Lord Dunsany [Edward J. M. D. Plunkett] - "Time and the Gods"

Victor Appleton - "TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERA"

Ottilie A. Liljencrantz - "The Thrall of Leif the Lucky"

Alfred Henry Lewis - "Wolfville"

The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

C >> Charlotte Yonge >> The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations




"She is a fine creature," said Dr. May emphatically. "It just shows
the fact, the higher the mind the readier the submission. But you
don't mean that you have any difficulty with the others?"

"Oh, no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially
from me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that Ethel
lays herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I am sure,
though she does love learning, her real love is for goodness and for
you, papa."

Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she seen
her father's look of mournful pleasure.




CHAPTER XIX.



0 ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
His little sister doth his peril see,
All playful as she sate, she grows demure,
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee,
She meditates a prayer to set him free.
SHENSTONE.


The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at
Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters' desks, the forms
polished with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests,
carved with the names of many generations of boys.

About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers
that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a
good deal of talk and laughing was going; on among them. "Ha!"
exclaimed one, "here has Harrison left his book behind him that he
was showing us the gladiators in!" and, standing by the third
master's desk, he turned over a page or two of Smith's 'Antiquities',
exclaiming, "It is full of pictures--here's an old man blowing the
bellows--"

"Let me see!" cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches
and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry;
and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison's
book, while, "There, August! you've been and done it!" "You'll catch
it! " resounded on all sides.

"What good will staring with your mouth open do!" exclaimed Edward
Anderson, the eldest present. "Here! a bit of blotting-paper this
moment!"

Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-
case that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, "It won't
take it out, will it?"

"No, little stupid head, but don't you see, I'm stopping it from
running down the edges, or soaking in. He won't be the wiser till he
opens it again at that place."

"When he does, he will," said the bewildered Tom.

"Let him. It won't tell tales."

"He's coming!" cried another boy, "he is close at the door."

Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did
not venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk,
and was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when
Mr. Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in
every limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of
resolution to do so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to
his desk, took up the book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that
Larkins, a great wag, only waited till his back was turned, to
exclaim, "Ha! old fellow, you don't know what you've got there!"

"Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won't see
a bit farther for it," said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear;
"come to your senses, and know your friends."

"He'll open it!" gasped Tom.

"So he will, but I'd bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if
he does, it won't tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you
standing there, crouching and shaking. That's the right way to bring
him upon you."

"But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?"

"What then? D'ye think we can't stand by each other, and keep our
own counsel?"

"But the blotting-paper--suppose he knows that!"

There was a laugh all round at this, "as if Harrison knew everyone's
blotting-paper!"

"Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his--see--and draw
Union Jacks on it."

"If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to
say March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?"

"July would have told if he had," said Larkins. "That's no go."

"Ay! That's the way--the Mays are all like girls--can't keep a
secret--not one of them. There, I've done more for you than ever one
of them would have done--own it--and he strode up to Tom, and grasped
his wrists, to force the confession from him."

"But--but he'll ask when he finds it out--"

"Let him. We know nothing about it. Don't be coming the good boy
over me like your brothers. That won't do--I know whose eyes are not
too short-sighted to read upside down."

Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison
would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.

But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the
unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with
the inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made
it worse was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him
whether Harry's name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector
Ernescliffe should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let
it pass, and no one through the whole school attempted to identify
it. One danger was past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his
Smith's 'Antiquities' at the page where stood the black witness. Tom
gazed round in despair, he could not see his brother's face, but
Edward Anderson, from the second form, returned him a glance of
contemptuous encouragement.

"This book," said Mr. Harrison, "was left in school for a quarter of
an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition.
Do any of you know how it happened?" A silence, and he continued,
"Who was in school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me
anything of it?"

"No, sir."

"You know nothing of it?"

"No, sir."

Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh
his memory. "Larkins, do you know how this happened?"

"No, sir," said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he
had not seen the manner of the overthrow.

"Ernescliffe, were you there?"

