Chapter Seven.
What is only to be had at Home.
Hugh got on far better with his lessons as he grew more intimate with Dale. It was not so much that Dale helped him with his grammar and construing (for Dale thought every boy should make shift to do his own business) as that he liked to talk about his work, even with a younger boy; and so, as he said, clear his head. A great deal that he said was above Hugh’s comprehension; and much of his repetitions mere words: but there were other matters which fixed Hugh’s attention, and proved to him that study might be interesting out of school. When Dale had a theme to write, the two boys often walked up and down the playground for half an hour together, talking the subject over, and telling of anything they had heard or read upon it. Hugh presently learned the names and the meanings of the different parts of a theme; and he could sometimes help with an illustration or example, though he left it to his friend to lay down the Proposition, and search out the Confirmation. Dale’s nonsense-verses were perfect nonsense to Hugh: but his construing was not: and when he went over it aloud, for the purpose of fixing his lesson in his ear, as well as his mind, Hugh was sorry when they arrived at the end, and eager to know what came next,—particularly if they had to stop in the middle of a story of Ovid’s. Every week, almost every day now, made a great difference in Hugh’s school-life. He still found his lessons very hard work, and was often in great fear and pain about them,—but he continually perceived new light breaking in upon his mind: his memory served him better; the little he had learned came when he wanted it, instead of just a minute too late. He rose in the morning with less anxiety about the day: and when playing, could forget school.
There was no usher yet in Mr Carnaby’s place; and all the boys said their lessons to Mr Tooke himself: which Hugh liked very much, when he had got over the first fear. A writing-master came from a distance twice a week, when the whole school was at writing and arithmetic all the afternoon: but every other lesson was said to the master; and this was likely to go on till Christmas, as the new usher, of whom, it was said, Mr Tooke thought so highly as to choose to wait for him, could not come before that time. Of course, with so much upon his hands, Mr Tooke had not a moment to spare; and slow or idle boys were sent back to their desks at the first trip or hesitation in their lessons. Hugh was afraid, at the outset, that he should be like poor Lamb, who never got a whole lesson said during these weeks: and he was turned down sometimes; but not often enough to depress him. He learned to trust more to his ear and his memory: his mind became excited, as in playing a game: and he found he got through, he scarcely knew how. His feeling of fatigue afterwards proved to him that this was harder work than he had ever done at home; but he did not feel it so at the time. When he could learn a lesson in ten minutes, and say it in one; when he began to use Latin phrases in his private thoughts, and saw the meaning of a rule of syntax, so as to be able to find a fresh example out of his own head, he felt himself really a Crofton boy, and his heart grew light within him.
The class to which Hugh belonged was one day standing waiting to be heard, when the master was giving a subject and directions for an English theme to Dale’s class. The subject was the Pleasures of Friendship. In a moment Hugh thought of Damon and Pythias, and of David and Jonathan,—of the last of whom there was a picture in Mrs Watson’s great Bible. He thought how happy he had been since he had known Dale, and his heart was in such a glow, he was sure he could write a theme. He ran after Mr Tooke when school was over, and asked whether he might write a theme with Dale’s class. When Mr Tooke found he knew what was meant by writing a theme, he said he might try, if he neglected nothing for it, and wrote every word of it himself, without consultation with any one.
Hugh scampered away to tell Dale that they must not talk over this theme together, as they were both to do it; and then, instead of playing, he went to his desk, and wrote upon his slate till it was quite full. He had to borrow two slates before he had written all he had to say. Phil ruled his paper for him; but before he had copied one page, his neighbours wanted their slates back again,—said they must have them, and rubbed out all he had written. Much of the little time he had was lost in this way, and he grew wearied. He thought at first that his theme would be very beautiful: but he now began to doubt whether it would be worth anything at all; and he was vexed to have tired himself with doing what would only make him laughed at. The first page was well written out,—the Confirmation being properly separated from the Proposition: but he had to write all the latter part directly from his head upon the paper, as the slates were taken away; and he forgot to separate the Conclusion from the Inference.
