 | CHAPTER XX. Master William Mitten, or, A youth of brilliant talents, who was ruined by bad luck |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
Captain Thompson breathed his last but a few minutes before William
reached his habitation. We need hardly say that he died happily—he
died triumphantly—not shouting, simply because in his last
moments, he had not strength to shout, but whispering “Glory,
Glory, Glory!”
William's entry into the death-chamber, served but to embitter
the griefs of all who filled it. A little while before Captain Thompson
expired, he said, “I have been looking anxiously for William—
I wished to give him my last counsels, as I have given them to the
older children, [his own and his sister's] but it is now too late. Tell
him, Anna, my last words to him were, `Love, honor, cherish and
obey your mother.”' These sentences were uttered amidst rests at
every three or four words.
Deep and all-prevailing as was the grief around the death-bed of
the uncle, the entry of the nephew startled every one, and nearly
overpowered his mother. Anguish of mind, loss of sleep, abstinence
from food, and fatigue from travel, had wrought the greatest
change in his appearance, that perhaps ever had been wrought in a
youth of his age, unvisited by disease. He walked, or rather tottered
to the corpse, kissed its cold lips, covered his face with his
hands, shrieked, and sunk to the floor. The Doctor who had not
yet left the room, raised him up, advised that he be removed from
the scene of grief to a bed in another apartment, and he assisted in
effecting what he advised. He returned and reported to Mrs. Mitten
that William needed medical aid, for that “he was quite unwell.”
She hastened to his bed side with the physician, and found him in a
high fever. He was prescribed for, and carried home as soon as
possible. Her forebodings of some great calamity had been realized
in the death of her brother; but she now believed that her son
would soon follow him; and her agony of soul can be better conceived
than described. Still she bore her afflictions like a christian;
with no other demonstrations of grief than streaming eyes, deep-drawn
sighs, and saddened countenance.
A few weeks before Captain Thompson's death, he and five or six
other gentlemen of the village had, upon Mr. Markham's suggestion,
agreed to furnish the means for giving John Brown a collegiate education.
Mr. Markham, after having taught John gratuitously from
the day that he acquitted himself so creditably at the exhibition, set
to it. How this excellent man came to enlist so warmly
and efficiently in John's favor, is worthy of record. A short vacation
followed the exhibition, and at the opening of the term John
was missing from school. At twelve o'clock, Mr. Markham went to
his mother's to learn the cause of his absence. He found John seated
on the door-step, weeping bitterly.
“Well, John,” said he, “what's the matter, son?”
“Mammy says she can't send me to school any more.”
“Why, that's bad; but I reckon you wouldn't study much, if she
was to send you again.”
“Yes, sir, I would; I'd study harder than ever I did in all my
life. You should never have to whip me again, as long as you live.”
“Why, that would be a wonderful improvement, John, for I've
generally had to whip you at least twice a week, ever since you first
came to me.”
“I know that, sir, because I didn't care about going to school at
first; but now I want to go to school; and if I could go back, you'd
never have to whip me again, I know you wouldn't.”
By this time, Mrs. Brown was at the door.
“Walk in, Mr. Markham!” said she, “I never did see a boy take
on so about going to school, as John has all the morning, in all my
born days. 'Twas much as I could do to get him off to school before;
but now he takes on at sitch a rate to go to school, that I can't
help feeling na'trally right sorry for him.”
“Well, why won't you let him go, Mrs. Brown?”
“Well, Mr. Markham, ra'lly the truth is, I an't able to pay his
schoolin'. You know mighty well what my husband is, and therefore
'taint worth while to be mealy-mouthed about it; he jist na'trally
drinks up, e'en about every little that I can rake together, that he
can lay his hands on. He's a good hearted, clever, hard-working
man, when he's sober; but he's all the time drunk—'tan't worth
while for me to be tryin' to hide it from you, Mr. Markham; every
body knows it. 'Cept the time Judge Yearly put him in jail for
gwine into court drunk as a jurior, he's hardly drawn one sober breath
since, and you know, Mr. Markham, it's mighty hard for one poor
lone woman like me to get along with three little children, and a
drunken husband besides. Seems to me sometimes that I should
na'trally jist give up. And I b'lieve I—Oh yes, I know I would—
ha' give up long ago, if it hadn't been for your wife, and five or six
other good ladies in town, who've holp me mightily. But after all I
for what little schoolin' I could give him, since he's been to you. I
think Johnny would take larning mighty well if he had a chance.
You know he did mighty well at your—at your—show. People took
on mightily at Johnny's doins' that day, and I wish he could have a
chance to git more larning, but I an't able to give it to him—it's a
fact—I an't able to do it, Mr. Markham, and I may as well jist tell
the plain, naked truth about it.”
“Well, Mrs. Brown, your's is really a right hard case. How long
could you spare John to go to school, if it cost you nothing to send
him?”
“Oh, la messy; that would be the onliest thing in the world for
Johnny. I'd be mighty willin' for him to stay till he gets clean
through for my part, and be glad of it. It would be a mighty great
thing if Johnny could git larnin' enough to keep a school himself,
now wouldn't it, Mr. Markham? You must make a heap o' money
at it, havin' so many scholars as you always have, and gittin' your
money every quarter?”
