It was Saturday night when the manuscripts were delivered to the
doctor, and it was not till Monday that the absence of Hamilton's
poem was discovered. As much of Sunday as he was able, Louis spent
with Casson, trying to discover what could have become of the poem,
and in devising all manner of schemes for its recovery and restoration.
Little comfort he received from his tempter--Casson alternately laughed
at his fears, and blamed his cowardice--and, in order to escape this,
Louis affected to be indifferent to the consequences, concealing his
heaviness of heart under assumed mirth and unconcern. He had lately
spent many cold, careless Sabbaths, but one so utterly wretched as
this he could not remember.
The boys had just left the dining-room on Monday, after dinner, when
a summons to the doctor's study came for Hamilton. As this was not an
uncommon occurrence, Hamilton betrayed neither curiosity nor uneasiness,
but quietly gave a few directions to his little brother, and then
leisurely left the room. He was soon in the presence of Dr. Wilkinson,
Mr. James Wilkinson, and an old gentleman who had a day or two before
been examining his class, and who usually assisted in the half-yearly
examinations. The countenances of these gentlemen were not very
promising, and he instantly saw that something unpleasant might
be expected. Before the doctor lay a number of folded papers, which
Hamilton recognized as the poems under consideration, and in his
hand was a blank sheet of paper, the envelope of which had fallen
on the floor.
"Mr. Hamilton," said the doctor, "I have sent for you to explain
this strange affair. Pray can you tell me what was in this envelope?"
He stooped, and, picking up the paper as he spoke, handed it to Hamilton.
"My poem, sir," replied Hamilton, quietly.
"You are sure that is your writing?"
"Quite," said Hamilton, confidently.
"I have been able to discover nothing more than this," said the doctor,
with something like annoyance in his tone. "I do not know whether you
have been writing with invisible ink. This is a mistake, Hamilton,"
he added, turning the blank sheet in all directions. "Where is your
poem?"
"That in _my_ envelope, sir!" exclaimed Hamilton, reddening to the roots
of his hair. "In _my_ envelope!" he reiterated, taking up the envelope
and re-examining it in a state of tremulous excitement. "I _cannot_ have
made such a mistake--it is utterly impossible."
"I should say so--impossible, unconsciously, to make so great a mistake,"
said the old gentleman.
"And equally so, sir, to make it _consciously_," replied Hamilton.
"But where is the poem?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.
"I expected it was here," said Hamilton--"and, as it is not, I cannot
answer that question, sir." He again turned over the paper, but could
find no clue to the mystery.
"Is the paper the same as you used?" asked Mr. James.
"It is," replied Hamilton; "and the seal is my own, as well as
the writing."
"What is the seal?" asked Dr. Berry, the old gentleman.
"E.H. It belongs to this pencil-case," answered Hamilton, producing
his pencil-case. "I always carry it about with me."
"That's awkward again," said Dr. Berry, exchanging a look with Mr. James.
"Have you never left your pencil-case about lately, nor lent it to any
one?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.
Hamilton considered.
"I believe I left it with all my things on the class-room table
last Friday, when I went out with you, sir."
"Ah!" said Dr. Berry, "what did you leave there?"
"Some writing-paper, pens, a few books, and my poem, which I had
just finished."
"That was careless of you, Hamilton," said Dr. Wilkinson.
"I had only just sealed it in time to run after you, sir," replied
Hamilton; "and, as every one was out, I thought there could be no
harm in leaving them there till I returned."
"How much paper did you leave there?" asked Mr. James.
"About half a quire."
"_About_ half a quire; then, I suppose, you do not know whether
any of that paper was taken while you were away?"
"No, I do not," replied Hamilton. "If any one changed it, it must
have been then; as, after I came home, it was locked up in my own
writing-desk till Saturday evening."
"It might have been changed on the way," suggested Mr. James.
Hamilton was silent for a few seconds, when he answered:
"I do not think so; for I am sure this is my writing: I must
unwittingly have directed an empty packet."
