Chapter Nine.
Crofton quiet.
The boys were all in the school-room in the grey of the morning;—no one late. Mr Tooke was already there. Almost every boy looked wistfully in the grave face of the master;—almost every one but his own son. He looked down; and it seemed natural: for his eyes were swollen with crying. He had been crying as much as Proctor: but, then, so had Dale.
“Your school-fellow is doing well,” said Mr Tooke, in a low voice, which, however, was heard to the farthest end of the room. “His brother will tell you that he saw him quietly asleep; and I have just seen him so. He deserves to do well; for he is a brave little boy. He is the youngest of you; but I doubt whether there is a more manly heart among you all.”
There was a murmur, as if everybody wished to agree to this. That murmur set Phil crying again.
“As to how this accident happened,” continued the master, “I have only to say this. The coping-stone of the wall was loose,—had become loosened by the frost. Of that I am aware. But it would not,—it could not have fallen, if your school-fellow had not been pulled from the top of the wall. Several hands pulled him,—as many as could get a hold. Whose these hands were, it would be easy to ascertain; and it would not be difficult to discover whose was the hand which first laid hold, and gave the rest their grasp. But—” How earnestly here did every one look for the next words!—“But your school-fellow considers the affair an accident,—says he himself was cross.”
“No! No! We plagued him,” cried many voices.
“Well! He is sure no one meant him any harm, and earnestly desires that no further inquiry may be made. For his part, nothing, he declares, shall ever induce him to tell who first seized him.”
The boys were about to give a loud cheer, but stopped, for Hugh’s sake, just in time. There was no want of signs of what they felt. There was no noise; but there were many tears.
“I do not think that a promise of impunity can be any great comfort to those concerned,” continued Mr Tooke: “but such comfort as they can find in it, they may. Both from my wish to indulge one who has just sustained so great a misfortune, and because I think he is right, I shall never inquire,—never wish to know more than I do of the origin of this accident. His mother declares the same, on the part of both of his parents. I hope you will every one feel yourselves put upon honour, to follow my example.”
Another general murmur, in sign of agreement.
“The only thing you can now do for your school-fellow,” concluded the master, “is to be quiet throughout the day. As soon as he can be removed, he will be carried to Mr Shaw’s. Till then, you will take care that he loses no rest through you,—Now, first class, come up.”
While this class was up, Phil’s neighbour began whispering; and the next boy leaned over to hear; and one or two came softly up behind: but, though they were busily engaged in question and answer, the master’s stern voice was not heard (as usual when there was talking) to say “Silence there!” His class saw him looking that way, once or twice; but he took no notice. Phil had seen his brother, and was privileged to tell.
“So you saw him! Did you get a real good sight of him?”
“Yes. I stayed some time; half-an-hour, I dare say.”
“What did he look like? Did he say anything?”
“Say anything!” cried Dale: “why, did you not hear he was asleep?”
“What did he look like, then?”
“He looked as he always does when he is asleep, as far as I could see. But we did not bring the light too near, for fear of waking him.”
“Did you hear—did anybody tell you anything about it?”
“Yes: my mother told me whatever I wanted to know.”
“What? What did she tell you?”
“She says it will not be so very bad a lameness as it might have been—as if he had not had his knee left. That makes a great difference. They make a false foot now, very light; and if his leg gets quite properly well, and we are not too much in a hurry, and we all take pains to help Hugh to practise walking carefully at first, he may not be very lame.”
“Oh! Then, it is not so bad,” said one, while Tooke, who was listening, gave a deep sigh of relief.
“Not so bad!” exclaimed Phil. “Why, he will never be so strong—so able and active as other men. He will never be able to take care of himself and other people. He will be so unlike other people always; and now, while he is a boy, he will never—”
The images of poor Hugh’s privations and troubles as a schoolboy were too much for Phil, and he laid down his head on his desk, to hide his grief. As for Tooke, he walked away, looking the picture of wretchedness.
“When will you see him again?” asked Dale, passing his arm round Phil’s neck.
“To-day, if he is pretty well. My mother promised me that.”
“Do you think you could get leave for me too? I would not make any noise, nor let him talk too much, if I might just see him.”
“I’ll see about it,” said Phil.
As Mrs Proctor was placing the pillows comfortably, for Hugh to have his breakfast, after he was washed, and the bed made nicely smooth, he yawned, and said he was sleepy still, and that he wondered what o’clock it was. His mother told him it was a quarter past ten.
