This spirited speech was applauded by many, who had now forgotten the feelings of famine. Not so Fisher, whose memory was upon this occasion very distinct.
“What nonsense,” and the orator paused for a synonymous expression, but none was at hand. “What nonsense and — nonsense is here! Why, don’t you remember that dinner-time, and supper-time and breakfast-time will come again? So what signifies mouthing about persuading and convincing? We will not go through again what we did yesterday! Honour me no honour. I don’t understand it. I’d rather be flogged at once, as I have been many’s the good time for a less thing. I say, we’d better all be flogged at once, which must be the end of it sooner or later, than wait here to be without dinner, breakfast, and supper, all only because Mr. Archer won’t give up because of his honour and nonsense!”
Many prudent faces amongst the Fishermen seemed to deliberate at the close of this oration, in which the arguments were brought so “home to each man’s business and bosom.”
“But,” said De Grey, “when we yield, I hope it will not be merely to get our dinner, gentlemen. When we yield, Archer—”
“Don’t address yourself to me,” interrupted Archer, struggling with his pride; “you have no further occasion to try to win me. I have no power, no party, you see! And now I find that I have no friends, I don’t care what becomes of myself. I suppose I’m to be given up as a ringleader. Here’s this Fisher, and a party of his Fishermen, were going to tie me hand and foot, if I had not knocked him down, just as you came to the door, De Grey; and now perhaps you will join Fisher’s party against me.”
De Grey was going to assure him that he had no intention of joining any party, when a sudden change appeared on Archer’s countenance. “Silence!” cried Archer, in an imperious tone, and there was silence. Someone was heard to whistle the beginning of a tune, that was perfectly new to everybody present, except to Archer, who immediately whistled the conclusion. “There!” cried he, looking at De Grey, with triumph; “that’s a method of holding secret correspondence whilst a prisoner, which I learned from ‘Richard Coeur de Lion.’ I know how to make use of everything. Hallo! friend! are you there at last?” cried he, going to the ventilator.
“Yes, but we are barred out here.”
“Round to the window then, and fill our bag. We’ll let it down, my lad, in a trice; bar me out who can!”
Archer let down the bag with all the expedition of joy, and it was filled with all the expedition of fear. “Pull away! make haste, for Heaven’s sake!” said the voice from without; “the gardener will come from dinner, else, and we shall be caught. He mounted guard all yesterday at the ventilator; and though I watched and watched till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near you. I don’t know what has taken him out of the way now. Make haste, pull away!” The heavy bag was soon pulled up.
“Have you any more?” said Archer.
“Yes, plenty. Let down quick! I’ve got the tailor’s bag full, which is three times as large as yours, and I’ve changed clothes with the tailor’s boy; so nobody took notice of me as I came down the street.”
“There’s my own cousin!” exclaimed Archer, “there’s a noble fellow! there’s my own cousin, I acknowledge. Fill the bag, then.” Several times the bag descended and ascended; and at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were heard.
“I have no more!” at length the boy with the tailor’s bag cried.
“Off with you, then; we’ve enough, and thank you.”
A delightful review was now made of their treasure. Busy hands arranged and sorted the heterogeneous mass. Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknowledged master of the whole. Townsend, who, in his prosperity as in adversity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends, pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-natured and more thoughtful air. “Friend,” said he, “you look like a great philosopher, and Archer a great hero.”
“And you, Townsend,” said Archer, “may look like a wit, if you will; but you will never be a hero.”
“No, no,” replied Townsend; “wits were never heroes, because they are wits. You are out of your wits, and therefore may set up for a hero.”
“Laugh, and welcome. I’m not a tyrant. I don’t want to restrain anybody’s wit; but I cannot say I admire puns.”
