GROWING UP.
ALL that night the snow fell thick and fast, and by the time the boys
got up, on the ringing of the usual bell, every trace of walk and
flower-bed was covered up deep in the garden, where even large bushes
showed only as low hillocks of pure whiteness. The snow had drifted up
to the level of the broad window-seats of the parlour; and, what was
still more interesting, their father said that the roads were not safe,
the snow lying in great drifts, and so the boys must have a holiday.
To keep them out of mischief he provided them with shovels and brush,
desiring them to clear a path down the broad walk and a space round the
gate, to enable it to open. This, however, did not take very long, and
then the snow-man was rescued from destruction—heaps of new-fallen snow
having covered his head and shoulders, while his legs were covered to
the knees, or where his knees would have been if he had had any; but,
to tell the truth, he was as Hugh declared, "all made in one piece."
However, such as he was, they restored him to his pristine beauty,
repairing him wherever little bits were knocked off in the process.
By this time Lucy and the two little ones joined the party, and
they all went to the rick-yard to finish their house. It proved so
delightful an occupation that it was difficult to get them in for their
meals; though, once in, I cannot say that anxiety to be out again
destroyed their appetites. The walls rose to a respectable height, and
were of more than respectable thickness. Some long branches were placed
over the top to form a foundation for the roof; and then a step-ladder
and some stable-buckets were procured, and they proceeded to fling
bucketsful of snow on the top of the branches—a piece of work which
they found very fatiguing. Presently Hugh flung away his bucket with a
clatter, and cried aloud—
"What a pack of donkeys we are!"
"What do you mean?" inquired Harry from the top of the ladder.
"Why, look at the sky! It's sure to snow again soon, and then the roof
will make itself—nice and smooth, too, not like 'that,' all anyhow."
"Well, I never thought of that!" cried Harry. "But you are quite right,
Hugh. Besides, I declare I am tired out—my bones ache with all the work
we've done. It's getting dark, too; let us put everything back in its
place, and go in. Lucy, I wonder could you and mother have supper a
little earlier, that we may hear more of Uncle Jasper's story?"
"Well, I dare say she would not mind; but Uncle Jasper has been very
strange all day. When I read him his chapter in the morning he seemed
hardly to listen, and he kept muttering, 'Ay, that's how 'twas,' or, 'I
remember that well,' and things like that. And he asked me every moment
if the thaw had come."
"We shall never hear the end of that story," said Hugh doggedly.
"You'll see, now—he will be ill, or he'll forget it, or something."
However, as soon as supper was over, old Jasper looked over at the
master and said—
"I'm ready to go on, Harry, if you all wish it."
And in a few minutes they were all seated by the fire, and the old man
began at once.
"I could not tell every little thing that happened, as I did last
night, for my memory would not always serve me; and, besides, it would
take too long. It is only some things—a day here and a day there—that
are burned into my heart, so that I seem to hear the words said by
myself or others, just in the old voices.
"I did my very best to keep Katie from making friends with Harry, and
I succeeded for a time. He had a dull time enough, and, coming from a
happy home, he must have felt it; but he never complained, let us do or
say what we might. And Katie was very saucy to him, and I was cold and
unfriendly.
"But one day Katie and I had been out in the lanes after flowers, and
we were nearing home, when we met a tipsy man—a sailor who had lost
a leg in one of our sea-fights, and who stumped about the country on
a wooden leg, begging mostly, though he sometimes did odd jobs very
handily. He was often at Marlowe Hay, and Katie was partial to him—he
told such fine stories about storms and battles, and strange things he
had seen. But this day he was very drunk, and not a bit like himself.
Katie, poor little maid, did not understand, and stopped as usual to
talk to him, and he began telling her a long story, swearing in a
frightful way—almost every second word an oath. Then, too, he sang
scraps of songs that I didn't half understand; but I knew very well
he ought not to sing the like before the child. And Katie herself got
frightened, and bid him 'go away—she didn't like him at all to-day.'
"'Not like me!' he roared out. 'Oh, that's all my eye! Every lassie
loves a sailor. Come, little one, give me a kiss, for I must be jogging
on.'
"And he caught her and pulled her over to him, though she struggled
hard, kicking and resisting with all her might.
"'Jasper, Jasper!' she cried. 'Help me—pull me away—don't let him kiss
me—don't let him!'
"For I must tell you she was a queer, shy little soul, and not ready
with a kiss for every one, as some children are. But Jack was a strong
man—a great big fellow; and I was not a very brave boy. I was—to my
shame I say it—as afraid of getting hurt as any girl. So I tried to
laugh, and said, 'Never mind, Katie! He'll do you no harm,' And then I
said to Jack, 'Let the child go, you are frightening her.'
"' I'm not frightened!' she cried. 'I'm angry!'
