February 5th.—It helps to pass some of the time I am obliged to spend alone to write in my log, and so I will go on from where I left off yesterday.
I found everybody was on the ice, the masters enjoying the fun as much as the boys, and Chandos the merriest of the lot. He and two or three of his friends were racing, curveting, cutting figures in the ice, for I found that Frank had been glad to give up the skates and take to sliding.
"It's rather crowded here," I said, as I ran the youngster down, and then stopped and wheeled round to help him up.
"It's crowded everywhere, and the fellows with skates seem to think they ought to have it all their own way," he grumbled.
"Come over here; there are some good slides at the farther end of the pond;" and I helped the youngster over, purposely going close to Miss Chandos.
But she didn't smell mischief, or was too much occupied with her own fun to notice us, and we soon came up with Jackson and the rest.
"It's dreadfully cold here," said young Chandos, shivering.
"Yes, it is cold," said Tom; "the wind sweeps down upon us, freezing our very marrow if we don't keep moving."
"The best place for sliding would be the alder pond. That is sheltered a good deal from this cutting wind," said Jackson.
"But it isn't safe," said Frank Chandos.
"Safe! As if they'd let us come near this place at all if all the ponds were not safe! I tell you it will bear as well as this," said Jackson.
"Shall we go there?" proposed Tom.
"Mr. Swain said we were not to go near it," feebly ventured Frank.
"Oh, well, if you're afraid, stay where you are, but I'm going," said Jackson. "Stewart, will you come? Tom will, I know."
"Yes, I'm off," said Tom, nodding to me; but I wanted Miss Chandos to see where we were taking her duckling, to give her a fright.
The youngster saw me looking towards his brother, and said, in a whisper, "If we mean to go, Eustace had better not see us. You're sure it's safe?" he added.
"Safe as the schoolroom floor," I said; and then we went after the others; but I kept looking back towards Miss Chandos as we went towards the alder pond.
We got out of sight as soon as we could, and, screened by the close-growing trees, the bitter east wind did not sting us quite so much. Jackson and Tom were soon skimming across the pond.
"I wonder where the holes are they make such a fuss about?" said Tom.
"I don't believe there are any," said Jackson.
"Well, holes or no holes, I think we had better keep near the edge," I said; but young Chandos did not hear me, he says, and went at once towards the trees for shelter from the wind. The ice was very thin there, and the next minute there was a crack, a splash, and a scream, and young Chandos had gone down.
"Run for help!" I called to Tom, and then I skimmed across what I thought was the strongest part of the ice to help Frank. But before I could reach him the ice gave way, and we were both struggling for life.
I don't remember much of what happened beyond telling Frank to catch hold of some of the branches of the trees that were close to the water, and hearing the shouts of the boys when Tom gave the alarm. I could hear them coming, but it would be too late to save me, for my heavy clothes kept me down in the water, and I sank, never to rise again, I thought. I seemed to see my mother at that moment more plainly than I had ever seen her before, and to understand her grief for my death in a way that I could not have thought possible. But still, although I longed to escape for her sake, I seemed bound by invisible fetters that were, in reality, my heavy wet clothes. They have told me since that this probably saved me, although they thought I was dead when they got me out of the water.
Once out, however, I soon began to revive, for I am strong and healthy; but poor Frank Chandos lay hovering between life and death for nearly a week afterwards. I shall never forget that terrible time. I felt if he died I should be a murderer, for he would never have gone to the alder pond if I had not taken him there. Poor Miss Chandos, too, who had promised his mother to take good care of the lad, he was almost stunned with grief; and it was not until after his mother had come that he could be persuaded to leave his brother even for five minutes. Tom and the other fellows who came to see me told me all about it, for I was ill too, from cold and fright, but nothing to cause any alarm, and little notice was taken of me or my ailments, and I did not let any one know how miserably unhappy I was. I tried to talk to Tom about it once, but he only laughed, and said, "Oh, it's no good crying over spilt milk; let's forget all that miserable affair now. Of course we were all in the wrong box, I suppose; but then it was only done for a lark, and we've all been punished for it pretty stiffly. Jackson and I had a hundred lines of Milton to learn in after hours that took no end of time to get perfect, for the governor was so crabby he wouldn't let us off a single word, and actually heard us himself, so if you don't think that has squared accounts for us, then I don't know what will."
