Chapter XVI: Fear of Man

WITH mingled feelings of pleasure and pain, Willy quitted the house of the attorney. He was thankful that he had been enabled to strew some flowers in a path hedged up with so many thorns. The glow of his own warm kindly feelings was a source of rich enjoyment; but there was another side to the picture. He had promised, if not prevented, to return the next day, to be present at an operation from the thought of which he recoiled; he doubted his own firmness, his own strength of mind, and felt that he should suffer almost as much as Percy.

Then with the sight of the white lodge of Anderdon Hall came recollections of no agreeable nature. Willy remembered how he had parted from Ned and his companions, and anticipated an unpleasant meeting. Then perhaps the formidable Sir Hugh might question him as to where he had been, and he could not but offend by his answer. Poor Willy felt as he might have done if marching up to a battery, and instinctively slackened his pace as he approached the house through the shrubbery.

"I seem beset with difficulties wherever I turn," thought he, "and there is no one to help me out of them. I only hope that the storm has blown over with Ned, and that the name of poor Percy may never be mentioned. I really feel very uneasy about it. Why, what a coward I am!" he exclaimed half-aloud. "If I am doing what is right, and obeying my Heavenly Master, why should I fear what man can do or say unto me?"

There was a sound of loud, angry talking in the hall—a bustle, and hum of many voices. Willy heard it, and if I must confess the truth, the uppermost thought in the mind of the boy was, "I hope that it is something that will draw off attention from me!"

All the boys and servants were collected in the hall; Sir Hugh stood with his back to the door, but the movement of his hand and foot were expressive of passion, and its effect was seen in the frightened countenances of the domestics.

"Indeed, sir—indeed, I never saw it in my life?" whimpered the housemaid, fumbling her apron uneasily.

"Such a thing never happened in the house before," cried Mrs. Simmons. "I never knew of such a thing in all my born days!"

Even the boys looked grave and anxious. Willy wondered what could be the matter.

"I had them—I had them safe yesterday before dinner—I could take my affidavit upon it!" exclaimed the angry Sir Hugh. "This is a matter for the police. I'll not keep a pack of thieves in my house—"

"O sir! Oh! Your worship—I'm sure I never touched them!" sobbed the housemaid.

"You know that it's you, and you only, as cleans out that room," said Mrs. Simmons.

"But I had not even been in it since the morning. Oh dear! Oh my poor mother!" and the girl wept aloud.

"I'll examine every box in the house, not a trunk or a parcel shall be unsearched," cried Sir Hugh. "I'll have the constables in at once, and the offender shall be punished with all the rigour of the law, should he die in jail," added the knight with an oath, as he glanced fiercely round upon the household.

"What has happened?" whispered Willy softly to his brother.

"Sir Hugh has lost two ten-pound bank-notes."

"That is a great loss indeed," said Willy, to whom such a sum appeared a fortune.

"I'll come to the truth, depend upon it," cried Sir Hugh, "and the thief shall rue the day that he touched my property! I received the notes but yesterday, in a registered letter, I laid them on the table in their own green envelope—"

Tom and Willy started as if they had been shot.

"That envelope and its contents must be found, and shall be found! The thief shall be punished, though I should turn every servant out of doors!"

Willy trembled and became quite cold with the inward struggle between conscience and fear. Was he to turn that fiery gaze on himself—to draw down on his own head that torrent of passion? For a moment he lingered irresolute from the fear of wan, that bringeth a snare; then the fear of God triumphed.

"Sir," said he with a nervous voice, coming one step forwards, "I think that I know what has become of the bank-notes."

"You do, do you?" exclaimed Sir Hugh, turning suddenly round, while all present became silent as death, and every eye was fixed upon Willy. "And what has become of them, pray?"

"I burnt them, by accident, making a fire."

"Burnt them!" shouted the knight, in a voice that made the roof ring again; then striding fiercely up to the trembling boy, he repeated, "Burnt them! I'll teach you—"

"How the generous forgive," said a voice which made even Sir Hugh pause and look round, and his fierce angry eye fell beneath the gaze of a mild, gray-haired old man.

