Chapter: Ernest had been out all the morning, but came in to the yard of the
Rectory from the spinney behind the house just as Ellen's things were
being put into the carriage.  He thought it was Ellen whom he then saw
get into the carriage, but as her face had been hidden by her
handkerchief he had not been able to see plainly who it was, and
dismissed the idea as improbable.

He went to the back-kitchen window, at which the cook was standing
peeling the potatoes for dinner, and found her crying bitterly.  Ernest
was much distressed, for he liked the cook, and, of course, wanted to
know what all the matter was, who it was that had just gone off in the
pony carriage, and why?  The cook told him it was Ellen, but said that no
earthly power should make it cross her lips why it was she was going
away; when, however, Ernest took her _au pied de la lettre_ and asked no
further questions, she told him all about it after extorting the most
solemn promises of secrecy.

It took Ernest some minutes to arrive at the facts of the case, but when
he understood them he leaned against the pump, which stood near the back-
kitchen window, and mingled his tears with the cook's.

Then his blood began to boil within him.  He did not see that after all
his father and mother could have done much otherwise than they actually
did.  They might perhaps have been less precipitate, and tried to keep
the matter a little more quiet, but this would not have been easy, nor
would it have mended things very materially.  The bitter fact remains
that if a girl does certain things she must do them at her peril, no
matter how young and pretty she is nor to what temptation she has
succumbed.  This is the way of the world, and as yet there has been no
help found for it.

Ernest could only see what he gathered from the cook, namely, that his
favourite, Ellen, was being turned adrift with a matter of three pounds
in her pocket, to go she knew not where, and to do she knew not what, and
that she had said she should hang or drown herself, which the boy
implicitly believed she would.

With greater promptitude than he had shown yet, he reckoned up his money
and found he had two shillings and threepence at his command; there was
his knife which might sell for a shilling, and there was the silver watch
his Aunt Alethea had given him shortly before she died.  The carriage had
been gone now a full quarter of an hour, and it must have got some
distance ahead, but he would do his best to catch it up, and there were
short cuts which would perhaps give him a chance.  He was off at once,
and from the top of the hill just past the Rectory paddock he could see
the carriage, looking very small, on a bit of road which showed perhaps a
mile and a half in front of him.

One of the most popular amusements at Roughborough was an institution
called "the hounds"--more commonly known elsewhere as "hare and hounds,"
but in this case the hare was a couple of boys who were called foxes, and
boys are so particular about correctness of nomenclature where their
sports are concerned that I dare not say they played "hare and hounds";
these were "the hounds," and that was all.  Ernest's want of muscular
strength did not tell against him here; there was no jostling up against
boys who, though neither older nor taller than he, were yet more robustly
built; if it came to mere endurance he was as good as any one else, so
when his carpentering was stopped he had naturally taken to "the hounds"
as his favourite amusement.  His lungs thus exercised had become
developed, and as a run of six or seven miles across country was not more
than he was used to, he did not despair by the help of the short cuts of
overtaking the carriage, or at the worst of catching Ellen at the station
before the train left.  So he ran and ran and ran till his first wind was
gone and his second came, and he could breathe more easily.  Never with
"the hounds" had he run so fast and with so few breaks as now, but with
all his efforts and the help of the short cuts he did not catch up the
carriage, and would probably not have done so had not John happened to
turn his head and seen him running and making signs for the carriage to
stop a quarter of a mile off.  He was now about five miles from home, and
was nearly done up.

He was crimson with his exertion; covered with dust, and with his
trousers and coat sleeves a trifle short for him he cut a poor figure
enough as he thrust on Ellen his watch, his knife, and the little money
he had.  The one thing he implored of her was not to do those dreadful
things which she threatened--for his sake if for no other reason.

Ellen at first would not hear of taking anything from him, but the
coachman, who was from the north country, sided with Ernest.  "Take it,
my lass," he said kindly, "take what thou canst get whiles thou canst get
it; as for Master Ernest here--he has run well after thee; therefore let
him give thee what he is minded."

Ellen did what she was told, and the two parted with many tears, the
girl's last words being that she should never forget him, and that they
should meet again hereafter, she was sure they should, and then she would
repay him.

Then Ernest got into a field by the roadside, flung himself on the grass,
and waited under the shadow of a hedge till the carriage should pass on
its return from the station and pick him up, for he was dead beat.
Thoughts which had already occurred to him with some force now came more
strongly before him, and he saw that he had got himself into one mess--or
rather into half-a-dozen messes--the more.

In the first place he should be late for dinner, and this was one of the
offences on which Theobald had no mercy.  Also he should have to say
where he had been, and there was a danger of being found out if he did
not speak the truth.  Not only this, but sooner or later it must come out
that he was no longer possessed of the beautiful watch which his dear
aunt had given him--and what, pray, had he done with it, or how had he
lost it?  The reader will know very well what he ought to have done.  He
should have gone straight home, and if questioned should have said, "I
have been running after the carriage to catch our housemaid Ellen, whom I
am very fond of; I have given her my watch, my knife and all my pocket
money, so that I have now no pocket money at all and shall probably ask
you for some more sooner than I otherwise might have done, and you will
also have to buy me a new watch and a knife."  But then fancy the
consternation which such an announcement would have occasioned!  Fancy
the scowl and flashing eyes of the infuriated Theobald!  "You
unprincipled young scoundrel," he would exclaim, "do you mean to vilify
your own parents by implying that they have dealt harshly by one whose
profligacy has disgraced their house?"

Or he might take it with one of those sallies of sarcastic calm, of which
he believed himself to be a master.

"Very well, Ernest, very well: I shall say nothing; you can please
yourself; you are not yet twenty-one, but pray act as if you were your
own master; your poor aunt doubtless gave you the watch that you might
fling it away upon the first improper character you came across; I think
I can now understand, however, why she did not leave you her money; and,
after all, your godfather may just as well have it as the kind of people
on whom you would lavish it if it were yours."

Then his mother would burst into tears and implore him to repent and seek
the things belonging to his peace while there was yet time, by falling on
his knees to Theobald and assuring him of his unfailing love for him as
the kindest and tenderest father in the universe.  Ernest could do all
this just as well as they could, and now, as he lay on the grass,
speeches, some one or other of which was as certain to come as the sun to
set, kept running in his head till they confuted the idea of telling the
truth by reducing it to an absurdity.  Truth might be heroic, but it was
not within the range of practical domestic politics.

