Archer walked up and down, unable to command his emotion, whilst, for the moment, the discontented multitude was silenced.
“Here,” said he, striking his hand upon the little boy’s shoulder, “here’s the only one amongst you who has not uttered one word of reproach or complaint, and he has had but one bit of bread—a bit that I gave him myself this day. Here!” said he, snatching the bun, which nobody had dared to touch, “take it—it’s mine—I give it to you, though you are a Greybeard; you deserve it. Eat it, and be an Archer. You shall be my captain; will you?” said he, lifting him up in his arm above the rest.
“I like you now,” said the little boy, courageously; “but I love De Grey better; he has always been my friend, and he advised me never to call myself any of those names, Archer or Greybeard; so I won’t. Though I am shut in here, I have nothing to do with it. I love Dr. Middleton; he was never unjust to me, and I daresay that he has very good reasons, as De Grey said, for forbidding us to go into that house. Besides, it’s his own.”
Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this little lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun out of his hands. He flung it at a hole in the window, but it fell back. The Archers scrambled for it, and Fisher ate it.
Archer saw this, and was sensible that he had not done handsomely in suffering it. A few moments ago he had admired his own generosity, and though he had felt the injustice of others, he had not accused himself of any. He turned away from the little boy, and sitting down at one end of the table, hid his face in his hands. He continued immovable in this posture for some time.
“Lord!” said Townsend; “it was an excellent joke!”
“Pooh!” said Fisher; “what a fool, to think so much about a bun!”
“Never mind, Mr. Archer, if you are thinking about me,” said the little boy, trying gently to pull his hands from his face.
Archer stooped down, and lifted him up upon the table, at which sight the partisans set up a general hiss. “He has forsaken us! He deserts his party! He wants to be a Greybeard! After he has got us all into this scrape, he will leave us!”
“I am not going to leave you,” cried Archer. “No one shall ever accuse me of deserting my party. I’ll stick by the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the last moment. But this little fellow—take it as you please, mutiny if you will, and throw me out of the window. Call me traitor! coward! Greybeard!—this little fellow is worth you all put together, and I’ll stand by him against anyone who dares to lay a finger upon him; and the next morsel of food that I see shall be his. Touch him who dares!”
The commanding air with which Archer spoke and looked, and the belief that the little boy deserved his protection, silenced the crowd. But the storm was only hushed.
No sound of merriment was now to be heard—no battledore and shuttlecock—no ball, no marbles. Some sat in a corner, whispering their wishes that Archer would unbar the doors, and give up. Others, stretching their arms, and gaping as they sauntered up and down the room, wished for air, or food, or water. Fisher and his nine, who had such firm dependence upon the gipsy, now gave themselves up to utter despair. It was eight o’clock, growing darker and darker every minute, and no candles, no light could they have. The prospect of another long dark night made them still more discontented.
Townsend, at the head of the yawners, and Fisher, at the head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and the few yet unconquered spirits, demanding “How long he meant to keep them in this dark dungeon? and whether he expected that they should starve themselves for his sake?”
The idea of giving up was more intolerable to Archer than all the rest. He saw that the majority, his own convincing argument, was against him. He was therefore obliged to condescend to the arts of persuasion. He flattered some with hopes of food from the town boys. Some he reminded of their promises; others he praised for former prowess; and others he shamed by the repetition of their high vaunts in the beginning of the business.
It was at length resolved that at all events they would hold out. With this determination they stretched themselves again to sleep, for the second night, in weak and weary obstinacy.
Archer slept longer and more soundly than usual the next morning, and when he awoke, he found his hands tied behind him! Three or four boys had just got hold of his feet, which they pressed down, whilst the trembling hands of Fisher were fastening the cord round them.
With all the force which rage could inspire, Archer struggled and roared to “his Archers!”—his friends, his party—for help against the traitors. But all kept aloof. Townsend, in particular, stood laughing and looking on. “I beg your pardon, Archer, but really you look so droll. All alive and kicking! Don’t be angry. I’m so weak, I cannot help laughing to-day.”
The packthread cracked. “His hands are free! He’s loose!” cried the least of the boys, and ran away, whilst Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisher with a powerful grasp, sternly demanded “What he meant by this?”
“Ask my party,” said Fisher, terrified; “they set me on; ask my party.”
“Your party!” cried Archer, with a look of ineffable contempt; “you reptile!—your party? Can such a thing as you have a party?”
“To be sure!” said Fisher, settling his collar, which Archer in his surprise had let go; “to be sure! Why not? Any man who chooses it may have a party as well as yourself, I suppose. I have nine Fishermen.”
At these words, spoken with much sullen importance, Archer, in spite of his vexation, could not help laughing. “Fishermen!” cried he, “Fishermen!”
“And why not Fishermen as well as Archers?” cried they. “One party is just as good as another; it is only a question which can get the upper hand; and we had your hands tied just now.”
