Nothing more was done that evening. Study had helped to drive away the smaller qualms of conscience the day before; but he was now so sick at heart, that he remained with his head on his hand doing nothing, puzzling himself in vain to remember what he had done with the poem.
Chapter XXI.
It was Saturday night when the manuscripts were delivered to the doctor, and it was not till Monday that the absence of Hamilton's poem was discovered. As much of Sunday as he was able, Louis spent with Casson, trying to discover what could have become of the poem, and in devising all manner of schemes for its recovery and restoration. Little comfort he received from his tempter—Casson alternately laughed at his fears, and blamed his cowardice—and, in order to escape this, Louis affected to be indifferent to the consequences, concealing his heaviness of heart under assumed mirth and unconcern. He had lately spent many cold, careless Sabbaths, but one so utterly wretched as this he could not remember.
The boys had just left the dining-room on Monday, after dinner, when a summons to the doctor's study came for Hamilton. As this was not an uncommon occurrence, Hamilton betrayed neither curiosity nor uneasiness, but quietly gave a few directions to his little brother, and then leisurely left the room. He was soon in the presence of Dr. Wilkinson, Mr. James Wilkinson, and an old gentleman who had a day or two before been examining his class, and who usually assisted in the half-yearly examinations. The countenances of these gentlemen were not very promising, and he instantly saw that something unpleasant might be expected. Before the doctor lay a number of folded papers, which Hamilton recognized as the poems under consideration, and in his hand was a blank sheet of paper, the envelope of which had fallen on the floor.
“Mr. Hamilton,” said the doctor, “I have sent for you to explain this strange affair. Pray can you tell me what was in this envelope?” He stooped, and, picking up the paper as he spoke, handed it to Hamilton.
“My poem, sir,” replied Hamilton, quietly.
“You are sure that is your writing?”
“Quite,” said Hamilton, confidently.
“I have been able to discover nothing more than this,” said the doctor, with something like annoyance in his tone. “I do not know whether you have been writing with invisible ink. This is a mistake, Hamilton,” he added, turning the blank sheet in all directions. “Where is your poem?”
“That in my envelope, sir!” exclaimed Hamilton, reddening to the roots of his hair. “In my envelope!” he reiterated, taking up the envelope and re-examining it in a state of tremulous excitement. “I cannot have made such a mistake—it is utterly impossible.”
“I should say so—impossible, unconsciously, to make so great a mistake,” said the old gentleman.
“And equally so, sir, to make it consciously,” replied Hamilton.
“But where is the poem?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“I expected it was here,” said Hamilton—“and, as it is not, I cannot answer that question, sir.” He again turned over the paper, but could find no clue to the mystery.
“Is the paper the same as you used?” asked Mr. James.
“It is,” replied Hamilton; “and the seal is my own, as well as the writing.”
“What is the seal?” asked Dr. Berry, the old gentleman.
“E.H. It belongs to this pencil-case,” answered Hamilton, producing his pencil-case. “I always carry it about with me.”
“That's awkward again,” said Dr. Berry, exchanging a look with Mr. James.
“Have you never left your pencil-case about lately, nor lent it to any one?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
Hamilton considered.
“I believe I left it with all my things on the class-room table last Friday, when I went out with you, sir.”
“Ah!” said Dr. Berry, “what did you leave there?”
“Some writing-paper, pens, a few books, and my poem, which I had just finished.”
“That was careless of you, Hamilton,” said Dr. Wilkinson.
“I had only just sealed it in time to run after you, sir,” replied Hamilton; “and, as every one was out, I thought there could be no harm in leaving them there till I returned.”
“How much paper did you leave there?” asked Mr. James.
“About half a quire.”
“About half a quire; then, I suppose, you do not know whether any of that paper was taken while you were away?”
“No, I do not,” replied Hamilton. “If any one changed it, it must have been then; as, after I came home, it was locked up in my own writing-desk till Saturday evening.”
“It might have been changed on the way,” suggested Mr. James.
Hamilton was silent for a few seconds, when he answered:
“I do not think so; for I am sure this is my writing: I must unwittingly have directed an empty packet.”
“Unless,” said Dr. Wilkinson, quietly, “some one has imitated your writing?”
“I only know one who could,” replied Hamilton, coloring; “and, I am confident, he was not the party: besides, sir, I do not think there was time, between Norman's departure and his return, to have done it, and that was the only time any one would have had after I had directed it. I did not direct it till Saturday evening.”
“But you said the boys were all out at the same time with yourself; and, in fact, I know they were: I saw them going in as we turned into the playground,” said Dr. Wilkinson. “Did no one stay at home? Stay—Friday—Digby was at home; I remember he pleaded his cold.”
Dr. Wilkinson looked down on the paper he held: there was a strong expression of suspicion in his countenance. The other gentlemen exchanged looks, and Mr. James remarked, that he considered Frank the probable culprit.
“I am glad he does not hear you say so, sir,” exclaimed Hamilton. “I am sure Digby would sooner put his own on the fire! I'd trust Frank's honor as much as my own; and, I am sure, sir,” he added, turning to Dr. Wilkinson, “you know Frank too well.”
To Hamilton's annoyance, Dr. Wilkinson did not reply immediately.
“Frank is too fond of practical jokes,” he said, at last; “I wish I could give him a lesson he would remember. He will never be cured till it touches him severely.”
“But Frank would not joke on this, sir,” expostulated Hamilton. “If he were not so high it might be so, but I'm sure it is not now.”
“Well, there is no time now to consider of this any more,” said Dr. Wilkinson, getting up. “I could bring forward many instances of Digby's disregard of feelings and appearances when his fancy for joking interferes. Dr. Berry, will you be kind enough to attend to these for me, this afternoon? I shall be glad to call upon you on Wednesday for my second class, if you can spare me the day.”
Dr. Berry signified his ready acquiescence; and Dr. Wilkinson turned to Hamilton:
“It is just school-time,” he said; “but I wish you, after school, to make a search in every desk for your poem. I do not imagine it is destroyed. Mr. James will assist you. In the mean time, in the event of your poem not being discovered, you had better rewrite it as well as you can; I will give you till nine o'clock on the last morning.”
Hamilton bowed, thanked his master, and retired, exceedingly uncomfortable. His own loss was slight compared with the vexation he felt at any suspicion of Frank's honor being raised. A very different surmise would now and then try to rise in his own mind, but was vigorously opposed as ungenerous in the extreme. An idea of the real culprit never once occurred to him, nor to any other person. The first class being disengaged that afternoon, Hamilton employed himself with the new edition of his poem, but his thoughts wandered; and, had it not been for a good memory and the force of habitual concentration, he would have found it almost impossible to resume a task he had considered as finished, in circumstances so very disagreeable to him.
As soon as the business of the day was concluded Dr. Wilkinson commanded every one to remain in his place, and then desired Hamilton to begin the search, carefully refraining from mentioning the object in quest. There was considerable excitement in the school when the doctor's command was made known, and it was strictly enforced, that no one should touch the desks till after the search had been made.
“Frank Digby, come here!” shouted the doctor from his post. “Did I not desire that none of those desks should be touched at present?”
