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,
