“I am quite sure of that,” said Mrs. Paget. “But how came your perfect Mr. Hamilton to choose such a friend?”
“I have often wondered,” said Louis; “and last Saturday, when that happened that I told you of just now, and Hamilton (he is so kind) said he wouldn't give me up for anybody, he said he thought he made Trevannion his friend because he was too lazy to find another for himself.”
“Too lazy to find another?” repeated Mrs. Paget.
“Hamilton does not like taking trouble, generally,” said Louis; “it is his greatest fault, I think. He takes things as they come. I have often wished he would concern himself a little more about the wrong things that go on among us. You know it would be of no use my speaking about them, though I try sometimes; it is so much easier to do right when the great boys support you.”
“So it is, dear,” said Mrs. Paget, kindly.
Mrs. Norman had scarcely spoken during the whole conversation, though she had once or twice laid down her work and looked very gravely at Louis; but he had not noticed it; for he was so elated with himself, and the relations of his own importance at school, and the idea of his superiority above his school-fellows, that there was no room for any thing else in his head, and he went on with the firm conviction that both the ladies were, like every one else, extremely delighted and interested in him and his sentiments. There had been another auditor in the room almost ever since the beginning of the long chat, and that was Henry Norman, who, when he had seen his horse and lunched, entered the room unperceived by Louis or Mrs. Paget, and passed noiselessly along to the furthest window, where he sat, with a book, hid by the curtains from a careless glance. A few words caught his ear as he was finding out his place; and, whether the matter of the first page required deep consideration and digestion or not, we cannot pretend to determine, not knowing the nature of the chosen volume, but it is certain that that leaf was not turned over that afternoon, and the eyes that professed to convey its meaning to the mind of the reader not unfrequently wandered on the hills in the distant prospect, or, on being recalled, on the nearer objects of Mrs. Paget's sofa—the skein of silk and the pair of hands, which were the only portions visible to him of the loquacious little visitor. That he was listening with interest of an equivocal nature might be gathered from the frequent, impatient knitting of the brow, biting of the lips, and sudden laying down of the book altogether; but there he sat till Louis, having flown off from Hamilton to the general school failings, had finished relating the history of Frank Digby's memorable Saturday night's exploit, and concluded by an emphatic delivery of his upright sentiments on the heinousness of practical jokes. He paused a minute to take breath, after a Philippic that elicited a small dose of flattery from Mrs. Paget, and, with a face flushed with satisfaction and excitement, stooped to pick up a fallen pair of scissors, when Mrs. Norman, laying down her work looked again at him and uttered a sound indicative of an intention of speaking. This time Louis was fully aware of an expression in her countenance far from satisfactory, but she had not time to express her sentiments, for at this moment Reginald was announced, and a general move took place. Henry Norman came forward and welcomed him, and then took him and Louis out on the Crescent till dinner-time. Here they were joined by some of Norman's acquaintances, whom he introduced to his visitors. Louis thought uncomfortably, for a few minutes, of Mrs. Norman's look of disapprobation; but he persuaded himself that there was nothing meant by it, and soon became very lively. There was something he did not like about Norman, who, though perfectly well-bred and attentive, showed a degree of indifference and disregard to any thing he said or did, that did not altogether suit Louis' present state of mind. If Louis addressed him, he listened very politely, but with a slight, sarcastic smile, and either returned a very short and cool reply, or, if the remark did not require one, an inclination of the head, and turned immediately to one of his other companions. Reginald did not much fancy him; but, upon the whole, they managed to pass the time very pleasantly till they were summoned to dinner.
Several persons came in in the evening, and Louis was called upon by Mrs. Paget to sing, “Where the bee sucks.” This led to other songs, and Louis attracted the notice of a musical gentleman, who was much pleased with him, and who gave him a general invitation to his house. Louis was in the midst of his thanks when Reginald summoned him to go home, and, in spite of Mrs. Paget's remonstrances and offers of her carriage, carried his point.
“Well, Louis, how did you get on?” said Reginald, as they were walking home; “I think you must have been dreadfully bored with holding skeins and talking fine for Mrs. Paget's edification for two hours at least, to say nothing of all the stuffing you have had this evening.”
“Oh! I have been very happy,” said Louis. “Do you know Mr. Fraser has invited me to his musical parties?”
“I wish you joy, I am sure. What a nice woman Mrs. Norman seems!”
“Yes,” said Louis, doubtfully.
“Yes—that sounds very much like no,” said Reginald.
“I did not mean it.” Louis recalled her manner lately towards him, and mentally went over the conversation of the day.
“Well, what's the matter?” asked Reginald.
“I am afraid I have been very foolish; I talk so foolishly sometimes, Reginald—I said so many foolish things this afternoon. I don't think Mrs. Norman likes me.”
“Rubbish! stuff and nonsense! Just like you, Louis, always imagining somebody's displeased with you—I won't hear a word more; I have no patience with you.”
“Then you don't think she seemed vexed with me?”
“Not I; and if she were, what's the odds? What difference need she make in your happiness? What a wretched creature you'll make of yourself, Louis, if you think so much of the opinion of every one—a person, too, you may never see again.”
Louis was relieved, and talked on other matters with his brother till they reached home. He was a little annoyed to hear that Hamilton had expressed considerable vexation at his going with Mrs. Norman before afternoon school, and this, combined with the excitement and vanity under which he labored, disturbed considerably the tranquillity of his slumbers, and prevented his earnestly seeking that aid he so much needed.
Chapter XVIII.
“A talebearer revealeth secrets; but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.”—Prov. xi. 13.
“He that covereth a transgression seeketh love, but he that repeateth a matter separateth very friends.”—Prov. xvii. 9.
“When pride cometh, then cometh shame.”—Prov. xi. 2.
“A haughty spirit goeth before a fall.”—Prov. xvi. 18.
Perhaps those who have read the first part of the story of Louis Mortimer will remember that I there endeavored to explain the nature of the Christian's warfare, and that I stated that there were sad periods when the Christian, too confident in his own strength, perhaps too much inclined to exult in his victories as evincing some latent power in himself, becomes less watchful, and gradually falls back in his glorious course. It is certain, that if we do not advance we go back, and oh, how sad it is that redeemed sinners, called by so holy a name as that of Christian, should, in any degree, forget to whom they owe all their might to do well, as well as their final salvation, that they should relax, in the least, their prayers, their efforts in the strength of the Holy Spirit to press forward towards the mark of the prize of their high calling. It is not that all those who thus sadly backslide are allowed to fall into open sin. Many, by the great mercy of their Lord, are preserved from thus dishonoring His holy name and cause; but alas! too often is there a falling off in devotion, in singleness of heart, in perseverance, in watchfulness against besetting sins, when the prayers are fewer and colder, the praises fainter, and the Christian, after languishing for a time in this divided state, hardly making an effort to return, becomes conscious, to his alarm, how far he has wandered, and feels with our sweet poet, in the bitterness of his spirit,
“Where is the blessedness I knew,
When first I saw the Lord?
Where is the soul-refreshing view
Of Jesus and His word?
