letter lying idly between her fingers. Very pale, she had the
appearance of one who had passed many sleepless nights. Outside, the
November sky was overcast, the rain was coming down in torrents, and
sad-looking people picked their way down the muddy lane under streaming
umbrellas to the railway-station.
Suddenly, a quick, firm footstep sounded on the little garden path, and
a boy's round face smiled in at the diamond-paned window like a ray of
bright sunshine. Mrs Gray almost ran to the door. "Bernard, you must
be drenched!" she cried.
"No, Mother, not a bit of it," he laughed, taking off his streaming
mackintosh.
"It is such a dreadful day," she said, but her face had brightened
astonishingly at the sight of her brave boy.
"Yes, but it has put a scheme--a grand scheme in my head! Wait until I
get my wet togs off and I'll tell you."
"An _experiment_?--already! oh, Bernard!" Mrs Gray laughed with actual
joy: her faith in her only son was so unquestioning.
As Bernard came downstairs, the faithful old servant was carrying in a
substantial tea for her young master. "Hullo, Dolly," he cried; "I
haven't stayed up the remainder of the term, you see."
"Ah, Mr Bernard, it's well you take it so lightly--but it's black ruin
this time and no mistake. My poor mistress has been fretting night and
day over it. Whatever is she to do?"
"Trust herself to me," said Bernard valiantly.
Dolly laughed. "Why, you ain't sixteen, Mr Bernard, and not done with
your schooling. But, as parson said, so strange-like, on Sunday, for
his text--`the only son of his mother and she was a widow'--you're all
she has left."
When Mrs Gray and her son were alone she told Bernard the whole history
of their misfortunes. An unfortunate speculation on the part of their
trustee had left them almost penniless. "There is nothing left to us,"
she said, "but this little cottage and seventeen pounds in the cash-box.
But, Bernard," she added, "I grieve over nothing but your school. You
had such a brilliant future, and so many friends."
"Oh, but there were to be so many new fellows next term--nearly all my
chums were to leave, so don't grieve over that," answered Bernard,
ignoring her words about his future. Then he explained his
"experiment."
"I have decided," he said, "to sweep a crossing."
"Sweep a crossing! Ah, that is what so many people say, but they would
never do it when it came to the point."
"It's what I mean to do," said Bernard quietly. "It's an inspiration,
Mother, I assure you. You say this cottage is freehold, is it not, and
worth--how much?"
"I have been offered one hundred pounds for it, but it is too near the
railway, and too much out of repair to be valuable."
"We shall do better than that. Do you know how many people go down this
road daily to the station since all those new villas were built?"
Mrs Gray shook her head.
"Five hundred, and the place is growing like--well, like old boots.
Now, Mother, this is my scheme. You know how bad the approach to the
station is. You know, also, that the new asphalt path from the new
blocks of houses comes to our very garden gate. Well, people can come
so far without muddying their boots. Now, our garden abuts almost on
the railway-platform, so I propose sweeping a path straight across from
the road, putting up a gate at each end, and saving people five hundred
yards of quagmire, and a good five minutes in time, and a lot of
swear-words, and my charge for all these improvements will be one
penny!"
The next morning, at half-past seven, the new path of forty yards was
swept from end to end, some of the palings were pulled down near the
railway-bank, and another small path swept up to the platform.
An old door was placed lengthwise over the front gate and painted white,
and on it, in somewhat clumsy printing, was the announcement:--"Quickest
way to Endwell Railway-Station. Dry all the way. Admission, one
penny."
About eight o'clock the business men came hurrying along under their
umbrellas, for it was still drizzling. They looked at Bernard in a
curious way and then at the signboard, but they scarcely grasped the
situation, and plunged heroically into the five hundred yards of mud.
At nine o'clock a wealthy stockbroker came panting along, late for his
train; so Bernard shouted to him: "Come my way, Mr Blunt; it will save
you five hundred yards and all that horrid mud!"
"Hullo, Gray; back from school?" he gasped. "What's the idea, eh?"
So Bernard told him his scheme in as few words as possible.
"Then I'll be your first patron, my boy," and Mr Blunt held out a
shilling. "There's your first capital."
"Only a penny," laughed Bernard, pushing back the kind hand, and
pointing to his signboard.
"Oh, we are proud," said Mr Blunt. "Well, I wish you luck! Through
you I shall catch my train, and it means a little matter to me to the
tune of three hundred pounds."
