"This
our hope for all that's mortal
And we too shall burst the bond;
Death keeps watch beside the portal,
But 'tis life that dwells beyond."
—JOHN STERLING.
Two years have passed since
the events recorded in the
last chapter, and the end of
the summer half-year is again
drawing on. Martin has left
and gone on a cruise in the
South Pacific, in one of his
uncle's ships; the old magpie,
as disreputable as ever, his
last bequest to Arthur, lives
in the joint study. Arthur
is nearly sixteen, and at the
head of the twenty, having
gone up the school at the rate
of a form a half-year. East
and Tom have been much more
deliberate in their progress,
and are only a little way up
the fifth form. Great strapping
boys they are, but still thorough
boys, filling about the same
place in the house that young
Brooke filled when they were
new boys, and much the same
sort of fellows. Constant intercourse
with Arthur has done much for
both of them, especially for
Tom; but much remains yet to
be done, if they are to get
all the good out of Rugby which
is to be got there in these
times. Arthur is still frail
and delicate, with more spirit
than body; but, thanks to his
intimacy with them and Martin,
has learned to swim, and run,
and play cricket, and has never
hurt himself by too much reading.
One evening,
as they were all sitting
down to supper
in the fifth-form room, some
one started a report that a
fever had broken out at one
of the boarding-houses. "They
say," he added, "that
Thompson is very ill, and that
Dr. Robertson has been sent
for from Northampton."
"Then we shall all be
sent home," cried another. "Hurrah!
five weeks' extra holidays,
and no fifth-form examination!"
"I hope not," said
Tom; "there'll be no Marylebone
match then at the end of the
half."
Some thought one thing, some
another, many didn't believe
the report; but the next day,
Tuesday, Dr. Robertson arrived,
and stayed all day, and had
long conferences with the Doctor.
On Wednesday morning, after
prayers, the Doctor addressed
the whole school. There were
several cases of fever in different
houses, he said; but Dr. Robertson,
after the most careful examination,
had assured him that it was
not infectious, and that if
proper care were taken, there
could be no reason for stopping
the school-work at present.
The examinations were just
coming on, and it would be
very unadvisable to break up
now. However, any boys who
chose to do so were at liberty
to write home, and, if their
parents wished it, to leave
at once. He should send the
whole school home if the fever
spread.
The next day Arthur sickened,
but there was no other case.
Before the end of the week
thirty or forty boys had gone,
but the rest stayed on. There
was a general wish to please
the Doctor, and a feeling that
it was cowardly to run away.
On the Saturday Thompson died,
in the bright afternoon, while
the cricket-match was going
on as usual on the big-side
ground. The Doctor, coming
from his deathbed, passed along
the gravel- walk at the side
of the close, but no one knew
what had happened till the
next day. At morning lecture
it began to be rumoured, and
by afternoon chapel was known
generally; and a feeling of
seriousness and awe at the
actual presence of death among
them came over the whole school.
In all the long years of his
ministry the Doctor perhaps
never spoke words which sank
deeper than some of those in
that day's sermon.
"When
I came yesterday from visiting
all but the very
death-bed of him who has been
taken from us, and looked around
upon all the familiar objects
and scenes within our own ground,
where your common amusements
were going on with your common
cheerfulness and activity,
I felt there was nothing painful
in witnessing that; it did
not seem in any way shocking
or out of tune with those feelings
which the sight of a dying
Christian must be supposed
to awaken. The unsuitableness
in point of natural feeling
between scenes of mourning
and scenes of liveliness did
not at all present itself.
But I did feel that if at that
moment any of those faults
had been brought before me
which sometimes occur amongst
us; had I heard that any of
you had been guilty of falsehood,
or of drunkenness, or of any
other such sin; had I heard
from any quarter the language
of profaneness, or of unkindness,
or of indecency; had I heard
or seen any signs of that wretched
folly which courts the laugh
of fools by affecting not to
dread evil and not to care
for good, then the unsuitableness
of any of these things with
the scene I had just quitted
would indeed have been most
intensely painful. And why?
