BERNARD'S FAULT, AND "THE HOLE IN THE WINDOW."
UNCLE PAUL was extremely fond of flowers, and had a particularly choice
collection of foreign plants, which he had gathered at great cost and
pains during his travels. In his green-house and conservatory were many
flowers of rare beauty, and in these Bernard took very great delight.
He and his uncle watched with almost equal interest for the opening of
the buds; and so careful had the boy been in his movements amongst the
plants that to him was intrusted the daily watering of some of the very
choicest of all the floral-stock.
The day after the hay was gathered in, Uncle Paul and Bernard were in
the green-house together. They were both quite absorbed in admiration
of a beautiful plant which was just bursting into bloom.
"This will be quite fully opened by to-morrow," said Uncle Paul. "I am
very glad of it; for two ladies, neighbours of mine, have long been
curious to see a flower of this species, and this of mine is a very
uncommon variety. You will be sure to take particular care not to
injure it, for the stem is as fragile as the flower is lovely."
"I will take care, uncle," replied Bernard. "Shall I carry it into the
conservatory this afternoon?"
"Either this evening or to-morrow morning will do, Bernard. But do you
think you are sufficiently experienced to handle such a delicate affair
as this? Never mind," he added quickly and kindly as he saw the boy's
colour rising at the question; "I place reliance in your care, Bernard."
"Thank you, uncle," was the reply; "I will do my best."
Uncle Paul then left the green-house; and Bernard, quite proud of the
trust reposed in him, proceeded to perform his daily duties there.
Afterwards, he attended to the whole of the plants in the conservatory,
for the gardener had obtained three days' leave of absence from his
post that he might visit an invalid brother.
It happened that Bernard had made arrangements to accompany
some youths, whose acquaintance he had made at the picnic, on a
fishing-excursion that day. He had just completed his task in the
conservatory, when they came to call for him, so he made great haste to
prepare himself, and in a few minutes was ready to set out with them.
It was dusk in the evening when the boys returned, and much later than
Bernard had calculated on being absent from Hay-Lodge.
After displaying the fruits of his excursion to the admiring eyes of
Marian and Kate, he threw himself upon a seat, saying: "How tired I am!
I think I never in my life felt so weary as I do to-night!"
A moment afterwards, he remembered that some of the sashes in the
green-house had been left open to admit air, and he hastened to shut
them at once, feeling uneasy lest any of the plants might have suffered
from exposure to the night-air. Uncle Paul he knew to be from home, and
likely to be detained till rather late. The evening was very warm and
mild, and the moon shone brightly in as he entered the green-house. He
hoped no harm was done, and eagerly but cautiously he stepped up to the
place where the plant stood respecting which his uncle was so anxious.
How beautiful it looked in the soft light! How the now full-blown
flower bowed the delicate stem, while half-opened buds around it gave
the one perfect blossom additional charms! Bernard could scarcely
admire it sufficiently, and he quite longed to see it reigning the very
queen of the conservatory.
After having fastened the sashes, he lifted the pot containing the
plant, in order to place it in its new abode. Uncle Paul and he had
arranged what position it should occupy in the morning, and, as
Bernard thought, there was nothing in the way; but when he reached the
conservatory, the door was shut, and he was obliged to place the pot
on the ground whilst he opened it. As he raised it again, he stumbled
slightly, and bruised the stem of the plant between his arm and the
door-post. Much alarmed, he hastened to place it in the appointed
spot, and then examined the stem to see if it were injured, and if
so, to what extent. To Bernard's great regret, he found that the stem
was partially crushed, but so far the flower and buds were untouched.
Hoping that the injury it had received would not spoil its appearance,
he left the conservatory, feeling anything but comfortable, and joined
his mother in the drawing-room.
Only a few minutes afterwards, Bernard heard his uncle's voice in the
hall, and soon the kind old gentleman entered.
Uncle Paul asked his nephew how he had enjoyed his day on the water,
and then inquired if the sashes in the green-house were closed.
"Yes," replied Bernard; "I attended to them as soon as I came in; but
it was rather later than I expected it would be before I returned."
"The air is so warm and mild that it has done them no harm, I am sure,
Bernard," said his uncle. "And how did 'the' plant look? You know it
stands first in my favour at present, and I hope it will not disappoint
me to-morrow."
"It was full out, uncle, and looked very beautiful," returned Bernard
in rather a low voice. Most heartily did he echo the hope that the
plant would retain its beauty, and be none the worse for the accident;
but he greatly feared the contrary.