“I was only putting my slate away, sir,” said Frank, in much amazement.
“I will not have your desk touched; stay here.”
“What's in the wind?” muttered Jones, sulkily. “The magister's in a splendid humor. What do you want in my desk, Hamilton?”
“A trick has been played on me,” said Hamilton, hastily; “my poem has been exchanged; but—” he added, hesitating, “I cannot bear this.”
“Nonsense, Hamilton!” said Mr. James, who was turning over the contents of Jones's desk. “There is nothing there.”
“Stand back, and let Hamilton look, pray!” exclaimed Reginald Mortimer. “What a shame it is!—you don't suspect us, Hamilton?”
“To be sure not!” said Hamilton, warmly; “but I am desired to do this.”
“So much the better,” said Salisbury; “you'll find mine locked, but here are my keys: we'll go up to the doctor. I say, Hamilton, don't upset my bottle of lemon kali, or my blue ink; you mightn't see them, perhaps, among the other things.”
Hamilton took the keys with some embarrassment, and the first class moved in a body to the upper end of the room, where they remained till every desk had been subjected to a fruitless ransacking.
Louis' state of mind may be easily imagined. He had guessed the reason of the doctor's command the instant it was given; and had also heard the few words that passed between Hamilton and his friends. Oh! what would he have given that he had considered before he committed such folly! He could not bear to face Hamilton, and yet he must be near him when his own desk was examined, for he dared not move from his place. He had looked carefully there himself, but still he was afraid it might, by chance, be there. He hardly dared look round, for fear he should betray his secret; and yet his distress sadly longed for vent. “I did not mean to do any harm,” was his reiterated thought; “I am sure, I thought it was a letter—I did not mean it.” And then he wished to confess his fault; but, with his usual vacillation of purpose, he deferred it, till he should see how things went. It did seem strange that, with all the lessons he had had, he should have put off his confession; yet he dared not, and tried to quiet his conscience with, “I shall tell Hamilton alone;”and, “It's no use telling, when I can't find the poem.” But his trouble was tenfold increased when Hamilton and Mr. James came near him, and finding his desk locked, inquired who's it was, and where the keys were.
Hamilton remarked in a low tone, not aware that Louis was so near, “I suppose for form's sake we must look, but I am sure, poor fellow, he has nothing to do with it.”
Louis just then handed his key; and, as Hamilton's hand came in contact with his, he was struck by its cold clamminess, and just looking at him, noticed the troubled expression, and the almost tearful eyes that were fixed on him. He attributed Louis' anxiety to his natural timidity, as well as to his having probably overheard the remark on himself; and his heart smote him, for he still loved him, and had felt once or twice lately, that he had not done his duty towards him.
The poem was not found. Louis ran out into the playground, despite the cold and twilight, to cry; and hurried in again in a few minutes, for fear of discovery. The members of the first class gathered round Hamilton to learn the story and to condole with him, and even Trevannion made some remark on the shamefulness of such a trick.
“I am sure, whoever gets the prize will not feel comfortable unless your poem is found and compared,” said Frank; “write away, Hamilton; no one shall disturb you. I don't wonder Fudge was in such a passion.”
Louis was very glad when bed-time came, and he could hide his tears and misery under the bed-clothes. Reginald had been too busy to notice that any thing was the matter with him; but Hamilton, occupied as he was, had seen it, though Louis had kept out of his way as much as possible. He dared not tell Reginald his trouble; and he felt afraid to pray—he did not remember that, though our Heavenly Father knows all our thoughts and wants, He requires that all our care and sin should be poured out before Him. The Christian does not love sin; and when, through unwatchfulness or neglect of prayer, he has been betrayed into the commission of it, let him remember, that He alone can remove it and restore peace to his wounded conscience, who has said, “Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings.”
Louis got on very ill the next Wednesday, and Reginald, extremely vexed, spoke very angrily to him. Louis answered as unkindly, and walked proudly away from him to the other end of the school-room, where, in spite of his abhorrence of such company, he was soon surrounded by his worst companions. Hamilton was standing near Reginald at the time; he watched Louis in his proud descent, and saw that, though he turned away with an erect head and high words, his step soon grew more listless, and an expression of indefinable weariness usurped the place of the independence he had assumed.
“Louis is unwell, I am sure, Reginald,” he said.
“He is well enough,” said Reginald, abruptly; “but he is sadly altered: I never saw a boy so changed. He is quite ill-tempered now, and so horridly idle. Why, Hamilton, you'd never believe that in to-day's examination in Prometheus Vinctus, he got down below Harris!—he's positively at the bottom. He hardly answered any thing, and seemed quite stupefied.”
“The more reason to think he's not well,” said Hamilton; “for, to my certain knowledge, he would have stood an examination on Prometheus better than that, a week after we came back. Why, Harris and Peters, and half the rest, are not to be compared with him.”
“I know it,” said Reginald; “and that makes it the more vexatious. It's bad enough to think that Clifton should get ahead of him, but one may comfort one's self in the idea of his genius; but when it comes to those donkeyfied ignorami, it is past endurance. He has not tried a bit: I have seen him lately with his book before him, dreaming about some wonderful story of some enchanted ass, or some giantess Mamouka, I suppose; or imagining some new ode to some incomprehensible, un-come-at-able Dulcinea. He is always shutting himself up in his air-castles, and expecting that dry Latin and Greek, and other such miserable facts, will penetrate his atmosphere.”
“Don't be angry with him; something is the matter. You only drive him to herd with those boys,” said Hamilton. “Look there!—there they are!—oh, Reginald! it is not right to leave him with them.”
“Speak to him yourself, Hamilton,” said Reginald, a little sobered. “He will mind you. You have had a great deal to bear with him, but I know you make allowances.”
Hamilton did not reply, but he had determined on making the effort to detach Louis from his evil counsellors, when the latter suddenly left the room with Casson, and did not return till Hamilton had gone into the class-room.
Casson was the only one to whom Louis could relieve his mind on the subject that weighed him down so heavily—and he had, at the time Hamilton was watching him so intently, been whispering some of his fears, only to be laughed at. Suddenly he paused—“Casson, just come with me; I think I recollect—yes, surely—”
He did not wait to conclude his sentence, but, pulling Casson into the hall, sought his great-coat, dived to the bottom of the pocket, and, to his great joy, drew forth Hamilton's poem.
“It's here! it's here! it's here!” he cried. “How could I have put it here without knowing? Oh, my dear Casson, I am so glad!”
“Well, what now?” said Casson, rudely. “What good is it? What do you mean to do with it?”
“Give it back, of course—I think Hamilton will forgive me, and if not, I must give it back to him, and then, perhaps, I shall be happy again; for I have not been happy for a long, long while: I have been very wrong,” he added, in a low, sorrowful tone.
“If ever I saw such a sap in my life,” said Casson; “this comes of all your fine boasting; a nice fellow you are—why you're afraid of your own shadow! Do you know what you'll get if you give it back?”
“Whatever happens,” said Louis, “I feel I have done wrong—wrong in listening to you, too, Casson. Oh, if ever it please God to make me happy again, I hope I shall be more careful! I have been afraid to do right—I am afraid to think of all that has happened lately.”