Not because such things would
really have been worse than
at any other time, but because
at such a moment the eyes are
opened really to know good
and evil, because we then feel
what it is so to live as that
death becomes an infinite blessing,
and what it is so to live also
that it were good for us if
we had never been born."
Tom had gone
into chapel in sickening
anxiety about Arthur,
but he came out cheered and
strengthened by those grand
words, and walked up alone
to their study. And when he
sat down and looked round,
and saw Arthur's straw hat
and cricket-jacket hanging
on their pegs, and marked all
his little neat arrangements,
not one of which had been disturbed,
the tears indeed rolled down
his cheeks; but they were calm
and blessed tears, and he repeated
to himself, "Yes, Geordie's
eyes are opened; he knows what
it is so to live as that death
becomes an infinite blessing.
But do I? O God, can I bear
to lose him?"
The week passed mournfully
away. No more boys sickened,
but Arthur was reported worse
each day, and his mother arrived
early in the week. Tom made
many appeals to be allowed
to see him, and several times
tried to get up to the sick-room;
but the housekeeper was always
in the way, and at last spoke
to the Doctor, who kindly but
peremptorily forbade him.
Thompson was buried on the
Tuesday, and the burial service,
so soothing and grand always,
but beyond all words solemn
when read over a boy's grave
to his companions, brought
him much comfort, and many
strange new thoughts and longings.
He went back to his regular
life, and played cricket and
bathed as usual. It seemed
to him that this was the right
thing to do, and the new thoughts
and longings became more brave
and healthy for the effort.
The crisis came on Saturday;
the day week that Thompson
had died; and during that long
afternoon Tom sat in his study
reading his Bible, and going
every half-hour to the housekeeper's
room, expecting each time to
hear that the gentle and brave
little spirit had gone home.
But God had work for Arthur
to do. The crisis passed: on
Sunday evening he was declared
out of danger; on Monday he
sent a message to Tom that
he was almost well, had changed
his room, and was to be allowed
to see him the next day.
It was evening when the housekeeper
summoned him to the sick- room.
Arthur was lying on the sofa
by the open window, through
which the rays of the western
sun stole gently, lighting
up his white face and golden
hair. Tom remembered a German
picture of an angel which he
knew; often had he thought
how transparent and golden
and spirit-like it was; and
he shuddered, to think how
like it Arthur looked, and
felt a shock as if his blood
had all stopped short, as he
realized how near the other
world his friend must have
been to look like that. Never
till that moment had he felt
how his little chum had twined
himself round his heart-strings,
and as he stole gently across
the room and knelt down, and
put his arm round Arthur's
head on the pillow, felt ashamed
and half-angry at his own red
and brown face, and the bounding
sense of health and power which
filled every fibre of his body,
and made every movement of
mere living a joy to him. He
needn't have troubled himself:
it was this very strength and
power so different from his
own which drew Arthur so to
him.
Arthur laid his thin, white
hand, on which the blue veins
stood out so plainly, on Tom's
great brown fist, and smiled
at him; and then looked out
of the window again, as if
he couldn't bear to lose a
moment of the sunset, into
the tops of the great feathery
elms, round which the rooks
were circling and clanging,
returning in flocks from their
evening's foraging parties.
The elms rustled, the sparrows
in the ivy just outside the
window chirped and fluttered
about, quarrelling, and making
it up again; the rooks, young
and old, talked in chorus,
and the merry shouts of the
boys and the sweet click of
the cricket-bats came up cheerily
from below.
"Dear George," said
Tom, "I am so glad to
be let up to see you at last.
I've tried hard to come so
often, but they wouldn't let
me before."
"Oh,
I know, Tom; Mary has told
me every day about
you, and how she was obliged
to make the Doctor speak to
you to keep you away. I'm very
glad you didn't get up, for
you might have caught it; and
you couldn't stand being ill,
with all the matches going
on. And you're in the eleven,
too, I hear. I'm so glad."
"Yes; ain't it jolly?" said
Tom proudly. "I'm ninth
too. I made forty at the last
pie-match, and caught three
fellows out. So I was put in
above Jones and Tucker. Tucker's
so savage, for he was head
of the twenty-two."
