"Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues
of life."--Prov. iv. 23.
After a long and tedious journey Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, with their two
boys, reached Heronhurst, where they met with the affectionate welcome
usually given by Sir George and Lady Vernon to all so nearly related to
them. The castle was full of visitors, amongst whom were Lady Digby and
her two eldest daughters, and many young people--personages grandmamma
never forgot in the holidays, however unimportant they may appear in the
eyes of some. Children liked to come to Heronhurst, for there was always
so much mirth and amusement, and Lady Vernon was so remarkably clever
in arranging pleasant pic-nics and excursions. Vernon and Frank Digby
arrived the same day as Mr. Mortimer, a few hours before him, and as
Vernon had announced the fact of Louis' having gained the medal, every
one was prepared to receive our hero with due honor.
It was with no little satisfaction that Louis felt in the hearty shake of
the hand, and the kind tone, that he was now more than re-established in
his grandfather's good opinion. Had it not been for the salutary effects
of his former disgrace, and the long trial he had lately undergone, there
would have been great danger now of his falling into some open fault,
for he was praised so much by his kind relations, and flattered by the
company, and his medal had so often to be exhibited, that it needed much
that in himself he did not possess, to guard him from falling into the
error of imagining himself to be already perfect.
It was settled that there was to be a fete on the 27th, which some of
my readers may remember was Louis' birthday; and Sir George, anxious
to efface from his grandson's memory any painful reminiscences of the
last, arranged the order of things much in the same manner, taking care
that Louis' proteges, the school-children, should not be forgotten.
This news had just been communicated to Louis by his grandfather, with
many expressions of commendation, and he was in a state of complacent
self-gratulation, that feeling which would have led him to say, "By
the strength of my hand I have done this;" instead of, "My strength
will I ascribe unto the Lord," when a kind, soft hand, glittering with
rings, was laid upon his arm, and the pleasant voice of his old friend
Mrs. Paget greeted him.
"So, Master Louis, we are to have a fete, I hear. Are you really
fourteen on the 27th? Come and sit down and tell me all about your
school. I knew you would soon be a favorite. What's all this long
story that everybody talks of and nobody knows? I said I would ask
you, the most proper person to know it; and I know you will tell me
the secret."
"It is no secret, ma'am," said Louis; "I would rather not talk of it."
"Just like your own modest little self: and it might not be kind to tell
every one all the story, perhaps; but with an old friend like me, you
know you are safe."
"But, ma'am, you might forget when every one is talking--"
Louis stopped and colored, for he thought it seemed rather conceited to
imagine every one must be talking of him, and he corrected himself,
"At least, dear Mrs. Paget, I had much rather not, I mean."
"You are a dear, kind little boy," said the injudicious lady;
"I know very well you are afraid of committing that naughty
school-fellow of yours. I can't understand about the _keys_--I
heard your brother saying something about them--what keys? Were
they the keys of the boy's desks?"
Louis could hardly help laughing--"No, ma'am, Kenrick's keys."
"And who is Kenrick--one of the masters?"
"It is a book, ma'am--a key to the Greek exercises."
"Oh, I see--a sort of translation--well, he stole this from
Dr. Wilkinson, and said you'd done it?"
"No, not that," replied Louis. "He took it out of the study. Some
of the boys were in the habit of using the keys when they could."
"Well, there was nothing so very terrible in it, poor fellows.
I dare say the lessons are very hard. I think every boy ought to
have an English translation of those frightful Latin and Greek books."
Louis opened his eyes and quietly said--
"We think it very dishonorable and unfair, ma'am."
"Well, if I understood all about it, I might too, I dare say.
I only see a little bit, but of course you know the rules and
all the rest,--well, was that all?"
"No, ma'am," said Louis, uneasily.
"He said you had taken it, I dare say?"
"Something like it," replied Louis. "He slipped it among my books
to hide it, ma'am, but not intending to do me any harm; and when
it was found he was afraid to speak the truth."
"And so you bore the blame--and did you not try to clear yourself?"
"To be sure, ma'am; but he was older and better known than I was,
and so he was believed."
"And you couldn't help yourself? I thought you bore it out of
kindness to him."
"Afterwards I found it out, ma'am. I found that Alfred Hamilton
knew something about it."
"Who is Alfred Hamilton?" asked Mrs. Paget.
"A little boy, ma'am, at school."
"And he found it out--and didn't he tell of it?"
