Part 3 (1/2)
”'Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; The fault that needs it most grows two thereby.'”
She paused. Her nephew kept silent for a time, nervously twisting the fringe of her little work-table; and then he said very slowly and sadly,--
”So, auntie, you have found me out. Yes, I've been a beastly coward, and I'm heartily ashamed of myself.”
”Well, dear boy,” replied his aunt, ”tell me all about it; happily, it is never too late to mend.”
”Yes, dear Aunt Kate, I'll tell you all. Bob Saunders called yesterday just after luncheon, and asked me to go out for a ride with him, and if I could give him a mount, for his own horse was laid up with some outlandish complaint. I didn't like to say 'No;' but my own pony, Punch, was gone to be shod, and Bob had no time to wait. Well, d.i.c.k was just coming out of the yard as I got into it; he was riding Forester and leading Bessie, to exercise them. 'That'll do,' I said. 'Here, d.i.c.k; I'll take Forester out and give him a trot, and Mr Saunders can ride Bessie.' 'Please, Master Walter,' says d.i.c.k, 'your father's very particular. I don't know what he'll say to me if I let you exercise Forester.' 'Oh, nonsense!' I said. 'I'll make that all straight.'
d.i.c.k didn't like it; but I wouldn't be denied, so he let us mount, and begged me to be very careful. 'Never fear,' I said; 'we'll bring them both back as cool as cuc.u.mbers.' And I meant it, auntie. But somehow or other our spirits got the better of us; it was such a fine afternoon, and the horses seemed wild for a gallop; so at last Bob Saunders said, 'What do you say, Walter, to a half-mile race just on to the top of the common? it'll do them no harm.' Well, I didn't say yes or no; but somehow or other, off we were in another minute, and, do what I would, I couldn't keep Forester back. Down the lane we went, and right over the common like lightning, and, when I was pulling hard to get Forester round, he went smack through a hedge, and left me on the wrong side of it. Bob laughed at first, but we soon saw that it was no laughing matter. He caught Forester directly, for the poor beast had hurt his foot, and limped along as he walked; and there was an ugly wound in his chest from a pointed stick in the hedge which had struck him. So we crawled home, all of us in a nice pickle, you may be sure. And then I began to think of what father would say, and I couldn't bear to think that he would have to blame me for it all; so I turned into a regular sneaking coward, and gave d.i.c.k a sovereign to tell a lie and take the blame on himself, promising him to make it all right with my father.
There, auntie, that's just the whole of it; and I'm sure I never knew what a coward I was before. But only let me get well through this sc.r.a.pe, and my name's not Walter if I ever get into such another.”
”And now, dear boy, what are you going to do about this matter?” asked his aunt after a pause.
”Do, auntie? I'm sure I don't know; I've done too much already. It's a bad business at the best, and I don't see that I can do anything about it without making it worse.”
”Then, Walter, is the burden still to rest on the wrong shoulders? and is d.i.c.k to be punished for your fault?”
”Oh, as to that, auntie, d.i.c.k shan't be the worse for it in the end: he has had a _sovereign_ remedy already; and I'll beg him off from being turned away when I see my father has quite cooled down.”
Miss Huntingdon said nothing in reply, but laid one of her hands across the other on her little work-table. Walter saw the action, but turned his head away and fidgeted in his chair. At last he said, ”That's rather hard, auntie, to make me a moral coward again so soon.”
”Is it hard, Walter?” she replied gently. ”The next best thing to not doing wrong is to be sorry for it when you have done it.”
”Well, Aunt Kate, I _am_ sorry--terribly sorry. I wish I'd never touched the horses. I wish that fellow Bob had been a hundred miles off yesterday afternoon.”
”I daresay, Walter; but is that all? Are you not going to _show_ that you are sorry? Won't you imitate, as far as it is now possible, little George Was.h.i.+ngton's moral courage?”
”What! go and tell my father the whole truth? Do you think I ought?”
”I am sure you ought, dear boy.”
Walter reflected for a while, then he said, in a sorrowful tone, ”Ah, but there's a difference. George Was.h.i.+ngton didn't and wouldn't tell a lie, but I would, and did; so it's too late now for me to show moral courage.”
”Not at all, Walter; on the contrary, it will take a good deal of moral courage to confess your fault now. Of course it would have been far n.o.bler had you gone straight to your father and told him just how things were; and then, too, you would not have been d.i.c.k's tempter, leading him to sin. Still, there is a right and n.o.ble course open to you now, dear boy, which is to go and undo the mischief and the wrong as far as you can.”
”Well, I suppose you are right, auntie,” he said slowly, and with a heavy sigh; ”but I shan't find _my_ father throwing his arms round me as George Was.h.i.+ngton's father did, and calling me his n.o.ble boy, and telling me he had rather I told the truth than have a thousand gold and silver cherry-trees.”
”Perhaps not, Walter; but you will have, at any rate, the satisfaction of doing what will have the approval of G.o.d, and of your own conscience, and of the aunt who wants you to do the thing that is right.”
”It shall be done,” said her nephew, pressing his lips together and knitting his brows by way of strengthening his resolution; and he left the room with a reluctant step.
He found his father, who had just come from the stables, in the dining- room. ”Well, Walter, my boy,” he said cheerily, ”it isn't so bad with Forester after all. He has got an ugly cut; but he doesn't walk but very slightly lame. A week's rest will set him all right; but I shall send that d.i.c.k about his business to-morrow, or as soon as his quarter's up. I'd a better opinion of the boy.”
”d.i.c.k's not to blame,” said Walter slowly.
”Not to blame! How do you make out that? I'm sure, if he had had Forester well in hand, the accident couldn't have happened.”
Walter then gave his father the true version of the mishap, and confessed his own wrong-doing in the matter. For a few moments Mr Huntingdon looked utterly taken aback; then he walked up and down the room, at first with wide and excited strides, and then more calmly. At last he stopped, and, putting his hand on his son's shoulder, said, ”That's right, my boy. We won't say anything more about it this time; but you mustn't do it again.” The truth was, the squire was not sorry to find that d.i.c.k, after all, was not the culprit; for he had a great liking for the lad, who suited him excellently as groom, and had received many kindnesses from him. No doubt he had told him an untruth on the present occasion; but then, as he had done this to screen his master's favourite son, Mr Huntingdon did not feel disposed to take him to task severely for the deceit; and, as Walter had now made the only amends in his power, his father was glad to withdraw d.i.c.k's dismissal, and to pa.s.s over the trouble without further comment.
CHAPTER FIVE.