Kitabı oku: «The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations», sayfa 16
“I have thought her hair looking rather rough,” said Margaret disconsolately.
“No wonder,” said Miss Winter, “for Flora and Mary tell me she hardly spends five minutes over it in the morning, and with a book before her the whole time. If I send her up to make it fit to be seen, I meet with looks of annoyance. She leaves her books in all parts of the school-room for Mary to put away, and her table drawer is one mass of confusion. Her lessons she does well enough, I own, though what I should call much too fast; but have you looked at her work lately?”
“She does not work very well,” said Margaret, who was at that moment, though Miss Winter did not know it, re-gathering a poor child’s frock that Ethel had galloped through with more haste than good speed.
“She works a great deal worse than little Blanche,” said Miss Winter, “and though it may not be the fashion to say so in these days, I consider good needlework far more important than accomplishments. Well, then, Margaret, I should wish you only just to look at her writing.”
And Miss Winter opened a French exercise-book, certainly containing anything but elegant specimens of penmanship. Ethel’s best writing was an upright, disjointed niggle, looking more like Greek than anything else, except where here and there it made insane efforts to become running-hand, and thereby lost its sole previous good quality of legibility, while the lines waved about the sheet in almost any direction but the horizontal. The necessity she believed herself under of doing what Harry called writing with the end of her nose, and her always holding her pen with her fingers almost in the ink, added considerably to the difficulty of the performance. This being at her best, the worst may be supposed to be indescribable, when dashed off in a violent hurry, and considerably garnished with blots. Margaret thought she had seen the worst, and was sighing at being able to say nothing for it, when Miss Winter confounded her by turning a leaf, and showing it was possible to make a still wilder combination of scramble, niggle, scratch, and crookedness—and this was supposed to be an amended edition! Miss Winter explained that Ethel had, in an extremely short time, performed an exercise in which no fault could be detected except the writing, which was pronounced to be too atrocious to be shown up to M. Ballompre. On being desired to write it over again, she had obeyed with a very bad grace, and some murmurs about Cocksmoor, and produced the second specimen, which, in addition to other defects, had some elisions from arrant carelessness, depriving it of its predecessor’s merits of being good French.
Miss Winter had been so provoked that she believed this to be an effect of ill temper, and declared that she should certainly have kept Ethel at home to write it over again, if it had not so happened that Dr. May had proposed to walk part of the way with her and Richard, and the governess was unwilling to bring her into disgrace with him. Margaret was so grateful to her for this forbearance, that it disposed her to listen the more patiently to the same representations put in, what Miss Winter fancied, different forms. Margaret was much perplexed. She could not but see much truth in what Miss Winter said, and yet she could not bear to thwart Ethel, whom she admired with her whole heart; and that dry experience, and prejudiced preciseness, did not seem capable of entering into her sister’s thirst for learning and action. When Miss Winter said Ethel would grow up odd, eccentric, and blue, Margaret was ready to answer that she would be superior to every one; and when the governess urged her to insist on Cocksmoor being given up, she felt impatient of that utter want of sympathy for the good work.
All that evening Margaret longed for a quiet time to reflect, but it never came till she was in bed; and when she had made up her mind how to speak to Ethel, it was five times harder to secure her alone. Even when Margaret had her in the room by herself, she looked wild and eager, and said she could not stay, she had some Thucydides to do.
“Won’t you stay with me a little while, quietly?” said Margaret; “we hardly ever have one of our talks.”
“I didn’t mean to vex you, dear Margaret; I like nothing so well, only we are never alone, and I’ve no time.”
“Pray do spare me a minute, Ethel, for I have something that I must say to you, and I am afraid you won’t like it—so do listen kindly.”
“Oh!” said Ethel, “Miss Winter has been talking to you. I know she said she would tell you that she wants me to give up Cocksmoor. You aren’t dreaming of it, Margaret?”
“Indeed, dear Ethel, I should be very sorry, but one thing I am sure of, that there is something amiss in your way of going on.”
“Did she show you that horrid exercise?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I know it was baddish writing, but just listen, Margaret. We promised six of the children to print them each a verse of a hymn on a card to learn. Ritchie did three, and then could not go on, for the book that the others were in was lost till last evening, and then he was writing for papa. So I thought I would do them before we went to Cocksmoor, and that I should squeeze time out of the morning; but I got a bit of Sophocles that was so horridly hard it ate up all my time, and I don’t understand it properly now; I must get Norman to tell me. And that ran in my head and made me make a mistake in my sum, and have to begin it again. Then, just as I thought I had saved time over the exercise, comes Miss Winter and tells me I must do it over again, and scolds me besides about the ink on my fingers. She would send me up at once to get it off, and I could not find nurse and her bottle of stuff for it, so that wasted ever so much more time, and I was so vexed that, really and truly, my hand shook and I could not write any better.”