Having settled then that he was to tell a lie, what lie should he tell?
Should he say he had been robbed?  He had enough imagination to know that
he had not enough imagination to carry him out here.  Young as he was,
his instinct told him that the best liar is he who makes the smallest
amount of lying go the longest way--who husbands it too carefully to
waste it where it can be dispensed with.  The simplest course would be to
say that he had lost the watch, and was late for dinner because he had
been looking for it.  He had been out for a long walk--he chose the line
across the fields that he had actually taken--and the weather being very
hot, he had taken off his coat and waistcoat; in carrying them over his
arm his watch, his money, and his knife had dropped out of them.  He had
got nearly home when he found out his loss, and had run back as fast as
he could, looking along the line he had followed, till at last he had
given it up; seeing the carriage coming back from the station, he had let
it pick him up and bring him home.

This covered everything, the running and all; for his face still showed
that he must have been running hard; the only question was whether he had
been seen about the Rectory by any but the servants for a couple of hours
or so before Ellen had gone, and this he was happy to believe was not the
case; for he had been out except during his few minutes' interview with
the cook.  His father had been out in the parish; his mother had
certainly not come across him, and his brother and sister had also been
out with the governess.  He knew he could depend upon the cook and the
other servants--the coachman would see to this; on the whole, therefore,
both he and the coachman thought the story as proposed by Ernest would
about meet the requirements of the case.





When Ernest got home and sneaked in through the back door, he heard his
father's voice in its angriest tones, inquiring whether Master Ernest had
already returned.  He felt as Jack must have felt in the story of Jack
and the Bean Stalk, when from the oven in which he was hidden he heard
the ogre ask his wife what young children she had got for his supper.
With much courage, and, as the event proved, with not less courage than
discretion, he took the bull by the horns, and announced himself at once
as having just come in after having met with a terrible misfortune.
Little by little he told his story, and though Theobald stormed somewhat
at his "incredible folly and carelessness," he got off better than he
expected.  Theobald and Christina had indeed at first been inclined to
connect his absence from dinner with Ellen's dismissal, but on finding it
clear, as Theobald said--everything was always clear with Theobald--that
Ernest had not been in the house all the morning, and could therefore
have known nothing of what had happened, he was acquitted on this account
for once in a way, without a stain upon his character.  Perhaps Theobald
was in a good temper; he may have seen from the paper that morning that
his stocks had been rising; it may have been this or twenty other things,
but whatever it was, he did not scold so much as Ernest had expected,
and, seeing the boy look exhausted and believing him to be much grieved
at the loss of his watch, Theobald actually prescribed a glass of wine
after his dinner, which, strange to say, did not choke him, but made him
see things more cheerfully than was usual with him.

That night when he said his prayers, he inserted a few paragraphs to the
effect that he might not be discovered, and that things might go well
with Ellen, but he was anxious and ill at ease.  His guilty conscience
pointed out to him a score of weak places in his story, through any one
of which detection might even yet easily enter.  Next day and for many
days afterwards he fled when no man was pursuing, and trembled each time
he heard his father's voice calling for him.  He had already so many
causes of anxiety that he could stand little more, and in spite of all
his endeavours to look cheerful, even his mother could see that something
was preying upon his mind.  Then the idea returned to her that, after
all, her son might not be innocent in the Ellen matter--and this was so
interesting that she felt bound to get as near the truth as she could.

"Come here, my poor, pale-faced, heavy-eyed boy," she said to him one day
in her kindest manner; "come and sit down by me, and we will have a
little quiet confidential talk together, will we not?"

The boy went mechanically to the sofa.  Whenever his mother wanted what
she called a confidential talk with him she always selected the sofa as
the most suitable ground on which to open her campaign.  All mothers do
this; the sofa is to them what the dining-room is to fathers.  In the
present case the sofa was particularly well adapted for a strategic
purpose, being an old-fashioned one with a high back, mattress, bolsters
and cushions.  Once safely penned into one of its deep corners, it was
like a dentist's chair, not too easy to get out of again.  Here she could
get at him better to pull him about, if this should seem desirable, or if
she thought fit to cry she could bury her head in the sofa cushion and
abandon herself to an agony of grief which seldom failed of its effect.
None of her favourite manoeuvres were so easily adopted in her usual
seat, the arm-chair on the right hand side of the fireplace, and so well
did her son know from his mother's tone that this was going to be a sofa
conversation that he took his place like a lamb as soon as she began to
speak and before she could reach the sofa herself.

"My dearest boy," began his mother, taking hold of his hand and placing
it within her own, "promise me never to be afraid either of your dear
papa or of me; promise me this, my dear, as you love me, promise it to
me," and she kissed him again and again and stroked his hair.  But with
her other hand she still kept hold of his; she had got him and she meant
to keep him.

The lad hung down his head and promised.  What else could he do?

"You know there is no one, dear, dear Ernest, who loves you so much as
your papa and I do; no one who watches so carefully over your interests
or who is so anxious to enter into all your little joys and troubles as
we are; but my dearest boy, it grieves me to think sometimes that you
have not that perfect love for and confidence in us which you ought to
have.  You know, my darling, that it would be as much our pleasure as our
duty to watch over the development of your moral and spiritual nature,
but alas! you will not let us see your moral and spiritual nature.  At
times we are almost inclined to doubt whether you have a moral and
spiritual nature at all.  Of your inner life, my dear, we know nothing
beyond such scraps as we can glean in spite of you, from little things
which escape you almost before you know that you have said them."

The boy winced at this.  It made him feel hot and uncomfortable all over.
He knew well how careful he ought to be, and yet, do what he could, from
time to time his forgetfulness of the part betrayed him into unreserve.
His mother saw that he winced, and enjoyed the scratch she had given him.
Had she felt less confident of victory she had better have foregone the
pleasure of touching as it were the eyes at the end of the snail's horns
in order to enjoy seeing the snail draw them in again--but she knew that
when she had got him well down into the sofa, and held his hand, she had
the enemy almost absolutely at her mercy, and could do pretty much what
she liked.

"Papa does not feel," she continued, "that you love him with that fulness
and unreserve which would prompt you to have no concealment from him, and
to tell him everything freely and fearlessly as your most loving earthly
friend next only to your Heavenly Father.  Perfect love, as we know,
casteth out fear: your father loves you perfectly, my darling, but he
does not feel as though you loved him perfectly in return.  If you fear
him it is because you do not love him as he deserves, and I know it
sometimes cuts him to the very heart to think that he has earned from you
a deeper and more willing sympathy than you display towards him.  Oh,
Ernest, Ernest, do not grieve one who is so good and noble-hearted by
conduct which I can call by no other name than ingratitude."

