Part 4 (1/2)
”That's just what I mean. If you own up, they will say that I made you do it; and I had enough sight rather bear the blame of setting the boat-house afire, than be told that I made you do it. I can dirty my own hands, but I don't like the idea of dirtying yours.”
”You don't mean to leave Woodville, Noddy?” asked f.a.n.n.y, in a reproachful tone.
”If you own up, I shall not go back. I've been thinking of going ever since they talked of making a tinker of me; so it will only be going a few days sooner. I want to go to sea, and I don't want to be a tinker.”
f.a.n.n.y gazed into the water by the side of the boat, thinking of what her companion had said. She really did not think she ought to ”own up,” on the terms which Noddy mentioned.
”If you are sorry, and want to repent, you can do all that; and I will give you my solemn promise to be as good as you are, Miss f.a.n.n.y,” said Noddy, satisfied that he had made an impression upon the mind of his wavering companion.
His advice seemed to be sensible. She was sorry she had done wrong; she could repent in sorrow and silence, and never do wrong again. Her father and her sister would despise her if they knew she had done such a wicked and unladylike thing as to set the boat-house on fire. She could save all this pain and mortification, and repent just the same. Besides, she could not take upon herself the responsibility of driving Noddy away from Woodville, for that would cause Bertha a great deal of pain and uneasiness.
f.a.n.n.y had not yet learned to do right though the heavens fall.
”Well, I won't say anything about it, Noddy,” said she, yielding to what seemed to her the force of circ.u.mstances.
”That's right, f.a.n.n.y. Now, you leave the whole thing to me, and I will manage it so as to keep you out of trouble; and you can repent and be sorry just as much as you please,” replied Noddy, as he began to row again. ”There is nothing to be afraid of. Ben will never know that we have been on the river.”
”But I know it myself,” said the conscience-stricken maiden.
”Of course you do; what of that?”
”If I didn't know it myself, I should feel well enough.”
”You are a funny girl.”
”Don't you ever feel that you have done wrong, Noddy?”
”I suppose I do; but I don't make any such fuss about it as you do.”
”You were not brought up by a kind father and a loving sister, who would give anything rather than have you do wrong,” said f.a.n.n.y, beginning to cry again.
”There! don't cry any more; if you do, you will 'let the cat out of the bag.' I am going to land you here at the Glen. You can take a walk there, and go home about one o'clock. Then you can tell the folks you have been walking in the Glen; and it will be the truth.”
”It will be just as much a lie as though I hadn't been there. It will be one half the truth told to hide the other half.”
This was rather beyond Noddy's moral philosophy, and he did not worry himself to argue the point. He pulled up to the landing place at the Glen, where he had so often conveyed Bertha, and near the spot where he had met with the accident which had placed him under her kindly care.
f.a.n.n.y, with a heavy heart and a doubting mind, stepped on sh.o.r.e, and walked up into the grove. She was burdened with grief for the wrong she had done, and for half an hour she wandered about the beautiful spot, trying to compose herself enough to appear before the people at the house. When it was too late, she wished she had not consented to Noddy's plan; but the fear of working a great wrong in driving him from the good influences to which he was subjected at Woodville, by doing right, and confessing her error, was rather comforting, though it did not meet the wants of her case.
In season for dinner, she entered the house with her hand full of wild flowers, which grew only in the Glen. In the hall she met Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, who looked at her flushed face, and then at the flowers in her hand.
”We have been wondering where you were, all the forenoon,” said Mrs.
Green. ”I see you have been to the Glen by the flowers you have in your hand. Did you know the boat-house was burned up?”
”I saw the smoke of it,” replied f.a.n.n.y.
”It is the strangest thing that ever happened. No one can tell how it took fire.”
f.a.n.n.y made no reply, and the housekeeper hastened away to attend to her duties. The poor girl was suffering all the tortures of remorse which a wrong act can awaken, and she went up to her room with the feeling that she did not wish to see another soul for a month.