At a distance Loveit saw the white washed cottage, and the apple-tree beside it. They quickened their pace, and with some difficulty scrambled through the hedge which fenced the garden, though not without being scratched and torn by the briers. Everything was silent. Yet now and then, at every rustling of the leaves, they started, and their hearts beat violently. Once, as Loveit was climbing the apple-tree, he thought he heard a door in the cottage open, and earnestly begged his companions to desist and return home. This, however, he could by no means persuade them to do, until they had filled their pockets with apples; then, to his great joy, they returned, crept in at the window and each retired, as softly as possible, to his own apartment.
Loveit slept in the room with Hardy, whom he had left fast asleep, and whom he now was extremely afraid of awakening. All the apples were emptied out of Loveit’s pockets, and lodged with Tarlton till the morning, for fear the smell should betray the secret to Hardy. The room door was apt to creak, but it was opened with such precaution, that no noise could be heard, and Loveit found his friend as fast asleep as when he left him.
“Ah,” said he to himself, “how quietly he sleeps! I wish I had been sleeping too.” The reproaches of Loveit’s conscience, however, served no other purpose but to torment him; he had not sufficient strength of mind to be good. The very next night, in spite of all his fears, and all his penitence, and all his resolutions, by a little fresh ridicule and persuasion he was induced to accompany the same party on a similar expedition. We must observe, that the necessity for continuing their depredations became stronger the third day; for, though at first only a small party had been in the secret, by degrees it was divulged to the whole school; and it was necessary to secure secrecy by sharing the booty.
Everyone was astonished that Hardy, with all his quickness and penetration, had not yet discovered their proceedings; but Loveit could not help suspecting that he was not quite so ignorant as he appeared to be. Loveit had strictly kept his promise of secrecy; but he was by no means an artful boy; and in talking to his friend, conscious that he had something to conceal, he was perpetually on the point of betraying himself; then recollecting his engagement, he blushed, stammered, bungled; and upon Hardy’s asking what he meant, would answer with a silly, guilty countenance, that he did not know; or abruptly break off, saying, “Oh nothing! nothing at all!”
It was in vain that he urged Tarlton to permit him to consult his friend. A gloom overspread Tarlton’s brow when he began to speak on the subject, and he always returned a peremptory refusal, accompanied with some such taunting expression as this—”I wish we had nothing to do with such a sneaking fellow; he’ll betray us all, I see, before we have done with him.”
“Well,” said Loveit to himself, “so I am abused after all, and called a sneaking fellow for my pains; that’s rather hard, to be sure, when I’ve got so little by the job.”
In truth he had not got much; for in the division of the booty only one apple, and half of another, which was only half ripe, happened to fall to his share; though, to be sure, when they had all eaten their apples, he had the satisfaction to hear everybody declare they were very sorry they had forgotten to offer some of theirs to “POOR LOVEIT.”
In the meantime, the visits to the apple-tree had been now too frequently repeated to remain concealed from the old man who lived in the cottage. He used to examine his only tree very frequently, and missing numbers of rosy apples, which he had watched ripening, he, though not prone to suspicion, began to think that there was something going wrong; especially as a gap was made in his hedge, and there were several small footsteps in his flower beds.
The good old man was not at all inclined to give pain to any living creature, much less to children, of whom he was particularly fond. Nor was he in the least avaricious, for though he was not rich, he had enough to live upon, because he had been very industrious in his youth; and he was always very ready to part with the little he had. Nor was he a cross old man. If anything would have made him angry, it would have been the seeing his favourite tree robbed, as he had promised himself the pleasure of giving his red apples to his grandchildren on his birthday. However, he looked up at the tree in sorrow rather than in anger, and leaning upon his staff, he began to consider what he had best do.
“If I complain to their master,” said he to himself, “they will certainly be flogged, and that I should be sorry for: yet they must not be let to go on stealing; that would be worse still, for it would surely bring them to the gallows in the end. Let me see — oh, ay, that will do; I will borrow farmer Kent’s dog Barker, he’ll keep them off, I’ll answer for it.”
