Mr Rathbone questioned him closely as to his manner of living, and his plans of economy. Accustomed as he was to a very lavish expenditure, such economy as Charles's struck him with wonder; and he was surprised to find that so far from being despised by the young men among whom he was thrown, Charles was regarded with respect by all, with affection by some. He did not live in close, grudging solitude: he had lost none of the spirit of generous sociality which he brought with him to London, and preserved there, in spite of its chilling and counteracting influences. He was benevolent; he was generous. His purse he could in conscience open to none but his sisters; but his heart was open, his head was busy, and his hands were ready, whenever an opportunity of doing good occurred. Some of the young men with whom his situation connected him, gave entertainments to their friends, or made parties to go to places of public amus.e.m.e.nt. Charles could not do this; nor did he wish to offer, or accept, obligations of this kind; but all his companions readily acknowledged, from their own experience, that Charles had both the power and the inclination to do good. One had been ill, and had been nursed by Charles night and day, or as much of the day as he could call his own, so carefully and tenderly, that he owed his recovery in part, and the whole of what alleviation his disease admitted, to his benevolent care. Another had displeased Mr Gardiner, it was feared irremediably; and the young man would have gone to ruin, if Charles had not with indefatigable patience brought down his high and perverse spirit to the tone of apology and due humiliation; and, moreover, ventured to moderate his master's somewhat unreasonable anger.

He got no thanks from either of them at the time: but he did not want thanks, and gained his end, which was, to see the youth re-established in his respectable situation. The hour of grat.i.tude came at last, and Charles now knew that he might command every possible service from the youth whom he had obliged, and who was now proud to call him friend. He had rendered Mr Gardiner an essential service by informing him of the malpractices of some of the inferior people on the premises, which no one else had the courage to expose; and the widow with whom he lodged was obliged to him for her release from the oppression of a tyrannical landlord, who dared not trouble her, when he found that a spirited youth was her friend, who would not sit still and see her ill treated, while courage and activity could procure a remedy.

When we think that to these important services were added hourly kindnesses, most acceptable in the intercourses of social life; when we remember that where Charles was, there was cheerfulness, kindness, an open heart, a quick eye, and a ready hand to do good; we shall not wonder that he was beloved, though poor, and respected, though humble.

Mr Rathbone was not, could not be, aware of all these things, but he heard Charles speak of the kindness that he experienced, and then it was easy to guess that it was earned by kindness shewn.

"I forget," said he, "how long it is exactly, since you came to London."

"Two years next month, Sir."

"And have you not seen your sisters in all that time?"

"No, Sir; nor have I any near prospect of seeing them. I do not venture to wish it, for fear of growing discontented. The girls are happy, and so am I; and we do not repine because we cannot reach an unattainable pleasure."

"I will try, Charles, whether it be unattainable. Two years of industry and self-denial deserve a reward. I will call on Mr Gardiner to-morrow, and beg for a fortnight's holiday for you. If I can obtain it, we will send you down to Exeter in a trice."

Charles's grat.i.tude was inexpressible. In spite of his struggles, the tears started from his eyes. In a moment, his home and its beloved inmates rose up to his memory, and awakened his affections with an energy and vividness which he had never experienced before, in the deepest of the many reveries in which they had been presented to his fancy. Mr Rathbone understood his feelings, and so little doubted of being able to obtain this favour, that he tried to work up still more the ecstasy of hope which he had excited. "I have no doubt Mr Gardiner will spare you, Charles: you can be off by to-morrow night's coach."

But Charles had not so far forgotten common things in his joy, as to be unmindful that Jane would lose half the pleasure of his visit, if it was paid while she was engaged for the greater part of the day with her pupils. He knew that she was to have a fortnight's holiday at Midsummer, and he felt that it would be but justice to her, and the best economy of pleasure for himself, to defer his visit till that time, if possible. He did long, to be sure, to be off at once, and to take them by surprise, and he was afraid the intervening month would appear dreadfully long; but he felt that this was childish. He stated the case to Mr Rathbone, and begged that the request might be for the last week of June and the first of July.

