“A talebearer revealeth secrets; but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.”—Prov. xi. 13.
“He that covereth a transgression seeketh love, but he that repeateth a matter separateth very friends.”—Prov. xvii. 9.
“When pride cometh, then cometh shame.”—Prov. xi. 2.
“A haughty spirit goeth before a fall.”—Prov. xvi. 18.
Perhaps those who have read the first part of the story of Louis Mortimer will remember that I there endeavored to explain the nature of the Christian's warfare, and that I stated that there were sad periods when the Christian, too confident in his own strength, perhaps too much inclined to exult in his victories as evincing some latent power in himself, becomes less watchful, and gradually falls back in his glorious course. It is certain, that if we do not advance we go back, and oh, how sad it is that redeemed sinners, called by so holy a name as that of Christian, should, in any degree, forget to whom they owe all their might to do well, as well as their final salvation, that they should relax, in the least, their prayers, their efforts in the strength of the Holy Spirit to press forward towards the mark of the prize of their high calling. It is not that all those who thus sadly backslide are allowed to fall into open sin. Many, by the great mercy of their Lord, are preserved from thus dishonoring His holy name and cause; but alas! too often is there a falling off in devotion, in singleness of heart, in perseverance, in watchfulness against besetting sins, when the prayers are fewer and colder, the praises fainter, and the Christian, after languishing for a time in this divided state, hardly making an effort to return, becomes conscious, to his alarm, how far he has wandered, and feels with our sweet poet, in the bitterness of his spirit,
“Where is the blessedness I knew,
When first I saw the Lord?
Where is the soul-refreshing view
Of Jesus and His word?
“The peaceful hours I once enjoyed
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill.”
For the next fortnight the singing class was indefatigable, and owing to the cultivated taste of Louis and Reginald, and the superior musical education of one or two others, among whom Mr. Witworth and Frank were not the least in importance, the members at length considered themselves competent to exhibit before an audience.
Accordingly, after Dr. Wilkinson had been favored with a specimen of their skill, his permission was obtained to invite such of their friends as they chose.
Tickets of admission, which had been prepared before-hand, were then sent out in various directions, accompanied by notes of invitation. As soon as Mrs. Paget's arrived at its destination, a most kind answer was dispatched to Louis as president, adding a request to be allowed to provide refreshment for the performers; and, as her proposal was hailed with three cheers, and gracefully accepted by Louis, on the morning of the eventful day came grapes, peaches, biscuits, and wine, which were very elegantly set out in the class-room by the committee.
The concert passed off as propitiously as could be wished. Hamilton, who, from utter want of ear, was totally incapacitated for singing, acted the part of steward with Trevannion, Meredith, and one or two others, with great decorum, and actually stood near Mrs. Paget during part of the performance, listening quietly to Louis' praises with such evident interest, that a few words of commendation he uttered quite won the lady's heart, though she had certainly been prejudiced against him before. It was remarked by some, that the doctor did not seem much pleased with Louis' manners on this occasion; for, when Mrs. Paget, between the parts, began to praise Louis' extraordinary musical talents (as she was pleased to call them), and to relate how much he pleased the company at her house, Dr. Wilkinson coolly replied, that he considered he had been well taught, but doubted his having more than an average good taste and general ability; and as his eye turned upon Louis, who was moving rather affectedly and conceitedly from rank to rank on his way to the refreshment-room, his forehead wrinkled ominously, and his lips became more tightly compressed. He was observed to watch Louis for a minute, and then turn suddenly away as if disgusted.
The madrigal concert took place about the end of the quarter, and on the following Saturday afternoon, the monotony of Ashfield House was varied by the arrival of a new scholar, in the person of Mr. Henry Norman, who was placed as a parlor boarder with the doctor.
When Hamilton and Louis returned from the playground together, they discovered this young gentleman sitting on the table, carefully balancing the doctor's chair with one of his feet, deeply immersed in the contents of a new book with only partially cut leaves, left by accident on the table. His back was turned towards them, and he was so engrossed in the twofold occupation of reading and keeping the heavy chair from falling, that he did not notice their entrance, and Louis, not recognizing his figure at first, nor knowing that he was expected, left the business of welcoming the stranger to his senior.
“Our new school-fellow, Louis, I suppose,” said Hamilton, in a low tone, as he scrutinized the lengthy figure before him. “I know that fellow, Louis—he is a friend of yours.”