Farmer Kent lent his dog Barker, cautioning his neighbour, at the same time, to be sure to chain him well, for he was the fiercest mastiff in England. The old man, with farmer Kent’s assistance, chained him fast to the trunk of the apple-tree.
Night came; and Tarlton, Loveit and his companions, returned at the usual hour. Grown bolder now by frequent success, they came on talking and laughing. But the moment they had set their foot in the garden, the dog started up; and, shaking the chain as he sprang forward, barked with unremitting fury. They stood still as if fixed to the spot. There was just moonlight enough to see the dog. “Let us try the other side of the tree,” said Tarlton. But to whichever side they turned, the dog flew round in an instant, barking with increased fury.
“He’ll break his chain and tear us to pieces,” cried Tarlton; and, struck with terror, he immediately threw down the basket he had brought with him, and betook himself to flight, with the greatest precipitation. “Help me! oh, pray, help me! I can’t get through the hedge,” cried Loveit, in a lamentable tone, whilst the dog growled hideously, and sprang forward to the extremity of his chain. “I can’t get out! Oh, for God’s sake, stay for me one minute, dear Tarlton!” He called in vain; he was left to struggle through his difficulties by himself; and of all his dear friends not one turned back to help him. At last, torn and terrified, he got through the hedge and ran home, despising his companions for their selfishness. Nor could he help observing that Tarlton, with all his vaunted prowess, was the first to run away from the appearance of danger.
The next morning Loveit could not help reproaching the party with their conduct. “Why could not you, any of you, stay one minute to help me?” said he.
“We did not hear you call,” answered one.
“I was so frightened,” said another, “I would not have turned back for the whole world.”
“And you, Tarlton?”
“I,” said Tarlton; “had not I enough to do to take care of myself, you blockhead? Everyone for himself in this world!”
“So I see,” said Loveit, gravely.
“Well, man! is there anything strange in that?”
“Strange! why, yes; I thought you all loved me!”
“Lord love you, lad! so we do; but we love ourselves better.”
“Hardy would not have served me so, however,” said Loveit, turning away in disgust. Tarlton was alarmed. “Pugh!” said he; “what nonsense have you taken into your brain! Think no more about it. We are all very sorry, and beg your pardon; come, shake hands, forgive and forget.”
Loveit gave his hand, but gave it rather coldly. “I forgive it with all my heart,” said he; “but I cannot forget it so soon!”
“Why, then, you are not such a good humoured fellow as we thought you were. Surely you cannot bear malice, Loveit.” Loveit smiled, and allowed that he certainly could not bear malice. “Well, then, come; you know at the bottom we all love you, and would do anything in the world for you.” Poor Loveit, flattered in his foible, began to believe that they did love him at the bottom, as they said, and even with his eyes open consented again to be duped.
“How strange it is,” thought he, “that I should set such value upon the love of those I despise! When I’m once out of this scrape, I’ll have no more to do with them, I’m determined.”
Compared with his friend Hardy, his new associates did indeed a
ppear contemptible; for all this time Hardy had treated him with uniform kindness, avoided to pry into his secrets, yet seemed ready to receive his confidence, if it had been offered.
After school in the evening, as he was standing silently beside Hardy, who was ruling a sheet of paper for him, Tarlton, in his brutal manner, came up, and seizing him by the arm, cried, “Come along with me, Loveit, I’ve something to say to you.”
“I can’t come now,” said Loveit, drawing away his arm.
“Ah, do come now,” said Tarlton, in a voice of persuasion.
“Well, I’ll come presently.”
“Nay, but do, pray; there’s a good fellow, come now, because I have something to say to you.”
“What is it you’ve got to say to me? I wish you’d let me alone,” said
Loveit; yet at the same time he suffered himself to he led away.
Tarlton took particular pains to humour him and bring him into temper again; and even though he was not very apt to part with his playthings, went so far as to say, “Loveit, the other day you wanted a top; I’ll give you mine if you desire it.”
Loveit thanked him, and was overjoyed at the thought of possessing this top. “But what did you want to say to me just now?”
