On went the talk and laughter. Two or three of the little boys in the
long dormitory were already in bed, sitting up with their chins on
their knees. The light burned clear, the noise went on. It was a trying
moment for Arthur, the poor little lonely boy; however, this time he
didn’t ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees
by his bedside, as he had done every day from his childhood, to open
his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth the sorrows of the
tender child, and the strong man in agony....
There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to
heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow
of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories
which chased one another through his brain kept him from thinking or
resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep
himself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the
thought of his own mother came across him, and the promise he had made
at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside, and
give himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow,
from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently and cried as if
his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.
It was no light act of courage in those days for a little fellow to say
his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later, when Arnold’s
manly piety had begun to leaven the school, the tables turned; before
he died, in the school-house, at least, and I believe in the other
houses, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to school in
other times. The first few nights after he came he did not kneel down
because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was out, and
then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one should find
him out. So did many another poor little fellow. Then he began to think
that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and then it didn’t
matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, or lying down. And so it
had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not confess their Lord
before men; and for the last year he had probably not said his prayers
in earnest a dozen times.
Poor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling which was likely to break his
heart was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which
he loathed was brought in and burned in on his own soul. He had lied to
his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it? And
then the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned
for his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not
do. The first dawn of comfort came to him in swearing to himself that
he would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him, and
help him, and bear his burdens, for the good deed done that night. Then
he resolved to write home next day and tell his mother all, and what
a coward her son had been. And then peace came to him, as he resolved
lastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would be harder
than the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not afford to
let one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the devil showed
him first all his old friends calling him “Saint” and “Square-toes,”
and a dozen hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be
misunderstood, and he would only be misunderstood, and he would only be
left alone with the new boy; whereas it was his duty to keep all means
of influence, that he might do good to the largest number. And then
came the more subtle temptation, “Shall I not be showing myself braver
than others by doing this? Have I any right to begin it now? Ought I
not rather to pray in my own study, letting other boys know that I do
so, and trying to lead them to it, while in public at least I should go
on as I have done?” However, his good angel was too strong that night,
and he turned on his side and slept, tired of trying to reason, but
resolved to follow the impulse which had been so strong, and in which
he had found peace.
Next morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his jacket and
waistcoat, just as the ten minutes’ bell began to ring, and then in
the face of the whole room knelt down to pray. Not five words could
he say—the bell mocked him; he was listening for every whisper in
the room—what were they all thinking of him? He was ashamed to go on
kneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees. At last, as it were from his
inmost heart, a still small voice seemed to breathe forth the words of
the publican, “God be merciful to me a sinner!” He repeated them over
and over, clinging to them as for his life, and rose from his knees
comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole world. It was not
needed: two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his example,
and he went down to the great school with a glimmering of another
lesson in his heart—the lesson that he who has conquered his own coward
spirit has conquered the whole outward world; and that other one which
the old prophet learned in the cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his
face, and the still small voice asked, “What doest thou here, Elijah,”
that however we may fancy ourselves alone on the side of good, the King
and Lord of men is nowhere without his witnesses; for in every society,
however seemingly corrupt and godless, there are those who have not
bowed the knee to Baal.