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GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY.
BY some means or other the children knew before breakfast next morning that Dora would be their teacher as soon as the holidays were over.
But the news did not give the satisfaction she expected.
Olive openly grumbled. "They learnt well enough from mother, why couldn't they go on in the old way?" she was heard to ask.
And Lottie, for no other reason than because she thought it a clever thing to echo Olive's words, chimed in with, "Yes, it would be ever so much nicer to go on doing lessons as they did before."
Dora, though she wisely kept the opinion to herself, thought them both ungrateful little creatures. But the momentary feeling of annoyance over, she resolved with characteristic good temper that they should have as little cause as possible to regret the change, and she drew comfort from the fact that Giles, whom she half feared would protest against having her as his governess, made no remark whatever.
It was well for her peace of mind that she did not hear a conversation which took place between him and his eldest brother as soon as they had left the table.
In order to be in good time at the warehouse, Edgar often got up from breakfast before the younger children had finished, and during the holidays he had frequently been accompanied to the railway station by either Robert or Giles. This morning the latter asked permission to go with his brother, and his mother having willingly granted his request, he followed Edgar out of the room and into the hall.
There Giles burst forth with—
"I want to know if I can't go to school. I am sick of doing lessons at home like a girl."
The last three words were brought out with great contempt.
"I am afraid you must put up with it for a while longer," said Edgar, quietly. "After another year we shan't have to be so particular about spending a little money, and then I daresay you'll go with Robert again."
"It isn't as if it were a dear school. It wouldn't cost much to send me," went on Giles. "I remember hearing somebody say once it was one of the few things that were both cheap and good."
"The terms aren't high, because it's purposely for people in our class of life," rejoined Edgar. "But for all that I know mother can't afford to let you go back yet."
"Then," said Giles, passionately, "I've a great mind to say I won't learn of Dora. Why! She's only five years and two months older than I."
"That's a good deal now we're all young," said Edgar, putting on the coat and hat he had been brushing, "Though I don't suppose we shall find it much when we grow up. Now come along, if you are going to the station; I don't want to miss my usual train."
Then as they walked along, he tried to change the conversation to a more cheerful subject. But Giles was feeling very sore this morning, and he would not be taken from his grievance.
"All I can say," he continued, ignoring his brother's kind efforts, "is that I shan't try to do my lessons for Dora. When I'm sent to school again I'll work as well as anybody."
Edgar had not before realised that any additional responsibility would fall on him in consequence of his father's absence. Now he saw it was his duty to take his father's place to the utmost of his power, and talk to Giles as he would have talked had he been there. A new light was suddenly thrown on the words that had been said to him, as to the eldest son, on their father's last evening at home.
"That spirit will never do, Giles," he remarked.
"I don't care," grumbled Giles. "I'm over ten, and I think it's a great shame to be treated like a baby."
"I don't know about being treated like a baby. I know you are behaving like one."
Edgar spoke very gently. There was no contempt in his voice, and no anger; only a kind and fond interest was expressed. Perhaps for this reason Giles blushed and looked ashamed. Nevertheless, he put on an air of indifference.
"I don't see how that can be," he said. "Any boy of spirit would object to being taught with two sisters younger than himself, and by a sister," Giles laid great stress on the by,—"a very little older."
Edgar could have laughed outright, but he restrained himself.
"I don't know your idea of a boy of spirit, but I know what your Sunday-school teacher and mother would think the best kind of spirit to have," he said.
"What?" asked Giles.
For a moment Edgar hesitated. He was naturally reserved and it was not easy for him to speak openly of sacred subjects at any time. To do so now was still harder. Giles might think he was preaching, and that was what he abhorred.
"The spirit of Christ," he replied, and though he spoke with much difficulty the words were uttered slowly and reverently. "That is the best and most truly manly spirit we can any of us have. You know what it would have you do?"
Giles shook his head. But the answer that his heart made was: "Learn of Dora and try to make good progress."
"The spirit of Christ," said Edgar in the same low voice, "would have you willing to learn of your sister, and anxious to do her credit as her pupil. He did not seek to please Himself, you know, and neither must we. Then by putting aside your own wishes and saying nothing about them, you will be fulfilling your part of the trust father left us."
