"Yes," said Ethel faintly.
"And that it is what you fail in most?"
"Yes."
"Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cocksmoor, you knew those things could not be done without a sacrifice?"
"Yes, but I didn't think it would be this."
Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down and sighed pitifully. Presently she said, "Margaret, if you would only let me leave off that stupid old French, and horrid dull reading with Miss Winter, I should have plenty of time for everything; and what does one learn by hearing Mary read poetry she can't understand?"
"You work, don't you? But indeed, Ethel, don't say that I can let you leave off anything. I don't feel as if I had that authority. If it be done at all, it must be by papa's consent, and if you wish me to ask him about it, I will, only I think it would vex Miss Winter; and I don't think dear mamma would have liked Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all the little common ladylike things."
Ethel made two or three great gulps; "Margaret, must I give up everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek?"
"I should think that would be a great pity," said Margaret. "If you were to give up the verse-making, and the trying to do as much as Norman, and fix some time in the day--half an hour, perhaps--for your Greek, I think it might do very well."
"Thank you," said Ethel, much relieved; "I'm glad you don't want me to leave it all off. I hope Norman won't be vexed," she added, looking a little melancholy.
But Norman had not by any means the sort of sentiment on the subject that she had. "Of course, you know, Ethel," said he, "it must have come to this some time or other, and if you find those verses too hard, and that they take up too much of your time, you had better give them up."
Ethel did not like anything to be said to be too hard for her, and was very near pleading she only wanted time, but some recollection came across her, and presently she said, "I suppose it is a wrong sort of ambition to want to learn more, in one's own way, when one is told it is not good for one. I was just going to say I hated being a woman, and having these tiresome little trifles--my duty--instead of learning, which is yours, Norman."
"I'm glad you did not," said Norman, "for it would have been very silly of you; and I assure you, Ethel, it is really time for you to stop, or you would get into a regular learned lady, and be good for nothing. I don't mean that knowing more than other people would make you so, but minding nothing else would."
This argument from Norman himself did much to reconcile Ethel's mind to the sacrifice she had made; and when she went to bed, she tried to work out the question in her own mind, whether her eagerness for classical learning was a wrong sort of ambition, to know what other girls did not, and whether it was right to crave for more knowledge than was thought advisable for her. She only bewildered herself, and went to sleep before she had settled anything, but that she knew she must make all give way to papa first, and, secondly, to Cocksmoor.
Meanwhile Margaret had told her father all that had passed. He was only surprised to hear that Ethel had kept up so long with Norman, and thought that it was quite right that she should not undertake so much, agreeing more entirely than Margaret had expected with Miss Winter's view, that it would be hurtful to body as well as mind.
"It is perfectly ridiculous to think of her attempting it!" he said. "I am glad you have put a stop to it."
"I am glad I have," said Margaret; "and dear Ethel behaved so very well. If she had resisted, it would have puzzled me very much, I must have asked you to settle it. But it is very odd, papa, Ethel is the one of them all who treats me most as if I had real authority over her; she lets me scold her, asks my leave, never seems to recollect for a moment how little older I am, and how much cleverer she is. I am sure I never should have submitted so readily. And that always makes it more difficult to me to direct her; I don't like to take upon me with her, because it seems wrong to have her obeying me as if she were a mere child."
"She is a fine creature," said Dr. May emphatically. "It just shows the fact, the higher the mind the readier the submission. But you don't mean that you have any difficulty with the others?"
"Oh, no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially from me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that Ethel lays herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I am sure, though she does love learning, her real love is for goodness and for you, papa."
Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she seen her father's look of mournful pleasure.
CHAPTER XIX.
O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, His little sister doth his peril see, All playful as she sate, she grows demure, She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee, She meditates a prayer to set him free. SHENSTONE.
The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters' desks, the forms polished with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the names of many generations of boys.
About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good deal of talk and laughing was going; on among them. "Ha!" exclaimed one, "here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the gladiators in!" and, standing by the third master's desk, he turned over a page or two of Smith's 'Antiquities', exclaiming, "It is full of pictures--here's an old man blowing the bellows--"
"Let me see!" cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry; and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison's book, while, "There, August! you've been and done it!" "You'll catch it! " resounded on all sides.
"What good will staring with your mouth open do!" exclaimed Edward Anderson, the eldest present. "Here! a bit of blotting-paper this moment!"
Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper- case that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, "It won't take it out, will it?"
"No, little stupid head, but don't you see, I'm stopping it from running down the edges, or soaking in. He won't be the wiser till he opens it again at that place."