“I always thought you were a canting hypocrite,” said Casson, sneeringly. “I never see that you religious people do any better than any one else. Go and get a thrashing, as you deserve, for your cowardice, only don't tell any lies about me. Remember it was all your own doing.”
Casson opened the hall-door as he spoke, and ran into the playground, where most of the boys had assembled, the weather having cleared a little for the first time for the last two days.
Louis sat down on a chair to think what he should do, and the long-restrained tears coursed slowly down his face. His first and best thought was to go at once to Hamilton, acknowledge his fault, and restore the poem. Then came the idea of renewed disgrace, and his head sunk lower on his breast, and the parcel fell from his powerless hands. So intense was his grief, that he was as unconscious that Dr. Wilkinson passed through the hall while he sat there, as that he had heard the conversation between himself and Casson; for, unknown to them both, he had been in a recess of the hall, nearly covered by the cloaks and coats, looking there for something in a little corner closet. Louis at last took up the paper, and went to Hamilton's room; but a servant was there, and he did not like to leave it. Next he thought of the doctor's study, but he dared not venture to approach it. At length, after wandering about from the bed-room to the lass-room door several times, he ventured to peep into the latter room, and, throwing the parcel in, ran to the playground as fast as his feet could carry him.
Chapter XXII.
“Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”—Gal. vi. 2.
As soon as Hamilton had decided that it was of no use following Louis, he called his brother to him and marched with him into the class-room, to explain, according to promise, some classical allusions that occurred in his Latin grammar. Reginald took his arm, and several of the first class, who saw them move, accompanied him, for the glass-door opening at the moment, admitted more cold air than was agreeable to those who did not feel inclined to visit the playground. They almost expected to find the doctor in the study, as they knew he had been there a short time before, but the sole occupant of the chamber was Frank Digby, who, to the astonishment of all, was standing in a very disconsolate attitude near the fireplace, leaning his head on the mantelpiece, and neither moved nor spoke when they entered.
“Holloa, Momus!” exclaimed Reginald, “what's the row? as Salisbury would say; only, more properly we might ask, in your case, what do the tranquillity and genteel pensiveness of your demeanor denote?”
“We're going to have a change in the weather,” said Jones.
“What's the matter, Frank?” asked Hamilton.
“Nothing,” replied Frank, raising his head quickly, and endeavoring, rather unsuccessfully, to smile, amid something that looked very much like tears; at least, if we must not be allowed to hint at such appearances, there was certainly much agitation in his countenance—so unusual a phenomenon, that a dead silence followed the ghastly effort.
“Nonsense,” said Hamilton, kindly; “you won't persuade me that nothing is the matter, Frank.”
“Nothing particular,” said Frank, fidgeting with a penny that lay on the mantelpiece; “only the doctor has been giving me a lecture for the good of my morals, that's all.”
“A lecture?” repeated Norman.
“What's been the matter, Frank?” said Reginald.
“A small moral discourse upon the sin and danger of practical jokes,” said Frank, swallowing down such an evident degree of emotion as convinced his auditors that the discourse had been no ordinary one. “His hints were rather peculiar, Hamilton—too decided for so quick-sighted a youth as myself. I don't wonder he has such a horror of a joke; I should think the dear man never was guilty of such a crime in his life himself; or he has a strong imagination; or, perhaps, a bad opinion of your humble servant—all the same—the cause doesn't much signify; the effect's what one looks at.”
“Something dreadfully mysterious,” said Reginald.
Hamilton was silent. He watched anxiously Frank's varying countenance, the twitching of which, as well as the thick, quick tone in which he spoke, betrayed great excitement.
“The fact is, I suppose, the doctor has reasons for his suspicions,” continued Frank, still more quickly, while his face grew redder, and his eyelids twinkled painfully, and the penny was fairly spun into the fender.
“I haven't been quite so sage as I might have been, and, perhaps, jokes may not be quite gentlemanly—but,—but, Hamilton,—he thinks,—he thinks—and almost said it—that I changed your poem.”
“What a shame!” they cried.
Frank stooped to pick up the penny, and was some minutes finding it. When he rose, he said:
“One will grow old in time, but it's hard to pay so dearly for good spirits. However, you couldn't expect such a flow cheap, I suppose,” he added, with a little laugh.
“You must have mistaken him,” said Trevannion; “he couldn't have meant it.”
“I am not in the habit of taking offence at nothing,” replied Frank. “Nay, I can be as purposely obtuse as any one when I choose, but one couldn't be blind.”
“What did he say?” said Reginald.
“I don't exactly remember—a heap about ‘pain inflicted,’ of ‘misconstructions being placed on motives,’ of ‘transgressions against honor and kindliness;’ and then, when I was at a loss to comprehend him, he said, ‘he could not understand the gratification of seeing another disappointed and annoyed—when he discovered that his school-fellow, whom he confidently trusted, had substituted a blank sheet for a carefully, laboriously-written work;’ and then I asked him if he supposed I had tricked Hamilton? and he said he couldn't think of another who was so likely to do it as myself—that ‘the constant indulgence in these senseless follies was likely to blunt the sense of honor,’ ‘that I must excuse him’—excuse him, forsooth—‘if he spoke his mind on the subject;’ and then he raked up an old affair, that happened ages ago, about an exercise—Salisbury, you remember—you were the victim; but that was a paltry, every-day affair, only he didn't seem to understand the difference. I'll back the doctor up for as good a memory as any man in the three kingdoms. I had forgotten that piece of moral turpitude, and might have been excused for imagining that the caning I got then had wiped out the offence. Hamilton,” he added, with a faltering voice, laying his hand on Hamilton's shoulder—“you don't believe I did it?”
“To be sure not, Frank,” said Hamilton, heartily shaking Frank's hand. “I know you too well—I am as confident of you as I should be of myself in the same case. Don't think any more of it. I am sure the doctor doesn't believe it himself: he only wants to show what might be thought if you get a character for playing tricks. I am excessively vexed at this.”
“I don't feel at all certain he believes me yet,” said Frank; “but this I declare, that unless your poem is found, I will withdraw all claim—I won't touch the prize for any consideration.”
“Don't do that, Frank,” said Hamilton; “I'll give you some trouble yet with my new one.”
“If that gets it, so much the better,” said Frank, “and I dare say it will; but you all hear—my mind is made up—I won't have a prize for this poem unless it is gained over Hamilton's first.”
“How came the doctor to begin this rigmarole?” asked Salisbury.
Frank blushed, and replied, with a conscious laugh: “I did an abominably foolish thing last night, in dipping all the bed-room candles that were standing in the pantry, into a tempting basin of water; and Mrs. Guppy was malicious because the candles sputtered and wouldn't light, and, as usual, determined that I had done it; and Fudge taxed me with it this morning.”
“I wish,” said Hamilton, emphatically, “I could discover the author of this shameful piece of business. It was vexatious enough in the first place, but this is painful to us all. Frank, every one knows you.”
“Doctor best of all,” put in Frank.
“I will give myself up to discovering who has done it,” said Hamilton.