Before Louis had time to answer, the low murmur had disturbed Norman; and, looking up without altering his position in the least, he acknowledged his acquaintance with Louis by a nod, and a careless “How do you do?”
Louis advanced directly with a warm welcome and out-stretched hand that was met by two fingers of Norman's left hand, tendered in a manner so offensive to Hamilton that he debated whether he should turn the intruder out of window, or walk himself out of the door; and concluded by drawing back in disdainful anger.
Louis was not so ready to take offence, though he was sensitive enough to feel a little hurt; and, turning round to his friend, introduced Norman to him.
Norman took a steady quick glance at Hamilton, and, though his lips were full of propriety, there was something like a sarcastic smile in his eyes.
“You are not altogether a stranger to me, Mr. Hamilton, though, I imagine, I am to you,” he said, as he allowed the chair to regain its legs, and got off the table, throwing the book on another, several yards distant.
“I must confess you have the advantage of me,” said Hamilton, coldly. “I was not aware that I had the honor of being known to you.”
“I assure you, then, that you had that honor.—Dear me!” he added, as he threw himself into the doctor's chair, stretching out his legs to their utmost length: “absurd of me to sit on that table, when I might have initiated myself so admirably into the art of reading made easy. Comfortable chair this of Fudge's—I beg his pardon, Dr. Wilkinson's. I am so accustomed to that elegant nom du guerre that I occasionally forget myself. The old gentleman knows how to make himself comfortable; I suppose that book belongs to him. I took the liberty of cutting a few leaves.”
“Which will be a peculiar satisfaction to him, doubtless,” said Hamilton; “and perhaps you may have the pleasure of hearing so from his own lips.”
“Verbum sat,” replied Norman. “It is a peculiar gratification, Mr. Hamilton, to discover that your natural good sense is overcoming your usual disinclination to notice those things which are not comme il faut in your school-fellows, thereby depriving them of the aid of your countenance and example in their little endeavors; and I feel peculiar satisfaction in thus early becoming the recipient of the good services bestowed by the blunt sincerity and kindliness of your nature.”
Hamilton crimsoned and stared; but there was nothing insolent in the tone; it was inexplicable. That something was meant he could not doubt; and presently, perceiving that Louis was uncomfortable and embarrassed, he said haughtily,
“I really am at a loss to understand you, sir; but your manner towards your friend and mine is particularly unpleasant. What you may have been used to I cannot pretend to know; but, whatever it be, you will be kind enough to remember that here we are accustomed to the society of gentlemen, and to treat each other as such.”
“My dear Mr. Hamilton,” said Norman, blandly, slightly moving as if to arrest Hamilton's progress towards the door, “you entirely misunderstand me. Master Mortimer and I now understand each other better. Indeed, I am laid under a weighty obligation to Master Louis for my acquaintance with your royal self and various members of your court; and could not possibly have any intention of quarrelling with so kind a benefactor. As for you, I have made up my mind to know and like you. Shake hands, will you?”
Hamilton hesitatingly touched the proffered hand, and looking at his watch at the same moment, wondered to Louis why tea was not ready.
“There's the bell!” exclaimed Louis; and seizing Hamilton's arm, he hurried off, leaving Norman to follow at his leisure, as neither Hamilton nor himself felt at all inclined to be ceremonious.
Louis felt a little afraid of Norman, though he did not exactly know why.
Norman did not follow them immediately; and Hamilton had nearly emptied his first cup of tea when he came in, in company with Trevannion and Frank Digby, the latter of whom had a marvellous facility for making acquaintances on the shortest notice. They sat down at the end of one of the three long tables, and continued laughing and talking the whole of the tea-time, after which Norman went to his own tea with the doctor.
“So, Louis, Norman's come!” exclaimed Reginald, pouncing upon his brother just as he reached the school-room door.
“Is he a friend of yours?” asked Trevannion.
“He is, and he is not. Make that riddle out at your leisure,” replied Reginald, gayly.
“Oh, that settles the matter!” said Trevannion.
“What matter?” asked Louis.
A look of the most withering description was the only answer Louis received; it was enough, however, to deter him from repeating his question.
Happily, Reginald did not see it.
“How do you like our new-comer, Trevannion?” asked Hamilton, linking his arm in his friend's, preparatory to a short, after-tea turn in the playground. “There is something very peculiar about him—insolent, I think.”
“He's a nice fellow, in my opinion,” said Trevannion.
“A very knowing chap,” said Salisbury. “Has he been here before?”