“That’s right, Townsend,” said Archer, “laugh on, my boy! Friend or foe, it’s all the same to you. I know how to value your friendship now. You are a mighty good fellow when the sun shines; but let a storm come, and how you slink away!”
At this instant, Archer felt the difference between a good companion and a good friend, a difference which some people do not discover till late in life.
“Have I no friend?—no real friend amongst you all? And could ye stand by, and see my hands tied behind me like a thief’s? What signifies such a party—all mute?”
“We want something to eat,” answered the Fishermen. “What signifies such a party, indeed? and such a manager, who can do nothing for one?”
“And have I done nothing?”
“Don’t let’s hear any more prosing,” said Fisher; “we are too many for you. I’ve advised my party, if they’ve a mind not to be starved, to give you up for the ringleader, as you were; and Dr. Middleton will not let us all off, I daresay.” So, depending upon the sullen silence of the assembly, he again approached Archer with a cord. A cry of “No, no, no! Don’t tie him,” was feebly raised.
Archer stood still, but the moment Fisher touched him he knocked him down to the ground, and turning to the rest, with eyes sparkling with indignation, “Archers!” cried he. A voice at this instant was heard at the door. It was De Grey’s voice. “I have got a large basket of provisions for your breakfast.” A general shout of joy was sent forth by the voracious public. “Breakfast! Provisions! A large basket! De Grey for ever! Huzza!”
De Grey promised, upon his honour, that if he would unbar the door nobody should come in with him, and no advantage should be taken of them. This promise was enough even for Archer. “I will let him in,” said he, “myself; for I’m sure he’ll never break his word.” He pulled away the bar; the door opened, and having bargained for the liberty of Melson, the little boy, who had been shut in by mistake, De Grey entered with his basket of provisions, when he locked and barred the door instantly.
Joy and gratitude sparkled in every face when he unpacked his basket, and spread the table with a plentiful breakfast. A hundred questions were asked him at once. “Eat first,” said he, “and we will talk afterwards.” This business was quickly despatched by those who had not tasted food for a long while. Their curiosity increased as their hunger diminished. “Who sent us breakfast? Does Dr. Middleton know?” were questions reiterated from every mouth.
“He does know,” answered De Grey; “and the first thing I have to tell you is, that I am your fellow-prisoner. I am to stay here till you give up. This was the only condition on which Dr. Middleton would allow me to bring you food, and he will allow no more.”
Everyone looked at the empty basket. But Archer, in whom half vanquished party spirit revived with the strength he had got from his breakfast, broke into exclamations in praise of De Grey’s magnanimity, as he now imagined that De Grey had become one of themselves.
“And you will join us, will you? That’s a noble fellow!”
“No,” answered De Grey, calmly; “but I hope to persuade, or rather to convince you, that you ought to join me.”
“You would have found it no hard task to have persuaded or convinced us, whichever you pleased,” said Townsend, “if you had appealed to Archers fasting; but Archers feasting are quite other animals. Even Cæsar himself, after breakfast, is quite another thing!” added he, pointing to Archer.
“You may speak for yourself, Mr. Townsend,” replied the insulted hero, “but not for me, or for Archers in general, if you please. We unbarred the door upon the faith of De Grey’s promise—that was not giving up. And it would have been just as difficult, I promise you, to persuade or convince me either that I should give up against my honour before breakfast as after.”
This spirited speech was applauded by many, who had now forgotten the feelings of famine. Not so Fisher, whose memory was upon this occasion very distinct.
“What nonsense,” and the orator paused for a synonymous expression, but none was at hand. “What nonsense and—nonsense is here! Why, don’t you remember that dinner-time, and supper-time and breakfast-time will come again? So what signifies mouthing about persuading and convincing? We will not go through again what we did yesterday! Honour me no honour. I don’t understand it. I’d rather be flogged at once, as I have been many’s the good time for a less thing. I say, we’d better all be flogged at once, which must be the end of it sooner or later, than wait here to be without dinner, breakfast, and supper, all only because Mr. Archer won’t give up because of his honour and nonsense!”
Many prudent faces amongst the Fishermen seemed to deliberate at the close of this oration, in which the arguments were brought so “home to each man’s business and bosom.”
“But,” said De Grey, “when we yield, I hope it will not be merely to get our dinner, gentlemen. When we yield, Archer—”
“Don’t address yourself to me,” interrupted Archer, struggling with his pride; “you have no further occasion to try to win me. I have no power, no party, you see! And now I find that I have no friends, I don’t care what becomes of myself. I suppose I’m to be given up as a ringleader. Here’s this Fisher, and a party of his Fishermen, were going to tie me hand and foot, if I had not knocked him down, just as you came to the door, De Grey; and now perhaps you will join Fisher’s party against me.”