"I don't see how," said Giles briefly, but without any sullenness or complaint in his voice.
"I don't think there's any need for me to tell you mother is not at all strong, and attending to the house and teaching so much as she did all last year has tried her greatly. Now Dora is not only willing, but very eager to take the work from her. But if you grumble and make a fuss and give Dora trouble, then mother will feel obliged to teach you again herself, and besides that, she will be so grieved that she cannot send you to school. It bothers her now. She was talking about it only last night. 'If I could anyhow spare another sovereign, he should go,' she said, and there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Giles, old fellow, you won't add to her troubles, will you?"
Giles' face was turned away, and his brother had to wait for an answer. When it did come, the "No" was spoken in so choked a voice that Edgar only just caught the sound.
"I knew you wouldn't," he said, as he put his hand on Giles' shoulder. "I knew you'd take your share in bearing the family burden like a brave, manly boy. It's not an easy burden. At times I feel as if I couldn't bear my part of it."
As Giles looked up wonderingly and with misty eyes, some inexplicable and most unusual impulse prompted Edgar to speak still more freely of himself.
"My part has been to give up my desire of becoming a doctor," he said.
"I didn't know you ever wanted to be one," exclaimed Giles in astonishment.
"Only mother and father know. You are in the secret now, but you'll keep it to yourself, won't you?"
A thrill of pride, not unmixed with gratitude to Edgar for having confided in him, shot through Giles' heart. Yes; he would be as true as steel to his brother.
"I won't tell. You may depend upon that," he said.
"Well, I've had to give up my idea of being a doctor, and go to the warehouse instead."
"And you don't like it?"
"No. I hate it."
Giles was silent. He felt very sorry for his brother, and ashamed too of his complaints of a little while ago. He felt, more than he understood, that his trouble was small in comparison with that of which he had just heard.
"I am so sorry," he said, and he slipped his hand into Edgar's. "Isn't there any hope that you may be a doctor yet?"
"I don't think so. In the present day, one can't be a doctor without having had a good education and passed lots of exams., and I had to leave school before I was fifteen. Even if we should be better off in a year or two, there will certainly be no money to spare."
"Perhaps something will turn up," said Giles, hardly knowing what he meant by the frequently-heard expression, but hoping the words would show his sympathy and give comfort.
"You're a downright good fellow to talk to," said Edgar, greatly touched by the manner in which Giles had received his confidence, and accompanying the words with an affectionate squeeze of the little hand that was clasped in his own. "But," he continued, "I'm afraid there isn't a shadow of hope for me. I shouldn't have said, though, that I hated my work at the warehouse. I do try to like it, and perhaps, after a while, I may find pleasure in it. Of course, I am very glad to be able to do something towards adding to the general fund. I wouldn't be a clog on mother and father for ever so. I'd a thousand times rather have it as it is."
At this the conversation abruptly ended, for at that moment they entered the booking-office, and the puffing and noise of a train drawing up in the station below warned Edgar that if he would catch it, he had not a moment to lose. He had only time for a look and a hurried good-bye, as he rushed down the long flight of steps, leaving Giles to go home alone.
But it was a very different Giles from the one who had left the breakfast-table. For the first time he began to see some of the true meaning of life. Christ had not pleased Himself, neither must he; and it made him glad to know that he, child as he was, could take his part in bearing the family trouble. The thought caused him to be very strong, and brave, and manly.
"No, I won't grumble," he said to himself. "I'll just try to do my best for Dora, and mother shan't ever know how much I hate doing lessons at home, and how badly I want to go to school. And what's more," and Giles drew himself up with conscious dignity, "I won't got cross and angry when I meet Tom Rilston and some of the other boys who used to be in my form, and they ask me how I like being taught at home by my 'mammy.'"
He began to put his good resolutions into practice at once. On reaching home he went straight to the sitting room where Dora was reading with Phil upon her knee. She and the baby were alone, and going up to her, Giles said simply,—
"I'm glad you arn't going to let mother teach us any longer. I'll do my best to get on nicely, and perhaps I can help a bit with Lottie's lessons. Mother often used to ask me to set her some sums to work."
