“Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”—Gal. vi. 2.
As soon as Hamilton had decided that it was of no use following Louis, he called his brother to him and marched with him into the class-room, to explain, according to promise, some classical allusions that occurred in his Latin grammar. Reginald took his arm, and several of the first class, who saw them move, accompanied him, for the glass-door opening at the moment, admitted more cold air than was agreeable to those who did not feel inclined to visit the playground. They almost expected to find the doctor in the study, as they knew he had been there a short time before, but the sole occupant of the chamber was Frank Digby, who, to the astonishment of all, was standing in a very disconsolate attitude near the fireplace, leaning his head on the mantelpiece, and neither moved nor spoke when they entered.
“Holloa, Momus!” exclaimed Reginald, “what's the row? as Salisbury would say; only, more properly we might ask, in your case, what do the tranquillity and genteel pensiveness of your demeanor denote?”
“We're going to have a change in the weather,” said Jones.
“What's the matter, Frank?” asked Hamilton.
“Nothing,” replied Frank, raising his head quickly, and endeavoring, rather unsuccessfully, to smile, amid something that looked very much like tears; at least, if we must not be allowed to hint at such appearances, there was certainly much agitation in his countenance—so unusual a phenomenon, that a dead silence followed the ghastly effort.
“Nonsense,” said Hamilton, kindly; “you won't persuade me that nothing is the matter, Frank.”
“Nothing particular,” said Frank, fidgeting with a penny that lay on the mantelpiece; “only the doctor has been giving me a lecture for the good of my morals, that's all.”
“A lecture?” repeated Norman.
“What's been the matter, Frank?” said Reginald.
“A small moral discourse upon the sin and danger of practical jokes,” said Frank, swallowing down such an evident degree of emotion as convinced his auditors that the discourse had been no ordinary one. “His hints were rather peculiar, Hamilton—too decided for so quick-sighted a youth as myself. I don't wonder he has such a horror of a joke; I should think the dear man never was guilty of such a crime in his life himself; or he has a strong imagination; or, perhaps, a bad opinion of your humble servant—all the same—the cause doesn't much signify; the effect's what one looks at.”
“Something dreadfully mysterious,” said Reginald.
Hamilton was silent. He watched anxiously Frank's varying countenance, the twitching of which, as well as the thick, quick tone in which he spoke, betrayed great excitement.
“The fact is, I suppose, the doctor has reasons for his suspicions,” continued Frank, still more quickly, while his face grew redder, and his eyelids twinkled painfully, and the penny was fairly spun into the fender.
“I haven't been quite so sage as I might have been, and, perhaps, jokes may not be quite gentlemanly—but,—but, Hamilton,—he thinks,—he thinks—and almost said it—that I changed your poem.”
“What a shame!” they cried.
Frank stooped to pick up the penny, and was some minutes finding it. When he rose, he said:
“One will grow old in time, but it's hard to pay so dearly for good spirits. However, you couldn't expect such a flow cheap, I suppose,” he added, with a little laugh.
“You must have mistaken him,” said Trevannion; “he couldn't have meant it.”
“I am not in the habit of taking offence at nothing,” replied Frank. “Nay, I can be as purposely obtuse as any one when I choose, but one couldn't be blind.”
“What did he say?” said Reginald.
“I don't exactly remember—a heap about ‘pain inflicted,’ of ‘misconstructions being placed on motives,’ of ‘transgressions against honor and kindliness;’ and then, when I was at a loss to comprehend him, he said, ‘he could not understand the gratification of seeing another disappointed and annoyed—when he discovered that his school-fellow, whom he confidently trusted, had substituted a blank sheet for a carefully, laboriously-written work;’ and then I asked him if he supposed I had tricked Hamilton? and he said he couldn't think of another who was so likely to do it as myself—that ‘the constant indulgence in these senseless follies was likely to blunt the sense of honor,’ ‘that I must excuse him’—excuse him, forsooth—‘if he spoke his mind on the subject;’ and then he raked up an old affair, that happened ages ago, about an exercise—Salisbury, you remember—you were the victim; but that was a paltry, every-day affair, only he didn't seem to understand the difference. I'll back the doctor up for as good a memory as any man in the three kingdoms. I had forgotten that piece of moral turpitude, and might have been excused for imagining that the caning I got then had wiped out the offence. Hamilton,” he added, with a faltering voice, laying his hand on Hamilton's shoulder—“you don't believe I did it?”