“Ay, we’ll talk of that presently; not yet — when we get out of hearing.”
“Nobody is near us,” said Loveit.
“Come a little farther however,” said Tarlton, looking round suspiciously.
“Well now, well?”
“You know the dog that frightened us last night?”
“Yes.”
“It will never frighten us again.”
“Won’t it? how so?”
“Look here,” said Tarlton, drawing something from his pocket wrapped in a blue handkerchief.
“What’s that?” Tarlton opened it. “Raw meat!” exclaimed Loveit. “How came you by it?”
“Tom, the servant boy, Tom got it for me; and I’m to give him sixpence.”
“And is it for the dog?”
“Yes; I vowed I’d be revenged on him, and after this he’ll never bark again.”
“Never bark again! What do you mean? Is it poison?” exclaimed Loveit, starting back with horror.
“Only poison for A DOG,” said Tarlton, confused; “you could not look more shocking if it was poison for a Christian.”
Loveit stood for nearly a minute in profound silence. “Tarlton,” said he at last, in a changed tone and altered manner, “I did not know you; I will have no more to do with you.”
“Nay, but stay,” said Tarlton, catching hold of his arm, “stay; I was only joking.”
“Let go my arm — you were in earnest.”
“But then that was before I knew there was any harm. If you think there’s any harm?”
“IF,” said Loveit.
“Why, you know, I might not know; for Tom told me it’s a thing that’s often done. Ask Tom.”
“I’ll ask nobody! Surely we know better what’s right and wrong than Tom does.”
“But only just ask him, to hear what he’ll say.”
“I don’t want to hear what he’ll say,” cried Loveit, vehemently: “the dog will die in agonies — in agonies! There was a dog poisoned at my father’s — I saw him in the yard. Poor creature! He lay and howled and writhed himself!”
“Poor creature! Well, there’s no harm done now,” cried Tarlton, in a hypocritical tone. But though he thought fit to dissemble with Loveit, he was thoroughly determined in his purpose.
Poor Loveit, in haste to get away, returned to his friend Hardy; but his mind was in such agitation, that he neither talked nor moved like himself; and two or three times his heart was so full that he was ready to burst into tears.
“How good-natured you are to me,” said he to Hardy, as he was trying vainly to entertain him; “but if you knew—” Here he stopped short, for the bell for evening prayer rang, and they all took their places, and knelt down. After prayers, as they were going to bed, Loveit stopped Tarlton,—”WELL!” asked he, in an inquiring manner, fixing his eyes upon him.
“WELL!” replied Tarlton, in an audacious tone, as if he meant to set his inquiring eye at defiance.
“What do you mean to do to-night?”
“To go to sleep, as you do, I suppose,” replied Tarlton, turning away abruptly, and whistling as he walked off.
“Oh, he has certainly changed his mind!” said Loveit to himself, “else he could not whistle.”
About ten minutes after this, as he and Hardy were undressing, Hardy suddenly recollected that he had left his new kite out upon the grass. “Oh,” said he, “it will be quite spoiled before morning!”
“Call Tom,” said Loveit, “and bid him bring it in for you in a minute.”
They both went to the top of the stairs to call Tom; no one answered.
They called again louder, “Is Tom below?”
“I’m here,” answered he at last, coming out of Tarlton’s room with a look of mixed embarrassment and effrontery. And as he was receiving Hardy’s commission, Loveit saw the corner of the blue handkerchief hanging out of his pocket. This excited fresh suspicions in Loveit’s mind; but, without saying one word, he immediately stationed himself at the window in his room, which looked out towards the lane; and, as the moon was risen, he could see if anyone passed that way.
“What are you doing there?” said Hardy, after he had been watching some time; “why don’t you come to bed?” Loveit returned no answer, but continued standing at the window. Nor did he watch long in vain. Presently he saw Tom gliding slowly along a by-path, and get over the gate into the lane.
“He’s gone to do it!” exclaimed Loveit aloud, with an emotion which he could not command.
“Who’s gone? to do what?” cried Hardy, starting up.
“How cruel! how wicked!” continued Loveit.
