Chapter XI

"Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues
of life."--Prov. iv. 23.

After a long and tedious journey Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, with their two boys, reached Heronhurst, where they met with the affectionate welcome usually given by Sir George and Lady Vernon to all so nearly related to them. The castle was full of visitors, amongst whom were Lady Digby and her two eldest daughters, and many young people--personages grandmamma never forgot in the holidays, however unimportant they may appear in the eyes of some. Children liked to come to Heronhurst, for there was always so much mirth and amusement, and Lady Vernon was so remarkably clever in arranging pleasant pic-nics and excursions. Vernon and Frank Digby arrived the same day as Mr. Mortimer, a few hours before him, and as Vernon had announced the fact of Louis' having gained the medal, every one was prepared to receive our hero with due honor.

It was with no little satisfaction that Louis felt in the hearty shake of the hand, and the kind tone, that he was now more than re-established in his grandfather's good opinion. Had it not been for the salutary effects of his former disgrace, and the long trial he had lately undergone, there would have been great danger now of his falling into some open fault, for he was praised so much by his kind relations, and flattered by the company, and his medal had so often to be exhibited, that it needed much that in himself he did not possess, to guard him from falling into the error of imagining himself to be already perfect.

It was settled that there was to be a fete on the 27th, which some of my readers may remember was Louis' birthday; and Sir George, anxious to efface from his grandson's memory any painful reminiscences of the last, arranged the order of things much in the same manner, taking care that Louis' proteges, the school-children, should not be forgotten.

This news had just been communicated to Louis by his grandfather, with many expressions of commendation, and he was in a state of complacent self-gratulation, that feeling which would have led him to say, "By the strength of my hand I have done this;" instead of, "My strength will I ascribe unto the Lord," when a kind, soft hand, glittering with rings, was laid upon his arm, and the pleasant voice of his old friend Mrs. Paget greeted him.

"So, Master Louis, we are to have a fete, I hear. Are you really fourteen on the 27th? Come and sit down and tell me all about your school. I knew you would soon be a favorite. What's all this long story that everybody talks of and nobody knows? I said I would ask you, the most proper person to know it; and I know you will tell me the secret."

"It is no secret, ma'am," said Louis; "I would rather not talk of it."

"Just like your own modest little self: and it might not be kind to tell every one all the story, perhaps; but with an old friend like me, you know you are safe."

"But, ma'am, you might forget when every one is talking--"

Louis stopped and colored, for he thought it seemed rather conceited to imagine every one must be talking of him, and he corrected himself,

"At least, dear Mrs. Paget, I had much rather not, I mean."

"You are a dear, kind little boy," said the injudicious lady; "I know very well you are afraid of committing that naughty school-fellow of yours. I can't understand about the _keys_--I heard your brother saying something about them--what keys? Were they the keys of the boy's desks?"

Louis could hardly help laughing--"No, ma'am, Kenrick's keys."

"And who is Kenrick--one of the masters?"

"It is a book, ma'am--a key to the Greek exercises."

"Oh, I see--a sort of translation--well, he stole this from Dr. Wilkinson, and said you'd done it?"

"No, not that," replied Louis. "He took it out of the study. Some of the boys were in the habit of using the keys when they could."

"Well, there was nothing so very terrible in it, poor fellows. I dare say the lessons are very hard. I think every boy ought to have an English translation of those frightful Latin and Greek books."

Louis opened his eyes and quietly said--

"We think it very dishonorable and unfair, ma'am."

"Well, if I understood all about it, I might too, I dare say. I only see a little bit, but of course you know the rules and all the rest,--well, was that all?"

"No, ma'am," said Louis, uneasily.

"He said you had taken it, I dare say?"

"Something like it," replied Louis. "He slipped it among my books to hide it, ma'am, but not intending to do me any harm; and when it was found he was afraid to speak the truth."

"And so you bore the blame--and did you not try to clear yourself?"

"To be sure, ma'am; but he was older and better known than I was, and so he was believed."

"And you couldn't help yourself? I thought you bore it out of kindness to him."

"Afterwards I found it out, ma'am. I found that Alfred Hamilton knew something about it."

"Who is Alfred Hamilton?" asked Mrs. Paget.

"A little boy, ma'am, at school."