"Did you move it into the conservatory?" asked Uncle Paul.
"Yes, uncle, since I came home."
Uncle Paul rose from his seat. "I will just go and have a peep at it,"
said he. "Thank you, my dear niece," he added, addressing Mrs. Ingram,
who offered him a light, "I shall not take a candle. My beautiful plant
will look all the more lovely in the pale moonlight. Come, Bernard, and
share my pleasure, keen florist that you are."
For the first time during his visit, Bernard felt reluctant to obey his
uncle's summons; but, unwilling as he was to enter the conservatory, he
was still more unwilling to refuse, and he rose instantly and followed.
Uncle Paul's eyes, though they looked so dark and keen, had seen a
great many years of hard service, for he had not gone through life with
them shut, in any sense of the word. When he stood opposite to his
favourite plant, he did not observe the bruised stem, though the injury
was quite visible to Bernard, who knew all about the cause of the hurt;
he only noticed how beautiful and perfect the shape of the flower was,
and how admirably it was placed to display its loveliness, and then he
turned to leave the conservatory with his nephew, who locked the door,
and handed him the key.
During the few moments they had been there, Bernard was several times
on the point of mentioning the accident to Uncle Paul; but his courage
failed him, and he remained silent, fervently hoping that all would be
well, and that no confession would be necessary. But he did not rest
very comfortably that night, though he was so weary with his long day
out of doors. Anxiety of mind, and the thought that he had not dealt
frankly with his kind uncle, overpowered even his fatigue, and kept him
from resting until daylight.
It was in vain that Bernard tried to stifle his inward monitor,
Conscience, by saying to himself: "I told my uncle nothing but the
truth." Conscience always answered promptly: "'Yes, but you did not
tell the whole truth.'" In vain, too, did Bernard argue that Uncle
Paul was so just and kind that he would not be angry at the effects of
what was really an accident. His heart quite sank within him when he
recalled the pleasure which Uncle Paul took in his floral-treasures,
and particularly in the injured plant. So the morning came,
breakfast-time passed, the carriage of Uncle Paul's visitors was heard
on the gravel, and Bernard had not yet said one word about the bruised
stem.
"Where is the conservatory-key?" asked Uncle Paul, as he was about to
lead his guests thither.
"You have it yourself, uncle," said Bernard. "Do you not remember I
gave it to you last night?"
"To be sure you did, my boy." Then turning to his guests, he said:
"The flower of which I spoke to you is now fully blown; I saw it by
moonlight; but you will, I doubt not, find it exquisitely lovely this
morning." With eager step he advanced to the spot—and, lo! the stem was
bent down, and the flower half-withered. It would be hard to describe
his disappointment and regret as he pointed out the mischief.
"The stem has been crushed," said one of the ladies, as she examined
the plant; "but there are still sufficient proofs left to shew how very
beautiful a perfectly fresh flower must be."
She and her companion continued to examine and praise the wreck of the
lovely bloom; but, for a few moments, poor Uncle Paul was unable either
to speak or to listen, and Bernard's cheeks were wet with tears.
"Who can have done the mischief?" said one of the ladies.
The kind old gentleman's face brightened, as he answered: "No one, my
dear lady. And this is to me a great source of comfort under what is to
a florist a serious disappointment. My nephew and I came together late
last night to look at this plant, and left it all right. From that time
until we entered the conservatory, no one can have been here, for the
key has not been out of my own possession. Bernard and I are equally
disappointed; but, after all, it is so pleasant that there is no person
to blame. The stem must have been diseased, or eaten by some insect."
When Uncle Paul knew that anything could not be amended, he never
indulged in useless lamentations or murmurs respecting it; and thus,
on this occasion, though he certainly cast a regretful look or two
towards his favourite plant, he did not grumble and fret over it. On
the contrary, he guided his visitors through the conservatory and
green-house, accompanied also by Mrs. Ingram, with a face as cheerful
and good-humoured as though his hopes had been all fulfilled. There was
still an abundance of attractions, and when all the choice plants had
been examined, the two ladies had almost forgotten the spoiled flower
in their admiration of those around them, so select was Uncle Paul's
stock of floral-beauties. They left Hay-Lodge quite delighted with
their visit, and enriched by the gift of several plants from their kind
entertainer's own store.
