The Stokesley Secret

“Well, I believe you are right; but then what’s to be done?  I can hardly afford to lose this chance; but Sam was always backward; and I doubt his even caring to go to sea.”

“Oh!  Captain Merrifield!”

“What! has he given you reason to think that he does?”  She told him how she had found Sam struggling with his longing for the sea and his father; and how patiently the boy had resigned himself to see his brother put before him, and himself condemned for being too dull and slow.

“Did I say so?  I suppose he had put me past my patience with blundering over his lessons.  I never meant to make any decision; but I did not think he wished it.”

“He said it had been his desire from the time he could remember, especially when he felt the want of you during your last voyage.”

“Very odd; how reserved some boys are!  I declare I was vexed that it had gone out of his head; though I thought it might be for the best.  You know I was not born to this place.  I never dreamt of it till my poor brother Sam’s little boy went off in a fever six years ago, and we had to settle down here.  Before that, we meant my eldest to follow my own profession; but when he seemed to take to the soil so kindly, I thought, after all, he might make the happier squire for never having learnt the smell of salt water, nor the spirit of enterprise; but if it were done already, the first choice is due to him.  You are sure?”

“Ask the girls.”

He leant back and shouted out the question, “Sue! do you know whether Sam wishes to go to sea?”

“There’s nothing he ever wished so much,” was the answer.

“Then why didn’t he say so?”

“Because he thought it would be no use,” screamed Susan back.

“No use! why?”

“Because Hal says Admiral Penrose promised him.  O Papa! are you going to take Sam?”

“Oh dear! we can’t get on without him!” sighed Elizabeth.

“Are you sure he would like it?” said her father.  “I thought he never cared to hear of the sea.”

“He can’t bear to talk of it, because it makes him so sorry,” said Susan.

“And,” cried Bessie, “he burnt his dear little ship, the Victory, because he couldn’t bear to look at it after you said that, Papa.”

“After I said what?”

“That he was not smart enough to learn the ropes.”

“Very silly of him,” said the Captain, “to take in despair what was only meant to spur him on.  I suppose now I shall find he has dawdled so much that he couldn’t get through an examination.”

This shut up the mouths of both the girls, who were afraid that he might not, since they saw a good deal of his droning habits over his lessons, and heard more of Hal’s superior cleverness.

Miss Fosbrook ventured to say, “You may expect a great deal of a boy who works on a pure principle of obedience.”

“You think a great deal of that youngster,” said the Captain, highly gratified.  “It is the first time I ever knew a stranger take to him.”

“I did not take to him as a stranger.  I thought him uncouth and dull.  I only learnt to love and respect him, as I felt how perfectly I might rely on him, and how deep and true his principles are.  If the children have gone on tolerably well in your absence, it is because he has always stood by me, and his weight of character has told on them.”

Captain Merrifield did not answer at once; he bit his lip, then blew his nose, and cleared his throat, before he said, “Miss Fosbrook, you have made me very happy; it will make his mother so.  She always rated him so high, that I half thought it was a weakness for her eldest son; but there!  I suppose he was down-hearted about this fancy of his, poor boy; and that hindered him from making the most of himself.  I wonder what sort of a figure he is cutting before his uncle!”

The town was at length reached; and the shopping was quite wonderful to the sisters.  Miss Fosbrook found a shop where the marvellous woman undertook to send home two grey frocks trimmed with pink, by the next evening; and found two such fashionable black silk jackets, that Susie felt quite ashamed of herself, though rather pleased; and Bessie only wished she could see her own back, it must look so like Ida’s.  Then there were white sleeves, and white collars, that made them feel like young women; and little pink silk handkerchiefs for their necks; and two straw hats, which Miss Fosbrook undertook to trim with puffs of white ribbon, and a pink rosette at each ear.  Bessie thought they would be the most beautiful things that had ever been in her possession, and was only dreading that Sam would say they were like those on Ida Greville’s donkey’s best harness; while Susan looked quite frightened at them, whispered a hope that Mamma would not think them too fine, and that Miss Fosbrook would not let them cost too much money; and when assured that all fell within what Papa had given to be laid out, she begged that Annie and little Sally might have the like.

But as they were not going to London, Miss Fosbrook could not venture on this; and as Bessie had set her affections upon a certain white chip hat, with a pink border and a white feather, both sisters remained wishing for something—as is sure to happen on such occasions.

