“O Israel, return unto the Lord thy God; for thou hast fallen by thine iniquity. Take with you words, and turn to the Lord: say unto Him, Take away all iniquity, and receive us graciously; so will we render the calves of our lips.”—Hosea xiv. 1, 2.
When Louis left the class-room, his feelings of grief and shame were almost too bitter for restraint; but he had learned lately to conceal something of what he felt from those who were not likely to sympathize with him; and finding some boys in the school-room, and being subjected there to several disagreeable remarks and questions, he went into the playground, in the hope of finding either relief in change of scene, or a little more seclusion than he could hope for in-doors; and after escaping from some tormentors, who met him at the door, in their anxiety to know what Hamilton wanted with him, he went towards the side of the playground that looked upon the lane, hardly caring where he was going, or what became of him.
The door was open, and disregarding, or more properly, forgetting, the injunctions respecting it, he went up to it, and stood looking out into the lane, till at last, one of his school-fellows discovering the open door, came up, and asked him to keep watch for him, while he went on a forbidden errand.
Meantime, Dr. Wilkinson and Hamilton had, after a walk across the grounds in front of the house, turned into the lane, making as large a round as possible, on their way to the house. Hamilton was in a very silent humor, and as his tutor was equally grave, very few words passed between them during the first half of their walk; and if Hamilton had thought at all about what he had undertaken so mechanically, he might have wondered how the doctor could have wanted a companion, when he was in so taciturn a humor.
Suddenly the doctor remarked,—“Have you heard nothing of your poem, Hamilton?”
This was so unexpected a question, and Hamilton was so unwilling to make a direct answer, that he remained silent for a minute or two, his hesitation and color convincing his master that Louis had acted up to his determination.
“Well, have you forgotten all about it?” said the doctor, good-humoredly.
“I have found it, sir—here it is,” he replied, producing the paper.
“How did you get it?” asked the doctor, who betrayed far less surprise and satisfaction than the occasion seemed to demand.
“It was thrown into the class-room this morning, sir,” said Hamilton, reservedly.
“And you are ignorant of the party?” said the doctor, with raised eyebrows.
“No, sir, I know who has done it,” replied Hamilton, after a slight pause; “but I must beg you to excuse my naming him. I think there is no danger of a repetition of the offence. Of course you will understand, sir, that I do not mean Digby, who is as innocent as I ever believed him.”
There was a little silence, while the doctor ran his eye down a page of Hamilton's manuscript.
“As you wish to keep the matter secret, I shall ask no further questions; only, Digby may not think it quite fair.”
“He wishes it to be so, sir,” replied Hamilton, eagerly. “It is quite his wish now he knows I have proof that he is not the culprit.”
Dr. Wilkinson's face lighted up with an expression of great satisfaction, as he said,
“It does Digby credit.”
Hamilton was on the point of hazarding a remark on the impossibility of Frank's contemplating such a thing, when they turned a corner of the lane that brought them in sight of the playground wall and the farm-yard opposite. The doctor's attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of a boy, perched on the top of the high wall surrounding the latter, who was reaching downwards towards the top of a large hawthorn-tree that grew inside.
“Hey-day! Hamilton, who's that?” he exclaimed. “Do you recognize the figure? If my eyes deceive me not, it is Louis Mortimer. I have strongly suspected lately that I have been robbed more than once. It is Louis Mortimer.”
The doctor's tone assumed its ready sternness, and he quickened his pace. Hamilton could not doubt the evidence of his senses, but he felt miserably disappointed.
“I do not think Louis Mortimer would do so, sir,” he said, faintly.
“There he is, however, out of bounds,” said the doctor.
“Something else may have taken him there,” said Hamilton.
“I hope it may prove so, but he is surely receiving something from below—he sees us—he will be down—he will assuredly break his neck!” exclaimed the doctor, hurriedly. “There—quick, Hamilton—run.”
Hamilton needed no bidding, for, as soon as he saw Louis fall, he ran off in the direction of the stable-yard. The doctor followed so quickly that Hamilton had only just raised Louis from the ground when he came up. To their great satisfaction he was not much hurt, having fallen on a heap of straw that lay just under the wall. He was much frightened, and at first so stunned as to be almost incapable of understanding what was said to him. On the ground near him lay his green baize bag, and rolling about in all directions, some apples, one or two still remaining in the bag.
“Where is your companion, sir?” was the first question Dr. Wilkinson asked, after ascertaining that no injury had been done to Louis.
“There was no one with me, sir,” replied Louis, almost inarticulately.
“What were you doing here, sir?”
“I came to fetch my bag, sir.”