Bernard, however, was by no means happy. He knew that his uncle did not
for a moment suspect that he had had any hand in injuring the plant,
and was convinced, too, that he could not discover the cause of its
altered appearance.
But conscience would not let him rest. This thought was continually
present: "I ought to have told my uncle the whole truth. Though I have
not spoken a falsehood, this allowing him to remain under a false
impression is the same thing. How I wish I had told him all about it
last night!"
Poor Bernard! He was just experiencing the truth of the words: "The
longer we defer a duty, the more difficult it is to perform;" and when
that duty is to confess a fault, the difficulty is increased many-fold
by every hour's delay.
Uncle Paul could not fail to observe Bernard's grave face and sorrowful
looks, and he fancied the boy was grieving over the loss of what had
been for some time past an object of interest to him also; so he kindly
said: "You must not let the loss of the flower grieve you, Bernard;
it would only have been a thing of a day, after all, and we saw it
in perfection. Beside, there are two more plants of the same kind to
flower, though they are not so forward as the fading one; and if the
first should open while you are here, we will go ourselves and present
it to the young ladies who were here to-day."
Bernard gave a sickly sort of smile. His uncle's words were far harder
to bear than reproaches would have been. He was indeed thinking about
the flower, and wishing that he could either summon courage to tell his
uncle all about it, or forget it altogether.
"Now, we must turn the conversation. Who will talk about something
else?" cried Uncle Paul cheerfully, yet just as though he could not
find another word to say.
"Turn it yourself, uncle, if you please, with another story," said
Marian.
"What! You want Uncle Paul to begin preaching again, do you? I thought
you must have had enough of my stories. You have all been such good
children lately that I seem to have nothing to preach about. Still,
for fear you should take it into your heads to be naughty in order to
furnish me with a subject, I will tell you a tale about—"
"THE HOLE IN THE WINDOW."
"The stone had gone through, sure enough, and left a round hole in the
pane, and the boy who had thrown the stone, startled by the crash,
stood for a few seconds quite still upon the road, gazing at the result
of it. It was wonderful how many thoughts went through the lad's
mind in that short time. He had very often been warned not to throw
stones, because it was an idle, mischievous, and likely to be also a
destructive habit. As he stood, his mother's very words seemed ringing
in his ears—words which she had said that morning but an hour before.
Yet the warning had been unheeded, the mother's command disobeyed, and
there stood Arthur Franklin, as if rooted to the spot, gazing at the
hole in the window.
"It was not a very large hole. The stone had been sent through with
such force that it had only just made a passage for itself, and the
remainder of the pane was very little cracked. Arthur looked round, but
there was no person within sight. The sound of the broken glass had
not attracted the attention of the inmates, and the cottage stood by
itself. The fractured pane was in one of the front windows, and Arthur
thought that, most likely, the good woman who was the mistress of the
house was somewhere in the back-garden. He had often seen her there,
and she had said good-morning to him many a time as he passed on his
way to school. He felt very sorry that he had broken her window, and if
he had had any money in his pocket then, he would have tried to find
her, in order to pay for the mischief. But Arthur's pockets were quite
empty; he had not a single penny to call his own; for he was rather an
improvident individual, and when he received his monthly allowance,
always spent it directly, saving nothing for a time of need. He knew
that in order to act justly, he ought to find the good woman of the
cottage, point out the damage he had caused, and then own his fault to
his parents, and ask them to give him money to have it repaired.
"'But,' argued Arthur within himself, 'I know that my mother and father
will both be so much displeased at my disobedience, that, if even I
escape any other punishment, I shall be obliged to pay back the price
of the broken pane out of my own pocket-money; and I want to buy so
many things for myself.'
"These thoughts passed very quickly through Arthur's mind, far more
quickly than I can tell them, for they occupied but a few moments;
and selfishness conquered justice, as it too often does. After making
quite sure that nobody was near, he ran away from the spot as fast as
he could, leaving behind him, as the only trace of his visit to the
neighbourhood, that hole in the window.
"Arthur had another motive for wishing to receive his pocket-money
untouched: the yearly fair was just at hand, and what boy does not like
to have something in his bank at such a time? Still Arthur ought to
have done what was right first of all, though it might cost him some
striving against self. Yet, although he had counted what he would have
had to pay for taking a straightforward course, he had not calculated
what would be the cost of wrongdoing. That was to come; and he found
that, though no mortal eye had seen him, Conscience, stern taskmaster,
took him to task, and accused him continually.