A week after this, scores of people went through Bernard's garden
morning and evening, and the whole place rang with his plucky
experiment. "Four pounds, five and sixpence for the first week, Mother;
but we will do better yet," said Bernard.
Many people came through the gates from sheer curiosity, and nearly
everyone preferred paying him the penny toll, instead of walking the
five hundred yards of uneven road, even on dry days! In the following
spring, Endwell suddenly grew into such an important place that the
railway company was compelled to enlarge the station, and a director
being informed of Bernard's experiment, and the distinct value of a
shorter approach, came to see Mrs Gray about her little property, but
she would not be "talked over" by the smart director. Then an
enterprising builder came, and made a very tempting offer. Still she
resisted. At last, however, the railway people offered a price which it
would have been folly to refuse, so Bernard was forced to give up his
"scheme."
Mrs Gray now lives in a pretty flat in South Kensington with her
faithful old Dolly, surrounded by many of her former luxuries, but she
is happiest in the possession of such a brave and noble son. Bernard's
future is assured, for he showed all the qualities that command success
in his last _experiment_.
CHAPTER TEN.
TOBY THE CLOWN, BY ANON.
Toby's the most famous clown,
In the country or the town;
Never was a laugh so ringing,
When the children hear him singing!
See, he stands upon two legs,
With his hat for coppers begs;
Do you think that you, if you
Were a dog, as much could do?
Little maid and little man,
Throw him all the pence you can!
When perhaps he'll show you how
He says "Thank you," Bow! wow! wow!
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
A CHRISTMAS PARTY, BY JOHN STRANGE WINTER.
It was getting very near Christmas-time, and all the boys at Miss Ware's
school were talking excitedly about going home for the holidays, of the
fun they would have, the presents they would receive on Christmas
morning, the tips from Grannies, Uncles, and Aunts, of the pantomimes,
the parties, the never-ending joys and pleasures which would be theirs.
"I shall go to Madame Tussaud's and to the Drury Lane pantomime," said
young Fellowes, "and my Mother will give a party, and Aunt Adelaide will
give another, and Johnny Sanderson and Mary Greville, and ever so many
others. I shall have a splendid time at home. Oh, Jim, I wish it were
all holidays, like it is when one's grown up."
"My Uncle Bob is going to give me a pair of skates--clippers," remarked
Harry Wadham.
"My Father's going to give me a bike," put in George Alderson.
"Will you bring it back to school with you?" asked Harry.
"Oh, yes, I should think so, if Miss Ware doesn't say no."
"I say, Shivers," cried Fellowes, "where are you going to spend your
holidays?"
"I'm going to stop here," answered the boy called Shivers, in a very
forlorn tone.
"Here--with old Ware?--oh, my! Why can't you go home?"
"I can't go home to India," answered Shivers. His real name, by the
bye, was Egerton--Tom Egerton.
"No--who said you could? But haven't you any relations anywhere?"
Shivers shook his head. "Only in India," he said miserably.
"Poor old chap; that's rough luck for you. Oh, I'll tell you what it
is, you fellows: if I couldn't go home for the holidays--especially
Christmas--I think I'd just sit down and die."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't," said Shivers; "you'd hate it and you'd get ever
so homesick and miserable, but you wouldn't die over it. You'd just get
through somehow, and hope something would happen before next year, or
that some kind fairy or other would--"
"Bosh! there are no fairies nowadays," said Fellowes. "See here,
Shivers: I'll write home and ask my Mother if she won't invite you to
come back with me for the holidays."
"Will you really?"
"Yes, I will: and if she says yes, we shall have such a splendid time,
because, you know, we live in London, and go to everything, and have
heaps of tips and parties and fun."
"Perhaps she will say no," suggested poor little Shivers, who had
steeled himself to the idea that there would be no Christmas holidays
for him, excepting that he would have no lessons for so many weeks.
"My Mother isn't at all the kind of woman who says no," Fellowes
declared loudly.
In a few days' time, however, a letter arrived from his Mother which he
opened eagerly.