"When he does, he will," said the bewildered Tom.
"Let him. It won't tell tales."
"He's coming!" cried another boy, "he is close at the door."
Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr. Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag, only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, "Ha! old fellow, you don't know what you've got there!"
"Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won't see a bit farther for it," said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; "come to your senses, and know your friends."
"He'll open it!" gasped Tom.
"So he will, but I'd bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if he does, it won't tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you standing there, crouching and shaking. That's the right way to bring him upon you."
"But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?"
"What then? D'ye think we can't stand by each other, and keep our own counsel?"
"But the blotting-paper--suppose he knows that!"
There was a laugh all round at this, "as if Harrison knew everyone's blotting-paper!"
"Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his--see--and draw Union Jacks on it."
"If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?"
"July would have told if he had," said Larkins. "That's no go."
"Ay! Tha
t's the way--the Mays are all like girls--can't keep a secret--not one of them. There, I've done more for you than ever one of them would have done--own it--and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his wrists, to force the confession from him."
"But--but he'll ask when he finds it out--"
"Let him. We know nothing about it. Don't be coming the good boy over me like your brothers. That won't do--I know whose eyes are not too short-sighted to read upside down."
Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.
But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether Harry's name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith's 'Antiquities' at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair, he could not see his brother's face, but Edward Anderson, from the second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.
"This book," said Mr. Harrison, "was left in school for a quarter of an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any of you know how it happened?" A silence, and he continued, "Who was in school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?"
"No, sir."
"You know nothing of it?"
"No, sir."
Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his memory. "Larkins, do you know how this happened?"
"No, sir," said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had not seen the manner of the overthrow.
"Ernescliffe, were you there?"
"No, sir."
Tom's timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, "Remember, it is concealment that is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you," he added, hopefully and kindly. "Don't be afraid to speak out if you did meet with a mischance."
Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly terror of the effects of truth.
"No, sir." He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.
Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for schoolboys.
The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set, there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they considered as belonging to him.
In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson had gained a conquest--in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough code--and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without learning it, and of showing up other people's tasks; whispers and signs were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him free at once from this wretched tyranny.
Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something contraband.
"August," said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening, "did I see you coming over the bridge?"
Tom would not answer.
"So you have been at Ballhatchet's gate? I can't think what could take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty's are just as good. What made you go there?"
"Nothing," said Tom.
"Well, mind you don't do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything to do with him, as you know."
Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. "I am afraid you are getting into a bad way. Why won't you mind what I have told you plenty of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?" But, receiving no answer, he went on. "You always sulk when I speak to you. I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you from worse. You can't never be found out." This startled Tom, but Norman had no suspicion. "If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight." Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder upon him than any one else would be, and Norman grew warmer. "If you let Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you'll never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better take my word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into a mess."
"I'm in no scrape," said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience, and spoke with more displeasure. "You will be then, if you go out of bounds, and run Anderson's errands, and shirk work. You'd better take care. It is my place to keep order, and I can't let you off for being my brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet's again, you may make sure of a licking."
So the warning closed--Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.
Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out of the gate-house. He was fl
ying across the bridge, with something under his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.
"What are you doing here?" said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the field. "So you've been there again. "What's that under your jacket?"
"Only--only what I was sent for," and he tried to squeeze it under the flap.
"What is it? a bottle--"
"Only--only a bottle of ink."
Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation was mixed with sorrow. "Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!"
Tom cowered, but felt only terror.
"Speak truth," said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; "is this for Anderson junior?"
Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared not utter another falsehood, but Anderson's threats chained him, and he preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother who loved him. He would not speak.
"I am glad it is not for yourself," said Norman; "but do you remember what I said, in case I found you there again?"
"Oh! don't, don't!" cried the boy. "I would never have gone if they had not made me."
"Made you?" said Norman, disdainfully, "how?"
"They would have thrashed me--they pinched my fingers in the box-- they pulled my ears--oh, don't--"
"Poor little fellow!" said Norman; "but it is your own fault. If you won't keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But I must not let you off--I must keep my word!" Tom cried, sobbed, and implored in vain. "I can't help it," he said, "and now, don't howl! I had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have this to do to one of us." Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing him, he said, "There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I can't have hurt you much, have I?" he added more kindly, while Tom went on crying, and turning from him. "It is nothing to care about, I am sure; look up;" and he pulled down his hands. "Say you are sorry--speak the truth--keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again."
The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations Page 25