"The morning after Arthur broke the window, he was obliged to pass
it on his way to school. He felt very uncomfortable as he neared the
place in company with two or three other boys, but he did not turn his
head to see whether the mischief had been repaired, though he was very
anxious to know.
"'Just look!' cried one of his companions; 'somebody has broken a pane
in that window. What a round hole! It might have been cut out.'
"Arthur was thus in a manner forced to look; for if he had refused,
he might have been suspected. He did not feel better satisfied with
himself when a second lad said: 'The people who live there are very
poor. The man is often ill, and there is a large family. I daresay he
cannot afford to have the window mended.'
"'And it must have been broken from the outside,' remarked the first
speaker, 'for there is no glass on the road. If anybody has done it,
and not paid the poor people, what a shame it is! Isn't it, Franklin?'
"Arthur could not help answering in the affirmative, though it was no
very pleasant task thus to confirm with his lips the sentence which his
conscience had already pronounced against him.
"For a whole fortnight, Arthur passed the broken window four times each
day on his way to and from school. At first, it was a very hard matter,
but it became less so by degrees. Three days before the fair, Arthur's
grandfather came to pay a visit to his parents, and when he went away,
he presented his grandson with half-a-crown.
"'You will manage to get rid of this at the fair, Arthur,' said the
old gentleman with a pleasant smile. 'There will be the wild-beasts to
visit, and I know not what beside. I shall give your cousin Frederic
the same, and you can spend the money as you think good.'
"'Thank you, grandfather,' said Arthur in high glee.
"'But can you keep your half-crown untouched until the fair, do you
think, Arthur?' asked his mother.
"Now, Arthur had not intended to keep the whole of the half-crown to
spend at the fair. Though he had thought less about that hole in the
window of late, conscience would not let him quite forget it. So, when
the silver coin was placed in his hand, his first thought had been:
'Now, as I have received this present of money which I did not expect,
I will at once devote a part of it to the mending of that window. It
will not cost me more than one-and-sixpence, perhaps not so much. I
shall have a shilling left, which, with my month's allowance, will be
quite enough to spend at the fair; and I shall have what is better
still—a quiet conscience.'
"Mrs. Franklin's remark was rather an unfortunate one. Arthur felt
himself bound to shew that he 'could' keep his half-crown untouched
until the fair-day, unless, indeed, he were to tell his mother to what
purpose he meant to devote a part of the money. To the latter course he
could not make up his mind, so he replied:
"'I can keep my half-crown whole, grandfather, as my mother shall see,
for I will shew it to her on the fair-day morning.'
"His mother still looked rather doubtful, and she laughed as she
answered: 'If you do, Arthur, it will be the first time that you have
ever accomplished such a feat.'
"Arthur was rather afraid lest he should spend the money, after all
his resolutions, so, for fear of yielding to temptation, he locked it
up in his little treasure-box, quite determined not even to touch it
again until the appointed time. As he passed the hole in the window,
he thought, with no small pleasure, that in two more days he should
repair the damage, for, though he had determined to save his money
for so long, in order to shew that he 'could' do it, he had not lost
sight of his original plan with regard to the ultimate disposal of the
half-crown.
"Whenever we determine to do right, it is always best to put our
resolution in force at once. 'Delays are dangerous,' as the copy-slips
say, and so Arthur found them. In the first place, it was very hard
to resist the inclination he felt to take the half-crown out of the
box again, just to shew it to his school-fellows, that they might know
what pleasures he should be able to purchase at the fair. However, he
did resist that temptation, and only boasted of his riches, instead of
displaying them.
"The fair-day brought greater trials along with it. Arthur triumphantly
exhibited his half-crown whole, and received his monthly allowance
besides; but even then he found that his cousin Frederic had more money
than himself, because he had saved a little beforehand. Still the boy
thought he would pay for the broken window, and he put a shilling and
sixpence aside for that purpose; but first one attraction, and then
another, tempted him to spend. He was habitually prodigal, and he was
dissatisfied when Frederic bought anything for himself, unless he
followed his cousin's example. Thus, before the evening came, he had
spent all the money that was really his own, and he had not yet been to
see the wild-beasts.
"'Now for the show!' said Frederic, as the two boys rose to leave the
tea-table.
"'I will go with you as far as the marketplace, where all the shows
are,' replied Arthur; 'but I think I shall not go in.'
"'Oh, nonsense! Why, you have never seen any wild-beasts, have you?'
