_Called to Account.--Mr. Long and the B. O. W. C.--They get a tremendous
“Wigging.”--Pat to the Rescue.--Mr. Long relaxes.--The unhidden
Guest.--Captain Corhet and the irrepressible Bobby.--Coming in Joy to
depart in Tears.--The Relics again.--A Solemn Ceremony.--A Speech, a
Poem, a Procession, all ending in a Consignment of the exhumed Treasure
to its Resting-place._
AS they entered the study they found Mr. Long seated in an arm-chair by
his study table. He looked at them with a grave and severe countenance,
and motioned them to seats.
They sat down.
“_Boys_,” said Mr. Long, in a cold and constrained voice, “None of you
will accuse me of ever interfering with legitimate sport, or will think
that I am destitute of sympathy with boyish ways and manners. I think
you know me well enough to believe that I take a deep interest in
everything that can make you enjoy yourselves here; that I want you to
love this place with all your hearts, and through all your after
lives to look back upon Grand Pré Academy with the most affectionate
recollection. That very feeling I have now, and it is this that animates
me while I call upon you to give an account of those disturbances in
which you have been engaged.
“You see a line must be drawn somewhere,” he continued. “Your affair at
the French cellar was not altogether what it ought to have been, and I
do not approve of it at all. Apart from the lateness of the hour, there
was about the whole transaction an air of wildness--a certain headlong
recklessness of sport, which I should rather check than indulge. Still,
I have nothing to say about that now. You seem to have gone into that
affair with an impetuosity of pure fun, that blinded you to anything
objectionable which might have been in it. Besides, you have already
told all about that, and in a whimsical way that disarmed all reproof.
“But, boys,” resumed Mr. Long, in a severer tone, “this last affair has
been really a serious offence against discipline. The school has been
disturbed, it seems, for many nights. There have been all kinds of
noises; howlings, yellings, and screechings, of all sorts; rappings and
knockings. Now, all these things may be very funny to the contrivers of
them, but you are surely old enough to know that they may be excessively
dangerous to sensitive minds. Did you not think of the poor little
fellows here who might receive a serious mental shock from such
disturbances? Is it possible that you could have been blind to all
things except your own selfish amusement? Is this the sort of thing that
is becoming to you--you,” he repeated, “from whom I hoped nothing but
examples of manliness, and generosity, and frankness, and chivalry? I
will not believe that it is possible for you to fail in these qualities.
I trust rather to what I _know_ of you, and I will attribute all this to
nothing except utter thoughtlessness on your part. And it is that very
thoughtlessness, if nothing worse, that I blame. It was not worthy of
you; it was utterly beneath you. It was a very serious offence.”
The boys fairly writhed under all this, and Bart, with his face flushing
scarlet, and his eyes gleaming with excited feeling, was about to speak;
but Mr. Long commanded silence with his uplifted hand.
“But what shall I say,” he continued, “to this last business? Here
everything reaches a climax. Not satisfied with having thrown the whole
school into a panic, and with making the garret seem a haunted place
to most of the boys,--a place, in fact, into which none dared to go but
yourselves,--not satisfied with all this, you determined upon an act
which is sufficient to demand serious punishment. Having already raised
an almost intolerable terror in the school, you deliberately proceed to
intensify even this, and raise that terror into a perfect anguish. Was
not the panic sufficient already? Did you wish it to terminate in some
tragedy? Would it have been satisfactory to you if the feeble brain of
some of the younger boys had given way under this new terror? if some
one of them had suddenly gone mad, as that abhorrent roar, that mixture
of howls, and yells, and screeches, and hoots, rising up into an
unearthly din, and intermingled with the awful toll of the bell, had
burst upon his ear? Such things have happened. There have been, not
boys, but men, who have gone mad from things even less terrible than
these. Why, when I think of what might have happened, I shudder, and I
stand amazed at what I charitably consider your thoughtlessness; though
for such thoughtlessness as this, what punishment can be adequate?
