,p,i„i,,. ,,,.««.-"■ . The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN L161— O-1096 T. W I N I F E E D ' S OR THE WOELD OF SCHOOL BY THB SAME AUTHOR. In Crown 8vo> gilt edges, price 6s. each. ERIC. A TALE OF ROSLYN SCHOOL. Illustrated by GORDON Brownk. JULIAN HOME. Illustrated by Stanley Berkeley. 5T. WINIFRED'S. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Eric and Julian Home may also be had uniform with this Edition of St. Winifred's, price 8s. 6d. each. With aa awful sinking at heart they saw him pass through the spot v. her the m'lit was thinnest."— P. 173. ST. WINIFRED'S OR THE WORLD OF SCHOOL By FREDERIC W. ]'^ARRAR Marci AuiiELiI Conunent. i. vii. B6 LONDON A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE 1904 Published anonymomly Dec. 1862. Reprinted June 1865, Oct. 1866. With author's name Jan. 1868, Sept. 1870, May 1871, July 1872, July 1873, 1875, ^^i^i. 1876, May 1878, il/arc7i 1880, Dec. 1881, JwZ?/ 1883, J2?n7 1885, Feb. 1887, Oct. 1890, !ran. 1893, ,%2?<. 1896, Jan. 1898, Oct. 1899, ^w^'. 1902. Illustrated Edition published Jan. 1895. Reprinted Dec. 1899. Sixpenny Edition published Oct. 1900, Reprinted July 1902. 1304- TO THU SACRED MEMORY OFONEINHEAVEN, THESE PAGES, WHICH FAINTLY STRIVE TO INCULCATE THE COURAGE, THE VIRTUE, AND THE TENDERNESS OF WHICH THAT LIFE WAS SO SHINING AN EXAMPLE, ARE DEDICATED WITH AFFECTION TOO STRONG FOR WORDS, WITH REGRET TOO DEEP FOR TEARS, CONTENTS. PART I. Page Ohap] PR I. Walter's Home ... 1 11. St. Winifred's . ... . 7 III. New Boys . .... 1 2 IV. Friends and Foes . . .23 V, School Troubles . , . .37 VL A Burst of Wilfulness . .53 VII. Vogue la Galere . • . .05 VIIL The Burnt Manuscript . . .77 IX. Penitence . • ,89 X. Uphillwards . • . . .102 XI. Happier Hours ... 123 Xn. My Brother's Keeper . - 134 XIII. Daubeny . • . • .147 XrV. Appenfkll 169 viii CONTKNTS Paoi Chapter XV. In the Cloud ... 170 XVl. On the Razor . . .180 Xm The Good Re^ulve . 104 XVUT. The Martyr-Student . .201 XIX. The School Bell .212 XX. Farewell 224 XXL Kenrick^s Home . .232 XXII. Birds of a Feather . . .251 XXIII A Broken Friendship . . 267 XXIV. Eden's Troubles . . . .278 XXV. To the Rescue .... 290 XXVI. A Turbulent School Meeting 300 XXVII. The Monitors , . . 317 XXVIII. Falling Away ... 330 XXIX. Walter's Holidays . 338 PART {], XXX. Otj) and New Faces . .351 XXXI. Among the Noelftes , . 366 XXXIl. Disenchantment . . .383 XXXIII. Martyrdom ... 399 XXXIV. A CoNSPT racy Foiled . .416 OONTENTS. ix Paoi Chapter XXXV. The Final Fracas . . 430 XXXVI. In the Depths . . 451 XXXVII. The Reconciliation, and the Loss , 475 XXXVIIL The Stupor Broken 491 XXXIX. On the Dark Sea . 513 XL. What the Sea gave up . 523 L'bnvoi . . ftS2 \ PART I. CHAPTEK THE FIEST. WALTBE 8 HOME. The merry homes of England ! • Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love, Meet in the ruddy light ! Mrs. HEMAivrv OOD-BYE, Walter; good-bye, Waltei dear ! good-bye ; " and the last note of Ti' this chorus was " Dood-bye," from a blue-eyed, fair-haired girl of two years, as Walter disengaged his arms from his mother's neck, and sprang into the carriage which had already been waiting a quarter of an hour to convey him and his luggage to the station. It is the old old story : Mr. Evson was taking his son to a large public school, and this was the first time that Walter had left home. Nearly every father who deigns to open this little book has gone through the^ scene himself; and he and his sons will know from personal experience the thoughts, and sensations, and oaemories, which occupied the minds of Walter Evson 2 SEMLYN. and his father, as the carriage drove through the gar den gate and the village street, bearing the eldest hoy of the young family from the sacred and quiet shelter of a loving home, to a noisy and independent life among a number of strange and young companions. If you have ever stood on the hill from which Walter caught a last glimpse of the home he was leav- ing, and waved his final farewell to his mother, you are not likely to have forgotten the scene which was then spread before your eyes. On the right-hand side, the low hills, covered with firs, rise in gentle slopes one over the other, till they reach the huge green shoulder of a mountain, around whose summits the clouds are generally weaving their awful and ever changing dia- dem. To the left, between the road and a lower range of wooded undulations, is a deep and retired glen, through which a mountain stream babbles along its hurried course, tumbling sometimes in a noisy cataract and rushing wildly through the rough boulder stones which it has carried from the heights, or deepening into some quiet pool, bright and smooth as glass, on the margin of which the great purple loosestrife and the long leaves of lady-fern bend down as though to gji2e at their own reflected beauty. In front, and at your feet, opens a rich valley, which is almost filled as far as the roots of the mountains by a lovely lake. Be- side this Uke the white houses of a little village clus- ter around the elevation an which the church and churchyard stand ; while on either shore, rising among fche fir groves that overshadow the first swellings of WALTER. the hills, are a few sequestered villas, commaiiding a prospect of rare beauty, and giving a last touch of in- terest to the surrounding view. In one of these houses — that one with the crowded gables not a hundred feet above the lake, opposite to which you see the swans pluming their wings in the sunlight, and the green boat in its little boat-house — lived the hero of our story ; and no boy could have had a dearer or lovelier home. His father, Mr. Evson, was a man in easy, and almost in affluent circumstances, who having no regular occupation, had chosen for him- self this quiet retreat, and devoted all his time and care to the education of his family, and the ordiuary duties of a* country gentleman. Walter was the eldest child, a graceful, active, bright-eyed boy. Up to this time — and he was now fourteen years old — he had had no other teaching but that of his father, and of a tutor, who for the last year had lived in the house. His education, therefore, differed considerably from that of many boys of his own age, and the amount of book knowledge which he had acquired was small as yet ; but he was full of that intelligent interest in things most worth knowing which is the best and surest guarantee for future progress. Let me pause for a moment to relate how a refined and simple-hearted gentleman had hitherto brought up his young boys. I do not pronounce whether the method was right or wrong ; I only describe it as it was ; and its success or failure must be inferred from the following pages. 4 HOME. The positive teaching of the young Evsons did not begin too early. Till they were ten or twelve years old nearly all they did know had come to them either intuitively or without any conscious labour. They were allowed almost to live in the open air, and nature was their wise and tender teacher. Some object was invented, if possible, for every walk. Sometimes it wa^ to find the shy recesses of the wood where the wild strawberries were thickest, or where the white violets and the rarest orchis flowers were hid ; sometimes to climb along the rocky sides of the glen to seek the best spot for a rustic meal, and find mossy stones and flower- hanks for seats and tables near some waterfall or pooL When they were a little older their father would amuse and encourage them until they had toiled up even to the very summit of all the nearest hills, and there they would catch the fresh breeze which blew from the far off sea, or gaze wonderingly at the summei lightning flashing behind the rocky peaks, or watch, x with many playful fancies, the long gorgeous conflagra- tion of the summer sunset. And in such excursions their father or mother would teach them without seem- ing to teach them, until they were thoroughly familiar with the names and properties of all the commonest plants, and eagerly interested to secure for their little collections, or to plant in their gardens, the different varieties of all the wild flowers that were found about their home. Or, again, when they sate out in th garden, or wandered back in the autumn twilight from some gix)sy party, they were taught to recognize the EDUCATION. 5 stars and planets, until Mars and Jupiter, Orion and Cassiopeia, the Pleiads and the Northern Crown, seemed to look down upon them like old and beloved friends. It was easy, too, and pleasant, to teach them to love and to treat tenderly all living things — to observe the little black-eyed squirrel without disturbing him while he cracked his nuts ; to watch the mistle-thrush's nest till the timid bird had learned to sit there fear- lessly, and not flit awaj at their approach; and to visit the haunts of the moor-hen without causing any consternation to her or her little black velvet progeny. Visitors who stayed at the house were always delighted to see how all creatures seemed to trust the children ; how the canary would carol in its cage when they came into the room ; how the ponies would come trotting to the boys across the field, and the swans float up and plume their mantling wings, expecting food and caresses, whenever they came in sight. The lake was a source of endless amusement to them ; summer and winter they might have been seen bathing in its waters till they were bold swimmers, or lying to read their books in the boat under the shade of the trees, or rowing about till the little boy of six years was allowed to paddle himself alone to the other side, and even when the waves were rough, and the winds high, the elder ones were not afraid to venture out. In short, they were healthy and manly mountain-boys, with all their senses admirably exercised, and their powers of observation so weU trained, that they some 6 aNGLISH BOYS. times amazed their London cousins by pointing to some falcon poised far off above its prey, which was but a speck to less practised eyes, or calling attention to the sweetness of some wood-bird's note, indistinguishable to less practised ears. Even in such lessons as these they would have made but little progress if they had not been trained in the nursery to be hardy, modest, truthful, unselfish, and obedient. This work had effectually been done when alone it can be effectually done, in the earliest childhood, when the sweet and plastic nature may acquire for all that is right and good the powerful aid of habit, before the will and the passions are fully con- scious of their dangerous and stubborn power. Let no one say that I have been describing some youthful prodigies. There are thousands such as I describe in all happy and well-ordered English homes ; there might be thousands more if parents spent a more thoughtful care upon the growth of their children ; there will be many, many thousands more as the world, " in the rich dawn of an ampler day," in the gradual yet noble progress of social and moral improvement, becomes purer and holier, and more like Him who came to be the ideal of the loftiest yet the lowliest, of the most clear-sighted yet the most loving, of the most happy and yet the most humble manhood. CHAPTEK THE SECOND. ST. WINIFRBD^S. Gay Hope is their' a by Fancy led, Less pleasing when pos8e8s*d. The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast. — Gray. ALTEK'S destination was the school of St Winifred. St. Winifred's school stands by the seaside, on the shores of a little bay embraced and closed in by a range of hills, whose sweeping semicircle is only termi- nated on either side by the lofty cliffs which, in some places, are fringed at the base by a margin of sand and shingle, and in otjiers descend with sheer precipices into the rest- less surt Owing to the mountainous nature of the country, the railroad cannot approach within a dis- tance of five miles, and to reach the school you must drive through the dark groves which cover the lower shoulder of one of the surrounding mountains. When you reach the summit of this ascent, the bay of St 6 THE SCHOOL. Winifred lies before you ; that line of white houses a quarter of a mile from the shore is the village, and the large picturesque building of old grey stone, standing in the angle where the little river reaches the sea, is St Winifred's School The carriage stopped at the grand Norman archway of the court. The school porter — the Famulus as they classically called him — sl fine-looking man, whose honest English face shewed an amount of thought and refine- ment above his station, opened the gate, and, consign- ing Walter's play-box and portmanteau to one of the school servants, directed Mr. Evson across the court and along some cloisters to the house of Dr. Lane, the head master. The entering of Walter's name on the school books was soon accomplished, and he was ftssigned as private pupil to Mr. Robertson, one of the tutors. Dr. Lane then spoke a word of encouragement to the young stranger, and he walked back with his father across the court to the gate, where the carriage was still wait- ing to take Mr. Evson to meet the next train. "Please let us walk up to the top of the hill, father," said Walter ; "I shan't be wanted till tea- time, and I needn't bid good-bye to you here." Mr. Evson was as little anxious as Walter to hasten the parting. They had never been separated before. Mr. Evson could look back for the rare period of thir- teen years, during which they had enjoyed, by God's blessing, an almost uninterrupted happiness. He had begun life again with his young children; he could thoroughly sympathise alike with their thoughts and FATHER AND SON. 9 with their thoughtlessness, and by training them in a manner at once wise and firm, he had been spared the greater part of that anxiety and disappointment which generally spring from our own mismanagement. He deeply loved, and was heartily proud of his eldest boy. There is no exaggeration in saying that Walter had all the best gifts which a parent could desire. There was something very interesting in his appearance, and very winning in his modest and graceful manners. It was impossible to see him and not be struck with his fine open face, and the look of fearless and noble inno- cence in his deep blue eyes. It was no time for moral lecture or formal advice. Many seem to think that a few Polonius-like apoph- thegms delivered at such a time may be of great importance. They may be, perhaps, if they be backed up and enforced by previous years of silent and self- denying example; otherwise they are like seed sown upon a rock, like thistle-down blown by the wind across the sea. Mr. Evson spoke to Walter chiefly about home, about writing letters, about his pocket-money, his amusements, and his studies, and Walter knew well beforehand, without any repetitions then^ what hia father wished him to be, and the principles in accord- ance with which he had endeavoured to mould his thoughts and actions. The time passed too quickly for them both ; they were soon at the top of the hill where the carriage awaited them **Good bye, Walter. God bless you/' said Mr. 10 PARTING. Evson, shaking hands for the last time, and throwing deep meaning into those simple words. " Good bye, father. My best love to all at home," said Walter, trying to speak cheerfully, and struggling manfully to repress his rising tears. The carriage drove on. Walter watched it out of sight, and, turning round, felt that a new phase of his life had begun, and that he was miserably alone. It was natural that he should shed a few quiet tears as he thought of the dear friends with whom he had parted, and the four hundred strangers into whose society he was about to enter. Yet being brave and innocent he feared nothing, and, without any very de- finite religious consciousness, he had a clear and vivid sense that One friend was ever with him. The emotions of a boy are as transient as they are keen, and Walter's tears were soon dried. As he looked round, the old familiar voice of the mountains was in his ears. He gazed with the delight of friend- ship on their towering summits, and promised himself many an exhilarating climb up their steep sides. And now too for the first time — for hitherto he had not much noticed the scenery around him — a new voice, the great voice of the sea, broke with its grand but awful monotony upon his listening ear. As he gazed upon the waves, glowing and flashing with the golden net- work of autumnal sunbeams, their beauty seemed to dawn upon him like the discovery of a new sense, and he determined to stroll down to the beach before re-enter- ing the gates of St. Winifred. THE SEA. 11 He wandered there not only with a boy's delight, but with the delight of a boy whose eyes and ears have always been open to the beauty and wonder of the outer world. He longed to have his brother with him there. He picked up handfuls of the hard and sparkling sand ; he sent the broad flat pebbles flying over the surface, and skimming through the crests of the waves ; he half filled his pockets with green and yellow shells, and crimson fragments of feathery sea- weed for his little sisters ; and he was full of pleasurable excitement when the great clock of St. Winifred's, striking five, reminded him that he had better go in, and learn something, if possible, about the order of his future life. CHAPTER THE THIRD. NEW BOYS. Hirolles. — I find my tongue is too foolhardy. All's Well that Ends Well, Act \v. ao. 1 ^HE Famulus — "familiar" as the boys called him — directed Walter across the court to the rooms of his Housekeeper, who told him about the places where his clothes and his play-box would be kept, and shewed him the dormitory where he was to sleep. She also gave him a key of the desk in the great school-room, in ^ which he might, if he chose, keep his portable property. She moreover announced, with some significance, that she should be glad to do anything for him which lay in her humble power, and that the day after to-morrow was her birthday. Walter was a little puzzled as to the relevancy of the latter piece of infor- mation. He learnt it at a subsequent period, when he also discovered that Mrs. Higgins found it to her interest to have periodical birthdays, recurring two* or three times at least every half year. The years which THE SCHOOL-ROOM. 13 must have passed over that good lady's head during Walter's stay at St. Winifred's — the premature rapidity with which old age must have subsequently overtaken her, and the vigour which she displayed at so advanced a period of life — were something quite extraordinary of their kind. Towards the great schoolroom Walter accordingly directed his steps. The key turned out to be quite superfluous, for the lock of the desk had been broken by Walter's predecessor, who had also left the trace of his name, his Hkeness, and many interesting tb ough inexplicable designs and hieroglyphics, with a red-hot poker, on the lid. The same gentleman, to judge by appearances, must have had a curious entomological collection of spiders and earwigs under his protection, and had bequeathed to Walter a highly miscellaneous legacy of rubbish. Walter contemplated his bequest with some dismay, and began busily to dust the in- terior of the desk, and make it as fit a receptacle as he could for his writing-materials and other personal pos- sessions. While thus engaged he could not help being secretly tickled by the proceedings of a group of boys standing round the large unlighted stove, and amusing them- selves, harmlessly for the most part, with the inexperi- ence and idiosyncrasies of various new comers. After tiring themselves with the freaks of a mad Irish boy who had entered into the spirit of his own cross-exa- mination with a high sense of buffoonery which refused to grow ill-tempered, they were now playing on the u HENDERSON. extreme gullibility of a heavy, open-mouthed, bullet- headed fellow, named Plumber, from whom the most astounding information could extract no greater .evi- dence of sensation than a little wider stare of the eyes, and an unex cited drawl of "Eeally though One of the group, named Henderson, a merry-looking boy with a ceaseless pleasant twinkle of the eyes, had been tax- ing his own invention to the uttermost without in the least exciting Plumber's credulity. " You saw the fellow who let you in at the school gates, Plumber said Henderson. " Yes ; I saw some one or other." " But did you notice him particularly "Fo ; I didn't notice him." " Well, you should have done. That man's called * the Familiar.' Ask any one if he isn't 1 But do you know why "No;" said Plumber. " It's because he's got a familiar spirit which waits on him," said Henderson mysteriously. " Eeally though," said Plumber, and this time he looked so frightened that it was impossible for the rest to avoid bursting into a fit of laughter, during which Plumber, vaguely comprehending that he was considered a very good joke, retired with discom- fiture. **You fools," said Henderson; "if you'd only given me a little more time I'd have made him believe no end of nonsense ; and that before being entered he would have to sing a song standing on bis HOWARD TRACT. 15 head. You We quite spoilt my game by bursting out laughing." "There's another new fellow/' said Kenrick, one of the group. " Come here, yoa new fellow/' dialled two or three of them. Walter looked up, thinking that he was addressed, but found that the summons was meant for a boy, rather good-looking but very slender, whose self-im- portant attitude and supercilious look betrayed no slight amount of vanity, and who, to the apparent as- tonishment of the rest, was surveying the room and its appurtenances with a look of great affectation and disdain. "So you don't much seem to like the look of St. Winifred's," said Kenrick to him, as the boy walked up with a delicate air. " Not much," lisped the new boy ; " everything looks so very common." " Common and unclean to the last degree," said Henderson, imitating his manner. " And is this the only place you have to sit in ?" " 0, by no means," said Henderson ; " each of us has a private apartment furnished in crimson and gold, according to the simple yet elegant taste of the owner. Our meals are there served to us by kneeKng domestics on Kttle dishes of silver.'' " I suppose you intend that for wit," said the new boy languidly. " Yes ; to do you to wit," answered Henderson ; " but seriously though, that would be a great deal more 16 HOWARD TRACY. like what you have been accustomed to ; wouldn't it^ my friend V " Very much more/' said the boy. " And would you politely favour this company,' said Henderson, with obsequious courtesy, " by reveal- ing to us your name 1" " My name is Howard Tracy." " Oh, indeed !" said Henderson, with an air of great satisfaction, and making a low bow. " I am called Howard Tracy because I am de^ scended lineally from both those families." My goodness ! are you really !" said Henderson^ clasping his hand in mock transport. My dear sir, you are an honour to your race and country ! you are an honour to this school. By Jove, we are proud, sir, to have you among us ! " " Perhaps you may not know that my uncle is the Viscount St. George,'' said Tracy patronisingly. " Is he, thorugh, by George ! " said Henderson, yawn- ^ ing. " Is that St. George who " Swinged the dragon, and e'er since Sits on his horseback at mine hostess' door ? " but finding that the boy's vanity was too obtuse to be amusing any longer, he was about to leave him to the rest, when another of the group, named Jones, caught sight of Walter, and called out : — " Halloa, here's a new fellow grinning at the follies of his kind. Come here, you dark- haired chap What's your name?" JONES " Evson/' said Waller, quietly approaching t/iem. Before getting any fun out of him it was necessary to see what kind of boy he was ; and as Jones hardly knew what line to take, he began on the commonest and most vulgar tack of catechising him about his family and relations. " What's your father My father is a gentleman,'' said Walter, rathei surprised at the rudeness of the question. " And where do you live 1 " At Semlyn." " And how old are you 1 " " Just fourteen." " And how many sisters have you ] " Walter rather thought of asking, " What's that to to jouV but as he saw no particular harm in answer- ing the question, and did not want to seem too stiff- backed, he answered — " Three." " And are they very beautiful V* " I do n't know ; I never asked them. Are yours ? '' This last question was so perfectly quiet and un- expected, and Jones was so evidently discomfited by it, that the rest burst into a roar of laughter, and Hen- derson said, "You've caught a tartar, Jones. You can't drop salt on this bird's tail. You had better return to Plumber, or St. George and the dragon. Here, my noble Viscount, what do you think of youi coeval ] Is he as common as the rest of us ? " "I don't think anything about him, if you mean me by Viscount," said Tracy peevishly, beginning at o 18 A SQUABBLE. last to understand that they had been making a fool of him. " Quite right, St. George; he's beneath your notice." Tracy ran his hand through his scented hair, as if he rather implied that he was ; and being mortified at the contrast between his own credulous vanity and Walter's manly simplicity, and anxious if possible to regain his position, he said angrily to Walter — " What are you looking at me for 1" Not wishing to be rude, Walter turned away, while some one observed, " A cat may look at a king." " Aye, a cat at a king, I grant you," answered Hen- derson ; but not a mere son of Eve at any Howard Tracy." " You are laughing at me," said Tracy to Walter again, in a still angrier tone, seeing Walter smile at Henderson's remark. " I've not the slightest wish to laugh at you," said Walter. " Yes he has. Shy this at him," said Jones, putting a great bit of orange peel into Tracy's hand. Tracy threw it at Walter, and he without hesitation picked it up, and flung it back in Tracy's face. " A fight ! a fight ! " shouted the mischief-making group, as Tracy made a blind blow at Walter, which his antagonist easily parried. " Make him fight you. Challenge him," said Jones. "Invite him to the milling-ground behind the chapel after first school to-morrow morning." *' Pistols for two, coffee for four, at eight to-morrow," KENKICK. 19 said Henderson. " Trample on the Dragon's tail, some one, and rouse him to the occasion, What 1 he won't come to the scratch ] Alack ! alack ! * What can ennoble fools or cowards? Not all the blood of all the Tracy s, Dragons, and Howards ! "* he continued mischievously, as he saw that Tracy, on taking note of Walter's compact figure, shewed signs of declining the combat. " Hush, Henderson," said Kenrick, one of the group who had taken no part in the talk ; " it's a shame to be setting two new fellows fighting their first evening." But Henderson's last remark had been too much for Tracy. Will you fight 1" he said, walking up to Walter with reddening cheeks. For Tracy had been to school before, and was not wholly a novice in the ways of boys. " Certainly not," said Walter coolly, to everybody's great surprise. " What ! the other chap shewing the white feather too. All the new fellows are cowards it seems this time," said Jones. "This '11 never do. Pitch into him, Tracy." "Stop," said Kenrick; "let's hear first why he wont fight?" " Because I see no occasion to," said Walter ; " and because, in the second place, I never could fight in cold blood J and because, in the third place — " " Well, what in the third place," said Kenrick, interested to observe Walter's hesitation. "In the third place," said Walter, "I do'nt say it from conceit, but that boy's nc matcb for rae." 20 JONES To any one who glanced at the figures of the two boys this was obvious enough, although Walter was a year the younger of the two. The rest began to respect Walter accordingly as a sensible little man, but Tracy was greatly offended by the last remark, and Jones, who was a bully and had a grudge against Walter for baffling his impertinence, exclaimed, "Do'nt you be afraid, Tracy. ITL back you. Give him something to heat his cold blood." Fired at once by taunts and encouragements Tracy did as he was bid, and struck Walter on the face. The boy started angrily, and at first seemed as if he meant to return the blow with compound interest, but suddenly changing his intention, he seized Tracy round the waist, and in spite of all kicking and struggling, fairly dragged the humiliated descendant of the Howards and Tracys to a far corner of the room, where, amid a shout of laughter, he deposited him with the laconic suggestion, "Do'nt you be a fool." ^ Walter's blood was now up, and thiuking that' he might as well show, from the very first, that he was not to be bullied, or made a butt with impunity, he walked straight to the stove, and looking full at Jones (who had inspired him already with strong disgust), he said, You called me a coward just now, I'm not a coward, though I do'nt like fighting for nothing. I'm not a bit afraid of you, though you forced that fellow to hit me just now." " Aren't you ] Saucy young cub ! Then take that," said Jones, enforcing the remark with a box on the ear WALTER. 31 '*Aiid you take that/' vsaid Walter, returning the compliment with as much energy as if he had been playing at the game of Gif es welter, Jones, astonished beyond measure, sprang forward, clenched his two fists, squared, and blustered with great demonstrativeness. He was much Walter's senior, and was utterly taken by surprise at his audacity, but he seemed in no hurry to avenge the insult. "Well," said Walter, heaving with indignation, " why don't you hit me again Jones looked at his firm and determined little assailant with some alarm, slowly tucked up the sleeves of his coat, turned white and red, and — didn't return the blow. The tea-bell beginning to ring at that moment gave him a convenient excuse for breaking off the altercation. He told his friends that he was on the point of thrashing Walter w^hen the bell rang, but that he thought it a shame to fight a new fellow ; — " and in cold blood too," he added, adopting Walter's language, but not his sincerity. "Don't call me a coward again then," said Walter to him as he turned away. " I say, Evson, you're a regular brick, a regular stunner," said Kenrick, delighted, as he shewed Walter the way to the Hall where the boys had tea. " That fellow Jones is no end of a bully, and he won't be quite so big in future. You've taken him down a great many pegs." "I say, Kenrick," shouted Henderson after them, KENRICK. " I bet you five to one I know what you're saying to the new fellow." "I bet you don't," said Kenrick, laughing. . " You're saying to him, * A sudden thought strikes me; let's swear an eternal friendship.'" "Then you're quite out," answered Kenrick. "I was saying come and sit next me at tea." " And go shares in jam," added Henderson ; "exactly what I said, only in other words." / CHAPTER THE FOURTH. FRIENDS AND FOES. " He who hath a thousand friends hath not one friend to spare, And he who hath one enemy shall meet him everywhere." ALREADY Walter had got some one to talk to, some one to know ; for in spite of Ken- rick's repudiation of Henderson's jest, he felt already that he had discovered a boy -~ with whom he should soon be friends. It doesn't matter how he had discovered it; it was by animal magnetism ; it was by some look in Kenrick's eyes ; it was by his light-heartedness ) it was by the mingled fire and refinement of his face which spoke of a wilful and impetuous, yet also of a generous and noble nature. Already he felt a sense of ease and pleasure in the certainty that Kenrick — evi- dently no cipher among his schoolfellows — was in- clined to like him, and to shew him the ways of the school. They went into a large hall, where the four hundred had their meals. They sat at a number of tables ar- ranged breadthwise across the hall ; twenty or thirt.^ 24 A THICK. sat at each table, and either a master or a monitor (as the sixteen upper boys were called) took his place at the head of it. "Now, mind you don't begin to smoke,'* said Henderson, as Walter went in, and found most of the boys already seated. " Smoke 1 " said "Walter, taking it for a bit of good advice ; "do fellows smoke in Hall ? I never have emoked." "Why, you're smoking now,'' said Henderson, as Walter, entering among the ciowd of strange faces and meeting so many pairs of eyes, began to blush a little. " Do n't teaze him, Flip," said Kenrick ; smoking is the name fellow? give to blushing, Evson ; and if they see you given to blushing, they'll stare at you for the fun of seeing the colour mount up in your cheeks.*' Accordingly, as he sat down, he saw that^numerous eyes were turned upon him and upon Tracy, who hap- pened to sit at the same table. Tracy, unaccustomed to such very narrow scrutiny, blushed all over; and, as he in vain looked up and down, this way and that, his cheeks grew hotter and hotter, and he moved about in the most uneasy way, to the great amusement of his many tormentors, until at last his eyes subsided finally into his teacup, from which he did not again venture to raise them until tea was over. But Walter was at once up to the trick, and felt thoroughly obliged to Henderson and Kenrick for telling him of it. So he ^vaited till he saw that a good dozen fellows were all MR. PATON. 26 intently staring at him ; and then looking up very simply and naturally, he met the gaze of two or three of them steadily in succession, and stared them out of countenance with a quiet smile. This turned the laugh against them ; and he heard the remark, that he was "up to snuff, and no mistake." 'No one ever tried to make Walter smoke again, but for some time it used to be a regular joke to pass round word at tea- time, "Let's make Tracy smoke and as Tracy always did smoke till he got thoroughly used to it, he was generally glad when teatime was over. In spite of Henderson, who poked fun at them all tea-time (till he saw that he really embarrassed them, and then he desisted), Kenrick sat by Walter, and took him more or less under his protection ; for an " old boy " can always patronise a new comer at first, even if they are of the same age. From Kenrick Walter learnt, rather to his dismay that he really would have no place to sit in except the big schoolroom, which he would share with some fifty others, and that he would be placed in a dormitory with at least five or six besides himself. " Have you been examined yet 1 " asked Kenrick. " No ; but Dr. Lane asked me what books I had read ; and he told me ijiat I was to go and take my chance in Mr. Paton's form. What form is that V* "It's what we call the Virgil form. Have yov ever read Virgil 1 " " No ; at least only a few easy bits." I wish you joy, then." 26 SCHOOLBOY " Why f what sort of a fellow is Mr. Paton " Mr. Paton ? he's not a man at all, he's a machine ; he's the wheel of a mill ; he's a cast-iron automaton ; he's " " The abomination of desolation," observed Hender- son, who had caught a fragment of the conversation j "I'm in his form too, worse luck !" " Hush ! shu'( up, Henderson, and do n't be pro- fane," said Kenrick. " Well, Evson, you'll soon find out what Paton's like ; anything but ^ a patten of bright gold ' at any rate. * " Oh ! oh ! turn him out for his bad pun," said Henderson, hitting him with a pellet of bread ; for which offence he immediately received " fifty lines " from the master at the other 'end of the table. " Don't abuse Paton," said a boy named Daubeny, which name Henderson had long ago contracted into Dubbs ; " I always found him a capital master to be under, and really very kind." "Oh, you; yes," answered Kenrick, "if we were all gifted with your mouselike stillness in school, my dear old Dubbs," " And your metallic capacity of grind, my dear old Dubbs," added Henderson. " And your ostrich-like digestion of crabbed rules, my dear old Dubbs ; why, then," said Kenrick, " we should all be boys after Paton's heart." " Or Paton's pattern," suggested Henderson ; so it was now Kenrick's turn to shudder at a miserable at- tempt at a pun, and return Henderson's missile, where CONVERSATION. 27 Qpon he got a hundred lines, wbicli made him pull a very long face. " Who's to be your tutor, Evson 1" he asked, after this interlude. " I suppose you're going to pick him to pieces, now," said Daubeny, smiling ; " don't you believe half they say of him, Evson." " Depends on who he is, 0 virtuous Dubbs," said Henderson ; "his end shall be ' pieces,' as Punch says, if he deserves it." " He told me I was to be Mr. Robertson's pupil," said Walter. " Hum-m ! " observed Kenrick. " Why, what sort a person is he " " Some of his pupo detest him, others adore him." "Whyl" " Oh, if you're sharp, and successful, and polite, and gentlemanly, and jolly, and all that sort of thing, he'll like you very much, and be exceedingly kind to you j but if you are lazy, or mischievous, or stupid, or at all a pickle, he'll ignore you, snub you, won't speak to you, I wish you'd been in the same pupil-room with me." " Who's your tutor, then " Percival there, the master who is chatting and laugh- ing with those monitors. He 's a regular brick. tX/i/^o; fk instead of the merry face he came with. Never mind; the game '11 do him good; I never saw such a player ; he looks just like the British lion when he gets into the middle of the fray ; plunges at everything, and shakes his mane. Here he is ; come along." They ran up and found a hotly contested game swaying to and fro between the goals ; and Walter, who was very active and a first-rate runner, was soon in the thick of it. As the evenness of the match grew more apparent the players got more and more excited. It had been already played several times, and no base had been kicked, except once by each side, when the scale had been turned by a heavy wind. Hence they ex- hibited the greatest eagerness, aS school and sixth alike held it a strong point of honour to win, and a shout of approval greeted any successful catch or vigorous kick. Whenever the ball was driven beyond the bounds, it was kicked straight in, generally a short distance only, and the players on both sides struggled for it as it fell. During one of these momentary pauses Kenrick whispered to Walter, "I say, Evson, next time it's driven outside I'll try to get it, and if you'll stand just beyond the crowd I'll kick it to you, and you can try a run." "Thanks," said Walter eagerly, "I'll do my best." The opportunity soon occurred. Kenrick ran for the ball ; a glance shewed him where Walter was standing; he kicked it with precision, and not too high, so that there was no time for the rest to watch A BRILLIANT RUN. 51 where it was likely to descend. Walter caught it, and before the others could recover from their surprise, was off like an arrow. Of course the whole of the opposite side were upon him in a moment, and he had to be as quick as a deer, and as wary as a cat. But now his splendid running came in., and he was besides rather fresher than the rest. He dodged, he made wide detours, he tripped some and sprang past others, he dived under arms and through legs, he shook off every touch, wrenched himself free from one capturer by leaving in his hands the whole shoulder of his shirty and got nearer and nearer to the goal. At last he saw that there was one part of the field comparatively unde- fended ; in this direction he darted like lightning — charged and spilt, by the vehemence of his impulse, liwo fellows who stood with outstretched arms to stop him — seized the favourable instant, and by a swift and clever drop-kick, sent the ball flying over the bar amid deafening cheers, just as half the other side flung him down and precipitated themselves over his body. The run was so brilliant and so plucky, and the last burst so splendid, that even the defeated side could hardly forbear to cheer him. As for the conquerors, their enthusiasm knew no bounds ; they shook Walter by the hand, patted him on the back, clapped him, and at last lifted him on their shoulders for general inspec- tion. As yet he was known to very few, and " Who^s that little fellow who got the school a base ^ " was a question which was heard on every side. That's Evson ; a new fellow," answered Kenrick, LIBRARY UMIVERSITY OF ILLIAfO/S 52 A TRIUMPH. Henderson, and all who knew him, as fast as they could, in reply to the general queries. They were proud to know him just then, and this little triumph occurred in the nick of time to raise poor Walter in his own estimation. Thanks, Kenrick, thanks," he said, warmly grasp- ing his friend's hand, as they left the field. " They ought to have cheered you^ not me, for if it hadn't been for you I should not have got that base.'* **Pooh !" was the answer; "I couldn't have got it myself under any circumstances ; and even if I could, it is at least as much pleasure to me that you should have kicked it." Of ail earthly spectacles f^w are more beautiful, and in some aspects more touching, than a friendship be- tween two boys, unalloyed by any taint of selfishness, indiscriminating in its genuine enthusiasm, delicate in its natural reserve. It is not always because the hearts of men are wiser, purer, or better than the hearts of boys, that " summae puerorum amicitiae saepe cum toga ieponuntur." CHAPTER THE SIXTH. A BURST OF WILFULNESS. Nunquamne reponam Vexatus toties? — Juv. i. 1. [although Walter's football triumphs pre vented him from losing self-respect and sinking into wretchlessness or desperation, they did not save him from his usual arrears of punishment and extra work. Besides this, it annoyed him bitterly to be always, and in spite of all effort, bottom, or nearly bottom, of his form. He knew that this grieved and disappointed his parents nearly as much as himself, and he feared that they would not understand the reason which, in his case, rendered it excusable — viz., the enormous amount of purely routine work for which other boys had been prepared by previous training, and in which, under his present discouragements and incon- veniences, he felt it impossible to recover ground. It was hard to be below boys to whom he knew himself fco be superior in every intellectual quality ; it waa 54 MISUNDERSTANDINGS. hajd for a boy really clever and lively, to be set dowii at once as an idler and dunce. And it made "Walter very miserable. For meanwhile Mr. Paton had taken quite a wrong view of his character. He answered so well at times, construed so happily, and shewed such bright flashes of intelligence and interest in parts of his work, that Mr. Paton, making no allowance for new methods and an untrained memory, set him down, by an error of judgment, as at once able and obstinate, capable of doing excellently, and wilfully refusing to do so. This was a phase of character which always excited his indignation ; and it was for the boy^s own sake that he set himself to correct it, if possible. On both aides, therefore, there was some misunderstanding, and a consequent exacerbation of mind which told injuri ously on their daily intercourse. Walter's vexation and misery reached its acme on the receipt by his father of his first school character, which document his father sent back for Walter's own perusal, with a letter which, if not actually reproachful, was at least uneasy and dissatisfied in tone. For the character itself Walter cared little, knowing well that it was founded throughout on misapprehen- sion ; but his father's letter stirred the very depths of his heart, and made them turbid with passion and sorrow. He received it at dinner-time, and read it as he went across the court to the detention-room, of which he was now so frequent an occupant. It was a bright Novem- ber day, and he longed to be out at some game, or among the hills, or on the shore. Instead of that, he AH^ INWARD STRUGGLE. 55 was doomed for his failures to two long weary hours of mechanical pen-driving, of which the results were torn up when the two hours were over. He had had no recreation for the last week ; all his spare time had heen taken up with impositions; Mr. Eobertson had given him a severe and angry lecture that morning ; even Mr. Pa ton, who rarely used strong language, had called him intolerable and incorrigible, and had threat- ened a second report to the head master, because this was the tenth successive Greek grammar lesson in which he had failed. Added to all this, he was suffer- ing from headache and lassitude. And now his father's letter was the severest of his misfortunes. A rebellious, indignant, and violent spirit rose in him. Was he always, for no fault of his own, to be bullied, baited, driven, misunderstood, and crushed in this way ^ If it was ol no use trying to be good, and to do his duty, how would it do to try the other experiment — to fling off the tram- mels of duty and principle altogether ; to do all those things which inclination suggested and the moral sense forbad ; — to enjoy himself ; to declare himself on the side of pleasure and self-indulgence? Certainly this would save him from much unpleasantness and annoy- ance in many ways. He was young, vigorous, active ; he might easily make himself more popular than he was with the boys ; and as for the authorities, do what he would, it appeared that he could hardly be in worse disrepute than now. Vice bade high : as he thought of it all, his pen flew faster, and his pulse seemed to send the blood bounding through his veins as he tight 56 rWO IDEALS^ eiied the grasp of his left hand round the edge of the desk. Hitherto the ideal which he had set before him, as the standard to be attained during his school life, had been one in which a successful devotion to duty, arjid a real effort to attain to godliness and good learning,'^ had borne the largest share. But on this morning a very different ideal rose before him ; he would abandon all interest in ochool work, and only aim at being a gay, high-spirited boy, living solely for pleasure, amusement, and idleness. There were many such around him — heroes among their school-fellows, popular, applauded, and proud. Sin seemed to sit lightly and grace- fully upon them. Endowfid as he was with many ^ifts, to this condition at least he felt that he could easily attain. It was an ideal not, alas ! unnatural to the perilous age When young Dionysus seems All joyous as he burst upon the East A jocund and a welcome conqueror ; And Aphrodite, sweet as from the sea She rose, and floated in her pearly shell A laughing girl ; when lawless will erects Honour's gay temple on the Mount of God, And meek obedience bears the coward's brand ; While Satan in celestial panoply With Sin, his lady, smiling by hi& 3ide, Defies all heaven to arms, " Yes ; he would follow the multitude to share all A LITTLE VOICE, 57 fche folly which he saw being done around him; it looked a joyous and delightful prospect. He gazed on the bright vision of sin, on the laughing waters of pleasure ; and did not know that the brightness was a mirage of the desert, the iridescence a film over a stagnant pool. The letter from home was his chief stumbling-block. He loved his father and mother with almost passionate devotion ; he clung to his home with an intensity of concentrated love. He really had tried to please them, and to do his best ; but yet they did n't seem to give him credit for it. Look at this cold reproachful letter ; it maddened him to think of it. There was only one thing which checked him. It was a little voice, which had been more silent lately, because other and passionate tones were heard more loudly ; but yet even from a child poor Walter had been accustomed to listen with reverence to its admo- nitions. It was a voice behind him saying — This is the way, walk ye in it now that he was turning aside to the right hand or to the left. But the still accents in which it whispered of patience were drowned just now in the clamorous turbulence of those other voices of appeal. The two hours of detention were over, and the struggle was over too. Walter drew his pen with a fierce and angry scrawl over the lines he had written, shewed them up to the master in attendance with a careless and almost impudent air, and was hardly out of the room before he gave a shout of emancipatioD 58 IN A PASSIOI^. and defiance. Impatience and passion had won the day. He ran up to the playground as hard as he could tear to work off the excitement of his spirits, and get rid of the inward turmoil. On a grass bank at the far end of it he saw two hoys seated, whom he knew at once to be Henderson and Kenrick, who, for a wonder, were reading, not green novels, but Shakspeare ! " I'll tell you what it is, Henderson," he said; " I canH and I won't stand this any longer. It's the last detention breaks the boy's back. I hate St. Winifred's, I hate Dr. Lane, I hate Eobertson, and I hate, hate, hate Paton," he said, stamping angrily. Hooroop ! " said Henderson ; " so the patient Evson is on fire at last. Tell it not to Dubbs !" "Why, Walter, what's all this about f' asked Kenrick. **Why, Ken," said Walter, more quietly, "here's a history of my life : Greek grammar, lines, detention, caning— caning, detention, lines, Gri?ek gi-ammar. I'm sick of it ; I canH and I wonH stand it any more." " Whether," spouted Henderson, from the volume on his knee — " Whether 'twere nobler for the roind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them ! " " End them I will," said Walter ; " somehow, I'U pay him out, depend upon it." A QUARREL. 5-9 " Recte si possis si non quocunque modo/' said Somers, the head of the school, whose fag Walter was, and who, passing by at the moment, caught the last sentence ; " what is the excitement among you small boysl" " The old story, pitching into Paton," said Ken- rick, indifferently, and rather contemptuously ] for he was a prot6g^ of Somers, and felt annoyed that he should see Walter's xmreasonable display ; the more so as Somers had asked him already, " why he was so much with that idle new fellow who was always being placed lag in his form ] " What's it all about 1 " asked Somers of Kenrick " Because hf^ gets lines for missing his grammar, I suppose." There was something in the tone which was especially offensive to Walter ; for it sounded aa if Kenrick wanted to shew him the cold shoulder be- fore his great friend, the head of the school. "Oh, that ain WeU, my dear fellow, the remedy's easy ; work at it a little harder ; " and Somers walked on, humming a tune. " J wonder what he calls harder,^^ said Walter, shaking his fist ; " when I first came I used to get up quite early in the morning, and learn it till I was half stupid ; I wonder whether he ever did as much V " Well, but it's no good abusing Paton," said Ken- rick ; " of course, if you do n't know the lesson, he concludes you haven't learnt it." " Thank you for nothing, Kenrick," said Walter curtly ; " come along, Flip.*' 60 A QUARREL. Kenrick was vexed ; he was conscious of having shewn a little coolness and want of sympathy ; and he looked anxiously after Henderson and Walter as they walked away. Presently he started up, and ran after them. "DonH be offended, Walter, my hoy," he said, seizing his hand. "I didn't mean to be cold just now; but, really, 1 don^t see why you should be so very wrathful with Paton ; what can a master do if one fails in a lesson two or three times running ? he must punish one, 1 suppose." " Hang Paton," said Waltei, shaking off his hand rather angrily, for he was now thoroughly out of temper. " 0, very well, Evsoii,'' said Kenrick, whose chief fault was an intense pride, which took fire on the least provocation, and which made him take umbrage at the slightest offence ; " catch me making an advance to you again. Henderson, you left your book on the grass ; " and turning on his heel, he walked slowly away — heavy at heart, for he liked Walter better than any other boy in the school, and was half ashamed to break with him about such a trifle. Henderson, apart from his somewhat frivolous and nonsensical tone, was a well-meaning fellow. When he was walking with Walter, he had intended to chafi him about his sudden burst of ill-temper, and jest away his spirit of revenge ; but he saw that poor Walter was in no mood for jokes, and he quite lacked the moral courage to give good advice in a sober or serious way^ or to recommend any course because it was right. This, ONE'S OWN WAY. 61 At present, was beyond Henderson's standard of good, so he left Walter and went back for his book. And Walter, flinging into the schoolroom, found several spirits seven times more wicked than himself, and fed the fire of his wrath with the fuel of un- bounded abuse, mockery, and scorn of Mr. Paton, in which he was heartily abetted by the others, who hailed all indications that Walter was likely to become one of themselves. And that evening, instead of at- tempting to get up any of his work, Walter wasted the whole time of preparation in noise, folly, and turbu- lence; for which he was duly punished by the master on duty. He got up next morning breathing, with a sense of defiance and enjoyment, his new atmosphere of self- will. He of course broke down utterly, more utterly than ever, in his morning lessons, and got a proportion- ately longer imposition. Going back to his place, he purposely flung down his books on the desk, one aftei another with a bang ; and for each book which he had flung down, Mr. Paton gave him a hundred lines, whereupon he laughed sarcastically, and got two hun- dred more. Conscious that the boys were watching with some amusement this little exhibition of temper and trial of wills, he then took out a sheet of paper, wrote on it, in large letters, the words Two hundred LINES FOR Mr. Paton, and, amid the tittering of the form, carried it up to Mr. Paton's desk. This was the most astoundingly impudent and in- subordinate act which had ever been done to Mr. Paton 62 IMPUDENCK for years, and it was now his turn to be angry. But mastering his anger with admirable determination, he merely said — " Evson, you. must be beside yourself this morning ; it is very rarely, indeed, that a new boy is so far gone in disobedience as this. I have no hesita- tion in saying that you are the most audacious and im- pertinent new boy with whom I have ever had to deal. I must cane you in my room after detention, to which you will of course go.'' " Thank you, sir," said Walter, with a smile of im- pudent tsang froid ; and the form tittered again as he walked noisily to his seat. But Mr. Paton, allowing for his violent frame of mind, took no notice of this last affront. / Whereupon Walter, taking another large piece of paper, and a spluttering quill pen, wrote on it, with a great deal of scratching — Due from W. Evson to Mr. Paton. For missing lesson . . . 