“A quarter past ten! Why, how odd! The boys are half through school, almost, and I am only just awake!”
“They slept through the whole night, I dare say. You were awake a good many times; and you and I had some talk. Do you remember that? Or has it gone out of your head with your sound sleep?”
“No, no: I remember that,” said Hugh. “But it was the oddest, longest night!—and yesterday too! To think that it is not a whole day yet since it all happened! Oh! Here comes my breakfast. What is it? Coffee!”
“Yes: we know you are fond of coffee; and so am I. So we will have some together.”
“How comfortable!” exclaimed Hugh; for he was really hungry; which was no wonder, after the pain and exhaustion he had gone through. His state was like that of a person recovering from an illness—extremely ready to eat and drink, but obliged to be moderate.
When warmed and cheered by his coffee, Hugh gave a broad hint that he should like to see Phil, and one or two more boys—particularly Dale. His mother told him that the surgeon, Mr Annanby, would be coming soon. If he gave leave, Phil should come in, and perhaps Dale. So Hugh was prepared with a strong entreaty to Mr Annanby on the subject; but no entreaty was needed. Mr Annanby thought he was doing very well; and that he would not be the worse for a little amusement and a little fatigue this morning, if it did not go on too long. So Phil was sent for, when the surgeon was gone. As he entered, his mother went out to speak to Mr Tooke, and write home.
She then heard from Mr Tooke and from Firth and Dale, how strong was the feeling in Hugh’s favour—how strong the sympathy for his misfortune throughout the school. Hugh had seen no tears from her; but she shed them now. She then earnestly entreated that Hugh might not hear what she had just been told. He felt no doubt of the kindness of his schoolfellows, and was therefore quite happy on that score. He was very young, and to a certain degree vain; and if this event went to strengthen his vanity, to fill his head with selfish thoughts, it would be a misfortune indeed. The loss of his foot would be the least part of it. It lay with those about him to make this event a deep injury to him, instead of the blessing which all trials are meant by Providence eventually to be. They all promised that, while treating Hugh with the tenderness he deserved, they would not spoil the temper in which he had acted so well, by making it vain and selfish. There was no fear, meantime, of Phil’s doing him any harm in that way; for Phil had a great idea of the privileges and dignity of seniority; and his plan was to keep down little boys, and make them humble; not being aware that to keep people down is not the way to make them humble, but the contrary. Older people than Phil, however, often fall into this mistake. Many parents do, and many teachers; and very many elder brothers and sisters.
Phil entered the room shyly, and stood by the fire, so that the bed-curtain was between him and Hugh.
“Are you there, Phil?” cried Hugh, pulling aside the curtain.
“Yes,” said Phil; “how do you do this morning?”
“Oh, very well. Come here. I want to know ever so many things. Have you heard yet anything real and true about the new usher?”
“No,” replied Phil. “But I have no doubt it is really Mr Crabbe who is coming, and that he will be here after Christmas. Why, Hugh, you look just the same as usual!”
“So I am just the same, except under this thing,” pointing to the hoop, or basket, which was placed over his limb, to keep off the weight of the bed-clothes. “I am not hurt anywhere else, except this bruise;” and he showed a black bruise on his arm, such as almost any schoolboy can show, almost any day.
“That’s nothing,” pronounced Phil.
“The other was, though, I can tell you,” declared Hugh.
“Was it very, very bad? Worse than you had ever fancied?”
“Oh! Yes. I could have screamed myself to death. I did not, though. Did you hear me, did anybody hear me call out?”
“I heard you—just outside the door there—before the doctors came.”
“Ah! But not after, not while uncle was here. He cried so! I could not call out while was he crying so. Where were you when they were doing it?”
“Just outside the door there. I heard you once—only once; and that was not much.”
“But how came you to be there? It was past bedtime. Had you leave to be up so late?”
“I did not ask it; and nobody meddled with me.”
“Was anybody there with you?”
“Yes, Firth. Dale would not. He was afraid and he kept away.”
“Oh! Is not he very sorry?”
“Of course. Nobody can help being sorry.”
“Do they all seem sorry? What did they do? What do they say?”
“Oh! They are very sorry; you must know that.”
“Anybody more than the rest?”
“Why some few of them cried; but I don’t know that that shows them to be more sorry. It is some people’s way to cry—and others not.”
Hugh wished much to learn something about Tooke; but, afraid of showing what was in his thoughts, he went off to quite another subject.
