EXPELLED:

BEING

THE STORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"DORRINCOURT: THE STORY OF A TERM THERE," "BOXALL SCHOOL: A TALE OF SCHOOLBOY LIFE," "THE MUTINY ON BOARD THE SHIP LEANDER: A STORY OF THE SEA," "THE BELTON SCHOLARSHIP: A CHAPTER FROM GEORGE DENTON'S LIFE," ETC. ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY GORDON BROWNE.

London JAMES NISBET & CO. 31 BERNERS STREET

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. TREGOWAN II. BREAKING UP III. GOING HOME IV. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE DOCTOR V. A DARK HOUR VI. "EN ROUTE" FOR HOME VII. IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT VIII. AFTER THE ACCIDENT IX. AT THE "STATION ARMS" X. AN ADVENTURE IN A PANTRY XI. GOOD RESOLUTIONS XII. HOME AT LAST XIII. A UNITED FAMILY XIV. ALL AMONG THE SNOW XV. CHRISTMAS EVE AT TREGOWAN XVI. OUT CAROLLING XVII. JABEZ FRUIN XVIII. CHRISTMAS MORNING XIX. SAVED FROM THE SHAFT XX. AT PARSON WHEELER'S XXI. CHRISTMAS DAY IN GWITHIAN CHURCH XXII. MOTHER AND SON XXIII. THE GREAT FESTIVITIES XXIV. FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW

EXPELLED:

Being the Story of a Young Gentleman.

CHAPTER I TREGOWAN.

They were three girls; there was a blazing fire, and in front of it stood Marion. Thirteen years old was she—that uncomfortable age for girls—with dark brown hair and laughing merry eyes; her hands were in the pockets of a large bib apron, which was none too clean, and her elbows were stuck out square on either side of her. She was laughing heartily; it was plain Miss Marion was in high spirits; indeed she was seldom out of them.

"Seven hours more and they'll be home! Hurrah for Christmas, and hurrah for holidays! I always feel as though I'd like to—I'd like to—I don't know what; but that is how I feel, you know. I wish mother would let us go and meet them. I don't see why we shouldn't; it would be good fun, you know."

"I daresay," said Eleanor—Nelly, she was called. She was a quiet girl was Nelly, quiet and demure; she never shouted, and when she laughed, it was as different a laugh from Marion's as it was possible for laugh to be; there was a primness in her voice, her tones were never raised, untidiness was impossible with her; never a pin was out of place, never a button was off her boots, never a lace was left undone; yet every one loved Nelly. Never obstreperously gay herself, she was an unceasing cause of gaiety in others; there was a curious charm about the maiden which seldom failed in its effect on those with whom she came in contact. She was a winsome lassie, and when she chose to exert her powers of persuasion—which was not seldom—few could withstand her influence. Yet, with all her quietude and all her charm, she had as sharp a tongue as any one, and, under cover of her demure air, could use it with no small effect. "It would be very good fun indeed—very good, to throw ourselves right into the arms of all those boys, who never do know

how to behave themselves when they first come home. Very good fun indeed."

"So it would," persisted Marion—or Ria, as they called her. "Besides, what harm would there be? As though it would matter what they did after knowing them all these years and years! It is just as though we were all one family."

"Quite so! only we're not; and though it mightn't matter to you what they did, it would to mamma. And how nice it would be for people to see Noel Penharden, for instance, slapping you on the back and calling you 'old girl,' as he would do in an instant, in the exuberance of his feelings!"

"Well, and what harm would there be in that?" retorted Ria, whose views were broad, and who was candid to a fault. "He does hate shaking hands, and so do I. When a person's glad to see you, I like to see them show it. I hate your prim and proper people, who always seem as though they're frozen, and never mean to thaw."

"Don't you think, Ria," said Winnie, looking up from the Tiarck she was studying, "that though one might like people to show that they are glad to see you, it would depend very much on the way in which they showed it? Don't you think, too, that they could show it quite as well in private as in public?"