"And he found it out--and didn't he tell of it?"

"I did not wish him," replied Louis, with less reserve. "It would have been very unkind to poor Ferrers; he would have been expelled. Alfred was going to tell, but you would not have wished him to do it, I am sure."

Ah Louis, Louis! anxiety for Ferrers' reputation was quite lost in the selfish desire of admiration. Mrs. Paget put her arm round him, and her kindly eyes nearly overflowed with affectionate emotion, for she, poor lady, could only see the surface; the inward workings of the little vain heart were hid from her, or she would have been surprised to find under the appearance of sweetness and humility, Louis was only thinking of seeming lovely and amiable in her eyes.

"No, my darling, I know you could not do any thing unkind--you are a sweet, dear creature, and I am sure I love you; and so this Master Ferrers never spoke the truth, and you bore the blame?"

"He did at last, ma'am, at the end of the half-year: but it was not very long to bear it, only five weeks."

"_Only!_ I wonder you could have done it for so long; Ferrers, that was the name, was it?"

"If you please, don't mention it," exclaimed Louis, with unaffected earnestness; "I did not mean to say his name. Please, dear Mrs. Paget, do not mention it. He is so very sorry, and confessed all so handsomely--I think you would like him if you knew all about him, for he is not so bad as others make him out to be."

Mrs. Paget had only time to give him a kind of half promise, when she was called away; and Louis, left to himself, became aware of the vanity his foolish heart had persuaded him was Christian kindness. His enjoyment was destroyed that evening, for he was full of anxiety lest Mrs. Paget should talk of the matter, and he wandered restlessly about the rooms, longing for an opportunity of speaking a kind word for Ferrers, wishing vainly that what he had said could be undone. He felt more than ever the necessity of keeping a watch over his heart and tongue, and almost inclined to despair of ever overcoming the many stumbling-blocks in the way of attaining to holiness. Thus, little by little, is the evil of our hearts disclosed to us, and the longer the true Christian lives, the less he finds to be satisfied with in himself; not that he is further removed from holiness, but he has more sight given him to know what he really is by nature--and the nearer he arrives to the perfect day, the greater is the light to disclose his own deformities, and the exceeding loveliness of the righteousness he possesses in Jesus his Lord.

Louis, in common with the young visitors at Heronhurst, thought often and expectantly of his birthday--and when the morning at last arrived, he awoke much earlier than usual, with a strong sensation of some great happiness. The light on the blind of his window was not bright, nor promising brightness--and when he jumped up and ran to examine the day, expressing to his brother his hope that the weather was propitious, he found to his dismay that the rain was pouring in torrents, and the dull unbroken clouds gave but little promise of a change in the prospect.

"Oh! Reginald, it's raining, raining hard."

"How very provoking!" cried Reginald. "Let me see--there is not much hope neither--how exceedingly tiresome--there's an end to our fun--who'd have thought it--how VERY--"

"Hush!" said poor Louis, who was very much disappointed, "it is not right to say _tiresome_ when it pleases God that the weather shall not suit us."

"I can't help it," said Reginald.

"I dare say we shall be very happy. I am most sorry about the school-children."

"I don't care a fig about them," said Reginald, impatiently; "there's that cricket match, and all."

"What, not the poor little things, Reginald? just think how they have been expecting this day--it is quite an event for them, and we have so many pleasures: I dare say you will have the cricket the first fine day."

Reginald felt rather ashamed, and yet unwilling to acknowledge himself in the wrong; therefore he satisfied himself with remarking, that Louis did not like cricket, and he didn't care about the children, and there was no difference.

Louis' attention was at that moment attracted by something on the table. "Oh! here is something for me, Reginald!--A beautiful new Bible from dear papa and mamma--and a church service from grandmamma, and what's this?--'_The Lady of the Manor_' from uncle and aunt Clarence; how kind, look Reginald! and here's another--a beautiful little red and gold book, '_Mrs. Rowe's Poems_,' the book I am so fond of--from you: oh! thank you, dear Reginald."

"And many happy returns of the day, dear Louis," said Reginald, who had by this time completely recovered his ordinary good-humor.