“And now,” he concluded, “what have you to say for yourselves?”
All this time the faces of the boys were like fire, and writhing in
indignation, they looked back at Mr. Long as he hurled against them what
they felt to be unmerited accusations. They had only been concerned
in the last affair for the purpose of putting an effectual end to the
other. But as they sat there in the consciousness of innocence, they saw
that it was impossible for them to explain it. They could not tell what
they knew, for that would be to accuse Pat.
“Mr. Long,” burst forth Bart, starting up, with his face in a flame, and
his voice trembling with indignation, “every word that you have uttered
is utterly and totally undeserved by us. I assure you most solemnly that
we have never violated any principles of honor or of chivalry. You do
not know the facts, sir, or you would never have uttered those bitter
words. You have done us great wrong, sir; we are not deserving of such
charges as these. We are innocent; but we are not in a position to
explain.”
Bart paused for a moment, and in that momentary pause another voice
burst in as eagerly and as impetuously as his own.
It was Pat.
He had started to his feet just as Bart did, but Bart had spoken before
him. As soon as he could get a chance he burst in.
“Mr. Long,” he cries, “it’s all a mishtake what yer sayin. As thrue as
I’m standin here,--and I’m tellin no lie, so I ain’t,--it was me that
did it, so it was. And they knowed it was me, so they did. And it was
only to play a little harrumless joke that I did it. I didn’t bring the
owl there at all, at all. He coom there himself. He howled, an the ony
blame to me wor, that I didn’t tell what I knowed. Besides, I thried
till alarrum the boys a bit. Nivir fear that wan av thim same goes mad.
They indured the excitemint, so they did. Afther a day or two, I tied a
sthring till the bell-knocker, an give it a bit av a pull, an I knocked
at the Raw-dons’ dure and at Jiggins’. An I’m the ony wan to blame; an
if there’s till be any punishin a goin; I’m the wan that’s going till
take it, so I am.”
All these words Pat poured forth with feverish impetuosity, as though
anxious to tell everything before he could be interrupted. Not a
word did he say about the other boys and the donkey. He left it to be
inferred that he was to be blamed for the donkey also. He intended--the
warm-hearted Irish lad--that he should be punished for that too.
“Mr. Long,” cried Bart, bursting in, “since Pat has told about the owl
himself, we can confess our share. We brought up the donkey.”
“An it worn’t a thrick,” said Pat. “It wor till frighten me, so it wor,
an make me stop me bell-pullins an knockins. That’s what it wor. An
didn’t I get it! I wor jest pullin the sthring that wor fastened till
the bell, whin the donkey let aff a bray that knocked me clain from me
oun room all the way down stairs, head over heels, an fut first. That’s
what it did. An that’s as thrue as I’m standin here a tellin av it.”
Mr. Long now began to question them, and soon all the facts were
elicited. As the truth became known, the severity of his manner relaxed,
and his tone became pleasant and kindly.
“Well, boys,” said he, “all this puts the matter in a very different
light. The owl came and screeched himself. Pat was only to blame for
assisting the excitement. You were only to blame for taking so very
violent a way to stop the affair. It might have been stopped without
that, if you had simply told all about it. But I see the odd kind of
motive you had. You merely wished to surround the denouement, as you
say, with such absurd accompaniments, that no boy on the hill would ever
dare to hint at a ghost again. Well, I may not like your way of going to
work, but I at least understand your motives. I need not say how glad I
am at this explanation. I came here under a false impression, and regret
that I spoke with such severity. The only thing that I blame about this
is, that it was what is called a practical joke, both on Pat’s part
and on yours; and that is a thing which I have always endeavored to put
down. So now, boys,” he concluded, “let me say--”
At this moment there came a faint rap at the door.
Mr. Long looked at the door, but took no further notice of the sound.
Thinking it was a mistake, he continued, in a pleasant tone,--
“Let me say, boys, that I have such confidence in all of you, that I
feel sure--”
At this there came another rap, somewhat louder. “Come in,” said Mr.
