Miss Fosbrook, who was walking behind them, turned as he came in.
“Henry,” she said, “I have sent Johnnie to dine in the nursery, for his disobedience in climbing the gate. I certainly shall not give you a less punishment. You must have led him into it; and how could you be so cruel as to leave the poor little fellow alone in such a dangerous place?”
“Stupid little coward! it was not a bit of danger!” said Hal.
“So young a child—” began Miss Fosbrook.
“Oh, that’s all your London notions,” said Hal. “Why, I climbed up our gate at Stonehouse, which was twice as high, when I wasn’t near as old as that!”
“I am not going to argue with you, Henry; but after such an act of disobedience, I cannot allow you to sit down to dinner with us. Go up to the school-room, and Mary shall bring you your dinner.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to dine with a lot of babies and governesses!” exclaimed Henry, and bounced up-stairs, leaving Miss Fosbrook quite confounded at such an outbreak of naughtiness.
She intended, as soon as dinner should be over, to go up to him, and try to lead him to be sorry for his conduct, and to think what a wretched moment this was for such audacity; and then she feared that she ought to punish him farther, by keeping him in all the afternoon. He was so soft and easily impressed, that she almost trusted to make him feel that it would be right that he should suffer for his misconduct.
When she went up-stairs, almost as soon as grace had been said, he was gone. Nobody could find him, and calling produced no answer. She became quite distressed and anxious, but could not go far from the house herself, nor send Sam, in case the message should arrive.
“Oh,” said Sam, “no doubt he’s after something with the Grevilles, and was afraid you would stop him in.”
She tried to believe this, but still felt far from satisfied all the afternoon, and was glad to see the boy come back in time for tea.
He said he had been with the Grevilles; he did not see why anybody need ask him questions; he should do what he pleased without being called to account. Nobody told him not to run away after dinner; he was not going to stay to be ordered about for nothing.
This was so bad a temper, that Christabel could not bear to try to touch him with the thought of his sick mother. She knew that softening must come in time, and believed the best thing to do at the moment would be to put a stop to his disrespectful speeches to her, and his cross ones to his brothers and sisters, by sending him to bed as soon as tea was over, as the completion of his punishment. He did not struggle, for she had taught him to mind her; but he went up-stairs with a gloomy brow, and angry murmurs that it was very hard to be put under a stupid woman, who knew nothing about anything, and was always cross.
Saturday’spost brought a letter, and a comfortable one. All Thursday Mrs. Merrifield had been in so doubtful a state, that her husband could not bear to write, lest he should fill the children with false hopes, or alarm them still more; but she had had a good night, was stronger on Friday, and when the post went out, the doctors had just ventured to say they believed she would recover favourably. The letter was finished off in a great hurry; but Captain Merrifield did not forget to thank his little Susan warmly for her poor scrambling letter, and say he knew all she meant by it, bidding her give Miss Fosbrook his hearty thanks for forwarding it, and for telling him the children were all behaving well, and feeling properly. His love to them all; they must try to deserve the great mercy that had been granted to them.
To the children, this was almost as good as saying that their mother was well again; but there was too much awe about them for their joy to show itself noisily. Susan ran away to her own room, and Bessie followed her; and Sam said no word, only Miss Fosbrook remarked that he did not eat two mouthfuls of breakfast. She would not take any notice; she knew his heart was full; and when she looked round on that little flock, and thought of the grievous sorrow scarcely yet averted from them, she could hardly keep the tears from blinding her. They were all somewhat still and grave, and it was too happy a morning to be broken into by the reproofs that Henry deserved, even more richly than Christabel knew. She had almost forgotten his bad behaviour; and when she remembered something of it, she could not but hope that silence, on such a day as this, might bring it home to him more than rebuke. Yet when breakfast was ever, he was among the loudest of those who, shaking off the strange, awed gravity of deep gladness, went rushing together into the garden, feeling that they might give way to their spirits again.
Sam shouted and whooped as if he were casting off a burthen, and picking little George up in his arms, tossed him and swung him round in the air in an ecstasy; while John and Annie and David went down on the grass together, and tumbled and rolled one over the other like three kittens, their legs and arms kicking about, so that it was hard to tell whose property were the black shoes that came wriggling into view.
Susan was quieter. She told Nurse the good news, and then laid hold upon Baby, and carried her off into the passage to hug all to herself. She could tell no one but Baby how very happy she was, and how her heart had trembled at her mother’s suffering, her father’s grief, and at the desolateness that had so nearly come on them. Oh, she was very happy, very thankful; but she could not scream it out like the others, Baby must have it all in kisses.
“Christabel,” said a little voice, when all the others were gone, “I shall never be pipy again.”
“You must try to fight against it, my dear.”
“Because,” said Elizabeth, coming close up to her, “when dear Mamma was so ill, it did seem so silly to mind about not having pretty things like Ida, and the boys plaguing, and so on.”
“Yes, my dear; a real trouble makes us ashamed of our little discontents.”
“I said so many times yesterday, and the day before, that I would never mind things again, if only Mamma would get well and come home,” said the little girl; “and I never shall.”
“You will not always find it easy not to mind,” said Christabel; “but if you try hard, you will learn how to keep from showing that you mind.”
“Oh!” said Elizabeth, (and a great mouthful of an oh! it was,) “those things are grown so silly and little now.”
“You have seen them in their true light for once, my dear. And now that you have so great cause of thankfulness to God, you feel that your foolish frets and discontents were unthankful.”
“Yes,” said Bessie, her eyes cast down, as they always were when anything of this kind was said to her, as if she did not like to meet the look fixed on her.
“Well then, Bessie, try to make the giving up of these murmurs your thank-offering to God. Suppose every day when you say your prayers, you were to add something like this—” and she wrote down on a little bit of paper, “O Thou, who hast raised up my mother from her sickness, teach me to be a thankful and contented child, and to guard my words and thoughts from peevishness.”
“Isn’t it too small to pray about?” said Elizabeth.
“Nothing is too small to pray about, my dear. Do you think this little midge is too small for God to have made it, and given it life, and spread that mother-of-pearl light on its wings? Do you think yourself too small to pray? or your fault too small to pray about?”
Elizabeth cast down her eyes. She did not quite think it was a fault, but she did not say so.
“Bessie, what was the great sin of the Israelites in the wilderness?”
The colour on her cheek showed that she knew.
“They tempted God by murmurs,” said Christabel. “They tried His patience by grumbling, when His care and blessings were all round them, and by crying out because all was not just as they liked. Now, dear Bessie, God has shown you what a real sorrow might be; will it not be tempting Him to go back to complaints over what He has ordained for you?”
“I shall net complain now; I shall not care,” said Elizabeth. But she took the little bit of paper, and Christabel trusted that she would make use of it, knowing that in this lay her hope of cure; for whatever she might think in this first joy of relief, her little troubles were sure to seem quite as unbearable while they were upon her as if she had never feared a great one.
