The Stokesley Secret Part 30

As he waited for an answer, Hal mumbled out after some time, "You said we need not go to church on a week-day."

"Well, what of that?"

"I didn't go in case the telegraph should come."

"There are different ways of thinking," said his father. "Church was the only place where I COULD have gone that St. Barnabas' Day."

"I would have gone," said the self-contradictory Henry, "only the Grevilles are always at one for being like a girl."

"Ha! now we see daylight!" said the Captain.

"'The Grevilles are at one,'--that's more like getting to the bottom of it."

"Yes, Papa," said Hal, glad to make himself out a victim to circ.u.mstance; "you can't think what a pair of fellows those are for not letting one alone; Purday says they haven't as much conscience between them as a pigeon's egg has meat; and going down to Mr.

Carey's with them every day, they let one have no peace."

"You will find people everywhere who will let you have no peace, unless you do not care for them; though you will not be left to the Grevilles any longer."

"Yes, Papa; when I am away from them, you will see--"

"No, Hal, I shall not see, I shall hear."

"Shall not I sail with you, then, Papa?"

"You will not sail at all: I thought you knew that."

"I thought the Admiral must have given you two appointments," said Hal timidly.

"He gave me ONE, for one of my sons. The first choice is Sam's right, even if he had not deserved it by his brave patient obedience."

Hal hung his head; then said, "But, Papa, if Sam broke down in his examination, please mightn't I--"

"No, Henry. Not only does your uncle say that though Sam's success is very doubtful, your inaccuracy would make your failure certain; but if your knowledge were ever so well up to the mark, I could not put you into the navy. Left to yourself here, you have been insubordinate, vain, weak, shuffling: can I let you go into greater temptation, where disgrace would be public and without remedy?"

"Oh, but, Papa! Papa! Away from the Grevilles, and not under only a governess--"

"You shall be away from the Grevilles, and not under a governess.

Your uncle is kind enough to take you with him to his house, and will endeavour to make you fit to try to get upon the foundation by the time there is a vacancy."

"O Papa! don't," sobbed Henry.

"I can't help it, Hal! You have shown yourself unfit either for the sea or for home. What can I do with you?"

"Try me--only try me, Papa. I would--"

"I cannot go by what you say you would be, but what you are. Deeds, not words."

"But if you won't let me go into the navy, only let me be in real school."

"No, Henry; I have not the means of sending you there: excepting on the foundation; and if you get admittance there at all, it will only be by great diligence, and your uncle's kindness in preparing you."

Henry cried bitterly. It was a dreadful prospect to do his lessons alone with Uncle John in the boys' play-hours, and be kept in order by Aunt Alice when his uncle was in school. Perhaps his father would not have liked it himself, for his voice was very pitying, though cheering, as he said, "One half year, Hal, very likely no more if you take pains, and you'll get into school, and be very happy, so long as you don't make a Greville of every idle chap you meet."

Henry cried as though beyond consolation.

"I hate leaving you this way," continued his father; "but by the time I come home you will see it was the best thing for you; and look up to Uncle John as your best friend. Why, Hal, boy, you'll be a tall fellow of fourteen! Let me find you G.o.dly and manly: you can't be one without the other. There now, good night, G.o.d bless you."

More might have been said to Henry on his fault and what had led to it; but what his father did say was likely to sink deeper as he grew older, and had more sense and feeling.

From him Captain Merrifield went to the school-room, where Miss Fosbrook was packing up for the little girls, and putting last st.i.tches to their equipments, with hearty good-will and kindness, as if she had been their elder sister.

