Oh Life, without thy chequered scene,
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
Success and failure, could a ground
For magnanimity be found?
WORDSWORTH.
Dr. May was called for late the next day, Friday, and spent some time
in one of the houses near the river. It was nearly eight o’clock when
he came away, and he lingered, looking towards the school, in hopes of a
walk home with his boys.
Presently he saw Norman coming out from under the archway, his cap drawn
over his face, and step, gesture, and manner betraying that something
was seriously wrong. He came up almost to his father without seeing
him, until startled by his exclamation, “Norman--why, Norman, what’s the
matter?”
Norman’s lips quivered, and his face was pale--he seemed as if he could
not speak.
“Where’s Tom?” said the doctor, much alarmed. “Has he got into disgrace
about this business of Tomkins? That boy--”
“He has only got an imposition,” interrupted Norman. “No, it is not
that--it is myself”--and it was only with a gulp and struggle that he
brought out the words, “I am turned down in the school.”
The doctor started back a step or two, aghast. “What-how--speak, Norman.
What have you done?”
“Nothing!” said Norman, recovering in the desire to reassure his
father--“nothing!”
“That’s right,” said the doctor, breathing freely. “What’s the meaning
of it...a misunderstanding?”
“Yes,” said Norman, with bitterness. “It is all Anderson’s doing--a word
from him would have set all straight--but he would not; I believe, from
my heart, he held his tongue to get me down, that he might have the
Randall!”
“We’ll see you righted,” said the doctor eagerly. “Come, tell me the
whole story, Norman. Is it about this unlucky business?”
“Yes. The town-fellows were all up about it last evening, when we came
out of school. Anderson senior himself began to put them up to having
the fence down again. Yes, that he did--I remember his very words--that
Tomkins could not bring it into court, and so set old Hoxton at us.
Well, I told them it would not do--thought I had settled them--saw them
off home--yes, Simpson, and Benson, and Grey, up the High Street, and
the others their way. I only left Axworthy going into a shop when I set
off on my walk. What could a fellow do more? How was I to know that
that Axworthy would get them together again, and take them to this
affair--pull up the stakes--saw them down--for they were hard to get
down--shy all sorts of things over into the court--hoot at old Tomkins’s
man, when he told them to be off--and make a bonfire of the sticks at
last?”
“And Harvey Anderson was there?”
“No--not he. He is too sharp--born and bred attorney as he is--he
talked them up to the mischief when my back was turned, and then sneaked
quietly home, quite innocent, and out of the scrape.”
“But Dr. Hoxton can never entertain a suspicion that you had anything to
do with it!”
“Yes, he does though. He thinks I incited them, and Tomkins and the
policeman declare I was there in the midst of the row--and not one of
these fellows will explain how I came at the last to look for Tom.”
“Not Tom himself?”
“He did try to speak, poor little fellow, but, after the other affair,
his word goes for nothing, and so, it seems, does mine. I did think
Hoxton would have trusted me!”
“And did not he?” exclaimed Dr. May.
“He did not in so many words accuse me of--of--but he told me he
had serious charges brought against me--Mr. Harrison had seen me at
Ballhatchet’s, setting an example of disregard to rules--and, again, Mr.
Harrison saw me coming in at a late hour last night. ‘I know he did,’
I said, and I explained where I had been, and they asked for proofs! I
could hardly answer, from surprise, at their not seeming to believe me,
but I said you could answer for my having come in with the flowers for
my sister.”
“To be sure I will--I’ll go this instant--” he was turning.
“It is of no use, papa, to-night; Dr. Hoxton has a dinner-party.”
“He is always having parties. I wish he would mind them less, and his
business more. You disbelieved! but I’ll see justice done you, Norman,
the first thing to-morrow. Well--”
“Well then, I said, old Ballhatchet could tell that I crossed the bridge
at the very time they were doing this pretty piece of work, for he was
sitting smoking in his porch when I went home, and, would you believe
it? the old rascal would not remember who passed that evening! It is all
his malice and revenge--nothing else!”
“Why--what have you been doing to him?”
Norman shortly explained the ginger-beer story, and adding, “Cheviot
told me I should get nothing but ill-will, and so I have--all those town
fellows turn against me now, and though they know as well as possible
how it was, they won’t say a word to right me, just out of spite,
because I have stopped them from all the mischief I could!”
