O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
His little sister doth his peril see,
All playful as she sate, she grows demure,
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee,
She meditates a prayer to set him free.
SHENSTONE.
The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at
Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters’ desks, the forms polished
with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the
names of many generations of boys.
About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers
that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good
deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. “Ha!” exclaimed one,
“here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the
gladiators in!” and, standing by the third master’s desk, he turned
over a page or two of Smith’s ‘Antiquities’, exclaiming, “It is full of
pictures--here’s an old man blowing the bellows--”
“Let me see!” cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches
and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry;
and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison’s book,
while, “There, August! you’ve been and done it!” “You’ll catch it!”
resounded on all sides.
“What good will staring with your mouth open do!” exclaimed Edward
Anderson, the eldest present. “Here! a bit of blotting-paper this
moment!”
Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-case
that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, “It won’t take it
out, will it?”
“No, little stupid head, but don’t you see, I’m stopping it from running
down the edges, or soaking in. He won’t be the wiser till he opens it
again at that place.”
“When he does, he will,” said the bewildered Tom.
“Let him. It won’t tell tales.”
“He’s coming!” cried another boy, “he is close at the door.”
Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not
venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and
was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr.
Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every
limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do
so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the
book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag,
only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, “Ha! old fellow, you
don’t know what you’ve got there!”
“Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won’t see a
bit farther for it,” said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; “come
to your senses, and know your friends.”
“He’ll open it!” gasped Tom.
“So he will, but I’d bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if
he does, it won’t tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you
standing there, crouching and shaking. That’s the right way to bring him
upon you.”
“But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?”
“What then? D’ye think we can’t stand by each other, and keep our own
counsel?”
“But the blotting-paper--suppose he knows that!”
There was a laugh all round at this, “as if Harrison knew everyone’s
blotting-paper!”
“Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his--see--and draw Union
Jacks on it.”
“If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say
March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?”
“July would have told if he had,” said Larkins. “That’s no go.”
“Ay! That’s the way--the Mays are all like girls--can’t keep a
secret--not one of them. There, I’ve done more for you than ever one of
them would have done--own it--and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his
wrists, to force the confession from him.”
“But--but he’ll ask when he finds it out--”
“Let him. We know nothing about it. Don’t be coming the good boy over
me like your brothers. That won’t do--I know whose eyes are not too
short-sighted to read upside down.”
Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison
would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.
But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the
unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the
inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse
was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether
Harry’s name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe
should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and
no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was
past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith’s ‘Antiquities’
at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair,
he could not see his brother’s face, but Edward Anderson, from the
second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.
“This book,” said Mr. Harrison, “was left in school for a quarter of an
hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any
of you know how it happened?” A silence, and he continued, “Who was in
school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?”
“No, sir.”
“You know nothing of it?”
“No, sir.”
Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his
memory. “Larkins, do you know how this happened?”
“No, sir,” said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had
not seen the manner of the overthrow.
“Ernescliffe, were you there?”
“No, sir.”
Tom’s timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as
Mr. Harrison paused, then said, “Remember, it is concealment that is the
evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after
of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you,” he added,
hopefully and kindly. “Don’t be afraid to speak out if you did meet with
a mischance.”
Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to
remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must
not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved
to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long
course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly
terror of the effects of truth.
“No, sir.” He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they
would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression
that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and,
therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain
inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.
Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that
deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was
surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to
dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with
Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his
knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept
the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for
schoolboys.
The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were
running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the
responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher
ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty
to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His
friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority
with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as
vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in
every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle
and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set,
there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they
considered as belonging to him.
In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson
had gained a conquest--in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle
of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough
code--and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his
friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without
learning it, and of showing up other people’s tasks; whispers and signs
were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought
out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by
stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased
and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned
Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he
was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts
alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful
in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little
coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him
free at once from this wretched tyranny.
Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to
go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form
to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field
bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the
bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various
eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not
allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and
there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something
contraband.
“August,” said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening,
“did I see you coming over the bridge?”
Tom would not answer.
“So you have been at Ballhatchet’s gate? I can’t think what could take
you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty’s are just as
good. What made you go there?”
“Nothing,” said Tom.
“Well, mind you don’t do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand,
which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character,
and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything
to do with him, as you know.”
Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. “I am afraid you are
getting into a bad way. Why won’t you mind what I have told you plenty
of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and
Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?” But,
receiving no answer, he went on. “You always sulk when I speak to you.