He thanked her most warmly; and without sending away the girls, who were both busy tacking in little white tuckers to the evening frocks, he began to settle about the terms on which she was to remain at Stokesley. He said that he could not possibly have left his wife without a person on whose friendly help and good management of the children he could depend. Important as it was to him to be employed, he must have refused the appointment if Miss Fosbrook had been discontented, or had not had the children so well in hand. He explained that he had reason to think that Mrs. Merrifield's present illness had been the effect of all she had gone through while he was in the Black Sea during the Crimean War. She had been a very strong person, and had never thought of sparing herself; but she and all her little children had had to get into Stokesley in his absence; she had to manage the estate and farm, teach the elder children, and take care of the babies, with no help but Nurse Freeman's: and though he had been wounded when with the Naval Brigade, and had been at death's door with cholera, the effects had done him no lasting harm at all; while the over-strain of the anxiety and exertion that she had undergone all alone had so told upon her, that she had never been well since, and he much feared, would never be in perfect health again. He must depend upon Miss Fosbrook for watching over her and saving her, as his little Susie could not yet do; and for letting him know from time to time how she was going on, and whether he ought to give up everything and come home.

He had tears in his eyes as he thanked Christabel for her earnest promise to watch and tend Mrs. Merrifield with a daughter's care; and her heart swelled with strong deep feeling of sorrow and sympathy with these two brave-hearted loving people, doing their duty at all costs so steadily; and she was full of gladness and thankfulness that they could treat her as a true and trusty friend. He walked away, feeling far too much to bear any eye upon him; and Susan was found to be crying quietly, making her thread wet through, and her needle squeak at every st.i.tch, at the sad news that Mamma never was to be quite well, even though a.s.sured that she was likely to be much better than she had been for months past.

Bessie shed no tears; but Miss Fosbrook, who had been hindered all day by Sam's Euclid and Colenso, and had sat up till half-past eleven o'clock to make the two Sunday frocks nice enough for the journey, on going into the bed-room to lay them out for the morning, saw a little face raised from the pillow of one of the small white beds, and found her broad awake. Bessie never could go to sleep properly when anything out of the common way was coming to pa.s.s, so that was the less wonder; but she had a great deal in her head, and she was glad to get Christabel to kneel down by her, to listen to her whispers.

"Dear Christabel, I am so sorry. I never cared about it before!"

"About what, my dear?"

"What Papa said about when he was in the Black Sea. I never knew Mamma cared so much."

"I dare say not, my dear; you were much younger then."

"And I didn't know all about it," said Bessie, "or else I've forgotten. I have been trying to remember whether we ever thought about Mamma; and oh, Christabel! do you know--I believe we only thought she was cross! Oh dear! it was so naughty and bad of us!"

"I can guess how it happened, my dear. You were not old enough to be made her friends, and you could not understand quiet sorrow."

"To think we should have said she was cross!"

"That was wrong, because it was disrespectful. You see, my dear, when grown people are in trouble, you young ones can't enter into their feelings, nor always even find out that anything is amiss; and you get vexed at there being a cloud over the house, and call it crossness."

"Grown-up people are sometimes cross, aren't they?" said Bessie.

"Nurse is; and I heard Papa say Aunt Alice was."

"We have tempers, certainly," said Miss Fosbrook; "and unless we have conquered them as children, there will be signs of them afterwards; but very few people, and certainly no children, can tell when grave looks, or words sharper than usual, come from illness or anxiety or sorrow; and it is the only way to save great grief and self-reproach to give one's own faults the blame, and try to be as un.o.btrusive and obliging as possible."

"And I am older now, and can understand," said Bessie; "but then, it is Susie that is right hand, and does everything."

"There's plenty in your own line, Bessie--plenty of little kindly services that are very cheering; and above all--"

"What?"

"Attending to your Mamma's troubles will drive away your own grievances. Only I will not talk to you any more now, for I want you to go to sleep; if you lie awake, you will be tired to-morrow, and that will incline you to be fretful."

"Fretful to-morrow!"

Bessie could not believe it possible; and indeed Miss Fosbrook did not think the chance great, as long as there was amus.e.m.e.nt and excitement. The danger would be in the waitings and disappointments that will often occur, even in the height of enjoyable schemes.