Though Mr Tooke was so busy from having no usher, he found time to come
and see Hugh pretty often. He had a sofa moved into that room: and he
carried Hugh, without hurting him at all, and laid him down there
comfortably, beside the fire. He took his tea there, with Mrs Proctor;
and he brought up his newspaper, and read from it anything which he
thought would amuse the boy. He smiled at Hugh's scruple about
occupying his room, and assured him that he was quite as well off in Mr
Carnaby's room, except that it was not so quiet as this, and therefore
more fit for a person in health than for an invalid. Mr Tooke not only
brought up plenty of books from the school library, but lent Hugh some
valuable volumes of prints from his own shelves.
Hugh could not look at these for long together. His head soon began to
ache, and his eyes to be dazzled; for he was a good deal weakened. His
mother observed also that he became too eager about views in foreign
countries, and that he even grew impatient in his temper when talking
about them.
"My dear boy," said she one evening, after tea, when she saw him in this
state, and that it rather perplexed Mr Tooke, "if you remember your
resolution, I think you will put away that book."
"O, mother!" exclaimed he, "you want to take away the greatest pleasure
I have!"
"If it is a pleasure, go on. I was afraid it was becoming a pain."
Mr Tooke did not ask what this meant; but he evidently wished to know.
He soon knew, for Hugh found himself growing more fidgety and more
cross, the further he looked in the volume of Indian Views, till he
threw himself back upon the sofa, and stuffed his handkerchief into his
mouth, and stared at the fire, struggling, as his mother saw, to help
crying. "I will take away the book,--shall I, my dear?"
"Yes, mother. O dear! I shall never keep my vow, I know."
Mrs Proctor told Mr Tooke that Hugh had made a resolution which she
earnestly hoped he might be able to keep;--to bear cheerfully every
disappointment and trouble caused by this accident, from the greatest to
the least,--from being obliged to give up being a traveller by-and-by,
to the shoemaker's wondering that he wanted only one shoe. Now, if
looking at pictures of foreign countries made him less cheerful, it
seemed to belong to his resolution to give up that pleasure for the
present. Hugh acknowledged that it did; and Mr Tooke, who was pleased
at what he heard, carried away the Indian Views, and brought instead a
very fine work on Trades, full of plates representing people engaged in
every kind of trade and manufacture. Hugh was too tired to turn over
any more pages to-night: but his master said the book might stay in the
room now, and when Hugh was removed, it might go with him; and, as he
was able to sit up more, he might like to copy some of the plates.
"Removed!" exclaimed Hugh.
His mother smiled, and told him that he was going on so well that he
might soon now be removed to his uncle's.
"Where," said Mr Tooke, "you will have more quiet and more liberty than
you can have here. Your brother, and any other boys you like, can run
over to see you at any time; and you will be out of the noise of the
playground."
"I wonder how it is there is so little noise from the playground here,"
said Hugh.
"It is because the boys have been careful to make no noise since your
accident. We cannot expect them to put themselves under such restraint
for long."
"O no, no! I had better go. But, mother, you--you--aunt Shaw is very
kind, but--"
"I shall stay with you as long as you want me."
Hugh was quite happy.
"But how in the world shall I get there?" he presently asked. "It is
two whole miles; and we can't lay my leg up in the gig: besides its
being so cold."
His mother told him that his uncle had a very nice plan for his
conveyance. Mr Annanby approved of it, and thought he might be moved
the first sunny day.
"What, to-morrow?"
"Yes, if the sun shines."
Mr Tooke unbolted the shutter, and declared that it was such a bright
starry evening that he thought to-morrow would be fine.
The morning was fine; and during the very finest part of it came Mr
Shaw. He told Hugh that there was a good fire blazing at home in the
back room that looked into the garden, which was to be Hugh's. From the
sofa by the fire-side one might see the laurustinus on the grass-plot,--
now covered with flowers: and when the day was warm enough to let him
lie in the window, he could see the mill, and all that was going on
round it.
Hugh liked the idea of all this: but he still looked anxious.