“It is a mercy you were not killed,” said Dr. Wilkinson, gravely. “Put the apples in that bag, Hamilton.”
Dr. Wilkinson waited till Hamilton had performed this task, and then desired Louis to take the bag and follow him.
Louis did as he was desired, but he was evidently not yet in a condition to walk, and trembled so violently that Hamilton caught hold of him to prevent him from falling.
“He can't walk yet, sir,” he said, compassionately. “I will bring him in when he has recovered a little.”
“It is too cold to sit out here,” said the doctor. “Where are you hurt?”
“I don't exactly know; I am not much hurt—but, oh! I feel so strange, Hamilton. Let me walk—I can take your arm.”
Dr. Wilkinson looked anxiously at him, and assisted him, with Hamilton's aid, across the road, through the garden, into the kitchen, where, with a little hartshorn and water, he was soon in a condition to go up stairs. Dr. Wilkinson desired him to go to bed for the rest of the day, and sent Reginald to help him. The bag he took into his own possession till further occasion.
Louis was too much dismayed by his ill success, and too much exhausted by the shock of his fall, to make any remarks till he reached his room. Hamilton did not leave him until he had seen him comfortably in bed; and then, after wrapping him up most tenderly, he leaned over him, and asked what was really the matter.
Louis endeavored to answer calmly, but in his present weak condition Hamilton's kind manner overcame him, and he burst into tears.
“Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, amid his violent sobs; “oh, Reginald, Reginald—Hamilton, I am so unfortunate! Every thing I do is always found out; but others can do all sorts of things, and no one knows it.”
“Is there any thing then to be found out, Louis?” said Hamilton, gravely; “if so, it is far better for you that it should be.”
Louis suddenly threw his arms round Hamilton, as he sat near him.
“Hamilton, I did not go there to steal, I am sure,” he said, throwing his head back, and examining his friend's face with the most intense anxiety. “I am sure, Hamilton, bad as I am, you could not believe it of me. I have been very sinful, but oh, I am very sorry; and, Hamilton, I could not do so very wicked a thing. Do remember, please, how things were against me before when I was not guilty. Though it seems all against me now, I assure you, the only thing I have done wrong is going out of bounds—oh, do let me keep my arms round you, Hamilton—don't believe me guilty. I haven't—oh, I haven't had a friend for so long! I have been very proud and self-willed—if I had been humble perhaps things would not have gone so wrong. I never even said I was sorry I repeated what you said to Mrs. Paget; but I was sorry, Hamilton—very, very sorry, only I did not like to say so. Will you forgive me, and be my friend again? I have been so ungrateful, I am afraid you will never love me any more.”
Hamilton was completely overcome by the vehemence of Louis' appeal. He pressed the poor boy closer to him, and even kissed his forehead, as if he were a little child.
“Love you, Louis! love you, dear boy!” he replied; “you have had reason to doubt it, but I have always loved you. I forgive you from my heart, but you have something to forgive in me. I have not been as kind to you as I might have been.”
“I am very sorry I spoke so unkindly of you this morning, Hamilton,” sobbed Louis, laying his wet cheek on Hamilton's shoulder. “I was cross, and didn't think of what I was saying.”
“Don't think any more about it,” said Hamilton, affectionately; “lie down, and tell me quietly how you came to be on that wall just now.”
“I was standing at the wooden door,” said Louis, “when Sally Simmons told me that she had seen my bag on the great hawthorn-tree, by the wall on the other side. And when I asked her how it got there, she said, she supposed I knew, but it was too high for her to reach; and if I didn't get it, the doctor would find me out. At first, I thought I wouldn't go,” said Louis, hesitating; “and then I was afraid I should be getting into a scrape—I am sometimes so unfortunate—and so I went across the lane, and got over the gate, and went into the yard to see if it were there. And there it was, Hamilton, with some apples in it, too, hanging partly, and partly lying, near the top of the tree; it was so high that I was obliged to get upon the cow-house roof, and as the cow-house was on the wrong side, I was obliged to get on the wall to read it. And I was pulling it off when you first saw me, and then—I was afraid, and as I was rather over-reaching myself, I tried to get down in a hurry, and fell down. I think the tree broke my fall; but I don't know how it was, for I hardly understood any thing, even when you came up.”
“You had better have let it alone,” said Reginald.
“What were you doing at the gate?” said Hamilton; “keeping watch?”
“One of them asked me,” replied Louis.
Hamilton shook his head.
“Have you any idea how your bag came there?”
“Please don't ask me any questions about that, Hamilton. Will you not believe I am innocent?”