"If learning two hundred lines would square things, I'd do it; but think of poor Frank Chandos lying there dying, and all our fault."
"How can it be our fault? We didn't carry him to the pond. He came to please himself, and if he wasn't ill he'd have an imposition as well as us. I wonder whether the Doctor will give you one when you get well, Charley?"
"I wish he would," I said, bitterly. "Oh, I dare say it's all very well for you to talk when it isn't likely to happen, for I expect the governor will think it punishment enough for you to be kept up here and fed on slops for ever so long. I don't know myself that I would not rather have the imposition."
How glad I was when poor Chandos came to see me at last. I almost wished we really had been girls then, that I might have thrown my arms round his neck and kissed him and asked him to forgive me, for I could see he felt sorry for me, and the first words he spoke were meant to comfort me, only somehow they seemed to make me miserable.
"You did not mean to do any harm, Stewart, I know," he said, his voice shaking as he spoke.
"Will he die?" I asked. "It don't matter about me and what I meant about it, but tell me about him; is there any hope, Chandos?"
"Not much, I am afraid. Only God can save him; the doctor can do no more, he says. Stewart, you'll pray for him, won't you—pray that God will give him back to my mother, for she is almost heartbroken over it?"
"Me pray! What is the good? I don't know how; I never prayed in my life. I've said my prayers; but it's different, that is, from what you mean, and I haven't done that since I was a little chap."
"Then begin again now, Stewart. Pray for poor Frank. I know you feel unhappy about him."
"Yes, I do. I'd do anything I could; but that's just it; I can't do anything, and it seems mean to go sneaking to God now, when I didn't care a pin about the whole business until I got into this trouble; and I can't do it."
"Oh, but you mustn't think of it—think of God in that way. If you had been very ill you would have liked your mother sent for, wouldn't you? and she would have liked to come, I am sure."
"Yes, I expect there will be a row that she was not sent for as it is. But what has that to do with it?"
"Everything. God feels as kindly towards us as our mother and father, and He wants us to go to Him when we are in trouble, although we may have kept away before. My mother says He often sends trouble to be His messenger and make us come, so that He will not be offended if you should begin to pray now."
"I can't, Chandos. It's just the meanest business I ever heard of to go sneaking to God whenever I'm in trouble and can't help myself, and forget Him directly afterwards."
"But why should you forget Him afterwards? Why not make Him your Friend, as He desires to be?"
"What, be religious and grumpy, and lose all the fun of life?" I said, staring at Chandos in amazement.
"You need not be grumpy, Stewart, and you can have just as much fun, only I think you will be more careful not to let the fun do harm to other people."
"Well, I will be more careful in future, I promise you that, Chandos; but about being religious, why, I never heard of a schoolboy being religious unless he was a dreadful muff and a sneaking prig, and I hate sneaks of all sorts."
"So do I," said Chandos; "and if I thought praying to God and trying to live in fear and love of Him would make you one, I wouldn't ask you to do it. But it won't. Look here, you've heard of General Havelock, haven't you? and Hedley Vicars, that fought in the Crimean war? Did you ever hear that they were sneaks, or anything but brave, noble men—brave enough to serve God openly and fearlessly? I tell you, Stewart, it takes a brave man, not a coward, to declare himself determined to serve God. But I have said enough about this, perhaps, and you look tired."
"My head aches," I said; "but I should soon be all right if I could only know there was a chance for poor Frank to get better too."
"I wish I had better news for you, Stewart. My mother and I can only pray for him."
Chandos was going away as he said this, but I caught his hand and held him back. "I will pray too," I whispered; "but if God hears me now, how shall I ever keep square afterwards? and I must, you know, to keep from being a sneak."
"Look here, Stewart; you are mistaken altogether in thinking God's service such a dreadful bondage. He knows you are a boy, and does not expect you to be prim and precise and always praying and singing psalms. I am not sure that it would not displease Him if you tried to do that, for He knows it would be a poor preparation for our work in the world by-and-by."
"But what would He want me to do, then?" I said.
"First of all to think of Him as your friend. The Lord Jesus was a boy Himself once, you know, and so He knows all about a boy's feelings and temptations. Almost my father's last words to me were, 'Be honest and upright and pure;' and I know God will help me to keep my father's command if I seek His help, as He will you if you will take Him to be your Friend."
