Works of ellen wood, p.613
Works of Ellen Wood, page 613
CHAPTER IV.
EMPTY TARTS.
William Allair lay in bed with his sick headache. He came down in the latter part of the day. His sisters were out; Mrs Allair and Edmund in the drawingroom. William was taking a chair, when Edmund started up, and, with a vacant smile, drew him towards the sofa.
Poor Edmund Allair! He was an afflicted boy; not being so bright in intellect as he might have been. The neighbourhood called him “silly,” and that was not a bad term to express his state. Not an idiot, he had yet little or no power of mind; none of intellect. Trifles amused him, as they might have amused a child of three years old. Could he get a peacock’s feather to stick in his cap, he would pace the lawn before the house, glorying in his finery, nodding his head majestically to anybody who would look at him, and bursting out often with his loud, distressing, vacant laugh. There was no hope that his state would ever be ameliorated, or that he would be fit for any occupation. Therefore he would have to be wholly provided for. It was a great affliction to Mr and Mrs Allair, as you may naturally suppose. They were not rich. Mr Allair had also reason to believe that his would be no Ion a: life: a disease which carried off his father in his prime, had begun, he feared, to show its symptoms upon him. He hoped to last until William should be of an age to replace him in his profession, so that the practice might be kept together. “William, however, had been allowing certain foolish visions of a sea life to unsettle him. Very foolish they were as regarded himself; for if ever a boy was unfitted for hardships and bodily exertion, that exertion which comprises hard work, it was William Allair.
He took the sofa offered by Edmund, who sat down on a footstool at William’s feet. Edmund, loving by nature, held his brother’s hand, and frequently kissed it, gazing tenderly up into his face. William, on his part, gazed at the sun, then nearing the horizon. He recalled Harry Vane’s raptures the previous morning over a sea life, and began fancying — well, I hardly know what he was fancying: something to the effect that he was on the sea, many hundreds of leagues away, all alone in an open boat. And what with the thought of his loneliness, which was imaginary; and his intense gaze at the dazzling sun, which was real, the tears came into his eyes. He had been cherishing these charming sea visions all day in bed, by way of soothing his pain. Mrs Allair, a very pretty, gentle-featured woman, not unlike William himself, looked up from her book. She was young yet, and Tier braided hair had no need of cap, and the hanging lace of her open sleeves shaded her rounded arms.
“What are you thinking of, William?” William mused himself. “Just at that moment, mamma, I was thinking how beautiful it must be to see the sun set at sea.”
“A sunset is beautiful anywhere.”
Another pause. William broke it in a half-caressing, half-sighing tone.
“What a happy life Harry Vane’s will be! It is decided that he is to go to sea. Or, as good as decided.”
“I make no doubt that, for him, it will be a happy life.”
Mrs Allair laid a stress upon the words “for him.” William rather fired at that.
“Why for him, mamma’? Why not for me?”
“My darling boy, you know why.”
“But I must be a sailor. Mamma, dear, you might take my part.”
“William, we have discussed this subject before,” she answered, a shade of annoyance in her tone. “A sailor’s life would prove a misery to you. My dear, understand well what I repeat — a misery. You are just as unfitted for the calling, as Harry Vane is adapted for it.”
“That’s what all mothers say,” grumbled William. “Harry Vane remarked it only yesterday. One would think the sea was a pool of devouring fire, by the way they seem to dread it for their sons.”
“It is not dreaded for all sons. Were Harry Vane my son, I would cordially approve of it for him, and send him away with my blessing.”
“And yet you would forbid it to me!”
“I have told you why, times and times. It is out of consideration for your own welfare. You and Harry Vane are differently constituted; and the walk in life that would suit the one, would be especially ill adapted for the other. In bodily powers, in temperament, you are precisely opposite. Do you remember the cut fingers, “William?”
William winced. “As if that were worth bringing up in argument, mamma! I was not seven years old.”