However, nothing remarkable happened; everyone was bright and happy; but still the influence of their past alarm subdued them enough to make them quiet and well-behaved, both on Saturday and Sunday; and Miss Fosbrook had never had so little trouble with them.
In consideration of this, and of the agitation and unsettled state that had put the last week out of all common rules, she announced on Monday morning that she would excuse all the fines, and that all the children should have their allowance unbroken. Maybe she was moved to this by the suspicion that these four sixpences and three threepennies would make up the fund to the price of a “reasonable pig;” and she thought it time that David’s perseverance should be rewarded, and room made in his mind for something beyond swine and halfpence.
Her announcement was greeted by the girls with eager thanks, by the boys with a tremendous “Three times three for Miss Fosbrook!” and Bessie was so joyous, that instead of crying out against the noise, she joined in with Susan and Annie; but they made such a ridiculous little squeaking, that Sam laughed at them, and took to mocking their queer thin hurrahs. Yet even this Elizabeth could bear!
David was meanwhile standing by the locker, his fingers at work as if he were playing a tune, his lips counting away, “Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four—that’s me; ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven—that’s Jack,” and so on; till having plodded up diligently, he turned round with a little scream, “One hundred and twenty! That’s the pig!”
“What?” cried Annie.
“One hundred and twenty pence. Sukey said one hundred and twenty pence were ten shillings. That will do it! That’s the pig! Oh, we’ve done it! May I take it to Purday?”
“It was to be let alone till fair-day, you little bother!” said Hal.
“No, no, no,” cried many voices; “only till we had enough.”
“And I am sure nobody knows if we have,” added Hal hotly. “A lot of halfpence, indeed!”
“But I know, Hal,” insisted David. “There are eighty-nine pence and one farthing in Toby Fillpot, and this makes one hundred and twenty-two pence and one farthing.”
“You’d no business to peep,” said Sam.
“I didn’t peep,” said David indignantly. “There were forty-eight pence at first, and then Susie had three, that was fifty-one—” And he would have gone on like a little calculating machine, with the entire reckoning in his head, if the others had had patience to hear; but Annie and Johnnie were urgent to have the sum counted out before their eyes. Hal roughly declared it was against the rules, and little inquisitives must not have their way. But others were also inquisitive; and Sam said it would be best to know how much they had, that Purday might be told to look out for a pig at the price; besides, he wanted to have it over; it was such a bore not to have any money.
“It’s not fair!” cried Henry passionately. “You don’t keep the rules! You sha’n’t have my sixpence, I can tell you; and I won’t—I won’t stay and see it.”
“Nobody wants you,” said Sam.
“I didn’t know there were any rules,” said the girls; but Hal was already off.
“Hal has only put in fivepence-halfpenny,” said David, “so no wonder he is ashamed. Such a big boy, with sixpence a week! But if he won’t let us have his sixpence now—”
“Never mind, we will make it up next week,” said Susan.
“Now, then, who will take Toby down?” said Miss Fosbrook, unbuttoning one glass door, and undoing the two bolts of the second, behind which the cup of money stood.
“Susie ought, because she is the eldest.”
“Davie ought, because he is the youngest.”
David stood on a chair to take Toby off his shelf. Solemn was the face with which the little boy lifted the mug by the handle, putting his other hand to steady the expected weight of coppers; but there was at once a frown, a little cry of horror. Toby came up so light in his hand, that all his great effort was thrown away, and only made him stagger back in dismay, falling backward from the chair, and poor Toby crashing to pieces on the floor as he fell, while out rolled—one solitary farthing!
Nobody spoke for some moments; but all stood perfectly still, staring as hard as if they hoped the pence would be brought out by force of looking for them.
Then David’s knuckles went up into his eyes, and he burst forth in a loud bellow. It was the first time Miss Fosbrook had heard him cry, and she feared that he had been hurt by the fall, or cut by the broken crockery; but he struck out with foot and fist, as if his tears were as much anger as grief, and roared out, “I want the halfpence for my pig.”
“Sam, Sam,” cried Susan, “if you have hid them for a trick, let him have them.”
“I—I play tricksnow?” exclaimed Sam in indignation. “No, indeed!”
“Then perhaps Hal has,” said Elizabeth.
“For shame, Bessie!” cried Sam.
“I only know,” said Elizabeth, half in self-defence, half in fright, “that one of you must have been at the baby-house, for I found the doors open, and shut them up.”
“And why should it be one of us?” demanded Sam; while David stopped crying, and listened.
“Because none of the younger ones can reach to undo the doors,” said Elizabeth. “It was as much as I could do to reach the upper bolt, though I stood upon a chair.”
This was evident; for the baby-house was really an old-fashioned bureau, and below the glass doors there was a projecting slope of polished walnut, upon which only a fly could stand, and which was always locked. No one whose years were less than half a score was tall enough to get a good hold of the button, even from the highest chair, far less to jerk down the rather stiff upper bolt.
“It cannot have been a little one, certainly,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but you should not be so ready to accuse your brothers, Bessie.”
David, however, had laid hold of a hope, and getting up from the floor, hastened out of the room, followed by John; and they were presently heard shouting “Hal!” all over the house.
“What day was it that you found the door open, Bessie?” asked Miss Fosbrook.
“It was just after dinner,” said Elizabeth, recollecting herself.
“It was on Friday. Yes, I remember it was Friday, because I went into the school-room to get my pencil, and I was afraid Hal would jump out upon me, and looked in first to see whether he was going to be tiresome; but he was gone.”
“Yes,” said Susan; “it was the day we found poor Jack stuck up on the gate, when he and Hal were in disgrace. Oh, he never would have played tricks then.”
“Did you go up before me, Bessie?” asked Miss Fosbrook; “for I went up directly after dinner to speak to Henry.”
“Yes, I did,” said she. “I thought if you got in first, you would be scolding him ever so long, and would let nobody in, so I would get my pencil first; and I slipped up before you had left the table.”
Just then the two boys were heard stumping up the stairs, and ran in, panting with haste and excitement, David with a fiery red ear.
“No, no; Hal didn’t hide it!”
“But he boxed Davie’s ear for thinking he did,” added John; “and said he’d do the same for spiteful Bet!”
“Then he never played tricks,” said Susan.
“I told you not,” said Sam.
“No,” reiterated David; “and he said I’d no business to ask; and if Bet went prying about everywhere, I’d better ask her. Have you got it, Betty?”
“I!” cried Elizabeth. “How can you, Davie?”
“You have got a secret,” exclaimed David; “and you always were cross about Hannah Higgins’s pig. You have got it to tease me! Miss Fosbrook, make her give it back.”
“Nonsense, David,” said Miss Fosbrook; “Bessie is quite to be trusted; and it is wrong to make unfounded accusations.”
“Never mind, Betty,” added Sam kindly; “if Davie wasn’t a little donkey, he wouldn’t say such things.”