Ernest could never stand being spoken to in this way by his mother: for
he still believed that she loved him, and that he was fond of her and had
a friend in her--up to a certain point.  But his mother was beginning to
come to the end of her tether; she had played the domestic confidence
trick upon him times without number already.  Over and over again had she
wheedled from him all she wanted to know, and afterwards got him into the
most horrible scrape by telling the whole to Theobald.  Ernest had
remonstrated more than once upon these occasions, and had pointed out to
his mother how disastrous to him his confidences had been, but Christina
had always joined issue with him and showed him in the clearest possible
manner that in each case she had been right, and that he could not
reasonably complain.  Generally it was her conscience that forbade her to
be silent, and against this there was no appeal, for we are all bound to
follow the dictates of our conscience.  Ernest used to have to recite a
hymn about conscience.  It was to the effect that if you did not pay
attention to its voice it would soon leave off speaking.  "My mamma's
conscience has not left off speaking," said Ernest to one of his chums at
Roughborough; "it's always jabbering."

When a boy has once spoken so disrespectfully as this about his mother's
conscience it is practically all over between him and her.  Ernest
through sheer force of habit, of the sofa, and of the return of the
associated ideas, was still so moved by the siren's voice as to yearn to
sail towards her, and fling himself into her arms, but it would not do;
there were other associated ideas that returned also, and the mangled
bones of too many murdered confessions were lying whitening round the
skirts of his mother's dress, to allow him by any possibility to trust
her further.  So he hung his head and looked sheepish, but kept his own
counsel.

"I see, my dearest," continued his mother, "either that I am mistaken,
and that there is nothing on your mind, or that you will not unburden
yourself to me: but oh, Ernest, tell me at least this much; is there
nothing that you repent of, nothing which makes you unhappy in connection
with that miserable girl Ellen?"

Ernest's heart failed him.  "I am a dead boy now," he said to himself.  He
had not the faintest conception what his mother was driving at, and
thought she suspected about the watch; but he held his ground.

I do not believe he was much more of a coward than his neighbours, only
he did not know that all sensible people are cowards when they are off
their beat, or when they think they are going to be roughly handled.  I
believe, that if the truth were known, it would be found that even the
valiant St Michael himself tried hard to shirk his famous combat with the
dragon; he pretended not to see all sorts of misconduct on the dragon's
part; shut his eyes to the eating up of I do not know how many hundreds
of men, women and children whom he had promised to protect; allowed
himself to be publicly insulted a dozen times over without resenting it;
and in the end when even an angel could stand it no longer he
shilly-shallied and temporised an unconscionable time before he would fix
the day and hour for the encounter.  As for the actual combat it was much
such another _wurra-wurra_ as Mrs Allaby had had with the young man who
had in the end married her eldest daughter, till after a time behold,
there was the dragon lying dead, while he was himself alive and not very
seriously hurt after all.

"I do not know what you mean, mamma," exclaimed Ernest anxiously and more
or less hurriedly.  His mother construed his manner into indignation at
being suspected, and being rather frightened herself she turned tail and
scuttled off as fast as her tongue could carry her.

"Oh!" she said, "I see by your tone that you are innocent!  Oh! oh! how I
thank my heavenly Father for this; may He for His dear Son's sake keep
you always pure.  Your father, my dear"--(here she spoke hurriedly but
gave him a searching look) "was as pure as a spotless angel when he came
to me.  Like him, always be self-denying, truly truthful both in word and
deed, never forgetful whose son and grandson you are, nor of the name we
gave you, of the sacred stream in whose waters your sins were washed out
of you through the blood and blessing of Christ," etc.

But Ernest cut this--I will not say short--but a great deal shorter than
it would have been if Christina had had her say out, by extricating
himself from his mamma's embrace and showing a clean pair of heels.  As
he got near the purlieus of the kitchen (where he was more at ease) he
heard his father calling for his mother, and again his guilty conscience
rose against him.  "He has found all out now," it cried, "and he is going
to tell mamma--this time I am done for."  But there was nothing in it;
his father only wanted the key of the cellaret.  Then Ernest slunk off
into a coppice or spinney behind the Rectory paddock, and consoled
himself with a pipe of tobacco.  Here in the wood with the summer sun
streaming through the trees and a book and his pipe the boy forgot his
cares and had an interval of that rest without which I verily believe his
life would have been insupportable.

Of course, Ernest was made to look for his lost property, and a reward
was offered for it, but it seemed he had wandered a good deal off the
path, thinking to find a lark's nest, more than once, and looking for a
watch and purse on Battersby piewipes was very like looking for a needle
in a bundle of hay: besides it might have been found and taken by some
tramp, or by a magpie of which there were many in the neighbourhood, so
that after a week or ten days the search was discontinued, and the
unpleasant fact had to be faced that Ernest must have another watch,
another knife, and a small sum of pocket money.

It was only right, however, that Ernest should pay half the cost of the
watch; this should be made easy for him, for it should be deducted from
his pocket money in half-yearly instalments extending over two, or even
it might be three years.  In Ernest's own interests, then, as well as
those of his father and mother, it would be well that the watch should
cost as little as possible, so it was resolved to buy a second-hand one.
Nothing was to be said to Ernest, but it was to be bought, and laid upon
his plate as a surprise just before the holidays were over.  Theobald
would have to go to the county town in a few days, and could then find
some second-hand watch which would answer sufficiently well.  In the
course of time, therefore, Theobald went, furnished with a long list of
household commissions, among which was the purchase of a watch for
Ernest.

Those, as I have said, were always happy times, when Theobald was away
for a whole day certain; the boy was beginning to feel easy in his mind
as though God had heard his prayers, and he was not going to be found
out.  Altogether the day had proved an unusually tranquil one, but, alas!
it was not to close as it had begun; the fickle atmosphere in which he
lived was never more likely to breed a storm than after such an interval
of brilliant calm, and when Theobald returned Ernest had only to look in
his face to see that a hurricane was approaching.

Christina saw that something had gone very wrong, and was quite
frightened lest Theobald should have heard of some serious money loss; he
did not, however, at once unbosom himself, but rang the bell and said to
the servant, "Tell Master Ernest I wish to speak to him in the dining-
room."





Long before Ernest reached the dining-room his ill-divining soul had told
him that his sin had found him out.  What head of a family ever sends for
any of its members into the dining-room if his intentions are honourable?

When he reached it he found it empty--his father having been called away
for a few minutes unexpectedly upon some parish business--and he was left
in the same kind of suspense as people are in after they have been
ushered into their dentist's ante-room.

Of all the rooms in the house he hated the dining-room worst.  It was
here that he had had to do his Latin and Greek lessons with his father.
It had a smell of some particular kind of polish or varnish which was
used in polishing the furniture, and neither I nor Ernest can even now
come within range of the smell of this kind of varnish without our hearts
failing us.