“Do you know, Phil,” said he, “you would hardly believe it, but I have never been half so miserable as I was the first day or two I came here? I don’t care now, half so much, for all the pain, and for being lame, and— Oh! But I can never be a soldier or a sailor—I can never go round the world! I forgot that.”
And poor Hugh hid his face in his pillow.
“Never mind!” said Phil, stooping over him very kindly. “Here is a long time before you; and you will get to like something else just as well. Papa wanted to be a soldier, remember, and could not; and he is as happy as ever he can be, now that he is a shop-keeper in London. Did you ever see anybody merrier than my father is? I never did. Come! Cheer up, Hugh! You will be very happy somehow.”
Phil kissed him: and when Hugh looked up in surprise, Phil’s eyes were full of tears.
“Now I have a good mind to ask you,” said Hugh, “something that has been in my mind ever since.”
“Ever since when?”
“Ever since I came to Crofton. What could be the reason that you were not more kind to me then?”
“I! Not kind?” said Phil, in some confusion. “Was not I kind?”
“No. At least I thought not. I was so uncomfortable,—I did not know anybody, or what to do; and I expected you would show me, and help me. I always thought I could not have felt lonely with you here; and then when I came, you got out of my way, as if you were ashamed of me, and you did not help me at all; and you laughed at me.”
“No; I don’t think I did that.”
“Yes, you did, indeed.”
“Well, you know, little boys always have to shift for themselves when they go to a great school—”
“But why, if they have brothers there? That is the very thing I want to know. I think it is very cruel.”
“I never meant to be cruel, of course. But—but—the boys were all ready to laugh at me about a little brother that was scarcely any better than a girl;—and consider how you talked on the coach, and what ridiculous hair you had,—and what a fuss you made about your money and your pocket,—and how you kept popping out things about Miss Harold, and the girls, and Susan.”
“You were ashamed of me, then.”
“Well, what wonder if I was?”
“And you never told me about all these things. You let me learn them all without any warning, or any help.”
“To be sure. That is the way all boys have to get on. They must make their own way.”
“If ever little Harry comes to Crofton,” said Hugh, more to himself than to Phil, “I will not leave him in the lurch,—I will never be ashamed of him. Pray,” said he, turning quickly to Phil, “are you ashamed of me still?”
“Oh, no,” protested Phil. “You can shift for yourself,—you can play, and do everything like other boys, now. You—”
He stopped short, overcome with the sudden recollection that Hugh would never again be able to play like other boys,—to be like them in strength, and in shifting for himself.
“Ah! I see what you are thinking of,” said Hugh. “I am so afraid you should be ashamed of me again, when I come into the playground. The boys will quiz me;—and if you are ashamed of me—”
“Oh, no, no!” earnestly declared Phil. “There is nobody in the world that will quiz you;—or, if there is, they had better take care of me, I can tell them. But nobody will. You don’t know how sorry the boys are. Here comes Dale. He will tell you the same thing.”
Dale was quite sure that any boy would, from this time for ever, be sent to Coventry who should quiz Hugh for his lameness. There was not a boy now at Crofton who would not do anything in the world to help him.
“Why, Dale, how you have been crying!” exclaimed Hugh. “Is anything wrong in school? Can’t you manage your verses yet?”
“I’ll try that to-night,” said Dale, cheerfully. “Yes; I’ll manage them. Never mind what made my eyes red; only, if such a thing had happened to me, you would have cried,—I am sure of that.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Phil.
“Now, Proctor, you had better go,” said Dale. “One at a time is enough to-day; and I shall not stay long.”
Phil agreed, and actually shook hands with Hugh before he went.
“Phil is so kind to-day!” cried Hugh, with glee; “though he is disappointed of going to uncle Shaw’s on my account. And I know he had reckoned on it. Now, I want to know one thing,—where did Mr Tooke sleep last night? For this is his bed.”
Dale believed he slept on the sofa. He was sure, at least, that he had not taken off his clothes; for he had come to the door several times in the course of the night, to know how all was going on.