Long.
The door opened slowly. Those in the room were behind it as it opened,
and they could not see who was coming. Gradually it opened, and then
there stepped forth the venerable form of Captain Corbet. He carried in
his arms a little bundle, which he held with the tenderest care; and
there was on his face an expression made up of pride, of triumph, and of
a certain joyous consciousness which he possessed that he was the bearer
of that which would not fail to excite similar emotions in others.
The moment Mr. Long saw him and his burden, he started to his feet,
looking very pale.
Captain Corbet stood in the doorway, swaying his shoulders backward and
forward, so as to afford an agreeable motion to his tender charge; his
head hung on one side, and he looked upon the company with that peculiar
expression of benignity which may be seen on the face of some indulgent
father who has prepared some rich treat for his children.
“What!” exclaimed the venerable Corbet; “all here--all jined together on
this momentuous occasion! An me afeared that some on yew’d miss it! Wal,
it air lucky--ain’t it? You see, the ole woman, she went off to see a
cousin of hern, that’s got her youngest darter down with the spotted
fever,--ony I dare say, arter all, it’s ony the measles. So I see
this here young an tender infant, a kerowin in his keradle like all
possessed; an I says, Now’s the perpitious momunt; an I says to the
offsperin, ‘Doozy wanter see Missr Long, den? Doozy wanter see zee boys?
An so he sall!’ Fur, my Christian friens, I promised you, solemn, on
that thar vyge; that some day I’d bring the babby. An you, sir, Mr.
Long, my benefactor, I vowed to you that sence you’d saved this tender
babe from rewination arter his feyther’s laid low, he should come an
show you his own self, and look up in your keountenance, through his
blue orbs, and smile upon you with his be-yeau-teefulest smile! An thar
he air.”
Saying this, Captain Corbet proceeded to remove the coverings from the
face of his beloved burden.
Mr. Long stood motionless and mute. His eyes wandered to the window.
Captain Corbet was standing in the doorway, barring the passage, and
slowly and tenderly drawing aside the veil that hid from view the face
that he loved.
Suddenly Mr. Long started.
His resolution was taken.
He walked towards the door.
Captain Corbet saw him not. His eyes, his thoughts, and his heart were
all engaged in his delightful employment.
“Ah, captain,” said Mr. Long, hurriedly, “I hope you’re very well. Is
there anything I can do for you? If so, I can see you some other time.
I’m in a great hurry. I’ve just finished some business which I had with
these boys. You will have to be kind enough to excuse me.”
He touched Captain Corbet’s shoulder, and tried to push him gently
aside, so as to pass.
Captain Corbet’s hand, which had been removing the coverings, fell
slowly to his side. His face turned up and confronted Mr. Long’s with
an expression of utter bewilderment, as though the language which he
had heard was perfectly incomprehensible. His lips moved, but no sound
escaped.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Mr. Long, kindly. “I’m in a great
hurry. Will you allow me to pass?”
Mechanically Captain Corbet moved to one side. Mr. Long hurried out.
He descended the stairs; he walked rapidly out of the Academy, and down
into the village, and far, far away.
Captain Corbet stood at the doorway looking at vacancy. At length he
turned. There was a certain blank amazement in his face, as though he
could not yet understand what had happened.
“He said he was in a hurry!” he murmured. “He’s gone! actilly--an
raelly--and terewly--gone--an _sech_ a chance! Why, it’ll-never come
agin, may be. An he’s ben an missed it--lost it--? actilly therrown it
away! Boys,” he continued, after a pause, in a hollow voice, “am I a
dereamin?”
“O, no, captain,” said Bart, cheerily. “You’re wide awake. Come in and
sit down.”
The captain shook his head.
“Pinch me!” said he, in the same tragic tone.
No one obeyed.
Captain Corbet heaved a heavy sigh.
