The Stokesley Secret

Miss Fosbrook, who was walking behind them, turned as he came in.

“Henry,” she said, “I have sent Johnnie to dine in the nursery, for his disobedience in climbing the gate.  I certainly shall not give you a less punishment.  You must have led him into it; and how could you be so cruel as to leave the poor little fellow alone in such a dangerous place?”

“Stupid little coward! it was not a bit of danger!” said Hal.

“So young a child—” began Miss Fosbrook.

“Oh, that’s all your London notions,” said Hal.  “Why, I climbed up our gate at Stonehouse, which was twice as high, when I wasn’t near as old as that!”

“I am not going to argue with you, Henry; but after such an act of disobedience, I cannot allow you to sit down to dinner with us.  Go up to the school-room, and Mary shall bring you your dinner.”

“I’m sure I don’t want to dine with a lot of babies and governesses!” exclaimed Henry, and bounced up-stairs, leaving Miss Fosbrook quite confounded at such an outbreak of naughtiness.

She intended, as soon as dinner should be over, to go up to him, and try to lead him to be sorry for his conduct, and to think what a wretched moment this was for such audacity; and then she feared that she ought to punish him farther, by keeping him in all the afternoon.  He was so soft and easily impressed, that she almost trusted to make him feel that it would be right that he should suffer for his misconduct.

When she went up-stairs, almost as soon as grace had been said, he was gone.  Nobody could find him, and calling produced no answer.  She became quite distressed and anxious, but could not go far from the house herself, nor send Sam, in case the message should arrive.

“Oh,” said Sam, “no doubt he’s after something with the Grevilles, and was afraid you would stop him in.”

She tried to believe this, but still felt far from satisfied all the afternoon, and was glad to see the boy come back in time for tea.

He said he had been with the Grevilles; he did not see why anybody need ask him questions; he should do what he pleased without being called to account.  Nobody told him not to run away after dinner; he was not going to stay to be ordered about for nothing.

This was so bad a temper, that Christabel could not bear to try to touch him with the thought of his sick mother.  She knew that softening must come in time, and believed the best thing to do at the moment would be to put a stop to his disrespectful speeches to her, and his cross ones to his brothers and sisters, by sending him to bed as soon as tea was over, as the completion of his punishment.  He did not struggle, for she had taught him to mind her; but he went up-stairs with a gloomy brow, and angry murmurs that it was very hard to be put under a stupid woman, who knew nothing about anything, and was always cross.

CHAPTER XII

Saturday’s post brought a letter, and a comfortable one.  All Thursday Mrs. Merrifield had been in so doubtful a state, that her husband could not bear to write, lest he should fill the children with false hopes, or alarm them still more; but she had had a good night, was stronger on Friday, and when the post went out, the doctors had just ventured to say they believed she would recover favourably.  The letter was finished off in a great hurry; but Captain Merrifield did not forget to thank his little Susan warmly for her poor scrambling letter, and say he knew all she meant by it, bidding her give Miss Fosbrook his hearty thanks for forwarding it, and for telling him the children were all behaving well, and feeling properly.  His love to them all; they must try to deserve the great mercy that had been granted to them.

To the children, this was almost as good as saying that their mother was well again; but there was too much awe about them for their joy to show itself noisily.  Susan ran away to her own room, and Bessie followed her; and Sam said no word, only Miss Fosbrook remarked that he did not eat two mouthfuls of breakfast.  She would not take any notice; she knew his heart was full; and when she looked round on that little flock, and thought of the grievous sorrow scarcely yet averted from them, she could hardly keep the tears from blinding her.  They were all somewhat still and grave, and it was too happy a morning to be broken into by the reproofs that Henry deserved, even more richly than Christabel knew.  She had almost forgotten his bad behaviour; and when she remembered something of it, she could not but hope that silence, on such a day as this, might bring it home to him more than rebuke.  Yet when breakfast was ever, he was among the loudest of those who, shaking off the strange, awed gravity of deep gladness, went rushing together into the garden, feeling that they might give way to their spirits again.

Sam shouted and whooped as if he were casting off a burthen, and picking little George up in his arms, tossed him and swung him round in the air in an ecstasy; while John and Annie and David went down on the grass together, and tumbled and rolled one over the other like three kittens, their legs and arms kicking about, so that it was hard to tell whose property were the black shoes that came wriggling into view.