"'No,' said Arthur; 'and I should like very much to go; but it will
cost a shilling.'
"'To be sure it will; but that is not a great deal considering; and you
cannot tell when you may have another chance, if you miss this. I have
thought more about seeing them than anything else; and if I had not had
money enough, I should have spent less this afternoon. Come along. I
know you have eighteenpence left, and the fair only comes once a year.'
"Arthur wished 'he' had spent less; for he had bought several things he
really did not want, just to be like his cousin. 'I don't mind going
with you, Fred,' said Arthur again, 'but not into the show.'
"However, Fred was quite satisfied with this promise, for he knew
Arthur's disposition well, and had no doubt he should have his company,
whatever resolutions he might make to the contrary before they started.
"Truly, Arthur would have found it quite hard enough work to keep
firm to his purpose, had he stayed at home; but when he reached the
marketplace, and heard the music of the attendant-band, while the
roaring of the wild animals sounded even above the drums—when he saw
several of his school-fellows running up the steps of the show—and,
above all, when Fred was on the point of leaving him, to follow
their example, all his good resolutions melted away like snow in the
sunshine. The shilling passed into the hands of the money-taker at the
entrance, and Arthur's last sixpence was left in solitude at the bottom
of his pocket, though Frederic had still pence in store with which to
buy cakes for the elephants and nuts for the monkeys, things which
Arthur had entirely forgotten.
"However, his cousin good-naturedly gave him half of his own store,
saying, as he did so: 'You must not break into that sixpence, you know,
Arthur, for you will want it by and by.'
"'What for?' inquired Arthur.
"'Why, the beasts will be fed in about half an hour, and if we want
to see them, we must pay an extra sixpence. Of course, you'll pay. I
shall, for I know that is a sight, and it would be provoking to turn
out just when the best is to come.'
"Arthur hesitated, knowing he had already spent too much; but then,
thought he to himself: 'Sixpence will not mend that hole in the
window. I shall be obliged to wait another month before I can pay for
the broken pane, at any rate. The window will not run away in the
meanwhile, though the shows will be all gone; so I may as well see all
I can.'
"Thus, once more, selfishness conquered justice. Arthur did stay; he
spent his last sixpence, and returned home at night very weary, the
possessor of several useless toys, and still burdened with the thought
that he had committed a wrong action, and neglected to repair the evil
when he had it in his power. In his own quiet bed, after the excitement
of the day was over, the boy's conscience again made itself heard,
and, grieved at his folly and weakness, the lad moistened his pillow
with tears, while he wished he had had strength of mind to keep his
resolution, but wished in vain. All at once, a veiled figure took him
by the hand, and led him out into the open air. Arthur knew not how he
passed over the ground, but, almost immediately, he found himself in
front of the cottage by the road-side, and gazing at the broken pane in
the window.
"'That was your work!' said the figure that still accompanied him, and
now pointed with outstretched finger to the broken pane.
"In a trembling voice, Arthur owned the truth.
"'And you have wasted the money which would have repaired the damage on
things that you did not want.'
"It was of no use to deny it. Arthur replied that he had; that he had
'intended to pay for the mending of the window, but—'"
"He stopped, and his strange companion said: 'I will finish the
sentence for you. You preferred indulging your own selfishness at the
expense of justice.'
"These sounded hard words, but Arthur felt their truth, and could not
utter a syllable in his own defence.
"'It is of no use to make good resolutions,' said the stranger, 'unless
we carry them out. These very resolutions are witnesses against us,
because they prove that we know what is right, though we do not
practise it. Follow me, and you shall see what you have done beside
breaking the window.'
"Away through the open door into the cottage went Arthur's mysterious
guide, and the boy was impelled to follow him, though much against his
will. In front of the fire, in a rocking-chair, sat the good woman of
the house, and on her knee she held a baby, whose cries she was vainly
endeavouring to still.
"'Ah, poor baby,' said the weeping mother, 'you are in pain, and I do
not know how to relieve you; and it is all owing to that broken window,
which let in the bitter piercing east wind all the night through. And
to think I never found out that some careless or wicked boy had broken
our bedroom-window while I was in the garden. And the piercing wind
blew in upon you and your father that night; and I never found out what
made it so cold till the morning, when daylight shewed me that hole in
the window.'
"'O dear, dear!' groaned poor Arthur. 'What have I done? I knew I had
broken a window, but I never thought I had injured any "person" by
that.'