100 lines. For laying down books . 300 lines. For laughing . . . . 200 lines. For writing 200 lines . . A caning. Detention, of course. Thank you for nothing. And on the other side of the sheet he wrote in largi DESPERATION. 63 letters — " No Go Which being done, he passed the sheet along tlie form pour eivcourager les autres, " Evson/' said Mr. Paton, quietly, " bring me tliat paper." Walter took it up — looking rather alarmed this time — hut with the side No go ! " uppermost. "What is this, EvsonT' "Number ninety, sir," said Walter, amid the now unconcealed laughter of the rest, who knew very well that he had intended it for " No go.'' Mr. Paton looked curiously at Walter for a minute, and then said — Evson, Evson, I could not have thought you so utterly foolish. Well, you know that each fresh act must have its fresh punishment. You must leave the room now, and besides all your other punishments I must also report you to the head master. You can best judge with what result.'' This was a mistake of Mr. Paton^s — a mistake of judgment only — for which he cannot be blamed. But it was a disastrous mistake. Had he been at all a deli- cate judge or reader of the phenomena of character, he would have observed at once that at that moment there was a wild spirit of anger, a rankling sense of injustice and persecution in Walter's heart, which no amount of punishment could have cowed. Walter just then might without the least difficulty have been goaded into some act of violence which would have rendered expulsion from the school an unavoidable consequence. So easy is it to petrify the will, to make a boy bad in spite of himself, and to spoil, with no intentions but those of kindliness 64 A KIGID WILL. and justice, the promise of a fair young life. For whor the will has once been suffered to grow rigid by obsti nacy — a result which is very easy to avoid — no powei on earth can bend it at the time. Had Mr. Paton sent Walter out of the room before ; had he at the end said, " Evson, you are not yourseK to-day, and I forgive you," Walter would have been in a moment as docile and as humble as a child. But as it was, he left the room quite coolly, with a sneer on his lips, and banged the door ; yet the next moment, when he found himself in the court alone, unsupported by the countenance of those who enjoyed his rebelliousness, he seated himself on a bench in the courtyard, hung his head on his breast, and burst into a flo(|d of tears. If any friend could have seen him at that moment, or spoken one word in season, how much pain the poor boy might have been saved ! Kenrick happened to cross the court ; the moment Walter caught sight of him he sate with head erect and arms folded, but Kenrick was not to be de- ceived. He had caught one glimpse of Walter first j he saw his eyes wet with tears, and knew that he was in trouble. He hung on his foot doubtfully for one moment — but then his pride came in ; he remembered the little pettish repulse in the piayground the day before ; the opportunity was lost, and he walked slowly on. And Walter's heart grew as hard within him a« a ^ !3tOIi8. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. Vogue la Galere A.h, Diamond, thou little knowest what mischief thou haet done. — Life op Sir I. Newton HAT afternoon Mr. Paton, going into the (^""If / Combination Eoom, where the masters often met, threw himself into one of the arm-chairs with an unwonted expression of vexation ^ and disgust on his usually placid features. " Why, what's the matter with you, Paton ^ asked Mr. Robertson. ^' Is to-day's Times toe liberal for your notions, or what " No," said Mr. Paton ; " but 1 have just been caning Evson, a new boy, and the fellow's stubborn obstinacy and unaccountable coolness annoy me exceed- ingly." •^0 yes; he's a pupil of mine, Fm sorry to say, and he has never been free from punishment since he came. Even your Procrustean rule seems to fail with him, Paton. What have you been obliged to cane hinj for?" M 66 WALTEK CANED. Mr. Paton related Walter's escapade. "Well, of course you had no choice but to cane him," replied his colleague, " for such disobedience ; Dut how did he take it In the oddest way possible. He came in with punctilious politeness, obviously assumed, with sarcastic intentions. When I took up the cane he stood with arms folded, and a singularly dogged look ; in fact, his manner disarmed me. You know I detest caning, and I really could not do it, never having had occasion for it for months together. I gave him two cuts, and then left off. • May I go, sivV he asked. * Yes,* I said, and he left the room with a bow, and a * Thank you, sir.' I am really sorry for the boy ; for as I was obliged to send him to Dr. Lane, he will probably get another flogging from him.'* What a worthless boy he must be,'* answered Mr. Robertson. Ko, not exactly worthless; there's something about him I can't help liking ; but most impudent and stubborn." Excuse me," said Mr. Percival, another of the masters, who had been listening attentively to the conversation. " I humbly venture to think that you 're both mistaken in that boy. I Kke him exceedingly, and think him as promising a lad as any in the school. I never knew any boy behave more modestly and re- spectfully." " Why, how do you know anything of him 1 " asked Mr. Robertson in surprise. A DIFFKRKNT OPINION. 67 "Oiixy by accideiit. 1 had once or twice noticed him among the detenus^ and being sorry to think that a new boy should be always under punishment, 1 asked him one day why he was sent so often to do extra work. He told me that it was for failing in a lesson, and when I asked why he hadn't learned it, he said, very simply and respectfully, * I really did my very best, sir ; but it's all new work to me/ Look at the boy's innocent face, and you will be sure that he was telling me the truth. " I'm afraid," continued Mr. Percival, you'll thint this very slight ground for setting my opinion against yours ; but I was pleased with Evson's manner, and asked him to come and take a stroll on the shore, that I might know something more of him. Do you know, I never found a more intelligent companion. He was all life and vivacity ; it was quite a pleasure to be with him. Being new to the sea, he didn't know the names of the commonest things on the shore, and if you had seen his face light up as he kept picking up whelk's eggs, and mermaid's purses, and zoophytes, and hermit- crabs, and bits of plocamium or coralline, and asking me all I could tell him about them, you would not have thought him a stupid or worthless boy." " I don't know, Percival r you are a regular con- juror. All sorts of ne'er-do-wells succeed under your manipulation. You're a first-rate hand at gathering grapes from thorns, and figs from thistles. Why, even out of that Caliban, old Woods, you used to extract fi pi earn of human intel ligei ce." 68 A SECRET OF SUCCKSft. " He wasn't a Caliban at all. I found him an ex- cellent fellow at heart ; but what could you expect oi a boy who, because he was big, awkward, and stupid, was always getting flouted on all sides'? Sir Hugh Evans is not the only person who disliked being made a ' vlouting-stog.' " " You must have some talisman for transmuting boys if you consider old Woods an excellent fellow, Percival. I found him a mass of laziness and brute strength. Do give me your secret." " Try a little kindness and sympathy. I have no bother secret.'' " I'm not conscious of failing in kindness," said Mr. Robertson drily. My fault, I think, is being too kind." " To clever, promising, bright boys — yes ; to un thankful and evil boys (excuse me for saying so) — no. You don't try to descend to their dull level, and so to tmderstand their difficulties. You don't suffer foola gladly, as we masters ought to do. But, Paton," he said, turning the conversation, which seemed distasteful to Mr. Eobertson, " will you try how it succeeds to lay the yoke a little less heavily on Evson V " Well, Percival, I don't think that I Ve consciously bullied him. I can't make my system different to him and other boys." ^' My dear Paton, forgive my saying that I don't think that a rigid system is the fairest ; summa lex, summa crux. Fish of very different sorts and sizes come to our nets, and you can't shove a turbot through the same mesh that barely admits a sprat." DISGRACE. 69 I'll think of what you say ; but I Diust leave him in Dr. Lane's hands now," said Mr. Paton. " Who, I heartily hope, won't flog him," said Mr Percivai. " Why 1 I don't see how he can do otherwise." Because it will simply drive him to despair ; because, if I know anything of his character, it will nave upon him an effect incalculably bad." " I hope not," said Mr. Paton. The conversation dropped, and Mr. Percivai re Bumed his newspaper. When Walter went to Dr. Lane in the evening, the Doctor inquired kindly and carefully into the nature of his offence. This, unfortunately, was clear enough, and Walter was far too ingenuous to attempt any ex- tenuation of it. Even if he had not been intentionally idle, it was plain, on his own admission, that he had been guilty of the greatest possible insubordination and disrespect. These offences were rare at St. Wini- fred's, and especially rare in a new boy. Puzzled as he was by conduct so unlike the boy's apparent character, and interested by his natural and manly manner, yet Dr. Lane had in this case no alternative but the inflic- tion of corporal punishment. Humiliated again, and full of bitter anger, Walter returned to the great school-room, where he was received with sympathy and kindness by the others in his class. It was the dark part of the evening before tea-time, and the boys, sitting idly round the fire, were in an ipt mood for folly and mischief. Tliey began a vehe 70 * PAYING OUT.»' ment dif^Tission aboat Patents demerits, and called hiic every liard name they could invent. Walter took little part in this, for he was smarting too 'severely under the sense of oppression to find relief in mere abuse; but, from his flashing eyes and the scowl that sat so ill on his face, it was evident that a bad spirit had obtained the thorough mastery over all his better and gentler impulses. " Can't we do something to serve the fellow out?" said Anthony, one of the boys in Walter's dormitory. " But what can we do?'' asked several. "What, indeed?" asked Henderson, mockingly; and as it was his way to quote whatever he had last been reading, he began to spout from the peroration of a speech which he had seen in the paper — " Aristocracy, throned on the citadel of power, and strong in" — — " What a fool you are, Henderson," observed Franklin, another of the group ; " I'll tell you what we can do ; we'll burn that horrid black book in which he enters the detentions and impositions." " Poor book ! " said Henderson ; " what pangs of conscience it will suffer in the flames ; give it not the glory of such martyrdom. Walter," he continued, in a lower voice, " I hope that you'll have nothing to do with this humbug ? " " I will though, Henderson ; if I'm to have nothing but canings and floggings, I may just as well be caned and flogged for something as for nothing ^ " Tlio desk 's locked," said Anthony ; "we shan't be able to get hold uf the imposition book." NOT TO BE INTIMIDATED. 71 ill settle that/' said Walter ] here, jusx hand tne the poker Dubbs." " I shall do no such thing," said Daubeny quietly, and his reply was greeted with a shout of derision. Why, you coward, Dubbs," said Franklin, yon couldii't get anything for handing the poker." " I never supposed I could, Franklin,'^ he answered ; " and as for being a coward, the real cowardice would be to do what's absurd and wrong for fear of being laughed at or being kicked. Well, you may hit me," he said quietly, as Franklin twisted his arm tightly round, and hit him on it, " but you can't make me do what I don't choose." " We'll try," said Franklin, twisting his arm still more tightly, and hitting harder. " You'll try in vain," answered Daubeny, though the tears stood in his eyes at the violent pain. " Drop his arm, you Franklin," indignantly ex- claimed Henderson, who, though he was always teasing Daubeny, was very fond of him, " drop his arm, or, by Jove, you'll find that two can play at that. Dubbs is quite right, and you're a set of asses if you think you'll do any good by burning the punishment book. I've got the poker, and you shan't have it to knock the desk open. I suppose Paton can afford sixpence to buy another book ; and enter a tolerable fresh score against you for this besides." " But he won't remember my six hundred lines, a,nd four or five detentions," said Walter ; " here, give me the poker." 72 THE DESK SMASHED. Pooh ! pooh! Evson, of course he'll remembei fchem ; here, 1*11 help you with the lines ; I'll do a couple of hundred for you, and the rest you' can write with two pens at a time ; it won^t take you an hour, 1 ^11 shew you the two-pen dodge ; I '11 admit you into the two-pen-etralia. Like Milton, you shall ' touch the slender tops of various quills.' No, no," he con- tinued, in a playful tone, in order not to make Walter in a greater passion than he was, " you can't have the poker ; any one who wants that must take it from me vi et armisy ^ " It doesn't matter ; this '11 do as well ; and here goes," said Walter, seizing a wooden stool. " There 's the desk open for you," he said, as he brought the top of the stool with a strong blow against the lid, and burst the lock with a great crash. My eyes ! we shall get into a row;" said Franklin, opening his eyes to illustrate his exclamation. Well, what's done's done; let's all take our share," said Anthony, diving his hand into the desk. "Here's the imposition-book for you, and here goes leaf number one into the fire ; you can tear out the next if you like. Franklin." " Very well," said Franklin ; " in for a penny in for a pound ; there goes the second leaf." " And here the third ; over ankles over knees," said Burton, another of those present. " Proverbial Fool-osophy," observed Henderson, con fcemptuously, a.^ Burton handed him the book. " Shall r be a silly sheep like the rest of you, and leap over LEAF BY LEAF. 73 the bridge because your leader has 1 I suppose 1 must, though it's very absurd." He wavered and hesitated ; sensible enough to disapprove of so useless a proceeding he yet did not like to be thought afraid. He minded what fellows would thinJc. "Do what's right/' said Daubeny, ''and shame the devil; here, give me the book. Now, you fellows, you've torn out these leaves, and done quite mischief enough. Let me put the book back, and don't be like children who hit the fender against which they've knocked their heads." " Or dogs that bite the stick they've been thrashed «7ith," said Henderson. " You're right, Dubbs, and I respect you ; aye, you fellows may sneer if you like, but I advised you not to do it, and I won't make my- self an idiot because you do." " Never mind," drawled Howard Tracy ; " I hate Paton, and I'll do anything to spite him ;" whereupon he snatched the book from Daubeny, and threw it entire into the flames. Poor Tracy had been even in more serious scrapes with Mr. Paton than Walter had ; his vain manner was peculiarly abhorrent to the master, who took every opportunity of snubbing him ; but nothing would pierce through the thick cloak of Tracy's conceit, and fully satisfied with himself, his good looks, and his aristocratic connections, he sat down in con- tented ignorance, and despised learning too much to be in the least put out by being regarded as a hopeless dunce. " What, is there nothing left for me to burnl" said Walter, who sate glowering on the high iron fender, 74 fN THK FLAME8. and swinging his legs impatiently. " Let 's see what else there is in the desk. Here are a pack of old exer- cises apparently, they'll make a jolly blaze. Stop, though, are they old exercises % Well, never mind ; if not, so much the better. In they shall go." " Stop, what are you doing, Walter said Hender- son, catching him by the arm ; " you know these can't be old exercises. Paton always puts them in his waste- paper basket, not in his desk. Oh, Walter, what }iave you done % " ^ "The outside sheets were exercises anyhow," said Walter, gloomily; "here, it's no good trying to save them now, whatever they were" (for Henderson was attempting to rake them out between the bars) ; " they 're done for now," and he pressed down the thick masa of foolscap into the reddest centre of the fire, and held it there until nothing remained of it but a heap of flaky crimson ashes. A dead silence followed, for the boys felt that now at anyrate they were " in for it." The sound of the tea-bell prevented further mis- chief ; and as Henderson thrust his arm through Walter's, he said, " Oh, Evson, I wish you hadn't done that ; I wish I "d got you to come away before. What a passionate fellow you are." " Well, it's done now," said Walter, already be- ginning to soften, and to repent of his fatuity. A\Tiat can we do said Henderson anxiously. " Take the consequences ; that's all," answered Walter. " IN FOR IT." 76 H ad n't you better go and tell Paton about it a1 once, instead of letting him find it out 1 " " No/^ said Walter ; " he 's done nothing but bully me, and I don't care." " Then let me go,'^ said his friend earnestly. " J know Paton well; I'm sure he'd be ready to forgive you, if I explained it all to him." "You're very good, Flip ; but don't go; it's too late." ''Well, Walter, you mustn't think that I had no share in this because of being afraid. I was one of the group, and I'll share the punishment with you, what- ever it is. I hope for your sake it won't be found "out." But if Henderson had seen a little deeper he would have hoped that it would be found out, for there is nothing that works quicker ruin to any character than undiscovered wrong-doing. It was happy for Walter that his wrong impulses did not remain undiscovered \ happy for him that they came so rapidly to be known and to be punished. It was noised through the school in five minutes, that Evson, one of the new fellows, had smashed open Paton's desk, and burned the contents. " What an awful row he'U get into," was the general comment. Walter heard Kenrick inquiring eagerly about it as they sate at tea; but Kenrick didn't ask liim about it, though they sate so near each other. After the foolish, proud manner of sensitive boys, Walter and Kenrick, though each liked r,he other none the leP9, were not oe 76 BLESSINGS OF DETECTION. speaking terms. Walter, less morbidly proud than Keiirick, would not have suffered this silly alienation to continue had not his attention been occupied by other troubles. Neither of them, therefore, liked to be the first to break the ice, and now in his most serious difficulty Walter had lost the advice and sympathy of his most intimate friend. The fellows seemed to think that he must inevi- tably be expelled for this fracas. The poor boy's thoughts were very very bitter as he laid his head that —night on his restless pillow, remembered what an un- governable fool he had been, and dreamt of his happy and dear-loved home. How strangely he seemed to have left his old, innocent life behind him, and how little he would have believed it possible, three months ago, that he could by any conduct of his own have so soon incurred, or nearly incurred, the penalty of ex* pulsion from St. Winifred's school. He had certainly yielded very quickly to passion, and he felt that in consequence he had raade his posi- tion more serious than that of other boys who were in every sense of the word twice as bad as himself But what he laid to the score of his ill-luck was in truth a very happy providence by which punishment was sent speedily and heavily upon him, and so his evil tendencies, mercifully nipped in the bud, crushed with a tender yet with an iron hand before they had expanded more blossoms and been fed by deeper roots. He might have been punished less speedily had his faults been more radical, or his wrongdoings of a deeper dye. CHAPTEK THE EIGHTH. THE BURNT MANUSCRIPT, All, All my poor scrapings, from a dozen years Of dust and desk-work. — Sea Dreams. T may be supposed that during chapel the nexl morning, and when he went into early school, Walter was in an agony of almost unendur- able suspense ; and this suspense was doomed A to be prolonged for some time, until at last he could hardly sit still. Mr. Paton did not at once notice that his desk was broken. He laid down his books, and went on as asual with the morning lesson. At length Tracy was put on. He stood up in his jasual self-satisfied way, looking admiringly at his boots, and running his delicate white hand through his hair. Mr. Paton watched him with a somewhat contemptuous expression, as though he were think- ing what a pity it was that any boy should be such a puppy. Henderson, with his usual quick discrimi- nation, had nick-named Tracy the ** Lisping Haw- thombud," 78 "NOW FOR IT." " Your fifth failure this week, Tracy ; you must dc the usual punishment/' said Mr. Paton, taking up his key to unlock the desk. " Now for it/' thought all the form, looking on with great anxiety. The key caught hopelessly in the broken lock. Mr. Paton's attention was aroused ; he pushed the lid ofl the desk, and saw at once that it had been broken open. " Who has broken open my desk 1 " No answer. He looked very grave, but said nothing, looking fo' his imposition-book. " Where is my imposition-book 1 " No answer. And where is my ? " Mr. Paton stopped, and looked with the greatest eagerness over every corner of the desk. " Where is the manuscript I left here with my im- position-book 1 " he said in a tone of the most painful anxiety. " I do hope and trust,'' he said, turning pale, " that none of you have been wicked enough to injure it," and here his voice faltered. " When I tell you that it was of the. utmost value, I am sure that if any of you have concealed or taken it, you will give it back at once." There was deep silence. " Once again," he asked, " where is my imposition- book ? " " Burnt, sir ; burnt, sir/' said oDf* or two voices, hardly above a whisper. BURNT. 79 " And my manuscript ? " he asked, in a loudei voice, and in still greater agitation. " Surely, surely, you cannot have been so thoughtless, so incredibly un- just as to — " Walter stood up in his place, with his head bent, and his face covered with an ashy whiteness. " I burnt it, sir," he said, in an almost inaudible voice, and tre tnb- ling with fear. " Come here," said Mr. Paton, impetuously ; " .] can 't hear what you say. Now, then," he continued, as Walter crept up beside his desk. " I burnt it, sir," he said, in a whisper. " You— burnt — it," said Mr. Paton, starting up in uncontrollable emotion, which changed into a burst of anger, as he gave Walter a box on the ear which sounded all over the room, and made the boy stagger back to his place. But the flash of rage was gone in an instant ; and the next moment Mr. Paton, afraid of trusting himself any longer, left his desk and hurried out, anxious to recover in solitude the calmness of mind and action which had been so terribly disturbed, Mr. Percival, who taught his form in another part of the room, seeing Mr. Paton box Walter so violently on the ear, and knowing that this was the very reverse of his usual method, since he had never before touched a boy in anger, walked up to see what was the matter, just as Mr. Paton, with great hurried strides, had reached the door. " What is the matter with Mr. Paton 1" he asked There was a genoraJ murmur through the form, out 80 THE MANUSCKTP'J . of which Mr. Percival caught something about Mr Paton's papers having been burnt. Anxious to find him, to ask what had happened, Mr. Percival, leaving the room, caught sight of him pacing with hasty and uneven steps along a private garden walk which belonged to the masters. " I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred," he said overtaking him. " Oh, nothing, nothing," said Mr. Paton, with quiver- ing lip, as he turned aside. And then, suppressing his emotion by a powerful effort of self-control ; " It is only,'' he said, " that the hard results of fifteen years* continuous labour are now condensed into a heap of smut and ashes in the schoolroom fire." " You don't mean to say that your Hebrew manu scripts are burnt 1 " asked Mr. Percival, in amazement. " You know how I have been toiling at them foi years, Percival ; you know that I began them before I left college, that I regarded them as the chief work of my life, and that I devoted to them every moment of my leisure. You know, too, the pride and pleasure which I took in their progress, and the relief with which 1 turned to them from the vexations and anxieties of one's life here. To work a^ them has been for years my only recreation and delight. Well, they were finished at last ; I was only correcting them for the press ; they woiild have gone to the printer in a month, and I should have lived to complete a toilsome and honourable task. Well, the dream is over, and a hand- ful of ashes represents the struggle of my best years."* WHAT IT WAS. 81 Mr. Percival knew well that his coadjutor had been ^vorking for years at a commentary on the Hebrew text of the Four Greater Prophets. It had been the cherished and chosen task of his life; he had brought to it great stores of learning, accumulated in the vigour of his powers, and the enthusiasm of a youthful ambi- tion, and he had employed upon it every spare hour left him from his professional duties. He looked to it as the means of doing essential service to the church of which he was an ordained member. And in five minutes the hand of one angry boy had robbed him of the fruit of all his hopes. " If they wanted to display the hatred which I well know that they feel," said Mr. Paton bitterly, "they might have chosen any way, literally any way^ but that. They might have left me, at least, that which was almost my only pleasure, — the one object in life which had connection with them or their pursuits.'' And his fact grew haggard as he stopped in his walk, and tried to realize the extent of what he had lost. " I woul rather have seen everything I possess in the whole world destroyed than that," he said slowly, and with strong emotion. " And was it really Evson who did this 1 " asked Mr. Percival, filled with the sincerest pity for his colleague's wounded feelings. " It matters little who did it, Percival ; but, yes, it was your friend Evson." "The little, graceless, abominable wretch 1" ex- a ^2 A life's wo UK. claimed Mr. Percivai, v»Ith anger, "he must be expelled. But can't you recommence the task 1 " " Recommence " said Mr. Paton, in a hard voice ; " and who will give me back the hope and vigour of the last fifteen years ] how shall I have the heart again to toil through the same long trains of research and thought ? where are the hundreds of references which I had sought out and verified with hours of heavy mid- night labour 1 how am I to have access again to the Bcores of books which I consulted before I began to ^ work 1 The very thought of it sickens me. Youth and hope are over. No, Percivai, there is no more to be said. I am robbed of a life's work. Leave me, please, alone for a little, until I have learnt to say less bitterly, ' God's will be done.' " ' He needeth uot Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best Bear his mild yoke they please him best,' " said Mr. Percivai, in a tone of kind and deep sympathy, as he left him to return to the schoolroom. But once in sight of Mr. Paton's open and rifled desk, Mr. Percivai 's pent-up indignation burst forth into clear flame. Stopping in front of Mr. Paton's form, he ex- claimed, in a voice that rang with scorn and sorrow — You boys do not know the immense mischief which your thoughtless and worthless spite and folly have caused. I say boys, but I believe, and rejoice to believe, that one only of you is guilty, and I rejoice too, that that one is a new boy, who must have brou;2;ht here IRREPARABLE. 83 feelings and passions more worthy of an ignorant and ill- trained plough-boy than of a St. Winifred's scholar. The hand that would burn a valuable manuscript would fire a rick of hay.*' " 0 sir/' said Henderson, starting up and interrupting him, " we were all very nearly as bad. It was the rest of us that burnt the imposition-book ; Evson had nothing to do with that." Henderson had forgotten for the moment that he at least had had no share in burn- ing the imposition-book, for his warm quick heart could not bear that these blows should fall unbroken on his friend's head. But his generous effort failed ; for Mr. Percival, barely noticing the interruption, continued — the im- position-book % I know nothing about that. If you burnt it you were very foolish and reckless ; you deserve no doubt to be punished for it, but that was wm- Itaratively nothing. But do you know, bad boy, he said, turning again to Walter, " do you know what you have done ? Do you know that your dastardly spitefulness has led you to destroy writings which had cost your master years and years of toil that cannot be renewed 1 He treated you with unswerving impartiality ; he never punished you but when you deserved punishment, and when he believed it to be for your good, and yet you turn upon him in this adder-like way ; you break open his desk like a thief, and, in one moment of despi- cable iU-temper, you rob him and the world of that which had been the pursuit and object of his life. You, Kvson, may well hide your face" — for Walter had bent 84 MR PKRCIVAL. over the desk, and in agonies of shame and remorse had covered his face with both hands ; — " you may well be ashamed to look either at me or at any honest and manly, and right-minded boy among your companions. You have done a wrong for which it will be years hence a part of your retribution to remember, that nothing you can ever do can repair it, or do away with its effects. I am more than disappointed with you. You have done mischief which the utmost working of all your powers cannot for years counterbalance, if, instead of being as b^e and idle as you now appear to be, you were to devote your whole heart to work. I don't know what will be done to you ] I, for my part, hope that you will Qot be suffered to remain with us ; but if you are, I am sure that you will receive, as you richly deserve, the re- probation and contempt of every boy among your Bchool-fellows who is capable of one spark of honour or right feeling.'' Every word that Mr. Percival had said came to poor Walter with the most poignant force ; all the master's reproaches pierced his heart and let blood. He sat there not stirring, stunned and crushed, as though he had been beaten by the blows of a hammer. He quailed and shuddered to think of the great and cruel injustice, the base and grievous injury into which his blind passion had betrayed him, and thought that he could never hold up his head again. Mr. Percival's indignant expostulation passed ovei the other culprits who heard it hke a thunderstorm. There was a force and impetuosity in this gentleman's OKUSHED. 85 manner, when his anger was kindled, which had long gained for him among the boys, with whom he was the most popular of all the masters, the half- complimentary soubriquet of " Thunder-and -lightning." But none of them had ever before heard him speak with such con- centrated energy and passion, and all except the generous Henderson were awed by it into silence. But Henderson at that moment was wholly absorbed in Walter's sorrows. " TeU him,'' said he in Walter's ear, " tell him it was all a mistake, that you thought the papers were old exer- cises. Dear Walter, tell him before he goes." But Walter still rested with his white cheeks on his hands upon the desk, and neither moved nor spoke. And Mr. Percival, turning indignantly upon his heel, with one last glance of unmitigated contempt, had walked off to his own form. " Walter, don't take it to heart so,'' said Henderson, putting his arm round his neck ; " you couldn't help it ; you made a sad mistake, that 's all. Go and tell Paton so, and I'm sure he'll forgive you." A slight quiver was all that shewed that Walter heard. Henderson would have liked to see his anguish relieved by a burst of tears ; but the tears did not come, and Walter did not move. At last a hand touched him, and he heard the voice of the head-boy say to him, " get up, Evson, I'm to take you to Dr. Lane with a note from Mr. Percival." He rose and followed mechanically, waiting in the head-masU^r's porch, while the monitor went in. 86 ALONE WITH REMORSE. " Dr. Lane won't see you now," said Soniers, coming out again, " Croft ^' (addressing the school Famulus), "Dr. Lane says you're to lock up Evson by himself in the private room." Walter followed the Famulus to the private room, a little room at the top of the house, where he knew that boys were locked previous to expulsion, that they might have no opportunity for doing any mischief before they went. The Famulus left him here, and returned a few minutes after with some bread and milk, which he placed on the deal table, which, with a wooden chair, con- stituted the sole furniture of the room ; he then locked the door, and left Walter finally to his own reflections. Then it was that flood after flood of passionate tears seemed to remove the iron cramp which had pained his heart. He flung himself on the floor, and as he thought of the irreparable cruelty which he had inflicted on a man who had been severe indeed, but not intentionally unjust to him, and of the apparent malignity to which all who heard, it would attribute what he had done, he sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break. At one o'clock the Famulus returned with some dinner. He found Walter sitting at a comer of the room, his head resting against the angle of the wall, and his eyes red and inflamed with long crying. The morning's meal still lay untasted on the table. He looked round with a commiserating glance, "Come, come, Master Evson," he said, "you've no sail to give way so, sir. If you've done wrong, the ALONE WITH REMORSE 87 wTong's done now, and frettin' won't help it. There'? them above as '11 forgive you, and make you do bettei next time, lad, if you only knew it. Here, you must eat some of this dinner, Master Evson, and leave off cryin' so ; cry in' 's no comfort, sir." He stood by and waited on Walter with the greatest kindness and respect, till he had seen him swallow some food, not without difficulty, and then with en couraging and cheerful words left him, and once more locked the door. The weary afternoon wore on, and Walter sat mournfully alone with nothing but miserable thoughts — miserable to whatever subject he turned them, and more miserable the longer he dwelt on them. As the shades of evening drew in he felt his head swimming, and the long solitude made him feel afraid as he wondered whether they would leave him there all night. And then he heard a light step approach the door, and a gentle tap. He made no answer, for he thought he knew the step, and he could not summon up voice to speak for a fit of sobbing which it brought on. Then he heard the boy stoop down, and push a note under the door. He took it up when he heard the footsteps die away, and by the fast failing light was just able to roake it out. It ran thus — "Dear Walter — You can't think how sorry, how very very sorry 1 am for you. I wish I could be with you and take part of your punishment, iorgive me 88 KENKiCK'S NOTH. for being cold and proud to you. I have been longing to speak to you all the time, but felt too shy. It was all my fault. I will never break with yOu again. Good bye, dear Walter, from your ever and truly affectionate, Harry Kenrick." "He will never break with me again," thought Walter. "H I'm to go to-morrow I'm afraid he'll never have the chance." And then his saddest thoughts reverted to the home which he had left so recently for tlie first time, and to which he was to return with nothing but dishonour and disgrace. At six o'clock the kind-hearted Famulus brought him a lamp, some tea, and one or two books, which he had no heart to read. No one was allowed to visit the private room under heavy penalties, so that Walter had no other visitor until eight, wlien Somers, the monitoi who had taken him to Dr. Lane, looked in and icily observed, "You're to sleep in the sick room, Evson , come wdth me." "Am I expelled, Somers he faltered out. " I don't know," said Somers in a freezing tone ; " you deserve to be." True, oh lofty and pitiless Somers ! But is that all which you could find to say to the poor boy in his distress ? And, if we all had our deserts . . . ? "At any rate," Somers added, "I for one won't have you as a fag any longer, and I shouldn't thinly that any one else would either." With which cutting remark he left Walter to hi? CFAPTEK THE NINTH PENITENCE. If hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 1 tender it here ; I do as truly suffei As e'er I did commit." Two Gentlemen of Vekona. — Act v. ^c. 4* ' EXT niomiiig Walter was reconducted to thr ])rivate room, and there, with a kind of duL pain in head and heart, awaited the sentence which was to decide his fate. His fancy had left St. Winifred's altogether; it was solely occupied with Semlyn, and the dear society of home. Walter was rehearsing again and again in his mind the scene of his return; what he should say to his father ; how he should dry his mother's tears ; and how he should bear himself, on his return, towards his little brothers and sistera Would he, expelled from St. Winifred's, ever be able to look any one in the face again at home 1 ^V^iule he was brooding ovei these fancies, some 90 A RAY OF HOPE. one, breathless with haste, ran up to his room, and again a note was thrust underneath the door. He seized it quickly, and read — "Dear Walter — I am so glad to be the fust to tell you that you are not to be expelled. Paton has begged you off. No time for more. I have slipped away before morning school to leave you this news, and can't stay lest I should be caught. Good bye, from your ever affectionate friend, H. K." ^ The boy's heart gave one bound of joy as he read this. If he were not expelled he was ready to bear meekly any other punishment appointed to his offence. But his banishment from the school would cause deep affliction to others besides himself, and this was why he had dreaded it with such a feeling of despair. Alone as he was in the little room, he fell on his knees, and heartily and humbly thanked God for this answer to his earnest, passionate, reiterated prayer ; and then he read Kenrick's note again. Paton has begged you off." He repeated this sentence over and over again, aloud and to himself, and seemed as if he could never realise it. Paton — Paton, the very man whom he had so deeply and irreparably injured — had begged him off, and shielded him from a punishment which no one could have considered too severe for his fault. Young and inexperienced as Walter Evson was, he could not of course fully understand and appreciate the amount of the loss, the nature and degree of the injury which he had inflicted ; but yet, THE OFFENCE. 91 he could understand that he had done something which caused greater pain to his master than even the break- ing of a limb, or falling ill of a severe sickness. And he never prayed for himself without praying also that Mr. Paton^s misfortune might in some way be alleviated ; and even, impossible as the prayer might seem, that he, Walter, might himself have some share in render- ing it more endurable. It may seem strange that Walter should be ap- parently excessive in his own self-condemnation. A generous mind usually is ; but Walter, it may be urged, never intended to do the harm he had done. If he mistook the packet for a number of exercises the fault was comparatively venial. Comparatively—yes ; for though it will be admitted that to break open a private desk and throw its contents into the fire is bad enough in a schoolboy under any circumstances, still it would be a far less aggravated sin than the wil- ful infliction of a heavy damage out of a spirit of re- venge. But here lay the gravamen of Walter's fault ; he knew — though he had not said so — in his inmost heart he knew that the packet did not, and could not, consist merely of old exercises, like the outer sheets, which were put to keep it clean. When he threw it into the fire and thrust it down until it blazed away, he felt sure — and at that wicked moment of indulged passion he rejoiced to feel sure — that what he was con- suming was of real value. Henderson's voice awoke in a moment his dormant conscience ; but then, however keen were the stings of remorse, what had been done 92 FACE TO FACE. could never be undone. And Paton had begged him off." It was ail the more wonderful to him, and he was all the more deeply grateful for it, because he knew that, in Mr. Paton's views, the law of punishment for every offence was as a law of iron and adamant — a law as un- deviating and beneficial as the law of gravitation itself. A slow and hesitating footstep — the sound of the key turning in the door — a nervous hand resting on the handle — and Mr. Paton stood hefore him. In an instant Walter was on his knees beside him, hi^ head bent over his clasped hands ; ** Oh, sir," he exclaimed, " please forgive me ; I have been longing to see you, sir, to implore you to forgive me ; for when you have forgiven me I shan't mind anything else. Oh, sir, forgive me, if you can." *'Do you know, Evson, the extent of what you have done ? " said Mr. Paton, in a constrained voice. "0 sir, indeed I do," he exclaimed, bursting into tears ; " Mr. Percival said I had destroyed years and years of hard work ; and that I can never, never, never make up for it, or repair it again. O sir, indeed I didn't know how much mischief I was doing ; I was in a wicked passion then, but I would give my right hand not to have done it now. 0 sir, can you ever forgive me ? " he asked, in a tone of pitiable despair. **Have you asked God's forgiveness for your pas- sionate and revengeful spirit, Evson ? " said the same constrained voice. " O sir, I have, and I know God has forgiven me. Indeed, I never knew, 1 never thought before, that I FOKGIVENESS. 93 could grow so wicked in a day. 0 sir, what shall 1 do to gain your forgiveness ; I would do anything, sir," he said, in a voice thick with sobs j " and if you for- gave me, I could be almost happy. All this while Walter had not dared to look up in Mr. Paton's face. Abashed as he was, he could not bear to meet the only look which he expected to find there, the old cold unpitying look of condemnation and reproach. Even at that moment he could not help thinking that if Mr. Paton had understood him better, he would not have seemed to him so utterly bad as then he must seem, with so recent an act of sin and folly to bear witness against him. He dared not look up through his eyes swimming with tears ; but he had not expected the kind and gentle touch of the trembling hand that rested on his head as though it blessed him, and that smoothed again and again his dark hair, and wiped the big drops away from his cheeks. He had not expected the arm that raised him up from his kneeling position, and the fingers that pushed back his hair from his forehead, and gently bent back his head ; or the pitying eyes, them- selves dim, as though they were about to well over with compassion — that looked so sorrowfully, yet so kindly, into his own. He could not bear this. If Mr. Paton had struck him, as he did in the first moment of overwhelming anger ; if he had spurned him away, and ordered him any amount of punishment, it would have been far easier to bear than this Christian gentle ness : this ready burying in pity and oblivion of the 94 " NEQUE DIFFINGET heaviest and most undeserved calamity which the mas ter had ever undergone at the hands of man. Walter could not bear it ; he flung himself on his knees again in a passion of weeping, and clasped Mr. Patents knees, uttering in broken sentences, " I can never ma ke up for it, never repair it as long as I live." For a moment more the kind hand again rested on the boy's head, and gently smoothed his dark hair ; and then Mr. Paton found voice to speak, and lifting him up, said to him- " I forgive you, Walter ; forgive you freely and gladly. It was hard, I own, at first to do so, for 1 will not disguise from you that this loss is a very bitter thing to bear. I have been sleepless, and have never once been able to banish the distress of mind which it has caused since it occurred. And yet it is a loss which I shall not feel fully all at once, but most and for many a long day when I sit down again, if God gives me strength to do so, to recover the lost stores and re- arrange the interrupted thoughts. But I too have learnt a lesson, Walter ; and when you have reached my age, my boy, you too, I trust, will have learnt to control all evil passions with a strong will, and to bear meekly and patiently whatever God sends. And you too, Walter, learn a lesson. You have said that you would give anything, do anything, to undo this wrong, or to repair it ; but you can do nothing, my boy, give no- thing, for it cannot be undone. Wrong rarely can be mended. Let this very helplessness teach you a truth that may remain with you through life. Let it check INFECTUMQLTE REDDET.' 96 you in wilful impetuous moments ; for what has once been done remains irrevocable. You may rue for years and years the work of days or of moments, and you may 7iever be able to avoid the consequences, even when the deed itself has been forgotten by the generous and forgiven by the just." And all this so kindly, so gently, so quietly spoken ; every word of it sank into Walter's heart never to be forgotten, as his tears flowed still but with more quiet sadness now. " Yes, Walter, this occurrence,'^ continued Mr. Paton in a calm low voice, *^may do us both good, miserable as it is. I will say no more about it now, only that I have quite forgiven it. Man is far too mean a creature to be justified in withholding forgive- ness for any personal wrong. It is far more hard to forgive ones-self when one has done wrong. I have determined to bury the whole matter in oblivion, and to inflict no punishment either on you or on any of the other boys who were concerned in this folly and sin. I will not forgive by halves. But, Walter, T will not wrong you by doubting that from this time forward you will advance with a marked improvement. You will have something to bear, no doubt, but do not let it weigh oh you too heavily ; and as for me, I will try henceforth to be your friend." What could Walter do but seize his hand and clasp it earnestly, and sob out the broken incoherent thanks which were more eloquent than connected words. " And uov/, Walter, you are free," said Mr. Paton 96 FORGIVENESS. From us you will hear no more of tliis offence. It b nearly dinner time. Come ; I will walk with you to hall.'' He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, and they walked down stairs and across the court. Walter waa deeply grateful that he did so, for he had hoard from Croft of the scorn and indignation with which the news of his conduct had been received by the elder and more influential portions of the school. He had dreaded unspeakably the first occasion when it would be necessary to meet them again, but he felt that Mr. Paton's countenance and kindness had paved the way for him, and smoothed his most formidable trial. It had been beyond his warmest hopes that he should be able to face them so. He had never dared to expect this open proof, that the person who had suffered chiefly from his act would also be the first to shew that he had not cast him off as hopeless or worthless, but was ready to receive him into favour once again. The corridor was full of boys waiting for the dinner bell, and they divided respectfully to leave a passage for Mr. Paton, and touched their hats as he passed them with his hand still on Walter s shoulder, while Walter walked with downcast eyes beside him, not once daring to look up. And as the boy passed them, humbled and penitent, with Mr. Paton' s hand resting upon him, there was not one of those who saw it that did not learn from that sight a lesson of calm forgive- ness as noble and as forcible as any lesson which they could learn at St. Winifred's school. TTNPITIET) 97 Walter sate at dinner pale and crying, but unpitied. *Alas for the rarity of Christian charity under the sun !" The worst construction had assiduously been put upon what he had done, and nearly all the boys hastily condemned it, not only as an ungentlemanly, but also as an inexcusable and unpardonable act. One after another, as they passed him after dinner, they cut him dead. Several of the masters, including Mr. Percival, whom Walter had hitherto loved and respected more than any of them, because he had been treated by him with marked kindness, did the same. Walter met Mr. Percival in the playground and touched his cap ; Mr. Percival glanced at him for a moment, and then turned his head aside without noticing the salute. It may seem strange, but we must remember that to all who hear of any wrong act by report only, it presents itself as a mere naked fact — a bare result without preface or palliation. The subtle grades of temptation which led to it — the violent outburst of passion long pent up which thus found its consumma- tion — are unknown or forgotten, and the deed itself, isolated from all that rendered it possible, receives un- mitigated condemnation. All that any one took the trouble to know or to believe about Walter's scrape was, that he had broken open a master's private desk, and ill revenge had purposely burnt a most valuable manu- script ; and for this, sentence was passed upon him broadly and in the gross. Poor Walter ! those were dark days for him ; but ^lenderson and Kenrick stuck fast by him, and little H 98 A. DEMONSTKATION Arthur Eden still iooked up to him with nnhounded gratitude and affection, and he felt that the case was not hopeless. Kenrick indeed seemed to waver once or twice. He sought Walter and shook hands with him at once, but still he was not with him, Walter fancied, so much as he had been or might have been, iiill, after a short struggle, his natural impulse of generosity won the day. As for Henderson, Walter thought he could have died for him, so much he loved him for his kindness in this hour of need ; and Eden never left his side when he could creep there to console him by cheerful talk, or to be his companiou when lie would otherwise have been alone. The boys had been truly sorry to hear of Mr. Paton's loss ] it roused all their most generous feelings. That evening as they came out of chapel they aU gathered round the iron gates. The intention had been to groan at poor Walter. He knew of it perfectly well, for Henderson had prepared him for it, and expressed his determination to walk by his side. It was for him a moment of keen anguish, and that anguish betrayed itself in his scared and agitated look. But he was spared this last drop in the cup of punishment. The mere sight of him shewed the boys that he had suffered bitterly enough already. When they looked at him they had not the heart to hurt and shame him any more. Mr. Paton's open forgiveness of that which had fallen most severely on himself changed the current of their feelings. Instead of groaning Walter they let Mm pa»R by, and waited till Mr. Paton came out of th* THE LNTBRVIFM'. ^19 chapel door, and as he walked across the court the boys all followed him with hearty cheers. Mr. Paton did not like the demonstration, although he appreciated the kindly and honourable motives which had given rise to it. He was not a man who courted popularity, and this external sign of it was, as he well knew, the irregular expression of an evanescent feeling. So he took no further notice of the boys' cheers than by slightly raising his cap, and by one stately incHnation of the head, and then he walked on with his usual quiet dignity of manner to his o^vn rooms. But after this he every now and then took an opportunity to walk with Walter ; and almost ever}? Sunday he might ha ve^ been seen with him pacing, after morning chapel, up and down the broad walk of the masters* garden, while "Walter walked unevenly beside him, in vain endeavours to keep step with his \ong slow stride. A letter from Dr. Lane brought Walter's father to St. Winifred's the next day. Why dwell on their sad and painful meeting ? But the pain of it soon wore ofi as they interchanged that sweet and frank communion of thoughts and sympathies that still existed as it had ever done between them. They had a long, long walk upon the shore, and at every step Walter seemed to in- breathe fresh strength, and hope, and consolation, and Mr. Evson seemed to acquire new love for, and confi- dence in, his unhappy son, so that when in the even- ing he kissed him and said "good bye," at the top of the same little hill where they had parted before, 100 MR, PATON'R Mr. Evson felt more happily and gratefully secure of his radical integrity, now that the hoy had acquired the strength which comes through trial, through failure, and through suffering, than he had done before when he left him only with the strength of early principle and untested innocence of heart. But years after, when Walter wa'^ e, Joaan, and when he had long been separated from all intelligence of Mr. Paton, there emanated from a quiet country vicarage a now celebrated edition of the "Major Prophets ; " an edition which made the author a high reputation, and secured for him in the following year. the Deanery of . And in the preface to that edition the reader may still find the following passage, which Walter even then, those long years after, could not read without a thrill of happy, yet penitent, emotion. It ran thus — "This edition of the * Major Prophets' has been the chosen work of the author's leisure, and he is almost afraid to say how many of the best years of his life have been spent upon it. A strange fortune has happened to it Years ago it was finished, it was written out, and ready for the press. At that time it was burnt — no matter under what circumstances — by a boy's hand. At first, the author never hoped to have the courage or power to resume and finish the task again. But it pleased God, who sent him this trial, to provide him also with leisure, and opportunity, and resolution, so that the old misfortune is now at last repaired. It is for the sake of one person, and one PREFACE. 