The boys were all in the school-room in the grey of the morning;--no one
late. Mr Tooke was already there. Almost every boy looked wistfully
in the grave face of the master;--almost every one but his own son. He
looked down; and it seemed natural: for his eyes were swollen with
crying. He had been crying as much as Proctor: but, then, so had Dale.
"Your school-fellow is doing well," said Mr Tooke, in a low voice,
which, however, was heard to the farthest end of the room. "His brother
will tell you that he saw him quietly asleep; and I have just seen him
so. He deserves to do well; for he is a brave little boy. He is the
youngest of you; but I doubt whether there is a more manly heart among
you all."
There was a murmur, as if everybody wished to agree to this. That
murmur set Phil crying again.
"As to how this accident happened," continued the master, "I have only
to say this. The coping-stone of the wall was loose,--had become
loosened by the frost. Of that I am aware. But it would not,--it could
not have fallen, if your school-fellow had not been pulled from the top
of the wall. Several hands pulled him,--as many as could get a hold.
Whose these hands were, it would be easy to ascertain; and it would not
be difficult to discover whose was the hand which first laid hold, and
gave the rest their grasp. But--" How earnestly here did every one look
for the next words!--"But your school-fellow considers the affair an
accident,--says he himself was cross."
"No! No! We plagued him," cried many voices.
"Well! He is sure no one meant him any harm, and earnestly desires that
no further inquiry may be made. For his part, nothing, he declares,
shall ever induce him to tell who first seized him."
The boys were about to give a loud cheer, but stopped, for Hugh's sake,
just in time. There was no want of signs of what they felt. There was
no noise; but there were many tears.
"I do not think that a promise of impunity can be any great comfort to
those concerned," continued Mr Tooke: "but such comfort as they can
find in it, they may. Both from my wish to indulge one who has just
sustained so great a misfortune, and because I think he is right, I
shall never inquire,--never wish to know more than I do of the origin of
this accident. His mother declares the same, on the part of both of his
parents. I hope you will every one feel yourselves put upon honour, to
follow my example."
Another general murmur, in sign of agreement.
"The only thing you can now do for your school-fellow," concluded the
master, "is to be quiet throughout the day. As soon as he can be
removed, he will be carried to Mr Shaw's. Till then, you will take
care that he loses no rest through you,--Now, first class, come up."
While this class was up, Phil's neighbour began whispering; and the next
boy leaned over to hear; and one or two came softly up behind: but,
though they were busily engaged in question and answer, the master's
stern voice was not heard (as usual when there was talking) to say
"Silence there!" His class saw him looking that way, once or twice; but
he took no notice. Phil had seen his brother, and was privileged to
tell.
"So you saw him! Did you get a real good sight of him?"
"Yes. I stayed some time; half-an-hour, I dare say."
"What did he look like? Did he say anything?"
"Say anything!" cried Dale: "why, did you not hear he was asleep?"
"What did he look like, then?"
"He looked as he always does when he is asleep, as far as I could see.
But we did not bring the light too near, for fear of waking him."
"Did you hear--did anybody tell you anything about it?"
"Yes: my mother told me whatever I wanted to know."
"What? What did she tell you?"
"She says it will not be so very bad a lameness as it might have been--
as if he had not had his knee left. That makes a great difference.
They make a false foot now, very light; and if his leg gets quite
properly well, and we are not too much in a hurry, and we all take pains
to help Hugh to practise walking carefully at first, he may not be very
lame."
"Oh! Then, it is not so bad," said one, while Tooke, who was listening,
gave a deep sigh of relief.
"Not so bad!" exclaimed Phil. "Why, he will never be so strong--so able
and active as other men. He will never be able to take care of himself
and other people. He will be so unlike other people always; and now,
while he is a boy, he will never--"
The images of poor Hugh's privations and troubles as a schoolboy were
too much for Phil, and he laid down his head on his desk, to hide his
grief. As for Tooke, he walked away, looking the picture of
wretchedness.
"When will you see him again?" asked Dale, passing his arm round Phil's
neck.
"To-day, if he is pretty well. My mother promised me that."
"Do you think you could get leave for me too? I would not make any
noise, nor let him talk too much, if I might just see him."
"I'll see about it," said Phil.
As Mrs Proctor was placing the pillows comfortably, for Hugh to have
his breakfast, after he was washed, and the bed made nicely smooth, he
yawned, and said he was sleepy still, and that he wondered what o'clock
it was. His mother told him it was a quarter past ten.
"A quarter past ten! Why, how odd! The boys are half through school,
almost, and I am only just awake!"