Dora was feeling both disappointed and downhearted that Olive and Lottie should have expressed so much dissatisfaction with the new arrangement, and these unexpected words greatly comforted her.
"Thank you, Giles," she said, and, in spite of her endeavours to force them back, the tears would come into her eyes. "I hope to make your lessons easy and interesting to you. I shall try to do so at any rate, and we must be patient with each other, mustn't we?"
This was not quite what Giles had looked for. Dora seemed almost to be pleading for his obedience and attention. He was very sorry he had had hard thoughts of her that morning, and perhaps he would have told her of them, and of the better spirit that now influenced him had not Robert at that moment entered the room.
"It's thawing fast, isn't it, Giles?" he asked.
"Yes, I heard one man say to another that he shouldn't be surprised if we had rain before night. I suppose there won't be much skating after all."
"No," said Robert, and a certain troubled look that his face had worn lately rolled away like a cloud before sunshine. Then almost immediately he asked, "Will you help me find my school books, Giles? I haven't begun my holiday task yet, and it's time I set about it."
Giles would rather have done anything than this, for while searching for the books—Robert never knew where to find his possessions—he should be thinking of the school he had liked so much, and from which he had been so unexpectedly removed. Without a word, however, he began to hunt for the missing volumes, and in a little while Robert, with pencil and paper in hand, was hard at work upon a simple equation in algebra.
As Giles glanced up from his story-book, and saw his brother at the table, an idea, "just a lovely one," as Dora frequently said of her own thoughts, came into his mind.
Why should he not do at home what he would have been doing had he been at school? He had just begun Latin when he had been taken away; he had, in fact, mastered the first three declensions. Now, with a feeling of shame, Giles found himself unable to decline the singular of "Mensa." Well, he would begin again. Edgar would help him, he knew, and he would work hard at all his studies, so that when he went to school again, he might be placed in a higher form than that in which he had been when he left. Yes, that was what he would do, and perhaps Robert would teach him algebra. He would puzzle it out as much as possible for himself, so that it would only be a little help he should need. And here Giles, practical little Giles, did an unheard-of thing. He dreamed a day-dream, which for brilliancy of colouring and impossibility of attainment rivalled those of Dora herself.
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AN EVENING OUT.
BUT when Monday morning came, Olive and Lottie were willing enough to begin lessons under the direction of their new governess. The thaw, as had been predicted, quickly turned to rain, and for the remainder of that last week of holidays the little girls had not been allowed to go out of doors. Consequently they had grown very tired of having no regular employment to occupy them, and not a word of disapproval was expressed when Dora said they must be ready for her in the schoolroom at half-past nine on Monday.
If that first morning might be taken as a fair example of what would follow, they must have felt they would benefit by the change of teachers. They had often declared it to be "very provoking" that just as they were in the most interesting part of a lesson, their mother should be called hastily away, and sometimes half an hour would elapse before she returned to the room. Again she had often been obliged to set them tasks while she attended to some necessary household matter. And when she came back, she would find, perhaps, that Olive was waiting for an explanation of a new rule in arithmetic, or that Giles could not proceed with his French exercise, because he had forgotten how to form the feminine of an adjective with some particular ending, and could not find the example.
Then very often Phil was in the room the whole of lesson time. He had to be there because he could not be left alone, and the little maid-servant was too busy to take charge of him. But his presence did not tend to keep order and quietness, and his doings often drew the interest of the little students from their books.
Now there was no claim on Dora's attention outside the schoolroom, and as Phil was more than content to be with "moder," there was no interruption within. And Dora, as she had promised, tried to make the lessons as interesting as possible. She had determined to spare herself no labour that her pupils might learn easily, and Giles silently owned to himself that "Dora was a deal cleverer than he ever thought." They were all surprised when they heard the clock in the passage strike twelve. Even Lancie, tired as he often got of the lesson hours, had no wish to put away his books.
"Why, the morning hasn't seemed any time," said Olive. "Oh! Do let us go on with our geography a little longer. It's such fun to fancy ourselves a party of rich people travelling in Spain. Are you always going to teach us in this way, Dora?"