"Well, I think you ought
to be higher yet," said
Arthur, who was as jealous
for the renown of Tom in games
as Tom was for his as a scholar.
"Never
mind. I don't care about
cricket or anything
now you're getting well, Geordie;
and I shouldn't have hurt,
I know, if they'd have let
me come up. Nothing hurts me.
But you'll get about now directly,
won't you? You won't believe
how clean I've kept the study.
All your things are just as
you left them; and I feed the
old magpie just when you used,
though I have to come in from
big-side for him, the old rip.
He won't look pleased all I
can do, and sticks his head
first on one side and then
on the other, and blinks at
me before he'll begin to eat,
till I'm half inclined to box
his ears. And whenever East
comes in, you should see him
hop off to the window, dot
and go one, though Harry wouldn't
touch a feather of him now."
Arthur laughed. "Old
Gravey has a good memory; he
can't forget the sieges of
poor Martin's den in old times." He
paused a moment, and then went
on: "You can't think how
often I've been thinking of
old Martin since I've been
ill. I suppose one's mind gets
restless, and likes to wander
off to strange, unknown places.
I wonder what queer new pets
the old boy has got. How he
must be revelling in the thousand
new birds, beasts, and fishes!"
Tom felt a
pang of jealousy, but kicked
it out in a moment. "Fancy
him on a South Sea island,
with the Cherokees, or Patagonians,
or some such wild niggers!" (Tom's
ethnology and geography were
faulty, but sufficient for
his needs.) "They'll make
the old Madman cock medicine-man,
and tattoo him all over. Perhaps
he's cutting about now all
blue, and has a squaw and a
wigwam. He'll improve their
boomerangs, and be able to
throw them too, without having
old Thomas sent after him by
the Doctor to take them away."
Arthur laughed
at the remembrance of the
boomerang story, but
then looked grave again, and
said, "He'll convert all
the island, I know."
"Yes,
if he don't blow it up first."
"Do you remember, Tom,
how you and East used to laugh
at him and chaff him, because
he said he was sure the rooks
all had calling-over or prayers,
or something of the sort, when
the locking-up bell rang? Well,
I declare," said Arthur,
looking up seriously into Tom's
laughing eyes, "I do think
he was right. Since I've been
lying here, I've watched them
every night; and, do you know,
they really do come and perch,
all of them, just about locking-up
time; and then first there's
a regular chorus of caws; and
then they stop a bit, and one
old fellow, or perhaps two
or three in different trees,
caw solos; and then off they
all go again, fluttering about
and cawing anyhow till they
roost."
"I wonder if the old
blackies do talk," said
Tom, looking up at them. "How
they must abuse me and East,
and pray for the Doctor for
stopping the slinging!"
"There! look, look!" cried
Arthur; "don't you see
the old fellow without a tail
coming up? Martin used to call
him the 'clerk.' He can't steer
himself. You never saw such
fun as he is in a high wind,
when he can't steer himself
home, and gets carried right
past the trees, and has to
bear up again and again before
he can perch."
The locking-up bell began
to toll, and the two boys were
silent, and listened to it.
The sound soon carried Tom
off to the river and the woods,
and he began to go over in
his mind the many occasions
on which he had heard that
toll coming faintly down the
breeze, and had to pack his
rod in a hurry and make a run
for it, to get in before the
gates were shut. He was roused
with a start from his memories
by Arthur's voice, gentle and
weak from his late illness.
"Tom,
will you be angry if I talk
to you very seriously?"
"No,
dear old boy, not I. But
ain't you faint, Arthur,
or ill? What can I get you?
Don't say anything to hurt
yourself now - you are very
weak; let me come up again."
"No,
no; I shan't hurt myself.
I'd sooner speak to
you now, if you don't mind.
I've asked Mary to tell the
Doctor that you are with me,
so you needn't go down to calling-over;
and I mayn't have another chance,
for I shall most likely have
to go home for change of air
to get well, and mayn't come
back this half."
"Oh,
do you think you must go
away before the end
of the half? I'm so sorry.
