Chapter VI: A Break-Up

Pacing up and down the river bank in a terrible excitement, or sitting in some solitary place with his eyes staring vacantly, or with head buried in his trembling hands, through which the tears would trickle, a man might have been seen haunting the neighborhood of Blackrock. It was Mr. Morton, so altered that those who knew him best almost failed to recognize in him the same man.

Let us not inquire too narrowly into the causes of this remarkable change.

It was not until all hope with regard to the recovery of Digby's body was abandoned, that it was so strikingly apparent. At first there was the rebellious cry from his heart, "It cannot be true; it shall not be true," and then a gentler and more subdued frame of mind ensued, as he prayed, "Oh that it may not be true," until at length it was useless to hope against hope, and the strong man bowed down his broken heart, as he said, "O God! it is true."

And what of Ethel?

It was her first loss, poor child, and her first contact with a great appalling sorrow. She was perplexed and stunned with the dreadful blow. She seemed utterly alone now; whether or not she really could have relied on Digby in the past for advice and guidance, does not matter--she felt she could, and now this source of reliance had gone. Her father was changed, so changed that he seemed almost a stranger, and now in this crisis of her need she felt that he could yield neither help nor sympathy to her, while she was impotent to minister to him.

It was well for Ethel that at the time of her sad visit to Blackrock, Madeleine Greenwood was there, for in her she found a companion of her own age, and a comforter as well as friend.

As the time drew near for Mr. Morton to return to Ashley House, the attachment which had sprung up between the two girls became closer and more intimate, and when Ethel returned to Ashley House, it was a very great satisfaction to her to have Madeleine with her for a lengthened visit, a concession which Mr. Morton could not deny to her earnest entreaties.

The clothes of poor Digby, his books and school treasures, were packed up and sent away. The Doctor held a funeral service with the boys on the Sunday after the catastrophe, and addressed them briefly, but with great earnestness and emotion, on the loss they had sustained, and the awful suddenness of death, urging upon all the necessity of preparation, as none knew the day nor hour when the change would come.

A week later a marble column was raised upon the spot where the clothes were found, bearing this simple inscription: "In loving memory of D. M., who was drowned while bathing, June 18, 18--, aged 17 years."

On the evening of the day when the stone was raised, Martin and Howard sat together beside it.

Howard was very pale, and looked as if he had gone through a severe illness. He sat for some time gazing at the monument, until a tear dimmed his eye.

"My good fellow," said Martin, "why do you give way to so much useless regret? You are so morbidly sensitive that you seem to blame yourself as though you had been guilty of poor Digby's death."

Howard made no reply to his friend's remark, and for some moments remained quite silent. Then he said; "Martin, I shall never forgive myself about poor Digby. I fear I have wronged him."

"You wronged him? What do you mean?"

"I mean that in that miserable affair about the miniature, I reflected the blame in some degree upon him; I could not at the time help thinking that he knew something about it, and I fear I caused a wrong suspicion to rest on him. It is useless to give way to regret, but I do so wish I could speak to him just once again, to say that I now feel that I wronged him by my suspicions."

"Are you quite satisfied in your own mind, that you did wrong him?" asked Martin.

"Yes; something has happened which I have not mentioned to a soul, and shall not, except to you. Since poor Digby's death, I have lost my overcoat. I wore it on that cold Sunday night, and afterward hung it up in my room. I should not have missed it, but that I had left in the pocket my Bible--you remember the one, it was given to me by my father when I first left home for school. I have searched everywhere for the coat, and cannot find it. It is a great loss to me, for I would have parted with anything else in the world rather than lose that Bible."

"Have you not mentioned it to my uncle?" asked Martin, his face taking on a sharper look.

"No; he is worried and sad as it is, and I hate the idea of reflecting upon fellows in the school. It will turn up in time, perhaps, but I can't help thinking that there must be some thief in the school, and that the coat has gone where the miniature went."

"I really think it would be well to tell the Doctor," said Martin.

"Well, I may do so yet; but we break up next week, and if the truth should not be discovered, every boy will leave with a suspicion resting upon him,--for this is not confined to the twenty,--and it will do the school a great injury. But I tell it to you, Martin, because as I shall not return after this term, you know, you can keep your eyes open in case anything should turn up about it."

"What a wretched break-up we are having, altogether!" said Martin, after a little pause, in which he was thinking whether to take Howard's view of the case, or to still persuade him to make the matter known. "A break-up of Mr. Morton's home; a break-up of the Doctor's health, I fear, for all this anxiety has distressed him sadly; and a break-up of our little fraternity here, for now that you are going, and Digby gone, and Aleck Fraser is on the move, our 'set' will never be made up again. I hope, though, that our friendship will not be broken up."

"It never shall, if I can help it," said Howard; "and now while we are talking about it, will you promise to write to me, and tell me all about the school, as long as you stay in it, and about the Doctor, and Mrs. Brier, and especially all about yourself?"

The promise was duly made, and unlike many promises of a similar nature, was faithfully fulfilled.

The day before the breaking up, Dr. Brier asked Howard to speak with him in the library.

"My dear Howard," said the Doctor, putting his hand on his shoulder, "I cannot let you leave the school without telling you how deeply I regret parting with you. Your conduct has always been exemplary, and your influence beneficial in the school. I am sorry that the clouds have gathered round us so darkly lately, but some day we shall see through them, if we cannot at present. I want you to know that throughout, I consider you to have held a manly and a Christian course, and you have my unqualified approval of your conduct, as you have my sincere belief in the uprightness and integrity of your character. God bless you, my dear lad, wherever you go, and make those principles which have distinguished you in your school-life, useful to the world, in whatever part of it your lot may be cast! And now I wish to give you this little present, as a token of friendship, and let it serve as a reminder to you, that as long as I live, I shall be glad and thankful to serve you."

It was a handsome set of books the Doctor gave him, and more than all his other treasures of prizes and friendly presents, was this one preserved, for it assured him that the Doctor, who never said what he did not believe, regarded him with the same trust as ever.