"Now tell me," said his uncle, "what person in all the world you would
like best for a companion?"
"In all the world!" exclaimed Hugh. "Suppose I say the Great Mogul!"
"Well; tell us how to catch him, and we will try. Meantime, you can
have his picture. I believe we have a pack of cards in the house."
"But do you mean really, uncle,--the person I should like best in all
the world,--out of Crofton?"
"Yes; out with it!"
"I should like Agnes best," said Hugh, timidly.
"We thought as much. I am glad we were right. Well, my boy, Agnes is
there."
"Agnes there! Only two miles off! How long will she stay?"
"O, there is no hurry about that. We shall see when you are well what
to do next."
"But will she stay till the holidays?"
"O yes, longer than that, I hope."
"But then she will not go home with me for the holidays?"
"Never mind about the holidays now. Your holidays begin to-day. You
have nothing to do but to get well now, and make yourself at home at my
house, and be merry with Agnes. Now shall we go, while the sun shines?
Here is your mother all cloaked up in her warm things."
"O, mother! Agnes is come," cried Hugh.
This was no news; for it was his mother who had guessed what companion
he would like to have. She now showed her large warm cloak, in which
Hugh was to be wrapped; and his neck was muffled up in a comforter.
"But how am I to go?" asked Hugh, trembling with this little bustle.
"Quietly in your bed," said his uncle. "Come, I will lift you into it."
And his uncle carried him down-stairs to the front door, where two of
Mr Shaw's men stood with a litter, which was slung upon poles, and
carried like a sedan-chair. There was a mattress upon the litter, on
which Hugh lay as comfortably as on a sofa. He said it was like being
carried in a palanquin in India,--if only there was hot sunshine, and no
frost and snow.
Mr Tooke, and Mrs Watson, and Firth shook hands with Hugh, and said
they should be glad to see him back again: and Mr Tooke added that some
of the boys should visit him pretty often till the breaking-up. Nobody
else was allowed to come quite near; but the boys clustered at that side
of the playground, to see as much as they could. Hugh waved his hand;
and every boy saw it; and in a moment every hat and cap was off, and the
boys gave three cheers,--the loudest that had ever been heard at
Crofton. The most surprising thing was that Mr Tooke cheered, and Mr
Shaw too. The men looked as if they would have liked to set down the
litter, and cheer too: but they did not quite do that. They only smiled
as if they were pleased.
There was one person besides who did not cheer. Tooke stood apart from
the other boys, looking very sad. As the litter went down the by-road,
he began to walk away; but Hugh begged the men to stop, and called to
Tooke. Tooke turned: and when Hugh beckoned, he forgot all about
bounds, leaped the paling, and came running. Hugh said,--
"I have been wanting to see you so! But I did not like to ask for you
particularly."
"I wish I had known that."
"Come and see me,--do," said Hugh. "Come the very first, wont you?"
"If I may."
"Oh, you may, I know."
"Well, I will, thank you. Good-bye."
And on went the litter, with Mrs Proctor and Mr Shaw walking beside
it. The motion did not hurt Hugh at all; and he was so warmly wrapped
up, and the day so fine, that he was almost sorry when the two miles
were over. And yet there was Agnes out upon the steps; and she sat
beside him on the sofa in his cheerful room, and told him that she had
nothing to do but to wait on him, and play with him. She did not tell
him yet that she must learn directly to nurse him, and, with her aunt's
help, fill her mother's place, because her mother was much wanted at
home: but this was in truth one chief reason for her coming.
Though there was now really nothing the matter with Hugh--though he ate,
drank, slept, and gained strength--his mother would not leave him till
she saw him well able to go about.
The carpenter soon came, with some crutches he had borrowed for Hugh to
try; and when they were sure of the right length, Hugh had a new pair.
He found it rather nervous work at first, using them; and he afterwards
laughed at the caution with which he began. First, he had somebody to
lift him from his seat, and hold him till he was firm on his crutches.