It's more than five weeks yet
to the holidays, and all the
fifth-form examination and
half the cricket-matches to
come yet. And what shall I
do all that time alone in our
study? Why, Arthur, it will
be more than twelve weeks before
I see you again. Oh, hang it,
I can't stand that! Besides
who's to keep me up to working
at the examination books? I
shall come out bottom of the
form, as sure as eggs is eggs."
Tom was rattling on, half
in joke, half in earnest, for
he wanted to get Arthur out
of his serious vein, thinking
it would do him harm; but Arthur
broke in, -
"Oh,
please, Tom, stop, or you'll
drive all I had to
say out of my head. And I'm
already horribly afraid I'm
going to make you angry."
"Don't gammon, young
un," rejoined Tom (the
use of the old name, dear to
him from old recollections,
made Arthur start and smile
and feel quite happy); "you
know you ain't afraid, and
you've never made me angry
since the first month we chummed
together. Now I'm going to
be quite sober for a quarter
of an hour, which is more than
I am once in a year; so make
the most of it; heave ahead,
and pitch into me right and
left."
"Dear Tom, I ain't going
to pitch into you," said
Arthur piteously; "and
it seems so cocky in me to
be advising you, who've been
my backbone ever since I've
been at Rugby, and have made
the school a paradise to me.
Ah, I see I shall never do
it, unless I go head over heels
at once, as you said when you
taught me to swim. Tom, I want
you to give up using vulgus-
books and cribs."
Arthur sank
back on to his pillow with
a sigh, as if the
effort had been great; but
the worst was now over, and
he looked straight at Tom,
who was evidently taken aback.
He leant his elbows on his
knees, and stuck his hands
into his hair, whistled a verse
of "Billy Taylor," and
then was quite silent for another
minute. Not a shade crossed
his face, but he was clearly
puzzled. At last he looked
up, and caught Arthur's anxious
look, took his hand, and said
simply, -
"Why,
young un?"
"Because
you're the honestest boy
in Rugby, and that ain't
honest."
"I don't
see that."
"What
were you sent to Rugby for?"
"Well,
I don't know exactly - nobody
ever told me. I suppose
because all boys are sent to
a public school in England."
"But
what do you think yourself?
What do you want
to do here, and to carry away?"
Tom thought
a minute. "I
want to be A1 at cricket and
football, and all the other
games, and to make my hands
keep my head against any fellow,
lout or gentleman. I want to
get into the sixth before I
leave, and to please the Doctor;
and I want to carry away just
as much Latin and Greek as
will take me through Oxford
respectably. There, now, young
un; I never thought of it before,
but that's pretty much about
my figure. Ain't it all on
the square? What have you got
to say to that?"
"Why,
that you are pretty sure
to do all that you want,
then."
"Well, I hope so. But
you've forgot one thing - what
I want to leave behind me.
I want to leave behind me," said
Tom, speaking slow, and looking
much moved, "the name
of a fellow who never bullied
a little boy, or turned his
back on a big one."
Arthur pressed
his hand, and after a moment's
silence went
on, "You say, Tom, you
want to please the Doctor.
Now, do you want to please
him by what he thinks you do,
or by what you really do?"
"By what
I really do, of course."
"Does
he think you use cribs and
vulgus-books?"
Tom felt at
once that his flank was turned,
but he couldn't
give in. "He was at Winchester
himself," said he; "he
knows all about it."
"Yes;
but does he think you use
them? Do you think
he approves of it?"
"You young villain!" said
Tom, shaking his fist at Arthur,
half vexed and half pleased, "I
never think about it. Hang
it! there, perhaps he don't.
Well, I suppose he don't."
Arthur saw
that he had got his point;
he knew his friend
well, and was wise in silence
as in speech. He only said, "I
would sooner have the doctor's
good opinion of me as I really
am than any man's in the world."
After another
minute, Tom began again, "Look here,
young un. How on earth am I
to get time to play the matches
this half if I give up cribs?
We're in the middle of that
long crabbed chorus in the
Agamemnon. I can only just
make head or tail of it with
the crib. Then there's Pericles's
speech coming on in Thucydides,
and 'The Birds' to get up for
the examination, besides the
Tacitus." Tom groaned
at the thought of his accumulated
labours. "I say, young
un, there's only five weeks
or so left to holidays. Mayn't
I go on as usual for this half?
