And with deepest feelings she and the rest of us told all about it.
Oswald did not say much. He was turning the obstruction round and round
in his pocket, and wishing with all his sentiments that he had owned up
like a man when Albert's uncle asked him before tea to tell him all
about what had happened during the night.
When they had told all, Albert's uncle told us four still more plainly,
and exactly, what we had done, and how much pleasure we had spoiled, and
how much of my father's money we had wasted--because he would have to
pay for the coals being got up from the bottom of the river, if they
could be, and if not, for the price of the coals. And we saw it _all_.
And when he had done Alice burst out crying over her plate and said:
"It's no use! We _have_ tried to be good since we've been down here. You
don't know how we've tried! And it's all no use. I believe we are the
wickedest children in the whole world, and I wish we were all dead!"
This was a dreadful thing to say, and of course the rest of us were all
very shocked. But Oswald could not help looking at Albert's uncle to see
how he would take it.
He said, very gravely, "My dear kiddie, you ought to be sorry, and I
wish you to be sorry for what you've done. And you will be punished for
it." (We were; our pocket-money was stopped and we were forbidden to go
near the river, besides impositions miles long.) "But," he went on, "you
mustn't give up trying to be good. You are extremely naughty and
tiresome, as you know very well."
Alice, Dicky, and Noel began to cry at about this time.
"But you are not the wickedest children in the world by any means."
Then he stood up and straightened his collar, and put his hands in his
pockets.
"You're very unhappy now," he said, "and you deserve to be. But I will
say one thing to you."
Then he said a thing which Oswald at least will never forget (though but
little he deserved it, with the obstruction in his pocket, unowned up
to all the time).
He said, "I have known you all for four years--and you know as well as I
do how many scrapes I've seen you in and out of--but I've never known
one of you tell a lie, and I've never known one of you do a mean or
dishonorable action. And when you have done wrong you are always sorry.
Now this is something to stand firm on. You'll learn to be good in the
other ways some day."
He took his hands out of his pockets, and his face looked different, so
that three of the four guilty creatures knew he was no longer adamant,
and they threw themselves into his arms. Dora, Denny, Daisy, and H. O.,
of course, were not in it, and I think they thanked their stars.
Oswald did not embrace Albert's uncle. He stood there and made up his
mind he would go for a soldier. He gave the wet ball one last squeeze,
and took his hand out of his pocket, and said a few words before going
to enlist. He said:
"The others may deserve what you say. I hope they do, I'm sure. But _I_
don't, because it was my rotten cricket-ball that stopped up the pipe
and caused the midnight flood in our bedroom. And I knew it quite early
this morning. And I didn't own up."
Oswald stood there covered with shame, and he could feel the hateful
cricket-ball heavy and cold against the top of his leg, through the
pocket.
Albert's uncle said--and his voice made Oswald hot all over, but not
with shame--he said--
I shall not tell you what he said. It is no one's business but Oswald's;
only I will own it made Oswald not quite so anxious to run away for a
soldier as he had been before.
That owning up was the hardest thing I ever did. They did put that in
the Book of Golden Deeds, though it was not a kind or generous act, and
did no good to any one or anything except Oswald's own inside feelings.
I must say I think they might have let it alone. Oswald would rather
forget it. Especially as Dicky wrote it in and put this:
"Oswald acted a lie, which, he knows, is as bad as telling one. But he
owned up when he needn't have, and this condones his sin. We think he
was a thorough brick to do it."
Alice scratched this out afterwards and wrote the record of the incident
in more flattering terms. But Dicky had used father's ink, and she used
Mrs. Pettigrew's, so any one can read _his_ underneath the scratching
outs.
The others were awfully friendly to Oswald, to show they agreed with
Albert's uncle in thinking I deserved as much share as any one in any
praise there might be going.
It was Dora who said it all came from my quarrelling with Noel about
that rotten cricket-ball; but Alice, gently yet firmly, made her shut
up.
I let Noel have the ball. It had been thoroughly soaked, but it dried
all right. But it could never be the same to me after what _it_ had done
and what _I_ had done.
I hope you will try to agree with Albert's uncle and not think foul
scorn of Oswald because of this story. Perhaps you have done things
nearly as bad yourself sometimes. If you have, you will know how "owning
up" soothes the savage breast and alleviates the gnawings of remorse.
If you have never done naughty acts, I expect it is only because you
never had the sense to think of anything.