CHAPTER IX.
CROFTON QUIET.
The boys were all in the school-room in the grey of the morning;--no one late. Mr. Tooke was already there. Almost every boy looked wistfully in the grave face of the master;--almost every one but his own son. He looked down; and it seemed natural: for his eyes were swollen with crying. He had been crying as much as Proctor: but, then, so had Dale.
"Your school-fellow is doing well," said Mr. Tooke, in a low voice, which, however, was heard to the farthest end of the room. "His brother will tell you that he saw him quietly asleep; and I have just seen him so. He deserves to do well; for he is a brave little boy. He is the youngest of you; but I doubt whether there is a more manly heart among you all."
There was a murmur, as if everybody wished to agree to this. That murmur set Phil crying again.
"As to how this accident happened," continued the master, "I have only to say this. The coping-stone of the wall was loose,--had become loosened by the frost. Of that I am aware. But it would not,--it could not have fallen, if your school-fellow had not been pulled from the top of the wall. Several hands pulled him,--as many as could get a hold.
Whose these hands were, it would be easy to ascertain; and it would not be difficult to discover whose was the hand which first laid hold, and gave the rest their grasp. But--" How earnestly here did every one look for the next words!--"But your school-fellow considers the affair an accident,--says he himself was cross."
"No! No! We plagued him," cried many voices.
"Well! he is sure no one meant him any harm, and earnestly desires that no further inquiry may be made. For his part, nothing, he declares, shall ever induce him to tell who first seized him."
The boys were about to give a loud cheer, but stopped for Hugh's sake, just in time. There was no want of signs of what they felt. There was no noise; but there were many tears.
"I do not think that a promise of impunity can be any great comfort to those concerned," continued Mr. Tooke: "but such comfort as they can find in it, they may. Both from my wish to indulge one who has just sustained so great a misfortune, and because I think he is right, I shall never inquire,--never wish to know more than I do of the origin of this accident. His mother declares the same, on the part of both of his parents. I hope you will every one feel yourselves put upon honour, to follow my example."
Another general murmur, in sign of agreement.
"The only thing you can now do for your school-fellow," concluded the master, "is to be quiet throughout the day. As soon as he can be removed, he will be carried to Mr. Shaw's. Till then, you will take care that he loses no rest through you.--Now, first class, come up."
While this class was up, Phil's neighbour began whispering; and the next boy leaned over to hear; and one or two came softly up behind: but, though they were busily engaged in question and answer, the master's stern voice was not heard (as usual when there was talking) to say "Silence there!" His class saw him looking that way, once or twice; but he took no notice. Phil had seen his brother, and was privileged to tell.
"So you saw him! Did you get a real good sight of him?"
"Yes. I stayed some time; half-an-hour, I dare say."
"What did he look like? Did he say anything?"
"Say anything!" cried Dale; "why, did you not hear he was asleep?"
"What did he look like, then?"
"He looked as he always does when he is asleep, as far as I could see.
But we did not bring the light too near, for fear of waking him."
"Did you hear--did anybody tell you anything about it?"
"Yes: my mother told me whatever I wanted to know."
"What? What did she tell you?"
"She says it will not be so very bad a lameness as it might have been--as if he had not had his knee left. That makes a great difference.
They make a false foot now, very light; and if his leg gets quite properly well, and we are not too much in a hurry, and we all take pains to help Hugh to practise walking carefully at first, he may not be very lame."
"Oh! then, it is not so bad," said one, while Tooke, who was listening, gave a deep sigh of relief.
"Not so bad!" exclaimed Phil. "Why, he will never be so strong--so able and active as other men. He will never be able to take care of himself and other people. He will be so unlike other people always; and now, while he is a boy, he will never----" The images of poor Hugh's privations and troubles as a school-boy were too much for Phil; and he laid down his head on his desk, to hide his grief. As for Tooke, he walked away, looking the picture of wretchedness.
"When will you see him again?" asked Dale, passing his arm round Phil's neck.
"To-day, if he is pretty well. My mother promised me that."
"Do you think you could get leave for me too? I would not make any noise, nor let him talk too much, if I might just see him."
"I'll see about it," said Phil.