I'll tell the Doctor about
it some day, or you may."
Arthur looked
out of the window. The twilight
had come on, and
all was silent. He repeated
in a low voice: "In this
thing the Lord pardon thy servant,
that when my master goeth into
the house of Rimmon to worship
there, and he leaneth on my
hand, and I bow down myself
in the house of Rimmon, when
I bow down myself in the house
of Rimmon, the Lord pardon
thy servant in this thing."
Not a word more was said on
the subject, and the boys were
again silent - one of those
blessed, short silences in
which the resolves which colour
a life are so often taken.
Tom was the
first to break it. "You've been very
ill indeed, haven't you, Geordie?" said
he, with a mixture of awe and
curiosity, feeling as if his
friend had been 1n some strange
place or scene, of which he
could form no idea, and full
of the memory of his own thoughts
during the last week.
"Yes,
very. I'm sure the Doctor
thought I was going
to die. He gave me the Sacrament
last Sunday, and you can't
think what he is when one is
ill. He said such brave, and
tender, and gentle things to
me, I felt quite light and
strong after it, and never
had any more fear. My mother
brought our old medical man,
who attended me when I was
a poor sickly child. He said
my constitution was quite changed,
and that I'm fit for anything
now. If it hadn't, I couldn't
have stood three days of this
illness. That's all thanks
to you, and the games you've
made me fond of."
"More thanks to old Martin," said
Tom; "he's been your real
friend."
"Nonsense,
Tom; he never could have
done for me what
you have."
"Well,
I don't know; I did little
enough. Did they
tell you - you won't mind hearing
it now, I know - that poor
Thompson died last week? The
other three boys are getting
quite round, like you."
"Oh yes,
I heard of it."
Then Tom,
who was quite full of it,
told Arthur of the burial-
service in the chapel, and
how it had impressed him, and,
he believed, all the other
boys. "And though the
Doctor never said a word about
it," said he, "and
it was a half-holiday and match-
day, there wasn't a game played
in the close all the afternoon,
and the boys all went about
as if it were Sunday."
"I'm very glad of it," said
Arthur. "But, Tom, I've
had such strange thoughts about
death lately. I've never told
a soul of them, not even my
mother. Sometimes I think they're
wrong, but, do you know, I
don't think in my heart I could
be sorry at the death of any
of my friends."
Tom was taken
quite aback. "What
in the world is the young un
after now?" thought he; "I've
swallowed a good many of his
crotchets, but this altogether
beats me. He can't be quite
right in his head." He
didn't want to say a word,
and shifted about uneasily
in the dark; however, Arthur
seemed to be waiting for an
answer, so at last he said, "I
don't think I quite see what
you mean, Geordie. One's told
so often to think about death
that I've tried it on sometimes,
especially this last week.
But we won't talk of it now.
I'd better go. You're getting
tired, and I shall do you harm."
"No,
no; indeed I ain't, Tom.
You must stop till nine;
there's only twenty minutes.
I've settled you shall stop
till nine. And oh! do let me
talk to you - I must talk to
you. I see it's just as I feared.
You think I'm half mad. Don't
you, now?"
"Well,
I did think it odd what you
said, Geordie,
as you ask me."
Arthur paused
a moment, and then said quickly, "I'll
tell you how it all happened.
At first, when I was sent to
the sick- room, and found I
had really got the fever, I
was terribly frightened. I
thought I should die, and I
could not face it for a moment.
I don't think it was sheer
cowardice at first, but I thought
how hard it was to be taken
away from my mother and sisters
and you all, just as I was
beginning to see my way to
many things, and to feel that
I might be a man and do a man's
work. To die without having
fought, and worked, and given
one's life away, was too hard
to bear. I got terribly impatient,
and accused God of injustice,
and strove to justify myself.
And the harder I strove the
deeper I sank. Then the image
of my dear father often came
across me, but I turned from
it. Whenever it came, a heavy,
numbing throb seemed to take
hold of my heart, and say,
'Dead-dead-dead.' And I cried
out, 'The living, the living
shall praise Thee, O God; the
dead cannot praise thee. There
is no work in the grave; in
the night no man can work.
