Chapter Nine.Bernard’s Experiment, by Anon.When the Headmaster sent for Gray Minor, on receipt of a telegram from his home, the boys were in great consternation, because they all regarded him as a “ripping good fellow.”“I wonder what’s up,” said one, and this speech expressed the feeling of every boy. Then Gray Minor appeared, white, but determined, and told them that, his widowed Mother being suddenly ruined, he would have to leave the school at once.“I say, Gray, you’re such a chap for experiment, perhaps you’ll see your way out of this fix; but, all the same, it’s jolly hard lines on you,” said his greatest chum, wringing Gray’s hand. The boys expressed their grief in different ways, but each was equally sincere, and Gray Minor departed, universally regretted.Mrs Gray sat by the fire of the little cottage parlour, a black-edged letter lying idly between her fingers. Very pale, she had the appearance of one who had passed many sleepless nights. Outside, the November sky was overcast, the rain was coming down in torrents, and sad-looking people picked their way down the muddy lane under streaming umbrellas to the railway-station.Suddenly, a quick, firm footstep sounded on the little garden path, and a boy’s round face smiled in at the diamond-paned window like a ray of bright sunshine. Mrs Gray almost ran to the door. “Bernard, you must be drenched!” she cried.“No, Mother, not a bit of it,” he laughed, taking off his streaming mackintosh.“It is such a dreadful day,” she said, but her face had brightened astonishingly at the sight of her brave boy.“Yes, but it has put a scheme—a grand scheme in my head! Wait until I get my wet togs off and I’ll tell you.”“Anexperiment?—already! oh, Bernard!” Mrs Gray laughed with actual joy: her faith in her only son was so unquestioning.As Bernard came downstairs, the faithful old servant was carrying in a substantial tea for her young master. “Hullo, Dolly,” he cried; “I haven’t stayed up the remainder of the term, you see.”“Ah, Mr Bernard, it’s well you take it so lightly—but it’s black ruin this time and no mistake. My poor mistress has been fretting night and day over it. Whatever is she to do?”“Trust herself to me,” said Bernard valiantly.Dolly laughed. “Why, you ain’t sixteen, Mr Bernard, and not done with your schooling. But, as parson said, so strange-like, on Sunday, for his text—‘the only son of his mother and she was a widow’—you’re all she has left.”When Mrs Gray and her son were alone she told Bernard the whole history of their misfortunes. An unfortunate speculation on the part of their trustee had left them almost penniless. “There is nothing left to us,” she said, “but this little cottage and seventeen pounds in the cash-box. But, Bernard,” she added, “I grieve over nothing but your school. You had such a brilliant future, and so many friends.”“Oh, but there were to be so many new fellows next term—nearly all my chums were to leave, so don’t grieve over that,” answered Bernard, ignoring her words about his future. Then he explained his “experiment.”“I have decided,” he said, “to sweep a crossing.”“Sweep a crossing! Ah, that is what so many people say, but they would never do it when it came to the point.”“It’s what I mean to do,” said Bernard quietly. “It’s an inspiration, Mother, I assure you. You say this cottage is freehold, is it not, and worth—how much?”“I have been offered one hundred pounds for it, but it is too near the railway, and too much out of repair to be valuable.”“We shall do better than that. Do you know how many people go down this road daily to the station since all those new villas were built?”Mrs Gray shook her head.“Five hundred, and the place is growing like—well, like old boots. Now, Mother, this is my scheme. You know how bad the approach to the station is. You know, also, that the new asphalt path from the new blocks of houses comes to our very garden gate. Well, people can come so far without muddying their boots. Now, our garden abuts almost on the railway-platform, so I propose sweeping a path straight across from the road, putting up a gate at each end, and saving people five hundred yards of quagmire, and a good five minutes in time, and a lot of swear-words, and my charge for all these improvements will be one penny!”The next morning, at half-past seven, the new path of forty yards was swept from end to end, some of the palings were pulled down near the railway-bank, and another small path swept up to the platform.An old door was placed lengthwise over the front gate and painted white, and on it, in somewhat clumsy printing, was the announcement:— “Quickest way to Endwell Railway-Station. Dry all the way. Admission, one penny.”About eight o’clock the business men came hurrying along under their umbrellas, for it was still drizzling. They looked at Bernard in a curious way and then at the signboard, but they scarcely grasped the situation, and plunged heroically into the five hundred yards of mud.At nine o’clock a wealthy stockbroker came panting along, late for his train; so Bernard shouted to him: “Come my way, Mr Blunt; it will save you five hundred yards and all that horrid mud!”“Hullo, Gray; back from school?” he gasped. “What’s the idea, eh?”So Bernard told him his scheme in as few words as possible.“Then I’ll be your first patron, my boy,” and Mr Blunt held out a shilling. “There’s your first capital.”“Only a penny,” laughed Bernard, pushing back the kind hand, and pointing to his signboard.“Oh, we are proud,” said Mr Blunt. “Well, I wish you luck! Through you I shall catch my train, and it means a little matter to me to the tune of three hundred pounds.”A week after this, scores of people went through Bernard’s garden morning and evening, and the whole place rang with his plucky experiment. “Four pounds, five and sixpence for the first week, Mother; but we will do better yet,” said Bernard.Many people came through the gates from sheer curiosity, and nearly everyone preferred paying him the penny toll, instead of walking the five hundred yards of uneven road, even on dry days! In the following spring, Endwell suddenly grew into such an important place that the railway company was compelled to enlarge the station, and a director being informed of Bernard’s experiment, and the distinct value of a shorter approach, came to see Mrs Gray about her little property, but she would not be “talked over” by the smart director. Then an enterprising builder came, and made a very tempting offer. Still she resisted. At last, however, the railway people offered a price which it would have been folly to refuse, so Bernard was forced to give up his “scheme.”Mrs Gray now lives in a pretty flat in South Kensington with her faithful old Dolly, surrounded by many of her former luxuries, but she is happiest in the possession of such a brave and noble son. Bernard’s future is assured, for he showed all the qualities that command success in his lastexperiment.
When the Headmaster sent for Gray Minor, on receipt of a telegram from his home, the boys were in great consternation, because they all regarded him as a “ripping good fellow.”