101 person only, that these private matters are intruded on the reader's notice ; but that person, if his eye should ever fall on these lines, will know also why the word * repaired ' has been printed in different letters. And I would also tell him with all kindness, that it has pleased God to bring out of the rash act of his boyhood nothing but good. The following commentary is, T humbly trust, far more worthy of its high subject, now that it has received the maturer consideration of my advancing years, than it would have been had it seen the light at St. Winifred's long ago. I write this foi the sake of the boy who then wept for what seemed an irreparable fault ; and I add thankfully, that never for a moment have I retracted my then forgiveness ; that I think of his after efforts with kindliness and affection ; and that he has, and always will have, my best prayers for his interest and welfare. CHAPTER THE TENTH. aPHILLWARDS. zJut that Conscience makes me firm, The boon companion, who her strong breastplate Buckles on him that feels no guilt within, And bids him on and fear not." — Dante, /ti/. c. xxyii U I s' excuse s^accuse.'" " If a character can*t defend itself, it not worth defending." " No one was ever written down, except by him- self." These, and proverbs like these, ex- press the common and almost instinctive feeling, that self-defence under calumny is generally unsuccessful, and almost always involves a loss of dignity. Partly from this cause, ajftd partly from penitence for his real errors, and partly from scorn at the malice that misrepresented him, and the Pharisaism of far worse offenders that held aloof from his misfortune, Walter said nothing to exculpate his conduct, or to shield himself from the silent indignation, half real and half affected, whiclj weighed heavily against him DARK DAYS, 103 The usual consequences followed ; the story of his Diisdoing was repeated and believed in the least miti- gated form, and this version gained credence and cur- rency because it was uncontradicted. The school society bound his sin upon him ; they retained it, and it was retained. It burdened his conscience with a galling weight, because by his fellows it remained long unforgiven. At the best, those were days of fiery trial to that overcharged young heart. He had not only lost all immediate influence, but as he looked forward through the vista of his school life, he feared that he should never regain it. Even if he should in time become & monitor, he felt as if half his authority must be lost while this stigma was branded so deeply on his name. Yet it was a beautiful sight to see how bravely and manfully this young boy set himself to re-establish the reputation he had destroyed, and since he could not "build upon the foundations of yesterday," to build upon its ruins. It was beautiful to see with what touching humility he accepted undeserved scorn, and with what touching gratitude he hailed the scantiest kindness ] to see how he bore up unflinchingly under every difficulty, accepted his hard position among unsympathising school- fellows, and made the most of it, without anger and without complaint. He could see in after years that those days were to him a time of unmitigated blessing. They taught him lessons of manliness, of endurance, of humility. The necessity of repairing an error and re- covering from a failure became to him a more powerful 104 YEARS WHICH THE stimulus than the hope of avoiding blame altogether. The hour of punishment, which was bitter as absinth to his taste, became sweet as honey in. his memory. Above all, these days taught him, in a manner never to be forgotten, the invaluable lesson that the sense of having done an ill deed is the very heaviest calamity that an ill deed ensures, and that in life there is no secret of happiness comparable to the certain blessing brought with it by a conscience void of all offence. Perhaps the strain would have been too great for his youthful spirits, and might have left on his charac- ter an impress of permanent melancholy, derived from thus perpetually being reminded that he had gone wrong, but for a school sermon which Mr. Paton preached about this time, and which Walter felt was meant in part for him. It was on the danger and un- wisdom of brooding continually on what is over ; and it was preached upon the text, " I will restore to you the years which the locust hath eaten, the canker- worm, the caterpillar, and the palmerworm, my great army." "The past is past," said the preacher; ''its sins and sorrows are irrevocably over ; why dwell upon it now ? Do not waste the present, with all its oppor- tunities, in a hopeless and helpless retrospect. The worst of us need not despair, much less those who may have been betrayed into sudden error by some moment of unguarded passion. There lies the future before you ; — onwards then, and forwards ! it is yet an inno- cent, it may be a happy future. Take it with prayer^ ful thankfulness, and fling the withered part aside LOCUST HATH EATEN. Thus, although thus only, can you recover your ne- glected opportunities. Do this in hope and meekness, and God will make up to you for the lost past ; He who inhabiteth eternity will stretch forth out of His eternity a forgiving hand, and touch into green leaf again the years which the locust hath eaten." How eagerly Walter Evson drank in those words ! That day at least ha felt that man doth not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God. If Walter had been old enough to be an observer of character, he might have gathered out of his diffi- culties the materials for some curious notes on the manner in which he was treated by different boy& Many, like Harpour and Cradock, made, of course, no Bort of difference in their behaviour towards him, be- cause they set up no pretence of condemnation : others, like Anthony and Franklin, had been nearly as bad as himself in the matter, and therefore their relations to him remained quite unaltered. But there were many Doys who, like Jones, either cut him or were cold to Lim, not because they really felt any moral anger at a fault which was much less heinous in reality than many which they daily committed, but because he was, for the time, unpopular, and they did not care to be seen with an unpopular boy. On the other hand, through a feeling, which at the time they could not un- derstand, a few of the very best boys, some of the wisest, the steadiest, and noblest, seemed drawn to him by some new tie ; and iu a very short time he be. 106 REGINALD POWER. gan to know friends among tliem in whose way he might not otherwise have been thrown. Daubeny, for instance, than whom, although the boys chose to make him something of a butt, there was no more conscien- tious fellow at St. Winifred's, sought Walter out on every possible occasion, and when they were alone spoke to him, in his gentle and honest way, many a cheering and kindly word. Another friend of this sort (whom Walter already knew slightly through Kenrick, who was in the form below him), was a boy named Power. There was something in Power most attractive ; his clear eyes, and innocent expression of face, his unvarying success in all school competitions, his quiet and graceful manners, even the coldness and reserve which made him stand somewhat aloof from most boys, mixing with very few of them, firmly and unobtrusively assuming an altogether higher tone than theirs, and bestowing his confidence and friendship on hardly any — aU tended to make him a marked character, and to confer on his intimacy an unusual value. Walter, to whom as yet he had hardly spoken, thought him self-centred and reserved, and yet saw something to admire even in his exclusiveness ; he felt that he could have liked him much, but, as he was several forms lower than Power, he never expected to become one of his few associates. But during his troubles Power so openly shewed that he regarded him with respect and kindness, and was so clearly the first to make advances, that Walter gladly and gratefully accepted the proffered friendship. ON THE SANDS. 107 It happened thus : One day, about a month after his last escapade, Walter was strolling alone, as he often did, upon the shore. The shore was very dear to him. I almost pity a boy whose school is not by the sea-side. He found on the shore both com- panionship and occupation. He never felt lonely there, lie could sit there by the hour, either in calm or storm, watching the sea-birds dip their wings which flashed in the sunlight, as they pounced down on some unwary fish ; or listening to the silken rustle and sweet mono- tony of the waves plashing musically upon the yellow sands on some fine day. On this evening the tide was coming in, and Walter had amused himself by standing on some of the lumps of granite tossed about the shore until the advancing waves encroached upon and sur rounded his little island, and gave him just room to jump to land. He was standing on one of these great stones watching the sunset, and laughing to himself at the odd gambols of two or three porpoises that kept rolling about in a futile manner across the little bay, when he heard a pleasant voice say to him — " I say, Evson, are you going to practise the old style of martyrdom — tie yourself to a stake and let the tide gradually drown you Looking round he was surprised to see Power stand- ing alone on the sands, and to see also that his little island was so far surrounded that he could not get to shore without being wet up to the knees. " Hallo !" he said , " 1 see 1 must take off my shoes xnd flUKjkings, and wade. 108 REGINALD POWER. But on the slippery piece of rock upon which he was standing he had no room to do this without losing hh balance and tumbling over ; so Power had in a moment taken off his own shoes and stockings, turned up his trousers above the knees, and waded up to hiuL " 'NoWj' h3 said, " get on my back, and I '11 carry you in un wetted." " Thanks, Power,'' he said, as Power deposited liim on the sand ; "I'm much obliged." ^ JSTot knowing whether Power would like to be seen with him or not, he looked at him shyly, and was walk- ing off in another direction, when Power, who was put ting on his stockings again, said to him playfully — "What, Walter; haven't you the grace to wait for me, after my having delivered you from a wetting ? Excuse my calling you Walter ; I hear Kenrick and Henderson do it, and somehow you^re one of those fellows whom one meets now and then, whose Christian name seems to suit them more naturally than the other." "By all means call me Walter, Power; and 111 wait for you gladly if you hke," said Walter, blushing as he added, " I thought you might not like to walk with me." "Not like] Nonsense. I should like it particu- larly. Let's take a turn along the shore ; we shall just have time before roll-call." Walter pointed out to him the droll porpoises which had absorbed his attention, and while they stood look- ing and laughing at them, Henderson came up unob- A NEW AND TRUE FRIENP 109 served, and patting Walter on the back, observed poeti- cally — " Why are your young hearts sad, oh beautiful children of morning? Why do your young eyes gaze timidly over the sea?** " Where did you crib that quotation from, Flip," asked Power, laughing ; " your mind 's like a shallow brook, and the colour of it always shews the stratum through which you have been flowing last/^ " Shallow brook, quotha ? " said Henderson ; " a deep and mighty river, sir. you mean ; irresistible by any Power.'' " O cZo shut up. Why was I born with a name that could be punned on ? No more puns, Flip, if you love me," «aid Power ; and they all three walked under the Xorman archway that formed the entrance to the school By the powers," said Henderson to Walter, as the other left them, "you have got a new friend worth having, Walter. He doesn't make himself at home tvith every one, I can tell you ; and if he and Dubba cultivate you, I should tbink it's about time for any one else to be ashamed of cutting you, my boy." "I'm quite happy now," said Walter; "with you and Kenrick and him for friends. I don't care so much for the rest. I wonder why he likes me ? " " Well, because he thinks the fellows a great deal too hard on you for one thing. How vei} good and patient you've been, Walter, under it all." " It is hard sometimes. Flip, but I deserve it. Only now and then I'm afraid that you and Kon will no STEP BY STEP. quite tired of me, I Ve so few to speak to. Harpoui and that lot would be glad enough that I should join them, I know, and but for you and Ken I should have been driven to do it." " Never mind, Walter, my boy ; the fellows 11 come round in time." So, step by step, with the countenance of some true and worthy friends, and by the help of a stout and un- corrupted heart, by penitence and by kindliness, did our brave young hero win his way. He was helped, too, greatly, by his achievements in the games. At football he played with a vigour and earnestness which carried everything before it. He got several bases, and was the youngest boy in the school who ever succeeded in doing this. Gradually but surely his temporary unpopularity gave way ; and even before he began to be generally noticed again, he bade fair ultimately to gain a high position in the estimation of all his school- fellows. There was one scene which he long remembered, and which was very trying to go through. One fine afternoon the boys* prize for the highest jump was to be awarded, and as the school were all greatly interested in the competition, they v/ere assembled in a dense circle in the green playground, leaving space for the jumpers in the middle. The fine weather had also tempted nearly all the inhabitants of St. Winifred's to be spectators of the contest, and numbers of ladies were present, for whom the boys had politely left a space within the circle. When the chief jumping prize had p THE .TUMPING PRIZK 111 been won by an active fellow in the sixth form, anothei prize was proposed for all boys under fifteen. Bliss, Franklin, and two other boys, at once stepped tnto the circle as competitors, and threw off their jackets. ** You must go in for this, Walter," said Henderson. " You 're sui*e to get it." " Not I. I won't go ia, Flip," said Walter, who was naturally in a desponding mood, as he looked round on those four hundred faces, and saw among them all scarcely one sympathising glance. " You go in and win. And never mind talking to me up here, Hender. son ; it can't be pleasant for you, I know, when all the other fellows are cutting me." " Pooh ! Walter. They We in the wrong box ; not you and I. ^ Athanasius contra mundum,' as Power says. Do go in for the prize." Walter shook his head gloomily. " I don't like to, before all these fellows. They 'd hiss me or something." " WeU, if you won't, / won't ; that 's flat." " 0 do, Henderson. I 'm sure you 'd get it. Don't ask me to go in, that's a good fellow." " None but these four going in for the little jump 1 What, only four 1 " said one of the young athletes, who carried small blue flags, and arranged the preliminaries ^* Come in, some more of yon " " Here are two more," said Henderson : stick down our names — Henderson and Evson ; " and pulling Wal- ter forward with him inside the circle, he sate down and began to take off his shoes, that he mii^hi run and jump more easiiy on the ivri 112 THE JIIMPIMci PRIZE. Thus prominently mentioned, Walter could hardly draw back, so putting the best face on it he could, he, too, flung off" his jacket and shoes. The movable spar of wood over which the boys jumped was first put at a height of three feet, which they could all easily manage, and the six, one after another, cleared it lightly. Even then, however, it was pretty easy to judge by their action which was the best jumper, and the connoisseurs on the field at once de- cided that the chance lay between Henderson and Walter ; Walter was by far the most active and grace- ful jumper, but Henderson had the advantage of being a little the taller of the two. The spar was raised half an inch each time, and when it had attained the height of three feet and a half, two of the candidates failed to clear it after three trials. Bliss was the next to break down. His awkward jumps had excited a great deal of laughter, and when he finally failed, Henderson found time even then to begin a line or two of his monody on Blissidas, which was a standing joke against poor Bliss, who always met it by the same invariable observation of I '11 lick you afterwards, Flip." Only three competitors were now left — Franklin. Henderson, and Walter — and they jumped on steadilj till they had reached the height of four feet and one inch, and then Franklin broke down, but recovered him ?elf in the second chance. TJtio struggle now becamft very excitinj]^, and UNDER DIFFICU1.TIE8. 113 Franklin and Henderson again cleared the bar at the height of four feet four, each of them were loudly clapped. But Walter — who jumped last always, because he had been the last candidate to come forward — though he cleared it with an easy bound, received no sign of encouragement from any of the boys. He cleared it in perfect silence, only broken by Mr. Paton, who was looking on with a group of other masters, and who said encouragingly — " Very well done, Evson ; capital I'' The bar was raised an inch, and again the three boys cleared it, and again the first two were greeted with applause, and Walter was left unnoticed except by Power and Kenrick, who applauded him heartily, and patted him on the back. But indeed their clapping only served to throw into stronger relief the loud applause which the others received. Walter almost wished that they would desist. He was greatly agitated • and his friends saw that he was trembling with emotion. He had been much mortified the first time to be thus pointedly scorned in so large a crowd of strangers, and made a marked object of reprobation before them all ; but that this open shame should be thus steadily and continuoiLsly put upon him, made his heart swell with sorrow and indignation at the ungenerous and unfor- giving spirit of his schoolfellows. Once more the bar was raised an inch. The other two got over it amid a burst of applause, and this time Walter, who was unnerved by the painful circumstances in which he found himself, brushed against it as he came over, and knocked it off. The bar was re- i 114 ptliced, and at his second trial (for three were ai~ lowed) he jumped so well that he flew easily over ik Always before, a boy who had recovered himself aftei a failure had been saluted with double cheering, but again Walter^s proceedings were observed by that large crowd in dead silence, while he could not help over- hearing the whispered queries which asked an explana tion of so unusual a circumstance. " Why don't they cheer him as well as the others f asked a fair young girl of her brother. " He looks such a nice boy.^' Because he did a very shabby thing not long ago," was the reply. He could stand it no longer. He glanced round at the speakers more in sorrow than in anger, and then, instead of returning to the starting-point, he turned hastily aside, and, declining the contest, plunged into the thickest of the crowd. " Evson's giving it up. What a pity !" said several boys. No wonder he's giving it up," said Power indig- nantly, " after the way you fellows treat him. Never mind them, Walter," he said, taking him by the arm : " they will be ashamed of themselves by-and-by.^' "You're not going to withdraw, Evson ?" asked one of the chief athletes, in a kind tone. " Yes," said Walter, retiring still farther to hide himself amid the crowd. ** Nonsense I" said Henderson, who had heard the answer ; ** come, Walter, it'll spoil all the fun if you doD'lgo on rRYING SCENR. 115 *' I can't, Flip/' said Walter, turning aside, and hastily brushing away the tears which would come into his eyes. "Do, Walter, they all wish it," whispered Hender- son ; " be brave, and get the prize in spite of all ; here's Paton coming round ] I'm sure it's to cheer you up." " Very well, Flip, I will, if it pleases you ; but it 's rather hard," he said, fairly bursting into tears. " Re- member, it's only for your sake I do it. Flip." " Go on, Walter ; don't give way," said Mr. Paton aloud, in his gentlest and most encouraging voice, as the boy hastily re-entered the arena, and took his place. This time Franklin finally broke down, Henderson barely scrambled over, and Walter, nerved by excite- ment and indignation, cleared the bar by a brilliant flying leap. There was no mistake about the applause this time. The boys had seen how their coolness had told on him. They were touched by the pluck he shewed in spite of his dejected look, and as though to make up for their former deficiency, they clapped him as loud as either of the others. And now a spirited contest began between Hendei- son and Walter. Four feet six and a half they both accomplished — Walter the first time, and Henderson the third. When Henderson, at his last trial, barely succeeded, a loud shout rose from the field, quite en- thusiastic enough to shew that the wishes of the school were on his side. This decided Walter, for he too wasi anxious that Henderson, who had set his heart upon tbe nriie, and was now quit<^ eager with emulation 116 THE PRIZES. should be the successful competitor. At four feet seven, therefore, he meant to break down, but, at the same time, to clear the bar so nearly each time of trial, that it might not be obvious to any one that he wa* not putting forth his best strength. The first time^ however, he jumped so carelessly that Henderson sus- pected his purpose, and, therefore, the second time he exerted himself a little more, and, to his own astonish- ment, accomplished the leap without having intended to do so. Henderson also just succeeded in managing it, and as Walter refused to try another half inch, the prize was declared, amid loud cheers, to be equall} divided between them, after the best competition that ever had been known. The boys and the spectators now moved off to the pavilion, where the prizes were to be distributed by Mrs, Lane. But when Walter*s name was called out with Henderson^s, the latter only stepped forward. Walter had disappeared; and the boys were again made to feel, by his voluntary absence, what bitterness of heart their unkind conduct caused him. Henderson took the prize for his friend, when he received his own. The prizes were a silver-mounted riding-whip, and a belt with a silver clasp, and Mrs. Lane told Henderson that she was sorry for the other victor's absence, and that either of them might choose whichever prize he liked best. When the crowd had dispersed, Henderson, knowing Walter's haunts, strolled with Kenrick to a little fir-grove on the slope of Bardlyn Hill, not far above the sea. Here, as they expected, they DEJECTION. 117 found Walter. He was sitting in a listless attitude, with his back towards them, and he started as he heard their footsteps. '* YoQ let yourself be beaten, Evson Walter, And afterwards you proved a base defaulter," said Henderson, who was in high spirits, as he clapped his hands on Walter's shoulders, and continued — " Behold I bring you now the silver prizes, Meant to reward your feets and exercises." Even AValter could not help smiling at this sally, but he said at once, " You must keep both prizes. Flip ; I don't mean to take either — indeed I won't ; I shouldn't have gone in at all but for you." " 0, do take one," said Kenrick ; " the fellows will think you too proud if you don't." "I don't care what they think of me, Ken; you saw how they treated me. Flip, I'd take the prize in a minute to please you, but, indeed, it would only remind me constantly of this odious jumping, and I'd much rather not." " I can't take both prizes, Walter," said Hender- son. " Well, I'll tell you what — give one to Franklin ; he jumped very weD, and he's not half a bad fellow. Don't press me. Flip ; I can't refuse you anything if you do, because you've been so very, very kind ; but you don't know how wretched I feeL" Henderson, who had looked annoyed, cleared up in % moment. " All riflrht, Walter ; it shall be as you like. 118 NOBLK EFFORTB Franklin shall have it. You've had quite enough to bear already. So, cheer up, and come along." It w^s soon known in the school how Walter had yielded the prize to Franklin, and it was known, too^ that next day he had gone to jump with Henderson^ Franklin, and some others, and had leaped higher than any of them had been able to do. The boys admired his conduct throughout; and from that day forward many were as anxious to renew an acquaintance with him, as they had previously been to break it off. And there was an early opportunity of testing this ; for a few days after the scene just described the cham- pion race for boys under fifteen was tried for, and when Walter won it by accomplishing the distance in the shortest time that had yet been known, and by dis- tancing the other runners, he was received with a cheer, »»^hich was all the more hearty because the boys were anxious to do him a tardy justice. If Walter had not been too sensible to be merely patronised, and too reserved to be " hail-fellow-well-met " with every one, he would have fallen more easily and speedily into the position which he now slowly but honouraI)ly recovered It need hardly be said that, in his school-work, Walter struggled with all his might to give satisfaction to Mr. Paton, and to spare him from all pain. There was something really admirable in the way he worked, and taxed himself even beyond his strength, to prove his regret for Mr. Paton's loss, by doing all that was required of him. Naturally quick and lively as he NOBLE EFFORTS. 119 vvas, he sate as quiet and attentive in school, as if he had been gifted with a disposition as unmercurial as that of Daubeny himself. In order to make sure of his lessons, he went over them with Henderson (who entered eagerly into his wishes) with such care, that they, both of them, astonished themselves with their own improving progress. If they came to any insuper- able difficulties, Kenrick or Power gladly helped them, and explained everything to them with that sympathetic clearness of instruction which makes one boy the best teacher to another. The main difficulty still continued to be the repetition, and grammar rules ; but in order to know them, at least by rote, Walter would get up with the earliest gleam of daylight, or would put on hia trousers and waistcoat after bed-time, and go and sit, book in hand, under the gas-light in the passage. This was hard work, doubtless ; but it brought its own reward in successful endeavour and an approving conscience. Under this discipline his memory rapidly grew reten- tive ; no difficulty can stand the assaults of such bat- teries as these, and Walter was soon free from all punishments, and as happy as the day was long. One little cloud alone remained — the continued and obvious displeasure of his tutor, and one or two of Mr. Paton's chief friends among the masters. One of these was Mr. Edwards, who, among other duties, had the management of the chapel choir. But at length Mr, Edwards gave him a distinguished proof of his return- ing respect. He sate near Walter in chapel, and the hymn happened to be one which came closely home t< / 120 lis THE CHOIR. Walter's heart after his recent troubles. This made him join with great feeling in the pinging, and the chou' master was struck with the strength and rare sweetness of his voice. As he left the chapel, Mr. Edwards said to him, " Evson, there is a vacancy for a treble in the choir ; I heard you sing in chapel to-day^ and I think that you would supply the place very welL Should you like to join 1" ^ Walter very gladly accepted the oflPer ; partly be- cause he hailed the opportunity of learning a little about music, and because the choir boys were allowed several highly-valued and exceptional privileges ; but chiefly because they were always chosen by the masters with express reference to character, and therefore tht? invitation to join their number was the clearest proof that could be given him that the past was condoned. The last to offer him the right hand of forgiveness, but the best and warmest friend to him when once he had done so, was Mr. PercivaL He still passed him with only the coldest and most distant recognition, for he not only felt Mr. Paton's loss with peculiar sorrow, but was also vexed and disappointed that a boy whose cha- racter he had openly defended should have proved so unworthy of his encomium. It happened that the only time that Walter was ever again sent to detention, was for a failure in a long lesson, including much which had been learnt on the morning that he was out of school, which, m consequence, he found it impossible, with all his efforts, to Tnaater. Mr. Paton saw how mortihed ind pained hp was to fail, and when he sent him to THE LAST TO FORGIVE. 121 ietention, most kindly called him up, and told him that he saw the cause of his unsuccess, and was not in the least displeased at it, although, as he had similarly punished other hoys, he could not make any exception to the usual rule of punishment. On this occasion, it was again Mr. Percivars turn to sit with the detenus y and seeing Walter among them, he too hastily con- cluded that he was still continuing a career of disgrace. " What ! you here again 1 he said with chilling scorn, as he passed the seat where Walter sate writing. " After what has happened, I should have been ashamed to be sent here, if I were you." After his days and nights of toil, after his long, manly struggle to show his penitence, after his heavy and disproportionate punishment, it was hard to be so addressed by one whom he respected, in the pre- sence of all the idlest in the school, and in consequence of a purely accidental and isolated failure. Walter looked up with an appealing look in his dark blue eyes ; but Mr. Percival had passed on, and he bent his head over his paper with the old sense that the past could never be forgotten, the recollection of his disgrace never obliterated. No one was observing him ; and as the feehng of despair grew in him, a large tear dropped down upon his paper ; he wiped it quietly away, and continued writing, but another and another fell, and he could not help it. For Mr. Percival was almost the only master whose good-will he very strongly coveted, and whose approval he was most anxious to attain. When next Mr. Percival stopped and looked ai 122 AN INVITATION. Walter, he saw that his words had wounded him to the heart, and knew well why the boy^s lines were blurred and blotted, when he showed them up with a timid hand and downcast look. He was touched. I have been too hard on you, Evson," he said. " I see it now. Come to tea with me after chapel this evenini^ ; I want to speak with CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. HAPPIKR HOUHB. Sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you. — Othello, i. 1. HEN chapel was over, Walter, having brushed his hair, and made himself rather neater and more spruce than a schoolboy usually is to- wards the close of a long half, went to Mr. PercivaFs room. Mr. Percival, having been detained, had not yet come in ; but Hender- son, Kenrick, and Power, who had also been asked to tea, were there waiting for him when Walter arrived, and Henderson was, as usual, amusing the others and himself with a flood of mimicry and nonsense. " You know that mischievous little Penkridge," said Kenrick ; " he nearly had an accident this morning. We were in the class-room, and Edwards was complain- ing of the bad smell of the room "Bad smell!'* interrupted Henderson, ''I'll bet you what you like Edwards didn't say bad smell. He^s 124 THE YOUNG MIMIC. Qot the man to call a spade a spade ; he calls it an agricultural implement for the trituration of the soil." Why, what should he say?" asked Kenrick, "if he didn't say ' bad smell?' " " Why, * What a malodorous effluvium ! ' " said Henderson, imitating exactly the master's somewhat drawling tone ; * what a con-cen-trra-ted malarious miasma ; what an unendurable' I say, Power, give us the Greek, or Hebrew, or Kamschatkan for ' smell.' " " '03w3?5,'' suggested Power. " That's it to a T," said Henderson ; " I bet you he observed, * What an un-en-duu-rrable hbojhri,' Now, didn't he 1 Confess the truth." " Well, I believe he did say something of the kind," said Kenrick, laughing ; "at least I know he called it Stygian and Tartarean. But, as I was saying, he set Penkridge (who happened to be going round with the lists) to examine the cupboards, and see if by chance some inopportune rat had died there ; and Penkridge, opening one of them where the floor was very rotten, and poking about with his foot, knocked a great piece of plaster off the school-room ceiling, and was as nearly as possible putting his foot through it." " Fancy if he had," said Walter, " how astonished we should have been down below. I say, Henderson, what would Paton bave said?" " Oh ! Paton," said Henderson, delighted with any opportunity for mimicry, " he'd have whispered quietly, In an emotionless voice, 'Penkridge, Penkridge, come 'aere — come here, Penkridge. This is a very unusual THE YOUNG MIMIC. l25 method, Penkridge, of entering a room — Mghly irre- gular. If you haven't broken your leg or your arm. Penkridge, you must write me two hundred lines.' " " And Eobertson asked Kenrick. " Oh ! Robertson — he'd have put up his eye-glass," said Henderson, again exactly hitting off the master's attitude, "and he'd have observed, 'Ah! Penkridge has fallen through the floor ; probably fractured some bones. Slippery fellow, he won't be able to go to the Fighting Cocks this afternoon, at anyrate.' Whereupon Stevens would have gone up to him with the utmost tenderness, and asked him if he was hurt ; and Penk- ridge, getting up, wouldp by way of gratitude, have grinned in his face." " Well,. you'd better finish the scene," said Power ; what would Percival have said 1 " " Thunder and lightning ? Oh ! that's easy to de- cide ; he 'd have made two or three quotations ; he 'd have immediately called the attention of the form to the fact that Penkridge had been ' flung by angry Jove * Sheer o*er the crystal battlements ; from morn Till noon he fell, from noon till dewy eve ; A winter's day, and as the tea-bell rang, Shot from the ceiling like a falling star On the great school-room floor.' " " Would he, indeed ] " said Mr. Percival, pinching Henderson's ear, as he came in just in time to join in the laugh which this parody occasioned. Tea at St. Winifred's is a regular and recognized institution. There are few nights on which some of 126 ST. WINIFRED'S. the boys do not adjourn after chapel to tea at tlie masters' houses, when they have the privilege of sitting ap an hour and a half later. The masters generally adopt this method of seeing their pupils and the boys in whom they are interested. The institution works admirably ; the first and immediate result of it is, that there boys and masters are more intimately acquainted, and being so, are on warmer and friendlier terms with each other than perhaps at any other school — certainly on warmer terms than if they never met except in the still and punishment-pervaded atmosphere of the school- rooms ; and the second and remoter result is, that not only in the matter of work already alluded to, but also in other and equally important particulars, the tone and character of St. Winifred's boys is higher and purer than it would otherwise be. There is a simplicity and manliness there which cannot fail to bring forth its rich fruits of diligence, truthfulness, and honour. Many are the boys who have come from thence, who, in the sweet yet sober dignity of their life and demeanour, go far to realize the beautiful ideal of Christian boyhood. Many are the boys there who are walking, through the gates of humility and diligence, to certain, and merited, and conspicuous honour. I know that there are many who believe in none of these things, and care not for them ; who repudiate the necessity and duty of early godliness ; who set up no ideal at all, because to do so would expose them to the charge of sentiment or enthusiasm, a charge which Ihey dread more than that of \allany itselt These THE GOSPEL OF SIN. 127 men regard the heart as a muscle consisting of I'oui cavities, called respectively the auricles and the ven- tricles, and useful for no other purpose but to prope the blood ; all other meanings of the word they despise or ignore. They regard the world not as a scene of probation, not as a passage to a newer and higher life, but as a " convenient feeding-trough" for every low passion and unworthy impulse ; as a place where they can build on the foundation of universal scepticism a reputation for superior ability. This degradation of spirit, this premature cynicism, this angry sneering at a tone superior to their own, this addiction to a low and lying satire, which is the misbegotten child of envy and disbelief, has infected our literature to a deplorable and almost hopeless extent. It might be sufficient to leave it, in all its rottenness and inflation, to every good man's silent scorn, if it had not also so largely tainted the intellect of the young. If, in popular papers or magazines, boys are to read that, in a boy, lying is natural and venial; that courtesy to, and love for, a master, is impossible or hypocritical ; that swearing and corrupt communication are peccadilloes which none but preachers and pedagogues regard as discreditable * how can we expect success to the labours of those who toil all their lives, amid neglect and ingiatitude, to elevate the boys of England to a higher and holier view ] I have seen this taint of atheistic disregard for Bvn poison article after article, and infuse its bitter principle into many a young man's heart; and worse tliar* this — adopted as it is by writers whom some con 128 rHK GOSPEL OF SIN sider to be mighty in intellect and leaders of opinion, I have seen it corrode the consciences and degrade the philosophy of far better and far worthier men. It is a solemn duty to protest, with all the force oi heart and conscience, against this dangerous gospel OF SIN, this " giving to manhood's vices the privilege of boyhood." It was not the gospel taught at St. Wini- fred's; there we were taught that we were baptized Christian boys, that the seal of God's covenant was on our foreheads, that the oath of His service was on our consciences, that we were His children, and the mem- bers of His Son, and the inheritors of His kingdom ; that His laws were our safeguard, and that our bodies were the temples of His Spirit. We were not taught — that was left for the mighty intellects of this age to discover — that as we were boys, a Christian principle and a Christian standard were above our comprehen- sion, and alien from our possible attainments ; we did not believe then, nor will I now, that a clear river is likely to flow from a polluted stream, or a good tree grow from bitter fibres and cankered roots. Walter and the others spent a very happy evening with Mr. Percival. When tea was over they talked as freely with him, and with each other in his presence, as they would have done among themselves ; and the occasional society of their elders and superiors was in every way good for them. It enlarged their sympa- thies, widened their knowledge, and raised their mora] tone. Among many other subjects that evening thev HOMES. 129 talked over one which never fails to interest deeply every right-minded boy — I mean their homes. It was no wonder that, as Walter talked of the glories of Semlyn lake and its surrounding hills, his face lighted up, and his eyes shone with pleasant memories. Mr. Percival, as he looked at him, felt more puzzled than ever at his having gone wrong, and more confirmed than ever in the opinion that he had been hard and unjust to him of late, and that his original estimate of him was the right one after all. Power's home was a statelier one than Walter's. His father. Sir Lawrence Power, was a baronet, the owner of broad acres, whose large and beautiful mansion stood on one of the undulations in a park shadowed by ancestral trees, under whose boughs the deer fed with their fawns around them. Through the park flowed a famous river, of which the wind- ings were haunted by herons and kingfishers, and the pleasant waters abounded in trout and salmon. And to this estate and title Power was heir; though of course he did not tell them this while he spoke of the lovely scenery around the home where his fathers had so long lived. Henderson, again, was the son of a rich merchant, who had two houses — one city and one suburban. He was a regular little man of the world. After the holi- days he had always seen the last feats of Saltori, and heard the most recent strains of Tiralirini. He always went to a round of entertainments, and would make you laugh b^^ the hour while he sang the songs or F ISO KENKICK'S HOMK. imitated the style of the last comic actor or Ethiopiai minstrel. While they were chatting over their holiday amuse ments and occupations, Kenrick said little ; and, won- dering at his silence, l\ir. Percival asked him in what part of the world he lived. " 1, sir he said, as though awaked from a reverie ; ' Oh, I live at Fusby, a village on the border of the fens, and in the very middle of the heavy clays." And Kenrick turned away his head. Don't abuse the clay," said Walter to cheer him up ; I'm very fond of the clay ; it produces good roses and good strawberries — and those are the two best things going, in any soil." " Haif-past ten, youngsters,'' said Mr. Percival, hold- ing up his watch ; off with you to bed. Let yourselves in through the grounds; here's the key. Good night to you. Walter," he said, calling him back as he was about to leave, " one word with you alone ; you three yiaii for him a moment outside. I wanted to tell you that, although I have seemed harsh to you, I dare say, of late, yet now I hear that you are making the most honourable efforts, and I have quite forgotten the past. My good opinion of you, Walter, is quite restored ; and whenever you want to be quiet to learn your lessons, you may always come and sit in my room." Mr Percival was not the only St. Winifred's master who thus generously abridged his own leisure and privacy to assist the boys in what he felt an interest. Waiter thanked him with real gratitude, and rejoined A DISCOVERY. 131 the other three. "He's let me sit in his room/' said Walter. " Has he 1 *' said Henderson ; " so he has me. How joUy ! we shall get on twice as well.*' "What's that?" said Power, pointing upwards, as they walked through the garden to their house door. Glancing in the direction, Walter saw a light sud> denly go out in his dormitory, and a great bundle (apparently) disappear inside the window, which was then shut down. "I'll go and see," he said. "Good night, you fellows." All was quiet when he reached his room, but one of the candles, ineffectually extinguished, was still smoking, and when he looked to Eden's bed he saw, by the gaslight that shone through the open door, that the boy was awake, and crying bitterly. " What's the matter, Eden ?" he said kindly, sitting down upon his bed. " If you peach," said Harpour and Jones together ; you know what you'll get." " Have you fellows been bullying poor little Eden V asked Walter indignantly. " I've not," and " I've not," said Anthony and Franklin, who were better than the rest in every way ; and " I haven't touched the fellow, Evson," said Cra- dock, who meant no harm, and at Walter's earnest re- quest had never again annoyed Eden since the first night. " Poor little Eden — poor little fiddlestick," said Jones ; " it does the young cub good.*' 132 AN ALTERCATION. Send him home to his grandmamma, and let him have his bib and his night-cap/* growled Hirpour ; "is he made of butter, and are you afraid of i.is melting, you Evson, that you make such a fuss with him 1 You ^ant your lickings yourself, and shall have them if you don't look out." " I don't care what you do to me, Harpour,'' rejoined Walter, "and I don't think you'll do very much. But I do tell you that it's a blackguard shame for a great big fellow like you to torment a little delicate chap like Eden ; and what's more, you shan't do it." " Shan't ! my patience, I like that ! why, who is to prevent me 1 " "I suppose he'll turn sneak, and peach," said Jones ; "he'd do anything that's mean, we all know." Walter was always liable to that taunt now. It was a part of his punishment, and the one which lasted longest. From any other boy he might have winced under it ; but really, coming from Jones, it was too con- temptible to notice. " You shut up, Jones," he said angrily ; "you shan't touch Eden again, I can tell you, whatever Harpour does; and he'd better look out what he does." " Look out yourself," said Harpour, flinging a foot ball boot at Walter's head. "You'll find your boot on the grass outside to- morrow morning," said Walter, opening the window, and dropping it down. He wasn't a bit afraid, be- cause he always went on the instinctive and never- mistaken assumption, tiiat a bully must be a coward ir ARTHUR EDEN. 133 his inmost natute. Cruelty to the weaker is incom- patible with the generosity of all true courage. " By Jove, I'll thrash you for that to-morrow," shouted Harpour. ^' To-morrow I said Walter, with great contempt. " Oh, don't make him angry, Walter/' whispered Eden j " you know what a strong fellow he is " (Eden shuddered, as though he had reason to know) ; " and you can't fight him ; and you mustn't get a thrashing for my sake. I'm not worth that. I'd rather bear it myself, Walter ; — indeed I would." Good night, poor little Eden," said Walter; you're safe to-night at any rate. Why, how cold you are ! What have they been doing to you ? " "I daren't tell you to-night, Walter; I will to- morrow," he answered in a low tone, shivering all over. " Well, then, go to sleep now, my little man ; and don't you be afraid of Harpour or any one else. I won't let them bully you if I can help it." Eden squeezed Walter's hand tight, and sobbed his thanks, while Walter gently smoothed the child's pil- low and dried his tears. Poor Eden ! as I said before, he was too weak, too delicate, too tenderly nurtured, and far, far too young for the battle of Hfe in a public school. For even at St. Winifred's, as there are and must be at all great schools, there were some black shev3p in the flock undiscovered, and therefore uuseparated from the rest CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. MY BROTHER 8 KEEPER **'T is in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens to the which our wills are gardeners." Othello. Act \. sc 3. :S Walter lay awake for a few quiet moments before lie sent his thoughts to rest, he 1^ glanced critically, like an Indian gymnoso- phist, over the occurrences of the day. He could not but rejoice that the last person for whom he felt real regard had forgiven him his rash act, and that his offence had thus ^\ finally been absolved on earth as in heaven. He rejoiced, too, that Mr. PercivaFs kind permission to learn his lessons in his room would give him far greater advantages and opportunities than he had hitherto en- joyed. Yet Walter's conscience was not quite at ease. The last scene had disturbed him. The sobs and shiverings of little Eden had fallen very reproachfully into his heart. Walter felt that he might have done far more for hini than h© had done. He had, indeed, EDEN^S TROUBLES. 135 even throughout his own absorbing troubles, extended to the child a general protection, but not a special care. It never occurred to him to excuse himself with the thought that he was " not his brother's keeper." The truth was that he had found Eden uninteresting, be- cause he had not taken the pains to be interested in him, and while one voice within his heart reproved him of neglect and selfishness, another voice seemed to say to him, in a firm yet kindlier tone, " Now that thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren/' For indeed as yet Eden's had been a very unhappy lot. Bullied, teased, and persecuted by the few among whom accident had first thrown him, and judged to be- long to their set by others who on that account con- sidered him a boy of a bad sort, he was almost friend- less at St. Winifred's. And the loneliness, the despair of this feeling, weighing upon his heart, robbed him of all courage to face the difficulties of work, so that in school as well as out of it, he was always in trouble. He was for ever clumsily scrawling in his now illegible hand the crooked and blotted lines of punishment which his seeming ignorance or sluggishness brought upon him ; and although he was always to be seen at detention, he almost hailed this disgrace as affording him at least some miserable shadow of occupation, and a refuge, however undesirable, from the torments of those degraded few to whom his childish tears, his w eak en- treaties, his bursts of impotent passion, caused nothing but low amusement. Out of school his great object always was to hide himself ; anywhere, so as to be be- 136 EDEN, yond the reach of Jones, Harpour, and other bullies of the same calibre. For this purpose he would conceal himself for a whole afternoon at a time up in the fir- groves, listlessly gathering into heaps the red sheddings of their umbrage, and pulling to pieces their dry and fragrant cones j or, when he feared that these resorts would be disturbed by some little gang of lounging smokers, he would choose some lonely place, under the shadow of the mountain cliffs, and sit for hours to- gether, aimlessly rolling white lumps of quartz over the shingly banks. Under continued trials like these he became quite changed. The childish innocence and beauty of countenance, the childish frankness and gaiety of heart, the childish quickness and intelligence of understanding, were exchanged for vacant looks, stupid indifference, and that half cunning expression which is always induced by craven fear. Accustomed, too, to be waited upon and helped continually in the home where his mother, a gay young widow, had petted and spoiled liim, he became slovenly and untidy in dress and habits. He rarely found time or heart to write home, and even when he did, he so well knew that his mother was incapable of sympathy or compre- hension of his suffering, that the dirty and illspelt scrawl rarely alluded to the one dim consciousness that brooded over him night and day — that he could n't understand life, and only knew that he was a very friendless, unhappy, unpitied little boy. If he could have found even one to whom to unfold and communi- cate his .griefs, even one to love him unreservedly, all CHARITY. 137 ihe inner beauty and brightness of his character would have blown and expanded in that genial warmth. He once thought that in Walter he had found such an one, but when he saw that his dullness bored Walter, and that his listless manners and untidy habits made him cross, he shrank back within himself. He was thank- ful to Walter as a protector, but did not look upon him as a friend in whom he could implicitly confide. The flower without sunshine will lose its colour and its per- fume. Six weeks after Arthur Eden, a merry, bright- eyed child, aUghted from his mother's carriage at the old gate of St. Winifred's school, no casual stranger would have recognised him again in the pale and mop- ing little fellow who seemed to be afraid of every one whom he met. Oh, if we knew how rare, how sweet, how deep human sympathy can be, how easily, yet how seldom it is gained, how inexpressible the treasure is when once it has been gained, we should not trample on human hearts as hglitly as most men do ! Any one who in that hard time had spoken a few kindly words to Eden — any one who would have taken him gently for a short while by the hand, and helped him over the stony places that hurt his unaccustomed feet — any one who would have suffered, or who would have invited him, to pour his sorrows into their ears and assist him to sustain them — might have won, even at that slight cost, the deepest and most passionate love of that trembling young heart He might have saved him from hours of numbing pain, and won the rich reward of a gratitude well deserved 138 "REDEEMING lIlE OPPORTUNITY." and geDerously repaid. There were many boys at St Winifred's gentle-hearted, right-minded, of kindly and manly impulses ; but all of them, except Walter, los-t this golden opportunity of conferring pure happiness by disinterested good deeds. They did not buy up the occasion, which goes away and burns the priceless books she offers, if they are not purchased unquestion- ingly and at once. And Walter regretfully felt that be was very nearly too late ; so nearly, that perhaps in a week or two more Eden might have lost hopelessly, and forever, all trace of self-respect ; — might have been benumbed into mental imbecility by the torpedo-like influence of helpless grief. Walter felt as if he had been selfishly looking on while a fellow-creature v/as fast sinking in the water, and as if it were only at the last possible moment that he had held out a saving hand. But, by God's grace, he did hold out the saving hand at last, and it was grasped firmly, and a dear life was saved. Years after when Arthur Eden had grown into , but stop, I must not so far anticipate my story. Suffice it to say, that Walter's kindness to Eden, helped to bring about long afterwards one of the chief happinesses of his own life. " Come a stroll, Eden, before third school, and let 's have a talk," he said, as they came out from dinner in hall the next day. Eden looked up happily, and he was proud to be seen by Walter's side in the throng of boys, as they passed cut, and across the court,, and under the shadow MY brother's keeper. 