The Crofton Boys

by Harriet Martineau

Chapter Thirteen.

Tripping.

When the day came for returning to Crofton, Hugh would have left his crutches behind at his uncle’s, so much did he prefer walking with the little light stick-leg he had been practising with for a fortnight. But his aunt shook her head at this, and ordered the crutches into the gig. He still walked slowly and cautiously, and soon grew tired: and she thought he might find it a relief at times to hop about on his crutches. They were hidden under the bed, however, immediately on his arrival; so anxious was Hugh to make the least of his lameness, and look as like other boys as possible, both for Tooke’s sake and his own. When the boys had been all assembled for one day, and everybody had seen how little Proctor could walk, the subject seemed to be dropped, and nothing was talked of but the new usher. So Hugh said to himself; and he really thought that he had fully taken his place again as a Crofton boy, and that he should be let off all notice of his infirmity henceforth, and all trials from it, except such as no one but himself need know of. He was even not quite sure whether he should not be a gainer by it on the whole. He remembered Tooke’s assurances of protection and friendship; he found Phil very kind and watchful; and Mrs Watson told him privately that he was to be free of the orchard. She showed him the little door through which he might enter at any time, alone, or with one companion. Here he might read, or talk, and get out of sight of play that he could not share. The privilege was to be continued as long as no mischief was done to anything within the orchard. The prospect of the hours, the quiet hours, the bright hours that he should spend here alone with Dale, delighted Hugh: and when he told Dale, Dale liked the prospect too; and they went together, at the earliest opportunity, to survey their new domain, and plan where they would sit in spring, and how they would lie on the grass in summer, and be closer and closer friends for ever.

Holt was encouraged to hope that he should have his turn sometimes; but he saw that, though Hugh cared more for him than before the holidays, he yet loved Dale the best.

While Hugh was still in spirits at the thought that his worst trials were over, and the pleasure of his indulgences to come, he felt very complacent; and he thought he would gratify himself with one more reading of the theme which he had written in the holidays,—the theme which he really believed Mr Tooke might fairly praise,—so great had been the pains he had taken with the composition, and so neatly was it written out. He searched for it in vain among his books and in his portfolio. Then he got leave to go up to his room, and turn over all his clothes. He did so in vain; and at last he remembered that it was far indeed out of his reach,—in the drawer of his aunt’s work-table, where it had lain ever since she had asked him for it, to read to a lady who had visited her.

The themes would certainly be called for the first thing on Mr Tooke’s appearance in school, at nine the next morning. The duties of the early morning would leave no one any time to run to Mr Shaw’s then. If anybody went, it must be now. The first day was one of little regularity; it was only just beginning so grow dusk; any willing boy might be back before supper; and there was no doubt that leave would be given on such an occasion. So Hugh made his way to the playground as fast as possible, and told his trouble to his best friends there,—to Phil, and Holt, and Dale, and as many as happened to be within hearing.

“Never mind your theme!” said Phil. “Nobody expected you to do one; and you have only to say that you left it behind you.”

“It is not that,” said Hugh. “I must show up my theme.”

“You can’t, you know, if you have it not to show,” said two or three, who thought this settled the matter.

“But it is there: it is at my uncle’s, if any one would go for it,” said Hugh, beginning to be agitated.

“Go for it!” exclaimed Phil. “What, in the dark,—this freezing afternoon?”

“It is not near dark; it will not be dark this hour. Anybody might run there and back before supper.”

He looked at Dale; but Dale looked another way. For a moment he thought of Tooke’s permission to appeal to him when he wanted a friend: but Tooke was not within hearing; and he dismissed the thought of pointing out Tooke to anybody’s notice. He turned away as Phil repeated that it was quite certain that there would be no bad consequences from his being unprovided with a theme, which was not one of his regular lessons.

Phil was not quite easy, however: nor were the others who heard; and in a minute they looked round for Hugh. He was leaning his face upon his arms, against the orchard-wall; and when, with gentle force, they pulled him away, they saw that his face was bathed in tears. He sobbed out,—

“I took such pains with that theme,—all the holidays! And I can’t go for it myself.”

There were loud exclamations from many against Phil, against one another, and against themselves; and now everybody was eager to go. Phil stopped all who had started off, saying that it was his business; and the next moment, Phil was at Mr Tooke’s study-door, asking leave of absence till supper.