“I wonder what’s up,” said one, and this speech expressed the feeling of every boy. Then Gray Minor appeared, white, but determined, and told them that, his widowed Mother being suddenly ruined, he would have to leave the school at once.
“I say, Gray, you’re such a chap for experiment, perhaps you’ll see your way out of this fix; but, all the same, it’s jolly hard lines on you,” said his greatest chum, wringing Gray’s hand. The boys expressed their grief in different ways, but each was equally sincere, and Gray Minor departed, universally regretted.
Mrs Gray sat by the fire of the little cottage parlour, a black-edged letter lying idly between her fingers. Very pale, she had the appearance of one who had passed many sleepless nights. Outside, the November sky was overcast, the rain was coming down in torrents, and sad-looking people picked their way down the muddy lane under streaming umbrellas to the railway-station.
Suddenly, a quick, firm footstep sounded on the little garden path, and a boy’s round face smiled in at the diamond-paned window like a ray of bright sunshine. Mrs Gray almost ran to the door. “Bernard, you must be drenched!” she cried.
“No, Mother, not a bit of it,” he laughed, taking off his streaming mackintosh.
“It is such a dreadful day,” she said, but her face had brightened astonishingly at the sight of her brave boy.
“Yes, but it has put a scheme—a grand scheme in my head! Wait until I get my wet togs off and I’ll tell you.”
“Anexperiment?—already! oh, Bernard!” Mrs Gray laughed with actual joy: her faith in her only son was so unquestioning.
As Bernard came downstairs, the faithful old servant was carrying in a substantial tea for her young master. “Hullo, Dolly,” he cried; “I haven’t stayed up the remainder of the term, you see.”
“Ah, Mr Bernard, it’s well you take it so lightly—but it’s black ruin this time and no mistake. My poor mistress has been fretting night and day over it. Whatever is she to do?”
“Trust herself to me,” said Bernard valiantly.
Dolly laughed. “Why, you ain’t sixteen, Mr Bernard, and not done with your schooling. But, as parson said, so strange-like, on Sunday, for his text—‘the only son of his mother and she was a widow’—you’re all she has left.”
When Mrs Gray and her son were alone she told Bernard the whole history of their misfortunes. An unfortunate speculation on the part of their trustee had left them almost penniless. “There is nothing left to us,” she said, “but this little cottage and seventeen pounds in the cash-box. But, Bernard,” she added, “I grieve over nothing but your school. You had such a brilliant future, and so many friends.”
“Oh, but there were to be so many new fellows next term—nearly all my chums were to leave, so don’t grieve over that,” answered Bernard, ignoring her words about his future. Then he explained his “experiment.”
“I have decided,” he said, “to sweep a crossing.”
“Sweep a crossing! Ah, that is what so many people say, but they would never do it when it came to the point.”
“It’s what I mean to do,” said Bernard quietly. “It’s an inspiration, Mother, I assure you. You say this cottage is freehold, is it not, and worth—how much?”
“I have been offered one hundred pounds for it, but it is too near the railway, and too much out of repair to be valuable.”
“We shall do better than that. Do you know how many people go down this road daily to the station since all those new villas were built?”
Mrs Gray shook her head.
“Five hundred, and the place is growing like—well, like old boots. Now, Mother, this is my scheme. You know how bad the approach to the station is. You know, also, that the new asphalt path from the new blocks of houses comes to our very garden gate. Well, people can come so far without muddying their boots. Now, our garden abuts almost on the railway-platform, so I propose sweeping a path straight across from the road, putting up a gate at each end, and saving people five hundred yards of quagmire, and a good five minutes in time, and a lot of swear-words, and my charge for all these improvements will be one penny!”
The next morning, at half-past seven, the new path of forty yards was swept from end to end, some of the palings were pulled down near the railway-bank, and another small path swept up to the platform.
An old door was placed lengthwise over the front gate and painted white, and on it, in somewhat clumsy printing, was the announcement:— “Quickest way to Endwell Railway-Station. Dry all the way. Admission, one penny.”
About eight o’clock the business men came hurrying along under their umbrellas, for it was still drizzling. They looked at Bernard in a curious way and then at the signboard, but they scarcely grasped the situation, and plunged heroically into the five hundred yards of mud.
At nine o’clock a wealthy stockbroker came panting along, late for his train; so Bernard shouted to him: “Come my way, Mr Blunt; it will save you five hundred yards and all that horrid mud!”
“Hullo, Gray; back from school?” he gasped. “What’s the idea, eh?”
So Bernard told him his scheme in as few words as possible.
“Then I’ll be your first patron, my boy,” and Mr Blunt held out a shilling. “There’s your first capital.”
“Only a penny,” laughed Bernard, pushing back the kind hand, and pointing to his signboard.
“Oh, we are proud,” said Mr Blunt. “Well, I wish you luck! Through you I shall catch my train, and it means a little matter to me to the tune of three hundred pounds.”
A week after this, scores of people went through Bernard’s garden morning and evening, and the whole place rang with his plucky experiment. “Four pounds, five and sixpence for the first week, Mother; but we will do better yet,” said Bernard.
Many people came through the gates from sheer curiosity, and nearly everyone preferred paying him the penny toll, instead of walking the five hundred yards of uneven road, even on dry days! In the following spring, Endwell suddenly grew into such an important place that the railway company was compelled to enlarge the station, and a director being informed of Bernard’s experiment, and the distinct value of a shorter approach, came to see Mrs Gray about her little property, but she would not be “talked over” by the smart director. Then an enterprising builder came, and made a very tempting offer. Still she resisted. At last, however, the railway people offered a price which it would have been folly to refuse, so Bernard was forced to give up his “scheme.”
Mrs Gray now lives in a pretty flat in South Kensington with her faithful old Dolly, surrounded by many of her former luxuries, but she is happiest in the possession of such a brave and noble son. Bernard’s future is assured, for he showed all the qualities that command success in his lastexperiment.
Chapter Ten.Toby the Clown, by Anon.Toby’s the most famous clown,In the country or the town;Never was a laugh so ringing,When the children hear him singing!See, he stands upon two legs,With his hat for coppers begs;Do you think that you, if youWere a dog, as much could do?Little maid and little man,Throw him all the pence you can!When perhaps he’ll show you howHe says “Thank you,” Bow! wow! wow!