He was much surprised to see a dark cloud pa.s.s over Mr Rathbone's brow while this explanation was being made: he could not believe it caused by any thing he had said, and therefore took no notice of it. The reply was, "It is not likely, _Sir_, that Mr Gardiner should let you choose your own time. I will mention it, however, and see what he says. I suppose you will not refuse to go now, if you cannot be spared afterwards?"

Poor Charles said what he thought best; but he was so astonished and grieved to have given offence, that his words did not come very readily.

He tried in vain to forget Mr Rathbone's look and words; but, in spite of himself, he could not help endeavouring to account for what was unaccountable, and watching his benefactor's looks with intense anxiety.

The coldness pa.s.sed off, and Mr Rathbone dismissed Charles with his usual kindness. Mrs Rathbone desired him not to trouble himself to call, if he should go the next night; but that, if his departure should be delayed for a month, she should wish to see him again. He would find her at home any morning before one o'clock.

The next day, about noon, Charles received a note, the contents of which were as follows.

"Dear Charles,--

"I have called on Mr Gardiner this morning, and he grants you leave of absence from the moment you read this till Wednesday fortnight; so that you have two clear weeks' holiday, and two days for going and coming. Mr G. can better spare you now than afterwards; so I hope you and your sister will find or make time for what you have to say to each other. I do not intend that this journey should break your five pound note. Let your sister have it, as you intended, and pay your expenses with that which is inclosed. I hope you will get a place in this night's coach, and that all will go well with you till we meet again.

"Mrs Rathbone wishes you much pleasure, and requests you to take charge of the accompanying letter to Jane.

"I am yours very sincerely,--

"Francis Rathbone."

The inclosure was a ten pound note. Charles stood bewildered. The pressure of the time, however, made him collect his thoughts, and determine what was to be done. He first ran to the counting-house to thank Mr Gardiner briefly, but gratefully, for his indulgence. He next wrote a note, warmly expressive of his feelings, to Mr Rathbone: one of his friends in the warehouse engaged to leave it at the door that evening. Then Charles ran as fast as possible to secure a place in the coach. After some doubt and anxiety, he succeeded. He then bid his companions good-bye, and went to his lodgings to pack his little trunk and pay his bill. He then dined at a chop-house, and found that he had a clear hour left before it was time to depart. He did not hesitate how to employ it. There was a poor, a very poor family, who lived a little way from his lodgings, whose misery had caused Charles many a heart-ache. The mother was a daughter of the widow who was Charles's landlady, and it was through her that he knew any thing of them. Some trifling services he had been able to render these poor people, but with money he had not been able to a.s.sist them. Now, however, he felt himself so rich, from Mr Rathbone's bounty, that he thought he might indulge himself by bestowing a small present before his departure. He knew that one of the children was ill, and required better nourishment than their poverty could afford. He went to them, saw the child, sat with it while the mother went out to buy food with the half-crown which he had put into her hand, and left them with a light heart, followed by their blessings.

Who was ever happier than Charles at this moment? Whichever way his mind turned, it met only thoughts of peace and hope. The novelty of a journey, the freshness and beauty of the country in the brightness of a sweet evening in spring, the thought of two whole weeks of leisure, and of the sweet family intercourse which was to endear it, grat.i.tude for benefits received, the sweet consciousness of benefits bestowed, all conspired to make him inexpressibly happy. His imagination represented to him all the possible situations in which the meeting with his family might take place. He was well enough acquainted with the house to fancy what the interior looked like; and he planned, in his fancy, where each of the family would be sitting, what each would be doing, and how each would express the astonishment and pleasure which his arrival must excite.

At length he fell asleep, and continued so, except for the occasional intervention of some pleasant dreamy thoughts, till the sunrise again roused him to the observation of the exquisite beauties of the fresh morning. The hours now pa.s.sed less rapidly away, and he found his emotions becoming so tumultuous, that he tried to turn his thoughts upon indifferent subjects, and to enter into conversation with his fellow-pa.s.sengers. As the day advanced, he became impatient of being shut in, so that he could catch only a confined view of the beautiful country through which he was pa.s.sing, and he therefore took his seat on the roof of the coach. He sat next to a young man, who soon made acquaintance with him, and whom he found a very agreeable companion.