Susan was quieter.  She told Nurse the good news, and then laid hold upon Baby, and carried her off into the passage to hug all to herself.  She could tell no one but Baby how very happy she was, and how her heart had trembled at her mother’s suffering, her father’s grief, and at the desolateness that had so nearly come on them.  Oh, she was very happy, very thankful; but she could not scream it out like the others, Baby must have it all in kisses.

“Christabel,” said a little voice, when all the others were gone, “I shall never be pipy again.”

“You must try to fight against it, my dear.”

“Because,” said Elizabeth, coming close up to her, “when dear Mamma was so ill, it did seem so silly to mind about not having pretty things like Ida, and the boys plaguing, and so on.”

“Yes, my dear; a real trouble makes us ashamed of our little discontents.”

“I said so many times yesterday, and the day before, that I would never mind things again, if only Mamma would get well and come home,” said the little girl; “and I never shall.”

“You will not always find it easy not to mind,” said Christabel; “but if you try hard, you will learn how to keep from showing that you mind.”

“Oh!” said Elizabeth, (and a great mouthful of an oh! it was,) “those things are grown so silly and little now.”

“You have seen them in their true light for once, my dear.  And now that you have so great cause of thankfulness to God, you feel that your foolish frets and discontents were unthankful.”

“Yes,” said Bessie, her eyes cast down, as they always were when anything of this kind was said to her, as if she did not like to meet the look fixed on her.

“Well then, Bessie, try to make the giving up of these murmurs your thank-offering to God.  Suppose every day when you say your prayers, you were to add something like this—” and she wrote down on a little bit of paper, “O Thou, who hast raised up my mother from her sickness, teach me to be a thankful and contented child, and to guard my words and thoughts from peevishness.”

“Isn’t it too small to pray about?” said Elizabeth.

“Nothing is too small to pray about, my dear.  Do you think this little midge is too small for God to have made it, and given it life, and spread that mother-of-pearl light on its wings?  Do you think yourself too small to pray? or your fault too small to pray about?”

Elizabeth cast down her eyes.  She did not quite think it was a fault, but she did not say so.

“Bessie, what was the great sin of the Israelites in the wilderness?”

The colour on her cheek showed that she knew.

“They tempted God by murmurs,” said Christabel.  “They tried His patience by grumbling, when His care and blessings were all round them, and by crying out because all was not just as they liked.  Now, dear Bessie, God has shown you what a real sorrow might be; will it not be tempting Him to go back to complaints over what He has ordained for you?”

“I shall net complain now; I shall not care,” said Elizabeth.  But she took the little bit of paper, and Christabel trusted that she would make use of it, knowing that in this lay her hope of cure; for whatever she might think in this first joy of relief, her little troubles were sure to seem quite as unbearable while they were upon her as if she had never feared a great one.

However, nothing remarkable happened; everyone was bright and happy; but still the influence of their past alarm subdued them enough to make them quiet and well-behaved, both on Saturday and Sunday; and Miss Fosbrook had never had so little trouble with them.

In consideration of this, and of the agitation and unsettled state that had put the last week out of all common rules, she announced on Monday morning that she would excuse all the fines, and that all the children should have their allowance unbroken.  Maybe she was moved to this by the suspicion that these four sixpences and three threepennies would make up the fund to the price of a “reasonable pig;” and she thought it time that David’s perseverance should be rewarded, and room made in his mind for something beyond swine and halfpence.

Her announcement was greeted by the girls with eager thanks, by the boys with a tremendous “Three times three for Miss Fosbrook!” and Bessie was so joyous, that instead of crying out against the noise, she joined in with Susan and Annie; but they made such a ridiculous little squeaking, that Sam laughed at them, and took to mocking their queer thin hurrahs.  Yet even this Elizabeth could bear!

David was meanwhile standing by the locker, his fingers at work as if he were playing a tune, his lips counting away, “Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four—that’s me; ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven—that’s Jack,” and so on; till having plodded up diligently, he turned round with a little scream, “One hundred and twenty!  That’s the pig!”

“What?” cried Annie.

