IT is not worth while to go on describing every day at Stokesley, since
lessons were far too much alike; and play-times, though varied enough for
the house of Merrifield, might be less entertaining to the readers.
Enough to say, that by Saturday afternoon John had not only forfeited his
last farthing, but was charged with another into next week, for the poor
pleasure of leaving his hat on the school-room floor because Elizabeth
had told him of it. At about four o’clock it set in for rain, catching
the party at some distance from home, so that, though they made good
speed, the dust turned into mud, and clung fast to their shoes.
David, never the best runner, was only in time to catch Johnnie by the
skirt upon the third step of the staircase, crying out, “The pig!” but
Johnnie, tired of the subject, and in a provoking mood, twitched away his
pinafore, crying, “Bother the pig!” and rushed up after the four who had
preceded him, leaving such lumps of dirt on the edge of every step, that
when Miss Fosbrook came after with Elizabeth she could not but declare
that a shower was a costly article.
“You see,” observed Susan, “when it’s such fine weather it puts one’s
feet out of one’s head.”
While Sam, Henry, and Bessie were laughing at Susan for this speech,
little George trotted in, crying out, “Halty man come, Halty man come;
Georgie want sweetie!”
“The Gibraltar man!” cried John and Annie with one voice, and they were
at the bottom of the stairs with a bound.
“Oh, send him away, send him away. They’ll spend all their money, and
there will be none left!” was David’s cry; while George kept dragging his
eldest sister’s frock, with entreaties of “Susie, Susie, come.”
“They call him the Gibraltar man, because he sells Gibraltar rock, and
gingerbread, and all those things,” said Henry in explanation. “We have
always dealt with him; and he is very deserving; and his wife makes it
all—at least I know she makes ginger-beer—so we must encourage him.”
So Henry hastened downstairs to encourage the Gibraltar man; and Susan,
saying soothingly, “Yes, yes, Georgie;—never mind Davie, we’ll make up
for it; I can’t vex him,” had taken the little fellow in her arms and
followed.
“Pigs enough here, without sending to the fair,” muttered Sam.
“Please, Sam, please, Miss Fosbrook, send the Gibraltar man away, and
don’t let him come,” cried David quite passionately. “Nasty man! he will
come every Saturday, and they’ll always spend all their money.”
“But, my friend,” said Miss Fosbrook good-humouredly, “suppose we have no
right to banish the Gibraltar man?”
“_I_ don’t wan’t him,” said Bessie; “it makes my fingers sticky.”
“You’re no good,” said David vehemently. “I don’t like you, and I hate
the Gibraltar man, taking away all our money from poor Hannah.”
“Gently, gently, Davie; nobody makes you spend your money; and perhaps
the poor man has children of his own who want food as much as Hannah’s
do.”
“Then can’t they eat the Gibraltar rock and bulls’ eyes?”
Sam suggested that this diet would make them sick; to which poor little
earnest David answered, that when once the pig was bought, he would give
all his money for a whole month to the Gibraltar man, if he would not
come for the next four weeks.
And Christabel thought of what she had once read, that people would often
gladly put away from their children friends the very trials that are sent
by Heaven to prove and strengthen their will and power of resisting
self-indulgence. Before she had quite thought it out, the quick steps
were back again, and Sam greeted the entrance of John thus: “Well, if
that isn’t a shame! Have you been and done Sukey out of all that, Jack?”
“It was only three bulls’ eyes,” said Susan, following. “You know he had
nothing of his own, and it was so hard, and Annie gave him some.”
“And Nurse some,” added Hal. “Trust Jackie for taking care of himself.”
Well he might say so, considering how full were John’s mouth, hands, and
pockets.
“And Davie has had nothing!” said kind Susan. “Here, Davie!” holding out
to him an amber-like piece of barley-sugar.
“I don’t want your stuff,” said David roughly. “You’ve spent all away
from the pig.”
“No, Davie, indeed, only twopence,” said Susan; “pray have a bit.”
“You might at least say thank you,” said Miss Fosbrook.
But how difficult is that middle road which is the only right one!