139 of the arch cowards Walter's favourite haunt, the sea- shore. Walter never felt weak or unhappy for long together, when the sweetness of the sea wind was on his forehead, and the song of the sea waves in his ear. A run upon the shore in all weathers, if only for live minutes, was his daily pleasure and resource. They sate down ; the sea flashed before them a mirror of molten gold, except where the summits of the great mountain of Appenfell threw their deep broad shadows, which seemed purple by contrast with the brightness over which they fell, Walter sate, full of healthy enjoyment as he breathed the pure atmo- sphere, and felt the delicious wind upon his glowing cheeks ; and Eden was happy to be with him, and to sit quietly by his side. "Eden," said Walter, after a few moments, I'm afraid youVe not been happy lately." The pDor child shook his head, and answered, No one cares for me here ; every one looks down on me, and is unkind ; I've no friends." " What, don't you count me as a friend, theni" " Yes, Walter, you 're very kind ; I 'm sure I couldn't have lived here if it hadn't been for you ; but you're so much above me, and" Walter would not press him to fill up the omission, he could understand the rest of the sentence for him- self. You mustn't think I don't feel how good you've been to me, M^alter," said the boy, drawing near to him, and taking his hand ; " but" uo LET DOWN. " Yes, yes," said Walter ; " I understand it all. Well, never mind, I will be a friend to you now." A tear trembled on Eden's long eyelashes as he Looked up quickly into Walter's face. " Will you, Walter ? thank you, I have no other friend here ; and please" Well, what is it f " Will you call me Arthur, as they do at home ? Walter smiled. " Well now," he said, tell me what they were doing to you last night." " You won't tell them I told you, Walter," he answered, looking round, with the old look of decrepit fear usurping his face, which had brightened for the moment. " No, no," said Walter, impatiently ; " why, what a little coward you are, Eden." The boy shrank back into himself as if he had re- ceived a blow, and relaxed his grasp of Walter's hand ; but Walter, struck with the sensitive timidity which unkindness had caused, and sorry to have given him pain in all his troubles, said kindly — " There, Arty, never mind; I didn't mean it ; don't be afraid ; tell me what they did to you. I saw a light in our dormitory as I was coming back from Percival's, and I saw something dragged through the window. What was it 1" That was me," said Eden naively. " You?" " Yes ; me. They let me down by a sheet which they tied roiMid xny waist " DAN'S. 141 " What, from that high window ? 1 hope they tied you tight." " Only one knot ; T ever so nearly slipped out of it last night, and that's what frightened me so, Walter/' " How horribly dangerous," said Walter indignantly. " I know it is horribly dangerous,'^ said Eden, stand- ing up, and gesticulating violently, in one of those bursts of passion which flashed out of him now and then, and were the chief amusement of his persecutors ; "and I dream about it all night," he said, bursting into tears, and I know, I know that some day I shall slip, or the knot will come undone, and I shall fall and be smashed to atoms. But what do they care for that 1 and I some- times wish I were dead myself, to have it all over." " Hush Arty, don^t talk like that " said Walter, as he felt the little soiled hand trembling with passion and emotion in his own. " But what on earth do they let you down for ? " "To go to — but you won't tell ?" he said, looking round again. " Oh, I forgot, you didn't like my saying that. But it's they who have made me a coward, Walter ; indeed it is." "And no wonder," thought Walter to himself. " But you needn't be afraid any more," he said aloud ; " 1 promise you that no one shall do anything to you which they'd be afraid to do to me." " Then I'm safe," said Eden, joyfully. " Well, they made me go to — to Dan's." " Dan's ] what, thf, fisherman's just near the shora ' Yes; ugh !" • 142 MADE A COWARD. "But don't you know, Arty, that Dan's a brute^ and a regular smuggler, and that if you were caught going there, you'd be sent awayT' " Yes ; you can't think, Walter, how I hate, and how frightened I am to go there. There's Dan, and there's that great lout of a wicked son of his, and they 're always drunk, and the hut — ugh ! it s so nasty ; and last night Dan seized hold of me with his homd red hand, and wanted me to drink some gin, and I shrieked." The very remembrance seemed to make him shudder. " Well then, after that I was nearly caught. I think, Walter, that even you would be a coward if you had such long long frights. You know that to get to Dan's, after the gates are locked, the only way is to go over the railing, and through Dr. Lane's garden, and I'm always frightened to death lest his great dog should be loose, and should catch hold of me. He did growl last night. And then as I was hurrying back — you know it was rather moonlight last night, and not very cold — and who should I see but the Doctor himself walking up and down the garden. I crouched in a minute behind a thick holly tree, and I suppose I made a rustle, though I held my breath, for the Doctor stopped and shook the tree, and said ' shoo,' as though he thought a cat were hidden there. I was half dead with fright, though I did hope, after all, that he would catch me, and that I might be sent away from this horrid place. But when he turned round, I crept away, and made the Bignal, and they let down the sheet, and then, as they w^ere hauling me up, T heard voices — I suppose they COURAGE. 143 must have been yours and Kenrick's ; but they thought it was some master, and doused the glim, and oh ! so nearly let me fall ; so Walter, please don't despise me, or be angry with me because you found me crying and shivering in bed. The cold made me shiver, and I could n^t help crying ; indeed I couldn't.'' "Poor Arty, poor Arty," said Walter, soothingly. " But have they ever done this before " Yes, once, when you were at the choir-supper one night." " They never shall again, I swear," said Walter, Crowning, as he thought how detestably cruel they had been. " But what did they send you for 1" " For no good," said Eden. "No; I knew it would be for no good, if it was to Dan's that they sent you." " Well, Walter, the first time it was for some drink ; and the second time for some more drink," he said after a little hesitation. Walter looked serious. " But don't you know, Arty," he said, "that it's very wrong to get such things foi them ? If they want to have any dealings with that beast Dan, who's not fit to speak to, let them go them- selves. Arty, it's very wrong ; you mustn't do it." "But how can I help it?" said the boy, looking frightened and ashamed. " Oh, must I always be blamed by every one," he said, putting his hands to his eyes. " It isn't my sin, Walter, it's their's. They made me." " Nobody can ever make any one else do whafs wrong, Arty." i44 THE PATH OF DUTY. " 0 yes ; it all very easy for you to say that^ Walter, who can fight anybody, and who are so strong and good, and whom no one dares bully, and who are not laughed at, and made a butt off, as I am/' "Look at Power," said Walter, "or look at Dubbs. They came as young as you, Arty, and as weak as you, but no one ever made them do wrong. Power somehow looks as if he could not be bullied by any one ; they're afraid of him, I don't know why. But what had Dubbs to protect him ? Yet not all the Harpours in the world would ever make him go to such a place as Dan's." Poor Eden felt it hard to be blamed for this ; he was not yet strong enough to learn that the path of duty, however hard and thorny, however hedged in with difficulties and antagonisms, is always the easiest and the pleasantest in the end. ^'But they'd half kill me, Walter," he said, plain- tively. They'll have much more chance of doing that as it is," said Walter. "They'd thrash you a little, no doubt, but respect you more for it. And surely it would be better to bear one thrashing, and not do what's wrong, than to doit and to go two such journeys out of the window, and get the thrashings into the bargain ? So even on that ground you ought to refuse. Eh, Arty?" " Yes, Walter," he said, casting down his eyes. " Well ; next time either Harpour, or any one else, tties to make you do what's wrong, remember they GanH roeke you, if you don't choose ; and say flath FRTOHTENED. IVo I and stick to it in spite of everything, like a brare Little man, will you?" " I did say No ! at first, Walter ; but they threatened to frighten me," he said. "They knew I daren't hold out." Yes; there was the secret of it all Walter saw that they had played on this child's natural terrors with such refinement of cruelty, that fear had become the master principle in his mind ; they had only to touch that spring and he obeyed them mechanically like a puppet, and because of his very fear, he was driven to do things that might well cause genuine fear, till he lived in such a region of increasing fear and dread, that Walter's only surprise was that he had not been made an idiot already. Poor child ; it was no wonder that he was becoming more stupid cunning, untidy, and uninteresting, every day. Aua all this was going on under the very eyes of many thoroughly noble boys, and conscientious masters, and yet they never saw or noticed it, and looked on Eden as an idle and un- principled little sloven, 0 our harsh human judgments ! The Priest and the Levite still pass the wounded man, and the good Samaritans are rare on this world's high- ways. What was Walter to do? He did not know the very name of psychology, but he did know the unhing- ing desolating power of an overmastering spirit of fear. He knew that fear hath torment, bu^ oe had no con- ception by what means that demon can be exorcised. Yet he thought, as he raised his eyes for one instant to L 146 A TRTJE FKIEND, Heaven in silent supplication, that there were fe^ devils who would not go out by prayer, and he made a strong resolve that he would use every endeavour to make up for his past neglectfulness, and to save this poor unhappy child. "I'm not blaming you, Arthur," he said, "but I like you, and don*t want to see you go wrong, and be a tool in bad boys' hands. I hope you ask God to help you, Arthur?'' Eden looked at him, but said nothing. He had been taught but little, and by example he had been taught nothing of the A wful Far-ofF Friend who is yet so near to every humble spirit, and who even now had sent His angel to save this lamb who knew not of His fold " Listen to me, Arthur — ah ! there I hear the third school bell, and we must go in — but listen ; Til be your friend ; I want to be your friend. I'll try and save you from all this persecution. Will you always trust me ? " Eden's look of gratitude more than repaid him, and Walter added, "And Arty, you must not give up your prayers. Ask God to help you, and to keep you from going wrong, and to make you brave. Won't you, Arty?" The little boy's heart u as full even to breaking with its weight of happy tears ; it was too full to speak. He pressed Waiter's hand for one moment, and waJked in by Ms aide, without a word. CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. Daubent. La Gr^nie c'est la Patience. BUFFOH. SUPPOSE that no days of life are so happj as those in which some great sorrow has been removed. Certainly Walter's days as his heart grew lighter and lighter with the con- sciousness that Mr. Paton had forgiven him, that all those who once looked on him coldly had come round, that his difficulties were vanishing before steady diligence, and that, young as he was, he was winning for himself a name and a position in the school, were very full of peace. 0 pleasant days of boyhood ! how mercifully they are granted to prepare us, to cheer us, to make us wise for the struggles of future life. To Walter at this time life itself was an exhilarating enjoyment. To get up in the morning briglit, cheerful, and i-efreshed, with thoughts " Pleasiknt as roses in the thickeih blown, A.nd pure as dt!w bathiriLT their crimson 148 HAPPY DAYS. to get over his lessons easily and successfully, and re- ceive Mr. Paton's quiet word of praise ; to shake with laughing over the flood of nonsense with which Hen- derson always deluged every one who sate near him at breakfast time ; to help little Eden in his morning's work, and to see with what intense affection and almost adora- tion the child looked up to him ; to stroll with Ken- rick under the pine woods, or have a pleasant chat in Power- s study, or read a book in the luxurious retire- ment of Mr. Percivars room, or, if it were a half holiday, to join in the skating, hare and hounds, foot- ball, or whatever game might be on hand ; — all these things were to Walter Evson one long unbroken plea- sure. At this time he was the brightest, and pleasantest, and happiest of all lighthearted and happy English boys. The permission to go, whenever he liked, to Mr. PercivaFs room was his most valued privilege. There he could always secure such immunity from disturbance as enabled him to learn his lessons in half the time he would otherwise have been obliged to devote to them; and there too he could always ask the master's assistance when he came to any insuperable difficulty, and always enjoy the society of Henderson and the one or two other boys who were allowed by Mr. PercivaFs kindness to use the same retreat. From the bottom of his form he rapidly rose to the top, and at last was actually placed first. A murmur of pleasure ran through the form on the first Sunday when his name was read out in this honourable position, and it gave Walter DAUBENY. 149 nearly as much satisfaction to hear Henderson's name read out sixth on the same day ; for before Walter came, Henderson was too volatile ever to care where he stood in form, and usually spent his time in school in drawing caricatures of the masters, and writing parodies of the lesson or epigrams on other boys ; up till this time Daubeny had always been first in the form, and he de- served the place if any boy did. He was not a clever boy, but nothing could exceed his well-intentioned industry. Like Sir Walter Ealeigh he toiled terribly." It was an almost pathetic sight to see Dubbs set about learning his repetitions ; it was a noble sight too. There was a heroism about it which was all the greater from its being unnoticed and unrecorded. Poor Dubbs had no privacy except such as the great school-room could afford, and there is not much privacy in a room, how- ever large, which is the common habitation of fifty boys. Nevertheless the undaunted Daubeny would choose out the quietest and loneliest comer of the room, and with elbows on knees and hands over his ears to shut out the chaotic noises which surrounded him, would stay repeating the lines to himself with attention wholly concentrated and absorbed, until, after perhaps an hour's work, he knew enough of them to enable him to finish mastering them the next morning. Next morning he would be up with the earliest dawn, and would again set himself to the task with grand determination, content if at the end of the week he gained the distinguished reward of being head in his 150 TOILING TERKIBLY, form, and could allow himself the keen pleasure oi writing home to tell his mother of his success. When Daubeny had first come to St. Winifred's, he had been forced to go through very great persecu- tion. As he sat down to do his work he would be pelted with orange peel, kicked, tilted off the form on which he sat, ridiculed, and sometimes chased out of the room. All this he had endured with admirable patience and good humour ; in short so patiently and good humouredly that all boys who had in them a spark of sense or honour very soon abandoned this system of torment, and made up for it as far as they could by re- spect and kindness, which always, however, took more or less the form of banter. It is not to be expected that boys will ever be made to see that steady strenuous industry, even when it fails, is a greater and a better thing than idle cleverness, but those few who were so far in advance of their years as to have some intuition of this fiict, felt for the character of Daubeny, a value which gave him an influeuce of a rare and im- portant kind. For nothing could daunt this young martyr — not even failure itself. If he were too much bullied and annoyed to get up his lesson overnight, he would be up by five in the morning working at it with unremitting assiduity. Very often he overdid it, and knew his lesson all the worse in proportion as he had spent upon it too great an amount of time. Without being positively stupid, his intellect was somewhat dull, and as his manner was shy and awkward he had not been auite understood at first, and no master had taken m SPITE OF FAILURE. 151 hmi Bpecially in hand to lighten his burdens. His bitterest trial, therefore, was to fail completely every Qow and then, and be reproached for it by some master who little knew the hours of weary work which he had devoted to the unsuccessful attempt. This was parti- cularly the case during his first half-year, during which he had been in Mr. Eobertson's form. It happened that, from the very weariness of brain induced by his working too hard, he had failed in several successive lessons, and Mr. Eobertson, who was a man of quick temper and stinging speech, had made some very cutting remarks upon him, and sent him moreover to detention — a punishment which caused to his sensitive mind a pain hardly less acute than the master's pungent and un- deserved sarcasm. This mishap, joined to his low weekly placing, very nearly filled him with despair, and this day (night have turned the scale, and fixed him in the posi- tion of a heavy and disheartened boy, but for Power, who had come to St. Winifred's at the same time with Daubeny, and who, although in his unusually rapid progress he had long left Daubeny behind, was then in the same form and the same dormitory with him, and knew how he worked. Power used always to say bo his friends that Dubbs was the worthiest, the bravest, the most upright and conscientious boy in all St. Wini- fred's school. Daubeny, on the other hand, had for Power the kind of adoration of the savage for the sun ; he was the boy's beau-ideal of a perfect scholar and a perfect being. It was a curious sight to see the two boys together — Power with his line and thoughtful 1^52 POWER AND DAUBKNY. face beaming with inteliigence, Dubbs with large heav} features and awkward gait ; Power sitting down with his book and perfectly mastering the lesson in a quartei of an hour, and then turning round to say, with a bright arch look, "Well, Dubbs, IVe learnt the lesson; how far are you 1 " Learnt the lesson 1 0 lucky fellow — I only know one stanza and that not perfectly ; let me see — ^ Nam quid Typhoeus et validus Mimas nam quid' — no ; I don't know even that, I see/' "Here, let me hear you." Whereupon Dubbs would begin again, and floun- der hopelessly at the end of the third line, and then Power would continue it all through with him, fix the sense of it in his memory, read it over, suggest httle mnemonic dodges and associations of particular words and lines, and not leave him until he knew it by heart, and was ready with gratitude enough to pluck out his right eye and give it to Power, if needed, there and then. The early failures we have been speaking of took place vihen Power had been staying out of school with a severe cold, and being in the sick-room had not seen Daubeny at all. He had come out again on the morning when, after Daubeny's failure, Mr. Eobert- son had called him incorrigibly slothful and incapable, and after muttering some more invectives had said something about his being hopeless. As he listened to the master's remarks, although he knew that they only arose from misconception, Power's cheeks flushed HEA.VY DISCOURAGEMENT. 153 ap with painful surprise, and his eyes sparkled with indignation for his friend. He wanted Dauheny to tell Mr. Kobertson how many hours he had spent in beiug " incorrigibly slothful " over that particular lesson, but this at the time he could not get him to do. " Besides," said Daubeny, " if he knows me to be quite hope- less'' — and here the poor boy grew scarlet as he re- called the undeserved insult — "it'vS no disgrace to me to fail" When detention was over, Power sought oi^t his friend, and found him sitting on the top of a little hill by the side of the river alone, and with a most forlorn and disconsolate air. Power saw that he had been crying bitterly, but had too much good taste to take any notice of the fact. Well, Power, you see what credit I get, and yet you know how I try. I'm a *bad, idle boy,' it seems, and * incorrigibly slothful,' and * hardly fit for the school,' and ' I must be put down to a lower form if I don't make more effort;' — oh! I forgot though, you heard it all yourself So you know my character," he said, with a melancholy smile. " Never mind, old fellow. You 've done your best, and none of us can do more. You know the soldier's epitaph — * Here lies one who tried to do his duty ;' — a prince could not have better, and you deserve that if any one ever did." " I wish T were you, Power," said Daubeny ; " you are so clever, you can learn the lessons in no time ; every one likes you, and you get no end of credit, 154 SYMPATHY. while I'ra a mere butt, and when IVe worked hurd it's a case of * sitting down like an ass,' as the Greek lesson-book says." " Pooh, Dubbs,'' said Power, kindly putting his arm on his shoulder ; " you're just as happy as I am. A fellow with a clear conscience canH be in low spirits very long. Don't you remember the pretty verse I read to you the other day, and which made me think of you while 1 read it — ^ ' Days that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night?'" Don't think I envy you, Power — you won't think that, will you 1 " said Dubbs, with the tears glistening in his eyes. " No, no, my dear old boy. Such a nature as yours can't envy, I know; I'm sure you're as happy when I succeed as when you succeed yourself. I think IVe got the secret of it, Dubbs. You work too much; you must take more exercise — play games more — give less time to the work. . I'm sure you'll do better then, for half is better than the whole sometimes. And Dubbs, I may say to you what I wouldn't say to any other boy in the whole school — but I've found it 90 true, and I'm sure you will too, and that is, Bene orasse est bene studuisse." Dubbs prevssed his hand in silence. The hard thoughts which had been gathering were dissipated in a moment, and as ho walked back to the school and to aew heroic elibrts, by Power's side, he felt that he had GETTING ON. 155 learnt a secret full of strength. He did better and better. He broke the neck of his difficulties one by one, and had soon surpassed boys who were far more brilliant, but less industrious, than himself. Thus it was that he fought his way up to the position of one of the steadiest and most influential boys among those of his own standing, because all knew him to be ster- ling in his virtues, unswerving in his rectitude, most humble, and most sincere. During all his school career he was never once overtaken in a serious fault. It may be that he had fewer temptations than boys more gifted and more mercurial ; he was never exposed to the singularly powerful trials which befel others who were superior to him in good looks, and popular man- ners, and quick passions ; but yet his blamelessness had something in it very beautiful, and his noble upward struggles were remembered with fond pleasure in after days. Walter, like all other sensible boys, felt for Dau- beny a very sincere admiration and regard. Dau- beny's fearless rectitude, on the night when his own indulged temper led him into such suifering, had left a deep impression on his mind, and, since then, Dubbs had always been among the number of his more inti- mate friends. Hence, when Walter wrested from him the head place, he was half sorry that he should cause the boy to lose his well-merited success, and almost wished that he had come out second, and left Daubeny first. He knew that there was not in his rivaFs nature a j)article of envy, but still he feared that he might 156 WORK. suffer some disappointment. But in this he was mis- taken ; Daubeny was a firm believer in the principle of La carriers ouverte aux talens ; he was, under the circumstances, quite as happy to be second as to be first ; and among the many who congratulated Walter, none did so with a heartier sincerity than this generous and singleminded boy. People still retain the notion that boyish emulation is the almost certain cause of hatreds and jealousies. Usually, the fact is the very reverse. An ungenerous rivalry is most unusual, and those schoolfellows who dispute with a boy the prizes of a form are commonly his most intimate associates and his best friends. Cer- tainly Daubeny liked Walter none the less for his having wrested away from him with so much ease a distinction which had caused himself such strenuous efforts to win. The pleasant excitement of contending for a weekly position made Daubeny work harder than ever. In- deed, the whole form seemed to have received a new stimulus lately. Henderson was astonishing everybody by a fit of dihgence, and even Howard Tracy seemed less totally indifferent to his place than usual. So willingly did the boys work, that Mr. Paton had not half the number of punishments to set, and perhaps his late misfortune had infused a little more tenderness and consideration into a character always somewhat stern and unbending. But, instead of rising, Daubeny only lost places by his increased work ; he was making himseK ill with work. At the end of the next week. LOYE OF WORK. 157 instead of being first or second, he was only fifth ; and when Mr. Percival, who always had been his friend, rallied him on this descent, he sighed deeply, and com- plained that he had been suffering lately from headaches, and supposed that they had prevented him from doing so well as usual. This remark rather alarmed the master, and on the Sunday afternoon he asked the boy to come a walk with him, for the express purpose of endeavouring to persuade him to relax efforts which were obviously being made to the injury of his health. When they had once fairly reached the meadows hy the river-side, Mr. Percival said to him — " You are overdoing it, Daubeny. I can see my- seK that your mind is in a tense, excited, nervous con- dition from work ; you must lie fallow, my dear boy." " O ! Tm very strong, sir," said Daubeny ; " I've a cast-iron constitution, as that amusing plague of mine, Henderson, always tells me." " Never mind, you must really work less. I won^t have that getting up at five in the morning. If you don't take care, I shall forbid you to be higher thajR twentieth in your form under heavy penalties, or 1 shall get Dr. Keith to send you home altogether, and not let you go in to the examination." " 0 ! no, sir, you really mustn't do that. I assure you that I enjoy work. An illness I had when I was a child hindered and threw me back very much, and you can't think how eager I am to make up for that I opt time." 156 PERSEVERANCE. " The time was not lost, my dear J3aiibeny, if God demanded it in illness for His own good purposes. Be persuaded, my boy ; abandon, for the present, all struggle to take a high place until you feel quit^ well again, and then you shall work as hard as you Hke. Remember knowledge itself is valueless in comparison with health." Daubeny felt the master's kind intention ; but he could not restrain his unconquerable eagerness to get on. He would have succumbed far sooner, if Waltei and Power had not constantly dragged him out with them almost by force, and made him take exercise against his will. But, though he was naturally strong and healthy, he began to look very pale, and his best friends urged him to go home and take a holiday. Would that he had taken that good and kind advice I CHAPTER THE FOUETEEl^TH APPENFELL. To breathe the difficult air Of the iced mountain top. — IManfreb Jetzo auf den Schroffen Zinken Ilangt sie, auf dem hochsten Grat, Wo die Felsen jah versinken, Und verschwunden ist der Pfad.— Schiixek ^ T was some weeks before the examination. II and the close of the half-year, when one daj Walter, full of glee, burst out of the school- room at twelve, when the lesson was over, -^-^M to tell Kenrick an announcement just made to the forms, that the next day was to be a whole-holiday. Hurrah ! " said Kenrick, " what 's it for ? " Oh ! Somers has got no end of a scholarship at Cambridge— an awfully swell thing— and Dr. Lane gave a holiday directly he got the telegraph announcing the newg." ''Well done, old KSomers said Kenrick " Wh8>t ^hall we do?" 160 THE PARTY. 0 ! I've had a scheme for a long time in my head Ken ; I want you to come with me to the top of Appen- feU." Whew-w-w ! but it's a tremendous long walk, and QO one goes up in winter. " Never mind, all the more fun and glory, and we shall have the whole day before us. I've been longing to beat that proud old Appenfell for a long time. I'm certain we can do it." " But do you mean that we two should go alone ?" "0 no ; we'll ask Flip, to amuse us on the way.'' " And may I ask Power ? " " If you like," said Kenrick, who was, I am sorry to say, not a little jealous of the friendship which had sprung up between Power and Walter. " And would you mind Daubeny joining us ?" " Not at all ; and he's clearly overworking himself. It'll do him good. Let me see — you. Power, Flip, Dubbs, and me ; that'll be enough, won't it?" " Well, I should like to ask Eden." " Eden ! " said Kenrick, with the least little touch of contempt in his tone of voice. " Poor little fellow," said Walter, smiling sadly ; so you too despise him. No wonder he doesn't get on." " Oh ! let him come by all means, if you like," said Kenrick. " Thanks, Ken — but now I come to think of it, it's too far for him. Never mind ; let's go before dinner, and order some sandwiches for to-morrow, and forage generally, at Cole's " HOMERIC. IQI Power and Daubeny gladly consented to join the excursion. At tea, Walter asked Henderson if he'd come with them, and he, being just then in a phase of nonsense which made him speak of everything in a manner intended to be Homeric, answered with oraculai gravity— " Him addressed in reply the laughter-loving son of Render : Thou askest me, oh Evides, like to the immortals, Whether thee 1 will accompany, and the much-enduring Dubbs, And the counseller Power, and the revered ox-eyed Kenrick, To the tops of thousand-crested many-fountained Appenfell." " Grotesque idiot," said Kenrick, laughing ; " cease this weak washy everlasting flood of twaddle, and tell us whether you'll come or no." "Him sternly eyeing, addressed in reply the mighty Hen- derides. Heavy with tea, with the eyes of a dog, and the heart of a rein deer : What word has escaped thee, the barrier of tny teeth ? Contrary to right, not according to right, hast thou spoken/' " For goodness sake shut up before you've driven us stark raving mad," said Walter, putting his hand over Henderson's hps. " ^w, yes or no : will you come?" "Thee will I accompany" said Henderson, struggling to get clear of Walter, "to many-fountained Appenfell " " Hurrah ! that'U do. We have got an answer out 162 TIRED. of you at last ; and now go on spouting the whole Iliad if you like. " Full of spirits they started after breakfast the next morning, and as they climbed higher and higher up the steep mountain-side, the keen air exhilarated them, and shewed, as through a crystal glass, the exceeding glory of the hills flung on every side around them, and the broad living sparkle of the sea caught here and there in glimpses between the nearer peaks. Walter, Hen- derson, and Kenrick were in front, while at some dis- tance behind them. Power helped on Daubeny, who soon shewed signs of fatigue. " Look at that happy fellow Evson,'' said Daubenj Bighing; '*how he is bounding along in front. How active he is ! He's a regular mountain-boy." Why, yes," said Power; "you must remember that he was born and bred among the hills. But you seem out of spirits," said Power, kindly; "what's the matter?" " Oh, nothing. A little tired, that's all/' "You're surely not fretting about having lost the head place." " Oh, no. ' Palmam qui meruit ferat.' As Eobert- son said the other day in his odd, fantastic way of ex- pressing his thoughts — ^ In the amber of duty you must not always expect to find the curious grub success.' " " Depend upon it, you'd be higher if you worked less, my dear fellow. Let me persuade you — don't work for examination any more." " Tou all mistake me. It's not for the place that 1 work, but because I want to hnow^ to learn ; not to GRASS ON THE HOUSETOPS. 163 groT^ up quite stupid and empty-headed as I otherwise should do.'' " What a love for work you have, Daubeny." " Yes, I have now ; but do you know it really wasn't natural to me. As a child, I used to be idle and get on very badly, and it used to vex my poor father, who was then living, very much. Well, one day, not long before he died, I had been very obstinate, and would learn nothing. He didn't say much, but in the afternoon, when we were taking a walk, we passed an old barn, and on the thatched roof was a lot of grass and stonecrop. He plucked a handful, and shewed me how rank and useless it was, and then, resting his hand upon my head, he told me that it was the type of an idle, useless man — * grass upon the housetops, withered be- fore it groweth up, wherewith the mower filleth not his band, nor he that gathereth the sheaves his bosom.' Somehow the circumstance took hold of my imagination; it was the last scene with my poor father which I vividly remember. I have never been idle since then." Power mused a little, and then said — " But, deai Dubbs, you 11 make your brain heavy by the time exa- mination begins ; you won't be able to do yourself justice." He did not answer ; but a weary look, which Power had often observed with anxiety, came over his face. " I 'm afraid I must turn back, Power," he said ; I'm quite tired — done up." " 1 Ve been thinking so, too. Let me turn back ♦ritb you/* 164 rURNING BACK. " 1^0, no I I won't spoil your day's excursion. Ld me go alone." " Hi ! you fellows," said Power, shouting to the three in front. They were too far in advance to hear him, so he told Daubeny to sit down while he overtook them, and asked if any of them would prefer to turn back. " Dubbs is too tired to go any farther," he said, when he reached them, breathless with his run. " I don't think he 's very well, and so I '11 just go back with him." "0 no ; you really mustn't, / will," said each ol the other three almost in a breath. Every one of the four was most anxious to get on, and reach the top of Appenfell, which was considered a very great feat among the boys even in summer, as the climb was dan- gerous and severe ; and yet each generously wished to undergo the self-denial of turning back. As their wills were about equally strong, it would have ended in all of them accompanying Daubeny, had he not, when they reached him, positively refused to turn on such condi- tions, and suggested that they should decide it by drawing lots. Power wrote the names on slips of paper, and Walter drew one at hazard. The lot fell on Henderson, BO he at once took Daubeny's arm, relieving his dis- appointment by turning round, shaking his fist at the top of Appenfell, and saying, " You be hanged ! I wish you were rolled out quite flat and planted with potatoes ! " " There," said Power laniarhing, " I should think that A FAV017K 165 t^^as about the grossest indignity the Genius of Appen fell ever had offered to him ; so now you've had your revenge, take care of Dubbs. Good-bye." " How very kind it is of you to come with me, Flip," said Daubeny ; " I don*t think I could manage to get home without your help ; but I'm quite vexed to drag you back. Good-bye, you fellows." Walter, Power, and Kenrick, found that to reach the cairn on the top of Appenfell taxed all their strength. The mountain seemed to heave before them a succession of huge shoulders, and each one that they surmounted shewed them only fresh steeps to climb. At last they reached the piled confusion of rocks, painted with every gorgeous and brilliant colour by emerald moss and golden lichen, which marked the approach to the summit ; and Walter, who was a long way the first to get to the top, shouted to encourage the other two, and, after resting a few minutes, clam- bered down to assist their progress. Being accustomed to the hills, he was far less tired than they were, and could give them very efficient help. At the top they rested for some time, eating their scanty lunch, chatting, and enjoying the matchless splendour of the prospect which stretched in a cloud- less expanse before them on every side. " Power," said Walter, in a pause of their talk, " I've long been meaning to ask you a favour." "It's granted then," said Power, "if you ask it, Walter." Vm not 80 sure ; it's a very serious favour, but it iiiii t for myself ; moreover, it's very cooL" 166 A REQUEST. The greater it is, the more I shall know that you trust my friendship, Walter ; and, if it's cool, it suits the time and place." " Yet, 1 bet you that you 11 hesitate when I propose it." Well, out with it ; you make me curious." It is that you 'd give little Eden the run of your study." " Little Eden the run of my study ! 0 yes, if you wish it,'' said Power, not liking to object after what he had said, but flushing up a little, involuntarily. It was indeed a great favour to ask. Power's study was a perfect sanctum; he had furnished it with such rare good taste, that, when you entered, your eye was at- tracted by some good engraving or neat contrivauce wherever you looked. It was Power's peculiar pride and pleasure to beautify, his little room, and to sit there with any one whom he liked ; but to give up hia privacy, and let a little scapegrace like Eden have the free run of it, was a proposition which took him by surprise. Yet it was a good deal for Power's own sake that "Walter had ventured to ask it. Power's great fault was his over-refinement ; the fastidiousness which marred his proper influence, made him unpopular with many boys, and shut him up in a reserved and intro- spective habit of mind. By a kind of instinct, Walter lelt that it would be good to disturb this epicurean in- difference to the general interests of the school, and the kind of intellectuahsm which weakened the charactei of this attractive and affectionate, yet shy and self in volved boy. OM£ AJSOTHEB'S BURDENS 16? ** Ah. I see," said Walter, archJy ; "you're as bad as Kenrick ; you Priests and Levites won't touch my poor httle wounded traveller." But I don't see what 1 could do for him," said Power; "I shouldn't know what to talk to him about." " O yes, you would ; you don't know how his gra- titude would pay you for the least interest shewn in him. He's been so shamefully bullied, poor little chap, I hardly like to tell you even the things that that big brute Harpour has made him do. He came here bright and neat, and merry and innocent ; and now" He would not finish the sentence, and his voice faltered ; but checking himseK, he added, more calmly — This, remember, has been done to the poor little ftllow here, at St. Winifred's ; and when I re- member what I might have been myself by this time, but for — but for one or two friends, my heart quite bleeds for him. Anyhow, I think one ought to do what one can for him. I wish I'd a study, I know, and he should find some peace and protection. TVe got BO much good from being able to learn my own lessons in Percival's room, that I'd give anything to be able to do as much for some one else." " He shall come, Walter," said Power, " with all my heart I'll ask him directly we get back to St. Winifred's." ** Will you 1 Thank you ! That is good of you ; I'm sure you won't be sorry in the long run." Power and Kenrick were both thinking that this 168 A mW DUTY. new friend of theirs, thougk lie had been s© short a time at St. Winifred^s, was teaching them some valuable lessons. Neither of them had previously recognised the truth which Walter seemed to feel so strongly, that they were to some extent directly responsible for the opportunities which they lost of helping and strength- ening the boys around them. Neither of them had ever done anything, worth speaking of, to lighten the heavy burden laid on some of the little boys at St. Winifred^ s ; and now they heard Walter talking with something like remorse about a child, who had no spe- cial claim whatever on his kindness, but whom he felt that he might more efficiently have rescued from evil associates, evil words, evil ways, and all the heart- misery they cannot fail to bring. The sense of a new mission, a neglected duty dawned upon them both. They sate for a time silent, and then Kenrick, shak- ing off his reverie, pointed down the hill and said — Do look at those magnificent clouds ; how they come surging up the hill in huge curving masses." " Yes," said Power; doesn't it look like a grand charge of giant cavalry 1 Why, Walter, my dear fellow, how frightened you look." " Well, no," said Walter, " not frightened. But I say, you two, supposing those clouds which have gathered so suddenly don't clear away, do you think that you could find your way down the hill 1 " " I do n't know ; I almost think so," said Kenrick^ dubiously. Ah, Ken, I suspect you haven't had as much ex CLOUDS. 169 perience of mountain-mists as 1 have. We may find our way somehow ; but " " You mean," said Power, with strange calmness, " that there are lots of precipices about, and that shep- herds have several times been lost on these hills ^ " " Let's hope that the mist will clear away, then," gaid Walter ; " anyhow, let 's get on the grass, and ofl these awkward boulders, before we are surrounded." " By all means,'* said Kenrick ; " charges of cloud- cjavalry are all very well in their way ; bat *' ~ CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. ') • IN THE CLOUDS. dp0Qfi€V (papepal SpoaepdiP (pmiv evdyrfrop warphs dir' ilKeapov papvax^os {fipTjXQp 6p4(jjp Kopv In robes of light arrayea. 218 ASLEEP. ** * They climbed the steep ascent of heavea. 'Mid peril, toil, and pain ; O God, to U8 may strength be given, To follow in their train/ Is n't that beautiful, Power ] ' And when on upward wing, Cleaving the sky. Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upwards I fly ; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee.* " And as he murmured to himself in a soothed tone of voice these verses, and lines of " Jerusalem the Golden," and "0 for a closer walk with God,'* and " Kock of Ages,'' the wearied brain at last found re- pose, and Daubeny fell asleep. He lingered on till the end of the week. On the Saturday he ceased to be delirious, and the lucid inter- val began which precedes death. It was then that he earnestly entreated to be allowed to see those school- friends whose names had been so often on his lips — Power, Walter, and Henderson. The boys, who had daily and eagerly inquired for him, entered with a feel- ing of trembling solemnity the room of sickness. The near presence of death filled them with an indescrib- able awe, and they felt desolate at the approaching loss of a friend whom they loved so well. " I sent to say good-bye," he said, smiling sweetly. You must not cry and grieve for me. 1 am happiei FAREWELL FOR E\^R. 219 than I ever felt before. Good-bye, Walter. It's for a long, long, long time j but not for ever. Good-bye, my dear old Flip — naughty fellow to cry so, when I am happy ; and when I am gone, Flip, think of me sometimes, and of talks weVe had together, and take your side manfully for God and Christ. Good-bye, Power, my best friend ; we meant to be confirmed to- gether, you know, but God has ordered it otherwise. And then he whispered low — * Lord, shall we come ? come yet again ? Thy children ask one blessing more ? To come not now alone, but then When life, and death, and time are o'er ; Then, then, to come, 0 Lord, and be Confirmed in heaven — confirmed by thee. ' O Power, that line fills me with tiope and joy j think of it for me when T am dead ; " and his voice trembled with emotion as he again murmured, Con- firmed in heaven — confirmed by thee. I 'm afraid I'm too weak to talk any more. O what a long, long good- bye it will be, for years, and years, and years ; to think that when you have gone out of the room we shall never meet in life again, and I shall never hear your pleasant voices. 0, Flip, you make me cry against my Tv411 by crying so. It's hard to say, but it must be said at last, Good-bye, God bless you, with all my heart." He laid his hand on their heads as they bent over him, and once more whispering the last " Good- bye,** turned away his face, and made the pillow wet ▼ith his warm tears. 220 FAREWELL The sound of his mother^ s sobs attracted him. " Ah, mother, darling, we are alone now ; you will stay with me till I die. I am tired." feared that their visit would excite you too much, my child." •'0 no, mother; I could n^t bear to die without seeing them, 1 loved them so much. Mother, will you sing to me a little — sing me my favourite hymn." She began in a low, sweet voice, ** My God, my Father, while 1 stray, Far from my home in life's rough way, 0 teach me from my heart to say, Thy will be done, Thy will be " She stopped, for sobs choked her voice. " I am sorry I cannot, Johnny. But I cannot bear to think how soon we must part." " Only for a short time, mother, a short time. I said a long time just now, but now it looks to me quite short, and I shall be with God. I see it all -now so clearly. Do you remember those lines — ' The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.' How true they are ! Oh, darling mother, how very, very good you have always been to me, and I pay you with all my heart's whole love." He pressed upon her lips a long, long kiss, and said, " Good-night, darling mother. I am falling asleep, I think," FOK EVER, 231 His arms relaxed their loving embrace, and glided down from her shoulder ; his head fell back ; the light faded from his soft and gentle eyes, and he was asleep. Rightly he said " asleep," — the long sleep that is the sweetest and happiest in that it knows no waking here ; the long sweet sleep that no evil dreams disturb ; the sleep after which the eyes open upon the light of immortality, and the weary heart rests upon the bosom of its God. Yes, Daubeny had fallen asleep. God help thee, widowed mother ; the daily endear- ments, the looks of living affection, the light of the boy's presence, are for thee and for thy home no mora There lies the human body of thy son ; his soul is with the white-robed, redeemed, innumerable multi- tude in the Paradise of God. For hours, till the light faded into darkness, as thifl young life had faded into death, she sate fixed in that deep grief which finds no utterance, and knows of no alleviation, with little consciousness save of the dead presence, and of the pang that benumbed her aching heart. And outside rang the sound of games and health, and the murmur of boy- voices came to her for- lorn ear. There the stream of life was flashing joy- ously and gloriously in the sunshine, while here, in this darkened room, it had sunk into the sands, and lost itself under the shadow of the dark boughs. But she was a Christian ; and as the sweet voices of me- mory, and conscience, and hope, and promise whispered to her in her loneliness their angel messages, her heart 222 THK SCHOOL BELL melted and the tears came, and she knelt dovm and took the dead hand of her son in hers, and said, be- tween her sobB, while her tear-stained eyes were turned to heaven, " 0 God, teach me to understand thy wiU." And through the night the great bell of the church of St. Winifred's tolled the sound of death ; and, mingled with it stroke for stroke, in long, tremulous, thrilling notes that echoed through the silent buildings, rang out the thin clear bell of St. Winifred's school. The tones of that school bell were usually only heard as they summoned the boys to lessons with quick and hurried beatings. How different now were the slow occasional notes, — each note trembling itself out with undisturbed vibrations which quivered long upon the air, — with which it told that for one at least whom it had been wont to warn, hurry was possible no longer, and there was boundless leisure now ! There was a strange pulse of emotion in the hearts of the listening boys, when the sound of those two passing bells struck upon their ears as they sate at evening work, and told them that the soul of their school-fellow had passed away, and that God's voice had summoned his young servant to his side. " You hear it, Henderson 1 " said Waiter, who sate next to him. Yes," answered Henderson in an awe-struck voice, " Daubeny is dead." The rest of that evening the two boys sat silent and oiotionless, full of the solemn thoughts which can never TOLLS. 223 be forgotten. And for the rest of that evening the deep church-bell tolled, and the shrill school-bell tolling after it, shivered out into the wintry night air its tremu lous message that the soul of Daubeny had paf?S8d awaj. CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. FAREWELL, ' Be the day weary or be the day long At last it ringeth to oven-song." HEKE was a very serious look on tht faces of all the boys as they thronged into chapel the next morning for the confirmation service. It was a beautiful sight to see the subdued yet happy air, full at once of humility and hope, wherewith many of the youthful candidates passed along the aisle, and knelt before the altar, and with clasped hands and bowed heads awaited the touch of the hands that blessed. As those young soldiers of Christ knelt meekly in their places, resolving with pure and earnest hearts to fight manfully in His service, and praying with child-like faith for the aid of which they felt their need, it was indeed a spectacle to recall the ideal of virtuous and Christian boyhood, and to force upon the minds of many the contrast it presented with the othei too familiar spectacle of a boyhood coarse, defiant, THE bishop's sermon. 226 bratal, ignorant yet conceited, young in years but old in disobedience, in insolence, in sin. When the good hishop, in the course of his address, alluded to iJaubeny's death, there was throughout the chapel instantly that silence that can be felt— that deep unbroken hush of expectation and emotion which always produces so indescribable an effect. " There was one," he said, who should have been eonfirmed to-day, w^ho is not here. He has passed away from us ; he will never be present at an earthly confirmation ; he is * confirmed in heaven — confirmed by God.' I hear, and I rejoice to hear, that for that confirmation he was indeed prepared, and that he looked forward to it with some of his latest thoughts. I heai that he was pre-eminent among you for the piety, the purity, the amiability of his life and character, and his very death was caused by the intense earnestness of his desire to use aright the talents which God had entrusted to him. Oh ! such a death of one so young yet so fit to die is far happier than the longest and most prosperous of sinful lives. Be sobered but not saddened by it. It is a proof of God's merciful and tender love that this one of your school-fellows was taken in the cleai and quiet dawn of a holy life, and not some other in the scarlet blossom of precocious and deadly sin. Be not saddened therefore at the loss, but sobered by the warning. The fair, sweet, purple flowei of youth falls and fades, my young brethren, under the sweeping scythe of death, no less surely than the withered grass of age. Oh ! be ready — be ready with the girded loins 1/ 226 A FAREWRLL and the lighted lamp — to obey the summons of your God. Who knows for which of us next, or how soon, the bell of death may tolH Be ye therefore ready, for you know not at what day or at what hour the voic< may call to you !" The loss of a well-known companion whom all re- spected and many loved — the crowding memories oi school life — the still small voice of every conscience, gave strange meaning and force to the bishop's simple words. As they listened, many wept in silence, while down the cheeks of Walter, of Power, and of Hender- son, the tears fell like summer rain. In the evening Walter was seated thoughtfully by the fire in Power's study, while Power was writing at the able, stopping occasionally to wipe his glistening eyes " He was my earliest friend here," he said to Walter, almost apologetically, as he hastily brushed off the drop which had fallen and blurred the paper before him. " But I know it is selfish to be sorry," he added, as he pushed the paper towards Walter. " May I read this, Power ? " asked Walter. " Yes ; if you like and he drew his chair by his while Walter read in Power's small clear hand writing— A FAREWELL. Never more ! r.ike a dream when one awaketh Vanishing away ; liike a billow when it break etb Bcaitftred into spray ; A FAREWELL 227 Like a meteor's paling ray. Such is man, do all he can ; — Nothing that is fair can stay. Sorrow stain eth, man compiainetb, Sin remain eth ever more ; Like a wave upon the shore Soundeth ever from the chorus Of the spirits gone before us, " Ye shall meet us, ye shall greet us In the sweet homes of earth, in the places of our birth, Never more again, never more ! " So they sing, and sweetly dying Faints the message of their voices, Dying like the distant murmur, when a mighty host rejoice? But the echoes are replying with a melancholy sighing, Never more again 1 never more ! Far away, Far far away are the homes wherein they dwell, We have lost them, and it cost them Many a tear, and many a fear When God forbade their stay ; But their sorrow, on the morrow Ceased in the dawning of a lighter, brighter day ; And our bliss shall be certain, when death^s awful curtftirn, Drawn from the darkness of mortal life away. To happy souls revealeth what it darkly now concealeth» Yielding to the glory of heaven's eternal ray. Far far away are the homes wherein they dwell, But we know that they are blest, and ever more at rest, And we utter from our hearts, *' It is well." " May I keep them, Power ? " he asked, looking; 228 FAHEWELU " Do, Walter, as a remembrance of to-day.' " And may I make one change, which the bishop'e sermon suggested " By all means," said Power ; and Walter, taking a pencil, added after the line Nothing that is fair can gtay," these words — which Power afterwards copied, WTiting at the top, " In memoriam, J. D." — ' Nothing that is fair can stay ; But while Death's sharp scythe is sweeping, VVe remember 'mid our weeping, That a Father-hand is keeping Every vernal bloom that falleth underneath its chilly sway And though earthly flowers may perish There are buds His hand will cherish And the things unseen Eternal — these can never pass away ; Where the angels shout Hosanna, Where the ground is dewed with manna, These remain and these await us in the homes of heaven for aye ! '* The lines are in Walter's desk ; and he values them all the more for the tears which have fallen on them, and blurred the neatness of the fine clear hand- writing. On the following Tuesday our boys saw the dead body of their friend. The face of poor Daubeny looked singularly beautiful with the placid lines of death, as all innocent faces do. It was the first time they had seen a corpse ; and as Walter touched the cold cheek, and placed a spray of evergreen in the rigid hand, be AWED INTO SILENCK. 