CHAPTER VIII.

THE SCHOOL-ROOM ADDRESS.

MR. CURTIS looked unusually thoughtful and grave as he walked up the schoolroom. The boys missed the kindly smile and familiar nod, and the inquiries after sick relatives, which were wont to make his greeting resemble that of a father. All felt that the vicar had something on his mind, as he stood behind the reading-desk, with the sunset glow on his bald head, looking down on the throng of boys clustering in the closely-filled benches.

Instead of going on with the history of St Paul, which he had been explaining in a course of lectures, the vicar turned to the fifth chapter of Acts. Before beginning to read, with his hand on the open Bible, Mr. Curtis said a few words to the boys, who listened in the deep silence of expectation.

"You see me anxious and disturbed—I am so. You all know, I doubt not, what has happened in our village to-day. A sailor who, after serving his country through hardships and dangers, had come here but yesterday to enjoy rest and peace in a cottage-home, has been sent to the lock-up, accused of an offence, which I believe from my soul that he never committed."

Mr. Curtis paused, and the silence was so profound in the room, that the murmur of a little neighbouring brook was distinctly heard.

"My belief of his innocence," continued the vicar, "is chiefly founded on his character for truth. I believe Franks to be incapable of the meanness and sin of telling a lie. But if the sailor be innocent, some one else must be guilty, and I have chosen the history of Ananias and Sapphira for our reading this evening, that we may all learn from it how Almighty God sees, knows, and can bring to light these things that we believe to be hidden for ever from the eyes of all men."

Mr. Curtis then went on to read aloud the awful story recorded in the Word of God, of the man and woman whose characters had stood fair before the world, who had been counted amongst the flock of faithful Christians, but who had been struck down dead, with falsehood upon their tongues! Fearful warning to all who think lightly of the guilt of untruth!

Mr. Curtis closed the Bible. "Such a history as that which I have just read," he remarked, "needs no comment of mine. We see in it written, as with letters of fire, what falsehood is in the sight of the Lord! Now, to return to the subject on which I was speaking, I wish all here to know that a clue, though a slight one, has been discovered as to the real author of the mischief done. The footprint of a boy has been left on the sod!"

A thrill at the words ran through the assembly; the scholars looked one at another, and then fixed their eager eyes on the speaker, gazing open-mouthed, as if they expected that the next moment his finger would be stretched forth to point out the offender.

"A boy!" repeated the vicar, emphatically. "Perhaps one of these now before me! A fac-simile of the footprint has been carefully taken on paper, and I intend tomorrow to compare it with the boots of each one here present, unless—as I hope and trust—he who broke the glass will earn the respect and confidence of all who know him by frankly, honestly, nobly, confessing the truth at once."

Again there was that kind of electric thrill through the throng, again the boys turned inquiring looks one upon another.

"In such case," continued the clergyman, "I shall do everything in my power to shield that boy from the punishment which his mischievous act has deserved, I shall use my influence to procure his full pardon from Sir Lacy. But even if he have something to bear, it will be more than made up to him by the satisfaction of feeling that, in confessing, he has done what is manly and right; that he has saved an innocent man from distress; that he himself has no sudden shameful disclosure to fear; that he has earned a character for honour, the respect of his comrades, the approval of conscience; and that he has put on that Girdle of Truth without which whatever he may call himself, or think himself, he can be a Christian only in name."

Mr. Curtis knelt down, and all the scholars followed his example. Very fervent was the vicar's prayer to God, that He might give to all present grace and courage ever to speak the truth, to conceal nothing that ought to be confessed, remembering that a great Day is coming when, before assembled myriads of angels and men, the most secret things shall be manifest, when we shall know even as we are known! There was some encouragement to the clergyman in the earnest "amen" from the boys, which followed his prayer.

"I hope that your words have made an impression, Henry," said Mrs. Curtis to her husband, as they sat together that night in the little study.

The vicar had been reading aloud to his wife, but the minds of both had wandered from the book.

"Why, we have no evidence beyond your little slip of paper, my love, and—" Mr. Curtis was interrupted by the sound of a timid ring at the door-bell: faint as it was, both the vicar and his wife instinctively turned to listen, and nothing was said by either till the maid opened the study-door with:

"The glazier's little boy says that he wishes to speak with you, sir."

Mrs. Curtis knew Stephen White to be one of the scholars, and her heart beat fast with expectation.

"Ask him to step in here," said the vicar.

A thin, sly, slouching boy soon stood at the entrance, and then, after being twice desired to come forward, moved one or two steps into the room. He hung his head, fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, and looked the picture of confusion and shyness.

"I am glad to see you here, Stephen," said Mr. Curtis, encouragingly; "speak out freely, and tell me what you have come for to-night."

"Please, sir-" stammered forth the boy, "you said as how you would try to get me off."

Mrs. Curtis could hardly refrain from an exclamation of pleasure, as she dropped her work on her knee.

"I will keep my promise to an honest, truthful boy, who, having done a wrong and a foolish action, is going to make what amends are in his power."

Stephen White looked ready to cry, and put the back of his hand up to his face.

"Why did you break the glass?" asked the vicar, seeing that in this case silence was clearly consent.

"I thought as how it would give father a job," faintly stuttered forth the boy.

"And how came you to have the ball, the leaden ball, that was found in the hothouse?"

"I picked it up on the road yesterday," said Stephen, "and put it in my pocket along with the stones. I didn't think, indeed I didn't, of getting the sailor into trouble."

"I do not doubt you, my boy," cried the vicar.

Then, turning to his wife, he added, "Eliza, my love, just write down his words; you and I will sign the paper as witnesses, and I'll carry it myself to Sir Lacy Bar-ton's this very night."

"But oh! Sir," cried Stephen in alarm, "you will, you will get me out of this scrape!"

"I'll do my best," answered the vicar, "and I've little doubt but that I shall succeed."

Mrs. Curtis, with a hand that trembled with joyful excitement, had already dipped a pen into ink, and a clear brief statement of the whole truth was soon drawn up and signed, first by Stephen in round text, very shaky and uneven, then by the pastor and his lady as witnesses.

"I am so glad," said the vicar's wife, as she brought to her husband his hat and stick, and a comforter to protect him from the night air. "I am so thankful that the character of that gallant tar is now cleared from all suspicion."

"And I am as glad and thankful," said the vicar, looking at Stephen White as he spoke, "that one of my boys, resolving not to add sin unto sin, has come forward with a brave confession, and that I shall always be able henceforth to trust his honour and his word."

Stephen gave a great sigh of relief; a weight was lifted off from the heart of the boy; he felt that now he could bear even the risk of being sent to prison.