"Not always, but it will be pleasant to take make-believe journeys sometimes. But then, you know, it doesn't end there. You have to learn by heart the names of all the mountains and rivers we have crossed, and also to write as good and as full an account as you can of what I have been telling you about the country. I shall expect it done by the next time we have a lesson in geography."
"That'll be on Thursday," said Lottie, who had been looking at her time-table, for Dora had presented each of her pupils with a copy. "I wish we could have it to-morrow instead."
It was very pleasant to Dora to hear that her efforts had been appreciated, and she began to think that teaching was one of the most delightful things in the world. For her part she would have been very willing to go on with lessons until dinner-time, but the recollection of her resolve to be methodical made her say that books must be put aside, and that her pupils must get ready for a walk.
At this moment there was a tap at the door, and without waiting for permission to enter, Robert came in.
"I knew school was over," he said, "by the noise I heard. Giles, would you like me to help you with your Latin declensions, and look over the exercises you have written?"
That Giles was grateful for this offer of assistance was very plain, and as he could go out after afternoon lessons as well as then, he was allowed to follow his own inclinations.
This was not the first occasion on which Robert had done a similar act of kindness. On that morning, when Giles had made up his mind to go on with the studies he had discontinued on his removal from school, he had asked his brother the pronunciation of a certain Latin noun of the third declension. Robert not only gave the information, but asked why Giles wished to know, and on being told, instantly volunteered to give any help in his power.
But though the offer was at once accepted, it was certainly unexpected. Like most weak characters, Robert was selfish, and instead of giving pleasure to the brother, who was only three years his junior, by making him his companion after school hours and during holidays, he treated him with an indifference and neglect which would have been very galling to one more sensitive than Giles. As it was, the younger boy frequently wished Robert "wouldn't snub a fellow like that." Therefore to meet with sympathy and as much practical aid as he liked to ask for was indeed a surprise.
But in many respects Robert had behaved differently during the last week of his holidays. Instead of going off for hours together with some of his schoolfellows, as was usually his custom, he stayed in the house and worked industriously at his "holiday task," or amused himself with some other quiet occupation. He devoted one entire morning to mending a chair that had a broken back, and was actually seen gumming the dilapidated cover to one of his badly used school books. On the Tuesday his holidays would be over, and that he should offer to give up some part of his last day of freedom to help him with his Latin, seemed to Giles especially kind.
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HE DEVOTED ONE ENTIRE MORNING TO MENDING A CHAIR.
"I think I am well enough to go out to-day," said Lancie, wistfully, as he looked from his brothers, now settled at the table with their books, to the window, through which fell a ray of pale sunshine. "Will you ask mother what she thinks, Dora?"
As he felt equal to the exertion, Mrs. Grainger thought the fresh air would do him good, and accordingly, after being well wrapped up, he went out with his sisters.
But he had not gone the length of the street before he was tired, and said he must return. Dora was pained at the ring of disappointment and weariness she detected in his voice, and telling Olive and Lottie not to go out of the street until she had joined them again, she went back with him.
"Oh, Lancie!" she said. "How I wish we could afford to give you a ride in a bath chair sometimes, as we used to do before father had to pay all that money for that horrible man."
"Never mind," said Lancie, trying to look cheerful, though he felt just the reverse, "we shall be out of debt after a while. And who knows whether long before then you mayn't be able to earn some money? If so, I am sure I should get my rides."
"If only I could!" exclaimed Dora. "Whatever put the idea into your head? Oh, Lancie! Can't you think of some thing I could do!"
"I only said it because I knew it would please you," he said, smiling.
"Yes, of course, I know that; but couldn't I do it!"
"I'm afraid you can only dream about it yet awhile. If it's going to make you unhappy, I shall wish I'd never said such a silly thing."
"Make me unhappy? No indeed it shall not. But, Lancie, you've put the thought in my head and the longing in my heart, and it won't be for want of trying if I do not devise some plan by which to earn money."
The "plans" that suggested themselves to Dora were to give music lessons, and to advertise, in a way that would cost nothing, for a pupil or pupils to share her brother's and sisters' lessons. But on hearing of her wish, her mother quietly said that she had set herself more than enough to do as it was, and she was too young and inexperienced to undertake the more responsible work of teaching the children of strangers.