Toby’s the most famous clown,In the country or the town;Never was a laugh so ringing,When the children hear him singing!See, he stands upon two legs,With his hat for coppers begs;Do you think that you, if youWere a dog, as much could do?Little maid and little man,Throw him all the pence you can!When perhaps he’ll show you howHe says “Thank you,” Bow! wow! wow!
Toby’s the most famous clown,In the country or the town;Never was a laugh so ringing,When the children hear him singing!See, he stands upon two legs,With his hat for coppers begs;Do you think that you, if youWere a dog, as much could do?Little maid and little man,Throw him all the pence you can!When perhaps he’ll show you howHe says “Thank you,” Bow! wow! wow!
Chapter Eleven.A Christmas Party, by John Strange Winter.It was getting very near Christmas-time, and all the boys at Miss Ware’s school were talking excitedly about going home for the holidays, of the fun they would have, the presents they would receive on Christmas morning, the tips from Grannies, Uncles, and Aunts, of the pantomimes, the parties, the never-ending joys and pleasures which would be theirs.“I shall go to Madame Tussaud’s and to the Drury Lane pantomime,” said young Fellowes, “and my Mother will give a party, and Aunt Adelaide will give another, and Johnny Sanderson and Mary Greville, and ever so many others. I shall have a splendid time at home. Oh, Jim, I wish it were all holidays, like it is when one’s grown up.”“My Uncle Bob is going to give me a pair of skates—clippers,” remarked Harry Wadham.“My Father’s going to give me a bike,” put in George Alderson.“Will you bring it back to school with you?” asked Harry.“Oh, yes, I should think so, if Miss Ware doesn’t say no.”“I say, Shivers,” cried Fellowes, “where are you going to spend your holidays?”“I’m going to stop here,” answered the boy called Shivers, in a very forlorn tone.“Here—with old Ware?—oh, my! Why can’t you go home?”“I can’t go home to India,” answered Shivers. His real name, by the bye, was Egerton—Tom Egerton.“No—who said you could? But haven’t you any relations anywhere?”Shivers shook his head. “Only in India,” he said miserably.“Poor old chap; that’s rough luck for you. Oh, I’ll tell you what it is, you fellows: if I couldn’t go home for the holidays—especially Christmas—I think I’d just sit down and die.”“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Shivers; “you’d hate it and you’d get ever so homesick and miserable, but you wouldn’t die over it. You’d just get through somehow, and hope something would happen before next year, or that some kind fairy or other would—”“Bosh! there are no fairies nowadays,” said Fellowes. “See here, Shivers: I’ll write home and ask my Mother if she won’t invite you to come back with me for the holidays.”“Will you really?”“Yes, I will: and if she says yes, we shall have such a splendid time, because, you know, we live in London, and go to everything, and have heaps of tips and parties and fun.”“Perhaps she will say no,” suggested poor little Shivers, who had steeled himself to the idea that there would be no Christmas holidays for him, excepting that he would have no lessons for so many weeks.“My Mother isn’t at all the kind of woman who says no,” Fellowes declared loudly.In a few days’ time, however, a letter arrived from his Mother which he opened eagerly.“My own darling boy,” it said, “I am so very sorry to have to tell you that dear little Aggie is down with scarlet fever, and so you cannot come home for your holidays, nor yet bring your young friend with you, as I would have loved you to do if all had been well here. Your Aunt Adelaide would have had you there, but her two girls have both got scarlatina—and I believe Aggie got hers there, though, of course, poor Aunt Adelaide could not help it. I did think about your going to Cousin Rachel’s. She most kindly offered to invite you, but, dear boy, she is an old lady, and so particular, and not used to boys, and she lives so far from anything which is going on that you would be able to go to nothing; so your Father and I came to the conclusion that the very best thing that you could do under the circumstances is for you to stay at Miss Ware’s and for us to send your Christmas to you as well as we can. It won’t be like being at home, darling boy, but you will try and be happy—won’t you, and make me feel that you are helping me in this dreadful time.“Dear little Aggie is very ill, very ill indeed. We have two nurses. Nora and Connie are shut away in the morning-room and to the back stairs and their own rooms with Miss Ellis, and have not seen us since the dear child was first taken ill. Tell your young friend that I am sending you a hamper from Buzzard’s, with double of everything, and I am writing to Miss Ware to ask her to take you both to anything that may be going on in Cross Hampton. And tell him that it makes me so much happier to think that you won’t be alone.“Your Own Mother.“This letter will smell queer, darling: it will be fumigated before posting.”It must be owned that when Bertie Fellowes received this letter, which was neither more nor less than a shattering of all his Christmas hopes and joys, that he fairly broke down, and, hiding his face upon his arms as they rested on his desk, sobbed aloud.The forlorn boy from India, who sat next to him, tried every boyish means of consolation that he could think of. He patted his shoulder, whispered many pitying words, and, at last, flung his arm across him and hugged him tightly, as, poor little chap, he himself many times since his arrival in England had wished someone would do to him. At last Bertie Fellowes thrust his Mother’s letter into his friend’s hand.“Read it,” he sobbed.So Shivers made himself master of Mrs Fellowes’ letter and understood the cause of the boy’s outburst of grief.“Old fellow,” he said at last, “don’t fret over it. It might be worse. Why, you might be like me, with your Father and Mother thousands of miles away. When Aggie is better, you’ll be able to go home—and it’ll help your Mother if she thinks you are almost as happy as if you were at home. It must be worse for her—she has cried ever so over this letter—see, it’s all tear-blots.”The troubles and disappointments of youth are bitter while they last, but they soon pass, and the sun shines again. By the time Miss Ware, who was a kind-hearted, sensible, pleasant woman, came to tell Fellowes how sorry she was for him and his disappointment, the worst had gone by, and the boy was resigned to what could not be helped.“Well, after all, one man’s meat is another man’s poison,” she said, smiling down on the two boys; “poor Tom has been looking forward to spending his holidays all alone with us, and now he will have a friend with him. Try to look on the bright side, Bertie, and to remember how much worse it would have been if there had been no boy to stay with you.”“I can’t help being disappointed, Miss Ware,” said Bertie, his eyes filling afresh and his lips quivering.“No, dear boy; you would be anything but a nice boy if you were not. But I want you to try and think of your poor Mother, who is full of trouble and anxiety, and to write to her as brightly as you can, and tell her not to worry about you more than she can help.”