Over the chimney-piece there was a veritable old master, one of the few
original pictures which Mr George Pontifex had brought from Italy.  It
was supposed to be a Salvator Rosa, and had been bought as a great
bargain.  The subject was Elijah or Elisha (whichever it was) being fed
by the ravens in the desert.  There were the ravens in the upper right-
hand corner with bread and meat in their beaks and claws, and there was
the prophet in question in the lower left-hand corner looking longingly
up towards them.  When Ernest was a very small boy it had been a constant
matter of regret to him that the food which the ravens carried never
actually reached the prophet; he did not understand the limitation of the
painter's art, and wanted the meat and the prophet to be brought into
direct contact.  One day, with the help of some steps which had been left
in the room, he had clambered up to the picture and with a piece of bread
and butter traced a greasy line right across it from the ravens to
Elisha's mouth, after which he had felt more comfortable.

Ernest's mind was drifting back to this youthful escapade when he heard
his father's hand on the door, and in another second Theobald entered.

"Oh, Ernest," said he, in an off-hand, rather cheery manner, "there's a
little matter which I should like you to explain to me, as I have no
doubt you very easily can."  Thump, thump, thump, went Ernest's heart
against his ribs; but his father's manner was so much nicer than usual
that he began to think it might be after all only another false alarm.

"It had occurred to your mother and myself that we should like to set you
up with a watch again before you went back to school" ("Oh, that's all,"
said Ernest to himself quite relieved), "and I have been to-day to look
out for a second-hand one which should answer every purpose so long as
you're at school."

Theobald spoke as if watches had half-a-dozen purposes besides
time-keeping, but he could hardly open his mouth without using one or
other of his tags, and "answering every purpose" was one of them.

Ernest was breaking out into the usual expressions of gratitude, when
Theobald continued, "You are interrupting me," and Ernest's heart thumped
again.

"You are interrupting me, Ernest.  I have not yet done."  Ernest was
instantly dumb.

"I passed several shops with second-hand watches for sale, but I saw none
of a description and price which pleased me, till at last I was shown one
which had, so the shopman said, been left with him recently for sale, and
which I at once recognised as the one which had been given you by your
Aunt Alethea.  Even if I had failed to recognise it, as perhaps I might
have done, I should have identified it directly it reached my hands,
inasmuch as it had 'E. P., a present from A. P.' engraved upon the
inside.  I need say no more to show that this was the very watch which
you told your mother and me that you had dropped out of your pocket."

Up to this time Theobald's manner had been studiously calm, and his words
had been uttered slowly, but here he suddenly quickened and flung off the
mask as he added the words, "or some such cock and bull story, which your
mother and I were too truthful to disbelieve.  You can guess what must be
our feelings now."

Ernest felt that this last home-thrust was just.  In his less anxious
moments he had thought his papa and mamma "green" for the readiness with
which they believed him, but he could not deny that their credulity was a
proof of their habitual truthfulness of mind.  In common justice he must
own that it was very dreadful for two such truthful people to have a son
as untruthful as he knew himself to be.

"Believing that a son of your mother and myself would be incapable of
falsehood I at once assumed that some tramp had picked the watch up and
was now trying to dispose of it."

This to the best of my belief was not accurate.  Theobald's first
assumption had been that it was Ernest who was trying to sell the watch,
and it was an inspiration of the moment to say that his magnanimous mind
had at once conceived the idea of a tramp.

"You may imagine how shocked I was when I discovered that the watch had
been brought for sale by that miserable woman Ellen"--here Ernest's heart
hardened a little, and he felt as near an approach to an instinct to turn
as one so defenceless could be expected to feel; his father quickly
perceived this and continued, "who was turned out of this house in
circumstances which I will not pollute your ears by more particularly
describing.

"I put aside the horrid conviction which was beginning to dawn upon me,
and assumed that in the interval between her dismissal and her leaving
this house, she had added theft to her other sin, and having found your
watch in your bedroom had purloined it.  It even occurred to me that you
might have missed your watch after the woman was gone, and, suspecting
who had taken it, had run after the carriage in order to recover it; but
when I told the shopman of my suspicions he assured me that the person
who left it with him had declared most solemnly that it had been given
her by her master's son, whose property it was, and who had a perfect
right to dispose of it.

"He told me further that, thinking the circumstances in which the watch
was offered for sale somewhat suspicious, he had insisted upon the
woman's telling him the whole story of how she came by it, before he
would consent to buy it of her.

"He said that at first--as women of that stamp invariably do--she tried
prevarication, but on being threatened that she should at once be given
into custody if she did not tell the whole truth, she described the way
in which you had run after the carriage, till as she said you were black
in the face, and insisted on giving her all your pocket money, your knife
and your watch.  She added that my coachman John--whom I shall instantly
discharge--was witness to the whole transaction.  Now, Ernest, be pleased
to tell me whether this appalling story is true or false?"

It never occurred to Ernest to ask his father why he did not hit a man
his own size, or to stop him midway in the story with a remonstrance
against being kicked when he was down.  The boy was too much shocked and
shaken to be inventive; he could only drift and stammer out that the tale
was true.

"So I feared," said Theobald, "and now, Ernest, be good enough to ring
the bell."

When the bell had been answered, Theobald desired that John should be
sent for, and when John came Theobald calculated the wages due to him and
desired him at once to leave the house.

John's manner was quiet and respectful.  He took his dismissal as a
matter of course, for Theobald had hinted enough to make him understand
why he was being discharged, but when he saw Ernest sitting pale and awe-
struck on the edge of his chair against the dining-room wall, a sudden
thought seemed to strike him, and turning to Theobald he said in a broad
northern accent which I will not attempt to reproduce:

"Look here, master, I can guess what all this is about--now before I goes
I want to have a word with you."

"Ernest," said Theobald, "leave the room."

"No, Master Ernest, you shan't," said John, planting himself against the
door.  "Now, master," he continued, "you may do as you please about me.
I've been a good servant to you, and I don't mean to say as you've been a
bad master to me, but I do say that if you bear hardly on Master Ernest
here I have those in the village as 'll hear on't and let me know; and if
I do hear on't I'll come back and break every bone in your skin, so
there!"

John's breath came and went quickly, as though he would have been well
enough pleased to begin the bone-breaking business at once.  Theobald
turned of an ashen colour--not, as he explained afterwards, at the idle
threats of a detected and angry ruffian, but at such atrocious insolence
from one of his own servants.

"I shall leave Master Ernest, John," he rejoined proudly, "to the
reproaches of his own conscience."  ("Thank God and thank John," thought
Ernest.)  "As for yourself, I admit that you have been an excellent
servant until this unfortunate business came on, and I shall have much
pleasure in giving you a character if you want one.  Have you anything
more to say?"