"And she closed her little hand and pummelled Jack's red face as hard
as she could, he laughing and she screaming. I heard some one running
up the lane fast, and in a moment I saw that it was Harry. He had not
seen Jack before, and he fancied that the man was wanting to carry
Katie off. He ran up, with a stick in his hand; he gave Jack a stinging
blow on the face, and dragged Katie away from him.
"'Run away, Katie,' he said; 'I'll keep him back as long as I can.'
"Katie ran, and so did I, for Jack was half mad with anger; but when I
had got some way off—you know I could not go very fast—I turned and saw
Harry knocked down, and Jack beating him with his crutch. Katie found
her father near the gate, and brought him with me, and he soon made
Jack behave himself.
"Harry was bruised and stiff, but he had done more to make Katie fond
of him by that one act than I had done in all the weeks when I thought
I had everything my own way. She said—
"'Harry came to save me, though I had been very bad to him; but I'm
afraid, Jasper, that you're a coward.'
"And in my perversity, I thought that Harry had said this to her—a
thing he never did, for he had a good word for most, and if he could
say no good, he held his tongue."
"But," burst in Hugh, "you were 'not' a coward, Uncle Jasper?"
"Well—I don't know, Hugh. You must remember, I was very lame, and I had
suffered a cruel deal of pain with my foot. And I think that somehow
took the pluck out of me. I would not say I was a regular coward, when
I had time to think, but I often did cowardly things if you took me by
surprise.
"Time went on, and we went to school, just as you do; and we grew
taller, and Katie grew prettier, every day. Mr. Marlowe was stern in
his manner to both of us boys, yet kind in his own way—yet I knew
well that Harry was his favourite. And Katie was fond of us both;
but she, too, was fonder of Harry. I thought this very unfair. I
never asked myself why every one liked Harry best, as every man and
maid about the place did—ay, and every dog too, for old Rover, the
cross old sheep-dog, who would never let me touch him, would wag his
tail and lift his head when Harry stooped to pet him. I never let
myself see that all loved Harry because he was a fine, open-hearted,
kindly-tempered lad, and only half liked me because I was envious and
selfish.
"Boys! When you find out, if you ever do, that people don't like you,
don't go thinking how unkind and unfair they are. Just look at home,
and ask yourself why they should like you."
Jasper stopped short, and looked puzzled.
"Where was I?" he said. "I have forgotten."
"Ah! I knew he would," muttered Hugh.
But Lucy said—
"You were saying that old Rover loved Harry."
"Ay, ay; and Rover was a great favourite with Mr. Marlowe. His wife had
reared the creature from a little blind pup, that the mother deserted.
She nursed the little beast through the distemper, and he grew up a
fine dog; and when she died, Rover laid himself down on her grave, and
would not leave it for days. So Hugh Marlowe loved him, and, now that
he was old and past his work, he was allowed to lie on the rug in this
room. But he always growled at me, and I did not like it.
"When I look back upon those days, and see how happy we might have
been, we three young people, and how little happiness we really had—and
how it was all my fault—Ah, well! They forgave me heartily. But I used
to say things against Harry to Katie: tell her he said he didn't like
her rough ways, or that he said she had a terrible temper; and then
she would run off to him and ask him if he thought so and so; and he
could not quite deny it, for she had been left to run wild, and she was
rough sometimes, and she 'had' a hot temper; but Harry never said a
word of all this to any one, unless to herself. But she fancied he had,
and sometimes for days together she would not speak to him, and I was
triumphant in those days. But she had too much good sense not to know
that Harry was a true friend to her, and it always ended in her crying
and begging his pardon.
"So things went on until we were fifteen, and Katie ten, or
thereabouts. Then Mr. Marlowe took us boys from school, and began to
make us useful on the farm, that we might learn our business. We had
always helped him a little, but now we were to be regularly under him;
and he was a hard master in some ways, for his temper was hard with
every one except Katie. Still, I knew well that he loved Harry dearly,
and only liked me after a fashion; but he was kind in most things,
and fair to us in all. I did not think then that he was fair, but now
I know that he was. I was lazy, and hated the rough work: I always
tried to do as little as I could, and he saw this, and was often down
upon me. Harry liked the open-air life, and loved every creature about
the place, so he got on well. And I began to think that life was very
dull, and that every one was unfair—determined to make much of Harry
and little of me; and so it came about that I began to make friends
elsewhere. Nice friends I chose, too!