"Unless," said Dr. Wilkinson, quietly, "some one has imitated
your writing?"
"I only know one who could," replied Hamilton, coloring; "and, I
am confident, he was not the party: besides, sir, I do not think
there was time, between Norman's departure and his return, to have
done it, and that was the only time any one would have had after
I had directed it. I did not direct it till Saturday evening."
"But you said the boys were all out at the same time with yourself;
and, in fact, I know they were: I saw them going in as we turned
into the playground," said Dr. Wilkinson. "Did no one stay at home?
Stay--_Friday_--Digby was at home; I remember he pleaded his cold."
Dr. Wilkinson looked down on the paper he held: there was a strong
expression of suspicion in his countenance. The other gentlemen
exchanged looks, and Mr. James remarked, that he considered Frank
the probable culprit.
"I am glad he does not hear you say so, sir," exclaimed Hamilton. "I
am sure Digby would sooner put his own on the fire! I'd trust Frank's
honor as much as my own; and, I am sure, sir," he added, turning to
Dr. Wilkinson, "_you_ know Frank too well."
To Hamilton's annoyance, Dr. Wilkinson did not reply immediately.
"Frank is too fond of practical jokes," he said, at last; "I wish I
could give him a lesson he would remember. He will never be cured till
it touches him severely."
"But Frank would not joke on this, sir," expostulated Hamilton.
"If he were not so high it might be so, but I'm sure it is not now."
"Well, there is no time now to consider of this any more," said
Dr. Wilkinson, getting up. "I could bring forward many instances
of Digby's disregard of feelings and appearances when his fancy
for joking interferes. Dr. Berry, will you be kind enough to attend
to these for me, this afternoon? I shall be glad to call upon you
on Wednesday for my second class, if you can spare me the day."
Dr. Berry signified his ready acquiescence; and Dr. Wilkinson turned
to Hamilton:
"It is just school-time," he said; "but I wish you, after school,
to make a search in every desk for your poem. I do not imagine it
is destroyed. Mr. James will assist you. In the mean time, in the
event of your poem not being discovered, you had better rewrite it
as well as you can; I will give you till nine o'clock on the last
morning."
Hamilton bowed, thanked his master, and retired, exceedingly
uncomfortable. His own loss was slight compared with the vexation
he felt at any suspicion of Frank's honor being raised. A very
different surmise would now and then try to rise in his own mind,
but was vigorously opposed as ungenerous in the extreme. An idea
of the real culprit never once occurred to him, nor to any other
person. The first class being disengaged that afternoon, Hamilton
employed himself with the new edition of his poem, but his thoughts
wandered; and, had it not been for a good memory and the force of
habitual concentration, he would have found it almost impossible
to resume a task he had considered as finished, in circumstances
so very disagreeable to him.
As soon as the business of the day was concluded Dr. Wilkinson
commanded every one to remain in his place, and then desired Hamilton
to begin the search, carefully refraining from mentioning the object
in quest. There was considerable excitement in the school when the
doctor's command was made known, and it was strictly enforced, that
no one should touch the desks till after the search had been made.
"Frank Digby, come here!" shouted the doctor from his post. "Did I not
desire that none of those desks should be touched at present?"
"I was only putting my slate away, sir," said Frank, in much amazement.
"I will not have your desk touched; stay here."
"What's in the wind?" muttered Jones, sulkily. "The magister's in
a splendid humor. What do you want in my desk, Hamilton?"
"A trick has been played on me," said Hamilton, hastily; "my poem has
been exchanged; but--" he added, hesitating, "I cannot bear this."
"Nonsense, Hamilton!" said Mr. James, who was turning over the contents
of Jones's desk. "There is nothing there."
"Stand back, and let Hamilton look, pray!" exclaimed Reginald Mortimer.
"What a shame it is!--you don't suspect _us_, Hamilton?"
"_To be sure not!_" said Hamilton, warmly; "but I am desired to do this."