“The peaceful hours I once enjoyed
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill.”
For the next fortnight the singing class was indefatigable, and owing to the cultivated taste of Louis and Reginald, and the superior musical education of one or two others, among whom Mr. Witworth and Frank were not the least in importance, the members at length considered themselves competent to exhibit before an audience.
Accordingly, after Dr. Wilkinson had been favored with a specimen of their skill, his permission was obtained to invite such of their friends as they chose.
Tickets of admission, which had been prepared before-hand, were then sent out in various directions, accompanied by notes of invitation. As soon as Mrs. Paget's arrived at its destination, a most kind answer was dispatched to Louis as president, adding a request to be allowed to provide refreshment for the performers; and, as her proposal was hailed with three cheers, and gracefully accepted by Louis, on the morning of the eventful day came grapes, peaches, biscuits, and wine, which were very elegantly set out in the class-room by the committee.
The concert passed off as propitiously as could be wished. Hamilton, who, from utter want of ear, was totally incapacitated for singing, acted the part of steward with Trevannion, Meredith, and one or two others, with great decorum, and actually stood near Mrs. Paget during part of the performance, listening quietly to Louis' praises with such evident interest, that a few words of commendation he uttered quite won the lady's heart, though she had certainly been prejudiced against him before. It was remarked by some, that the doctor did not seem much pleased with Louis' manners on this occasion; for, when Mrs. Paget, between the parts, began to praise Louis' extraordinary musical talents (as she was pleased to call them), and to relate how much he pleased the company at her house, Dr. Wilkinson coolly replied, that he considered he had been well taught, but doubted his having more than an average good taste and general ability; and as his eye turned upon Louis, who was moving rather affectedly and conceitedly from rank to rank on his way to the refreshment-room, his forehead wrinkled ominously, and his lips became more tightly compressed. He was observed to watch Louis for a minute, and then turn suddenly away as if disgusted.
The madrigal concert took place about the end of the quarter, and on the following Saturday afternoon, the monotony of Ashfield House was varied by the arrival of a new scholar, in the person of Mr. Henry Norman, who was placed as a parlor boarder with the doctor.
When Hamilton and Louis returned from the playground together, they discovered this young gentleman sitting on the table, carefully balancing the doctor's chair with one of his feet, deeply immersed in the contents of a new book with only partially cut leaves, left by accident on the table. His back was turned towards them, and he was so engrossed in the twofold occupation of reading and keeping the heavy chair from falling, that he did not notice their entrance, and Louis, not recognizing his figure at first, nor knowing that he was expected, left the business of welcoming the stranger to his senior.
“Our new school-fellow, Louis, I suppose,” said Hamilton, in a low tone, as he scrutinized the lengthy figure before him. “I know that fellow, Louis—he is a friend of yours.”
Before Louis had time to answer, the low murmur had disturbed Norman; and, looking up without altering his position in the least, he acknowledged his acquaintance with Louis by a nod, and a careless “How do you do?”
Louis advanced directly with a warm welcome and out-stretched hand that was met by two fingers of Norman's left hand, tendered in a manner so offensive to Hamilton that he debated whether he should turn the intruder out of window, or walk himself out of the door; and concluded by drawing back in disdainful anger.
Louis was not so ready to take offence, though he was sensitive enough to feel a little hurt; and, turning round to his friend, introduced Norman to him.
Norman took a steady quick glance at Hamilton, and, though his lips were full of propriety, there was something like a sarcastic smile in his eyes.
“You are not altogether a stranger to me, Mr. Hamilton, though, I imagine, I am to you,” he said, as he allowed the chair to regain its legs, and got off the table, throwing the book on another, several yards distant.
“I must confess you have the advantage of me,” said Hamilton, coldly. “I was not aware that I had the honor of being known to you.”
“I assure you, then, that you had that honor.—Dear me!” he added, as he threw himself into the doctor's chair, stretching out his legs to their utmost length: “absurd of me to sit on that table, when I might have initiated myself so admirably into the art of reading made easy. Comfortable chair this of Fudge's—I beg his pardon, Dr. Wilkinson's. I am so accustomed to that elegant nom du guerre that I occasionally forget myself. The old gentleman knows how to make himself comfortable; I suppose that book belongs to him. I took the liberty of cutting a few leaves.”
“Which will be a peculiar satisfaction to him, doubtless,” said Hamilton; “and perhaps you may have the pleasure of hearing so from his own lips.”
“Verbum sat,” replied Norman. “It is a peculiar gratification, Mr. Hamilton, to discover that your natural good sense is overcoming your usual disinclination to notice those things which are not comme il faut in your school-fellows, thereby depriving them of the aid of your countenance and example in their little endeavors; and I feel peculiar satisfaction in thus early becoming the recipient of the good services bestowed by the blunt sincerity and kindliness of your nature.”
Hamilton crimsoned and stared; but there was nothing insolent in the tone; it was inexplicable. That something was meant he could not doubt; and presently, perceiving that Louis was uncomfortable and embarrassed, he said haughtily,
“I really am at a loss to understand you, sir; but your manner towards your friend and mine is particularly unpleasant. What you may have been used to I cannot pretend to know; but, whatever it be, you will be kind enough to remember that here we are accustomed to the society of gentlemen, and to treat each other as such.”
“My dear Mr. Hamilton,” said Norman, blandly, slightly moving as if to arrest Hamilton's progress towards the door, “you entirely misunderstand me. Master Mortimer and I now understand each other better. Indeed, I am laid under a weighty obligation to Master Louis for my acquaintance with your royal self and various members of your court; and could not possibly have any intention of quarrelling with so kind a benefactor. As for you, I have made up my mind to know and like you. Shake hands, will you?”
Hamilton hesitatingly touched the proffered hand, and looking at his watch at the same moment, wondered to Louis why tea was not ready.
“There's the bell!” exclaimed Louis; and seizing Hamilton's arm, he hurried off, leaving Norman to follow at his leisure, as neither Hamilton nor himself felt at all inclined to be ceremonious.
Louis felt a little afraid of Norman, though he did not exactly know why.
Norman did not follow them immediately; and Hamilton had nearly emptied his first cup of tea when he came in, in company with Trevannion and Frank Digby, the latter of whom had a marvellous facility for making acquaintances on the shortest notice. They sat down at the end of one of the three long tables, and continued laughing and talking the whole of the tea-time, after which Norman went to his own tea with the doctor.
“So, Louis, Norman's come!” exclaimed Reginald, pouncing upon his brother just as he reached the school-room door.
“Is he a friend of yours?” asked Trevannion.
“He is, and he is not. Make that riddle out at your leisure,” replied Reginald, gayly.
“Oh, that settles the matter!” said Trevannion.
“What matter?” asked Louis.
A look of the most withering description was the only answer Louis received; it was enough, however, to deter him from repeating his question.
Happily, Reginald did not see it.
“How do you like our new-comer, Trevannion?” asked Hamilton, linking his arm in his friend's, preparatory to a short, after-tea turn in the playground. “There is something very peculiar about him—insolent, I think.”