"They slept through the whole night, I dare say. You were awake a good
many times; and you and I had some talk. Do you remember that? Or has
it gone out of your head with your sound sleep?"
"No, no: I remember that," said Hugh. "But it was the oddest, longest
night!--and yesterday too! To think that it is not a whole day yet
since it all happened! Oh! Here comes my breakfast. What is it?
Coffee!"
"Yes: we know you are fond of coffee; and so am I. So we will have some
together."
"How comfortable!" exclaimed Hugh; for he was really hungry; which was
no wonder, after the pain and exhaustion he had gone through. His state
was like that of a person recovering from an illness--extremely ready to
eat and drink, but obliged to be moderate.
When warmed and cheered by his coffee, Hugh gave a broad hint that he
should like to see Phil, and one or two more boys--particularly Dale.
His mother told him that the surgeon, Mr Annanby, would be coming soon.
If he gave leave, Phil should come in, and perhaps Dale. So Hugh was
prepared with a strong entreaty to Mr Annanby on the subject; but no
entreaty was needed. Mr Annanby thought he was doing very well; and
that he would not be the worse for a little amusement and a little
fatigue this morning, if it did not go on too long. So Phil was sent
for, when the surgeon was gone. As he entered, his mother went out to
speak to Mr Tooke, and write home.
She then heard from Mr Tooke and from Firth and Dale, how strong was
the feeling in Hugh's favour--how strong the sympathy for his misfortune
throughout the school. Hugh had seen no tears from her; but she shed
them now. She then earnestly entreated that Hugh might not hear what
she had just been told. He felt no doubt of the kindness of his
schoolfellows, and was therefore quite happy on that score. He was very
young, and to a certain degree vain; and if this event went to
strengthen his vanity, to fill his head with selfish thoughts, it would
be a misfortune indeed. The loss of his foot would be the least part of
it. It lay with those about him to make this event a deep injury to
him, instead of the blessing which all trials are meant by Providence
eventually to be. They all promised that, while treating Hugh with the
tenderness he deserved, they would not spoil the temper in which he had
acted so well, by making it vain and selfish. There was no fear,
meantime, of Phil's doing him any harm in that way; for Phil had a great
idea of the privileges and dignity of seniority; and his plan was to
keep down little boys, and make them humble; not being aware that to
keep people down is not the way to make them humble, but the contrary.
Older people than Phil, however, often fall into this mistake. Many
parents do, and many teachers; and very many elder brothers and sisters.
Phil entered the room shyly, and stood by the fire, so that the
bed-curtain was between him and Hugh.
"Are you there, Phil?" cried Hugh, pulling aside the curtain.
"Yes," said Phil; "how do you do this morning?"
"Oh, very well. Come here. I want to know ever so many things. Have
you heard yet anything real and true about the new usher?"
"No," replied Phil. "But I have no doubt it is really Mr Crabbe who is
coming, and that he will be here after Christmas. Why, Hugh, you look
just the same as usual!"
"So I am just the same, except under this thing," pointing to the hoop,
or basket, which was placed over his limb, to keep off the weight of the
bed-clothes. "I am not hurt anywhere else, except this bruise;" and he
showed a black bruise on his arm, such as almost any schoolboy can show,
almost any day.
"That's nothing," pronounced Phil.
"The other was, though, I can tell you," declared Hugh.
"Was it very, very bad? Worse than you had ever fancied?"
"Oh! Yes. I could have screamed myself to death. I did not, though.
Did you hear me, did anybody hear me call out?"
"I heard you--just outside the door there--before the doctors came."
"Ah! But not after, not while uncle was here. He cried so! I could
not call out while was he crying so. Where were you when they were
doing it?"
"Just outside the door there. I heard you once--only once; and that was
not much."
"But how came you to be there? It was past bedtime. Had you leave to
be up so late?"
"I did not ask it; and nobody meddled with me."
"Was anybody there with you?"
"Yes, Firth. Dale would not. He was afraid and he kept away."
"Oh! Is not he very sorry?"
"Of course. Nobody can help being sorry."
"Do they all seem sorry? What did they do? What do they say?"
"Oh! They are very sorry; you must know that."
"Anybody more than the rest?"
"Why some few of them cried; but I don't know that that shows them to be
more sorry. It is some people's way to cry--and others not."
Hugh wished much to learn something about Tooke; but, afraid of showing
what was in his thoughts, he went off to quite another subject.
"Do you know, Phil," said he, "you would hardly believe it, but I have
never been half so miserable as I was the first day or two I came here?