“Yes,” said Bertie; but he turned his head away, and it was evident to the school-mistress that his heart was too full to let him say more.Still, he was a good boy, Bertie Fellowes, and when he wrote home to his Mother it was quite a bright every-day letter, telling her how sorry he was about Aggie, and detailing a few of the ways in which he and Shivers meant to spend their holidays. His letter ended thus:—“Shivers got a letter from his Mother yesterday with three pounds in it: if you happen to see Uncle Dick, will you tell him I want a ‘Waterbury’ dreadfully?”The last day of the term came, and one by one, or two by two, the various boys went away, until at last only Bertie Fellowes and Shivers were left in the great house. It had never appeared so large to either of them before. The schoolroom seemed to have grown to about the size of a church; the dining-room, set now with only one table, instead of three, was not like the same; while the dormitory, which had never before had any room to spare, was like a wilderness. To Bertie Fellowes it was all dreary and wretched—to the boy from India, who knew no other house in England, no other thought came than that it was a blessing that he had one companion left.“It is miserable,” groaned poor Bertie, as they strolled into the great echoing schoolroom after a lonely tea, set at one corner of the smallest of the three dining-tables; “just think if we had been on our way home now—how different!”“Just think if I had been left here by myself,” said Shivers, and he gave a shudder which fully justified his name.“Yes—but—” began Bertie, then shamefacedly and with a blush, added: “you know, when one wants to go home ever so badly, one never thinks that some chaps haven’t got a home to go to.”The evening went by; discipline was relaxed entirely, and the two boys went to bed in the top empty dormitory, and told stories to each other for a long time before they went to sleep. That night Bertie Fellowes dreamt of Madame Tussaud’s and the great pantomime at Drury Lane, and poor Shivers of a long creeper-covered bungalow far away in the shining East, and they both cried a little under the bed-clothes. Yet each put a brave face on their desolate circumstances to each other, and so another day began.This was the day before Christmas Eve, that delightful day of preparation for the greatest festival in all the year—the day when in most households there are many little mysteries afoot, when parcels come and go, and are smothered away so as to be ready when Santa Claus comes his rounds; when some are busy decking the rooms with holly and mistletoe; when the cook is busiest of all, and savoury smells rise from the kitchen, telling of good things to be eaten on the morrow.There were some preparations on foot at Minchin House, though there was not the same bustle and noise as is to be found in a large family. And quite early in the morning came the great hamper which Mrs Fellowes had spoken of in her letter to Bertie. Then just as the early dinner had come to an end, and Miss Ware was telling the two boys that she would take them round the town to look at the shops, there was a tremendous peal at the bell of the front door, and a voice was heard asking for Master Egerton. In a trice Shivers had sprung to his feet, his face quite white, his hands trembling, and the next moment the door was thrown open, and a tall, handsome lady came in, to whom he flew with a sobbing cry of: “Aunt Laura! Aunt Laura!”Aunt Laura explained in less time than it takes me to write this, that her husband, Colonel Desmond, had had left to him a large fortune, and that they had come as soon as possible to England, having, in fact, only arrived in London the previous day.“I was so afraid, Tom darling,” she said, in ending, “that we should not get here till Christmas Day was over, and I was so afraid you might be disappointed, that I would not let Mother tell you that we were on our way home. I have brought a letter from Mother to Miss Ware—and you must get your things packed up at once and come back with me by the six-o’clock train to town. Then Uncle Jack and I will take you everywhere, and give you a splendid time, you dear little chap, here all by yourself.”For a minute or two Shivers’ face was radiant; then he caught sight of Bertie’s down-drooped mouth, and turned to his Aunt.“Dear Aunt Laura,” he said, holding her hand very fast with his own, “I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t go.”“Can’t go? and why not?”“Because I can’t go and leave Fellowes here all alone,” he said stoutly, though he could scarcely keep a suspicious quaver out of his voice. “When I was going to be alone, Fellowes wrote and asked his Mother to let me go home with him, and she couldn’t, because his sister has got scarlet fever, and they daren’t have either of us; and he’s got to stay here—and he’s never been away at Christmas before—and—and—I can’t go away and leave him by himself, Aunt Laura—and—”For the space of a moment or so, Mrs Desmond stared at the boy as if she could not believe her ears; then she caught hold of him and half smothered him with kisses.“Bless you, you dear little chap, you shall not leave him; you shall bring him along and we’ll all enjoy ourselves together. What’s his name?—Bertie Fellowes. Bertie, my man, you are not very old yet, so I’m going to teach you a lesson as well as ever I can—it is that kindness is never wasted in this world. I’ll go out now and telegraph to your Mother—I don’t suppose she will refuse to let you come with us.”A couple of hours later she returned in triumph, waving a telegram to the two excited boys.“God bless you, yes, with all our hearts,” it ran; “you have taken a load off our minds.”And so Bertie Fellowes and Shivers found that there was such a thing as a fairy after all.
It was getting very near Christmas-time, and all the boys at Miss Ware’s school were talking excitedly about going home for the holidays, of the fun they would have, the presents they would receive on Christmas morning, the tips from Grannies, Uncles, and Aunts, of the pantomimes, the parties, the never-ending joys and pleasures which would be theirs.
“I shall go to Madame Tussaud’s and to the Drury Lane pantomime,” said young Fellowes, “and my Mother will give a party, and Aunt Adelaide will give another, and Johnny Sanderson and Mary Greville, and ever so many others. I shall have a splendid time at home. Oh, Jim, I wish it were all holidays, like it is when one’s grown up.”
“My Uncle Bob is going to give me a pair of skates—clippers,” remarked Harry Wadham.
“My Father’s going to give me a bike,” put in George Alderson.
“Will you bring it back to school with you?” asked Harry.
“Oh, yes, I should think so, if Miss Ware doesn’t say no.”
“I say, Shivers,” cried Fellowes, “where are you going to spend your holidays?”
“I’m going to stop here,” answered the boy called Shivers, in a very forlorn tone.
“Here—with old Ware?—oh, my! Why can’t you go home?”
“I can’t go home to India,” answered Shivers. His real name, by the bye, was Egerton—Tom Egerton.
“No—who said you could? But haven’t you any relations anywhere?”
