"I was afraid so, Walter," and then Power repeated half to himself the fine lines of Byron on Kirke White--

"So the struck eagle stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the barb that quivered in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel.

He nursed the pinion that impelled the steel; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, Drank the last life blood of his bleeding breast."

"What grand verses!" said Walter. "Poor, poor Daubeny!"

"I've never had but one feeling about him myself," said Power, "and that was a feeling almost like reverence. I hope and trust that he'll be well enough for to-morrow week. I always looked forward to kneeling next to him when we were confirmed."

"All, you loved him, Power," said Henderson, "because your tastes were like his. But I owe a great deal to him--more than I can ever tell you.

I don't feel as if I could tell you now, while he lies there so ill, poor fellow. He has saved me more than once from vigorous efforts to throw myself away. But for him I should have gone to the devil long, long ago. I was _very_ near it once." He sighed, and as they walked by the violet margent of the evening waves, he offered up in silence an earnest prayer that Daubeny might live.

The blind old poet would have said that the winds carried the prayer away and scattered it. But no winds can scatter, no waves can drown, the immortal spirit of one true prayer. Unanswered it _may_ be--but scattered and fruitless, _not_!

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE SCHOOL-BELL.

To me the thought of death is terrible, Having such hold of life; to you it is not More than the sudden lifting of a latch; Nought but a step into the open air, Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its transparent fold.

Longfellow's Golden Legend.

"I've got a good piece of news for you, Master Daubeny," said the kind old school-nurse.

"What is it? is my mother here?" he said eagerly. "O! let her come and see me."

She was at the door, and the next moment his arms were round her neck in a long embrace. "Darling, darling mother," he exclaimed, "now I shall be happy, now that you have come. Nay, you mustn't cry, mother," he said, as he felt one of her fast flowing tears upon his forehead; "you've come to help me in bearing up."

"Dearest Johnny," she said, "I trust yet that G.o.d will spare the widow's only son; He Who raised the son of the widow of Nain will pity us."

"His ways are not ours, mother dear; I do not think that I shall recover. My past life hangs before me like a far-off picture already; I lie and look at it almost as if it were not mine, and my mind is quite at peace; only sometimes my head is all confused."

"G.o.d's will be done, Johnny," sobbed the poor lady. "But I do not think I can live, if you be taken from me."

"Taken--but not for ever, mother," he said, looking up into her face.

"O Johnny, _why, why_ did you not spare yourself, and work less? It is the work which has killed you."

"Only because it fell heavier on me than on other boys. They got through it quickly, but I was not so clever, and it cost me more to do my duty. I tried to do it, mother dear, and G.o.d helped me. All is well as it is. O my head, my head!"

"You must rest, darling. My visit and talk has excited you. Try to go to sleep."

"Then sit there, mother, opposite me, so that I may see you when I wake."

She kissed his aching brow, and sat down, while he composed himself to rest. She was a lady of about fifty, with bands of silver hair smoothed over her calm forehead, and in appearance not unlike her son. But there was something very sweet and matronly about her look, and it was impossible to see her without feeling the respect and honour which was her due.

And she sat there, by the bedside, looking upon her only son, the boy who had been the light of her life; and she knew that he was dying--she knew that he was fading away before her eyes. Yet there was a sweet and n.o.ble resignation in her anguish; there was a deep and genuine spirit of submission to the will of heaven, and a perfect faith in G.o.d's love, whatever might be the issue, in every prayer she breathed, as with clasped hands, and streaming eyes, and moving lips, she gazed upon his face. He might appear dull and heavy to others, but to her he was dear beyond all thought; and now she was to lose him. In her inmost heart she knew that she _must_ suffer that great pang; that G.o.d was taking to Himself the son who had been so good and true to her, so affectionate, so sweet-tempered, so unselfish, that even from his gentle and quiet infancy he had never by his conduct caused her a moment's pain. She had long been looking forward to the strong and upright manhood which should follow this pure boyhood; but that dear boy was not destined to be the staff of her declining years; _her_ hands were to close his eyes in the last long sleep, and she was to pa.s.s alone under the overshadowing rocks that close around the valley of human life. G.o.d help the mother's heart who must pa.s.s through scenes like this!

