O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
His little sister doth his peril see,
All playful as she sate, she grows demure,
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee,
She meditates a prayer to set him free.
SHENSTONE.
The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters’ desks, the forms polished with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the names of many generations of boys.
About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. “Ha!” exclaimed one, “here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the gladiators in!” and, standing by the third master’s desk, he turned over a page or two of Smith’s ‘Antiquities’, exclaiming, “It is full of pictures—here’s an old man blowing the bellows—”
“Let me see!” cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry; and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison’s book, while, “There, August! you’ve been and done it!” “You’ll catch it!” resounded on all sides.
“What good will staring with your mouth open do!” exclaimed Edward Anderson, the eldest present. “Here! a bit of blotting-paper this moment!”
Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-case that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, “It won’t take it out, will it?”
“No, little stupid head, but don’t you see, I’m stopping it from running down the edges, or soaking in. He won’t be the wiser till he opens it again at that place.”
“When he does, he will,” said the bewildered Tom.
“Let him. It won’t tell tales.”
“He’s coming!” cried another boy, “he is close at the door.”
Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr. Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag, only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, “Ha! old fellow, you don’t know what you’ve got there!”
“Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won’t see a bit farther for it,” said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; “come to your senses, and know your friends.”
“He’ll open it!” gasped Tom.
“So he will, but I’d bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if he does, it won’t tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you standing there, crouching and shaking. That’s the right way to bring him upon you.”
“But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?”
“What then? D’ye think we can’t stand by each other, and keep our own counsel?”
“But the blotting-paper—suppose he knows that!”
There was a laugh all round at this, “as if Harrison knew everyone’s blotting-paper!”
“Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his—see—and draw Union Jacks on it.”
“If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?”
“July would have told if he had,” said Larkins. “That’s no go.”
“Ay! That’s the way—the Mays are all like girls—can’t keep a secret—not one of them. There, I’ve done more for you than ever one of them would have done—own it—and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his wrists, to force the confession from him.”
“But—but he’ll ask when he finds it out—”
“Let him. We know nothing about it. Don’t be coming the good boy over me like your brothers. That won’t do—I know whose eyes are not too short-sighted to read upside down.”
Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.
But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether Harry’s name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith’s ‘Antiquities’ at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair, he could not see his brother’s face, but Edward Anderson, from the second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.
“This book,” said Mr. Harrison, “was left in school for a quarter of an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any of you know how it happened?” A silence, and he continued, “Who was in school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?”
“No, sir.”
“You know nothing of it?”
“No, sir.”
Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his memory. “Larkins, do you know how this happened?”
“No, sir,” said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had not seen the manner of the overthrow.
“Ernescliffe, were you there?”
“No, sir.”
Tom’s timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, “Remember, it is concealment that is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you,” he added, hopefully and kindly. “Don’t be afraid to speak out if you did meet with a mischance.”
Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly terror of the effects of truth.
“No, sir.” He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.
Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for schoolboys.
The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set, there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they considered as belonging to him.
In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson had gained a conquest—in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough code—and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without learning it, and of showing up other people’s tasks; whispers and signs were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him free at once from this wretched tyranny.
Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something contraband.
“August,” said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening, “did I see you coming over the bridge?”
Tom would not answer.
“So you have been at Ballhatchet’s gate? I can’t think what could take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty’s are just as good. What made you go there?”
“Nothing,” said Tom.
“Well, mind you don’t do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything to do with him, as you know.”
Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. “I am afraid you are getting into a bad way. Why won’t you mind what I have told you plenty of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?” But, receiving no answer, he went on. “You always sulk when I speak to you. I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you from worse. You can’t never be found out.” This startled Tom, but Norman had no suspicion. “If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight.” Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder upon him than any one else would be, and Norman grew warmer. “If you let Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you’ll never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better take my word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into a mess.”
“I’m in no scrape,” said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience, and spoke with more displeasure. “You will be then, if you go out of bounds, and run Anderson’s errands, and shirk work. You’d better take care. It is my place to keep order, and I can’t let you off for being my brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet’s again, you may make sure of a licking.”
So the warning closed—Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.
Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with something under his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.