But I can work. I can do great
things. I will do great things.
Why wilt thou slay me?' And
so I struggled and plunged,
deeper and deeper, and went
down into a living black tomb.
I was alone there, with no
power to stir or think; alone
with myself; beyond the reach
of all human fellowship; beyond
Christ's reach, I thought,
in my nightmare. You, who are
brave and bright and strong,
can have no idea of that agony.
Pray to God you never may.
Pray as for your life."
Arthur stopped - from exhaustion,
Tom thought; but what between
his fear lest Arthur should
hurt himself, his awe, and
his longing for him to go on,
he couldn't ask, or stir to
help him.
Presently
he went on, but quite calm
and slow. "I
don't know how long I was in
that state - for more than
a day, I know; for I was quite
conscious, and lived my outer
life all the time, and took
my medicines, and spoke to
my mother, and heard what they
said. But I didn't take much
note of time. I thought time
was over for me, and that that
tomb was what was beyond. Well,
on last Sunday morning, as
I seemed to lie in that tomb,
alone, as I thought, for ever
and ever, the black, dead wall
was cleft in two, and I was
caught up and borne through
into the light by some great
power, some living, mighty
spirit. Tom, do you remember
the living creatures and the
wheels in Ezekiel? It was just
like that. 'When they went,
I heard the noise of their
wings, like the noise of great
waters, as the voice of the
Almighty, the voice of speech,
as the noise of an host; when
they stood, they let down their
wings.' 'And they went every
one straight forward: whither
the spirit was to go, they
went; and they turned not when
they went.' And we rushed through
the bright air, which was full
of myriads of living creatures,
and paused on the brink of
a great river. And the power
held me up, and I knew that
that great river was the grave,
and death dwelt there, but
not the death I had met in
the black tomb. That, I felt,
was gone for ever. For on the
other bank of the great river
I saw men and women and children
rising up pure and bright,
and the tears were wiped from
their eyes, and they put on
glory and strength, and all
weariness and pain fell away.
And beyond were a multitude
which no man could number,
and they worked at some great
work; and they who rose from
the river went on and joined
in the work. They all worked,
and each worked in a different
way, but all at the same work.
And I saw there my father,
and the men in the old town
whom I knew when I was a child
- many a hard, stern man, who
never came to church, and whom
they called atheist and infidel.
There they were, side by side
with my father, whom I had
seen toil and die for them,
and women and little children,
and the seal was on the foreheads
of all. And I longed to see
what the work was, and could
not; so I tried to plunge in
the river, for I thought I
would join them, but I could
not. Then I looked about to
see how they got into the river.
And this I could not see, but
I saw myriads on this side,
and they too worked, and I
knew that it was the same work,
and the same seal was on their
foreheads. And though I saw
that there was toil and anguish
in the work of these, and that
most that were working were
blind and feeble, yet I longed
no more to plunge into the
river, but more and more to
know what the work was. And
as I looked I saw my mother
and my sisters, and I saw the
Doctor, and you, Tom, and hundreds
more whom I knew; and at last
I saw myself too, and I was
toiling and doing ever so little
a piece of the great work.
Then it all melted away, and
the power left me, and as it
left me I thought I heard a
voice say, 'The vision is for
an appointed time; though it
tarry, wait for it, for in
the end it shall speak and
not lie, it shall surely come,
it shall not tarry.' It was
early morning I know, then
- it was so quiet and cool,
and my mother was fast asleep
in the chair by my bedside;
but it wasn't only a dream
of mine. I know it wasn't a
dream. Then I fell into a deep
sleep, and only woke after
afternoon chapel; and the Doctor
came and gave me the Sacrament,
as I told you. I told him and
my mother I should get well
- I knew I should; but I couldn't
tell them why. Tom," said
Arthur gently, after another
minute, "do you see why
I could not grieve now to see
my dearest friend die? It can't
be - it isn't - all fever or
illness. God would never have
let me see it so clear if it
wasn't true. I don't understand
it all yet; it will take me
my life and longer to do that
- to find out what the work
is."