I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you
from worse. You can’t never be found out.” This startled Tom, but Norman
had no suspicion. “If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape,
and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put
out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight.”
Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder
upon him than any one else would be, and Norman grew warmer. “If you let
Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you’ll
never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn
against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better
take my word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into
a mess.”
“I’m in no scrape,” said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience,
and spoke with more displeasure. “You will be then, if you go out of
bounds, and run Anderson’s errands, and shirk work. You’d better take
care. It is my place to keep order, and I can’t let you off for being my
brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet’s again, you
may make sure of a licking.”
So the warning closed--Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he
fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper
and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.
Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of
the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out
of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with something under
his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign
at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.
“What are you doing here?” said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the
field. “So you’ve been there again. What’s that under your jacket?”
“Only--only what I was sent for,” and he tried to squeeze it under the
flap.
“What is it? a bottle--”
“Only--only a bottle of ink.”
Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation
was mixed with sorrow. “Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a
pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!”
Tom cowered, but felt only terror.
“Speak truth,” said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; “is this for
Anderson junior?”
Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared
not utter another falsehood, but Anderson’s threats chained him, and he
preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother
who loved him. He would not speak.
“I am glad it is not for yourself,” said Norman; “but do you remember
what I said, in case I found you there again?”
“Oh! don’t, don’t!” cried the boy. “I would never have gone if they had
not made me.”
“Made you?” said Norman, disdainfully, “how?”
“They would have thrashed me--they pinched my fingers in the box--they
pulled my ears--oh, don’t--”
“Poor little fellow!” said Norman; “but it is your own fault. If you
won’t keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But
I must not let you off--I must keep my word!” Tom cried, sobbed, and
implored in vain. “I can’t help it,” he said, “and now, don’t howl! I
had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have
this to do to one of us.” Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing
him, he said, “There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I
can’t have hurt you much, have I?” he added more kindly, while Tom went
on crying, and turning from him. “It is nothing to care about, I am
sure; look up;” and he pulled down his hands. “Say you are sorry--speak
the truth--keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.”
Very different this from Tom’s chosen associates; but he was still
obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart to
those kind words. After one more, “I could not help it, Tom, you’ve no
business to be sulky,” Norman took up the bottle, opened it, smelled,
and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river; when Tom
exclaimed, “Oh, don’t, don’t! what will they do to me? give it to me!”
“Did they give you the money to pay for it?”
“Yes; let me have it.”
“How much was it?”
“Fourpence.”
“I’ll settle that,” and the bottle splashed in the river. “Now then,
Tom, don’t brood on it any more. Here’s a chance for you of getting quit
of their errands. If you will keep in my sight. I’ll take care no one
bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful tricks, and
do well.”
But Tom’s evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he
should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish
him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse
silence really distressed his brother.
“If you will go on in this way, I can’t help it, but you’ll be sorry
some day,” said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking back to
see whether Tom was following, as he did slowly, meditating on the way
how he should avert his tyrant’s displeasure.
Norman stood for a moment at the door, surveying the court, then walked
up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder of one, holding
a silver fourpence to him. “Anderson Junior,” said he, “there’s your
money. I am not going to let Stoneborough School be turned into a gin
palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. Now you are not to bully May
junior for telling me. He did not, I found him out.”
Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing him,
he entered the cloister, for it was the hour when he was used to read
there, but he could not fix his mind. He went to the bench where he had
lain on the examination day, and kneeling on it, looked out on the green
grass where the graves were. “Mother! mother!” he murmured, “have I been
harsh to your poor little tender sickly boy? I couldn’t help it. Oh! if
you were but here! We are all going wrong! What shall I do? How should
Tom be kept from this evil?--it is ruining him! mean, false, cowardly,
sullen--all that is worst--and your son--oh! mother! and all I do only
makes him shrink more from me. It will break my father’s heart, and you
will not be there to comfort him.”
Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief
came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before his
father’s resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to prayer,
resolution, and hope.
He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm of
detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for the
occasion; but, alas! Tom had learned to look on all reproof as “rowing,”
and considered it as an additional injury from a brother, who, according
to the Anderson view, should have connived at his offences, and turned
a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all he said. The foolish boy
sought after the Andersons still more, and Norman became more dispirited
about him, greatly missing Harry, that constant companion and follower,
who would have shared his perplexities, and removed half of them, in his
own part of the school, by the influence of his high, courageous, and
truthful spirit.
In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with greater
hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his work before.