“Where is Henry?” asked the governess. “Why did he not come himself? Call him; I want to know if he observed this door being open.”
“He is gone down to Mr. Carey’s,” said John.
“And it is high time you were there too, Sam,” said Miss Fosbrook, starting. “If you are late, beg Mr. Carey’s pardon from me, and tell him that I kept you.”
Sam was obliged to run off at full speed; and the other children stood about, still aghast and excited. Miss Fosbrook, however, told them to take out their books. She would not do anything more till she had had time to think, and had composed their minds and her own; for she was exceedingly shocked, and felt herself partly in fault, for having left the hoard in an unlocked cupboard. She feared to do anything hastily, lest she should bring suspicion on the innocent; and she thought all would do better if time were given for settling down. All were disappointed at thus losing the excitement, fancying perhaps that instant search and inquiry would hunt up the money; and David put himself quite into a sullen fit. No, he would not turn round, nor read, nor do anything, unless Miss Fosbrook would make stingy Bet give up the pence.
Miss Fosbrook and Susan both tried to argue with him; but he had set his mind upon one point so vehemently, that it was making him absolutely stupid to everything else; and he was such a little boy (only five years old), that his mind could hardly grasp the exceeding unlikelihood of a girl like Elizabeth committing such a theft, either in sport or earnest, nor understand the injury of such a suspicion. He only knew that she had a secret—a counter secret to his pig; and when she hotly assured him that she had never touched the money, and Susan backed her up with, “There, she says she did not,” he answered, “She once told a story.”
Elizabeth coloured deep red, and Susan cried out loudly that it was a shame in David; then explained that it was a long long time ago, that Hal and Bessie broke the drawing-room window by playing at ball with little hard apples, and had not told, but when questioned had said, “No;” but indeed they had been so sorry then that she knew they would never do so again.
Again David showed that he could not enter into this, and sulkily repeated, “She told a story.”
“I will have no more of this,” said Christabel resolutely. “You are all working yourselves up into a bad spirit: and not another word will I hear on this matter till lessons are over.”
That tone was always obeyed; but lessons did not prosper; the children were all restless and unsettled; and David, hitherto for his age her best scholar, took no pains, and seemed absolutely stupefied. What did he care for fines, if the chance of the pig was gone? And he was sullenly angry with Miss Fosbrook for using no measures to recover the money, fancied she did not care, and remembered the foolish nursery talk about her favouring Bessie.
Once Miss Fosbrook heard a little gasping from the corner, and looking round, saw poor Bessie crying quietly over her slate, and trying hard to check herself. She would not have noticed her, though longing to comfort her, if David had not cried out, “Bet is crying! A fine!”
“No,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but a fine for an ill-natured speech that has made her cry.”
“She has got the pig’s money,” muttered David.
“Say that again, and I shall punish you, David.”
He looked her full in the face, and said it again.
She was thoroughly roused to anger, and kept her word by opening the door of a small dark closet, and putting David in till dinner-time.
Then she and Susan both tried to soothe Bessie, by reminding her how childish David was, how he had caught up some word that probably Hal had flung out without meaning it, and how no one of any sense suspected her for a moment.
“It is so ill-natured and hard,” sobbed Bessie. “To think I could steal! I think they hate me.”
“Ah,” said Susan, “if you only would never be cross to the boys, Bessie, and not keep out of what they care for, they would never think it.”
“Yes, Susie is right there,” said Christabel. “If you try to be one with the others, and make common cause with them, giving up and forbearing, they never will take such things into their heads.”
“Andwedon’t now,” said Susan cheerily. “Didn’t you hear Sam say nobody but a donkey could think it?”
“But Bessie has a secret!” said Annie.
Again stout Susan said, “For shame!”
“I’ll tell you what my secret is,” began Bessie.
“No,” said Susan, “don’t tell it, dear! We’ll trust you without; and Sam will say the same.”
Bessie flung her arms round Susan’s neck, as if she only now knew the comfort of her dear good sister.
Lessons were resumed; and as soon as these were done, Miss Fosbrook resolved on a thorough search. Some strange fit of mischief or curiosity might have actuated some one, and the money be hidden away; so she brought David out of his cupboard, and with Susan’s help turned out every drawer and locker in the school-room, forbidding the others to touch or assist. They routed out queer nests of broken curiosities, disturbed old dusty dens of rubbish, peeped behind every row of books; but made no discovery worth mentioning, except the left leg of Annie’s last doll, the stuffing of Johnnie’s ball, the tiger out of George’s Noah’s ark, and the first sheet of Sam’s Latin Grammar, all stuffed together into a mouse-hole in the skirting.
At dinner Christabel forbade the subject to be mentioned, not only to hinder quarrelsome speeches, but to prevent the loss being talked of among the servants; since she feared that one of them must have committed the theft, and though anxious not to put it into the children’s heads, suspected Rhoda, the little nursery-girl, who was quite a child, and had not long been in the house.
Henry ate his dinner in haste, but could not get away till Miss Fosbrook had called him away from the rest, and told him that if he had been playing a trick on his little brother, it was time to put an end to it, before any innocent person fell under suspicion.
“I—I’ve been playing no tricks—at least—”
“Without anyat least, Henry, have you hidden the money?”
“No.”
“You dined in the school-room on Friday. Were the baby-house doors open then!”
“I—I’m sure I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t open them to take anything out?”
“What should I want with the things in the baby-house?”
“Did you, or did you not!”
“I—I didn’t—at least—”
“In one word, did you open them? yes or no.”
“No.”
“What time did you go out after eating your dinner?”
“Bother! how is one to remember! It’s all nonsense making such a fuss. The children fancied they put in ever so much more than they did, and very likely took out some.”
“No; David’s reckoning was accurate. I wrote down all I knew of; and I am sure none was taken out, for early that very morning I had put in a sixpence myself, and the cup was then full of coppers, with that little silver threepenny of David’s with the edge turned up upon the top.”
“Then you must have left the door undone!” said Henry delighted.
“I dare not be positive,” said Christabel; “but I believe I remember bolting it; and if I had not done so, it would have flown open sooner.”
“Oh, but the wind, you know.”
“If the doors did open, it would not account for the loss of the money.”
“Well, I can’t help it,” said Henry ungraciously, trying to move off: but she first required him to tell her what he had said to the younger boys to make them suspect Elizabeth.
“Did I?” said Henry, “I am sure I didn’t; at least, if I did, I only said Bess peeped everywhere, and was very close. I didn’t suspect her, you know.”
“I should think not!” said Miss Fosbrook indignantly. “Now please to come up with me.”
“I want to go out,” said Henry.
No, she would not let him go. She thought Elizabeth ought to clear herself, so far as it could be done, by making her secret known, since that had drawn suspicion on her; and when all the children were together, she called the little girl and told her so.
“It is very unkind of them,” said Bessie, with trembling lip; “but they shall see, if they wantthatto show I am not a thief!”