He borrowed a penknife, and tried to scratch out half a line; but he only made a hole in the paper, and was obliged to let the line stand. Then he found he had strangely forgotten to put in the chief thing of all,—about friends telling one another of their faults,—though, on consideration, he was not sure that this was one of the Pleasures of Friendship: so, perhaps, it did not much matter. But there were two blots; and he had left out Jonathan’s name, which had to be interlined. Altogether, it had the appearance of a very bad theme. Firth came and looked over his shoulder, as he was gazing at it; and Firth offered to write it out for him; and even thought it would be fair, as he had had nothing to do with the composition: but Hugh could not think it would be fair, and said, sighing, that his must take its chance. He did not think he could have done a theme so very badly.
Mr Tooke beckoned him up with Dale’s class, when they carried up their themes; and, seeing how red his face was, the master bade him not be afraid. But how could he help being afraid? The themes were not read directly. It was Mr Tooke’s practice to read them out of school-hours. On this occasion, judgment was given the last thing before school broke up the next morning.
Hugh had never been more astonished in his life. Mr Tooke praised his theme very much, and said it had surprised him. He did not mind the blots and mistakes, which would, he said, have been great faults in a copy-book, but were of less consequence than other things in a theme. Time and pains would correct slovenliness of that kind; and the thoughts and language were good. Hugh was almost out of his wits with delight; so nearly so that he spoiled his own pleasure completely. He could not keep his happiness to himself, or his vanity: for Hugh had a good deal of vanity,—more than he was aware of before this day. He told several boys what Mr Tooke had said: but he soon found that would not do. Some were indifferent, but most laughed at him. Then he ran to Mrs Watson’s parlour, and knocked. Nobody answered; for the room was empty: so Hugh sought her in various places, and at last found her in the kitchen, boiling some preserves.
“What do you come here for? This is no place for you,” said she, when the maids tried in vain to put Hugh out.
“I only want to tell you one thing,” cried Hugh; and he repeated exactly what Mr Tooke had said of his theme. Mrs Watson laughed, and the maids laughed, and Hugh left them, angry with them, but more angry with himself. They did not care for him,—nobody cared for him, he said to himself; he longed for his mother’s look or approbation when he had done well, and Agnes’ pleasure, and even Susan’s fondness and praise. He sought Dale. Dale was in the midst of a game, and had not a word or look to spare till it was over. The boys would have admitted Hugh; for he could now play as well as anybody; but he was in no mood for play now. He climbed his tree, and sat there, stinging his mind with the thought of his having carried his boastings into the kitchen, and with his recollection of Mrs Watson’s laugh.
It often happened that Firth and Hugh met at this tree; and it happened now. There was room for both; and Firth mounted, and read for some time. At last he seemed to be struck by Hugh’s restlessness and heavy sighs; and he asked whether he had not got something to amuse himself with.
“No. I don’t want to amuse myself,” said Hugh, stretching so as almost to throw himself out of the tree.
“Why, what’s the matter? Did you not come off well with your theme? I heard somebody say you were quite enough set up about it.”
“Where is the use of doing a thing well, if nobody cares about it?” said Hugh. “I don’t believe anybody at Crofton cares a bit about me—cares whether I get on well or ill—except Dale. If I take pains and succeed, they only laugh at me.”
“Ah! You don’t understand school and schoolboys yet,” replied Firth. “To do a difficult lesson well is a grand affair at home, and the whole house knows of it. But it is the commonest thing in the world here. If you learn to feel with these boys, instead of expecting them to feel with you (which they cannot possibly do), you will soon find that they care for you accordingly.”
Hugh shook his head.
“You will find it in every school in England,” continued Firth, “that it is not the way of boys to talk about feelings—about anybody’s feelings. That is the reason why they do not mention their sisters or their mothers—except when two confidential friends are together, in a tree, or by themselves in the meadows. But, as sure as ever a boy is full of action—if he tops the rest at play—holds his tongue, or helps others generously—or shows a manly spirit without being proud of it, the whole school is his friend. You have done well, so far, by growing more and more sociable; but you will lose ground if you boast about your lessons out of school. To prosper at Crofton, you must put off home, and make yourself a Crofton boy.”
“I don’t care about that,” said Hugh. “I give it all up. There is nothing but injustice here.”