“Suppose,” Ethel had once said to him, “that when you are a clergyman,
you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when there is a church there.”
“When?” said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the scheme, and
yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps they might
persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a curate with a view to Cocksmoor,
and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object and hope to his
studies. Every one thought the delay of his examination favourable
to him, and he now read with a determination to succeed. Dr. May had
offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison but Richard thought he was
getting on pretty well, with the help Norman gave him; for it appeared
that ever since Norman’s return from London, he had been assisting
Richard, who was not above being taught by a younger brother; while, on
the other hand, Norman, much struck by his humility, would not for the
world have published that he was fit to act as his elder’s tutor.
One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave a great
start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, “How came that book
here?”
“It is Mr. Harrison’s.”
“Yes, I know, but how came it here?”
“Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it down.”
A little reassured, Tom took up an exciting story-book, and ensconced
himself by the fire, but his agonies were great during the ensuing
conversation.
“Norman,” Ethel was exclaiming in delight, “do you know this book?”
“Smith? Yes, it is in the school library.”
“There’s everything in it that one wants, I do believe. Here is such an
account of ancient galleys--I never knew how they managed their banks of
rowers before--oh! and the Greek houses--look at the pictures too.”
“Some of them are the same as Mr. Rivers’s gems,” said Norman, standing
behind her, and turning the leaves, in search of a favourite.
“Oh! what did I see? is that ink?” said Flora, from the opposite side of
the table.
“Yes, didn’t you hear?” said Ethel. “Mr. Harrison told Ritchie when he
borrowed it, that unluckily one day this spring he left it in school,
and some of the boys must have upset an inkstand over it; but, though he
asked them all round, each denied it. How I should hate for such things
to happen! and it was a prize-book too.”
While Ethel spoke she opened the marked page, to show the extent of the
calamity, and as she did so Mary exclaimed, “Dear me! how funny! why,
how did Harry’s blotting-paper get in there?”
Tom shrank into nothing, set his teeth, and pinched his fingers, ready
to wish they were on Mary’s throat, more especially as the words made
some sensation. Richard and Margaret exchanged looks, and their father,
who had been reading, sharply raised his eyes and said, “Harry’s
blotting-paper! How do you know that, Mary?”
“It is Harry’s,” said she, all unconscious, “because of that anchor up
in one corner, and the Union Jack in the other. Don’t you see, Ethel?”
“Yes,” said Ethel; “nobody drew that but Harry.”
“Ay, and there are his buttons,” said Mary, much amused and delighted
with these relics of her beloved Harry. “Don’t you remember one day
last holidays, papa desired Harry to write and ask Mr. Ernescliffe what
clothes he ought to have for the naval school, and all the time he
was writing the letter, he was drawing sailors’ buttons on his
blotting-paper. I wonder how ever it got into Mr. Harrison’s book!”
Poor Mary’s honest wits did not jump to a conclusion quite so fast as
other people’s, and she little knew what she was doing when, as a great
discovery, she exclaimed, “I know! Harry gave his paper-case to Tom.
That’s the way it got to school!”
“Tom!” exclaimed his father, suddenly and angrily, “where are you
going?”
“To bed,” muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A dead silence
of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from one to the other,
mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at her father’s loud
voice, and at Tom’s trembling confusion. The stillness lasted for
some moments, and was first broken by Flora, as if she had caught at
a probability. “Some one might have used the first blotting-paper that
came to hand.”
“Come here, Tom,” said the doctor, in a voice not loud, but trembling
with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder, “Look in my face.”
Tom hung his head, and his father put his hand under his chin, and
raised the pale terrified face. “Don’t be afraid to tell us the meaning
of this. If any of your friends have done it, we will keep your secret.
Look up, and speak out. How did your blotting-paper come there?”
Tom had been attempting his former system of silent sullenness, but
there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate him, and in
his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, he burst out
into a violent fit of crying.
“I can’t have you roaring here to distress Margaret,” said Dr. May.
“Come into the study with me.”
But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and a
screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried into the
study by his brothers, and there left with his father. Mary, meantime,
dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some way, she was the cause,
had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing inconsolably, as she begged to
know what was the matter, and why papa was angry with Tom--had she made
him so?
Margaret caressed and soothed her to the best of her ability, trying
to persuade her that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better for him it
should be known, and assuring her that no one could think her unkind,
nor a tell-tale; then dismissing her to bed, and Mary was not unwilling
to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom again, only begging in a
whisper to Ethel, “that, if dear Tom had not done it, she would come and
tell her.”
