Hugh was about to ask his mother, again and again during their walk, why
Mr Tooke let him go to Crofton before he was ten; but Mrs Proctor was
grave and silent; and though she spoke kindly to him now and then, she
did not seem disposed to talk. At last they were in the Temple Garden;
and they sat down where there was no one to overhear them; and then Hugh
looked up at his mother. She saw, and told him, what it was that he
wanted to ask.
"It is on account of the little boys themselves," said she, "that Mr
Tooke does not wish to have them very young, now that there is no kind
lady in the house who could be like a mother to them."
"But there is Mrs Watson. Phil has told me a hundred things about Mrs
Watson."
"Mrs Watson is the housekeeper. She is careful, I know, about the
boys' health and comfort; but she has no time to attend to the younger
ones, as Mrs Tooke did,--hearing their little troubles, and being a
friend to them like their mothers at home."
"There is Phil--"
"Yes. You will have Phil to look to. But neither Phil, nor any one
else, can save you from some troubles you are likely to have from being
the youngest."
"Such as Mr Tooke told me his boy had;--being put on the top of a high
wall, and plagued when he was tired: and all that. I don't think I
should much mind those things."
"So we hope, and so we believe. Your fault is not cowardice--"
Mrs Proctor so seldom praised anybody that her words of esteem went a
great way. Hugh first looked up at her, and then down on the grass,--
his cheeks glowed so. She went on--
"You have faults,--faults which give your father and me great pain; and
though you are not cowardly about being hurt in your body, you sadly
want courage of a better kind,--courage to mend the weakness of your
mind. You are so young that we are sorry for you, and mean to send you
where the example of other boys may give you the resolution you want so
much."
"All the boys learn their lessons at Crofton," observed Hugh.
"Yes; but not by magic. They have to give their minds to their work.
You will find it painful and difficult to learn this, after your idle
habits at home. I give you warning that you will find it much more
difficult than you suppose; and I should not wonder if you wish yourself
at home with Miss Harold many times before Christmas."
Mrs Proctor was not unkind in saying this. She saw that Hugh was so
delighted about going that nothing would depress his spirits, and that
the chief fear was his being disappointed and unhappy when she should be
far away. It might then be some consolation to him to remember that she
was aware of what he would have to go through. He now smiled, and said
he did not think he should ever wish to say his lessons to Miss Harold
as long as he lived. Then it quickly passed through his mind that,
instead of the leads and the little yard, there would be the playground;
and instead of the church bells, the rooks; and instead of Susan, with
her washing and combing, and scolding and kissing, there would be plenty
of boys to play with. As he thought of these things, he started up, and
toppled head over heels on the grass, and then was up by his mother's
side again, saying that he did not care about anything that was to
happen at Crofton;--he was not afraid,--not even of the usher, though
Phil could not bear him.
"If you can bring yourself to learn your lessons well," said his mother,
"you need not fear the usher. But remember it depends upon that. You
will do well enough in the playground, I have no doubt."
After this, there was only to settle the time that was to pass--the
weeks, days, and hours before Michaelmas-day; and whether these weeks
and days should be employed in preparing for Crofton under Miss Harold,
or whether he should take his chance there unprepared as he was. Mrs
Proctor saw that his habits of inattention were so fixed, and his
disgust at lessons in the parlour so strong, that she encouraged his
doing no lessons in the interval. Hugh would have said beforehand that
three weeks' liberty to read voyages and travels, and play with Harry,
would have made him perfectly happy; but he felt that there was some
disgrace mixed up with his holiday, and that everybody would look upon
him with a sort of pity, instead of wishing him joy; and this spoiled
his pleasure a good deal. When he came home from his walk, Agnes
thought he looked less happy than when he went out; and she feared his
spirits were down about Crofton.
His spirits were up and down many times during the next three weeks. He
thought these weeks would never be over. Every day dragged on more
slowly than the last; at every meal he was less inclined to eat; and his
happiest time was when going to bed, because he was a day nearer
Crofton. His mother, foreseeing just what happened, wished to have kept
the news from him till within a week of his departure, and had agreed
with Mr Proctor that it should be so. But Mr Proctor hated secrets,
and, as we see, let it out immediately.