“I said I wouldn’t see,” said Susan. “You knows Bessie, I trust you.”
“And I,” said Sam; “I don’t care for people’s secrets. I don’t want to pry into Bessie’s.”
No one followed their example; all either really suspected, or else were full of curiosity, and delighted to gratify it.
Half a dozen slips of card, with poor little coloured drawings on them, and as many lengths of penny ribbon!
“Is that all?” said Annie, much disappointed.
“So that’s what Bet made such a fuss about,” said John; and David’s face fell, as if he had really expected to see the lost pence.
The next thing, after the search had been made through all the children’s bed-rooms, was to go to the nursery: and thither Miss Fosbrook allowed only Susan and Sam to follow her. Nurse Freeman was very stiff and stately, but she had no objection to searching; and the boy and girl began the hunt, while Miss Fosbrook meantime cautiously asked whether Nurse were sure of Rhoda, and if she were trustworthy.
This made Mrs. Freeman very angry; and though her words were respectful, she showed that she was much offended at the strange lady presuming to suspect anyone, especially one under her charge.
Miss Fosbrook wanted to have asked Rhoda whether the doors were open or shut when she carried Henry his dinner, but Nurse would not consent to call her. “I understood the nursery and the girl were to be my province,” she said. “If Miss Merrifield heard her mamma say otherwise, then it is a different thing.”
Susan cowered into the dark cupboard. Nurse must be in a dreadful way to call her Miss Merrifield, instead of Missy!
Nothing more could be done. The pence could not be found. Nurse would not let Rhoda be examined; and all that could be found out from the children had been already elicited.
Christabel could only beg that no more should be said, and, her head aching with perplexity, hope that some light might yet be thrown on the matter. There must be pain and grief whenever it should be explained; but this would be far better, even for the offender, than the present deception: and the whole family were in a state of irritation and distrust, that hurt their tempers, and made her bitterly reproach herself with not having prevented temptation by putting the hoard under lock and key.
She ordered that no more should be said about it that evening, and made herself obeyed; but play was dull, and everything went off heavily. The next morning, Susan came back early from her housekeeping business, with her honest face grave and unhappy, and finding Miss Fosbrook alone, told her she had somethingreallyto say to her if she might; and this being granted began, with the bright look of having found a capital notion: “I’ll tell you what I wish you would do.”
“Well?”
“If you would call every one in all the house, and ask them on their word and honour if they took the pence.”
“My dear, I am not the head of the house, and I have no right to do that; besides, I do not believe it would discover it.”
“What! could a thief get in from out of doors!” said Susan looking at the window.
“Hardly that, my dear; but I am afraid a person who could steal would not scruple to tell a falsehood, and I do not wish to cause this additional sin.”
“It is very horrid; I can’t bear it,” said Susan, puckering up her face for tears. “Do you know, Miss Fosbrook, the maids are all so angry that you said anything about Rhoda?”
“You did not mention it, my dear?”
“Oh no; nor Sam. It was Nurse herself! But they all say that you want to take away her character; and they won’t have strangers put over them.”
“Pray, Susie; don’t tell me this. It can do no good.”
“Oh, butplease!” cried Susan. “And then Mary—I can’t think how she could—but she said that poor dear Bessie was always sly, and that she had been at the cupboard, and had got the pence; but she was your favourite, and so you vindicated her. And Nurse began teasing her to confess, and tell the truth, and told her she was a wicked child because she would not; but it was all because we were put under strangers! I’m sure they do set on Johnnie and Davie to be cross to her.”
“When was this, my dear?”
“Last night, when we went to the nursery to be washed. It was our night, you know. Oh! I wish Mamma was well!”
“Indeed I do my dear. And how did poor Bessie bear it!”
“She got quite white, and never said a word, even when they told her she was sulky. But when we got into bed, and I kissed her and cuddled her up, oh! she did cry so; I didn’t know what to do. So, do you know, I got my shawl on, and went and called Sam; and he was not gone to sleep, and he came and sat by her, and told her that he believed her, and knew she was as sound a heart of oak as any of us; and we both petted her, and Sam was so nice and kind, till she went to sleep. Then he went to the nursery, and told Nurse how horrid it was in her; but Cook said it only made her worse, because she is jealous of our taking part with you.”
“My dear, Idolike to hear of your kindness to Bessie; but I wish you would not mind what any of the maids say, nor talk to them about it. It only distresses you for nothing.”
“But I can’t help it,” said Susan.
“You could not help this attack in the nursery, but you need not talk to Cook or Mary about it. It is of no use to vex ourselves with what people say who don’t know half a story.”
“Can’t you tell them not?” said simple Susan.
“No, I cannot interfere. They would only do it the more. We can only keep Bessie as much out of the way of the maids as we can, and show our confidence in her.”
Certainly Elizabeth had been known to look infinitely more glum when nothing was the matter than under all this vexation, even though the servants were really very unkind to her; and her two little brothers both behaved as ill as possible to her whenever they had the opportunity—David really believing that she had made away with the money, and ought to be tortured for it; and Johnnie taking it on his word, and being one of those little boys who have a positive taste for ill-nature, and think it fun. They pinched her, they bit her, they rubbed out her sums, they shut up her lesson-books and lost her place, they put bitten crusts into her plate, and did whatever they knew she most disliked, whenever Miss Fosbrook or Sam was not in the way; but she never told. She did not choose to be called a tell-tale; and besides, they really did not succeed in making her life miserable, so much was she pleased with the real kindness her trouble had brought out from Susan and Sam. Susan could not prevent the persecution of the two naughty little boys, but she defended her sister to her utmost; and Sam cuffed them if they said a word or lifted a finger against Bessie before him; and he gave her such notice and kindness as she never had received from him before. One afternoon, when he was going to walk to Bonchamp, he asked leave for her to come with him, and would take nobody else; and hot day as it was, Bessie had never had such a charming walk. She kept herself from making one single fuss; and in return, he gathered wild strawberries for her, showed her a kingfisher, and took her to look in at a very grand aquarium in the fishing-tackle maker’s window, where she saw some gold-fish, and a most comical little newt. And going home, they had a real good talk about their father’s voyage, and how they should get on without him; and Bessie found to her great pleasure, that Sam hoped Miss Fosbrook would stay when Mamma Came home.
“For I do think she has put some sense into you, Bessie,” said Sam.
She was so delighted, that instead of preparing to fret if Sam did but hold up a finger at her, she looked up with a smile when he came in her way, sure of protection, and expecting something pleasant, as well as thinking it an honour to be asked to help him in anything. The next day, when Mr. Carey had insisted on his verifying by the map all the towns which he had been contented to say were in Asia Minor (where every place in ancient history is always put if its whereabouts be doubtful), she saved him so much time and trouble, that he got out into the garden full half an hour earlier than he would otherwise have done. Thereupon he told her she was a jolly good fellow, and gave her such a thump on the back, as a few weeks ago would have made her scream and whine; but this time she took it as a new form of thanks, and felt highly honoured by being invited to help him to fish for minnows, though it almost made her sick to stick the raw meat upon his hooks.