As Mrs. Proctor was placing the pillows comfortably, for Hugh to have his breakfast, after he was washed, and the bed made nicely smooth, he yawned, and said he was sleepy still, and that he wondered what o'clock it was. His mother told him it was a quarter past ten.
"A quarter past ten! Why, how odd! The boys are half through school, almost, and I am only just awake!"
"They slept through the whole night, I dare say. You were awake a good many times; and you and I had some talk. Do you remember that? or has it gone out of your head with your sound sleep?"
"No, no: I remember that," said Hugh. "But it was the oddest, longest night!--and yesterday too! To think that it is not a whole day yet since it all happened! Oh! here comes my breakfast. What is it? Coffee!"
"Yes: we know you are fond of coffee; and so am I. So we will have some together."
"How comfortable!" exclaimed Hugh; for he was really hungry; which was no wonder, after the pain and exhaustion he had gone through. His state was like that of a person recovering from an illness--extremely ready to eat and drink, but obliged to be moderate.
When warmed and cheered by his coffee, Hugh gave a broad hint that he should like to see Phil, and one or two more boys--particularly Dale.
His mother told him that the surgeon, Mr. Annanby, would be coming soon.
If he gave leave, Phil should come in, and perhaps Dale. So Hugh was prepared with a strong entreaty to Mr. Annanby on the subject; but no entreaty was needed. Mr. Annanby thought he was doing very well; and that he would not be the worse for a little amusement and a little fatigue this morning, if it did not go on too long. So Phil was sent for, when the surgeon was gone. As he entered, his mother went out to speak to Mr. Tooke, and write home.
She then heard from Mr. Tooke and from Firth and Dale, how strong was the feeling in Hugh's favour--how strong the sympathy for his misfortune throughout the school. Hugh had seen no tears from her; but she shed them now. She then earnestly entreated that Hugh might not hear what she had just been told. He felt no doubt of the kindness of his school-fellows, and was therefore quite happy on that score. He was very young, and to a certain degree vain; and if this event went to strengthen his vanity, to fill his head with selfish thoughts, it would be a misfortune indeed. The loss of his foot would be the least part of it. It lay with those about him to make this event a deep injury to him, instead of the blessing which all trials are meant by Providence eventually to be. They all promised that, while treating Hugh with the tenderness he deserved, they would not spoil the temper in which he had acted so well, by making it vain and selfish. There was no fear meantime of Phil's doing him any harm in that way; for Phil had a great idea of the privileges and dignity of seniority; and his plan was to keep down little boys, and make them humble; not being aware that to keep people down is not the way to make them humble, but the contrary. Older people than Phil, however, often fall into this mistake. Many parents do, and many teachers; and very many elder brothers and sisters.
Phil entered the room shyly, and stood by the fire, so that the bed-curtain was between him and Hugh.
"Are you there, Phil?" cried Hugh, pulling aside the curtain.
"Yes," said Phil; "how do you do this morning?"
"Oh, very well. Come here. I want to know ever so many things. Have you heard yet anything real and true about the new usher?"
"No," replied Phil. "But I have no doubt it is really Mr. Crabbe who is coming; and that he will be here after Christmas. Why, Hugh, you look just the same as usual!"
"So I am, just the same, except under this thing," pointing to the hoop, or basket, which was placed over his limb, to keep off the weight of the bed-clothes. "I am not hurt anywhere else, except this bruise;" and he showed a black bruise on his arm, such as almost any school-boy can show, almost any day.
"That's nothing," pronounced Phil.
"The other was, though, I can tell you," declared Hugh.
"Was it very, very bad? Worse than you had ever fancied?"
"Oh! yes. I could have screamed myself to death. I did not, though. Did you hear me, did anybody hear me call out?"
"I heard you--just outside the door there--before the doctors came."
"Ah! but not after, not while uncle was here. He cried so! I could not call out while he was crying so. Where were you when they were doing it?"
"Just outside the door there. I heard you once--only once; and that was not much."
"But how came you to be there? It was past bedtime. Had you leave to be up so late?"
"I did not ask it; and nobody meddled with me."
"Was anybody there with you?"
"Yes, Firth. Dale would not. He was afraid, and he kept away."
