“Now, David,” he said—and I saw that cast again, as he said it—“you must be far more careful to-day than usual.” He gave the cane another poise, and another switch; and having finished his preparation of it, laid it down beside him, with an expressive look, and took up his book.
This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a beginning. I felt the words of my lesson slipping off, not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page. I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking.
We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in, with an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving 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 the 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 occasioned her to-day. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so much from her. David, you and I will go upstairs, boy.”
They went upstairs. David was beaten unmercifully, notwithstanding his piteous cries, and in his desperation he bit the hand of Murdstone. For this it seemed as if Murdstone would have beaten him to death but for the interference of the women. “Then he was gone, and the door locked outside; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor.”
Oh! Blind, self-satisfied “child-quellers,” who so ignorantly boast of your ability to conquer children! Dickens described Murdstone for you. Think of that awful picture of the beautiful boy, created in the image of God, lying on the floor, “fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging,” with every element of sweetness and strength in his life turned to darkness and fury, and next time you propose to “conquer a child” who has been rendered partially insane, possibly by your treatment, and with whom you have unnecessarily forced a crisis, remember the Murdstone tragedy—a real tragedy, notwithstanding the fact that the boy’s life was spared.
Remember, too, that your very presence and manner may blight the young lives that you are supposed to develop.