The threatening of a true sorrow, the bearing a real trouble, and the opening to her brother’s kindness, had done far more to make her a happy little girl than all Miss Fosbrook’s attempts to satisfy her cravings or please her tastes. These had indeed done her some good, and taught her to find means of enjoyment for those likings that no one else cared for; but it had been thespiritof delight that had been chiefly wanting; and when thankfulness and love were leading her to that, it was much easier to see that the evening clouds or the rising moon were lovely, than when she was looking out for affronts.
Nothing was said in public about the loss; and Christabel hoped that the bad impression as to Elizabeth would wear out in the young minds of the lesser children; but David’s whole nature seemed to have been disorganized by the disappointment. Instead of being a pattern child for diligence and good behaviour, very fond of Miss Fosbrook, and not only inoffensive, but often keeping John and Anne in order, he seemed absolutely stupid and senseless at lessons, became stubborn at reproof, seemed to take pleasure in running counter to his governess, and rendered the other two, who, though his elders, were both of weak natures compared with his own, more openly naughty than himself. Sometimes it seemed to Christabel that the habit of spiting Bessie was getting so confirmed, that it would last even when the cause was forgotten; and yet the more she strove to put it down in sight, the more it throve out of sight; and when she looked at David, and thought how she had once admired him, she could not but remember the text that says, “Thy goodness is as the morning cloud, and as the dew shall it vanish away.” She had thought it goodness based upon religious feeling, as well as on natural gravity and orderliness; and so perhaps it had once been, but the little fellow had fixed his whole soul on one purpose, and though that was a good one, it had grown into an idol, and swallowed up all his other motives, till of late he had only been good for the sake of the pig, not because it was right. Being disappointed of the pig, he had nothing to fall back upon, but felt himself so ill-used, that it seemed to him that it was no use to be good; and he revenged himself by naughtiness.
Such sturdy strong characters as little David’s, when they are once set on the right object, come to the very best kind of goodness; but when they take a wrong turn, they are the very worst, both for themselves and others.
TheMonday after the loss of the pence was a pouring wet day. The whole court was like a flood, and the drops went splashing up again as if in play; Purday wore his master’s old southwester coat, and looked shiny all over; and when the maids had to cross the court, they went click, click, in their pattens under their umbrellas.
But it was baking day, and Susan and Annie had been down to coax the cook into making them a present of a handsome allowance of dough, and Miss Fosbrook into letting them manipulate it in the school-room. Probably this was the only way of preventing the dough from being turned into bullets, and sent flying at each other’s eyes, or possibly plastered on somebody’s nose, and the cook and kitchenmaid from being nearly driven crazy.
The dough was justly divided, and an establishment set up in each locker. Bessie declined altogether; Sam had lent her his beautiful book ofThe British Songsters, and she was hard at work at the table copying a tom-tit, since she no longer carried on the work in secret; but at one locker were the other three elders, at the other the three lesser ones, and little George in a corner by Susan, pegging away at his own private lump, and constantly begging for more. Susan’s ambition was to make a set of real twists, just like Cook’s; and she pulled out and twisted and plaited, though often robbed of her dough by the two boys, whose united efforts were endeavouring to produce a likeness of Purday, with his hat on his head, plums for eyes, a pipe in his mouth, and driving a cow; but unluckily his neck always got pinched off, and his arms would not stay on! No matter; the more moulding of that soft dough the better! Johnnie and Annie had a whole party of white clammy serpents, always being set to bite one another, and to melt into each other; and David was hard at work on a brood of rabbits with currant eyes, and would let no one interfere with him.
“Didn’t I hear something!” asked Bessie, looking up.
“Oh, it’s only the roller,” said Sam; “Purday always rolls on a wet day.”
Something, however, made the whole party of little bakers hold up their heads to listen. There was a gleam on their faces, as a quick alert step sounded on the stairs, and Bessie, the nearest to the door, and not cramped like the rest, who were sitting on their heels, sprang forward and opened it with a scream of joy.
There he was—the light, alert, weather-beaten man, with his loose wavy hair, and bright sailor face! There was Papa! Oh, the hurly-burly of children, tumbling up as well as they could on legs crooked under them, and holding out great fans of floury doughy paws, all coming to be hugged in his arms in turn, so that before he had come to the end of the eight in presence, Bessie had had time to whisk off to the nursery, snatch Baby up from before Nurse’s astonished eyes, rush down with her, and put her into his arms. Baby had forgotten him, and was taken with such a fit of screaming shyness, that Susan had to take her, and Annie to play bo-peep with her, before she would let anyone’s voice be heard.
“I’ve taken you by surprise, Miss Fosbrook,” said the Captain, shaking hands with her in the midst of the clatter.
“Oh, it is such a pleasure!” she began. “I hope you left Mrs. Merrifield much better.”
“Much better, much better, thank you. I hope to find her on the sofa when I go back on Thursday. I could only run down for a few days, just to settle things, and see the children, before I join theRamilies. Admiral Penrose very good-naturedly kept it open for me, till we could tell howshewas,” said the Captain, with rather a trembling voice.
“Then you are going! O Papa!” said Susan, looking up at him; “and Baby will not know you till—”
“Hold your tongue, Miss Croaker,” said the Captain, roughly but kindly; and Miss Fosbrook could see that he was as much afraid of crying himself as of letting Susan cry; “I’ve no time for that. I’ve got a gentleman on business down stairs, and your Uncle John and I must go down to them again. We sha’n’t want dinner; only, Sue, tell them to send in some eggs and bacon, or cold meat, or whatever there may be, for tea; and get a room ready for your uncle.”
He would have gone, but Susan called out, “O Papa, may we drink tea with you, Georgy and all!”
“Yes, to be sure, if you won’t make a bear-fight, any of you, for your uncle.”
“Mayn’t I come down with you?” added Sam, looking at him as if he wanted to make the most of every moment of that presence.
“Better not, my boy,” said the Captain; “I’ve got law business to settle, and we don’t want you. Better stay and make yourselves decent for tea-time. Mamma’s love, and she hopes you’ll not drive Uncle John distracted.” And he was gone.
“Bother Uncle John!” first muttered Sam (I am sorry to say).
“I can’t think what he’s come for,” sighed Annie.
“To spoil our fun,” suggested Johnnie disconsolately.
“To take Sam to school,” added Hal, “while I go to sea.”
“You don’t know that you are going,” said Elizabeth. “Papa said nothing about it.”
“Oh! but I know I shall. Admiral Penrose promised.”
“You know a great many things that don’t happen. You knew Colonel Carey would give you two sovereigns.”
Henry looked as if he could bite.
“Well, I shall finish Purday,” said Sam, turning away with a sigh; “and they shall have him for tea.”