“To be sure not, Frank,” said Hamilton, heartily shaking Frank's hand. “I know you too well—I am as confident of you as I should be of myself in the same case. Don't think any more of it. I am sure the doctor doesn't believe it himself: he only wants to show what might be thought if you get a character for playing tricks. I am excessively vexed at this.”
“I don't feel at all certain he believes me yet,” said Frank; “but this I declare, that unless your poem is found, I will withdraw all claim—I won't touch the prize for any consideration.”
“Don't do that, Frank,” said Hamilton; “I'll give you some trouble yet with my new one.”
“If that gets it, so much the better,” said Frank, “and I dare say it will; but you all hear—my mind is made up—I won't have a prize for this poem unless it is gained over Hamilton's first.”
“How came the doctor to begin this rigmarole?” asked Salisbury.
Frank blushed, and replied, with a conscious laugh: “I did an abominably foolish thing last night, in dipping all the bed-room candles that were standing in the pantry, into a tempting basin of water; and Mrs. Guppy was malicious because the candles sputtered and wouldn't light, and, as usual, determined that I had done it; and Fudge taxed me with it this morning.”
“I wish,” said Hamilton, emphatically, “I could discover the author of this shameful piece of business. It was vexatious enough in the first place, but this is painful to us all. Frank, every one knows you.”
“Doctor best of all,” put in Frank.
“I will give myself up to discovering who has done it,” said Hamilton.
“You had better give yourself up to finishing your poem,” said Reginald; “for it's my humble opinion if you haven't found it now, your eyes won't discover the clue, if you were Argus himself.”
The others then began a rather noisy debate on the impropriety of their master's behavior; and little Alfred, finding his brother was not speaking, ventured to remind him of his promise. Contrary to his usual habit, Hamilton turned quite crossly to him:
“What an idle fellow you are! Why don't you get Lemprière and find them out for yourself?—you ought not to be beginning now.”
“I tried, Edward, but I couldn't understand it, and it went out of my head. I want to know about Cecropia again—I forget what country it was, Edward,” said the child, timidly, noticing an ominous reddening of his brother's face.
“A great deal of use it is giving you any information, is it not, sir? I have a great mind to make you write out every word I say. And pray what else have you forgotten?”
“Not forgotten any thing,” said Alfred, meekly; “but I wanted to know, please Edward, who was Hannibal's father, and whether it was true about Hannibal's making the rocks red hot, and pouring vinegar on them? I don't think it could, for I don't know where he could get so much.”
“A great deal he carried in his own countenance,” said Frank, “and the rest was made from the wine supplied for the Carthaginian officers. There's nothing like white-wine vinegar, Alfred; and the Carthaginians were renowned for parting with luxuries on an emergency.”
“Now I know that's your nonsense,” said Alfred, looking very puzzled. “And, please Edward, who was Philomela and—”
“That's enough—one at a time!” exclaimed Hamilton; “get Lemprière, and my Roman History, and you shall look them out with me. It's to be hoped you are not dreaming of a prize.”
“Poor infant!” said Salisbury; “it's hard work, I know, to remember the difference between those heathen chaps.”
Alfred had just brought the required books, and was opening them by his brother's desire, and Hamilton was standing near him at the table, when suddenly a packet was thrown into the room, and fell at his feet. Changing color, he picked it up with the rapidity of lightning, and, with an exclamation, rushed out of the room, before any one but Alfred had seen the transaction. Louis had just gained the threshold of the door leading to the playground, when Hamilton hailed him, and his long strides gaining on Louis' terror-impeded steps, he presently reached him, and, grasping him tightly by both arms, bore him back to the class-room, sternly desiring two or three boys, who attempted to follow, to stay behind. Louis did not make any resistance, and Hamilton, after locking the door and putting the key into his pocket, brought him irresistibly to the front of the fire, and, placing him with his back against the table, opposite the assembled group, desired him, under pain of instant punishment, to remain where he was.