Winnie or Winifred Tregowan was the eldest daughter, and not only the eldest daughter, but the eldest child. She was two years Nelly's senior, who was fourteen, while she was sixteen. Between them came Marmaduke, or Duke, as they familiarly called him, who to-day was coming home from school. Winnie was the beauty of the family, tall, and slight, and dark, with great black eyes, which were lit with the proverbial Tregowan fire. She was in every sense the daughter of the house—the eldest daughter. Graceful and self-possessed, she was an ornament in any room, at home in any company; and it already was understood that in a year or two at most the schoolroom would be left behind for ever, and she would take the proper place befitting Miss Tregowan of Tregowan. She was in her way a haughty madam; there was no mistaking the fashion in which her head was poised upon her slender neck, nor the instinctive air of dignity with which she bore herself even in her own home. Hers was no paltry pride, no mean persuasion of her own superiority to others; rather it was scorn for

things which are in their nature base, contempt for anything unworthy. Whatever all the rest might do—and she took it for granted that those near and dear to her would tread the paths of honour though all the world might fall away—she would walk stainless and without reproach. "Sans peur, sans reproche"—that was the motto which, almost unconsciously, was twined about her heart, part and parcel of her very nature. She was one of those who are, unfortunately, so few and far between. Strong herself, a strength to others; quite naturally neither brother nor sisters ever were in a scrape but of course they came to her. Hot-headed, hasty Ria might quarrel with her half-a-dozen times a day—as, when she was in the mood, she did—but ever, when the evening came, she felt that she could not go to rest till she was in again with Winnie. She was a universal confidant; all her friends confided their troubles to her; and they took it for granted that she had, and ever would have, none of her own to impart to them.

"I'm all impulse," answered Ria, replying to her sister's last remark,—"I'm all impulse; that's what I am. I never shall understand prunes and prism, primness and propriety. I'm a child of nature! The backwoods would be the place for me; there's no curbing of one's natural impulses there."

"No, so I should imagine; delightful they must be! There would be no necessity to ask mamma if you could go and meet the train which brings the boys from school, for there are no trains to meet, and no schools from which to come." And Nelly, without raising her eyes, went on with her work with her demurest air.

"Aren't there?" cried Ria. "How do you know? Do you suppose that they're all savages? Thank you! I'm much obliged. I don't suppose you know even where the backwoods are."

"Well, I must confess upon that point I never was quite clear. I've always looked upon them as a sort of mysterious, undiscovered place, where no one's ever been, but where every one's always going to go. They've always been a sort of fairyland to me. I've no notion how you get to them, but have always thought it's quite by chance. You sail on and on, and here and there, and round and round, until at last you come upon the place, though how you came it's quite out of your power to tell."

"Did any one ever hear such ignorance?" exclaimed Ria, after listening to this exceedingly lucid geographical description. "And yet Fräulein says I ought to take you for my model! As though every one—every one with any sense at all—didn't know just exactly where the backwoods were! Why, they're in—they're in America. It's a colony, or sort of one, where people go out farming because they have no rent or taxes there."

"In that case I should think a good many people go. I don't wonder at you saying it would be the place for you; things will have to be had for nothing if you're to make a fortune."

"A fortune! who's talking about fortunes?" cried Ria; but Winnie interposed—

"What nonsense you two are always talking! Would it be too much to ask you now and then to indulge in sense? You can't be so ignorant, Nelly, as you pretend to be. As for Ria, I'm afraid one is very often worse off with her information than without it. It is better to confess your ignorance than to leave others to point it out for you,—certainly better than to lead others astray by a pretence at knowledge."

"We're not all so clever as you," retorted Ria, somewhat red in the face.

"Don't be foolish, Ria," replied Winnie, with perfect equanimity, and that quiet air of self-possession which even Marion was apt to find too much for her.

There was silence for a few minutes. Ria, in offended dudgeon, marched across the room to the bookcase, and in its well-filled shelves sought for a volume to suit her somewhat erratic tastes. She professed to eschew all books for girls; was apt to look at them askance, and call them namby-pamby. Some tale of daring deeds was the sort of book she loved—if true, then all the better; if fiction, then she would make the best of it. She was wont to think herself ill-used in that she was not born a boy. How many girls have thought the same, the foolish lasses! Books for boys were what she loved, and though now and then she floundered and was out of her depths somewhat, on the whole the favourites of the lads were dear to her.