229 we..s almost overpowered with an awftJ sense of the sad iiweet mystery of death. " It is God who has taken him to Himself," said Mrs. Dauheny, as she watched their emotion. I shall not be parted fi'om him long. He has left you each a remembrance of himself, dear boys, and you will value them, I know, for my poor child's sake, and for his widowed mother's thanks to those who iove(? him." For each of them he had chosen, before he died, one of his most prized possessions. To Power he left his desk ; to Henderson, his microscope : to Kenrick, a little gold pencilcase ; and to Walter, a treasure which he deeply valued, a richly-bound Bible, in which he had left many memorials of the manner in which his days were spent ; and in which he had marked many of the rules which were the standard of his life, and the words of hope which sustained his gentle and noble mind. The next day he was buried ; only the boys in his own house, and those who had known him best, fol- lowed him to the grave. They were standing in two lines along the court, and the plumed hearse stood at the cottage door. Just at that moment the rest of the boys began to flock out of the school, for lessons were over. Each as he came out caught sight of the hearse, the plumes waving and whispering in the sea-wind, and the double line of mourners ; and each, on seeing it, stood where he was, in perfect silence. Their numbers increased each moment, till boys and masters alike were 230 IN SILENCE. there 3 and ail by the same sudden impulse stopped where they were standing when first they saw the hearse, and stood still without a word. The scene was the more strangely impressive because it was accidental and spontaneous. Meanwhile, the coffin was carried down stairs, and placed in the hearse, which moved ofl slowly across the court between the line of bareheaded and motionless mourners. It was thus that Daubeny left St. Winifred's, and passed under the Norman arch ; and till he had passed through, the boys stood fixed to their places, like a group of statues in the usually noisy eourt. He was buried in the churchyard under the tower of the grand old church. It was a lovely spot ; the torrent murmured near it ; the shadows of the great mountains fell upon it ; and as you stood there in the sacred silence of that memory-haunted field, you heard far off the solemn monotone of the everlasting sea. There they laid him, and the stream of life, checked for a moment, flashed on again with turbulent and spark- ling waves. Ah me ! — yet why should we sigh at the merciful provision, which causes that the very best of us, when we die, leaves but a slight and transient ripple on the waters, which a moment after flow on as smoothly as before ] Mrs, Daubeny left St. Winifred's that evening ; her carriage looked strange with her son's boxes and other possessions piled up in it. Wlio would ever use that cricket-bat or those skates again 1 Power and Walter shook hands with her at the door as she was about to A BIRD-CAGE. 231 start ; and just at the last moment, Henderson came running up with something, which he put on the car- riage seat without a word. It was a bird-cage, con- taining a little favourite canary, which he and Daubeny had often fed CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. KENRICK 8 HOME. STonder there lies the village and looks how quiet and small, And yet bubbles o'er like a city with gossip and scandal an<3 spite. — Tennyson. Maud. was the last evening. The boys were all assembled in the great schoolroom to hcai the result of the Examination. The masters in their caps and gowns were seated round Dr. Lane on a dais in the centre of the room ; and every one was eager to know what places the hoys had taken, and who would win the various form prizes. Dr. Lane began from the bottom of the school, and at the IcLst boy in each form, so that the interest of the proceedings kept on culminating to the grand climax. The first name that will interest us was Eden's, and both Walter and Power were watching anxiously to see where he would come out in his form. Power had been so kindly coaching him in his work that they expected him to be high ; but it was as much to Ms surprise as to their gratification, that his name was read out third FIRST, EVSON. 233 Jones and Harponr were, as was natural, last in theii respective forms. At length Dr. Lane got to Walter's form. Last but one came Howard Tracy, who was listening with a fine superiority to the whole announcement. Anthony and Franklin were not far from him. Henderson expected himself to be about tenth ; but the tenth name, the ninth, and the eighth, all were read, and he had not been mentioned ; his heart was beating fast, and he almost fancied that there must have been some mis- take ; but no ; Dr. Lane read on. " Seventh, Gray ; " Sixth, Mackworth ; Fifth, Whalley ; " Fourth, Henderson ; and Walter had hardly done patting him on the back, and congratulating him, when Dr. Lane had read — " Third, Manners ; " Second, Carlton ; " Firsf — the Doctor always read the word first with peculiar emphasis, and then brought out the name of the boy who had attained that distinction with great smpressement — " First j Evson^ Whereupon it was Henderson's turn to pat him on the back, which he did very vigorously ; and not only so, but in his enthusiasm began to clap — a demonstra- tion which ran like wildfire through all the ranks of the boys, and before Dr. I^ane could raise his voice to secure silence — for approbation on those occasions in the great school-room was not at all selon regie — out 234 LAURELS. young hero had received a regular ovation. For sinoe the day on Appenfell, Walter had been the favourite of the school, and they were only too glad to follow Hen- derson in his irregular applause. There was an intoxi- cating sweetness in this popularity. Gould Walter help keenly enjoying the general regard which thus, defiant of rules, broke out in his honour into sponta- neous acclamations 1 Dr. Lane's stern " Silence ! " heard above the uproar, soon reduced the boys to order, and he proceeded with the list. Kenrick was read out first in his form, and Power, as a matter of course, again first in the second fifth, although in that form he was the youngest boy. Somers came out head of the school, by examination as well as by seniority of standing ; and in his case, too, the impulse to cheer was too strong to be resisted. The head of the school was, however, tacitly excepted from the general rule, and Dr. Lane only smiled while he listened to the clapping, which shewed that Somers was regarded with esteem and honour by the boys, in spite of his cold manners and stern regime. "Hurrah for the Sociable Grosbeaks!^' said Hen- derson, as the boys streamed out of the room. " Why, we carry all before us ! And only fancy me fourth ! Why, I'm a magnificent swell, without ever having known it. You look out. Master Walter, or 1 shall have a scrimmage with you for laurels." " Good," said Walter. " Meanwhile, come and help me to pack up my laurels in my box. And then for home ! liorrah ! " HOME. 23^ And he began to sing the exquisite air ot *' Domum, domum, dulce domnm, Dulce, dulce, dulce domum ; " in which Power and Henderson joined heartily ; while Keniick walked on in silence. Next day the boys were scattered in every direction to their various homes. It need not be said that Walter passed very happy holidays that Christmas time. Power came and spent a fortnight with him ; and let every boy who has a cheerful and affectionate home imagine for himself how blithely their days passed by. Power made himself a universal favourite, always unselfish, always merry, and throwing himself heartily into every amusement which the Evsons pro- posed. He and they were mutually sorry when the time came for them to part. From Semlyn Lake, Walter's home, to Fuzby, Kenrick's home, the change is great mdeed; yet I must take the reader there for a short time, before we return to the noisy and often troubled precincts of St. Winifred's school. Before Power came to stay with the Evsons, Walter, with his father's full permission, had written to ask Kenrick to join them at the same time, and this is the answer he got in reply. My dear Walter — I can 't tell you how much your letter tempted me. I should so like to come; I would give anything to come and see you. To be with you and Power at such a place as Semlyn must be — 0 236 KENRTCK'S LETTE?., Walter, it almost makes me envious to think of you there. But I can't come, and I'll teU you frankly the reason. I can't afford, or rather I mean that my mother cannot afford, the necessary travelling expenses. I look on you, Walter, as my best school friend, so I may as well say at once that we are very very poor. If I could even get to you by walking some of the way, and going third-class the rest, I would jump at the chance, but . Lucky fellow, you know nothing of the res angusta domi. You must be amused at the name of this place, Fuzby-le-Mud. What charming prospects the name opens, does it not? I assure you the name fits the place exactly. My goodness ! how I do hate the place. You'll ask why then we live here? Simply because we must Some misanthropic relation left us the house we live in, which saves rent. " Yet, if you were with me, I think I could be happy even here. I don't venture to ask you. First of all, we couldn't make you one-tenth part as comfortable as you are at home; secondly, there isn't the ghost of an amusement here, and if you came, you 'd go back to St Winifred's with a fit of blue devils, as I always do; thirdly, the change from Semlyn to Fuzby-le-Mud would be like walking from the Elysian fields and the asphodel meadows, into mere ^o^fSo^og, as old Edwards would say. So I donH ask you; and yet if you could come ~ why, the day would be marked with white In the dull calendar of — Your ever affectionate Harry Krnrick." IN THE FENS. 237 As Fuzby lay nearly in the route to St. Winifred's, Walter, grieved that his friend should be doomed to such dull holidays, determined, with Mr. Evson's leave, to pay him a three days' visit on his way to school. Accordingly, towards the close of the holidays, after a hopeful, a joyous, and an affectionate farewell to all at home, he started for Fuzby, from which he was to accompany Kenrick back to school ; a visit fraught, as it turned out, with evil consequences, and one which he never afterwards ceased to look bach upon with regret. The railroad, after leaving far behind the gloriou? hills of Semlyn, passes through country flatter and more uninteresting at every mile, until it finds itself fairly committed to the fens. Nothing but dreary dykes, muddy and straight, guarded by the ghosts of suicidal pollards, and by rows of dreary and desolate mills, occur to break the blank grey monotony of the landscape. Walter was looking out of the window with curious eyes, and he was wondering what life in such conditions could be like, when the train uttered a despairing scream, and reached a station which the porter announced as Fuzby-le-Mud. Walter jumped down, and his hand was instantly seized by Kenrick with a warm and affectionate grasp. '*So you're really here, Walter. I can hardly be- lieve it. I half repent having brought you to such a place ; but I was so dull." 1 shall enjoy it exceedingly, Ken, with you Shall 238 THE EQUIPAGE. I give my portmanteau to some man to take up to the viUage ? " " Oh, no ; here's a ; well, I may as well call it a car\ at once — to take it up in. The curate lent it me, and he calls it a pony-carriage ; but it is, you see, no- thing more or less than a cart. I hope you won't be ashamed to ride in it." " I should think not," said Walter, gaily, mounting into the curious little oblong wooden vehicle. "It isn't very far," said Kenrick, "and 1 daresay you don't know any one about here ; so it won't matter." " Pooh, Ken ; as if I minded such nonsense." In- deed Walter would not have thought twice about the conveyance, if Kenrick had not harped upon it so much, and seemed so much ashamed of it, and mortified at being obliged to use it. " Shall I drive 1 " asked Walter. " Drive ] Why, the pony is stone blind, and as scraggy as a scarecrow, so there's not much driving to be had out of him. Fancy if the aristocratic Power, or some other St. Winifred's fellow saw us ! Why it would supply Henderson with jokes for six weeks," said Kenrick, getting up, and touching the old pony with his whip. Both he and Walter were wholly un- conscious that their equipage had been seen, and con- temptuously scrutinized by one of their schoolfellows. Unknown to Walter, Jones was in the train ; and, aftei a long stare at the pony-chaise, had flung himself back in his seat to indulge in a long guffaw, and in anticipat FUZBY-LE-MXn). 239 Lag the malicious amusement he should feel in retailing at St. Winifred's the description of Kenrick's horse and carriage. Petty malignity was a main feature of Jones's mind. " That is Fuzby," said Kenrick, laconically, pointing to a straggling village from which a few lights were beginning to glimmer ; " and I wish it were buried twenty thousand fathoms under the sea." Ungracious as the speech may seem, it cannot be wondered at. A single muddy road runs through Fuzby. Except along this road — muddy and rutty in winter, dusty and rutty in summer — no walk is to be had. The fields are all more or less impassable with ditches and bogs. Kenrick had christened it "The Dreary Swamp." Nothing in the shape of a view is to be found anywhere, and barely a single flower will deign to grow. The air is unhealthy with moisture, and the only element to be had there in perfection is earth. All this, Kenrick's father — who had been curate of the village — had fancied would be at least endurable to any man upheld by a strong sense of duty. So when he had married, and had received the gift of a house in the village, he took thither his young and beautiful bride, intending there to live and work until something better could be obtained. He was right. Over the mere disadvantages of situation he might easily have triumphed, and he might have secured there, under dif- ferent circumstances, a fair share of happiness, which lies in ourselves and not in the localities ld which we 340 MR. HUGGINSON. live. But in making his calculation he had always assumed that it would be easy to get on with the in- habitants of Fuzby j and here lay his mistake. The Vicar of Fuzby, a non-resident pluralist, only appeared at rare intervals to receive the adoration which his flock never refused to any one who was wealthy. His curate, having a very slender income, came in for no share at all of this respect. On the contrary, the whole population assumed a right to patronise him, to interfere with him, to annoy and to thwart him. There was at Fuzby one squire — a rich farmer, coarse, ignorant, and brutal. This man, being the richest person in the parish, generally carried everything in his own way, and among other attempts to imitate the absurdities of his superiors, had ordered the sexton never to cease ringing the church bell, However late, until he and his family had taken their seats. A very few Sundays after Mr. Kenrick's arrival the bell was still ringing eight minutes after the time for morning service, and sending to desire the sexton to leave oflP, he received the message that — " Mr. Hugginson hadn't come yet.'* " I will not have the congregation kept waiting for Mr. Hugginson or any one else," said the curate. " 0 zurr, the zervus haint begun afore Muster Hug- ginson has come in this ten year." " Then the sooner Mr. Hugginson is made to under- stand that the hours of service are not to be altered a1 his convenience the better. Let the bell cease imme- diately.^' MISERABLE 241 But the sexton, a dogged, bovine, bullet-headed labourer, took no notice whatever of this injunction, and although Mr. Kenrick went into the reading-desk, con- tinued lustily to ring the bell until the whole Huggin- son family, furious that their dignity should thus be insulted, sailed into church at the beginning of the psalms. Next morning Mr. Kenrick turned the sexton out of his place, and received a most wrathful visit from Mr. Hugginson, who, after pouring on him a torrent of the most disgusting abuse, got scarlet in the forehead, shook his stick in Mr. Kenrick's face, flung his poverty in his teeth, and left the cottage, vowing eternal ven- geance. With him went all the Fuzby population. It would be long to tell the various little causes which led to Mr. Kenrick's unpopularity among them. Every clergyman similarly circumstanced may conjecture these for himself ; they resolved themselves mainly into the fact that Mr. Kenrick was abler, wiser, purer, better, more Christian, than they. His thoughts were not theirs, nor his ways their ways. '* He had a daily beauty in his life That raade thera ugly." And so, to pass briefly and lightly over an unpleasant subject, Fuzby was brimming over with the concen- trated meanness of petty malignant natures, united m the one sole object of snubbing and worrying the un- happy cura.te. To live among them was like living in a R 242 FUZBY-LE-MUD. cloud of poisonous flies. If Dante had known Fiiiiby- le-Mud, he could have found for a really generous and noble spirit no more detestable or unendurable inferno than this muddy English village. The chief characteristic of Fuzby was a pestilential spirit of gossip. There was no lying scandal, there was no malicious whisper, that did not thrive with rank luxuri- ance in that mean atmosphere, which, at the same time, starved up every great and high-minded wish. There was no circumstance so minute that calumny could not insert into it a venomous claw. Mr. Kenrick was one of the most exemplary, generous, and pure-minded of men ; his only fault was quickness of temper. His noble character, his conciliatory manners, his cultivated mind, his Christian forbearance, were all in vain. He was poor, and he could not be a toady : these were two unpardon- able sins; and he, a true man, moved like an angel among a set of inferior beings. For a time he struggled on. He tried not to mind the lies they told of him. What was it to him, for instance, if they took advantage of his hasty language to declare that he was in the con- stant habit of swearing, when he knew that even from boyhood no oath had ever crossed his lips 1 What was it to him that these uneducated boors, in their feeble igno- rance, tried constantly to entrap him into something which they called unorthodox, and to twist his words into the semblance of fancied heresy ? It was more painful to him that they opposed and vilified every one whom he helped, and whose interests, in pity, he endeavoured to forward. But still he bore on, he A CKUIEL BLO\V. 243 struggled on, till the denouement came. It is not worth while entering into the rarious schemes inrented foi his annoyance, but at last an unfortunate, although purely accidental, discrepancy was detected in the accounts of one of the parish charities which Mr. Kenrick officially managed. Mr. Hugginson seized his long-looked-for opportunity : he went round the parish, and got a large number of his creatures among the congregation to affirm by their signatures that Mr. Kenrick had behaved dishonestly. This memorial he sent to the bishop, and disseminated among all the clergy with malicious assiduity. At the next clerical meeting Mr. Kenrick found himself most coldly re- ceived. Compelled in self-defence to take legal pro- ceedings against the squire, he found himself involved in heavy expenses. He won his cause, and his character was cleared ; but the jury, attending only to the techni- calities of the case, and conceiving that there was enough primd facie evidence to justify Mr. Hugginson's proceedings, left each side to pay their own costs. These costs swallowed up the whole of the poor curate's private resources, and also involved him in debt. The agony, the suspense, the shame, the cruel sense of oppression and injustice, bore with a crushing weight on his weakened health. He could not tolerate that the merest breath of suspicion, however false, should pass over his fair and honourable name. He pined away under the atrocious calumny ; it poisoned for him the very life-springs of happiness, and destroyed his peace of EwLnd for ever. This young man, in the 244 DEPIANT. flower of youth — a man who might have been a leader and teacher of men — a man of gracious presence and high power ^ — died of a broken heart. He died of a broken heart, and all Fuzby built his conspicuous tomb, and shed crocodile tears over his pious memory. Truly, as some one has said, very black stains lie here and there athwart the white conventionalities of common life ! This had happened when our little Kenrick was eight years old ; he never forgot the spectacle of his poor father's heart-breaking misery during the last year of his life. He never forgot how, during that year, sorrow and anxiety had aged his father's face, and silvered his hair, young as he was, with premature white, and so quenched his spirits, that often he would take his little boy on his knee, and look upon him so long in silence, that the child cried at the intensity ol that long, mournful, hopeless gaze, and at the teara which he saw slowly coursing each other down his father's care-worn and furrowed cheeks. Ever since then the boy had walked among the Fuzby people with open scorn and defiance, as among those whose slanders had done to death the father whom he so proudly loved. In spite of his mother's wishes, he would not stoop to pay them even the semblance of courtesy. 'No wonder that he hated Fuzby with a perfect hatred, and that his home there was a miserable home. Yet if any one could have made happy a home in such a place, it would have been Mrs. Kenrick. Never, I think, did a purer, a fairer, a sweeter f»«ul live on MRS. KKNRICK. 245 earth, or one more like the angels of heaven. The winnmg grace of her manners, the simple sweetness of her address, the pathetic beauty and sadness of her face, would have won for her, and had won for her, in any other place but Fuzby, the love and admiration which were her due. " She had a mind that envy could not but call fair.'* But at Fuzby, from the dominant faction of Hugginson, and the small vulgar-minded sets who always tried to browbeat those who were poor, particularly if theii birth and breeding were gentle, she found nothing but insulting coldness, or still more insulting patronage. When first she heard the marriage-bells clang out from the old church tower of her home, and had walked by the side of her young husband, a glad and lovely bride, she had looked forward to many happy years. With hirtiy at any rate, it seemed that no place could be very miserable. Poor lady ! her life had been one long martyrdom, all the more hard to bear because it was made ujj for the most part of small annoyances, petty mortifications, little recurring incessant bitternesses. And now, during the seven years of her widowhood, she had gained a calmer and serener atmosphere, in which she was raised above the possibility of humiliation from the dwarfed natures and malicious hearts in the midst of which she lived. They could hurt her feelings, they could embitter her days no longer. To the hopes and pleasures of earth she had bidden farewell. Still young, still beautilui, she had reached the full maturity 246 *• FOE WHOM CHRIST DIED.^' of Christian life, meekly bearing the load of scorn, and disappointment, and poverty, looking only for that rest which remaineth to the people of Goi In her lonely home, with no friend at Fuzby to whom she could turn for counsel or for consolation, shut up with the sorrows of her own lonely heart, she often mused at the slight sources, the little sins of others, from which her misery had sprung ; she marvelled at the mystery that man should be to man the sorest, surest ill." Truly, it is a strange thought ! Oh ! it is pitiable that, as though death, and want, and sin were not enough, we too must add to the sum of human miseries by despising, by neglecting, by injuring others. We wound by our harsh words, we dishonour by our coarse judgments, We grieve by our untender pride, the souls for whom Christ died j and we wound most deeply, and grieve most irreparably, the noblest and the best. The one tie that bound her to earth was her orphan son — her hope, her pride ; aU her affections were cen- tred in that beautiful boy. Now, if I were writing a romance, I should of course represent that yearning mother's affection as reciprocated with all the warmth and passion of the boy's heart. But it was not so. Harry Kenrick did indeed love his mother ; he would have borne anything rather than see her suffer any' great pain ; but his manners were too often cold, his conduct wiKul or thoughtless. He did not love her — perhaps no child can love his parents- — with all the abandon and intensity wherewith she loved him. The fact is, a blight lay upon Kenrick whenever he was at THE FUZBY BLIGHT. 24t home — the Fuzby blight he called it. He hated the pla€e 80 much, he hated the people in it bo much, he felt the annoyances of their situation with so keen and fretful a sensibility, that at Fuzby, even though with his mother, he was never happy. Even her society could not make up to him for the detestation with which he not unnaturally regarded the village and its inhabitants. At school he was bright, warm-hearted, and full of life ; at home he seemed to draw himself into a shell of reserve and coldness ; and it was a deep unspoken trial to that gentle mother's heart that she could not make home happy to the boy whom she so fondly loved, and that even to her he seemed indiffer- ent ; for his manners — since he had been to school and learned how very differently other boys were circum- stanced, and what untold pleasures centred for them in that word " home " — were to her always shy and silent, appeared sometimes almost harsh. I wish I could represent it otherwise ; but things are not often truly represented in books ; and is not this a very common, as well as a yery tragic case ? Not even in her son could Mrs. Kenrick look for happiness ; even his society brought with it trials almost as hard to bear as those which his absence caused. Yet no mother could have brought up her child more wisely, more tenderly, vrith more undivided and devoted care. Harry's ?ieart was true could she have looked into it ; but at Fuzby a cold, repellant manner fell on him like a mildew. And Mrs. Kenrick wept in silence, as she thought — though it was not true — that even her 248 A BITTER CUP. own son did not love her, or at least did not love her as she had hoped he would. It was the last bitter drop in that overflowing cup which it had pleased God that she should be called upon to drink. The boys drove up to the door of the little cottage. It stood in a garden, but as the garden was overlooked by Fuzbeians on all sides, it offered few attractions, and was otherwise very small and plain. They were greeted by Mrs. Kenrick's soft and pleasant voice. Well, dear Harry, I am delighted that you have brought back your friend.'' Harry's mind was pre-occupied with the poverty- stricken aspect which he thought the house must pre- sent to his friend, and he did not answer her, but said bo Walter — " Well, Walter, here is the hut we inhabit. We have only one girl as a servant. I'll carry up the box. I do pretty nearly everything but clean the shoes." Mrs. Kenrick's eyes filled with sad tears at the bitter words ; but she checked them to greet Walter, who advanced and shook her by the hand so cordially, and with a manner so respectfully affectionate, that he won her heart at once. " Harry has not yet learned," she said, playfully, ^* that poverty is not a thing to be ashamed of ; but 1 am sure, Walter — forgive my using the name which my boy has made so familiar to me — that you will not mind any little inron/eniVnces during your short staj vithua" VERY SAD. 249 ** Oh, no, Mrs. Kenrick/' said Walter ; to be with you and him will be the greatest possible enjoyment." "I wish you wouldn't flap our poverty in every one's face, mother," said Kenrick, almost angrily, when Walter had barely left the room. "0 Harry, Harry," said Mrs. Kenrick. speaking sadly, "you surely forget, dear boy, that it is your- mother to whom you are speaking. And was it I who mentioned our poverty first 1 0 Harry, when will you learn to be contented with the dispensations of God 1 Believe me, dearest, we might make our poverty as happy as any wealth, if we would but have eyes to see the blessings it involves." The boy turned away impatiently, and as he raii up stairs to rejoin his friend, the lady sat down with a deep sigh to her work. It was long ere Kenrick learnt how much his conduct was to blame ; but long after, when his mother was dead, he w^as reminded painfully of this scene, when he accidentally found in her hand- writing this extract from one of her favourite authors ; — " It has been reserved lor this age to perceive the blessedness of another kind of poverty ; not voluntary nor proud, but accepted and submissive ; not clear- sighted nor triumphant, but subdued and patient ; partly patient in tenderness — of God's will ; partly patient in blindness — of man's oppression ; too labori- ous to be thoughtful, too innocent to be conscious ; too much experienced in sorrow to be hopeful — waiting in its peaceful darkness for the unconceived dawn ; yet uot without its sweet, complete, ontainted happiness. 250 POVERIT. like intermittent notes of birds before thb day-break, or the first gleams of heaven's amber on the eastern grey. Such poverty as this it has been reserved for this age of ours to honour while it afflicted ; it is re- served for the age to come to honour it and to spare." CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. BIRDS OF A FEATHER. What, man I I know them, yea, And what they weigh even to the utmoet scrapie ; Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander. Much Ado about Nothino, v. 1. ALTER could not help hearing a part of thu conversation, and he was pained and sur- prised that Kenrick, whom he had regarded aa so fine a character, should shew his worst side at home, and should speak and act thus unkindly to one whom he was so deeply bound to love and reverence. And he was even more surprised when he went down stairs again and looked on the calm face of his friend^s mother, 80 lovely, so gentle, so resigned, and felt the charm of manners which, in their natural grace and sweetness, might have shed lustre on a court. All that he could himself do was to shew by his own manner to Mrs. Kenrick the aflection and respect with which he re- garded her. When he hinted to Kenrick, as delicately 252 MOTHER AND SON. and distantly as he could, that he thought his manner to his mother rather brusque, Kenrick reddened rather angrily, but only replied, " Ah, it's all very well fo?* you to talk ; but you don't live at Fuzby/' "Yet IVe enjoyed my visit very much, Ken; you can't think how much I love your mother/' " Thank you, Walter, for saying so. But how would you like to live always at such a place " If I did I should do my best to make it happy." " Make it happy ! " said Kenrick ; and as he turned away he muttered something about making a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Soon after he told Walter some of those circumstances about his father's life which we have recently related. When the three days were over the boys started for St. Winifred's. They drove to the station in the pony-chaise before described, accompanied, against Kenrick's will, by his mother. She bore up bravely as she bade them good-bye, knowing the undemonstrative character of boys, and seeing that they were both in the merriest mood. She knew, too, that their gaiety w^as natural : the world lay before them, bright and se- ductive as yet, with no shadow across its light ; nor was she all in all to Harry as he was to her. He had other hopes, and another home, and other ties ; and re- membering this she tried not to grieve that he should leave her with so light a heart. But as she turned away from the platform when the train had started, taking with it all that she held dearest in the world, and as she walked back to the lonely home wlach had I5ACK TO STe WTNIFREB'S 253 nothing but faith — for there was not even hope — to brighten it, the quiet tears tiowed fast over the fair face beneath her veil. Yet as she crossed over her lonely threshold her thoughts were not even then for herself, but they carried her on the wings of prayer to the throne of mercv for the beloved boy from whom she was again to be separated for nearly five long months. The widowed mother wept ; but the boy's spirits rose as he drew closer to the hills and to the sea, which told him that St. Winifred's was near. He talked happily with Walter about the coming half — eager with ambition, with hope, with high spirits, and fine resolu- tions. He clapped his hands with pleasure when they reached the top of Bardlyn hill and caught sight of the school buildings. Having had a long distance to travel they were among the late arrivals, and at the great gate stood Henderson and Power ready to greet them and the other boys who came with them in the same coach. Among these were Eden and Bliss. "Ah, Eden,'' said Henderson, I've been writing a poem about you — * I'm a shrimp, I'm a shrimp of diminutive size, Inspect my antennae and look at my eyes ; Qnick, quick, feel me quick, for cannot you see I'm a shrimp, I'm a shrimp, to be eaten with tea!* " And who's this ? — why," he said clasping his hands and throwing up his eyes in mock rapture, " this indeed is BHss!" 254 GREETING8. "I'll lick you, Flip/' said Blisa, only in a more good-humoured tone than usual, as he hit at him, " I think I We heard that ohservation before," said Henderson, dodging away. " Ah, Walter, how do you do, my dear old fellow ? I hope you 're sitting on the throne of health, and reclining under the canopy of a well-organised brain/' " More than you are. Flip," said Walter laughing, " You seem madder than ever." "That he is," said Power; "since his return he's made on an average fifteen thousand bad puns. You ought to be grateful though, for he and I have got some coffee going for you in my study. Come along ; the Familiar will see that your luggage is all right." " Yes ; and I shall make bold to bring in a shrimp to tea," said Henderson, seizing hold of Eden. " All right. I meant to ask you, Eden," said Power, shaking the little boy by the hand, " have you enjoyed the holidays?" " Not very much," said Eden. "You're not looking as bright as I should like," said Power ; " never mind ; if you didn't enjoy the holidays you must enjoy the half" "That I shall. I hope, Walter, you'll be in the same dormitory still. What shall I do if you're not ?" " Oh, how's that to be. Flip ?" asked Walter ; " you said you'd try to get some of us put together in one dormitory. That would be awfully jolly. I don't want to leave you, Eden, and would like you to be moved too ; but I can't bear Harpour and that lot" CHANGES. 256 "I've partly managed it and partly failed," said Henderson. " You and the shrimp still stay with the rest of the set in No. 10, but as there was a vacant bed I got myself put there too." " Hurrah ! " said Walter and Eden both at once ; " that's capital." "Let me see," said Walter; "there are Jones and Harpour — brutes certainly both of them ; and Cradock — well, he rather a bargee, but he's not altogether bad ; and Anthony, and Franklin, who are both far joUier than they used to be ; indeed I like old Franklin very much ; so with you and Eden we shall get on famously." The first few days of term passed very pleasantly. The masters met the boys in the kindliest spirit, and the boys, fresh from home and with the sweet influences of home still playing over them, did not begin at once to reweave the ravelled threads of evil school tradition. They were all on good terms with each other and with themselves, full of good resolutions, cheerful, and happy. All our boys had got theij' removes. Walter had won a double remove, and was now under his friend Mr. Percival. Kenrick was in the second fifth, and Power, young as he was, had now attained the upper fifth, which stands next to the dignity of the monitors and the sixth. The first Sunday of term was a glorious day, and the boys, according to their custom, scattered themselves in various groups in the grounds about St Winifred's School The favourite place of resort was a brofid green field at the back of the buildings. 256 POWER AND WALTER. shaded by noble trees, and half encircled by a bend ol the river. Here, on a fine Sunday, between dinner and afternoon school, you were sure to find the great ma- jority of the boys walking arm in arm by twos and threes, or sitting with books on the willow trunks that overhung the stream, or stretched out at full length upon the grass, and lazily learning their Scripture re- petition. It was a sweet spot and a pleasant time ; but Walte i generally preferred his beloved sea-shore ; and on this afternoon he was sitting there talking to Power, while Eden, perched on the top of a piece of rock close by, kept murmuring to himself his afternoon lesson. The conversation of the two boys turned chiefly on the holidays which were just over, and Power was asking Walter about his visit to Kenrick's house. " How did you enjoy the visit, Walter?" " Very much for some things. Mrs. Kenrick is the sweetest lady you ever saw." "But Ken is always abusing Fuzby — isn^t that the name 1 " "Yes : it isn't a particularly jolly place, certainly, but he doesn't make the best of it ; he makes up his mind to detest it" " Whyr' " Oh, I do n't know. They did n't treat his father welL His father was curate of the place." " As far as I've seen, Fuzby isn't singular in that respect. It's no easy thing in most places for a poor clergyman to keep on good terms with his people." AN INDISCRETION. 257 " Yes ; but Ken's father does seem to have been abominably treated." And Walter proceeded to tell Power the parts of Mr. Kenrick's history which Ken- rick had told him. When he had finished the story he observed that Eden had shut up his book and was listening intently. " Hallo, Arty," said Walter, " I didn't mean you to hear." " Didn't you 1 I'm so sorry. I really didn't know you meant to be talking secrets, for you weren't talking particularly low." " The noise of the waves prevents that. But nevei mind ; I don't suppose it^s any secret. Ken never told me not to mention it. Only of course you mustn^t tell any one, you know, as it clearly isn't a thiag to be talked about." " No," said Eden ; " I won't mention it, of course. So other people have unhappy homes as well as me," he added in a low tone. "What, isn't youi' home happy, Arty]" asked Power. Eden shook his head " It used to be, but this holi days my mother married again. She married Colonel Braemar— and I can't bear him." The words were said so energetically as to leave no doubt that he had some grounds for the dislike ; but Power said — " Hush, Arty, you must try to like hini. Are you fture you know your Rep. perfectly?" ^es." " Then let's take a turn till the bell rings/' 8 258 [N THE GROFT. While this conversation was going on by the shor^^ a very diJfferent scene was being enacted in the Croffc, as the field was called which I above described. It happened that Jones, and one of his set, named Mackworth, were walking up and down the Croft in one direction, while Kenrick and Whalley, one of his friends, were pacing up and down the same avenue in the opposite direction, so that the four boys passed each other every five minutes. The first time they met, Kenrick could not help noticing that Jones and Mackworth nudged each other derisively as he passed, and looked at him with a glance unmistakeably impu- dent. This rather surprised him, though he was on bad terms with them both. Kenrick had not forgotten how grossly Jones had bullied him when he was a new boy, and before he had risen out of the sphere in which Jones could dare to bully him with impunity. He was now so high in the school as to be well aware that Jones would be nearly as much afraid to touch him as he always was to annoy any one of his own size and strength ; and Kenrick had never hesitated to shew Jones the quiet but quite measureless contempt which he felt for his malice and meanness. Mackworth was a bully of another stamp ; he was rather a clever fellow, set himself up for an aristocrat on the strength of being second cousin to a baronet, studied " De Brett's Peerage," dressed as faultlessly as Tracy himself, and affected at all times a studious politeness of maimer. He had been a good deal abroad, and as he constantly adopted the airs and the graces of a fashioDable person MACKWORIIL 259 the boys had felicitously named him French Vamish But Mackworth was a dangerous enemy, for he had one of the most biting tongues in the whole school, and there were few things which he enjoyed more than making a young boy wince under his cutting words. When Kenrick came to school, his wardrobe, the work of Fuzbeian artists, was not only well worn — for his mother was too poor to give him new clothes— but also of a somewhat odd cut ; and accordingly the very first words Mackworth had ever addressed to Kenrick were — "You new fellow, what's your father 1'' " My father is dead," said Kenrick, in a low tone. " Then what was he]" " He was curate of Fuzby." " Curate was he ; a slashing trade that," was the brutal reply. " Curate of Fuzby 1 are you sure it is n't Fusty f Kenrick looked at him with a strange glowing of the eyes, which, so far from disconcerting Mackworth, only made him chuckle at the success of his taunt. He determined to exercise the lancet of his tongue again, and let fresh blood if possible. " Well, glare-eyes ! so you didn't like my remark ]" Kenrick made no answer, and Mackworth con- tinued — " What charity boy has left you his cast-oif clothes 1 May I ask if your jacket was intended to serve also as a looking-glass ? and is it the custom in your part of the country not to wear breeches below the knees ?" There was a corrosive malice in this speech so in- 260 JONES AND MACKWOBTH. tense that Kenrick never saw Mackworth without re- calling the shame and anguish it had caused. Fresh from home, full of quick sensibility, feeling ridicule with great keenness, Kenrick was too much pained by these words even for anger. He had hung his head and slunk away. For days after, until, at his most ear- nest entreaty, his mother had incurred much privation to afford him a new and better suit, he had hardly dared to lift up his face. He had fancied himself a mark foi ridicule, and the sense of shabbiness and poverty had gone far to crush his spirit. After a time he recovered, but never since that day had he deigned to speak to Mackworth a single word. He was surprised, therefore, at the obtrusive imper- tinence of these two fellows, and when next he passed them, he surveyed them from head to foot with a haughty and indignant stare. The moment after he heard them burst into a laugh, and begin talking very loud. "It was the rummiest vehicle you ever saw," he heard Jones say ; " a cart, I assure you — nothing more or less, and drawn by the very scraggiest scarecrow of a blind horse" . . . He caught no more as the distance between them lessened, but he heard Jones bubbling over with a stupid giggle at some remark of Mackworth's about glare eyes being drawn by a blind horse. "How rude those fellows are. Ken," said Whalley; " what do they mean by it ?" "Dogs !" said Kenrick, stamping angrily, whil« hi*^ fece was scarlet with rage A IfRACAS 261 " If they're trying to annoy you, Ken," said Whalley, who was a very gentle, popular boy, " don't give them the triumph of seeing that they succeed. They're only Var- nish and White feather ; — we all know what they're like.'' *^Dogs!" said Kenrick again; I should like to pitch into them." "Let's leave them, and go and sit by the river, Ken." " No, Whalley. Fm sure they mean to insult me^ and I want to hear how, and why." There was no difficulty in doing this, for Jones and his ally were again approaching, and Jones was talking purposely loud. I never could bear the fellow ; gives himseK such airs." " Yes ; only fancy going to meet his friends in a hay- raggon ! what a start ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! " " It's such impudence in a low fellow like that" . . , and here Kenrick lost some words, for, as they passed, Jones lowered his voice ; but he heard, only too plainly, the words " father" and dishonest parson — the rest he could supply with fatal facility. For half an instant he stood paralyzed, his eyes burning with fury, but his face pale as ashes. The next second he sprang upon Jones, seized with both hands the collar of his coat, shook him, flung him violently to the ground, and kicked his hat, which had fallen off in the struggle, straight into the river. "What the deuce do you mean by thaf?" asked Jones, picking himself up. "I'D just give you — fifth 262 A SOENIL form, or no fifth form— the best licking jou , Kenrick ? " he asked. " Interfere, pooh ! It will do the young cub good ; he's too conceited, by half." " I never saw a little fellow less conceited, anyhow " Kenrick stared at him. " What business is it of yours, I should like to know 1 " " It is business of mine ; he is a good little fellow, and he's only kicked because the others can't make him as bad a lot as they are themselves ; there's that Wilton " " Shut up about Wilton, he's a friend of mine." " Then more shame for you," said Bliss. " He 's worth fifty such chickens as little Evson, any day." " Chickens ! " said Bliss, with a tone as nearly like contempt as he had ever assumed ; ''it's clear you don't know much about him ; I wish, Kenrick, you 'd do your duty more, and then the house would not be so bad as it is." Kenrick opened his eyes wide : he had never heard Bliss speak like this before. " I don't want the learned, the clever, the profound Bli.ss to teach me my 398 UNDER REPROOF. duty," he said, with a proud sneer ; " wliat business have you to abuse the house, because it is not full oi young ninnies like Evson ? You 're no roonitor ol mine, let me tell you." " You may sneer, Kenrick, at my being stupid, if you like ; but, for all your cleverness, I would n't be you for something ; and if you won^t interfere, as you ought, / will, if I can." And as Bliss said this, with clear fiaming anger, and fixed on Kenrick his eyes, which were lighted up with honest purpose, Kenrick thought he had never seen him look so handsome, oi so fine a fellow. " Yes, even he is superior to me now," he thought, with a sigh, as Bliss left the room. Poor Ken — there was no unhappier boy at St. Winifred's * as he ate of those ashy fruits of sin, they grew more and more dusty and bitter to his parched taste ; as he drank of that river of wayward pride, it scorched his heart and did not quench his thirst. CHAPTER THE THIKTY-THTRD. MARTYRDOM. " Since thou so deeply dost enquire. I will instruct thee briefly why no dread Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone Are to be feared whence evil may proceed. Nought else, for nought is terrible beside." Carey's JJanU RADUALLY the persecutions to which Charlie was subjected mainly turned on one point. His tormentors were so far tired of bullying him, that they would have left him in comparative peace if he would have yielded one point — which was this. The Noelites were accustomed now and then to have a grand evening " spread " as they called it, and when they had finished this supper, which was usually supplied by Dan, they generally began smoking, an amusement which they could enjoy after the lights were out. The smokers used to sit in the long corridor, which, as I have said, led to thoir 400 FIRM FOR TRUTH. dormitory, and the scout was always posted to warn tliein of approaching danger ; but as they did not be- gin operations till the master had gone his nightly rounds, and were very quiet about it, there was not much danger of their being disturbed. Yet although the windows of the corridor and dormitory were all left wide open, and every other precaution was taken, it was impossible to get rid of the fumes of tobacco so entirely as to avoid all chance of detection. They had, indeed, bribed the servants to secresy, but what they feared was being detected by some master. The No elites, therefore, of that dormitory had been accus- tomed to agree that if they were questioned by any master about the smell of smoking, the}^ would all deny that any smoking had taken place. The othei nine boys in the dormitory, with the doubtful excep- tion of Elgood, had promised that they would stick to this assertion in case of their being asked. The ques- tion was, " Would Charlie promise the same thing ? " If not, the boys felt doubly insecure — insecure about the stability of their falsehood and the secresy of their proceedings. And Charlie Evson, of course, refused to promise this. Single-handed he fought this battle against the other boys in his house, and in spite of solicitation, coaxing, entreaty, threats, and blows, steadily declared that he was no tell-tale, that he had never mentioned anything which had gone on in the house, but that ij ke were directly asked whether a particular act had A HARD STRUGGLE. 401 taken place or not, lie would still keep silence, but could not and would not tell a lie. Now some of the house — and especially Mackworth and Wilton — had determined, by the help of the rest, to crush this opposition, to conquer this obstinacy, as Ihey called it ; and, since Charlie's reluctance could not be overcome by persuasion or argument, to break it down by sheer force. So, night after night, a number of them gathered round Charlie, and tried every means which ingenuity or malice could suggest to make him yield on this one point ; the more so, because they well knew that to gain one concession was practically to gain all, and Charlie^s uprightness contrasted so un- pleasantly with their own base compliances, that his mere presence among them became, from this circum- stance, a constant annoyance. One boy with a high and firm moral standard, steadily and consistently good, can hardly fail to be most unpopular in a large house full of bad and reckless boys. It was a long and hard struggle ; so long that Charlie felt as if it would last for ever, and his strength would give way before he had wearied out his persecu- tors. For now it seemed to be a positive amusement, a pleasant occupation to them, night after night, to bully him. He dreaded, he shuddered at the return of evening ; he knew well that from the time when Evening VVorK bogan, till the rest were all asleep, he could look for little peace. Sometimes he was tempted to yield. He knew that at the bottom the follows did not really hate him, that lie might be very popular if he 2 D 403 WEARY IN W^L-T)OTNG. chose, even without going to nearly the same lengths as the others, and that if he would hut promise not to tell, his assent would he hailed with acclamations. Be- sides, said the tempter, the chances are very strongly in favour of your not heing asked at all about the matter, so that there is every probability of your not being called upon to tell the " cram ; " for by some deKcate distinction the falsehood presented itself under the guise of " a cram," and not of a naked lie ; that was a word the boys carefully avoided applying to it, and were quite angry if Charlie called it by its right name. One evening the poor little fellow was so weaxy and hopeless and sad at heart, and he had been thrashed so long and so severely, that he was very near yielding. A paper had been written, the signing of which was tacitly understood to involve a promise to deny that there had been any smoking at ni^ht if they were taxed with it ; and aU the boys except Elgood and Charlie had signed this paper. But the fellows did not care for Elgood ; they knew that he dared not oppose them long, and that they could make him do their bidding whenever the time came. Well, one evening, Charlie, in a weak mood, was on the verge of signing the paper, and thus purchasing a cessation of the long series of injuries and taunts from which he had been suffering. He was sitting up in bed, and had taken the pencil in hand to sign hia name. The boys, in an eager group round him, were calling h\m a regular brick, encouraging him, patting hira on the back, and sa^Tag that they had been 8ur»- SAVED. 