"'Very likely not,' replied his guide. 'It is not often that people can
count the exact amount of harm they will cause by even a single wrong
action, or a little step on the path of evil.'
"The baby still wailed and cried, and the mother's tears fell on its
wan face, when a feeble voice from the inner room cried: 'Wife, will
you bring me a drink? My tongue is parched, and my throat "so" dry.'
"The woman pressed the poor baby more closely to her breast, and rose
from her seat in order to supply her husband's want.
"'We will go with her, and see all that is to be seen here, Arthur,'
said his companion. So they entered the inner room where the father lay.
"The sick man eagerly drank what his wife offered—it was but cold
water—and then he said: 'I wish the poor child would cease crying; it
keeps me from sleeping, and I think, but for it, I could rest. The
little darling is suffering, like its father, from the terrible cold
it caught by sleeping just under that hole in the window. And you,
my dear wife, will be almost worn out with waiting on us both. It is
terrible to lie here, and think that I "ought" to be at work, yet can
do nothing!'
"The wife tried to hush the baby; said a few kind, comforting words
to her husband; examined the broken pane, to see whether the rag she
had stuffed in to keep out the cold was still in its place; and then
hurried out of the room again, to weep in silence.
"'Come and see what makes her weep,' said Arthur's guide.
"'I suppose it is on account of her husband's illness,' said the boy,
while his own tears fell fast.
"'Not altogether,' was the reply. 'Come, and I will shew you more
still.'
"Arthur followed the stranger into the pantry. There was no meat to be
seen, nothing but dry bread on the shelf, and only a scanty supply of
that. Then they looked into the cupboard, and saw that there were only
a few grains of tea in the bottle, which the poor woman used instead of
a canister; indeed, there was scarcely anything like food in the whole
house.
"'Do you know how it is that these shelves are bare, and the dishes
empty?' asked the guide.
"Arthur felt very unhappy, but did not speak.
"'I will tell you,' continued his companion; 'it is because the hands
that at the best of times are not strong enough to earn much, are now
so weakened by pain, that they must be idle, though that sick man would
be glad to work. And what can the poor weeping mother do, with the sick
husband and child to tend almost night and day? It will be very hard,
indeed, when morning comes, and she has nothing at all left but dry
bread and cold water.'
"Arthur thought of times when he had been ill, and remembered how many
dainties were brought, in the hope of tempting him to eat, yet all in
vain; and he fancied to himself how hard it would have seemed to him if
'he' had had nothing but bread and water at such a time.
"'Oh, if I could but do anything!' he cried aloud. 'How I wish I had
told the whole truth at first, and then, though I might have been
punished, these poor people would not have suffered through my fault.'
"He burst into a passion of tears as he cried: 'What shall I do?—What
shall I do?'
"At that moment, Arthur lost sight of his stranger-guide, the cottage
and its inmates vanished, and he opened his eyes to find that he was
lying on his own comfortable bed, while his mother stood beside him.
"'Why, Arthur,' said she, 'what is the matter with you? You cried out
so loudly, that I heard you down stairs, and ran up in haste, fearing
you were ill, and I found you sobbing in your sleep, as though you were
in great trouble.'
"Arthur sat up in bed with a strange, bewildered look on his face, for
he was scarcely awake yet. It was a great relief to find that he had
been dreaming, and had not really seen the inmates of the road-side
cottage in such distress.
"'What were you dreaming about?' said his mother. 'I am afraid you have
eaten too many good things to-day.'
"'I was dreaming about the hole in the window, mother,' returned Arthur.
"The boy was far too much excited and disturbed to go quietly to sleep,
so he at once told his mother all about his disobedience, and the
mischief that had been the result of it, as well as the resolutions he
had made to repair the damage, and the manner in which he had broken
them.
"'For more than a fortnight, mother,' said he, 'I have felt very
uncomfortable indeed. Though nobody saw me break the window, I have
always felt as if a voice were telling me about it whenever I have
passed the cottage. But I am so glad that last was a dream!'
"'I am not at all surprised at the feeling of self-reproach you have
experienced, Arthur. Conscience always will tell us of our faults,
though no human being knows that we have committed them. It was
conscience that was busy with you to-night, Arthur. It filled your mind
with troubled thoughts, which continued after you fell asleep.—Now,
what shall you do to mend the hole in the window?'
"'I have not one penny left, mother. I wish I could sell the toys I
bought to-day; I would take half the money I gave for them. Mother,
will you buy them?'