“No, I thought it looked as if you had been in one of your agonies.”
“And she thought I did it on purpose, and that made me angry, and so we got into a dispute, and away went all the little moment I might have had, and I was forced to go to Cocksmoor as a promise breaker!”
“Don’t you think you had better have taken pains at first?”
“Well, so I did with the sense, but I hadn’t time to look at the writing much.”
“You would have made better speed if you had.”
“Oh, yes, I know I was wrong, but it is a great plague altogether. Really, Margaret, I shan’t get Thucydides done.”
“You must wait a little longer, please, Ethel, for I want to say to you that I am afraid you are doing too much, and that prevents you from doing things well, as you were trying to do last autumn.”
“You are not thinking of my not going to Cocksmoor?” cried Ethel vehemently.
“I want you to consider what is to be done, dear Ethel. You thought, last autumn, a great deal of curing your careless habits, now you seem not to have time to attend. You can do a great deal very fast, I know, but isn’t it a pity to be always in a hurry?”
“It isn’t Cocksmoor that is the reason,” said Ethel.
“No; you did pretty well when you began, but you know that was in the holidays, when you had no Latin and Greek to do.”
“Oh, but, Margaret, they won’t take so much time when I have once got over the difficulties, and see my way, but just now they have put Norman into such a frightfully difficult play, that I can hardly get on at all with it, and there’s a new kind of Greek verses, too, and I don’t make out from the book how to manage them. Norman showed me on Saturday, but mine won’t be right. When I’ve got over that, I shan’t be so hurried.”
“But Norman will go on to something harder, I suppose.”
“I dare say I shall be able to do it.”
“Perhaps you might, but I want you to consider if you are not working beyond what can be good for anybody. You see Norman is much cleverer than most boys, and you are a year younger; and besides doing all his work at the head of the school, his whole business of the day, you have Cocksmoor to attend to, and your own lessons, besides reading all the books that come into the house. Now isn’t that more than is reasonable to expect any head and hands to do properly?”
“But if I can do it?”
“But can you, dear Ethel? Aren’t you always racing from one thing to another, doing them by halves, feeling hunted, and then growing vexed?”
“I know I have been cross lately,” said Ethel, “but it’s the being so bothered.”
“And why are you bothered? Isn’t it that you undertake too much?”
“What would you have me do?” said Ethel, in an injured, unconvinced voice. “Not give up my children?”
“No,” said Margaret; “but don’t think me very unkind if I say, suppose you left off trying to keep up with Norman.”
“Oh, Margaret! Margaret!” and her eyes filled with tears. “We have hardly missed doing the same every day since the first Latin grammar was put into his hands!”
“I know it would be very hard,” said Margaret; but Ethel continued, in a piteous tone, a little sentimental, “From hie haec hoc up to Alcaics and beta Thukididou we have gone on together, and I can’t bear to give it up. I’m sure I can—”
“Stop, Ethel, I really doubt whether you can. Do you know that Norman was telling papa the other day that it was very odd Dr. Hoxton gave them such easy lessons.”
Ethel looked very much mortified.
“You see,” said Margaret kindly, “we all know that men have more power than women, and I suppose the time has come for Norman to pass beyond you. He would not be cleverer than any one, if he could not do more than a girl at home.”
“He has so much more time for it,” said Ethel.
“That’s the very thing. Now consider, Ethel. His work, after he goes to Oxford, will be doing his very utmost—and you know what an utmost that is. If you could keep up with him at all, you must give your whole time and thoughts to it, and when you had done so—if you could get all the honours in the University—what would it come to? You can’t take a first-class.”
“I don’t want one,” said Ethel; “I only can’t bear not to do as Norman does, and I like Greek so much.”
“And for that would you give up being a useful, steady daughter and sister at home? The sort of woman that dear mamma wished to make you, and a comfort to papa.”
Ethel was silent, and large tears were gathering.
“You own that that is the first thing?”
“Yes,” said Ethel faintly.
“And that it is what you fail in most?”
“Yes.”
“Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cocksmoor, you knew those things could not be done without a sacrifice?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be this.”
Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down and sighed pitifully. Presently she said, “Margaret, if you would only let me leave off that stupid old French, and horrid dull reading with Miss Winter, I should have plenty of time for everything; and what does one learn by hearing Mary read poetry she can’t understand?”