“No,” said he. “I feel that I’m awake. Here’s the babby--here’s its
parient. But I must rest, an meditate over this harrowin occurrience.”
Saying this, he walked forward, and seated himself in Mr. Long’s vacated
chair.
“Thar,” he exclaimed, after a long silence, raising his meek face, and
solemnly regarding the boys. “Thar, it air over! That dream hath past
and fled, an the feeble idee I ben a hevin of Mr. Long’s better natoor
air totially overtherrown by that muve! For it was a perroud hope of the
aged and tew sangu-wine Corbet to give thanks to the man that delivered
him from rewination in the most ef-fectooil way, by a bringin of the
babby face tew face with his benefacture, an a teachin of the tender
infant to summile on the author of his footur fortin. We met,” he
continued, as a darker shade came over his venerable countenance. “We
met, an I thot we’d feel a mootooil jy. I stood a lingerin long by
yonder open portial, a holdin of him in suspense, an a pictoorin tew
myself his silent raptoor. Why, do you know, boys, I’d even made up
my mind to _let him hold the babby_,--jest for a leetle,--if he begged
hard, an if the infant didn’t cry. That’s what I was a keepin in store
for him. What do ye think of that now?”
And after this announcement of his late plan, he looked earnestly at the
boys to witness the full effect of that disclosure.
“An what was the result? Did he spering tew meet me? Did he clasp the
babe? Did he evince a mite of yearnin or kimpassion? Did he even try to
get a sight of the pootiest little face zat ever was--bress him.” Here
Captain Corbet began to show signs of growing maudlin, but he checked
himself and went on. “He! not he. What did he do, young sirs? You saw
him. Bar witness tew what I say. He took his departoor. He felled, like
an evil sperrit, at the approach of that cherub. An I--I felt it sore--I
felt it--an I feel it still,--yes, I do,--yea, even down to the toes of
my butes!”
[Illustration: 0299]
Here followed a long silence, which the boys did not break, for they
did not know what to say to soothe the woes of the afflicted captain. At
length he looked up, and went on in a tone of sadness, in which might be
detected something like resentment.
“Fust opinions is alius krect. You mind, boys, what I told you on the
briny deep. I said that the heart of Mr. Long was as hard as the neither
milestone. Terew, when, on that eventfooil trile, he riz up for me, an
fit down my fiendish prosecooter, an gently tetched him up on the
roar by that tremenjuous outbust abeout the babby; when all that was a
happenin, I did think I’d a leetle mis-jedged him. But did I? No. I come
to show a parient’s gratitood by presentin before him my most perecious
treasoor. An what was the result? What? Why, he met me with his
habitooil hardheartedness. I found him stiff as a marbial statoot, cold
an freezin as a icicle, rugged an onfeelin as a rocky precipious!”
As he ended, he rose from his chair. The boys now gathered about him,
and asked him to come up to Bart’s room, just overhead, and let them see
his infant. They addressed consoling words to him, and sought to smooth
down his ruffled feelings.
But Captain Corbet shook his head.
“No, boys,” said he, “thankee kindly. You’re all right,--’tain’t you,
’tain’t your fault,--but I feel sore. There’s somethin opperessive in
this here intellectooil atmosphiour. I must seek elsewhere for comfort
to my ruffled busom. Thankee kindly, boys. Some other time, not
now--some other time.”
Saying this, the aged captain left the room, and descended the stairs,
and took his departure. The boys watched his venerable figure till it
paased out of sight; and the slow pace, and bent head, and mournful
mood of their beloved navigator touched all their hearts with a common
feeling of sympathy.
As Captain Corbet’s retreating figure disappeared from view, the boys
turned away, and walked slowly along the front of the Academy, with a
vague idea of taking a walk up to the camp. But before they had gone any
great distance they met Dr. Porter.
“Boys,” said he, “you’ll be glad to know that your French relics are all
labelled, and are now ready to be taken to the Museum.”
“May we take them there, sir?”
“O, yes.”