“He's a nice fellow, in my opinion,” said Trevannion.
“A very knowing chap,” said Salisbury. “Has he been here before?”
“No,” said Frank Digby; “but somebody's been kind enough to give the full particulars, history, and lives, peccadilloes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, of the gentlemen, generally, and individually, at Ashfield Academy. Why, Hamilton, he called Trevannion and Salisbury by their names, without any introduction, and is as much up to every thing here as yourself, I believe.”
“I don't much fancy him,” said Hamilton; “and strongly suspect he won't add much to our comfort.”
“He doesn't like your pet, I suppose, then,” said Trevannion, marking the slight color that rose in Hamilton's face. “He told me of your strange rencontre in the class-room; he has taken a fancy, I am sure, to you.”
Hamilton did not look particularly delighted, and changed the subject to one on which he and Trevannion conversed most amicably till past their usual time for re-entering the study.
Norman did not come among them that evening till prayer-time; and, to his great satisfaction, Louis saw very little of him for the next day or two.
One day, during the first week of Norman's initiation, at the close of the morning school, a party similar in size and kind to that which had the honor of greeting Louis on his arrival the preceding half-year, was assembled on the raised end of the school-room. Frank and Salisbury were both of them seated on the top of a desk; the former, generally silent, relieved himself by sundry twists and contortions, smacking of the lips, sighs, and turnings of the eyes, varied by a few occasional thumps administered to Salisbury, who sat by him, apparently unconscious of the bellicose attitude of his neighbor, listening attentively, with a mixed expression of concern and anger on his honest countenance, to Norman, who, on this occasion, was the principal speaker. Louis was in the room, at his desk, hunting for a top; but too intent upon his search, and too far off to hear more of the topics that engrossed so much attention, than a few words that conveyed no impression to him, being simply, “Ferrers—my aunt—clever—hypocritical.”
Just as he had given up all hope of finding his top, Hamilton came up to him. “Louis,” said he, “if Trevannion goes out with me, I shall have time to hear your Herodotus before afternoon school, directly after dinner, mind.”
“I shan't forget;—oh, Hamilton, you haven't such a thing as another top, have you? Reginald's broken two of mine, and I can't find my other.”
“I do happen to have taken care of yours for you, you careless boy. Here is my desk-key, you will find it there; you can give me the key after dinner.”
With many thanks, Louis proceeded to Hamilton's desk, and Hamilton went up to Trevannion, who was one of the party at the upper end of the room. Louis was now so near the speakers, as to be unavoidably within hearing of all that passed; and, astonished by the first few words, he proceeded no further in his errand than putting the key into the lock.
“Are you inclined for a walk, Trevannion?” asked Hamilton, as he reached him.
Trevannion was leaning against the doctor's desk, in a more perturbed state than his calm self usually exhibited. As Hamilton spoke, he turned round, stared, and drew himself proudly up, replying, in a tone of great bitterness, “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton, but perhaps if you will take the trouble, you may find some one better suited to you than myself.”
“What is the matter?” said Hamilton.
“Some of your friends appear to have better memories than yourself,” replied Trevannion, folding his arms, and assuming an indifferent air; “you will, perhaps, not find mine quite so capricious; I am much obliged for all favors bestowed, Mr. Hamilton. Perhaps you considered me too lazy to look out for another friend; I am active enough, I assure you, to provide myself with one, and to release you from the irksome ties your indolence has imposed upon you.”
Hamilton looked, as he was, seriously annoyed. He did not remember the expression that had given so much offence, and was quite at a loss to understand the mystery:—he looked from one to the other for explanation; at one time inclined to walk away as proudly as Trevannion could have done; at another, his more moderate feelings triumphing, urged him into an inquiry.
“I really cannot understand you,” he said, at length; “do explain yourself. If I have done any thing to offend you, let me know what it is, and, if reasonable, I am willing to apologize.”
Trevannion sneered. “Apologies can do little good—eh, Norman?”
“If you know what this is, Norman,” said Hamilton, “I must beg you to enlighten me.”
“I have no business to interfere,” said Norman, carelessly.
“What a tragedy scene! What's the matter?” cried Reginald Mortimer, who came up at the moment. “You lazy-bones of a Louis! where are you?”
“The matter is simply this,” said Frank Digby: “Norman has heard from a veracious source that Mr. Hamilton once said, in confidence (between you and me, you know), that the reason he retained Mr. Philip Trevannion in the rank of first bosom-friend, was because he was too lazy to look out for one better suited to his tastes: consequently, as Mr. Trevannion can aver that Mr. Hamilton never confided this matter to him, it is certain that some one has betrayed confidence reposed in him—oh, yes! oh, yes!”
“What a fuss about a nonsensical report!” exclaimed Reginald. “Do you believe it?”
“Does he deny it?” said Trevannion, tuning to Hamilton.
Hamilton's color rose; and, after a little pause, in which he carefully considered what he had said, he replied, “No, I do not deny having said something like this one day when Trevannion and I had fallen out; but how much it was more than a momentary fit of anger our long friendship ought to decide. Trevannion, we have been friends too long for such a silly thing as this to separate us. I am very sorry it should ever have escaped my lips; but if every thing we say in a moment of impatience and vexation were repeated and minded, there would be very little friendship in the world. Come, Trevannion, shake hands, and forget it for auld lang syne, as I will do when any one brings such a tale to me.”
As Hamilton spoke, his eye rested on Norman, fired with indignation, and lighted a second on the principal offender, but no longer, for he did not wish to draw Louis into notice.
“It may seem a little nonsensical matter to you, Hamilton,” said Trevannion, putting his hand behind him; “but these little things exhibit more than the greatest professions. I am not too lazy to cure myself of old habits, if you are.”
“I never make professions,” said Hamilton, proudly; “and I have done.”
He was turning away, when a sudden motion from Jones arrested him. Jones had been standing silently by Trevannion, and now, leaping over a desk, seized Louis, and dragged him in the centre of the group, to the great astonishment of both himself and his brother, exclaiming:
“Here's the offender, the tell-tale, the hypocrite, the meek good boy, so anxious of Ferrers' reputation!”
“What do you want with me?” exclaimed Louis angrily, struggling to free himself from his captor.
“Hands off! Leave him alone, Jones,” shouted Reginald. “What's all this about?”
“Do let him go,” said Hamilton. “Can't you let him alone?”
“He's the traitor, Hamilton.”
Hamilton could not deny it, for it could have been no one else.
“Well, it is past, and the punishment he has in his own feelings will be enough,” he said. “Let him alone.”
“Louis, you haven't been telling tales and making mischief?” cried Reginald.
“I don't know,” said Louis. “I said something to Mrs. Paget, I believe—I didn't know there was any harm. Hamilton didn't say he didn't want any thing said about it.”
“Didn't say!” echoed Jones, scornfully.
Hamilton's look was more in reproach than anger. Louis felt struck to the heart with shame and anger; but so much had he lately been nursed in conceit and self-sufficiency, that he drove away the better impulse; and, instead of at once acknowledging himself in the wrong and begging pardon, he stood still, endeavoring to look unconcerned, repeating, “I didn't mean any harm.”