At last, the day came;--a warm, sunny, autumn day, on which any one
might have enjoyed the prospect of a drive into the country. The coach
was to set off from an inn in Fleet Street, at noon, and would set Hugh
down at his uncle's door in time for dinner, the distance being
twenty-eight miles. His uncle's house was just two miles from the
school. Phil would probably be there to meet his brother, and take him
to Crofton in the afternoon.
How to get rid of the hours till noon was the question. Hugh had had
everything packed up, over which he had any control, for some days. He
had not left himself a plaything of those which he might carry: and it
frightened him that his mother did not seem to think of packing his
clothes till after breakfast this very morning. When she entered his
room for the purpose, he was fidgeting about, saying to himself that he
should never be ready. Agnes came with her mother, to help: but before
the second shirt was laid in the box, she was in tears and had to go
away; for every one in the house was in the habit of hiding tears from
Mrs Proctor, who rarely shed them herself, and was known to think that
they might generally be suppressed, and should be so.
As Hugh stood beside her, handing stockings and handkerchiefs, to fill
up the corners of the box, she spoke as she might not have done if they
had not been alone. She said but a few words; but Hugh never forgot
them.
"You know, my dear," said she, "that I do not approve of dwelling upon
troubles. You know I never encourage my children to fret about what
cannot be helped."
There was nothing in the world that Hugh was more certain of than this.
"And yet I tell you," she continued, "that you will not be nearly so
happy at Crofton as you expect--at least, at first. It grieves me to
see you so full of expectation--"
"Does it indeed, mother?"
"It does indeed. But my comfort is--"
"You think I can bear it," cried Hugh, holding up his head. "You think
I can bear anything."
"I think you are a brave boy, on the whole. But that is not the comfort
I was speaking of; for there is a world of troubles too heavy for the
bravery of a thoughtless child, like you. My comfort is, my dear, that
you know where to go for strength when your heart fails you. You will
be away from your father and me; but a far wiser and kinder parent will
be always with you. If I were not sure that you would continually open
your heart to Him, I could not let you go from me."
"I will--I always do," said Hugh, in a low voice. "Then remember this,
my boy. If you have that help, _you must not fail_. Knowing that you
have that help, I expect of you that you do your own duty, and bear your
own troubles, like a man. If you were to be all alone in the new world
you are going to, you would be but a helpless child: but remember, when
a child makes God his friend, God puts into the youngest and weakest the
spirit of a man."
"You will ask Him too, mother;--you will pray Him to make me brave,
and--and--"
"And what else?" she inquired, fixing her eyes upon him.
"And steady," replied Hugh, casting down his eyes; "for that is what I
want most of all."
"It is," replied his mother. "I do, and always will, pray for you."
Not another word was said till they went down into the parlour. Though
it was only eleven o'clock, Miss Harold was putting on her bonnet to go
away: and there was a plate of bread and cheese on the table.
"Lunch!" said Hugh, turning away with disgust. "Do eat it," said Agnes,
who had brought it. "You had no breakfast, you know."
"Because I did not want it; and I can't eat anything now."
Jane made a sign to Agnes to take the plate out of sight: and she put
some biscuits into a paper bag, that he might eat on the road, if he
should become hungry.
Neither Miss Harold nor Hugh could possibly feel any grief at parting;
for they had had little satisfaction together; but she said very kindly
that she should hope to hear often of him, and wished he might be happy
as a Crofton boy. Hugh could hardly answer her;--so amazed was he to
find that his sisters were giving up an hour of their lessons on his
account,--that they might go with him to the coach!--And then Susan came
in, about the cord for his box, and her eyes were red:--and, at the
sight of her, Agnes began to cry again; and Jane bent down her head over
the glove she was mending for him, and her needle stopped.
"Jane," said her mother, gravely, "if you are not mending that glove,
give it to me. It is getting late."
Jane brushed her hand across her eyes, and stitched away again. Then
she threw the gloves to Hugh without looking at him, and ran to get
ready to go to the coach.