A little sensible reflection would have made Dora see that this was a right opinion, but though she listened in silence, she was not convinced of the soundness of her mother's reasoning, and in spite of the success which had attended her efforts that day, she went to bed feeling that her desire to give Lancie benefit and pleasure, and help pay off their debt in actual coin, had not met with the appreciation and sympathy it deserved.
The next day was not only the first of the new term at school for Katie as well as for Robert, but it was also the day of Connie's party, and during breakfast Katie was full of excitement at the prospect before her.
"Aren't you really sorry that you are not going, Dora?" she asked, as she came into the sitting room with her hat and jacket on, just before starting for school.
"Not one bit," was her sister's reply. "We mean to spend a happy evening here, don't we, Olive and Lottie! And I shouldn't wonder if we have the best of it after all."
In one way Dora was quite out of her reckoning, for it happened that only baby Phil kept her mother company at home that evening.
An hour or so later, when she and her pupils were busy in the schoolroom, the sound of a strange voice made them suddenly look up from their work. Their visitor was Mrs. Armstrong, a dear old friend of their mother, who, with her only son, lived in lodgings about half a mile from Madeira Street.
"Why!" exclaimed Lottie, as she jumped up to give her a kiss. "However was it we didn't hear you come in?"
"I suppose you were too busy," said Mrs. Armstrong, smiling. And then she shook hands with each, lingering a little when she came to Lancie's chair.
"What do you think brought me here so early this morning?" she asked, as she took the seat Olive placed for her by the fire.
They declared they couldn't guess, and begged her to tell them at once.
"I came to ask you to give me a birthday present."
"Is to-day your birthday?"
And then at their visitor's reply, there was a chorus of:
"Many happy returns, many happy returns."
"Thank you," and Mrs. Armstrong gave them all a very affectionate look. "Now for my present," she went on, smiling. "I want you all to give me the pleasure of your company at tea this evening. It will make me so happy to see your bright, young faces round me. I hear that Katie has an invitation already, so I must not look for her. But I hope Robert will come straight from afternoon school, and I have no doubt Edgar will stay a little while when he calls to take you home. Anyway, you must ask him to do so."
"I cannot come, thank you," said Lancie, and there was a little quiver of pain under the quiet tone in which he spoke. "I went out yesterday, but before I got to the end of the street, I was tired and had to turn back."
"Your mother and I have talked that over, dear," said Mrs. Armstrong, "and you are to come and return in a cab. If you are tired when you get to me, you can lie down on my sofa, and we will draw the tea-table close to you, so that there will be no need for you to move at all. I may expect you, mayn't I, Lancie?"
His answer could be read in the glow of pleasure which flushed his face.
And thus it came to pass that about four o'clock that afternoon, a cab, full of happy, smiling children, drove off from 99, Madeira Street.
Katie's party did not begin till six, so she was much later in starting. Her mother helped her dress, and then, with the white serge screened from sight and damp beneath her waterproof, she left for the Paffords. Mary went the short distance with her, and it was arranged that Edgar should be asked to call for her on his way home from Mrs. Armstrong's. Mr. Barfitt's accounts were now finished, and his evenings were therefore once more at his own disposal.
But though Dora, when giving her mother a good-bye kiss, had said they should certainly be back by ten, it was more than half-past when the cab drove up to the door, and eleven had struck before the whole family was again gathered beneath the same roof.
"Oh, Katie, we've had such a jolly time," said Lottie, as her sister and Edgar entered the room. "I'm not one bit sleepy, and we are all getting warm before we go to bed. Have you had a happy evening?"
The little girl spoke so rapidly that she stopped for sheer want of breath.
"Well," replied Katie, "there was nothing but dancing, and of course it isn't the pleasantest thing in the world to sit still oneself and watch other people moving about."
"I should think not indeed," said Dora. "You had much better have been playing musical chairs and dumb charades and post. I'm sure I enjoyed it as much as Olive and Lottie."
