“Shall I tell you one of the stories you asked me to tell about moral courage?”
“Do, auntie dear,” he said in a low tearful voice.
“My hero this morning, Walter, is George Washington, the great American general and statesman, the man who had so much to do in the founding of that great republic which is called the United States. A braver man never lived; but he was a brave boy too, brave with moral courage. Not that he wanted natural courage in his early years, for at school none could beat him in leaping, wrestling, swimming, and other athletic exercises. When he was about six years old, his father gave him a new hatchet one day. George was highly pleased, and went about cutting and hacking everything in his way. Unfortunately, amongst other things he used the hatchet with all the force of his little arm on a young English cherry tree, which happened to be a great favourite with his father. Without thinking of the mischief he was doing, George greatly injured the valuable tree. When his father saw what was done he was very angry, and asked the servants who had dared to injure the tree. They said they knew nothing of it; when little George entering the room and hearing the inquiry, though he saw that his father was very angry, went straight up to him, his cheeks colouring crimson as he spoke, and cried, ‘I did it. I cannot tell a lie. I cut your cherry tree with my hatchet.’ ‘My noble boy,’ said his father, as he clasped him in his arms, ‘I would rather lose a hundred cherry-trees, were their blossoms of silver and their fruit of gold, than that a son of mine should dare to tell a lie.’—Dear Walter, that was true noble courage; and George Washington grew up with it. Those are beautiful lines of one of our old poets, George Herbert,—
“‘Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie;
The fault that needs it most grows two thereby.’”
She paused. Her nephew kept silent for a time, nervously twisting the fringe of her little work-table; and then he said very slowly and sadly,—
“So, auntie, you have found me out. Yes, I’ve been a beastly coward, and I’m heartily ashamed of myself.”
“Well, dear boy,” replied his aunt, “tell me all about it; happily, it is never too late to mend.”
“Yes, dear Aunt Kate, I’ll tell you all. Bob Saunders called yesterday just after luncheon, and asked me to go out for a ride with him, and if I could give him a mount, for his own horse was laid up with some outlandish complaint. I didn’t like to say ‘No;’ but my own pony, Punch, was gone to be shod, and Bob had no time to wait. Well, Dick was just coming out of the yard as I got into it; he was riding Forester and leading Bessie, to exercise them. ‘That’ll do,’ I said. ‘Here, Dick; I’ll take Forester out and give him a trot, and Mr Saunders can ride Bessie.’ ‘Please, Master Walter,’ says Dick, ‘your father’s very particular. I don’t know what he’ll say to me if I let you exercise Forester.’ ‘Oh, nonsense!’ I said. ‘I’ll make that all straight.’ Dick didn’t like it; but I wouldn’t be denied, so he let us mount, and begged me to be very careful. ‘Never fear,’ I said; ‘we’ll bring them both back as cool as cucumbers.’ And I meant it, auntie. But somehow or other our spirits got the better of us; it was such a fine afternoon, and the horses seemed wild for a gallop; so at last Bob Saunders said, ‘What do you say, Walter, to a half-mile race just on to the top of the common? it’ll do them no harm.’ Well, I didn’t say yes or no; but somehow or other, off we were in another minute, and, do what I would, I couldn’t keep Forester back. Down the lane we went, and right over the common like lightning, and, when I was pulling hard to get Forester round, he went smack through a hedge, and left me on the wrong side of it. Bob laughed at first, but we soon saw that it was no laughing matter. He caught Forester directly, for the poor beast had hurt his foot, and limped along as he walked; and there was an ugly wound in his chest from a pointed stick in the hedge which had struck him. So we crawled home, all of us in a nice pickle, you may be sure. And then I began to think of what father would say, and I couldn’t bear to think that he would have to blame me for it all; so I turned into a regular sneaking coward, and gave Dick a sovereign to tell a lie and take the blame on himself, promising him to make it all right with my father. There, auntie, that’s just the whole of it; and I’m sure I never knew what a coward I was before. But only let me get well through this scrape, and my name’s not Walter if I ever get into such another.”
“And now, dear boy, what are you going to do about this matter?” asked his aunt after a pause.
“Do, auntie? I’m sure I don’t know; I’ve done too much already. It’s a bad business at the best, and I don’t see that I can do anything about it without making it worse.”