Chapter XIV: The First Skirmish

"Tom, I feel in such bad humour with myself," said Willy, as the two brothers prepared to go to rest in the chamber provided for them.

"Well, I feel uncommonly merry; we've fine fun, capital games, comfortable quarters, and a pleasant companion, I am sure. Are you not contented with them?"

"I am not contented with myself," said Willy. "I say, Tom, I think that we two are little better than cowards."

"What do you mean?" cried his brother angrily.

"Why, things made us laugh that should have made us blush, though that verse was sounding in my ears, 'Fools make a mock of sin;' and we quietly heard our poor lame friend abused, called a pitiful creature, a miserable little fellow, when, if we had had the spirit of a Nesham—if we had had any spirit at all—we would have stood up for poor Percy when he was not here to stand up for himself."

Tom looked annoyed, but made no reply.

"You know," continued Willy, "even the little boy in the tale went to the rescue of his cousin who was under the claws of the bear."

"Ah! If Percy were attacked by a bear!"

"There's no use in saying that, Tom; he is not likely to be so. We cannot choose our opportunities of showing our courage; if it is in us it will shine out on any occasion! I don't believe that either you or I said grace, because we were afraid of Sir Hugh and his son; and if we had been at home with mamma and dear old uncle, we should have been just as much afraid to have left off saying it."

"I wish that you would leave off this nonsense. I'm no coward, whatever you may be; I'm afraid of nothing and nobody!"

With these words, Tom threw himself upon his bed, tired, and, notwithstanding his words, not altogether pleased with himself. Willy knelt down, and after praying for pardon for the past, asked for strength to withstand temptation more firmly in future, and concluded with an earnest prayer for his suffering aunt, and the anxious ones watching beside her.

The next morning was Sunday, and the bright, glad sun seemed to welcome the day of rest. No one at the breakfast-table of Sir Hugh would have guessed that the day was holy to the Lord. Merry Jests and plans for diversion were varied but with details of business; the only books on the drawing-room table were the "Sporting Magazine" and Thackeray's last novel.

The boys, however, were at length desired by Sir Hugh to get ready for church. He was too much engaged himself, he said, but he liked his pew to be filled in the morning.

Tom and Willy had been accustomed to a quiet-walk to the house of God, a time for serious thought and preparation for the service; but serious thought was now out of the question. Ned was full of the description of a pony-race as he walked, swinging his cane with an independent air, and now and then whistling to his dog. Presently down a lane which ran into the road which they were pursuing, slowly rolled a little donkey-chaise.

"There's Percy Manners!" exclaimed Tom suddenly.

"Don't shout out his name in that way," said Ned impatiently, "to make people think that we have anything to say to a mean, despicable shrimp like that!"

Poor Percy had caught sight of his former companions. A flush of pleasure rose to his pale brow, as he gave an eager look of recognition; but that flush soon faded away, and his smile changed to an expression of deep mortification, as he saw those whom he had known as equals and friends pass on without noticing the poor lame youth!

"This is another bitter drop in my cup," thought he. "They are ashamed to acknowledge me now!" He gazed wistfully after the three; the next moment one of them separated from the others, and Willy ran back to the side of the chaise.

"Oh! I am so glad to meet you—to see the face of an old friend!" exclaimed Percy, wringing his hand.

"I cannot stop now," said Willy hurriedly, "but—"

"Oh! You will come and see me; you do not know how much I need some one to feel for me. Our house is the first tall one in the village on the left-hand side, with my uncle's name on a brass plate—you cannot mistake it. Say you will come."

"I will, indeed," said Willy, pressing the thin hand which still grasped his own. "I am two miles nearer you now, quite within a walk, for I am staying at Anderdon Hall; but it is possible that I may go home to-morrow."

"Oh I come, then, to-day, after service. It is a good deed to visit the sick, even your uncle—"

"Hilloa! Willy!" shouted Ned, looking angrily back.

"You will promise me?" said Percy in a tone of entreaty.