“Oh, Louis!” exclaimed Reginald, reproachfully, “I didn't think you could.”
“Let the boy go, Jones,” said Hamilton, trying to remove the grasp from Louis' shoulders.
“Not so fast, an't please your majesty,” said Jones: “I like to see hypocrites unmasked. Here, gentlemen, forsooth, here in this soonified youth, the anxious warden of Ferrers' reputation, you see the young gentleman who not only tells the story, but gives the name of the party concerned to a dear, good, gossiping soul—”
“Gently, gently there, Jones,” remarked Norman.
“A gossiping old soul,” repeated Jones, “who'd have the greatest delight in retailing the news, with decorations and additions, all over the kingdom with the greatest possible speed.”
“I don't believe a word of that, Jones,” said Reginald. “It is impossible!”
“What! is it impossible?” asked Jones, giving Louis a shake.
“What business have you to question me?”
“Did you?” repeated Jones, with another shake.
“Fair questioning, Jones,” cried Reginald. “No coercion, if you please.”
“Hold him back, Mason, if you please. Norman, will you hold him back? Now, Louis, if you don't answer I'll give you a thrashing.”
“You and I are friends, Mortimer,” said Salisbury, jumping off the desk and coming close up to Reginald; “but I mean to have fair play in this matter. He shan't be hurt—but, if you interfere till they've done questioning him, I shall help them to hold you back.”
“Don't meddle with it, Salisbury,” said Hamilton; “it's nobody's affair.”
“Nobody's affair, indeed!” exclaimed Frank. “Here we've been making a cher ami, a rara avis, or something or other of this boy, because he professed to be something superior to us all—and now, when we find he has been telling tales of all of us, we are told it's nobody's affair. He's been obtaining credit upon false pretences. We're the strongest party, and we'll do what we please.”
Reginald restrained himself with a violent effort, and Jones proceeded.
“Now, sir, answer directly—is this impossible?”
Louis felt very much inclined to cry, but he replied without tears very reluctantly, “Mrs. Paget would make me tell her some things—she had heard almost all from others. I don't know how the name slipped out; I didn't mean to tell, I am sure.”
“What?” said Hamilton; “you tell that story, Louis!”
Louis felt that Hamilton despised him; and perhaps, had they known all the circumstances relative to the Heronhurst disclosure, the clamor would not have been so great; so much evil is done by repeating a small matter, exaggerated, as these repetitions usually are, according to the feelings of the speaker. But in every case now bearing so unexpectedly down upon him, had Louis, thoughtless of himself, been less anxious for admiration, he would not have committed himself; had he not attracted Norman's attention by his folly and conceit, the circumstance of his having disclosed the name of the offender, at Heronhurst, would, most probably, not only have been unknown to his school-fellows, but to Norman also.
“Oh, Hamilton, I didn't tell all the story!” he exclaimed.
“No, only just enough to appear magnanimous,” said Frank.
“Seeing that such is the case,” continued Jones, “it cannot be a matter of great astonishment, that the same meek crocodile should also deliver to the same tender mercy various particulars of minor import respecting sundry others of his school-fellows; among which, we discover the private conversation of an intimate and too indulgent friend. Upon my word, young gentleman, I've a great mind to make you kiss Ferrers' shoes. Where's Ferrers?”
Jones turned round with his victim towards the door, perceiving that Ferrers was not in the room, but neither Hamilton nor Reginald would permit matters to proceed further.
“Let him go,” said Norman; “it is not worth while taking so much trouble about it. You know whom you have to deal with, and will be careful.”
“Thanks to you,” said Hamilton in a tone of the most cutting irony.
He released Louis, and stood still till he saw him safely in the playground, whither he was followed by the hisses and exclamations of his inquisitors, and then turned in the opposite direction to the class-room.
“Mr. Hamilton!” exclaimed Norman, “may I ask what your words meant just now?”
“You may,” said Hamilton, turning round and eyeing the speaker from head to foot, with the most contemptuous indifference. “You are at liberty to put whatever construction you please upon them; and perhaps it will save trouble if I inform you at once that I never fight.”
“Then, sir,” said Norman, whose anger was rising beyond control, “you should weigh your words a little more cautiously, if you are so cowardly.”
Hamilton deigned no reply, and proceeded to the class-room, where he shut himself up, leaving the field clear for Reginald, who, before long, was engaged in a pitched battle with Norman.
Louis retreated to his play-fellows who were yet unconscious of his disgrace with the higher powers; and, after playing for a little while, wandered about by himself, too uneasy and sick at heart to amuse himself. He found now, alas! that he was alone; that he had lost all pleasure in holy things; and, conscious of his falling away, he was now afraid to pray,—foolish boy. And thus it is—Satan tempts us to do wrong, and then tempts us to doubt God's willingness to forgive us, in order that, being without grace and strength, we may fall yet deeper.
As Louis wandered along, he heard sounds familiar enough to him, which portended a deadly fray, and when he came upon the combatants, he discovered that one of them was his own brother. He knew it was useless to attempt to stop the fight, and he wandered away again, and cried a little, for he thought that something would happen, and he and Reginald would be placed together in some unpleasant situation; and he dreaded Dr. Wilkinson's hearing of either affair.
I must be excused for stopping my story to remark here, that in this world, it is certain that we have great influence on one another, and that for this influence we are responsible. Had Louis' school-fellows acted more kindly, endeavoring to set before him the fault of tattling, the effect would have been to raise a feeling of gratitude in his mind, which would have been far more effectual in preventing the recurrence of the fault, than the plan of repudiation they had adopted. Had they, even after a day or two's penance, given him an opening into their good graces, he would not have felt, as he did, that he had lost his character, and it was “no use caring about it,” and so gone from bad to worse, till his name was associated with those of the worst boys in the school. It may be said, How can school-boys be expected to have so much consideration? but this a school-boy may do. He may mentally put himself in the position of the delinquent, and considering how he would wish to be treated, act accordingly.
Every thing seemed to go wrong with Louis that day. The Herodotus that Hamilton was to have heard, was scarcely looked at; and Louis lost two or three places in his class. Hamilton never noticed him, and even Reginald was offended with him. Louis tried to brave it out, and sung in a low tone, whistled, and finally, when he was roughly desired to be quiet, walked into the school-room, and finished his evening with Casson and Churchill.
Chapter XIX
“Be not deceived; evil communications corrupt good manners.”—1 Cor. xv. 32.
For the next few days Louis was regularly sent to Coventry, and though Hamilton took no part in any thing that was said against him, his manner had so entirely changed, and his tone was so cold when he addressed or answered him, that Louis needed no further demonstration to feel assured of the great difference in the feeling with which he was regarded. Clifton alone remained unchanged, but he was so much absorbed in his dear classics that he had hardly time to notice that any thing was the matter: and as Reginald, thoroughly disappointed, was also highly displeased with his brother, Louis was either thrown entirely upon his own resources, or driven to seek the society of the lower school; and, as he was in a very unhappy state, and could not bear to be left alone, he naturally chose the latter. For the first two days he struggled to assume an independent air, and, changing his place of his own accord from Hamilton to Clifton, talked incessantly, though nearly unheeded by the latter, to show how perfectly well able he was to do his own business without assistance. Hamilton missed him, and glanced down the table with a gaze of mingled disappointment and displeasure. A few words from him might have recalled Louis, but they were not spoken, and the only impression conveyed to the poor truant was, that the friend he most cared about, in common with the rest, considered him beneath his notice.
