We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with an idea of doing better than usual, thinking that I was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book was added to the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time. And when we came at last to a question about five thousand cheeses (canes he made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying.
"Clara!" said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice.
"I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think," said my mother.
I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up the cane:
"Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect firmness, the worry and torment that David has caused her to-day. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved; but we can hardly expect so much from her. David, you and I will go up-stairs, boy."
As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us. Miss Murdstone said, "Clara! are you a perfect fool?" and interfered. I saw my mother stop her ears then, and I heard her crying.
He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely—I am certain he had a delight in that formal show of doing justice—and when we got there, suddenly twisted my head under his arm.
"Mr. Murdstone! Sir!" I cried to him. "Don't! Pray don't beat me! I have tried to learn, sir, but I can't learn while you and Miss Murdstone are by. I can't indeed!"
"Can't you, indeed, David?" he said. "We'll try that."
He had my head as in a vise, but I twined round him somehow, and stopped him for a moment, entreating him not to beat me. It was only for a moment that I stopped him, for he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in the same instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my teeth on edge to think of it.