Percy Neville had been placed by his parents at a small private school where only twelve pupils were taken, and where they intended he should be, as Mrs. Neville said, "under the strictest personal supervision." The school had been chosen not only on this account, but also because the principal was an Englishman, and had formerly been tutor in a school which Mr. Neville had attended when a boy.
Only two of the masters and tutors resided in the school, one of them being a young man of the name of Seabrooke, who was half tutor, half scholar, giving his services for such lessons as he took. He was a youth of uncommon talent, studious and steady, and much thought of by Dr. Leacraft and the other masters. Six of the twelve pupils were in one dormitory under charge of this young man; the other six in another, in the care of Mr. Merton. Had Dr. Leacraft but known it, just the opposite arrangement would have been advisable, as the half-dozen boys in Mr. Merton's room were a much more steady set than those in young Seabrooke's.
Seabrooke himself had little idea of the lawlessness which reigned in the quarters under his charge; he was an unusually heavy sleeper, and all manner of pranks were carried on at night without rousing him.
The leader of these escapades was a boy of the name of Flagg, utterly without principle or sense of honor; but plausible, and, being quick at his studies, making a fair show with his masters. Over Percy Neville this boy had acquired a most undesirable influence, and led him into many pranks and violations of rules which were little suspected by the authorities. Poor Percy, weak, vacillating, and utterly without resolution or firmness of character, was easily led astray, although his conscience, his judgment, and his sense of truth were often offended by the wrong-doing into which he suffered himself to be persuaded.
About a mile from the school lived a man of the name of Rice, who kept boats, fishing-tackle and one or two horses which he let out; while back of his place was a small lake which afforded good fishing in the summer and excellent skating in the winter. His house was not a gambling or drinking place, at least not avowedly so; but some rather questionable doings had taken place there, and the spot was one absolutely forbidden to the scholars of Dr. Leacraft's school. Nevertheless, some of the wilder spirits were in the habit of going there when they could do so without risk of discovery; and they also employed Rice to procure for them such articles as were tabooed and which they could not purchase for themselves. Lewis Flagg was one of his most constant customers, and he had gradually drawn every one of the boys in his dormitory into various infringements of regulations. He had found Percy an easy victim, and by degrees had drawn him on from bad to worse, until he had brought him to a pass where he was afraid to rebel lest Lewis should reveal his former misdoings, as he threatened to do.
Within the last few weeks it had been the practice of the six boys in Seabrooke's dormitory to slip out of the window at night upon the roof of the porch, thence by the pillars to the ground, and then off and away to Rice's house, where a hot supper, previously ordered, awaited them. This flagrant violation of rules and order had taken place several times, and, so far, thanks to Seabrooke's heavy slumbers, had not yet been discovered.
About this time a hard frost of several days duration had made the skating unusually good; and there was no place within miles of the school so pleasant or so favorable for that pastime as Rice's pond. Tempted by this, all the boys under Dr. Leacraft's care had signed a petition, asking that they might be allowed to go upon this pond if they would promise not to go into the house.
An hour or two after this petition had been sent in, but before it had received an answer, a telegram came to the doctor calling him to Harvard, to his only son, who had been dangerously hurt. The boys were all assembled at the time for recitation to the doctor, and rising in his place he made known the subject of the despatch, and then said:
"In answer to the request which I have just received from you, young gentlemen, I must return a positive negative. My reasons for forbidding you to go near Rice's place have lately been given additional force, and, although I cannot take time to mention them now, I must request, I must absolutelyforbideach and every one of you from going in the neighborhood of Rice's house or Rice's pond. I cannot tell how long I may be away; meanwhile the school will be left under the charge of Mr. Merton and Mr. Seabrooke, and I trust that you will all prove yourselves amenable to their authority, and that I shall receive a good report. I leave by the next train. Good-bye."
The doctor's face was pale and his voice was husky, as he bade them farewell, dreading what might have come to him before he should see them again. He was gone in another moment, and in half an hour had left the house.
Dr. Leacraft was a kind, a just, and a lenient master, granting to his pupils all the indulgence and privileges consistent with good discipline, and the more reasonable among the boys felt that he must have just cause for this renewed and emphatic prohibition against Rice's place. But Lewis Flagg and his followers were not reasonable, and many and deep, though not loud, were the murmurs at his orders. Lewis' boon companions saw from the expression of his eye that he meditated rebellion and disobedience even while the doctor was speaking; and Percy Neville and one or two others resolved that they would refuse to share in them.
Nor were they mistaken. No sooner were the six choice spirits alone together than Lewis unfolded a plan for "a spree" for the following night.
The moon was about at the full, and his proposal was that they should leave the house in the manner they had done more than once before, by means of the window and the root of the porch, go to Rice's and have a supper, which was to be previously ordered, and afterwards a moonlight skate on the lake.
"Rip Van Winkle will never wake," said Flagg, "not if you fire a cannon-ball under his bed, and we'll be back and in our places and have a good morning nap before he suspects a thing."
But some of the better disposed among the boys demurred, fresh as they were from the doctor's late appeal to them, and their knowledge of the sad errand upon which he had gone; and foremost among them was Percy Neville.
"I don't know," he said, doubtfully, when Lewis Flagg unfolded his plan. "I don't know. Isn't it rather shabby after what the doctor said to us? And—you know—Dick Leacraft might be dying—might be dead—they say he's awfully hurt—and we wouldn't like to think about it afterwards if we were breaking rules when the doctor—"
But the expression upon Flagg's face stopped him.
"Hear the sentiment of him!" sneered the bad, reckless boy; "just hear the sentiment of him! Who'd have thought Neville was such a Miss Nancy, such a coward? But you're going if the rest go, for we're all in the same box and have got to stand by one another—none are going to be left behind to make a good thing for themselves if anything does leak out."
"I shouldn't, you know I shouldn't say a word!" ejaculated Percy, indignantly.
"No, I don't believe you would," said Flagg; "but we can't have any left behind. One in for it, all in for it. Pluck up your courage and come along, Percy. If you don't,"—meaningly—"you and I'll have some old scores to settle."
This threat, which meant that former misdeeds and infringements of rules would be betrayed by Lewis if Percy did not yield, took effect, as it had done more than once before; and Percy agreed to join in the prohibited sport. He had not the strength, the moral courage, to tell Lewis that cowardice and weakness lay in that very yielding, in the fear which led him into new sin sooner than to face the consequences of former misdeeds,—misdeeds more venial than that now proposed. It was not the doctor of whom Percy stood in such awe half so much as his parents, especially his mother. It is more than possible that he would have gone to the former and made confession of past offences rather than continue in such bondage as Flagg now maintained over him; but he could not or would not face the displeasure of his father and mother, or the consequences which were likely to follow. Leniency, or a tender compassion for their faults, were not looked for by any of the Neville children; when these were discovered they must be prepared to bide the fullest penalty.