The bustle of the inn-yard would not do for little Harry. He could not
go. Hugh was extremely surprised to find that all the rest were
going;--that even his father was smoothing his hat in the passage for
the walk,--really leaving the shop at noon on his account! The porter
was at his service too,--waiting for his box! It was very odd to feel
of such consequence.
Hugh ran down to bid the maids good-bye. The cook had cut a sandwich,
which she thrust into his pocket, though he told her he had some
biscuits. Susan cried so that little Harry stood grave and wondering.
Susan sobbed out that she knew he did not care a bit about leaving home
and everybody. Hugh wished she would not say so, though he felt it was
true, and wondered at it himself. Mr Proctor heard Susan's
lamentations, and called to her from the passage above not to make
herself unhappy about that; for the time would soon come when Hugh would
be homesick enough.
Mr Blake, the shopman, came to the shop-door as they passed, and bowed
and smiled; and the boy put himself in the way, with a broad grin: and
then the party walked on quickly.
The sun seemed to Hugh to glare very much; and he thought he had never
known the streets so noisy, or the people so pushing. The truth was,
his heart was beating so he could scarcely see: and yet he was so busy
looking about him for a sight of the river, and everything he wished to
bid good-bye to, that his father, who held him fast by the hand, shook
him more than once, and told him he would run everybody down if he
could,--to judge by his way of walking. He must learn to march better,
if he was to be a soldier; and to steer, if he was to be a sailor.
There were just two minutes to spare when they reached the inn-yard.
The horses were pawing and fidgeting, and some of the passengers had
mounted: so Mr Proctor said he would seat the boy at once. He spoke to
two men who were on the roof, just behind the coachman; and they agreed
to let Hugh sit between them, on the assurance that the driver would
look to his concerns, and see that he was set down at the right place.
"Now, my boy, up with you!" said his father, as he turned from speaking
to these men. Hugh was so eager, that he put up his foot to mount,
without remembering to bid his mother and sisters good-bye. Mr Proctor
laughed at this; and nobody wondered; but Agnes cried bitterly; and she
could not forget it, from that time till she saw her brother again.
When they had all kissed him, and his mother's earnest look had bidden
him remember what had passed between them that morning, he was lifted up
by his father, and received by the two men, between whom he found a safe
seat.
Then he wished they were off. It was uncomfortable to see his sisters
crying there, and not to be able to cry too, or to speak to them. When
the coachman was drawing on his second glove, and the ostlers held each
a hand to pull off the horse-cloths, and the last moment was come, Mr
Proctor swung himself up by the step, to say one thing more. It was--
"I say, Hugh,--can you tell me,--how much is four times seven?"
Mrs Proctor pulled her husband's coat-tail, and he leaped down, the
horses' feet scrambled, their heads issued from the gateway of the
inn-yard, and Hugh's family were left behind. In the midst of the
noise, the man on Hugh's right-hand said to the one on his left,--
"There is some joke in that last remark, I imagine."
The other man nodded; and then there was no more speaking till they were
off the stones. When the clatter was over, and the coach began to roll
along the smooth road, Hugh's neighbour repeated,--
"There was some joke, I fancy, in that last remark of your father's."
"Yes," said Hugh.
"Are you in the habit of saying the multiplication-table when you
travel?" said the other. "If so, we shall be happy to hear it."
"Exceedingly happy," observed the first.
"I never say it when I can help it," said Hugh; "and I see no occasion
now."
The men laughed, and then asked him if he was going far.
"To Crofton. I am going to be a Crofton boy," said Hugh.
"A what? Where is he going?" his companions asked one another over his
head. They were no wiser when Hugh repeated what he had said; nor could
the coachman enlighten them. He only knew that he was to put the boy
down at Shaw's, the great miller's, near thirty miles along the road.
"Eight-and-twenty," said Hugh, in correction; "and Crofton is two miles
from my uncle's."
"Eight-and-twenty. The father's joke lies there," observed the
right-hand man.