403 all along that he was a nice little fellow, and wouIq come round at last. Elgood was among them, looking on with anxious eyes. He had immensely admired Charlie^s brave firmness, and nothing but reliance on the strength of his stronger will had encouraged him in the shadow of opposition. " If young Evson does it," he whispered, " I will directly." Charlie caught the whisper ; and in an agony of shame flung away the pencil. He had very nearly sinned himself, and forgotten the resolution which had been granted him in answer to his many prayers ; but he had seen the effects of bad example, and nothing should induce him to lead others with him into sin. " Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," was the instant supplication which rose from his inmost heart, as he threw down the pencil and pushed the paper aside. " 1 canH do it," he said ; I must not do it ; 1 Qever told a lie in my life that I remember. Don't ask me any more." Instantly the tone and temper of the boys changed. A shower of words, which I will not repeat, assailed his ears ; he was dragged out of bed and thrashed more unmercifully than he had ever been before. " You shall give way in the end, mind that," was the last admonition he received from one of the bigger fellows, as he dragged himself to his bed sobbing for pain, and achuig with disquietude of heart. The sooner it is the better ; for you little muffs and would-be saints don't go down with us." And then for a few evenings, when the candles «^ere put out, and the fellows had nothin^if better U) do 1:04 RESISTING EVIL, it used to be the regular thing for some one to suggest " Come, let's bait No-thank-you ; it'll be rare fun." Then another would say, " Come, No-thank-you, sign the paper Kke a good fellow, and spare yourself all the rest/' " Do," another insidious friend would add ; " I am quite sorry to see you kicked and thrashed so often/' " I'll strike a light in one second if you will," suggested a fourth. No, you won't ? oh, then, look out Master No-thank-you, look out for squalls." But still, however beaten or insulted, holding out like a man, and not letting the tears fall if he could help it. though they swam in his eyes for pain and grief, the brave boy resisted evil, and would not be forced to stain his white soul with the promise of a lie. There were some who, though they dared not say anything, yet looked on at this struggle with mingled shame and admiration — shame for themselves, admira- tion for Charlie. It could not be but that there were some hearts among so many which had not seared the tender nerves of pity, and more than once Charlie saw kindly faces looking at him out of the cowardly group of tormentors, and heard timid words of disapprobation spoken to the worst of those who bullied him. More often too, some young Noelite who met him during the day would seem to address him with a changed nature, would speak to him warmly and with friendliness, would shew by little kind words and actions that he felt for him and respected him, although he had not courage enough to resist publicly the opposing stream. And others of the baser «ort observed this. What if A FAILING HEART. 405 this one little new fellow should beat them after all, and end their domination, and introduce in spite of them a truer and better and more natural state vjf things? it was not to be tolerated for a moment, and he must bo put down with a strong hand at once. Meanwhile Charlie's heart was fast failing him, dying away within him ; for under this persecution his health and spirits were worn out. His face, they noticed, was far paler than when he came, his looks almost haggard, and his manner less sprightly than before. He had honourably abstained hitherto from giving Walter any direct account of his troubles, but now he yearned for some advice and comfort, and went to Walter's study, not to complain, but to ask if Walter thought there was any chance of his father removing him to another school, because he felt that at St. Winifred's he could neither be happy nor in any way succeed. " Well; Charlie boy, what can I do for you ?" said Walter, cheerfully pushing away the Greek Lexicon and Aristophanes over which he was engaged, and wheeling round the arm-chair to the fire, which he poked till there was a bright blaze. " Am 1 disturbing you at your work, Walter 1 " said the little boy, whose dejected air his brother had not noticed. " No, Charlie, not a bit ; ycni never disturb me. I was just thinking that it was about time to shut up, tor it's ahuost too dark to read, and we've nearly hali m hour before tea time ; so come her** and sit on m}' i06 DISENCHANTED. knee and have a chat. I haven't seen you for an age Charlie/^ Charhe said nothing, but he was in a weary mood, and was glad to sit on his brother's knee and put his arm round his neck ; for he was more than four years Walter's junior, and had never left home before, and that night the home -sickness was very strongly upon him. "Why, what's the matter, Charlie boyi" asked Walter, playfully. "What's the meaning of this pale face and red eyes 1 I'm afraid you haven't found St. Winifred's so jolly as you expected ; disenchanted already, eh 1 " "O Walter, I'm very very miserable," said Charlie, overcome by his brother's tender manner towards him ; and leaning his head on Walter's shoulder he sobbed aloud. " What is it, Charlie 1 " said Walter, gently stroking his light hair. " Never be afraid to teU me anything. You've done nothing wrong I hope." " O no, Walter. It 's because I won't do wrong that they bully me." " Is that it ? Then dry your tears, Charlie boy, for you may thank God, and nothing in earth or under the earth can make you do wrong if you determine not — letermine in the right way, you know, Charlie." " But it's so hard, Walter ; I didn't know it would be 80 very hard. The house is so bad, and no one helps me except Bliss. 1 don't think you were evei troubled as I am, Walter." " Never mind, Charlie. Only don't go wrong what^ THE TWO BROTHERS, 40t ever they do to you. You don't know how much thk will smooth your way all the rest of your school life. It's quite true what you say, Charlie, and the state oi the school is far worse than I ever knew it ; but that 's all the more reason we should do our duty, isn't it." Walter, but I know they'll make me do wrong some day. I wish I were at home. I wish 1 might leave. I get thrashed and kicked and abused every night, Walter, and almost all night long." " Do you," asked Walter, in angry amazement. " 1 knew that you were rather bullied— Eden told me that — but I never knew it was so bad as you say. By Jove, Charlie, I should like to catch some one bullying you, and — well, I'll warrant that he shouldn't do it again." " Oh, I forgot, Walter, I oughtn't to have told you ; they made me promise not. Only it is so wretched." " Never mind, my poor little Charlie," said Walter. "Do what's right and shame the devil, I'll see if 1 can't devise some way of helping you j but anyhow, hold up till the end of term, and then no doubt father will take you away if you still wish it. But what am I to do without you, Charlie 1 " "You're a dear, dear good brother," said Charlie, gratefully ; and but for you, Walter, I should have given in long ago." " No, Charlie, not for me, but for a truer friend than even I can be, though I love you with aU my heart But will you promise rae one thing faithfully?" " Yes, that I will." WeU, promise me then that, do what they wUl, thej/ 408 THE TWO BK0THER6. shau't make you tell a lie, or do anything else that you know to be wrong." 1 '11 promise you, Walter, if I can,'' said the little boy humbly ; " but I Ve been doing my best for a long time." You couldn't tell a lie, Charlie boy, without being found out ; that I feel sure of,*' said Walter, smihng, as he held his brother's ingenuous face between his hands, and looked at it. I don't doubt you for an instant ; but I'll have a talk with Power about you. As head of the school he may be able to do something perhaps. It's Kenrick's duty properly, but" " Kenrick, Walter ? He 's of no use ; he lets the house do just as it likes, and I think he must have taken a dislike to me, for he turned me off quite roughlj from being his fag." " Never mind him or any one else, Charlie. You're a brave little fellow, and I'm proud of you. There's the tea-bell ; come in with me." Ah, Walter, it's only in the evenings when you're away that I get pitched into. If I were but in the same house with you, how jolly it would be." And he looked wistfully after his brother as they parted at the door of the hall, and Walter walked up to the chief table where the monitors sate, while he went to find a place among the boys in his own form and house. He lound that they had poured his tea into his plate over his bread and butter, so he got very little to eat or drink that evening. it was dark as they streamed out after tea to go into ENCOURAGEMENT. 409 the Great Schoolroom, and he heard Eigood's tremulous voice saying to him " 0 Evson, shall you give way to night, and sign ? " " Why to-night in particulai, Elgood V Because I've heard them say that they're going to have a grand gathering to-night, and to make you, and me too ; but I can't hold out as you do, Evson." " I shall try not to give way ; indeed, I won't be made to tell a lie," said Charlie, thinking of his inter- view with Walter, and the hopes it had inspired. " Then / won't either," said Elgood, plucking up courage. But we shall catch it awfully, both of us." " They can't do more than lick us," said Charlie, trying to speak cheerily, " and I've been Kcked so often that I'm getting accustomed to it." "And I'd rather be licked," said a voice beside them, " and be like you two fellows, than escape being Hcked, and be like Stone and Symes, or even like myself." "Who's that]" asked Elgood, hastily, for it was not light enough to see. " Me — Hanley. Don't you fellows give in; it will only make you miserable, as it has done me." They went in to preparation, which was succeeded by chapel, and then to their dormitories. They un- dressed and got into bed, as usual, although they knew that they should be very soon disturbed, for various signs told them that the rest had some task in hand. Accordingly, the lights were barely put out, when a scout was posted, the candles were re-lighted, and a tio ELGOOD. number of other Noelites, headed by Mack worth, caruf crowding into the dormitory. Now you, No-thank-you, youVe got one last chance — here this paper for you to sign ; fellows have always signed it before, and you shall too, whether you like or no. We're not going to alter our rules because of you. We want to have a supper again in a day or two, and we can't have you sneaking about it." Mack- worth was the speaker. " I don't want to sneak," said Charlie, firmly ; *^ you ' ve been making me wretched, and knocking me about, all these weeks, and I've never told of you yet." " We don't want any orations ; only Yes or No — will you sign V "Stop," said Wilton, "here's another fellow, Mac, who hasn't signed;" and he dragged Elgood out of bed by one arm. " Oh, you haven't signed, haven't you? WeU, we shall make short work of you. Here's the pencil, here's the paper, and here's the place for your name. Now, you poor little fool, sign without giving us any more trouble." Elgood trembled and hesitated. " Look here," said Mackworth, brutally ; " I don't want to break such a butterfly as you upon the wheel, but — how do you like that ? " He drew a cane from behind his back, and brought it down sharply on Elgood's knuckles, who, turning very white, sat down and scrawled his name hastily on the paper ; but no sooner had he done it than, looking up, caught COUKAGE ! 411 Charlie's pitying glance upon him, and running the pencil through his signature, said no more, but pushed the paper hastily away and cowered down, expecting another blow, while Charlie whispered, " Courage/' " You must take the other fellow first, Mac, if you want to get on,'' suggested Wilton. Evson, as a friend, I advise you not to refuse." " As a friend!^' said Charlie, with simple scorn, look- ing full at Wilton. " You are no friend of mine ; and, Wilton, I wouldn't even now change places with you.'* "Wouldn't youl — Pitch into him, Mac. And you," he said to Elgood, " you may wait for the present." He administered a backhander to Elgood as he spoke, and the next minute Charlie, roused beyond all bearing, had knocked him down. Twenty times before he would have been tempted to fight Wilton, if he could have reckoned upon fair play ; but what he could stand in his own person was intolerable to him to witness when applied to another. Wilton sprang up in perfect fury, and a fight began ; but Mackworth at once pulled Charlie off, and said, " Fight him another time, if you condescend to do so. Raven ; don't you see now that it's a mere dodge of his to get oJff. Now, No-thank-you, the time has come for deeds ; we've had words enough. You stand there." He pushed Charhe in front of him. " Now, will you sign ?" " Never,' said Charhe, in a low but firm tone. "Then" '* Not with the cane^ not with the canty Mackworth,' il2 CHARLIK PROSTRATED. cried several voices in agitation, but not in time to pre- vent the cane descending with heavy blow across the child's back. Charlie's was one of those fine, nervous, susceptible temperaments, which feel every physical sensation, and every mental emotion, with tenfold severity. During the whole of this scene, so painfully anticipated, in which he had stood alone among a group of boys, whose sole object seemed to be to shew their hatred, and who were twice as strong as himself, his feelings had been highly wro ight ; and though he had had many oppor- tunities ol late to train his delicate organization into manly endurance, yet the sudden anguish of this unex- pected blow quite conquered him. A thrilling cry broke from his lips, and the next moment, when the cane again tore his shoulders, a fit of violent hysteria supervened which alarmed the brutes who were trying to master his noble resolution. And at this crisis the door burst open with a sudden crash, and Bliss entered in a state of burning indigna- tion, follov^^ed more slowly by Kenrick. Oh, 1 am too late," he said, stamping his foot , what have you been doing to the little fellow?" and thrusting some of them aside, he took up Charlie in his arms, and gradually soothed and calmed him till his wild sobs and laughter were hushed, while the rest looked on silent. But feeling that Charlie shrank a.^ though a t-i^uch were painful to him. Bliss unbared hia back, and ihe two blue weals ail across it shewed him what had been dona BLISS. 413 Look there, Kenrick/' he said, with great sternness, as he pointed to the marks ; and then, laying Charlie gently down on his bed, he thundered out, in a voice shaken with passion, " You dogs, could you look on and allow this ? By heavens, Kenriek, if you mean to suffer this, I won^t. Out of my way, you." Scattering the rest before him like a flock of sheep, he seized Mackworth with his strong hands, shook him violently by both shoulders, and then tearing the cane out of his grasp, he demanded, "Was it yuu who did this " What are you about, you Bliss ? " said Mackworth, with very ruffled dignity. " Mind what you're after, and don't make such a row, you ass's head," he jontinued, authoritatively, "or you 11 have i!^oel or some one in here." " Oh I that's your tone, you cruel, reprobate bully," said Bliss, supplied by indignation with an unusual flow of words ; " we 've had enough of that, and too much. You can look at poor little Evson there, and not sink into the very earth for shame ! By heavens, Belial, you shall receive what you've given. I'll beat you as if you were a dog. Take that," The cut which followed shewed that he was in desperate earnest, and that however immovable he might generally be, it was by no means safe to trifle with him in such a mood as this. Mackworth tried in vain to seize the cane ; Bliss turned him round and round as if he were a child ; and as it was quite clear that he did not mean to have done with him just yet, Mackworth's impudent bravado was changed into abject terror as he received a 414 KENRICK SHAMED. second weighty stroke, so heartily administered, that the cane bent round him, in the hideous way wnich canes have, and caught him a blow on the ribs. Mackworth sprang away, and fled, howling with shame and pain, through the open door, but not until Bliss had given him two more blows on the back, with one of the two cutting open his coat from the collar downwards, with the other leaving a mark at least as black as that which he had inflicted on the defenceless Charlie. To your rooms the rest of you wretches,^' said he, as they dispersed in every direction before him. Kenrick,'' he continiied, brandishing the cane, " 1 may be a dolt, as youVe called me before now, but since you won't do your duty, henceforth I wiU do it for you." Kenrick slank off, half afraid that Bliss would apply the cane to Mm ; and, speaking in a tone of authority, Bliss said to the boys in the dormitory, " If one of you henceforth touch a hair of Evson's head, look out ; you know me. You little scamp and scoundrel Wilton, take especial care." He enforced the admonition by making Wilton jump with a little rap of the cane, which he then broke, and flung out of window. And then, his whole manner changing instantly into an almost womanly tenderness, he sate by poor little Charlie, soothing and comforting him till his hysterical sobs had ceased ; and, when he felt sure that the fit was over, gently bade him good night, and went out, leaving the svHiin in decse silence, which no one ventured to brea^ A CONQTTEROR. 415 but the warm-hearted little Hanley, who, going to Charlie's bedside, said — " 0, Charlie, are you hurt much 1 " " "No, not very much, thank you, Hanley." Hanley pressed his hand, and said, " You Ve con quered, Charlie ; youVe liold out to the end. Oh, ] wihh T were like yoiu" CHAPTEE THE THIKTY-FOUKTH A CONSriRACY FOILED. Ocrre PL you, Tracv." said Walter; "that was spoken NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND 429 like a man. WeVe known each other for some time now, and I wish we could get on more unitedly. You might do some good in the school if you chose." " Not much, I'm afraid now," said Tracy, "but I'll Mai)y." "Well, then, Tracy, we'll shake hands on that re- solve, and bygones shall be bygones,'' said Henderson. You'll forgive my making fun of you this morning." He shook hands with Henderson and with Walter, while Power, holding out his hand, said, smiling, " It's never too late to mend." " No," said Tracy, looking at one of his boots, which he had a habit of putting out before the other. " He applied your remark to his boots, Power," said Henderson, laughing. " Did you observe how the crack in one of them distressed him ? " So the monitors separated, not without hopes that things were beginning to look a little brighter than before. CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH. THE FINAL FRACAS. FA 7A/0 alaxp^ dvbixaTa, ovra irpdyfjiara^ eiibdacnv Mpurrroi ix Toi M 7r\€iii says he sm^ him take it." 438 DETECTED. " Why, Charlie, what have you been doing ?" said Walter, looking at his brother s bruised and smeared face, in surprise. " Only a fight," said Charlie ; " I couldn't help it, Walter; Wilton struck me because I charged Fenn with taking the bottle." **Are you absolutely certain that you saw him, Charlie?" Yes; I couldn't possibly be mistaken." Well then, clearly Fenn must be searched," said Walter. " But stop," said Power; "aren't we beginning at the wrong end ? Fenn, no doubt, if we ask him quietly, will empty his pockets for our satisfaction." " No, I won't," said Fenn, who was now dogged and sullen. " Well, Kenrick has taken your part ; will you let him or me search you privately?" "No!" "Then search him, Henderson." Instantly a rapid movement took place among the boys as though to prevent this; but before anything could be done, Henderson had seized Fenn by both wrists, and Whalley, diving a hand into his right pocket, drew out and held up a little ornamental scent-bottle ! This decisive proof produced for a moment a dead silence among the loud voices raised in altercation ; and then Power said — " Fenn, you are convicted of lying and theft What is St Winifred's coming to, when fellows can act like TWO PARTIES. 439 this ■? How am I to punish him ] " he asked, turning to some of the monitors. " Here and now, red-handed, flagrante delicto^'^ said Walter. Some of these lower fellows need an ex- ample.^' " I think you are right. Symes, fetch me a cane." " You shan't touch him," said Kenrick ; "you'd no right to search him, in the first place." " I mean to cane him, Kenrick. Who will prevent mer' " We will," said several voices ; among which Har- pour's and Mackworth's were prominent. " You mean to try and prevent it hy force ] " Yes." " And, Kenrick, you abet this ? " " I do," said Kenrick, who had lost all self control " I shall do it, nevertheless ; it is my plain duty." " And I recommend you all not to interfere," said Walter ; " for it must and shall be done." " Harpour," said Franklin, remember, if you try force, I for one am against you the moment you stir." " And I," said Bliss, stepping in front of Power ; "and I," said Eden, Cradock, Anthony, and others — among whom was Tracy — taking their places by the monitors, and forming a firm front together. Symes brought the cane. Power took it, and another monitor held Fenn firmly by the wrists. At the first stroke, some of the biggest fifth-form fellows made a rush forward, but they were flung back, and could not break the line, while Harpour measured hLs 440 PUT TO THE ROUT. fall length on the turf from the effects of the buffet which Franklin dealt him. Kenrick was among those who pressed forward ; and then, to his surprise and shame, Walter, who was the stronger of the two, grasped him by the shoulder, held him back, and said in a low tone, firm yet kind, " You must excuse my doing this, Kenrick ; but otherwise you might suffer for it, and ] think you will thank me afterwards." Kenrick was astonished, and he at once desisted. Those were the first and only words which Walter had spoken to him, the only time Walter had touched him, for nearly three years ; and in spite of all the abuse, calumny, and opposition which Walter had encountered at his hands, Kenrick could not but feel that they were wise words, prompted, like the action itself, by the spirit of true kindness. He said nothing, but abruptly turned away and left the ground. The struggle had not lasted a moment, and it was thoroughly repulsed. There could not be the least doubt of that, or of the fact that those who were on the side of righteous order outnumbered and exceeded in strength the turbulent malcontents. Power inflicted on Fenn a severe caning there and then. The attempt to prevent this, audacious and unparalleled as it was, afforded by its complete failure yet another proof that things were coming round, and that these efforts of the monitors to improve the tone of the lower boys would tell with greater and greater force. Even the character of the Noelites was beginning to improve ; in that bad house a single little new boy had successfnlly braved DESPERATE. 4cil an organised antagonism to all that was good, and hy his victorious virtuous courage had brought over others to the side of right, triumphing, by the mere force of good principle, over a banded multitude of boys far older, abler, and stronger than himself. 80 that now Harpour, Mackworth, and Jones, were confined more and more to their own society, and were forced to keep their misconduct more and more to themselves. They sullenly admitted that they were foiled and thwarted, and from that time for- ward left the school to recover as fast as it could from their vicious influence. Among their other consola- tions — for they found themselves shunned on all sides — they proposed to go and have a supper at Dan^s. One day, before the events last narrated. Power had seen them go in there. He had sent for them at once, and told them that they must know how strictly this was forbidden, what a wretch Dan was, and how ruinous such visits to his cottage must be. They knew well that if he informed of them they would be instantly ex- pelled, and entreated him with very serious earnestness to pass it over this time, the more so because they had no notion that any monitor would ever tell of them, because, since he had been a monitor, Kenrick had ac- companied them there. Shocked as he was to hear this, it had determined Power not to report them, on the condition, which he made known to the other monitors, and of which he specially and pointedly gave warning to Kenrick, that they would not so offend again. This promise they wilfully broke, feehng per- 4:42 HAltPOUR, JONES, AND fectly secure, because Dan^s cottage was at a remote and lonely part of the shore, where few boys ever walked^ and where they had very little chance of being seen, if they took the precaution of entering by a back gate. But within a week of Fenn's thrashing, Walter was strolling near the cottagt? with Eden and Charlie, and having climbed the cliff a little way to pluck for Eden (who had taken to botany) a flower of the yellow horned poppy which was waving there, he saw them go in to Dan's door, and with them — as he felt sure — little Wilton. The very moment, however, that he caught sight of them, the fourth boy, seeing him on the cliff, had taken vigorously to his heels and scrambled away behind the rocks. Walter had neither the wash nor the power to overtake him, and as he had not so much seen Wilton as inferred wdth tolerable certainty that it was he, he only reported Harpour, Mackworth, and Jones to Dr. Lane ; at the same time sending for Wil- ton to tell him of his suspicion and to give him a severe and earnest warning. Dr. Lane, on the best possible grounds, had re- peatedly announced that he would expel any boy who had any dealings with the scoundrel Dan. He was not likely to swerve from that declaration in any case, still less for the sake of boys whose school career had been so dishonourable and reprobate as that of these three offenders. They were all three publicly expelled without mercy and without delay ; and they departed, carrying with them, as they well deserved to do, the contempt and almost the execration of the great nuijority of the school MACKWORTH EXPELLED. 443 In the course of their examination before the headmaster, Jones, with a meanness and malice thoroughly characteristic, had said, " that he did not know there was any harm in going to Dan's, be- cause Kenrick, one of the monitors, had done the same thing." At the time, Dr. Lane had contemp- tuously silenced him, with the remark, " that he would gain nothing by turning informer ; " but he had rea- son to suspect, and even to know, that what Jones said was in this instance true. He knew, too, from other quarters, how unsatisfactorily Kenrick had been going on, and the part he had taken in several acts of insubordination and disobedience. Accordingly, no sooner had Harpour, Jones, and Mackworth been banished from St. Winifred's, than he sent for Ken- rick, and administered to him a reprimand so uncom- promising and stern, that Kenrick never forgot it to the end of his life. After upbraiding him for those many inconsistencies and follies, which had forfeited the strong esteem and regard which he once felt for him, he pointed out finally how he was wasting his school- life, and how little his knowledge and ability could re- deem his neglect of duty and betrayal of trust ; and he ended by saying, " All these reasons, Kenrick, have made me seriously doubt whether I should not degrade you altogether from your position of monitor and head of a house. It would be a strong step, but not stronger than you deserve. I am alone prevented by a deep and sincere wish that you should yet recover from youi 444 BEFORE DR. LANE. fall ; and that, by knowing that some slight trust is stil] reposed in you, you may do something to prove your- self worthy of that trust, and to regain our confidence. I content myself, therefore, with putting you from youi present place to the lowest on the list of monitors — a public mark of my displeasure, which I am sure you will feel to be just ; and I must also remove you from the headship of your house — a post which I grieve to know that you have very grievously misused. I shall put Whalley in your place, as it happens that no moni- tor can be conveniently spared. He, therefore, is now the head of Mr. Noel's house ; and, so far, you will be amenable to his authority, which, I hope, you will not attempt to resist." Kenrick, very full of bitter thoughts, hung his head, and said nothing. To know Dr. Lane was to love and to respect him ; and this poor fatherless boy did feel very great pain to have incurred bis anger. " I am unwilling, Kenrick," continued the Doctor, ** to dismiss you without adding one word of kind ness. You know that I have your welfare very closely at heart, and that I once felt for you a warm and per- sonal regard ; I trust that I may yet be able to bestow it upon you again. Go and use your time better; remember that you are a monitor ; remember that the wellbeing of many others depends in no slight mea- sure on your conscientious discharge of your duties; check yourself in a career which only leads fast to ruin; and thank God, Kenrick, that you are not actually expelled as those three boys have been, but KENRICK DEGRADED. 446 tKat you have still time and opportunity to amend, and to win again the character you once had." Turned out of his headship to give way to a fifth- form boy, turned down to the bottom of the monitors, poor Kenrick felt unspeakably degraded ; but he was forced to endure a yet more bitter mortification. Before going to Dr. Lane he had received a message that he was wanted in the sixth- form room, and, with a touch of his old pride, had answered, "Tell them I won't come." Hardly had he reached his own study after leaving the Doctor, when Henderson entered with a grave face, and saying, " I am sorry, Kenrick, to be the bearer of this,'' handed to him a folded sheet of paper. Opening it, he found that, at the monitors' meeting, to which he had been summoned, an unanimous vote of censure had been passed upon him in his absence, for the opposition which he had always displayed against his colleagues, and for the disgraceful part which he had taken in attempting to coerce them by force in the case of Fenn. The document concluded, We are therefore obliged, though with great reluctance, to take the unusual step of recording in the monitor's book this vote of censure against Kenrick, fourth monitor, for the bad example he has set and the great harm he has done, in at once betraying our interests and violating the first conditions on which he received his own authority : and we do this, not in anger, but solely in the hope that this unanimous condemnation of his conduct by his coadjutors may serve to recall him to a ^eaae of his duty.'' 446 THE NAMES. Appended were the names of all the monitors ; — but, no ; as he glanced over the names he saw that one was absent, the name of Walter Evson. Evidently, it was not because Walter disapproved of the measure, for, had this been the case, Kenrick knew that his name would have appeared at the end as a formal dissentient ; — ^no, the omission of his name was due, Kenrick saw, to that same high reserve, and delicate, courteous con- sideration which had marked the whole of Walter's be- haviour to him since the day of their disastrous quarrel. Kenrick appreciated this delicacy, and his eyes were suffused with tears. Wilton, somewhat cowed by recent occurrences, was the only boy in his study at the time, and though Kenrick would have been glad to have some one near him, to whom he could talk, of the dis- graces which had fallen so heavily upon him, and to whom he could look for a little sympathy and counsel, yet to Wilton he felt no inclination to be at all com- municative. There was, indeed, something about Wilton which he could not help liking, but there was and could be no sort of equality between them. *'Ken," said Wilton, "do you remember telling me the other day that I was shedding crocodile tears ? — what are crocodile tears 1 IVe always been wanting to ask you." "It's just a phrase, Ra, for sham tears ; and it was very rude of me, wasn't it ? Herodotus says something about crocodiles ; perhaps hell explain it for us. I'd look and see if I had my Herodotus here, but I lost it nearly three years ago." IHE LOST HERODOTUS. i47 By one of those curious coincidences, which look strange in books, but which happen daily in common life, Tracy at this moment entered with tbe lost Hero- dotus in his hand, saying — Kenrick, I happened to be hunting out the class- room cupboard just now for a book I'd mislaid, when I found a book with your name in it — an Herodotus ; so I thought I'd bring it you/' " By Jove !" said Wilton, " talk of" " Herodotus, and he'll appear," said Kenrick ; " how very odd. It's mine, sure enough. I lost it, as I was just telling Wilton, I don't know how long ago. Now, Raven, 111 find you all he says about crocodiles." " Before you look, may I tell you something ? " asked Tracy. " I wanted an opportunity to speak with you." " WelU" "Do you mind coming out into the court, theni" said Tracy, glancing at Wilton. " Oh, never mind me," said Wilton ; " I'll go out." " I shan't be a minute," said Tracy, " and then you can come back. What I wanted to say, Kenrick, was only this, and it was a great shame of me not to tell you before ; but I see now that I Ve been a poor tool in the hands of those fellows. Jones made you believe, you know, that Evson had told him all about your home affairs, and about the pony- chaise, and so on," eoid Tracy, hurrying over the obnoxious subject. " Yes, yes," said Kenrick, impatiently. " Well, he never did, you know. I've heard Jon^ confess it often with his own lips." 448 DISABUSED AT LAST. " How can I believe him in one lie more thm another, then ? I believe the fellow couldn't open his lips without a lie flying out of them. How could Jones possibly have known about it any other way 1 There was only one fellow who could have told him, and that was Evson. Evson 7nust have told me a lie when he said that he'd mentioned it to no one but Power." " I don't believe Evson ever told a lie in his life," said Tracy. " However, I can explain your difficulty ; Jones was in the same train as Evson ; he saw you and him ride home ; and, staying at Littleton, the next town to where you live, he heard all about you there. I've heard him say so." "The black-hearted brute !" was all that Kenrick could ejaculate, as he paced up and down his study with agitated steps. " 0 Tracy, what an utter, utter ass, and fool, and wretch, I've been." " So have I," said Tracy ; " but I 'm sorry now, and hope to improve. Better late than never. Good morning, Kenrick." When Wilton returned to the study a quarter of an hour after, he found Kenrick's attention riveted by a note which he held in his hand, and which he seemed to be reading with his whole soul. So absorbed was he that he was not even disturbed by Wilton's entrance. Listlessly turning over the pages of his Herodotus to divert his painful thoughts by looking for the passage about the crocodiles, Kenrick had found an old note directed to himself. Painful thoughts, it seems, were THE LONG-LOST NOTE. to give him no respite that day ; how well he knew fchat handwriting, altered a little now, more firm and mature, but even then a good, though a boyish hand. He tore it open ; it was dated three years back, and signed Walter Evson. It was the long lost note in jvhich Walter, once or twice rebuffed, had frankly and even earnestly asked pardon for anj supposed fault, and begged for an immediate reconciliation ; — the very note which Walter of course imagined that Kenrick had received, and from his not taking any notice of it, inferred, that all hope of renewing their friendship was finally at an end. Kenrick could not help thinking how very different a great part of his school-life wouW have been, had that note but come to hand ! He saw it all now as clearly as possible — his haste, his rash and false inferences, his foolish jealousy, his impetuous pride, his quick degeneracy, all the mischief he had caused, all the folly he had done, all the time he had wasted. Disgraced, degraded, despised by the best fellows in the school, censured unanimously by his colleagues, given up by masters whom he respected, without a single true friend, grievously and hopelessly in the wrong from the very commencement, he now felt bowed down and conquered, and, to Wilton^s amaze- ment, he laid his head upon his arms on the table before him without saying a word, and broke into a heavy sob. If his conscience had not declared against him, he could have borne everything else ; but when conscience is our enemy, there is no chance of a mind at ease. Kenrick sat there miserable and self-con 2 G 450 HIS OWN WORST ENEMY. demned ; lie had injured his friend, injured his fellows, And injured, most deeply of all, himself. For, a« the poet sings — " He that wrongs his friend, Wrongs himself more ; and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast ; Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar, ever condemned And that drags down his Ufo.'' CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH. IN THE DEPTHS. How easy to keep free from sin, How hard that freedom to recall ! For dreadful truth it is, that men Forget the heavens from which they fall. Gov. Patmorh T may be thought strange that Kenrick did not at once, while his heart was softened, and when he saw so clearly how much he had erred, go there and then to Walter, con- |")\ fess to him that everything was now ex- plained, that he had never received his last J^^^^ note, and that, for his own sake, he desired to be restored, as far as was possible, to his former footing. If that had not been for Kenrick a period of depression and ill-repute, he would undoubtedly have done so ; but he did not like to go, now that he was in disgrace, now that his friendship could do no credit, and, as he feared, confer no pleasure on any one, and under circumstances which would make it appear that he had changed his views under the influence of 452 IMPROVEMJfiiSr. selfish interest, rather than of true conviction c>r gene reus impulse. He thought, too, that friendship over was like water spilt, and could not be gathered up again ; that it was like a broken thread which cannot again be smoothly re-united. So things remained on the same footing as before, except that Kenrick^s whole demeanour was changed for the better. He bore hie punishment in a quiet and manly way ; took his place without a murmur below Henderson at the bottom of the monitors ; did not by any bravado attempt to con- ceal that he felt justly humiliated, and gave Whalley his best assistance in governing the Noelites, and bring- ing them back by slow but sure degrees to a better tone of thought and feeling. Towards Walter especially his whole manner altered. Hitherto he had made a point of always opposing him, and taking every oppor- tunity to shew him a strong dislike. If Walter had embraced one opinion at a monitor's meeting, it was quite sufficient reason for Kenrick to support another ; if Walter had spoken on one side at the debating society, Kenrick held it to be a logical consequence that, what- ever he thought, he should speak on the other, and usr his powers of speaking, which were considerable, to throw on Walter's illustrations and arguments all the ridicule he could. All this folly and virulence was now abandoned ; the swagger which Kenrick had adopted was from that time entirely laid aside. At the very next meeting of the debating society he spoke, as indeed he generally thought, on the same side with Walter : and spoke, not in his usual flippant conceited RKCANIATION. 453 Style, but more seriously and earnestly, treating Walter's speech with approval and almost with deference. Every one noticed and rejoiced in this change of man ner, and none more so than Walter Evson and Power. Kenrick finished with these words — " Gentlemen, before I sit down I have a task to perform, which, however painful it may be to me, it is due to you that I should not neglect. I may do it now, because I see that none but the sixth form are present, and because I may not have another early opportunity. I have incurred, as you are all well aware, an unanimous vote of censure from my colleagues — unanimous, although, through a delicacy which I am thankful to be still capable of keenly appreciating, the name of one" . . . the word "friend" sprang to his lips, but humility forbade him to adopt it, and he said, ..." the name of one moni- tor is absent from the appended signatures. Gentlemen, I do not like public recantations or public professions, but I feel it my duty to acknowledge without palliation that I feel the censure to have been deserved." His voice faltered with emotion as he proceeded. " I ha ve been misled, gentlemen, and I have been labouring for a long time under a grievous mistake, which has led me to do much injustice and inflict many wrongs ; for these errors I nov/ ask the pardon of all. and especially of those who are most concerned. Your censure, gentle- men, cone uded with i kind and friendly wish, and I cannot trus myself to say more now, than to echo that wish with all my heart, and to hope that ere long the 454 rHK MONITORS^ MEETING. efforts which I shall endeavour to make may succeed in persuading you to give me back your confidence and esteem, and to erase from the book the permanent record of your recent disapproval." Every one present felt how great must have been the suffering which could wring such an expression of regret from a nature so proud as Kenrick's. They listened in silence, and when he sate down greeted him with an applause which shewed how readily he might win their regard ; while many of them came round him and shook hands with warmth. " Gentlemen," said Power, rising, " I am sure we all feel that the remarks we have just heard do honour to the speaker. I hold in my hand the monitors' book, open at the page on which our censure was written After what we have heard there can be no necessity why that page should remain where it is for a single day. I beg to move that leave may be given me to tear it out at once." " And I am eager to second the motion," said Henderson, starting up at the same moment with several others ; " and, Kenrick, — if I may break through, on such an occasion as this, our ordinary forms, and address you by name, — I am sure you will believe that though I have very often opposed you, no one will be more glad than myself to welcome you back as a friend, and to hope that you may soon be, what you are so capable of being, not only our greatest support, but also one of the brightest ornaments of our body." He held out his hand, which Kenrick readily grasped, whisper- REFORMATION, 455 Ing, with a sigh, " Ah, Flip, how 1 wish that we had never broken with each other ! " The proposal was carried by acclamation, and Power accordingly tore out the sheet and put it in the fire. And that night brightened for Kenrick into the dawn of better days. Twenty times over Walter thought that Kenrick was going to speak to him — for his manner was quite different ; but Kenrick, though every particle of ill-will had vanished from his mind, and had been replaced by his old unimpaired affection, put off the reconciliation until he should have been able in some measure to recover his old position, and to meet hist friend on a footing of greater equality. Do not let any one think that his reformation was boo easy. It took him long to conquer himself, and He found the task sorely difficult ; but after many failures and relapses, the words of another who had sinned and suffered three thousand years ago, and who, after many a struggle, had discovered the true secret, came home to Kenrick and whispered to him the message — " Then I said, It is mine own infirmity : but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most Highest." It was not long before one great difficulty confronted him, the consequence of formei- misdeeds, and put him onder circumstances which demanded the whole courage of his character, and thoroughly tested the sincerity of his repentance. After Mack worth's expulsion, and under Whalley'g good government the state of the Noelites greatly 456 A NEW TROUBLE- improved. Charlie Evson, tor wiiom, now, by the bye. Kenrick always did everything that lay in his power, became far more a model among the younger boys than Wilton had ever been, and there was a final end of suppers, smoking parties, organised cribbing, and recog- nised " crams." But just as the house was recovering fost ground, and had ceased to be quite a byeword in the school, it was thrown into consternation by a long- continued series of petty thefts. Small sums were extracted from the boys' jacket pockets after they had gone to bed; from the play boxes which were not provided with good locks and keys ; from the private desks in the class-rooms, from the dormitories, and from several of the studies. There was no clue to the offender, and first of all suspicion fell strongly on the new boy, little Elgood. A fe\^ trifling items of circumstantial evidence seemed to point him out, and it began to be gradually whispered, no one exactly knew how or by whom, that he must be the guilty boy. Hints were thrown out to him to this effect ; little bits of paper, on which were written the words " Thou shalt not steal," or " The devil will have thieves," were dropped about in his books and wherever 1 e was likely to find them, and whenever the subject vas brought on the tapis his manner was closely watched. The effect was unsatisfactory ; for Elgood was a timid nervous boy, and the uneasiness to which this nervousness gave rise was set down as a sign of guilt. At length a sovereign and a half were stolen out of Whalley^s study, and as Elgood, being Whalley's ELGOOD UNDER SUSPICION. 457 fag, had constant access to the study, and might very well have known that Whalley had the money, and in what place he kept it, the prevalent suspicions were confirmed. The boys, with their usual thoughtless haste, leapt to the conclusion that he must have been the thief. The house was in a perfect ferment. However lightly one or two of them, like Fenn, may have thought about taking trifles from small tradesmen, there was not a single one among them, not even Fenn himself, whose morality did not brand this thieving from school- fellows as wicked and mean. The boys felt, too, that it was a stigma on their house, and unhappily just at the time when the majority were really anxious to raise their corporate reputation. Every one was filled with annoyance and disgust, and felt an anxious determina- tion to discover and give up the thief. At last the suspicions against Elgood proceeded so far, that out of mere justice to him the heads of the house, Whalley, Kenrick, and Bliss, thought it right that he should be questioned. So, after tea, all the house assembled in the class-room, and Elgood was formally charged with the delinquency, and questioned about it, Wilton, in particular, urging him in almost a bullying tone to surrender and confess. The poor child was overwhelmed with terror — cried, blushed, answered incoherently, and lost his head, but would net for a moment confess that he had done it, and pro tested his innocence with many sobs and tears. " Well. T suppose if he persists in denying it, we 458 CHARLIE'S ADVOCACY. can*t go any turther," said Kenrick ; "but I'm afraid, Elgood, that you must have had something to do with it, as every one seems to see ground for suspecting you," "Oh, I hadn't, I hadn't ; indeed I hadn%" waUed Elgood ; " I wish you wouldn't say so, Kenrick ; indeed I'm innocent, and I'd rather write home for the money ten times over than be suspected." " So would any one, you little fool," said Wilton. "Don't bully him in that way, Wilton," said WhaUey; "it's not the way to get the truth out of him. Elgood, I should have thought you innocent, if you didn't behave so oddly." " May I speak modestly asked a new voice. The speaker was Charlie Evson. "Yes, certainly," said Kenrick, in an encouraging tone. " Well then, please, Kenrick, and the whole of you, I think you ?iave had the truth out of him ; and I think he is innocent." " Why, Charlie ?" said WhaUey ; "what makes you think sor' " Because I've asked him, and talked to him privately about it," said Charlie ; " when you frighten him he gets confused, and contradicts himself, but he can explain whatever looks suspicious if you ask him kindly and quietly." " Bosh !" said Wilton ; " who frightened him V " Silence, Wilton," said Whalley. " Well, Charhe, you question him now for us 1 " INNOCENCE CLEARED 459 " That I will," said Charlie, advancing and putting hiB hand kindly on Elgood's shoulder, as he seated himself on the desk by which Elgood was standing. " Will you tell us, as I ask you, aU you told me this morning?" " Yes," said Elgood, eagerly, while his whole man- ner changed from nervous tremor to perfect simpli- city and quiet, now that he had a friend to stand by him. " Well, now, about the money you've been spend- ing lately ] " questioned Charlie, with a smile. " You use n't to be so flush of cash, you know, a month ago." " I can tell you," answered Elgood ; " I had a very large present — large for me, I mean — three weeks ago, My father sent me a pound, because it was my birth- day, and my big brother and aunt sent me each a pound too." " I can answer for that being perfectly true," said CharHe, " for I went with my brother to the post-ofi&ce this afternoon and asked, and found that Elgood had had three money-orders changed there. And now, Elgood, can you trust me with your purse ? " "Of course 1 can, Charlie," said Elgood, readily producing it, and almost forgetting that the others were present. " Ah, well, now you see /'m goiag to rifle it. Ah ! what have we here ] why, here's a whole sovereign, and eight shillings ; that looks suspicious, doesn't it?" said Charlie, archly. " No," said Elgood, laughing ; you went with me 460 KLGOOD CTJEARKD. yourself when I bought my desk for eighteen shillings and the rest" "All right," said Charlie. "Look, you fellows; Elgood and I put down this morning the other things he's bought, and they come to fourteen shillings. 1 know they're right, for I didn't like Elgood to be wrongly suspected, so Walter went with me to the shops ; indeed it was chiefly spent at Coles'" — at which remark they all laughed, for Coles' was the favourite " tuck-shop " of the boys. "Well, now, <£1 : 8 : 0 -f 18 -h 14 makes £3, the sum which Elgood received from home. Is that plain?" " As plain as a pike-staff," said Bliss ; " and you're a little brick, Evson ; and it's a chouse if any one sus- pects Elgood any more." Wilton suggested something about Elgood being Whalley's fag. " Shame, Eaven,'' said Kenrick ; " why, what a sus- picious fellow you must be ; there's no ground whatever to suspect Elgood now." " I only want the fellow found out for the honour of the house," said Wilton, with a sheepish look at this third rebuff. " Oh, I forgot about that for the moment," said Charlie ; " Whalley, please, you know the time, don't you, when the money was taken from your desk ?" " Yes ; it must have been between four and six, for L saw it safe at four, and it was gone when I came back ifter tea." Then all rijrht," said Charlie, joyfully, "for at thai WBO IS GUILTY 1 401 70 r J time, all of it, Elgood was in my brother's study with me, learning some lessons. Now then, is Elgood clear " As clear as noon-day," shouted several of them, patting the poor boy on the head. " And really, Charley, we're all very much obliged to you," said Whalley, " for setting this matter straight. But now, as it isnH Elgood, who is the thief? We must all set ourselves to discover." " And we shall discover," said Bliss ; " he's probably here now. Who is if?" he asked, glancing round. Well, whoever it is, I don't envy him his sensations at this minute." The meeting broke up, and Kenrick accompanied Whalley to his study to concert further measures. " Have you any suspicion at all about it, Whalley " Not the least. Have you ? No ? Well, then, w hat shall we do ? " " Why the thief isn't likely to visit your study again, Whalley; very likely he'll come to mine. Suppose we put a little marked money in the secret drawer. It's rather a joke to call it the secret drawer, for there's no secret about it : anyhow, it's an open secret." " Very good ; and then ? " Why, you know the money generally goes at one particular time on half-holidays. I'm afraid the rogue, whoever he is, has got a taste for it by this time, and will come to money like a fly to a jam-pot. Now, out- side my room, a few yards off", is the shoe-cupboard ; what if you and 1, aiid a lew others, agree to shut our- 462 AN AMBUSCADE. selves up there in turns, now and then, on half-holidays between roll-call and tea-time ?" "I see," said Whalley; well, it's horridly un- pleasant, but I'll take my turn first. Isn't the door usually locked though ? " " Yes, but so much the better ; we can easily get it left open, and the thief won't suspect an ambuscade. He mmt be found out, for the sake of all the boys who are innocent, and to wipe out the blot against the house." "All right; I'll ensconce myself there to-morrow I say. Ken, isn't young Evson a jcapital fellow] how well he managed to clear Elgood, didn't he ? I declare he taught us all a lesson." " Yes," said Kenrick ; he 's his brother all over j just what Walter was when he came." " What, you say that 1 " said Whalley, smiling and arching his eye-brows. " Indeed I do," said Kenrick, with some sadness ; " I haven't always thought so, the more's the pity ;" and he left the room with a sigh. After his turn for incarceration in the shoe- cup- board. Bliss complained loudly that it wasn't large enough to accommodate him, and that it cramped his long arms and legs, to say nothing of the unpleasant ncinity of spiders and earwigs ! But the others, laugh- ing at him, told him that, if the experiment was to be of any use whatever, they must persevere in it, and Bliss allowed himself to be made a victim. For a time Qothing happened, but they had not to wait very long. 0 DETECTED. 