"I don't know about Seabrooke." said Raymond Stewart. "He has not slept as soundly as usual these last few nights. I've been awake myself so much with the toothache, and I know that he has been restless and wakeful; and he might chance to rouse up at the wrong time and find us going or gone."
"He's seemed to have something on his mind and to be uneasy in the daytime, too," said another boy, "and he's been so eager for the mail, as if he were expecting something more than usual. He's everlastingly writing, too, every chance he finds."
"Oh, he fancies he has literary talent," said Flagg, "and he's forever sending off the results of his labors. I suppose he expects to turn out an author and to become famous and a shining mark."
"The doctor says he will be," said Raymond, "and I know that one or two of his pieces have been accepted by the magazines and paid for, too. I saw them myself in a magazine at home. It must be a great thing for a fellow who has his own way to make in the world, as Seabrooke has. I know his family are as poor as rats. His father is rector of a little shabby church just out of the city, and I know they have hard work to get along. You know Seabrooke teaches for his own schooling."
"I'll see that he sleeps sound enough not to interfere with us to-morrow night," said Lewis Flagg. "Leave that to me."
He spoke confidently; but to all the questions of the other boys as to how he was to bring about this result, he turned a deaf ear.
But he succeeded in bringing every one of his five schoolmates to his own way of thinking, or, at least, to agreeing to join in the proposed expedition; and his arrangements were carried on without any further demur openly expressed from them.
Seabrooke was in the habit of taking a generous drink of water every night the last thing before he retired. On the evening of the following day, and that for which the aforesaid frolic had been planned, Lewis Flagg might have been found in the dormitory at a very unusual hour; and had there been any one there to see, he might have been observed to shake the contents of a little paper, a fine white powder, into the water carafe which stood filled upon the wash-stand in Seabrooke's alcove. Then, with the self-satisfied air of one who has accomplished a great feat, he stole from the room and back to his schoolmates.
"Seems to me Seabrooke has been uncommonly chirk and chipper this evening," said Charlie Denham, when the boys had gone to their rooms, as their masters supposed-for the night.
"Yes, he had a letter by the evening mail which seemed to set him up wonderfully," said Raymond. "I hope it has eased his mind of whatever was on it so that he won't be wakeful to-night."
"Oh, he'll sleep sound enough, I'll warrant you," said Lewis Flagg, with a meaning laugh.
Ensconced in bed, every boy fully dressed, but with other clothes so arranged as to deceive an unsuspecting observer into the belief that all was as usual, they waited the time when Seabrooke should be asleep.
The young tutor's alcove was not within the range of Lewis' vision, but Percy from his bed could see all that went on there, and he lay watching Seabrooke. As usual, at the last moment the latter poured out a glass of water and proceeded to drink it down; but he had not taken half of it when he paused, and Percy saw him hold it up to the light, smell it, taste of it again and then set the glass down, still more than two-thirds full.
Harley Seabrooke had no mental cause for restlessness that night; the evening mail had, as Raymond said, brought him that which had lifted a load of suspense and anxiety from his mind, and he was unusually light-hearted and at ease. His head was scarcely upon his pillow when he was asleep, but not so very sound asleep, for Flagg had over-shot his mark, and the sleeping potion which he had so wickedly put into the carafe of water had given it a slightly bitter taste, so that Seabrooke had found it disagreeable and had not drank the usual quantity, and the close he had taken was not sufficient to stupefy him, but rather to render him wakeful as soon as it began to act.
Believing themselves safe as soon as they heard his regular breathing, the six conspirators slipped from their beds out of the window upon the roof of the piazza, and thence down the pillars to the ground, and then off and away to Rice's.
Hardly had they gone when Seabrooke, on whom the intended anodyne began to have an exciting effect, awoke, and lay tossing for more than an hour. Weary of this, he rose at last, intending to read awhile to see if it would render him sleepy; but as he drew the curtain before his alcove, in order to shield the light from the eyes of the companions whom he supposed to be safe in their beds fast asleep, he was struck with the unusual silence of the room. Not a rustle, not a breath was to be heard, although he listened for some moments. He could hardly have told why, but he was impressed with the idea that he was entirely alone, and striking a light, he stepped out into the main room and went to the nearest bed.
Empty! and so with each one in succession. Not a boy was there!
Remembering the petition to Dr. Leacraft and the resentment which his refusal to accede to it had provoked, it did not take him long to surmise whither they had gone; and hastily dressing himself he made his exit from the house in the same way that they had done and hastened in the same direction, filled with indignation at such flagrant disobedience and treachery at a time when the doctor was in such trouble.
The runaways had had what they called a "jolly supper" and were in the hall of Rice's house donning great-coats and mufflers before going out upon the lake, when the outer door was opened, and Percy, who stood nearest, saw Seabrooke. His exclamation of dismay drew the attention of all, and the delinquents, one and all, felt themselves, as Percy afterwards said, "regularly caught."
"You will go home at once, if you please," was all the young tutor said; but, taken in the very act of rebellion to the head master's orders, not one ventured to dispute the command. He marshalled them all before him, and the party walked solemnly home, five, at least, thoroughly shamefaced.
"Don't you feel sneaky?" whispered Raymond to Lewis Flagg.
"No" answered the other; "I'm not the one to feel sneaky. I haven't been spying and prying and trapping other fellows."
But this bravado did not make the others easy.
Seabrooke made his captives enter by the way in which they had left, so that the rest of the household might not be disturbed, and ordered them at once to bed.
"What are you going to do about this?" Lewis asked.
"Report to Mr. Merton in the morning; and then write to the doctor, I presume, as Mr. Merton's hand is too lame for him to write. It will be as he thinks best," answered Seabrooke, dryly. "I do not wish to talk about the matter now."
Contrary to his usual custom, Lewis Flagg did not attempt to treat lightly and as a matter of no consequence the displeasure of his masters, but seemed depressed and restless the next morning, and Percy remarked upon it.
"You'd be cut up too if you were in my place," said Lewis, roughly; "you're only afraid of your father and mother and the doctor; and you see I've been in a lot of scrapes this term and been awfully unlucky about being found out, and my uncle threatened to stop my allowance if he caught me in another, and he'll do it, too; and I've lots of debts out—a big one to Rice—and you know what the doctor is about debt, and my uncle is still worse; there'll be no end of a row if he knows it. If this fuss could only be kept quiet till after I have my next quarter-and that's due the first of next week—I could pay off Rice, at least. But if word goes to the doctor, he'll let my uncle know—he promised to, by special request," he added, bitterly. "Uncle will make ten times more row over my debts than he will over one lark, and I promised Rice he should have his money next week. I'm in awfully deep with him, Percy, and I don't dare let it be found out. We'll see what old Merton says this morning. But—the doctor sha'n't hear of it just yet if I can help it."
Percy wondered how hecouldhelp it; but before he could ask the question the school-bell rang and the boys took their places.