“What is the matter with him, Hamilton?” asked Reginald.
“You shall see presently,” said Hamilton; “I mean to have some inquiries answered: and please, Mortimer, however unpleasant it may be to you, let us have fair play.”
“I only stipulate it for Louis too,” said Reginald.
“He shall have it,” said Hamilton, calmly; “but if he attempts to move till I have done, I will carry him at once to Dr. Wilkinson.”
Hamilton glanced at the windows, where five or six heads were darkening the lower panes, in their eagerness to discover the cause of Louis' forcible abduction; and, walking coolly up to them, bolted them, and drew down both blinds. He then returned to his place, and, drawing his coat-tails under his arms, arranged himself with his back to the fire, exactly opposite to Louis, who stood passively where he had been placed, very pale, but otherwise showing little emotion.
“Now, sir,” began Hamilton, “explain how you got this.”
As he spoke, he produced, to the astonishment of his school-fellows, the parcel—rubbed at the edges, but still the identical parcel, as he proved, by breaking the seal, and showing the writing inside.
“What! Louis Mortimer!” exclaimed Jones.
“Et tu Brute!” ejaculated Frank, in a tone of mingled surprise and reproach.
“Louis!” said Reginald, coloring deeply; “oh, Louis! How did you find it, Hamilton?”
“Did you not see it come in through the half-open door just now?” said Hamilton.
“I fancied I saw something fly along,” said Meredith.
“I thought I heard something fall,” said another.
“Too cowardly to come openly,” said Trevannion.
The room seemed to turn round with Louis.
“How did you come by this?” said Hamilton.
There was no answer.
“I will have an answer, Louis,” he said: “and if you don't give it to me, you shall to Dr. Wilkinson!”
Louis murmured something that no one heard.
“What?” said Hamilton, sharply; “speak so as we can all hear. If you have brought it back for some one else,” he added, in a softened tone, “say so at once; only let me know who took it.”
“I took it,” replied Louis, with a great effort.
“You ungrateful viper!” exclaimed Jones.
Hamilton appeared a little moved, but checking the emotion, continued:
“You! for—your—own—especial—gratification? And pray, when might you have accomplished that adroit and praiseworthy feat?”
“Last Friday,” said Louis, in so low a tone, that nothing but the silence that reigned could have made it audible.
“And what was your motive?” asked Hamilton, leaning back against the mantelpiece, and putting one foot on the fender behind him.
“Only a little fun!”
“Pretty respectable fun!” said Hamilton, contemptuously.
“Gratitude might have restrained you, one would think,” said Jones, “if nothing else would. A pretty return for all Hamilton's kindness, to set to work to lose him his prize!”
“I didn't, Jones,” said Louis, warmly; “I thought it was a letter; I didn't mean any harm. And as to gratitude—when Hamilton was kind to me, I was grateful—and I do feel grateful for his kindness now; but he has been unkind enough lately to make me forget that.”
“And reason enough he had,” said Meredith. “Unkind, indeed! why no one else stood your friend when we found out what a tell-tale you were.”
“I am sure nobody knew he was my friend then,” said Louis, assuming an air of independence that ill became him. “Only last Friday, he let me believe that Trevannion had the doctor's Rollin; he offered me his, but I wasn't likely to take that, and—” Louis hesitated, for Hamilton's eye was upon him so calmly and inquiringly; and Louis felt he was not likely to have had such an idea in his head.
“And what?” said Hamilton, quietly.
“Nothing,” replied Louis; “I don't believe you knew, only it was rather strange, Hamilton.”
“What was strange?” said Hamilton, in the same unmoved tone.
“Only when I came back into this room, I saw it on the table with your things, and I thought you had it, perhaps,” said Louis, reluctantly. “If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have come here, and shouldn't have thought of playing the trick.”
“You little—” exclaimed Trevannion. Not being able to find a genteel epithet strong enough, he continued, “When Hamilton had just taken the trouble of exchanging his own history with me, for your service! I see it all now, Hamilton—you ungrateful boy!”