463 One day, Kenrick had been mounting guard foi about half an hour, and was getting very tired, when a light and hasty step passed along the passage, and into his room. The boy found the study empty, and pro- ceeded noiselessly to open Kenrick's desk, and examine the contents. At length he pulled open the secret drawer ; it opened with a little click, and there lay before him two half-sovereigns and some silver. He was a wary fellow, for he scrutinised these all over most care- fully to see if they were marked, and finding no mark of any kind on them — for it almost required a micro- scope to see the tiny scratch between the w.w. on the smooth edge of the neck — he took out his purse, and was proceeding to drop them into it, when a heavy hand wa^ laid upon his shoulder^ and Kenrick and Wilton — the detected thief — stood face to face. The purse dropped on the floor. For a moment they stood silent, staring at each other, and drawing quick breath. Wilton stood there pale as death, and looked up at Kenrick trembling, and with a frightened stare. It was too awful to be so suddenly surprised ; to have had an unknown eye-wit- ness standing by him all the while that, fancying himself unseen, he was in the very act of committing that secret deed of sin ; to be arrested, detected, exposed, ae the boy whose hidden misdoings had been, for so long, a source of discomfort, anxiety, and shame. " YoUy Wilton — pou, you 1 you the disturber of the house ; you^ who have so long been treated by me as a friend, and allowed at all times to use my study ; you, s 464 WILTON AT BAY. the foremost to throw the 8u«ipicioD on others !" He stopped, breathless, for his indignation was rushing in too deep and strong a torrent to find vent in words. " O Kenrick, don^t tell of me/' " Don't tell of you ! Good heavens ! is that all you can find to say ? Not one word of sorrow — not one word of shame ? Abandoned, heartless, graceless fellow " I was driven to it, Kenrick, indeed I was. I owed money to Dan, and to — to other places, and they threatened to tell of me if I didn't pay. Then Harpour and those fellows quite cleared me out at cards ; I believe they did it by cheating. Oh, don't tell of me " 1 cannot screen a thief," was the freezing reply; and the change from flame to ice shewed into what commotion his feelings had been thrown. " Well then, if it comes to that," said Wilton, turn ing sullen, "/'ZZ tell of you. It'll all come out ; remember it was you who first took me to Dan's, and that's not the only thing I could tell of you. O Kenrick, don't tell, or it will get us all into trouble." " This then is the creature whom I have suffered to call me friend !" said Kenrick ; " for whom I have given up some of the best friends in the school ! And this is your gratitude ! Why, you worm, Wilton, what do you take me for ? Do you think that fear of your dis- closures will make me hush up twenty thefts? You enlist the whole strength of my conscience against you, lest I should seem to screen you for my own sake. Faugh ! your very touch sickens me ! — go V* Kenrick, don't be so angiy ; I didn't me^ ^ STANDING AT BAY. 465 say it ; 1 did n^t know what I was saying : 1 am driven into a corner by shame and misery. I know I have been a mean dog ; but even if you tell of me, don't crush me so with your anger, for indeed, indeed, 1 have been grateful, and have loved you, Kenrick, But Oh, don't tell, I implore, I entreat you, Ken. How little I thought that I should have to speak to you like this ! " But Kenrick could only say — " You the thief ; you, the last fellow of all I should have suspected ; you whom I have called friend, O heavens ! Yes, 1 know that I've done you harm by bad example, I know that I've much to answer for, but at any rate I never taught you to be a thief." " But one thing comes of another, Ken ; it all came of my being so much with those brutes, and going to Dan's ; it all came of that. I shouldn't have thought myself that I could do it or do half the bad things 1 have done, two months ago. It all came of that ; and you used to go with those fellows, Ken, and you went with me to Dan's ; " and the boy wrung his hands, and wept, and flung himself on his knees. "I must tell all, if you tell of me,^^ "Say that; again," said Kenrick, spurning him scornfully away, " say it once again, and I go straight to Dr. Lane. Poor worm, you do n't understand me, vou do n't seem to have the capability of a high thought in you. I tell you that nothing you can say of me shall shake my purpose. I am going now." But before he could get his straw hat Wilton had 2 H IN THE ANGUISH clasped him by the knees, and in a voice of agony was beseeching him to relent. It 's all true, Kenrick ; I am base, I know it ; I have quenched all honour in me. I won't say that again, but do, for God's sake, forgive me this once, and not tell of me. 0 Kenrick, have you never had to say forgive ] Do, do, pity me, as you hope to be forgiven; don't rain me, and give me a bad name ; I am so young, so young, and have fallen into bad hands from the first." He still knelt on the floor, exhausted with the violence of his passion, hanging his head upon his breast, sobbing as if his heart would break. It was sad to see him, a mere child still, who might have been so different, long a little reprobate, and now a convicted thief. His face bathed in tears, his voice choked with sobs, the memory of the past, consciousness that much which he said was only too true, touched Kenrick with compassion; the tears rolled dovm his own face fast, and he felt that, though personal fear could not influence him, pity would perhaps force him to relent, and wring from him in his weakness a reluctant promise not to disclose Wilton's discovered guilt. " What can I say to you, Wilton ] you know that I have liked you, but I never thought that you could act like this." Nor I, Kenrick, a short time ago ; but the devil tempted me, and I have never learned to resist." " From my very heart I do pity you ; but I fear I mvat telL I fear it 's my duty, and I have neglected so OF REMORSE AND SHAME. 467 many that I dare neglect no more ; though, indeed I'd rather have had any duty hut this." Wilton was again clasping his knees and harrowing his soul hy his wild anguish, imploring to be saved from the horror of open shame ; and, accustomed as Kenrick was^to grant anything to this boy, he was reduced to great distress. Already his whole manner had relented from the loathing and anger he first displayed. He could stand no more at present. " 0 Wilton," he said, "you will make me ill if you go on like this. I cannot, must not, will not make you any promise now ; but I will think what to do." " I will go," said Wilton, deeply abashed ; " but before I go, promise me one thing, Ken, and that is, even if you tell of me, don't quite cast me ofiF. I shouldn't like to learve and think that I hadn't left one behind me to give me a kind thought sometimes." " 0 Ea, Ra, to think that it was you all the while who were committing all these thefts ! " "You will cast me off then?" said Wilton, in a Voice broken by penitence ; " Oh ! what a bitter bitter thing it is to feel shame like this." " I have felt it too in my time. Raven. Poor, poor fellow ! who am I that I should cast you off ? No, you unhappy child, I may tell of you, but I will not cease to be fond of you. Go, Wilton ; I will decide between this and tea-time ; — you may come and hear about it after tea." He was already outside the door when KeniLok called out, " Wilton, atop I" ^68 'I'HE THREE C0NDTTI0N8. •'What is it?" asked Wilton, returning alarmed for conscience had made him a coward. " There ! " Kenrick only pointed to the purse lying on the floor. " Oh, don't ask me to touch it again, the money is in it said Wilton, hastily leaving the room. There was no acting here ; it was plain that he was penitent — plain that he would have given worlds not to have been guilty of the sin. Very sadly, and with pain and doubt, Kenrick thought the matter over, and thus much at least was clear to him : first, that the house must be informed, though not necessarily the masters or the other boys ; secondly, that Wilton must make full and immediate restitution to all from whom he had stolen ; thirdly, there could be no doubt about it, that Wilton must get himself removed at once. On these conditions hb thought it possible that the matter might be hushed ap ; but his conscience was uneasy on this point. That unlucky threat or hint of Wilton's, that he codd and would tell some of his wrong- doings, was his great stumbling-block ; whenever extreme pity influenced him to screen the poor boy from full exposure, he began t© ask himself whether this was a mere cowardly alternative suggested by his own fears. But for this, he would have determined at once on the more lenient and merciful course ; but he had to face this question of self-interest very earnestly, nor could he come to any conclusion about it until he had determined to take a step in all respects worthy of the highest side of liis LEANING TO MERCY. 465 character, by going, in any case, spontaneously to Dr. Lane and laying before him a frank confession of past delinquencies, leaving him to act as he thought fit. Having thus disentangled the question from all its personal bearings he was able to review it on its merits, and went to ask the counsel of Whalley, to whom he related, in confidence, the whole scene exactly as it had occurred. Whalley too, on hearing the alternative conditions which Kenrick had planned, was fully inclined to spare Wilton as much as possible, but, as neither of them felt satisfied to do this on their own authority, they sought Power's advice, and, as he too felt very doubtful on the matter, he suggested that they should put it to Dr, Lane, without mentioning any names, as a hypothetical case, and be finally guided by his directions. Accordingly Kenrick sought Dr. Lane's study, and laid the entire difficulty before him. He listened at- tentively, and said, " If the boy is so young, and has been, as you say, misled, and accepts the very sensible A conditions which you have proposed, I am inclined to think that the course you have suggested will be the wisest and the kindest one. You have my full autho- rity, Kenrick, to arrange it so, and I am happy to tell you that you have behaved throughout this matter in an honourable and straightforward way." *' I fear, sir, I very little deserve your approval," said Kenrick, with downcast eyes. " In coming to ask your advice in this case, I wanted also to say that 1 have gone so far wrong that 1 think you ought to be i70 A STERN RESOLVE. told how badly I have behaved. It may be that aftei what I say, you may not think right to allow me to stay here, sir ; but at any rate I shall have disburdened my own conscience by telling you, and shall perhaps feel less wretched." "Kenrick," said Dr. Lane, "it was a right and a brave thing of you to come here for this purpose. Confession is often the first, as it is one of the most trying parts of repentance ; and I hail this as a new proof of your strong and steady desire to amend But te]l me nothing. It may be that I know more than you suppose ; at any rate, I accept the wiU for the deed, and wish to hear no more, unless, indeed, you desire to consult me as a clergyman, and as your spiri- tual adviser, rather than as- your master. I do not geek this confidence ; only if there is anything on your conscience of which my advice may help to relieve you, I do not forbid you to proceed, and I will give you what help I can." " I think it would relieve me, sir," said Kenrick ; " I have no father ; I have, I am sorry to say, no friend in the school to whom I could speak." "Then sit down, Kenrick, and be assured before- hand of my real sympathy." He sate down, and, twitching nervously at the ribbon of his straw hat, told Dr. Lane much of the history of the last two years, confessing, above all, ho^ badly he had behaved as head of the house, and how tnuch harm he feared his example had done. Dr. Lane did not attempt to extenuate the heinous -AS WE FORGIVE THEM/' 471 ness of his otFence, but he pointed to him what were the fruits and the means of repentance. He exhorted him to let the sense of his past errors stimulate him to dooble future exertions. He told him of many ways in which, by kindness, by moral courage, by Christian prin- siple, he might be a help and a blessing to other boys. He earnestly warned him to look to God for strength, and to watch and pray lest he should enter into temp- tation. And then promising him a full and free oblivion of the past, he knelt down with him and offered up from an overflowing heart a few words of earnest prayer. " There is nothing like prayer to reheve the heart, Kenrick,'' said Dr. Lane ; " and now, good-night, and God bless you." With a far lighter heart, with far brighter hopes, Kenrick left him, feeling as if a great burden had been rolled away, and inwardly blessing the Doctor for hia comforting kindness. He found Wilton anxiously awaiting his arrival in his study ; and thinking that their cases in some respects resembled each other, he strove not to be like the unforgiving debtor of the parable, and spoke to Wilton with great gentleness. " Come here, my poor child ; first of all, let me tell you that you shall not be reported." Wilton repaid him by a look of grateful joy. " But you must restore all the stolen money, Wilton ; the house must be told privately ; and you must leave at once." " Well, Kenrick, I ask only one favour," said Wil- ton, after a short pause. ^^72 WILTON AND KENKICK. " Wliat is that 1" That tlie house may not be told who stole the money until it is nearly time for me to go." No ; it shall be kept close till then, otherwise the next fortnight would be too hard for you to bear." " But must I leave ] " asked Wilton, appealingly. It must be so, Wilton ; / shall be sorry tor you, but it must be settled so. Can you manage it ? " " 0 yes,'' said Wilton, crying quietly ; " 1 11 write home and tell my poor mother all about it, and then of course she'll send me some money and take me away at once, to save me from being expelled. My poor mother, how wretched it will make her !" " Sin makes us all wretched. Raven boy. I 'm sure it makes me wretched enough. And that you mayn't think that fear has had anything to do with our letting you off, I must tell you, AVilton, that I 've been to Dr. Lane himself and told him all the many sins 1 Ve been guilty of.'' " Have you ? Oh ! I'm so sorry ; it was all through me." " Yes ; but I'm not sorry ; I'm all the happier for it, Raven. There 's nothing so miserable as undiscovered sin ; — is there 1 " ^* Oh, indeed there isn't. I'm sure I feel happier now in spite of all. No one knows. Ken, how I 've suffered this last fortnight. I've been in a perpetual fright y I*ve had fearful dreams; I've felt ready to sink foi shame ; and I've always been fancying that fellows suspected me. Do you know. I am almost glad you ACHAN THE SON OF CARMl. 473 eaught me, Ken. 1 'm very glad it was you and no one else, though it was a Jiorrld, homd moment when you laid your hand on my shoulder. Yet even this isn't so bad as to have gone on nursing the guilt secretly, and not to have been detected." Kenrick was musing ; the boy who could talk like that was clearly one who might have been very unlike w^hat Wilton then was. ''Wilton,^' he said, "come here, and draw youi chair by mine while I read you a little story.'' "0 Ken, I'm so grateful that you don't hate and despise me though I am a" , he murmured the word "thief" with a shudder, and under his breath, as he drew up his chair, and Kenrick read to him in a low voice the story of Achan, till he came to the verses — " And Achan, the son of Carmi, the son of Zabdi. the son of Zerah, of the tribe of Judah, was taken. "And Joshua said. My son, give, I pray thee, glory to the Lord God of Israel, and wake confession unto him; and tell me now what thou hast done, hide it not from me. " And Achan answered Joshua and said. Indeed I have sinned against the Lord God of Israel, and thus and thus have I done." And there Kenrick stopped, while Wilton said, " My son I You see Joshua still called him * my son ' in spite of all his sin and mischief." "Yes, Raven boy, but that wasn't why I read you ibe story which has often struck me. What 1 wanted 4T4 THE TWO DEBTORS. you to see was this: — The man was detected — the thing had been coming, creeping horribly near to him ; — first his tribe marked by th^ fatal lot, then his family, then his house, then himself ; and while he 's standing there, guilty and detected, in the very midst of that crowd who had been defeated because of his baseness, and when all their eyes were scowling on him, and when he knows that he, and his sons, and his daughters, are going to be burned and stoned — at this very moment Joshua says to him, ' My son, give^ I pray thee, glory to the God of IsraeV You see he's to thank God for detecting him — to thank God even at that frightful moment^ and with that frightful death before him as a consequence. One would have thought that it wasn't a matter for much gratitude or jubilation ; but you see it was, and so both Joshua and Achan seem to have admitted." "Ah, Kenrick said Wilton, sadly, "if you'd always talked to me like that, 1 shouldn't be like Achan now." Kenrick said nothing, but as he had received in- finite comfort from Dr. Lane's treatment of himself, he took Wilton by the hand, and, without saying a word, knelt down. Wilton knelt down beside him, and he prayed for forgiveness for them both. A few broken, confused, uncertain words only, but they were earnest, and they came fresh and burning from the heart. They were words of true prayer, and the poor, erring, hardened little boy rose from his knees too overcome to speak. CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEYENTH. THE RECONCILIATION AND THE LOSS. The few remain, the many change and pass, Heaven's light alone remains, earth's shadows flee ; Life, like a dome of many coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity. Until death shiver it to atoms. Shelley's Adonais. I HE termination of Wilton^s sojourn at St, Winifred's soon arrived. As yet none but the two head boys in the house knew of his detection. The thefts indeed had ceased ; but the name of the offender was still a matter of constant surmise, and it was no easy task foi Wilton — conscious how soon they would be informed — to listen to the strong terms of disgust which were applied to the yet un- known delinquent. The barriers of his conceit, his coolness, his audacity, were all broken down ; he was a changed boy ; his manner was grave and silent, and he almost hid himself during those days in Kenrick's study, where Kenrick, with true kindness, still permitted him to sit 476 THE HOUKR-MEKTINQ. Meanwhile it became generally known that he wa^? going to leave almost immediately ; and as boys often left in this way at the division of the quarter, his departure, though rather sudden, created no astonish- ment, nor had any one as yet the most distant conjecture as to tne reasons which led to it. It is not too much to say, that Wilton was one of the last boys whom the rest would have suspected ; they knew indeed that he never professed to be ^juided by any strong moral principles ; but they tnougnt Jiim an unlikely fellow to be guilty of acts which sinned so completely against the school-boy's artificial code, and which branded him who committed them with the charge of acknowledged meanness. On the very evening of his departure, the house was again summoned by a notice from Whalley and Kenrick to meet in the class-room after preparation. They came, not knowing for what they were summoned. Whalley opened the proceedings by requesting that any boy who had of late had money stolen from him would stand up. Four or five of them rose, and on stating the sums, mostly small, which they had lost, immediately received the amount from Whalley, much to their surprise, and no less to their content. The duty which still remained was far less pleasing and more delicate, and it was by Wilton\s express and earnest request that it was undertaken by Kenrick and not by Whalley. It was a painful moment for both of them when Kenrick rose, and very briefly, with all the forbearance and gentleness he could command, informed mm IS iT \ 477 ihe house that there was every reason to hope that, froro that time forward, these thefts, which had caused them all so much distress, would cease. The offender had been discovered, and he begged them all, having con- fidence that they would grant the request, not to deal harshly with him, or think harshly of him. The guilty boy had done all that could be done by making full and immediate restitution, so that none of them now need remember any injury received at his hands, except Elgood, on whom suspicion had been unjustly thrown, and whose forgiveness the boy earnestly begged. At this part of his remarks there arose in the deep silence a general murmur of "Who is it 1 who is if?" Wilton, trembling all over with agitation and ex- citement, was seated beside Kenrick, and had almost cowered behind him for very shame ; but now Kenrici stood aside, and laying his hand on Wilton's head^ continued, " He is one of ourselves, and he is sitting here," while Wilton covered his face with both hands, and did not stir. An expression of surprise and emotion thrilled over all the boys present ; not a word was spoken ; and im- mediately after Kenrick said to them, " He is punished enough ; you can understand that this is a terrible thing for him. He has made reparation as far as he can, and besides this, he is on this account going to leave us to-day. I may tell you all, too, that he is very, veiy, very sorry for what he has done, and has learned a lesson that he will carry with him to his grave. May [ assure him that we all forgiv© him freely? May I 478 AN HONOURABLK SECKET. tell him that we are grieved to part with him, and most of all grieved for this which has caused it 1 May I tell him that, in spite of all, he carries with him our warm- est wishes and best hopes, and that he leaves no enemy behind him here 1 " " Yes, yes ! " was murmured on all sides, and while the sound of Wilton's crying sounded through the room, many of the others were also in tears. For this boy was popular ; bad as he had been — and the name of his sins was legion — there was something about him which had endeared him to most of them. Barring this last fault, they were generally proud of him ; there had been a certain generosity about him, a gay thought- lessness, a boyish daring, which won their admiration. He was a promising cricketer, active, merry, full of spirits : before he had been so spoiled by the notice of bigger fellows, there was no one who did not like him and expect that he would turn out well. " Then my unpleasant task is over," said Kenrick, ^ and I have no more to say. Oh, yes ; I had forgotten, there was one very important thing I had to say, as Whalley reminds me. It is this : You know that the Noelites have kept other secrets before now, not always good secrets, I am sorry to say. But will you all now keep this honourable secret? Will you not mention, (for there is no occasion for it), to any others in the school, who it was that took the money 1 The matter will very soon be forgotten ; do not let Wilton's sin be bruited through the whole school, so as to give him a bad name for life." FAREWELLS. 479 " [ndeed we won't, not one of us will tell," said the tx)js, and they kept the promise admirably afterwards. Then we may all separate. You may bid Wilton good-bye now if you wish to do so, for he starts to-night, almost at once ; the carriage is waiting for him now, and you will have no opportunity of seeing him again." They flocked round him and said " good-bye with- out one word of reproach, or one word calculated to wound his feelings ; many of them added some sincere expressions of their good wishes for the future. As fox Wilton himself, he was far too much moved to say much to them, but he pressed their hands in silence, only speaking to beg Elgood to pardon his unkindness, which the little fellow begged him not to think of at all. Charlie Evson lingered among the last, and spoke to him with frank and genial warmth. " How you must hate me, Charlie, for annoying you so, and trying to lead you wrong ! ^' said Wilton, peni- tently. " Indeed I don't, Wilton," said CharHe ; " I wish you weren't going to leave. I'm sure we should all get on better now.^' " Don't think me as bad as I have seemed, Charlie. I was ashamed at heart all the time I was trying to persuade you to crib and tell lies, and do like other fel- lows. I felt all the while that you were better than me." " Well, good-bye, Wilton. Perhaps we shall meet again some day, and be good friends ; and T wish you happiness with all my heart." Charlie was the last of them, and Kenrick an<^ 480 GOOD-BYE TO WILTON. Wilton were left alone. For Wilton's sake Kenrick tried to shew all the cheerfulness he could, as he went with him through the now silent and deserted court to the gate where the carriage was waiting. " Have you got all your luggage, and everything all right, Eaven V " Yes, everything," he said, taking one last long look at the familiar scene. It was dim moonlight ; the lights twinkled in the studies where the upper boys were working, and in the dormitories where the rest were now going to bed. The tall trees round the building stood quite black against the faintly-lighted sky, waving their thinned remnant of yellow leaves in the November air. In the stillness you heard every slight sound ; and the murmur of boys' voices came mingled with the plashing of the mountain stream, and the moaning of the low waves as they broke upon the shore. A merry laugh rang from one of the dormitories, jarring pain- fully on Wilton's feelings, as he stood gazing round in eilence. He got into the carriage, sighing heavily and grasp- ing Kenrick's hand. " Well, good-bye Ken ; it must be said at last. May \ write to you " I wish you would. I shall be so glad to hear of you." " And you will answer me. Ken ?" Of course I will, my poor child. Good-bye. God bless you." They still lingered for a moment, and Kenrick saw in the moonlight that Wilton's face wa* bathed in tears. GOOD-BYE TO WlLTOi^. m ** A 11 right, sir 1 '* said the driver. '*Ye3/' said Wilton ; "but it's all wrong, Ken, 1 think Good-bye/' He waved his hand, the carriage drove off into the darkening night with the little boy alone, and Kenrick with a sinking heart strolled back to his study. Do not pry into his feelings, for they were very terrible ones, as he sat down to his books with the strong conviction that there is nothing so good as the steady fulfilment of duty for the driving away of heavy thoughts. All his time was taken up with working for the scholarship. It was a scholarship of ninety pounds a year for four years, founded by a princely benefactor of the school, but only falling vacant biennially. There were other scholarships besides this, but this was by far the most valuable one at St. Winifred's ; the tenure of it was circumscribed by no conditions, and it was therefore proportionably desirable that Kenrick, who was poor, should obtain it. He had, indeed, hardly a chance, as he well knew ; for even if he succeeded in beating Walter, he could not expect to beat Power. But Power, though a most graceful and finished scholar, was not strong in mathematics, and as they counted something in the examination, Kenrick^ s chief chance lay in this, for as a scholar he was by no means to be despised ; and with a just reliance on his own abilities, he hoped, if fortunate, to make up for being defeated ii> classics, by being considerably ahead in the othei branches of the examination. How he longed now to have at his command the time he had so largely wasted 1 2 I 482 KENRTCK AT HOME. had he but used that aright he might have easily djp puted the palm in any competition with Power himself Few boys had been gifted with stronger intellects oi clearer heads than he. But though fresh time may be carefully and wisely used, the past time that has once been wasted can never be recovered or redeemed. And as he worked hard day by day the time quickly flew by, the scholarship examination took place, and the Christmas holidays came on. The result of the competition could not be known until the boys returned to school. Mrs. Kenrick thought that this Christmas was the happiest she had known. They spent it, of course, very quietly. There were for them none of those happy family gatherings and innocent gaieties that made the time so bright for others, yet still there was something peaceful and something brighter than usual about them Harry's manner, she thought, was more affectionate, more tenderly respectful, than it often was. There seemed to be something softer and more loveable about his ways. He bore himself with less haughty indiffer- ence towards the Fuzbeians ; he entered with more zest into such simple amusements as he could invent or pro- cure ; he condescended to play quite simply with the curate's little boys, and seemed to be more humble and more contented. She counted the days he spent with her as a miser counts his gold ; and he, when he left her, seemed more sorry to leave, and tried to cheer her spirits, and did not make so light, as nis wont had been, of the grief which the separation causaO RECONCILED AT LAST. The first event of importance on the return of the boys to school, was the announcement of the scholarship. The list was read from the last name upwards ; Henderson stood sixth, Kenrick third, Evson second, Power first " But," said Dr. Lane, " Power has communicated to me privately that he does not wish to receive the emolu- ments of the scholarship, he will therefore be honorary scholar, while the scholarship itself will be held by Evson. Disappointed at the result, as he undoubtedly was, yet Kenrick would have been glad at that moment to be able to congratulate Walter. He took it very quietly and well. Sorrow and failure had come on him so often lately, that he hardly looked for anything else ; so, when he had heard the result announced, he tried to repress every melancholy thought, and walking back to his study, resumed his da/s work as though nothing had happened. And as he sat there, making believe to work, but with thoughts which, in spite of himself, sadly wan- dered, there was a knock at the door, and to his great joy, no less than to his intense surprise, Walter Evson entered. "0 Evson," he said, blushing with awkwardness, as he remembered how long a time had passed since they had exchanged a word ; " I 'm glad you 've come. Sit down. Let me congratulate you." "Thanks, Kenrick," said Walter, holding out his hand ; " I thought we had gone on in this way long enough. I have never had any ill-feeling for you, and 484 A GENEROUS PROPOSAL. I feel vsure now from your manner that you have none towards me/' " "N^one, Walter, none ; I had at one time, but it has long ceased : my error has long been explained to me. I have done you wrong, Walter, for two years and mere ; it has been one of my many faults, aud the chief ca-use of them all. Can you forgive me V* Heartily, Ken, if I have anything to forgive. We have both been punished enough, I think, in losing the happiness which we should have been enjoying if we had continued friends." " Ah, Walter, it pains me to think of that irrevoca- ble past.'' " But, Ken, I have come now for a definite purpose," said Walter. " You'll promise me not to take offence 1 '* " Never again, Walter, with you." " Well, then, tell me honestly, was it of any conse- quence to you to gain this scholarship, in which, SG unexpectedly to myself^ some accident has placed me above youT' Konrick reddened slightly, and made no answer^ while Walter quickly continued — " You know. Ken, that I am going to stay here another year ; are you ? " " I'm afraid not ; my guardian does not think that we can afford it." "Well, then, Ken, I think I may say, without much presumption, that, aa I stay here for certain, I may safely reckon on getting a scholarship next year. At any rate, even if I don't, my father is quite rich enough to bear my university expenses unaided with- COAI^ OF FIRE. out any inconvenience. It would be mere sellishnesa in me, therefore, to retain this scholarship, md I mean to resign it at once ; so that let me now congratulate you heartily on being Marsden scholar." " Nay, Walter, I can't have you make this sa^jrifice for my sake." " You can't help it. Ken ; for this is a free country," said Walter, smiling, and I may waive a scholarship if I like. But it's no sacrifice whatever, my dear fellow ; don't say anything more about it. It gives me ten times the pleasure that you should hold it rather than 1. So again I congratulate you ; and now, as you must have had enough of me, I'll say good morning." He rose with a smile to leave the room, but Ken- rick, seizing him by the hand, exclaimed — " 0 Walter, you heap coals of fire on my head. Am I never to receive anything from you but benefits which I can never return 1 " " Pooh, Ken, there are no benefits between friends ; only let us not be silent and distant friends any longer Power is coming into my study to tea to-night ; won't you join us as in old days ?" " I will, Walter ; but can the ghost of old days be called to life ? " " Perhaps not ; but the young present, which is no ghost, shall replace the old past, Ken. At six o'clock, mind. Good-bye." " Don't go yet : do stay a little. It is a greatei pleasure than I can tell you to see you here again, Walter. I want to have a talk with you." 486 OLD FRIENDS. " To make up for two years' arrears, eh, Ken 1 Why, what a pretty little study you've got ! la'nt it odd that I should never have been in it before ? It seems quite natural to me to be here somehow. You must come and see mine this evening ; I flatter myself it equals even Power's, and beats Flip's in beauty, and looks out on the sea : such a jolly view. But you mustn't see it till this evening. I shall make Charlie put it to rights in honour of your visit. Charlie beats any fag for neatness ; why did you turn him off, ehl IVe made him my fag now, to keep his hand in." Let him come back to me now, Walter ; I'm sad- der and wiser since those days.'' "That I will, gladly. I know, too, that he'll be delighted to come. Ah, Wilton's photograph, I see," said Walter, still looking about him ; " I thought him greatly improved before he left." Kenrick was pleased to see that Walter had no sus- picion why he left, so that the secret had been kept. They talked on very very pleasantly, for they had much to say to each other, and Walter had, by his simple, easy manner completely broken the ice, and made Kenrick feel at home with him again. Kenrick was quite loth to let him go, and kept detaining him so, that more than half an hour, which seemed like ten minutes, had slipped away before he left. Kenrick looked forward eagerly to meet him again in the evening, with Power, and Henderson, and Eden ; their meeting would fitly inaugurate his return to the better feelings of past days ; — but it was not destined that the meeting A LETTKK 487 should take place ; nor was it till many evenings after- wards that Kenrick sat once more in the pleasant society of his old friends. "WTien Walter had at last made good his escape, playfully refusing to he imprisoned any longer, Kenrick rose and paced the room. He could hardly heheve his own happiness ; it was the most delightful moment he had experienced for many a long day ; the scholarship, so long the object of his hope and ambition, was now attained ; impossible as it had seemed, it was actually his ; and, at the same moment, the truest friend of his boy- hood — the friend for whose returning respect and affec- tion he so long had yearned — was at last restored to him. With an overflowing heart he sat down to write to his mother, and communicate the good news that he was reconciled to Walter, and that Power and Walter had resigned the scholarship in his favour. He had never felt in happier spirits than just then ; — and then, even at the same moment, the cup of sincere aud innocent joy, so long untasted, was, with one blow, dashed away from his lip. For at that moment the post came in, and one of his fags, humming a lively tune, came running with a letter to his door. " A letter for you, Kenrick,'' the boy said, throwing it carelessly on the table, and takiug up his merry song as he left the room. But Kenrick's eyes were riveted on the letter : it was edged with the deepest black, and bore the Fuzby post-mark. Fot a time he sat stupidly staring at it : he dared not open it. At length he made an effort, and tore it open. It 488 TJN SPEAK ABLE. Tras a rude, blurred scrawl from their old servant, tell- ing liim that his mother had died the day before. A brief note enclosed in this, from the curate of the place, said, " It is quite true, my poor boy. Your mother died very suddenly of spasms in the heart. God's ways are not as our ways. I have written to tell your guar- dian, and he will no doubt meet you here/' Kenrick remained stupefied, unable to think, almost unable to comprehend. He was roused to his senses by the entrance of his fag to remove his breakfast tilings, which still lay oii the table ; -and with a vague longing for some comfort and sympathy, he sent the boy to Walter with the message that Kenrick wanted him, Walter came at once, and Kenrick, not trusting his voice to speak, pushed over to him the letter which contained the fatal news. In such a case human con- solation cannot reach the sorrow. It passes like the idle wind over the wounded heart. All that could be done by words, and looks, and acts of sympathy Wal- ter did ] and then went to arrange for Kenrick's imme- diate journey, not returning till he came to tell him that a carriage was waiting to take him to the train. That evening Kenrick reached the house of death, which was still as death itself The old faithful ser- vant opened the door to his knock, and using her apron to wipe her eyes, which were red with long weeping, she exclaimed — " 0 Master Harry, Master Harry, she's gone. She had been reading and praying in her room, and then she came down to me quite bright and cheerful, when the spasms took her, and I helped her to bed, and she died." A MYSTERIOUS LIFK. 48^ Harry flung down his hat in the hall, and rushed tip. stairs to his mother's room ; but when he had opened the door, he stood awe-struck and motionless ; — for he was alone in the presence of the dead. The light of winter sunset was streaming over her, whose life had been a winter day. Never even in life had he seen her so lovely, so beautiful with the beauty of an angel, as now with the smiling never-broken calm of death upon her. Over the pure pale face, from which every wrinkle made by care and sorrow had vanished, streamed the last cold radiance of evening, illuminating the peaceful smile, and seeming to linger lovingly as it lit up strange glories in the hair, smoothed in soft bands over her brow. There she lay with her hands folded, as though in prayer, upon her quiet breast ; and the fitful fever of life had passed away. Dead — with the smile of heaven upon her lips, which should never leave them more 1 Hers had been a hard mysterious life. In all the sweet bloom of her youthful beauty she had left her home, not, indeed, without the sanction, but against the wishes of her relatives, to brave trial and poverty with the man she loved. How bitter that poverty, bow severe, how unexpected those trials had proved to be, we have seen already j and then, still young, as though she were meant to tread with her tender feet the whole thorny round of human sorrow, she had been left a widow with an only son. And during the eight years of her widowed loneliness, her relatives had neglected with cold pride both her and her orphan boy ; even that orphan boy, in the midst of all his love 490 TOO ij^m for her, had by his pride and waywardness caused hei many an anxious hour and many an aching heart, yet she clung to him with an affection whose yearning depth no tongue can utter. And now, still young, she had died suddenly, and left him on the threshold of dangerous youth almost without a friend in the wide world ; had passed, with a silence which could never more be broken, into the eternal world ; had left him, whom she loved with such intensity of unspeakable alfection, without a word, without a look, without a sign of farewell. She had passed away in a moment to the far-off untroubled shore, whence waving hands cannot be seen, and no sounds of farewell voices heard. How must that life expand in the unconceived glory of that new dawn — the life which on earth so Kttle sunshine visited ! She was one of the most sweet, the most pure, the most unselfish, the most beautifully blameless of all God's children ; and she had lived in hardship, in neglect, in anxiety, in calumny ; she had lived among those mean and wretched villagers, and an angel was among them, and they knew it not ; she had tasted no other drink but the bitter watei-s of affliction ; no hope had brightened, no love sustained her earthly course. And now her young orphan son, his heart dead within him for anguish, his conscience tortured by remorse, was kneeling in that agony which no weak words can paint, was kneeling for the last time, too late, beside her corpse. Truly life is a mystery, which the mind of man cannot fathom till the glory of eternal truth enlighten HI GHAPTEK THE THIRTY-EIGHTH. THE STUPOR BROKEN. HoM., //. vi. 202 The white stone, unfractured, ranks as most precious ; The blue lily, unblemished, emits the finest fragrance ; The heart, when it is harassed, finds no place of rest ; The mind, in the midst of bitterness, thinks only of grief. The Sorrows of Han, a Chinese Tragedy. I^FTEE these days Kenrick returned to St Winifred's, as he supposed, for the last time. His guardian, a stiff unsympathising man, had informed him, that as his mother's ^^"^ annuity ceased with her life, there was very little left to support him. The sale, however, of the house at Fuzby, and the scholarship which he had just won, would serve to main- tain him for a few years, and meanwhile his guardian would endeavour to secure for him a place in some merchant's oflBice, where gradually he would be able to earn a livelihood. It was a very different life from that which thii fine clever hi^h-spirited boy had imagined for himaelC 492 kenrick's despair. and he looked forward to the prospect with settled despair. But he seemed now to regard himself as a victim of destiny, regretting nothing, and opposing nothing, and caring for nothing. He told Walter with bitter exaggeration " that he must indeed thank him for giving up the scholarship, as he supposed that it had saved him from starvation. His guardian, who had a family of his own, didn't seem to care a straw for him ; and he had no friend in the world besides. And as, for days and weeks, he brooded over these gloomy thoughts and sad memories, he fell into a weary, broken, aimless kind of life. Many tried to comfort him, but they could not reach his sorrow j in their several ways his school friends did all they could to cheer him up, but they all failed. He grew moody, solitary, silent. Walter often sought him out, and talked in his lively, cheerful, happy strain ; but even his society Kenrick seemed to shun. He was in that morbid unhealthy state when to meet others inspires a positive shrinking of mind. He seemed to have no pleasure except in shutting himself up in his study, and in taking long lonely walks. He performed his house duties mechanically, and by routine ; when he read the lessons in chapel, his voice sounded as though it came from afar, like the voice of one who dreamed ; he sat with his books before him for long hours, and made no progress, hardly knowing the page on which he was employed. In school, he sat listlessly playing with his pen, taking no notes, seeming as though he heard nothing, and was scarcely aware of what was going SETTLED DESPAFK. 493 on. His friends could not guess what would come of it, but they grew afraid for him when they saw him mope thus inconsolably, and pine away without re- spite, till his eyes grew heavy, and his face pale and thin. He had changed all his ways ; he seemed to have altered his very nature ; he played no games, took no interest in anything, and dropped ail his old pur- suits. His work was quite spiritless, and he grew so absent, that he forgot the commonest occupations of every day — living as in a waking sleep. Power and Walter, in talking of him, often won- dered whether it was the uncertainty of his future prospects which had thus affected him ; and in the full belief that this must have something to do with his morbid melancholy. Power mentioned the matter to Dr. Lane as soon as he had the opportunity. Dr. Lane had observed, with much pity, the depres- sion which had fastened on Kenrick like a disease. He was not surprised to see him come back deeply affected ; but if " the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,'* its sorrows are usually short and transient, and he looked upon it as unnatural that Kenrick's grief should seem thus incurable, and that one so young should thus re- fuse to be comforted. It was not long before he intro- duced the subject, while talking to Power after looking over his composition. " Kenrick lias just been here. Power," he-said ; " it pains me to see him so sadly altered. I can hardly get him to speak a word ; all things seem equally indif foreat to him, and his eyes look to me as though thej? 494 NOBLE SCHEMES. were always ready to overflow with tears. What can we manage to do for him 1 Would not a little cheer- ful society brighten him up 1 We had him here the other day, hut he did not speak once the whole even- ing. Can't even Henderson get him to smile some- how "I'm afraid not, sir," said Power. "Henderson and Evson and I have all tried, but he seems to avoid seeing any one. It makes him ill at ease apparently. I am afraid, for one thing, that he is vexing himself about not being allowed to return, and about being sent into a merchant's office, which he detests." " If that is all, there can be no difficulty about it," said the Doctor ; " we have often kept deserving boys here, when funds failed, and I can easily assure his guardian, without his knowing of it, that the expense need not for a moment stand in the way of his re- turn." These generous acts are common at St. Winifred's, for she is indeed an alma mater to aU her children ; and since Kenrick had confided this particular sorrow to Walter, Walter undertook to remove it by telling him that Dr. Lane would persuade his guardian to let him return. Kenrick appeared glad of the news, as though it brought him a little relief, but it made no long change in his present ways. Nor even did a still further piece of good fortune, when his guardian wrote and told him that, on condition of hie being sent to fh£ University, an un- known and anonymous friend had placed at his dis- CmUSHED Am) STUPEFIED. 495 posal .£100 a year, to be continued until such time as lie was able to maintain himself; and that this generous gift would of course permit of his receiving the advan- tage of an Oxford training, and obviate the necessity of his entering an office, by clearing for him the way to one of the learned professions. This news stirred him up a little, and for a time ; — but not for long. He looked upon it all as destiny : he could not guess, he hardly tried to surmise, who the unknown friend could be. Nor did he know till years afterwards that the aid was given by the good and wealthy Sir Lawrence Power, at his son's earnest and generous request. For Power did this kind deed by stealth, and mentioned it to no one, not even to Walter ; and Kenrick little thought when he told the good news to Power, and received his kind congratulations, that Power had known of it before he did himseli But still, in spite of all, Kenrick seemed sick at heart, and his life crept on in a sluggish course, like a river that loses its bright stream in the desert, and all whose silver runnels are choked up with dust and sand. The fact was, that the blows of punishment had fallen on him so fast and so heavily that he telt crushed to the very earth. The expulsion of the reprobates with whom he had consorted, his degradation and cen- sure, Wilton's theft and removal, the violent tension and revxdeion of feeling caused by his awakened con- science, his confession, and the gnawing sense of shame, the failure of his ambition, and then his mother's death coming as the awful climax of the calamities he had A BROKEN SPIMT. undt^rgone, and followed by the cold unfeeling harsh- ness of his guardian, and the damping of his hopes — all these things had broken the bo/s spirit utterly. Dis- grace, and sorrow, and bereavement, and the stings ol remorse, and the suffering of punishment — the forfeiture of a guilty past, and the gloom of a lonely future — these things unmanned him, bowed him down, poisoned his tranquillity of mind, unhinged every energy of his soul, seemed to dry up the very springs of life. The hand of man could not rouse him from the stupor caused by the chastisements of God. But the rousing came at last, and in due time ; and it all came from a very little matter — so slight a matter as a little puff of seaward air. A trivial accident, you will say ; yes, one of those very trivial accidents that so often affect the destinies of a lifetime, and Shape our ends, Rough-hew them how we will." Kenrick, as usual, was walking along the top of the cliffs alone — restless, aimless, and miserable — " moon- ing," as the boys would have called it — unable even to analyse his own thoughts, conscious only that it was folly in him to nurse this long-continued and hopeless melancholy, yet quite incapable of making the one strong effort which would have enabled him to throw it oft"". And in this mood he sat down near the cliff, thinking of nothing, but watching, with idle guesses as to their destination and history, the few vessels that passed by on the horisix^n. The evening was drawing A DESCENT. 