At the foot of the stairs, when he descended, Louis met some of the young party, who hardly waited to offer the compliments of the day before they loudly expressed the disappointment felt by each at the unfavorable weather. "Raining, raining--nothing but splashing and dark clouds--so tiresome, so disappointing--we shall be obliged to stay in-doors," sounded round him in different keys as they marched in close phalanx to the breakfast-room, where they found Bessie Vernon, a little girl of seven years old, kneeling on a chair at the window, singing, in the most doleful accents,

"Rain, rain, go to Spain,
And mind you don't come back again."

"Good morning, Bessie," said Louis.

"Oh! Louis, many happy returns. I haven't got a present for you, because I hadn't money enough."

"Never mind," said Louis; "I would rather have your love and kisses than any present."

"And I will give you many, many kisses," cried the little girl, fulfilling her promise in good earnest.

"_My love and a kiss_," said her brother; "that's what Bessie always sends at the end of her letters: isn't it, Bessie, _I send you my love and a kiss_?"

"Well, I mean it," said Bessie, "and you needn't laugh. I wonder what we shall do to-day--dear me--I think, though, there's a little lighter bit of sky over the oak."

"Let me see--where are my spectacles?" said Frank.

"Not much hope, I fear," said Sir George's hearty voice behind her. "Not much hope, Bessie. What an array of long faces. How do you do? Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I hope I see you in health and spirits. A happy birthday, and many of them to you, my boy; the rain does not appear to have damped you so much as some of your play-fellows--well, Miss Bessie?"

"Grandpapa, grandpapa! what shall we do? you must find some pleasure for us," cried Bessie, clinging round her grandfather's knees, and looking up very beseechingly in the kind face so far above her.

"Ah, well--we'll see, we'll see--now let me go to breakfast; when that important business is dispatched, and grandmamma makes her appearance, we will find something to do."

Fortified with this promise, an excellent breakfast was eaten by the martyrs to disappointment, and then, after some consultation, it was decided that the band should be in attendance in the hall, and a messenger should be sent forthwith to command the attendance of the school-children at a banquet in the same place, and Lady Vernon was of opinion that with charades, a magic lantern, bagatelle, tivoli, and dolls, a very merry morning might be spent. The young people then dispersed in search of their own peculiar amusements. Some of the young men went into the billiard-room, and a few chess parties were formed. Some began to act charades for the edification of such among the elders as would choose to make an audience. A still larger party adjourned to the school-room to play at houses with their dolls, and two tables were soon spread with ground plans of three magnificent establishments for paper ladies and gentlemen, by three young ladies between the ages of twelve and eight, assisted by Mr. Frank Digby.

At one o'clock they went to the hall, where the band was playing a merry air. Here a long table was spread, well covered with a nice plain dinner, and the school-children came two-and-two into the hall, just after the visitors had arrived.

When all were seated, the girls at the upper, and the boys at the lower end, Mr. Mortimer came forward and said grace for them, and then the viands disappeared with great rapidity. Some of the castle children, headed by Louis, asked to be allowed to wait on them, and, the permission being given, they made themselves very busy, though it must be confessed that they were sometimes sadly in the servants' way. Sir George Vernon went round the table very majestically, and now and then spoke a word or two to one of the children--words which were treasured up in their memories for many a long day, though they meant little or nothing; but it is so easy to create a pleasant and grateful feeling.

Many of the spectators, including nearly all the gentlemen, had left the hall very soon after the commencement of the feast, and now a summons was given to the little ones of the castle to their own dinner. Louis, not being included in the little ones, went with the school-children into a large empty room, and with the help of his father and one or two others, exerted himself successfully for their entertainment, until his friends joined them, and, the room being darkened, the magic lantern was displayed. The humble little guests then, being supplied each with a cake and some fruit, returned to their homes, quite delighted with the pleasures of the day. Frank and the three young ladies enjoyed an hour's amusement during the late dinner; for the good-natured youth had yielded to the pressing invitation of the merry little party, and dined with them at two, to their great satisfaction, notwithstanding the declaration of some, that he was "a great tease."

The great dinner was much earlier than usual, to allow of the ball, which began at seven o'clock for the convenience of the younger ones, and was continued until eleven, at which time, though he had been very happy, Louis was very tired, and could not help thinking, that, after all, a whole day of pleasure-seeking in this manner, was very fatiguing and unsatisfying. He could hardly keep his eyes open, when Mrs. Paget seized him, and after a few compliments on his dancing, insisted upon hearing him sing "_Where the bee sucks_."