“Well, then--”
“They asked me whether--since I allowed that I had been there at last--I
had dispersed the boys. I said no, I had no time. Then they desired to
know who was there, and that I had not seen; it was all dark, and there
had not been a moment, and if I guessed, it was no affair of mine to
say. So they ordered me down, and had up Ned Anderson, and one or two
more who were known to have been in the riot, and then they consulted
a good while, and sent for me; Mr. Wilmot was for me, I am sure, but
Harrison was against me. Dr. Hoxton sat there, and made me one of his
addresses. He said he would not enter on the question whether I had been
present at the repetition of the outrage, as he called it, but what was
quite certain was, that I had abused my authority and influence in the
school; I had been setting a bad example, and breaking the rules
about Ballhatchet, and so far from repressing mischief, I had been the
foremost in it, making inflammatory harangues, leading them to commit
violence the first time, and the next, if not actually taking part in
it personally, at any rate not preventing it. In short, he said it was
clear I had not weight enough for my post--it was some excuse I had been
raised to it so young--but it was necessary to show that proficiency in
studies did not compensate for disregard of discipline, and so he turned
me down below the first six! So there’s another May in disgrace!”
“It shall not last--it shall not last, my boy,” said Dr. May, pressing
Norman’s arm; “I’ll see you righted. Dr. Hoxton shall hear the whole
story. I am not for fathers interfering in general, but if ever there
was a case, this is! Why, it is almost actionable--injuring your whole
prospects in life, and all because he will not take the trouble to make
an investigation! It is a crying shame.”
“Every fellow in the school knows how it was,” said Norman; “and plenty
of them would be glad to tell, if they had only the opportunity; but he
asked no one but those two or three worst fellows that were at the fire,
and they would not tell, on purpose. The school will go to destruction
now--they’ll get their way, and all I have been striving for is utterly
undone.”
“You setting a bad example! Dr. Hoxton little knows what you have been
doing. It is a mockery, as I have always said, to see that old fellow
sit wrapped up in his pomposity, eating his good dinners, and knowing no
more what goes on among his boys than this umbrella! But he will listen
to me--and we’ll make those boys confess the whole--ay, and have up
Ballhatchet himself, to say what your traffic with him was; and we will
see what old Hoxton says to you then, Norman.”
Dr. May and his son felt keenly and spoke strongly. There was so much of
sympathy and fellow-feeling between them, that there was no backwardness
on Norman’s part in telling his whole trouble, with more confidence than
schoolboys often show towards their fathers, and Dr. May entered into
the mortification as if he were still at school. They did not go into
the house, but walked long up and down the garden, working themselves up
into, if possible, stronger indignation, and concerting the explanation
for to-morrow, when Dr. May meant to go at once to the head-master, and
make him attend to the true version of the story, appealing to Harvey
Anderson himself, Larkins, and many others, for witnesses. There could
be hardly a doubt that Norman would be thus exculpated; but, if Dr.
Hoxton would not see things in their true light, Dr. May was ready to
take him away at once, rather than see him suffer injustice.
Still, though comforted by his father’s entire reliance, Norman was
suffering severely under the sense of indignity, and grieved that Dr.
Hoxton and the other masters should have believed him guilty--that
name of May could never again boast of being without reproach. To be in
disgrace stung him to the quick, even though undeservedly, and he could
not bear to go in, meet his sisters, and be pitied. “There’s no need
they should know of it,” said he, when the Minster clock pealing ten
obliged them to go indoors, and his father agreed. They bade each other
good-night, with the renewal of the promise that Dr. Hoxton should be
forced to hear Norman’s vindication the first thing to-morrow, Harvey
Anderson be disappointed of what he meanly triumphed in, and Norman
be again in his post at the head of the school, in more honour and
confidence than ever, putting down evil, and making Stoneborough what it
ought to be.
As Dr. May lay awake in the summer’s morning, meditating on his address
to Dr. Hoxton, he heard the unwelcome sound of a ring at the bell, and,
in a few minutes, a note was brought to him.
“Tell Adams to get the gig ready--I’ll let him know whether he is to go
with me.”
And, in a few minutes, the doctor opened Norman’s door, and found him
dressed, and standing by the window, reading. “What, up already, Norman?
