April 30th.—There's been a most awful row, and the fellows say I turned rat—at least, Jackson and Collins have sent me to Coventry over it; but I should do it again if there was the same occasion, for how could I let a poor servant lose her place and her character through one of my larks? The governor must be a drivelling donkey not to suspect us instead of the servants.
I always fancied that Swain did smell a rat until Young came tearing up to me with the tale that the police were to be sent for to search the kitchen-maid's boxes.
"Why, what's the row now?" I asked.
"They can't find out anything clear about those pies; but it's pretty certain the kitchen-maid has been giving away bread and meat, which, it seems, is against the rules, and they think she has handed the pies away too—sold them, perhaps."
"Sold your grandmother! Young, you're not such a muff as to think the servants did that, are you?"
"I don't know what to think. It couldn't be burglars, you know."
"Of course not, it was us. I did most of the business, and I'm off to the governor now to tell him all about it;" and, leaving Young staring with all his eyes, I rushed indoors past Swain, who stood near the schoolroom door, and bolted on to the master's study. I could hardly wait for him to say "Come in;" but when I opened the door all my courage seemed to have gone, and I felt ready to run away again.
"Did you wish to speak to me, Stewart?"
"Yes, sir; please, sir, it's about the pies," I said, hardly knowing how to begin.
"You mean the robbery that has been committed lately?"
"Please, sir, I never thought about it's being a robbery when I took them."
"You took them! You robbed my pantry, Stewart?"
"It wasn't a robbery, sir—it was only a lark. I did not want the pies to eat; it was just for the fun."
"And what did you do with them?" asked the governor, sternly.
"Well, sir, Mr. Swain helped us get them away, although he didn't know it;" and then bit by bit it all came out. I tried to screen Collins and the rest, but somehow there was no getting over the governor's close questions, and he sent for them, and gave us all a lecture and then a long imposition. I hate impositions and all sorts of grind, but I didn't mind that so much, for after all the governor didn't give it us so stiff as he might—as I thought he would; and that poor girl is not to lose her place after all.
I thought when the impositions were got over there would be an end of the affair; but it seems I shall for ever be nagged about it—called a rat, a sneak, a coward. Tom says I need not have been in such a hurry to run off to the governor—that if the police had come they would not have found the empty dishes in her box, and so she would not have lost her place, and we could still have kept our secret.
Chandos, too, talks something like the governor. According to them it was an actual robbery, although I did it in fun. The result was the same, they say, and it might have led to disastrous consequences if I had not told the whole truth about it; and then he went on to say it was not keeping the promise I had made when Frank was so ill.
"Well, how in the world is a fellow to keep straight for ever?" I said.
"What pleasure did you get out of this?"
"None at all, as it happened, and it's the last pantry I'll rob; but still—" and there I stopped.
"I suppose you mean to say you will get into some other mischief at the first opportunity?"
"Well, how am I to keep out of it?" I asked.
"What pleasure did you ever get by it? Now, I know you did not enjoy the holiday at Dinglewell as I did, and yet—"
"No, that I didn't," I said; "it was the most miserable day I ever spent, and I'll never rob a pantry any more, even for fun. I tell you, Chandos, I'd like to keep straight if I could, but how can I? I've tried, and tried hard, ever since that affair of poor Frank's. I've never touched a crib since, I give you my word, and you don't know how hard it is to leave off when once you've begun on that tack."
"I know it must be hard work, and I think you have done very well in resisting as you have the temptation to use cribs; but you might have done better, Stewart, if you were not so proud."
"Proud!" I said. "Nobody ever called me that before. Sailors are never proud, you know."
"Well, you are, or you would accept the help a Friend is waiting to give you if you were not."
"Now, Chandos, that isn't fair," I said. "I have always been willing to accept help and take advice from you."
"I wasn't speaking of myself, but of One who cares for you far more than I do, although I feel sorry enough when you go wrong, and get into scrapes, and make people miserable, as you often do through your thoughtlessness."
"I suppose you mean my mother? But I tell you, Chandos, she expects it—she knows boys can't keep out of mischief."