David, being too much set on one single purpose, good though it was,
could see nothing else. It was right and generous to abstain from sweets
with this end in view; but it was wrong to be rude and unthankful to the
sister who meant all so kindly, and was the most unselfish of all. She
turned round to Elizabeth with the kind offer of the dainty she had not
even tasted herself, but was not more graciously treated.
“How can you, Susie? it is all pulled about with your fingers.”
This was a matter on which the Misses and Masters Merrifield were not
wont to be particular; and with one of the teasing laughs that Bessie
hated, Sam exclaimed as Susan turned to him, “Yes, thank you, Sukey, _I_
don’t mind finger sauce,” but not before John was stretching out a hand
glazed with sugar, and calling out, “Oh, give it to me!” and as it
disappeared in his brother’s mouth, he burst out angrily, “How cross,
Sam! You did that on purpose!”
“Yes,” said Sam, “I did; for though pigs on four legs are all very well,
I don’t like pigs on two.”
“Here, Jackie, never mind,” said Susan, seeing him about to begin to cry,
and offering him her last sugar-plum.
“I don’t want sugar-plums, I want barley-sugar,” said John devouring it
nevertheless.
“I haven’t one bit more,” said Susan regretfully.
“Have you had any yourself, Susan?” asked Sam.
“No; but I didn’t want any.”
“Oh then, here Susie, I always keep a reserve,” said Henry. “No, no, not
you, Jack; I don’t feed little pigs, whatever Susie does.”
And in spite of Susan, both the elder brothers set on John, teasing him
about his greediness, till he burst out crying, and ran away to the
nursery. Miss Fosbrook hated the teasing, but she thought it served John
so rightly, that she would not save him from it; and she only interfered
to remind the others that their fingers would bring them in for fines
unless they were washed before tea.
“And how much have you spent?” reproachfully asked that rigid young
judge, David; but all the answer he got was a pull by the hair from Hal,
and “Hollo, young one! am I to give my accounts to you?”
David gravely put up his hand and smoothed his ruffled locks, repeating,
in his manful way, “I want to know what you have left for the pig?”
Whereupon Hal laid hold of him, pulled him off the locker, and rolled him
about on the floor like a puppy dog, crying, “I’ll tell you what, if you
make such a work about it, I’ll spend all my allowance, and not subscribe
at all.”
“Sam!” cried the tormented David, and “Sam!” cried the governess, really
afraid the little boy would be hurt; but Sam only stood laughing with his
back to the shutter, and Christabel herself hurried to the rescue, to
pick Henry off his victim, holding an arm tight, while the child got up,
and ran away to get his hair re-brushed for tea.
“Now, Hal, you might have hurt him,” argued the governess.
“Very good thing for him too,” said the brothers with one voice.
She was very much shocked; but when she thought it over she perceived
that though Hal might be to blame, yet in the long run even this rough
discipline might be more useful to her dear little David than being
allowed to take upon him with his elder brothers, and grow conceited and
interfering.
Miss Fosbrook was not surprised when, next morning, a frightful bellowing
was heard instead of Johnnie being seen, and she learnt that Master John
was in the hands of Nurse Freeman, who was administering to him a dose in
consequence of his having been greatly indisposed all night. It must be
confessed that Christabel was not very sorry to hear it, nor that Nurse
would keep him to herself all day; for bad company as Johnnie had been on
the week-days, he had been worse on the Sunday.
And when John came out on Monday, he looked like a different boy; he had
lost his fractious, rebellious look; he spoke as civilly as could be
expected of a small Merrifield, and showed no signs of being set against
his lessons. To be sure it was a bad way of spending a Sunday, to be
laid up with ailments brought on by over-eating; but even this was better
than spending it, like the former one, in wilful misbehaviour; and John,
who knew that Papa, Mamma, brothers, and sisters all alike detested and
despised real greediness, had been heartily ashamed of himself, both for
this and his forfeits. A new week was a new starting-point, and he meant
to spend this one well. For indeed it is one of the blessings of our
lives that we have so many stages—days, weeks, years, and the like—from
each of which we may make fresh starts, feel old things left behind, and
go on to lead a new life.