"My own darling boy," it said, "I am so very sorry to have to tell you
that dear little Aggie is down with scarlet fever, and so you cannot
come home for your holidays, nor yet bring your young friend with you,
as I would have loved you to do if all had been well here. Your Aunt
Adelaide would have had you there, but her two girls have both got
scarlatina--and I believe Aggie got hers there, though, of course, poor
Aunt Adelaide could not help it. I did think about your going to Cousin
Rachel's. She most kindly offered to invite you, but, dear boy, she is
an old lady, and so particular, and not used to boys, and she lives so
far from anything which is going on that you would be able to go to
nothing; so your Father and I came to the conclusion that the very best
thing that you could do under the circumstances is for you to stay at
Miss Ware's and for us to send your Christmas to you as well as we can.
It won't be like being at home, darling boy, but you will try and be
happy--won't you, and make me feel that you are helping me in this
dreadful time.
"Dear little Aggie is very ill, very ill indeed. We have two nurses.
Nora and Connie are shut away in the morning-room and to the back stairs
and their own rooms with Miss Ellis, and have not seen us since the dear
child was first taken ill. Tell your young friend that I am sending you
a hamper from Buzzard's, with double of everything, and I am writing to
Miss Ware to ask her to take you both to anything that may be going on
in Cross Hampton. And tell him that it makes me so much happier to
think that you won't be alone.
"Your Own Mother.
"This letter will smell queer, darling: it will be fumigated before
posting."
It must be owned that when Bertie Fellowes received this letter, which
was neither more nor less than a shattering of all his Christmas hopes
and joys, that he fairly broke down, and, hiding his face upon his arms
as they rested on his desk, sobbed aloud.
The forlorn boy from India, who sat next to him, tried every boyish
means of consolation that he could think of. He patted his shoulder,
whispered many pitying words, and, at last, flung his arm across him and
hugged him tightly, as, poor little chap, he himself many times since
his arrival in England had wished someone would do to him. At last
Bertie Fellowes thrust his Mother's letter into his friend's hand.
"Read it," he sobbed.
So Shivers made himself master of Mrs Fellowes' letter and understood
the cause of the boy's outburst of grief.
"Old fellow," he said at last, "don't fret over it. It might be worse.
Why, you might be like me, with your Father and Mother thousands of
miles away. When Aggie is better, you'll be able to go home--and it'll
help your Mother if she thinks you are almost as happy as if you were at
home. It must be worse for her--she has cried ever so over this
letter--see, it's all tear-blots."
The troubles and disappointments of youth are bitter while they last,
but they soon pass, and the sun shines again. By the time Miss Ware,
who was a kind-hearted, sensible, pleasant woman, came to tell Fellowes
how sorry she was for him and his disappointment, the worst had gone by,
and the boy was resigned to what could not be helped.
"Well, after all, one man's meat is another man's poison," she said,
smiling down on the two boys; "poor Tom has been looking forward to
spending his holidays all alone with us, and now he will have a friend
with him. Try to look on the bright side, Bertie, and to remember how
much worse it would have been if there had been no boy to stay with
you."
"I can't help being disappointed, Miss Ware," said Bertie, his eyes
filling afresh and his lips quivering.
"No, dear boy; you would be anything but a nice boy if you were not.
But I want you to try and think of your poor Mother, who is full of
trouble and anxiety, and to write to her as brightly as you can, and
tell her not to worry about you more than she can help."
"Yes," said Bertie; but he turned his head away, and it was evident to
the school-mistress that his heart was too full to let him say more.
Still, he was a good boy, Bertie Fellowes, and when he wrote home to his
Mother it was quite a bright every-day letter, telling her how sorry he
was about Aggie, and detailing a few of the ways in which he and Shivers
meant to spend their holidays. His letter ended thus:--
"Shivers got a letter from his Mother yesterday with three pounds in it:
if you happen to see Uncle Dick, will you tell him I want a `Waterbury'
dreadfully?"
The last day of the term came, and one by one, or two by two, the
various boys went away, until at last only Bertie Fellowes and Shivers
were left in the great house. It had never appeared so large to either
of them before. The schoolroom seemed to have grown to about the size
of a church; the dining-room, set now with only one table, instead of
three, was not like the same; while the dormitory, which had never
before had any room to spare, was like a wilderness. To Bertie Fellowes
it was all dreary and wretched--to the boy from India, who knew no other
house in England, no other thought came than that it was a blessing that
he had one companion left.
"It is miserable," groaned poor Bertie, as they strolled into the great
echoing schoolroom after a lonely tea, set at one corner of the smallest
of the three dining-tables; "just think if we had been on our way home
now--how different!"