“One hundred and twenty pence.  Sukey said one hundred and twenty pence were ten shillings.  That will do it!  That’s the pig!  Oh, we’ve done it!  May I take it to Purday?”

“It was to be let alone till fair-day, you little bother!” said Hal.

“No, no, no,” cried many voices; “only till we had enough.”

“And I am sure nobody knows if we have,” added Hal hotly.  “A lot of halfpence, indeed!”

“But I know, Hal,” insisted David.  “There are eighty-nine pence and one farthing in Toby Fillpot, and this makes one hundred and twenty-two pence and one farthing.”

“You’d no business to peep,” said Sam.

“I didn’t peep,” said David indignantly.  “There were forty-eight pence at first, and then Susie had three, that was fifty-one—”  And he would have gone on like a little calculating machine, with the entire reckoning in his head, if the others had had patience to hear; but Annie and Johnnie were urgent to have the sum counted out before their eyes.  Hal roughly declared it was against the rules, and little inquisitives must not have their way.  But others were also inquisitive; and Sam said it would be best to know how much they had, that Purday might be told to look out for a pig at the price; besides, he wanted to have it over; it was such a bore not to have any money.

“It’s not fair!” cried Henry passionately.  “You don’t keep the rules!  You sha’n’t have my sixpence, I can tell you; and I won’t—I won’t stay and see it.”

“Nobody wants you,” said Sam.

“I didn’t know there were any rules,” said the girls; but Hal was already off.

“Hal has only put in fivepence-halfpenny,” said David, “so no wonder he is ashamed.  Such a big boy, with sixpence a week!  But if he won’t let us have his sixpence now—”

“Never mind, we will make it up next week,” said Susan.

“Now, then, who will take Toby down?” said Miss Fosbrook, unbuttoning one glass door, and undoing the two bolts of the second, behind which the cup of money stood.

“Susie ought, because she is the eldest.”

“Davie ought, because he is the youngest.”

David stood on a chair to take Toby off his shelf.  Solemn was the face with which the little boy lifted the mug by the handle, putting his other hand to steady the expected weight of coppers; but there was at once a frown, a little cry of horror.  Toby came up so light in his hand, that all his great effort was thrown away, and only made him stagger back in dismay, falling backward from the chair, and poor Toby crashing to pieces on the floor as he fell, while out rolled—one solitary farthing!

Nobody spoke for some moments; but all stood perfectly still, staring as hard as if they hoped the pence would be brought out by force of looking for them.

Then David’s knuckles went up into his eyes, and he burst forth in a loud bellow.  It was the first time Miss Fosbrook had heard him cry, and she feared that he had been hurt by the fall, or cut by the broken crockery; but he struck out with foot and fist, as if his tears were as much anger as grief, and roared out, “I want the halfpence for my pig.”

“Sam, Sam,” cried Susan, “if you have hid them for a trick, let him have them.”

“I—I play tricks now?” exclaimed Sam in indignation.  “No, indeed!”

“Then perhaps Hal has,” said Elizabeth.

“For shame, Bessie!” cried Sam.

“I only know,” said Elizabeth, half in self-defence, half in fright, “that one of you must have been at the baby-house, for I found the doors open, and shut them up.”

“And why should it be one of us?” demanded Sam; while David stopped crying, and listened.

“Because none of the younger ones can reach to undo the doors,” said Elizabeth.  “It was as much as I could do to reach the upper bolt, though I stood upon a chair.”

This was evident; for the baby-house was really an old-fashioned bureau, and below the glass doors there was a projecting slope of polished walnut, upon which only a fly could stand, and which was always locked.  No one whose years were less than half a score was tall enough to get a good hold of the button, even from the highest chair, far less to jerk down the rather stiff upper bolt.

“It cannot have been a little one, certainly,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but you should not be so ready to accuse your brothers, Bessie.”

David, however, had laid hold of a hope, and getting up from the floor, hastened out of the room, followed by John; and they were presently heard shouting “Hal!” all over the house.

“What day was it that you found the door open, Bessie?” asked Miss Fosbrook.

“It was just after dinner,” said Elizabeth, recollecting herself.

“It was on Friday.  Yes, I remember it was Friday, because I went into the school-room to get my pencil, and I was afraid Hal would jump out upon me, and looked in first to see whether he was going to be tiresome; but he was gone.”