I came to tell you that our affairs must wait till the afternoon. It
is very provoking, for Hoxton may be gone out, but Mr. Lake’s son, at
Groveswood, has an attack on the head, and I must go at once. It is a
couple of dozen miles off or more. I have hardly ever been there, and it
may keep me all day.”
“Shall you go in the gig? Shall I drive you?” said Norman, looking
rather blank.
“That’s what I thought of, if you like it. I thought you would sooner be
out of the way.”
“Thank you--yes, papa. Shall I come and help you to finish dressing?”
“Yes, do, thank you; it will hasten matters. Only, first order in some
breakfast. What makes you up so early? Have not you slept?”
“Not much--it has been such a hot night.”
“And you have a headache. Well, we will find a cure for that before the
day is over. I have settled what to say to old Hoxton.”
Before another quarter of an hour had passed, they were driving through
the deep lanes, the long grass thickly laden with morning dew, which
beaded the webs of the spiders and rose in clouds of mist under the
influence of the sun’s rays. There was stillness in the air at first,
then the morning sounds, the labourer going forth, the world wakening to
life, the opening houses, the children coming out to school. In spite of
the tumult of feeling, Norman could not but be soothed and refreshed
by the new and fair morning scene, and both minds quitted the school
politics, as Dr. May talked of past enjoyment of walks or drives home
in early dawn, the more delicious after a sad watch in a sick-room, and
told of the fair sights he had seen at such unwonted hours.
They had far to go, and the heat of the day had come on before they
entered the place of their destination. It was a woodland village, built
on a nook in the side of the hill, sloping greenly to the river, and
shut in by a white gate, which seemed to gather all in one the little
old-fashioned church, its yard, shaded with trees, and enclosed by long
white rails; the parsonage, covered with climbing plants and in the
midst of a gay garden; and one or two cottages. The woods cast a cool
shadow, and, in the meadows by the river rose cocks of new-made hay;
there was an air of abiding serenity about the whole place, save
that there stood an old man by the gate, evidently watching for the
physician’s carriage; and where the sun fell on that parsonage-house was
a bedroom window wide open, with the curtains drawn.
“Thank Heaven you are come, sir,” said the old man; “he is fearfully
bad.”
Norman knew young Lake, who had been a senior boy when he first went to
school, was a Randall scholar, and had borne an excellent character,
and highly distinguished himself at the university. And now, by all
accounts, he seemed to be dying--in the height of honour and general
esteem. Dr. May went into the house, the old man took the horse, and
Norman lingered under the trees in the churchyard, watching the white
curtains now and then puffed by the fitful summer breeze, as he lay on
the turf in the shade, under the influence of the gentle sadness
around, resting, mind and body, from the tossing tumultuous passionate
sensations that had kept him restless and miserable through the hot
night.
He waited long--one hour, two hours had passed away, but he was not
impatient, and hardly knew how long the time had been before his father
and Mr. Lake came out of the house together, and, after they parted, Dr.
May summoned him. He of course asked first for the patient. “Not quite
so hopeless as at first,” and the reasons for having been kept so long
were detailed, with many circumstances of the youth’s illness, and the
parents’ resignation, by which Dr. May was still too deeply touched to
have room in his mind for anything besides.
They were more than half-way home, and a silence had succeeded the
conversation about the Lake family, when Norman spoke:
“Papa, I have been thinking about it, and I believe it would be better
to let it alone, if you please.”
“Not apply to Dr. Hoxton!” exclaimed his father.
“Well, I think not. I have been considering it, and it does hardly seem
to me the right thing. You see, if I had not you close at hand, this
could never be explained, and it seems rather hard upon Anderson, who
has no father, and the other fellows, who have theirs farther off--”
“Right, Norman, that is what my father before me always said, and the
way I have always acted myself; much better let a few trifles go on not
just as one would wish, than be for ever interfering. But I really think
this is a case for it, and I don’t think you ought to let yourself be
influenced by the fear of any party-spirit.”