"I did not wish him," replied Louis, with less reserve. "It would
have been very unkind to poor Ferrers; he would have been expelled.
Alfred was going to tell, but you would not have wished him to do it,
I am sure."
Ah Louis, Louis! anxiety for Ferrers' reputation was quite lost in the
selfish desire of admiration. Mrs. Paget put her arm round him, and her
kindly eyes nearly overflowed with affectionate emotion, for she, poor
lady, could only see the surface; the inward workings of the little vain
heart were hid from her, or she would have been surprised to find under
the appearance of sweetness and humility, Louis was only thinking of
seeming lovely and amiable in her eyes.
"No, my darling, I know you could not do any thing unkind--you
are a sweet, dear creature, and I am sure I love you; and so this
Master Ferrers never spoke the truth, and you bore the blame?"
"He did at last, ma'am, at the end of the half-year: but it was not
very long to bear it, only five weeks."
"_Only!_ I wonder you could have done it for so long; Ferrers,
that was the name, was it?"
"If you please, don't mention it," exclaimed Louis, with unaffected
earnestness; "I did not mean to say his name. Please, dear Mrs. Paget,
do not mention it. He is so very sorry, and confessed all so
handsomely--I think you would like him if you knew all about him,
for he is not so bad as others make him out to be."
Mrs. Paget had only time to give him a kind of half promise, when she
was called away; and Louis, left to himself, became aware of the vanity
his foolish heart had persuaded him was Christian kindness. His enjoyment
was destroyed that evening, for he was full of anxiety lest Mrs. Paget
should talk of the matter, and he wandered restlessly about the rooms,
longing for an opportunity of speaking a kind word for Ferrers, wishing
vainly that what he had said could be undone. He felt more than ever
the necessity of keeping a watch over his heart and tongue, and almost
inclined to despair of ever overcoming the many stumbling-blocks in the
way of attaining to holiness. Thus, little by little, is the evil of
our hearts disclosed to us, and the longer the true Christian lives,
the less he finds to be satisfied with in himself; not that he is
further removed from holiness, but he has more sight given him to
know what he really is by nature--and the nearer he arrives to the
perfect day, the greater is the light to disclose his own deformities,
and the exceeding loveliness of the righteousness he possesses in
Jesus his Lord.
Louis, in common with the young visitors at Heronhurst, thought often
and expectantly of his birthday--and when the morning at last arrived,
he awoke much earlier than usual, with a strong sensation of some great
happiness. The light on the blind of his window was not bright, nor
promising brightness--and when he jumped up and ran to examine the day,
expressing to his brother his hope that the weather was propitious, he
found to his dismay that the rain was pouring in torrents, and the dull
unbroken clouds gave but little promise of a change in the prospect.
"Oh! Reginald, it's raining, raining hard."
"How very provoking!" cried Reginald. "Let me see--there is not much
hope neither--how exceedingly tiresome--there's an end to our fun--who'd
have thought it--how VERY--"
"Hush!" said poor Louis, who was very much disappointed, "it is not
right to say _tiresome_ when it pleases God that the weather shall
not suit us."
"I can't help it," said Reginald.
"I dare say we shall be very happy. I am most sorry about the
school-children."
"I don't care a fig about them," said Reginald, impatiently; "there's
that cricket match, and all."
"What, not the poor little things, Reginald? just think how they have
been expecting this day--it is quite an event for them, and we have so
many pleasures: I dare say you will have the cricket the first fine day."
Reginald felt rather ashamed, and yet unwilling to acknowledge himself
in the wrong; therefore he satisfied himself with remarking, that Louis
did not like cricket, and he didn't care about the children, and there
was no difference.
Louis' attention was at that moment attracted by something on the table.
"Oh! here is something for me, Reginald!--A beautiful new Bible from
dear papa and mamma--and a church service from grandmamma, and what's
this?--'_The Lady of the Manor_' from uncle and aunt Clarence;
how kind, look Reginald! and here's another--a beautiful little red and
gold book, '_Mrs. Rowe's Poems_,' the book I am so fond of--from
you: oh! thank you, dear Reginald."
"And many happy returns of the day, dear Louis," said Reginald, who
had by this time completely recovered his ordinary good-humor.