Louis complied as well as he was able, and though his sleepiness robbed his song of some power, its sweetness not only satisfied the flattering lady, but a more unscrupulous auditor who stood behind him in the person of his grandfather.

"Your mother taught you to sing, Louis?" said he.

"Miss Spencer taught me," replied Louis.

"The mechanism, perhaps, but it's your mother's teaching. The taste, madam," said Sir George, turning to Mrs. Paget.

"Both Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer are first-rate amateurs," said Mrs. Paget.

"Mrs. Mortimer has great talent," replied Sir George; "and she has done something with this boy. I suppose you are very fond of music, Louis?"

Louis answered in the affirmative, and Sir George added--

"I shall give you a treat. You shall go on Sunday to A----, and hear the singing at the church there. The little boys sing very sweetly. Have you heard them ma'am?"

"No, I never have."

"Then I think it would be a wise step to pay a visit there during divine service next Sunday. The church is worth looking at,--a good specimen of the early English style of architecture. We can make up a little party to go, if you would like it."

Mrs. Paget expressed her entire approbation of the scheme, and Louis, too sleepy to think much of it, wished her and Sir George good night, and went to bed.

The next day, the rain continuing, in the morning Louis enjoyed _The Lady of the Manor_ in his own room. He was still much excited by the yesterday's pleasure, and felt unsettled, and disinclined to employ himself steadily with any thing. In the afternoon, as the weather was fine, his mother insisted on his taking a walk, and Reginald and Vernon Digby accompanied him. They had a great scramble through the hilly district that surrounded Heronhurst, and merrily the talk (we will not dignify it by the name of conversation) continued. As they re-entered the grounds it fell upon the scheme of visiting the church, and during the light and common-place discussion that ensued, it struck Louis that there might be something wrong in the plan. He became very silent, and when he reached his room, quietly thought over the matter, and came to the conclusion that, though they intended going to church, yet the motives that induced their doing so were not to the glory of God, and that to employ servants for such an end, on God's holy day, was certainly wrong. This was his first impression; and when he next saw Reginald, he told him what he had been thinking of.

"Well, but Louis, you know it won't make any difference whether we go or not, and so _we_ shan't engage the servants. I don't see why, because you like nice singing, you should go to the chapel where they screech so abominably."

Louis was silent, for he hardly liked to oppose his reasons to Reginald's blunt speech, and Reginald, dismissing the subject from his mind, began to talk of something else. He ran on very volubly for a little while, without receiving any interruption from his brother, and, looking at him, he saw very plainly that Louis was not paying the slightest attention to him.

"What is the matter, Louis? How dull you are!"

"Nothing," replied Louis.

"Nothing?" repeated Reginald; "_Something_, you ought to say. I know you are making yourself miserable about this church-going, and what need is there? We are going to church, and we can't prevent the carriage going. If it were on purpose for us it would be different."

"But there will be a great deal of nonsense, I know," said Louis, uneasily. "It seems very much like going to a show place. I hope I shall be able to ask mamma about it."

"As to nonsense," replied Reginald, "when do we have any thing else here?--you can't make Dashwood of Heronhurst, and I think if you go to hear such beautiful singing, it is more likely to put good thoughts into your head than those lovely singers here; and then, Mr. Perrott is quite a famous man; everybody likes him better than Mr. Burton--you are too scrupulous, Louis. I think, sometimes, you are guilty of over-conscientiousness."

Before Louis could reply, some of their young friends entered the room, and one thing followed another so quickly that Louis had no time to think clearly on the subject till he went to bed; but when all was silent and nothing interfered with his thoughts, his anxious mind ran over all that had passed, and turn it which way he would, it still seemed wrong. What with this feeling, and the fear of making his grandfather angry, Louis felt very uncomfortable; and then came Reginald's sophistry, and Louis almost argued himself into the belief that his brother was right and he too scrupulous: and when he tried to pray for direction he did not feel sincere, for he was conscious of a wish to go to the church, and a great dread of offending his grandfather. After some hours' restless consideration, he dropped asleep, having made up his mind to consult his father and mother, and to abide by their counsel. The next day, however, he had no opportunity of speaking to them alone, and Saturday night found him as miserably undecided as before. "Oh dear, if there were any one I could ask!" There was One, and though aid was feebly asked, it was granted; and with much fear and anxiety, Louis declined accompanying the party to A---- church the next morning.