"Just think if I had been left here by myself," said Shivers, and he
gave a shudder which fully justified his name.
"Yes--but--" began Bertie, then shamefacedly and with a blush, added:
"you know, when one wants to go home ever so badly, one never thinks
that some chaps haven't got a home to go to."
The evening went by; discipline was relaxed entirely, and the two boys
went to bed in the top empty dormitory, and told stories to each other
for a long time before they went to sleep. That night Bertie Fellowes
dreamt of Madame Tussaud's and the great pantomime at Drury Lane, and
poor Shivers of a long creeper-covered bungalow far away in the shining
East, and they both cried a little under the bed-clothes. Yet each put
a brave face on their desolate circumstances to each other, and so
another day began.
This was the day before Christmas Eve, that delightful day of
preparation for the greatest festival in all the year--the day when in
most households there are many little mysteries afoot, when parcels come
and go, and are smothered away so as to be ready when Santa Claus comes
his rounds; when some are busy decking the rooms with holly and
mistletoe; when the cook is busiest of all, and savoury smells rise from
the kitchen, telling of good things to be eaten on the morrow.
There were some preparations on foot at Minchin House, though there was
not the same bustle and noise as is to be found in a large family. And
quite early in the morning came the great hamper which Mrs Fellowes had
spoken of in her letter to Bertie. Then just as the early dinner had
come to an end, and Miss Ware was telling the two boys that she would
take them round the town to look at the shops, there was a tremendous
peal at the bell of the front door, and a voice was heard asking for
Master Egerton. In a trice Shivers had sprung to his feet, his face
quite white, his hands trembling, and the next moment the door was
thrown open, and a tall, handsome lady came in, to whom he flew with a
sobbing cry of: "Aunt Laura! Aunt Laura!"
Aunt Laura explained in less time than it takes me to write this, that
her husband, Colonel Desmond, had had left to him a large fortune, and
that they had come as soon as possible to England, having, in fact, only
arrived in London the previous day.
"I was so afraid, Tom darling," she said, in ending, "that we should not
get here till Christmas Day was over, and I was so afraid you might be
disappointed, that I would not let Mother tell you that we were on our
way home. I have brought a letter from Mother to Miss Ware--and you
must get your things packed up at once and come back with me by the
six-o'clock train to town. Then Uncle Jack and I will take you
everywhere, and give you a splendid time, you dear little chap, here all
by yourself."
For a minute or two Shivers' face was radiant; then he caught sight of
Bertie's down-drooped mouth, and turned to his Aunt.
"Dear Aunt Laura," he said, holding her hand very fast with his own,
"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't go."
"Can't go? and why not?"
"Because I can't go and leave Fellowes here all alone," he said stoutly,
though he could scarcely keep a suspicious quaver out of his voice.
"When I was going to be alone, Fellowes wrote and asked his Mother to
let me go home with him, and she couldn't, because his sister has got
scarlet fever, and they daren't have either of us; and he's got to stay
here--and he's never been away at Christmas before--and--and--I can't go
away and leave him by himself, Aunt Laura--and--"
For the space of a moment or so, Mrs Desmond stared at the boy as if
she could not believe her ears; then she caught hold of him and half
smothered him with kisses.
"Bless you, you dear little chap, you shall not leave him; you shall
bring him along and we'll all enjoy ourselves together. What's his
name?--Bertie Fellowes. Bertie, my man, you are not very old yet, so
I'm going to teach you a lesson as well as ever I can--it is that
kindness is never wasted in this world. I'll go out now and telegraph
to your Mother--I don't suppose she will refuse to let you come with
us."
A couple of hours later she returned in triumph, waving a telegram to
the two excited boys.
"God bless you, yes, with all our hearts," it ran; "you have taken a
load off our minds."
And so Bertie Fellowes and Shivers found that there was such a thing as
a fairy after all.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
HAGGART'S LIE, BY GERALDINE GLASGOW.