At the foot of the stairs, when he descended, Louis met some of the
young party, who hardly waited to offer the compliments of the day
before they loudly expressed the disappointment felt by each at the
unfavorable weather. "Raining, raining--nothing but splashing and dark
clouds--so tiresome, so disappointing--we shall be obliged to stay
in-doors," sounded round him in different keys as they marched in
close phalanx to the breakfast-room, where they found Bessie Vernon,
a little girl of seven years old, kneeling on a chair at the window,
singing, in the most doleful accents,
"Rain, rain, go to Spain,
And mind you don't come back again."
"Good morning, Bessie," said Louis.
"Oh! Louis, many happy returns. I haven't got a present for you,
because I hadn't money enough."
"Never mind," said Louis; "I would rather have your love and kisses
than any present."
"And I will give you many, many kisses," cried the little girl,
fulfilling her promise in good earnest.
"_My love and a kiss_," said her brother; "that's what Bessie always
sends at the end of her letters: isn't it, Bessie, _I send you my love
and a kiss_?"
"Well, I mean it," said Bessie, "and you needn't laugh. I wonder what
we shall do to-day--dear me--I think, though, there's a little lighter
bit of sky over the oak."
"Let me see--where are my spectacles?" said Frank.
"Not much hope, I fear," said Sir George's hearty voice behind
her. "Not much hope, Bessie. What an array of long faces. How do
you do? Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I hope I see you in
health and spirits. A happy birthday, and many of them to you,
my boy; the rain does not appear to have damped you so much as
some of your play-fellows--well, Miss Bessie?"
"Grandpapa, grandpapa! what shall we do? you must find some pleasure
for us," cried Bessie, clinging round her grandfather's knees, and
looking up very beseechingly in the kind face so far above her.
"Ah, well--we'll see, we'll see--now let me go to breakfast; when that
important business is dispatched, and grandmamma makes her appearance,
we will find something to do."
Fortified with this promise, an excellent breakfast was eaten by the
martyrs to disappointment, and then, after some consultation, it was
decided that the band should be in attendance in the hall, and a
messenger should be sent forthwith to command the attendance of the
school-children at a banquet in the same place, and Lady Vernon was
of opinion that with charades, a magic lantern, bagatelle, tivoli,
and dolls, a very merry morning might be spent. The young people then
dispersed in search of their own peculiar amusements. Some of the young
men went into the billiard-room, and a few chess parties were formed.
Some began to act charades for the edification of such among the elders
as would choose to make an audience. A still larger party adjourned to
the school-room to play at houses with their dolls, and two tables were
soon spread with ground plans of three magnificent establishments for
paper ladies and gentlemen, by three young ladies between the ages of
twelve and eight, assisted by Mr. Frank Digby.
At one o'clock they went to the hall, where the band was playing a merry
air. Here a long table was spread, well covered with a nice plain dinner,
and the school-children came two-and-two into the hall, just after the
visitors had arrived.
When all were seated, the girls at the upper, and the boys at the
lower end, Mr. Mortimer came forward and said grace for them, and
then the viands disappeared with great rapidity. Some of the castle
children, headed by Louis, asked to be allowed to wait on them, and,
the permission being given, they made themselves very busy, though
it must be confessed that they were sometimes sadly in the servants'
way. Sir George Vernon went round the table very majestically, and
now and then spoke a word or two to one of the children--words which
were treasured up in their memories for many a long day, though they
meant little or nothing; but it is so easy to create a pleasant and
grateful feeling.
Many of the spectators, including nearly all the gentlemen, had left
the hall very soon after the commencement of the feast, and now a summons
was given to the little ones of the castle to their own dinner. Louis,
not being included in the little ones, went with the school-children
into a large empty room, and with the help of his father and one or two
others, exerted himself successfully for their entertainment, until his
friends joined them, and, the room being darkened, the magic lantern was
displayed. The humble little guests then, being supplied each with a
cake and some fruit, returned to their homes, quite delighted with the
pleasures of the day. Frank and the three young ladies enjoyed an hour's
amusement during the late dinner; for the good-natured youth had yielded
to the pressing invitation of the merry little party, and dined with
them at two, to their great satisfaction, notwithstanding the declaration
of some, that he was "a great tease."
The great dinner was much earlier than usual, to allow of the ball,
which began at seven o'clock for the convenience of the younger ones,
and was continued until eleven, at which time, though he had been very
happy, Louis was very tired, and could not help thinking, that, after
all, a whole day of pleasure-seeking in this manner, was very fatiguing
and unsatisfying. He could hardly keep his eyes open, when Mrs. Paget
seized him, and after a few compliments on his dancing, insisted upon
hearing him sing "_Where the bee sucks_."