“What are you doing here?” said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the field. “So you’ve been there again. What’s that under your jacket?”
“Only—only what I was sent for,” and he tried to squeeze it under the flap.
“What is it? a bottle—”
“Only—only a bottle of ink.”
Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation was mixed with sorrow. “Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!”
Tom cowered, but felt only terror.
“Speak truth,” said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; “is this for Anderson junior?”
Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared not utter another falsehood, but Anderson’s threats chained him, and he preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother who loved him. He would not speak.
“I am glad it is not for yourself,” said Norman; “but do you remember what I said, in case I found you there again?”
“Oh! don’t, don’t!” cried the boy. “I would never have gone if they had not made me.”
“Made you?” said Norman, disdainfully, “how?”
“They would have thrashed me—they pinched my fingers in the box—they pulled my ears—oh, don’t—”
“Poor little fellow!” said Norman; “but it is your own fault. If you won’t keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But I must not let you off—I must keep my word!” Tom cried, sobbed, and implored in vain. “I can’t help it,” he said, “and now, don’t howl! I had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have this to do to one of us.” Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing him, he said, “There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I can’t have hurt you much, have I?” he added more kindly, while Tom went on crying, and turning from him. “It is nothing to care about, I am sure; look up;” and he pulled down his hands. “Say you are sorry—speak the truth—keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.”
Very different this from Tom’s chosen associates; but he was still obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart to those kind words. After one more, “I could not help it, Tom, you’ve no business to be sulky,” Norman took up the bottle, opened it, smelled, and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river; when Tom exclaimed, “Oh, don’t, don’t! what will they do to me? give it to me!”
“Did they give you the money to pay for it?”
“Yes; let me have it.”
“How much was it?”
“Fourpence.”
“I’ll settle that,” and the bottle splashed in the river. “Now then, Tom, don’t brood on it any more. Here’s a chance for you of getting quit of their errands. If you will keep in my sight. I’ll take care no one bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful tricks, and do well.”
But Tom’s evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse silence really distressed his brother.
“If you will go on in this way, I can’t help it, but you’ll be sorry some day,” said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking back to see whether Tom was following, as he did slowly, meditating on the way how he should avert his tyrant’s displeasure.
Norman stood for a moment at the door, surveying the court, then walked up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder of one, holding a silver fourpence to him. “Anderson Junior,” said he, “there’s your money. I am not going to let Stoneborough School be turned into a gin palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. Now you are not to bully May junior for telling me. He did not, I found him out.”
Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing him, he entered the cloister, for it was the hour when he was used to read there, but he could not fix his mind. He went to the bench where he had lain on the examination day, and kneeling on it, looked out on the green grass where the graves were. “Mother! mother!” he murmured, “have I been harsh to your poor little tender sickly boy? I couldn’t help it. Oh! if you were but here! We are all going wrong! What shall I do? How should Tom be kept from this evil?—it is ruining him! mean, false, cowardly, sullen—all that is worst—and your son—oh! mother! and all I do only makes him shrink more from me. It will break my father’s heart, and you will not be there to comfort him.”
Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before his father’s resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to prayer, resolution, and hope.
He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm of detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for the occasion; but, alas! Tom had learned to look on all reproof as “rowing,” and considered it as an additional injury from a brother, who, according to the Anderson view, should have connived at his offences, and turned a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all he said. The foolish boy sought after the Andersons still more, and Norman became more dispirited about him, greatly missing Harry, that constant companion and follower, who would have shared his perplexities, and removed half of them, in his own part of the school, by the influence of his high, courageous, and truthful spirit.
In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with greater hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his work before. “Suppose,” Ethel had once said to him, “that when you are a clergyman, you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when there is a church there.”
“When?” said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the scheme, and yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps they might persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a curate with a view to Cocksmoor, and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object and hope to his studies. Every one thought the delay of his examination favourable to him, and he now read with a determination to succeed. Dr. May had offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison but Richard thought he was getting on pretty well, with the help Norman gave him; for it appeared that ever since Norman’s return from London, he had been assisting Richard, who was not above being taught by a younger brother; while, on the other hand, Norman, much struck by his humility, would not for the world have published that he was fit to act as his elder’s tutor.