“Little Holt has been beforehand with you,” said Mr Tooke. “I refused him, however, as he is not so fit as you to be out after dark. Off with you!”

Before Phil returned, it struck Hugh that he had been very selfish; and that it was not a good way of bearing his trial to impose on any one a walk of four miles, to repair a piece of carelessness of his own. Nobody blamed him; but he did not like to look in the faces round him, to see what people thought. When Phil returned, fresh and hungry from the frosty air, and threw down the paper, saying,—

“There is your theme, and my aunt is very sorry,” Hugh said,—

“Oh! Phil, and I am so sorry too! I hope you are not very tired.”

“Never mind!” replied Phil. “There is your theme.”

And with this Hugh was obliged to be satisfied; but it left him exceedingly uncomfortable—sorry for Phil—disappointed in Dale—and much more disappointed in himself. The thought of what Holt had wished to do was the only pleasant part of it; and Hugh worked beside Holt, and talked with him all the evening.

Hugh felt, the next morning, as if he was never to have any pleasure from his themes, though they were the lesson he did best. This one was praised, quite as much as the former one: and he did not this time tell anybody what Mr Tooke had said about it: but the pleasure was spoiled by the recollection that his brother had run four miles on account of it, and that he himself must have appeared to others more selfish than he thought them. He burned his theme, that he might the more easily forget all about it; and the moment after he had done so, Phil said he should have kept it, as other boys did theirs, for his parents to see.

Mr Crabbe was just such a master as it was good for the little boys to be under. He did not punish capriciously, nor terrify them by anything worse than his strictness. Very strict he was; and he thus caused them some fear every day: for Holt was backward, and not very clever: and Hugh was still much less able to learn than most other boys. But all felt that Mr Crabbe was not unreasonable, and they always knew exactly how much to be afraid of. Whether he had inquired, or been told, the story of Hugh’s lameness, they did not know. He said nothing about it, except just asking Hugh whether it tired him to stand up in class, saying that he might sit at the top or bottom of the class, instead of taking places, if he chose. Hugh did find it rather fatiguing at first: but he did not like to take advantage of Mr Crabbe’s offer, because it so happened that he was almost always at the bottom of his classes: and to have withdrawn from the contest would have looked like a trick to hide the shame, and might have caused him to be set down as a dunce who never could rise. He thanked Mr Crabbe, and said that if he should rise in his classes, and keep a good place for some time, he thought he should be glad to sit, instead of standing; but meantime he had rather be tired. Then the feeling of fatigue went off before he rose, or saw any chance of rising.

This inability to do his lessons so well as other boys was a deep and lasting grief to Hugh. Though he had in reality improved much since he came to Crofton, and was now and then cheered by some proof of this, his general inferiority in this respect was such as to mortify him every day of his life, and sometimes to throw him almost into despair. He saw that everybody pitied him for the loss of his foot, but not for this other trouble, while he felt this to be rather the worst of the two; and all the more because he was not sure himself whether or not he could help it, as every one else seemed certain that he might. When he said his prayer in his bed, he earnestly entreated that he might be able to bear the one trouble, and be delivered from the other; and when, as the spring came on, he was found by one friend or another lying on the grass with his face hidden, he was often praying with tears for help in doing this duty, when he was thought to be grieving that he could not play at leaping or foot-ball, like other boys. And yet, the very next evening, when the whole school were busy over their books, and there was nothing to interfere with his work, he would pore over his lesson without taking in half the sense, while his fancy was straying everywhere but where it ought;—perhaps to little Harry, or the Temple Gardens at home, or to Cape Horn, or Japan—some way farther off still. It did not often happen now, as formerly, that he forgot before morning a lesson well learned over-night. He was aware that now everything depended on whether he was once sure of his lesson; but the difficulty was in once being sure of it.

Finding Phil’s kindness continue through the first weeks and months of the half-year, Hugh took courage at last to open his mind pretty freely to his brother, offering to do anything in the world for Phil, if he would only hear him his lessons every evening till he could say them perfect. Phil was going to plead that he had no time, when Hugh popped out—

“The thing is that it does not help me to say them to just anybody. Saying them to somebody that I am afraid of is what I want.”