“You had better give yourself up to finishing your poem,” said Reginald; “for it's my humble opinion if you haven't found it now, your eyes won't discover the clue, if you were Argus himself.”
The others then began a rather noisy debate on the impropriety of their master's behavior; and little Alfred, finding his brother was not speaking, ventured to remind him of his promise. Contrary to his usual habit, Hamilton turned quite crossly to him:
“What an idle fellow you are! Why don't you get Lemprière and find them out for yourself?—you ought not to be beginning now.”
“I tried, Edward, but I couldn't understand it, and it went out of my head. I want to know about Cecropia again—I forget what country it was, Edward,” said the child, timidly, noticing an ominous reddening of his brother's face.
“A great deal of use it is giving you any information, is it not, sir? I have a great mind to make you write out every word I say. And pray what else have you forgotten?”
“Not forgotten any thing,” said Alfred, meekly; “but I wanted to know, please Edward, who was Hannibal's father, and whether it was true about Hannibal's making the rocks red hot, and pouring vinegar on them? I don't think it could, for I don't know where he could get so much.”
“A great deal he carried in his own countenance,” said Frank, “and the rest was made from the wine supplied for the Carthaginian officers. There's nothing like white-wine vinegar, Alfred; and the Carthaginians were renowned for parting with luxuries on an emergency.”
“Now I know that's your nonsense,” said Alfred, looking very puzzled. “And, please Edward, who was Philomela and—”
“That's enough—one at a time!” exclaimed Hamilton; “get Lemprière, and my Roman History, and you shall look them out with me. It's to be hoped you are not dreaming of a prize.”
“Poor infant!” said Salisbury; “it's hard work, I know, to remember the difference between those heathen chaps.”
Alfred had just brought the required books, and was opening them by his brother's desire, and Hamilton was standing near him at the table, when suddenly a packet was thrown into the room, and fell at his feet. Changing color, he picked it up with the rapidity of lightning, and, with an exclamation, rushed out of the room, before any one but Alfred had seen the transaction. Louis had just gained the threshold of the door leading to the playground, when Hamilton hailed him, and his long strides gaining on Louis' terror-impeded steps, he presently reached him, and, grasping him tightly by both arms, bore him back to the class-room, sternly desiring two or three boys, who attempted to follow, to stay behind. Louis did not make any resistance, and Hamilton, after locking the door and putting the key into his pocket, brought him irresistibly to the front of the fire, and, placing him with his back against the table, opposite the assembled group, desired him, under pain of instant punishment, to remain where he was.
“What is the matter with him, Hamilton?” asked Reginald.
“You shall see presently,” said Hamilton; “I mean to have some inquiries answered: and please, Mortimer, however unpleasant it may be to you, let us have fair play.”
“I only stipulate it for Louis too,” said Reginald.
“He shall have it,” said Hamilton, calmly; “but if he attempts to move till I have done, I will carry him at once to Dr. Wilkinson.”
Hamilton glanced at the windows, where five or six heads were darkening the lower panes, in their eagerness to discover the cause of Louis' forcible abduction; and, walking coolly up to them, bolted them, and drew down both blinds. He then returned to his place, and, drawing his coat-tails under his arms, arranged himself with his back to the fire, exactly opposite to Louis, who stood passively where he had been placed, very pale, but otherwise showing little emotion.
“Now, sir,” began Hamilton, “explain how you got this.”
As he spoke, he produced, to the astonishment of his school-fellows, the parcel—rubbed at the edges, but still the identical parcel, as he proved, by breaking the seal, and showing the writing inside.
“What! Louis Mortimer!” exclaimed Jones.
“Et tu Brute!” ejaculated Frank, in a tone of mingled surprise and reproach.
“Louis!” said Reginald, coloring deeply; “oh, Louis! How did you find it, Hamilton?”
“Did you not see it come in through the half-open door just now?” said Hamilton.
“I fancied I saw something fly along,” said Meredith.
“I thought I heard something fall,” said another.
“Too cowardly to come openly,” said Trevannion.
The room seemed to turn round with Louis.
“How did you come by this?” said Hamilton.
There was no answer.
“I will have an answer, Louis,” he said: “and if you don't give it to me, you shall to Dr. Wilkinson!”
Louis murmured something that no one heard.
“What?” said Hamilton, sharply; “speak so as we can all hear. If you have brought it back for some one else,” he added, in a softened tone, “say so at once; only let me know who took it.”
“I took it,” replied Louis, with a great effort.
“You ungrateful viper!” exclaimed Jones.
Hamilton appeared a little moved, but checking the emotion, continued:
“You! for—your—own—especial—gratification? And pray, when might you have accomplished that adroit and praiseworthy feat?”
“Last Friday,” said Louis, in so low a tone, that nothing but the silence that reigned could have made it audible.
“And what was your motive?” asked Hamilton, leaning back against the mantelpiece, and putting one foot on the fender behind him.
“Only a little fun!”
“Pretty respectable fun!” said Hamilton, contemptuously.
“Gratitude might have restrained you, one would think,” said Jones, “if nothing else would. A pretty return for all Hamilton's kindness, to set to work to lose him his prize!”
“I didn't, Jones,” said Louis, warmly; “I thought it was a letter; I didn't mean any harm. And as to gratitude—when Hamilton was kind to me, I was grateful—and I do feel grateful for his kindness now; but he has been unkind enough lately to make me forget that.”
“And reason enough he had,” said Meredith. “Unkind, indeed! why no one else stood your friend when we found out what a tell-tale you were.”
“I am sure nobody knew he was my friend then,” said Louis, assuming an air of independence that ill became him. “Only last Friday, he let me believe that Trevannion had the doctor's Rollin; he offered me his, but I wasn't likely to take that, and—” Louis hesitated, for Hamilton's eye was upon him so calmly and inquiringly; and Louis felt he was not likely to have had such an idea in his head.
“And what?” said Hamilton, quietly.
“Nothing,” replied Louis; “I don't believe you knew, only it was rather strange, Hamilton.”
“What was strange?” said Hamilton, in the same unmoved tone.
“Only when I came back into this room, I saw it on the table with your things, and I thought you had it, perhaps,” said Louis, reluctantly. “If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have come here, and shouldn't have thought of playing the trick.”
“You little—” exclaimed Trevannion. Not being able to find a genteel epithet strong enough, he continued, “When Hamilton had just taken the trouble of exchanging his own history with me, for your service! I see it all now, Hamilton—you ungrateful boy!”
“How should I know? he never said so,” replied Louis, touched to the heart at this proof of his friend's kindness; and grieved very deeply that he should have thought or said so unkind a thing of him in his anger. “How am I to know what people think, if they don't speak, or if I don't see them?”
“And so you did it out of revenge?” said Hamilton.
Louis was silent for a minute, for he could not speak; but at last he replied, in a quivering voice—
“No; I told you I did it out of fun. I thought it was a letter, and—and I have been very sorry I ever did any thing so foolish. I should have brought it back sooner, but I could not remember what I did with it.”
“Why did you not tell me, at least, that you had taken it, Louis,” said Hamilton, “when I was inquiring for it? It would have been more open.”
