CHAPTER XII.
GOOD FOR EVIL.
The spring term of the Afton Graded School began the last week in March, and as Ray expected early in April to begin another season's work for Mr. Woodhull, he did not think it worth while to attend school at all that term. But when at the close of the winter term he spoke to Mr. Woodhull about it, that gentleman asked:
"You still desire to push on in your studies, Ray?"
"Yes, indeed," responded the lad; "but I thought I might perhaps arrange to recite to Mr. Greenough once a week, as I did last fall, and at the same time keep on in my work for you."
"That certainly can be done, if best," Mr. Woodhull answered; "but I have talked with Mr. Greenough, and Mr. Carleton, and Uncle Jacob about it, and they all deem it wisest for you to keep in the schoolroom this next term if you can."
"Why, of course Ican," replied Ray, hesitatingly; "but I also wanted to be earning what I could this summer, for I would then have enough, with what I have saved of my last year's wages, to enter some good academy this next fall."
"That's your plan, is it?" asked Mr. Woodhull, smilingly; "well, we can easily arrange that. Here are two weeks of vacation, and I'll let your work begin now. The days are constantly growing longer, and you will be able to do more mornings and nights than heretofore. Your going up to the village each day will enable you to attend to all the marketing, and save me that trouble. Suppose now we begin to-day, and I allow you ten dollars a month until school closes, and your twenty-five dollars a month after that until you enter school again. How does that suit you?"
"I think I ought to be satisfied," replied the grateful boy. And he then and there determined that his benefactor should have no occasion to regret the generous offer.
When school began Ray was in his accustomed place, much to Edward Lawton's disgust, for he had secretly cherished the hope that his antagonist, as he called him, would be obliged to recite privately to Mr. Greenough that term. When he found, however, that Ray had begun the term with the intention of keeping on to the end, his rage knew no bounds, and he resolved upon the scheme of petty annoyances already alluded to. An opportunity, too, to vent his malice, and at the same time to put Ray to great inconvenience, was right at hand.
The weather was still cold, and the ice on the bay was hard and firm. Ray, taking advantage of this circumstance, had come over to the village on his skates. Those skates were the pride of his heart, for they were of the real "Acme all-clamp" pattern, and had been presented to him the Christmas before, by Mr. and Mrs. Woodhull. He had found a constant use for them during the winter, and had been accustomed to hang them in the coat room with his hat and coat, during recitation hours. They had never been molested, and with no thought of their being injured, he on that morning hung them in the usual place. His astonishment and grief may well be imagined, then, when at the close of school he took them down, to find the clasps broken, and even the runners themselves injured. There was no hope of fixing them even; they were broken absolutely beyond repair. Suppressing the cry of indignation that came to his lips on discovering the despicable trick, he put the broken skates under his arm, and hurried out of the schoolhouse. But the quick eye of Daisy Lawton had noticed his pale and excited face, and a glance at the skates as he tucked them under his arm told her the cause. She hurried from the schoolroom as quickly as he, and then ran breathlessly up the street.
With mingled feelings of indignation and sorrow, Ray walked slowly down the street. He was indignant that any one had dared to perpetrate so dastardly an act, and sorrowful that any one could find it in their heart to do him so great a wrong. He tried not to accuse any one, but in spite of himself, the malignant look Edward Lawton had given him early that afternoon would come back to him. "He is the only one I know of in the whole school who would feel like doing the cowardly deed," he said to himself, more in pity than in anger; "but no one shall learn from me that the outrage was ever committed." Then a peaceful look came over his face. "I can, at least, pray for him, and maybe I can in some way show him that I am his friend."
He hastened to the post office for the mail, and then went on to Mr. Shephard's store on an errand, that gentleman and he being now most excellent friends. Then he went on down to the wharves. He gave a sigh as he stepped on the ice, for he thought of the broken skates under his arm. "It's all the difference between twenty minutes and an hour in getting home to-night," he said, and proceeded slowly out from the shore. A moment later some one called him, and he turned around to find Daisy Lawton standing on the dock.
"Come here a minute please, Ray," she said.
He retraced his steps, carefully arranging his skates so that she would not notice they were broken, and wondering how he should explain why he had not put them on.