“Yes,” said Susan; “it was the day we found poor Jack stuck up on the gate, when he and Hal were in disgrace.  Oh, he never would have played tricks then.”

“Did you go up before me, Bessie?” asked Miss Fosbrook; “for I went up directly after dinner to speak to Henry.”

“Yes, I did,” said she.  “I thought if you got in first, you would be scolding him ever so long, and would let nobody in, so I would get my pencil first; and I slipped up before you had left the table.”

Just then the two boys were heard stumping up the stairs, and ran in, panting with haste and excitement, David with a fiery red ear.

“No, no; Hal didn’t hide it!”

“But he boxed Davie’s ear for thinking he did,” added John; “and said he’d do the same for spiteful Bet!”

“Then he never played tricks,” said Susan.

“I told you not,” said Sam.

“No,” reiterated David; “and he said I’d no business to ask; and if Bet went prying about everywhere, I’d better ask her.  Have you got it, Betty?”

“I!” cried Elizabeth.  “How can you, Davie?”

“You have got a secret,” exclaimed David; “and you always were cross about Hannah Higgins’s pig.  You have got it to tease me!  Miss Fosbrook, make her give it back.”

“Nonsense, David,” said Miss Fosbrook; “Bessie is quite to be trusted; and it is wrong to make unfounded accusations.”

“Never mind, Betty,” added Sam kindly; “if Davie wasn’t a little donkey, he wouldn’t say such things.”

“Where is Henry?” asked the governess.  “Why did he not come himself?  Call him; I want to know if he observed this door being open.”

“He is gone down to Mr. Carey’s,” said John.

“And it is high time you were there too, Sam,” said Miss Fosbrook, starting.  “If you are late, beg Mr. Carey’s pardon from me, and tell him that I kept you.”

Sam was obliged to run off at full speed; and the other children stood about, still aghast and excited.  Miss Fosbrook, however, told them to take out their books.  She would not do anything more till she had had time to think, and had composed their minds and her own; for she was exceedingly shocked, and felt herself partly in fault, for having left the hoard in an unlocked cupboard.  She feared to do anything hastily, lest she should bring suspicion on the innocent; and she thought all would do better if time were given for settling down.  All were disappointed at thus losing the excitement, fancying perhaps that instant search and inquiry would hunt up the money; and David put himself quite into a sullen fit.  No, he would not turn round, nor read, nor do anything, unless Miss Fosbrook would make stingy Bet give up the pence.

Miss Fosbrook and Susan both tried to argue with him; but he had set his mind upon one point so vehemently, that it was making him absolutely stupid to everything else; and he was such a little boy (only five years old), that his mind could hardly grasp the exceeding unlikelihood of a girl like Elizabeth committing such a theft, either in sport or earnest, nor understand the injury of such a suspicion.  He only knew that she had a secret—a counter secret to his pig; and when she hotly assured him that she had never touched the money, and Susan backed her up with, “There, she says she did not,” he answered, “She once told a story.”

Elizabeth coloured deep red, and Susan cried out loudly that it was a shame in David; then explained that it was a long long time ago, that Hal and Bessie broke the drawing-room window by playing at ball with little hard apples, and had not told, but when questioned had said, “No;” but indeed they had been so sorry then that she knew they would never do so again.

Again David showed that he could not enter into this, and sulkily repeated, “She told a story.”

“I will have no more of this,” said Christabel resolutely.  “You are all working yourselves up into a bad spirit: and not another word will I hear on this matter till lessons are over.”

That tone was always obeyed; but lessons did not prosper; the children were all restless and unsettled; and David, hitherto for his age her best scholar, took no pains, and seemed absolutely stupefied.  What did he care for fines, if the chance of the pig was gone?  And he was sullenly angry with Miss Fosbrook for using no measures to recover the money, fancied she did not care, and remembered the foolish nursery talk about her favouring Bessie.

Once Miss Fosbrook heard a little gasping from the corner, and looking round, saw poor Bessie crying quietly over her slate, and trying hard to check herself.  She would not have noticed her, though longing to comfort her, if David had not cried out, “Bet is crying!  A fine!”