“But neither was Harry Vane,” said Mrs Allair with a smile. And William was conscious that the argument was strong against him. The reminiscence was this: —
Once they had been making a boat together. That is, Harry was the acting man; William’s help chiefly consisting in sewing the sails: no hand at carpentering work was he. Master Fisher’s hands were not more delicate than William Allair’s. Sawing, hammering, cutting, and planing were not in his Hue: and they never would be. He was holding a certain piece of wood steady, for Harry to chop. Away chopped Harry with a sharp knife, much too sharp for a young gentleman of seven to possess; and the knife went a little too far, and alighted on the fingers of both. William’s was a mere scratch; the skin was cut, and a little drop of blood slowly appeared. Harry Vane’s was cut to the bone, and the blood came forth in a stream. William looked at his own finger, at the little scratch and the one drop of blood, and was in danger of fainting from terror; his lips turned white, his frame trembled. He never saw the injury to Harry Vane; he was too much absorbed in his own. Harry Vane carelessly wrapped his handkerchief round his own wound, led William to the house, and asked them to attend to him, and then ran, whistling, off’ to the chemist, and asked him to “do it up with a bit of plaster.” The chemist did so; told him it was an awkward cut, and that he was a little hero. Back went Harry to Mr Allair’s, and there he found — oh, dear! — that poor William had been obliged to be put to bed, sick and faint. So Harry went into the summer-house alone, and continued his work just as though nothing had happened. And this might be taken as a specimen of endurance of each boy. William was of an age now not to care for a solitary drop of blood; but Harry Vane would bear with better firmness the taking off of a leg, than William would the strapping up of a finger, were it cut as badly as Harry’s had been. Harry’s hands were everlastingly coming to grief: gashes, bruises, abrasions abounded on “them. What cared he? He would just tie a handkerchief round till the blood had stopped, and then the places were left, exposed to the dirt and the air, to get well, or not, as they liked.
“William,” resumed Mrs Allah’, impressively, “a sailor’s life, such as some are obliged to lead, would kill you.”
“Kill me! “repeated William, in his spirit of disbelief; and perhaps his tone savoured also of mockery. “It is the most charming life going. Look what a fine time they have of it when they go cruising in the Mediterranean!”
“But they can’t go cruising in the Mediterranean for ever.”
“It must be uncommonly pleasant when they do.”
“A sailor must bear all weathers and all temperatures,” remarked Mrs Vane. “The fierce cold of the poles may stagnate the blood in his veins, and the burning sun of the tropics must glare on him with unmitigated heat. Take up a bar of cold iron in the frozen regions, and it will shrivel the flesh off your hands; while the dreadful heat, under the line, has sent many to their grave with brain fever. How would you bear these extremes? I have heard you complain bitterly of the cold of a wintry day, and of the heat of a summer one, in mild, temperate England.”
“Of course, I should make up my mind to put up with these inconveniences.”
“And a very good resolution too, where the inconveniences are inevitable^ But, William, they would not by you be less keenly felt.”
“Well, if they were, they would hurt nobody but myself. The thought of being planted down to copy mouldy old parchments from morning till night is unbearable. I’d as soon be put in a prison for life.”
“Random words, William.”
William felt they were; but he had not the grace to say so.
“Never think, my boy, that my opposition to this ideal fancy you have taken up is prompted by any motives, save the urgent wish for your own happiness. Do not interrupt, William; it is an ideal, not a real one. Children are inclined to be undutiful and headstrong, thinking that they know best, and preferring to take their own course. They think that the opposition to their own wishes proceeds from a love of ride; but, William, do not you so deceive yourself. Believe me, that nothing on earth can equal the anxiety of a mother for her child.”
“Oh, mamma, I know. I know you are anxious for me.”
“I wish, my darling boy, that you could be shown the working of a sea life in its true light: that you could witness its toil and hardship, and — in nearly all its cases, when boys have gone as you are wishing to go — its inward pining and repentance. Harry Vane will go to what he loves, for his whole heart is in it; but were you to go, you would find out your mistake too late.”
“Gruff Jones is going,” returned William, his spirit of disbelief and opposition again rising.