“But if I take John to teach him, won't your husband take him
away from me before he gets through?”
“Oh, la, no! He has nothin' to do with the children, no how,
poor drunken creater! Besides, he shouldn't do it.”
“But how would you prevent him!”
“I could prevent him easy enough. Do you think I'd let him,
who don't do a hand's stirrin' towards feedin' and clothin' my children,
take one of them away from gettin' larnin' for nothin'? No,
sir, he'd no more dare to do it than he'd put his hand in the fire.”
“Well, Mrs. Brown, if you'll promise me that you won't take John
away till he gets through, and that your husband shall not, I'll take
John, and if he will behave himself, I'll make him a great scholar—
able to keep any sort of a school. I'll furnish all his books for him,
and teach him, and it shan't cost you a cent.”
“Yes, that I do promise for both— Behave himself! If he don't,
I reckon you know how to make him; and if you can't, jest send
him home to me, and I'll give him such a cawhallopin', that I'll be
bound he'll never misbehave again while his head's hot, to a man
that's done so much for him.”
“Well, send him over to school in the morning, and we'll see what
we can do for him.”
While this conversation was in progress, John's eyes expanded
from a couple of cracks to a couple of pretty respectable key holes,
snapping his fingers in unspeakable delight. As Mr. Markham was
retiring, “Stop a little, Mr. Markham,” said Mrs. Brown. He
stopped.
“Where's your manners, sir,” continued she to John. “Make a
bow to Mr. Markham, and thank him for what he's gwine to do for
you!”
John gave Mr. Markham a bow of his own teaching, excellent for
the stage, but quite too formal for the signal of private thanksgiving,
under Mrs. Brown's dictation. He delivered himself, however,
in his own language:
“Mr. Markham, I'm very much obleeged—”
“Obliged, John.”
Mrs. B. “What, have you been gwine to school all this time
and don't know how to call words yet!”
Mr. M. “John's is a very common mistake.”
John, conceiving that his bow and his thanks had got too far apart,
repoated his bow as before, and commenced again:
“Mr. Markham, I'm very much obliged to you for your goodness.
I always said you was—”
“Were, John.”
“I always said you were the best man I ever seen.”
“Saw, John.”
Mrs. B. “Why, that boy don't know no better how to talk than
me, who han't had no schoolin' at all.”
“Well, never mind, never mind, John,” said Mr. Markham, fearing
John would go back to his bow and begin again. “Your heart's
right, my boy, and I'll soon set your tongue right. Mrs. Brown,
you're going to see John a big man some of these days.” So saying,
he retired in haste—in haste for two reasons: the one was, that he
might relieve himself from the laughter with which he had been
filling up from the beginning to the end of the interview; and the
other was, to disembarrass John, who, between his corrections, and
his mother's comments, was likely to become inextricably bewildered.
John was the first boy at school the next morning; and thenceforward
Mr. Markham never had cause to correct him, or even to reprove
him. He soon became one of the best scholars in the school,
distinguished himself at every examination and exhibition, and in
a short time became such a popular favorite that when Mr. Markham
proposed to the citizens to unite in raising a fund to give him a liberal
education, he had not the least difficulty in finding the requisite
number of contributors.
Just before Captain Thompson's last sickness, the arrangement had
been made for David Thompson, George Markham and John Brown,
to leave for Princeton College, N. J., on the 10th of the ensuing
November. Princeton was, at that time, in the South at least, the
most renowned College in the Union. Captain Thompson appointed
Mr. Markham one of the executors of his will, and authorized him
to appropriate any sum out of his estate that he might deem necessary,
to the education of John Brown, not exceeding one hundred
dollars per annum. He also appointed Mr. Markham testamentary
guardian of his two sons, David and George, until the completion of
their education; directing that “in all matters touching the education
of his two sons, should a difference of opinion arise between his
wife [his other representative] and Mr. Markham, his judgment
should be decisive.”
After an illness of two weeks, William Mitten recovered, and at
the end of four, his health was entirely restored. About this time,
his mother said to him:
“William, isn't it time for you to think of returning to Dr. Waddel's?”
“Mother,” said he, “I can never go back to Dr. Waddel's.”
“What!” exclaimed she, horror-stricken, “Oh, my dear, departed
brother! Is this affliction to be added to the thousand that thy
death has cost me?”
“No, mother, if uncle were alive, he never could induce me to return
to Dr. Waddel's. I feared him, I loved him, I adored him, to
the day of his death. If I could have saved his life by having my
right arm chopped off, I would have done it freely; but uncle could
never have induced me to go back to Willington.”
“William, in mercy to me, tell me quickly, why?”
“Because I have disgraced myself there.”
“Disgraced yourself there! Oh, how little we poor mortals know
what to pray for! Would that you had died on the bed from which
you have just risen!—No, my heavenly Father, pardon me!—In
disgrace you were not fit to die; in disgrace you are not fit to live.
William, let me know the worst—don't keep me a moment longer in
suspense, if you have any respect for me—I may he able to survive
the disclosure, if you make it immediately: I may not be able to
survive it, if you keep me a few days in this agony of suspense.”