“Why, you are not afraid of me?” said Phil. “Yes I am—rather.”

“What for?”

“Oh, because you are older;—and you are so much more of a Crofton boy than I am—and you are very strict—and altogether—”

“Yes, you will find me pretty strict, I can tell you,” said Phil, unable to restrain a complacent smile on finding that somebody was afraid of him. “Well, we must see what we can do. I will hear you to-night, at any rate.”

Between his feeling of kindness and the gratification of his vanity, Phil found himself able to hear his brother’s lessons every evening. He was certainly very strict, and was not sparing of such pushes, joggings, and ridicule as were necessary to keep Hugh up to his work. These were very provoking sometimes; but Hugh tried to bear them for the sake of the gain. Whenever Phil would condescend to explain, in fresh words, the sense of what Hugh had to learn, he saved trouble to both, and the lesson went off quickly and easily: but sometimes he would not explain anything, and soon went away in impatience, leaving Hugh in the midst of his perplexities. There was a chance, on such occasions, that Firth might be at leisure, or Dale able to help: so that, one way and another, Hugh found his affairs improving as the spring advanced; and he began to lose his anxiety, and to gain credit with the usher. He also now and then won a place in his classes.

Towards the end of May, when the trees were full of leaf, and the evenings sunny, and the open air delicious, quite up to bedtime, Phil became persuaded, very suddenly, that Hugh could get on by himself now; that it was not fair that he should be helped; and that it was even hurtful to him to rely on any one but himself. If Phil had acted gradually upon this conviction, withdrawing his help by degrees, it might have been all very well: but he refused at once and decidedly to have anything more to do with Hugh’s lessons, as he was quite old and forward enough now to do them by himself. This announcement threw his brother into a state of consternation not at all favourable to learning; and the next morning Hugh made several blunders. He did the same every day that week; was every afternoon detained from play to learn his lessons again; and on the Saturday morning (repetition day) he lost all the places he had gained, and left off at the bottom of every class.

What could Mr Crabbe suppose but that a sudden fit of idleness was the cause of this falling back? It appeared so to him, and to the whole school; and poor Hugh felt as if there was scorn in every eye that looked upon his disgrace. He thought there could not be a boy in the school who did not see or hear that he was at the bottom of every class.

Mr Crabbe always desired to be just: and he now gave Hugh the opportunity of explaining, if he had anything to say. He remained in the school-room after the boys had left it, and asked Hugh a question or two. But Hugh sobbed and cried so bitterly that he could not speak so as to be understood; and he did not wish to explain, feeling that he was much obliged to Phil for his former help, and that he ought not to complain to any master of its being now withdrawn. So Mr Crabbe could only hope that next week would show a great difference, and advise him to go out with the rest this afternoon, to refresh himself for a new effort.

Hugh did not know whether he had not rather have been desired to stay at home than go out among so many who considered him disgraced. It really was hard (though Holt stood by him, and Dale was his companion as usual) to bear the glances he saw, and the words that came to his ear. Some boys looked to see how red his eyes were: some were surprised to see him abroad, and hinted a favouritism because he was not shut up in the school-room. Some asked whether he could say his alphabet yet; and others whether he could spell “dunce.” The most cruel thing of all was to see Tooke in particularly high spirits. He kept away from Hugh; but Hugh’s eye followed him from afar, and saw that he capered and laughed, and was gayer than at any time this half-year. Hugh saw into his heart (or thought he did) as plain as he saw to the bottom of the clear stream in the meadows, to which they were bound for their afternoon’s sport.

“I know what Tooke is feeling,” thought he. “He is pleased to see me lowered, as long as it is not his doing. He is sorry to see me suffer by my lameness; because that hurts his conscience: but he is pleased to see me wrong and disgraced, because that relieves him of the feeling of being obliged to me. If I were now to put him in mind of his promise, to stand by me, and protect me— I declare I will— it will stop his wicked joy— it will make him remember his duty.”

