And then there was the second piece of concealment—the hiding about the accident. There was no good excuse for that. Leigh’s own first feelings had been to tell at once, and Janie Perry had trusted that he would. Why had he given in to Emma? Was it really out of pity for her and her mother; or was it partly—a good big “partly”—that he was afraid of being very much scolded himself? As he got to this point of his gloomy thoughts Leigh gave another groan; it was much more of a groan this time, as if he could not bear his own unhappiness.
Then, for he had covered up his eyes, he felt a little hand stealing round his neck—it was Mary.
“Oh, Leigh, dear poor Leigh,” she whispered. “I are so sorry for you, and I are so miderable.”
Leigh drew the trembling, quivering little creature to him, and left off trying to keep up. Artie crept near to them, and they all cried together.
Then Leigh started up.
“I’ll go and tell now,” he said, “now, this minute. It’s been all my fault, and I don’t care what Emma says, nor how I’m scolded. P’raps, p’raps, the doctor’ll be able to do something, even if her head is hurt inside the way that boy’s was.”
He kissed the two others and started off. He seemed away a long time; but, alas! when he came back there was no look of comfort or hope in his face. It was only very white, and his eyes very red.
“It’s no good,” he said, flinging himself down on a chair and bursting out crying. “It’s no good. That’s my punishment. Now that I want to tell I can’t.”
Mary and Artie could not understand.
“Was you too f’ightened, poor Leigh?” said Mary. “Shall I go?”