Called to Account.—Mr. Long and the B. O. W. C.—They get a tremendous “Wigging.”—Pat to the Rescue.—Mr. Long relaxes.—The unhidden Guest.—Captain Corhet and the irrepressible Bobby.—Coming in Joy to depart in Tears.—The Relics again.—A Solemn Ceremony.—A Speech, a Poem, a Procession, all ending in a Consignment of the exhumed Treasure to its Resting-place.
AS they entered the study they found Mr. Long seated in an arm-chair by his study table. He looked at them with a grave and severe countenance, and motioned them to seats.
They sat down.
“Boys,” said Mr. Long, in a cold and constrained voice, “None of you will accuse me of ever interfering with legitimate sport, or will think that I am destitute of sympathy with boyish ways and manners. I think you know me well enough to believe that I take a deep interest in everything that can make you enjoy yourselves here; that I want you to love this place with all your hearts, and through all your after lives to look back upon Grand Pré Academy with the most affectionate recollection. That very feeling I have now, and it is this that animates me while I call upon you to give an account of those disturbances in which you have been engaged.
“You see a line must be drawn somewhere,” he continued. “Your affair at the French cellar was not altogether what it ought to have been, and I do not approve of it at all. Apart from the lateness of the hour, there was about the whole transaction an air of wildness—a certain headlong recklessness of sport, which I should rather check than indulge. Still, I have nothing to say about that now. You seem to have gone into that affair with an impetuosity of pure fun, that blinded you to anything objectionable which might have been in it. Besides, you have already told all about that, and in a whimsical way that disarmed all reproof.
“But, boys,” resumed Mr. Long, in a severer tone, “this last affair has been really a serious offence against discipline. The school has been disturbed, it seems, for many nights. There have been all kinds of noises; howlings, yellings, and screechings, of all sorts; rappings and knockings. Now, all these things may be very funny to the contrivers of them, but you are surely old enough to know that they may be excessively dangerous to sensitive minds. Did you not think of the poor little fellows here who might receive a serious mental shock from such disturbances? Is it possible that you could have been blind to all things except your own selfish amusement? Is this the sort of thing that is becoming to you—you,” he repeated, “from whom I hoped nothing but examples of manliness, and generosity, and frankness, and chivalry? I will not believe that it is possible for you to fail in these qualities. I trust rather to what I know of you, and I will attribute all this to nothing except utter thoughtlessness on your part. And it is that very thoughtlessness, if nothing worse, that I blame. It was not worthy of you; it was utterly beneath you. It was a very serious offence.”
The boys fairly writhed under all this, and Bart, with his face flushing scarlet, and his eyes gleaming with excited feeling, was about to speak; but Mr. Long commanded silence with his uplifted hand.
“But what shall I say,” he continued, “to this last business? Here everything reaches a climax. Not satisfied with having thrown the whole school into a panic, and with making the garret seem a haunted place to most of the boys,—a place, in fact, into which none dared to go but yourselves,—not satisfied with all this, you determined upon an act which is sufficient to demand serious punishment. Having already raised an almost intolerable terror in the school, you deliberately proceed to intensify even this, and raise that terror into a perfect anguish. Was not the panic sufficient already? Did you wish it to terminate in some tragedy? Would it have been satisfactory to you if the feeble brain of some of the younger boys had given way under this new terror? if some one of them had suddenly gone mad, as that abhorrent roar, that mixture of howls, and yells, and screeches, and hoots, rising up into an unearthly din, and intermingled with the awful toll of the bell, had burst upon his ear? Such things have happened. There have been, not boys, but men, who have gone mad from things even less terrible than these. Why, when I think of what might have happened, I shudder, and I stand amazed at what I charitably consider your thoughtlessness; though for such thoughtlessness as this, what punishment can be adequate?
“And now,” he concluded, “what have you to say for yourselves?”
All this time the faces of the boys were like fire, and writhing in indignation, they looked back at Mr. Long as he hurled against them what they felt to be unmerited accusations. They had only been concerned in the last affair for the purpose of putting an effectual end to the other. But as they sat there in the consciousness of innocence, they saw that it was impossible for them to explain it. They could not tell what they knew, for that would be to accuse Pat.
“Mr. Long,” burst forth Bart, starting up, with his face in a flame, and his voice trembling with indignation, “every word that you have uttered is utterly and totally undeserved by us. I assure you most solemnly that we have never violated any principles of honor or of chivalry. You do not know the facts, sir, or you would never have uttered those bitter words. You have done us great wrong, sir; we are not deserving of such charges as these. We are innocent; but we are not in a position to explain.”
Bart paused for a moment, and in that momentary pause another voice burst in as eagerly and as impetuously as his own.
It was Pat.
He had started to his feet just as Bart did, but Bart had spoken before him. As soon as he could get a chance he burst in.