"But I know they can; and it wasn't your mother I was thinking of just now, but God."
"But—but you don't think He cares much about it, do you, Chandos? He can't, you know."
"You believe that I care, don't you—at least a little?"
"Well, yes, I do, for you have always been my friend, and helped me out of a scrape, and given me good advice; but—but it's different about God," I said.
"Why is it different? He is your Friend, who cares far more for your welfare than I do, and He is more anxious to see you do well—live a pure, honest, upright life—than I can be; and yet you will not accept the help He alone can give, and by which alone you can conquer this inclination to get into mischief and often do such great wrong."
"God is my Friend?" I repeated. "Look here, Chandos, if I could believe that—well, I don't know what I should do, but somehow I should want to be different. I almost wish it could be true."
"It is true, Stewart, as true as truth, as true as you and I are standing here. I wish you would believe that God feels a personal interest in you, as much as though you were the only schoolboy in the world."
"I wish I could. But somehow, Chandos, it seems so strange—too wonderful, you know, to be true, that God—the great God who made heaven and earth—can care for a harum-scarum lot like us."
"Yes, it is wonderful; but you know the Lord Jesus Christ cared so much for this harum-scarum world and all the people in it that He was content to die—to lay down His life to bring them to God."
"Yes, I've heard something about it in church; and since I've been trying to do the square thing and write bits of the sermon, I've heard about it there too; but then it never seemed to me that it could be for boys. God the friend of boys like me? Why, look here, Chandos; if the governor was to proclaim himself my friend it would be an honour, you know; but look at the difference! I take it that you mean I could go and tell God about every little scrape and trouble I got into, and He would help me out of it?"
"Or help you to bear it, as the case might be. That is exactly what I do mean, Stewart."
"You do; and you believe it?"
"Believe it; of course I believe it. I don't know how I should get on if I did not," said Chandos; and I am sure he spoke truly.
"Well, perhaps I may come to believe it too some day, but I can't now—not just in the way you do. Of course I know we ought to pray and do the square thing; but as long as we do that and go to church it always seemed to me that God wouldn't trouble Himself about us any further. I have been doing the square thing too lately; at least, I've tried at it, and isn't that enough?"
"But, Stewart, according to your belief, we should all be the slaves of God—doing just what we were obliged, for fear of punishment, and no more. God does not ask, will not accept such service as that. Don't you remember the text of last Sunday, 'My son, give Me thine heart,' and what the minister said of God desiring our will, our affection to be given to Him? The service would follow then quite naturally, he said; and when I heard it I was thinking of you—thinking you had begun at the wrong end, trying to force yourself into giving God service without any heart or love or pleasure in it."
"Yes, you're about right, Chandos," I said; "but I don't see how it could be different. God made Frank well, and I promised that if He would do that and save me from being miserable all my life I'd do the square thing; and I'm not mean enough to back out of the bargain if I can help it."
"But, Stewart, you do not surely think that God answered our prayers for Frank just because He wanted to tie you to this miserable bondage—for it is bondage, slavery—this service which you know ought to be and is 'perfect freedom' to those who begin at the right end, and not the wrong—by giving their hearts—their will and love to God."
"Well, I don't know. Of course God wants me to be good, I suppose."
"But He would never take such an advantage of us as you suppose—making a bargain with us, as it were. No, no, Stewart, you have made a great mistake about this. God heard and answered our prayers because He pitied our distress and loved you too well to let the miserable consequences of your thoughtless mischief follow you through all your life; and you ought to return love for love, and not treat God as though you thought Him a hard taskmaster."
"Well, I don't know; you may be right, Chandos, but I don't see how I am to begin. What a pity it is you are not going to be a parson!"
I couldn't help saying that, and I meant it too.