“Nothing but injustice! Pray, am I unjust?”
“No—not you—not so far. But—”
“Is Mr Tooke unjust?”
“Yes—very.”
“Pray how, and when?”
“He has been so unjust to me, that if it had not been for something, I could not have borne it. I am not going to tell you what that something is: only you need not be afraid but that I can bear everything. If the whole world was against me—”
“Well, never mind what that something is; but tell me how Mr Tooke is unjust to you.”
“He punished me when I did not deserve it; and he praised me when I did not deserve it. I was cheated and injured that Saturday; and, instead of seeing me righted, Mr Tooke ordered me to be punished. And to-day, when my theme was so badly done that I made sure of being blamed, he praised me.”
“This might be injustice at home,” replied Firth, “because parents know, or ought to know, all that is in their children’s minds, and exactly what their children can do. A schoolmaster can judge only by what he sees. Mr Tooke does not know yet that you could have done your theme better than you did—as your mother would have known. When he finds you can do better, he will not praise such a theme again. Meantime, how you can boast of his praise, if you think it unjust, is the wonder to me.”
“So it is to me now. I wish I had never asked to do that theme at all,” cried Hugh, again stretching himself to get rid of his shame. “But why did Mr Tooke order me to be caned? Why did he not make Lamb and Holt pay me what they owe? I was injured before: and he injured me more.”
“You were to be caned because you left the heath and entered a house without leave—not because you had been cheated of your money.”
“But I did not know where I was going. I never meant to enter a house.”
“But you did both; and what you suffered will prevent your letting yourself be led into such a scrape again. As for the money part of the matter—a school is to boys what the world is when they become men. They must manage their own affairs among themselves. The difference is, that here is the master to be applied to, if we choose. He will advise you about your money, if you choose to ask him: but, for my part, I would rather put up with the loss, if I were you.”
“Nobody will ever understand what I mean about justice,” muttered Hugh.
“Suppose,” said Firth, “while you are complaining of injustice in this way, somebody else should be complaining in the same way of your injustice.”
“Nobody can—fairly,” replied Hugh.
“Do you see that poor fellow, skulking there under the orchard-wall?”
“What, Holt?”
“Yes, Holt. I fancy the thought in his mind at this moment is that you are the most unjust person at Crofton.”
“I! Unjust!”
“Yes; so he thinks. When you first came, you and he were companions. You found comfort in each other while all the rest were strangers to you. You were glad to hear, by the hour together, what he had to tell you about India, and his voyages and travels. Now he feels himself lonely and forsaken, while he sees you happy with a friend. He thinks it hard that you should desert him because he owes you a shilling, when he was cheated quite as much as you.”
“Because he owes me a shilling!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet, “as if—”
Once more he had nearly fallen from his perch. Firth caught him; and then asked him how Holt should think otherwise than as he did, since Hugh had been his constant companion up to that Saturday afternoon, and had hardly spoken to him since.
Hugh protested that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter; and he never meant to take more than sixpence from Holt, because he thought Lamb was the one who ought to pay the shilling. The thing was, he did not, and could not, like Holt half so well as Dale. He could not make a friend of Holt, because he wanted spirit—he had no courage. What could he do? He could not pretend to be intimate with Holt when he did not like him; and if he explained that the shilling had nothing to do with the matter, he could not explain how it really was, when the fault was in the boy’s character, and not in his having given any particular offence. What could he do?
Firth thought he could only learn not to expect, anywhere out of the bounds of home, what he thought justice. He must, of course, try himself to be just to everybody; but he must make up his mind in school, as men have to do in the world, to be misunderstood—to be wrongly valued; to be blamed when he felt himself the injured one; and praised when he knew he did not deserve it.
“But it is so hard,” said Hugh.
“And what do people leave home for but to learn hard lessons?”
“But still, if it were not for—”
“For what? Do you see any comfort under it?” asked Firth, fixing his eyes on Hugh.
Hugh nodded, without speaking.
“That One understands us who cannot be unjust!” whispered Firth. “I am glad you feel that.”
“Even home would be bad enough without that,” said Hugh. “And what would school be?”
