“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.