His wonderment was immediately dispelled, for she took a pair of skates out from under her cloak, and extended them toward him, saying:
"Here, Ray, take these; I know yours are broken, for I saw you in the coat room. I am not sure any more than you who did the mean trick, but I fear it was Edward."
As Ray hesitated to take the proffered skates, she quickly added: "These were Brother Herbert's, who, you know, died last year. I have mamma's permission to lend them to you, and they are just like your own."
Ray took the skates reluctantly, and put them on. Then he said: "I don't believe, Miss Daisy, any one but you knows that my skates were broken, and we are not sure that it was Edward. Let us give him the benefit of the doubt, and keep this matter between us. He shall know no difference in my treatment of him."
Tears came to her eyes, as she answered him: "I was going to ask you to promise that, and you have done it without my asking. It was Eddie's good name I was thinking of. Will you let me have your broken skates? I will keep them safely, and no one but mamma and ourselves will know about this, until the real offender confesses his act."
He handed the skates to her, and with a pleasant "good-night" glided rapidly off toward Long Point Farm.
If Edward Lawton was surprised the next morning when Ray entered the school yard with a pair of skates in his hand so like the broken ones that he could not tell the difference, he was even more surprised to find that day after day went by without any one's speaking of the dastardly deed. "Ray thinks by keeping quiet about the affair he'll find out the sooner who did it," he finally thought, "but I'll show him he is mistaken."
He refrained, however, for some time, from doing anything that would call special attention to the perpetrator, and contented himself by creating those little annoyances liable to occur in every school. Ray's books were mislaid, his pens and paper mysteriously disappeared, examples were erased from his slate, and a dozen other things, equally annoying, happened to hinder him in his work. Ray suspected at the outset who was guilty of these things, but he manifested no difference from first to last in his courtesy toward Edward. Nor could these things be entirely concealed from the other members of the class, and they, too, suspected the perpetrator, while they all wondered that Ray bore the annoyances so patiently, and evinced no desire for retaliation.
So matters went on for a number of weeks, and then another marked evidence of Edward Lawton's spite occurred. Mr. Greenough had, with this term, adopted a new custom. On each Friday the senior class reviewed the studies of the week. One Friday morning after the school had begun, Mr. Greenough called the attention of the algebra class to certain examples he had placed upon the blackboard, requesting that each member of the class perform them, and, copying them neatly on paper, hand them in to him when they came up to recite in the afternoon.
"These examples merely illustrate principles we have studied this week, and I shall expect each one of you to hand them to me," he said. "If you have not performed them when the class comes up for recitation, you must remain after school until they are completed."
Before noon Ray had worked the examples, and copying them upon paper, he folded them neatly, and laid them in his algebra. In the afternoon when the class was called, he found they were no longer in his book. He turned over his books hurriedly, but could not find them, and then came forward to his class with a look of embarrassment upon his face. When Mr. Greenough asked for his paper, he said:
"I worked the examples this forenoon, Mr. Greenough, and placed them in my algebra, but I cannot find them now. Possibly I have mislaid them. May I return to my desk and see?"
A look of annoyance passed over Mr. Greenough's face, but he gave the desired consent. Ray returned to his seat, looked thoroughly on and within his desk, opened every book, and then, with chagrin clearly depicted in his countenance, returned to the class.
"I cannot find them," he said; "but I certainly performed them."
"It is strange," said Mr. Greenough, a little impatiently, looking at Edward Lawton and not at Ray as he spoke, "it is strange, Ray, that you who are usually so careful in everything else should so often mislay, just at the moment of recitation, that which is most necessary to the success of your work. Possibly your paper may have dropped upon the floor, and some scholar has found it. If so, I trust he will be honorable enough to hand it to me before the close of school. If not, I see no other alternative: you must remain after school and perform the examples again."
"Yes, sir," replied Ray. And the recitation was resumed.
At the close of the school, Mr. Greenough informed Ray it would be necessary for him to remain. Daisy Lawton lingered a moment after the other scholars had gone, and came over to his side.
"This is too bad, Ray!" she said.
"At almost any other time," he replied, "I should not have cared about it; but as this is Friday, and Mr. Woodhull is away, it is a little annoying that I must remain."