Louis complied as well as he was able, and though his sleepiness robbed
his song of some power, its sweetness not only satisfied the flattering
lady, but a more unscrupulous auditor who stood behind him in the person
of his grandfather.
"Your mother taught you to sing, Louis?" said he.
"Miss Spencer taught me," replied Louis.
"The mechanism, perhaps, but it's your mother's teaching.
The taste, madam," said Sir George, turning to Mrs. Paget.
"Both Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer are first-rate amateurs," said Mrs. Paget.
"Mrs. Mortimer has great talent," replied Sir George; "and she has done
something with this boy. I suppose you are very fond of music, Louis?"
Louis answered in the affirmative, and Sir George added--
"I shall give you a treat. You shall go on Sunday to A----, and hear
the singing at the church there. The little boys sing very sweetly.
Have you heard them ma'am?"
"No, I never have."
"Then I think it would be a wise step to pay a visit there during
divine service next Sunday. The church is worth looking at,--a good
specimen of the early English style of architecture. We can make up
a little party to go, if you would like it."
Mrs. Paget expressed her entire approbation of the scheme, and Louis,
too sleepy to think much of it, wished her and Sir George good night,
and went to bed.
The next day, the rain continuing, in the morning Louis enjoyed
_The Lady of the Manor_ in his own room. He was still much excited
by the yesterday's pleasure, and felt unsettled, and disinclined to
employ himself steadily with any thing. In the afternoon, as the
weather was fine, his mother insisted on his taking a walk, and
Reginald and Vernon Digby accompanied him. They had a great scramble
through the hilly district that surrounded Heronhurst, and merrily
the talk (we will not dignify it by the name of conversation) continued.
As they re-entered the grounds it fell upon the scheme of visiting the
church, and during the light and common-place discussion that ensued,
it struck Louis that there might be something wrong in the plan. He
became very silent, and when he reached his room, quietly thought over
the matter, and came to the conclusion that, though they intended going
to church, yet the motives that induced their doing so were not to the
glory of God, and that to employ servants for such an end, on God's holy
day, was certainly wrong. This was his first impression; and when he
next saw Reginald, he told him what he had been thinking of.
"Well, but Louis, you know it won't make any difference whether we go
or not, and so _we_ shan't engage the servants. I don't see why, because
you like nice singing, you should go to the chapel where they screech
so abominably."
Louis was silent, for he hardly liked to oppose his reasons to Reginald's
blunt speech, and Reginald, dismissing the subject from his mind, began
to talk of something else. He ran on very volubly for a little while,
without receiving any interruption from his brother, and, looking at him,
he saw very plainly that Louis was not paying the slightest attention
to him.
"What is the matter, Louis? How dull you are!"
"Nothing," replied Louis.
"Nothing?" repeated Reginald; "_Something_, you ought to say. I know you
are making yourself miserable about this church-going, and what need is
there? We are going to church, and we can't prevent the carriage going.
If it were on purpose for us it would be different."
"But there will be a great deal of nonsense, I know," said Louis,
uneasily. "It seems very much like going to a show place. I hope I
shall be able to ask mamma about it."
"As to nonsense," replied Reginald, "when do we have any thing else
here?--you can't make Dashwood of Heronhurst, and I think if you go
to hear such beautiful singing, it is more likely to put good thoughts
into your head than those lovely singers here; and then, Mr. Perrott
is quite a famous man; everybody likes him better than Mr. Burton--you
are too scrupulous, Louis. I think, sometimes, you are guilty of
over-conscientiousness."
Before Louis could reply, some of their young friends entered the
room, and one thing followed another so quickly that Louis had no
time to think clearly on the subject till he went to bed; but when
all was silent and nothing interfered with his thoughts, his anxious
mind ran over all that had passed, and turn it which way he would, it
still seemed wrong. What with this feeling, and the fear of making
his grandfather angry, Louis felt very uncomfortable; and then came
Reginald's sophistry, and Louis almost argued himself into the belief
that his brother was right and he too scrupulous: and when he tried to
pray for direction he did not feel sincere, for he was conscious of a
wish to go to the church, and a great dread of offending his grandfather.