Dale wondered to see Hugh start off, as fast as he could go, to overtake the foremost boys, who were just entering the meadow, and spreading themselves over it. Tooke could, alas! Like everybody else, go faster than Hugh; and there was no catching him, though he did not seem to see that anybody wanted him. Neither could he be made to hear, though Hugh called him as loud as he could shout. Holt was so sorry to see Hugh hot and agitated, that he made no objection to going after Tooke, though he was pretty sure Tooke would be angry with him. Holt could run as fast as anybody, and he soon caught the boy he was pursuing, and told him that little Proctor wanted him very much indeed, that very moment. Tooke sent him about his business, saying that he could not come; and then immediately proposed brook-leaping for their sport, leading the way himself over a place so wide that no lesser boy, however nimble, could follow. Holt came running back, shaking his head, and showing that his errand was in vain. Tooke was so full of play that he could think of nothing else; which was a shame.

“Ah! And you little know,” thought Hugh, “how deep a shame it is.”

With a swelling heart he turned away, and went towards the bank of the broader stream which ran through the meadows. Dale was with him in a moment,—very sorry for him, because everybody else was at brook-leaping,—the sport that Hugh had loved so well last autumn. Dale passed his arm round Hugh’s neck, and asked where they should sit and tell stories,—where they could best hide themselves, so that nobody should come and tease them. Hugh wished to thank his friend for this; but he could not speak directly. They found a pleasant place among the flowering reeds on the bank, where they thought nobody would see them; and having given Holt to understand that they did not want him, they settled themselves for their favourite amusement of story-telling.

But Hugh’s heart was too full and too sick for even his favourite amusement; and Dale was perhaps too sorry for him to be the most judicious companion he could have at such a time. Dale agreed that the boys were hard and careless; and he added that it was particularly shameful to bring up a boy’s other faults when he was in disgrace for one. In the warmth of his zeal, he told how one boy had been laughing at Hugh’s conceit about his themes, when he had shown to-day that he could not go half through his syntax; and how he had heard another say that all that did not signify half so much as his being mean about money. Between Hugh’s eagerness to hear, and Dale’s sympathy, five minutes were not over before Hugh had heard every charge that could be brought against his character, and knew that they were all circulating this very afternoon. In his agony of mind he declared that everybody at Crofton hated him,—that he could never hold up his head there,—that he would ask to be sent home by the coach, and never come near Crofton again.

Dale now began to be frightened, and wished he had not said so much. He tried to make light of it; but Hugh seemed disposed to do something decided;—to go to his uncle Shaw’s at least, if he could not get home. Dale earnestly protested, against any such idea, and put him in mind how he was respected by everybody for his bravery about the loss of his foot.

“Respected?”

“Not a bit of it!” cried Hugh. “They none of them remember: they don’t care a bit about it.”

Dale was sure they did.

“I tell you they don’t. I know they don’t. I know it for certain; and I will tell you how I know. There is the very boy that did it,—the very boy that pulled me from the wall— O! If you knew who it was, you would say it was a shame!”

Dale involuntarily sat up, and looked back, over the top of the reeds, at the boys who were brook-leaping.

“Would you like to know who it was that did it, Dale?”

“Yes, if you like to tell; but— And if he treats you ill, after the way you used him, he cannot expect you should consider him so— Besides, I am your best friend; and I always tell you everything!”

“Yes, that you do. And he has treated me so shamefully to-day! And I have nobody to speak to that knows. You will promise never—never to tell anybody as long as you live.”

“To be sure,” said Dale.

“And you won’t tell anybody that I have told you.”

“To be sure not.”

“Well, then—”

Here there was a rustling among the reeds which startled them both, with a sort of guilty feeling. It was Holt, quite out of breath.

“I don’t want to interrupt you,” said he, “and I know you wish I would not come; but the others made me come. The biggest boys lay that the second-size can’t jump the brook at the willow-stump; and the second-size boys want Dale to try. They made me come. I could not help it.”

Hugh looked at Dale, with eyes which said, as plainly as eyes could speak, “You will not go—you will not leave me at such a moment?”

But Dale was not looking at his face, but at the clusters of boys beside the brook. He said—

“You will not mind my going, just for one leap. It will hardly take a minute. I shall not stay for a game. But I must have just one leap.”

And he was off. Holt looked after him, and then towards Hugh, hesitating whether to go or stay. Hugh took no notice of him: so he went slowly away, and Hugh was left alone.