She did not care to hinder him in his work, and so left the schoolroom and went off slowly toward her home. As she reached the corner of the street on which she lived, her brother Edward was just ahead of her. He saw her, and paused a moment, as though he would wait until she came up. He changed his mind, however, and hurried on to the house. As he entered the door he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket; something white came out with it, and, caught by a current of air, it fluttered down to the walk. He went on into the house without noticing it, and Daisy, as she reached it, stooped down and picked it up. It was Ray's copy of the examples.
She stood for a moment undecided what to do, then she turned and sped back toward the schoolhouse. Reaching it, she entered and hurried up to the senior room. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since she left, and Ray could not have performed a quarter of the examples. Hurrying over to his desk, she laid the paper before him.
"I found it," she said, simply, and then colored violently, fearing she had not told the whole truth.
He understood her at once, and spared her any further confession. They were alone, Mr. Greenough having requested Ray to leave the examples at his house when he went down to the wharf, and had then hurried away to meet some engagement.
"Please let it remain between us that this paper was ever found," he said, gravely. And strapping up his books he accompanied her down to the street. At the gate they parted, each carrying away a heavy burden. She grieved that her only brother, whom she had believed, until recently, to be noble and manly, should be guilty of deception and theft, for she could give his act no lighter term; he, sorrowful that he should so unintentionally be the cause of another's sin. But both believed in the power of prayer, and from their hearts there went up a common cry that God would lead the offending one to the only source of permanent reform.
The weeks passed swiftly by, and the month of June came. Two weeks more, and the school year would end. Ray, notwithstanding every hindrance thrown in his way by Edward Lawton, had steadily advanced in his studies, and there was little doubt in the minds of teachers or scholars but that he would carry off the honors of the class. Ned Lawton himself secretly admitted it, and his only hope now was to win the second prize; but even of this he was not entirely sure, since among the outsiders there were one or two who ranked nearly if not quite as high as he. Then a thing happened which nearly took away from Ray even the possibility of graduating, and removed the second prize completely beyond the slightest hope of Edward Lawton's securing it.
Ray, at the close of school, had hurried off to do the errands entrusted to him, for huge clouds and a low muttering of thunder in the west indicated a storm, and he was anxious to get well off on his way toward Long Point Farm before the tempest came. His errands finished, he hastened down to the boat to find, to his surprise, that it was gone. On inquiring of an old sailor who frequented the wharf if he had seen any one take the boat, he, taking his pipe from his mouth, had replied:
"That white craft that belongs to Woodhull over yonder? I seed Lawton's boy get into her a half hour ago, and go off down the bay."
There was then but one thing to do, and Ray immediately did it. Leaving his bundles in a neighboring store, he started off on his seven miles' tramp down home. It was six o'clock when he reached there, and before he began his chores he went down to the point to see if he could see his boat anywhere down the harbor. Though he could not discover the vessel, he noticed one thing that rendered him anxious for its safety. Heavy clouds were already covering the sky, and there was every indication that the storm would soon burst forth.
A half hour later it suddenly grew dark, the lightning flashed sharply, followed by terrific peals of thunder. In the distance could be heard the roar of the wind and rain, which were fast approaching. Ray, followed by Mr. Woodhull and the hired man, left the barn where he was at work, and ran down to the little wharf near the house. He soon descried the boat quite a distance down the bay, but it was evidently making directly for the point. The only question was whether it would reach there before the squall struck.
Ray and his companions watched anxiously the boat's progress. A few minutes later it had arrived nearly opposite the point, and sheered around to run inside of it. They could now see Edward Lawton's face, as he, pale and frightened, watched the coming storm. Evidently he knew his danger, and was doing all he could to reach the shore before the tempest struck. Five minutes more, and he would be safe; would the squall hold off so long? No; it is coming; the trees on the point bowed before it, and the next instant it struck the boat. For a moment the little craft stood up bravely before the gale, and then as a tremendous gust struck it, it careened, struggled to right itself, then fell heavily over upon the tossing waves.