“Mr. Long,” he cries, “it’s all a mishtake what yer sayin. As thrue as I’m standin here,—and I’m tellin no lie, so I ain’t,—it was me that did it, so it was. And they knowed it was me, so they did. And it was only to play a little harrumless joke that I did it. I didn’t bring the owl there at all, at all. He coom there himself. He howled, an the ony blame to me wor, that I didn’t tell what I knowed. Besides, I thried till alarrum the boys a bit. Nivir fear that wan av thim same goes mad. They indured the excitemint, so they did. Afther a day or two, I tied a sthring till the bell-knocker, an give it a bit av a pull, an I knocked at the Raw-dons’ dure and at Jiggins’. An I’m the ony wan to blame; an if there’s till be any punishin a goin; I’m the wan that’s going till take it, so I am.”
All these words Pat poured forth with feverish impetuosity, as though anxious to tell everything before he could be interrupted. Not a word did he say about the other boys and the donkey. He left it to be inferred that he was to be blamed for the donkey also. He intended—the warm-hearted Irish lad—that he should be punished for that too.
“Mr. Long,” cried Bart, bursting in, “since Pat has told about the owl himself, we can confess our share. We brought up the donkey.”
“An it worn’t a thrick,” said Pat. “It wor till frighten me, so it wor, an make me stop me bell-pullins an knockins. That’s what it wor. An didn’t I get it! I wor jest pullin the sthring that wor fastened till the bell, whin the donkey let aff a bray that knocked me clain from me oun room all the way down stairs, head over heels, an fut first. That’s what it did. An that’s as thrue as I’m standin here a tellin av it.”
Mr. Long now began to question them, and soon all the facts were elicited. As the truth became known, the severity of his manner relaxed, and his tone became pleasant and kindly.
“Well, boys,” said he, “all this puts the matter in a very different light. The owl came and screeched himself. Pat was only to blame for assisting the excitement. You were only to blame for taking so very violent a way to stop the affair. It might have been stopped without that, if you had simply told all about it. But I see the odd kind of motive you had. You merely wished to surround the denouement, as you say, with such absurd accompaniments, that no boy on the hill would ever dare to hint at a ghost again. Well, I may not like your way of going to work, but I at least understand your motives. I need not say how glad I am at this explanation. I came here under a false impression, and regret that I spoke with such severity. The only thing that I blame about this is, that it was what is called a practical joke, both on Pat’s part and on yours; and that is a thing which I have always endeavored to put down. So now, boys,” he concluded, “let me say—”
At this moment there came a faint rap at the door.
Mr. Long looked at the door, but took no further notice of the sound. Thinking it was a mistake, he continued, in a pleasant tone,—
“Let me say, boys, that I have such confidence in all of you, that I feel sure—”
At this there came another rap, somewhat louder. “Come in,” said Mr. Long.
The door opened slowly. Those in the room were behind it as it opened, and they could not see who was coming. Gradually it opened, and then there stepped forth the venerable form of Captain Corbet. He carried in his arms a little bundle, which he held with the tenderest care; and there was on his face an expression made up of pride, of triumph, and of a certain joyous consciousness which he possessed that he was the bearer of that which would not fail to excite similar emotions in others.
The moment Mr. Long saw him and his burden, he started to his feet, looking very pale.
Captain Corbet stood in the doorway, swaying his shoulders backward and forward, so as to afford an agreeable motion to his tender charge; his head hung on one side, and he looked upon the company with that peculiar expression of benignity which may be seen on the face of some indulgent father who has prepared some rich treat for his children.
“What!” exclaimed the venerable Corbet; “all here—all jined together on this momentuous occasion! An me afeared that some on yew’d miss it! Wal, it air lucky—ain’t it? You see, the ole woman, she went off to see a cousin of hern, that’s got her youngest darter down with the spotted fever,—ony I dare say, arter all, it’s ony the measles. So I see this here young an tender infant, a kerowin in his keradle like all possessed; an I says, Now’s the perpitious momunt; an I says to the offsperin, ‘Doozy wanter see Missr Long, den? Doozy wanter see zee boys? An so he sall!’ Fur, my Christian friens, I promised you, solemn, on that thar vyge; that some day I’d bring the babby. An you, sir, Mr. Long, my benefactor, I vowed to you that sence you’d saved this tender babe from rewination arter his feyther’s laid low, he should come an show you his own self, and look up in your keountenance, through his blue orbs, and smile upon you with his be-yeau-teefulest smile! An thar he air.”
Saying this, Captain Corbet proceeded to remove the coverings from the face of his beloved burden.
Mr. Long stood motionless and mute. His eyes wandered to the window. Captain Corbet was standing in the doorway, barring the passage, and slowly and tenderly drawing aside the veil that hid from view the face that he loved.
Suddenly Mr. Long started.
His resolution was taken.
He walked towards the door.
Captain Corbet saw him not. His eyes, his thoughts, and his heart were all engaged in his delightful employment.
“Ah, captain,” said Mr. Long, hurriedly, “I hope you’re very well. Is there anything I can do for you? If so, I can see you some other time. I’m in a great hurry. I’ve just finished some business which I had with these boys. You will have to be kind enough to excuse me.”
He touched Captain Corbet’s shoulder, and tried to push him gently aside, so as to pass.
Captain Corbet’s hand, which had been removing the coverings, fell slowly to his side. His face turned up and confronted Mr. Long’s with an expression of utter bewilderment, as though the language which he had heard was perfectly incomprehensible. His lips ............