De Grey was going to assure him that he had no intention of joining any party, when a sudden change appeared on Archer’s countenance. “Silence!” cried Archer, in an imperious tone, and there was silence. Someone was heard to whistle the beginning of a tune, that was perfectly new to everybody present, except to Archer, who immediately whistled the conclusion. “There!” cried he, looking at De Grey, with triumph; “that’s a method of holding secret correspondence whilst a prisoner, which I learned from ‘Richard Cœur de Lion.’ I know how to make use of everything. Hallo! friend! are you there at last?” cried he, going to the ventilator.
“Yes, but we are barred out here.”
“Round to the window then, and fill our bag. We’ll let it down, my lad, in a trice; bar me out who can!”
Archer let down the bag with all the expedition of joy, and it was filled with all the expedition of fear. “Pull away! make haste, for Heaven’s sake!” said the voice from without; “the gardener will come from dinner, else, and we shall be caught. He mounted guard all yesterday at the ventilator; and though I watched and watched till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near you. I don’t know what has taken him out of the way now. Make haste, pull away!” The heavy bag was soon pulled up.
“Have you any more?” said Archer.
“Yes, plenty. Let down quick! I’ve got the tailor’s bag full, which is three times as large as yours, and I’ve changed clothes with the tailor’s boy; so nobody took notice of me as I came down the street.”
“There’s my own cousin!” exclaimed Archer, “there’s a noble fellow! there’s my own cousin, I acknowledge. Fill the bag, then.” Several times the bag descended and ascended; and at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were heard.
“I have no more!” at length the boy with the tailor’s bag cried.
“Off with you, then; we’ve enough, and thank you.”
A delightful review was now made of their treasure. Busy hands arranged and sorted the heterogeneous mass. Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknowledged master of the whole. Townsend, who, in his prosperity as in adversity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends, pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-natured and more thoughtful air. “Friend,” said he, “you look like a great philosopher, and Archer a great hero.”
“And you, Townsend,” said Archer, “may look like a wit, if you will; but you will never be a hero.”
“No, no,” replied Townsend; “wits were never heroes, because they are wits. You are out of your wits, and therefore may set up for a hero.”
“Laugh, and welcome. I’m not a tyrant. I don’t want to restrain anybody’s wit; but I cannot say I admire puns.”
“Nor I, either,” said the time serving Fisher, sidling up to the manager, and picking the ice off a piece of plum-cake, “nor I either; I hate puns. I can never understand Townsend’s puns. Besides, anybody can make puns; and one doesn’t want wit, either, at all times; for instance, when one is going to settle about dinner, or business of consequence. Bless us all, Archer!” continued he, with sudden familiarity; “what a sight of good things are here! I’m sure we are much obliged to you and your cousin. I never thought he’d have come. Why, now we can hold out as long as you please. Let us see,” said he, dividing the provisions upon the table; “we can hold out to-day, and all to-morrow, and part of next day, maybe. Why, now we may defy the doctor and the Greybeards. The doctor will surely give up to us; for, you see, he knows nothing of all this, and he’ll think we are starving all this while; and he’d be afraid, you see, to let us starve quite, in reality, for three whole days, because of what would be said in the town. My Aunt Barbara, for one, would be at him long before that time was out; and besides, you know, in that case, he’d be hanged for murder, which is quite another thing, in law, from a Barring Out, you know.”
Archer had not given to this harangue all the attention which it deserved, for his eye was fixed upon De Grey. “What is De Grey thinking of?” he asked, impatiently.
“I am thinking,” said De Grey, “that Dr. Middleton must believe that I have betrayed his confidence in me. The gardener was ordered away from his watch-post for one half-hour when I was admitted. This half-hour the gardener has made nearly a hour. I never would have come near you if I had foreseen all this. Dr. Middleton trusted me, and now he will repent of his confidence in me.”
“De Grey!” cried Archer, with energy, “he shall not repent of his confidence in you—nor shall you repent of coming amongst us. You shall find that we have some honour as well as yourself, and I will take care of your honour as if it were my own!”
“Hey-day!” interrupted Townsend; “are heroes allowed to change sides, pray? And does the chief of the Archers stand talking sentiment to the chief of the Greybeards? In the middle of his own party too!”
“Party!” repeated Archer, disdainfully; “I have done with parties! I see what parties are made of! I have felt the want of a friend, and I am determined to make one if I can.”
“That you may do,” said De Grey, stretching out his hand.
“Unbar the doors! unbar the windows!” exclaimed Archer. “Away with all these things! I give up for De Grey’s sake. He shall not lose his credit on my account.”
“No,” said De Grey, “you shall not give up for my sake.”
“Well, then, I’ll give up to do what is honourable,” said Archer.
“Why not to do what is reasonable?” said De Grey.
“Reasonable! Oh, the first thing that a man of spirit should think of is, what is honourable.”
“But how will he find out what is honourable, unless he can reason?” replied De Grey.
“Oh,” said Archer, “his own feelings always tell him what is honourable.”
“Have not your feelings,” asked De Grey, “changed within these few hours?”
“Yes, with circumstances,” replied Archer; “but right or wrong, as long as I think it honourable to do so and so, I’m satisfied.”