"Oh! is not he very sorry?"
"Of course. Nobody can help being sorry."
"Do they all seem sorry? What did they do? What do they say?"
"Oh! they are very sorry; you must know that."
"Anybody more than the rest?"
"Why, some few of them cried; but I don't know that that shows them to be more sorry. It is some people's way to cry--and others not."
Hugh wished much to learn something about Tooke; but, afraid of showing what was in his thoughts, he went off to quite another subject.
"Do you know, Phil," said he, "you would hardly believe it; but I have never been half so miserable as I was the first day or two I came here?
I don't care now, half so much, for all the pain, and for being lame, and----Oh! but I can never be a soldier or a sailor--I can never go round the world! I forgot that."
And poor Hugh hid his face in his pillow.
"Never mind!" said Phil, stooping over him very kindly. "Here is a long time before you; and you will get to like something else just as well.
Papa wanted to be a soldier, you remember, and could not; and he is as happy as ever he can be, now that he is a shop-keeper in London. Did you ever see anybody merrier than my father is? I never did. Come! cheer up, Hugh! You will be very happy somehow."
Phil kissed him; and when Hugh looked up in surprise, Phil's eyes were full of tears.
"Now I have a good mind to ask you," said Hugh, "something that has been in my mind ever since."
"Ever since when?"
"Ever since I came to Crofton. What could be the reason that you were not more kind to me then?"
"I! not kind?" said Phil, in some confusion. "Was not I kind?"
"No. At least I thought not. I was so uncomfortable,--I did not know anybody, or what to do; and I expected you would show me, and help me. I always thought I could not have felt lonely with you here; and then when I came, you got out of my way, as if you were ashamed of me, and you did not help me at all; and you laughed at me."
"No; I don't think I did that."
"Yes, you did, indeed."
"Well, you know, little boys always have to shift for themselves when they go to a great school----" "But why, if they have brothers there? That is the very thing I want to know. I think it is very cruel."
"I never meant to be cruel, of course. But--but--the boys were all ready to laugh at me about a little brother that was scarcely any better than a girl:--and consider how you talked on the coach, and what ridiculous hair you had,--and what a fuss you made about your money and your pocket,--and how you kept popping out things about Miss Harold, and the girls, and Susan."
"You _were_ ashamed of me, then."
"Well, what wonder if I was?"
"And you never told me about all these things. You let me learn them all without any warning, or any help."
"To be sure. That is the way all boys have to get on. They must make their own way."
"If ever little Harry comes to Crofton," said Hugh, more to himself than to Phil, "I will not leave him in the lurch,--I will never be ashamed of him. Pray," said he, turning quickly to Phil, "are you ashamed of me still?"
"Oh, no," protested Phil. "You can shift for yourself,--you can play, and do everything like other boys, now. You----" He stopped short, overcome with the sudden recollection that Hugh would never again be able to play like other boys,--to be like them in strength, and in shifting for himself.
"Ah! I see what you are thinking of," said Hugh. "I am so afraid you should be ashamed of me again, when I come into the playground. The boys will quiz me;--and if you are ashamed of me----" "Oh, no, no!" earnestly declared Phil. "There is nobody in the world that will quiz you;--or, if there is, they had better take care of me, I can tell them. But nobody will. You don't know how sorry the boys are.
Here comes Dale. He will tell you the same thing."
Dale was quite sure that any boy would, from this time for ever, be sent to Coventry who should quiz Hugh for his lameness. There was not a boy now at Crofton who would not do anything in the world to help him.
"Why, Dale, how you have been crying!" exclaimed Hugh. "Is anything wrong in school? Can't you manage your verses yet?"
"I'll try that to-night," said Dale, cheerfully. "Yes I'll manage them.
Never mind what made my eyes red; only, if such a thing had happened to me, you would have cried,--I am sure of that."
"Yes, indeed," said Phil.
"Now, Proctor, you had better go," said Dale. "One at a time is enough to-day; and I shall not stay long."
Phil agreed, and actually shook hands with Hugh before he went.
"Phil is so kind to-day!" cried Hugh, with glee; "though he is disappointed of going to uncle Shaw's on my account. And I know he had reckoned on it. Now, I want to know one thing,--where did Mr. Tooke sleep last night? for this is his bed."