“It is not only that, papa--I have been thinking a good deal to-day, and
there are other reasons. Of course I should wish Dr. Hoxton to know that
I spoke the truth about that walk, and I hope you will let him know, as
I appealed to you. But, on cooler thoughts, I don’t believe Dr. Hoxton
could seriously suspect me of such a thing as that, and it was not on
that ground that I am turned down, but that I did not keep up sufficient
discipline, and allowed the outrage, as he calls it. Now, you know, that
is, after a fashion, true. If I had not gone on like an ass the other
day, and incited them to pull down the fences, they would not have done
it afterwards, and perhaps I ought to have kept on guard longer. It was
my fault, and we can’t deny it.”
Dr. May made a restless, reluctant movement. “Well, well, I suppose it
was--but it was just as much Harvey Anderson’s--and is he to get the
scholarship because he has added meanness to the rest?”
“He was not dux,” said Norman, with a sigh. “It was more shabby than I
thought was even in him. But I don’t know that the feeling about him is
not one reason. There has always been a rivalry and bitterness between
us two, and if I were to get the upper hand now, by means not in the
usual course, such as the fellows would think ill of, it would be worse
than ever, and I should always feel guilty and ashamed to look at him.”
“Over-refining, Norman,” muttered Dr. May.
“Besides, don’t you remember, when his father died, how glad you and
everyone were to get him a nomination, and it was said that if he gained
a scholarship it would be such a relief to poor Mrs. Anderson? Now he
has this chance, it does seem hard to deprive her of it. I should not
like to know that I had done so.”
“Whew!” the doctor gave a considering whistle.
“You could not make it straight, papa, without explaining about the
dealing with Ballhatchet, and that would be unfair to them all, even the
old rogue himself; for I promised to say nothing about former practices,
as long as he did not renew them.”
“Well! I don’t want to compromise you, Norman. You know your own ground
best, but I don’t like it at all. You don’t know the humiliation
of disgrace. Those who have thought highly of you, now thinking you
changed--I don’t know how to bear it for you.”
“I don’t mind anything while you trust me,” said Norman, eagerly; “not
much I mean, except Mr. Wilmot. You must judge, papa, and do as you
please.”
“No, you must judge, Norman. Your confidence in me ought not to be a
restraint. It has always been an understood thing that what you say
at home is as if it had not been said, as regards my dealings with the
masters.”
“I know, papa. Well, I’ll tell you what brought me to this. I tumbled
about all night in a rage, when I thought how they had served me, and
of Hoxton’s believing it all, and how he might only half give in to your
representation, and then I gloried in Anderson’s coming down from his
height, and being seen in his true colours. So it went on till morning
came, and I got up. You know you gave me my mother’s little ‘Thomas
a Kempis’. I always read a bit every morning. To-day it was, ‘Of four
things that bring much inward peace’. And what do you think they were?--
“‘Be desirous, my son, to do the will of another
rather than thine own.
Choose always to have less rather than more.
Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior
to everyone.
Wish always and pray that the will of God may be
wholly fulfilled in thee.’
“I liked them the more, because it was just like her last reading with
us, and like that letter. Well, then I wondered as I lay on the grass
at Groveswood, whether she would have thought it best for me to be
reinstated, and I found out that I should have been rather afraid of
what you might say when she had talked it over with you.”
Dr. May smiled a little at the simplicity with which this last was said,
but his smile ended in one of his heavy sighs. “So you took her for your
counsellor, my boy. That was the way to find out what was right.”
“Well, there was something in the place and, in watching poor Lake’s
windows, that made me not able to dwell so much on getting on, and
having prizes and scholarships. I thought that caring for those had been
driven out of me, and you know I never felt as if it were my right when
I was made dux; but now I find it is all come back. It does not do
for me to be first; I have been what she called elated, and been more
peremptory than need with the lower boys, and gone on in my old way with
Richard, and so I suppose this disgrace has come to punish me. I wish
it were not disgrace, because of our name at school, and because it
will vex Harry so much; but since it is come, considering all things,
I suppose I ought not to struggle to justify myself at other people’s
expense.”
His eyes were so dazzled with tears that he could hardly see to drive,
nor did his father speak at first. “I can’t say anything against it,
Norman, but I am sorry, and one thing more you should consider. If Dr.
Hoxton should view this absurd business in the way he seems to do, it
will stand in your way for ever in testimonials, if you try for anything
else.”
“Do you think it will interfere with my having a Confirmation ticket?”
“Why no, I should not think--such a boyish escapade could be no reason
for refusing you one.”
“Very well then, it had better rest. If there should be any difficulty
about my being confirmed, of course we will explain it.”