“Nor I, either,” said the time serving Fisher, sidling up to the manager, and picking the ice off a piece of plum-cake, “nor I either; I hate puns. I can never understand Townsend’s PUNS. Besides, anybody can make puns; and one doesn’t want wit, either, at all times; for instance, when one is going to settle about dinner, or business of consequence. Bless us all, Archer!” continued he, with sudden familiarity; “WHAT A SIGHT OF GOOD THINGS ARE HERE! I’m sure we are much obliged to you and your cousin. I never thought he’d have come. Why, now we can hold out as long as you please. Let us see,” said he, dividing the provisions upon the table; “we can hold out to-day, and all to-morrow, and part of next day, maybe. Why, now we may defy the doctor and the Greybeards. The doctor will surely give up to us; for, you see, he knows nothing of all this, and he’ll think we are starving all this while; and he’d be afraid, you see, to let us starve quite, in reality, for three whole days, because of what would be said in the town. My Aunt Barbara, for one, would be AT HIM long before that time was out; and besides, you know, in that case, he’d be hanged for murder, which is quite another thing, in law, from a BARRING OUT, you know.”
Archer had not given to this harangue all the attention which it deserved, for his eye was fixed upon De Grey. “What is De Grey thinking of?” he asked, impatiently.
“I am thinking,” said De Grey, “that Dr. Middleton must believe that I have betrayed his confidence in me. The gardener was ordered away from his watch-post for one half-hour when I was admitted. This half-hour the gardener has made nearly a hour. I never would have come near you if I had foreseen all this. Dr. Middleton trusted me, and now he will repent of his confidence in me.”
“De Grey!” cried Archer, with energy, “he shall not repent of his confidence in you — nor shall you repent of coming amongst us. You shall find that we have some honour as well as yourself, and I will take care of your honour as if it were my OWN!”
“Hey-day!” interrupted Townsend; “are heroes allowed to change sides, pray? And does the chief of the Archers stand talking sentiment to the chief of the Greybeards? In the middle of his own party too!”
“Party!” repeated Archer, disdainfully; “I have done with parties! I see what parties are made of! I have felt the want of a friend, and I am determined to make one if I can.”
“That you may do,” said De Grey, stretching out his hand.
“Unbar the doors! unbar the windows!” exclaimed Archer. “Away with all these things! I give up for De Grey’s sake. He shall not lose his credit on my account.”
“No,” said De Grey, “you shall not give up for my sake.”
“Well, then, I’ll give up to do what is HONOURABLE,” said Archer.
“Why not to do what is REASONABLE?” said De Grey.
“REASONABLE! Oh, the first thing that a man of spirit should think of is, what is HONOURABLE.”
“But how will he find out WHAT IS honourable, unless he can reason?” replied De Grey.
“Oh,” said Archer, “his own feelings always tell him what is honourable.”
“Have not YOUR FEELINGS,” asked De Grey, “changed within these few hours?”
“Yes, with circumstances,” replied Archer; “but right or wrong, as long as I think it honourable to do so and so, I’m satisfied.”
“But you cannot think anything honourable, or the contrary,” observed De Grey, “without reasoning; and as to what you call feeling, it’s only a quick sort of reasoning.”
“The quicker, the better,” said Archer.
“Perhaps not,” said De Grey. “We are apt to reason best when we are not in quite so great a hurry.”
“But,” said Archer, “we have not always t
ime enough to reason AT FIRST.”
“You must, however, acknowledge,” replied De Grey, smiling, “that no man but a fool thinks it honourable to be in the wrong AT LAST. Is it not, therefore, best to begin by reasoning to find out the right AT FIRST?”
“To be sure,” said Archer.
“And did you reason with yourself at first? And did you find out that it was right to bar Dr. Middleton out of his own schoolroom, because he desired you not to go into one of his own houses?”
“No,” replied Archer; “but I should never have thought of heading a Barring Out, if he had not shown partiality; and if you had flown into a passion with me openly at once for pulling down your scenery, which would have been quite natural, and not have gone slily and forbid us the house out of revenge, there would have been none of this work.”