When Arthur stopped there
was a long pause. Tom could
not speak; he was almost afraid
to breathe, lest he should
break the train of Arthur's
thoughts. He longed to hear
more, and to ask questions.
In another minute nine o'clock
struck, and a gentle tap at
the door called them both back
into the world again. They
did not answer, however, for
a moment; and so the door opened,
and a lady came in carrying
a candle.
She went straight to the sofa,
and took hold of Arthur's hand,
and then stooped down and kissed
him.
"My dearest
boy, you feel a little feverish
again.
Why didn't you have lights?
You've talked too much, and
excited yourself in the dark."
"Oh no,
mother; you can't think how
well I feel. I shall
start with you to-morrow for
Devonshire. But, mother, here's
my friend - here's Tom Brown.
You know him?"
"Yes, indeed; I've known
him for years," she said,
and held out her hand to Tom,
who was now standing up behind
the sofa. This was Arthur's
mother: tall and slight and
fair, with masses of golden
hair drawn back from the broad,
white forehead, and the calm
blue eye meeting his so deep
and open - the eye that he
knew so well, for it was his
friend's over again, and the
lovely, tender mouth that trembled
while he looked - she stood
there, a woman of thirty-eight,
old enough to be his mother,
and one whose face showed the
lines which must be written
on the faces of good men's
wives and widows, but he thought
he had never seen anything
so beautiful. He couldn't help
wondering if Arthur's sisters
were like her.
Tom held her hand, and looked
on straight in her face; he
could neither let it go nor
speak.
"Now, Tom," said
Arthur, laughing, "where
are your manners? You'll stare
my mother out of countenance." Tom
dropped the little hand with
a sigh. "There, sit down,
both of you. - Here, dearest
mother; there's room here." And
he made a place on the sofa
for her. - "Tom, you needn't
go; I'm sure you won't be called
up at first lesson." Tom
felt that he would risk being
floored at every lesson for
the rest of his natural school-life
sooner than go, so sat down. "And
now," said Arthur, "I
have realized one of the dearest
wishes of my life - to see
you two together."
And then he led away the talk
to their home in Devonshire,
and the red, bright earth,
and the deep green combes,
and the peat streams like cairngorm
pebbles, and the wild moor
with its high, cloudy tors
for a giant background to the
picture, till Tom got jealous,
and stood up for the clear
chalk streams, and the emerald
water meadows and great elms
and willows of the dear old
royal county, as he gloried
to call it. And the mother
sat on quiet and loving, rejoicing
in their life. The quarter
to ten struck, and the bell
rang for bed, before they had
well begun their talk, as it
seemed.
Then Tom rose with a sigh
to go.
"Shall I see you in the
morning, Geordie?" said
he, as he shook his friend's
hand. "Never mind, though;
you'll be back next half. And
I shan't forget the house of
Rimmon."
Arthur's mother
got up and walked with him
to the door,
and there gave him her hand
again; and again his eyes met
that deep, loving look, which
was like a spell upon him.
Her voice trembled slightly
as she said, "Good-night.
You are one who knows what
our Father has promised to
the friend of the widow and
the fatherless. May He deal
with you as you have dealt
with me and mine!"
Tom was quite
upset; he mumbled something
about owing everything
good in him to Geordie, looked
in her face again, pressed
her hand to his lips, and rushed
downstairs to his study, where
he sat till old Thomas came
kicking at the door, to tell
him his allowance would be
stopped if he didn't go off
to bed. (It would have been
stopped anyhow, but that he
was a great favourite with
the old gentleman, who loved
to come out in the afternoons
into the close to Tom's wicket,
and bowl slow twisters to him,
and talk of the glories of
bygone Surrey heroes, with
whom he had played former generations.)
So Tom roused himself, and
took up his candle to go to
bed; and then for the first
time was aware of a beautiful
new fishing-rod, with old Eton's
mark on it, and a splendidly-bound
Bible, which lay on his table,
on the title-page of which
was written - "TOM BROWN,
from his affectionate and grateful
friends, Frances Jane Arthur;
George Arthur."
I leave you all to guess how
he slept, and what he dreamt
of.
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