Wilton School or, Harry Campbell's Revenge   By: Frederic Edward Weatherly (1848-1929)

WILTON SCHOOL:

OR,

HARRY CAMPBELL'S REVENGE.

A Tale.

BY

FRED. E. WEATHERLY, B.A.,

AUTHOR OF "MURIEL, AND OTHER POEMS."

EDINBURGH:

W. P. NIMMO, HAY, & MITCHELL

1872

[Transcriber's note: In the original book, each page had its own header. In this e book, each chapter's headers have been collected into an introductory paragraph at the start of that chapter.]

TO

My Little Brothers,

ALFRED, ARTHUR, HERBERT,

LEWIS, AND CECIL,

I DEDICATE

THIS TALE.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. A LONG GOOD BYE II. WHY THE SAD GOOD BYE WAS GIVEN III. SAD INFORMATION IV. WILTON SCHOOL V. MOTHER AND SON VI. INJURED INNOCENCE VII. A BOY FIGHT AT SCHOOL VIII. FRIENDS IN MISFORTUNE IX. HARRY PUT ON TRIAL X. SUNLIGHT XI. MOVING HOME XII. BULLYING XIII. FLIGHT XIV. AT SLEEP AT LAST XV. THE BITERS BIT XVI. BLEWCOME'S ROYAL MENAGERIE XVII. THE LOST FOUND XVIII. FATHER AND SON XIX. AT WILTON ONCE MORE XX. AVENGED AT LAST

ILLUSTRATIONS

"His eyes were greedily fixed on the book; then he would write a little, then look again, then write again. He was cribbing." . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece

"'Leave him to me,' said Warburton, a tall ungainly boy of fourteen, as boy after boy was eager to take the quarrel to himself."

"There he was, safe on the ground at last."

"He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly."

WILTON SCHOOL

CHAPTER I.

A LONG GOOD BYE.

Gathering shadows Harry's wonder Ambiguous A long good bye The anchor's weighed.

It was a sad evening in the little farm by the church of Wilton, yet very sweet and summer like without. Very sad it was in the low, dim, oak panelled parlour, whose diamonded window looked across the quiet churchyard, with its swinging wicket, its gravel path beneath green aisles of lindens, and all the countless

"Grassy barrows of the happier dead."

Very sad were those three sitters in the summer twilight, there, at the farm; for a good bye had to be said a long, long farewell between that weeping pale woman, and the stout sailor, her husband. And Harry, their blue eyed, sunny haired boy, did not understand what it all meant; why papa did not cheer mamma with hopes of soon coming home again why mamma did not try to console herself by saying, over and over, that he would soon come back, as she always used in the old days when papa had to go to sea. She had never cried so bitterly before, although these good byes had come so often. And now it made her cough; she seemed scarcely to have strength to cry. And papa, who was always so brave and stern, why was it even he could not stop the tears from rolling down his bronzed cheeks? And so Harry sat in the window seat, quite unable to understand the meaning of all the sorrow, and looked out of the window at the farmer's wife nursing her last baby in the orchard, and then at the old sexton in the churchyard throwing up the red earth, and wondered why he always whistled such a jovial tune, while he himself felt so sad.

And the evening drew on over the straggling village, weary with its long day's work. The last loaded waggon had passed down the lane by the farm; the last troop of tired hay makers had trudged gaily homewards; and with the deepening dusk the winds grew cooler, blowing in fresh, along the valley, from the sea.