His name Charles could not ascertain, but he found that he lived at Exeter, and it was interesting to them both to talk of persons and places with which both were familiar. In the afternoon, when they were still busy talking, and reckoning that four hours more would bring them to their journey's end, the coach stopped at a public-house by the road side, which the coachman entered, leaving a man at the horses' heads to take care of them. Some one called the man, and he left his charge, and the pa.s.sengers did not for some moments perceive that he had done so, till something pa.s.sed which caused the horses to start. Several men ran at once to catch the reins: this frightened the leaders yet more, and they set off at full gallop. Charles was sitting in front, and his companion, with much presence of mind, got over and seated himself on the box, and caught the reins. He attempted to pull in, but the screams of some of the pa.s.sengers were enough of themselves to terrify any horses, and the young man's strength began to fail before they relaxed their speed at all. Still there was a wide road before them, with no apparent obstruction, and Charles, who tried to keep himself calm, hoped that the horses would soon be tired, and slacken their pace. He saw his companion's strength failing, and he leaned over and said, "Keep on one minute more and we shall do," when, most unfortunately, a waggon turned out of a field by the road side. The leaders turned sharp round, and upset the coach close by the hedge. Charles's fall was broken by the hedge, and he rose in a moment, with no other hurt than a few scratches from the briars; but such a dreadful scene of confusion met his view, that, though his first thought was to give help, he knew not where to turn. He looked for his companion, but could not see him, and hearing the most dismal screams from the inside of the coach, he entreated one or two persons, who were standing shaking their limbs, and apparently unhurt, to help him to get out the pa.s.sengers. It was some time before they comprehended what he meant, and longer still before they could collect their senses sufficiently to be of any use. At length, however, Charles and another man climbed on the body of the coach, and pushed down the window. Two young ladies and a Quaker gentleman were inside.

The latter said to Charles, "Lend me thy hand, for I am uppermost, and then we will rescue the others: there is not much harm done, I hope."

One of the ladies continued to scream so loud, that it was difficult to make her understand that she must use her own limbs in getting out. By main force, however, she was hauled through the window, and set on her feet. The Quaker gentleman said to her, "I recommend thee to be more quiet, if thou canst; if not, thou hadst better go a little out of the way, that we may know what we are doing. There is a stile yonder: sit there, and I will bring thy friend to thee."

The lady was able to comprehend this, and she accordingly moved away.

There was more difficulty in rescuing her companion, who was really hurt: her arm was injured, and she was in great pain. She was quiet, however, and exerted what strength she had. Charles led her to some gra.s.s at a little distance: he hastily spread her cloak, and laid her down, and called her companion to her. When he reached the scene of disaster again, he was shocked to find that an outside pa.s.senger was killed. He was a dreadful object, and nothing was to be done, but to move him out of sight as quickly as possible. Still Charles looked round in vain for his companion; but when the noise had a little subsided, he thought he heard a faint groan from beneath the huge box-coat which was lying close by. Charles lifted it, and saw his companion lying with a large trunk upon one leg. He seemed in great agony, and unable to move. Charles called the Quaker gentleman. They gently lifted the trunk, and saw a sickening sight. The leg was dreadfully crushed. Charles for a moment turned away, but, ashamed of his weakness, he, with the Quaker's approbation, loosened the shawl which he wore round his neck, and wrapped it about the injured leg.

They then raised the poor youth, and seated him on the trunk, and tried to ascertain whether he had received any other injury. They could not detect any, but the sufferer was in so much pain, that they could not be sure. Charles beckoned to the waggoner, who was a.s.sisting the other pa.s.sengers, and enquired whether there was any house nearer than the public-house which they had left, where the wounded pa.s.sengers could be taken in for the present.

The man answered that there was none, and that they were three miles distant even from that.