After school was opened, Mr. Merton rose, and, with what Lewis called "threatening looks" at the delinquents, said, quietly:
"Young gentlemen of Mr. Seabrooke's dormitory, it is hardly necessary to say that this evening's mail will carry to Dr. Leacraft an account of last night's flagrant misconduct. Till I hear from him, I shall take no further steps, save to request that you will not go outside the house without either myself or Mr. Seabrooke in attendance."
Lewis Flagg was a bright scholar, and so far as recitations went, maintained his standing in the class with the best; but to-day he was far below his usual mark, and his attention constantly wandered; and most of his fellow culprits were in like case. In view of the escapade of the previous night and its impending consequences, that was hardly to be wondered at; but Lewis was wont to make light of such matters, and he was evidently taking this more seriously than usual.
But the truth was that this did not rise from shame or regret—at least not from a saving repentance—but because he was absorbed in trying to find a way out of his difficulties.
Mr. Merton was suffering from acute rheumatism in his right hand, and being disabled from writing, he had, after consultation with his junior, delegated him to make the necessary disclosures to the absent doctor. Seabrooke was observed to be doing a great deal of writing that afternoon, and was supposed to be giving a full account of the affair.
The letters to be taken out were always put into a basket upon the hall table, whence they were taken and carried to the post-office at the proper hour by the chore-boy of the school. Here, Lewis thought, lay his opportunity.
Drawing Percy aside again, he said that Seabrooke's letter to the doctor must be taken from the basket before Tony carried all away, and be kept back for a day or two; then it could be posted and nothing more would be suspected than that it had been belated. Meanwhile his allowance would arrive, and then Dr. Leacraft was welcome to know all the particulars of the escapade.
Percy was startled and shocked, and at first refused to have any part in the matter; but the old threat brought him to terms, and he at last agreed to Lewis' plans that they should contrive to abstract Seabrooke's letter to Dr. Leacraft from among the others laid ready for the post, and keep it back until Lewis' allowance had been received.
But although the two boys made various errands to the hall, they found no opportunity of carrying out their dishonorable purpose before Tony had started on his round of afternoon duties, taking with him the letters for the post.
Scarcely had he disappeared when Mr. Merton said to the six culprits:
"Young gentlemen, you will go for afternoon exercise to walk with Mr. Seabrooke. The cold will prevent me from venturing out," touching the crippled right-arm, which lay in a sling, "or I should not trust you from beneath my own eyes; but if I hear of any farther misconduct, or you give him any trouble, there will be greater restrictions placed upon you, and there will be another chapter to add to the sad account which has already gone to the doctor."
"Dr. Leacraft will be tired before he comes to a second volume of the thing Seabrooke has written to him," Flagg whispered to Percy, as they started together for the walk under Seabrooke's care. "Did you see him writing and writing page after page? He must have given him every detail, and made the most of it. And he fairly gloated over it; looked as pleased as Punch while he was doing it; never saw him look so happy."
"I'm likely to lose my Easter vacation, and dear knows what else for this," said Percy, who was exceedingly low in his mind over the consequences of his lawlessness.
"I'll have worse than that," answered Lewis. "I wouldn't mind that; but if my quarter's allowance is stopped I don't know what Ishalldo. Oh, if I only could get hold of that letter!"
Percy made no response; for, much as he dreaded to have this affair come to the knowledge of his parents, he shrank from the thought of abstracting and destroying that letter.
Seabrooke had not much reason to enjoy his walk that afternoon if he had depended upon his company; his charge were all sulky and depressed; but, somewhat to their exasperation, their young leader did not pay much heed to their humors; his own thoughts seemed sufficient for him; and, to judge by the light in his eye and his altogether satisfied expression, these were pleasant society.
"Seabrooke's been awfully cock-a-hoop all clay," said RaymondStewart; "wonder what's up with him."
"He's glad we're in a scrape," said Lewis, bitterly.
"Don't believe it," said Raymond; "that's not like him."
Seabrooke led the way to the village store, a sort ofomnium-gatherumplace, as village stores are apt to be, and which contained also the post-office.
Entering, the party found Tony there before them, the letters he had carried from the school lying on the counter; for there were several small parcels and newspapers which would not go into the receiving box, and the post-mistress was sorting the afternoon up mail, and the delivery window of the office was closed; so Tony was waiting his chance for attention. He stood with his back to the counter, examining some coal shovels, having received orders to buy one. Seabrooke was at the other side of the store, making some purchases; the rest of the boys scattered here and there.
"He hasn't put the letters in the box yet; now's our chance," whispered Lewis to Percy, and he sauntered up to the counter where the letters lay, drawing the reluctant Percy with him.
With a hasty glance at the letters, he snatched up the bulky one which he believed to be that to Dr. Leacraft, gave another quick look at the address and thrust it within his pocket; then, humming a tune, he walked leisurely away with an air of innocent unconcern, still with his arm through that of Percy.
"That was good luck, wasn't it?" he said. "Now we'll keep it till my allowance comes and then post it."
Seabrooke and the six boys had just reached the door of the school, when Tony rushed up to the young tutor, and said, hurriedly:
"Mr. Seabrooke, sir, did you take that letter you told me to be particular of?"
"No," said Seabrooke, turning hastily. "You haven't lost it?"
"I couldn't find it, sir," faltered the boy; "but I know I had it when I passed the bridge, for I was lookin' at it and rememberin' what you told me about it."
Seabrooke waited for no more, but darted off upon the road back to the village, followed by Tony.
"We're in a fix, now," whispered Lewis to Percy, "if there's going to be a row about that letter. Isn't he the meanest fellow in the world to be so set upon having the doctor knowing about last night? Percy, I'll tell you what! We've got to put the letter out of the way now. And there's old Merton coming, and he's asking for me. Quick, quick; take it!" drawing the stolen letter from his pocket and thrusting it into Percy's unwilling hands. "Put it in the stove, quick, quick! There's no one to see; no one will suspect! Quick now, while I go to Mr. Merton and keep him back. You're not fit to meet him: why, man, you're as pale as a ghost."
And Lewis was gone, meeting Mr. Merton in the hall without.
With not a moment for thought, save one of terror lest he should be found with the missing letter in his hand, Percy opened the door of the stove, thrust the letter within upon the glowing coals, and closed the door again, leaving it to its fate, a speedy and entire destruction, accomplished in an instant.
An hour passed; the supper gong had sounded and the boys had taken their places at the table, when Seabrooke returned, pale as death, and with compressed lips and stern eyes.
Mr. Merton, who was extremely near-sighted, did not observe his appearance as he took his seat, but the boys all noticed it.
"I have not seen it," or, "I have not found it," was all the response he had to make to the inquiries of, "Have you heard anything of your letter?" and so forth.
"Have you lost a letter, Harley?" asked Mr. Merton, at length, his attention being attracted.
"Yes, sir," answered Seabrooke.
"How was that? Was it a letter of importance?" asked the gentleman,
"Yes, sir, a letter of importance, a letter to my father," answered his junior, but in a tone which told the older man that he did not care to be questioned further on that subject.
To his father!