“I should have done it, I believe, if I had known how you would have heard me—but it's not so easy when every one is against you. I brought it only a few minutes after I found it.”
“Who put such a thing into your head, Louis?” asked Reginald.
Louis checked the answer he had nearly given, and remained silent.
“Were you alone?” said Hamilton. “Were you the only one concerned in this business?”
“I was not alone,” replied Louis, rather proudly; “but I do not mean to say who was with me. He was not to blame for what I did.”
“How so?” asked Hamilton. “Didn't he put it into your head, and help you to do it?”
“You have no right to ask such questions,” said Louis, uneasily. “He came in to help me find Rollin, and—that's all I shall tell you.”
“What, Casson help you to find Rollin!” said Hamilton, quickly. “He wouldn't know the book from a Lexicon.”
“He did, however,” said Louis; then, becoming suddenly conscious, from the intelligent glances exchanged among his judges, of the admission he had made, he turned very red, and exclaimed,
“It's very unfair!”
“I knew he was your companion,” said Hamilton, rather scornfully. “You have belonged to his set too much lately to suppose otherwise—and this is the consequence.”
“If it is, Hamilton,” said Louis, scarcely able to speak for the warmth of his feelings, “you might have prevented it if you would. You wouldn't forgive my speaking carelessly once—and no one that I cared for would notice me. He was almost the only one who would speak to me. If you had said one word, I shouldn't have been so bad. I thought you didn't care about me, and I didn't mean to stay where I wasn't wanted.”
The expression of Hamilton's face was not easy, and he drowned the end of Louis' speech by knocking all the fire-irons down with a movement of his poised foot.
“It was a likely way to be wanted, I imagine,” said Jones, “to go on as you have been doing. Besides, who is to know what's likely to be safe with such a tell-tale—a traitor—in the camp as you are?”
“If there hadn't been another as great,” said Louis, “you would never have known of me; but you bear with him because you can't turn him out.”
“Pray, sir!” exclaimed Norman, “whom do you mean?”
Louis felt sorry he had allowed himself to say so much; but he stood unshrinkingly before his interrogator, and replied:
“I mean you, Norman: you know if you hadn't told tales of me this wouldn't have happened.”
What vengeance Louis might have drawn on himself by this ill-judged speech we cannot tell, had not Hamilton stepped forward and interposed.
There was a grim ghost of a smile on his face as he put his arm in front of Louis.
“Fair play, Norman,” he said; “I won't have him touched here. You can go now.”
As Louis left the room, Hamilton resumed his former attitude, and seemed lost in a revery of an unpleasant description, while a discussion on Louis' conduct was noisily carried on around him: some declaring that Louis had done the deed from malicious motives, others believing that it was merely a foolish joke of which he had not calculated the consequences, and a third party attributing it entirely to Casson's influence.
“Vexed as I am to find Louis has been so foolish,” said Reginald, “I am glad, Frank, that you will now be cleared. Hamilton, I am sure you believe that Louis only intended a joke?”
Hamilton nodded gravely.
“I suppose you'll clear up the matter instanter, Hamilton?” said Jones.
“Clear up the matter? How! is it not clear enough already?” said Hamilton, almost fiercely.
“Clear to us, but not to the doctor,” said Meredith.
“It's as clear as it's likely to be, then,” said Hamilton. “I intend to send up this poem the last evening, and say nothing about it.”
“A likely story!” exclaimed Jones.
“If you don't, I shall, Hamilton,” said Salisbury.
“Whoever breathes a word of the matter,” cried Hamilton, “ceases from that moment to be a friend of mine. Whose business is it, I should like to know—if I choose to throw that unhappy thing on the fire, who is the loser but myself? What satisfaction can it be to any one to get that boy into such a mess?”
As Hamilton spoke he disdainfully flung the poem on the table, and drew the fender, contents and all, on the floor with his fidgety foot.
“The matter comes to this,” said Reginald: “it appears that either Louis must be exposed, or Frank suffer for his delinquencies. It is not, certainly, fair to Frank, and mustn't be, Hamilton, though Louis is my brother.”
Hamilton cast a bewildered look on Frank.
“True, I had really forgotten Frank. It must be so, then,” he said, in a lower tone.
“No, Hamilton, no!” said Frank; “I won't have you tell of poor Louis. I don't care a bit about Fudge's suspicions now, you all know I am clear. Don't say a word about it, I beg.”
“Frank, you're a fine fellow!” exclaimed Hamilton, grasping his hand; “but I don't think it is quite fair.”
“Nonsense!” said Frank, gayly; “I owe him something for relieving me from my situation; and, besides,” he added, more gravely, “Louis deserves a little forbearance from us: none of us would have done what he did, last half.”
“You are right,” said Hamilton, warmly; “none of us would, but all of us have forgotten that lately; even Ferrers, who ought, at least, to have befriended him, has turned the cold shoulder to him. I feel quite indignant with Ferrers.”
“Ferrers had a little reason to doubt him,” said Trevannion.
“What, for letting his name slip out by accident?” said Hamilton, scornfully; “you heard how he let out Casson's just now—you wouldn't blame him for that, I imagine?”
“No,” said Frank; “and I can tell you that Mrs. Paget (no offence to her nephew) is one of those dear retailers of all descriptions of news, that would worm a secret out of a toad in a stone, and Louis hasn't ready wit enough to manage her.”
“He has no presence of mind, and a little vanity,” said Hamilton.
“He is as vain as a peacock—a lump of vanity!” exclaimed Norman; “without an atom of moral courage to stand any persuasion short of being desired to put his head into the fire—a perfect coward!”
“And where did you get your moral courage, Mr. Norman?” said Hamilton, with deliberate gravity; “we may send you to the heathen for reproof:
‘If thou hast strength, 'twas heaven that strength bestowed,
For know, vain man, thy valor is from God.’ ”
Norman was on the point of speaking, but Hamilton continued in the same calm, irresistible manner:
“If Louis is vain, we are proud; and I should like to know which is the worst,—having an exalted opinion of ourselves, or craving the exalted opinion of others? We have not behaved well to Louis, poor fellow! we first spoiled him by over-indulgence and flattery, and when this recoils upon us, we visit all the evil heavily on him.”
“I only want to remark,” said Meredith, “that we had a right to expect more consistency in a professed saint.”
“Perhaps so,” said Hamilton; “yet, though I am sure Louis is a sincere Christian, he is not free from faults, and had still a hard work to do in overcoming them; and, because he has for a time forgotten that he had this work to do, shall we cast him off as a reprobate? Remember it was his former blameless conduct that made us expect more from him than another: the Power that guided him then can restore him again. But we have sadly forgotten that great duty, of bearing one another's burdens, which he taught us so sweetly a few months ago. Let us forgive him,” continued Hamilton, with tears in his eyes, “as we would be forgiven; considering how we should act in temptation ourselves.”
There was a dead silence, for Hamilton's address had something solemn in it. He added, after a short pause—
“I feel that we seniors have an immense responsibility: the power of doing much good or harm lies with us. I have been far too selfish and indifferent: Trevannion, will you forgive the thoughtless words that so justly offended you, but which, I assure you, had only the meaning of an angry emotion?”
