"Now, Louis, my dear, there is ten o'clock."

"Yes, mamma, I will go directly."

"Directly," in some persons' vocabulary, being an ambiguous term, another quarter of an hour saw Louis in the same place, quite absorbed.

"Louis, Louis!"

"Yes, mamma." And Louis got up, book and all, and walked across the room, reading all the way. After knocking his head against the door, and walking into the library instead of into the school-room, he at last found himself at the table where his writing-desk stood, without any further excuse, but there he stood for a minute or two reading, and then, still continuing, felt for his key, and slipped it along the front of his desk for some time in the most absent and fruitless manner.

Being obliged, at length, to lay aside the book, he unlocked the desk, and opening it, laid the dear volume thereon, and read while he carried his desk to another table. Then a few books were fetched in the same dawdling way, Louis all the while persuading himself--foolish boy--that he was merely occupying the time of walking across the room in reading.

A few minutes more, and a chair was dragged along, and Louis seated.

Then he reluctantly laid his book down open beside him and commenced.

It would be tiresome to say how often when the dictionary or something else had to be referred to, a half page or more of the story was read, and to remark how equally Louis enjoyed his amus.e.m.e.nt and profited by his study. He was finally overwhelmed with confusion when his father, entering the room, came and looked over his shoulder, making some remark on the economy of time exhibited in thus ingeniously blending together his work and play without profiting by either.

"But indeed, papa, I don't know how it is; I made up my mind to be very industrious, and I was very steady yesterday."

"You put me in mind of a story of a man who made a vow to abstain from frequenting beer-shops, and who, on the first day of his resolution, pa.s.sed several successively, until he came to the last that lay on his way home, when he stopped and exclaimed, 'Well done, Resolution! I'll treat you for this,' and walked in."

"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Louis, laughing.

"Don't you think this looks very much like treating resolution?"

said his father, taking up the open book.

"I can't tell how it is, papa," said Louis, looking ashamed. "I a.s.sure you I did not mean to waste time; I cannot help being interested in stories, and unless I leave off reading them altogether, I don't know what to do."

"As reading stories is not a duty," said his father, "I would certainly advise your leaving off reading them if they interfere with what is so clearly one; but do you not think there is any way of arranging your affairs so as to prevent a harmless recreation from doing this?"

"I can't depend upon myself, papa. If it were Reginald, he could throw his book down directly, and do at once what he ought, and so would Neville, but it is quite a trouble to me sometimes even to bring my thoughts to bear upon dry studies, particularly mathematics, which I hate."

"I allow there is some difference of const.i.tution; Reginald is not so fond of reading as you are, and has naturally more power of turning his attention from one subject to another; but this power may be acquired, and if you grow up with this inclination to attend only to those things for which you take fancies and fits, you will not be a very useful member of society; for it must always be remembered that consistency is essential to a useful character, and that without it, though many may love, few will respect you."

"I wish I could be like Neville; he is like a clock, and never lets any one thing interfere with another, and he always has time for all he wants to do, and is never in a hurry and flurry as I am; I think he has nothing to struggle with."

"Indeed, my dear Louis, he has. Neville has as many faults as the generality of boys, but you must not forget how much longer he has begun the good fight than yourself; and the earlier we begin to struggle against the corruptions of our nature, the easier the task is; but, Louis, instead of wishing yourself like Neville, or any one else, think how you may approach most nearly to the high standard of excellence which is placed before us all."

"But, father, how can I? What must I do?" sighed Louis. "You cannot tell how difficult it is to keep good resolutions. I fear I shall never be any better."

"What is the grace of G.o.d, my boy?" said Mr. Mortimer, laying his hand on Louis' shoulder; "tell me, what is the grace of G.o.d?"

"G.o.d's favor and help," replied Louis.

"And to whom is this promised?"

"To all who will ask for it, father."

"And will you say you can do nothing? Oh, my dear son! G.o.d is a G.o.d of all grace, and can give to each of us what we need for every emergency.

Without Him, we can, indeed, do _nothing_, but with _Him_ we may do _all things_; and blessed be His name for this unspeakable gift by which He works in man a gradual restoration to more than his primeval condition.

Called with a holy calling, my boy, seek to glorify G.o.d in every little affair of life; take your religion into these unpleasant studies, and you will find them pleasures."

"But, father, there is one thing I want to say. Often when I pray, I do not seem able to do things that I wish and ought."

"There may be two reasons for that," replied his father. "The first, that you are not sufficiently in earnest in your pet.i.tions; and next, that you imagine that your prayers are to do all, without any exertion on your part--that the mere fact of having asked the help of the Almighty will insure you a supernatural ease and delight in performing these duties, forgetting that, while we are in this world we have to fight, to run steadily forward, not to sit still and expect all to be smooth for us.

We must show diligence unto the end--we must watch as well as pray.

You remember the parable of the withered hand?"

"Yes, father."

"And you remember that our Lord commanded the man to stretch forth his hand. He might have pleaded that it was powerless; but no, the Lord had given him power at the moment he desired him to exert it; and just so to every Christian, G.o.d is a G.o.d of all grace, and will give to each of us the peculiar grace we need; but we must not lock it up and imagine it to be efficacious without exertion on our part."

Louis was silent for some minutes. At length he turned his face up to his father, and said--

"What would you advise me to do?"

"What do you think yourself would be best?" said his father. "Think always _after_ earnest prayer for divine guidance, what seems right to do, what the Bible says, and how it will be to the glory of your Saviour; then, when you have made up your mind as to the rect.i.tude of any plan of action, let your movements be prompt and decided, and do not leave the silly heart any room to suggest its excuses and modifications. Your judgment may sometimes err, but it is better for the judgment than the conscience to be in fault. Be a.s.sured that if you thus acknowledge G.o.d in all your ways, He will direct your paths."