The third evening some affair was to be taken into consideration, of which the proceedings were intended to be kept very secret. Louis was sitting by Clifton, when Trevannion, who was to open the business, entered with a folded paper and a pencil in one hand, and took his place at the head of the long table. He looked down the table, and his eyes meeting Louis', he laid down his pencil, and taking up a book, began, or pretended to begin, to read.
“Hey! What's that, Trevannion?” asked Salisbury. “Are we to be prepared with a choice quotation from Thucydides, or is it a hint that we are to remember duty first and pleasure afterwards?”
“Rather,” said Frank, “that some people have long ears and tongues.”
“Perhaps,” said Trevannion, looking over the top of his book, “Louis Mortimer will have the civility to hasten his studies this evening, as we have pressing business to perform.”
“And why need I prevent it?” said Louis, crimsoning.
“Simply for this reason,” said Trevannion, “that we do not choose to have every thing that passes our lips this night carried over the country; therefore, Master Louis, we can dispense with your company.”
“Without so much circumlocution, either,” said Jones. “We like your room better than your company just now, Louis Mortimer; so please to decamp.”
“Evaporate!” said Meredith.
“I have my lessons to learn,” said Louis.
“Is there any moral or physical impossibility in your lessons being learned in the school-room?” asked Smith.
“I don't choose.”
“Don't choose!” repeated Jones. “We'll see about that. Do you choose to go quietly, or to be turned out, eh?”
“You have no right to do it,” exclaimed Louis. “I have as much right to be here as you.”
“Ho, ho!” exclaimed Jones. “You'll find might is right here, my pretty young gentleman. Salisbury, will you have the kindness to put the door between us and his impertinence?”
“The procacity of the juvenile is progressing,” remarked Frank.
Hamilton was not in the room, and there was no one to assist Reginald in his resistance to the numbers by whom he was soon overpowered, and in a few minutes, in spite of his exertions, he found himself turned out with Louis, whom he had vainly endeavored to defend.
Boiling with fury, Reginald at first attempted to kick open the door, and then, being called to his senses by the interference of the usher in the room, walked into the playground, and getting in at one of the class-room windows, opened the door to Louis before his antagonists had recovered from their surprise.
There was another scuffle, which was at length settled by the usher's taking Louis' side, and desiring him to go in; but Louis found the study so thoroughly uncomfortable, that in a few minutes he returned to the school-room, and seated himself, in a restless, idle mood, by Casson.
The idle conversation of an idle, uprincipled boy is sure to be of a hurtful description, and after Casson had heard Louis' grievances, and condoled with him in the fashion of encouraging him in all that was bad, the discourse fell upon Casson's last school, and many things Louis heard and learned of which he had remained, till then, in blissful ignorance. One or two ushers usually sat with the boys in the evening. One of these was an elderly man, uncouth and ungainly in person, and possessed of a very unfortunate temper, that was irritated in every possible manner by those whose duty it was to have soothed the infirmities and considered the trials of one whose life was spent in their service. Louis had felt a great pity for the poor solitary man who never seemed to have a friend, and now and then had spared a few minutes of his play-time to talk to him, and would ask to be allowed to cut the pencil that was employed so constantly in ruling the ciphering books; and when his flowers were in bloom, a half-open rosebud was usually presented to Mr. Garthorpe to put in his button-hole on Sunday morning. The poor usher loved Louis as warmly as any one else in that house, nor would he have believed that “that good lad,” as he called him, could have spent a great part of an evening in laughing at practical jokes played off on him, though Louis could not yet be prevailed upon to take part in them.
The next few days were spent as might be expected. Louis had now put himself under the guidance of some of the worst boys in the school, and the consequence was (for the downward path is easy) the neglect of all that was good, and the connivance at, if not actual participation in all that was wrong. His place was lost, his lessons so ill prepared, that, as formerly, he was kept in day after day, and Casson, his chief adviser, persuaded him that Mr. Danby was unjust and tyrannical, and instigated him to impertinence as a retaliation. Louis was miserable, for miserable must he be who sins against light.
It was not long before Dr. Wilkinson became aware of a change in Louis' conduct, and he took an early opportunity of speaking very seriously to him on the subject. Louis was very humble, and longed to throw open all his troubles to his master, the only person who had spoken kindly and sensibly to him since his disgrace, yet foolishly afraid to declare the whole truth to him, especially as, by the doctor's recommendation to him to follow the example of his friends Hamilton and Clifton, he found that his master was not aware that Hamilton was so much displeased with him. Unhappily, Dr. Wilkinson did not know of Louis' intimacy with Casson, nor had Casson been long enough with him to enable him to know more of him than as an idle, troublesome dunce. The doctor's admonitions were so far beneficial to Louis, that besides producing decidedly better behavior for a few days, they were instrumental in restraining him afterwards from the commission of many things which might have been both hurtful to his well-doing and future peace of mind; but unassisted by prayerful efforts on Louis' part, they could go no further than this; and as he had not strength of mind to shake off his evil companions, he soon fell back into much of his idle, giddy habits, and was classed with some of the worst boys by those of the upper school who had formerly so unwisely flattered and spoiled him. Oh, had they known how often his sad, restless, though at times reckless mind, yearned for a little kindness from them, that he might feel that every chance of retrieving their esteem had not gone! Once, after standing some time by Hamilton, he ventured to ask if he were still offended with him. Hamilton coldly disclaimed any idea of offence, and declining all discussion on the matter, hinted that Louis' conduct was too disreputable to be noticed. Louis turned from him with a proud resolve never to speak to Hamilton again. Hamilton's conscience smote him when he saw him a short time after in company with Casson and Harris, whispering and laughing in a corner, at no good, assuredly; but though he inwardly felt that he had forced Louis, in some measure, to take refuge with these boys, he was too proud to stoop from his throne of dignity to save him.