Shivers shook his head. “Only in India,” he said miserably.
“Poor old chap; that’s rough luck for you. Oh, I’ll tell you what it is, you fellows: if I couldn’t go home for the holidays—especially Christmas—I think I’d just sit down and die.”
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Shivers; “you’d hate it and you’d get ever so homesick and miserable, but you wouldn’t die over it. You’d just get through somehow, and hope something would happen before next year, or that some kind fairy or other would—”
“Bosh! there are no fairies nowadays,” said Fellowes. “See here, Shivers: I’ll write home and ask my Mother if she won’t invite you to come back with me for the holidays.”
“Will you really?”
“Yes, I will: and if she says yes, we shall have such a splendid time, because, you know, we live in London, and go to everything, and have heaps of tips and parties and fun.”
“Perhaps she will say no,” suggested poor little Shivers, who had steeled himself to the idea that there would be no Christmas holidays for him, excepting that he would have no lessons for so many weeks.
“My Mother isn’t at all the kind of woman who says no,” Fellowes declared loudly.
In a few days’ time, however, a letter arrived from his Mother which he opened eagerly.
“My own darling boy,” it said, “I am so very sorry to have to tell you that dear little Aggie is down with scarlet fever, and so you cannot come home for your holidays, nor yet bring your young friend with you, as I would have loved you to do if all had been well here. Your Aunt Adelaide would have had you there, but her two girls have both got scarlatina—and I believe Aggie got hers there, though, of course, poor Aunt Adelaide could not help it. I did think about your going to Cousin Rachel’s. She most kindly offered to invite you, but, dear boy, she is an old lady, and so particular, and not used to boys, and she lives so far from anything which is going on that you would be able to go to nothing; so your Father and I came to the conclusion that the very best thing that you could do under the circumstances is for you to stay at Miss Ware’s and for us to send your Christmas to you as well as we can. It won’t be like being at home, darling boy, but you will try and be happy—won’t you, and make me feel that you are helping me in this dreadful time.
“Dear little Aggie is very ill, very ill indeed. We have two nurses. Nora and Connie are shut away in the morning-room and to the back stairs and their own rooms with Miss Ellis, and have not seen us since the dear child was first taken ill. Tell your young friend that I am sending you a hamper from Buzzard’s, with double of everything, and I am writing to Miss Ware to ask her to take you both to anything that may be going on in Cross Hampton. And tell him that it makes me so much happier to think that you won’t be alone.
“Your Own Mother.
“This letter will smell queer, darling: it will be fumigated before posting.”
It must be owned that when Bertie Fellowes received this letter, which was neither more nor less than a shattering of all his Christmas hopes and joys, that he fairly broke down, and, hiding his face upon his arms as they rested on his desk, sobbed aloud.
The forlorn boy from India, who sat next to him, tried every boyish means of consolation that he could think of. He patted his shoulder, whispered many pitying words, and, at last, flung his arm across him and hugged him tightly, as, poor little chap, he himself many times since his arrival in England had wished someone would do to him. At last Bertie Fellowes thrust his Mother’s letter into his friend’s hand.
“Read it,” he sobbed.
So Shivers made himself master of Mrs Fellowes’ letter and understood the cause of the boy’s outburst of grief.
“Old fellow,” he said at last, “don’t fret over it. It might be worse. Why, you might be like me, with your Father and Mother thousands of miles away. When Aggie is better, you’ll be able to go home—and it’ll help your Mother if she thinks you are almost as happy as if you were at home. It must be worse for her—she has cried ever so over this letter—see, it’s all tear-blots.”
The troubles and disappointments of youth are bitter while they last, but they soon pass, and the sun shines again. By the time Miss Ware, who was a kind-hearted, sensible, pleasant woman, came to tell Fellowes how sorry she was for him and his disappointment, the worst had gone by, and the boy was resigned to what could not be helped.
“Well, after all, one man’s meat is another man’s poison,” she said, smiling down on the two boys; “poor Tom has been looking forward to spending his holidays all alone with us, and now he will have a friend with him. Try to look on the bright side, Bertie, and to remember how much worse it would have been if there had been no boy to stay with you.”
“I can’t help being disappointed, Miss Ware,” said Bertie, his eyes filling afresh and his lips quivering.
“No, dear boy; you would be anything but a nice boy if you were not. But I want you to try and think of your poor Mother, who is full of trouble and anxiety, and to write to her as brightly as you can, and tell her not to worry about you more than she can help.”
“Yes,” said Bertie; but he turned his head away, and it was evident to the school-mistress that his heart was too full to let him say more.
Still, he was a good boy, Bertie Fellowes, and when he wrote home to his Mother it was quite a bright every-day letter, telling her how sorry he was about Aggie, and detailing a few of the ways in which he and Shivers meant to spend their holidays. His letter ended thus:—
“Shivers got a letter from his Mother yesterday with three pounds in it: if you happen to see Uncle Dick, will you tell him I want a ‘Waterbury’ dreadfully?”
The last day of the term came, and one by one, or two by two, the various boys went away, until at last only Bertie Fellowes and Shivers were left in the great house. It had never appeared so large to either of them before. The schoolroom seemed to have grown to about the size of a church; the dining-room, set now with only one table, instead of three, was not like the same; while the dormitory, which had never before had any room to spare, was like a wilderness. To Bertie Fellowes it was all dreary and wretched—to the boy from India, who knew no other house in England, no other thought came than that it was a blessing that he had one companion left.
“It is miserable,” groaned poor Bertie, as they strolled into the great echoing schoolroom after a lonely tea, set at one corner of the smallest of the three dining-tables; “just think if we had been on our way home now—how different!”
“Just think if I had been left here by myself,” said Shivers, and he gave a shudder which fully justified his name.
“Yes—but—” began Bertie, then shamefacedly and with a blush, added: “you know, when one wants to go home ever so badly, one never thinks that some chaps haven’t got a home to go to.”
The evening went by; discipline was relaxed entirely, and the two boys went to bed in the top empty dormitory, and told stories to each other for a long time before they went to sleep. That night Bertie Fellowes dreamt of Madame Tussaud’s and the great pantomime at Drury Lane, and poor Shivers of a long creeper-covered bungalow far away in the shining East, and they both cried a little under the bed-clothes. Yet each put a brave face on their desolate circumstances to each other, and so another day began.