“You work, don’t you? But indeed, Ethel, don’t say that I can let you leave off anything. I don’t feel as if I had that authority. If it be done at all, it must be by papa’s consent, and if you wish me to ask him about it, I will, only I think it would vex Miss Winter; and I don’t think dear mamma would have liked Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all the little common ladylike things.”
Ethel made two or three great gulps; “Margaret, must I give up everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek?”
“I should think that would be a great pity,” said Margaret. “If you were to give up the verse-making, and the trying to do as much as Norman, and fix some time in the day—half an hour, perhaps—for your Greek, I think it might do very well.”
“Thank you,” said Ethel, much relieved; “I’m glad you don’t want me to leave it all off. I hope Norman won’t be vexed,” she added, looking a little melancholy.
But Norman had not by any means the sort of sentiment on the subject that she had. “Of course, you know, Ethel,” said he, “it must have come to this some time or other, and if you find those verses too hard, and that they take up too much of your time, you had better give them up.”
Ethel did not like anything to be said to be too hard for her, and was very near pleading she only wanted time, but some recollection came across her, and presently she said, “I suppose it is a wrong sort of ambition to want to learn more, in one’s own way, when one is told it is not good for one. I was just going to say I hated being a woman, and having these tiresome little trifles—my duty—instead of learning, which is yours, Norman.”
“I’m glad you did not,” said Norman, “for it would have been very silly of you; and I assure you, Ethel, it is really time for you to stop, or you would get into a regular learned lady, and be good for nothing. I don’t mean that knowing more than other people would make you so, but minding nothing else would.”
This argument from Norman himself did much to reconcile Ethel’s mind to the sacrifice she had made; and when she went to bed, she tried to work out the question in her own mind, whether her eagerness for classical learning was a wrong sort of ambition, to know what other girls did not, and whether it was right to crave for more knowledge than was thought advisable for her. She only bewildered herself, and went to sleep before she had settled anything, but that she knew she must make all give way to papa first, and, secondly, to Cocksmoor.
Meanwhile Margaret had told her father all that had passed. He was only surprised to hear that Ethel had kept up so long with Norman, and thought that it was quite right that she should not undertake so much, agreeing more entirely than Margaret had expected with Miss Winter’s view, that it would be hurtful to body as well as mind.
“It is perfectly ridiculous to think of her attempting it!” he said. “I am glad you have put a stop to it.”
“I am glad I have,” said Margaret; “and dear Ethel behaved so very well. If she had resisted, it would have puzzled me very much, I must have asked you to settle it. But it is very odd, papa, Ethel is the one of them all who treats me most as if I had real authority over her; she lets me scold her, asks my leave, never seems to recollect for a moment how little older I am, and how much cleverer she is. I am sure I never should have submitted so readily. And that always makes it more difficult to me to direct her; I don’t like to take upon me with her, because it seems wrong to have her obeying me as if she were a mere child.”
“She is a fine creature,” said Dr. May emphatically. “It just shows the fact, the higher the mind the readier the submission. But you don’t mean that you have any difficulty with the others?”
“Oh, no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially from me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that Ethel lays herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I am sure, though she does love learning, her real love is for goodness and for you, papa.”
Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she seen her father’s look of mournful pleasure.
CHAPTER XIX
O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
His little sister doth his peril see,
All playful as she sate, she grows demure,
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee,
She meditates a prayer to set him free.
SHENSTONE.
The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters’ desks, the forms polished with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the names of many generations of boys.
About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. “Ha!” exclaimed one, “here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the gladiators in!” and, standing by the third master’s desk, he turned over a page or two of Smith’s ‘Antiquities’, exclaiming, “It is full of pictures—here’s an old man blowing the bellows—”
“Let me see!” cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry; and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison’s book, while, “There, August! you’ve been and done it!” “You’ll catch it!” resounded on all sides.
“What good will staring with your mouth open do!” exclaimed Edward Anderson, the eldest present. “Here! a bit of blotting-paper this moment!”
Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-case that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, “It won’t take it out, will it?”
“No, little stupid head, but don’t you see, I’m stopping it from running down the edges, or soaking in. He won’t be the wiser till he opens it again at that place.”
“When he does, he will,” said the bewildered Tom.
“Let him. It won’t tell tales.”
“He’s coming!” cried another boy, “he is close at the door.”
Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr. Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag, only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, “Ha! old fellow, you don’t know what you’ve got there!”
“Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won’t see a bit farther for it,” said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; “come to your senses, and know your friends.”
“He’ll open it!” gasped Tom.
“So he will, but I’d bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if he does, it won’t tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you standing there, crouching and shaking. That’s the right way to bring him upon you.”
“But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?”
“What then? D’ye think we can’t stand by each other, and keep our own counsel?”