Through the heavy rain that was now falling, the anxious watchers looked for the boy, and they soon discerned him clinging in his desperation to the overturned boat. Another moment, and Ray sprang into the dory that lay at the wharf, and before he could be prevented, had seized the oars, and pulled off toward the unfortunate boy. The wind was in his favor, and though the dory was tossed like a cockle shell upon the waves, he slowly approached the capsized boat. It was evidently a hard struggle, but with bare head, and resolute face, the noble lad pulled on. Now he reached Edward, and with great difficulty drew him into the little boat.
The storm lulled for an instant, and, laying his exhausted companion down in the dory, Ray took advantage of the circumstance, and turned the tossing craft for the shore. Half the distance, under his vigorous stroke, was gained, when the wind, changing a point or two, swept down in greater fury upon them. It is seldom such a gust of wind is experienced in northern latitudes. Trees were overturned, the water was dashed high into the air, and even houses were unroofed, by that terrible blast. When it had passed, Mr. Woodhull arose from the ground to which he had fallen, and look for the dory. It lay capsized a few rods away, while Ray, with one arm supporting the unconscious form of Edward, was struggling to reach the shore. But his strength soon failed, and the huge waves rolled within the reach of Mr. Woodhull and his hired man—for both rushed into the angry waters—two unconscious forms.
An hour later, Mr. Woodhull, on a foaming horse, dashed up to Dr. Gasque's office, at Afton. Ten minutes after, the doctor drove his fleetest horse off toward Long Point, while Mr. Woodhull went on to Mr. Lawton's house. That gentleman and his wife, entering a close carriage, drove rapidly off through the raging storm after Mr. Woodhull, who had already turned his horse toward home. That was all Afton knew that night.
But the next morning, on Dr. Gasque's return home, the whole story came out. To the question anxiously asked on all sides, "How are the boys?" he gave the same answer:
"As well as could be expected under the circumstances, for I tell you both had a narrow escape. Edward Lawton can probably be brought home the first of the week. Ray will have to keep his bed a little longer. The boat, when it capsized, or some rock as he swam in with his exhausted comrade, has given him a fearful blow on the head. We shall pull him through, however."
Perhaps it was not intentional, but many a one at the First Church the next day thought of Edward and Ray, as Mr. Carleton read the words:
"But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven."
They knew later also how peculiarly applicable those words were to Ray's heroic act.
On the following Monday, Edward was brought home; he immediately sent a note to Mr. Greenough asking him to call after school. When he came the boy made a full confession of his wrong doing.
"I have told Ray all of this," he added, "and have his forgiveness; I wish now to acknowledge my wrong doing to you, though I know it will prevent my taking any honor at the coming graduation. I am willing to do whatever you think is right, and will make any acknowledgment to the school that seems to you to be proper."
Mr. Greenough laid his hand on the repentant boy's head: "You have already suffered much, my boy," he said, kindly, "and are so ready to acknowledge your wrong, that we will make it as easy for you as we can. I will talk the matter over with the school board, and will let you know later our decision. Will you and Ray be present at the examinations?"
"Yes, sir. I think so. Dr. Gasque says if we keep quiet all this week, he will let us come to school again next Monday, and that will be in time for the examinations. I want the boys to see that I don't hate Ray any longer, and"—lowering his voice, and speaking almost timidly"—I am going to try and love the Saviour, too. I shudder every time I think how near I came to the other world without the shadow of a hope. I am so thankful that Ray saved me."
Mr. Greenough shook the lad's hand warmly. "I am rejoiced to hear you say this," he said, and then he hastened away.
On the next Monday morning the two boys came into the school yard at an early hour arm in arm. A quiet, peaceful, satisfied look was on Ray's face, but Edward looked the proudest and happiest. They were greeted with three rousing cheers by their schoolmates, as they passed on into the schoolroom. They sat together during the examinations, and Edward looked with a hearty smile of congratulation at Ray, when it was announced that he was to be the valedictorian. It would not be known who was to have the second prize until the close of the graduating exercises.
There was much speculation among the scholars as to the one who would receive it, for it was known that Edward Lawton was no longer eligible to it. Mr. Greenough had himself acknowledged this at the commencement of the examinations. He had made a brief statement of the lad's wrong doings, and his desire to acknowledge them before the school, concluding: "He has seemed so thoroughly penitent for what he has done, that the school board has simply decided to give him fifty demerits for his acts; but this will so affect the record of his deportment, that even if his scholarship should warrant the bestowal of the second prize, he will be debarred from receiving it." To whom, then, the handsome copy of Shakespeare's works was to go was a secret known only to the examining committee.