I don't care now, half so much, for all the pain, and for being lame,
and--Oh! But I can never be a soldier or a sailor--I can never go round
the world! I forgot that."
And poor Hugh hid his face in his pillow.
"Never mind!" said Phil, stooping over him very kindly. "Here is a long
time before you; and you will get to like something else just as well.
Papa wanted to be a soldier, remember, and could not; and he is as happy
as ever he can be, now that he is a shop-keeper in London. Did you ever
see anybody merrier than my father is? I never did. Come! Cheer up,
Hugh! You will be very happy somehow."
Phil kissed him: and when Hugh looked up in surprise, Phil's eyes were
full of tears.
"Now I have a good mind to ask you," said Hugh, "something that has been
in my mind ever since."
"Ever since when?"
"Ever since I came to Crofton. What could be the reason that you were
not more kind to me then?"
"I! Not kind?" said Phil, in some confusion. "Was not I kind?"
"No. At least I thought not. I was so uncomfortable,--I did not know
anybody, or what to do; and I expected you would show me, and help me.
I always thought I could not have felt lonely with you here; and then
when I came, you got out of my way, as if you were ashamed of me, and
you did not help me at all; and you laughed at me."
"No; I don't think I did that."
"Yes, you did, indeed."
"Well, you know, little boys always have to shift for themselves when
they go to a great school--"
"But why, if they have brothers there? That is the very thing I want to
know. I think it is very cruel."
"I never meant to be cruel, of course. But--but--the boys were all
ready to laugh at me about a little brother that was scarcely any better
than a girl;--and consider how you talked on the coach, and what
ridiculous hair you had,--and what a fuss you made about your money and
your pocket,--and how you kept popping out things about Miss Harold, and
the girls, and Susan."
"You _were_ ashamed of me, then."
"Well, what wonder if I was?"
"And you never told me about all these things. You let me learn them
all without any warning, or any help."
"To be sure. That is the way all boys have to get on. They must make
their own way."
"If ever little Harry comes to Crofton," said Hugh, more to himself than
to Phil, "I will not leave him in the lurch,--I will never be ashamed of
him. Pray," said he, turning quickly to Phil, "are you ashamed of me
still?"
"Oh, no," protested Phil. "You can shift for yourself,--you can play,
and do everything like other boys, now. You--"
He stopped short, overcome with the sudden recollection that Hugh would
never again be able to play like other boys,--to be like them in
strength, and in shifting for himself.
"Ah! I see what you are thinking of," said Hugh. "I am so afraid you
should be ashamed of me again, when I come into the playground. The
boys will quiz me;--and if you are ashamed of me--"
"Oh, no, no!" earnestly declared Phil. "There is nobody in the world
that will quiz you;--or, if there is, they had better take care of me, I
can tell them. But nobody will. You don't know how sorry the boys are.
Here comes Dale. He will tell you the same thing."
Dale was quite sure that any boy would, from this time for ever, be sent
to Coventry who should quiz Hugh for his lameness. There was not a boy
now at Crofton who would not do anything in the world to help him.
"Why, Dale, how you have been crying!" exclaimed Hugh. "Is anything
wrong in school? Can't you manage your verses yet?"
"I'll try that to-night," said Dale, cheerfully. "Yes; I'll manage
them. Never mind what made my eyes red; only, if such a thing had
happened to me, you would have cried,--I am sure of that."
"Yes, indeed," said Phil.
"Now, Proctor, you had better go," said Dale. "One at a time is enough
to-day; and I shall not stay long."
Phil agreed, and actually shook hands with Hugh before he went.
"Phil is so kind to-day!" cried Hugh, with glee; "though he is
disappointed of going to uncle Shaw's on my account. And I know he had
reckoned on it. Now, I want to know one thing,--where did Mr Tooke
sleep last night? For this is his bed."
Dale believed he slept on the sofa. He was sure, at least, that he had
not taken off his clothes; for he had come to the door several times in
the course of the night, to know how all was going on.
"Why, I never knew that!" cried Hugh. "I suppose I was asleep. Dale,
what do you think is the reason that our fathers and mothers and people
take care of us as they do?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, Agnes and I cannot make it out. When we were by the sea-side,
mother took us a great way along the beach, to a place we did not know
at all; and she bade us pick up shells, and amuse ourselves, while she
went to see a poor woman that lived just out of sight. We played till
we were quite tired; and then we sat down; and still she did not come.