“I am afraid there is no hope of that!” sighed Ethel, as the door closed
on Mary.
“After all,” said Flora, “he has not said anything. If he has only done
it, and not confessed, that is not so bad--it is only the usual fashion
of boys.”
“Has he been asked? Did he deny it?” said Ethel, looking in Norman’s
face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and she only
received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment Dr. May called
him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on the sofa, and looked
very mournful, Richard stood by the fire without moving limb or feature,
Flora worked fast, and Ethel leaned back on an arm-chair, biting the end
of a paper-knife.
The doctor and Norman came back together. “I have sent him up to bed,”
said Dr. May. “I must take him to Harrison to-morrow morning. It is a
terrible business!”
“Has he confessed it?” said Margaret.
“I can hardly call such a thing a confession--I wormed it out bit by
bit--I could not tell whether he was telling truth or not, till I called
Norman in.”
“But he has not said anything more untrue--”
“Yes, he has though!” said Dr. May indignantly. “He said Ned Anderson
put the paper there, and had been taking up the ink with it--‘twas
his doing--then when I came to cross-examine him I found that though
Anderson did take up the ink, it was Tom himself who knocked it down--I
never heard anything like it--I never could have believed it!”
“It must all be Ned Anderson’s doing!” cried Flora. “They are enough to
spoil anybody.”
“I am afraid they have done him a great deal of harm,” said Norman.
“And what have you been about all the time?” exclaimed the doctor, too
keenly grieved to be just. “I should have thought that with you at the
head of the school, the child might have been kept out of mischief; but
there have you been going your own way, and leaving him to be ruined by
the very worst set of boys!”
Norman’s colour rose with the extreme pain this unjust accusation caused
him, and his voice, though low, was not without irritation, “I have
tried. I have not done as much as I ought, perhaps, but--”
“No, I think not, indeed!” interrupted his father. “Sending a boy there,
brought up as he had been, without the least tendency to deceit--”
Here no one could see Norman’s burning cheeks, and brow bent downwards
in the effort to keep back an indignant reply, without bursting out in
exculpation; and Richard looked up, while the three sisters all at once
began, “Oh, no, no, papa”--and left Margaret to finish--“Poor little Tom
had not always been quite sincere.”
“Indeed! and why was I left to send him to school without knowing it?
The place of all others to foster deceit.”
“It was my fault, papa,” said Margaret.
“And mine,” put in Richard; and she continued, “Ethel told us we were
very wrong, and I wish we had followed her advice. It was by far the
best, but we were afraid of vexing you.”
“Every one seems to have been combined to hide what they ought not!”
said Dr. May, though speaking to her much more softly than to Norman, to
whom he turned angrily again. “Pray, how came you not to identify this
paper?”
“I did not know it,” said Norman, speaking with difficulty. “He ought
never to have been sent to school,” said the doctor--“that tendency was
the very worst beginning.”
“It was a great pity; I was very wrong,” said Margaret, in great
concern.
“I did not mean to blame you, my dear,” said her father affectionately.
“I know you only meant to act for the best, but--” and he put his hand
over his face, and then came the sighing groan, which pained Margaret
ten thousand times more than reproaches, and which, in an instant,
dispersed all the indignation burning within Norman, though the pain
remained at his father’s thinking him guilty of neglect, but he did not
like, at that moment, to speak in self-justification.
After a short space, Dr. May desired to hear what were the deceptions
to which Margaret had alluded, and made Norman tell what he knew of the
affair of the blotted book. Ethel spoke hopefully when she had heard it.
“Well, do you know, I think he will do better now. You see, Edward made
him conceal it, and he has been going on with it on his mind, and in
that boy’s power ever since; but now it is cleared up and confessed, he
will begin afresh and do better. Don’t you think so, Norman? don’t you,
papa?”
“I should have more hope if I had seen anything like confession or
repentance,” said Dr. May; “but that provoked me more than all--I
could only perceive that he was sorry to be found out, and afraid of
punishment.”
“Perhaps, when he has recovered the first fright, he will come to his
better self,” said Margaret; for she guessed, what indeed was the case,
that the doctor’s anger on this first shock of the discovery of the
fault he most abhorred had been so great, that a fearful cowering spirit
would be completely overwhelmed; and, as there had been no sorrow shown
for the fault, there had been none of that softening and relenting that
won so much love and confidence.