“But you cannot think anything honourable, or the contrary,” observed De Grey, “without reasoning; and as to what you call feeling, it’s only a quick sort of reasoning.”
“The quicker, the better,” said Archer.
“Perhaps not,” said De Grey. “We are apt to reason best when we are not in quite so great a hurry.”
“But,” said Archer, “we have not always time enough to reason at first.”
“You must, however, acknowledge,” replied De Grey, smiling, “that no man but a fool thinks it honourable to be in the wrong at last. Is it not, therefore, best to begin by reasoning to find out the right at first?”
“To be sure,” said Archer.
“And did you reason with yourself at first? And did you find out that it was right to bar Dr. Middleton out of his own schoolroom, because he desired you not to go into one of his own houses?”
“No,” replied Archer; “but I should never have thought of heading a Barring Out, if he had not shown partiality; and if you had flown into a passion with me openly at once for pulling down your scenery, which would have been quite natural, and not have gone slily and forbid us the house out of revenge, there would have been none of this work.”
“Why,” said De Grey, “should you suspect me of such a mean action, when you have never seen or known me do anything mean, and when in this instance you have no proofs?”
“Will you give me your word and honour now, De Grey, before everybody here, that you did not do what I suspected?”
“I do assure you, upon my honour, I never, indirectly, spoke to Dr. Middleton about the playhouse.”
“Then,” said Archer, “I’m as glad as if I had found a thousand pounds! Now you are my friend indeed.”
“And Dr. Middleton—why should you suspect him without reason any more than me?”
“As to that,” said Archer, “he is your friend, and you are right to defend him; and I won’t say another word against him. Will that satisfy you?”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite! Then, indeed you are unreasonable!”
“No,” replied De Grey; “for I don’t wish you to yield out of friendship to me, any more than to honour. If you yield to reason, you will be governed by reason another time.”
“Well; but then don’t triumph over me, because you have the best side of the argument.”
“Not I! How can I?” said De Grey; “for now you are on the best side as well as myself, are not you? So we may triumph together.”
“You are a good friend!” said Archer; and with great eagerness he pulled down the fortifications, whilst every hand assisted. The room was restored to order in a few minutes—the shutters were thrown open, the cheerful light let in. The windows were thrown up, and the first feeling of the fresh air was delightful. The green playgound opened before them, and the hopes of exercise and liberty brightened the countenances of these voluntary prisoners.
But, alas! they were not yet at liberty. The idea of Dr. Middleton, and the dread of his vengeance, smote their hearts. When the rebels had sent an ambassador with their surrender, they stood in pale and silent suspense, waiting for their doom.
“Ah!” said Fisher, looking up at the broken panes in the windows, “the doctor will think the most of that—he’ll never forgive us for that.”
“Hush! here he comes!” His steady step was heard approaching nearer and nearer. Archer threw open the door, and Dr. Middleton entered. Fisher instantly fell on his knees.
“It is no delight to me to see people on their knees. Stand up, Mr. Fisher. I hope you are all conscious that you have done wrong?”
“Sir,” said Archer, “they are conscious that they have done wrong, and so am I. I am the ringleader. Punish me as you think proper. I submit. Your punishments—your vengeance ought to fall on me alone!”
“Sir,” said Dr. Middleton, calmly, “I perceive that whatever else you may have learned in the course of your education, you have not been taught the meaning of the word punishment. Punishment and vengeance do not with us mean the same thing. Punishment is pain given, with the reasonable hope of preventing those on whom it is inflicted from doing, in future, what will hurt themselves or others. Vengeance never looks to the future, but is the expression of anger for an injury that is past. I feel no anger; you have done me no injury.”
Here many of the little boys looked timidly up to the windows. “Yes, I see that you have broken my windows; that is a small evil.”
“Oh, sir! How good! How merciful!” exclaimed those who had been most panic-struck. “He forgives us!”
“Stay,” resumed Dr. Middleton; “I cannot forgive you. I shall never revenge, but it is my duty to punish. You have rebelled against the just authority which is necessary to conduct and govern you whilst you have not sufficient reason to govern and conduct yourselves. Without obedience to the laws,” added he, turning to Archer, “as men, you cannot be suffered in society. You, sir, think yourself a man, I observe; and you think it the part of a man not to submit to the will of another. I have no pleasure in making others, whether men or children, submit to my will; but my reason and experience are superior to yours. Your parents at least think so, or they would not have intrusted me with the care of your education. As long as they do intrust you to my care, and as long as I have any hopes of making you wiser and better by punishment, I shall steadily inflict it, whenever I judge it to be necessary, and I judge it to be necessary now. This is a long sermon, Mr. Archer, not preached to show my own eloquence, but to convince your understanding. Now, as to your punishment!”
“Name it, sir,” said Archer; “whatever it is, I will cheerfully submit to it.”
“Name it yourself,” said Dr. Middleton, “and show me that you now understand the nature of punishment.”