Vernon stared, and Reginald tried in vain to persuade him to alter his mind,--but he stood firm, and turning away from them, afraid to trust himself, stayed up stairs till the castle chapel bells began to ring, and then hastened down with a happy, free, and light heart, to join his mother.

"Hey-day, Louis!" exclaimed his grandfather; "I thought you were off long ago. You're too late: the carriage has been gone this hour. What's the meaning of these late hours, sir?"

"I was up quite early, grandfather," said Louis.

"Then how was it you let them go without you?"

"Because I had rather not go, sir," said Louis, with a heightened color.

"And pray why could you not say so sooner?--you are the most uncertain fellow;--not the smallest dependence ever to be placed upon you. Do you know your own mind, Mr. Louis?"

"Not always at first," replied Louis, in a low tone.

"Hold up your head and speak out. And pray why has your weather-cock mind changed? What new wind has blown you round now, eh?"

"It's Sunday, grandpapa," said Louis, looking up at his mother with a distressed face.

"Well! Is the boy moon-struck? '_It's Sunday, grandpapa._' Don't you suppose I know that?"

"I didn't think it was quite right, sir, to go to A---- church when we had one so near us."

"Just as you please," said Sir George, contemptuously--"just as you please, Master Louis; only do not expect me to plan any thing for your pleasure again."

"I am very much obliged, grandpapa--you don't understand me."

"Oh, we understand each other very well, sir," said his grandfather, turning off very haughtily.

As he passed Mr. Mortimer he said,

"This comes of _molly-coddling_ that boy at home; you'll make a Methodist of him."

What answer Mr. Mortimer made, Louis could not hear, and the next moment they all went into the chapel.

Many contemptuous smiles were exchanged among those of the visitors who heard the colloquy, but Louis was comforted by an approving smile from his parents, and from the sweet consciousness of having done what was right. The service was very sweet to him, and the lightness of his heart made even the inferior singing very pleasant, and he gained something from "tedious Mr. Burton's" sermon; so much depends on the frame of mind. Our Saviour has enjoined us to take heed _how_ we hear.

Louis had a very pleasant stroll in the park with his father after service, and when he entered the house with a happy quiet mind, he contrasted his feelings with those he should have had, had he been one of the giddy party at that time returning from A----, and joyfully thanked his heavenly Father for keeping him from dishonoring His holy day in "seeking his own pleasure" on it.

* * * * *

The following Thursday evening Mr. Mortimer's carriage was seen coming along the road leading to Dashwood, and at each window was a very joyful face noting all the familiar objects around; and as the horses dashed round a corner under a short grove of limes, the tongues belonging to the two began to move with astonishing rapidity.

"Here's Dashwood!" cried one.

"There's the river," exclaimed the other.

"The Priory chimneys," shouted the first.

"The Grange, Reginald," cried the second.

"And Bessie Gordon in the garden,--she sees us," cried Reginald, who had changed sides for a second. "Ann White's cottage, Louis--I saw the old picture of Lazarus large as ever--and the sheep--and I smell hay. Look, there's a hay-field, and Johnson with the hay-makers! Hillo, Johnson! He sees me."

"The bells, papa! The bells, mamma!" exclaimed Louis--"Oh, it's home, dear, sweet home! The bells are ringing because you are come home, papa; and look, there are all the people coming out of the cottages--how glad they seem to be!"

"Louis, Louis, here we go!" shouted Reginald, as the carriage swept down a lane arched over with green boughs.

Presently they came to the lodge gate; but not a moment had they to wait; it was wide open, and they could scarcely exchange marks of recognition with the gatekeeper and family, when they were out of sight in the long winding carriage road that led through the park.

"Welcome, welcome--home! The dear, dear old Priory," said Louis, with increasing enthusiasm.

"Take care you are not out on the grass, Louis," said his mother, seizing his arm.

"Here we are!" cried Reginald. "And there's Mary, the little pussy, and sober Neville, looking out of his wits, for a wonder. Here we are!"