This was the day before Christmas Eve, that delightful day of preparation for the greatest festival in all the year—the day when in most households there are many little mysteries afoot, when parcels come and go, and are smothered away so as to be ready when Santa Claus comes his rounds; when some are busy decking the rooms with holly and mistletoe; when the cook is busiest of all, and savoury smells rise from the kitchen, telling of good things to be eaten on the morrow.
There were some preparations on foot at Minchin House, though there was not the same bustle and noise as is to be found in a large family. And quite early in the morning came the great hamper which Mrs Fellowes had spoken of in her letter to Bertie. Then just as the early dinner had come to an end, and Miss Ware was telling the two boys that she would take them round the town to look at the shops, there was a tremendous peal at the bell of the front door, and a voice was heard asking for Master Egerton. In a trice Shivers had sprung to his feet, his face quite white, his hands trembling, and the next moment the door was thrown open, and a tall, handsome lady came in, to whom he flew with a sobbing cry of: “Aunt Laura! Aunt Laura!”
Aunt Laura explained in less time than it takes me to write this, that her husband, Colonel Desmond, had had left to him a large fortune, and that they had come as soon as possible to England, having, in fact, only arrived in London the previous day.
“I was so afraid, Tom darling,” she said, in ending, “that we should not get here till Christmas Day was over, and I was so afraid you might be disappointed, that I would not let Mother tell you that we were on our way home. I have brought a letter from Mother to Miss Ware—and you must get your things packed up at once and come back with me by the six-o’clock train to town. Then Uncle Jack and I will take you everywhere, and give you a splendid time, you dear little chap, here all by yourself.”
For a minute or two Shivers’ face was radiant; then he caught sight of Bertie’s down-drooped mouth, and turned to his Aunt.
“Dear Aunt Laura,” he said, holding her hand very fast with his own, “I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t go.”
“Can’t go? and why not?”
“Because I can’t go and leave Fellowes here all alone,” he said stoutly, though he could scarcely keep a suspicious quaver out of his voice. “When I was going to be alone, Fellowes wrote and asked his Mother to let me go home with him, and she couldn’t, because his sister has got scarlet fever, and they daren’t have either of us; and he’s got to stay here—and he’s never been away at Christmas before—and—and—I can’t go away and leave him by himself, Aunt Laura—and—”
For the space of a moment or so, Mrs Desmond stared at the boy as if she could not believe her ears; then she caught hold of him and half smothered him with kisses.
“Bless you, you dear little chap, you shall not leave him; you shall bring him along and we’ll all enjoy ourselves together. What’s his name?—Bertie Fellowes. Bertie, my man, you are not very old yet, so I’m going to teach you a lesson as well as ever I can—it is that kindness is never wasted in this world. I’ll go out now and telegraph to your Mother—I don’t suppose she will refuse to let you come with us.”
A couple of hours later she returned in triumph, waving a telegram to the two excited boys.
“God bless you, yes, with all our hearts,” it ran; “you have taken a load off our minds.”
And so Bertie Fellowes and Shivers found that there was such a thing as a fairy after all.
Chapter Twelve.Haggart’s Lie, by Geraldine Glasgow.Crawley Major was talking very impressively in the great class-room of Felton College. Even the few slow boys who were still mumbling over their Latin grammar for next day had one ear pricked up to hear what he was saying. “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Crawley Major, addressing them generally: “the Doctor is in a furious wax, and he will be pretty free with his canings and impositions to-morrow. I just happened to be taking a message to Barclay, when he comes fussing in, not seeing me, and justswellsup to Barclay,purplewith rage. ‘Somebody has had the boat out on the river again, Mr Barclay,’ he says, ‘notwithstanding my orders and all the fines and punishments I have imposed, and I’m determined to find out who it is.’ Then he saw me and turned purple again. ‘Now, Crawley, you have heard what I said, and you can just return to the class-room and tell your companions that I shall come down in half an hour, and I intend to have the truth about that boat if I have to keep every boy in the school under punishment for the next month;’ so here I am.”“Oh, stop that, Crawley,” said a bright, handsome lad, who was standing on the table so as to get a better view of the proceedings. “The Doctor’s not often in a wax, and it’s no joke when he is. I didn’t think there was a fellow in the school would have touched the boat after what he said last time.”All the boys hurled themselves at the table from which Haggart had been giving out his opinions, and there was a general shout of: “No!”“Itmustbe all right,” said Haggart again. He was looking carelessly round, and he suddenly caught sight of a frightened face a long way beneath him. “Don’t be in such a funk, Harry,” he said good-humouredly. “It will all come right in the end! The Doctor’s awfully hard sometimes, but he’s always just—eh, Crawley?”“He canes you first, and he’s just afterwards,” said Crawley grimly.The little boy shivered, and, when he tried to speak, his teeth chattered. “Does—does he cane very hard?”“Oh, dear, yes,” said Crawley mischievously; “you don’t forget it for some days, I can tell you! Just look at little Parker,” he went on, pointing to the child’s terrified face: “wouldn’t any unprejudiced person think he had done it himself?”“Oh, no, no,” cried the boy angrily, “how dare you say so? How could I? What would I want with a boat?”“Reserve your defence for the Doctor, sir,” said Crawley impressively.Something in the boy’s piteous eagerness had attracted Haggart’s attention, and he turned and looked at him sharply. His eyes were wide open and had a terrified look, and his thin lips were trembling, his small childish hand was fidgeting with the buttons of his coat.First, a breath of suspicion came to Haggart, and a great rush of pity and contempt; then, as the child’s eyes seemed to rise unwillingly to his, the secret leaped from one heart to the other, and he knew. His lips curled disdainfully, and he jumped off the table, hustling his little band of followers out of the way.