“Why,” said De Grey, “should you suspect me of such a mean action, when you have never seen or known me do anything mean, and when in this instance you have no proofs?”
“Will you give me your word and honour now, De Grey, before everybody here, that you did not do what I suspected?”
“I do assure you, upon my honour, I never, indirectly, spoke to Dr.
Middleton about the playhouse.”
“Then,” said Archer, “I’m as glad as if I had found a thousand pounds!
Now you are my friend indeed.”
“And Dr. Middleton — why should you suspect him without reason any more than me?”
“As to that,” said Archer, “he is your friend, and you are right to defend him; and I won’t say another word against him. Will that satisfy you?”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite! Then, indeed you are unreasonable!”
“No,” replied De Grey; “for I don’t wish you to yield out of friendship to me, any more than to honour. If you yield to reason, you will be governed by reason another time.”
“Well; but then don’t triumph over me, because you have the best side of the argument.”
“Not I! How can I?” said De Grey; “for now you are on THE BEST SIDE as well as myself, are not you? So we may triumph together.”
“You are a good friend!” said Archer; and with great eagerness he pulled down the fortifications, whilst every hand assisted. The room was restored to order in a few minutes — the shutters were thrown open, the cheerful light let in. The windows were thrown up, and the first feeling of the fresh air was delightful. The green playgound opened before them, and the hopes of exercise and liberty brightened the countenances of these voluntary prisoners.
But, alas! they were not yet at liberty. The idea of Dr. Middleton, and the dread of his vengeance, smote their hearts. When the rebels had sent an ambassador with their surrender, they stood in pale and silent suspense, waiting for their doom.
“Ah!” said Fisher, looking up at the broken panes in the windows, “the doctor will think the most of THAT — he’ll never forgive us for that.”
“Hush! here he comes!” His steady step was heard approaching nearer and nearer. Archer threw open the door, and Dr. Middleton entered. Fisher instantly fell on his knees.
“It is no delight to me to see people on their knees. Stand up, Mr.
Fisher. I hope you are all conscious that you have done wrong?”
“Sir,” said Archer, “they are conscious that they have done wrong, and so am I. I am the ringleader. Punish me as you think proper. I submit. Your punishments — your vengeance ought to fall on me alone!”
“Sir,” said Dr. Middleton, calmly, “I perceive that whatever else you may have learned in the course of your education, you have not been taught the meaning of the word punishment. Punishment and vengeance do not with us mean the same thing. PUNISHMENT is pain given, with the reasonable hope of preventing those on whom it is inflicted from doing, IN FUTURE, what will hurt themselves or others. VENGEANCE never looks to the FUTURE, but is the expression of anger for an injury that is past. I feel no anger; you have done me no injury.”
Here many of the little boys looked timidly up to the windows. “Yes, I see that you have broken my windows; that is a small evil.”
“Oh, sir! How good! How merciful!” exclaimed those who had been most panic-struck. “He forgives us!”
“Stay,” resumed Dr. Middleton; “I cannot forgive you. I shall never revenge, but it is my duty to punish. You have rebelled against the just authority which is necessary to conduct and govern you whilst you have not sufficient reason to govern and conduct yourselves. Without obedience to the laws,” added he, turning to Archer, “as men, you cannot be suffered in society. You, sir, think yourself a man, I observe; and you think it the part of a man not to submit to the will of another. I have no pleasure in making others, whether men or children, submit to my WILL; but my reason and experience are superior to yours. Your parents at least think so, or they would not have intrusted me with the care of your education. As long as they do intrust you to my care, and as long as I have any hopes of making you wiser and better by punishment, I shall steadily inflict it, whenever I judge it to be necessary, and I judge it to be necessary NOW. This is a long sermon, Mr. Archer, not preached to show my own eloquence, but to convince your understanding. Now, as to your punishment!”
“Name it, sir,” said Archer; “whatever it is, I will cheerfully submit to it.”
“Name it yourself,” said Dr. Middleton, “and show me that you now understand the nature of punishment.”