Then he carefully moved forwards one crutch at a time, and then the
other; and he put so much strength into it, that he was quite tired when
he had been once across the room and back again. Every stumble made him
shake all over. He made Agnes try; and he was almost provoked to see
how lightly she could hop about; but then, as he said, she could put a
second foot down to save herself, whenever she pleased. Every day,
however, walking became easier to him; and he even discovered, when
accidentally left alone, and wanting something from the opposite end of
the room, that he could rise, and set forth by himself, and be
independent. And in one of these excursions it was that he found the
truth of what Agnes had told him--how much easier it was to move both
crutches together. When he showed his mother this, she said she thought
he would soon learn to do with only one.
Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes--such as
no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity
as they deserved. A surprise of this sort happened to him the evening
before his father was to come to see him, and to fetch away his mother.
It was the dark hour in the afternoon--the hour when Mrs Proctor and
her children enjoyed every day a quiet talk, before Mr Shaw came to
carry Hugh into his aunt's parlour to tea. Nothing could be merrier
than Hugh had been; and his mother and Agnes were chatting, when they
thought they heard a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found
that he was indeed crying bitterly.
"What is it, my dear?" said his mother. "Agnes, have we said anything
that could hurt him?"
"No, no," sobbed Hugh. "I will tell you presently."
And presently he told them that he was so busy listening to what they
said, that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had
got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put his hand down; and his
foot was not there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his
toes: and, then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so
terrible--it startled him so.
It was a comfort to him to find that his mother knew all about this.
She came and kneeled beside his sofa, and told him that many persons who
had lost a limb considered this odd feeling the most painful thing they
had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return
occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful. When he had
become so used to do without his foot as to leave off wanting or wishing
for it, he would perhaps make a joke of the feeling, instead of being
disappointed. At least she knew that some persons did so who had lost a
limb.
This did not comfort Hugh much, for every prospect had suddenly become
darkened. He said he did not know how he should bear his misfortune;--
he was pretty sure he could not bear it. It seemed so long already
since it had happened! And when he thought of the long long days, and
months, and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run
and play, and never be like other people, and never able to do the
commonest things without labour and trouble, he wished he was dead. He
had rather have died.
Agnes thought he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say
this to his mother. She glanced at her mother's face; but there was no
displeasure there. Mrs Proctor said this feeling was very natural.
She had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than Hugh's; but she
had found that, though the prospect appears all strewn with troubles,
they come singly, and are not worth minding, after all. She told Hugh
that, when she was a little girl, very lazy--fond of her bed--fond of
her book--and not at all fond of washing and dressing--
"Why, mother, you!" exclaimed Hugh.
"Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair,
one day, at the thought that I should have to wash, and clean my teeth,
and brush my hair, and put on every daily article of dress every
morning, as long as I lived. There was nothing I disliked so much; and
yet it was the thing that must be done every day of my whole life."
"Did you tell anybody?" asked Hugh.
"No; I was ashamed to do that: but I remember I cried. You see how it
turns out. Grown people, who have got to do everything by habit, so
easily as not to think about it, wash and dress every morning, without
ever being weary of it. We do not consider so much as once a year what
we are doing at dressing-time, though at seven years old it is a very
laborious and tiresome affair to get ready for breakfast."
"It is the same about writing letters," observed Agnes. "The first
letter I ever wrote was to Aunt Shaw; and it took so long, and was so
tiresome, that, when I thought of all the exercises I should have to
write for Miss Harold, and all the letters that I must send to my
relations when I grew up, I would have given everything I had in the
world not to have learned to write. Oh! How I pitied papa, when I saw
sometimes the pile of letters that were lying to go to the post!"
"And how do you like corresponding with Phil now?"