“I wish every one showed themselves as well prepared!” half muttered
the doctor; then, after long musing, “Well, Norman, I give up the
scholarship. Poor Mrs. Anderson wants it more than we do, and if the boy
is a shabby fellow the more he wants a decent education. But what do
you say to this? I make Hoxton do you full justice, and reinstate you
in your proper place, and then I take you away at once--send you to a
tutor--anything, till the end of the long vacation.”
“Thank you,” said Norman, pausing. “I don’t know, papa. I am very
much obliged to you, but I think it would hardly do. You would be
uncomfortable at seeming to quarrel with Dr. Hoxton, and it would be
hardly creditable for me to go off in anger.”
“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “You judge wisely, though I
should not have ventured to ask it of you. But what is to become of the
discipline of the school? Is that all to go to the dogs?”
“I could not do anything with them if I were restored in this way; they
would be more set against me. It is bad enough as it is, but, even for
my own peace, I believe it is better to leave it alone. All my comfort
in school is over, I know!” and he sighed deeply.
“It is a most untoward business!” said the doctor. “I am very sorry your
schooldays should be clouded--but it can’t be helped, and you will work
yourself into a character again. You are full young, and can stay for
the next Randall.”
Norman felt as if, while his father looked at him as he now did, the
rest of the world were nothing to him; but, perhaps, the driving past
the school brought him to a different mind, for he walked into the house
slowly and dejectedly.
He told his own story to Ethel, in the garden, not without much
difficulty, so indignant were her exclamations; and it was impossible to
make her see that his father’s interference would put him in an awkward
position among the boys. She would argue vehemently that she could not
bear Mr. Wilmot to think ill of him, that it was a great shame of Dr.
Hoxton, and that it was dreadful to let such a boy as Harvey Anderson go
unpunished. “I really do think it is quite wrong of you to give up your
chance of doing good, and leave him in his evil ways!” That was all
the comfort she gave Norman, and she walked in to pour out a furious
grumbling upon Margaret.
Dr. May had been telling the elder ones, and they were in conversation
after he had left them--Margaret talking with animation, and Flora
sitting over her drawing, uttering reluctant assents. “Has he told you,
poor fellow?” asked Margaret.
“Yes,” said Ethel. “Was there ever such a shame?”
“That is just what I say,” observed Flora. “I cannot see why the
Andersons are to have a triumph over all of us.”
“I used to think Harvey the best of the two,” said Ethel. “Now I think
he is a great deal the worst. Taking advantage of such a mistake as
this! How will he ever look Norman in the face!”
“Really,” said Margaret, “I see no use in aggravating ourselves by
talking of the Andersons.”
“I can’t think how papa can consent,” proceeded Flora. “I am sure, if I
were in his place, I should not!”
“Papa is so much pleased with dear Norman’s behaviour that it quite
makes up for all the disappointment,” said Margaret. “Besides, he is
very much obliged to him in one way; he would not have liked to have
to battle the matter with Dr. Hoxton. He spoke of Norman’s great good
judgment.”
“Yes, Norman can persuade papa to anything,” said Flora.
“Yes, I wish papa had not yielded,” said Ethel. “It would have been just
as noble in dear Norman, and we should not have the apparent disgrace.”
“Perhaps it is best as it is, after all,” said Flora.
“Why, how do you mean?” said Ethel.
“I think very likely things might have come out. Now don’t look
furious, Ethel. Indeed, I can’t help it, but really I don’t think it
is explicable why Norman should wish to hush it up, unless there were
something behind!”
“Flora!” cried Ethel, too much shocked to bring out another word.
“If you are unfortunate enough to have such suspicions,” said Margaret
quietly, “I think it would be better to be silent.”
“As if you did not know Norman!” stammered Ethel.
“Well,” said Flora, “I don’t wish to think so. You know I did not hear
Norman himself, and when papa gives his vehement accounts of things, it
always puzzles us of the cooler-minded sort.”
“It is as great a shame as ever I heard!” cried Ethel, recovering her
utterance. “Who would you trust, if not your own father and brother?”
“Yes, yes,” said Flora, not by any means wishing to displease her
sisters. “If there is such a thing as an excess of generosity, it is
sure to be among ourselves. I only know it does not suit me. It will
make us all uncomfortable whenever we meet the Andersons or Mr. Wilmot,
or any one else, and as to such tenderness to Harvey Anderson, I think
it is thrown away.”