Dale believed he slept on the sofa. He was sure, at least, that he had not taken off his clothes; for he had come to the door several times in the course of the night, to know how all was going on.
"Why, I never knew that!" cried Hugh. "I suppose I was asleep. Dale, what do you think is the reason that our fathers and mothers and people take care of us as they do?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, Agnes and I cannot make it out. When we were by the sea-side, mother took us a great way along the beach, to a place we did not know at all; and she bade us pick up shells, and amuse ourselves, while she went to see a poor woman that lived just out of sight. We played till we were quite tired; and then we sat down; and still she did not come. At last, we were sure that she had forgotten all about us; and we did not think she would remember us any more: and we both cried. Oh! how we did cry! Then a woman came along, with a basket at her back, and a great net over her arm: and she asked us what was the matter; and when we told her, she said she thought it was not likely that mother would forget us.
And then she bade us take hold of her gown, one on each side, and she would try to take us to mother, and the next thing was mother came in sight. When the woman told her what we had said, they both laughed; and mother told us it was impossible that she should leave us behind. I asked Agnes afterwards why it was impossible; and she did not know; and I am sure she was as glad as I was to see mother come in sight. If she really never can forget us, what makes her remember us?"
Dale shook his head. He could not tell.
"Because," continued Hugh, "we can't do anything for anybody, and we give a great deal of trouble. Mother sits up very late, sometimes till near twelve, mending our things. There is that great basket of stockings she has to mend, once a fortnight! And papa works very hard to got money; and what a quantity he pays for our schooling, and our clothes, and everything!"
"Everybody would think it very shameful if he did not," suggested Dale.
"If he let you go ragged and ignorant, it would be wicked."
"But why?" said Hugh, vehemently. "That is what I want to know. We are not worth anything. We are nothing but trouble. Only think what so many people did yesterday! My mother came a journey; and uncle and aunt Shaw came: and mother sat up all night; and Mr. Tooke never went to bed,--and all about me! I declare I can't think why."
Dale felt as if he knew why; but he could not explain it. Mrs. Proctor had heard much of what they were saying. She had come in before closing her letter to Mr. Proctor, to ask whether Hugh wished to send any particular message home. As she listened, she was too sorry to feel amused. She perceived that she could not have done her whole duty to her children, if there could be such a question as this in their hearts--such a question discussed between them, unknown to her. She spoke now; and Hugh started, for he was not aware that she was in the room.
She asked both the boys why they thought it was that before little birds are fledged, the parent birds bring them food, as often as once in a minute, all day long for some weeks. Perhaps no creatures can go through harder work than this; and why do they do it? for unfledged birds, which are capable of nothing whatever but clamouring for food, are as useless little creatures as can be imagined. Why does the cat take care of her little blind kitten with so much watchfulness, hiding it from all enemies till it can take care of itself. It is because love does not depend on the value of the creature loved--it is because love grows up in our hearts at God's pleasure, and not by our own choice; and it is God's pleasure that the weakest and the least useful and profitable should be the most beloved, till they become able to love and help in their turn.
"Is it possible, my dear," she said to Hugh, "that you did not know this,--you who love little Harry so much, and take such care of him at home? I am sure you never stopped to think whether Harry could do you any service, before helping him to play."
"No; but then----" "But what?"
"He is such a sweet little fellow, it is a treat to look at him. Every morning when I woke, I longed to be up, and to get to him."
"That is, you loved him. Well: your papa and I love you all, in the same way. We get up with pleasure to our business--your father to his shop, and I to my work-basket--because it is the greatest happiness in the world to serve those we love."
Hugh said nothing; but still, though pleased, he did not look quite satisfied.
"Susan and cook are far more useful to me than any of you children," continued his mother, "and yet I could not work early and late for them, with the same pleasure as for you."
Hugh laughed; and then he asked whether Jane was not now as useful as Susan.
"Perhaps she is," replied his mother; "and the more she learns and does, and the more she becomes my friend,--the more I respect her: but it is impossible to love her more than I did before she could speak or walk.
There is some objection in your mind still, my dear. What is it?"