"No, sir."

Tom's timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked,
as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, "Remember, it is concealment that
is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion
ever after of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you,"
he added, hopefully and kindly. "Don't be afraid to speak out if you
did meet with a mischance."

Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him,
to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he
must not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was
relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for
which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he
was in deadly terror of the effects of truth.

"No, sir." He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that
they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the
impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not
tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few
more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.

Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard
that deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but
he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and
able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand
ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience,
though his knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite
ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was
not made for schoolboys.

The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were running
high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the
responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken
higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it
his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had
allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained
his authority with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his
interference as vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and
opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents
not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and,
among this set, there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May,
and all whom they considered as belonging to him.

In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson
had gained a conquest--in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle
of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough
code--and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his
friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson
without learning it, and of showing up other people's tasks; whispers
and signs were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and
he was sought out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was
to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy
bondage; he was teased and frightened, bullied and tormented,
whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson and his associates to make
his timidity their sport; he was scorned and ill-treated, and driven,
by bodily terror, into acts alarming to his conscience, dangerous in
their consequences, and painful in the perpetration; and yet, among
all his sufferings, the little coward dreaded nothing so much as
truth, though it would have set him free at once from this wretched
tyranny.

Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed
to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth
form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an
extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite
side of the bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed
stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly
because they were not allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also
be procured, and there were suspicions that the bottles so called
contained something contraband.

"August," said Norman, as they were coming home from school one
evening, "did I see you coming over the bridge?"

Tom would not answer.

"So you have been at Ballhatchet's gate? I can't think what could
take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty's are
just as good. What made you go there?"

"Nothing," said Tom.

"Well, mind you don't do it again, or I shall have to take you in
hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad
character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us
have anything to do with him, as you know."

Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. "I am afraid you
are getting into a bad way. Why won't you mind what I have told you
plenty of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned
Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them
to-day?" But, receiving no answer, he went on. "You always sulk
when I speak to you. I suppose you think I have no right to row you,
but I do it to save you from worse. You can't never be found out."
This startled Tom, but Norman had no suspicion. "If you go on, you
will get into some awful scrape, and papa will be grieved. I would
not, for all the world, have him put out of heart about you. Think
of him, Tom, and try to keep straight." Tom would say nothing, only
reflecting that his elder brother was harder upon him than any one
else would be, and Norman grew warmer. "If you let Anderson junior
get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you'll never be good for
anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn against you,
as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better take my
word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into a
mess."

"I'm in no scrape," said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience,
and spoke with more displeasure. "You will be then, if you go out of
bounds, and run Anderson's errands, and shirk work. You'd better
take care. It is my place to keep order, and I can't let you off for
being my brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet's
again, you may make sure of a licking."

So the warning closed--Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which
he fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost
temper and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.

Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end
of the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted
out of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with
something under his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his
collar, making a sign at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.

"What are you doing here?" said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the
field. "So you've been there again. "What's that under your
jacket?"

"Only--only what I was sent for," and he tried to squeeze it under
the flap.

"What is it? a bottle--"

"Only--only a bottle of ink."

Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the
indignation was mixed with sorrow. "Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have
brought you a pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing
from us!"

Tom cowered, but felt only terror.

"Speak truth," said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; "is this
for Anderson junior?"

Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared
not utter another falsehood, but Anderson's threats chained him, and
he preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his
brother who loved him. He would not speak.

"I am glad it is not for yourself," said Norman; "but do you remember
what I said, in case I found you there again?"

"Oh! don't, don't!" cried the boy. "I would never have gone if they
had not made me."

"Made you?" said Norman, disdainfully, "how?"