One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave a great start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, “How came that book here?”
“It is Mr. Harrison’s.”
“Yes, I know, but how came it here?”
“Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it down.”
A little reassured, Tom took up an exciting story-book, and ensconced himself by the fire, but his agonies were great during the ensuing conversation.
“Norman,” Ethel was exclaiming in delight, “do you know this book?”
“Smith? Yes, it is in the school library.”
“There’s everything in it that one wants, I do believe. Here is such an account of ancient galleys—I never knew how they managed their banks of rowers before—oh! and the Greek houses—look at the pictures too.”
“Some of them are the same as Mr. Rivers’s gems,” said Norman, standing behind her, and turning the leaves, in search of a favourite.
“Oh! what did I see? is that ink?” said Flora, from the opposite side of the table.
“Yes, didn’t you hear?” said Ethel. “Mr. Harrison told Ritchie when he borrowed it, that unluckily one day this spring he left it in school, and some of the boys must have upset an inkstand over it; but, though he asked them all round, each denied it. How I should hate for such things to happen! and it was a prize-book too.”
While Ethel spoke she opened the marked page, to show the extent of the calamity, and as she did so Mary exclaimed, “Dear me! how funny! why, how did Harry’s blotting-paper get in there?”
Tom shrank into nothing, set his teeth, and pinched his fingers, ready to wish they were on Mary’s throat, more especially as the words made some sensation. Richard and Margaret exchanged looks, and their father, who had been reading, sharply raised his eyes and said, “Harry’s blotting-paper! How do you know that, Mary?”
“It is Harry’s,” said she, all unconscious, “because of that anchor up in one corner, and the Union Jack in the other. Don’t you see, Ethel?”
“Yes,” said Ethel; “nobody drew that but Harry.”
“Ay, and there are his buttons,” said Mary, much amused and delighted with these relics of her beloved Harry. “Don’t you remember one day last holidays, papa desired Harry to write and ask Mr. Ernescliffe what clothes he ought to have for the naval school, and all the time he was writing the letter, he was drawing sailors’ buttons on his blotting-paper. I wonder how ever it got into Mr. Harrison’s book!”
Poor Mary’s honest wits did not jump to a conclusion quite so fast as other people’s, and she little knew what she was doing when, as a great discovery, she exclaimed, “I know! Harry gave his paper-case to Tom. That’s the way it got to school!”
“Tom!” exclaimed his father, suddenly and angrily, “where are you going?”
“To bed,” muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A dead silence of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from one to the other, mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at her father’s loud voice, and at Tom’s trembling confusion. The stillness lasted for some moments, and was first broken by Flora, as if she had caught at a probability. “Some one might have used the first blotting-paper that came to hand.”
“Come here, Tom,” said the doctor, in a voice not loud, but trembling with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder, “Look in my face.” Tom hung his head, and his father put his hand under his chin, and raised the pale terrified face. “Don’t be afraid to tell us the meaning of this. If any of your friends have done it, we will keep your secret. Look up, and speak out. How did your blotting-paper come there?”
Tom had been attempting his former system of silent sullenness, but there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate him, and in his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, he burst out into a violent fit of crying.
“I can’t have you roaring here to distress Margaret,” said Dr. May. “Come into the study with me.”
But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and a screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried into the study by his brothers, and there left with his father. Mary, meantime, dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some way, she was the cause, had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing inconsolably, as she begged to know what was the matter, and why papa was angry with Tom—had she made him so?
Margaret caressed and soothed her to the best of her ability, trying to persuade her that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better for him it should be known, and assuring her that no one could think her unkind, nor a tell-tale; then dismissing her to bed, and Mary was not unwilling to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom again, only begging in a whisper to Ethel, “that, if dear Tom had not done it, she would come and tell her.”
“I am afraid there is no hope of that!” sighed Ethel, as the door closed on Mary.
“After all,” said Flora, “he has not said anything. If he has only done it, and not confessed, that is not so bad—it is only the usual fashion of boys.”