Percy's fork dropped from his hand with a clatter upon his plate, and Lewis' face took an expression of blank dismay which, fortunately for him, no one observed.
His father! Had they then run all this risk, been guilty of this meanness, only to delay, to destroy a letter to Seabrooke's father, while that to the doctor, exposing their delinquencies, had gone on its way unmolested.
"Neville and Flagg, I want to speak to you. Will you come into the junior recitation-room?" said Seabrooke, as soon after supper as he could find opportunity of speaking apart to the two terrified culprits.
Fain would the guilty boys have refused, but they dared not; and they followed Seabrooke to the place indicated, where he closed the door and, turning, confronted them.
"Lewis Flagg and Percy Neville," he said, sternly, and his voice seemed to carry as much weight and authority as that of Dr. Leacraft himself when he had occasion to administer some severe reproof, "I suppose that you are striving to annoy me in this manner in revenge for my detection of your deliberate infringement of rules last night, but your tricks have recoiled upon your own heads, although even now I will spare you any farther disgrace and punishment if you will make restitution at once, for you do not know the extent of the crime of which you have been guilty. Robbing the mail is an offence which is punished by heavy penalties. You, Lewis, were seen to take a letter from among those which Tony carried to the post-office; you, Percy, standing by and not interfering, even if you were not aiding and abetting. No matter who told me; you were seen; but it is looked upon as a school-boy trick, and, by my request, will not be spoken of if you return the letter without delay. Nor shall I betray you. Lewis, where is that letter? For your own sake, give it to me at once. You do not know what you have done."
Lewis would have braved it out, would perhaps even have denied taking the letter, for he was not at all above telling a lie; but he could not tell how far evidence would be given against him, and, at least, immunity from farther punishment was held forth to him and his fellow-culprit.
But—restitution! Percy, as he knew, had followed out his instructions and put the letter in the fire.
"I'm sorry," he said, with a forced laugh, but with his voice faltering; "but we had no idea the letter was of special importance. We thought it was to the doctor about last night, and we only meant to keep it back for a day or two and—and—well, when you made such a row about it—Percy—Percy burned it up. But to call it 'robbing the mail—'"
He was stopped by the change in Seabrooke's face.
"You burned it!" he almost shouted, forgetting the caution he had hitherto observed in lowering his voice so that it might not be heard by any one who might be outside the door. For one instant he stared at the two startled boys, looking from one to the other as if he could not believe the evidence of his ears. "You burned it!" he repeated, in a lower tone; then, covering his face with his hands, he bent his head upon the table before him with something very like a groan. When he raised his head and uncovered his face again he was deadly pale.
"There were two hundred dollars in that letter," he said; "you have not only stolen and destroyed my letter, but also all that sum of money."
Stolen! All that money!
They were sufficiently appalled now, these two reckless, thoughtless boys; Percy to an even great degree than his more unprincipled comrade.
Lewis was the first to find his voice.
"There was not! You're joking! You're only trying to frighten us," he said, although in his inmost soul he was convinced that this was no joking matter, no mere attempt to punish them by arousing their fears. Seabrooke's agitation was not assumed, that was easy to be seen.
Then followed a long and terrible pause, while the three boys, the injured and the injuring, stood gazing at one another. Then, despite his wrongs, the unutterable terror in the faces of the latter touched Seabrooke, especially in the case of Percy, for whom he had a strong liking; for the boy had many lovable traits, notwithstanding the weakness of his character.
"What can we do?" faltered Percy, at last.
"What will you do?" asked Lewis, almost in the same breath.
Trembling and anxious, the two culprits stood before the young man, scarcely older than themselves, who had become their victim and was now their accuser and their judge, in whose hands lay their sentence.
"Wait, I must think a minute," he said, willing, out of the kindness of his noble heart, to spare them ruin and disgrace, and yet scarcely seeing his way clear to it.
"Listen," he said, after some moments' pondering. "You thought that letter was to Dr. Leacraft, you say, giving an account of last night. Mr. Merton, who is disabled, as you know, asked me to write to the doctor; but I begged him to let me off and to ask one of the professors to do it. That letter you destroyed was to my father, and, as I told you, contained two hundred dollars in money—money earned by myself—money which I must have and which you must restore. Give it back to me—I will wait till after the Easter holidays for it—and this matter shall go no farther. No one but myself knows that the letter contained money; only one saw you take it out, and that one will be silent if I ask it. I will write out a confession and acknowledgment for you both to sign. Bring me, after the holidays or before, each your own share of the money and I will destroy that paper; but if you fail, I will carry it to the doctor and he must require it of your friends. I will not—I cannot be the loser through your wickedness and dishonesty. If you refuse to sign I shall go to Mr. Merton now and to the doctor as soon as he returns. I do not know if I am quite right in offering to let you off, even upon such conditions; but if I can help it I will not ruin you and cause your expulsion from the school, which, I know, would follow the discovery of your guilt."
Percy, overwhelmed, was speechless; but Lewis answered after a moment's pause, during which Seabrooke waited for his answer:
"How are we to raise the money?"
"I do not know," answered Seabrooke, "that is your affair. I worked hard for mine and earned it; you have taken it from me and must restore it—how, is for you to determine. If your friends must know of this, and I suppose that it is only through them that you can repay me, it seems to me that it would be better for you to make a private confession to them than to risk that which will probably follow if Dr. Leacraft knows of it. Are you ready to abide by my terms?"
"You will give us till—" stammered Lewis, seeing no loophole of escape, but, as he afterwards told Percy, hoping that something "would turn up" if they could gain time.
"Till Easter—after the holidays—no longer," answered Seabrooke. "I know very well that you could hardly raise so much at a moment's notice; so, although it is a bitter disappointment not to have it now, I will wait till then if you agree to sign the paper which I will have ready this evening after study hour. Quick now; the bell will ring in two minutes."
What could they do? Seabrooke was evidently inexorable, and they knew well that he could not be expected to bear this loss.
"Yes, I will sign it," said the thoroughly cowed Percy. But Lewis suddenly flashed up and answered impudently:
"How are we to know that the money was in that letter?"
"I can prove it," answered Seabrooke, quietly; "and, Lewis Flagg, I can prove something more. I tested the water that was in my carafe last night, and found that it had been tampered with. I know the object now, and have discovered who bought the drug at the apothecary's. Do you comprehend me? If the doctor hears of one thing he will hear of all."
Utterly subdued now, Lewis stammered his promise to comply with the young tutor's request.
"One question," said Seabrooke, as the two younger boys turned to leave the room. "How did you come to take a letter directed to my father for one addressed to Dr. Leacraft?"
"I don't know," replied Percy, at whom he was looking. "I didn't look at it particularly, but just put it in the stove when Lewis handed it to me and told me to do it. We saw you writing for ever so long, and thought that thick letter was to the doctor. We are—were in such a hurry, you see."
"And I am sure Leacraft and Seabrooke are not so very different when one is in a hurry," said Lewis.