"'No, my boy; they would be useless to me. Beside, I think it will
be better for you to keep them as a remembrance of ill, or rather
unjustly, spent money, and a warning to be wiser and more just for the
future. However, I will, if you like, advance you enough to pay for the
mending of the window, and you can repay me out of your pocket-money.'
"Arthur was very glad to embrace his mother's offer, and his mind being
so far set at rest, he was able to sleep quietly during the remainder
of the night. On the following day, his mother kindly went with him to
the cottage, and explained all to the good dame, who held up her hands
in astonishment.
"'Well, to be sure,' said she, 'I never thought we should find out who
broke our window; and now, after all this time, the young gentleman has
owned to it. Better late than never, they say. I should have had it
mended a long time since, but I never could spare eighteenpence to pay
for it, for my husband has been out of work.'
"'I am very sorry that I did not tell you before,' said Arthur, 'but I
hope you will forgive me.'
"'That I will,' said the good dame. 'There's not much harm done, except
that a hole in the window doesn't look very nice stuffed up with
rag—does it, ma'am?'
"Mrs. Franklin said: 'No, indeed. But I think it will be a lesson to my
son to do what is straightforward, just, and honest another time, for
he tells me the sight of this broken pane has troubled him every day
since he first did the mischief.'
"'See that now!' said the mistress of the cottage. 'What a thing
conscience is! If nobody knows of what we have done wrong, "that"
always keeps telling us of it over and over, and will not let us rest.
I should advise you, young gentleman, if you want to be at peace, to
try "and keep on good terms with your conscience."'
"The mother and son then bade the woman good-morning, and left the
cottage. As they were walking home, Arthur said:
"'Was it not very strange, mother, that I dreamed what I did last
night? I am very glad I did not find matters in such a miserable slate
as I fancied they were in my sleep.'
"'I do not think it strange you should dream about what occupied
your waking thoughts, Arthur. But if you would avoid such dreams
for the future, do what is "just" before you study your own selfish
inclinations, and follow the good woman's advice: Try and keep on good
terms with conscience.'"
Bernard and his conscience were on anything but good terms when Uncle
Paul told this last story, and the boy was inclined to think that it
was related on purpose for him.
"Uncle," said he, "I am obliged to own that in the tale of The Hole in
the Window you have been preaching to me."
"You never were more mistaken, Bernard," said his uncle. "I had no
thought of you. On the contrary, I related what really happened to
some one I knew when we were boys at school together. Arthur Franklin
himself told me all that I have just repeated to you many a long year
ago. From what you have said, Bernard, I am inclined to think that you
are not on good terms with conscience at present; indeed, I fear few of
us are so for long together."
"I have been thinking, dear Uncle Paul," said Bernard, "how much more
it costs us to conceal than to own a fault. I have been very unhappy
ever since last night; but I will tell you the cause, and then I shall
at least be on good terms with conscience again."
So Bernard related in what manner he accidentally crushed the stem of
the plant in carrying it to the conservatory, and afterwards allowed
his uncle to remain under a false impression with regard to the way in
which it had received the injury.
"Dear uncle," said he then, "will you forgive me? I have been very
unhappy indeed ever since the accident occurred."
"My dear boy," answered Uncle Paul, "if you had only told me directly,
there would have been nothing to forgive. As to the accident itself,
that needs not a word of apology. Which of us can be sure that he will
pass through a single day without any mischance? Only you ought to have
known your old uncle better, than to fear that he would blame you for
what he knew you would regret as much as he did himself."
Bernard was much moved by his uncle's kind words, and they increased
his regret for not having at once told him the truth instead of
remaining silent.
"Yet, Bernard," resumed the old gentleman, "I must blame you for—"
Here his nephew interposed. "Dear uncle, I know for what. I was a
cowardly fellow to be afraid of telling the truth, for, after all, I
'acted' a falsehood, though I did not speak one."
"I need not, then, say any more, my dear lad. To be conscious of a
fault, is the first step toward its amendment. May He who 'requires
truth in the inward parts' help you to be true in thought, word, and
deed!"
There was a pause, and perfect silence in the room for a time. Who
doubts that, in the mother's heart, that brief prayer found an echo;
and that as Mrs. Ingram sat with her hand on her son's shoulder,
she commended him, her orphan-boy, to the care and guidance of that
merciful Being who is a Father to the fatherless.
——————————