"And isn't that what I want?" I said; "to be honest and upright and pure?"
"I believe you do, Stewart, and it's what God wants you to be, and what He will help you to be if you will let Him."
"But what else must I do? Religious folks always are different from others, you know."
"Well, they ought to be. A religious sailor ought to be the bravest and most fearless man on board the ship, and do his work better and more cheerfully than anybody else."
"Well, my uncle did tell me of a fellow like that once, and I thought I should like all my sailors to be like him. He was a jolly, good-natured chap, ready to spin a yarn to his mates, and they were willing to listen to the moral he always contrived to bring in. He was as brave as a lion, too, and yet as kind as a woman if any of the others were sick. But there ain't many like him, you know, Chandos."
"You might make another, Stewart; and a captain—you mean to be a captain, you know—and a captain of that pattern might do as much, or even more, good than a common sailor."
"Yes, but it's the beginning. I don't see that boys have anything to do with religion. What can they do?"
"Learn better—learn their lessons more thoroughly, so as to be better fitted to do their work in the world by-and-by. I suppose you'll admit that we shall be men by-and-by if we are spared?"
"Well, yes, of course; but then it's just that. Religion seems to be for those who don't live, to prepare them for death and all that, you know. If I was very ill and dying I should want to be religious, of course, but now—"
"That's quite a mistake, Stewart, to suppose that because you are likely to live many years this matter of serving God ought to be put off. I might ask you how you can be sure that you will live even six months longer, or that you may not be carried off by some sudden accident. But I don't like to think of religion as just something to sneak out of the world comfortably with. Religion is to fit us to live—to live well, to fill life full of joy and happiness. You stare, Stewart, but I can tell you the happiest people in the world to-day are those who serve God best."
"Then what makes them pull such long faces, and look so wretched, and talk about being miserable sinners?" I asked.
"Well, we are sinners, you know, Stewart, and one of the first things we have to learn in coming to God is just this very thing. It is because we have sinned that Christ died to put away our sins; but some people don't seem to believe in this thoroughly. They know they are sinners, and it makes them unhappy and they fancy they ought to go mourning over them all the days of their life."
"That's just my Aunt Phoebe, and mamma says she is very religious, and one of the best women that ever lived, which makes me say I hate good women, and all religious people into the bargain. But, Chandos, there are not many of your sort of religious people in the world."
"More than you think for. There are some of the fellows here in this school; I won't mention any names, but two of the best and jolliest in the cricket-field will be just such men, I believe."
"Boys here in this school are religious!" I said. "Of course, I know you are, but—"
"You thought I was the only one, Stewart? Well, now, I'm glad to say when I came here I found one or two trying to solve the problem you think so improbable—how a schoolboy can serve God; and though it may be difficult sometimes—I grant you that, for temptation to do wrong even in fun must be resisted; and then lessons must be learned fairly, not shirked, and no cribs must be used, or else where is our honesty? But still, if a boy once starts to keep on the square all round, things are not so hard as you might think. But I must not stop any longer now, Stewart; I will come in and have another chat by-and-by. But—but you will not forget to pray for poor Frank?"
Forget! Sometimes I wish I could forget that dreadful day and everything that happened then. It isn't often, I suppose, that such dreadful things happen through a little fun, or else it would help Chandos's argument about the happiness of not doing wrong even in fun, for this has made me miserable enough. I wish I could be the sort of fellow Chandos talked about. It's different altogether from what I thought, and to be fair and square and honest right through in lessons and everything else has nothing of the sneak about it. But I have promised I'd pray for Frank, and I mean to do it. How am I to begin? Will God hear me? I'm not good like Chandos. He saw me shooting the pellets at him from under the bedclothes only a little while ago, I suppose, and won't He think I'm mocking Chandos now if I kneel down as he did? What was it that he said, though, about the Lord Jesus being a boy once? Well, if He was He'll know all about me, and after all it's poor Frank I want Him to help. I wouldn't venture to ask Him to help me yet; I want nothing now so much as for Frank to get well.
After thinking like this for some time I locked the door, for fear anybody should come in and see me, and then I kneeled down; but I don't know what I said, only that it was about Frank and his getting well, and that I'd try and do the square thing, and be honest and upright and pure right through, if God would only make him well again.