papa,” said Harry, his voice and lip losing their firmness, as the sweetness of expression gained the day on his father’s face. “Only that I know—‘twas very wrong—especially now—and I am very sorry—and I beg your pardon.”
The latter words came between sighs, fast becoming sobs, in spite of Harry’s attempts to control them, as his father held out his arm, and drew him close to him.
“That’s mamma’s own brave boy,” he said in his ear—in a voice which strong feeling had reduced to such a whisper, that even Margaret could not hear—she only saw how Harry, sobbing aloud, clung tighter and tighter to him, till he said “Take care of my arm!” and Harry sprang back at least a yard, with such a look of dismay, that the doctor laughed. “No harm done!” said he. “I was only a little in dread of such a young lion! Comeback, Harry,” and he took his hand. “It was a bad piece of work, and it will never do for you to let yourself be drawn into every bit of mischief that is on foot; I believe I ought to give you a good lecture on it, but I can’t do it, after such a straightforward confession. You must have gone through enough in the last week, not to be likely to do it again.”
“Yes, papa—thank you.”
“I suppose I must not ask you any questions about it, for fear of betraying the fellows,” said Dr. May, half smiling.
“Thank you, papa,” said Harry, infinitely relieved and grateful, and quite content for some space to lean in silence against the chair, with that encircling arm round him, while some talk passed between his father and Margaret.
What a world of thought passed through the boy’s young soul in that space! First, there was a thrill of intense, burning love to his father, scarcely less fondness to his sweet motherly sister; a clinging feeling to every chair and table of that room, which seemed still full of his mother’s presence; a numbering over of all the others with ardent attachment, and a flinging from him with horror the notion of asking to be far away from that dearest father, that loving home, that arm that was round him. Anything rather than be without them in the dreary world! But then came the remembrance of cherished visions, the shame of relinquishing a settled purpose, the thought of weary morrows, with the tempters among his playmates, and his home blank and melancholy; and the roaming spirit of enterprise stirred again, and reproached him with being a baby, for fancying he could stay at home for ever. He would come back again with such honours as Alan Ernescliffe had brought, and oh! if his father so prized them in a stranger, what would it be in his own son? Come home to such a greeting as would make up for the parting! Harry’s heart throbbed again for the boundless sea, the tall ship, and the wondrous foreign climes, where he had so often lived in fancy. Should he, could he speak: was this the moment? and he stood gazing at the fire, oppressed with the weighty reality of deciding his destiny. At last Dr. May looked in his face, “Well, what now, boy? You have your head full of something—what’s coming next?”
Out it came, “Papa will you let me be a sailor?”
“Oh!” said Dr. May, “that is come on again, is it? I thought that you had forgotten all that.”
“No, papa,” said Harry, with the manly coolness that the sense of his determination gave him—“it was not a mere fancy, and I have never had it out of my head. I mean it quite in earnest—I had rather be a sailor. I don’t wish to get away from Latin and Greek, I don’t mind them; but I think I could be a better sailor than anything. I know it is not all play, but I am willing to rough it; and I am getting so old, it is time to see about it, so will you consent to it, papa?”
“Well! there’s some sense in your way of putting it,” said Dr. May. “You have it strong in your head then, and you know ‘tis not all fair-weather work!”
“That I do; Alan told me histories, and I’ve read all about it; but one must rough it anywhere, and if I am ever so far away, I’ll try not to forget what’s right. I’ll do my duty, and not care for danger.”
“Well said, my man; but remember ‘tis easier talking by one’s own fireside than doing when the trial comes.”
“And will you let me, papa?”
“I’ll think about it. I can’t make up my mind as ‘quick as directly,’ you know, Harry,” said his father, smiling kindly, “but I won’t treat it as a boy’s fancy, for you’ve spoken in a manly way, and deserve to be attended to. Now run down, and tell the girls to put away their work, for I shall come down in a minute to read prayers.”
Harry went, and his father sighed and mused! “That’s a fine fellow! So this is what comes of bringing sick sailors home—one’s own boys must be catching the infection. Little monkey, he talks as wisely as if he were forty! He is really set on it, do you think, Margaret? I’m afraid so!”
“I think so,” said Margaret; “I don’t think he ever has it out of his mind!”
“And when the roving spirit once lays hold of a lad, he must have his way—he is good for nothing else,” said Dr. May.
“I suppose a man may keep from evil in that profession as well as in any other,” said Margaret.
“Aha! you are bit too, are you?” said the doctor; “‘tis the husbandman and viper, is it?” Then his smile turned into a heavy sigh, as he saw he had brought colour to Margaret’s pale cheek, but she answered calmly, “Dear mamma did not think it would be a bad thing for him.”
“I know,” said the doctor, pausing; “but it never came to this with her.”
“I wish he had chosen something else; but—” and Margaret thought it right to lay before her father some part of what he had said of the temptations of the school at Stoneborough. The doctor listened and considered at last he rose, and said, “Well, I’ll set Ritchie to write to Ernescliffe, and hear what he says. What must be, must be. ‘Tis only asking me to give up the boy, that’s all;” and as he left the room, his daughter again heard his sigh and half-uttered words, “Oh, Maggie, Maggie!”
CHAPTER X
A tale
Would rouse adventurous courage in a boy,
And make him long to be a mariner,
That he might rove the main.
Etheldred had the satisfaction of seeing the Taylors at school on Sunday, but no Halls made their appearance, and, on inquiry, she was told, “Please ma’am, they said they would not come;” so Ethel condemned Granny Hall as “a horrid, vile, false, hypocritical old creature! It was no use having anything more to do with her.”
“Very well,” said Richard; “then I need not speak to my father.”
“Ritchie now! you know I meant no such thing!”
“You know, it is just what will happen continually.”
“Of course there will be failures, but this is so abominable, when they had those nice frocks, and those two beautiful eighteen-penny shawls! There are three shillings out of my pound thrown away!”
“Perhaps there was some reason to prevent them. We will go and see.”
“We shall only hear some more palavering. I want to have no more to say to—” but here Ethel caught herself up, and began to perceive what a happiness it was that she had not the power of acting on her own impulses.