“Gruff Jones! “echoed Mrs Allair. “My dear, you are mistaken. It was only yesterday, when we were looking at the show, that the squire told me the very notion of his being allowed to go was absurd.”
“Gruff says he will go, and I think he will,” answered William. “He says, if the squire persists in refusing him, he shall run away.”
Mrs Allair did not like the words; they seemed to throw some strange chill on her heart. She shook as with a sudden inward fear, and her lips grew white.
“My son, put those dangerous thoughts away from you,” she said, in a low, solemn tone, tenderly laying her hand upon his shoulder. “Run away! what sort of a step would that be? Think you, God’s blessing would ever rest upon it?”
“Mamma, I was only talking of Gruff.”
“It frightens me, William, to hear of a boy running away from home. I never knew good come of such a step yet. I do not think good could come of it. If — What is it, Elizabeth?”
One of the servants had come to call her from the room. William remained, looking at the glories in the western sky, his thoughts far away. A few minutes more, and four or five of the schoolboys came in. On their way home from evening school, they had resolved to look up William.
“Here he is! — alive!” began Jenniker. “We thought you’d be dead by this time, Allair.”
“Did you?” returned William, rather crossly. He could not put up with “chaff “as well as some of the boys could. Of a gentle, timid, yielding disposition, he was less fitted for the rough life of a public school than some of them were. His very appearance was indicative of his sensitive nature, with his refined features, his soft blue eyes, his bright complexion, and his fair, wavy hair.
Gruff Jones, one of the visitors, flung himself into a chair with an action of impatience. He was a short, stout lad, the eldest son of Squire Jones, a gentleman of some importance at Whittermead. The boys had nicknamed him “Gruff” on account of some peculiarity in his voice.
“It is of no use talking to the governor,” Gruff began, in a grumbling tone. “He won’t as much as hear me name the sea now. He’ll never let me go.”
“Bother him till he does,” advised Jenniker.
Gruff shook his head. “He won’t be bothered. If I begin but with half a word, he shuts my mouth up. I will go!” added the young gentleman, stamping his foot. “The thing is, if he sets his face dead against it, how am I to get there?”
“Run away,” said Jenniker.
“Jenniker told me yesterday you had made up your mind to run away,” interrupted William Allair.
“Well, I don’t know,” mused Gruff, who was rather a mild sort of boy, in spite of his gruff voice. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t do.” —
“Not do!” echoed daring Jenniker. “Just hear him!” he added, turning to the rest. “He’s afraid it wouldn’t do to run away! If you want to do a thing, and other folks say you shan’t, the best way is, to cut the matter short by doing it.”
Gruff considered. Apparently he did not see his way clear. “I might not get safe off,” debated he. “The squire might catch me up and bring me back, and have me before him on the bench, as a vagabond. You don’t know what he is when he’s put up. He’d no more care for putting one of us in prison, than he cares for committing the poachers. Besides, where could I run to? I should have neither money nor outfit; and there’d be no fun in going to sea without your uniform.”
“Have it your own way,” said Jenniker. “If you won’t bother the squire into sending you, and won’t start on your own account, you must humdrum on at Whittermead for life, feeding your own innocent sheep, and cultivating your crops of mild turnips. They’ll put you on the bench, perhaps, when you are of age, and you can sit there and commit poachers on your own account.”
Gruff Jones did not like the bantering tone. “What would you advise me to do, Jenniker?” he asked.
“You needn’t come to me for advice. I wash my hands of milksops,” he added, making a motion of rubbing one hand over the other. Gruff looked irresolute.
“Shall you run away, Vane, if they don’t let you go?” he asked.
“No,” said Harry Vane. “I expect they will let me go.”
“But if they don’t, I said?” persisted Gruff.
“Then I must put up with it as I best can. I should never run away. No good comes of that.”
“Better run away than be kept from doing what you like,” spoke up Jenniker.
“Better not. An old merchant captain told me once that running away never prospered anybody. I don’t believe it does. I am not going to run. Stuff!”