“No,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but a fine for an ill-natured speech that has made her cry.”

“She has got the pig’s money,” muttered David.

“Say that again, and I shall punish you, David.”

He looked her full in the face, and said it again.

She was thoroughly roused to anger, and kept her word by opening the door of a small dark closet, and putting David in till dinner-time.

Then she and Susan both tried to soothe Bessie, by reminding her how childish David was, how he had caught up some word that probably Hal had flung out without meaning it, and how no one of any sense suspected her for a moment.

“It is so ill-natured and hard,” sobbed Bessie.  “To think I could steal!  I think they hate me.”

“Ah,” said Susan, “if you only would never be cross to the boys, Bessie, and not keep out of what they care for, they would never think it.”

“Yes, Susie is right there,” said Christabel.  “If you try to be one with the others, and make common cause with them, giving up and forbearing, they never will take such things into their heads.”

“And we don’t now,” said Susan cheerily.  “Didn’t you hear Sam say nobody but a donkey could think it?”

“But Bessie has a secret!” said Annie.

Again stout Susan said, “For shame!”

“I’ll tell you what my secret is,” began Bessie.

“No,” said Susan, “don’t tell it, dear!  We’ll trust you without; and Sam will say the same.”

Bessie flung her arms round Susan’s neck, as if she only now knew the comfort of her dear good sister.

Lessons were resumed; and as soon as these were done, Miss Fosbrook resolved on a thorough search.  Some strange fit of mischief or curiosity might have actuated some one, and the money be hidden away; so she brought David out of his cupboard, and with Susan’s help turned out every drawer and locker in the school-room, forbidding the others to touch or assist.  They routed out queer nests of broken curiosities, disturbed old dusty dens of rubbish, peeped behind every row of books; but made no discovery worth mentioning, except the left leg of Annie’s last doll, the stuffing of Johnnie’s ball, the tiger out of George’s Noah’s ark, and the first sheet of Sam’s Latin Grammar, all stuffed together into a mouse-hole in the skirting.

At dinner Christabel forbade the subject to be mentioned, not only to hinder quarrelsome speeches, but to prevent the loss being talked of among the servants; since she feared that one of them must have committed the theft, and though anxious not to put it into the children’s heads, suspected Rhoda, the little nursery-girl, who was quite a child, and had not long been in the house.

Henry ate his dinner in haste, but could not get away till Miss Fosbrook had called him away from the rest, and told him that if he had been playing a trick on his little brother, it was time to put an end to it, before any innocent person fell under suspicion.

“I—I’ve been playing no tricks—at least—”

“Without any at least, Henry, have you hidden the money?”

“No.”

“You dined in the school-room on Friday.  Were the baby-house doors open then!”

“I—I’m sure I didn’t notice.”

“You didn’t open them to take anything out?”

“What should I want with the things in the baby-house?”

“Did you, or did you not!”

“I—I didn’t—at least—”

“In one word, did you open them? yes or no.”

“No.”

“What time did you go out after eating your dinner?”

“Bother! how is one to remember!  It’s all nonsense making such a fuss.  The children fancied they put in ever so much more than they did, and very likely took out some.”

“No; David’s reckoning was accurate.  I wrote down all I knew of; and I am sure none was taken out, for early that very morning I had put in a sixpence myself, and the cup was then full of coppers, with that little silver threepenny of David’s with the edge turned up upon the top.”

“Then you must have left the door undone!” said Henry delighted.

“I dare not be positive,” said Christabel; “but I believe I remember bolting it; and if I had not done so, it would have flown open sooner.”

“Oh, but the wind, you know.”

“If the doors did open, it would not account for the loss of the money.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” said Henry ungraciously, trying to move off: but she first required him to tell her what he had said to the younger boys to make them suspect Elizabeth.

“Did I?” said Henry, “I am sure I didn’t; at least, if I did, I only said Bess peeped everywhere, and was very close.  I didn’t suspect her, you know.”

“I should think not!” said Miss Fosbrook indignantly.  “Now please to come up with me.”

“I want to go out,” said Henry.

No, she would not let him go.  She thought Elizabeth ought to clear herself, so far as it could be done, by making her secret known, since that had drawn suspicion on her; and when all the children were together, she called the little girl and told her so.