He was in an extreme perturbation. At the first moment, he was beyond measure hurt with Dale. He did not think his best friend would have so reminded him of his infirmity, and of his being a restraint on his companions. He did not think any friend could have left him at such a moment. Then it occurred to him,—

“What, then, am I? If Dale was selfish, what was I? I was just going to tell what would have pointed out Tooke to him for life. I know as well as can be that it was all accident his pulling me off the wall; and yet I was going to bring it up against him; and for the very reason why I should not,—because he has not behaved well to me. I was just going to spoil the only good thing I ever did for anybody in my life. But it is spoiled—completely spoiled. I shall never be able to trust myself again. It is all by mere accident that it is not all over now. If Holt had not come that very instant, my secret would have been out, and I could never have got it back again! I could never have looked Tooke in the face any more. I don’t know that I can now; for I am as wicked as if I had told.”

Dale came back presently, fanning himself with his cap. As he plunged into the reeds, and threw himself down beside Hugh, he cried,—

“I did it! I took the leap, and came off with my shoe-soles as dry as a crust. Ah! They are wet now; but that is with another leap I took for sport. I told you I should not be long gone. Now for it! Who did it?”

“I am not going to tell you, Dale,—not now, nor ever.”

“Why, that is too bad! I am sure I stay beside you often enough, when the others are playing: you need not grudge me this one leap,—when the boys sent for me, too.”

“It is not that, Dale. You are very kind always in staying beside me; and I do not wish that you should give up play for my sake half so much as you do. But I was very, very wrong in meaning to tell you that secret. I should have been miserable by this time if I had.”

“But you promised. You must keep your promise. What would all the boys say, if I told them you had broken your promise?”

“If they knew what it was about, they would despise me for ever meaning to tell—not for stopping short in time. That was only accident, however. But my secret is my own still.”

Dale’s curiosity was so strong that Hugh saw how dangerous it was to have tantalised it. He had to remind his friend of Mr Tooke’s having put all the boys upon honour not to inquire on this subject. This brought Dale to himself; and he promised never again to urge Hugh, or encourage his speaking of the matter at all. They then went to story-telling; but it would not do to-day. Hugh could not attend; and Dale could not invent, while there was no sympathy in his hearer. He was presently released, for it struck Hugh that he should like to write to his mother this very afternoon. His heart was heavy, and he wanted to tell her what was in it. Mr Crabbe gave him leave to go home; and Dale was in time for plenty more play.

Hugh had the great school-room all to himself; and as the window before his desk was open, he had the pleasure of the fresh air, and the smell of the blossoms from the orchard, and the sound of the waving of the tall trees in the wind, and the cawing of the rooks as the trees waved. These things all made him enjoy scribbling away to his mother, as well as finding his mind grow easier as he went on. Besides, he had not to care for the writing; for he had met Mr Tooke by the church, and had got his leave to send his letter without anybody’s looking at it, as he had something very particular to say. He wrote,—

“Dear Mother,—

“It is Saturday afternoon, and I have come home from the meadows before the rest, to tell you something that has made me very uneasy. If I had told anybody in the world who pulled me off the wall, it should and would have been you,—that night after it happened: and I am afraid I should have told you, if you had not prevented it: for I find I am not to be trusted when I am talking with anybody I love very much. I have not told yet: but I should have told Dale if Holt had not run up at the very moment. It makes me very unhappy,—almost as much as if I had let it out: for how do I know but that I may tell a hundred times over in my life, if I could forget so soon? I shall be afraid of loving anybody very much, and talking with them alone, as long as I live. I never felt the least afraid of telling till to-day; and you cannot think how unhappy it makes me. And then, the thing that provoked me to tell was that boy’s being surly to me, and glad that I was in disgrace this morning, for doing my lessons badly all this week,—the very thing that should have made me particularly careful how I behaved to him: for his pulling me off the wall was only accident, after all. Everything has gone wrong to-day; and I am very unhappy, and I feel as if I should never be sure of anything again; and so I write to you. You told me you expected me not to fail; and you see I have; and the next thing is that I must tell you of it.

“Your affectionate son,

“Hugh Proctor.

“PS. Phil has been very kind about my lessons, till this week (interlined), when he has been very busy.