After some hours' restless consideration, he dropped asleep, having made
up his mind to consult his father and mother, and to abide by their
counsel. The next day, however, he had no opportunity of speaking to
them alone, and Saturday night found him as miserably undecided as
before. "Oh dear, if there were any one I could ask!" There was One,
and though aid was feebly asked, it was granted; and with much fear and
anxiety, Louis declined accompanying the party to A---- church the next
morning.
Vernon stared, and Reginald tried in vain to persuade him to alter his
mind,--but he stood firm, and turning away from them, afraid to trust
himself, stayed up stairs till the castle chapel bells began to ring,
and then hastened down with a happy, free, and light heart, to join
his mother.
"Hey-day, Louis!" exclaimed his grandfather; "I thought you were off
long ago. You're too late: the carriage has been gone this hour. What's
the meaning of these late hours, sir?"
"I was up quite early, grandfather," said Louis.
"Then how was it you let them go without you?"
"Because I had rather not go, sir," said Louis, with a heightened color.
"And pray why could you not say so sooner?--you are the most uncertain
fellow;--not the smallest dependence ever to be placed upon you. Do you
know your own mind, Mr. Louis?"
"Not always at first," replied Louis, in a low tone.
"Hold up your head and speak out. And pray why has your weather-cock
mind changed? What new wind has blown you round now, eh?"
"It's Sunday, grandpapa," said Louis, looking up at his mother with
a distressed face.
"Well! Is the boy moon-struck? '_It's Sunday, grandpapa._' Don't you
suppose I know that?"
"I didn't think it was quite right, sir, to go to A---- church when we
had one so near us."
"Just as you please," said Sir George, contemptuously--"just as you
please, Master Louis; only do not expect me to plan any thing for your
pleasure again."
"I am very much obliged, grandpapa--you don't understand me."
"Oh, we understand each other very well, sir," said his grandfather,
turning off very haughtily.
As he passed Mr. Mortimer he said,
"This comes of _molly-coddling_ that boy at home; you'll make
a Methodist of him."
What answer Mr. Mortimer made, Louis could not hear, and the next
moment they all went into the chapel.
Many contemptuous smiles were exchanged among those of the visitors
who heard the colloquy, but Louis was comforted by an approving smile
from his parents, and from the sweet consciousness of having done what
was right. The service was very sweet to him, and the lightness of
his heart made even the inferior singing very pleasant, and he gained
something from "tedious Mr. Burton's" sermon; so much depends on the
frame of mind. Our Saviour has enjoined us to take heed _how_ we hear.
Louis had a very pleasant stroll in the park with his father after
service, and when he entered the house with a happy quiet mind, he
contrasted his feelings with those he should have had, had he been
one of the giddy party at that time returning from A----, and joyfully
thanked his heavenly Father for keeping him from dishonoring His holy
day in "seeking his own pleasure" on it.
* * * * *
The following Thursday evening Mr. Mortimer's carriage was seen coming
along the road leading to Dashwood, and at each window was a very joyful
face noting all the familiar objects around; and as the horses dashed
round a corner under a short grove of limes, the tongues belonging to
the two began to move with astonishing rapidity.
"Here's Dashwood!" cried one.
"There's the river," exclaimed the other.
"The Priory chimneys," shouted the first.
"The Grange, Reginald," cried the second.
"And Bessie Gordon in the garden,--she sees us," cried Reginald, who
had changed sides for a second. "Ann White's cottage, Louis--I saw the
old picture of Lazarus large as ever--and the sheep--and I smell hay.
Look, there's a hay-field, and Johnson with the hay-makers! Hillo,
Johnson! He sees me."
"The bells, papa! The bells, mamma!" exclaimed Louis--"Oh, it's home,
dear, sweet home! The bells are ringing because you are come home, papa;
and look, there are all the people coming out of the cottages--how glad
they seem to be!"
"Louis, Louis, here we go!" shouted Reginald, as the carriage swept
down a lane arched over with green boughs.
Presently they came to the lodge gate; but not a moment had they
to wait; it was wide open, and they could scarcely exchange marks
of recognition with the gatekeeper and family, when they were out of
sight in the long winding carriage road that led through the park.
"Welcome, welcome--home! The dear, dear old Priory," said Louis,
with increasing enthusiasm.
"Take care you are not out on the grass, Louis," said his mother,
seizing his arm.
"Here we are!" cried Reginald. "And there's Mary, the little pussy,
and sober Neville, looking out of his wits, for a wonder. Here we are!"