“I have lied, I have gambled, I have drank, and been detected in
all, and exposed before the whole school—”
“Is that all?—is that the worst!”
“Yes, ma'am, that's the worst: and I don't know what could be
worse.”
“Bad enough—bad, indeed; but it might have been worse. I
have nothing to say in defence of these sins; but how did you rush
into them so speedily, after your return?”
“That infern—, that abominable horse!”
“How could he have involved you in this series of offences, in so
short a time?”
William gave his mother a full and truthful account of all the difficulties
in which his horse had involved him. When he had concluded,
she resumed:
“I was sure that things had been going wrong with you, from the
brief letter you wrote, and which did not reach me until some days
after your return. It bore' the marks of great carelessness and want
of feeling.”
“That letter was part of the deceit which I began to practice on
you and Uncle before I left here, and which I was carrying on, when
I was detected by Mr. Waddel.”
“Well, William, you have learned from short, but sad experience,
the consequences of vice; and now abanden it forever. I am under
inexpressible obligations to Mr. Waddel, for his vigilance in arresting
you in it, before it could become a habit with you. And, now,
my advice to you is, to return to his school, do your first works over
again, and retrieve your character, as you soon will, where you lost it.”
“No, mother, I cannot go back there; I'd rather die than do it.”
“Well, what will you do, my son? What school will you go to?”
“I don't care about going into any school. If you are willing, I
will go into a store as a clerk?”
“Mercy on me, William! Close up all your bright prospects—
bury your brilliant talents among goods and groceries! No, my son,
I never can consent to that.”
“Why, ma; almost all the merchants in town began as clerks, and
see how rich and respectable they are!”
“But Providence has given you talents above this calling!”
“My talents have done me very little good as yet, and I doubt
whether they ever will do me any. What good will Latin and Greek
do me? Nobody speaks Latin and Greek. I don't see any good in
anything hardly, that we learn at school. I think I had better stay
here with you, and take care of you, and be trying to get an honest
living, than to be running off to school, where I will be constantly
under temptations.”
“Well, my son, there is a good deal of force in your remarks. It
will cost a hard struggle to give up my fond hopes of your future
distinction; but I can easily reconcile myself to your position in life
as a respectable, wealthy, private citizen. It will be a great comfort
to have you all the time with me. But let us think a while longer
before we decide upon this matter.”
While it was held under advisement, Doctor Waddel's promised
letter arrived. After tender expressions of condolence with Mrs.
Mitten and her brother's family in their recent bereavement, it continued:
“But the main object of this letter is to offer your son encouragements
to return to school. He left here under great depression of
spirits, and under the impression that his character was irretrievably
lost. No one in this vicinity, in or out of the school, thinks so. Now
that the story of his misfortunes is fully understood, every one attributes
them to a train of untoward circumstances which surrounded
him, on his return hither, rather than to depravity of heart. Indeed,
he has some noble traits of character, which almost entirely
conceal his faults from the eyes of the public and his school-fellows—
I say the public, for though it is a very uncommon thing for the public
to know or notice school-boy delinquencies, yet so wide-spread
was William's reputation from his performances at our last Examination
and Exhibition, that every one who knows him takes an interest
in him, and every one, I believe, regards him with more of sympathy
than censure. All would rejoice, I doubt not, to hear of his
return to the school, and his return to his good habits. Gilbert Hay,
his room-mate and bed-fellow, bids me say that he loves him yet, and
that the half of his bed is still reserved for him; and the feelings of
Gilbert Hay towards him, I believe, are the feelings of nine-tenths
of the school towards him. For myself, I shall give him a cordial
welcome. But you will naturally ask, what will be my dealings
with him, if he return? I answer the question very frankly: I shall
feel myself bound to correct him; though in so doing I shall not
forget the many circumstances of extenuation in his case. Had he
been guilty of but one offence, and that of a veneal nature, I should
freely forgive it, as is my custom, with the first offence. But he has
been guilty of several offences, and though none of them are very
rare in schools, they are, nevertheless, such as I have never allowed to
go unpunished in my school, and which I could not allow to escape
with impunity in this instance, without setting a dangerous precedent,
as well as showing marked partiality. I have reason to believe
faults, even though it were much severer than it will be, if that
would restore him to his lost position; now, I can hardly conceive
of anything better calculated to have that effect, than his volunteering
to take the punishment which he knows awaits him on his return,
when he might perchance avoid it by abandoning the school.
But with or without the punishment, he has only to be, for ten
months, what he has been for nearly as many, to regain the confidence
of everybody. Nothing but the peculiar circumstances of this
case, and the very lively interest which I take in the destiny of your
highly-gifted son, could have induced me to write a letter so liable
to misconstruction, as this is. But brief as is our acquaintance, I
think you will credit me, when I assure you, that my own pecuniary
interest has had no more to do with it, than yours will have in deliberating
upon its contents. Verily, the loss or gain of a scholar is
nothing to
| CHAPTER XX. Master William Mitten, or, A youth of brilliant talents, who was ruined by bad luck | |