Archer, proud to be treated like a reasonable creature, and sorry that he had behaved like a foolish schoolboy, was silent for some time, but at length replied, “That he would rather not name his own punishment.” He repeated, however, that he trusted he should bear it well, whatever it might be.
“I shall, then,” said Dr. Middleton, “deprive you, for two months, of pocket-money, as you have had too much, and have made a bad use of it.”
“Sir,” said Archer, “I brought five guineas with me to school. This guinea is all that I have left.”
Dr. Middleton received the guinea which Archer offered him with a look of approbation, and told him that it should be applied to the repairs of the schoolroom. The rest of the boys waited in silence for the doctor’s sentence against them, but not with those looks of abject fear with which boys usually expect the sentence of a schoolmaster.
“You shall return from the playground, all of you,” said Dr. Middleton, “one quarter of an hour sooner, for two months to come, than the rest of your companions. A bell shall ring at the appointed time. I give you an opportunity of recovering my confidence by your punctuality.”
“Oh, sir! we will come the instant, the very instant the bell rings; you shall have confidence in us,” cried they, eagerly.
“I deserve your confidence, I hope,” said Dr. Middleton; “for it is my first wish to make you all happy. You do not know the pain that it has cost me to deprive you of food for so many hours.”
Here the boys, with one accord, ran to the place where they had deposited their last supplies. Archer delivered them up to the doctor, proud to show that they were not reduced to obedience merely by necessity.
“The reason,” resumed Dr. Middleton, having now returned to the usual benignity of his manner—“the reason why I desired that none of you should go to that building,” pointing out of the window, “was this:—I had been informed that a gang of gipsies had slept there the night before I spoke to you, one of whom was dangerously ill of a putrid fever. I did not choose to mention my reason to you or your friends. I have had the place cleaned, and you may return to it when you please. The gipsies were yesterday removed from the town.”
“De Grey, you were in the right,” whispered Archer, “and it was I that was unjust.”
“The old woman,” continued the doctor, “whom you employed to buy food, has escaped the fever, but she has not escaped a gaol, whither she was sent yesterday, for having defrauded you of your money.
“Mr. Fisher,” said Dr. Middleton, “as to you, I shall not punish you; I have no hope of making you either wiser or better. Do you know this paper?”—the paper appeared to be a bill for candles and a tinder-box.
“I desired him to buy those things, sir,” said Archer, colouring.
“And did you desire him not to pay for them?”
“No,” said Archer, “he had half a crown on purpose to pay for them.”
“I know he had, but he chose to apply it to his private use, and gave it to the gipsy to buy twelve buns for his own eating. To obtain credit for the tinder-box and candles, he made use of this name,” said he, turning to the other side of the bill, and pointing to De Grey’s name, which was written at the end of a copy of one of De Grey’s exercises.
“I assure you, sir—” cried Archer.
“You need not assure me, sir,” said Dr. Middleton; “I cannot suspect a boy of your temper of having any part in so base an action. When the people in the shop refused to let Mr. Fisher have the things without paying for them, he made use of De Grey’s name, who was known there. Suspecting some mischief, however, from the purchase of the tinder-box, the shopkeeper informed me of the circumstance. Nothing in this whole business gave me half so much pain as I felt, for a moment, when I suspected that De Grey was concerned in it.” A loud cry, in which Archer’s voice was heard most distinctly, declared De Grey’s innocence. Dr. Middleton looked round at their eager, honest faces, with benevolent approbation. “Archer,” said he, taking him by the hand, “I am heartily glad to see that you have got the better of your party spirit. I wish you may keep such a friend as you have now beside you; one such friend is worth two such parties. As for you, Mr. Fisher, depart; you must never return hither again.” In vain he solicited Archer and De Grey to intercede for him. Everybody turned away with contempt; and he sneaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice, “What shall I say to my Aunt Barbara?”
THE BRACELETS.
In a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars, a lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and steady temper peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most important, of all occupations—the education of youth. This task she had undertaken; and twenty young persons were put under her care, with the perfect confidence of their parents. No young people could be happier; they were good and gay, emulous, but not envious of each other; for Mrs. Villars was impartially just; her praise they felt to be the reward of merit, and her blame they knew to be the necessary consequence of ill-conduct. To the one, therefore, they patiently submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced. They rose with fresh cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various occupations. They returned in the evening with renewed ardour to their amusements, and retired to rest satisfied with themselves and pleased with each other.
Nothing so much contributed to preserve a spirit of emulation in this little society as a small honorary distinction, given annually, as a prize of successful application. The prize this year was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it was the picture of a friend whom they dearly loved. It was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small bracelet. It wanted neither gold, pearls nor precious stones to give it value.
The two foremost candidates for this prize were Cecilia and Leonora. Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora; but Leonora was only the favourite companion of Cecilia.
Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition, more eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her wishes. Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring temperate character; not easily roused to action, but indefatigable when once excited. Leonora was proud; Cecilia was vain. Her vanity made her more dependent upon the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to please than Leonora; but that very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt to offend. In short, Leonora was the most anxious to avoid what was wrong; Cecilia, the most ambitious to do what was right. Few of her companions loved, but many were led by Cecilia, for she was often successful. Many loved Leonora, but none were ever governed by her, for she was too indolent to govern.
On the first day of May, about six o’clock in the evening, a great bell rang, to summon this little society into a hall, where the prize was to be decided. A number of small tables were placed in a circle in the middle of the hall. Seats for the young competitors were raised one above another, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table, and the judges’ chairs, under canopies of lilacs and laburnums, forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre.
Everyone put their writings, their drawings, their works of various kinds upon the tables appropriated for each. How unsteady were the last steps to these tables! How each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims! Till this moment everyone thought herself secure of success; and the heart, which exulted with hope, now palpitated with fear.
The works were examined, the preference adjudged, and the prize was declared to be the happy Cecilia’s. Mrs. Villars came forward, smiling, with the bracelet in her hand. Cecilia was behind her companions, on the highest row. All the others gave way, and she was on the floor in an instant. Mrs. Villars clasped the bracelet on her arm; the clasp was heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation followed. Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia’s little hand. “And now,” said she, “go and rejoice with your companions; the remainder of the day is yours.”
Oh! you whose hearts are elated with success, whose bosoms beat high with joy in the moment of triumph, command yourselves. Let that triumph be moderate, that it may be lasting. Consider, that though you are good, you may be better; and, though wise, you may be weak.
As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all Cecilia’s little companions crowded round her, and they all left the hall in an instant. She was full of spirits and vanity. She ran on. Running down the flight of steps which led to the garden, in her violent haste, Cecilia threw down the little Louisa, who had a china mandarin in her hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning, and which was all broken to pieces by her fall.
“Oh, my mandarin!” cried Louisa, bursting into tears. The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped. Louisa sat on the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces. Then, turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above her. In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin. The head, which she placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and rolled, bounding along the gravel walk. Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst into laughter. The crowd behind laughed, too.
At any other time they would have been more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful, and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice.
Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency. “Poor Louisa!” said she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia. Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with vexation. “I could not help it, Leonora,” said she.
“But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia.”
“I didn’t laugh at Louisa; and I surely may laugh, for it does nobody any harm.”
“I am sure, however,” replied Leonora, “I should not have laughed if I had—”
“No, to be sure, you wouldn’t, because Louisa is your favourite. I can buy her another mandarin when the old peddler comes to the door, if that’s all. I can do no more, can I?” said she, again turning round to her companions. “No, to be sure,” said they; “that’s all fair.”
Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora. Leonora let go her hand; she ran on, and the crowd followed. When she got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her, too; but was vexed to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa. “I’m sure I can do no more than buy her another, can I!” said she, again appealing to her companions. “No, to be sure,” said they, eager to begin their play.
How many games did these juvenile playmates begin and leave off, before Cecilia could be satisfied with any! Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon something else. No wonder, then, that she did not play with her usual address. She grew still more impatient. She threw down the ninepins. “Come, let us play at something else—at threading the needle,” said she, holding out her hand. They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet. But Cecilia, dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else. Her tone grew more and more peremptory. One was too rude, another too stiff; one too slow, another too quick; in short everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her humours.
The triumph of success is absolute, but short. Cecilia’s companions at length recollected that though she had embroidered a tulip, and painted a peach, better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better; for she was discomposed.
Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, Cecilia met Leonora, but passed on. “Cecilia!” cried Leonora.
“Well, what do you want with me?”
“Are we friends?”
“You know best,” said Cecilia.
“We are, if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry—”
Cecilia, interrupting her, “Oh, pray let me hear no more about Louisa!”
“What! not confess that you were in the wrong? Oh, Cecilia! I had a better opinion of you.”
“Your opinion is of no consequence to me now, for you don’t love me.”
“No; not when you are unjust, Cecilia.”
“Unjust! I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess.”
“No, but am not I your friend?”
“I don’t desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for happening to throw down little Louisa. How could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand? and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another; was that unjust?”
“But you know, Cecilia—”
“I know,” ironically. “I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you love me; that’s the injustice!”
“If I did,” replied Leonora, gravely, “it would be no injustice, if she deserved it better.”
“How can you compare Louisa to me!” exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.
Leonora made no answer; for she was really hurt at her friend’s conduct. She walked on to join the rest of her companions. They were dancing in a round upon the grass. Leonora declined dancing; but they prevailed upon her to sing for them. Her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual. Who sang so sweetly as Leonora? or who danced so nimbly as Louisa? Away she was flying, all spirits and gaiety, when Leonora’s eyes full of tears, caught hers. Louisa silently let go her companion’s hand, and, quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her. “Nothing,” replied she, “that need interrupt you. Go, my dear; go and dance again.”
Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry-leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry-bed when Cecilia came by. Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons; because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her. The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten. Perhaps to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin; but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice.