“Why, I never knew that!” cried Hugh. “I suppose I was asleep. Dale, what do you think is the reason that our fathers and mothers and people take care of us as they do?”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, Agnes and I cannot make it out. When we were by the sea-side, mother took us a great way along the beach, to a place we did not know at all; and she bade us pick up shells, and amuse ourselves, while she went to see a poor woman that lived just out of sight. We played till we were quite tired; and then we sat down; and still she did not come. At last, we were sure that she had forgotten all about us; and we did not think she would remember us any more: and we both cried. Oh! How we did cry! Then a woman came along, with a basket at her back, and a great net over her arm: and she asked us what was the matter; and when we told her, she said she thought it was not likely that mother would forget us. And then she bade us take hold of her gown, one on each side, and she would try to take us to mother; and the next thing was mother came in sight. When the woman told her what we had said, they both laughed; and mother told us it was impossible that she should leave us behind. I asked Agnes afterwards why it was impossible; and she did not know; and I am sure she was as glad as I was to see mother come in sight. If she really never can forget us, what makes her remember us?”
Dale shook his head. He could not tell.
“Because,” continued Hugh, “we can’t do anything for anybody, and we give a great deal of trouble. Mother sits up very late, sometimes till near twelve, mending our things. There is that great basket of stockings she has to mend, once a fortnight! And papa works very hard to get money; and what a quantity he pays for our schooling, and our clothes, and everything!”
“Everybody would think it very shameful if he did not,” suggested Dale. “If he let you go ragged and ignorant, it would be wicked.”
“But why?” said Hugh, vehemently. “That is what I want to know. We are not worth anything. We are nothing but trouble. Only think what so many people did yesterday! My mother came a journey; and uncle and aunt Shaw came: and mother sat up all night; and Mr Tooke never went to bed,—and all about me! I declare I can’t think why.”
Dale felt as if he knew why; but he could not explain it. Mrs Proctor had heard much of what they were saying. She had come in before closing her letter to Mr Proctor, to ask whether Hugh wished to send any particular message home. As she listened, she was too sorry to feel amused. She perceived that she could not have done her whole duty to her children, if there could be such a question as this in their hearts—such a question discussed between them, unknown to her. She spoke now; and Hugh started, for he was not aware that she was in the room.
She asked both the boys why they thought it was that, before little birds are fledged, the parent birds bring them food, as often as once in a minute, all day long for some weeks. Perhaps no creatures can go through harder work than this; and why do they do it? For unfledged birds, which are capable of nothing whatever but clamouring for food, are as useless little creatures as can be imagined. Why does the cat take care of her little blind kitten with so much watchfulness, hiding it from all enemies till it can take care of itself. It is because love does not depend on the value of the creature loved—it is because love grows up in our hearts at God’s pleasure, and not by our own choice; and it is God’s pleasure that the weakest and the least useful and profitable should be the most beloved, till they become able to love and help in their turn.
“Is it possible, my dear,” she said to Hugh, “that you did not know this,—you who love little Harry so much, and take such care of him at home? I am sure you never stopped to think whether Harry could do you any service, before helping him to play.”
“No; but then—”
“But what?”
“He is such a sweet little fellow, it is a treat to look at him. Every morning when I woke, I longed to be up, and to get to him.”
“That is, you loved him. Well: your papa and I love you all, in the same way. We get up with pleasure to our business—your father to his shop, and I to my work-basket—because it is the greatest happiness in the world to serve those we love.”
Hugh said nothing; but still, though pleased, he did not look quite satisfied.
“Susan and cook are far more useful to me than any of you children,” continued his mother, “and yet I could not work early and late for them, with the same pleasure as for you.”
Hugh laughed; and then he asked whether Jane was not now as useful as Susan.
“Perhaps she is,” replied his mother; “and the more she learns and does, and the more she becomes my friend,—the more I respect her: but it is impossible to love her more than I did before she could speak or walk. There is some objection in your mind still, my dear. What is it?”
“It makes us of so much consequence,—so much more than I ever thought of,—that the minds of grown people should be busy about us.”
“There is nothing to be vain of in that, my dear, any more than for young kittens, and birds just hatched. But it is very true that all young creatures are of great consequence; for they are the children of God. When, besides this, we consider what human beings are,—that they can never perish, but are to live for ever,—and that they are meant to become more wise and holy than we can imagine, we see that the feeblest infant is indeed a being of infinite consequence. This is surely a reason for God filling the hearts of parents with love, and making them willing to work and suffer for their children, even while the little ones are most unwise and unprofitable. When you and Agnes fancied I should forget you and desert you, you must have forgotten that you had another Parent who rules the hearts of all the fathers and mothers on earth.”
Hugh was left alone to think this over, when he had given his messages home, and got Dale’s promise to come again as soon as he could obtain leave to do so. Both the boys were warned that this would not be till to-morrow, as Hugh had seen quite company enough for one day. Indeed, he slept so much, that night seemed to be soon come.