“Has he been asked? Did he deny it?” said Ethel, looking in Norman’s face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and she only received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment Dr. May called him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on the sofa, and looked very mournful, Richard stood by the fire without moving limb or feature, Flora worked fast, and Ethel leaned back on an arm-chair, biting the end of a paper-knife.
The doctor and Norman came back together. “I have sent him up to bed,” said Dr. May. “I must take him to Harrison to-morrow morning. It is a terrible business!”
“Has he confessed it?” said Margaret.
“I can hardly call such a thing a confession—I wormed it out bit by bit—I could not tell whether he was telling truth or not, till I called Norman in.”
“But he has not said anything more untrue—”
“Yes, he has though!” said Dr. May indignantly. “He said Ned Anderson put the paper there, and had been taking up the ink with it—‘twas his doing—then when I came to cross-examine him I found that though Anderson did take up the ink, it was Tom himself who knocked it down—I never heard anything like it—I never could have believed it!”
“It must all be Ned Anderson’s doing!” cried Flora. “They are enough to spoil anybody.”
“I am afraid they have done him a great deal of harm,” said Norman.
“And what have you been about all the time?” exclaimed the doctor, too keenly grieved to be just. “I should have thought that with you at the head of the school, the child might have been kept out of mischief; but there have you been going your own way, and leaving him to be ruined by the very worst set of boys!”
Norman’s colour rose with the extreme pain this unjust accusation caused him, and his voice, though low, was not without irritation, “I have tried. I have not done as much as I ought, perhaps, but—”
“No, I think not, indeed!” interrupted his father. “Sending a boy there, brought up as he had been, without the least tendency to deceit—”
Here no one could see Norman’s burning cheeks, and brow bent downwards in the effort to keep back an indignant reply, without bursting out in exculpation; and Richard looked up, while the three sisters all at once began, “Oh, no, no, papa”—and left Margaret to finish—“Poor little Tom had not always been quite sincere.”
“Indeed! and why was I left to send him to school without knowing it? The place of all others to foster deceit.”
“It was my fault, papa,” said Margaret.
“And mine,” put in Richard; and she continued, “Ethel told us we were very wrong, and I wish we had followed her advice. It was by far the best, but we were afraid of vexing you.”
“Every one seems to have been combined to hide what they ought not!” said Dr. May, though speaking to her much more softly than to Norman, to whom he turned angrily again. “Pray, how came you not to identify this paper?”
“I did not know it,” said Norman, speaking with difficulty. “He ought never to have been sent to school,” said the doctor—“that tendency was the very worst beginning.”
“It was a great pity; I was very wrong,” said Margaret, in great concern.
“I did not mean to blame you, my dear,” said her father affectionately. “I know you only meant to act for the best, but—” and he put his hand over his face, and then came the sighing groan, which pained Margaret ten thousand times more than reproaches, and which, in an instant, dispersed all the indignation burning within Norman, though the pain remained at his father’s thinking him guilty of neglect, but he did not like, at that moment, to speak in self-justification.
After a short space, Dr. May desired to hear what were the deceptions to which Margaret had alluded, and made Norman tell what he knew of the affair of the blotted book. Ethel spoke hopefully when she had heard it. “Well, do you know, I think he will do better now. You see, Edward made him conceal it, and he has been going on with it on his mind, and in that boy’s power ever since; but now it is cleared up and confessed, he will begin afresh and do better. Don’t you think so, Norman? don’t you, papa?”
“I should have more hope if I had seen anything like confession or repentance,” said Dr. May; “but that provoked me more than all—I could only perceive that he was sorry to be found out, and afraid of punishment.”
“Perhaps, when he has recovered the first fright, he will come to his better self,” said Margaret; for she guessed, what indeed was the case, that the doctor’s anger on this first shock of the discovery of the fault he most abhorred had been so great, that a fearful cowering spirit would be completely overwhelmed; and, as there had been no sorrow shown for the fault, there had been none of that softening and relenting that won so much love and confidence.
Every one felt that talking only made them more unhappy, they tried to return to their occupations, and so passed the time till night. Then, as Richard was carrying Margaret upstairs, Norman lingered to say, “Papa, I am very sorry you should think I neglected Tom. I dare say I might have done better for him, but, indeed, I have tried.”