May 5th.—Something has happened that I never thought did happen anywhere except in books. Chandos, that so many of the boys have looked down upon as being poor and beneath them, because he never seemed to have any pocket money to spend, like the rest of us, has suddenly become a baronet—Sir Eustace Chandos, of Chandos Court, and I don't know how many other places besides. It came upon us like a thunderbolt, for Chandos never told us his uncle was a baronet, or that he had any relatives but the merchant uncle. He did tell me a few weeks ago that he had just heard of the sudden death of his two cousins, but he did not say any more, except that he had not seen them above twice in his life. I suppose he may have thought it would make no great difference to him, as his uncle was not a very old man; but now his uncle has just died too, and our Miss Chandos becomes Sir Eustace. Well, I only wish his uncle had put off dying a little bit longer—just till I felt more settled about things; but now I feel sure I shall run away to sea if the mother don't come round and give her consent.
May 12th.—Bravo! Sir Eustace is not going to leave us just yet. It seems his brother Frank is just coming back, and he prefers to stay another year, and then he will go to college, I suppose. It don't seem to have made a bit of difference in him either. I thought perhaps he might like to drop our friendship now he was so rich and I still poor Charley Stewart, but he seemed hurt at the bare suggestion, and so I am to call him Chandos as usual, and we shall share the room just the same as though nothing had happened. I have thought a good deal about this the last two days. I know a good many fellows would have packed up their traps and gone off at once, or else held their heads so high that a poor chap like me would never be able to speak to them; and I've been wondering whether it's Chandos having learned so many things about God that makes him different in this. I've thought, too, that perhaps after all, as Chandos is just as willing to be my friend now he is Sir Eustace, that God may be my friend, as he said, though I can hardly get used to the thought yet.
May 20th.—There has been a tremendous row over the prize essay by which Tom won the watch last Christmas. After all this time, when everybody thought it was forgotten—though a good many of us did wonder then how Tom managed it—now it is found out that it was all made up of cribs, some taken from books, and some from notes that one of the older fellows lost. Somebody must have turned rat, Tom says. He is in an awful rage at having to give up the watch, but the governor insisted; and now Tom is as dull and looks as miserable as he can be, for the school has sent him to Coventry over it, which is very mean, I think, seeing they upheld him last winter, when a good many at least knew he had no right to try for this prize. He must wish he had let Chandos take his chance now, I should think. I cannot help pitying him, and Chandos and I have agreed not to join the school this time, though the other fellows threaten us with Coventry for speaking to Tom as we do.
The sea fever, as Chandos calls it, has suddenly seized Tom again, and he is always talking about it, as though we were both sure of going. I wish we were; but Tom's father says he has no real liking for it, and therefore won't let him go, and my mother is afraid. Oh dear! if mother would only give her consent! but she never will, I am afraid, and there will be nothing for it but to run away. Tom says we had better make up our minds to go from here before next Christmas. If it wasn't for the talks I've had with Chandos I'd do it; but I think I must give the mother one more chance, and see if I can't persuade her in the holidays to let me go. I wish I could think of something to please her very much; I'd do anything to get her consent to my going to sea.
June 4th.—I've been talking to Chandos. He says I have got the sea fever very bad this time, and he is afraid some of the other boys will catch the infection. I know what he means. He is afraid his brother may learn to like the sea from hearing so much about it from Tom, for the two are always together now. But I don't think he need to be afraid, Frank would never do for the sea, I am sure. He has persuaded me not to tease my mother too much about these plans of mine these holidays, but to go in for lots of grind next half, and get a prize at Christmas, and then, perhaps, when she sees I have really been industrious with my lessons, and yet love the sea as dearly as ever, she will be more likely to yield.
The plan may be a good one—I think it is, but it's precious hard. Grind is not quite such a trouble as it was at first, but still it's bad enough; and what with no cribs, and the extra I shall have to do if I am to have a chance of taking a prize, it is just enough to turn my brain. I scratch my head and pull a long face every time I think of it, but still I think I will try it, hard as it is.
June 12th.—Mrs. Chandos has sent a very pressing invitation for mamma and me to pay them a visit at Chandos Court, and of course Sir Eustace is quite eager that I should accept it. Not that he wants to show off his grandeur, I could never believe that of Chandos.