“What are you doing there, little one?” said Cecilia, in a sharp tone. “Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?”
“No,” said Louisa, mysteriously, “I am not eating them.”
“What are you doing with them? can’t you answer, then? I’m not playing with you, child!”
“Oh, as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I choose it; not but what I would if you would only ask me civilly, and if you would not call me child.”
“Why should not I call you child?”
“Because—because—I don’t know; but I wish you would stand out of my light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my strawberries.”
“I have not touched one, you covetous little creature!”
“Indeed—indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous. I have not eaten one of them; they are all for your friend Leonora. See how unjust you are!”
“Unjust! that’s a cant word which you learnt of my friend Leonora, as you call her; but she is not my friend now.”
“Not your friend now!” exclaimed Louisa; “then I am sure you must have done something very naughty.”
“How?” cried Cecilia, catching hold of her.
“Let me go, let me go!” cried Louisa, struggling. “I won’t give you one of my strawberries, for I don’t like you at all!”
“You don’t, don’t you?” cried Cecilia, provoked, and, catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries over the hedge.
“Will nobody help me?” exclaimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and running away with all her force.
“What have I done?” said Cecilia, recollecting herself; “Louisa! Louisa!” she called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back; she was running to her companions, who were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, was singing to them.
“Stop! stop! and hear me!” cried Louisa, breaking through them; and, rushing up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for breath—“It was full—almost full of my own strawberries,” said she, “the first I ever got out of my garden. They should all have been for you, Leonora; but now I have not one left. They are all gone!” said she; and she hid her face in Leonora’s lap.
“Gone! gone where?” said everyone, at once running up to her.
“Cecilia! Cecilia!” said she, sobbing.
“Cecilia,” repeated Leonora, “what of Cecilia?”
“Yes, it was—it was.”
“Come with me,” said Leonora, unwilling to have her friend exposed. “Come, and I will get you some more strawberries.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the strawberries, indeed; but I wanted to have had the pleasure of giving them to you.”
Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late.
“What, Cecilia! Cecilia, who won the prize! It could not surely be Cecilia,” whispered every busy tongue.
At this instant the bell summoned them in. “There she is! There she is!” cried they, pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing ashamed and alone; and, as they passed her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her. Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual.
“Leonora!” said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed.
“Oh, Cecilia! who would have thought that you had a bad heart?” Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.
“Oh, no, indeed, she has not a bad heart!” cried Louisa, running up to her and throwing her arms around her neck. “She’s very sorry; are not you, Cecilia? But don’t cry any more, for I forgive you, with all my heart—and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a passion.”
“Oh, you sweet-tempered girl! how I love you!” said Cecilia, kissing her.
“Well, then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your eyes, for they are so red!”
“Go, my dear, and I’ll come presently.”
“Then I will keep a place for you, next to me; but you must make haste, or you will have to come in when we have all sat down to supper, and then you will be so stared at! So don’t stay, now.”
Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight. “And is Louisa,” said she, to herself, “the only one who would stop to pity me? Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine. She little thought how it would end!”
Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and which, in the pride and gaiety of her heart, she had called her throne.
At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the evening, and, passing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started. Cecilia rose hastily.
“Who is there?” said Mrs. Villars.
“It is I, madam.”
“And who is I?”
“Cecilia.”
“Why, what keeps you here, my dear? Where are your companions? This is, perhaps, one of the happiest days of your life.”
“Oh, no, madam,” said Cecilia, hardly able to repress her tears.
“Why, my dear, what is the matter?” Cecilia hesitated. “Speak, my dear. You know that when I ask you to tell me anything as your friend, I never punish you as your governess; therefore you need not be afraid to tell me what is the matter.”
“No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed. You asked me why I was not with my companions. Why, madam, because they have all left me, and—”
“And what, my dear?”
“And I see that they all dislike me; and yet I don’t know why they should, for I take as much pains to please as any of them. All my masters seem satisfied with me; and you yourself, madam, were pleased this very morning to give me this bracelet; and I am sure you would not have given it to anyone who did not deserve it.”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Villars. “You well deserve it for your application—for your successful application. The prize was for the most assiduous, not for the most amiable.”
“Then, if it had been for the most amiable, it would not have been for me?”
Mrs. Villars, smiling,—“Why, what do you think yourself, Cecilia? You are better able to judge than I am. I can determine whether or no you apply to what I give you to learn; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, and avoid what I desire you not to do. I know that I like you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a companion, unless I were your companion. Therefore I must judge of what I should do, by seeing what others do in the same circumstances.”
“Oh, pray don’t, madam! for then you would not love me either. And yet I think you would love me; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, and as good-natured as—”
“Yes, Cecilia, I don’t doubt but that you would be very good natured to me; but I’m afraid that I should not like you unless you were good-tempered, too.”
“But, madam, by good-natured I mean good-tempered—it’s all the same thing.”
