The Stokesley Secret

“I have sent him to his room,” said the Captain.  “It is a very bad business, though of course he made excuses to himself.”

The Captain then told them Henry’s confession.  He had been too much hurried by the fear of being caught, to take out his own share of the hoard, and had therefore emptied the whole cupful into his pocket-handkerchief, tied it up, and run off with it, intending to separate what was honestly his own.  What that was he did not know, but his boastful habits and want of accuracy had made his memory so careless, that he fancied that a far larger proportion was his than really was, and his purposes were in the strange medley that falls to the lot of all self-deceivers, sometimes fancying he would only take what he had a right to (whatever that might be), sometimes that he would borrow what he wanted, and replace it when the sovereign should be given to him, or that the Grevilles would make it up when they had their month’s allowance.

When he came to the farm Mr. Grice was resolved to take nothing less than the whole sum that he had with him.  Perhaps this was less for the value of the turkey-cock than for the sake of giving the boys such a lesson as to prevent them from ever molesting his poultry again.  At any rate, he was inexorable till the frightened Henry had delivered up every farthing in his possession; and then, convinced that no more was forthcoming, he relented so far as to restore the gun, and promise to make no complaint to either of the fathers.

At first Henry lived on hopes of being able to restore the money before the hoard should be examined, but Colonel Carey went away, and, as might have been expected, left no present to his brother’s pupils.  Still Henry had hopes of the Grevilles, and even when the loss was discovered, hoped to restore it secretly, and make the whole pass off as a joke; but the 1st of August came, Martin and Osmond received their pocket-money, but laughed his entreaty to scorn, telling him that he had shot the turkey-cock, not they.  Since that time, his only hope had been in the affair blowing over—as if a sin ever did blow over!

“One question I must ask, Miss Fosbrook,” said the Captain, “though after such a course of deceit it hardly makes it worse.  Has he told any direct falsehood?”

She paused, and recollected.  “Yes, Sir,” she said, “I am afraid he did; he flatly told me that he had not touched the baby-house.”

“I expected nothing else,” said the Captain gravely.  “What has become of Bessie?”

“She ran up-stairs.  May I go and call her?” said Susan.

“I will go myself,” said her father.

He found Elizabeth in the school-room, all flushed and tear-stained in the face; and he told her affectionately how much pleased he was with her patience under this false accusation.  Delight very nearly set her off crying again, but she managed to say, “It was Miss Fosbrook and Sam and Susie that made me patient, Papa; they were so kind.  And nobody would have believed it, if I wasn’t always cross, you know.”

“Not cross now, my little woman,” he said smiling.

“Oh!  I said I never could be cross again, now Mamma is better; but Miss Fosbrook says I shall sometimes feel so, and I do believe she is right, for I was almost cross to Georgie to-day.  But she says one may feel cross, and not be cross!”

He did not quite know all that his little girl was thinking of; but he patted her fondly, and said, “Yes, there is a great deal to be thankful for, my dear; and I shall trust to you elder ones to give your Mamma no trouble while I am afloat.”

“I will try,” said Bessie.  “And please, Papa, would you tell Nurse about it?  She doesn’t half believe us, and she is so tiresome about Miss Fosbrook!”

“Tiresome! what do you mean?”

“She always thinks what she does is wrong, and she puts nonsense into Johnnie’s head, and talks about favourites.  Mary told Susan it was jealousy.”

The Captain spoke pretty strongly to Nurse Freeman that evening, but it is doubtful if she were the better for it.  She was a very good woman in most things, but she could not bear that the children should be under anyone but herself; and just as Henry lost the truth by inaccuracy, she lost it by prejudice.

Miss Fosbrook was glad to get away from the dining-room, where it was rather awful to sit without her work and be talked to by Mr. Merrifield, even though she liked him much better than she had expected.

When David came to bed, she sat by him and talked to him about his angry unforgiving spirit.  She could not but think he was in a fearful temper, and she tried hard to make him sorry for his brother, instead of thirsting to see the disappointment visited on him; but David could not see what she meant.  Wicked people ought to be punished; it was wicked to steal and tell stories, and he hoped Henry would be punished, so as he would never forget it, for hindering poor Hannah from getting her pig.

He would not understand Henry’s predicament; he was only angry, bitterly angry, and watching for vengeance.  Miss Fosbrook could not reason or persuade him out of it, nor make him see that he could hardly say his prayers in such a mood.  Indeed, he would rather have gone without his prayers than have ceased to hope for Henry’s punishment.

Perhaps in this there was sense of justice and indignation against wrong doing, as well as personal resentment.  Miss Fosbrook tried to think so, and left him, but not without praying for him, that a Christian temper of forgiveness might be sent upon him.

All the others were subdued and awe-struck.  It was not yet known what was to happen to Henry; but there was a notion that it would be very terrible indeed, and that Uncle John would be sure to make it worse; and they wished Miss Fosbrook good-night with very sad faces.