“I fully believe your story, Louis, but I know you have been in bad company lately, and I wish to help you to clear yourself. Tell me all you know. If you have ever had even the least hand in any thing like this, make a friend of me, and tell me at once. Have you not some idea who put your bag there?”
“I may guess, you know,” said Louis, evasively; “but, Hamilton, I do assure you, I never had any thing to do with any robbery here at all—never once.”
“If you do not know who has done it, then,” said Hamilton, “I am sure your guess is a very accurate one—whom do you guess?”
“I cannot tell you, Hamilton; you mustn't ask me.”
“This is only nonsense,” said Reginald, impatiently. “Are you going to make a martyr of yourself for a set of bad fellows who are a disgrace to the school?”
“They may tell themselves, perhaps,” said Louis, “but I will not.”
“Louis!” said Hamilton, seriously, “this is folly; don't let a mistaken notion of honor induce you to screen these bad boys from their just punishment. By doing so, you are doing an injury to others as well as yourself. You must remember, that these evil-disposed boys are still mixing with others, to whom their example and principles may do much harm, independently of the evil done to themselves by being allowed to sin with impunity. Louis, you were saying just now, that you were very unfortunate—they are the most unfortunate whose crimes are undiscovered, and therefore unchecked. If you are, as you say, innocent of any participation in this affair, why should you wish to conceal what you know, or, at least, telling me whom you lent your bag to?”
“I did not lend it at all lately,” said Louis, raising his face from the pillow, where he had hidden it. “The thing is, Hamilton,” continued he, very sorrowfully, “I am called a tell-tale, and I know I deserve it; but the worst is, they call me a hypocrite, and say that religious people are no better than others. I could bear it if it were only myself, but it is more, and I have given reasons for them to say all kinds of things,” he added, and burst anew into tears. “But do not make me tell any more tales. I have promised, Hamilton—I dare not—I will not break my promise!”
Hamilton made no immediate reply, and the loud ringing of the dinner-bell obliged him to leave Louis to himself.
“If it is a promise, Louis,” he said, as he left the room with Reginald, “I won't urge you to break it; but remember well how the promise was made—remember the consequences.”
“Reginald,” he added, when they had closed the door, “I have a clue; depend upon it, he won't be much the worse, poor fellow. But the doctor knows him well, I am sure.”
Reginald stole away after dinner to sit with Louis, and to endeavor to persuade him to disclose all his suspicions, but all he could obtain was a kind of half-promise to clear it up, after he had seen how the matter would end; and the subject caused him so much distress, that Reginald at length left it alone.
“Sit down by my side, dear Reginald,” said Louis, “and tell me again that you forgive me. I cannot think how I could be so unkind to you as I have been lately, when you were so anxious about me. I have been ungrateful to every body.”
“Don't make yourself miserable,” said Reginald, as gayly as he could. “I know I am hasty and cross, and don't go the right way to help you; but you had spoiled me by being so very gentle before, and I didn't understand your having any spirit.”
“It was a very wrong spirit,” replied Louis; “the fact is, Reginald, I have not been serving God lately, though at first I did not know it myself. I thought I did a great many things when I came back to school, because it would glorify God; when, I really believe now, the reason was—to be praised for it. Every one seemed to think so much of me, and that every thing I did was right. I have wished so many times lately, that all the trouble of last half-year might come again if I should be so happy. But, Reginald, when the boys would not speak to me, then I knew by my angry feelings that I only cared for myself; and I saw that I had not been serving God, and I became afraid to pray. Sometimes so strangely, when I knew I was in the wrong, and that I ought to pray for help to be better, yet I wanted to look grand, and to show I didn't care, and I never used the time I had, and that's very little here, Reginald. I have been thinking of myself almost ever since I came back—I have been thinking of glorifying myself!” He paused, and then added, in a lower tone, “I fancied I was not selfish, but now I know I am!”
When Reginald went away, Louis had long and quiet time to trace the reason of his sad falling away, and to make his peace with Him whose great name he had so dishonored. Earnestly, humbly, and sorrowfully did he confess his faults. How bowed to the earth he felt, in the consciousness of his utter impotence! He remembered how confident he had been in his good name; and now he became aware, in this silent self-examination, how mixed his motives had been, how full of vanity and vain-glory he had been, how careless in waiting for “more grace,” how little he had thought of pressing forward, how wanting he had been in that single heart that thought only of doing the work committed to him regardless of the approbation of men—that only desired to know what was right in order fearlessly to follow it; and unutterable were the tearful desires of his heart that he might be strengthened for the time to come to walk more worthy of the vocation wherewith he was called.