"No more nor what I have said," said John sullenly, "but what I've said I
means and I'll stick to--character or no character."

"Oh, you need not be afraid about your character, John," said Theobald
kindly, "and as it is getting late, there can be no occasion for you to
leave the house before to-morrow morning."

To this there was no reply from John, who retired, packed up his things,
and left the house at once.

When Christina heard what had happened she said she could condone all
except that Theobald should have been subjected to such insolence from
one of his own servants through the misconduct of his son.  Theobald was
the bravest man in the whole world, and could easily have collared the
wretch and turned him out of the room, but how far more dignified, how
far nobler had been his reply!  How it would tell in a novel or upon the
stage, for though the stage as a whole was immoral, yet there were
doubtless some plays which were improving spectacles.  She could fancy
the whole house hushed with excitement at hearing John's menace, and
hardly breathing by reason of their interest and expectation of the
coming answer.  Then the actor--probably the great and good Mr
Macready--would say, "I shall leave Master Ernest, John, to the
reproaches of his own conscience."  Oh, it was sublime!  What a roar of
applause must follow!  Then she should enter herself, and fling her arms
about her husband's neck, and call him her lion-hearted husband.  When
the curtain dropped, it would be buzzed about the house that the scene
just witnessed had been drawn from real life, and had actually occurred
in the household of the Rev. Theobald Pontifex, who had married a Miss
Allaby, etc., etc.

As regards Ernest the suspicions which had already crossed her mind were
deepened, but she thought it better to leave the matter where it was.  At
present she was in a very strong position.  Ernest's official purity was
firmly established, but at the same time he had shown himself so
susceptible that she was able to fuse two contradictory impressions
concerning him into a single idea, and consider him as a kind of Joseph
and Don Juan in one.  This was what she had wanted all along, but her
vanity being gratified by the possession of such a son, there was an end
of it; the son himself was naught.

No doubt if John had not interfered, Ernest would have had to expiate his
offence with ache, penury and imprisonment.  As it was the boy was "to
consider himself" as undergoing these punishments, and as suffering pangs
of unavailing remorse inflicted on him by his conscience into the
bargain; but beyond the fact that Theobald kept him more closely to his
holiday task, and the continued coldness of his parents, no ostensible
punishment was meted out to him.  Ernest, however, tells me that he looks
back upon this as the time when he began to know that he had a cordial
and active dislike for both his parents, which I suppose means that he
was now beginning to be aware that he was reaching man's estate.





About a week before he went back to school his father again sent for him
into the dining-room, and told him that he should restore him his watch,
but that he should deduct the sum he had paid for it--for he had thought
it better to pay a few shillings rather than dispute the ownership of the
watch, seeing that Ernest had undoubtedly given it to Ellen--from his
pocket money, in payments which should extend over two half years.  He
would therefore have to go back to Roughborough this half year with only
five shillings' pocket money.  If he wanted more he must earn more merit
money.

Ernest was not so careful about money as a pattern boy should be.  He did
not say to himself, "Now I have got a sovereign which must last me
fifteen weeks, therefore I may spend exactly one shilling and fourpence
in each week"--and spend exactly one and fourpence in each week
accordingly.  He ran through his money at about the same rate as other
boys did, being pretty well cleaned out a few days after he had got back
to school.  When he had no more money, he got a little into debt, and
when as far in debt as he could see his way to repaying, he went without
luxuries.  Immediately he got any money he would pay his debts; if there
was any over he would spend it; if there was not--and there seldom was--he
would begin to go on tick again.

His finance was always based upon the supposition that he should go back
to school with 1 pound in his pocket--of which he owed say a matter of
fifteen shillings.  There would be five shillings for sundry school
subscriptions--but when these were paid the weekly allowance of sixpence
given to each boy in hall, his merit money (which this half he was
resolved should come to a good sum) and renewed credit, would carry him
through the half.

The sudden failure of 15/- was disastrous to my hero's scheme of finance.
His face betrayed his emotions so clearly that Theobald said he was
determined "to learn the truth at once, and _this time_ without days and
days of falsehood" before he reached it.  The melancholy fact was not
long in coming out, namely, that the wretched Ernest added debt to the
vices of idleness, falsehood and possibly--for it was not
impossible--immorality.

How had he come to get into debt?  Did the other boys do so?  Ernest
reluctantly admitted that they did.

With what shops did they get into debt?

This was asking too much, Ernest said he didn't know!

"Oh, Ernest, Ernest," exclaimed his mother, who was in the room, "do not
so soon a second time presume upon the forbearance of the
tenderest-hearted father in the world.  Give time for one stab to heal
before you wound him with another."

This was all very fine, but what was Ernest to do?  How could he get the
school shop-keepers into trouble by owning that they let some of the boys
go on tick with them?  There was Mrs Cross, a good old soul, who used to
sell hot rolls and butter for breakfast, or eggs and toast, or it might
be the quarter of a fowl with bread sauce and mashed potatoes for which
she would charge 6d.  If she made a farthing out of the sixpence it was
as much as she did.  When the boys would come trooping into her shop
after "the hounds" how often had not Ernest heard her say to her servant
girls, "Now then, you wanches, git some cheers."  All the boys were fond
of her, and was he, Ernest, to tell tales about her?  It was horrible.

"Now look here, Ernest," said his father with his blackest scowl, "I am
going to put a stop to this nonsense once for all.  Either take me fully
into your confidence, as a son should take a father, and trust me to deal
with this matter as a clergyman and a man of the world--or understand
distinctly that I shall take the whole story to Dr Skinner, who, I
imagine, will take much sterner measures than I should."

"Oh, Ernest, Ernest," sobbed Christina, "be wise in time, and trust those
who have already shown you that they know but too well how to be
forbearing."

No genuine hero of romance should have hesitated for a moment.  Nothing
should have cajoled or frightened him into telling tales out of school.
Ernest thought of his ideal boys: they, he well knew, would have let
their tongues be cut out of them before information could have been wrung
from any word of theirs.  But Ernest was not an ideal boy, and he was not
strong enough for his surroundings; I doubt how far any boy could
withstand the moral pressure which was brought to bear upon him; at any
rate he could not do so, and after a little more writhing he yielded
himself a passive prey to the enemy.  He consoled himself with the
reflection that his papa had not played the confidence trick on him quite
as often as his mamma had, and that probably it was better he should tell
his father, than that his father should insist on Dr Skinner's making an
inquiry.  His papa's conscience "jabbered" a good deal, but not as much
as his mamma's.  The little fool forgot that he had not given his father
as many chances of betraying him as he had given to Christina.