"No, it does not," said Hugh. He thought he was among a set of very odd
people,--none of them knowing what a Crofton boy was. A passenger who
sat beside the coachman only smiled when he was appealed to; so it might
be concluded that he was ignorant too; and the right and left-hand men
seemed so anxious for information, that Hugh told them all he knew;--
about the orchard and the avenue, and the pond on the heath, and the
playground; and Mrs Watson, and the usher, and Phil, and Joe Cape, and
Tony Nelson, and several others of the boys.
One of the men asked him if he was sure he was going for the first
time,--he seemed so thoroughly informed of everything about Crofton.
Hugh replied that it was a good thing to have an elder brother like
Phil. Phil had told him just what to take to Crofton, and how to take
care of his money, and everything.
"Ay! And how do the Crofton boys take care of their money?"
Hugh showed a curious little inner pocket in his jacket, which nobody
would dream of that did not know. His mother had let him have such a
pocket in both his jackets; and he had wanted to have all his money in
this one now, to show how safely he could carry it. But his mother had
chosen to pack up all his five shillings in his box,--that square box,
with the new brass lock, on the top of all the luggage. In his pocket
there was only sixpence now,--the sixpence he was to give the coachman
when he was set down.
Then he went on to explain that this sixpence was not out of his own
money, but given him by his father, expressly for the coachman. Then
his right-hand companion congratulated him upon his spirits, and began
to punch and tickle him; and when Hugh writhed himself about, because he
could not bear tickling, the coachman said he would have no such doings,
and bade them be quiet. Then the passengers seemed to forget Hugh, and
talked to one another of the harvest in the north, and the hopping in
Kent. Hugh listened about the hopping, supposing it might be some new
game, as good as leap-frog; though it seemed strange that one farmer
should begin hopping on Monday, and that another should fix Thursday;
and that both should be so extremely anxious about the weather. But
when he found it was some sort of harvest-work, he left off listening,
and gave all his attention to the country sights that were about him.
He did not grow tired of the gardens, gay with dahlias and hollyhocks,
and asters: nor of the orchards, where the ladder against the tree, and
the basket under, showed that apple-gathering was going on; nor of the
nooks in the fields, where blackberries were ripening; nor of the
chequered sunlight and shadow which lay upon the road; nor of the breezy
heath where the blue ponds were ruffled; nor of the pleasant grove where
the leaves were beginning to show a tinge of yellow and red, here and
there among the green. Silently he enjoyed all these things, only
awakening from them when there was a stop to change horses.
He was not thinking of time or distance when he saw the coachman glance
round at him, and felt that the speed of the horses was slackening.
Still he had no idea that this was any concern of his, till he saw
something that made him start.
"Why, there's Phil!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.
"This is Shaw's mill, and there is Shaw; which is all I have to do
with," said the coachman, as he pulled up.
Hugh was soon down, with his uncle and Phil, and one of the men from the
mill to help. His aunt was at the window too; so that altogether Hugh
forgot to thank his companions for his safe seat. He would have
forgotten his box, but for the coachman. One thing more he also forgot.
"I say, young master," said the driver, "remember the coachman. Where's
your sixpence?"
"Oh, my sixpence!" cried Hugh, throwing down what he held, to feel in
his curious inner pocket, which was empty.
"Lest you find a hole in your pocket, here is a sixpence for you," cried
the right-hand passenger, tossing him his own sixpence. "Thank you for
teaching us the secret of such a curious pocket."
The coachman was impatient, got his money, and drove off, leaving Hugh
to make out why he had been tickled, and how his money had changed
hands. With a very red face, he declared it was too bad of the man: but
the man was out of his hearing, and could never know how angry he was.
"A pretty story this is for our usher to have against you, to begin
with," was Phil's consolation. "Every boy will know it before you show
yourself; and you will never hear the last of it, I can tell you."
"Your usher!" exclaimed Hugh, bewildered.
"Yes, our usher. That was he on the box, beside coachee. Did not you
find out that much in all these eight-and-twenty miles?"
"How should I? He never told me."
Hugh could hardly speak to his uncle and aunt, he was so taken up with
trying to remember what he had said, in the usher's hearing, of the
usher himself, and everybody at Crofton.