"I see," said Seabrooke; "you made up your minds that the letter was to the doctor, and were so afraid of being caught at your mean trick that you did not take time to make sure. There's the study bell."
The confession and acknowledgment of their indebtedness was signed that night by both of the guilty boys.
And this was the story which the sensitive, honorable Lena, the faithful old Hannah had read—Percy's letter, which had commenced:
"I am in the most awful scrape any boy ever was in, and you are the only one who can help me out of it. If you can't there is nothing for me but to be expelled from the school and arrested and awfully disgraced, with all the rest of the family; and the worst is that Russell will be so cut up about it—you know his Royal Highness always holds his head so high, especially about anything he thinks is shabby—and I am afraid it will make him worse again. As for the mother! words could not paint her if she hears about it. And if the doctor gets hold of it!! I've told you how strict he is and what the rules are. If it hadn't been an iron-clad place, I shouldn't have been sent here. I hate these private schools where one can't do a thing without being found out. Well, here goes; you must hear about it, and it is a bad business."
Then followed, in school-boy language, an account of the whole disgraceful transaction. A "bad business," indeed; even worse it appeared to the young sister and the old nurse than it did apparently to Percy.
"And now, dear Lena," he continued, "there's no one but you who can help me. Lewis Flagg is going to have his share. He has a watch that was his father's, a very valuable one, and his older brother wants it awfully, and told him long ago he would give him a hundred dollars for it; he has money of his own, the brother has, and Lewis says it isn't half what the watch is worth; but he'll have to let it go. So he's all right.
"But what am I to do? I have no such watch. I have nothing I could sell without mamma and papa finding it out, and think of the row there would be if they did. You are my only hope, Lena, and you might do something for me. At any rate, think of Russell. Havn't you something you could sell? Or—I do not like very much to ask you, but what can a fellow in such a scrape do?—couldn't you ask Uncle Horace to let you have it? I am sure he owes you something for saving his house from being burnt up, and things would have been a great deal worse if you hadn't found it out and been so brave; and besides, he thinks so much of you since he will do anything for you, and you can just tell him you want it for a private purpose. He'll give it to you; it's only twenty pounds, Lena, and what is twenty pounds to him? what is it to any of our people, only one wouldn't dare to ask papa or mamma for it. We wouldn't get it if we did, and everything would have to come out then; they never trust any one andwouldknow. Only get it for me, dear Lena, and save me and save Russell, too. You have from now till after the Easter holidays; and think what you'll save me from! Oh, dear! I wish I'd never seen Lewis Flagg. He don't care a bit, so that he sees the way out of his own scrape. As for that solemn prig, Seabrooke, who you'd think was one of the grown masters with his uppish airs, well, never mind, I suppose he has let us off easy on the whole, if I only raise my share of the money; and he is honor bright about it and don't even act as if we two had done anything worse than the others. Oh! do think of some way, and try Uncle Horace. I know he'll prove all right, and you see we never meant to do this.
"Your affectionate brother,
"Oh, I forgot, how are the feet?
"Save Russell!"
The shock of the whole thing; the disobedience and rebellion against rules; the disgraceful theft of the letter; its destruction; the peril in which Percy himself stood—all faded into comparative insignificance with the risk for her adored elder brother. Absolute quiet, freedom from all worry and anxiety during his protracted convalescence had been peremptorily insisted upon by his physicians, and it had proved before this that any excitement not only retarded his recovery, but threw him back. That the knowledge of Percy's guilt could be kept from Russell if it came to the ears of her father and mother never occurred to her, and beyond words did she dread its effect upon him. She knew that the news of her own serious injuries a few weeks since had been very hurtful to him, and now her chief thought was for him.
She lost sight altogether of the contemptible meanness of Percy's appeal to her—a helpless girl—to rescue him from the consequences of his own worse than folly, but she was bitterly stung by his suggestion—nay, almost demand—that she should ask from their kind and indulgent uncle the means of satisfying the justly outraged Seabrooke; the uncle who had opened his heart and home to them, whom she credited with every known virtue, and for whose good opinion and approbation she looked more eagerly than she did for those of any other human being, even the beloved brother Russell. No, no; she would never ask him for such a thing, that honorable, high-minded, hero-uncle, with his scorn for everything that was contemptible or mean; "fussy," Percy had called him, about such matters.
Nor did it occur to her that in his selfish desire to secure her aid, Percy had perhaps exaggerated the risk to himself—the risk of his arrest and public disgrace, which would reflect upon the family.
Poor little girl! In her inexperience and alarm she did not reflect that it was not at all probable that Percy would be arrested, even though he should not be able to comply with Seabrooke's just demands; and all manner of direful possibilities presented themselves to her mind. Little wonder was it that she was perfectly overwhelmed, or that mental excitement had prostrated her again and brought on a return of her fever.
Nor was Hannah less credulous. She magnified the danger for Percy as much as the young sister did, although her fears were chiefly for the culprit himself. She had the means of relieving the boy's embarrassment if they were but in her own hands, but she had put the greater part of these in her master's care for investment, and she could not obtain any large sum of money without application to him. And, like Lena, she was afraid of exciting some inquiry or suspicion if she did so. The poor old soul stood almost alone in the world, having neither chick nor child, kith nor kin left to her, save one bad and dissipated nephew whom she had long since, by the advice of her master, cast off. If she asked Mr. Neville for the sum necessary to help Percy out of his difficulty, he would, she felt confident, suspect that she was about to give it to this reprobate nephew, and would remonstrate.
Besides the accumulated wages in her master's hands she had one other resource, quite a sum, which she carried about with her; a number of bright, golden guineas tied in a small bag which she wore fastened about her waist, and which was really a burden to her, since she lived in constant fear of losing it. But this was for a purpose dear to old Hannah's heart, namely, her own funeral expenses and the erection of what she considered a suitable head-stone for herself after she should have done with life. She would not trust this precious gold to any bank or company, lest it should fail and leave her without the means for what she considered a fitting monument for herself. Within the bag was also an epitaph, composed by herself, which was to be put upon the proposed gravestone. For Hannah had no mean opinion of her own merits, and this set her forth as an epitome of many Christian graces, reading thus:
"Here lies the mortal body of Hannah Achsah Stillwell which she was hed nurse in the family of Howard Neville eskire for years and brung up mostly by hand his children and never felt she done enuf for them not sparin herself with infantile elements walkin nites and the like, pashunt and gentle not cross-grained like some which the poor little things they can't help theirselves teethin and the like, respeckful to her betters knoin her place, kind to them beneth her—which she was much thort of by all above and below her—and respected by her ekals. Which to her Gabriel shall say in fittin time:
"Well done good and faithful servantCome to the skysStranger read this pious lessonGo and do likewise."
This gem she had read in turn to each of her nurslings as they came to what she considered a fitting age to appreciate it; and they had regarded it with great awe and admiration, till they outgrew it and began to consider it as a joke. Not to Hannah, however, did any one of them confide the change in his or her views, although they made merry over it among themselves; and Harold and Elsie still looked upon it as a most touching and fitting tribute to the merits of their faithful old nurse, albeit it had been composed and arranged by herself.