“Or the world?” added Frith. “But do not get cross, and complain again. Leave that to those who have no comfort.”
Hugh nodded again. Then he got down, and ran to tell Holt that he did not want a shilling from him, because he thought sixpence would be fairer.
Holt was glad to hear this at first; but he presently said that it did not much matter, for that he had no more chance of being able to pay sixpence than a shilling. His parents were in India, and his uncle never offered him any money. He knew indeed that his uncle had none to spare; for he had said in the boy’s hearing, that it was hard on him to have to pay the school-bills (unless he might pay them in the produce of his farm), so long as it must be before he could be repaid from India. So Holt did not dare to ask for pocket-money; and for the hundredth time he sighed over his debt. He had almost left off hoping that Hugh, would excuse him altogether, though everybody knew that Hugh had five shillings in Mrs Watson’s hands. This fact and Hugh’s frequent applications to Lamb for payment, had caused an impression that Hugh was fond of money. It was not so; and yet the charge was not unfair. Hugh was ready to give if properly asked; but he did not relish, and could not bear with temper, the injustice of such a forced borrowing as had stripped him of his half-crown. He wanted his five shillings for presents for his family; and for these reasons, and not because he was miserly, he did not offer to excuse Holt’s debt; which it would have been more generous to have done. Nobody could wish that he should excuse Lamb’s.
“When are you going to your uncle’s?” asked Holt. “I suppose you are going some day before Christmas.”
“On Saturday, to stay till Sunday night,” said Hugh.
“And Proctor goes too, I suppose?”
“Yes; of course, Phil goes too.”
“Anybody else?”
“We are each to take one friend, just for Saturday, to come home at night.”
“Oh? Then, you will take me. You said you would.”
“Did I? That must have been a long time ago.”
“But you did say so,—that, whenever you went, you would ask leave to take me.”
“I don’t remember any such thing. And I am going to take Dale this time. I have promised him.”
Holt cried with vexation. Dale was always in his way. Hugh cared for nobody but Dale; but Dale should not go to Mr Shaw’s till he had had his turn. He had been promised first, and he would go first. He would speak to Mrs Watson, and get leave to go and tell Mrs Shaw, and then he was sure Mr Shaw would let him go.
Hugh was very uncomfortable. He really could not remember having made this promise: but he could not be sure that he had not. He asked Holt if he thought he should like to be in people’s way, to spoil the holiday by going where he was not wished for; but this sort of remonstrance did not comfort Holt at all. Hugh offered that he should have the very next turn, if he would give up now.
“I dare say! And when will that be? You know on Sunday it will want only nineteen days to the holidays; and you will not be going to your uncle’s again this half-year. A pretty way of putting me off!”
Then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he cried,—
“But Proctor has to take somebody.”
“Yes; Phil takes Tooke. They settled that a week ago.”
“Oh! Can’t you ask him to take me?”
“No; I shall not meddle with Phil. Besides, I am glad he has chosen Tooke. Tooke behaved well to me about the sponge that day. Tooke has some spirit.”
This put Holt in mind of the worst of his adventures since he came to Crofton, and of all the miseries of being shunned as a tell-tale. He cried so bitterly as to touch Hugh’s heart. As if thinking aloud, Hugh told him that he seemed very forlorn, and that he wished he would find a friend to be intimate with. This would make him so much happier as he had no idea of; as he himself had found since he had had Dale for a friend.
This naturally brought out a torrent of reproaches, which was followed by a hot argument; Holt insisting that Hugh ought to have been his intimate friend; and Hugh asking how he could make a friend of a boy who wanted spirit. They broke away from one another at last, Hugh declaring Holt to be unreasonable and selfish, and Holt thinking Hugh cruel and insulting.
Of course Mrs Watson would not hear of Holt’s going to Mr Shaw, to ask for an invitation for Saturday. He was told he must wait till another time. It was no great consolation to Holt that on Sunday it would want only nineteen days to the holidays: for he was to remain at Crofton. He hoped to like the holidays better than school-days, and to be petted by Mrs Watson, and to sit by the fire, instead of being forced into the playground in all weathers; but still he could not look forward to Christmas with the glee which other boys felt.