“Thrown away on the object, perhaps,” said Margaret, “but not in
Norman.”
“To be sure,” broke out Ethel. “Better be than seem! Oh, dear! I am
sorry I was vexed with dear old June when he told me. I had rather have
him now than if he had gained everything, and every one was praising
him--that I had! Harvey Anderson is welcome to be dux and Randall
scholar for what I care, while Norman is--while he is, just what we
thought of the last time we read that Gospel--you know, Margaret?”
“He is--that he is,” said Margaret, “and, indeed, it is most beautiful
to see how what has happened has brought him at once to what she wished,
when, perhaps, otherwise it would have been a work of long time.”
Ethel was entirely consoled. Flora thought of the words “tete exaltee”
and considered herself alone to have sober sense enough to see things in
a true light--not that she went the length of believing that Norman had
any underhand motives, but she thought it very discreet in her to think
a prudent father would not have been satisfied with such a desire to
avoid investigation.
Dr. May would not trust himself to enter on the subject with Dr. Hoxton
in conversation; he only wrote a note.
“June 16th.
“Dear Dr. Hoxton,
“My son has appealed to me to confirm his account of himself on Thursday
evening last. I therefore distinctly state that he came in at half-past
nine, with his hands full of plants from the river, and that he then
went out again, by my desire, to look for his little brother.
--Yours very truly,
R. May.”
A long answer came in return, disclaiming all doubt of Norman’s
veracity, and explaining Dr. Hoxton’s grounds for having degraded him.
There had been misconduct in the school, he said, for some time past,
and he did not consider that it was any very serious reproach, to a
boy of Norman’s age, that he had not had weight enough to keep up his
authority, and had been carried away by the general feeling. It had been
necessary to make an example for the sake of principle, and though very
sorry it should have fallen on one of such high promise and general good
conduct, Dr. Hoxton trusted that it would not be any permanent injury to
his prospects, as his talents had raised him to his former position in
the school so much earlier than usual.
“The fact was,” said Dr. May, “that old Hoxton did it in a passion,
feeling he must punish somebody, and now, finding there’s no uproar
about it, he begins to be sorry. I won’t answer this note. I’ll stop
after church to-morrow and shake hands, and that will show we don’t bear
malice.”
What Mr. Wilmot might think was felt by all to affect them more nearly.
Ethel wanted to hear that he declared his complete conviction of
Norman’s innocence, and was disappointed to find that he did not once
allude to the subject. She was only consoled by Margaret’s conjecture
that, perhaps, he thought the headmaster had been hasty, and could not
venture to say so--he saw into people’s characters, and it was notorious
that it was just what Dr. Hoxton did not.
Tom had spent the chief of that Saturday in reading a novel borrowed
from Axworthy, keeping out of sight of every one. All Sunday he avoided
Norman more scrupulously than ever, and again on Monday. That day was a
severe trial to Norman; the taking the lower place, and the sense that,
excel as much as ever he might in his studies, it would not avail to
restore him to his former place, were more unpleasant, when it came to
the point, than he had expected.
He saw the cold manner, so different from the readiness with which his
tasks had always been met, certain as they were of being well done; he
found himself among the common herd whom he had passed so triumphantly,
and, for a little while, he had no heart to exert himself.
This was conquered by the strong will and self-rebuke for having merely
craved for applause, but, in the play-ground, he found himself still
alone--the other boys who had been raised by his fall shrank from
intercourse with one whom they had injured by their silence, and the
Andersons, who were wont to say the Mays carried every tale home, and
who still almost expected interference from Dr. May, hardly believed
their victory secure, and the younger one, at least, talked spitefully,
and triumphed in the result of May’s meddling and troublesome over
strictness. “Such prigs always come to a downfall,” was the sentiment.
Norman found himself left out of everything, and stood dispirited and
weary on the bank of the river, wishing for Harry, wishing for Cheviot,
wishing that he had been able to make a friend who would stand by
him, thinking it could not be worse if he had let his father reinstate
him--and a sensation of loneliness and injustice hung heavy at his
heart.