Then it all came out.  He owed this at Mrs Cross's, and this to Mrs
Jones, and this at the "Swan and Bottle" public house, to say nothing of
another shilling or sixpence or two in other quarters.  Nevertheless,
Theobald and Christina were not satiated, but rather the more they
discovered the greater grew their appetite for discovery; it was their
obvious duty to find out everything, for though they might rescue their
own darling from this hotbed of iniquity without getting to know more
than they knew at present, were there not other papas and mammas with
darlings whom also they were bound to rescue if it were yet possible?
What boys, then, owed money to these harpies as well as Ernest?

Here, again, there was a feeble show of resistance, but the thumbscrews
were instantly applied, and Ernest, demoralised as he already was,
recanted and submitted himself to the powers that were.  He told only a
little less than he knew or thought he knew.  He was examined,
re-examined, cross-examined, sent to the retirement of his own bedroom
and cross-examined again; the smoking in Mrs Jones' kitchen all came out;
which boys smoked and which did not; which boys owed money and, roughly,
how much and where; which boys swore and used bad language.  Theobald was
resolved that this time Ernest should, as he called it, take him into his
confidence without reserve, so the school list which went with Dr
Skinner's half-yearly bills was brought out, and the most secret
character of each boy was gone through _seriatim_ by Mr and Mrs Pontifex,
so far as it was in Ernest's power to give information concerning it, and
yet Theobald had on the preceding Sunday preached a less feeble sermon
than he commonly preached, upon the horrors of the Inquisition.  No
matter how awful was the depravity revealed to them, the pair never
flinched, but probed and probed, till they were on the point of reaching
subjects more delicate than they had yet touched upon.  Here Ernest's
unconscious self took the matter up and made a resistance to which his
conscious self was unequal, by tumbling him off his chair in a fit of
fainting.

Dr Martin was sent for and pronounced the boy to be seriously unwell; at
the same time he prescribed absolute rest and absence from nervous
excitement.  So the anxious parents were unwillingly compelled to be
content with what they had got already--being frightened into leading him
a quiet life for the short remainder of the holidays.  They were not
idle, but Satan can find as much mischief for busy hands as for idle
ones, so he sent a little job in the direction of Battersby which
Theobald and Christina undertook immediately.  It would be a pity, they
reasoned, that Ernest should leave Roughborough, now that he had been
there three years; it would be difficult to find another school for him,
and to explain why he had left Roughborough.  Besides, Dr Skinner and
Theobald were supposed to be old friends, and it would be unpleasant to
offend him; these were all valid reasons for not removing the boy.  The
proper thing to do, then, would be to warn Dr Skinner confidentially of
the state of his school, and to furnish him with a school list annotated
with the remarks extracted from Ernest, which should be appended to the
name of each boy.

Theobald was the perfection of neatness; while his son was ill upstairs,
he copied out the school list so that he could throw his comments into a
tabular form, which assumed the following shape--only that of course I
have changed the names.  One cross in each square was to indicate
occasional offence; two stood for frequent, and three for habitual
delinquency.

          Smoking     Drinking beer    Swearing      Notes
                      at the "Swan     and Obscene
                      and Bottle."     Language.
Smith        O            O              XX          Will smoke
                                                     next half
Brown       XXX           O               X
Jones        X            XX              XXX
Robinson    XX            XX              X

And thus through the whole school.

Of course, in justice to Ernest, Dr Skinner would be bound over to
secrecy before a word was said to him, but, Ernest being thus protected,
he could not be furnished with the facts too completely.





So important did Theobald consider this matter that he made a special
journey to Roughborough before the half year began.  It was a relief to
have him out of the house, but though his destination was not mentioned,
Ernest guessed where he had gone.

To this day he considers his conduct at this crisis to have been one of
the most serious laches of his life--one which he can never think of
without shame and indignation.  He says he ought to have run away from
home.  But what good could he have done if he had?  He would have been
caught, brought back and examined two days later instead of two days
earlier.  A boy of barely sixteen cannot stand against the moral pressure
of a father and mother who have always oppressed him any more than he can
cope physically with a powerful full-grown man.  True, he may allow
himself to be killed rather than yield, but this is being so morbidly
heroic as to come close round again to cowardice; for it is little else
than suicide, which is universally condemned as cowardly.

On the re-assembling of the school it became apparent that something had
gone wrong.  Dr Skinner called the boys together, and with much pomp
excommunicated Mrs Cross and Mrs Jones, by declaring their shops to be
out of bounds.  The street in which the "Swan and Bottle" stood was also
forbidden.  The vices of drinking and smoking, therefore, were clearly
aimed at, and before prayers Dr Skinner spoke a few impressive words
about the abominable sin of using bad language.  Ernest's feelings can be
imagined.

Next day at the hour when the daily punishments were read out, though
there had not yet been time for him to have offended, Ernest Pontifex was
declared to have incurred every punishment which the school provided for
evil-doers.  He was placed on the idle list for the whole half year, and
on perpetual detentions; his bounds were curtailed; he was to attend
junior callings-over; in fact he was so hemmed in with punishments upon
every side that it was hardly possible for him to go outside the school
gates.  This unparalleled list of punishments inflicted on the first day
of the half year, and intended to last till the ensuing Christmas
holidays, was not connected with any specified offence.  It required no
great penetration therefore, on the part of the boys to connect Ernest
with the putting Mrs Cross's and Mrs Jones's shops out of bounds.

Great indeed was the indignation about Mrs Cross who, it was known,
remembered Dr Skinner himself as a small boy only just got into jackets,
and had doubtless let him have many a sausage and mashed potatoes upon
deferred payment.  The head boys assembled in conclave to consider what
steps should be taken, but hardly had they done so before Ernest knocked
timidly at the head-room door and took the bull by the horns by
explaining the facts as far as he could bring himself to do so.  He made
a clean breast of everything except about the school list and the remarks
he had made about each boy's character.  This infamy was more than he
could own to, and he kept his counsel concerning it.  Fortunately he was
safe in doing so, for Dr Skinner, pedant and more than pedant though he
was, had still just sense enough to turn on Theobald in the matter of the
school list.  Whether he resented being told that he did not know the
characters of his own boys, or whether he dreaded a scandal about the
school I know not, but when Theobald had handed him the list, over which
he had expended so much pains, Dr Skinner had cut him uncommonly short,
and had then and there, with more suavity than was usual with him,
committed it to the flames before Theobald's own eyes.

Ernest got off with the head boys easier than he expected.  It was
admitted that the offence, heinous though it was, had been committed
under extenuating circumstances; the frankness with which the culprit had
confessed all, his evidently unfeigned remorse, and the fury with which
Dr Skinner was pursuing him tended to bring about a reaction in his
favour, as though he had been more sinned against than sinning.