Hannah had also frequently found the bag and its contents an incentive to well-doing, or an effective and gentle means of coercion, as upon any rare symptoms of rebellion or mischief which would occasionally arise within the nursery precincts, in spite of iron rules and severe penalties, she was wont to detach the bag from its hiding-place and, retiring to a corner, would count the gold and read over the future epitaph, murmuring in sepulchral tones, befitting such a lugubrious subject, that she should soon have need of both.
This course had generally sufficed to bring the small rebel to terms at once, and it would promise to be good if she would only consent to live and continue her care of the nursery. And now, how could she make up her mind to sacrifice this cherished sum even for the reckless, selfish boy whom she loved? It had been dedicated to that one purpose, and it had never before entered her thoughts to divert it to any other. She was devoted to each one and all of her charges, past and present; but for no other one than Percy would she ever have thought of resigning this gold. Not to relieve the sickening terror and anxiety of the poor little invalid; not to save the whole family from the disgrace which she apprehended, would she have entertained the slightest thought of doing so; but for the sake of her beloved scrapegrace! Could she resolve to do it, was the question which was now agitating her mind. If Hannah was worried she was apt to be cross, and for the next day or two she was captious and exacting beyond anything within the past experience of the nursery, driving Letitia to the verge of rebellion, and exciting the open-eyed wonder of the pattern Elsie. Over Lena she crooned and hovered, petting and coddling her, and longing to speak some words of hope and comfort, but not daring to do so lest she should betray herself and the dishonorable way in which she had become possessed of the child's secret.
Colonel Rush was seated in his library one afternoon when there came a knock at the door; and being bidden to enter, the portiere was drawn aside and old Hannah appeared, her face wearing an unusually solemn and portentous expression.
"Beggin' your pardon, Colonel," she said, dropping her curtsey, "but I'm not much hacquainted with these Hamerican monies, and would you be so good as to tell me the worth of twenty-one gold guineas in the dollars they uses in this country. More shame to 'em, say I, that they didn't 'old by what was their hown when they was hunder the rule of hour gracious lady, Queen Victoria, but 'ad to go changin' an' pesterin' them what 'asn't no partickler hacquaintance with harithmetic."
Hannah was a privileged character, and sometimes expressed her opinions with some freedom in the presence of her superiors.
The colonel did not think it worth while to enlighten her on the subject of American history, or to explain that the United States, and even the early colonies, had never been beneath the rule of Queen Victoria; but he gave her the information she desired.
"Twenty-one golden guineas would be somewhere from a hundred and five to a hundred and ten or fifteen dollars, Hannah," he said; "it might be even a little more; that would depend upon what is called the price of gold. A guinea would be worth something over five dollars in American money at any time, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always beyond the five. Why?"—knowing of the secret fund for future expenses, the story having been told to him by his nephews,—"have you gold of which you wish to dispose? If so, I will do my best to sell it for you at advantage."
"No, thank'ee, sir," she answered. "I'm only fain to know what it would fetch," and with another curtsey she was gone, not daring either to wait for farther questioning or to ask the gentleman to exchange her gold for her. Indeed, upon the latter point she had not, hitherto, at all made up her mind. But now it seemed to her that it was clearly intended that she should make the sacrifice.
"Seems as if it was a callin' of Providence," she murmured to herself, as she slowly and thoughtfully mounted the stairs and returned to the nursery; and had any one known the circumstances he might have seen that the old nurse's resolution respecting that gold was wavering; "seems as if it was a callin' of Providence. 'Twould just be a little more than the poor boy needs—oh, will he never learn to say no when it's befittin 'he should!—just a little more, and it do seem as if it were put hinto my 'ands to do it. An' I s'pose I might believe the Lord will take care of them banks and railroads an' things where the master 'as put what he's hinvested for me. I don't know as I put so much faith in this hinvestin', you never know what'll come of it with the ups and downs of them things. Dear, dear! if I 'ad it now there needn't be no trouble about Master Percy. But"—feeling for the precious bag—"I think I couldn't rest heasy in my grave if I 'ad the statoo of the queen 'erself hover me if I'd let the child I brought up come to this disgrace an' 'im the puny, weakly baby he was, too, when I took 'im, the fine, sturdy lad he is now if he is maybe a bit too soon led hastray. But what can you hexpect of a lad when he's kept hunder the way hour boys is. An' he's not a bad 'eart, 'asn't Master Percy, an' maybe he might put up a monyment and a hepithet 'imself for me if he did but know I'd done that for 'im. It's a risk, too; Percy's no 'ead on his shoulders, an' I might be left with no tombstone an' no hepithet."
To one who knew Hannah it might have been easy to see which way the balance was likely to turn; that cherished gold was sure to be taken for Percy's rescue from the difficulty he was in; but she persuaded herself that she had not yet made up her mind about the matter.
Meanwhile Lena was fretting herself ill over the terrible secret which she imagined she shared with no one in the house; turning over and over in her mind all manner of impossible devices for the relief of her scapegrace brother. Not for one instant would she entertain the thought of applying to her uncle in accordance with his indelicate suggestion; and her father and mother were, to her mind, as well as to Percy's, utterly out of the question. No idea of applying to them entered her head. The change in her, her troubled, worried expression, the almost hunted look in her beautiful eyes made her uncle and aunt extremely anxious, especially as they could find no clew to the cause, for they knew nothing of the letter from Percy.
The child wrote to her brother and told him that she could see no way of procuring the money for him, for shewould notapply to their uncle; but she would try and contrive some means of helping him.
With the heedlessinsouciancewhich distinguished him, or rather with the selfish facility with which he threw a share, and a large share, of his burdens upon others, he had comforted himself with the thought that Lena would surely contrive some way of helping him; would, in spite of her declarations to the contrary, apply to Colonel Rush, guarding his secret, and taking upon herself all the weight and embarrassment of asking such an unheard of favor. But although he did strive to be hopeful, he had times of the deepest despondency and dread, when he looked his predicament fully in the face; and he felt it hard that Lewis, who, after all, had been the chief offender, should be, as he in his careless way phrased it, "all right" at what seemed to be so little cost to him, while he, Percy, was under this cloud of apprehension and uncertainty.
Harley Seabrooke was not hard-hearted, although he was determined that the two boys should make full restitution, and justly so, and he could not but feel sorry for Percy when these fits of despair overtook him.
"Neville," he said to him one day, "have you written to your parents about this matter?"
"To my father and mother! oh, no!" answered Percy, looking dismayed at the bare idea of such a thing; "Oh, no, of course not. How could I?"
"It seems to me," said Harley, eying the boy curiously, "that such a thing is the most natural course when one is in such a difficulty. Certainly it must involve confession, but they would be the most lenient and tender judges one could have. Why not make a clean breast of it, Percy, and have it over? You hardly, I suppose, can obtain such a sum of money except by application to them; or have you some other friend who will help you?"