“I don’t know but what I shall have to run,” struck in Jenniker. “I’d not bet upon it.”
“It won’t matter so much for you,” responded Harry Vane. “You have no father to disobey.”
“No. And the commandments don’t tell us we must honour our uncles and our step-aunts,” returned the incorrigible Jenniker. “I am getting into hot water at home.”
“Worse hot water than usual?”
“A sight worse. But I have paid them out. There’s a party gone to Cummerton Castle to-day — a picnic.” Jenniker’s face was so radiant with mischief, his tone so suggestive, that the boys inquired what his joke was.
“I was invited to this picnic, mind you; I know I was, for Mildred whispered it to me some days ago,” he answered. “I thought I was going, until last night. No, if you please! My uncle and step-aunt gravely told me I should only be in mischief if I went, and spoil the party. I have served them out.”
“Don’t say step-aunt, Jenniker. It does sound so!”
“I shall say it. She’s no aunt of mine, and I shan’t call her one. Well, it made me mad, as you may guess, finding I was to be put out of the fun, so I thought I’d spoil theirs a bit. The folks were to take their own provisions. One lot took meat; another lot took poultry; another, cheese and bread-and-butter; another, wine; another, knives and forks, and dishes and spoons, and tea-kettles and glasses, and all that sort of rattletraps. It fell to our lot at home to find pastry and custards. All yesterday afternoon, as soon as the show was over, my step-aunt, and Mildred, and the cook were melting themselves over the kitchen fire, boiling the custards, and baking the tarts. Mrs Jenniker did not make big pies; about a couple of hundred of little tarts; just what we could take in at a mouthful, you know. I heard her say to Mildred they’d be more convenient to carry than pies in dishes. All covered they were; no jam to be seen: perhaps she thought it would run out on the road—”
“My! shouldn’t I like to have been before that collation!” struck in Gruff Jones, while the whole of the boys stood with watering mouths.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Jenniker, winking his eyes. “’Twas all got ready by night: custards corked up in wide-mouthed bottles, and put in a hamper; tarts packed in another hamper. And then it was I found I was not to get any, or any fun, either. So down to the cellar I crept, when the house was in bed, and got at the dainties.”
“Did you finish the lot, Jenniker?” asked the boys, in a despairing state of envy that the luck had not been theirs.
“I didn’t eat them; I spoiled them,” said Jenniker, winking again — a very ugly accomplishment, but Jenniker had some ugly ones. “I uncorked the custard bottles, and poured in a little shalot vinegar; and you may guess what the flavour was then, besides turning the stuff to curd. Then I took the tops off the tarts, all neat and clean, with my penknife, and devoured the contents, and fastened on the tops again with white of egg; leaving them just the same, to look at, as they were before.”
“Jove! what a treat! Was it all jam?”
“Jam, and other stuff. Apple, and lemon, and rhubarb, and green goosegogs — oh, about fifty sorts,” answered Jenniker. “I demolished it all. I was down there three hours, stuffing, and accomplishing the job neatly. When I came up, nobody could have told that so much as a finger had been laid upon the hampers. Hadn’t I the stomach-ache, though, towards the morning! They’ll be returning home, that picnic lot, in about an hour’s time.”
The boys sat in a trance of delight, devouring the tale as eagerly as Mr Jenniker had devoured the insides of the tarts. And poor Edmund Allair laughed and crowed incessantly, without understanding what there was to laugh at.
CHAPTER V.
PUNISHMENT.
ONE black sheep will spoil a flock. One black boy — speaking with regard to the sheep and the boy metaphorically — will spoil a whole school.
Harry Vane infected his companions with a love for the sea; but he was not the black sheep. That boy was Jenniker, the eldest of them all.
Nothing overwhelmingly bad, either, was there in Jenniker. He possessed no very evil habits; he did not thieve or kill. But Jenniker was daringly self-willed; somewhat loose in principle; inclined to disobedience and rebellion; and Jenniker’s shortcomings in these respects worked contagion in the school.