As the half year wore on his spirits gradually revived, and when attacked
by one of his fits of self-abasement he was in some degree consoled by
having found out that even his father and mother, whom he had supposed so
immaculate, were no better than they should be.  About the fifth of
November it was a school custom to meet on a certain common not far from
Roughborough and burn somebody in effigy, this being the compromise
arrived at in the matter of fireworks and Guy Fawkes festivities.  This
year it was decided that Pontifex's governor should be the victim, and
Ernest though a good deal exercised in mind as to what he ought to do, in
the end saw no sufficient reason for holding aloof from proceedings
which, as he justly remarked, could not do his father any harm.

It so happened that the bishop had held a confirmation at the school on
the fifth of November.  Dr Skinner had not quite liked the selection of
this day, but the bishop was pressed by many engagements, and had been
compelled to make the arrangement as it then stood.  Ernest was among
those who had to be confirmed, and was deeply impressed with the solemn
importance of the ceremony.  When he felt the huge old bishop drawing
down upon him as he knelt in chapel he could hardly breathe, and when the
apparition paused before him and laid its hands upon his head he was
frightened almost out of his wits.  He felt that he had arrived at one of
the great turning points of his life, and that the Ernest of the future
could resemble only very faintly the Ernest of the past.

This happened at about noon, but by the one o'clock dinner-hour the
effect of the confirmation had worn off, and he saw no reason why he
should forego his annual amusement with the bonfire; so he went with the
others and was very valiant till the image was actually produced and was
about to be burnt; then he felt a little frightened.  It was a poor thing
enough, made of paper, calico and straw, but they had christened it The
Rev. Theobald Pontifex, and he had a revulsion of feeling as he saw it
being carried towards the bonfire.  Still he held his ground, and in a
few minutes when all was over felt none the worse for having assisted at
a ceremony which, after all, was prompted by a boyish love of mischief
rather than by rancour.

I should say that Ernest had written to his father, and told him of the
unprecedented way in which he was being treated; he even ventured to
suggest that Theobald should interfere for his protection and reminded
him how the story had been got out of him, but Theobald had had enough of
Dr Skinner for the present; the burning of the school list had been a
rebuff which did not encourage him to meddle a second time in the
internal economics of Roughborough.  He therefore replied that he must
either remove Ernest from Roughborough altogether, which would for many
reasons be undesirable, or trust to the discretion of the head master as
regards the treatment he might think best for any of his pupils.  Ernest
said no more; he still felt that it was so discreditable to him to have
allowed any confession to be wrung from him, that he could not press the
promised amnesty for himself.

It was during the "Mother Cross row," as it was long styled among the
boys, that a remarkable phenomenon was witnessed at Roughborough.  I mean
that of the head boys under certain conditions doing errands for their
juniors.  The head boys had no bounds and could go to Mrs Cross's
whenever they liked; they actually, therefore, made themselves
go-betweens, and would get anything from either Mrs Cross's or Mrs
Jones's for any boy, no matter how low in the school, between the hours
of a quarter to nine and nine in the morning, and a quarter to six and
six in the afternoon.  By degrees, however, the boys grew bolder, and the
shops, though not openly declared in bounds again, were tacitly allowed
to be so.





I may spare the reader more details about my hero's school days.  He
rose, always in spite of himself, into the Doctor's form, and for the
last two years or so of his time was among the praepostors, though he
never rose into the upper half of them.  He did little, and I think the
Doctor rather gave him up as a boy whom he had better leave to himself,
for he rarely made him construe, and he used to send in his exercises or
not, pretty much as he liked.  His tacit, unconscious obstinacy had in
time effected more even than a few bold sallies in the first instance
would have done.  To the end of his career his position _inter pares_ was
what it had been at the beginning, namely, among the upper part of the
less reputable class--whether of seniors or juniors--rather than among
the lower part of the more respectable.

Only once in the whole course of his school life did he get praise from
Dr Skinner for any exercise, and this he has treasured as the best
example of guarded approval which he has ever seen.  He had had to write
a copy of Alcaics on "The dogs of the monks of St Bernard," and when the
exercise was returned to him he found the Doctor had written on it: "In
this copy of Alcaics--which is still excessively bad--I fancy that I can
discern some faint symptoms of improvement."  Ernest says that if the
exercise was any better than usual it must have been by a fluke, for he
is sure that he always liked dogs, especially St Bernard dogs, far too
much to take any pleasure in writing Alcaics about them.

"As I look back upon it," he said to me but the other day, with a hearty
laugh, "I respect myself more for having never once got the best mark for
an exercise than I should do if I had got it every time it could be got.
I am glad nothing could make me do Latin and Greek verses; I am glad
Skinner could never get any moral influence over me; I am glad I was idle
at school, and I am glad my father overtasked me as a boy--otherwise,
likely enough I should have acquiesced in the swindle, and might have
written as good a copy of Alcaics about the dogs of the monks of St
Bernard as my neighbours, and yet I don't know, for I remember there was
another boy, who sent in a Latin copy of some sort, but for his own
pleasure he wrote the following--

   The dogs of the monks of St Bernard go
   To pick little children out of the snow,
   And around their necks is the cordial gin
   Tied with a little bit of bob-bin.

I should like to have written that, and I did try, but I couldn't.  I
didn't quite like the last line, and tried to mend it, but I couldn't."

I fancied I could see traces of bitterness against the instructors of his
youth in Ernest's manner, and said something to this effect.

"Oh, no," he replied, still laughing, "no more than St Anthony felt
towards the devils who had tempted him, when he met some of them casually
a hundred or a couple of hundred years afterwards.  Of course he knew
they were devils, but that was all right enough; there must be devils.  St
Anthony probably liked these devils better than most others, and for old
acquaintance sake showed them as much indulgence as was compatible with
decorum.

"Besides, you know," he added, "St Anthony tempted the devils quite as
much as they tempted him; for his peculiar sanctity was a greater
temptation to tempt him than they could stand.  Strictly speaking, it was
the devils who were the more to be pitied, for they were led up by St
Anthony to be tempted and fell, whereas St Anthony did not fall.  I
believe I was a disagreeable and unintelligible boy, and if ever I meet
Skinner there is no one whom I would shake hands with, or do a good turn
to more readily."

At home things went on rather better; the Ellen and Mother Cross rows
sank slowly down upon the horizon, and even at home he had quieter times
now that he had become a praepostor.  Nevertheless the watchful eye and
protecting hand were still ever over him to guard his comings in and his
goings out, and to spy out all his ways.  Is it wonderful that the boy,
though always trying to keep up appearances as though he were cheerful
and contented--and at times actually being so--wore often an anxious,
jaded look when he thought none were looking, which told of an almost
incessant conflict within?