However, Elizabeth recovered from the hat when she was out of sight of it; and they went and saw the cathedral, where the painted windows and grave grand arches filled her with a truer and wiser sense of what was beautiful; and then they walked a long time up and down under its buttressed wall, waiting for Papa, till they grew tired and hungry; but at last he came in a great hurry, and sorry to have been hindered.  With naval politeness, he gave his arm to Miss Fosbrook, and carried them off to a pastry-cook’s, where he bade them eat what they pleased, and spend the rest of the florin he threw them on buns for the little ones, while he fetched the carriage; and so they all drove home again, and found the rest of the party ravenous, having waited dinner for three-quarters of an hour.

Wonderful to relate, Uncle John had not eaten anybody up! not even Baby; though Papa advised Susan to make sure that she was safe, and then sent Sam to ask Purday for a salad.  Perhaps this was by way of getting rid of this constant follower while he asked his brother what he thought of the boys’ attainments.

Uncle John could not speak very highly of the learning of either; but he said, “Sam knows thoroughly what he does know.  As to the other, he thinks he knows everything, and makes most awful shots.  When I asked them who Dido’s husband was, Sam told me he did not know, and Hal, that he was Diodorus Siculus—at least, Scipio—no, he meant Sicyon.”

“Then you think neither could stand an examination for the cadetship?”

“I could not be sure of Sam; but I am quite sure that Hal could not.”

Here the dinner-bell rang; the hungry populace rushed to the dining-room, and the meal was gone through as merrily as could be, while still the father never spoke to Henry.  Uncle John was as pleasant and good-natured as possible.  Who would have thought of the marked difference he made between dining with barbarians, or young gentlefolks!

Dinner over, Captain Merrifield called Sam,—or rather, since that was not necessary, as Sam was never willingly a yard from his elbow, he ordered the others not to follow as they went into the garden together.

“Sam,” he said, “Admiral Penrose is kind enough to offer me a berth in the Ramilies for one of you.  If you can pass the examination, should you wish to avail yourself of the offer?”

Sam grew very red in the face, looked down, and twirled the button of his sleeve.  He certainly was not a gracious boy, for all he said was in a gruff hoarse voice, without even thanks, “Not if it is for this.”

“For this!  What do you mean, Sam?” said Captain Merrifield, thinking either that the boy was faint-hearted, or that his wish had been the mere fancy of the girls.

“Not if it is to punish Hal,” said Sam, with another effort.

“That is not the question.  Do you wish it?”

Sam hung his head, and made his eyebrows come down, as if they were to serve as a veil to those horrid tears in his eyes; and after all, his voice sounded sulky, as he said, “Yes.”

“Is that all?” said the Captain, angry and disappointed.  “Is that the way you take such an offer?  If you had rather stay here, and be bred up to be a country squire, say so at once; don’t mince the matter!”

“O Papa!” cried Sam indignantly, “how can you think that?  Didn’t I always want to be like you?”

“Then why can’t you say so?”

“Because I can’t bear to cut Hal out!” said Sam, putting his arm over his eyes, as a way he considered secret of disposing of his tears.

“Put that out of your head, Sam; or if you don’t fancy the sea, have it out at once.”

“O Papa! please listen.  You know, though Miss Fosbrook is very jolly, we couldn’t help getting nohow when you were away, us two particularly.”

“You have no mischief to confess, surely, Sam?” said his father, really imagining that this preference to Hal was acting on him so as to make him mention some concealed misdemeanour; “if you have, you know truth is the best line.”

“But I haven’t, Papa,” said Sam, looking up, quite surprised.  “You know I am a year older, and couldn’t help caring more; and Miss Fosbrook is so nice, one couldn’t bother her; but you see the Grevilles would put it into Hal’s head that it was stupid and like a girl to mind her.  It is all their fault; and they were sneaks about the turkey-cock, and wouldn’t pay—and I know he would have ended by putting the money back when he could, only Davie made such a row before he could; and he did so reckon on the navy—he would pay it back the first thing.”  The last sentences came between gasps, very like sobs.

“Have done with Hal,” said Captain Merrifield, still with displeasure.  “I wouldn’t take him now on any account.  If the Grevilles lead him wrong, what would he do among the mids?  If he acts dishonourably here, we should have him disgracing himself and his profession.  Since he can’t take it, and you won’t, I shall try to make some exchange of the chance till John or David will be old enough.”

“But Papa, I—” began Sam.