"I don't know," said Katie, stiffly, "whether I could bring myself to play such childish games now. If we'd only been taught dancing like other people, of course I should have got on very well. But we had a lovely supper—turkey, and chicken and ham, and tarts, and jellies, and everything you can think of. Then the house was so large and handsomely furnished. I always get tired of Mrs. Armstrong's one pokey little room."
"Katie dear," said her mother, gently but reprovingly, "I think you are tired and a little disappointed with your evening. You, as we all do, must honour Mrs. Armstrong, for we know that her husband left her with very small means and a little baby to bring up and educate. She has undergone great hardships and worked very hard in order to fit her only son to be a doctor. But she told me this morning that she thought her long struggle was nearly over now, for Percy was in a position to earn enough money to keep them both. For that reason she said she thought she might be a little extravagant on her birthday, and thus it was that you have been so pleasantly entertained." Then, changing the subject, she asked, "Was Percy at home to-night?"
"Yes, he came ever so much earlier than usual on purpose to see us," replied Olive. "But Giles talked to him such a deal that there wasn't a chance for anybody else to say much."
Giles blushed furiously.
"I wanted to know some things, and he told me," he said, and that was all the information he would vouchsafe.
But he was more communicative when, in a very little while, he and Edgar went upstairs together. No one was within earshot and Giles began eagerly,—
"Of course I didn't let Percy Armstrong know why I asked him such a lot of questions, but I did so want to find out whether there wasn't some hope for you. He said lots of men don't even begin to study medicine till they're older than he. Perhaps in a few years, we shall be better off, and you'll be able to be a doctor after all."
Edgar was greatly touched.
"Giles," he said, "I had no idea you were such a dear, sympathetic old fellow! Anyway, you've made me feel that it will all come right. And I'll keep that hope steadily in view, and every spare hour I get I'll give to study. But remember, I shall never be too busy to help you with your Latin."
How wonderfully happy those words made Giles! He was so happy that he lay awake for a full half-hour; and when at last he slept, he dreamt that Edgar was a famous physician, and went to see his patients in a coach like the Lord Mayor's, and lived in a house that was fit for a prince!
Somebody else was a still longer time in going to sleep that night. In the course of the evening Mrs. Armstrong had asked Dora whether she had seen the announcement of prizes that the editor of a certain magazine for young people offered for short original stories, and on her reply in the negative, had produced the number, and shown her the page. Sums, varying from two guineas to five shillings, were offered for the best tales of a specified length, and Dora was instantly filled with a desire to become one of the competitors. There were yet three weeks before the stories need be sent in—ample time in which to make trial of her skill, and the idea having once entered her mind, it did not leave her until it had taken tangible form. That was not until the small hours of the morning, when, having thought out the incidents and characters of her tale, she fell asleep.
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HOW A RACE ENDED.
"THEN you'll be at my house as soon after nine as you can to-morrow, Robert?"
"I never said I would come. Besides, if we don't get more frost to-night, the ice won't be safe to skate on."
"But we shall; it's freezing hard now. The fact is, you don't want to come; you're afraid of being found out."
A burning blush overspread Robert Grainger's face.
"Ah! I thought as much," said Jack Turner, with a sneer. "Poor little thing! It's a pity it couldn't be tied to its mother's apron-strings, then she'd always see what her pretty dear was about."
"You've no cause to say that, Jack. Mother's always willing enough to let us have pleasure. You know it's only because my uncle was drowned that father and she can't bear the idea of any of their children skating. I'm sure if one's careful, there isn't any danger. But they can't get over their nervousness, and that's why I don't want it to come to mother's ears that I've been learning to skate."
"Well, it needn't."
"We can't be certain of that. The last time we were on the lake in Regent's Park, Katie saw me. She didn't think it was I—she thought it was somebody just like me, and of course I didn't undeceive her."
Jack gave a low whistle.
"H'm," he said, "that's awkward. I'll tell you what, old fellow," he went on, after a minute's pause, "we'll go farther from home: What do you say to Hendon?"
Because there was no sense of wrong, there was no shame now, either in tone or look, as Robert replied in a simple straightforward manner,—
"It's out of the question. I haven't the money to pay my fare."
"That's no matter. I've enough to pay for half a dozen folks."