That day, when the boys returned from their walk, they entered at the back of the playground from a lane, on the opposite side of which lay some fields belonging to Dr. Wilkinson, and close on the edge of the field nearest to the ditch bounding the lane, were some out-houses, consisting of a cow-house, stables, and barn. As the lane was public property, the boys were forbidden to wander beyond the boundary of their playground, which on this side was a high wall, a wooden door shutting out all communication with any thing beyond. Notwithstanding the prohibition regarding this lane, there were now and then excursions over the wall in the direction of the cottage of an old woman, who kept a small day-school, and sold bull's-eyes and gingerbread, with other dainties of a doubtful description, and who was, more than all, willing, for “a consideration,” to perform any hazardous errand for the young gentlemen. Other sallies of a still more doubtful character occasionally took place, and Dr. Wilkinson felt sure that his orchard had been robbed more than once, though by what hands he did not always discover. On this day the boys had just entered from the lane, and, as the ushers had not been careful in seeing the door closed, it stood open for some time, while several of the boys availed themselves of the crowd of their school-fellows near it to slip out on their various errands to old Mary Simmons. Louis had been collecting mineralogical specimens during his walk, all of which he had consigned to the depths of a large green baize bag which he carried with him. He stopped a few minutes near the gate to talk about his treasures to Clifton, who had been walking with him, but the concourse becoming rather greater than Clifton found convenient, he presently moved away, and Louis was following him, his bag in one hand and two unpromising-looking stones in the other, when Casson arrested him with,
“I say, Louis, what a famous bag—lend it us a minute. I'm going to old mother Simmons's; it would hold half her shop.”
“There are stones in it,” said Louis, drawing back.
Casson verbally execrated the stones, and, declaring it was of no consequence, snatched the bag out of Louis' hand and ran away.
Rather startled by this abrupt manner of proceeding, Louis followed Casson to the verge of the lane, and waited there till he came back.
“I haven't eaten your bag, you see, but I can't spare it till we get in.”
“But are the stones there?” said Louis.
“To be sure; what do you suppose I've done with them? What a famous receptacle! I say, Louis, did you ever see the inside of the stable over the way?”
“No—I am not very fond of stables.”
“But I suspect there's something worth seeing there,” said Casson; and he proceeded to tell Louis, under a promise of the strictest secrecy, in a manner so exceedingly vulgar and improper that I do not choose to write it, that he believed that the doctor kept his winter apples in the loft of that stable, and concluded by hinting that some of them meant to find them out and help themselves. “We used to do it regularly at old Stennett's, where I went before, Louis,” he continued. “It's such fun: you must lend us your green bag, and come with us.”
“Oh! Casson, how can you think such a thing of me!” exclaimed Louis, shrinking back.
The exclamation was so loud that Casson laid his hand upon his mouth with a muttered angry ejaculation.
“One would think I had spoken of breaking open a house,” said Casson.
“It's stealing,” said Louis, in a tone of anger.
“Nonsense.”
“I tell you, Casson, it is—don't talk to me any more about it—I wish I had never known you!”
Casson burst out laughing. “What a ninny you are!” he exclaimed. “You are as easily frightened as a bird with a pop-gun. And now, I suppose, you will go with this nice little story to some good friend and make something interesting and romantic out of nothing.”
“Is it really nonsense?” said Louis, after a pause. “Tell me, Casson, truly, did you mean nothing just now?”
“Nothing, upon honor,” said the unprincipled boy. “I wanted to see you horrified.”
Louis looked doubtfully at him. “Well, please give me my bag.”
“What a hurry you are in!—you must wait till I've unloaded.”
Louis followed him to the school-room, but, Casson's crowded desk not holding all the contents of the bag, he was obliged, notwithstanding his anxiety, to wait for his property for a day or two, at the expiration of which time it was returned to him, and borrowed the next day for another expedition to Mary Simmons.
Chapter XX.
“Open rebuke is better than secret love.”
It now wanted little more than three weeks to the holidays. Sticks for notching were in great request, and “days” cut in paper were fastened to the testers of the several beds, to mark more securely the weary time that must elapse before the joyful breaking-up. Reginald and Louis had jointly decorated theirs with an elegant drawing of Dashwood Priory, with a coach and four in the distance, which drawing would remain uninjured till even the last of the twenty-eight strips of paper had been detached, when the owners tore the remainder for excess of joy. The subjects for examination had already been given out, and those who had any interest at stake had already commissioned Maister Dunn for candles, and begun to rise early and sit late, or as late us was allowed, at their various studies. It was with some little dismay that Louis looked down the long list of subjects for the examination of his class, for he felt that, though (thanks to Hamilton at first, and latterly some degree of perseverance on his own part) he had made some progress during the half-year: his friend Clifton's indefatigable industry had placed him so far first, that it would be almost impossible to hope for any advantage.
Hamilton was now busily engaged in the composition of a prize poem in Latin, besides the many other things with which (to use his own expression) he found it necessary “to cram himself”; for, however easy, comparatively, he had found his post the preceding half-year, he had now competitors sufficiently emulous and talented in Norman and Frank Digby—the latter of whom had shown a moderate degree of diligence during the half-year, and now, exerting to the utmost the great powers with which he was gifted, bid fair, if not to distance all his rivals, at least to claim the lion's share of the honors held out.
As Hamilton scarcely allowed himself time to run once round the playground in the day, it cannot be supposed that even had he condescended to notice Louis he would have found much time to attend to him. More than once, however, he looked rather anxiously down the long table where Louis now sat (Reginald having insisted on his leaving the school-room and his companions to their fate), and, apparently satisfied that he was doing something, resumed his own work. Louis' mind was more than ever occupied now—every moment was taken up with lessons of one kind or another. The first waking thoughts, which were formerly, at least, a consciousness of the presence of his Maker, were now so mixed up with Latin verses, English translations, French plays, ancient and modern history, that a very short time sufficed for his cold prayer—and then poured in the whole flood of daily business, only checked by as cold a semblance of a petition at night. The former half-year the case, though similar in many respects, differed in the greatest essential. Louis was not less diligent than now, but he was more prayerful; he had not more time, but he used it better; he did not leave his religion for a few minutes at night and morning, and forget it for the rest of the day; he did not shut up his Bible, and scarcely look at it from Sunday to Sunday. He who waits closely upon his God is sure to be enabled to serve him in the beauty of holiness: and those who thought at all about Louis could not but be struck with the wide difference between the gentle, humble, happy-looking boy, who bore so meekly what was unkindly done and spoken, and the equally industrious, but fevered, restless, anxious, and now rather irritable being, who toiled on day after day almost beyond his strength.
The first day of the examination, Charles Clifton and Louis were walking together, between school-hours, settling the order in which their labors were to be undertaken. As they turned the corner of the playground, near the kitchen, they encountered Harris, Casson, and Churchill, who, with Sally Simmons and her basket of apples, blocked up a narrow passage between the side of the house and the kitchen-garden wall.
“Aint they beauties, Louis?” said Churchill, at the sight. The mention of apples sufficiently disturbed Louis in the present company, and he made a violent effort to get past Harris, who was, however, so much engaged in choosing an apple from the basket, that he did not move an inch. Finding it useless at present to attempt the pass, Louis was turning back, when Sally offered the basket to him, with “Mathter Louis, you mutht hide it; I donnoh what mathter would thay.”
“There are plenty more where they came from, Sally,” said Casson.
“Here'th a nithe one, thir,” said Sally, looking in Louis' alarmed face, and pointing to one of the apples.
“They are not yours to give, Sally,” said Louis, stepping back against the wall. “Harris, Casson, Churchill, don't take them—it's dishonest.”
Sally protested in great dismay, that it was only one or two, and Dr. Wilkinson wouldn't mind.