Louis paused another moment, and said--

"Will you take that book, father, and not let me have it any more to-day, as it has interfered so much with my study; and I will try to be more industrious. I will finish my Prometheus and Euclid, and the projection of my map, and then, perhaps, I shall be ready for the reading."

Mr. Mortimer shook his head as he held up his watch before his son's eyes--

"Too late, Louis. The time is lost, and something must be missed to-day."

"Then, papa, I will do my Greek, and go to the reading, and then, instead of amusing myself after lunch, I will do the other things--and please take that book away with you."

"I had rather leave it," said Mr. Mortimer. "You must learn to act for yourself and by yourself. You do not expect to be always a boy, and if these weaknesses are not checked now, you will grow up a weak man, sadly dependent upon external influences and circ.u.mstances. Put the book out of your way by all means, but let it be your own act. And now I will leave you to do your work, for I see you have done very little, and that little very ill."

When his father had left the room, Louis put the book on a shelf, and, turning his back to it, set himself to work with earnest determination.

He rewrote what he had done so badly, took great pains with the new edition, and had the satisfaction of receiving his father's approval of his work in the evening. After lunch his disagreeable Euclid was completed, and the map finished, and Louis refrained steadily from looking at the book for the rest of the day; nor did he, though sorely inclined, open it the next day until he could do so with a safe conscience.

For the remainder of the holidays Louis adhered to his resolution; but I do not mean to say he trusted on his own resolution: that he had found, by painful experience, to be a broken reed. In dependence upon an Almighty helper, he steadily endeavored from day to day to perform what was required of him in his station and circ.u.mstances, and found his reward in peace of mind and consciousness of growing in grace.

CHAPTER XIII.

It seems, by common consent, established among school-boys, that school and school-masters are necessary evils, only endurable because incurable, and that, as a matter of course, the return to school must be looked on as a species of martyrdom, the victims of which are unanimously opposed to the usual persuasives that school-days are the happiest, and that they will wish themselves back again before they have left it long.

We will not attempt to account for this perversity of opinion in the minds of the individuals alluded to, nor have we any intention of inst.i.tuting an inquiry as to the probability of the origin of this repugnance to scholastic life being in the natural opposition of man's mind to discipline or order, and the tendency therein to dislike all that is especially arranged and placed before him plainly for his benefit; but I am sure that most of those among my readers who either have been, or are school-boys at this moment, will agree with me in declaring that, returning to school, after the vacation, is a dismal affair, and that, during the first week or fortnight, certain rebellious feelings are prominent, which it would be treason to breathe.

The close of the holidays had arrived, and it was decided that Louis should return to school with his brother, notwithstanding his great wish to the contrary; but now his principles were firmer, his father was of opinion that mixing with a large party of boys was more calculated to supply what was wanting in his character than staying at home with his mother and sister, and, consequently, a day or two after the reopening of Ashfield House, Reginald and Louis were placed by their father safely in a coach that started from Norwich, and, in a rather sorrowful mood, began their long journey.

I have no adventures to mention; romantic incidents are rarely met with in a school-boy's life; nor was there any thing remarkable to relate in the day and a half's travel, beyond the stoppage for meals, and the changes of vehicle. Louis and his brother generally patronized the top of the coach, but as they drew near Bristol, Louis grew so sleepy and tired, from the length of the journey, as well as the imperfect slumber obtained inside the preceding night, that he preferred changing his quarters, to the risk of falling from his perch above. It so happened that the coach was empty inside, and Louis indulged himself by stretching at full length on one of the seats, and soon lost the recollection of his troubles in sleep. How long he had slept he could not tell, when the stopping of the coach disturbed him, and rising lazily, he looked out to see where they were. Instead, however, of the "White Lion," in Bristol, or the "Roadside Inn," with the four waiting horses, there was opposite the window a pretty house, standing in a moderately sized garden, gay with countless flowers, green gra.s.s, and waving trees. It was such a house as Louis with his romance loved; low and old-fashioned, with a broad gla.s.s door in the centre, on one side of which was a long cas.e.m.e.nt-window, and on the other, two thick sashes. The house, extending to some length, displayed among the evergreen shrubs, delicate roses and honey-suckles, a variety of odd windows, from the elegant French to the deep old-fashioned bay; and over the front, almost entirely concealing the rough gray stucco, was a vine, the young grapes of which fell gracefully over the little bedroom windows, suggesting the idea, how very pleasant it would be, when the fruit was ripe, to obtain it at so little trouble. Louis especially noticed the sheltering trees, that grew to a great height close behind the house, and the long shadows thrown by the evening sun across the smooth green lawn.

While he was admiring the little prospect before him, a maid-servant, a.s.sisted by the guard of the coach, appeared at the door, carrying a black trunk, and behind followed another elderly servant, with a carpet-bag and basket. It was very evident that another pa.s.senger might be expected, and a few seconds more threw considerable light on the doubt enveloping the expected personage. The gla.s.s door before mentioned, opened into a low square hall, and at the further end, just as the carpet-bag reached the garden gate, appeared a group, of which, till it arrived at the door, little could be discerned but some white frocks. Presently, however, a pleasant middle-aged gentleman came out, holding by the hand a tearful-looking little boy, seemingly about nine or ten years old. The shade of his cap was pulled down very far over his forehead, but enough of his face was visible to betray some very showery inclinations. Two little girls, one older and the other younger, clung round him; the little one was weeping bitterly. When they reached the gate, the gentleman shook the boy's hand, and gave him in charge of the guard, to see him safely into a coach to convey him to Ashfield House.

"No fear of that, sir," replied the guard, opening the coach door, and putting in the bag and basket. "I daresay these young gentlemen would let him ride with them: they are for Dr. Wilkinson's."