“PS. If you should answer this, please put ‘private’ outside, or at the top; and then Mr Tooke will not read it, nor anybody. But I know you are very busy always; so I do not quite expect an answer.”

When the letter was finished and closed, Hugh felt a good deal relieved: but still not happy. He had opened his heart to the best friend he had in this world: but he still felt grievously humbled for the present, and alarmed for the future. Then he remembered that he might seek comfort from a better Friend still; and that He who had sent him his trial could and would help him to bear it with honour as well as with patience. As he thought of this, he saw that the boys were trooping home, along the road, and he slipped out, and into the orchard, where he knew he might be alone with his best Friend. He stayed there till the supper-bell rang; and when he came in, it was with a cheerful face. He was as merry as anybody at supper: and afterwards he found his lessons more easy to him than usual. The truth was that his mind was roused by the conflicts of the day. He said his lessons to Phil (who found time to-night to hear him), without missing a word. When he went to bed, he had several pleasant thoughts. His secret was still his own (though by no merit of his); to-morrow was Sunday,—likely to be a bright, sweet May Sunday,—his lessons were quite ready for Monday; and possibly there might be a letter from his mother in the course of the week.

Mrs Proctor was in the midst of her Monday morning’s business (and Monday morning was the busiest of the week), when she received Hugh’s letter. Yet she found time to answer it by the very next post. When her letter was handed to Hugh, with the seal unbroken, because ‘private’ was written large on the outside, we thought she was the kindest mother that ever was, to have written so soon, and to have minded all his wishes. Her letter was,—

“Dear Hugh,

“There was nothing in your letter to surprise me at all; for I believe, if all our hearts were known, it would be found that we have every one been saved from doing wrong by what we call accident. The very best people say this of themselves, in their thanksgivings to God, and their confessions to one another. Though you were very unhappy on Saturday, I am not sorry that these things have happened, as I think you will be the safer and the wiser for them. You say you never till then felt the least afraid of telling. Now you know the danger; and that is a good thing. I think you will never again see that boy (whoever he may be), without being put upon your guard. Still, we are all sadly forgetful about our duty; and, if I were you, I would use every precaution against such a danger as you have escaped,—it makes me tremble to think how narrowly. If I were you, I would engage any friend I should become intimate with, the whole time of being at school, and perhaps afterwards, never to say a word about the accident,—or, at least, about how it happened. Another way is to tell me your mind, as you have now; for you may be sure that it is my wish that you should keep your secret, and that I shall always be glad to help you to do it.

“But, my dear boy, I can do but little, in comparison with the best Friend you have. He can help you without waiting for your confidence,—even at the very instant when you are tempted. It is He who sends these very accidents (as we call them) by which you have now been saved. Have you thanked Him for saving you this time? And will you not trust in His help henceforward; instead of supposing yourself safe, as you now find you are not? If you use His strength, I feel that you will not fail. If you trust your own intentions alone, I shall never feel sure of you for a single hour, nor be certain that the companion you love best may not be your worst enemy, in breaking down your self-command. But, as you say you were very unhappy on Saturday, I have no doubt you did go for comfort to the right Friend, and that you were happier on Sunday.

“Your sisters do not know that I am writing, as I consider your letter a secret from everybody but your father, who sends his love. You need not show this to Phil; but you can give him our love. Your sisters are counting the days to the holidays; and so are some older members of the family. As for Harry, he shouts for you from the yard every day, and seems to think that every shout will bring nearer the happy time when Phil and you will come home.

“Your affectionate mother,

“Jane Proctor.”

Hugh was, of course, very glad of this letter. And he was glad of something else;—that he had done the very things his mother had advised. He had engaged Dale not to tempt him on this subject any more. He had opened his heart to his mother, and obtained her help; and he had sought a better assistance, and a a higher comfort still. It was so delightful to have such a letter as this,—to be so understood and aided, that he determined to tell his mother all his concerns, as long as he lived. When, in the course of the holidays, he told her so, she smiled, and said she supposed he meant as long as she lived; for she was likely to die long before he did. Hugh could not deny this; but he never liked to think about it:—he always drove away the thought; though he knew, as his mother said, that this was rather cowardly, and that the wisest and most loving people in the world remember the most constantly and cheerfully that friends must be parted for a while, before they can live together for ever.

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