"O Uncle Presgrave!" exclaimed Willy, springing to his side.

The knight felt ashamed of the passion which he had shown towards a young guest, beneath his own roof. He was annoyed to think that Mr. Presgrave, while approaching the open door, must have heard all that passed between him and the boy. With a much altered tone, yet one not altogether free from traces of anger, he said, "Why, sir, this boy of yours has been confessing that he made a bonfire of two of my ten-pound notes!"

"He has kept what is better than gold," replied Mr. Presgrave, laying his hand on the shoulder of his nephew. "The bank-notes shall be replaced."

"Oh it is not the paltry money!" cried the knight impatiently. "I would not take it—it is not worth a thought! What are you all standing here for!" he exclaimed, angrily addressing the servants, who instantly retired, too glad to escape from his presence.

"Is my aunt better?" whispered Willy to his uncle.

"Ah! How is your good lady?" exclaimed Sir Hugh, glad of any change of conversation. "I hope that your coming here is a good sign of her improvement. Has her fever turned out to be typhus?"

"No, thanks be to God, it is not typhus fever; I trust that the crisis is past, that all danger is over; and as there now is no risk in the boys coming home, I shall relieve you from the trouble which you kindly undertook, and—"

"You will not take them back this evening!" cried Sir Hugh.

Mr. Presgrave glanced at the boys, and that glance was enough. "Their mother is longing to see them," he replied. "They had better, I think, walk back with me now; I will send for their boxes to-morrow."

Sir Hugh soon yielded a not very reluctant consent, and the old gentleman bade him courteously adieu. The boys shook hands with the knight and his son, but few words passed between them, and, with a feeling of unutterable relief, the young Gores found themselves on the outside of Anderdon Hall.

"Not one hour longer than necessary could I have left them in that furnace," thought their Uncle to himself as they passed through the shrubbery; but not a word was uttered until they were beyond the white lodge.

Poor Tom walked on with a heavy heart, which not even the thought of home could cheer. He felt himself lowered in the eyes of his brother, and sunk—oh how much sunk—in his own! In the hour of trial he had fallen away; he had not kept his post as a Christian soldier; he had suffered one younger, and not more implicated than himself, to stand forth alone to confess the truth, and never again could he utter the vain boast—"I am afraid of nothing and of nobody."

Mrs. Gore welcomed her sons with joy to their home; but she was soon struck by the expression of thought and care on the countenances of both, deepening into dejection on that of poor Tom. Willy's gravity was soon accounted for, but why was his brother so sad?

There was a weight on the poor boy's conscience, and he needed the relief of confession. He had not dared to tell the angry knight what was the truth, that he himself had placed the envelope in the hand of Willy, and, without examination, assured him that it was empty. But in the quiet of night, when his mother visited his room, and sat beside his bed, Tom felt that he could and must tell all. There were still more painful confessions to make. He had to own how, when absent from his mother, he had broken her commands, had borne to hear her principles called fancies, and Willy's filial love ridiculed and mocked—it was painful to confess, and painful to hear, but Tom felt happier when he had told all.

"And now, mother," he concluded, "can you forgive me?"

"It is not my forgiveness alone that is needed, my child; it is less against your mother than against Heaven that you have offended. What caused you to break the Fifth Commandment—to neglect your friend, to forsake your brother, to profane the holy day of the Lord? Not want of affection, of that I am sure—not want of reverence for the things of God—but 'the fear of man, that bringeth a snare,' overcoming the fear of the Lord. And why did your courage fail in the trial? Because, my son, your faith was weak; you went confiding in your own feeble strength, and when the waves of temptation arose, immediately you began to sink. The Saviour's words might have been spoken to you—'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?'"

"And now, what can I do?" sighed the boy.

"Ask for strength and it shall be given you; seek for pardon, it shall be found; keep a strict watch over your heart and your actions, my son; and when, like St. Peter, you have fallen through fear, repent truly like him, and like him you may receive grace to fight manfully under Christ's banner in the future!"