"It makes us of so much consequence,--so much more than I ever thought of,--that the minds of grown people should be busy about us."
"There is nothing to be vain of in that, my dear, any more than for young kittens, and birds just hatched. But it is very true that all young creatures are of great consequence; for they are the children of God. When, besides this, we consider what human beings are,--that they can never perish, but are to live for ever,--and that they are meant to become more wise and holy than we can imagine, we see that the feeblest infant is indeed a being of infinite consequence. This is surely a reason for God filling the hearts of parents with love, and making them willing to work and suffer for their children, even while the little ones are most unwise and unprofitable. When you and Agnes fancied I should forget you and desert you, you must have forgotten that you had another Parent who rules the hearts of all the fathers and mothers on earth."
Hugh was left alone to think this over, when he had given his messages home, and got Dale's promise to come again as soon as he could obtain leave to do so. Both the boys were warned that this would not be till to-morrow, as Hugh had seen quite company enough for one day. Indeed, he slept so much, that night seemed to be soon come.
CHAPTER X.
LITTLE VICTORIES.
Though Mr. Tooke was so busy from having no usher, he found time to come and see Hugh pretty often. He had a sofa moved into that room: and he carried Hugh, without hurting him at all, and laid him down there comfortably, beside the fire. He took his tea there, with Mrs. Proctor; and he brought up his newspaper, and read from it anything which he thought would amuse the boy. He smiled at Hugh's scruple about occupying his room, and assured him that he was quite as well off in Mr. Carnaby's room, except that it was not so quiet as this, and therefore more fit for a person in health than for an invalid. Mr. Tooke not only brought up plenty of books from the school library, but lent Hugh some valuable volumes of prints from his own shelves.
Hugh could not look at these for long together. His head soon began to ache, and his eyes to be dazzled; for he was a good deal weakened. His mother observed also that he became too eager about views in foreign countries, and that he even grew impatient in his temper when talking about them.
"My dear boy," said she one evening, after tea, when she saw him in this state, and that it rather perplexed Mr. Tooke, "if you remember your resolution, I think you will put away that book."
"O, mother!" exclaimed he, "you want to take away the greatest pleasure I have!"
"If it is a pleasure, go on. I was afraid it was becoming a pain."
Mr. Tooke did not ask what this meant; but he evidently wished to know.
He soon knew, for Hugh found himself growing more fidgety and more cross, the further he looked in the volume of Indian Views, till he threw himself back upon the sofa, and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, and stared at the fire, struggling, as his mother saw, to help crying. "I will take away the book,--shall I, my dear?"
"Yes, mother. O dear! I shall never keep my vow, I know."
Mrs. Proctor told Mr. Tooke that Hugh had made a resolution which she earnestly hoped he might be able to keep;--to bear cheerfully every disappointment and trouble caused by this accident, from the greatest to the least,--from being obliged to give up being a traveller by-and-by, to the shoemaker's wondering that he wanted only one shoe. Now, if looking at pictures of foreign countries made him less cheerful, it seemed to belong to his resolution to give up that pleasure for the present. Hugh acknowledged that it did; and Mr. Tooke, who was pleased at what he heard, carried away the Indian Views, and brought instead a very fine work on Trades, full of plates representing people engaged in every kind of trade and manufacture. Hugh was too tired to turn over any more pages to-night: but his master said the book might stay in the room now, and when Hugh was removed, it might go with him; and, as he was able to sit up more, he might like to copy some of the plates.
"Removed!" exclaimed Hugh.
His mother smiled, and told him that he was going on so well that he might soon now be removed to his uncle's.
"Where," said Mr. Tooke, "you will have more quiet and more liberty than you can have here. Your brother, and any other boys you like, can run over to see you at any time; and you will be out of the noise of the playground."
"I wonder how it is there is so little noise from the playground here," said Hugh.
"It is because the boys have been careful to make no noise since your accident. We cannot expect them to put themselves under such restraint for long."
"O no, no! I had better go. But, mother, you----you----aunt Shaw is very kind, but----" "I shall stay with you as long as you want me."
Hugh was quite happy.
"But how in the world shall I get there?" he presently asked. "It is two whole miles; and we can't lay my leg up in the gig: besides its being so cold."