Besides, Johnnie was quite well now; and perhaps no child, so well
brought up, could have been so constantly naughty the whole week without
some degree of ailment, suspected neither by himself nor others. For
this is one of our real troubles, when either young or old, that
sometimes there is a feeling of discomfort and vexation about us that,
without knowing why, makes everything go amiss, causes everybody else to
appear cross, and all tasks, all orders, all misadventures, to become
great grievances. Grown-up people feel this as well as children; but
they have gone through it often enough to know what is the matter, and
they have, or ought to have, more self-command. But children have yet to
learn by experience that the outer things are not harder and more
untoward, so much as that they themselves are out of sorts. This is poor
comfort; and certainly it is dangerous to say to ourselves that being
poorly is any excuse for letting ourselves be cross, or for not doing our
best. If Mrs. Merrifield had thought so, what miserable lives her
husband and children would have led! No, the way to use the certain fact
that the state of our bodies affects our tempers and spirits, is to say
to ourselves, “Well, if this person or this thing do seem disagreeable,
or if this work, or even this little bit of obedience, be very tiresome,
perhaps it may really be only a fancy of mine, and if I go to it with a
good will, I may work off the notion;” or, “Perhaps I am cross to-day,
let me take good care how I answer.” And a little prayer in our hearts
will be the best help of all. Self-command and goodness will not come by
nature as we grow up, but we must work for them in childhood.
When the Monday allowances were brought out, and the pig’s chance
inquired into, David alone produced his whole sum, untouched by
forfeiture or waste, and dropped it into “Toby Fillpot.” Elizabeth had
her entire sixpence; but a penny had been spent on a letter to Mamma, and
she gave but one to the fund, in spite of the black looks she met from
David. Sam had lost a farthing by the shower, and had likewise bought a
queen’s head, to write to his father. The rest, fourpence-three
farthings, he paid over. Poor Johnnie! his last week’s naughtiness had
exceeded his power of paying fines, and a halfpenny was subtracted from
this week’s threepence; while the Gibraltar man had consumed all that
fines had spared to little Annie, had left Susan only threepence, and
Henry but twopence-halfpenny. This, with twopence that Miss Fosbrook had
found in her travelling-bag, made one shilling and fourpence-farthing—a
very poor collection for one week. David was quite melancholy.
“Never mind,” said Henry; “Mr. Carey’s brother, the Colonel, is coming to
stay here the last week in July, and he gives us boys half-a-sovereign
each, so that we might buy a stunning pig all ourselves twice over.”
“Always? He never did so but once,” said Sam.
“That was the only time he saw us, though,” said Hal; “and we were quite
little boys then. I’ll tell you what, Sam, he’ll give us each a
sovereign this time, and then I’ll buy a bow and arrows.”
“Stuff!” said Sam. “I hope he won’t.”
“Why not?”
“I hate it! I hate saying thank you; I shall get out of the way, if I
can.”
“Sam has no manners!” said Hal, turning round to Miss Fosbrook. “To
think that he had rather go without a sovereign or two than say thank
you!”
“_I’m_ too much of a gentleman to lay myself out for presents!” retorted
Samuel; and the two boys fell on each other, buffeting one another, all
in good part on Sam’s side, though there was some temper and annoyance on
Henry’s.
When Sam was out of hearing, Hal discoursed very grandly on the sovereign
he intended Colonel Carey to give him, and the prodigious things he meant
to do with it. A gentleman once gave Osmond Greville two sovereigns; why
should not Colonel Carey be equally liberal? And to hear the boy, those
two sovereigns would buy everything in the world, from the pig to a
double-barrelled gun. David began to grow hurt, and to fear the Toby
fund would be lost in this magnificence; but Hal assured him that it
would be a help, and they should all have a share in the pig, promising
presents to everybody, which Susan and Annie expected with the more
certainty that Sam was never present to laugh down these fine projects.
Indeed Miss Fosbrook had laughed at them once or twice, and observed that
she thought money earned or spared a better thing than money given; and
this caused Hal to cease to try to dazzle her, though he could not give
up the pleasure of regaling his sisters in private with the wonders to be
done with Colonel Carey’s possible sovereigns.