“Tea will be no fun!” repeated Annie. “Oh dear! what does Uncle John come here for?”
“May not he come to be with his brother?” suggested Christabel.
“Oh! but they are grown up,” said Annie.
“Can’t he have him in London, without coming here to worry us in our little time!” added Johnnie.
“Perhaps he will not worry you.”
“Oh! but—” they all cried, and stopped short.
“He plagues about manners,” said Annie.
“He wanted Susie and me to be sent to school!” said Bessie.
“He said it was like dining with young Hottentots.”
“He told Papa it was disgraceful, when we had all been sliding on the great pond in the village,” added Annie.
“And he gave Sam a box on the ear, for only just taking a dear little river cray-fish in his fishing-net to show Aunt Alice.”
“The net was dripping wet,” observed Bessie.
“Yes,” said Anne; “but Aunt Alice is so finikin and fidgety; she never wets her feet, and can’t get over a stile, and is afraid of a cow; and he wants us all to be like her.”
“And he makes Papa and Mamma mind things that they don’t mind by nature,” said Susan.
“Mamma always tells us to be good, and never play at hockey in the house when he’s there,” said Anne.
“She has not told us so this time,” said John triumphantly.
“No, but we must mind all the same,” said Susan; and Sam silenced some independent murmurs, about not minding Uncle John, by saying it was minding Mamma.
Miss Fosbrook herself was a little alarmed, for she gathered that Mamma was in some fear of this terrible uncle, that he had much influence with his brother, and was rather a severe judge of the young family. She sincerely hoped that he would not find things much amiss, for the honest goodness of the two eldest had won so much regard from her, that she could not bear them to be under any cloud; and indeed she felt as if the whole flock were her own property, as well as her charge, and that she, as well as they, were about to be tried. She would have felt it all fair and just before their kindly father, but it seemed hard that all should be brought before the school-master uncle; and she was disposed to be tender for her children, and exceedingly anxious as to the effect they might produce. She was resolved that the Captain should hear of the affair of the pence; but the presence of his brother would make the speaking a much greater effort. Meantime, she saw that all the fingers were clean, and all the hair brushed. She flattered herself that Susan’s yellow locks had learnt that it was the business of hair to keep tidy, and had been much less unmanageable of late; but she had her fears that they would ruffle up again when their owner, at the head of a large detachment, rushed out to take the “fancy bread” out of the oven, and she came half-way down stairs, in case it should be necessary to capture them, and brush them over again.
While thus watching, the door of the dining-room (the only down stairs room in order) opened suddenly, and the Captain came forth. “Oh, Miss Fosbrook,” he said, “please come in here: I was just coming to look for you. My brother—Miss Fosbrook.”
To her surprise, Miss Fosbrook received a very pleasant civil greeting from a much younger man than she had expected to see, looking perhaps more stern about the mouth and sharp about the eye than his elder brother, and his clerical dress very precise; but somehow he was so curiously like his niece, Elizabeth, that she thought that his particularity might spring from the same love of refinement.
“All going on well?” asked the Captain.
“Fairly well,” she answered. “Sam and Susan are most excellent children. There is only one matter on which I should like to speak to you, at some time when it might suit you.”
“Is it about this?” he said, putting into her hand a sheet written in huge round-hand in pencil, no words misspelt, but the breaks in them at the end of the lines perfectly regardless of syllables:—
My dear Papa,Please let mehave a policeman. Bet has got at Tobyand stole ourpence which wasfor a secret. Nurse says she is afavourite and MissFosbrook will notfind them.Your affectionate sonDavid Douglas Merrifield.
My dear Papa,
Please let mehave a policeman. Bet has got at Tobyand stole ourpence which wasfor a secret. Nurse says she is afavourite and MissFosbrook will notfind them.
Your affectionate sonDavid Douglas Merrifield.
“Oh! this was the letter David insisted on sealing before I put it into mine!” exclaimed Miss Fosbrook, as soon as she had made out the words. “We have been in great trouble at the loss; but we agreed not to write to you, because you had so much on your mind.”
“Is Bessie in fault?”
“No, no; none of us believe it; but I am very anxious that you should make an investigation, for the maids suspect her, and have made the younger children do so.”
“And who is Toby?”
“Toby is only a jug—called Toby Fillpot, I believe—shaped like a man.”
“I know!” put in Mr. John Merrifield, laughing. “Don’t you remember him, Harry? We had the like in our time.”
“Well?” interrogated the Captain.
“Just after you left home,” said Christabel, as shortly and clearly as she could, “the children agreed to save their allowance to buy a pig for Hannah Higgins. They showed great perseverance in their object; and by the third week they had about seven shillings in this jug, which, to my grief and shame, I let them keep in the glass cupboard, not locked, but one door bolted, the other buttoned. On Friday morning, the 11th, I know the cup was full of coppers and silver, for I took it down to add something to it. On the next Monday morning the money was gone, all but one farthing.”
“Can you guess who took it?”
“I should prefer saying nothing till you have examined the children and servants for yourself.”
“Right!” said the Captain. “Very well.—I am sorry to treat you to a court-martial, John, but I must hold one after tea.”
Christabel pitied the children for having to speak before this formidable uncle; but there could be no help for it, since no other sitting-room was habitable, and there were torrents of rain out-of-doors.
There was just time to show the glass cupboard, and the shelf where Toby had stood, and to return to the dining-room, before the children began to stream in and make their greetings to their uncle, Susan with George in one hand, and her plate of bakings in the other. Very fancy bread indeed it was! as Uncle John said. The edge of Purday’s hat had been quite baked off, and one of his arms was gone; he was black in the wrong places, and was altogether rather an uncomfortable-looking object. David’s brood of rabbits were much more successful, though the ears of many had fallen off. Uncle John was very much diverted, and took his full share of admiring and tasting the various performances. On the whole, the meal went off much better than Christabel had feared it would. She had really broken the children of many of the habits with which they used to make themselves disagreeable; there was no putting of spoons into each other’s cups, nor reaching out with buttery fingers; lips were wiped, and people sat still upon their chairs, even if they fidgeted and sighed; and there was only one slop made all tea-time, and that was by Johnnie, and not a very bad one. Indeed, it might be hoped that Mr. Merrifield did not see it, for he was talking to Sam about the change of footpath that Mr. Greville was making. There was indeed no fun, but it might be doubted whether Papa would have been in a mood for fun even had his brother not been there; and Miss Fosbrook was rather glad there was nothing to make the children forgetful of propriety.
As soon as Mary had carried off the tea-things and wiped the table, Uncle John put himself as much out of the way as he could behind the newspaper in the recess of the window; and Miss Fosbrook would have gone to the school-room, but Captain Merrifield begged her to stay.
“I hear,” he said, “that a very unpleasant thing has taken place in my absence, and I wish to learn all that I can about it, that the guilty person may be brought to light, and the innocent cleared from any suspicion.”