“No,” said Frank Digby; “but somebody's been kind enough to give the full particulars, history, and lives, peccadilloes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, of the gentlemen, generally, and individually, at Ashfield Academy. Why, Hamilton, he called Trevannion and Salisbury by their names, without any introduction, and is as much up to every thing here as yourself, I believe.”
“I don't much fancy him,” said Hamilton; “and strongly suspect he won't add much to our comfort.”
“He doesn't like your pet, I suppose, then,” said Trevannion, marking the slight color that rose in Hamilton's face. “He told me of your strange rencontre in the class-room; he has taken a fancy, I am sure, to you.”
Hamilton did not look particularly delighted, and changed the subject to one on which he and Trevannion conversed most amicably till past their usual time for re-entering the study.
Norman did not come among them that evening till prayer-time; and, to his great satisfaction, Louis saw very little of him for the next day or two.
One day, during the first week of Norman's initiation, at the close of the morning school, a party similar in size and kind to that which had the honor of greeting Louis on his arrival the preceding half-year, was assembled on the raised end of the school-room. Frank and Salisbury were both of them seated on the top of a desk; the former, generally silent, relieved himself by sundry twists and contortions, smacking of the lips, sighs, and turnings of the eyes, varied by a few occasional thumps administered to Salisbury, who sat by him, apparently unconscious of the bellicose attitude of his neighbor, listening attentively, with a mixed expression of concern and anger on his honest countenance, to Norman, who, on this occasion, was the principal speaker. Louis was in the room, at his desk, hunting for a top; but too intent upon his search, and too far off to hear more of the topics that engrossed so much attention, than a few words that conveyed no impression to him, being simply, “Ferrers—my aunt—clever—hypocritical.”
Just as he had given up all hope of finding his top, Hamilton came up to him. “Louis,” said he, “if Trevannion goes out with me, I shall have time to hear your Herodotus before afternoon school, directly after dinner, mind.”
“I shan't forget;—oh, Hamilton, you haven't such a thing as another top, have you? Reginald's broken two of mine, and I can't find my other.”
“I do happen to have taken care of yours for you, you careless boy. Here is my desk-key, you will find it there; you can give me the key after dinner.”
With many thanks, Louis proceeded to Hamilton's desk, and Hamilton went up to Trevannion, who was one of the party at the upper end of the room. Louis was now so near the speakers, as to be unavoidably within hearing of all that passed; and, astonished by the first few words, he proceeded no further in his errand than putting the key into the lock.
“Are you inclined for a walk, Trevannion?” asked Hamilton, as he reached him.
Trevannion was leaning against the doctor's desk, in a more perturbed state than his calm self usually exhibited. As Hamilton spoke, he turned round, stared, and drew himself proudly up, replying, in a tone of great bitterness, “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton, but perhaps if you will take the trouble, you may find some one better suited to you than myself.”
“What is the matter?” said Hamilton.
“Some of your friends appear to have better memories than yourself,” replied Trevannion, folding his arms, and assuming an indifferent air; “you will, perhaps, not find mine quite so capricious; I am much obliged for all favors bestowed, Mr. Hamilton. Perhaps you considered me too lazy to look out for another friend; I am active enough, I assure you, to provide myself with one, and to release you from the irksome ties your indolence has imposed upon you.”
Hamilton looked, as he was, seriously annoyed. He did not remember the expression that had given so much offence, and was quite at a loss to understand the mystery:—he looked from one to the other for explanation; at one time inclined to walk away as proudly as Trevannion could have done; at another, his more moderate feelings triumphing, urged him into an inquiry.
“I really cannot understand you,” he said, at length; “do explain yourself. If I have done any thing to offend you, let me know what it is, and, if reasonable, I am willing to apologize.”
Trevannion sneered. “Apologies can do little good—eh, Norman?”
“If you know what this is, Norman,” said Hamilton, “I must beg you to enlighten me.”
“I have no business to interfere,” said Norman, carelessly.
“What a tragedy scene! What's the matter?” cried Reginald Mortimer, who came up at the moment. “You lazy-bones of a Louis! where are you?”
“The matter is simply this,” said Frank Digby: “Norman has heard from a veracious source that Mr. Hamilton once said, in confidence (between you and me, you know), that the reason he retained Mr. Philip Trevannion in the rank of first bosom-friend, was because he was too lazy to look out for one better suited to his tastes: consequently, as Mr. Trevannion can aver that Mr. Hamilton never confided this matter to him, it is certain that some one has betrayed confidence reposed in him—oh, yes! oh, yes!”