"Not being able to do much hard work, it often fell to me to ride into
T— to buy anything that was wanted, or to go to the bank with money for
Mr. Marlowe. I used to gallop along the roads, get my business done as
soon as possible, and then I was off to a tavern in the suburbs, where
I had made acquaintances, and there I would play cards, smoke, and
drink, and spend every penny I had. I never had much money, of course;
and so as time went on I lost more than I could manage to pay, and had
to ask the men to wait, and then I lived in continual fear lest some
of them should keep their word and come to speak to Uncle Hugh about
it—not that they really meant to do so, for they must have known that
they would make nothing by it, and that I should be kept at home if
Mr. Marlowe knew how I was going on. But I did not understand this so
well then, and I fretted and fretted about it. And often when I was
very low, the mistress of the house would ask me to 'Have a drop of
something to put heart in me,' and, as I had no money, I ran in debt
for that too.
"But the worst thing I did was that I used Harry's name. I always gave
my name as Harry Franks. I had no bad intention in so doing beyond
this: that if my frequenting the tavern came to be talked of, I wished
Harry to get the credit of it. I had no plan for anything worse—but the
devil had! And you will see how he used that very thing afterwards. If
once we begin to do his work, he'll take care that we do more than we
intended at first.
"This went on for what seemed to me a long time, but I believe it was
really about six months; and at the end of that time I owed nine or ten
pounds, lost at cards, and two or three more at the bar of the tavern.
Not that I had drunk so much myself, but others persuaded me to treat
them when they found that I could get credit."
He paused for a few moments, and then said, "I'm coming to the snow.
Boys, is it thawing yet?"
"No, uncle, freezing lovely hard!" said Frank.
"It will last out my story, then. It was spring, much later than it is
now—the lambing-season had begun. It was not like this snow. It would
be all white one day and nearly gone the next, and then snow again, and
thaw a little when the sun came out, and freeze again in the evening;
so that it got very slippery everywhere. It was a bad season for the
lambs, they died in great numbers, and even some of the sheep died too.
Mr. Marlowe tired himself out toiling through the snow after them, and
at last he got a heavy fall down in the Long Pasture, and was a good
deal bruised and shaken. Nor was that the worst of it, for he lay there
unable to get up for some time, until Katie found him, and then his
rheumatism came on very badly, so that he was confined to his bed for
some days, and to the house for a long time. And still the snow went
on, lying thick to-day, and melted to-morrow—such weather no one in
these parts remembered.
"We young ones had a hard enough time of it, for Mr. Marlowe was very
ill to please. Katie nursed him tenderly; indeed, it was a wonder to
see how the wild little thing, used to have her own way with all of
us, grew gentle and tender and forbearing in her love for her father.
Harry worked like a grown man to keep things going straight, and I did
mighty little but sit by the fire and shiver! But when Mr. Marlowe came
downstairs, he soon put an end to all that! It seemed to me that he
took a special delight in finding hard things for me to do.
"Katie saw how this angered me, and she spoke to me and said that I
must try to forget it all. 'Tis his illness, not himself, Jasper,' she
said, 'for you know he is not like this always. Don't brood over it; I
hate to see you look at him as you do sometimes.'
"Harry was present, and he said that she was mistaken, surely. 'No one
could take offence at what a man said or did when he was beside himself
with pain. Jasper's not such a baby,' said he.
"And I, as usual, did not believe that the poor fellow spoke in the
honest kindliness of his heart, but thought that he knew what I really
felt, and said this to vex me. So I laid up that offence in my heart,
along with a whole lot of others just as real.
"Now I am coming to the part of my story that is of consequence, and
you must listen very attentively, for if you do not, you will not
understand it."
"Well, then, uncle," said the master, "suppose we have it to-morrow
night? For these young ones are tired, and I see heads beginning to
nod."
The boys all sat up in positions of extreme alertness, each asserting
that he never in his life felt less sleepy. Hugh begged hard for the
rest of the story, whispering to his father—
"Only suppose he forgets the end, father."
But, to his amazement, old Jasper heard him.
"Forget the end!" he cried. "Ah, Hugh there's no danger of that. The
part I'm coming to now is burnt in. There has never been a moment since
it happened that I couldn't have told it every word, and so it will
be till God takes me home. Much of what I have told you I had partly
forgotten, until I began to think it over, but what is to come I have
never been able to leave off thinking of all my life."
"Oh, that sounds dreadful!" cried Hugh, rather frightened.
"It 'is' so. Maybe if I had made no secret of it all, but lived my life
in the light of day—Your mother thinks so. But the light is coming. It
will come with the thaw."
The boys stole off to bed, Hugh undressing in dead silence. When he had
said his prayers, he looked at the other two boys and said—
"Do you know, I almost wish Uncle Jasper 'would' forget the rest of the
story? I don't like it—not this part of it. I don't feel as if things
will be the same again, after we've heard it."
"Oh, nonsense! I'm longing to know what he really did," cried Harry;
"and I'm very sure it was nothing so dreadful, after all."
"Then I don't agree with you!" said Hugh.
But, as he was seldom known to agree with any one, this remark failed
to impress his brothers as much as it ought to have done.
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