Wednesday, the graduating day, dawned bright and fair. During the early morning there was much hurrying to and fro by many feet, and when half-past ten came, the hour for the beginning of the exercises, Afton Hall was filled to overflowing with the Graded School pupils and their friends. On the spacious platform, which was beautifully decorated with flowers, were the members of the school board and of the examining committee, the teachers of the school, and the graduating class. The first speaker was Edward Lawton, and with an air of conscious pride he took his place, for he knew that the position assigned him virtually declared him to be second in rank, even though he could not hope to receive the second prize. He acquitted himself creditably, and returned to his seat amid tremendous applause. Other speakers and essayists followed in rapid succession until the last speaker, the valedictorian, was reached.
With the straightforward, manly air so characteristic of him, Ray Branford began his address. His theme was "The Maid of Orleans." He emphasized her divine call and mission, and in his parting words to his classmates impressed upon them the importance of obedience to the same divine influence.
Then the prizes were awarded. The chairman of the school board, a Mr. Wardwell, arose, and having congratulated the teachers upon the successful issue of the school year, called, "Ray Branford!"
Ray would hardly have been human had there not been some exultation in his heart, as he went forward to receive the silver medal, the highest honor of his class; but when he turned to retrace his steps to his seat, and saw Edward Lawton's bright, happy look, he felt he would have gladly surrendered it, were it possible, to the boy who once had hated, but now so loved him.
"John Bacon!" was called next. Pale with astonishment, he arose and went forward. Mr. Wardwell held the beautiful copy of Shakespeare in his hand, and having explained to the audience the circumstances under which this second prize had been offered, he continued:
"Ray Branford, as the recipient of the silver medal, our highest honor, was debarred from receiving this, though his progress in his studies, his high scholarship, and perfect deportment, would otherwise have entitled him to it. It is also no more than just to Edward Lawton to state that his scholarship entitled him, as the next in rank, to this gift, had there not been, through circumstances I need not repeat here, an imperfect record in his deportment. This fact alone carries the prize to the next in rank, who is, I am glad to say, one of our corporation scholars, Mr. John Bacon." And he laid the handsome volume in the bewildered boy's hands, who stammered out his thanks, and then returned to his seat.
"Edward Lawton!" said Mr. Wardwell. The boy, who had been nodding pleasantly to John, rose suddenly to his feet, and with some hesitation went down the platform. Could it be there was a third prize? Yes; for a package had just been handed to Mr. Wardwell, and rapidly undoing it, he held another beautiful book in his hand. As Edward reached him, Mr. Wardwell, turning to the audience, said: "I have stated that the imperfect deportment of Master Lawton prevented him, in the judgment of the committee, from receiving the second prize. But when he so nobly confessed his wrong, and manifested such marked penitence, the committee decided to give a third prize. This copy of Milton's works, of equal value with the copy of Shakespeare, was purchased, and I now present it to Master Edward Lawton in recognition of his high scholarship, and of the manly acknowledgment of his faults which he has made."
With glad, happy tears filling his eyes and coursing down his cheeks, Edward received the volumes. He felt that the honors conferred upon him had been greater than he had deserved, and in his intense emotion he could only bow his thanks. The diplomas were now presented, and with that act the senior class ceased to be, while the other seven departments of the school each advanced a grade, and gave place for a new primary.
There was another event shortly after that brought deep joy to many interested ones. Edward Lawton united with the First Church. In the relation of his experience he alluded to the night that he had clung so desperately to the overturned boat in the storm.
"I saw my sins, then," he said, "as I never saw them before; and when on recovering consciousness some hours later I found the one I had most injured had been my rescuer, it brought forcibly to my mind my relations to the great Saviour. All my life I had been wronging him, yet he had given himself for me. In gratitude, then, I hastened to him, and placed myself, I believe, in his protecting arms forever."
Daisy Lawton's class in the Sunday-school was near Miss Squire's class, and on the day Edward united with the church she, as the school repeated together the golden text for the day, looked over to Ray and smiled. The words were: "Let him know, that he which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins."