TO-MORROW.
“What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.”
They did not find it out till nearly nine o’clock. Bunty was frequently
late for his breakfast, so no one remarked upon his absence this
particular morning. Only Meg kept his coffee hot, and sent his
chop back to the kitchen to be put in the oven—an unusual piece of
consideration, for she used to say he deserved everything to be cold
and greasy if he got up so late.
But Nellie, who was cutting the sandwiches as usual for his school
lunch, cried out for him. “I can’t find John’s lunch serviette
anywhere,” she said, putting in a generous supply of fat beef. “I ask
him every day to leave it out of his bag. What a tiresome boy he is! I
won’t give him another one this morning; he had one yesterday.”
“Poppet, go and tell John he’ll be late for school,” Meg said. “Tell
him it’s a quarter to nine—he won’t have time to eat his breakfast.”
Poppet departed, her own bright merry self again; the events of last
night had vanished from her with her dreams.
But she came back with a half-startled face. “He’s not there, Meg;
his hat’s gone too, and his school-bag. I ’spect he got something in
the pantry and went early; perhaps there is something on at school;
and—and—I think he must have made his bed himself, because—it—it’s
made.”
She looked half pitifully, half eagerly at Meg, as if asking for a
denial of her horrible suspicions. “Come and look,” she said.
Meg got up and followed her; Nellie laid down the breadknife and went
too,—it was beyond credence that Bunty should be up early and make his
own bed. Peter and Essie brought up the rear, of course.
“It—it’s very strange,” Meg said, her face quite pale as she looked
round the room. The bed had evidently not been slept in, for no boy
could have made it look as neat as it did; it was just as Martha had
left it yesterday morning. There was a suit missing—not his best one,
but the one he wore alternate weeks at school—a couple of shirts
too, and some socks and collars. Nellie darted to his little red
post-office money-box; it had been prised open—he had lost the key long
since—and was empty.
“He had two and fourpenth ha’penny in it,” said Peter, “cauth I athked
him one day.”
“He’s run away,” said Nellie. “Oh, the bad, wicked boy!”
“Hush,” said Meg. She feared for the effect the blow would have on
Poppet, and caught the child’s hand and drew her to her side.
“Run away!” repeated Poppet.
Every vestige of colour had dropped out of her face; it wore a
strained, unchildlike look, and her eyes were heavy.
Meg drew her closer still and stroked her hair.
“Perhaps it’s a mistake, dear. Oh, he’s only gone to school, or
camping, or something, and didn’t tell us; there’s no need to trouble,”
she said. But she felt terribly uneasy.
Poppet did not look up. She was thinking of the red-stained window and
the kiss last night—thinking of the school troubles, and the boy’s
strange behaviour, and hints at worse.
There was a loud, angry voice calling from the nursery, and every one
trooped back in amaze. What was the Captain doing in their own special
room at breakfast-time?
Esther was there, too, with horrified eyes, and Pip with a look of
fierce disgust on his face.
How red their father’s face was! how his moustache bristled! Peter
shrank close up behind Meg, and wondered if it was about yesterday’s
lessons.
“Father,” Meg said, white to the lips, “what _is_ the matter? Esther,
can’t you speak? Oh, Pip, what _is_ it?”
“Matter!” shouted her father; “I’m disgraced—we’re all disgraced.
Where is he? Heavens! I’ll cut the skin off his back! Peter, get my
horsewhip; he’s no son of mine! I’ll turn him off—I’ll have him locked
up. Where is he? where is the young thief? Only let me get hold of him.
Bring him here at once, Pip. Where’s that horsewhip, Peter?”
“He’s run away, we think,” Nellie said in a trembling voice; and there
was a great silence for two minutes, broken only by a very deep breath
from Poppet. Then Meg’s voice was heard.
“What has he done?” she said, “because—because—oh, indeed, I believe we
have all been misunderstanding the poor boy.”
“Misunderstanding!” echoed her father, with almost a snort of anger.
“Read that, miss, and don’t talk nonsense!”
He passed her a letter that had just been brought him, and Meg read it
and grew pale; Nellie read it and crimsoned; Poppet picked it up in her
little shaking hands and looked piteously from one to the other,—that
black, thick writing—oh, what _was_ it all about?
[Illustration: “‘READ THAT, MISS, AND DON’T TALK NONSENSE!’”]
Meg told her afterwards, for it was no use trying to put the child off,
and indeed it seemed she knew more than they did.
The letter was from the head master. It stated everything that Bunty
had confessed to Poppet about the broken window and glass cases, about
the lie he had told when taxed with it. But then the terrible part
came. On the desk five sovereigns were lying in a little heap when
the master was called out of the room; it was one of the boys’ fees,
and the master was in the act of entering the amount in the book when
he was sent for. He was detained a quarter of an hour, and when he
returned the window and the glass cases were broken, and the money had
gone!
Now there was no one on the top floor at all during the time, it
seemed—that was the mystery that had puzzled every one. But then it
came out that Hawkins, who was waiting in Mr. Burnham’s own room for
his caning, had seen John Woolcot come creeping down the stairs just
after the crash, with a white face and the cricket-ball in his hand.
Woolcot, too, when he found his lie of no avail, had confessed to the
smashing, but denied having taken the money. The head master regretted
having to perform such a painful duty as communicating the intelligence
to his father; but there seemed no doubt that the boy had committed the
theft, and under the circumstances perhaps it would be wiser if he were
removed from the school.
No wonder the Captain raved and stormed! no wonder Esther and the elder
girls looked pale and horrified, and Pip disgusted beyond words! He was
guilty—there was no doubt of it in their minds. The fact of his running
away was sufficient proof of it; and they all remembered his strange
behaviour yesterday. It was in vain poor little Poppet protested again
and again and again that “he didn’t do it—oh, indeed he didn’t do it.
Yes, he had broken the glass; and yes, he had told a lie; but oh,
indeed he had not stolen.”
“How do you know, miss?” her father said sharply; “what proof have you
that he didn’t?”
“He told me he didn’t,” said the poor little mite. “Oh, he _said_ he
didn’t,—oh, why won’t you believe it? Meg, I tell you he _said_ he
didn’t.”
But even Meg could not believe, so lightly was Bunty’s word held
amongst them.
For the first day the Captain was too angry even to attempt to find
traces of his son. He declared he would never own him again, never have
him inside his doors.
But afterwards, of course, he saw this was impossible, and he put the
matter in the hands of the police, gave them a full description of the
lad’s personal appearance, and offered a reward for finding him.
To the head master of the school he sent a curt note stating the boy
had run away, so he could make no inquiries, and enclosing a cheque for
five pounds to make up for what was lost. Of course the cheque was a
tacit acknowledgment of his guilt.
A week slipped away without any clue being found. Then a detective
brought news.
A boy answering to the written description had gone on board a vessel
to San Francisco as cabin boy the very day in question. There seemed
no doubt as to his identity. The Captain said it was the best thing
that could have happened. It was a rough ship, and the boy would have
exceedingly hard work and discipline—it might be the making of him. He
sent a cable to reach the captain in America, when the boat arrived, to
ask him to see the lad was brought safely back in the same capacity.
And then everything at Misrule resumed its ordinary course. Bunty was
safe, though they could not hear of him or see him for four or five
months; it was no use being unsettled any longer.
But Poppet made a small discovery one day. She found her little
money-box empty under her own bed, with a bit of dirty paper stuck in
the slit. “I’ll pay you back,” it said in Bunty’s straggling hand;
“you said you’d lend me the thirteen shillings. I have to go, Poppet;
it’s no good stopping here—no one believes you. Don’t forget what you
promised. You can have my tortoise for your own. It’s in the old bucket
under the house. Don’t forget to feed it; it likes bits of meat as
well as bread. I’d like to say good-bye, but you always cry and make
a fuss, and I have to go. You’re the only one worth anything anywhere.
Oh, and don’t forget to change its water often,—well water has more
insects in than tap.”
“Don’t forget what you promised,” repeated Nell, as she read the almost
undecipherable epistle in her turn. “What did you promise, Poppet?”
“That I would believe him,” the little girl said, with a sweet,
steadfast look in her eyes.