Every one felt that talking only made them more unhappy, they tried to
return to their occupations, and so passed the time till night. Then, as
Richard was carrying Margaret upstairs, Norman lingered to say, “Papa, I
am very sorry you should think I neglected Tom. I dare say I might have
done better for him, but, indeed, I have tried.”
“I am sure you have, Norman. I spoke hastily, my boy--you will not think
more of it. When a thing like this comes on a man, he hardly knows what
he says.”
“If Harry were here,” said Norman, anxious to turn from the real loss
and grief, as well as to talk away that feeling of being apologised to,
“it would all do better. He would make a link with Tom, but I have so
little, naturally, to do with the second form, that it is not easy to
keep him in sight.”
“Yes, yes, I know that very well. It is no one’s fault but my own; I
should not have sent him there without knowing him better. But you see
how it is, Norman--I have trusted to her, till I have grown neglectful,
and it is well if it is not the ruin of him!”
“Perhaps he will take a turn, as Ethel says,” answered Norman
cheerfully. “Good-night, papa.”
“I have a blessing to be thankful for in you, at least,” murmured the
doctor to himself. “What other young fellow of that age and spirit would
have borne so patiently with my injustice? Not I, I am sure! a fine
father I show myself to these poor children--neglect, helplessness,
temper--Oh, Maggie!”
Margaret had so bad a headache the next day that she could not come
downstairs. The punishment was, they heard, a flogging at the time, and
an imposition so long, that it was likely to occupy a large portion
of the play-hours till the end of the half-year. His father said, and
Norman silently agreed, “a very good thing, it will keep him out of
mischief;” but Margaret only wished she could learn it for him, and took
upon herself all the blame from beginning to end. She said little to her
father, for it distressed him to see her grieved; he desired her not to
dwell on the subject, caressed her, called her his comfort and support,
and did all he could to console her, but it was beyond his power; her
sisters, by listening to her, only made her worse. “Dear, dear papa,”
she exclaimed, “how kind he is! But he can never depend upon me again--I
have been the ruin of my poor little Tom.”
“Well,” said Richard quietly, “I can’t see why you should put yourself
into such a state about it.”
This took Margaret by surprise. “Have not I done very wrong, and perhaps
hurt Tom for life?”
“I hope not,” said Richard. “You and I made a mistake, but it does not
follow that Tom would have kept out of this scrape, if we had told my
father our notion.”
“It would not have been on my conscience,” said Margaret--“he would not
have sent him to school.”
“I don’t know that,” said Richard. “At any rate we meant to do right,
and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can’t tell why you go
and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it is. The boy has
done very wrong, but people get cured of such things in time, and it is
nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere child of eight years old. You
did not teach him deceit.”
“No, but I concealed it--papa is disappointed, when he thought he could
trust me.”
“Well! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes,” said
Richard, in his sober tone.
“Self-sufficiency!” exclaimed Margaret, “that has been the root of all!
Do you know, Ritchie, I believe I was expecting that I could always
judge rightly.”
“You generally do,” said Richard; “no one else could do half what you
do.”
“So you have said, papa, and all of you, till you have spoilt me. I have
thought it myself, Ritchie.”
“It is true,” said Richard.
“But then,” said Margaret, “I have grown to think much of it, and not
like to be interfered with. I thought I could manage by myself, and when
I said I would not worry papa, it was half because I liked the doing
and settling all about the children myself. Oh! if it could have been
visited in any way but by poor Tom’s faults!”
“Well,” said Richard, “if you felt so, it was a pity, though I never
should have guessed it. But you see you will never feel so again, and as
Tom is only one, and there are nine to govern, it is all for the best.”
His deliberate common-sense made her laugh a little, and she owned he
might be right. “It is a good lesson against my love of being first. But
indeed it is difficult--papa can so little bear to be harassed.”
“He could not at first, but now he is strong and well, it is different.”
“He looks terribly thin and worn still,” sighed Margaret, “so much
older!”
“Ay, I think he will never get back his young looks; but except his weak
arm, he is quite well.”
“And then his--his quick way of speaking may do harm.”
“Yes, that was what I feared for Tom,” said Richard, “and there was the
mistake. I see it now. My father always is right in the main, though
he is apt to frighten one at first, and it is what ought to be that he
should rule his own house. But now, Margaret, it is silly to worry about
it any more--let me fetch baby, and don’t think of it.”
And Margaret allowed his reasonableness, and let herself be comforted.
After all, Richard’s solid soberness had more influence over her than
anything else.