CHAPTER IX.
THE SCHOOL AND ITS MASTER.
A few days after the twilight talk mentioned in the last chapter, the school opened for the winter. It had not been Mrs. Park's intention to send Dolly, but rather to give her lessons at home, yet the two seemed so unhappy at the prospect of a daily separation—for Ned of course must go—that she consented for Dolly to try it at least for a while.
It was a rather cold morning, the morning of Dolly's introduction to the school-house of the middle district, and the box-stove which stood in the centre of the school-room was red-hot, and as she went in, the teacher, Mr. Emerson, was just in the act of smothering Betty Potter's flaming gown, which, being of cotton, had caught fire as it touched the stove in passing. This stove stood in a box of sand, and the ceiling above it was spangled with innumerable stars—black on a white firmament—which stars Dolly thought at first were intended to be decorative. But she afterwards learned that they were purely accidental—that the scholars were in the habit of thawing out their frozen ink on top of the stove, and not infrequently a bottle burst, hence the stars.
The school-room had been planned like most of the early New England school-rooms, in loving memory of the English schools of Eton and Westminster, where many of the immigrants from the mother-country had studied and played as boys. The desks and benches on either side sloped down to an open space in the centre, where stood the teacher's desk, and where recitations were heard. It was on a somewhat smaller scale than those famous English school-rooms, but after all was quite as comfortable. It was formerly heated by an open fire, but a few years preceding the time of which I write, that modern invention the stove aforesaid had been introduced. Since then the huge fireplace had served as a wood receptacle, wherein the pine and oak cord-wood sticks were piled far up the gaping chimney.
The school-house had never been painted inside or out; and while it was what an artist or a color-loving person would have called a lovely gray outside, inside the wood-work had mellowed into an equally lovely yellowish-brown.
Both desks and benches had been cut and carved by the innumerable jack-knives of generations of children, till you could not put your finger on a perfectly smooth spot. There were many initials, every boy especially having felt called upon to carve his on the desk he occupied, and it was not unusual to find on the same desk a boy's initials with those of his father and grandfather, and in rare cases of his great-grandfather. The deep cuttings and carvings interfered with a boy's writing somewhat, if he chanced to be writing with only a single sheet of his copy-book before him; for when he came to "bear down," as Ned said, on the down stroke of a y or a p, "if he didn't look out his pen would jab right through the paper into a hole."
One feature of the school-room attracted Dolly's attention at once. Above the desks where the boys sat, pulleys were fixed to the ceiling by which the slates were drawn up at night and lowered in the morning, and after the introductory exercises down they came with a crash truly appalling to unaccustomed ears.
Dolly looked at Mr. Emerson wonderingly. Here was a new state of things. In the girls' school where she went in Boston the utmost quiet was enforced. Would Mr. Emerson permit such a racket? would he not speak? But Mr. Emerson was placidly turning over his text-books, apparently deaf to the noise of the falling slates.
In truth, the only one thing Mr. Emerson did insist upon was perfect lessons. He would shut his eyes and ears to any amount of roguery and mischief if only the lessons were thoroughly prepared. But woe to the unlucky idler or the stupid boy or girl! For such he had no mercy; "idiot" was the mildest term applied to the latter. And after all, the results of this system were not bad, for a boy or girl cannot indulge in much roguery and have perfect lessons at the same time.
Mr. Emerson himself was a fine scholar who, as everybody knew, could command a better place and salary than that of master of the middle district school in Byfield. But he chose to remain for certain reasons, and the parents were only too glad to have him; and though the boys had bestowed upon him the pet name of "piggy," on account of his shrill, almost squealing voice, yet they had at heart the utmost respect for him.
A few days only after school began, Dolly had a chance to see how severe he could be with a stupid scholar. A great lout of a boy was up reciting in English grammar. He stammered along in his recitation, making blunder after blunder, while Mr. Emerson frowned and pshawed and hitched his chair restlessly about over the small platform, in momentary danger of going over its edge; and when, in answer to a question, the boy replied, "Grunters and liables," instead of "Gutturals and labials," Mr. Emerson's patience gave way, and with one prolonged hitch over he went upon the floor. But he was on his feet in an instant, and shrieking at the top of his voice, "There, I'm not dead yet, thank the Lord—but I shall be if that recitation goes on. Go to your seat, sir!"—he sent his text-book flying after the retreating boy.
So school was to Dolly neither stale nor unprofitable. Mr. Emerson's eccentricities amused her, and being a good scholar she did not fall under his displeasure. His sarcasm was at times truly terrible. How Dolly did pity big, awkward Betty Potter, when one day she came tumbling into the school-room after a romp at snowballing, loudly exclaiming, "Oh, how hot I am! how I do sweat!" and Mr. Emerson, turning upon her those awful spectacles of his, said in his most cutting tones, "Horses sweat, Miss Potter, and men perspire, but young ladies glow." Dolly's pity, however, might as well have been reserved, for Betty, not being a sensitive lass, only giggled at the rebuke given to her uncouthness.