His mother told him that his uncle had a very nice plan for his conveyance. Mr. Annanby approved of it, and thought he might be moved the first sunny day.
"What, to-morrow?"
"Yes, if the sun shines."
Mr. Tooke unbolted the shutter, and declared that it was such a bright starry evening that he thought to-morrow would be fine.
The morning was fine; and during the very finest part of it came Mr.
Shaw. He told Hugh that there was a good fire blazing at home in the back room that looked into the garden, which was to be Hugh's. From the sofa by the fire-side one might see the laurustinus on the grass-plot,--now covered with flowers: and when the day was warm enough to let him lie in the window, he could see the mill, and all that was going on round it.
Hugh liked the idea of all this: but he still looked anxious.
"Now tell me," said his uncle, "what person in all the world you would like best for a companion."
"In all the world!" exclaimed Hugh. "Suppose I say the Great Mogul!"
"Well; tell us how to catch him, and we will try. Meantime, you can have his picture. I believe we have a pack of cards in the house."
"But do you mean really, uncle,--the person I should like best in all the world,--out of Crofton?"
"Yes; out with it!"
"I should like Agnes best," said Hugh, timidly.
"We thought as much. I am glad we were right. Well, my boy, Agnes is there."
"Agnes there! Only two miles off! How long will she stay?"
"O, there is no hurry about that. We shall see when you are well what to do next."
"But will she stay till the holidays?"
"O, yes, longer than that, I hope."
"But then she will not go home with me for the holidays?"
"Never mind about the holidays now. Your holidays begin to-day. You have nothing to do but to get well now, and make yourself at home at my house, and be merry with Agnes. Now shall we go, while the sun shines?
Here is your mother all cloaked up in her warm things."
"O, mother! Agnes is come," cried Hugh.
This was no news; for it was his mother who had guessed what companion he would like to have. She now showed her large warm cloak, in which Hugh was to be wrapped; and his neck was muffled up in a comforter.
"But how am I to go?" asked Hugh, trembling with this little bustle.
"Quietly in your bed," said his uncle. "Come, I will lift you into it."
And his uncle carried him downstairs to the front door, where two of Mr.
Shaw's men stood with a litter, which was slung upon poles, and carried like a sedan-chair. There was a mattress upon the litter, on which Hugh lay as comfortably as on a sofa. He said it was like being carried in a palanquin in India,--if only there was hot sunshine, and no frost and snow.
Mr. Tooke, and Mrs. Watson, and Firth shook hands with Hugh, and said they should be glad to see him back again: and Mr. Tooke added that some of the boys should visit him pretty often till the breaking-up. Nobody else was allowed to come quite near; but the boys clustered at that side of the playground, to see as much as they could. Hugh waved his hand; and every boy saw it; and in a moment every hat and cap was off, and the boys gave three cheers,--the loudest that had ever been heard at Crofton. The most surprising thing was that Mr. Tooke cheered, and Mr.
Shaw too. The men looked as if they would have liked to set down the litter, and cheer too: but they did not quite do that. They only smiled as if they were pleased.
There was one person besides who did not cheer. Tooke stood apart from the other boys, looking very sad. As the litter went down the by-road, he began to walk away; but Hugh begged the men to stop, and called to Tooke. Tooke turned: and when Hugh beckoned, he forgot all about bounds, leaped the paling, and came running. Hugh said, "I have been wanting to see you so! but I did not like to ask for you particularly."
"I wish I had known that."
"Come and see me,--do," said Hugh. "Come the very first, wont you?"
"If I may."
"Oh, you may, I know."
"Well, I will, thank you. Good-bye."
And on went the litter, with Mrs. Proctor and Mr. Shaw walking beside it. The motion did not hurt Hugh at all; and he was so warmly wrapped up, and the day so fine, that he was almost sorry when the two miles were over. And yet there was Agnes out upon the steps; and she sat beside him on the sofa in his cheerful room, and told him that she had nothing to do but to wait on him, and play with him. She did not tell him yet that she must learn directly to nurse him, and, with her aunt's help, fill her mother's place, because her mother was much wanted at home: but this was in truth one chief reason for her coming.