CHAPTER XIV

Nothing had as yet befallen Henry, for he came down to breakfast in the morning; but his father did not greet him, and spoke no word to him all the time they were in the room together.  The children felt that this was indeed terrific.  Such a thing had never befallen any of them before.  They would much rather have been whipped; and even David’s heart sank.

Something, however, was soon said that put all else out of his sisters’ minds.  The Captain turned to them with his merry smile, saying, “Pray what would Miss Susie and Miss Bessie say to coming up to London with me to see Mamma?”

The two girls bounded upon their chairs; Susan’s eyes grew round, and Bessie’s long; the one said, “O Papa!” and the other, “Oh, thank you!” and they looked so overwhelmed with ecstasy, and all the three elders laughed.

“Then you will behave discreetly, young women?”

“I’ll try,” said Susan; “and Bessie always does.  Oh, thank you, Papa!”

“Grandmamma should be thanked; she asked me to bring a child or two, to be with Mamma when I go down to Portsmouth.  We had thought of Susan; but I think Betty deserves some amends for what she has undergone.”

“Oh yes, Papa! thank you!” cried Susan, Sam, and David, from their hearts; John and Annie because the others did so.

“Then you won’t kick her out if she shares your berth, Sue?”

“Oh, I am so glad, Papa!  It is so nice to go together.”

“Then, Miss Fosbrook, will you be kind enough to rig them out?  I must drive into Southminster at ten o’clock; and if you would be so good as to see them smartened up for London there, I should be much obliged to you.”

The mere drive to the country town was a great event in itself, even without the almost incredible wonder that it was to lead to; and the delights of which Ida and Miss Fosbrook had told them in London went so wildly careering through the little girls’ brains, that they hardly knew what they said or did, as they danced about the house, and ran up-stairs to get ready, long before ten o’clock.

Mr. Carey had been informed that his pupils would not come to him during the few days of their father’s stay; and Sam begged to ride in on his pony by the side of the carriage; but he was desired to fetch his books, and call Henry, as his uncle wished to give them both an examination.  Was this the beginning of captivity to Uncle John?  David and Johnnie were quite angry.  They considered it highly proper that Hal should be shut up with Uncle John, but they thought it very hard that Sam should be so used too; and Sam himself looked very round-backed, reluctant, and miserable, partly at the task, partly at being deprived of the sight of his father for several hours of one of those few precious days.

Miss Fosbrook wished Susan to have sat on the front seat of the old phaeton with her father; but he would not consent to this, and putting the two little girls together behind, handed the governess to the place of honour beside him, where she felt rather shy, in spite of his bright easy manner.

“I am afraid,” he said, after having flourished his whip merrily at Johnnie, Annie, and Davie, who were holding open the iron gate, “that you have had a tough job with those youngsters!  We never meant you to have been left so long to their mercy.”

“I know—I know; I only wish I could have done better.”

“You have done wonders.  My brother hardly knows where he is—never saw those children so mannerly.”

Miss Fosbrook could not show how delighted she was.

“I could hardly have ventured on taking those two girls to town unless you had broken them in a little.  I would say nothing last night till I had watched Susan; for my mother is particular, and if my wife was to be always worrying herself about their manners, they had better be at home.”

“Indeed, I think you may quite trust to their behaving well.  Those two and Sam are so thoroughly trustworthy, that I had no real difficulty till this unhappy business.”

The Captain wanted to talk this over with her, and hear her account of it once more.  She gave it fully, thinking he ought to know exactly how his children had acted in the matter, and wishing to explain where she thought she had made mistakes.  When she had finished, he said, “Thank you,” and considered a little while; then said, “A thing like this brings out a great deal of character; and a new eye sometimes sees more what is in a child than those that bred him up.”

“It has been a touchstone, indeed,” she answered.

“Poor Hal!” he said sadly; then resumed, “I’ve said nothing of it yet to the boys—but Admiral Penrose has promised to let me take out one with me.  I had thought most of Hal; he seemed to me a smarter fellow, more likely to make his way than his brother; but this makes me doubt whether there can be stuff enough in him.  I might not be able to look after him, nor do I know what his messmates may be; and I should not choose to risk it, except with a boy I could thoroughly trust.”

“Those young Grevilles seem to me Hal’s bane and temptation.”

“Ay, ay; but if a boy is of the sort, he’ll find someone to be his bane, wherever he goes.  I’ll have no more of the Grevilles though.  If he should not go with me, my brother John would take him into his house, and keep a sharp look out after him.  Just tell me, if you have no objection, how the boy strikes you.  Most people think him the most taking of the lot.”

“So he is,” said Christabel thoughtfully; “he has more ease and readiness, and he is affectionate and warm-hearted; but then he is a great talker, and fond of boasting.”

“Exactly.  I told him that was the very way he learnt falsehood.”

“I am afraid, too,” she was obliged to add, “that his resolutions run away in talk.  He has not much perseverance; and he is easily led.”