“But the blotting-paper—suppose he knows that!”
There was a laugh all round at this, “as if Harrison knew everyone’s blotting-paper!”
“Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his—see—and draw Union Jacks on it.”
“If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?”
“July would have told if he had,” said Larkins. “That’s no go.”
“Ay! That’s the way—the Mays are all like girls—can’t keep a secret—not one of them. There, I’ve done more for you than ever one of them would have done—own it—and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his wrists, to force the confession from him.”
“But—but he’ll ask when he finds it out—”
“Let him. We know nothing about it. Don’t be coming the good boy over me like your brothers. That won’t do—I know whose eyes are not too short-sighted to read upside down.”
Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.
But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether Harry’s name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith’s ‘Antiquities’ at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair, he could not see his brother’s face, but Edward Anderson, from the second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.
“This book,” said Mr. Harrison, “was left in school for a quarter of an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any of you know how it happened?” A silence, and he continued, “Who was in school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?”
“No, sir.”
“You know nothing of it?”
“No, sir.”
Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his memory. “Larkins, do you know how this happened?”
“No, sir,” said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had not seen the manner of the overthrow.
“Ernescliffe, were you there?”
“No, sir.”
Tom’s timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, “Remember, it is concealment that is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you,” he added, hopefully and kindly. “Don’t be afraid to speak out if you did meet with a mischance.”
Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly terror of the effects of truth.
“No, sir.” He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.
Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for schoolboys.
The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set, there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they considered as belonging to him.
In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson had gained a conquest—in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough code—and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without learning it, and of showing up other people’s tasks; whispers and signs were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him free at once from this wretched tyranny.
Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something contraband.
“August,” said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening, “did I see you coming over the bridge?”
Tom would not answer.
“So you have been at Ballhatchet’s gate? I can’t think what could take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty’s are just as good. What made you go there?”
“Nothing,” said Tom.
“Well, mind you don’t do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything to do with him, as you know.”
Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. “I am afraid you are getting into a bad way. Why won’t you mind what I have told you plenty of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?” But, receiving no answer, he went on. “You always sulk when I speak to you. I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you from worse. You can’t never be found out.” This startled Tom, but Norman had no suspicion. “If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight.” Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder upon him than any one else would be, and Norman grew warmer. “If you let Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you’ll never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better take my word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into a mess.”
“I’m in no scrape,” said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience, and spoke with more displeasure. “You will be then, if you go out of bounds, and run Anderson’s errands, and shirk work. You’d better take care. It is my place to keep order, and I can’t let you off for being my brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet’s again, you may make sure of a licking.”
So the warning closed—Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.
Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with something under his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.
“What are you doing here?” said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the field. “So you’ve been there again. What’s that under your jacket?”
“Only—only what I was sent for,” and he tried to squeeze it under the flap.
“What is it? a bottle—”
“Only—only a bottle of ink.”
Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation was mixed with sorrow. “Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!”
Tom cowered, but felt only terror.
“Speak truth,” said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; “is this for Anderson junior?”
Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared not utter another falsehood, but Anderson’s threats chained him, and he preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother who loved him. He would not speak.
“I am glad it is not for yourself,” said Norman; “but do you remember what I said, in case I found you there again?”
“Oh! don’t, don’t!” cried the boy. “I would never have gone if they had not made me.”
“Made you?” said Norman, disdainfully, “how?”
“They would have thrashed me—they pinched my fingers in the box—they pulled my ears—oh, don’t—”
“Poor little fellow!” said Norman; “but it is your own fault. If you won’t keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But I must not let you off—I must keep my word!” Tom cried, sobbed, and implored in vain. “I can’t help it,” he said, “and now, don’t howl! I had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have this to do to one of us.” Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing him, he said, “There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I can’t have hurt you much, have I?” he added more kindly, while Tom went on crying, and turning from him. “It is nothing to care about, I am sure; look up;” and he pulled down his hands. “Say you are sorry—speak the truth—keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.”
Very different this from Tom’s chosen associates; but he was still obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart to those kind words. After one more, “I could not help it, Tom, you’ve no business to be sulky,” Norman took up the bottle, opened it, smelled, and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river; when Tom exclaimed, “Oh, don’t, don’t! what will they do to me? give it to me!”
“Did they give you the money to pay for it?”
“Yes; let me have it.”
“How much was it?”
“Fourpence.”
“I’ll settle that,” and the bottle splashed in the river. “Now then, Tom, don’t brood on it any more. Here’s a chance for you of getting quit of their errands. If you will keep in my sight. I’ll take care no one bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful tricks, and do well.”
But Tom’s evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse silence really distressed his brother.