Jack was very generous, and it was this quality that made him a favourite among his schoolfellows. Indeed he had many good natural points, and doubtless they would have become strengthened and increased had he had such a training as Robert had received. But his mother had died when he was little more than a baby, and the aunt who had come to take her place in the house was not fond of children.
Consequently Jack never "took" to her, and he had grown up with no woman's tender, loving influence to guide him and keep him in the straight path. Of his father he saw very little. He was a commercial traveller, and sometimes would be from home for weeks together. After all, Jack was greatly to be pitied.
"So you'll come, won't you, Robert?" he continued. "You know it'll give me real pleasure to pay for you, and if you do as well as you did last time, you'll soon be the best skater in the school. You only had one tumble, and that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been tripped up."
"And you'll lend me your skates again?"
"Of course. I don't use them now I've got my acmes, so you've nothing to thank me for. I shall expect you to-morrow then at nine o'clock sharp. We shan't be back till evening, so mind you tell them at home you are going to spend the day with me; that'll be true enough, you know. Good-bye, old boy, a frosty night, and a glorious day for us to-morrow!"
This conversation took place one Friday afternoon as Robert and Jack came out of school together. At the end of the month the weather had again suddenly changed, frost had set in, and now at the beginning of February the hopes of the skaters rose high that they might yet get a few days' sport before the season was too far advanced to permit them to look forward to the pleasure.
On the Friday in question the thermometer had been steadily falling, and as Robert and Jack went to school in the afternoon, the sight of some venturesome skaters, hurrying with skates in hand towards the parks, had made their feet "itch to be doing likewise," as Jack expressed it, and he had declared that he and Robert must spend the next day on the ice.
Robert, however, had listened in silence, and as there was no time for more talk—for they just then arrived at school, and, if they would be in their places before the bell rang, had not a moment to lose—Jack was not certain whether he intended to fall in with the arrangement, but he very well knew how to manage his friend. And though Robert had resolved that he would never be persuaded to go on the ice again, the temptation proved too strong, and once more he became not conqueror but conquered in a struggle for moral victory over self.
The weather next morning was everything that could be desired. It had been freezing all night, and the sun rose in the grey sky like a large ball of red fire. Robert had asked and obtained permission to spend the day with Jack Turner on the previous evening, and as soon as he had finished breakfast, he rose to get his hat and coat.
"You will be home early, dear?" said Mrs. Grainger. "Remember it is not holiday time, and you have Monday's lessons to prepare."
"I'll come back to tea, mother. That'll give me all the evening to do them in."
"Perhaps it will be best, as Jack will then have a fair opportunity of learning his; from what you tell me, I think he requires longer time than you," and with not unnatural pride, Mrs. Grainger looked at the son whose good abilities and aptitude for his studies were well-known both at home and at school.
Robert experienced a sensation of shame beneath that proud, loving glance. How unworthy he was of it! Would she have given it him had she known? Then he hated himself for the mean, deceitful part he was playing, and for a moment a strong desire to go to Jack and tell him he could not keep his engagement entered his mind. He would say that he must do right, even if it necessitated the breaking of his word. But alas! that still small voice was quenched almost as soon as he had let himself hear it. No, he must go with his friend to-day, but this should be the last occasion. He could not again meet his mother's fond, earnest gaze with that horrible feeling of guilt which made him drop his own eyes, and with a hasty good-bye, hurried from the room.
That look haunted him during the whole of the journey to Hendon, and the wish that he had been strong to resist temptation rose again and again in his heart. But his remorse grew less when he found himself gliding along over the smooth frozen surface of the water. He had learnt to skate with remarkable quickness, and on the larger space and clearer ground which he now for the first time enjoyed, he was gradually able to increase his speed, till in the excitement and the exhilaration caused by the delightful exercise, everything else was forgotten. And the scene was a very charming one. The sun was shining brightly, the air was clear, and the figures of the ladies, as they glided gracefully hither and thither in their furs and bright feathers and ribbons, lent a very pretty and cheerful effect.