“You know he would, Sally, or why did you say I was to hide it?” said Louis.
“Do you mean to tell him you have given away any?” asked Clifton.
“Not she; she knows better—don't you, Sally?” said Casson.
“You are not to be trusted,” said Clifton.
“Mathter Louis, you won't be going and making mithchief?” said the girl.
“If he does,” ejaculated Harris, “I'll—”
What he would do Louis never heard, for he had by this time freed himself from the basket and run away, followed more leisurely by Clifton.
“I am sure,” he said, when Clifton rejoined him, “that Sally Simmons ought not to be employed here; she is always doing forbidden things for the boys.”
“If you know of any thing wrong in her, why don't you tell Dr. Wilkinson?” said Charles.
“The next thing I know of, I shall. But I should get the boys into such a scrape,” said Louis.
“If they are bad boys they deserve it,” replied Clifton; “my father says, if we conceal evil, when we may remove it by mentioning it, we make ourselves partners in it.”
“The boys would call me a sneak if I did,” said Louis.
Charles looked at Louis in simple wonderment. “That wouldn't hinder you from doing what is right, would it? What does it matter what such fellows as those think or say?”
“Yes, but I shouldn't like to get them into a scrape,” repeated Louis, uneasily.
“Why don't you tell your friend Hamilton of it, and ask his advice?”
“Oh, Clifton! surely you know that Hamilton won't speak to me.”
“No, I didn't,” said Clifton, in a tone of surprise. “Why not? he used to be so fond of you.”
“He's offended now,” replied Louis, looking down.
“He doesn't like me, I know,” said Charles; “but he used to be so very fond of you.”
“Used—that's long ago,” said Louis, with a suppressed sigh.
“Well, but,” remarked Clifton, without showing the least curiosity to discover the cause of Louis' quarrel with Hamilton, “if you can't consult him, ask your brother.”
“I know very well what Reginald would do; he wouldn't think it right to tell of them, or of her either.”
“Then, Louis, make up your own mind.”
“It's not so easily done,” replied Louis; “oh, Charlie, I wish I were like you!”
“Oh, why?” said Charles, gravely; “you have a great many more friends, and are much better liked than I am. I have no friend but you—not that I care at all about it, but I should think you would.”
“Yes; but I wish I could make up my mind. I am not half so happy as you are, for I cannot make up my mind to do a thing because it is right. You only think about that and do it at once; and because I have so many friends, and even care about pleasing those I do not like, I am always getting into scrapes, and always doing wrong. I think there never was anybody so bad as I am. I wish papa hadn't sent me to school.”
“I like you very much,” said Clifton; “and I am sure you have done me good—on Sunday, at least.”
“Ah, it is much easier to know and talk of what is right than to do it,” replied Louis, sighing very deeply. “Oh, domum, dulce domum! But there is Reginald, and I must go and ask him a question.”
For several days after this occurrence, Louis was too busy, and too much with his brother, to see much of his evil advisers; and very pleased in having, as he imagined, thus got rid of them. The examination was going on in earnest; Louis had now nearly regained his old place, and was, on the whole, favorably reported of: but Clifton was not to be overcome. Thoroughly prepared, and thoroughly understanding all he had learned, he kept the first place undaunted by any difficulty, and apparently unexcited by the crisis; at least, Louis remarked to Reginald, that Clifton was so cool, he didn't seem to care whether he won or not. He had a little more color than usual, and the only beauty his face possessed—his intelligent eyes—wore perhaps a keener and more anxious expression, but this was not noticed by a casual observer; nor was the violent palpitation of the heart, when the chances ran so closely between him and the next, at the close of a two days' struggle for the mathematical prize. There were few that congratulated him on his almost unparalleled success; but few that did not respect his ability and steadiness. Never once, from the first day he came to school, had he on any occasion incurred the displeasure of his masters; and yet no one cared for him, for he had lived only for himself.
But to return to Louis. The mathematical contest was finished, and there was a little lull before the second class would be again called on, and Louis determined to spend this little interval of leisure in giving a finishing scrutiny of the history likely to be in demand. Full of his purposes, he burst into the class-room, where only Hamilton and Reginald were, the former writing very fast, and the latter looking carefully over an English essay he had just finished. Louis flew to the shelves and ransacked them in vain: almost every book he wanted was gone. At length, in despair, he asked Reginald if he knew who had Rollin's History. Reginald absently replied in the negative, as he noted down something in the page he was reading.
“The books are always gone,” said Louis, pettishly. “I suppose Charlie has it. He had it yesterday—he might as well let me have it to-day.”
“Trevannion has it, I think,” said Reginald.
“You may have mine,” said Hamilton.
Louis stood still; he wanted the book very much, but was too proud to accept the offer.
“It is in my room,” continued Hamilton, without looking up.
“Thank you, I don't want yours,” replied Louis, proudly, walking out of the room.
As he entered the school-room he confronted Dr. Wilkinson, who, having given orders for a brisk walk, was inquiring for Hamilton. Louis had scarcely taken his hand from the lock when Hamilton abruptly opened it and came quickly out of the room.
“You are the person I want,” said the doctor, laying his hand on his arm. “Hamilton, I want you to come out with me this bright day.”
“To-day, sir?” said Hamilton, whose countenance expressed any thing but delight at the proposition.
“And why put off till to-morrow what may be done to-day so well?” said the doctor, smiling. “I suppose you have hopes of the weather making a walk impracticable to-morrow: but I must have you all out, or some of you will be laid up before you go home.”
His eye fell upon Clifton, who was sitting with his elbows on a desk close by, his fingers pushed through his hair, wholly absorbed in “Gibbon's Decline and Fall.” Dr. Wilkinson addressed him twice, but, producing no impression, he removed one of the props of his head, and turned his face towards himself.
“What are you doing there?”
“History, sir,” said the boy, getting up mechanically, and looking very much as if he were not pleased at the interruption.
“I hear your name is very high in the list to-day.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Charles, gravely; and, as the doctor released him, he settled down precisely in the same attitude, without showing the least satisfaction at the notice he had received.
Hamilton turned away with an impatient gesture.
“Are you going immediately, sir?” he said. “Can you spare me a few minutes?”
“I shall be at the garden-gate in a quarter of an hour from this time,” replied the doctor.
“I will not fail, sir,” said Hamilton; and, crossing the room in immense strides, he flew up stairs, and returned almost immediately with a large volume under his arm. He made some inquiries of Trevannion's whereabouts, and, learning that he was in the playground, went in search of him. He very soon found him, walking briskly up and down with Norman, making extracts from an old book in his hand, and questioning his friend alternately. Hamilton and he had scarcely exchanged a word since their quarrel, and it was with some surprise that he saw Hamilton present himself, and still more, when a request was made that he would exchange books.
“I particularly want this just now,” he replied.
“This is Rollin,” said Hamilton. “I should feel obliged if you would exchange copies.”
Trevannion opened his eyes wider, but after a second's pause, he took Hamilton's and gave him his book in exchange, without any comment.
“What a strange whim!” remarked Norman, when Hamilton had left them, after shortly expressing his thanks.