4-97 in, cold and windy ; and suddenly remembering that he must be back by tea-time, he rose up to return. The motion displaced his straw hat, and the next moment the breeze had carried it a little way over the edge of the cliff, where it was caught in a low bush of tamarisk. It rested but a few feet below him, and the chalky front of the cliff was sufficiently rough to admit of his descent. He climbed to it, and had just succeeded in disengaging it with his foot, when, before he had time to seize it, it again fell, and rolled down some thirty feet. Ken- rick, finding that he had been able to get down with tolerable ease, determined to continue his descent in order to secure it. It never occurred to him that the hat was of no great importance, and that it would have been infinitely less trouble to walk home without it, and buy a new one, than to run the risk and encounter the trouble of his climb. However, he did manage to reach it, and put it on with some satisfaction. But, as he was beginning to remount, a considerable mass of chalk crumbled away under his feet, and made him cling on with both hands to avoid being precipitated. He had been able to get down well enough, because, if the chalk slipped, he glided on safely with it, but in climb- ing up he was obliged to press his feet strongly down- wards in order to gain his spring ; and every time he did this, he found that the chalk kept giving way, ex- hausting him with futile efforts, filling his shoes with dust and pebbles, slipping into his clothes, and blind- ing his eyes. Every person who has climbed at all, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, knows that it is easy 2 R 498 TO THE CLIFFS FOOT. enough to get down places which it is almost impos aihle to mount again ; and Kenrick, after many attempts, found that he had been most imprudent, and becoming seriously alarmed, was forced, when he had quite tired himself with fruitless exertions and had once or twice nearly fallen, to give up the attempt altogether, and do his best to secure another way of escape. This was to climb down quite to the bottom of the cliff, and make his way, as best he could, over rocks and shingle round the bluff which shut in one side of the little bay on which he stood, and along the narrow line of beach, to St. Winifred's Head. This was possible sometimes, and he fancied that the tide was suffi- ciently far out to enable him to do it now. At any rate herein lay, so far as he saw, his only chance of safety. Down the cliff then he climbed once more, and though it was some ninety feet high he found no diffi- culty in doing this, with care, till he came to a place where its surface was precipitous for a height of some ten feet, worn smooth by the beating of the waves. Holding with his hands to the edge, he let himself fall down this height, and found himself standing, a little shaken though unhurt, in a small pebbly bay or indenta- tion of the shore formed by a curve in the line of cliffs, with a series of headlands and precipices trending away on one side far to his right, and with the Ness of St. Winifred's reaching out to his left. Once round that headland he would be safe, and indeed if he once got beyond the little pebbly inlet where he stood, he hoped A RACE WITH THE SEA. - 499 to find some place where he might scale the rocks, and so cross the promontory and get home. There was no time to be lost, and he ran with all his speed over the loose stones towards the bluff, letting the unlucky straw hat drop on the shore, as it had no string, and it impeded him to be obliged to hold it on with one hand. Eeaching the end of the shingle, he stumbled with difficulty over some scattered rocks slimy with ooze and seagrass, hoping with intense hope that when he rounded the projection of cliff, he would see a line of beach, narrow indeed, but still wide enough to allow of his running along it before the tide had come in, and reaching some part of St. Winifred's Head which he might be able to scale by means of a sheep- path, or with the help of hands and knees. Very quickly he reached the corner, and hardly dared to look ; but when he did look, a glance shewed him that but slender hope was left. At one spot the tide had already reached the foot of the cliffs ; but if he could get to that spot while the water was yet sufficiently shallow to allow him to run through it, he trusted that he might yet be saved. The place was far off, but he ran and ran ; and ever as he ran the place seemed to get farther and farther, and his knees failed him for fatigue, as he sank at every step in the noisy and yield- ing mixture of sand and pebbles. Eeader, have you ever run a race with the sea ? If not, accept the testimony of one who has had to do it more than once, that it is a very painful and exciting race. I ran it once successfully with one who, though 500 A aACE WITH THE SKA. we then escaped, Vias since been overtaken and swallowed up by the great dark waves of that other sea, whose tides are ever advancing upon us, and must sooner or later absorb us all — the great dark waves of Death But to take your life in your hand, and mn, and to know that the sea is gaining upon you, and that, how- ever great the speed with which fear wings your feet, your subtle hundred-handed enemy is intercepting you with its many deep inlets, and does not bate an instant*s speed, or withhold itself a hair's-breadth for all your danger, — is an awful thing to feel. And then to see that it has intercepted you is worst of all; — it is a moment not to be forgotten. And all this was what Kenrick had to undergo. He ran until he panted for breath, and stumbled for very weariness ; — but he was too late. A broad sheet of water now bathed the basea of the cliff, and the waves, as though angry with the opposing breeze, were leaping up with a frantic hiss, and deluging the rocks with sheets of spray and foam. Experience had taught him with what speed and fury on that dangerous coast the treacherous tide came in. There was not a moment to spare, and as he flew back to the small shelter of the pebbly cove, the water was already gliding close to him, and stretching its arms like a hungry medusa round the seaweed-matted lumps of scattered rock over which he trode. His face wetted with the salt dew, his brown haii scattered on the rising wind, he flew rather than ran once more to the place where he had descended, to renew the wild attempt to scale the cliff' which seemed BEATEN. 501 to afford him the only shadow of a hope. Yet a mere glance might have been enough to shew him that this hope was vain. Both at that spot, and as far as he could see, the sheer base of the cliff offered him no place where it was possible to rest a foot, no place where he could mount three feet above the shingle. But his scrutiny brought home to him another appalling fact, — namely, that the sea-mark, where the highest tide fringed its barriers with a triumphal wreath of hanging sea- weed, and below which no foliage grew was high up upon the cliff, far above his head. It was too late to curse his rashness and folly, noi would he even try to face his frightful situation till he had thought of every conceivable means by which to escape. A friend of mine had, and I suppose still has, a pen-and-ink sketch which made one shudder to look at it. All that you see is a long sea-wall, apparently the side of some stone pier, so drawn as to give the impression of great height, and the top of it not visible in the picture ; by the side of this ripples and plashes a long dark reach of sea water, lazily waving the weeds which it has planted in the crevices of stone, and extending, like the wall itself, farther than you can guess. The only living thing in the picture is a single, spent, shaggy dog, its paws rested for a moment on a sort of hollow in the wall, and half its dripping body emergent from the dark water. It is staring up with a look of despondent exhaustion, yet mute appeal. The sketch powerfully recalls and typifies the exact positiop in which poor Kenrick now found himself placed 502 THE LAST CHANCK before kim the hungry, angry darkening sea, behind him the inaccessible bastions of forbidding cliff. It is a hon-ible predicament, and those can most thrillingly appreciate it who, like the author, have been in it themselves. There was yet one thing, and one thing only, to be tried, and it was truly the refuge of desperation. Ken- rick was an excellent swimmer ; many a time in bath- LQg at St. Winifred's, even when he was a little boy he had struck out boldly far into the bay, even as far as the huge tumbling red buoy, that spent its restless life in " ever climbing with the climbing wave.'' If he could swim for pleasure, could he not swim for life ? It was true that the swim before him was, beyond all comparison, farther and more hazardous than he had ever dreamt of But swimming is an art which in- Bpires extraordinary confidence ; it makes us fancy thai drowning is impossible to us, because we cannot ima- gine ourselves so fatigued as to fail in keeping above water. Kenrick knew that the attempt was only one to be undertaken at dire extremity ; but that extremity had now arrived, and it was literally the last chance that lay between him and — what he would not think of yet. So, in the wintry air, with the strong wind blowing keenly, and the red gleam of sunset already beginning to fail, he flung off his clothes on the damp beach, and as one who rushes on a forlorn hope in the teeth of an enemy, he ran down the rough uneven shore, hardly noticing how much it hurt his feet, and plunged boldly THE SWlMMfi:^. 503 into the hideous yeast of seething waves. The cold made him shiver and shiver in every limb ; his teeth thattered ; he was afraid of cramp ; the slimy sea-weeds that his feet touched, the tangled and rotting strings of sea-twine that waved about his legs, sent a strong shud- der through him ; and there was a sick clammy feel- ing about the frothy spume through which ne had to plunge. But when he had once ploughed his way through all this, and was fairly out of his depth, the exercise warmed him, and he rose with a swimmer's triumphant motion over the yielding waves. On and on he swam, thinking only of that, not looking before him ; but when he began to feel quite tired, and did look, he saw that he was not nearly half way to the head- land. He saw, too, how the breakers were lashing and fighting with the iron shore which he was madly striv ing to reach. Even if he could swim so far, — and he now felt that he could not, — how could he ever land at such a spot ? Would not one of those billows toss him up on its playful spray, and dash him as it dashed its own unpitied offspring, dead upon the rocks? And as this conviction dawned on him, withering all his energy of heart, the wind wailed over him, the water bubbled in his ears, and the sea-mew, flapping as it flew past him, uttered above his head its plaintive scream. His heart sank within him. With a quick motion he turned in the water, and with arms wearied out he swam back again, as for dear Hfe, towards the little landing-place which alone divided him from in- stant death ; struggHng on heavily, with limbs so 504 THE VISIO^ weary thai he could barely move them through the waves, whose increasing swell often broke around his head. Already the tide had reached the spot where he had let his straw hat drop on the beach ; the sea was scornfully playing with it, tossing it up and down, whirling it round and round like a feather ; the wind blew it to the sea, and the sea, receiving no gifts from an enemy, flung it back again j but the wind carried the day, and while Kenrick was wringing the brine out of his dripping hair, and huddling his clothes again over his wet, benumbed, and aching limbs, he saw the straw hat fairly launched, and floating away over the waves. And then it was that, as the vision of Sudden Death glared out before his eyes, and the Horror of it leapt upon him, that a scream^ — a loud, wild, echoing scream, which sounded strange in that lonely place, and rose above the rude song that the wind was now singing, — broke from his blanched lips. And another, and another, and then silence ; for Kenrick was now crouch- ing at the clifi^'s foot furthest off from the swelling flood, with his eyes fixed motionless in a wild stare on its advancing line of foam. He was conjuring up before his imagination the time w^hen those waves should have reached him ; should have swept him away from the shelter of the shore, or risen above his lips ; should have forced him again to struggle and swim, until his strength, already impaired by hunger, and thirst, and cold, and fatigue, should have failed him altogether, and he would sink, and the water gurgle wdldly in his ears, and stop his breath, — and all would be still. And wher OF SUDDEN DEATH. 505 he had pictured this scene to himself with a vividness which made him experience all its agony, for a time his mind flew back through all the faultful past up to that very day ; memory lighted her lantern, and threw its blaze on every dark corner, on every hidden recess, every for- gotten nook, — left no spot unsearched, unilluminated with sudden flash ; — all his past sins were before him, words, looks, thoughts, everything. As when a man descends with a light in his diving-bell into the heaving sea, the strange monsters of the deep, attracted by the unknown glimmer, throng and wallow terribly around him, so did uncouth thoughts and forgotten sins welter in fearful multitudes round this light of memory in the deep sea of that poor human soul. And finally, as though in demon voices, came this message whispered to him, shouted to him tauntingly, rising and falling with maddening alternation on the rising and falling of the wind, — " You have been wasting your life, moodily aban- doning yourself to idle misery, neglecting your duties, letting your talents rust, — God will take from you the life you knoto not how to use!' And then, as though in answer to this, another voice, low, soft, sweet, that his heart knew well, — another voice filling the inter- spaces of the others with unseen music, whispered to him soothingly, — " It shall be given you again, use it better, use it better ; awake, use it better, it shall he jiven you again!' Those three wild shrieks of his had been heard ; he did not know it, but they had been heard. The whole coast was in general so lonely that you could usually ^06 TOE TWO LISTENERS. pace it for miles without meeting a single human being and it never even occurred to him that some one might pass that way. But it so happened that the boisterous weather of the last few days had cast away a schooner at a place some five miles from St. Winifred's, and Walter Evson had walked with Charlie to see the wreck, and was returning along the cliff. As they passed thft spot where Kenrick was, they had been first startled and then horrified by those shrieks, and while they stood listening another came to their ears, more piercing, more heart-rending than the rest. " Good heavens, there must be some one down there ! " exclaimed Walter. " Why, how could any one have got there % " asked Charh'e. " Well, but didn't you hear some one scream 1 " "Yes, several times. 0 Walter, do look here." Charlie pointed to the traces on the cliff that some one had descended there. " Who could have wanted to get down there I wonder ; and for what possible purpose 1 " " Do you see any one, Walter ? "No I don't; there's nothing but the sea,'' — for Kenrick, crouching under the cliff, was hidden from sight, and now the tide had come up so far that, from the summit, none of the shingle was visible, — "but what's that ? " "Why, Walter, Ws a straw hat ; it must be one oi our fellows down there; I see the ribbon distinctly, dark blue and white twisted together." THE STRAW HAT. 507 *^Dark bltie and white/ why, then, it must be some one in the foot-ball eleven : Charlie, it must be Kenrick ! Heavens, what can have happened?" "Kenrick 1" they both shouted at the top of their voices. But the cliff was high, and the wind, momently rising to a blast, swept away their shouts, and although Kenrick might have heard them distinctly under ordinary circumstances, they now only mingled with, and gave new form and body to, the wild madness which terror was beginning to kindle in his brain. So they shouted, and no answer came. " No answer comes, Charlie ; but there's some one down there as sure as we are here," said Walter. Charlie had already begun to try and descend the face of the cliff. Stop, stop, Charlie," said Walter, seizing him and dragging him up again, **you mustn't try that ; — nay, Charlie, you really must not. If it's possible / will." He tried, but three minutes shewed him that, however practicable a descent might be, an ascent after- wards would be wholly beyond his power. Besides, if he did descend, what could he do ? Clearly nothing ; and with another plan in view, he with difficulty reached his former position. "Nothing to be done that way, Charlie." At that moment another cry came, for Kenrick, in a moment- ary lull of the wind, had fancied that he had heard sounds and voices other than those of his perturbed and agitated fancy. " Ha ! you heard that ? " said Walter, and he shouted again, but no sound was re- turnei 508 THE OLD BOAT. We must fly to 8t. Winifred's, Charlie ; there*8 a boy down on the shore beyond a doubt. You stay behind if you like, for you can't run as fast as me. I'm afraid, though, it's not the least good. St. Wini- fred's is three miles from here, and long before I've got help and come three miles back, it's clear that no one can be alive down there; still we must try," and he was starting when Charlie seized his arm. "Don't you remember, Walter, the hut at Bryce's cove? there's an old boat there, and it's a mile and a half nearer than St. Win's." " Qapital boy, Charlie," said Walter ; " how good of you to think of it ; — it's the very thing. Come." They flew along at full speed, Walter taking Charlie's hand, and saying, "Never mind stretching your legs for once, even if you are tired. How well you run ! we shall be there in no time." They gained the cove, flew down the steep narrow path, and reached the hut door. Their summons was only answered by the furious barking of a dog. No one was in. "Never mind; there's the boat; we must take French leave ;" and Walter, springing down, hastily unmoored it. " Wah 1 what a horrid old tub, and it wants baling, Waiter." " We can't stay for that, Charlie boy; it's a good thing that Semlyn Lake has taught us both to row, isn't it?" " O yes ; don't you wish we had the little ' Pearl' here TO THE RESCUE. 509 now, M-'alter 1 Wouldn't we make it %, instead of this cranky old wretcL ? " " Well, we must fancy that this is the * Pearl/ and this Semlyn Lake/' said Walter, wading up to the knees to launch the boat, and springing in when he had given it the final shove. They were excellent rowers, but Charlie had never tried his skill in a sea like that, and was timid, io. which there was every excuse. " How very rough it is, Walter,' ' he said, as the boat tossed up and down like an egg-shell on the high waves. " Keep up your heart, Charlie, and row steadily ; don't be afraid." "^No, Walter, I won't, as you're with me; but — Walter f " WeUr' " It'll be dark in half an hour." " Not quite, and we shall be there by that time ; we needn't go far out, and the tide's with us.'^ So the two brave brothers rowed steadily on, with only one more remark from Charlie, ushered in by the word " Walter?" " Anything more to frighten me with, Charlie V* he answered, cheerily ; you shan't succeed." " Well, Walter," he answered, with a little touch of shame, " I was only going to say that, if you look, you'll see that your oar's been broken, and is only spliced together." " I've seen it all along, Charlie, and will use the oai 510 WHAT THEY SAW. gingerly; and now, Charlie, I see you're a littlo frightened, my boy. I'm going to brace you up. Rest on your oar a minute." He did so. " Now turn round and Zoo/c." He pointed with his finger to a dark figure, now distinctly seen, cowering low at the white cliff's foot. " 0 Walter, I'm ready ; I won't say a word more;*' and he leant to his oar, and plied it like a man. It is a pretty, a delightful thing, in idle summer- time to lie at full length upon the beach on some ambrosial summer evening, when a glow floats over the water, whose calm surface is tenderly rippled with gold and blue. And while the children play beside dabbling and paddling in the wavelets, and digging up the ridges of yellow sand, which take the print of theii pattering footsteps, nothing is more pleasant than to let the transparent stream of the quiet tide plash musically with its light and motion to your very feet ; nothing more pleasant than to listen to its silken murmurs, and to watch it fl« / on with its beneficent coolness, and take possessiov of the shore. But it is a very different thing whc there rises behind you a waU of frowning cliff, precipitous, inaccessible, affording no hope of refuge ; nd when, for the golden calm of summer eventid" you have the cheerless drawing in of a loud and stormy February night ; and when you have the furious hissing violence of rock-and- wind-struck breakers for the violet-coloured margin of rippling waves, — knowing that the wind is wailing forth your THE SEA AT PLAY. 511 requiem, and that, with the fall of every breaker, unseen hands are ringing your knell of death. The boy crouched there, his face white as the cliffs above him, his undried limbs almost powerless for cold, and his clothes wetted through and through with spray, — pushing aside every moment the dripping locks of hair which the wind scattered over his forehead, that he might look with hollow staring eyes on the Death which was advancing towards him, wrapping him already in its huge mantle-folds, calling aloud to him, beckoning him, freezing him to the very bone wdth the touch of its icy hand. And the brutal tide coming on, according to the pitiless irreversible certainty of the fixed laws that governed it, — coming on like a huge wallowing monster, dumb and blind, — knew not, and recked not, of the young life that quivered on the verge of its advance, — that it was about to devour remorselessly, with no wrath to satiate, with no hunger to appease. None the less for the boy's presence, unregardful of his growing horror and wild suspense, it continued its uncouth play, — leap- ing about the rocks, springing upwards and stretch- ing high hands to pluck down the cliffs, seeming to laugh as it fell back shattered and exhausted, but un- subdued ; — charging up sometimes like a herd of wild white horses, bounding one over the other, shaking their foamy manes ; — hissing sometimes like a brood oi huge sea-serpents, as it insinuated its winding streams among the boulders of the shore. It might have seemed to bo in sport with him as it 512 IN THE WAVES. ran first up to his feet, and playfully splashed him, a8 a bather might splash a person on the shore from head to heel, and then ran back again for a moment, and then up again a little fai-ther, till, as he sat on the extreme line of the shore and with his back huddled up close against the cliff, it first wetted the soles of his feet — and then was over his shoes — then ankle deep — then knee-deep — then to the waist. Already it seemed to buoy him up ; — he knew that in a few moinents more he would be forced to swim, and the last struggle would commence. His brain was dull, his senses blunted, his mind half-idiotic, when first, (for his eyes had been fixed downwards on the growing, encroaching waters), he caught a glimpse, in the failing daylight, of the black outline of a boat, not twenty yards from him, and caught the sound of its plashing oars. He stared eagerly at it, and just as it came beside him he lost ail his strength, uttered a faint cry, and slipped dowr, fainting into tiie waves. CHAPTER THE THIETY-NINTH. ON THE DABK SEA. raiScj 5' iperfiois i^ficvoi yXavKrjr SXa Eur. Ctci- 16. Boys Leaning npon their oars, with splash and strain, Made white with foam the green and purple sea. Shelles N a moment Walter's strong arms had caught him, and lifted him tenderly into the boat, r \ While the waves tossed them up and down o<^- they placed him at full length as comfortably [7\ as they could, — which was not very comfort- ably, — and th ugh his clothes were streaming with salt water, and his fainting fit still con- tinued, they began at once to row home. For, by this time, it was dim twilight ; the wind was blowing great guns, the clouds were full of dark wrath, ind the Btormy billows rose higher and higher. There was no time to spare, and it would be as much as they could do to provide for their own safety. The tide was alreadj' 2 L 514 A CALAMITY. bumping them against the cliff at the place where, just m time, they had rescued Kenrick, and, in order to get themselves fairly off, Walter, forgetting for a moment, pushed out his oar and pressed against the cliff. The damaged oar was weak enough already, and instantly Walter saw that his vigorous shove had weakened and displaced the old splicing of the blade. CharUe too observed it, but neither of them spoke a word ; on the contrary , the little boy was at his place, oar in rullock, and immediately smote lightly and in good time the surface of the water, splashed it into white foam, and pulled with gallant strokes. lliey made but little way ; the waves pitched them 80 high and dropped them with such a heavy faU between their rolling troughs, that rowing becami almost impossible, and the miserable old boat shipped quantities of water. At last, after a stronger pull than usual, Walter's oar creaked, snapped, and gave way, flinging him on his back. The loosened twine with which it had been spliced was half rotten with age ; it broke in several places, the oar blade fell off and floated away, — and Walter was left holding in both hands a broken and futile stump. My God, it is all over with us !*' was the wild cry that the sudden and awful misfortune wrung from his hps J while Charlie, shipping his now useless oar, clung round his brother's neck and cried aloud. The three boys — one of them faint, exhausted, and speechless — vf*^re in an unsafe and oarless boat on the open tem- pestuous sea, weltering hopelessly at the cruel mercy oi TOO YOUNG TO DIE. winds and waves ; a current was sweeping them they knew not whither, and the wind, howling like a hurricane, was driving them farther and farther away from land. " 0 Walter, I can't die, I can't die yet ; and not out on this black sea, away from every one !" " From every one but God, Charlie ; and I am with you. Cheer up, little brother, God will not desert us." " 0 Walter, pray to God for you and me and Kenrick ; pray to Him for life." " We will both pray, Charlie : " and folding hh arms round him — for now that the rowing was ovei and there was nothing left to do, the little boy was frightened at the increasing gloom — Walter, calm even at that wild moment, with the calm of a clear con- science and a noble heart, poured forth his soul in words of supplication, while Charlie, his voice half stifled with tears, sobbed out a terrified response and echo to his prayer. And after the prayer Walter's heart was lightened and his spirit strengthened, till he felt ready in himself to meet anything and brave any fate ; but his soul ached with pity for his little brother and for his friend. It was his duty to cheer them both and do what could be done. Kenrick had so far recovered as to move and say a few words, and the brothers were by his side in a moment. ''You have saved my life, Walter, when I had given it up ; saved it, I hope, to some purpose thia time," he whispered, unconscious as yet of his position , iuid he dragged up his feet out of the pool of water in FROM DEATO TO DEATH, which they were lying at the bottom of the boat. But gradually the situation dawned upon him. " How is it you're not rowing?" he asked ; "are you tired] let me try, I think I could manage." " It would be of no use, Ken," said Walter ; " I mean that we can't row," and he pointed to the broken oar. " Then you have saved me at the risk, perhaps at the cost, of your own lives. 0 you noble, noble Walter ! " said Kenrick, the tears gushing from his eyes. " How awfully terrible this is ! I seem to be snatched from death to death. Life and death are battling for me to-night; yes, eternal life and death too," he whispered in Walter's ear, catching him by the wrist. " All this danger is for me, Walter, and for my sin. 1 am like Jonah in the ship; I have been buJBfeting death away for hours, but he has been sent for me, he must do his mission. I see that / cannot escape, but, 0 God, I hope that you will escape, Walter. Youi life and Charlie's must not be spilt for mine." It was barely light enough to see his face, but it looked wild and haggard in the ragged gleams of moon- light which the black flitting clouds suffered to break forth at intervals ; and his words, after this, were too incoherent to understand. Walter saw that the long intensity of fear had rendered him half delirious and not master of himself. Soon after he sank into a stupor, half sleep, half exhaustion, and even the lurching of the boat did not rouse him any more. " Walter, he's asleep, or — oh! is he dead, Walter asked Charlie, in horror. NIGHT AND STORM. 517 " No, uo, Charlie ; there, put your hand upon his heart. You see it beats ; he is only exhausted, and in a sort of swoon/' " But he will be pitched over, Walter." " Then 111 shew you what well do, Charlie. We must make the best of everything.'^ Walter lifted up the useless rudder, pulled out the string of it to lash Kenrick safely to the stern bench by which he lay, and took off his own coat in order to cover him up that he might sleep ; and then, anxious above all things to relieve Charlie's terror, the unselfish boy, thinking only of others, sat beside him on the centre bench, and en- circled him with a protecting arm. And, as though to increase their misery, the cold rain began to fall in torrents. " 0 Walter, it's so cold, and wet, and stormy, and pitch dark. I'm frightened, Walter. I try not to be, but I can't help it. Take me on your knees and pray for us again." Walter took him on his knees, and laid his head against his own breast, and folded him in his arms, and wiped his tears ; and the little boy's sobs ceased as Walter's voice rose once more in a strain of intense prayer. Walter, God must grant that prayer ; 1 'm sure he must ; he can't reject it," said Charlie, simply. He will answer it in the way best for us, Charlie ; whatever that is." But shall we die] " asked his brother again, with a cold shudder at the word. 518 OCEAN-GRAVEa "Remember what yoM said just now, ChRrlie, aixd be brave. But even if we were to die, could we die better, little brother, than in doing our duty, and trying to save dear Ken's life ? It isn't such a very terrible thing, Charlie, after all. We must all die some time, you know, and boys have died as young and younger than you or me." " Aye, but not like this, Walter : out in these icy, black, horrid waters." Yes, they have indeed, Charlie ; — little friendlep? sailor-boys dashed on far-away rocks that sphntered their ships to atoms, or swallowed up when their vessels foundered in great typhoons, thousands of miles away from home and England, in unknown seas ; — Uttle boys like you, Charlie ; and they have died bravely, too, though no living soul was near them to hear their cries, and nothing to mark their graves but the bubble for one minute while they sank." "Have they, Walter?" " Aye, many and many a time they have ; and the same Grod who called for their lives gave them courage and strength to die, as He will give us if there is need." There was a pause, and then Charlie said, " Talk to me, Walter ; it prevents my listening to the flapping and plunging of the boat, and all the other noises. Walter, I think ... I think we shall die." " Courage, brother, I have hope yet ; and if we die we will die like this together — I will not let you ^0. Our bodies shall be washed ashore together — not eparated, Charlie, ev^n in death" A LAST HOPE. 519 " You have been a dear, dear good brother to me. How I love you, Walter ! " and as he pressed yet closer to him, he said more bravely, " What hope have you then, Walter r "Look up, Charlie ; you see that light "Yes; what is it?" " Sharksfin Lighthouse ; don't you remember see- ing it sometimes at night from St. Win's ? Yes ; and those lights twinkling far off are St. Win's. Those must be the school lights ; and those long windows you can just see are the chapel windows. They are in chapel now, or the lights wouldn't be there. Perhaps some of our friends — Power, perhaps, and Eden — are praying for us ; they must have missed us since tea-time." " How I wish we were with them !" " Perhaps we may be again ; and all the wiser and better in heart and life for this solemn time, Charlie. If we are but carried by this wind and current within hearing of the Kghthouse ! " The Sharksfin Lighthouse is built on a sharp high rock two miles out at sea. I have watched it from Bleak Point on a bright, warm summer's day, when the promontory around me was all ablaze with purple heather and golden gorse, and there was not breeze enough to shake the wing of the butterfly as it rested on the blue-bell, or disturb the honey-laden bee as it mur- mured in the thyme. Yet even then the waters were seething and boiling in never-ended tumult about those hideous sunken rocks : and the oceaJD a]l around wae 520 rilE LIGHTHOUSE hoary as with the neezings of a thousand leviathane floundering in its monstrous depths. You may guess what they are on a wild February night ; — how, in the mighty rush of the Atlantic, the torn breakers beat about them with tremendous rage, till the whole sea is in angry motion like some demon caldron that seethes over roaring flame. Drifting along, or rather flungj and battered about on the current, they passed within near sight of the lighthouse, and they might have thanked God that they passed no nearer, for to have passed nearer would have been certain death. The white waves dashed over it, enveloped its tall strong pillar that buff'eted them back, like a noble will in the midst of calumny and persecution ; they fell back hissing and discomfited, and could not dim its silver or quench its flame ; but it glowed on with steady lustre in the midst of them — flung its victorious path of splendour over their raging motion, warned from the sunken reef the weary mariner, and looked forth untroubled with its broad, calm eye into the madness and fury of the tempest- haunted night. Through this broad track of light the boat was driven, and Walter shouted at the top of his voice with all his remaining strength. The three men in the lighthouse fancied indeed, as they acknowledged after- wards, that they had heard some shouts ; but strange, mysterious, inarticulate voices are often borne upon the wind, and haunt ahvays the lonely wastes of foamy sea. The lighthouse men had often heard these unes- THE LAST HOPE QUENCHED. 521 plained wailings and weird screams. Many a time they had looked out, and been so continually deceived, that unless human accents were unmistakeable and well-defined, they attribute these sounds to other agen- cies, or to the secret phenomena of the worst storms. And even if they had heard, what could they have done, or how have launched their boat when the billows were running mountain-high about their perilous rock ? Charlie had been quiet for a long time, his face hidden on Walter's shoulder; but he had seen the glare which the light threw across the waves, and had observed that they had gradually been driven through it into the blackness again, and he asked, " Have we passed the lighthouse, Walter ] " " We have." " Oh, I am so hungry and burning with thirst I Oh, w^hat shall we do?" "Try not to think about it, Charlie; — a little fasting won't hurt us much." Another long pause, during which they clung more closely to each other, and their hearts beat side by side, and then Charlie said, in a barely articulate whisper — " Walter!" 1 know what you are going to say, Charlie." " The water in the boat is nearly up to my knees." " We have shipped a great deal, you know." " Yes ; and besides that " " Yes, it is true ; there is a leak Do you mind my putting you down and trying what I can do to bale the water out V 522 NEAR THE END. "0 Walter, don't put me off your knee ; — don't let go of me." " Very well, Charlie ; it wouldn't be of much use." " Good God ! " cried the little boy in a paroxysm of agony, " we are sinking — we are foundering 1 " They wound their arms round each other, and Walter said, " It is even so, my darling brother. Death is near, but God is with us ; and if it is death, then death means rest and heaven. Good-bye, Charlie- good-bye ; we will be close together till the end." CHAITER THE FORTIETli WHAT THE SEA GAVE UP. The sands and yeasty surges mix At midnight in a dreary bay ; — And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, And o'er thy bones the scrawl shall play. Tennyson. [f NXIETY reigned at St. Winifred's, succeeded by consternation and intense grief. Little was thought of the absence of the three boys at tea-time, but when it came to chapel-time J-^ and bed-time, and they had not yet appeared, and when next morning it was found that they had not been heard of during the night, every- one became seriously alarmed, and all the neighbouring country was searched for intelligence. The place on the cliff where Kenrick had descended was observed, but as the traces shewed that only one boy had gone down there, the discovery, so far from explaining matters, only rendered them more inex- plicable. Additional light was thrown on the subject by the disappearance of Bryce's boat, and the worst fears seemed to be confirmed by his information that 524 WHAT THE SEA it was a ricketty old concern, only intended to paddle in smooth weather close to the shore. But what earthly reason could have induced three boys to ven- ture out in such a tub on so wild a night 1 That they did it for pleasure was inconceivable, the more so as rowing was strictly forbidden ; and as no other reason could be suggested, all conjecture was at fault. The fishermen went out in their smacks, but found no traces, and gained no tidings of the missing boys ; and all through that weary and anxious day the belief that they had been lost at sea gained ground. x41most all day Power, and Eden, and Henderson, had been gazing out to sea, or wandering on the shore, in the vain hope of seeing them come rowing across the bay ; but all the sailors on the shore affirmed that if they had gone out in an open boat, and particularly in Bryce'? boat, it was an utter impossibility that they could have outlived the tempest of the preceding night. At last, towards the evening, the sea gave up, not indeed her dead, but what was accepted as a positive proof of their wretched fate. Henderson, who was in a fever of excitement, which Power vainly strove to allay, was walking with him and Eden, who was hardly less troubled, along the beach, when he caught sight of something floating along, rising and falling on the dumb sullen swell of the advancing tide. He thought and declared at first, with a start of horror, that it was the light hair of a drowned boy ; but they very soon saw that it could not be that, and dashing GAVE UP NEXT DAY. 525 in waist-deep after it, Henderson brought out the torn and battered fragments of a straw hat. The ribbon, ol dark blue and white, though soaked and discoloured, still served to identify it as having belonged to a St. Wini- fred's boy ; and, carefully examining the flannel lining, they saw on a piece of linen sewn upon it—only too legible still — the name " H. Kenrick." Nor was this all they found. The discovery had quickened their search, and soon afterwards Power, with a sudden suppressed cry, pointed to something black, lying, v/ith a dreadful look about it, at a far part of the sand. Again their hearts grew cold, and running up to it they all recog- nised, with fresh horror and despair, the coat which Walter had last worn. They recognized it, but besides this, to place the matter beyond a doubt, his name was marked on the inside of the sleeve. In one of the pockets was his school note-book, with all the notes he had taken, and the playful caricatures which here and there he had scribbled over the pages ; and in the other, stained with the salt water, and tearing at every touch, were the letters he had last received. All the next day the doubt was growing into cer- tainty. Mr. and Mrs. Evson were summoned from Semlyn, and came with feelings that cannot be de- picted. Power gave to Mrs. Evson the coat he had picked up, and he and Henderson hardly ever left the parents of their friend, doing all they could to cheer their spirits and support in them the hopes they could hardly feel themselves. To this day Mrs. Evsou cherishes that coat as a dear and sacred relic, which 526 EDEN'S CONTIDENCK reminds hei of the mercy which sustained her during the first great agony which she had endured in her happy life. Power kept poor Kenrick's hat; for no relation of his was there to claim it. Another day dawned, and settled grief and gloom fell on all alike at St. Winifred's, — the boys, the mas- ters, the inhabitants. The sight of Mr. and Mrs. Evson'a speechless anguish oppressed all hearts, and by thb time hope seemed quenched for ever. For now one boj only, — ^though young hearts are slow to give up hope, — had refused to believe the worst. It was Eden. He persisted that the three boys must have been picked up. The belief had come upon him suddenly, and grown upon him he knew not how, but he was sure ol it ; and therefore his society brought most relief and comfort to the torn heart of the mother. " What made him so confident 1 " she askei He did not know ; he had seen it, or dreamt it, or felt it somehow, only he felt unalterably convinced that so it was. " They will come back, dear Mrs. Evson, they will come back, you will see," was his repeated asseveration ; and oppressed as her heart was with doubt and fear, she was never weary of those words. And on the fourth day, while Mr. Evson was absenx, having gone to make enquiries in London of all the ships which had passed by St. Winifred's on that day, Eden, radiant with joy, rushed into Dr. Lane's drawing- room, where Mrs. Evson was sitting, and utterly re- gardless of les convenances^ burst out with the excla- mation, "O Mrs. Evson, it is true, it is true what I GIVEN BACK. 527 always told you. Did n't I say that I knew it ? They have been picked up.'* " Hush, my boy ; steady/' whispered Mrs. Lane ; " you should have delivered the message less suddenly. The revulsion of feeling from sorrow to joy will be too much for her." " 0 Eden, tell me," said the mother faintly, recalling her senses bewildered by the shock of intelligence ; " are you certain 1 Oh, where are my boys ? " "You will see them soon," he said very gently; and the next moment, to confirm his words, the door again flew open, and Charlie Evson was wrapped in his mother's arms, and strained to her heart, and covered with her kisses, and his bright young face bathed in her tears of gratitude and joy. "Charlie, darling Charlie, where is Walter]" were her first words. "What, don't you know me then, mother; and have you no kiss to spare for me ?" said the playful voice of a boy enveloped in a sailor's blue shell jacket ; and then it was Walter's turn to feel in that long em- brace what is the agonising fondness of a mother's love. Kenrick was looking on a little sadly, — not envious, but made sorrowful by memory. But the next mo- ment Walter, taking him by the hand, had introduced him to his mother, and she kissed bim too on the cheek. Your name is so familiar to me, Kenrick," she said ; " and you have shared their daugers." " Walter has twice saved my Ufe, Mrs. Evson,*' he 528 SAVED. answered ; " and this time, I trust, he has saved it b more senses than one." The boys' story was soon told Jnst as their boat was beginning to sink, and the bitterness of death seemed over, Walter caught sight of the lights of a ship, and saw her huge dark outline looming not far from them, and towering above the waves. Instantly he and Charlie had shouted with all the frantic energy of reviving hope. By God's mercy their shouts had been heard ; in spite of the risk and difficulty caused by the turbulence of the night, the ship hove to, the long-boat was manned, and the amazed sailors had rescued them not ten minutes before their wretched boat swirled round and sank to the bottom, Nothing could exceed the care and tenderness with which the sailors and the good captain of the " Morn- ing Star " had treated them. The genial warmth oi the captain's cabin, the food and wine of which they stood so much in need, the rest and quiet, and a long, long sleep, continued for nearly twenty-four hours, had recruited their failing strength, and restored them to perfect health. Past St. Winifred's Bay extends for miles and miles a long range of iron-bound coast, and this circumstance, together with the violence of the breeze blowing away from land, had prevented the captain from having any opportunity of putting them ashore until the morning of this day, when, with kind-hearted liberality, he had also supplied them with the money requisite to pay their way to St Wini f red's THE BOYS* STORY. 529- " YoM can't think how jolly it was on board, mother/' said Charlie. ** I Ve learnt all about ships, and it was such fun ; and they were all as kind to us as possible." You mustn't suppose we didn't think of you, mother dearest," said Walter, " and how anxious you would be ; but we felt sure you would believe that gome ship had picked us up." Yes, Walter ; and to taste this joy is worth any past sorrow," said his mother. " You must thank youi friend Eden for mainly keeping up my spirits, for he was almost the only person who maintained that you were still alive." " And now, Mrs. Evson," said Power, " you must spare them for ten minutes, for the masters and ail the school are impatient to see and congratulate them." The whole story had spread among the boys in ten minutes, and they were again proud to recognise Walter's chivalrous daring. When he appeared in the blue jacket with which Captain Peters had replaced the loss of his coat, with Kenrick's arm in his, and hold- ing Charlie's hand, cheer after cheer broke from the assembled boys ; and finally, unable to repress their joy and enthusiasm, they lifted the three on their shoulders and chaired them all round tJie court. You may suppose that it was a joyful dinner party that evening at Dr. Lane's. iMr. Evson, as they had conjectured, had heard of his sons' safety in London from the captain of the " Morning Star," to whom he had tendered his warmest and most grateful thanks, 2 M 530 RKJOICTNGS. and to whom, befure leaving London, he had presented in testimony of his gratitude, an exquisite chronometer. Returning to St. Winifred's he found his two boys seated happily in the drawing-room awaiting him, each with their mother^s hand in theirs, and in the company of their best boy-friends. Walter was still in the blue shell jacket, which became him well, and which neither Mrs. Lane nor the boys would sniffer him to change. It was indeed an evening never to be forgotten, and hardly less joyous and rememberable was the grand breakfast which the Sixth gave to Walter and Kenrick in memory of the event, and to which, by special ex ception, little Charlie was also invited. Rejoicings are good, but they were saved for greater and better things. These three young boys had stood face to face with sudden death. Death, as it were, had laid his hand on their shoulders, had taken them by the hair and looked upon them, and bade them com- mune with themselves ; and, when he released them from that stern cold grasp, it gave to their lives an awful reality. It did not quench, indeed, their natural mirthfulness but it filled them with strong purposes and high thoughts. Kenrick returned to St. Winifred's a changed boy ; long-continued terror had quite altered the expression of his countenance, but, while this effect soon wore off, the moral effects produced in him were happily permanent. He began a life in earnest ; for him there was no more listlessness, or moody fits of sorrow, or bursts of wayward self-indulgence. He became strenuous, diligent, modest, earnest, kind , hf riiOM STRENGTH TO STllENGTH. 531 too, like Walter and Cliariiti, began his career ''^ from strength to strength.'^ Under him, and Power, and Walter, and others, whom their influence had formed or who had been moulded by the tradition they had left behind them, St. Winifred^s Nourished more and more, and added new honours and benefits to its old and famous name. At the end of that half year Power left * but not until he had won the Balliol scholarship and carried off nearly all the prizes in the school. Walter succeeded him as head of the school ; and he and Kenrick (who was restored to his old place on the list) worked heart and soul together for the good of it. In those days it was indeed in a happy and prosperous state — renowned and honoured without, well governed and high toned within. Dr. Lane felt and acknowledged that much of this success was due to the example and to the vigour of these head boys. Power, when he left, was beloved and distinguished ; Walter and Kenrick trode in his steps. To the boundless delight of the school they too carried off in one year the highest open scholarship at each University ; and when they also left, they had been as successful as Power, and were, if possible, even more universally beloved. Whalley carried on for another year the high tradition, and, in due time, Charlie also attained the head place in the school, and so behaved as to identify hi? name and Walter's with some of ite happiest and wisest institutions for many years. VKSYOL 18 not lo-day enough? why do I pt-er Into the darkness of the day to come ? Is not to-morrow e'en as yesterday ? Relics op Seellev. AY I not leave them here ] Where could I leave them better than on this marble threshold of a promising boyhood: still happy and noble in the freshness ol their feelings, the brightness of their hopes, ' the enthusiasm of their thoughts ? Need I say a word of afterlife, with the fading of its earlier visions, and the coldness and hardness of its ways ? I should like to linger with them here ; to shake hands here in farewell, and leave them as the boys 1 knew. They are living still, and are happy and highly honoured m the world. In their case " the boy has been father to the man ; " and the reader who has understood and sympathised with them in their early life will not ask me to draw aside the curtain, even for a moment, to shew them as they appeared when a few more summers had seen them grow to the full stature of their manhood CHARLES EVSON. 533 I said that they were living still ; but it is not so with all of them. Charlie Evsoii alone, of the little band who have been amongst the number of our friends at St. Wini- fred's, — alone, though the youngest of them all, — is now dead. He died a violent death. Filled with a missionary' spirit, and desirous, like Edward Irving, of " something more high and heroical in religion than this age alfect- eth," he joined a mission to one of the great groups oi Pacific Islands. And there, many a time, in the evening, after a day spent in teaching the natives bow to plant their fields and build their houses, he would gather them round him in the twilight, and, while the cool wind wandered over his hair and brow, and shook overhead the graceful plumes of the cocoa-palm, he would talk to them in low sweet tones, until the fireflies were twinkling in the thicket and the stars stole out one after another in their silent myriads, of one who came from the highest Heaven to redeem them from savagery and degradation, and to make them holy as He was holy, and pure as He was pure. He was eminently successful ; but when he had planted in some islands the first seeds of a fruit ful Christianity, he sailed to other reefs, still carrying the everlasting gospel in his hands. One evening as the little missionary ship, which Charlie himself had built, drew near the land, they saw that the natives were drawn up in a threatening attitude on the beach. Trusting to conciliate them by kindness and by presents, the young missionary, taking with him a few glittering trifles to attract thoir notice, proceeded with a smaU 534 A MARTYR'S DEATH. band of followers towards the shore. At first the natives seemed inclined to receive them well, but suddenly, by the wild impulse to which barbarians are so liable, one of the savages pierced a sailor with his spear. Evson, by an effort of strength, wrenched the weapon out of his hand and told his men to take up the wounded sailor and retreat. This they effected in safety, for the islanders were struck and awed by the young Englishman's high bearing and firm attitude ; and his eye fixed quietly upon them kept them back. He was himself the last to step into the boat, and, as he turned to do so, one of the wretches struck him on the head with his accursed club. He fell stunned and bleeding upon the beach, and in an instant was dispatched by the spears and clubs of a hundred savages, while the boat*s crew barely escaped with their lives, and the little mission vessel, spreading all her sails, could with diffi- culty elude the pursuit of the canoes, which swarmed out of the creeks to give her chase. The corpse lay bleeding upon a nameless strand, and the soft fair hair that a mother's hand had fondled and a mother's lips had kissed, dangled as a trophy at the girdle of a cannibal. Thus it was that Charlie died; and a marble tablet in Semlyn Church, ornamented with the most delicate and exquisite sculpture, records his tragic fate, and stands as a. monument of his parents' tender love. As a boy he had shewn a martyr's dauntless spirit ; as a man he was suffered to win the rare and high glory of a martyr's crown. Of Walter, and Henderson, and Sir Reginald Powei WALTKK. HENDERSON, AND POWER. 535 — for Power has gucceeded only too early to his father's title and estates — I need say no more. Their days from youth to maturity were linked together by a natural progress in all things charitable, and great, and good. They did not belie their early promise. The breeze of a happy life bore them gently onward, and they cast no anchor in its widening stream. They were brave and manly and honourable boys, and they grew up into high-minded and honourable men. I do not wish you to suppose that they had not their own bitter trials to suffer, or that they were exempt in any degree from our common sorrows. In that turbulent and restless period of life when the passions are strong and the heart wild and wilful and full of pride, while, at the same time, the judgment is often weak and the thoughts are immature and crude, they had (as we all have) to purchase wholesome ex perience at the price of suffering ; to remember with shame some follies, and mourn over some mistakes. In saytQg this, I only say that they were not faultless ; which of us is 1 But, at the same time, 1 may fairl}/ say that we do not often meet with nobler or manlier boys and youths than these ; that the errors which they committed they humbly endeavoured by patience and carefulness to amend ; that they used their talents well and wisely, striving to live in love and charity with all aroimd them ; that above all they kept the fear of Grod before their eyes, and never lost the freshness and geniality of early years, but kept " The young larob's heart araid the full arrown flock-4 .** 536 THE FAREWELL. — kept the heart of boyhood taken up and purified iii tlie powers of manhood. And this is the reason wh} the eye that sees them loves them, and the tongue that speaks of them blesses them. And when the end comes to them which comes to all ; when, — as though a child should trample out the sparks from a piece of paper, — death comes upon them and tramples out foi ever their joys and sorrows, their hopes and fears ; then, sure I am, that those who mourn for them, that those who cherish their memory and regret their loss, will neither be insincere nor few, and that they themselves will meet calmly and gladly that Great Shadow, waiting and looking with sure though humble hope to a better and less transient life ; to a sinless and unstained world \ to the meeting with long lost friends ; to the resi WHICH REMAINETH FOR THE PEOPLE OF GOD. z\.nd here, gentle reader, let us bid them all farewell AOS A TO BE^ Printed by Ballantyne, Hansox <5r» Co. Edinburgh London '5 UNIVEMITY OF ILUNO 9->J"«W 3 0112 04583 887