“There’s the Doctor,” he said; “let me pass.”All the boys stood up as the master majestically moved over to the fireplace and kicked the logs into a blaze. Then he faced round suddenly, and spoke in his peculiarly clear, decisive tones. “There has been an act of great disobedience perpetrated here during the last twenty-four hours,” he said. “Crawley overheard me speaking on the subject to Mr Barclay, and has probably told you what it is. I had, as you all know, given strict orders that the boat was not to be taken on the river by any of the boys, and this morning it was found outside the boathouse tied to a stake. There is no doubt that one of my boys did this, and the only reparation he can make is to own his fault at once, and take the punishment!”There was dead silence.One heart in the room was beating like a sledge-hammer against the Eton jacket that enclosed it, but no one spoke. Only Haggart turned his head, and looked again at the fourth-form boys, and as if they were under a spell, the grey eyes, full of terrified entreaty, were lifted to his. He tried to forget the look. He wished he could make that foolish chap understand that a caning was nothing, after all! All fellows worth their salt got caned at school. Well, after all, he had to take his chance with the others, but he wished he would not keep looking across athimin that beastly way, as ifhehad the keeping of his conscience!“Well?” said the Doctor.But no one spoke.“I am sorry,” said the Doctor more quietly, “that the boy who did it has not had the courage to own up, but I will give him another chance. I will take every boy’s separate answer, and, after that, the whole school will be kept in the playground until the end of the term, unless the guilty boy will take the punishment on himself.”Haggart’s face was very anxious as he, too, leant forth to see the fourth-form fellows, but all he could catch a sight of was a smooth, fair head that had drooped very low.The Doctor, with a disappointed face, turned to the senior class. “It seems hardly necessary to go through the form,” he said. “I think I can count on my senior boys. You, Crawley? You, Brown? You, Haggart?”“I did it,” said Haggart, in a clear, loud voice, and the Doctor’s outstretched finger fell.“You, Haggart—you?” he said, in an incredulous voice. “Impossible! You?” said the Doctor again.“Yes, sir.”“Then there is nothing more to be said—now. Only, I am surprised, and—disappointed. You can go now; you will sleep to-night in the small spare room, and I will see you to-morrow. Go!”Haggart moved slowly to the door, and as he turned the handle, he heard a noise, and then the Doctor’s voice, speaking sharply: “What is that? What are they doing on the fourth form?”“Harry Parker has a fit, or he’s dead, or something,” said a scared voice.“No, he has only fainted,” said Mr Barclay. “Take him to Miss Simpson, Barclay,” said the Doctor. “He is a delicate little fellow.”“Wasn’t there a fellow called something Curtius, who saved a city once?” said a first-form boy, in a whisper.“Yes; he leaped into a gulf.”“Well, that’s what Haggart’s done,” said the boy.“Rot!” said the other boy, still whispering.Nothing seemed very clear to Haggart’s mind as he slowly undressed in the cold, unused room. His brain was worried and confused. He wished he could have had the light of the Doctor’s clear mind upon it, but, of course, that was impossible.“If heiswaxy, he’s always just,” he found himself saying out loud; and then, just before he went to sleep, “but, at any rate, I can bear it better.”There is no need to dwell upon the weeks that followed. Haggart took his punishment bravely enough, but that time was always, in after-life, a hideous memory to him. To be unloved, untrusted, solitary, and despised, to be coldly disbelieved or contemptuously contradicted, was so very hard to bear! But, with a strange and sickening sense of dread, he found himself longing, most of all, to hear of Harry—to know if he were sorry, or remorseful, or only thankful to be spared! Then, at last, in some roundabout way the news came to him.Harry had been taken ill with brain fever the very day after the tragedy, and had been sent home; and it gave Haggart his first moment of conscious happiness to realise that he had perhaps saved the poor, weak, little, trembling creature from one night of fear and anguish.The boys were always kind to him in their peculiar way. There seemed to be a bewildered feeling in their minds of cruelty and injustice, and they were glad that he had not stuck out to the last and included the whole school in the punishment; so sticks of liquorice, and jam-tarts, and even white mice, were secretly conveyed to his desk as tokens of friendship; but, although Haggart was grateful for the attentions, he could never quite shake off the longing to make a clean breast of it to the Doctor, and get his troubled mind set straight.But one morning before the holidays a thrill went through the whole school when the Doctor stood silently for a minute after prayers and then in his peculiarly quiet voice called to Haggart to come forward.“Boys,” he said, “I have had a letter this morning from Harry Parker’s Mother, and she says that he has told her the truth about the boat. He has been very ill, poor child, and, in his delirium, it haunted him that Haggart had suffered for his sake. Let him be cleared before you all from the unjust suspicion. But, Haggart,” and he laid his hand very kindly on the boy’s shoulder, “you must remember that the injustice came fromyou—no one would have doubted you if you had not first accused yourself! I had my doubts always, but I did not know enough to understand. You told a lie; nothing can palliate or do away with that! Nomotivescan make a lie anything but a lie, and a lie is always a cowardly thing, whether we try to shield ourselves with it or others.“But the kindness which prompted it, the courage that bore the punishment so bravely, the silence that has made a false heroism out of it—these are fine qualities, Haggart, and I hope you will carry them with you through life.”
Crawley Major was talking very impressively in the great class-room of Felton College. Even the few slow boys who were still mumbling over their Latin grammar for next day had one ear pricked up to hear what he was saying. “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Crawley Major, addressing them generally: “the Doctor is in a furious wax, and he will be pretty free with his canings and impositions to-morrow. I just happened to be taking a message to Barclay, when he comes fussing in, not seeing me, and justswellsup to Barclay,purplewith rage. ‘Somebody has had the boat out on the river again, Mr Barclay,’ he says, ‘notwithstanding my orders and all the fines and punishments I have imposed, and I’m determined to find out who it is.’ Then he saw me and turned purple again. ‘Now, Crawley, you have heard what I said, and you can just return to the class-room and tell your companions that I shall come down in half an hour, and I intend to have the truth about that boat if I have to keep every boy in the school under punishment for the next month;’ so here I am.”
“Oh, stop that, Crawley,” said a bright, handsome lad, who was standing on the table so as to get a better view of the proceedings. “The Doctor’s not often in a wax, and it’s no joke when he is. I didn’t think there was a fellow in the school would have touched the boat after what he said last time.”
All the boys hurled themselves at the table from which Haggart had been giving out his opinions, and there was a general shout of: “No!”
“Itmustbe all right,” said Haggart again. He was looking carelessly round, and he suddenly caught sight of a frightened face a long way beneath him. “Don’t be in such a funk, Harry,” he said good-humouredly. “It will all come right in the end! The Doctor’s awfully hard sometimes, but he’s always just—eh, Crawley?”
“He canes you first, and he’s just afterwards,” said Crawley grimly.