In due time came the first night of spelling-school. Dolly had asked Ned if spelling-school was "nice," and he had replied with his usual formula, "Yes, jolly fun!"
The school-room was lighted on spelling-school night by home-made tallow-candles, dipped or moulded, as the case might be. As each boy and girl brought one, the illumination was decidedly brilliant. You who despise this method, and may question the truthfulness of my statement, must remember, however, that even in these days of gas and the electric light the winter palace of the Tzar of all the Russias is lighted with candles—of wax, to be sure; for as Theophile Gautier says, "Nowhere, save in Russia, does the bee still contribute the illumination;" and light is the same, whether shed by a candle of wax or of tallow.
But in the matter of candlesticks there was great diversity. In this respect the middle district school-room failed when compared with the palace of the Tzar. He has gorgeous chandeliers and candelabra, while each boy and girl, with rare exceptions, was left to exercise his or her own ingenuity in providing candlesticks, or, to speak more exactly, candle-holders for spelling-school night. Many of these holders were made out of flat turnips and beets, and when cut in the likeness of roses or dahlias were really triumphs of art and quite pretty.
These vegetable holders were preferred by the girls generally, because they were easily cut, but as they had to be renewed each night, the greater part of the boys whittled out their candelabra once for all from blocks of wood. A very few, not disposed to do any work they could avoid, dropped a little melted tallow on the desk, stuck their candle into it, and the tallow, quickly hardening, held it upright. This last method, however, was frowned down upon by the authorities, as the candle, burning down, was apt to set the desk on fire.
None but members of the day-school were permitted to take part in the spelling-school, although any who chose could come as lookers-on, and many did so choose, both old and young.
Ned and Betty Potter were the leaders for that evening, and they drew lots for first choice; and the choice falling to Ned, he named Dolly, not only because he liked to have her next him, but, above all, because she was a first-rate speller. For, with all his pleasure in Dolly's comradeship, it is probable she would not have been chosen first had she not possessed the last-named qualification; for these spelling contests were hot and fierce, and the first consideration with each leader was to secure all the best spellers he could on his side.
The two lines of battle were soon formed, the poorest spellers being left to the last. These the first fire, as usual, brought down, and the floor was quickly cleared of all but the few good ones, who obstinately stood their ground. The championship was contested long and stoutly, till at last Ned was "floored," and only one was left on either side—Dolly and Betty Potter.
"Receive" was the word Mr. Emerson gave out next.
It was Dolly's turn, and she knew how to spell "receive"—of course she did—but was it ei or ie?
It is said, "He who hesitates is lost;" and whether true or not in morals, it is unquestionably true in spelling, as we all know.
Ei or ie—that was the question; and Dolly, whose decision must be made promptly, as it was one of the rules of the contest that there should be "no waiting," was just on the point of spelling, having made up her mind to the ie, when Ned whispered softly but incisively, "r-e-c-e-i-v-e," and Dolly repeated it after him—not with any triumphal feeling, it must be confessed, for she knew at once she had no right to do so.
The next word brought down Betty, and Dolly was declared victor, and decorated with the pretty silver badge, which she was to wear till the championship should pass on to some better speller.
Both Dolly and Ned went home that night feeling extremely uncomfortable, although Ned tried to think that Dolly would have spelled "receive" all right, even if he had not whispered. But both avoided the subject with suspicious persistency, and talked about anything and everything but the spelling. They drank the hot ginger-tea which Thankful had in readiness for them, to keep them from taking cold, for it was her maxim that "a pint of hot ginger-tea before the cold is taken is better than a quart of salts and senna after." And then they briefly bade Mrs. Park "good-night," declaring there was "nothing to tell," and they were "dreadfully tired."
Nothing to tell! Dolly heartily wished there wasn't, as she tossed restlessly in bed, until she finally made up her mind to such a course of conduct as brought peace, and then she fell sound asleep.
The next morning Ned had a raging toothache, and his face was so swollen that he could not see out of one eye, and his mother said he could not go to school, though he begged hard to be allowed to do so. He had reasons.
"Dolly, what are you going to do?" he suddenly asked, after studying her face attentively.
"Do? why, go to school, to be sure," she said, evasively, tying her hood, and pulling on a pair of sable-backed mittens that were the envy of all the school-girls.
"You know that isn't what I mean," remonstrated Ned, as well as he could, with one cheek feeling as though there were a cannon-ball in it. "Where's your badge?"
"In my pocket. And how should I know what you mean, Ned, if you don't say it?" And Dolly threw back a laughing, defiant glance as she ran out and closed the door behind her.