It was holiday with them; that morning Fräulein had gone to enjoy an interval of rest among her friends, and the three girls were for the time without a governess. Marmaduke was coming home—that very day he would arrive. The Christmas season was at hand; all the delights of that good time—those delights to which they had so long looked forward—were close at hand; in a few days at farthest they would be upon them. Anticipation was almost as good as realisation. No wonder that a sense of excitement, which Ria openly avowed, but which Winifred and Nelly kept locked in their own bosoms, was upon them all.

Not the least of their prospective pleasures was that the boys were coming home. Duke, brave, handsome, sunny Duke, was perhaps already on the way. He was a hero to them all, their best beloved, their hope and pride; he was so gallant and so true, so good a brother and so promising a lad. No wonder it was so; so strong and agile, and so gentle with his strength, it was not strange that he was dear to them; it was not strange that they looked forward to his coming, knowing that he would bring added light and sunshine to their home. And he would not come alone; from all those parts went lads to that great school in which Duke was but a unit, though, to their minds, such an important one, and they were coming home with him—all acquaintances; more than that—all friends; for Tregowan is in the far west of England, where the land goes out to meet the sea, in Cornwall, and in the far west of that. The sea is on three sides of them. Penzance and Land's End are but a dozen miles away. Upon the north is Gwithian, with its wide stretch of sand, a miniature

Sahara, and the North Cliffs, in all their wild and solitary beauty, against whose base the sea beats ever wildly, and never is at rest. Upon the south is the fair country stretching down again to the sea, which this time is the great Atlantic. That is an iron coast, the terror of the seaman and the pride of Cornwall. Many a tale these cliffs and rocks could tell of anguish and of woe; many a secret could reveal, many a mystery unfold; many are the tragedies and bitter of which they have been the scene; and yet in the bright sunshine, when the sky is blue and the glory of the Lord is over all, so fair they are, one scarce would think they ever could be dark.

Tregowan is hid among the trees. That country is not famed for trees, but is rather wild and barren, so that the stranger passing through these parts perceives at once this wooded stretch, and asks what it may be. He is told, Tregowan. There, through many and many a year, even through the distant centuries, have dwelt the family from whom the place has got its name. They have no title; they would not have one were it offered them, as, indeed, it has been more than once in history. The Tregowans of Tregowan need no such adventitious aid; they come of an older stock than most of our nobility, and to accept a title would be to disguise, even to blot out, their own more honoured name.

There folks are scattered far and wide, not clustered as in our cities, but comparatively few and far between, so that among those whose home it is the mere bond of neighbourhood involves, necessitates an acquaintance, a friendship closer and more enduring than is to be found in towns. Each one's history is common to the other; each knows, as of course, the story of the other. They marry and intermarry, grow up together, are trained side by side through all the days of childhood. Under such circumstances it is not strange the lads and lasses are indeed of one community, almost, as Ria said, as though they were one family. Thus, when they said the boys were coming home, and looked forward to their coming, it was not Duke alone they longed to see, though in their eyes he was the chief of all, but all his friends as well; for had they not sisters of their own, and were they not friends of theirs, as the boys were friends of Duke?

The minutes passed away, and the three girls still were silent, each engaged in occupation of her own. Winnie read her Tiarck; she was a studious girl, and, as Ria would have said, languages were a mania with her. Nelly sewed busily on; she had some gorgeous work in hand, a Christmas present for her mother, and it needed all her energies if she would have it done in time. Ria read some book of Ballantyne's, a fascinating record of adventurous doings in distant lands; but even though deep in that, she found her thoughts were wandering, and at last she closed the book and lifted up her head and cried, for the twentieth time, "Oh, how I wish that they were home!"

But her exclamation met with no reply; however in their hearts they echoed her desire, neither Winnie nor Nelly gave any outward sign; so that the excitable young lady, after tucking the book beneath her arm and pacing once or twice up and down, and looking through the window to see how the day might be progressing, was obliged for want of sympathy, or else for want of aught besides to do, to return to her seat beside the fire, and become engrossed once more in the pages of the "Coral Island."