“No, indeed, I understand by them two very different things. You are good-natured, Cecilia; for you are desirous to oblige and serve your companions—to gain them praise, and save them from blame—to give them pleasure, and relieve them from pain; but Leonora is good-tempered, for she can bear with their foibles, and acknowledge her own. Without disputing about the right, she sometimes yields to those who are in the wrong. In short, her temper is perfectly good; for it can bear and forbear.”
“I wish that mine could!” said Cecilia, sighing.
“It may,” replied Mrs. Villars; “but it is not wishes alone which can improve us in anything. Turn the same exertion and perseverance which have won you the prize to-day to this object, and you will meet with the same success; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third attempt; but depend upon it that you will at last. Every new effort will weaken your bad habits, and strengthen your good ones. But you must not expect to succeed all at once. I repeat it to you, for habit must be counteracted by habit. It would be as extravagant in us to expect that all our faults could be destroyed by one punishment, were it ever so severe, as it was in the Roman emperor we were reading of a few days ago, to wish that all the heads of his enemies were upon one neck, that he might cut them off at one blow.”
Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they began to walk home. Such was the nature of Cecilia’s mind, that when any object was forcibly impressed on her imagination, it caused a temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties. Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended with total debility. Her vanity was now as much mortified as in the morning it had been elated. She walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence, until they came under the shade of the elm-tree walk, and there, fixing her eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short.
“Do you think, madam,” said she, with hesitation—“do you think, madam, that I have a bad heart?”
“A bad heart,—my dear! why, what put that into your head?”
“Leonora said that I had, madam, and I felt ashamed when she said so.”
“But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart be good or bad? However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart.”
“Indeed I do not know what is meant by it, madam; but it is something which everybody hates.”
“And why do they hate it?”
“Because they think that it will hurt them, ma’am, I believe: and that those who have bad hearts take delight in doing mischief; and that they never do anybody any good but for their own ends.”
“Then the best definition,” said Mrs. Villars, “which you can give me of a bad heart is, that it is some constant propensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the sake of doing wrong.”
“Yes, madam; but that is not all either. There is still something else meant; something which I cannot express—which, indeed, I never distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid.”
“Well, then, to begin with what you do understand, tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it possible to be wicked merely for the love of wickedness? No human being becomes wicked all at once. A man begins by doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it, for his interest. If he continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame and lose his love of virtue. But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?”
“Indeed, madam, I never did, until everybody told me so, and then I began to be frightened about it. This very evening, madam, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa’s strawberries away, which, I am sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and everybody cried out that I had a bad heart—but I am sure I was only in a passion.”
“Very likely. And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to others. If they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathize with you. They do not perceive the motive which actuates you; and then they say that you have a bad heart. I daresay, however, when your passion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have done and said; are not you?”
“Yes, indeed, madam—very sorry.”
“Then make that sorry of use to you, Cecilia, and fix it steadily in your thoughts, as you hope to be good and happy, that if you suffer yourself to yield to your passion upon every occasion, anger and its consequences will become familiar to your mind; and, in the same proportion, your sense of shame will be weakened, till what you began with doing from sudden impulse you will end with doing from habit and choice: then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a bad heart.”
“Oh, madam! I hope—I am sure I never shall.”
“No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe that you never will; on the contrary, I think that you have a very good disposition, and what is of infinitely more consequence to you, an active desire of improvement. Show me that you have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall not despair of your becoming everything that I could wish.”
Here Cecilia’s countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning.
“Good-night to you, Cecilia,” said Mrs. Villars, as she was crossing the hall. “Good-night to you, madam,” said Cecilia; and she ran upstairs to bed. She could not go to sleep; but she lay awake, reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future, at the same time that she had resolved, and resolved without effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive. Ambition she knew to be its most powerful incentive. “Have I not,” said she to herself, “already won the prize of application, and cannot the same application procure me a much higher prize? Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the most amiable, it would not have been given to me. Perhaps it would not yesterday, perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I should despair of ever deserving it.”.
In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the ensuing month (the 1st of June), to the most amiable. Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity.
“Let the prize,” said they, “be a bracelet of our own hair;” and instantly their shining scissors were produced, and each contributed a lock of their hair. They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to the brightest black. Who was to have the honour of plaiting them? was now the question. Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she said. Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it much better; and a dispute would have inevitably ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting herself just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not yielded—yielded, with no very good grace indeed, but as well as could be expected for the first time. For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace.
The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto, “To the Most Amiable.” The moment it was completed, everybody begged to try it on. It fastened with little silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too large for the youngest. Of this they bitterly complained, and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them.
“How foolish!” exclaimed Cecilia; “don’t you perceive that if any of you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the clips a little further from the edge, but if we get it, we can’t make it larger?”
“Very true,” said they; “but you need not to have called us foolish, Cecilia.”
It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia offended. A slight difference in the manner makes a very material one in the effect. Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she could gain by the greatest particular exertions.
How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect—how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given—shall be told in the History of the First of June.