"I have—I did—I mean I will," stammered Percy. "I have asked and—and—I know I must have it somehow."
He looked so utterly depressed and forlorn that Harley's heart was moved for him.
"If I were rich, Percy," he said, "if I could in any way afford it, I would not insist upon such early payment of my loss; but it is only just that you should make it good. You did not know what you were doing, it is true, the extent of the injury to me; but you had suffered yourself to be tempted into wrong by a boy much worse than yourself, and you meant to play me a sorry trick, which has recoiled upon yourself. That money, the check you destroyed, I had received from a publisher for a piece of work over which I had spent much time and which I had devoted to a special purpose. I have a young sister who has a wonderful talent for drawing and painting, is, in fact, a genius; and her gift ought to be cultivated, for we hope it will, in time, be a source of profit to herself and others; but my father is a poor clergyman, and all of us try to do what we can to help ourselves and one another. You know on what terms I am here; and it is only through the kindness of Dr. Leacraft that I enjoy the advantages I do; and of late I have been able to earn a little by articles I have written for papers and magazines. This two hundred dollars I had received for a little book, and I intended it should be the means of giving my little sister at least a beginning of the drawing lessons which would be of so much use to her. You may judge then if I do not feel that I must have it back, and that without farther delay. I am sorry for you, but I cannot sacrifice my sister."
Seabrooke was regarded by the boys as unsympathetic, cold, and stiff in his manner—perhaps he was somewhat so—and as he seldom spoke of himself they knew little of his affairs or of his family relations; and he was also considered to have a rather elderly style of talking, unbefitting his comparatively few years.
Percy's manner, which had been rather sullen and listless when the other began to speak, had brightened as Seabrooke went on; and when he mentioned his sister, his face lighted with a look of interest which somewhat surprised his senior.
"What is your sister's name? Gladys?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Harley, surprised at the question. "Do you know her?"
"Yes—no—my sister and some other girls I know, know her," said Percy; and then followed the story of the meeting in the church and of the interest taken in the young artist by Lena, Maggie and Bessie.
"So it was your friends and relatives, then, who sent the check for the church to my father, and the Christmas box to my sister?" said Seabrooke, feeling much more inclined to forgive Percy than he had felt since the destruction of his letter.
"I don't know anything about a check," answered Percy, for Colonel Rush had not mentioned that little circumstance to the junior portion of his family, "but I do know that the girls sent your sister a Christmas box, for I helped to pack it myself, and they are all agog about some prize they hope to win among them, a prize which will give them somehow, an artist education, which they can give to some girl who needs it. I don't know exactly how it is, only I do know they are all just agog about it, and they want it for your sister Gladys, at least for a girl of that name. But I believe I ought not to have spoken of that; it is only a chance, you know; there are ever so many girls to try for the prize, and our girls may not gain it."
"And my sister don't want the chance," said Harley, the stubborn pride which was one of his characteristics, up in arms at once. "We may be and are poor, but we will not ask for charity."
"Well, you needn't be so highty-tighty about it," said Percy, taking a more sensible view of the matter than his older companion did. "Idon't call it charity, and if it is, it comes from somebody who is dead, so one needn't feel any special obligation to the girls. It is only that they earn the right to say to whom the gift shall go; they don'tgiveit. And," he added, with his usual happy faculty for saying the wrong thing, "I don't see why you should be so stiff about it when you yourself"—he paused, seeing by the dark look which came over Seabrooke's face that he had touched upon a sore point.
"You would say," said Harley, stiffly, "when I accept favors from Dr. Leacraft for myself; but you will please remember that I, at least, give some equivalent for my tuition, so I am not altogether a charity scholar. And it is my object to provide for my sister myself, and I still insist that you shall pay me what you owe me, Neville. If your friends earned forty scholarships for Gladys, that would make no difference in my just demands."
"Nobody asked that it should!" exclaimed Percy, flying into one of the rare passions to which his amiable, easy-going nature would occasionally lapse under great provocation, "nobody asked that it should; and you are"—and here he launched into some most uncomplimentary remarks, and then dashed from the room, leaving Harley to feel that he had made a great mistake, and missed, by the insinuation that Percy fancied he would abate his demands for restitution, an opportunity of influencing the boy, who was easily led for either good or evil.
The result of this was, on Percy's part, another frantic appeal to Lena to find some means of helping him before Easter, that Seabrooke was very hard on him and determined not to spare him.
This letter would never have reached Lena had it not been delivered into the hands of Colonel Rush, who met the postman at the foot of his own steps, and took this with others from him. For Hannah, following out her policy that the end justified the means, and undeterred by the scrape into which Percy had brought himself by means somewhat similar, kept on the watch for letters for Lena, determined to hide and destroy any which should come from Percy.
She fancied that she had not yet made up her mind to the course she would pursue; but she really had done so, though the faithful old nurse clung till the last moment to the cherished gold, with a faint hope that something might yet chance to save it.
The colonel went up to pay a little visit to Lena, and came down looking rather perturbed and anxious.
"That child continues to look badly," he said to Mrs. Rush, "and she appears to me to have something on her mind. Do you think it is possible, now that Russell is better?"
"I am sure of it," answered his wife, "sure that something is troubling her very much, and I was about to speak of it to you. She is such a reticent, reserved child, that I did not like to try and force her confidence, although I have opened the way for her to give it to me if she chose to do so."
"I brought her a letter from Percy yesterday," said the colonel, "and when I handed it to her, she flushed painfully and seemed very nervous, and I noticed that she did not open it while I was in the room. I wonder if he is in any trouble."
Mrs. Rush shook her head. She had not even noticed this, and had no clew whereby she might guess at the cause of Lena's depression; but she said:
"I am going to send for Maggie and Bessie to come and spend the day with her. She is able, I think, to have them with her, and they may brighten her a little."
No sooner said than done; the colonel, always glad of any excuse for bringing these prime favorites of his to his own house, went for them himself, and finding them disengaged, this being Saturday and a holiday, brought them back with him.
He had the pleasure of seeing Lena's pale face light up when she saw them, and soon left the young patient with her two little friends to work what healing influences they might.
Now, although Lena was very fond of both these girls, Bessie was her special favorite, perhaps because she, being less shy than Maggie, had been the first to offer her sympathy and comfort at the time when Lena had been left at her uncle's with her heart wrung with anxiety and distress for her brother Russell who was then very dangerously ill.
And Bessie was now quick to see that something was wrong with Lena. Maggie saw it too, but shy Maggie, unless it was with some one as frank as herself, could not seek to draw forth confidences. But, with her usual considerate thoughtfulness, she did that which was perhaps better; she presently withdrew herself to the next room with Elsie and little May and amused them there, so that Lena might have the opportunity of speaking to Bessie if she so chose.