“Willingly!” said Trevannion, starting up to meet the proffered hand of his friend; “I am sorry I should have been so much offended.”
Reginald was making some acknowledgments to Hamilton and Frank, when a messenger came to summon Hamilton to a short turn with the doctor, and after gladly accepting Reginald's offer of performing his task towards Alfred, he took up his poem, and went away full of deep thoughts and regrets, that the late scene had called forth.
Chapter XXIII.
“O Israel, return unto the Lord thy God; for thou hast fallen by thine iniquity. Take with you words, and turn to the Lord: say unto Him, Take away all iniquity, and receive us graciously; so will we render the calves of our lips.”—Hosea xiv. 1, 2.
When Louis left the class-room, his feelings of grief and shame were almost too bitter for restraint; but he had learned lately to conceal something of what he felt from those who were not likely to sympathize with him; and finding some boys in the school-room, and being subjected there to several disagreeable remarks and questions, he went into the playground, in the hope of finding either relief in change of scene, or a little more seclusion than he could hope for in-doors; and after escaping from some tormentors, who met him at the door, in their anxiety to know what Hamilton wanted with him, he went towards the side of the playground that looked upon the lane, hardly caring where he was going, or what became of him.
The door was open, and disregarding, or more properly, forgetting, the injunctions respecting it, he went up to it, and stood looking out into the lane, till at last, one of his school-fellows discovering the open door, came up, and asked him to keep watch for him, while he went on a forbidden errand.
Meantime, Dr. Wilkinson and Hamilton had, after a walk across the grounds in front of the house, turned into the lane, making as large a round as possible, on their way to the house. Hamilton was in a very silent humor, and as his tutor was equally grave, very few words passed between them during the first half of their walk; and if Hamilton had thought at all about what he had undertaken so mechanically, he might have wondered how the doctor could have wanted a companion, when he was in so taciturn a humor.
Suddenly the doctor remarked,—“Have you heard nothing of your poem, Hamilton?”
This was so unexpected a question, and Hamilton was so unwilling to make a direct answer, that he remained silent for a minute or two, his hesitation and color convincing his master that Louis had acted up to his determination.
“Well, have you forgotten all about it?” said the doctor, good-humoredly.
“I have found it, sir—here it is,” he replied, producing the paper.
“How did you get it?” asked the doctor, who betrayed far less surprise and satisfaction than the occasion seemed to demand.
“It was thrown into the class-room this morning, sir,” said Hamilton, reservedly.
“And you are ignorant of the party?” said the doctor, with raised eyebrows.
“No, sir, I know who has done it,” replied Hamilton, after a slight pause; “but I must beg you to excuse my naming him. I think there is no danger of a repetition of the offence. Of course you will understand, sir, that I do not mean Digby, who is as innocent as I ever believed him.”
There was a little silence, while the doctor ran his eye down a page of Hamilton's manuscript.
“As you wish to keep the matter secret, I shall ask no further questions; only, Digby may not think it quite fair.”
“He wishes it to be so, sir,” replied Hamilton, eagerly. “It is quite his wish now he knows I have proof that he is not the culprit.”
Dr. Wilkinson's face lighted up with an expression of great satisfaction, as he said,
“It does Digby credit.”
Hamilton was on the point of hazarding a remark on the impossibility of Frank's contemplating such a thing, when they turned a corner of the lane that brought them in sight of the playground wall and the farm-yard opposite. The doctor's attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of a boy, perched on the top of the high wall surrounding the latter, who was reaching downwards towards the top of a large hawthorn-tree that grew inside.
“Hey-day! Hamilton, who's that?” he exclaimed. “Do you recognize the figure? If my eyes deceive me not, it is Louis Mortimer. I have strongly suspected lately that I have been robbed more than once. It is Louis Mortimer.”
The doctor's tone assumed its ready sternness, and he quickened his pace. Hamilton could not doubt the evidence of his senses, but he felt miserably disappointed.
“I do not think Louis Mortimer would do so, sir,” he said, faintly.
“There he is, however, out of bounds,” said the doctor.
“Something else may have taken him there,” said Hamilton.
“I hope it may prove so, but he is surely receiving something from below—he sees us—he will be down—he will assuredly break his neck!” exclaimed the doctor, hurriedly. “There—quick, Hamilton—run.”
Hamilton needed no bidding, for, as soon as he saw Louis fall, he ran off in the direction of the stable-yard. The doctor followed so quickly that Hamilton had only just raised Louis from the ground when he came up. To their great satisfaction he was not much hurt, having fallen on a heap of straw that lay just under the wall. He was much frightened, and at first so stunned as to be almost incapable of understanding what was said to him. On the ground near him lay his green baize bag, and rolling about in all directions, some apples, one or two still remaining in the bag.
“Where is your companion, sir?” was the first question Dr. Wilkinson asked, after ascertaining that no injury had been done to Louis.
“There was no one with me, sir,” replied Louis, almost inarticulately.
“What were you doing here, sir?”
“I came to fetch my bag, sir.”
“It is a mercy you were not killed,” said Dr. Wilkinson, gravely. “Put the apples in that bag, Hamilton.”
Dr. Wilkinson waited till Hamilton had performed this task, and then desired Louis to take the bag and follow him.
Louis did as he was desired, but he was evidently not yet in a condition to walk, and trembled so violently that Hamilton caught hold of him to prevent him from falling.
“He can't walk yet, sir,” he said, compassionately. “I will bring him in when he has recovered a little.”
“It is too cold to sit out here,” said the doctor. “Where are you hurt?”
“I don't exactly know; I am not much hurt—but, oh! I feel so strange, Hamilton. Let me walk—I can take your arm.”
Dr. Wilkinson looked anxiously at him, and assisted him, with Hamilton's aid, across the road, through the garden, into the kitchen, where, with a little hartshorn and water, he was soon in a condition to go up stairs. Dr. Wilkinson desired him to go to bed for the rest of the day, and sent Reginald to help him. The bag he took into his own possession till further occasion.
Louis was too much dismayed by his ill success, and too much exhausted by the shock of his fall, to make any remarks till he reached his room. Hamilton did not leave him until he had seen him comfortably in bed; and then, after wrapping him up most tenderly, he leaned over him, and asked what was really the matter.
Louis endeavored to answer calmly, but in his present weak condition Hamilton's kind manner overcame him, and he burst into tears.
“Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, amid his violent sobs; “oh, Reginald, Reginald—Hamilton, I am so unfortunate! Every thing I do is always found out; but others can do all sorts of things, and no one knows it.”
“Is there any thing then to be found out, Louis?” said Hamilton, gravely; “if so, it is far better for you that it should be.”
Louis suddenly threw his arms round Hamilton, as he sat near him.