But in another room of the great old house a different scene was taking place. It was the morning-room, Mrs. Tregowan's own apartment, a noble chamber with a noble view, for looking through its windows out across the open park, away through the distant trees, which this winter-time were leafless, and seemingly bare and barren as they trembled in the breeze, one saw beyond the wild North Cliffs, yellow with flowering gorse and heather, and green with their eternal greenness, stretching out until they met the sea, and land was changed for water, the end of which none with the naked eye could see. To-day all was dark and sombre, the sky was overcast, and the distant waves, sullen rather than angry, seemed to forebode a storm of rage ere long. It was no cheerful scene on which to look, and so she who looked would seem to think.

A woman still in the prime of life, tall and stately, handsome beyond the average of women, proud of form, yet with something mournful in her pride. There was no mistaking who she was; she was what Winifred would be in course of time, for she was Winnie's mother. She was dressed in black from head to foot, a widow's cap was on her head, for she was widowed. Her figure was upright as a girl's; her head was thrown back upon her shoulders; her eyes looked above the highest trees across the leaden sky, as they would peer into the hidden mysteries of Heaven. One hand was behind her back, in the other she held an open letter. It was its contents which disturbed her now.

The girls in their own room were jubilant; all was happiness with them; the future was without a cloud, for Duke was coming home! But the mother's heart was heavy and she was ill at ease, for Duke was coming home! Ay, coming home to what? To something very much like shame, to something of close kindred to dishonour; and she had been in ignorance of it until the morning brought that letter. Only yesterday, last night, this morning even, in the privacy of her own chamber, she had thanked the Lord in that He had given her such a son, so good a boy, so noble and so true; and now this blow had come. He was expelled!

Yes, she held the letter in her hand, in the Doctor's own handwriting. He regretted, he said—and none who knew him, as she was well aware, could doubt he did—that he was unable to receive her son to be his pupil through another term. He had, he reminded her, on previous occasions pointed out that he might be compelled to arrive at this decision; but he delayed it from time to time. Now his mind was finally made up; Marmaduke Tregowan could not return to the famed school where the Tregowans had been educated from generation to generation. He was expelled!

This was a bitter pill for her to swallow, for her son was dear to her as her own life—as sons so often are to their mothers—and she had long foreseen, dreaded rather, that this might be. How often had he promised her, in that frank, sweet way of his, which no one could withstand, and which was so genuine at the time, he would amend, he would reform, he would turn over a new leaf, he would guard that quick, proud temper, which could brook no contradiction, and which would go to lengths which startled even the lad himself; and how often had his promise, which was to have been so surely faithful, been forgotten; and it had come to this!

She stood motionless before the window, looking out upon the fair domains of the Tregowans, silent for a time, until at last she sighed, and then she lifted up one hand and put it to her head, and said, half to herself and half aloud—

"What would his father have thought and said had he been with us now? He is almost more than I can manage, a responsibility beyond my strength to bear, and he will not help me in the least." And then she sighed again. "Yet," and her face grew brighter, "he is a good lad, and loves me dearly. Even Dr. Graham has no fault to find, save with his temper; vices he has none, if he would but rid himself of that. O Duke! Duke! what a lad you are! The Lord be with you, boy; and may He grant that out of evil shall coma good!"

She turned into the room, and, moving to a table in the centre, began to turn over a bundle of old letters. They were written in a great sprawling hand, on all sorts of paper, in all sorts of styles. As a rule the lines were not too regular; more than once the writer had meandered up and down, in and out, until at length the lines had become so involved as almost to present the appearance of a maze. Nor were the sheets by any means too clean; blots and erasures were the commonest occurrences; and so doubtful was the spelling, so frequent the substitution of one letter for the other, that it was almost impossible to tell which of the substitutions was intended to be understood as most correct. There was a great heap of them; some were already worn with age; some of the earlier ones were written upon lines in a great round hand, as though the letters had been pencilled first. They had evidently been edited by some one in authority, for they were neater than the rest, and there were conspicuous signs to show that before despatch they had been finished off.

All these were letters from her son, letters of a life, from the first days when he began to write, to the epistle of a week or so ago in which he had announced that school was breaking up on such and such a date, and he was coming home.