heavy bang, and in
struggling to release himself, Reginald fell over it, dragging Louis
with him. Louis was a little hurt, but he did not let go his hold.
"Reginald," he said, "ask Mrs. Wilkinson to say so herself; they will
believe her, I suppose."
The fall had a little checked his rage, and Reginald sat brooding in
sullen anger on the ground. At last he started up and left the room,
saying to Louis, "It's all your fault, then--you've no spirit, and
you don't want me to have any."
Louis mechanically assisted in raising the form, and stood silently
by the table. He looked quickly round, and pushing the little share
of his untasted fruit from him, went into the school-room. He did not
recover his spirits again that evening, even when Reginald apologized
to him for his roughness, pleading in excuse the extreme trouble it
gave him to prevent himself from fighting with Salisbury.
As they went up stairs that night, in spite of the cautions given
by the usher to be quiet, a sham scuffle ensued on purpose between
Salisbury and Frank Digby, during which the former let his candle
fall over the bannisters, and they were left in darkness; though,
happily for the comfort of the doctor's dinner party, the second
hall and back staircase arrangement effectually prevented the noise
that ensued from reaching the drawing-room.
"Halloa there--you fellows! Mortimer, ahoa!" cried one of Salisbury's
party; "bring your light."
"You may come and fetch it if you want it," shouted Reginald from
his room.
"We're in the dark," was the reply.
"So much the better," said Reginald: "perhaps you will behave a little
better now; if you want a light you may come and light your candle here."
"Our candle's on the hall floor," said another voice, amidst suppressed
laughter.
"Pick it up, then."
"We're desperately afraid of hobgoblins," cried Frank, rushing into his
room and blowing their candle out.
"What did you do that for, Frank?" asked several indignant voices.
"Because Salisbury and his myrmidons were coming to carry it off by a
_coup de main_--he-he-he--" giggled Frank.
"And so you've given your own head a blow to punish your tooth! well
done," exclaimed another voice at the door.
"Peters, is that you?"
"What's to be done now?"
"How shall we get a light?"
"If you will give me the candle I will get one," said Louis.
Accordingly, the extinguished candle was delivered into his hands, and
he felt his way to the kitchen door, where he obtained a light, and then,
picking up the fallen candle, tried to arrange its shattered form, and
replace it. While thus employed, Ferrers joined him, and offered his aid,
and on Louis' accepting it, said in a low tone,--
"Louis, I am a wretch, I am so very miserable. I can't think how you
can bear so much from one who has never done you any thing but harm."
Louis raised his head from his work in astonishment, and saw that
Ferrers looked as he said, very miserable, and was deadly pale.
"I do so despise myself--to see you bearing all so sweetly, Louis. I
should have been different, perhaps, if I had known you before--I love,
I admire you, as much as I hate myself."
"Are you coming with the candle there?" cried a voice from above:
"Louis Mortimer and William Ferrers in deep confabulation--wonders
will never cease."
Ferrers jumped up and ran up stairs with his candle, and Louis followed
more leisurely to his own room, nor could any thing induce him that
night to tell a story. How long and earnest was his prayer for one
who had injured him so cruelly, but towards whom he now, instead of
resentment, felt only pity and interest!
Ferrers, after tossing from side to side, and trying all schemes for
several hours, in vain, to drown his remorse in sleep, at last, at
daybreak, sank into an uneasy slumber. The image of Louis, and his
mute expression of patient sorrow that evening, haunted him, and he
felt an indefinable longing to be like him, and a horror of himself
in comparison with him. He remembered Louis' words, "Pray to God;"
and one murmured petition was whispered in the stillness of the night,
"Lord have mercy on a great sinner."
Since his disgrace, Louis generally had his brother for a companion
during their walks; but the next morning Ferrers joined him, and asked
Louis to walk with him to the downs. They were both naturally silent
for the beginning of the walk; but on Louis making some remark, Ferrers
said, "I can't think of any thing just now, Louis; I have done every
thing wrong to-day. My only satisfaction is in telling you how much
I feel your goodness. I can't think how you can endure me."