His first interruption was a merry voice. “I say, June, there’s no
end of river cray-fish under that bank,” and Larkins’s droll face was
looking up at him, from that favourite position, half stooping, his
hands on his knees, his expression of fun trying to conceal his real
anxiety and sympathy.
Norman turned and smiled, and looked for the cray-fish, and, at the same
time, became aware of Hector Ernescliffe, watching for an opportunity to
say, “I have a letter from Alan.” He knew they wanted, as far as little
boys ventured to seek after one so much their elder, to show themselves
his friends, and he was grateful; he roused himself to hear about Alan’s
news, and found it was important--his great friend, Captain Gordon, had
got a ship, and hoped to be able to take him, and this might lead to
Harry’s going with him. Then Norman applied himself to the capture of
cray-fish, and Larkins grew so full of fun and drollery, that the hours
of recreation passed off less gloomily than they had begun.
If only his own brother would have been his adherent! But he saw almost
nothing of Tom. Day after day he missed him, he was off before him in
going and returning from school, and when he caught a sight of his face,
it looked harassed, pale, and miserable, stealing anxious glances after
him, yet shrinking from his eye. But, at the same time, Norman did not
see him mingling with his former friends, and could not make out how he
disposed of himself. To be thus continually shunned by his own brother,
even when the general mass were returning to ordinary terms, became
so painful, that Norman was always on the watch to seek for one more
conversation with him.
He caught him at last in the evening, just as they were going home.
“Tom, why are you running away? Come with me,” said he authoritatively;
and Tom obeyed in trembling.
Norman led the way to the meads. “Tom,” said he, “do not let this go on.
Why do you serve me in this way? You surely need not turn against me,”
he said, with pleading melancholy in his voice.
It was not needed. Tom had flung himself upon the grass, and was in an
agony of crying, even before he had finished the words.
“Tom, Tom! what is the matter? Have they been bullying you again? Look
up, and tell me--what is it? You know I can stand by you still, if
you’ll only let me;” and Norman sat by him on the grass, and raised his
face by a sort of force, but the kind words only brought more piteous
sobs. It was a long time before they diminished enough to let him utter
a word, but Norman went on patiently consoling and inquiring, sure, at
least, that here had broken down the sullenness that had always repelled
him.
At last came the words, “Oh! I cannot bear it. It is all my doing!”
“What--how--you don’t mean this happening to me? It is not your doing,
August--what fancy is this?”
“Oh, yes, it is,” said Tom, his voice cut short by gasps, the remains
of the sobs. “They would not hear me! I tried to tell them how you
told them not, and sent them home. I tried to tell about
Ballhatchet--but--but they wouldn’t--they said if it had been Harry,
they would have attended--but they would not believe me. Oh! if Harry
was but here!”
“I wish he was,” said Norman, from the bottom of his heart; “but you
see, Tom, if this sets you on always telling truth, I shan’t think any
great harm done.”
A fresh burst, “Oh, they are all so glad! They say such things! And the
Mays were never in disgrace before. Oh, Norman, Norman!”
“Never mind about that--” began Norman.
“But you would mind,” broke in the boy passionately, “if you knew what
Anderson junior and Axworthy say! They say it serves you right, and they
were going to send me to old Ballhatchet’s to get some of his stuff to
drink confusion to the mouth of June, and all pragmatical meddlers; and
when I said I could not go, they vowed if I did not, I should eat the
corks for them! And Anderson junior called me names, and licked me. Look
there.” He showed a dark blue-and-red stripe raised on the palm of his
hand. “I could not write well for it these three days, and Hawes gave me
double copies!”
“The cowardly fellows!” exclaimed Norman indignantly. “But you did not
go?”
“No, Anderson senior stopped them. He said he would not have the
Ballhatchet business begin again.”
“That is one comfort,” said Norman. “I see he does not dare not to keep
order. But if you’ll only stay with me, August, I’ll take care they
don’t hurt you.”
“Oh, June! June!” and he threw himself across his kind brother. “I am so
very sorry! Oh! to see you put down--and hear them! And you to lose the
scholarship! Oh, dear! oh, dear! and be in disgrace with them all!”
“But, Tom, do cheer up. It is nothing to be in such distress at. Papa
knows all about it, and while he does, I don’t care half so much.”