“How should I know? he never said so,” replied Louis, touched to the heart at this proof of his friend's kindness; and grieved very deeply that he should have thought or said so unkind a thing of him in his anger. “How am I to know what people think, if they don't speak, or if I don't see them?”
“And so you did it out of revenge?” said Hamilton.
Louis was silent for a minute, for he could not speak; but at last he replied, in a quivering voice—
“No; I told you I did it out of fun. I thought it was a letter, and—and I have been very sorry I ever did any thing so foolish. I should have brought it back sooner, but I could not remember what I did with it.”
“Why did you not tell me, at least, that you had taken it, Louis,” said Hamilton, “when I was inquiring for it? It would have been more open.”
“I should have done it, I believe, if I had known how you would have heard me—but it's not so easy when every one is against you. I brought it only a few minutes after I found it.”
“Who put such a thing into your head, Louis?” asked Reginald.
Louis checked the answer he had nearly given, and remained silent.
“Were you alone?” said Hamilton. “Were you the only one concerned in this business?”
“I was not alone,” replied Louis, rather proudly; “but I do not mean to say who was with me. He was not to blame for what I did.”
“How so?” asked Hamilton. “Didn't he put it into your head, and help you to do it?”
“You have no right to ask such questions,” said Louis, uneasily. “He came in to help me find Rollin, and—that's all I shall tell you.”
“What, Casson help you to find Rollin!” said Hamilton, quickly. “He wouldn't know the book from a Lexicon.”
“He did, however,” said Louis; then, becoming suddenly conscious, from the intelligent glances exchanged among his judges, of the admission he had made, he turned very red, and exclaimed,
“It's very unfair!”
“I knew he was your companion,” said Hamilton, rather scornfully. “You have belonged to his set too much lately to suppose otherwise—and this is the consequence.”
“If it is, Hamilton,” said Louis, scarcely able to speak for the warmth of his feelings, “you might have prevented it if you would. You wouldn't forgive my speaking carelessly once—and no one that I cared for would notice me. He was almost the only one who would speak to me. If you had said one word, I shouldn't have been so bad. I thought you didn't care about me, and I didn't mean to stay where I wasn't wanted.”
The expression of Hamilton's face was not easy, and he drowned the end of Louis' speech by knocking all the fire-irons down with a movement of his poised foot.
“It was a likely way to be wanted, I imagine,” said Jones, “to go on as you have been doing. Besides, who is to know what's likely to be safe with such a tell-tale—a traitor—in the camp as you are?”
“If there hadn't been another as great,” said Louis, “you would never have known of me; but you bear with him because you can't turn him out.”
“Pray, sir!” exclaimed Norman, “whom do you mean?”
Louis felt sorry he had allowed himself to say so much; but he stood unshrinkingly before his interrogator, and replied:
“I mean you, Norman: you know if you hadn't told tales of me this wouldn't have happened.”
What vengeance Louis might have drawn on himself by this ill-judged speech we cannot tell, had not Hamilton stepped forward and interposed.
There was a grim ghost of a smile on his face as he put his arm in front of Louis.
“Fair play, Norman,” he said; “I won't have him touched here. You can go now.”
As Louis left the room, Hamilton resumed his former attitude, and seemed lost in a revery of an unpleasant description, while a discussion on Louis' conduct was noisily carried on around him: some declaring that Louis had done the deed from malicious motives, others believing that it was merely a foolish joke of which he had not calculated the consequences, and a third party attributing it entirely to Casson's influence.
“Vexed as I am to find Louis has been so foolish,” said Reginald, “I am glad, Frank, that you will now be cleared. Hamilton, I am sure you believe that Louis only intended a joke?”
Hamilton nodded gravely.
“I suppose you'll clear up the matter instanter, Hamilton?” said Jones.
“Clear up the matter? How! is it not clear enough already?” said Hamilton, almost fiercely.
“Clear to us, but not to the doctor,” said Meredith.
“It's as clear as it's likely to be, then,” said Hamilton. “I intend to send up this poem the last evening, and say nothing about it.”
“A likely story!” exclaimed Jones.
“If you don't, I shall, Hamilton,” said Salisbury.