"So much the better," said Salisbury; "you'll find mine locked, but here
are my keys: we'll go up to the doctor. I say, Hamilton, don't upset my
bottle of lemon kali, or my blue ink; you mightn't see them, perhaps,
among the other things."
Hamilton took the keys with some embarrassment, and the first class
moved in a body to the upper end of the room, where they remained
till every desk had been subjected to a fruitless ransacking.
Louis' state of mind may be easily imagined. He had guessed the reason
of the doctor's command the instant it was given; and had also heard
the few words that passed between Hamilton and his friends. Oh! what
would he have given that he had considered before he committed such
folly! He could not bear to face Hamilton, and yet he must be near him
when his own desk was examined, for he dared not move from his place.
He had looked carefully there himself, but still he was afraid it might,
by chance, be there. He hardly dared look round, for fear he should
betray his secret; and yet his distress sadly longed for vent. "I did
not mean to do any harm," was his reiterated thought; "I am sure, I
thought it was a letter--I did not mean it." And then he wished to
confess his fault; but, with his usual vacillation of purpose, he
deferred it, till he should see how things went. It did seem strange
that, with all the lessons he had had, he should have put off his
confession; yet he dared not, and tried to quiet his conscience with,
"I shall tell Hamilton alone;" and, "It's no use telling, when I can't
find the poem." But his trouble was tenfold increased when Hamilton
and Mr. James came near him, and finding his desk locked, inquired
who's it was, and where the keys were.
Hamilton remarked in a low tone, not aware that Louis was so near,
"I suppose for form's sake we must look, but I am sure, poor fellow,
he has nothing to do with it."
Louis just then handed his key; and, as Hamilton's hand came in contact
with his, he was struck by its cold clamminess, and just looking at him,
noticed the troubled expression, and the almost tearful eyes that were
fixed on him. He attributed Louis' anxiety to his natural timidity, as
well as to his having probably overheard the remark on himself; and his
heart smote him, for he still loved him, and had felt once or twice
lately, that he had not done his duty towards him.
The poem was not found. Louis ran out into the playground, despite the
cold and twilight, to cry; and hurried in again in a few minutes, for
fear of discovery. The members of the first class gathered round Hamilton
to learn the story and to condole with him, and even Trevannion made some
remark on the shamefulness of such a trick.
"I am sure, whoever gets the prize will not feel comfortable unless your
poem is found and compared," said Frank; "write away, Hamilton; no one
shall disturb you. I don't wonder Fudge was in such a passion."
Louis was very glad when bed-time came, and he could hide his tears and
misery under the bed-clothes. Reginald had been too busy to notice that
any thing was the matter with him; but Hamilton, occupied as he was, had
seen it, though Louis had kept out of his way as much as possible. He
dared not tell Reginald his trouble; and he felt afraid to pray--he did
not remember that, though our Heavenly Father knows all our thoughts and
wants, He requires that all our care and sin should be poured out before
Him. The Christian does not love sin; and when, through unwatchfulness
or neglect of prayer, he has been betrayed into the commission of it,
let him remember, that He alone can remove it and restore peace to his
wounded conscience, who has said, "Return, ye backsliding children, and
I will heal your backslidings."
* * * * *
Louis got on very ill the next Wednesday, and Reginald, extremely vexed,
spoke very angrily to him. Louis answered as unkindly, and walked proudly
away from him to the other end of the school-room, where, in spite of
his abhorrence of such company, he was soon surrounded by his worst
companions. Hamilton was standing near Reginald at the time; he watched
Louis in his proud descent, and saw that, though he turned away with
an erect head and high words, his step soon grew more listless, and an
expression of indefinable weariness usurped the place of the independence
he had assumed.
"Louis is unwell, I am sure, Reginald," he said.
"He is well enough," said Reginald, abruptly; "but he is sadly altered:
I never saw a boy so changed. He is quite ill-tempered now, and so
horridly idle. Why, Hamilton, you'd never believe that in to-day's
examination in _Prometheus Vinctus_, he got down below Harris!--he's
positively at the bottom. He hardly answered any thing, and seemed
quite stupefied."