"Oh, Ferrers!" said Louis, "what am I that I should not bear you? and
if you are really sorry, and wish to be better, I think I may some day
love you."
"_That_ you can never do, Louis,--you must hate and despise me."
"No, I do not," said Louis, kindly; "I am very sorry for you."
"You must have felt very angry."
"I did feel very unkind and shocked at first," replied Louis; "but by
God's grace I learned afterwards to feel very differently, and you can't
think how often I have pitied you since."
"Pitied _me_!" said Ferrers.
"Oh yes," replied Louis, sweetly; "because I am sure you must have been
very unhappy with the knowledge of sin in your heart--I don't think there
is any thing so hard as remorse to bear."
"I did not feel much sorrow till you were so kind to me," said Ferrers.
"What a wretch you must think me!"
"I have sinned too greatly myself to judge very hardly of you; and
when I think of all the love shown to me, I feel anxious to show some
love to others; and I should be afraid, if I thought too hardly of you,
I should soon be left to find out what I am."
Ferrers did not reply; he did not understand the motives which
induced Louis' forbearance and gentleness, for he was an entire
stranger to religion, and never having met with any one resembling
Louis, could not comprehend, though he did not fail to admire, his
character, now its beauty was so conspicuously before him. He felt
there was an immeasurable distance between them--for the first
time he found himself wanting. Mentally putting himself in Louis'
place, he acknowledged that no persuasion could have induced him
to act so generously and disinterestedly; and knowing the keen
sensitiveness of Louis to disgrace, he wondered how one so alive
to the opinion of others, and naturally so yielding and wavering,
could steadily and uncomplainingly persevere in his benevolent
purpose; for not by word or sign did Louis even hint the truth
to Reginald--the usual depository of his cares and secrets.
Louis, imagining the silence of his companion to proceed from shame
and distress, proceeded after a few minutes to reassure him.
"You must not think that I am miserable, Ferrers, for lately I have
been much happier than even when I was in favor, for now I do not care
so much what the boys will think or say of me, and that thought was
always coming in the way of every thing; and there are many things
which make me very happy, often."
"What things, Louis?"
"I do not think you would understand me," replied Louis, timidly;
"the things and thoughts that make me happy are so different from
what we hear generally here."
"But tell me, Louis. I want to know how it is you are so much better
than any one else here. I want to be better myself."
"Oh, dear Ferrers," said Louis, gazing earnestly in Ferrers' face,
"if you _do_ want to be better, come to our Saviour, and He will
make you all you want to be. It is the feeling of His goodness,
and the happy hope of being God's children, and having all their
sins forgiven, that make all God's people so happy; and you may have
this happiness too, if you will. I do not think we think enough of our
great name of Christian."
"You read your Bible a great deal, Louis, don't you?"
"Not so much as I ought," replied Louis, blushing, "but I love it
very much."
"It always seems to me such a dull book, I am always very glad when
our daily reading's over."
"I remember when I thought something in the same way," said Louis:
"only mamma used always to explain things so pleasantly, that even
then I used to like to hear her read it to us. Papa once said to me
that the Bible is like a garden of flowers, through which a careless
person may walk, and notice nothing, but that one who is really anxious
to find flowers or herbs to cure his disease, will look carefully till
he finds what he wants, and that some happy and eager seekers will find
pleasure in all."
"Louis, you are very happy," said Ferrers, "though very strange.
I would give a world, were it mine, to lay this heavy burden of mine
down somewhere, and be as light in disgrace as you are."
Ferrers sighed deeply, and Louis said softly, "'Come unto Him all ye
that are heavy laden, and He will give you rest. His yoke is easy and
His burden is light.'"
Here they parted. The last whispers of the Saviour's gracious invitation,
those "comfortable words," lingered in Ferrers' ears as he entered the
house, and returned at night; but he did not throw himself and his burden
at the Saviour's feet. And what hindered him? It was pride, pride--though
forced to feel himself a sinner, pride still retained its hold, more
feebly than before, but still as a giant.