"They would have thrashed me--they pinched my fingers in the box--
they pulled my ears--oh, don't--"

"Poor little fellow!" said Norman; "but it is your own fault. If you
won't keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you.
But I must not let you off--I must keep my word!" Tom cried, sobbed,
and implored in vain. "I can't help it," he said, "and now, don't
howl! I had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never
thought to have this to do to one of us." Tom roared and struggled,
till, releasing him, he said, "There, that will do. Stop bellowing,
I was obliged, and I can't have hurt you much, have I?" he added more
kindly, while Tom went on crying, and turning from him. "It is
nothing to care about, I am sure; look up;" and he pulled down his
hands. "Say you are sorry--speak the truth--keep with me, and no one
shall hurt you again."

Very different this from Tom's chosen associates; but he was still
obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart
to those kind words. After one more, "I could not help it, Tom,
you've no business to be sulky," Norman took up the bottle, opened
it, smelled, and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river;
when Tom exclaimed, "Oh, don't, don't! what will they do to me? give
it to me!"

"Did they give you the money to pay for it?"

"Yes; let me have it."

"How much was it?"

"Fourpence."

"I'll settle that," and the bottle splashed in the river. "Now then,
Tom, don't brood on it any more. Here's a chance for you of getting
quit of their errands. If you will keep in my sight. I'll take care
no one bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful
tricks, and do well."

But Tom's evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he
should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish
him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse
silence really distressed his brother.

"If you will go on in this way, I can't help it, but you'll be sorry
some day," said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking back
to see whether Tom was following, as he did slowly, meditating on the
way how he should avert his tyrant's displeasure.

Norman stood for a moment at the door, surveying the court, then
walked up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder of
one, holding a silver fourpence to him. "Anderson Junior," said he,
"there's your money. I am not going to let Stoneborough School be
turned into a gin palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. Now
you are not to bully May junior for telling me. He did not, I found
him out."

Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing him, he
entered the cloister, for it was the hour when he was used to read
there, but he could not fix his mind. He went to the bench where he
had lain on the examination day, and kneeling on it, looked out on
the green grass where the graves were. "Mother! mother!" he
murmured, "have I been harsh to your poor little tender sickly boy?
I couldn't help it. Oh! if you were but here! We are all going
wrong! What shall I do? How should Tom be kept from this evil?--it
is ruining him! mean, false, cowardly, sullen--all that is worst--and
your son--oh! mother! and all I do only makes him shrink more from
me. It will break my father's heart, and you will not be there to
comfort him."

Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief
came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before
his father's resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to
prayer, resolution, and hope.

He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm of
detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for the
occasion; but, alas! Tom had learned to look on all reproof as
"rowing," and considered it as an additional injury from a brother,
who, according to the Anderson view, should have connived at his
offences, and turned a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all he
said. The foolish boy sought after the Andersons still more, and
Norman became more dispirited about him, greatly missing Harry, that
constant companion and follower, who would have shared his
perplexities, and removed half of them, in his own part of the
school, by the influence of his high, courageous, and truthful
spirit.

In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with greater
hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his work before.
"Suppose," Ethel had once said to him, "that when you are a
clergyman, you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when there is a church
there."

"When?" said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the scheme, and
yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps they
might persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a curate with a view to
Cocksmoor, and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object and
hope to his studies. Every one thought the delay of his examination
favourable to him, and he now read with a determination to succeed.
Dr. May had offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison but Richard
thought he was getting on pretty well, with the help Norman gave him;
for it appeared that ever since Norman's return from London,, he had
been assisting Richard, who was not above being taught by a younger
brother; while, on the other hand, Norman, much struck by his
humility, would not for the world have published that he was fit to
act as his elder's tutor.

One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave a great
start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, "How came that
book here?"

"It is Mr. Harrison's."

"Yes, I know, but how came it here?"

"Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it
down."

A little reassured, Tom took up an exciting story-book, and ensconced
himself by the fire, but his agonies were great during the ensuing
conversation.

"Norman," Ethel was exclaiming in delight, "do you know this book?"

"Smith? Yes, it is in the school library."

"There's everything in it that one wants, I do believe. Here is such
an account of ancient galleys--I never knew how they managed their
banks of rowers before--oh! and the Greek houses--look at the
pictures too."