“What a fuss about a nonsensical report!” exclaimed Reginald. “Do you believe it?”
“Does he deny it?” said Trevannion, tuning to Hamilton.
Hamilton's color rose; and, after a little pause, in which he carefully considered what he had said, he replied, “No, I do not deny having said something like this one day when Trevannion and I had fallen out; but how much it was more than a momentary fit of anger our long friendship ought to decide. Trevannion, we have been friends too long for such a silly thing as this to separate us. I am very sorry it should ever have escaped my lips; but if every thing we say in a moment of impatience and vexation were repeated and minded, there would be very little friendship in the world. Come, Trevannion, shake hands, and forget it for auld lang syne, as I will do when any one brings such a tale to me.”
As Hamilton spoke, his eye rested on Norman, fired with indignation, and lighted a second on the principal offender, but no longer, for he did not wish to draw Louis into notice.
“It may seem a little nonsensical matter to you, Hamilton,” said Trevannion, putting his hand behind him; “but these little things exhibit more than the greatest professions. I am not too lazy to cure myself of old habits, if you are.”
“I never make professions,” said Hamilton, proudly; “and I have done.”
He was turning away, when a sudden motion from Jones arrested him. Jones had been standing silently by Trevannion, and now, leaping over a desk, seized Louis, and dragged him in the centre of the group, to the great astonishment of both himself and his brother, exclaiming:
“Here's the offender, the tell-tale, the hypocrite, the meek good boy, so anxious of Ferrers' reputation!”
“What do you want with me?” exclaimed Louis angrily, struggling to free himself from his captor.
“Hands off! Leave him alone, Jones,” shouted Reginald. “What's all this about?”
“Do let him go,” said Hamilton. “Can't you let him alone?”
“He's the traitor, Hamilton.”
Hamilton could not deny it, for it could have been no one else.
“Well, it is past, and the punishment he has in his own feelings will be enough,” he said. “Let him alone.”
“Louis, you haven't been telling tales and making mischief?” cried Reginald.
“I don't know,” said Louis. “I said something to Mrs. Paget, I believe—I didn't know there was any harm. Hamilton didn't say he didn't want any thing said about it.”
“Didn't say!” echoed Jones, scornfully.
Hamilton's look was more in reproach than anger. Louis felt struck to the heart with shame and anger; but so much had he lately been nursed in conceit and self-sufficiency, that he drove away the better impulse; and, instead of at once acknowledging himself in the wrong and begging pardon, he stood still, endeavoring to look unconcerned, repeating, “I didn't mean any harm.”
“Oh, Louis!” exclaimed Reginald, reproachfully, “I didn't think you could.”
“Let the boy go, Jones,” said Hamilton, trying to remove the grasp from Louis' shoulders.
“Not so fast, an't please your majesty,” said Jones: “I like to see hypocrites unmasked. Here, gentlemen, forsooth, here in this soonified youth, the anxious warden of Ferrers' reputation, you see the young gentleman who not only tells the story, but gives the name of the party concerned to a dear, good, gossiping soul—”
“Gently, gently there, Jones,” remarked Norman.
“A gossiping old soul,” repeated Jones, “who'd have the greatest delight in retailing the news, with decorations and additions, all over the kingdom with the greatest possible speed.”
“I don't believe a word of that, Jones,” said Reginald. “It is impossible!”
“What! is it impossible?” asked Jones, giving Louis a shake.
“What business have you to question me?”
“Did you?” repeated Jones, with another shake.
“Fair questioning, Jones,” cried Reginald. “No coercion, if you please.”
“Hold him back, Mason, if you please. Norman, will you hold him back? Now, Louis, if you don't answer I'll give you a thrashing.”
“You and I are friends, Mortimer,” said Salisbury, jumping off the desk and coming close up to Reginald; “but I mean to have fair play in this matter. He shan't be hurt—but, if you interfere till they've done questioning him, I shall help them to hold you back.”
“Don't meddle with it, Salisbury,” said Hamilton; “it's nobody's affair.”
“Nobody's affair, indeed!” exclaimed Frank. “Here we've been making a cher ami, a rara avis, or something or other of this boy, because he professed to be something superior to us all—and now, when we find he has been telling tales of all of us, we are told it's nobody's affair. He's been obtaining credit upon false pretences. We're the strongest party, and we'll do what we please.”
Reginald restrained himself with a violent effort, and Jones proceeded.
“Now, sir, answer directly—is this impossible?”