“Oh, I wish--I wish--”
“You see, Tom,” said Norman, “after all, though it is very kind of you
to be sorry for not being able to get me out of this scrape, the thing
one wants you to be sorry about is your own affair.”
“I wish I had never come to school! I wish Anderson would leave me
alone! It is all his fault! A mean-spirited, skulking, bullying--”
“Hush, hush, Tom, he is bad enough, but now you know what he is, you
can keep clear of him for the future. Now listen. You and I will make
a fresh start, and try if we can’t get the Mays to be looked on as they
were when Harry was here. Let us mind the rules, and get into no more
mischief.”
“You’ll keep me from Ned Anderson and Axworthy?” whispered Tom.
“Yes, that I will. And you’ll try and speak the truth, and be
straightforward?”
“I will, I will,” said Tom, worn out in spirits by his long bondage, and
glad to catch at the hope of relief and protection.
“Then let us come home,” and Tom put his hand into his brother’s, as a
few weeks back would have seemed most unworthy of schoolboy dignity.
Thenceforth Tom was devoted to Norman, and kept close to him, sure that
the instant he was from under his wing his former companions would fall
on him to revenge his defection, but clinging to him also from real
affection and gratitude. Indolence and timidity were the true root of
what had for a time seemed like a positively bad disposition; beneath,
there was a warm heart, and sense of right, which had been almost
stifled for the time, in the desire, from moment to moment, to avoid
present trouble or fear. Under Norman’s care his better self had
freer scope, he was guarded from immediate terror, and kept from the
suggestions of the worse sort of boys, as much as was in his brother’s
power; and the looks they cast towards him, and the sly torments they
attempted to inflict, by no means invited him back to them. The lessons,
where he had a long inveterate habit of shuffling, came under Norman’s
eye at the same time. He always prepared them in his presence,
instead of in the most secret manner possible, and with all Anderson’s
expeditious modes of avoiding the making them of any use. Norman sat by,
and gave such help as was fair and just, showed him how to learn, and
explained difficulties, and the ingenuity hitherto spent in eluding
learning being now directed to gaining it, he began to make real
progress and find satisfaction in it. The comfort of being good dawned
upon him once more, but still there was much to contend with; he had
acquired such a habit of prevarication that, if by any means taken by
surprise, his impulse was to avoid giving a straightforward answer,
and when he recollected his sincerity, the truth came with the air of
falsehood. Moreover, he was an arrant coward, and provoked tricks by his
manifest and unreasonable terrors. It was no slight exercise of patience
that Norman underwent, but this was the interest he had made for
himself; and the recovery of the boy’s attachment, and his improvement,
though slow, were a present recompense.
Ernescliffe, Larkins, and others of the boys, held fast to him, and
after the first excitement was past, all the rest returned to their
former tone. He was decidedly as much respected as ever, and, at the
same time, regarded with more favour than when his strictness was
resented. And as for the discipline of the school, that did not suffer.
Anderson felt that, for his own credit, he must not allow the rules
to be less observed than in May’s reign, and he enforced them upon the
reluctant and angry boys with whom he had been previously making common
cause. Dr. Hoxton boasted to the under-masters that the school had never
been in such good order as under Anderson, little guessing that this was
but reaping the fruits of a past victory, or that every boy in the whole
school gave the highest place in their esteem to the deposed dux.
To Anderson, Norman’s cordial manner and ready support were the
strangest part of all, only explained by thinking that he deemed it, as
he tried to do himself, merely the fortune of war, and was sensible of
no injury.
And, for Norman himself, when the first shock was over, and he was
accustomed to the change, he found the cessation of vigilance a relief,
and carried a lighter heart than any time since his mother’s death.
His sisters could not help observing that there was less sadness in the
expression of his eyes, that he carried his head higher, walked with
freedom and elasticity of step, tossed and flourished the Daisy till she
shouted and crowed, while Margaret shrank at such freaks; and, though he
was not much of a laugher himself, contributed much sport in the way of
bright apposite sayings to the home circle.
It was a very unexpected mode of cure for depression of spirits, but
there could be no question that it succeeded; and when, a few Saturdays
after, he drove Dr. May again to Groveswood to see young Mr. Lake,
who was recovering, he brought Margaret home a whole pile of botanical
curiosities, and drew his father into an animated battle over natural
and Linnaean systems, which kept the whole party merry with the pros and
cons every evening for a week.