"Some of them are the same as Mr. Rivers's gems," said Norman,
standing behind her, and turning the leaves, in search of a
favourite.

"Oh! what did I see? is that ink?" said Flora, from the opposite side
of the table.

"Yes, didn't you hear?" said Ethel. "Mr. Harrison told Ritchie when
he borrowed it, that unluckily one day this spring he left it in
school, and some of the boys must have upset an inkstand over it;
but, though he asked them all round, each denied it. How I should
hate for such things to happen! and it was a prize-book too."

While Ethel spoke she opened the marked page, to show the extent of
the calamity, and as she did so Mary exclaimed, "Dear me! how funny!
why, how did Harry's blotting-paper get in there?"

Tom shrank into nothing, set his teeth, and pinched his fingers,
ready to wish they were on Mary's throat, more especially as the
words made some sensation. Richard and Margaret exchanged looks, and
their father, who had been reading, sharply raised his eyes and said,
"Harry's blotting-paper! How do you know that, Mary?"

"It is Harry's," said she, all unconscious, "because of that anchor
up in one corner, and the Union Jack in the other. Don't you see,
Ethel?"

"Yes," said Ethel; "nobody drew that but Harry."

"Ay, and there are his buttons," said Mary, much amused and delighted
with these relics of her beloved Harry. "Don't you remember one day
last holidays, papa desired Harry to write and ask Mr. Ernescliffe
what clothes he ought to have for the naval school, and all the time
he was writing the letter, he was drawing sailors' buttons on his
blotting-paper. I wonder how ever it got into Mr. Harrison's book!"

Poor Mary's honest wits did not jump to a conclusion quite so fast as
other people's, and she little knew what she was doing when, as a
great discovery, she exclaimed, "I know! Harry gave his paper-case
to Tom. That's the way it got to school!"

"Tom!" exclaimed his father, suddenly and angrily, "where are you
going?"

"To bed," muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A dead
silence of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from one
to the other, mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at her
father's loud voice, and at Tom's trembling confusion. The stillness
lasted for some moments, and was first broken by Flora, as if she had
caught at a probability. "Some one might have used the first
blotting-paper that came to hand."

"Come here, Tom," said the doctor, in a voice not loud, but trembling
with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder, "Look in my
face." Tom hung his head, and his father put his hand under his
chin, and raised the pale terrified face. "Don't be afraid to tell
us the meaning of this. If any of your friends have done it, we will
keep your secret. Look up, and speak out. How did your blotting-
paper come there?"

Tom had been attempting his former system of silent sullenness, but
there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate him, and
in his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, he burst
out into a violent fit of crying.

"I can't have you roaring here to distress Margaret," said Dr. May.
"Come into the study with me."

But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and a
screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried into
the study by his brothers, and there left with his father. Mary,
meantime, dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some way, she
was the cause, had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing
inconsolably, as she begged to know what was the matter, and why papa
was angry with Tom--had she made him so?

Margaret caressed and soothed her to the best of her ability, trying
to persuade her that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better for him it
should be known, and assuring her that no one could think her unkind,
nor a tell-tale; then dismissing her to bed, and Mary was not
unwilling to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom again, only
begging in a whisper to Ethel, "that, if dear Tom had not done it,
she would come and tell her."

"I am afraid there is no hope of that!" sighed Ethel, as the door
closed on Mary.

"After all," said Flora, "he has not said anything. If he has only
done it, and not confessed, that is not so bad--it is only the usual
fashion of boys."

"Has he been asked? Did he deny it?" said Ethel, looking in Norman's
face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and she only
received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment Dr. May
called him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on the sofa, and
looked very mournful, Richard stood by the fire without moving limb
or feature, Flora worked fast, and Ethel leaned back on an arm-chair,
biting the end of a paper-knife.

The doctor and Norman came back together. "I have sent him up to
bed," said Dr. May. "I must take him to Harrison to-morrow morning.
It is a terrible business!"

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