“I am sure you have, Norman. I spoke hastily, my boy—you will not think more of it. When a thing like this comes on a man, he hardly knows what he says.”
“If Harry were here,” said Norman, anxious to turn from the real loss and grief, as well as to talk away that feeling of being apologised to, “it would all do better. He would make a link with Tom, but I have so little, naturally, to do with the second form, that it is not easy to keep him in sight.”
“Yes, yes, I know that very well. It is no one’s fault but my own; I should not have sent him there without knowing him better. But you see how it is, Norman—I have trusted to her, till I have grown neglectful, and it is well if it is not the ruin of him!”
“Perhaps he will take a turn, as Ethel says,” answered Norman cheerfully. “Good-night, papa.”
“I have a blessing to be thankful for in you, at least,” murmured the doctor to himself. “What other young fellow of that age and spirit would have borne so patiently with my injustice? Not I, I am sure! a fine father I show myself to these poor children—neglect, helplessness, temper—Oh, Maggie!”
Margaret had so bad a headache the next day that she could not come downstairs. The punishment was, they heard, a flogging at the time, and an imposition so long, that it was likely to occupy a large portion of the play-hours till the end of the half-year. His father said, and Norman silently agreed, “a very good thing, it will keep him out of mischief;” but Margaret only wished she could learn it for him, and took upon herself all the blame from beginning to end. She said little to her father, for it distressed him to see her grieved; he desired her not to dwell on the subject, caressed her, called her his comfort and support, and did all he could to console her, but it was beyond his power; her sisters, by listening to her, only made her worse. “Dear, dear papa,” she exclaimed, “how kind he is! But he can never depend upon me again—I have been the ruin of my poor little Tom.”
“Well,” said Richard quietly, “I can’t see why you should put yourself into such a state about it.”
This took Margaret by surprise. “Have not I done very wrong, and perhaps hurt Tom for life?”
“I hope not,” said Richard. “You and I made a mistake, but it does not follow that Tom would have kept out of this scrape, if we had told my father our notion.”
“It would not have been on my conscience,” said Margaret—“he would not have sent him to school.”
“I don’t know that,” said Richard. “At any rate we meant to do right, and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can’t tell why you go and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it is. The boy has done very wrong, but people get cured of such things in time, and it is nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere child of eight years old. You did not teach him deceit.”
“No, but I concealed it—papa is disappointed, when he thought he could trust me.”
“Well! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes,” said Richard, in his sober tone.
“Self-sufficiency!” exclaimed Margaret, “that has been the root of all! Do you know, Ritchie, I believe I was expecting that I could always judge rightly.”
“You generally do,” said Richard; “no one else could do half what you do.”
“So you have said, papa, and all of you, till you have spoilt me. I have thought it myself, Ritchie.”
“It is true,” said Richard.
“But then,” said Margaret, “I have grown to think much of it, and not like to be interfered with. I thought I could manage by myself, and when I said I would not worry papa, it was half because I liked the doing and settling all about the children myself. Oh! if it could have been visited in any way but by poor Tom’s faults!”
“Well,” said Richard, “if you felt so, it was a pity, though I never should have guessed it. But you see you will never feel so again, and as Tom is only one, and there are nine to govern, it is all for the best.”
His deliberate common-sense made her laugh a little, and she owned he might be right. “It is a good lesson against my love of being first. But indeed it is difficult—papa can so little bear to be harassed.”
“He could not at first, but now he is strong and well, it is different.”
“He looks terribly thin and worn still,” sighed Margaret, “so much older!”
“Ay, I think he will never get back his young looks; but except his weak arm, he is quite well.”
“And then his—his quick way of speaking may do harm.”
“Yes, that was what I feared for Tom,” said Richard, “and there was the mistake. I see it now. My father always is right in the main, though he is apt to frighten one at first, and it is what ought to be that he should rule his own house. But now, Margaret, it is silly to worry about it any more—let me fetch baby, and don’t think of it.”
And Margaret allowed his reasonableness, and let herself be comforted. After all, Richard’s solid soberness had more influence over her than anything else.
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