“Whoever breathes a word of the matter,” cried Hamilton, “ceases from that moment to be a friend of mine. Whose business is it, I should like to know—if I choose to throw that unhappy thing on the fire, who is the loser but myself? What satisfaction can it be to any one to get that boy into such a mess?”
As Hamilton spoke he disdainfully flung the poem on the table, and drew the fender, contents and all, on the floor with his fidgety foot.
“The matter comes to this,” said Reginald: “it appears that either Louis must be exposed, or Frank suffer for his delinquencies. It is not, certainly, fair to Frank, and mustn't be, Hamilton, though Louis is my brother.”
Hamilton cast a bewildered look on Frank.
“True, I had really forgotten Frank. It must be so, then,” he said, in a lower tone.
“No, Hamilton, no!” said Frank; “I won't have you tell of poor Louis. I don't care a bit about Fudge's suspicions now, you all know I am clear. Don't say a word about it, I beg.”
“Frank, you're a fine fellow!” exclaimed Hamilton, grasping his hand; “but I don't think it is quite fair.”
“Nonsense!” said Frank, gayly; “I owe him something for relieving me from my situation; and, besides,” he added, more gravely, “Louis deserves a little forbearance from us: none of us would have done what he did, last half.”
“You are right,” said Hamilton, warmly; “none of us would, but all of us have forgotten that lately; even Ferrers, who ought, at least, to have befriended him, has turned the cold shoulder to him. I feel quite indignant with Ferrers.”
“Ferrers had a little reason to doubt him,” said Trevannion.
“What, for letting his name slip out by accident?” said Hamilton, scornfully; “you heard how he let out Casson's just now—you wouldn't blame him for that, I imagine?”
“No,” said Frank; “and I can tell you that Mrs. Paget (no offence to her nephew) is one of those dear retailers of all descriptions of news, that would worm a secret out of a toad in a stone, and Louis hasn't ready wit enough to manage her.”
“He has no presence of mind, and a little vanity,” said Hamilton.
“He is as vain as a peacock—a lump of vanity!” exclaimed Norman; “without an atom of moral courage to stand any persuasion short of being desired to put his head into the fire—a perfect coward!”
“And where did you get your moral courage, Mr. Norman?” said Hamilton, with deliberate gravity; “we may send you to the heathen for reproof:
‘If thou hast strength, 'twas heaven that strength bestowed,
For know, vain man, thy valor is from God.’ ”
Norman was on the point of speaking, but Hamilton continued in the same calm, irresistible manner:
“If Louis is vain, we are proud; and I should like to know which is the worst,—having an exalted opinion of ourselves, or craving the exalted opinion of others? We have not behaved well to Louis, poor fellow! we first spoiled him by over-indulgence and flattery, and when this recoils upon us, we visit all the evil heavily on him.”
“I only want to remark,” said Meredith, “that we had a right to expect more consistency in a professed saint.”
“Perhaps so,” said Hamilton; “yet, though I am sure Louis is a sincere Christian, he is not free from faults, and had still a hard work to do in overcoming them; and, because he has for a time forgotten that he had this work to do, shall we cast him off as a reprobate? Remember it was his former blameless conduct that made us expect more from him than another: the Power that guided him then can restore him again. But we have sadly forgotten that great duty, of bearing one another's burdens, which he taught us so sweetly a few months ago. Let us forgive him,” continued Hamilton, with tears in his eyes, “as we would be forgiven; considering how we should act in temptation ourselves.”
There was a dead silence, for Hamilton's address had something solemn in it. He added, after a short pause—
“I feel that we seniors have an immense responsibility: the power of doing much good or harm lies with us. I have been far too selfish and indifferent: Trevannion, will you forgive the thoughtless words that so justly offended you, but which, I assure you, had only the meaning of an angry emotion?”
“Willingly!” said Trevannion, starting up to meet the proffered hand of his friend; “I am sorry I should have been so much offended.”
Reginald was making some acknowledgments to Hamilton and Frank, when a messenger came to summon Hamilton to a short turn with the doctor, and after gladly accepting Reginald's offer of performing his task towards Alfred, he took up his poem, and went away full of deep thoughts and regrets, that the late scene had called forth.