“What’s cruel — what’s wicked? speak out at once!” returned Hardy, in that commanding tone which, in moments of danger, strong minds feel themselves entitled to assume towards weak ones. Loveit instantly, though in an incoherent manner, explained the affair to him. Scarcely had the words passed his lips, when Hardy sprang up, and began dressing himself without saying one syllable.
“For God’s sake, what are you going to do?” said Loveit, in great anxiety. “They’ll never forgive me! don’t betray me! they’ll never forgive! pray, speak to me! only say you won’t betray us.”
“I will not betray you, trust to me,” said Hardy: and he left the room, and Loveit stood in amazement; while, in the meantime, Hardy, in hopes of overtaking Tom before the fate of the poor dog was decided, ran with all possible speed across the meadow, then down the lane. He came up with Tom just as he was climbing the bank into the old man’s garden. Hardy, too much out of breath to speak, seized hold of him, dragged him down, detaining him with a firm grasp, whilst he panted for utterance.
“What, Master Hardy, is it you? what’s the matter? what do you want?”
“I want the poisoned meat that you have in your pocket.”
“Who told you that I had any such thing?” said Tom, clapping his hand upon his guilty pocket.
“Give it me quietly, and I’ll let you off.”
“Sir, upon my word I haven’t! I didn’t! I don’t know what you mean,” said Tom, trembling, though he was by far the stronger of the two. “Indeed, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do,” said Hardy, with great indignation: and a violent struggle immediately commenced.
The dog, now alarmed by the voices, began to bark outrageously. Tom was terrified lest the old man should come out to see what was the matter; his strength forsook him, and flinging the handkerchief and meat over the hedge, he ran away with all his speed. The handkerchief fell within reach of the dog, who instantly snapped at it; luckily it did not come untied. Hardy saw a pitchfork on a dunghill close beside him, and, seizing upon it, stuck it into the handkerchief. The dog pulled, tore, growled, grappled, yelled; it was impossible to get
the handkerchief from between his teeth; but the knot was loosed, the meat, unperceived by the dog, dropped out, and while he dragged off the handkerchief in triumph, Hardy, with inexpressible joy, plunged the pitchfork into the poisoned meat, and bore it away.
Never did hero retire with more satisfaction from a field of battle. Full of the pleasure of successful benevolence, Hardy tripped joyfully home, and vaulted over the window sill, when the first object he beheld was Mr. Power, the usher, standing at the head of the stairs, with his candle in his hand.
“Come up, whoever you are,” said Mr. William Power, in a stern voice. “I thought I should find you out at last. Come up, whoever you are!” Hardy obeyed without reply.—”Hardy!” exclaimed Mr. Power, starting back with astonishment; “is it you, Mr. Hardy?” repeated he, holding the light to his face. “Why, sir,” said he, in a sneering tone, “I’m sure if Mr. Trueman was here he wouldn’t believe his own eyes; but for my part I saw through you long since; I never liked saints, for my share. Will you please to do me the favour, sir, if it is not too much trouble, to empty your pockets.” Hardy obeyed in silence. “Heyday! meat! raw meat! what next?”
“That’s all,” said Hardy, emptying his pockets inside out.
“This is ALL,” said Mr. Power, taking up the meat.
“Pray, sir,” said Hardy, eagerly, “let that meat be burned, it is poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” cried Mr. William Power, letting it drop out of his fingers; “you wretch!” looking at him with a menacing air: “what is all this? Speak.” Hardy was silent. “Why don’t you speak?” cried he, shaking him by the shoulder impatiently. Still Hardy was silent. “Down upon your knees this minute and confess all: tell me where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing, and who are your accomplices, for I know there is a gang of you; so,” added he, pressing heavily upon Hardy’s shoulder, “down upon your knees this minute, and confess the whole, that’s your only way now to get off yourself. If you hope for MY pardon, I can tell you it’s not to be had without asking for.”
“Sir,” said Hardy, in a firm but respectful voice, “I have no pardon to ask, I have nothing to confess; I am innocent; but if I were not, I would never try to get off myself by betraying my companions.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 338
