The Stokesley Secret

The children looked at one another, wondering how he had heard, or whether Miss Fosbrook had told him; but this was soon answered by his calling out, “David! come here, and tell me what you meant by this letter.”

David walked stoutly to his father’s knee, nothing daunted, though his brothers muttered behind him, “So he wrote!” “Little sneak!” and “He knew no better!”  Not that it was wrong to lay the case before his father; but boys had usually rather suffer injustice than make an accusation.

“Why did you write this letter, David?” said his father.

“Because I want my pence for the pig.”

“Tell me how you lost them?”

“Bess took them!”

Elizabeth sprung up, crimson, and with tears in her eyes, and Sam and Susan were both bursting out into an angry “No, no!” but their father made a sign to all to keep still; and they obeyed, though each of the elder ones took hold of a hand of their sister and squeezed it hard.

“Did you see her take them?” asked the Captain.

“No!”

“Then why do you say she did?  I don’t want to frighten you, David; I only want to hear why you think she did so.”

David was getting alarmed now, and his childish memory better retained the impression than what had produced it.  He hung down his head, scraped one foot, and finding that he must answer, mumbled out at last, “Nurse said it, and Hal.”

“Henry, come here.  Did you accuse your sister to David?”

“No!” burst out Henry at once; but there was a rounding of everyone’s mouth to cry out Oh! and he quickly added, in a hasty scared way, “At least, when Davie came bothering me, I said he had better ask Betty, because she had been prying about, and meddling with the baby-house.  I never meant that she had done it; but Davie is such a little jack-ass!”

“Did you see her meddle with the baby-house!”

“She said that herself,” muttered Henry.

“Yes, Papa,” said Elizabeth, starting forward, “I did find the doors of the baby-house open, and shut them up, but I never touched anything in it!  Sam and Susie know I would not, and that I would not tell a story now, though I once did, you know, Papa!”

Captain Merrifield still kept his grave set face, and only asked, “When did you find the doors open?”

“On Friday, Papa—Friday week—St. Barnabas’ Day—just after dinner.”

“Was no one with you?”

“No, Papa.”

“You came up-stairs first?”

“Yes; I wanted my pencil before—” and she stopped short.

“Before what?”

“Before Miss Fosbrook went in to speak to Hal,” said Elizabeth, getting red all over.

“Hal had been dining in the school-room,” said Miss Fosbrook, “on account of a little bit of disobedience.”

Captain Merrifield looked keenly at Henry, who tried to return the look, but shuffled uncomfortably under it.

“Then Hal had been dining in the school-room?  Was he there when you came in?”

“No.”

“Were the doors open when you were dining there, Henry?”

“N—no.”

“You are sure that you did not meddle with them?”

“I do not know why I should,” said Henry, hastily and confusedly.  “It is only the girls and the babies that have things there—and—and Miss Fosbrook herself had been at the cupboard in the morning; why shouldn’t she have left it undone herself, and the doors got open?”

“No, no!” cried Susan; “if they aren’t fastened they always burst open directly; and we never could have been in the room half the morning without noticing them!”

“Then you are certain that they were closed when you went down to dinner?”

Everyone was positive that the great glass doors flying out must have made themselves observed in that room full of children, especially as Susan remembered that she had been making a desk of the sloping part under them.

“Does anyone remember how long it was between Hal’s leaving the room and Bessie’s coming up?”

“I don’t know when he went out,” said all those who had been in the dining-room; but there spoke up a voice, quite proud of having something to tell among the others—“I saw Hal go out, and Bessie come up directly.”

“You, Johnnie!  How was that?”

“Miss Fosbrook made me dine in the nursery, Papa, because Hal and I had been riding on the new iron gate, to see if the telegraph would come in while the others were at church; and then Hal ran away with the Grevilles, and I couldn’t get down till Sam came and helped me; and so Miss Fosbrook made me dine in the nursery; and when I had done, I went and sat upon the top of the garret stairs, to watch when they came out from dinner, and ask if I might come down again.”

“And what did you see, Johnnie?”

“First, I saw a wasp,” said Johnnie.

“Never mind the wasp.  Did you see when Henry went out?”

“I saw him come in first,” said John, “and Miss Fosbrook order him up and say she would send him his dinner, and come and speak to him presently.  So I watched to catch her when she was coming up to him, and I saw Mary bring him up some mince veal, and the last bit of the gooseberry pie; and then, very soon, he bolted right downstairs.  I didn’t think he could have had time to eat the pie; and I was going to see if there was a bit left, when I saw Bessie coming up, and I whipped up again.”

“Then nobody went into the room between Henry and Bessie?”

“No; there wasn’t any time.”