“What can he mean, Norman?” said Trevannion. “This is his own, too.”
“Perhaps some new way of trying to make up an old quarrel,” said Norman, sneeringly.
“I don't think so,” replied Trevannion; “he would not have tried so odd a plan—no, there's something deeper than that.”
“Are the histories alike?” asked Norman.
“I believe so,” answered Trevannion; “if there's any advantage, I am sure to have it, at any rate.”
“You have a very high opinion of him.”
“Very,” said Trevannion. “If Hamilton did mean this to make up our quarrel, I am sure I shall be willing.”
“Upon my word,” said Norman, “this is dignity.”
Trevannion made no answer, for something had attracted his attention on the opposite side of the playground.
“Holloa! Norman, look there!” he exclaimed.
“Where? what! oh, horror!” cried Norman.
“There they are—they're hid; now, there they are again!—now look, who is it? Stand behind this tree a minute—now let us look out.”
Obedient to his instructions, Norman looked, and saw three boys drop down one after another from the branch of a tree, that had evidently assisted their descent from the playground wall, and then run across the playground.
“Who are they?” said Trevannion, putting up his eye-glass (which, gentle reader, be it known he carried for use). “One is Churchill, I'm sure! Who's that long fellow? Why, it's Harris, isn't it? It can't be, surely!”
“It is,” said Norman; “and the other's Casson.”
“I'm sure they are at no good,” said Trevannion; “I shall make a note of this remarkable occurrence.”
So saying, he made a memorandum of the circumstance in his pocket-book, and had just finished when the boys poured out cloaked and great-coated, and informed him of the doctor's desires.
The reader will be at no loss to discover Hamilton's reason for exchanging the books. As Louis was out, he took Dr. Wilkinson's with him into the class-room, and sat down to finish the six last words of his poem; and then, folding it neatly up, enveloped it in half a sheet of writing-paper. He was just pressing the seal upon the wax, when his watch, which he had laid open before him, warned him that the last minutes of the quarter of an hour had arrived. He just pushed his things together, and left them on the table; and snatching up his hat as he ran through the hall, scarcely arrived at the garden-gate in time to save his character for punctuality.
It so happened that Casson was Louis' companion during the walk, and entertained him with a flowing account of all the vulgar tricks he had been in the habit of playing at his former school. Louis could not help laughing at them; nor would his vanity allow him to refrain from boasting of—what he had before been properly ashamed—his own share in some of Casson's late exploits. So afraid was he of seeming inferior, even to a person he despised, and in those things which his better feelings taught him equally to despise. Casson inwardly laughed at Louis' boasted feats, as he had always done to others when Louis was out of hearing; but he now quizzed him, stimulating him, by applauding his spirit and ingenuity; and by the time they had reached the house, Louis was in a thoroughly giddy humor, ready to try, at the risk of disgrace, the new schemes to which he had just been listening.
The boys stayed in the playground till the dinner-bell rang, which was a few minutes after they had entered the playground; but these few minutes sufficed for Louis, in his present humor, to get himself in a scrape, the consequences of which, at the time, he certainly did not contemplate. He had been complaining to Casson, in the beginning of their walk, that he could not get “Rollin's History,” and, as Casson persisted that it was in the study, Louis took him there to show him his error, when they returned home.
“Ha, ha! Mr. Louis Mortimer, who's right?” cried Casson, holding up the book.
“That can't be; I wonder how it got there,” said Louis, approaching the table in a mystified manner. “These must be Trevannion's things, I suppose; only Hamilton was writing here; and here is his dictionary,—I wonder what he wanted with it—he never said he had it—he let me suppose Trevannion had it—kind of him—I suppose he wanted to prevent my getting it; but I'll have it now—he's got one of his own.”
“I'd be even with him,” said Casson; “what a heap of things! See, here's an exercise of his; or a letter, I suppose—it's too neat for an exercise. A good thick letter—sealed, too. I'll tell you what, Louis—”
Accordingly, what Casson did tell Louis was, what a “capital dodge” it would be to abstract Hamilton's sealed packet, and to leave another folded like it in its place.
“We often used to trick the boys at old Stennett's with their exercises,” continued he; “they never wrote in books there—we used to tear the leaves out of the exercise-books, and write on them. It was such jolly fun to see them open the paper and find nothing in it, or only some rubbish.”
“How did you do it?” asked Louis.
“Oh, we doubled up a bit of an old exercise-book, and exchanged, that's all!” replied Casson; “see, why here's half a sheet of paper, that'll do for the cover; and now then, Louis, more paper—he'll never miss it—that's it—fold it up just the size; how beautifully you have done it!”
“But there's no seal,” said Louis.
“He'll forget he sealed it,” replied Casson; “oh, how jolly!—here's a piece of sealing-wax—it is sealed with the top of a pencil-case.”
“I have one just like that,” said Louis; “oh, no; here's E. H. on this—that won't do, Casson.”
Casson presently relieved this difficulty by discovering Hamilton's pencil-case; and the paper was quickly sealed, when Louis began to doubt:
“But we don't know what it is, Casson.”
“If it turns out to be any thing, send it by post, directed to him, at his father's,” said Casson; “he'll get it safely enough.”
The dinner-bell rang loudly at this moment, and with a little laugh at the idea of the oddity of sending it to Hamilton's home, and a strong feeling of doubt as to the wisdom of his proceeding, Louis hastily exchanged the packets, and ran out of the room. On his way to the dining-room he paused—
“If it should be of any consequence, Casson,” he said.
“Well, if it is, so much the better fun; he won't treat you so shabbily another time.”
“Ah, but—I don't want to revenge myself, and I don't like playing tricks on Hamilton exactly, either: I think I must give it back.”
“I thought you were such a dab at these kinds of things,” said Casson, sneeringly.
“What have I done with it now?” Louis exclaimed suddenly, as they reached the dining-room door, after stopping a few seconds in the hall to hang up his coat. “What can I have done with it? I must have slipped it into my desk just now, when I put my Livy in.”
He was not able to turn back then; and, in the mean time, Hamilton had paid a hasty visit to the class-room, to collect his things, and had locked up carefully the false packet; and Louis had not courage to make any inquiries, though he hoped that he might have found the right one, which, with all his care, he could not discover himself. Louis had, in his hurry, left Rollin on the study-table, and after school he ran into the room, and finding it in nearly the same place where Hamilton had been guarding it for him, he carried it off, and Hamilton, seeing the action, made no remark on the matter.
The next evening, the Latin poems were sent in to the doctor's study for comparison, and Hamilton's blank counterfeit was titled on the cover, and dispatched with a degree of nervous anxiety that certainly would not have been called forth by a subject so empty. Louis was in an agony of remorse, when the truth burst on him. His only hope was, that Hamilton might have found the right packet. He heard the speculations around him as to the probability of success, and saw the last paper put into Norman's hand to be carried away, but he dared not say any thing. He had never dreamt of the importance of the paper he had so carelessly dropped or mislaid, and would have given all he possessed to have remembered what he had done with it.