Charles engaged him to convey the ladies and the young man in his waggon, which was filled with straw, and the people from the public-house having by this time reached the scene of disaster, the Quaker gentleman was able to accompany them. They therefore looked out their luggage, deposited the young man and the two ladies in the waggon, and returned to the public-house on foot. By the way they agreed what was further to be done. The Quaker thought the two ladies would be able to reach Exeter that night, and would prefer doing so to remaining in the inconvenient and crowded public-house. If the coach was able to proceed, so much the better; if not, a chaise could probably be procured. As for the young man, he must certainly remain; he was in no condition for travelling.

"I do not know," said Charles, "how you are circ.u.mstanced. We must not leave this poor youth; one of us must take charge of the ladies, and the other remain with him. Will you take your choice?"

"My wife is ill," replied the Quaker, "and I fear would be in terror, if she should hear of the accident, and not see me, even if I a.s.sured her of my welfare by my own hand. I should therefore prefer returning. But perhaps thou hast calls equally pressing?"

"No, I have not," replied Charles. "No one expects me: my family do not know that I am on my way to them: the matter therefore is decided."

"Not quite," said the Quaker. "The one who remains will have some painful scenes to go through. Thou art young: canst thou bear them?"

"I will _try_ to bear them," replied Charles. "My heart aches for this young man, but it will be a comfort to be of service to him. We must learn his name, and you will call at his house as soon as you arrive, and inform his family; and some of them had better return in the chaise with a surgeon; for I suppose there is no medical advice to be had hereabouts."

"Probably not," replied the Quaker. "It is now nearly six: if we can procure a chaise without delay, in nine or ten hours hence his friends may be with him, and thou wilt be in part relieved from thy charge."

"He will be able to command himself," said Charles, "at least, if I may judge from his presence of mind at the time of the accident; and I shall therefore know better what to do, than if he were as unmanageable as that young lady."

"Her agony was so great," replied the Quaker, "that it would make one think that fear is, for the time, a greater evil than actual pain. Her sister (for I conclude they are sisters) was quiet enough; but it was beyond my power to stop her screams. Tell me how thy companion acted, for, being inside, I do not know."

Charles related how the youth had endeavoured to stop the horses.

"He indeed shewed self-command," said the good man, "and I am afraid he will have occasion to exercise all his resolution. I have no hope that that leg can be cured; but I hope his life is not in danger!"

"Can you," said Charles, "give me any directions respecting his treatment? Is there any thing to be done besides making him as easy as I can?"

"Nothing, that I am aware of," replied the Quaker. "I think thou wilt not have much need of thy purse for these few hours, or I would ask thee whether it is well filled?"

Charles thanked him, and a.s.sured him that no a.s.sistance of that kind was wanted.

By this time they had reached the public-house, and the young man was soon laid on a bed, in a decent though not very quiet apartment. On enquiry being made, it was found that no chaises were to be had there, but that a return chaise would probably pa.s.s very soon. The ladies were so incapable, one from pain, the other from terror, of judging what was best to be done, that the Quaker gentleman decided every thing for them.

He directed the lady's arm to be bathed and hung in a sling, and advised them to accompany him in the chaise to Exeter, as soon as it should pa.s.s. Charles meanwhile was sitting by the bedside of the injured man, trying to ascertain the necessary particulars of his name, place of residence, etcetera. He was now able to speak, and said his name was Monteath, that his father and mother lived in -- Street, Exeter, and that Mr Everett was the surgeon whom he wished to attend him. He said, "Are you going directly? must you leave me now?"

"I shall not leave you till your friends arrive," replied Charles.

"Some of our fellow-pa.s.sengers will carry our message to Exeter."

"Thank you! G.o.d bless you!" were the only words in answer. Presently he said, "Who are you? You have not told me your name."

Charles told his name.

"Forsyth!" exclaimed Mr Monteath; "surely you are the brother of Miss Forsyth, whom I have seen at Mr Everett's!"

"I am," said Charles.

"Then do not stay with me," said the youth; "your sister will be terrified when she hears of the accident."

Charles explained that his sisters did not expect him. He then enquired whether he did not suffer less than at first.