The whole room was quite silent.  There was no sound but a quick short breathing from the Captain: but he had rested his brow upon his hand, and his face could not be seen.  It was as if something terrible had flashed upon him, and he was struggling with the first shock, and striving to deal with it.  If they had seen him in a tempest, with his ship driving to pieces on a rock, he would not have been thus shaken and dismayed.  However, by the time he looked up again, he had brought his face back to its resolute firmness, and he spoke in a clear, stern, startling voice, that made all the children quake, and some catch hold of each other’s hands: “Henry! tell me what you have done with your theft!”

Miserable Henry!  He did not try to deny it any longer; but burst out into a loud sobbing cry, “O Papa!  Papa!  I meant to have put it back again!  I couldn’t help it!”

“Tell me what you have done with it!” repeated the Captain.

“I—I paid it to Farmer Grice; I was obliged; and I thought I could have put it back again; and some of it was my own!”

“Fivepence-farthing!” cried David.  “You thief, you!”

The child’s fists were clenched, and his young face all one scowl of passion, quite shocking to see.  His father put him aside, and said, “Hush, David! no names.—Now, Henry, what do you say to your sister for your false accusation, which has thrown your own shame on her?”

“Oh, no, no, Papa; he never did accuse me!” cried Bessie, for the first time bursting into tears.  “He never said I did it; that was only Davie’s fancy; and it has made Susie and Sam so kind, I have not minded it at all.  Please don’t mind that, Papa!”

“Come away, Henry!” said the Captain; “now that your sister has been cleared, we had better have the rest out of the sight of these tender-hearted little girls.”

He stood up, and without a word, stroked down Elizabeth’s smooth brown hair, raised her face up by the chin, and kissed her forehead, the only place free from tears; then he took Henry by the shoulder, and marched him out of the room.  Bessie could not stop herself from crying, and was afraid of letting Uncle John see her; so she flew out after them, and straight up-stairs to her own room.  Miss Fosbrook and Susan both longed to follow her, but they had missed this opportunity; and the sound of voices outside showed so plainly that the Captain and Henry were in the hall that they durst not open the door.

Everyone was appalled, and nothing was said for a few seconds.  The first to speak was Annie, in a low, terror-stricken whisper, yet with some curiosity in it: “I wonder what Papa will do to him?”

“Give him nine dozen, I hope!” answered David through his small white teeth, all clenched together with rage.

“For shame, Davie!” said Susan; “you should not wish anything so dreadful for your brother.”

“He has been so wicked!  I wish it!  I will wish it!” said David.

“Hush, David!” said Miss Fosbrook; “such things must not be said.  I will talk to you by and by.”

“I am glad poor Bessie is cleared!” added Susan; “though I always knew she could not have done it.”

“To be sure—I knew it was Hal!”

“Sam! you did?—why didn’t you tell?” cried Annie.

“I wasn’t—to say—sure,” said Sam; “and I couldn’t go and get him into a scrape.  I thought he might tell himself, if he could ever make up the money again!”

“Yes,” said Susan; “he would have done that.  He always fancied he should get a sovereign from Colonel Carey.”

“He talked till he thought so,” said Sam.

“But what made you guess he had done so, Sam?” said Miss Fosbrook.  “I did suspect him myself, but I never felt justified in accusing him of such a thing.”

“I don’t know!  I saw he had been getting into a fix with those Grevilles, and had been sold somehow.  They said something, and got out of my way directly, and I was sure they had done some mischief, and left him to pay the cost.”

“Did you ask him?” said Susan.

“What was the use?  One never knows where to have him.  He will eat up his words as fast as he says them, with his at least, till he doesn’t know what he means.  Nor I didn’t want to know much of it.”

“Still I can’t think how you could let poor Bessie live under such a cloud,” said Christabel.

“You didn’t believe it,” said Sam, “nor anyone worth a snap of my finger.  Besides, if I had known, and had to tell, what a horrid shame it would have been if the naval cadetship had been to be had for him!  I knew Bessie would have thought so too, and then he would have been out of the way of the Grevilles, and would have got some money to make it up.”

“Then is there no chance of the cadetship now?”

“Oh, we should have heard of it long ago if there had been!  So I mind the coming out the less; but it’s perfectly abominable to have had all this row, and for Papa to be so cut up in this little short time at home.”

“I never saw him more grieved,” said Mr. Merrifield.  “He was hardly more overcome when your mother was at the worst.”

They started, for they had forgotten Uncle John, or they would never have spoken so freely; but he now put down his newspaper, and looked as if he meant to talk.

Susan ventured to say, “And indeed they had all been so very good before.  The pig made them so.”

“A learned pig, I should think,” said her uncle, laughing good-naturedly.

“We were obliged to take care,” said Susan, “or we got so many fines.”

Christabel, finding that Mr. Merrifield looked at her, helped out Susan by explaining that various small delinquencies were visited with fines, and that the desire to save for the pig had rendered the children very careful.

“Indeed,” she said, “I was thankful for the incentive, but I am afraid that it was over-worked, and did harm in the end:” and she glanced towards David.

“It is the way with secondary motives,” was the answer.

Here Captain Merrifield came back alone; and his brother was the only person who ventured to say, “Well?”