Ned groaned. "Oh dear! I s'pose I know what she's going to do, and I wish I was going to be there;" and he proved so "fractious" all the morning, that Thankful, as she assisted his mother in poulticing his swollen face, lost all patience, and said she "b'lieved 't do him good to go away 'n let him ache a spell." But Mrs. Park, with true motherly instinct, had divined that the toothache and swollen face, bad as they were, were not the sole cause of the fractiousness, and waited upon him and coddled him with infinite patience.
When Dolly came home to dinner she was as inscrutable as the Egyptian sphinx, and refused to open her lips about anything but the ordinary school routine. But she looked very happy, and when Ned asked her if she still had the badge in her pocket, said, "No."
The next morning, the swelling having subsided, Ned went to school and heard the whole story.
Dolly had made up her mind, before falling asleep that night, that she would give the badge to its rightful winner and confess her wrong-doing. But the next morning she found it required quite as much resolution to stick to her decision as it did to make it. So all the morning, while at breakfast and on the way to school, she kept bracing herself up with those words of Aunt Anna's, "Dare always to do right—dare always to do right." Over and over and over she said them. "It isn't so easy a thing to do, after all," she thought. "It's easy enough talking about it."
She waited until the close of the introductory exercises, and then raised her hand.
Now, Mr. Emerson was in one of his very worst moods that morning, and that is saying a good deal. He was a dyspeptic at all times, and he had taken for breakfast both sausages and coffee, either of which was enough to completely upset his nervous poise, and the two together had brought on a condition of things truly frightful.
As Dolly raised her hand he nodded fiercely. She went forward to his desk and laid the badge upon it, saying, timidly, "I want to return this, please."
"What for?" he demanded, and the words came out like an explosive, and the glance he fixed upon her was hard and piercing as a steel blade. It was not encouraging.
"Because—because it doesn't belong to me," stammered Dolly.
"Why not?" he asked, waxing more irate with each question.
"Because I did not know how to spell 'receive,'" replied Dolly, in a barely audible voice.
"But you did spell it!" Oh, how the angry eyes flashed.
"But," said Dolly, hesitating now more and more between each word—"somebody told me."
"Who?" shrieked Mr. Emerson in most piercing tones, and laying his hand on the ferule beside him.
He was evidently "spoiling for a fight," as Cy Pratt told Ned afterwards.
Here was a dilemma that Dolly had not anticipated. She had not dreamed, when resolving to confess her own fault, that she would be bringing some one else into trouble, and that one to be Ned, of all others!
A moment she stood silent while she weighed the question—Ought I to tell? No, was the decision. I may and must confess my own wrong-doing, but I am not obliged to confess the wrong-doing of others.
"Who?" demanded Mr. Emerson again, bringing his ferule down upon his desk with a whack that made everybody in the room jump.
"I cannot tell," replied Dolly, firmly, but respectfully.
"Which means that you will not," he said, in a measured tone, more terrible even than his former shriek. He compressed his lips. "Do you mean to say that you will not tell?" he again asked.
"Oh, I can't," said Dolly, lifting up to his face a pair of pleading eyes that would have melted the soul of any mortal not in the grasp of a black dyspepsia.
"Hold out your hand," he said, taking up his ferule; and Dolly, without an instant's hesitation, held out her plump little hand, with its pink finger-tips, while she summoned all her firmness to meet the coming blow. She had never been struck in her life. "But somehow, Ned," she said, when she told him all about it, "I didn't care one mite about the blow. I knew it was a disgrace, but it wasn't a disgrace like acting that lie when I took the badge. I think, Ned, when that big ferule came down on my hand, I saw just how mean that lie looked."
But if Dolly did not mind the blow, its effect on Mr. Emerson was prompt and decisive. He raised the ferule for a second blow, then dropped it suddenly upon the desk.
"Take your seat," he said, sternly; "and you," turning to his gaping pupils, "take your books," and an unusual silence reigned in that school-room for the remainder of the morning session.
At noon he stopped Dolly as she was leaving the room.
"I wish to speak with you," he said; and when they were alone he continued: "I desire to ask your pardon for that blow, Miss Dorothea. I had no right to punish you for such a cause. I will not commend you for confessing your fault, your deception, for that was only doing right—doing what you ought to do; but the other involved no question of right—it was more a matter of honor—and no sense of right required you to betray the person who told you how to spell the word, and I sincerely ask your pardon."
Dolly was so utterly taken by surprise at this speech that she could only gasp, "Oh, please don't, Mr. Emerson, 'twas only just what I deserved."
As to Ned, great was his wrath when he heard Cy Pratt's version of the affair, but after hearing Dolly's he remarked, in a subdued tone, "Well, Piggy's a prime old brick, after all;" and feeling that he must have some vent for his emotions or burst, he went out and sawed and split wood till Thankful said "the m'lennium must be comin'."
The next day he made a manly confession of his own share in the affair to Mr. Emerson.