But not even to Bessie would or could Lena confide the story of Percy's misdoing and its direful results, longing though she might be for her sympathy and advice. Lena knew Bessie's strict conscientiousness, which was almost equalled by her own, and she knew also Bessie's complete trust in her parents, and how in any trouble her first thought would be to confide in them in full faith that they would be only too ready to lift the burden from her shoulders.
No, Bessie was not like herself; she had no dread of her father and mother, nor had any of the children in that large and happy family; and it would have seemed unnatural to them to have any such fears.
But there was a question which had been agitating her own mind which she meant to ask Bessie and hear her clear, straightforward views on the matter; for Lena feared, and justly, that her own wishes might have too much weight with her own opinion, and she dared not yield to these for fear of doing wrong.
"Lena, dear," said Bessie, "is your brother Russell worse?"
"No," answered Lena, "he is improving every day now, mamma says."
"You seem rather troubled and as if something were the matter," said Bessie, simply, but in half-questioning tones, thus opening the door for confidence if Lena wished to give it.
"I would like to ask you something," said Lena, wistfully. "You remember the checks papa and Russell sent me?"
"Oh, yes, of course," answered Bessie. "How could I forget them?"
"Do you think," said Lena, slowly and doubtfully, "that if a person who was not a poor person was in great trouble, it would be quite right to use some of that money to help them out of their trouble? You know papa and Russell say I may use it for any charity I choose. Do you think it would be called charity to do that when the person was in trouble only because he had been—had done very wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't quite understand," said Bessie, quite at sea, as she might well be, at such a vague representation of the case. "I suppose," thoughtfully, "that it might be right if you felt quite sure that your father or brother would be willing."
"But they would not be—at least—oh, I do not know what to think or what to do," exclaimed poor Lena, breaking down under the weight of all her troubles and perplexities.
"I can't tell what to say unless I know more about it," said Bessie, taking Lena's hand; "but, Lena dear,"—approaching the subject of Lena's relations with her own family with some reluctance, "but, Lena dear, if you do not want to ask your father and mother, why do you not ask Uncle Horace? He is so very nice and good, and he knows about almost everything."
But before she had finished speaking she saw that the suggestion did not meet the case at all.
"Uncle Horace! Oh, no!" ejaculated Lena, "that would be worse than all! Oh, if I could only tell Russell!"
"Why do you not?" asked Bessie.
"It would make him ill again; it might kill him," answered Lena, more excitedly than ever. "Tell me what it is right to do by myself, Bessie."
"How can I, dear, when I do not know what it is?" said the troubled and sympathizing Bessie.
Lena looked into the clear, tender eyes before her own, and her resolution was taken; although, knowing, as she did, Bessie's almost morbid conscientiousness and her horror of anything small, mean or tricky, she knew that she would be terribly shocked when she heard the source of the trouble; but shemusttell some one, must have a little advice.
"I want to tell you, Bessie," she said, falteringly, "but you will not tell any one, will you? Not even Maggie?"
"No. Maggie is very good about that, and not at all curious," said Bessie. "I couldn't keep a secret of my own from her; but some one else's she would not mind. But mamma—could I not tell mamma?"
"Oh, no," said Lena, "no!Mustyou tell your mother everything—things that are not secrets of your own?"
Bessie stood thoughtful for a moment.
"No," she at last answered, a little reluctantly. "If mamma knew it would be a help to some one to have me keep a secret, I do not think she would mind; for mamma has a good deal"—of confidence in her children, she would have added, but checked herself with the thought that Lena enjoyed no such blessing, and that she was presenting too forcible a contrast between her own lot and that of her little friend, and she hastily substituted, "a great deal of good sense for her children. But, Lena dear, you do not know how well my mamma keeps a secret, and how she can help people out of trouble."
"No, no!" said Lena again, "I couldn't let her know. He wouldn't like it; he would never forgive me," she added, forgetting herself.
Light flashed upon Bessie.
"Lena, is it Percy?" she asked.
"Yes," faltered Lena; and then followed the whole story; at least, the whole as she knew it, so much as Percy had revealed to her.
Bessie was indeed shocked, perhaps even more at the contemptible selfishness and weakness which had led Percy to throw the burden of this secret upon his young sister, and to appeal to her for help, than she was by his original fault. Her own brother Harry was noted for his chivalrous gallantry to girls; so much so, that it was a subject of joke among his schoolmates and companions; and Fred, although known as a tease, was quite above anything small or petty, and would have scorned to ask such a thing as this from any girl, especially from one who was weak and ill, and but just coming back from the borders of the grave. Bessie felt no sympathy whatever for Percy, but more than she could express for the innocent Lena; and her indignation at the reckless brother found vent in terms unusually emphatic for her.
But, alas for Lena! Bessie could see no way out of the difficulty more than Lena could herself. In spite of her ardent wish to do this, her upright little soul could by no means advise or justify for this purpose the use of any part of the sums put by Mr. Neville and Russell into Lena's hands.
"For you know, dear Lena," she said, "your father and brother said for charity, didn't they? And Percy is not a 'charity.'"
"No," answered Lena, with a pitiful, pleading tremor in her voice, "but papa said I could use it for any good object I chose. See, Bessie, here is his letter, and that is just what he says."
"Yes," said Bessie, glancing at the lines in Mr. Neville's letter to which Lena pointed, "yes; but Percy is not an 'object.' At least not what your father means by 'any object.'"
"And he certainly is not good" she added to herself; then said slowly again: "But, Lena, why don't you tell your brother Russell, when you say he is so good and nice?"
But to this also Lena returned the most decided negative. No, Russell must not be worried or made anxious and unhappy, no matter what might happen to Percy or to the rest of the family. Russell must be spared, at all hazards, and it was plainly to be seen that, distressed as she was for Percy, his welfare was by no means to be weighed in the balance against that of his elder brother.
Bessie, helpless as Lena herself, had no farther suggestion to offer, and save that she now shared the burden of her secret with some one who could sympathize, Lena had gained nothing by imparting it to her little friend; and when Maggie returned, she found her looking as depressed and anxious as before, while Bessie's sweet face also now wore a troubled expression.
Maggie asked no questions; but when they were at home that evening,Bessie said to her:
"Maggie, dear, I have to have a secret from you. It is not mine, but Lena's, and she will not let me tell even you; and she will not tell Uncle Horace or Aunt Marion or any of her people. And then again it is not her very own secret, but some one else's, and it is a great weight on her mind because she does not know what to do about it. And so it is on mine," she added, with a deep sigh.
"I wish you could tell me," said Maggie; "not that I am so very curious about it, although, of course, I should like very much to know; but cannot you tell mamma, Bessie?"
"No," answered Bessie; "it seemed to me mamma would not mind if I promised I would not tell even her, when Lena seemed to have such a trouble and wanted to tell me. I can't bear not to tell her or not to tell you; but I thought I would promise, because Lena is such a very good girl and so very true, and she has such a perfectly horrible mother. Maggie, every night when you say your prayers, do you thank God that Mrs. Neville is not your mother? I do."