The little boy shivered, and, when he tried to speak, his teeth chattered. “Does—does he cane very hard?”
“Oh, dear, yes,” said Crawley mischievously; “you don’t forget it for some days, I can tell you! Just look at little Parker,” he went on, pointing to the child’s terrified face: “wouldn’t any unprejudiced person think he had done it himself?”
“Oh, no, no,” cried the boy angrily, “how dare you say so? How could I? What would I want with a boat?”
“Reserve your defence for the Doctor, sir,” said Crawley impressively.
Something in the boy’s piteous eagerness had attracted Haggart’s attention, and he turned and looked at him sharply. His eyes were wide open and had a terrified look, and his thin lips were trembling, his small childish hand was fidgeting with the buttons of his coat.
First, a breath of suspicion came to Haggart, and a great rush of pity and contempt; then, as the child’s eyes seemed to rise unwillingly to his, the secret leaped from one heart to the other, and he knew. His lips curled disdainfully, and he jumped off the table, hustling his little band of followers out of the way.
“There’s the Doctor,” he said; “let me pass.”
All the boys stood up as the master majestically moved over to the fireplace and kicked the logs into a blaze. Then he faced round suddenly, and spoke in his peculiarly clear, decisive tones. “There has been an act of great disobedience perpetrated here during the last twenty-four hours,” he said. “Crawley overheard me speaking on the subject to Mr Barclay, and has probably told you what it is. I had, as you all know, given strict orders that the boat was not to be taken on the river by any of the boys, and this morning it was found outside the boathouse tied to a stake. There is no doubt that one of my boys did this, and the only reparation he can make is to own his fault at once, and take the punishment!”
There was dead silence.
One heart in the room was beating like a sledge-hammer against the Eton jacket that enclosed it, but no one spoke. Only Haggart turned his head, and looked again at the fourth-form boys, and as if they were under a spell, the grey eyes, full of terrified entreaty, were lifted to his. He tried to forget the look. He wished he could make that foolish chap understand that a caning was nothing, after all! All fellows worth their salt got caned at school. Well, after all, he had to take his chance with the others, but he wished he would not keep looking across athimin that beastly way, as ifhehad the keeping of his conscience!
“Well?” said the Doctor.
But no one spoke.
“I am sorry,” said the Doctor more quietly, “that the boy who did it has not had the courage to own up, but I will give him another chance. I will take every boy’s separate answer, and, after that, the whole school will be kept in the playground until the end of the term, unless the guilty boy will take the punishment on himself.”
Haggart’s face was very anxious as he, too, leant forth to see the fourth-form fellows, but all he could catch a sight of was a smooth, fair head that had drooped very low.
The Doctor, with a disappointed face, turned to the senior class. “It seems hardly necessary to go through the form,” he said. “I think I can count on my senior boys. You, Crawley? You, Brown? You, Haggart?”
“I did it,” said Haggart, in a clear, loud voice, and the Doctor’s outstretched finger fell.
“You, Haggart—you?” he said, in an incredulous voice. “Impossible! You?” said the Doctor again.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said—now. Only, I am surprised, and—disappointed. You can go now; you will sleep to-night in the small spare room, and I will see you to-morrow. Go!”
Haggart moved slowly to the door, and as he turned the handle, he heard a noise, and then the Doctor’s voice, speaking sharply: “What is that? What are they doing on the fourth form?”
“Harry Parker has a fit, or he’s dead, or something,” said a scared voice.
“No, he has only fainted,” said Mr Barclay. “Take him to Miss Simpson, Barclay,” said the Doctor. “He is a delicate little fellow.”
“Wasn’t there a fellow called something Curtius, who saved a city once?” said a first-form boy, in a whisper.
“Yes; he leaped into a gulf.”
“Well, that’s what Haggart’s done,” said the boy.
“Rot!” said the other boy, still whispering.
Nothing seemed very clear to Haggart’s mind as he slowly undressed in the cold, unused room. His brain was worried and confused. He wished he could have had the light of the Doctor’s clear mind upon it, but, of course, that was impossible.
“If heiswaxy, he’s always just,” he found himself saying out loud; and then, just before he went to sleep, “but, at any rate, I can bear it better.”
There is no need to dwell upon the weeks that followed. Haggart took his punishment bravely enough, but that time was always, in after-life, a hideous memory to him. To be unloved, untrusted, solitary, and despised, to be coldly disbelieved or contemptuously contradicted, was so very hard to bear! But, with a strange and sickening sense of dread, he found himself longing, most of all, to hear of Harry—to know if he were sorry, or remorseful, or only thankful to be spared! Then, at last, in some roundabout way the news came to him.
Harry had been taken ill with brain fever the very day after the tragedy, and had been sent home; and it gave Haggart his first moment of conscious happiness to realise that he had perhaps saved the poor, weak, little, trembling creature from one night of fear and anguish.
The boys were always kind to him in their peculiar way. There seemed to be a bewildered feeling in their minds of cruelty and injustice, and they were glad that he had not stuck out to the last and included the whole school in the punishment; so sticks of liquorice, and jam-tarts, and even white mice, were secretly conveyed to his desk as tokens of friendship; but, although Haggart was grateful for the attentions, he could never quite shake off the longing to make a clean breast of it to the Doctor, and get his troubled mind set straight.
But one morning before the holidays a thrill went through the whole school when the Doctor stood silently for a minute after prayers and then in his peculiarly quiet voice called to Haggart to come forward.
“Boys,” he said, “I have had a letter this morning from Harry Parker’s Mother, and she says that he has told her the truth about the boat. He has been very ill, poor child, and, in his delirium, it haunted him that Haggart had suffered for his sake. Let him be cleared before you all from the unjust suspicion. But, Haggart,” and he laid his hand very kindly on the boy’s shoulder, “you must remember that the injustice came fromyou—no one would have doubted you if you had not first accused yourself! I had my doubts always, but I did not know enough to understand. You told a lie; nothing can palliate or do away with that! Nomotivescan make a lie anything but a lie, and a lie is always a cowardly thing, whether we try to shield ourselves with it or others.
“But the kindness which prompted it, the courage that bore the punishment so bravely, the silence that has made a false heroism out of it—these are fine qualities, Haggart, and I hope you will carry them with you through life.”
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12|