Doubtless Theobald saw these looks and knew how to interpret them, but it
was his profession to know how to shut his eyes to things that were
inconvenient--no clergyman could keep his benefice for a month if he
could not do this; besides he had allowed himself for so many years to
say things he ought not to have said, and not to say the things he ought
to have said, that he was little likely to see anything that he thought
it more convenient not to see unless he was made to do so.

It was not much that was wanted.  To make no mysteries where Nature has
made none, to bring his conscience under something like reasonable
control, to give Ernest his head a little more, to ask fewer questions,
and to give him pocket money with a desire that it should be spent upon
_menus plaisirs_ . . .

"Call that not much indeed," laughed Ernest, as I read him what I have
just written.  "Why it is the whole duty of a father, but it is the
mystery-making which is the worst evil.  If people would dare to speak to
one another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in the
world a hundred years hence."

To return, however, to Roughborough.  On the day of his leaving, when he
was sent for into the library to be shaken hands with, he was surprised
to feel that, though assuredly glad to leave, he did not do so with any
especial grudge against the Doctor rankling in his breast.  He had come
to the end of it all, and was still alive, nor, take it all round, more
seriously amiss than other people.  Dr Skinner received him graciously,
and was even frolicsome after his own heavy fashion.  Young people are
almost always placable, and Ernest felt as he went away that another such
interview would not only have wiped off all old scores, but have brought
him round into the ranks of the Doctor's admirers and supporters--among
whom it is only fair to say that the greater number of the more promising
boys were found.

Just before saying good-bye the Doctor actually took down a volume from
those shelves which had seemed so awful six years previously, and gave it
to him after having written his name in it, and the words [Greek text],
which I believe means "with all kind wishes from the donor."  The book
was one written in Latin by a German--Schomann: "De comitiis
Atheniensibus"--not exactly light and cheerful reading, but Ernest felt
it was high time he got to understand the Athenian constitution and
manner of voting; he had got them up a great many times already, but had
forgotten them as fast as he had learned them; now, however, that the
Doctor had given him this book, he would master the subject once for all.
How strange it was!  He wanted to remember these things very badly; he
knew he did, but he could never retain them; in spite of himself they no
sooner fell upon his mind than they fell off it again, he had such a
dreadful memory; whereas, if anyone played him a piece of music and told
him where it came from, he never forgot that, though he made no effort to
retain it, and was not even conscious of trying to remember it at all.
His mind must be badly formed and he was no good.

Having still a short time to spare, he got the keys of St Michael's
church and went to have a farewell practice upon the organ, which he
could now play fairly well.  He walked up and down the aisle for a while
in a meditative mood, and then, settling down to the organ, played "They
loathed to drink of the river" about six times over, after which he felt
more composed and happier; then, tearing himself away from the instrument
he loved so well, he hurried to the station.

As the train drew out he looked down from a high embankment on to the
little house his aunt had taken, and where it might be said she had died
through her desire to do him a kindness.  There were the two well-known
bow windows, out of which he had often stepped to run across the lawn
into the workshop.  He reproached himself with the little gratitude he
had shown towards this kind lady--the only one of his relations whom he
had ever felt as though he could have taken into his confidence.  Dearly
as he loved her memory, he was glad she had not known the scrapes he had
got into since she died; perhaps she might not have forgiven them--and
how awful that would have been!  But then, if she had lived, perhaps many
of his ills would have been spared him.  As he mused thus he grew sad
again.  Where, where, he asked himself, was it all to end?  Was it to be
always sin, shame and sorrow in the future, as it had been in the past,
and the ever-watchful eye and protecting hand of his father laying
burdens on him greater than he could bear--or was he, too, some day or
another to come to feel that he was fairly well and happy?

There was a gray mist across the sun, so that the eye could bear its
light, and Ernest, while musing as above, was looking right into the
middle of the sun himself, as into the face of one whom he knew and was
fond of.  At first his face was grave, but kindly, as of a tired man who
feels that a long task is over; but in a few seconds the more humorous
side of his misfortunes presented itself to him, and he smiled half
reproachfully, half merrily, as thinking how little all that had happened
to him really mattered, and how small were his hardships as compared with
those of most people.  Still looking into the eye of the sun and smiling
dreamily, he thought how he had helped to burn his father in effigy, and
his look grew merrier, till at last he broke out into a laugh.  Exactly
at this moment the light veil of cloud parted from the sun, and he was
brought to _terra firma_ by the breaking forth of the sunshine.  On this
he became aware that he was being watched attentively by a
fellow-traveller opposite to him, an elderly gentleman with a large head
and iron-grey hair.

"My young friend," said he, good-naturedly, "you really must not carry on
conversations with people in the sun, while you are in a public railway
carriage."

The old gentleman said not another word, but unfolded his _Times_ and
began to read it.  As for Ernest, he blushed crimson.  The pair did not
speak during the rest of the time they were in the carriage, but they
eyed each other from time to time, so that the face of each was impressed
on the recollection of the other.

 Upon learning of Ellen's sudden dismissal from the Pontifex household, Ernest runs several miles in pursuit and finally intercepts the carriage bearing her away. He insists that she take his silver watch, pen knife, and his small amount of pocket money to ease her plight. At the urging of John, the coachman, she accepts these gifts and promises to repay him for them at a future time. In order to explain the loss of his possessions to his parents, Ernest fabricates a story which momentarily assuages their anger and suspicions. Soon thereafter, however, Theobald finds the missing watch at a pawnbroker's shop and uses his discovery to force Ernest to confess not only to his charity to the disgraced Ellen but also to his and other Roughborough boys' delinquencies at school. Once Ernest breaks his resolve to withhold information about these practices -- relating to the vices of profanity, smoking, drinking, and running up bills of credit -- Theobald compiles a chart on each of the schoolboys' individual conduct and submits it to the headmaster, Dr. Skinner. Ernest is punished in every way possible at the beginning of the new term and all the boys are confined to grounds. By voluntarily confessing to the other boys about his guilt in telling tales out of school, Ernest receives their forgiveness. Dr. Skinner's prompt burning of the report given him by Theobald in the latter's presence both limits the severest penalties to Ernest and deters Theobald from interfering again in school affairs. When the boys choose Theobald to burn in effigy on Guy Fawkes day -- which is also the day of Ernest's confirmation into the Church -- Theobald remains silent. Ernest's remaining days at school pass without further incident. By the time he leaves Roughborough, Ernest has earned at least a modicum of approval from Dr. Skinner in spite of practicing the organ with much more ardor than he could ever muster for his academic lessons.