Poor Daubeny could not sleep. Brain fever is usually accompanied by delirium, and as he turned restlessly upon his pillow, his mind began to wander away to other days and scenes.

"Stupid, sir? yes, I know I am, but I can't help it; I've really done my best. I was up at five o'clock this morning, trying, trying so hard to learn this repet.i.tion. Indeed, indeed, I'm not idle, sir. I'll try to do my duty if I can. O Power, I wish I were like you; you learn so quickly, and you never get abused as I do after it all."

And then the poor boy fancied himself sitting under the gas-lamp in the pa.s.sage as he had so often done, and trying to master one of his repet.i.tion lessons, repeating the lines fast to himself as he used to do--

"'Hac arte Pollux et vagus Hercules, Enisus--enisus arces--enisus arces attigit igneas, Quos inter Augustus--'

"How _does_ it go on?

"'Hac arte Pollux et vagus Hercules, Enisus arces attigit igneas, attigit igneas, Quos inter Augustus rec.u.mbens--'"

"Oh, what _does_ come next?" and he stopped with an expression of pain on his face, pressing his hands tight over his brow. "Don't go on with the repet.i.tion, Johnny, dear," said the poor mother. "I'm sure you know it enough now."

"O, no! not yet, mother; I shall be turned, I know I shall to-morrow, and it makes him so angry; he'll call me idle and incorrigible, and all kinds of things." And then he began again--

"'Sed quid Typhoeus aut validus Mimas, Aut quid minaci Porphyrion statu, Quid Rhoetus--Rhoetus--quid Rhoetus--'

"Oh, I shall break down here, I know I shall," and he burst into tears.

"It's no good trying to help me, Power, I _can't_ learn it."

"Leave off for to-night at least, Johnny," said his mother, in a tone of anguish; "you can learn the rest to-morrow. Oh, what shall I do?" she asked, turning to the nurse; "I cannot bear to hear him go on like this."

"Be comforted, ma'am," said the nurse, wiping away her own tears. "He's a dear good lamb, and he'll come to hisself soon afore he goes off."

"_Must_ he die, then?" she asked, trembling in every limb.

"Hush, good lady! we never know what G.o.d may please to do in His mercy.

We must bow to His gracious will, ma'am, as you knows well, I don't doubt. He's fitter to die than many a grown man is, poor child, and that's a blessing. I wish though he wasn't a repeating of that there heathenish Latin."

But Daubeny's voice was still humming fragments of Horace lines, sometimes with eager concentration, and then with pauses at parts where his memory failed, at which he would grow distressed and anxious--

"'Quid Rhoetus... quid Rhoetus evulsisque truncis, Enceladus.'

"Oh, I _cannot_ learn this; I think I'm getting more stupid every day.

Enceladus--"

"If you love me, Johnny, give it up for to-night, that's a darling boy,"

said his mother.

"But, mother, it's my _duty_ to know it; you wouldn't have me fail in duty, mother dear, would you? Why, it was you who told me to persevere, and do all things with my might. Well, I will leave it for to-night."

Then, still unconscious of what he was doing, the boy got up and prayed, as it was evident that he _had_ done many a time, that G.o.d would strengthen his memory and quicken his powers, and enable him to do his duty like a man. It was inexpressibly touching to see him as he knelt there--thin, pale, emaciated, the shadow of his former self, kneeling in his delirium to offer up his old accustomed prayer.

And when he got into bed again, although his mind still wandered, he was much calmer, and a new direction seemed to have been given to his thoughts. The prayer had fallen like dew on his aching soul. He fancied himself in Power's study, where for many a Sunday the two boys had been used to sit, and where they had often learnt or read to each other their favourite hymns. Fragments of these hymns he was now repeating, dwelling on the words with an evident sense of pleasure and belief--

"'A n.o.ble army--men and boys, The matron and the maid, Around the Saviour's throne rejoice, In robes of light arrayed.

_They_ climbed the steep ascent of heaven, 'Mid peril, toil, and pain; O G.o.d, to _us_ may strength be given, To follow in their train.'

"Isn't that beautiful, Power?