“Hamilton, I did not go there to steal, I am sure,” he said, throwing his head back, and examining his friend's face with the most intense anxiety. “I am sure, Hamilton, bad as I am, you could not believe it of me. I have been very sinful, but oh, I am very sorry; and, Hamilton, I could not do so very wicked a thing. Do remember, please, how things were against me before when I was not guilty. Though it seems all against me now, I assure you, the only thing I have done wrong is going out of bounds—oh, do let me keep my arms round you, Hamilton—don't believe me guilty. I haven't—oh, I haven't had a friend for so long! I have been very proud and self-willed—if I had been humble perhaps things would not have gone so wrong. I never even said I was sorry I repeated what you said to Mrs. Paget; but I was sorry, Hamilton—very, very sorry, only I did not like to say so. Will you forgive me, and be my friend again? I have been so ungrateful, I am afraid you will never love me any more.”
Hamilton was completely overcome by the vehemence of Louis' appeal. He pressed the poor boy closer to him, and even kissed his forehead, as if he were a little child.
“Love you, Louis! love you, dear boy!” he replied; “you have had reason to doubt it, but I have always loved you. I forgive you from my heart, but you have something to forgive in me. I have not been as kind to you as I might have been.”
“I am very sorry I spoke so unkindly of you this morning, Hamilton,” sobbed Louis, laying his wet cheek on Hamilton's shoulder. “I was cross, and didn't think of what I was saying.”
“Don't think any more about it,” said Hamilton, affectionately; “lie down, and tell me quietly how you came to be on that wall just now.”
“I was standing at the wooden door,” said Louis, “when Sally Simmons told me that she had seen my bag on the great hawthorn-tree, by the wall on the other side. And when I asked her how it got there, she said, she supposed I knew, but it was too high for her to reach; and if I didn't get it, the doctor would find me out. At first, I thought I wouldn't go,” said Louis, hesitating; “and then I was afraid I should be getting into a scrape—I am sometimes so unfortunate—and so I went across the lane, and got over the gate, and went into the yard to see if it were there. And there it was, Hamilton, with some apples in it, too, hanging partly, and partly lying, near the top of the tree; it was so high that I was obliged to get upon the cow-house roof, and as the cow-house was on the wrong side, I was obliged to get on the wall to read it. And I was pulling it off when you first saw me, and then—I was afraid, and as I was rather over-reaching myself, I tried to get down in a hurry, and fell down. I think the tree broke my fall; but I don't know how it was, for I hardly understood any thing, even when you came up.”
“You had better have let it alone,” said Reginald.
“What were you doing at the gate?” said Hamilton; “keeping watch?”
“One of them asked me,” replied Louis.
Hamilton shook his head.
“Have you any idea how your bag came there?”
“Please don't ask me any questions about that, Hamilton. Will you not believe I am innocent?”
“I fully believe your story, Louis, but I know you have been in bad company lately, and I wish to help you to clear yourself. Tell me all you know. If you have ever had even the least hand in any thing like this, make a friend of me, and tell me at once. Have you not some idea who put your bag there?”
“I may guess, you know,” said Louis, evasively; “but, Hamilton, I do assure you, I never had any thing to do with any robbery here at all—never once.”
“If you do not know who has done it, then,” said Hamilton, “I am sure your guess is a very accurate one—whom do you guess?”
“I cannot tell you, Hamilton; you mustn't ask me.”
“This is only nonsense,” said Reginald, impatiently. “Are you going to make a martyr of yourself for a set of bad fellows who are a disgrace to the school?”
“They may tell themselves, perhaps,” said Louis, “but I will not.”
“Louis!” said Hamilton, seriously, “this is folly; don't let a mistaken notion of honor induce you to screen these bad boys from their just punishment. By doing so, you are doing an injury to others as well as yourself. You must remember, that these evil-disposed boys are still mixing with others, to whom their example and principles may do much harm, independently of the evil done to themselves by being allowed to sin with impunity. Louis, you were saying just now, that you were very unfortunate—they are the most unfortunate whose crimes are undiscovered, and therefore unchecked. If you are, as you say, innocent of any participation in this affair, why should you wish to conceal what you know, or, at least, telling me whom you lent your bag to?”
“I did not lend it at all lately,” said Louis, raising his face from the pillow, where he had hidden it. “The thing is, Hamilton,” continued he, very sorrowfully, “I am called a tell-tale, and I know I deserve it; but the worst is, they call me a hypocrite, and say that religious people are no better than others. I could bear it if it were only myself, but it is more, and I have given reasons for them to say all kinds of things,” he added, and burst anew into tears. “But do not make me tell any more tales. I have promised, Hamilton—I dare not—I will not break my promise!”
Hamilton made no immediate reply, and the loud ringing of the dinner-bell obliged him to leave Louis to himself.
“If it is a promise, Louis,” he said, as he left the room with Reginald, “I won't urge you to break it; but remember well how the promise was made—remember the consequences.”
“Reginald,” he added, when they had closed the door, “I have a clue; depend upon it, he won't be much the worse, poor fellow. But the doctor knows him well, I am sure.”
Reginald stole away after dinner to sit with Louis, and to endeavor to persuade him to disclose all his suspicions, but all he could obtain was a kind of half-promise to clear it up, after he had seen how the matter would end; and the subject caused him so much distress, that Reginald at length left it alone.
“Sit down by my side, dear Reginald,” said Louis, “and tell me again that you forgive me. I cannot think how I could be so unkind to you as I have been lately, when you were so anxious about me. I have been ungrateful to every body.”
“Don't make yourself miserable,” said Reginald, as gayly as he could. “I know I am hasty and cross, and don't go the right way to help you; but you had spoiled me by being so very gentle before, and I didn't understand your having any spirit.”
“It was a very wrong spirit,” replied Louis; “the fact is, Reginald, I have not been serving God lately, though at first I did not know it myself. I thought I did a great many things when I came back to school, because it would glorify God; when, I really believe now, the reason was—to be praised for it. Every one seemed to think so much of me, and that every thing I did was right. I have wished so many times lately, that all the trouble of last half-year might come again if I should be so happy. But, Reginald, when the boys would not speak to me, then I knew by my angry feelings that I only cared for myself; and I saw that I had not been serving God, and I became afraid to pray. Sometimes so strangely, when I knew I was in the wrong, and that I ought to pray for help to be better, yet I wanted to look grand, and to show I didn't care, and I never used the time I had, and that's very little here, Reginald. I have been thinking of myself almost ever since I came back—I have been thinking of glorifying myself!” He paused, and then added, in a lower tone, “I fancied I was not selfish, but now I know I am!”
When Reginald went away, Louis had long and quiet time to trace the reason of his sad falling away, and to make his peace with Him whose great name he had so dishonored. Earnestly, humbly, and sorrowfully did he confess his faults. How bowed to the earth he felt, in the consciousness of his utter impotence! He remembered how confident he had been in his good name; and now he became aware, in this silent self-examination, how mixed his motives had been, how full of vanity and vain-glory he had been, how careless in waiting for “more grace,” how little he had thought of pressing forward, how wanting he had been in that single heart that thought only of doing the work committed to him regardless of the approbation of men—that only desired to know what was right in order fearlessly to follow it; and unutterable were the tearful desires of his heart that he might be strengthened for the time to come to walk more worthy of the vocation wherewith he was called.
Chapter XXIV.