But many of these took their departure when, as the afternoon advanced, the number of skaters increased. Eager to avail themselves of the Saturday half-holiday, and hoping to find the water at Hendon less crowded than the lakes in the London parks, many passengers came down by rail, and soon the ice was thickly covered. Then warnings were heard that in one part it was showing signs of weakness beneath the heavy weight brought to bear upon it. Some of the older and wiser people came off the water; and Robert and Jack, as they passed an elderly gentleman who had been on the lake when they arrived, and had kindly given a hint or two to the boys when they were trying to do the outside edge, advised them to be satisfied with the pleasure they had had, and so make greater space for those who had more recently arrived on the scene. Perhaps Robert would have heard without heeding if at these words the promise he had given his mother had not flashed to his memory. If he would keep it, his time on the ice must be short.
"We'll leave the fancy skating, old boy," he said to Jack, "and take a straight turn or two just to get up our circulation before I go home. The mater seemed to think Monday's lessons would come off badly if I spent the whole of the day with you and so I said I'd be back to tea."
"All right," was Jack's somewhat unexpected reply; "I fancy I've had nearly enough of it myself, for I feel about used up. You beat me hollow, Robert. You don't look a bit tired."
"No, I'm nearly as fresh as when we began. Now, we'll have a real good turn for the last. Is the steam up, Jack? Then one, two, three, and off."
And away he flew. Jack tried to keep up with him, but very quickly fell behind, and Robert, feeling that all his energy must be put into the last few minutes of his day's pleasure, forgot he was going straight to the spot about which he had been warned. On, on he went, and some lads, older and bigger than himself; thinking he was having a race with Jack and noticing how far the latter was behind, followed him, crying out:
"That isn't fair. You should race with a man as good as yourself. Now, some of us 'll have a try with you. We'll see which will get to the other side of the water first."
At the words Robert felt a fresh thrill of excitement, and on he went at a yet quicker speed with a dozen followers at his heels. He was in front and he would keep there too. Ah! There was a fellow gaining upon him. Gaining upon him? No, he had passed him now, and he was only second in the race.
Hark! What was that cry! Somebody cheering him on? It must be that. Yes, he would win yet. Now for a desperate effort! That was good; again he was the foremost figure. But it was some distance yet to the goal, and his strength was giving way. Again he heard that cry. Ah! If he had only heard it aright, for the next moment he felt the ice sway beneath his weight. With a sudden fear at his heart that seemed to stop its beating, he turned aside. But it was too late.
There was a loud, crackling sound. He uttered a loud, piercing shriek as the loosened ice sank beneath his feet, and the next instant the cold water had closed over his head.
What happened next Robert did not know. When he came to his senses, he was lying on the ice, and somebody was pouring a burning, fiery liquid down his throat. Then he was aware that he was the centre of a little group, and that Jack, with a white, frightened face, was kneeling by his side.
"That's right, Robert," he gasped. "Oh! I'm so thankful to see you open your eyes."
Robert tried to speak, but his lips refused to utter the words.
"Give him some more brandy," he heard somebody say. And again he felt the burning liquid pass down his throat.
"Then they got me out?" he managed to whisper in a few minutes. But his words were very low, and only Jack caught them.
"Yes, there was a rope close by in case of accident, and they got hold of you first. You hadn't been any time under water. Robert, do you think you're well enough to try to get home."
Robert sat up. It was with great difficulty that he did so, but he succeeded.
"He'll do now," said one of the crowd. "The colour's coming back to his lips and cheeks."
"The sooner you can take off them wet clothes of yours the better," said another, addressing Robert. Then, as a murmur of horror was heard, the speaker turned, asking eagerly, "Eh! What's that? Drowned? And they are bringing him along?"
There was a fresh excitement now, and the crowd leaving the smaller for the greater, Robert and Jack found themselves comparatively alone.
"Do you think you could walk?" whispered Jack, in a voice full of strange, frightened horror. "It's awful to be here, and I'm afraid they'll ask your name, and then it'll all come out. I've got enough money to pay for a cab to take us to the station if you could manage to get across the ice."
Robert just moved his head by way of reply, and Jack helped him up, but he was so faint and giddy that he would have fallen back again, had not a man's strong arms been thrown around him. With this support the faintness presently passed. Then he was half led, half carried to a cab, and in a short time he and Jack were seated in the train, and every minute was bearing them nearer home.
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