Agnes owned, with blushes, that she still dreaded the task for some days
before, and felt particularly gay when it was done. Her mother believed
that, if infants could think and look forward, they would be far more
terrified with the prospect of having to walk on their two legs all
their lives, than lame people could be at having to learn the art in
part over again. Grown people are apt to doubt whether they can learn a
new language, though children make no difficulty about it: the reason of
which is, that grown people see at one view the whole labour, while
children do not look beyond their daily task. Experience, however,
always brings relief. Experience shows that every effort comes at its
proper time, and that there is variety or rest in the intervals. People
who have to wash and dress every morning have other things to do in the
after part of the day; and, as the old fable tells us, the clock that
has to tick, before it is worn out, so many millions of times, as it
perplexes the mind to think of, has exactly the same number of seconds
to do it in; so that it never has more work on its hands than it can get
through. So Hugh would find that he could move about on each separate
occasion, as he wanted; and practice would, in time, enable him to do it
without any more thought than it now cost him to put all the bones of
his hands in order, so as to carry his tea and bread-and-butter to his
mouth.
"But that is not all--nor half what I mean," said Hugh. "No, my dear;
nor half what you will have to make up your mind to bear. You will have
a great deal to bear, Hugh. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I
remember: but what is it that you dread the most?"
"Oh! All manner of things. I can never do things like other people."
"Some things. You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would
like to do. You can never dance at your sisters' Christmas parties."
"Oh! Mamma!" cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and the thought in
her mind that it was cruel to talk so.
"Go on! Go on!" cried Hugh, brightening. "You know what I feel,
mother; and you don't keep telling me, as Aunt Shaw does (and even Agnes
sometimes), that it wont signify much, and that I shall not care, and
all that; making out that it is no misfortune hardly, when I know what
it is, and they don't."
"That is a common way of trying to give comfort, and it is kindly
meant," said Mrs Proctor. "But those who have suffered much themselves
know a better way. The best way is not to deny any of the trouble or
the sorrow, and not to press on the sufferer any comforts which he
cannot now see and enjoy. If comforts arise, he will enjoy them as they
come."
"Now then, go on," said Hugh. "What else?"
"There will be little checks and mortifications continually--when you
see boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other,
while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will
pity you in a way you don't like; and some may even laugh at you."
"O mamma!" exclaimed Agnes.
"I have seen and heard children in the street do it," replied Mrs
Proctor. "This is a thing almost below notice; but I mentioned it while
we were reckoning up our troubles."
"Well, what else?" said Hugh.
"Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life, determined
by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better. But
we need not think of this yet:--not till you have become quite
accustomed to your lameness."
"Well, what else?"
"I must ask you now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is
not much else; for indeed I think here is quite enough for a boy--or any
one else--to bear."
"I will bear it, though,--you will see."
"You will find great helps. These misfortunes, of themselves,
strengthen one's mind. They have some advantages too. You will be a
better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more
books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved;--
not out of mere pity; for people in general will soon leave off pitying
you, when once you learn to be active again; but because you have kept
faith with your schoolfellows, and shown that you can bear pain. Yes,
you will be more loved by us all; and you yourself will love God more
for having given you something to bear for his sake."
"I hope so,--I think so," said Hugh. "O mother! I may be very happy
yet."
"Very happy; and, when you have once made up your mind to everything,
the less you think and speak about it, the happier you will be. It is
very right for us now, when it is all new, and strange, and painful, to
talk it well over; to face it completely; but when your mind is made up,
and you are a Crofton boy again, you will not wish to speak much of your
own concerns, unless it be to me, or to Agnes, sometimes, when your
heart is full."
"Or to Dale, when you are far off."
"Yes,--to Dale, or some one friend at Crofton. But there is only one
Friend that one is quite sure to get strength from,--the same who has
given strength to all the brave people that ever lived, and comfort to
all sufferers. When the greatest of all sufferers wanted relief, what
did He do?"
"He went by Himself, and prayed," said Agnes.
"Yes, that is the way," observed Hugh, as if he knew by experience.
Mr Shaw presently came, to say that tea was ready.
"I am too big a baby to be carried now," cried Hugh, gaily. "Let me try
if I cannot go alone."
"Why,--there is the step at the parlour-door," said Mr Shaw,
doubtfully. "At any rate, stop till I bring a light."
But Hugh followed close upon his uncle's heels, and was over the step
before his aunt supposed he was half way across the hall. After tea,
his uncle and he were so full of play, that the ladies could hardly hear
one another speak till Hugh was gone to bed, too tired to laugh any
more.