At last, we were sure that she had forgotten all about us; and we did
not think she would remember us any more: and we both cried. Oh! How
we did cry! Then a woman came along, with a basket at her back, and a
great net over her arm: and she asked us what was the matter; and when
we told her, she said she thought it was not likely that mother would
forget us. And then she bade us take hold of her gown, one on each
side, and she would try to take us to mother; and the next thing was
mother came in sight. When the woman told her what we had said, they
both laughed; and mother told us it was impossible that she should leave
us behind. I asked Agnes afterwards why it was impossible; and she did
not know; and I am sure she was as glad as I was to see mother come in
sight. If she really never can forget us, what makes her remember us?"
Dale shook his head. He could not tell.
"Because," continued Hugh, "we can't do anything for anybody, and we
give a great deal of trouble. Mother sits up very late, sometimes till
near twelve, mending our things. There is that great basket of
stockings she has to mend, once a fortnight! And papa works very hard
to get money; and what a quantity he pays for our schooling, and our
clothes, and everything!"
"Everybody would think it very shameful if he did not," suggested Dale.
"If he let you go ragged and ignorant, it would be wicked."
"But why?" said Hugh, vehemently. "That is what I want to know. We are
not worth anything. We are nothing but trouble. Only think what so
many people did yesterday! My mother came a journey; and uncle and aunt
Shaw came: and mother sat up all night; and Mr Tooke never went to
bed,--and all about me! I declare I can't think why."
Dale felt as if he knew why; but he could not explain it. Mrs Proctor
had heard much of what they were saying. She had come in before closing
her letter to Mr Proctor, to ask whether Hugh wished to send any
particular message home. As she listened, she was too sorry to feel
amused. She perceived that she could not have done her whole duty to
her children, if there could be such a question as this in their
hearts--such a question discussed between them, unknown to her. She
spoke now; and Hugh started, for he was not aware that she was in the
room.
She asked both the boys why they thought it was that, before little
birds are fledged, the parent birds bring them food, as often as once in
a minute, all day long for some weeks. Perhaps no creatures can go
through harder work than this; and why do they do it? For unfledged
birds, which are capable of nothing whatever but clamouring for food,
are as useless little creatures as can be imagined. Why does the cat
take care of her little blind kitten with so much watchfulness, hiding
it from all enemies till it can take care of itself. It is because love
does not depend on the value of the creature loved--it is because love
grows up in our hearts at God's pleasure, and not by our own choice; and
it is God's pleasure that the weakest and the least useful and
profitable should be the most beloved, till they become able to love and
help in their turn.
"Is it possible, my dear," she said to Hugh, "that you did not know
this,--you who love little Harry so much, and take such care of him at
home? I am sure you never stopped to think whether Harry could do you
any service, before helping him to play."
"No; but then--"
"But what?"
"He is such a sweet little fellow, it is a treat to look at him. Every
morning when I woke, I longed to be up, and to get to him."
"That is, you loved him. Well: your papa and I love you all, in the
same way. We get up with pleasure to our business--your father to his
shop, and I to my work-basket--because it is the greatest happiness in
the world to serve those we love."
Hugh said nothing; but still, though pleased, he did not look quite
satisfied.
"Susan and cook are far more useful to me than any of you children,"
continued his mother, "and yet I could not work early and late for them,
with the same pleasure as for you."
Hugh laughed; and then he asked whether Jane was not now as useful as
Susan.
"Perhaps she is," replied his mother; "and the more she learns and does,
and the more she becomes my friend,--the more I respect her: but it is
impossible to love her more than I did before she could speak or walk.
There is some objection in your mind still, my dear. What is it?"
"It makes us of so much consequence,--so much more than I ever thought
of,--that the minds of grown people should be busy about us."
"There is nothing to be vain of in that, my dear, any more than for
young kittens, and birds just hatched. But it is very true that all
young creatures are of great consequence; for they are the children of
God. When, besides this, we consider what human beings are,--that they
can never perish, but are to live for ever,--and that they are meant to
become more wise and holy than we can imagine, we see that the feeblest
infant is indeed a being of infinite consequence. This is surely a
reason for God filling the hearts of parents with love, and making them
willing to work and suffer for their children, even while the little
ones are most unwise and unprofitable. When you and Agnes fancied I
should forget you and desert you, you must have forgotten that you had
another Parent who rules the hearts of all the fathers and mothers on
earth."
Hugh was left alone to think this over, when he had given his messages
home, and got Dale's promise to come again as soon as he could obtain
leave to do so. Both the boys were warned that this would not be till
to-morrow, as Hugh had seen quite company enough for one day. Indeed,
he slept so much, that night seemed to be soon come.