“I have sent him to his room,” said the Captain.  “It is a very bad business, though of course he made excuses to himself.”

The Captain then told them Henry’s confession.  He had been too much hurried by the fear of being caught, to take out his own share of the hoard, and had therefore emptied the whole cupful into his pocket-handkerchief, tied it up, and run off with it, intending to separate what was honestly his own.  What that was he did not know, but his boastful habits and want of accuracy had made his memory so careless, that he fancied that a far larger proportion was his than really was, and his purposes were in the strange medley that falls to the lot of all self-deceivers, sometimes fancying he would only take what he had a right to (whatever that might be), sometimes that he would borrow what he wanted, and replace it when the sovereign should be given to him, or that the Grevilles would make it up when they had their month’s allowance.

When he came to the farm Mr. Grice was resolved to take nothing less than the whole sum that he had with him.  Perhaps this was less for the value of the turkey-cock than for the sake of giving the boys such a lesson as to prevent them from ever molesting his poultry again.  At any rate, he was inexorable till the frightened Henry had delivered up every farthing in his possession; and then, convinced that no more was forthcoming, he relented so far as to restore the gun, and promise to make no complaint to either of the fathers.

At first Henry lived on hopes of being able to restore the money before the hoard should be examined, but Colonel Carey went away, and, as might have been expected, left no present to his brother’s pupils.  Still Henry had hopes of the Grevilles, and even when the loss was discovered, hoped to restore it secretly, and make the whole pass off as a joke; but the 1st of August came, Martin and Osmond received their pocket-money, but laughed his entreaty to scorn, telling him that he had shot the turkey-cock, not they.  Since that time, his only hope had been in the affair blowing over—as if a sin ever did blow over!

“One question I must ask, Miss Fosbrook,” said the Captain, “though after such a course of deceit it hardly makes it worse.  Has he told any direct falsehood?”

She paused, and recollected.  “Yes, Sir,” she said, “I am afraid he did; he flatly told me that he had not touched the baby-house.”

“I expected nothing else,” said the Captain gravely.  “What has become of Bessie?”

“She ran up-stairs.  May I go and call her?” said Susan.

“I will go myself,” said her father.

He found Elizabeth in the school-room, all flushed and tear-stained in the face; and he told her affectionately how much pleased he was with her patience under this false accusation.  Delight very nearly set her off crying again, but she managed to say, “It was Miss Fosbrook and Sam and Susie that made me patient, Papa; they were so kind.  And nobody would have believed it, if I wasn’t always cross, you know.”

“Not cross now, my little woman,” he said smiling.

“Oh!  I said I never could be cross again, now Mamma is better; but Miss Fosbrook says I shall sometimes feel so, and I do believe she is right, for I was almost cross to Georgie to-day.  But she says one may feel cross, and not be cross!”

He did not quite know all that his little girl was thinking of; but he patted her fondly, and said, “Yes, there is a great deal to be thankful for, my dear; and I shall trust to you elder ones to give your Mamma no trouble while I am afloat.”

“I will try,” said Bessie.  “And please, Papa, would you tell Nurse about it?  She doesn’t half believe us, and she is so tiresome about Miss Fosbrook!”

“Tiresome! what do you mean?”

“She always thinks what she does is wrong, and she puts nonsense into Johnnie’s head, and talks about favourites.  Mary told Susan it was jealousy.”

The Captain spoke pretty strongly to Nurse Freeman that evening, but it is doubtful if she were the better for it.  She was a very good woman in most things, but she could not bear that the children should be under anyone but herself; and just as Henry lost the truth by inaccuracy, she lost it by prejudice.

Miss Fosbrook was glad to get away from the dining-room, where it was rather awful to sit without her work and be talked to by Mr. Merrifield, even though she liked him much better than she had expected.

When David came to bed, she sat by him and talked to him about his angry unforgiving spirit.  She could not but think he was in a fearful temper, and she tried hard to make him sorry for his brother, instead of thirsting to see the disappointment visited on him; but David could not see what she meant.  Wicked people ought to be punished; it was wicked to steal and tell stories, and he hoped Henry would be punished, so as he would never forget it, for hindering poor Hannah from getting her pig.

He would not understand Henry’s predicament; he was only angry, bitterly angry, and watching for vengeance.  Miss Fosbrook could not reason or persuade him out of it, nor make him see that he could hardly say his prayers in such a mood.  Indeed, he would rather have gone without his prayers than have ceased to hope for Henry’s punishment.

Perhaps in this there was sense of justice and indignation against wrong doing, as well as personal resentment.  Miss Fosbrook tried to think so, and left him, but not without praying for him, that a Christian temper of forgiveness might be sent upon him.

All the others were subdued and awe-struck.  It was not yet known what was to happen to Henry; but there was a notion that it would be very terrible indeed, and that Uncle John would be sure to make it worse; and they wished Miss Fosbrook good-night with very sad faces.