"Willy! What on earth are you stopping for?"

"I will come and see you, Percy, if I possibly can," said Willy, gently disengaging his hand. He ran back to his companions with a lighter heart; and when he thought on Percy's earnest eyes, and thin features, worn by care and pain, he could well endure to meet the frown on the countenance of Ned Moncton.

Two other boys, sons of a neighbour, shared their pew in the church, which they now entered—rough, thoughtless boys, who without one feeling of reverence or awe, attended, but did not join in the service of the Almighty. The Gores were accustomed to repeat in a low tone the supplications offered up to God: a glance, a whisper, from one of the Murchisons effectually silenced Tom, he was afraid to appear devout where devotion might be a subject for ridicule. Very low was Willy's murmured prayer—the fear of man was still strong upon him, he was not constitutionally bold—the soldier of Christ was weak, but he struggled to maintain his ground, remembering that awful sentence spoken by the Saviour—"' Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me and of My words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed when He shall come in His own glory, and in His Father's, and with the holy angels.'"

The Murchisons returned to luncheon with the party, and added not a little to the merriment and noise. It was no small relief to Willy that Sir Hugh was absent, for he dreaded the knight's burst of anger on hearing of his young guest's meeting with the nephew of the hated attorney.

After the meal was concluded, Ned proposed a game of billiards.

"Billiards! Oh yes by all means!" said the Murchisons.

Tom's conscience was startled at length. He knew so well the opinion of his mother on reverencing the Lord's-day, and her image rose so visibly before him, that he resolved, if possible, net to break at once her commands and those of his Maker.

"I don't feel inclined to play," said he, as Ned turned to ask his assent.

"Not inclined!" cried Ned impatiently. "No nonsensical scruples, I hope?"

"I played so much yesterday," replied Tom, evading the question.

"That's no reason why you should not play to-day."

"But I think I—I should prefer a walk over your beautiful grounds," stammered the boy.

"You shall have the walk presently; play first, business afterwards, as my tutor used to observe."

"Here's Willy all ready for a game."

"No," said Willy briefly.

"What a couple of unsociable young puppies!" exclaimed Jack Murchison.

"Now, I should just like to know your reasons," said Ned, coming close up to the little boy in a bullying manner. "I suppose that you will say that you are tired of the game, and think a walk in our grounds much more charming?"

"No," again replied Willy, who was flushing up to the temples.

"Then, why won't you play at billiards?"

"My mother would not like it."

This announcement was received with a roar of laughter from the three other boys, which made Tom feel uneasy, and Willy's cheeks grew hotter and hotter.

"Oh! The dear little manikin! Him would not vex his mammy—him would not play with naughty boys!" cried Ned in a jeering tone. "But mammy shan't know, dear; you're not just tied by her apron-strings; you're out of reach of a blow from her bodkin!" There was another vociferous roar.

"I wonder that you ventured to eat your dinner on Sunday," laughed Ned.

Poor Willy looked at his brother, but his brother did not come to his aid.

"Now, Willy, I say, you must just put aside all this absurd nonsense while you are here, and do at Rome as the Romans do," said Ned more gravely. "We don't want to hear any more of your mother's fancies."

"But I am sure that my mother is right," exclaimed Willy with an effort, moving towards the door to make his escape.

"You are, are you? And you are going to sneak away, little puling coward."

Willy turned suddenly round, with his hand on the door-handle. "I should be a coward if I feared you, but it is not cowardice to fear God;" and with these words he hastily quitted the room.

"Pursue him! catch him!" cried the Murchisons.

"No, let him go. We are better without him," said Ned sullenly. "The shorter time he stays here the better. I'd send him back to his mammy. Come, Tom, you are a boy of a braver spirit; you are not afraid to do what you like; come, and be my partner at the billiard-table."

In a few minutes Tom was standing with the cue in his hand, hitting with unsteady aim at the balls, and wishing that he had never crossed the threshold of Anderdon Hall.