“When?”
“Now, if you like. I’ll go back to the house, and let you have them.”
Saying this the doctor turned back towards the house, followed by the
boys.
They found the articles all neatly labelled, and their names written
upon each label as discoverers and donors. All looked delighted except
Bart. He read the label on the bone, and there was an expression on his
face which did not escape the notice of the doctor.
“What’s the matter, Bart?” he asked. “You don’t seem pleased.”
“Why, sir,” said Bart, “I didn’t think that this bone belonged to--to
_that_.”
“Why, what did you think that it did belong to?”
“Well, sir, I thought that it belonged to the owner of the house.”
“The owner of the house!” said the doctor, with a laugh. “Well, not
directly. It belonged to his horse, as I think, but Mr. Simmons thinks
it was his cow. That is the only way in which it ever belonged to him.”
Bart looked ineffably disgusted.
“Then it’s no use putting an old cow bone in the Museum,” said he.
“O, yes,” said the doctor. “It was found beside the plough, and perhaps
belonged to the horse or ox that dragged it. From that point of view it
is a very interesting relic.”
Bart said no more, and soon the boys retired on their way to the Museum,
bearing their treasures with them.
“Boys,” said Bruce, “it will never do for us to carry these things up
without making some demonstration or other. It isn’t every day that we
are presenting things to the Museum that we’ve dug out of the ground.”
“That’s a capital idea,” cried Bart, who by this time had recovered from
the shock of his disappointment.
“So I say,” said Arthur; “but what shall we do?”
“O, let’s have a speech, and a poem, and a procession,” said Phil.
“Yes,” said Tom, “Bruce can make the speech, and Bart can make the
poem.”
This was agreed upon, and it was decided that the ceremony should come
off immediately before tea-time. They had an hour yet, and that gave
them ample time. Soon the news spread abroad, and all the boys flocked
to the spot. Bruce ascended the portico, and stood there with the French
relics at his feet.
Bruce had not had much time for preparation; but then he was very quick
at impromptu speeches, and the occasion did not demand anything more
than this. Bart stood near, scribbling something in his memorandum-book.
After arranging the things in an effective row, and putting all the
coins inside the iron pot, Bruce commenced.
Holding up the iron pot, and rattling the coins, he began by giving a
humorous description of their search after it. Without going very deeply
into the real particulars of the case, he introduced into his burlesque
narrative quite a number of the actual facts. After finishing this
description, he showed the identical pot of money which they had
exhumed, and it was passed round from hand to hand.
Bruce then exhibited the ploughshare, and the other irons. The plough,
he assured them, belonged to the first settler on this classic spot. The
bolts had fastened it together, and the chain had drawn it through the
ground. It was this plough, of which these were the interesting relics,
that had reclaimed the hill from its original wilderness state, and made
possible the existence of that great and glorious school to which they
at present had the proud privilege of belonging.
Finally, he exhibited the bone. Dr. Porter, he said, thought it was the
bone of a horse; while Mr. Simmons thought that it once had belonged to
a cow, or perhaps an ox. For his part, he had a theory of his own. He
thought that it was the bone of that nightmare that had been making such
a disturbance among them during the last week. That bone was now going
into the Museum, and he was confident that the peculiar animal to which
it belonged would never trouble the school again.
As Bruce ended, he was greeted with three cheers. Three more followed
for the plough; three for the pot of money; and three for the bone.
After this, Bart arose with his memorandum-book, in which he had been
diligently scribbling.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “after the able, polished, elegant, eloquent,
ornate, and thoroughly exhaustive address from my learned friend, who
has just sat down, it would be quite out of my power to say anything.
Besides, I’m appointed to give the poem. The subject is connected with
one of the articles before us. I mean the bone. Dr. Porter has one
theory; Mr. Simmons another; my learned friend has a third. For my part,
I have my own theory, which I adopted at the moment of its discovery,
and which I still maintain. This, gentlemen, is the subject of my poem.”