Though there was now really nothing the matter with Hugh--though he ate, drank, slept, and gained strength--his mother would not leave him till she saw him well able to go about.
The carpenter soon came, with some crutches he had borrowed for Hugh to try; and when they were sure of the right length, Hugh had a new pair.
He found it rather nervous work at first, using them; and he afterwards laughed at the caution with which he began. First, he had somebody to lift him from his seat, and hold him till he was firm on his crutches.
Then he carefully moved forwards one crutch at a time, and then the other; and he put so much strength into it, that he was quite tired when he had been once across the room and back again. Every stumble made him shake all over. He made Agnes try; and he was almost provoked to see how lightly she could hop about; but then, as he said, she could put a second foot down to save herself, whenever she pleased. Every day, however, walking became easier to him; and he even discovered, when accidentally left alone, and wanting something from the opposite end of the room, that he could rise, and set forth by himself, and be independent. And in one of these excursions it was that he found the truth of what Agnes had told him--how much easier it was to move both crutches together. When he showed his mother this, she said she thought he would soon learn to do with only one.
Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes--such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. A surprise of this sort happened to him the evening before his father was to come to see him, and to fetch away his mother.
It was the dark hour in the afternoon--the hour when Mrs. Proctor and her children enjoyed every day a quiet talk, before Mr. Shaw came to carry Hugh into his aunt's parlour to tea. Nothing could be merrier than Hugh had been; and his mother and Agnes were chatting, when they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly.
"What is it, my dear?" said his mother. "Agnes, have we said anything that could hurt him?"
"No, no," sobbed Hugh. "I will tell you presently."
And presently he told them that he was so busy listening to what they said, that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put his hand down, and his foot was not there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes: and then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible--it startled him so.
It was a comfort to him to find that his mother knew all about this. She came and kneeled beside his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb considered this odd feeling the most painful thing they had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful. When he had become so used to do without his foot as to leave off wanting or wishing for it, he would perhaps make a joke of the feeling, instead of being disappointed. At least she knew that some persons did so who had lost a limb.
This did not comfort Hugh much, for every prospect had suddenly become darkened. He said he did not know how he should bear his misfortune;--he was pretty sure he could not bear it. It seemed so long already since it had happened! And when he thought of the long long days, and months, and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, and never able to do the commonest things without labour and trouble, he wished he was dead. He had rather have died.
Agnes thought he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say this to his mother. She glanced at her mother's face; but there was no displeasure there. Mrs. Proctor said this feeling was very natural. She had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than Hugh's: but she had found that, though the prospect appears all strewn with troubles, they come singly, and are not worth minding, after all. She told Hugh that, when she was a little girl, very lazy--fond of her bed--fond of her book--and not at all fond of washing and dressing---- "Why, mother, you!" exclaimed Hugh.
"Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one day, at the thought that I should have to wash, and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every daily article of dress, every morning, as long as I lived. There was nothing I disliked so much; and yet it was the thing that must be done every day of my whole life."
"Did you tell anybody?" asked Hugh.
"No; I was ashamed to do that: but I remember I cried. You see how it turns out. Grown people, who have got to do everything by habit, so easily as not to think about it, wash and dress every morning, without ever being weary of it. We do not consider so much as once a year what we are doing at dressing-time, though at seven years old it is a very laborious and tiresome affair to get ready for breakfast."
"It is the same about writing letters," observed Agnes. "The first letter I ever wrote was to aunt Shaw; and it took so long, and was so tiresome, that, when I thought of all the exercises I should have to write for Miss Harold, and all the letters that I must send to my relations when I grew up, I would have given everything I had in the world not to have learned to write. Oh! how I pitied papa, when I saw sometimes the pile of letters that were lying to go to the post!"
"And how do you like corresponding with Phil now?"
Agnes owned, with blushes, that she still dreaded the task for some days before, and felt particularly gay when it was done. Her mother believed that, if infants could think and look forward, they would be far more terrified with the prospect of having to walk on their two legs all their lives, than lame people could be at having to learn the art in part over again. Grown people are apt to doubt whether they can learn a new language, though children make no difficulty about it: the reason of which is, that grown people see at one view the whole labour, while