When she had readjusted my dress, she lugged me to her side, and we looked, for a long while, in each other’s eyes in silence.
“Ralph,” said she, at length, forgetting that the fault was mutual, “do you know that it is very rude to look so hard into people’s faces; why do you do it, my boy?”
“Because you are so very, very, very pretty, and your voice is so soft: and because I do love you so.”
“But you must not love me too much, my sweet child: because I can’t be with you to return your love.”
“O dear, I’m so sorry; because—because—if you don’t love me, nobody will. Master don’t love me, nor the ushers, nor the boys; and they keep calling me the—”
“Hush, Ralph! hush, my poor boy,” said she, colouring to her very forehead. “Never tell me what they call you. Little boys who call names are wicked boys, and are very false boys too. Hear me, Ralph! You are nearly ten years old. You must be a man, and not love anyone too much—not even me—for it makes people very unhappy to love too much. Do you understand me, Ralph? You must be kind to all, and all will be kind to you: but it is best not to love anything violently—excepting, Ralph, Him who will love you when all hate you—who will care for you, when all desert you—your God!”
“I don’t know too much about that,” was my answer. “Mr Root tells us once every week to trust in God, and that God will protect the innocent, and all that: and then flogs me for nothing at all, though I trust all I can; and I’m sure that I’m innocent.”
My good godmother was a little shocked at this, and endeavoured to convince me that such expressions were impious, by assuring me that everything was suffered for the best; and that, if Mr Foot flogged me unjustly and wickedly, I should be rewarded, and my master punished for it hereafter; which assurance did not much mend my moral feelings, as I silently resolved to put myself in the way of a few extra unjust chastisements, in order that my master might receive the full benefit of them in a future state.
Moral duties should be inculcated in the earliest youth; but the mysteries of religion should be left to a riper age. After many endearments, and much good advice, that I thought most beautiful, from the tenderness of tone in which it was given, I requested the lady, with all my powers of entreaty, and amidst a shower of kisses, to take me home to my mother.
“Alas! my dear boy,” was the reply, “Mrs Brandon is not your mother.”