The children looked at one another, wondering how he had heard, or whether Miss Fosbrook had told him; but this was soon answered by his calling out, “David! come here, and tell me what you meant by this letter.”
David walked stoutly to his father’s knee, nothing daunted, though his brothers muttered behind him, “So he wrote!” “Little sneak!” and “He knew no better!” Not that it was wrong to lay the case before his father; but boys had usually rather suffer injustice than make an accusation.
“Why did you write this letter, David?” said his father.
“Because I want my pence for the pig.”
“Tell me how you lost them?”
“Bess took them!”
Elizabeth sprung up, crimson, and with tears in her eyes, and Sam and Susan were both bursting out into an angry “No, no!” but their father made a sign to all to keep still; and they obeyed, though each of the elder ones took hold of a hand of their sister and squeezed it hard.
“Did you see her take them?” asked the Captain.
“No!”
“Then why do you say she did? I don’t want to frighten you, David; I only want to hear why you think she did so.”
David was getting alarmed now, and his childish memory better retained the impression than what had produced it. He hung down his head, scraped one foot, and finding that he must answer, mumbled out at last, “Nurse said it, and Hal.”
“Henry, come here. Did you accuse your sister to David?”
“No!” burst out Henry at once; but there was a rounding of everyone’s mouth to cry out Oh! and he quickly added, in a hasty scared way, “At least, when Davie came bothering me, I said he had better ask Betty, because she had been prying about, and meddling with the baby-house. I never meant that she had done it; but Davie is such a little jack-ass!”
“Did you see her meddle with the baby-house!”
“She said that herself,” muttered Henry.
“Yes, Papa,” said Elizabeth, starting forward, “I did find the doors of the baby-house open, and shut them up, but I never touched anything in it! Sam and Susie know I would not, and that I would not tell a story now, though I once did, you know, Papa!”
Captain Merrifield still kept his grave set face, and only asked, “When did you find the doors open?”
“On Friday, Papa—Friday week—St. Barnabas’ Day—just after dinner.”
“Was no one with you?”
“No, Papa.”
“You came up-stairs first?”
“Yes; I wanted my pencil before—” and she stopped short.
“Before what?”
“Before Miss Fosbrook went in to speak to Hal,” said Elizabeth, getting red all over.
“Hal had been dining in the school-room,” said Miss Fosbrook, “on account of a little bit of disobedience.”
Captain Merrifield looked keenly at Henry, who tried to return the look, but shuffled uncomfortably under it.
“Then Hal had been dining in the school-room? Was he there when you came in?”
“No.”
“Were the doors open when you were dining there, Henry?”
“N—no.”
“You are sure that you did not meddle with them?”
“I do not know why I should,” said Henry, hastily and confusedly. “It is only the girls and the babies that have things there—and—and Miss Fosbrook herself had been at the cupboard in the morning; why shouldn’t she have left it undone herself, and the doors got open?”
“No, no!” cried Susan; “if they aren’t fastened they always burst open directly; and we never could have been in the room half the morning without noticing them!”
“Then you are certain that they were closed when you went down to dinner?”
Everyone was positive that the great glass doors flying out must have made themselves observed in that room full of children, especially as Susan remembered that she had been making a desk of the sloping part under them.
“Does anyone remember how long it was between Hal’s leaving the room and Bessie’s coming up?”
“I don’t know when he went out,” said all those who had been in the dining-room; but there spoke up a voice, quite proud of having something to tell among the others—“I saw Hal go out, and Bessie come up directly.”
“You, Johnnie! How was that?”
“Miss Fosbrook made me dine in the nursery, Papa, because Hal and I had been riding on the new iron gate, to see if the telegraph would come in while the others were at church; and then Hal ran away with the Grevilles, and I couldn’t get down till Sam came and helped me; and so Miss Fosbrook made me dine in the nursery; and when I had done, I went and sat upon the top of the garret stairs, to watch when they came out from dinner, and ask if I might come down again.”
“And what did you see, Johnnie?”
“First, I saw a wasp,” said Johnnie.
“Never mind the wasp. Did you see when Henry went out?”
“I saw him come in first,” said John, “and Miss Fosbrook order him up and say she would send him his dinner, and come and speak to him presently. So I watched to catch her when she was coming up to him, and I saw Mary bring him up some mince veal, and the last bit of the gooseberry pie; and then, very soon, he bolted right downstairs. I didn’t think he could have had time to eat the pie; and I was going to see if there was a bit left, when I saw Bessie coming up, and I whipped up again.”
“Then nobody went into the room between Henry and Bessie?”
“No; there wasn’t any time.”
The whole room was quite silent. There was no sound but a quick short breathing from the Captain: but he had rested his brow upon his hand, and his face could not be seen. It was as if something terrible had flashed upon him, and he was struggling with the first shock, and striving to deal with it. If they had seen him in a tempest, with his ship driving to pieces on a rock, he would not have been thus shaken and dismayed. However, by the time he looked up again, he had brought his face back to its resolute firmness, and he spoke in a clear, stern, startling voice, that made all the children quake, and some catch hold of each other’s hands: “Henry! tell me what you have done with your theft!”
Miserable Henry! He did not try to deny it any longer; but burst out into a loud sobbing cry, “O Papa! Papa! I meant to have put it back again! I couldn’t help it!”
“Tell me what you have done with it!” repeated the Captain.
“I—I paid it to Farmer Grice; I was obliged; and I thought I could have put it back again; and some of it was my own!”
“Fivepence-farthing!” cried David. “You thief, you!”
The child’s fists were clenched, and his young face all one scowl of passion, quite shocking to see. His father put him aside, and said, “Hush, David! no names.—Now, Henry, what do you say to your sister for your false accusation, which has thrown your own shame on her?”
“Oh, no, no, Papa; he never did accuse me!” cried Bessie, for the first time bursting into tears. “He never said I did it; that was only Davie’s fancy; and it has made Susie and Sam so kind, I have not minded it at all. Please don’t mind that, Papa!”
“Come away, Henry!” said the Captain; “now that your sister has been cleared, we had better have the rest out of the sight of these tender-hearted little girls.”
He stood up, and without a word, stroked down Elizabeth’s smooth brown hair, raised her face up by the chin, and kissed her forehead, the only place free from tears; then he took Henry by the shoulder, and marched him out of the room. Bessie could not stop herself from crying, and was afraid of letting Uncle John see her; so she flew out after them, and straight up-stairs to her own room. Miss Fosbrook and Susan both longed to follow her, but they had missed this opportunity; and the sound of voices outside showed so plainly that the Captain and Henry were in the hall that they durst not open the door.
Everyone was appalled, and nothing was said for a few seconds. The first to speak was Annie, in a low, terror-stricken whisper, yet with some curiosity in it: “I wonder what Papa will do to him?”
“Give him nine dozen, I hope!” answered David through his small white teeth, all clenched together with rage.