"The more reason to think he's not well," said Hamilton; "for, to my
certain knowledge, he would have stood an examination on Prometheus
better than that, a week after we came back. Why, Harris and Peters,
and half the rest, are not to be compared with him."
"I know it," said Reginald; "and that makes it the more vexatious.
It's bad enough to think that Clifton should get ahead of him,
but one may comfort one's self in the idea of his genius; but when
it comes to those donkeyfied ignorami, it is past endurance. He
has not tried a bit: I have seen him lately with his book before
him, dreaming about some wonderful story of some enchanted ass, or
some giantess Mamouka, I suppose; or imagining some new ode to some
incomprehensible, un-come-at-able Dulcinea. He is always shutting
himself up in his air-castles, and expecting that dry Latin and Greek,
and other such miserable facts, will penetrate his atmosphere."
"Don't be angry with him; something is the matter. You only drive
him to herd with those boys," said Hamilton. "Look there!--there
they are!--oh, Reginald! it is not right to leave him with them."
"Speak to him yourself, Hamilton," said Reginald, a little sobered.
"He will mind you. You have had a great deal to bear with him, but
I know you make allowances."
Hamilton did not reply, but he had determined on making the effort to
detach Louis from his evil counsellors, when the latter suddenly left
the room with Casson, and did not return till Hamilton had gone into
the class-room.
Casson was the only one to whom Louis could relieve his mind on the
subject that weighed him down so heavily--and he had, at the time
Hamilton was watching him so intently, been whispering some of his
fears, only to be laughed at. Suddenly he paused--"Casson, just come
with me; I think I recollect--yes, surely--"
He did not wait to conclude his sentence, but, pulling Casson into the
hall, sought his great-coat, dived to the bottom of the pocket, and,
to his great joy, drew forth Hamilton's poem.
"It's here! it's here! it's here!" he cried. "How could I have put it
here without knowing? Oh, my dear Casson, I am _so_ glad!"
"Well, what now?" said Casson, rudely. "What good is it? What do you
mean to do with it?"
"Give it back, of course--I think Hamilton will forgive me, and if not,
I _must_ give it back to him, and then, perhaps, I shall be happy
again; for I have not been happy for a long, long while: I have been
very wrong," he added, in a low, sorrowful tone.
"If ever I saw such a sap in my life," said Casson; "this comes of
all your fine boasting; a nice fellow you are--why you're afraid
of your own shadow! Do you know what you'll get if you give it back?"
"Whatever happens," said Louis, "I feel I have done wrong--wrong in
listening to you, too, Casson. Oh, if ever it please God to make me
happy again, I hope I shall be more careful! I have been afraid to
do right--I am afraid to think of all that has happened lately."
"I always thought you were a canting hypocrite," said Casson,
sneeringly. "I never see that you religious people do any better
than any one else. Go and get a thrashing, as you deserve, for
your cowardice, only don't tell any lies about me. Remember it
was all your own doing."
Casson opened the hall-door as he spoke, and ran into the playground,
where most of the boys had assembled, the weather having cleared a
little for the first time for the last two days.
Louis sat down on a chair to think what he should do, and the
long-restrained tears coursed slowly down his face. His first
and best thought was to go at once to Hamilton, acknowledge his
fault, and restore the poem. Then came the idea of renewed disgrace,
and his head sunk lower on his breast, and the parcel fell from his
powerless hands. So intense was his grief, that he was as unconscious
that Dr. Wilkinson passed through the hall while he sat there, as that
he had heard the conversation between himself and Casson; for, unknown
to them both, he had been in a recess of the hall, nearly covered by
the cloaks and coats, looking there for something in a little corner
closet. Louis at last took up the paper, and went to Hamilton's room;
but a servant was there, and he did not like to leave it. Next he
thought of the doctor's study, but he dared not venture to approach
it. At length, after wandering about from the bed-room to the
lass-room door several times, he ventured to peep into the latter
room, and, throwing the parcel in, ran to the playground as fast
as his feet could carry him.