“I will heal their backslidings, I will love them freely; for mine anger is turned away from him. Ephraim shall say, What have I to do any more with idols?”—Hosea xiv. 4, 8.
“I will hear what God the Lord will speak: for He will speak peace to His people, and to His saints, but let them not turn again to folly.”—Psalm lxxxv. 8.
Louis awoke from a calm, sound sleep very early the next morning, with a dim, indistinct recollection of having, when half awake during the night, seen Dr. Wilkinson standing by him, and of a consciousness of a hand being laid on his forehead and his hands; but, as he did not feel certain, much less suppose it likely, he settled that he must have dreamed it. It was quite dark when he awoke, and it was some few minutes before the events of the preceding day ranged themselves in any order in his mind; and then his thoughts flew to that rest whence they had been so long absent.
In about half an hour, several of his school-fellows began to rouse themselves, and, a candle or two being lighted, dressing was hastily accomplished; and, rolling themselves up in counterpanes and blankets, shawl fashion, they proceeded to pore over the books they had brought up the night before.
“I don't mean to get up,” growled Frank; ”it's a great deal more comfortable in bed. Clifton, bring me my candle here, and put it on that chair—I shall make a studium of my couch.”
“Dr. Wilkinson asked if we read with candles near the beds,” said Clifton. “He said he wouldn't have us read in bed unless it were daylight, Digby.”
“Well, we'll suppose he didn't,” said Frank, “so come along.”
“No, I won't,” said Clifton, sitting down, near a chest of drawers, on which was a candle, the joint property of himself, Reginald, and Louis.
“You won't, won't you?” said Frank, coolly; “Reginald, my candle's near you, I'll trouble you for it.”
“You must take the consequences, then,” said Reginald, “for I heard the doctor say so.”
“I didn't,” said Frank, snuffing his candle, and opening a book; “Meredith, I'd advise you to follow my example.”
“I followed it yesterday, and fell asleep in uncomfortable snoozes till the bell rang,” yawned Meredith. “Reading one word and dreaming six may be entertaining, but it is certainly not instructive.”
There was very little noise, and Louis lay for some time in deep thought. At length he moved as if with the intention of getting up, when Reginald started up and planted his beaming face over him so as to prevent his rising:
“Awake at last, Louis?”
“Yes, I have been awake a long time.”
“You've been very quiet.”
“How happy you look!” said Louis; “I could almost fancy you had something to tell.”
“What will you give me for my news?”
“I am afraid I can offer nothing but thanks,” replied Louis, smiling.
“What should you say if I were to tell you Casson was gone?”
“Casson gone!” exclaimed Louis, starting up in spite of his brother's incubian overseership. “Where? When? How? Was he ill? What was the matter?”
“He went home yesterday evening by the London coach. He was in perfect bodily health. The matter was, that the magister wouldn't keep him.”
“What! expelled, Reginald?” said Louis, aghast.
“Expelled, Louis,” Reginald replied, gravely; “don't look so frightened; he deserved it.”
“Oh, Reginald! it is so terrible! But how—why was it so sudden?”
“Ah, Beauty!” said Frank, “a few wonders have happened while your ladyship has been sleeping there. What will you say to Harris going, too?”
“Harris! no, surely not, Frank? Tell me, do tell me what's been the matter.”
“We promised to let Hamilton tell the story,” said Reginald. “He has been, in a great measure, the cause of finding all out; so make haste and go to him, for I want you back again.”
Louis did not need any further bidding—he hurried his toilette, and flew to the room that Hamilton enjoyed to himself. Hamilton was up. An open Bible lay near him, which he closed as Louis entered.
“How are you, foolish boy, this morning?” he said, kindly—very kindly, Louis thought, as he squeezed his hand.
“I am very well, thank you. Reginald's been telling me strange news this morning.”
“News?” said Hamilton. “He promised me—”
“Oh! I only know that Casson's gone, and Harris going, but he would not tell me any more.”
“Well, then, I will.”
“Hamilton,” said Louis, gently laying his hand on Hamilton's, “may I ask one thing?”
“What is it?”
“Will you read a little of this with me first?” he said, timidly, touching the Bible. “I have neglected it so lately. It would be so pleasant before we begin any thing else. You do not know how difficult it is in our room to be a minute quiet.”
Hamilton had opened the Bible before Louis had finished, and bade him select a chapter, which he asked him to read aloud.
Louis read the 7th Psalm, and the 14th of Hosea; and when he had finished, he and his friend remained very silent.
Hamilton felt for Louis, though he did not know how soothingly the sweet words fell on the soul of the erring boy; how unspeakably precious had been the promise, that the backslider should be healed, and the dew of the Spirit refresh him, and make him grow in grace. Louis felt a wish to prolong those gracious words, “Ephraim shall say, What have I any more to do with idols? I have heard and observed him; I am like a green fir-tree, from me is thy fruit found!”
“Dear Hamilton,” he said, at length, “I have a very great favor to beg of you—would you let me come in a little every morning to read with you? It would do me so much good.”
“By all means,” said Hamilton, perhaps a little shily; but it was promise enough to call forth Louis' heartfelt thanks.
Hamilton then made Louis don a cloak of his, and stretching his own legs, so as to rest them comfortably on the window where Louis was sitting, he entered into a minute detail of the events of yesterday afternoon, equally surprising and interesting to Louis.
It appeared that Hamilton, acting on his own strong suspicions, went immediately after dinner to Dr. Wilkinson, whom, strange to say, he found equally inclined to listen to them; for he confessed to Louis that he did not exactly know what had made Dr. Wilkinson so suddenly take such a decided view of Casson's character as he appeared to have done. They went to the stable and examined it very carefully. They found the door unfastened; but on further consideration, discovered that the staple, which was rusty, had been broken off, so that, though the key had been turned, it could be opened as easily as if it had had no lock. They went up through the trap-door, but found nothing to assist them, till, just as they were descending, Hamilton picked up part of a Greek exercise. It was very small, not more than two inches square; a more careless observer might not have noticed it, but Hamilton seized it as a treasure, and, with the doctor's advice, set to work to discover whose handwriting it was.
The few words he deciphered carried him to the second class for the owner: “And oh, Louis! Dr. Wilkinson looked so grave when I told him it was Kenrick. But I knew it was not your writing. With very little trouble, and without discovering any thing, I soon found Harris to have been the writer. Having settled this point about an hour after school had begun, I took the first opportunity of informing the doctor, who immediately entered the school-room, suspended all business, summoned every one, and in an able speech, as the papers would say, prefaced the proceedings by declaring how painful it had been to him to discover that any of his pupils were not trustworthy, et cetera; and his determination to arrive at some conclusion on the point, to know whether his orders were or were not to be obeyed. He then mentioned having found you, and his firm belief, that even supposing you had gone there for the purpose of abstracting the apples, which he could not believe, you must have been tempted and persuaded to it by older hands; he called upon the offenders to come forward and clear the matter. Well, no one answered; and then the doctor just alluded to you, and what you had suffered last half, and said that he had determined that every one should be aware of the grounds of accusation, and he desired, if any one knew of any thing that would throw a light on the matter, he would come forward.