Crawley Major was talking very impressively in the great class-room of
Felton College. Even the few slow boys who were still mumbling over
their Latin grammar for next day had one ear pricked up to hear what he
was saying. "I'll tell you what it is," said Crawley Major, addressing
them generally: "the Doctor is in a furious wax, and he will be pretty
free with his canings and impositions to-morrow. I just happened to be
taking a message to Barclay, when he comes fussing in, not seeing me,
and just _swells_ up to Barclay, _purple_ with rage. `Somebody has had
the boat out on the river again, Mr Barclay,' he says, `notwithstanding
my orders and all the fines and punishments I have imposed, and I'm
determined to find out who it is.' Then he saw me and turned purple
again. `Now, Crawley, you have heard what I said, and you can just
return to the class-room and tell your companions that I shall come down
in half an hour, and I intend to have the truth about that boat if I
have to keep every boy in the school under punishment for the next
month;' so here I am."
"Oh, stop that, Crawley," said a bright, handsome lad, who was standing
on the table so as to get a better view of the proceedings. "The
Doctor's not often in a wax, and it's no joke when he is. I didn't
think there was a fellow in the school would have touched the boat after
what he said last time."
All the boys hurled themselves at the table from which Haggart had been
giving out his opinions, and there was a general shout of: "No!"
"It _must_ be all right," said Haggart again. He was looking carelessly
round, and he suddenly caught sight of a frightened face a long way
beneath him. "Don't be in such a funk, Harry," he said good-humouredly.
"It will all come right in the end! The Doctor's awfully hard
sometimes, but he's always just--eh, Crawley?"
"He canes you first, and he's just afterwards," said Crawley grimly.
The little boy shivered, and, when he tried to speak, his teeth
chattered. "Does--does he cane very hard?"
"Oh, dear, yes," said Crawley mischievously; "you don't forget it for
some days, I can tell you! Just look at little Parker," he went on,
pointing to the child's terrified face: "wouldn't any unprejudiced
person think he had done it himself?"
"Oh, no, no," cried the boy angrily, "how dare you say so? How could I?
What would I want with a boat?"
"Reserve your defence for the Doctor, sir," said Crawley impressively.
Something in the boy's piteous eagerness had attracted Haggart's
attention, and he turned and looked at him sharply. His eyes were wide
open and had a terrified look, and his thin lips were trembling, his
small childish hand was fidgeting with the buttons of his coat.
First, a breath of suspicion came to Haggart, and a great rush of pity
and contempt; then, as the child's eyes seemed to rise unwillingly to
his, the secret leaped from one heart to the other, and he knew. His
lips curled disdainfully, and he jumped off the table, hustling his
little band of followers out of the way.
"There's the Doctor," he said; "let me pass."
All the boys stood up as the master majestically moved over to the
fireplace and kicked the logs into a blaze. Then he faced round
suddenly, and spoke in his peculiarly clear, decisive tones. "There has
been an act of great disobedience perpetrated here during the last
twenty-four hours," he said. "Crawley overheard me speaking on the
subject to Mr Barclay, and has probably told you what it is. I had, as
you all know, given strict orders that the boat was not to be taken on
the river by any of the boys, and this morning it was found outside the
boathouse tied to a stake. There is no doubt that one of my boys did
this, and the only reparation he can make is to own his fault at once,
and take the punishment!"
There was dead silence.
One heart in the room was beating like a sledge-hammer against the Eton
jacket that enclosed it, but no one spoke. Only Haggart turned his
head, and looked again at the fourth-form boys, and as if they were
under a spell, the grey eyes, full of terrified entreaty, were lifted to
his. He tried to forget the look. He wished he could make that foolish
chap understand that a caning was nothing, after all! All fellows worth
their salt got caned at school. Well, after all, he had to take his
chance with the others, but he wished he would not keep looking across
at _him_ in that beastly way, as if _he_ had the keeping of his
conscience!
"Well?" said the Doctor.
But no one spoke.
"I am sorry," said the Doctor more quietly, "that the boy who did it has
not had the courage to own up, but I will give him another chance. I
will take every boy's separate answer, and, after that, the whole school
will be kept in the playground until the end of the term, unless the
guilty boy will take the punishment on himself."
Haggart's face was very anxious as he, too, leant forth to see the
fourth-form fellows, but all he could catch a sight of was a smooth,
fair head that had drooped very low.
The Doctor, with a disappointed face, turned to the senior class. "It
seems hardly necessary to go through the form," he said. "I think I can
count on my senior boys. You, Crawley? You, Brown? You, Haggart?"
"I did it," said Haggart, in a clear, loud voice, and the Doctor's
outstretched finger fell.
"You, Haggart--_you_?" he said, in an incredulous voice. "Impossible!
You?" said the Doctor again.
"Yes, sir."