“For shame, Davie!” said Susan; “you should not wish anything so dreadful for your brother.”
“He has been so wicked! I wish it! Iwillwish it!” said David.
“Hush, David!” said Miss Fosbrook; “such things must not be said. I will talk to you by and by.”
“I am glad poor Bessie is cleared!” added Susan; “though I always knew she could not have done it.”
“To be sure—I knew it was Hal!”
“Sam! you did?—why didn’t you tell?” cried Annie.
“I wasn’t—to say—sure,” said Sam; “and I couldn’t go and get him into a scrape. I thought he might tell himself, if he could ever make up the money again!”
“Yes,” said Susan; “he would have done that. He always fancied he should get a sovereign from Colonel Carey.”
“He talked till he thought so,” said Sam.
“But what made you guess he had done so, Sam?” said Miss Fosbrook. “I did suspect him myself, but I never felt justified in accusing him of such a thing.”
“I don’t know! I saw he had been getting into a fix with those Grevilles, and had been sold somehow. They said something, and got out of my way directly, and I was sure they had done some mischief, and left him to pay the cost.”
“Did you ask him?” said Susan.
“What was the use? One never knows where to have him. He will eat up his words as fast as he says them, with hisat least, till he doesn’t know what he means. Nor I didn’t want to know much of it.”
“Still I can’t think how you could let poor Bessie live under such a cloud,” said Christabel.
“You didn’t believe it,” said Sam, “nor anyone worth a snap of my finger. Besides, if I had known, and had to tell, what a horrid shame it would have been if the naval cadetship had been to be had for him! I knew Bessie would have thought so too, and then he would have been out of the way of the Grevilles, and would have got some money to make it up.”
“Then is there no chance of the cadetship now?”
“Oh, we should have heard of it long ago if there had been! So I mind the coming out the less; but it’s perfectly abominable to have had all this row, and for Papa to be so cut up in this little short time at home.”
“I never saw him more grieved,” said Mr. Merrifield. “He was hardly more overcome when your mother was at the worst.”
They started, for they had forgotten Uncle John, or they would never have spoken so freely; but he now put down his newspaper, and looked as if he meant to talk.
Susan ventured to say, “And indeed they had all been so very good before. The pig made them so.”
“A learned pig, I should think,” said her uncle, laughing good-naturedly.
“We were obliged to take care,” said Susan, “or we got so many fines.”
Christabel, finding that Mr. Merrifield looked at her, helped out Susan by explaining that various small delinquencies were visited with fines, and that the desire to save for the pig had rendered the children very careful.
“Indeed,” she said, “I was thankful for the incentive, but I am afraid that it was over-worked, and did harm in the end:” and she glanced towards David.
“It is the way with secondary motives,” was the answer.
Here Captain Merrifield came back alone; and his brother was the only person who ventured to say, “Well?”
“I have sent him to his room,” said the Captain. “It is a very bad business, though of course he made excuses to himself.”
The Captain then told them Henry’s confession. He had been too much hurried by the fear of being caught, to take out his own share of the hoard, and had therefore emptied the whole cupful into his pocket-handkerchief, tied it up, and run off with it, intending to separate what was honestly his own. What that was he did not know, but his boastful habits and want of accuracy had made his memory so careless, that he fancied that a far larger proportion was his than really was, and his purposes were in the strange medley that falls to the lot of all self-deceivers, sometimes fancying he would only take what he had a right to (whatever that might be), sometimes that he would borrow what he wanted, and replace it when the sovereign should be given to him, or that the Grevilles would make it up when they had their month’s allowance.
When he came to the farm Mr. Grice was resolved to take nothing less than the whole sum that he had with him. Perhaps this was less for the value of the turkey-cock than for the sake of giving the boys such a lesson as to prevent them from ever molesting his poultry again. At any rate, he was inexorable till the frightened Henry had delivered up every farthing in his possession; and then, convinced that no more was forthcoming, he relented so far as to restore the gun, and promise to make no complaint to either of the fathers.
At first Henry lived on hopes of being able to restore the money before the hoard should be examined, but Colonel Carey went away, and, as might have been expected, left no present to his brother’s pupils. Still Henry had hopes of the Grevilles, and even when the loss was discovered, hoped to restore it secretly, and make the whole pass off as a joke; but the 1st of August came, Martin and Osmond received their pocket-money, but laughed his entreaty to scorn, telling him that he had shot the turkey-cock, not they. Since that time, his only hope had been in the affair blowing over—as if a sin everdidblow over!
“One question I must ask, Miss Fosbrook,” said the Captain, “though after such a course of deceit it hardly makes it worse. Has he told any direct falsehood?”
She paused, and recollected. “Yes, Sir,” she said, “I am afraid he did; he flatly told me that he had not touched the baby-house.”
“I expected nothing else,” said the Captain gravely. “What has become of Bessie?”
“She ran up-stairs. May I go and call her?” said Susan.
“I will go myself,” said her father.
He found Elizabeth in the school-room, all flushed and tear-stained in the face; and he told her affectionately how much pleased he was with her patience under this false accusation. Delight very nearly set her off crying again, but she managed to say, “It was Miss Fosbrook and Sam and Susie that made me patient, Papa; they were so kind. And nobody would have believed it, if I wasn’t always cross, you know.”
“Not cross now, my little woman,” he said smiling.
“Oh! I said I never could be cross again, now Mamma is better; but Miss Fosbrook says I shall sometimes feel so, and I do believe she is right, for I was almost cross to Georgie to-day. But she says one mayfeelcross, and notbecross!”
He did not quite know all that his little girl was thinking of; but he patted her fondly, and said, “Yes, there is a great deal to be thankful for, my dear; and I shall trust to you elder ones to give your Mamma no trouble while I am afloat.”
“I will try,” said Bessie. “And please, Papa, would you tell Nurse about it? She doesn’t half believe us, and she is so tiresome about Miss Fosbrook!”
“Tiresome! what do you mean?”
“She always thinks what she does is wrong, and she puts nonsense into Johnnie’s head, and talks about favourites. Mary told Susan it was jealousy.”
The Captain spoke pretty strongly to Nurse Freeman that evening, but it is doubtful if she were the better for it. She was a very good woman in most things, but she could not bear that the children should be under anyone but herself; and just as Henry lost the truth by inaccuracy, she lost it by prejudice.
Miss Fosbrook was glad to get away from the dining-room, where it was rather awful to sit without her work and be talked to by Mr. Merrifield, even though she liked him much better than she had expected.
When David came to bed, she sat by him and talked to him about his angry unforgiving spirit. She could not but think he was in a fearful temper, and she tried hard to make him sorry for his brother, instead of thirsting to see the disappointment visited on him; but David could not see what she meant. Wicked people ought to be punished; it was wicked to steal and tell stories, and he hoped Henry would be punished, so as he would never forget it, for hindering poor Hannah from getting her pig.