Louis felt very much inclined to cry, but he replied without tears very reluctantly, “Mrs. Paget would make me tell her some things—she had heard almost all from others. I don't know how the name slipped out; I didn't mean to tell, I am sure.”
“What?” said Hamilton; “you tell that story, Louis!”
Louis felt that Hamilton despised him; and perhaps, had they known all the circumstances relative to the Heronhurst disclosure, the clamor would not have been so great; so much evil is done by repeating a small matter, exaggerated, as these repetitions usually are, according to the feelings of the speaker. But in every case now bearing so unexpectedly down upon him, had Louis, thoughtless of himself, been less anxious for admiration, he would not have committed himself; had he not attracted Norman's attention by his folly and conceit, the circumstance of his having disclosed the name of the offender, at Heronhurst, would, most probably, not only have been unknown to his school-fellows, but to Norman also.
“Oh, Hamilton, I didn't tell all the story!” he exclaimed.
“No, only just enough to appear magnanimous,” said Frank.
“Seeing that such is the case,” continued Jones, “it cannot be a matter of great astonishment, that the same meek crocodile should also deliver to the same tender mercy various particulars of minor import respecting sundry others of his school-fellows; among which, we discover the private conversation of an intimate and too indulgent friend. Upon my word, young gentleman, I've a great mind to make you kiss Ferrers' shoes. Where's Ferrers?”
Jones turned round with his victim towards the door, perceiving that Ferrers was not in the room, but neither Hamilton nor Reginald would permit matters to proceed further.
“Let him go,” said Norman; “it is not worth while taking so much trouble about it. You know whom you have to deal with, and will be careful.”
“Thanks to you,” said Hamilton in a tone of the most cutting irony.
He released Louis, and stood still till he saw him safely in the playground, whither he was followed by the hisses and exclamations of his inquisitors, and then turned in the opposite direction to the class-room.
“Mr. Hamilton!” exclaimed Norman, “may I ask what your words meant just now?”
“You may,” said Hamilton, turning round and eyeing the speaker from head to foot, with the most contemptuous indifference. “You are at liberty to put whatever construction you please upon them; and perhaps it will save trouble if I inform you at once that I never fight.”
“Then, sir,” said Norman, whose anger was rising beyond control, “you should weigh your words a little more cautiously, if you are so cowardly.”
Hamilton deigned no reply, and proceeded to the class-room, where he shut himself up, leaving the field clear for Reginald, who, before long, was engaged in a pitched battle with Norman.
Louis retreated to his play-fellows who were yet unconscious of his disgrace with the higher powers; and, after playing for a little while, wandered about by himself, too uneasy and sick at heart to amuse himself. He found now, alas! that he was alone; that he had lost all pleasure in holy things; and, conscious of his falling away, he was now afraid to pray,—foolish boy. And thus it is—Satan tempts us to do wrong, and then tempts us to doubt God's willingness to forgive us, in order that, being without grace and strength, we may fall yet deeper.
As Louis wandered along, he heard sounds familiar enough to him, which portended a deadly fray, and when he came upon the combatants, he discovered that one of them was his own brother. He knew it was useless to attempt to stop the fight, and he wandered away again, and cried a little, for he thought that something would happen, and he and Reginald would be placed together in some unpleasant situation; and he dreaded Dr. Wilkinson's hearing of either affair.
I must be excused for stopping my story to remark here, that in this world, it is certain that we have great influence on one another, and that for this influence we are responsible. Had Louis' school-fellows acted more kindly, endeavoring to set before him the fault of tattling, the effect would have been to raise a feeling of gratitude in his mind, which would have been far more effectual in preventing the recurrence of the fault, than the plan of repudiation they had adopted. Had they, even after a day or two's penance, given him an opening into their good graces, he would not have felt, as he did, that he had lost his character, and it was “no use caring about it,” and so gone from bad to worse, till his name was associated with those of the worst boys in the school. It may be said, How can school-boys be expected to have so much consideration? but this a school-boy may do. He may mentally put himself in the position of the delinquent, and considering how he would wish to be treated, act accordingly.
Every thing seemed to go wrong with Louis that day. The Herodotus that Hamilton was to have heard, was scarcely looked at; and Louis lost two or three places in his class. Hamilton never noticed him, and even Reginald was offended with him. Louis tried to brave it out, and sung in a low tone, whistled, and finally, when he was roughly desired to be quiet, walked into the school-room, and finished his evening with Casson and Churchill.