Archer, proud to be treated like a reasonable creature, and sorry that he had behaved like a foolish schoolboy, was silent for some time, but at length replied, “That he would rather not name his own punishment.” He repeated, however, that he trusted he should bear it well, whatever it might be.
“I shall, then,” said Dr. Middleton, “deprive you, for two months, of pocket-money, as you have had too much, and have made a bad use of it.”
“Sir,” said Archer, “I brought five guineas with me to school. This guinea is all that I have left.”
Dr. Middleton received the guinea which Archer offered him with a look of approbation, and told him that it should be applied to the repairs of the schoolroom. The rest of the boys waited in silence for the doctor’s sentence against them, but not with those looks of abject fear with which boys usually expect the sentence of a schoolmaster.
“You shall return from the playground, all of you,” said Dr. Middleton, “one quarter of an hour sooner, for two months to come, than the rest of your companions. A bell shall ring at the appointed time. I give you an opportunity of recovering my confidence by your punctuality.”
“Oh, sir! we will come the instant, the very instant the bell rings; you shall have confidence in us,” cried they, eagerly.
“I deserve your confidence, I hope,” said Dr. Middleton; “for it is my first wish to make you all happy. You do not know the pain that it has cost me to deprive you of food for so many hours.”
Here the boys, with one accord, ran to the place where they had deposited their last supplies. Archer delivered them up to the doctor, proud to show that they were not reduced to obedience merely by necessity.
“The reason,” resumed Dr. Middleton, having now returned to the usual benignity of his manner—”the reason why I desired that none of you should go to that building,” pointing out of the window, “was this: — I had been informed that a gang of gipsies had slept there the night before I spoke to you, one of whom was dangerously ill of a putrid fever. I did not choose to mention my reason to you or your friends. I have had the place cleaned, and you may return to it when you please. The gipsies were yesterday removed from the town.”
“De Grey, you were in the right,” whispered Archer, “and it was I that was UNJUST.”
“The old woman,” continued the doctor, “whom you employed to buy food, has escaped the fever, but she has not escaped a gaol, whither she was sent yesterday, for having defrauded you of your money.
“Mr. Fisher,” said Dr. Middleton, “as to you, I shall not punish you;
I have no hope of making you either wiser or better. Do you know this paper?” — the paper appeared to be a bill for candles and a tinder-box.
“I desired him to buy those things, sir,” said Archer, colouring.
“And did you desire him not to pay for them?”
“No,” said Archer, “he had half a crown on purpose to pay for them.”
“I know he had, but he chose to apply it to his private use, and gave it to the gipsy to buy twelve buns for his own eating. To obtain credit for the tinder-box and candles, he made use of THIS name,” said he, turning to the other side of the bill, and pointing to De Grey’s name, which was written at the end of a copy of one of De Grey’s exercises.
“I assure you, sir—” cried Archer.
“You need not assure me, sir,” said Dr. Middleton; “I cannot suspect a boy of your temper of having any part in so base an action. When the people in the shop refused to let Mr. Fisher have the things without paying for them, he made use of De Grey’s name, who was known there. Suspecting some mischief, however, from the purchase of the tinder-box, the shopkeeper informed me of the circumstance. Nothing in this whole business gave me half so much pain as I felt, for a moment, when I suspected that De Grey was concerned in it.” A loud cry, in which Archer’s voice was heard most distinctly, declared De Grey’s innocence. Dr. Middleton looked round at their eager, honest faces, with benevolent approbation. “Archer,” said he, taking him by the hand, “I am heartily glad to see that you have got the better of your party spirit. I wish you may keep such a friend as you have now beside you; one such friend is worth two such parties. As for you, Mr. Fisher, depart; you must never return hither again.” In vain he solicited Archer and De Grey to intercede for him. Everybody turned away with contempt; and he sneaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice, “What shall I say to my Aunt Barbara?”
THE BRACELETS.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 327
