David Elginbrod. George MacDonald
to be altogether displeased.
“Well,” he answered, “I have my plans; but let us see first what you can do with yours. If they fail, perhaps you will oblige me by trying mine.”
This was said with the decisive politeness of one who is accustomed to have his own way, and fully intends to have it—every word as articulate and deliberate as organs of speech could make it. But he seemed at the same time somewhat impressed by Hugh, and not unwilling to yield.
Throughout the conversation, the lady had said nothing, but had sat watching, or rather scrutinizing, Hugh’s countenance, with a far keener and more frequent glance than, I presume, he was at all aware of. Whether or not she was satisfied with her conclusions, she allowed no sign to disclose; but, breakfast being over, rose and withdrew, turning, however, at the door, and saying:
“When you please, Mr. Sutherland, I shall be glad to show you what Harry has been doing with me; for till now I have been his only tutor.”
“Thank you,” replied Hugh; “but for some time we shall be quite independent of school-books. Perhaps we may require none at all. He can read, I presume, fairly well?”
“Reading is not only his forte but his fault,” replied Mr. Arnold; while Euphra, fixing one more piercing look upon him, withdrew.
“Yes,” responded Hugh; “but a boy may shuffle through a book very quickly, and have no such accurate perceptions of even the mere words, as to be able to read aloud intelligibly.”
How little this applied to Harry, Hugh was soon to learn.
“Well, you know best about these things, I daresay. I leave it to you. With such testimonials as you have, Mr. Sutherland, I can hardly be wrong in letting you try your own plans with him. Now, I must bid you good morning. You will, in all probability, find Harry in the library.”
CHAPTER II. HARRY’S NEW HORSE
Spielender Unterricht heisst nicht, dem Kinde Anstrengungen ersparen und abnehmen, sondern eine Leidenschaft in ihm erwecken, welche ihm die stärksten aufnöthigt und erleichtert.
It is not the intention of sportive instruction that the child should be spared effort, or delivered from it; but that thereby a passion should be wakened in him, which shall both necessitate and facilitate the strongest exertion.
Hugh made no haste to find his pupil in the library; thinking it better, with such a boy, not to pounce upon him as if he were going to educate him directly. He went to his own rooms instead; got his books out and arranged them,—supplying thus, in a very small degree, the scarcity of modern ones in the book-cases; then arranged his small wardrobe, looked about him a little, and finally went to seek his pupil.
He found him in the library, as he had been given to expect, coiled up on the floor in a corner, with his back against the book-shelves, and an old folio on his knees, which he was reading in silence.
“Well, Harry,” said Hugh, in a half-indifferent tone, as he threw himself on a couch, “what are you reading?”
Harry had not heard him come in. He started, and almost shuddered; then looked up, hesitated, rose, and, as if ashamed to utter the name of the book, brought it to Hugh, opening it at the title-page as he held it out to him. It was the old romance of Polexander. Hugh knew nothing about it; but, glancing over some of the pages, could not help wondering that the boy should find it interesting.
“Do you like this very much?” said he.
“Well—no. Yes, rather.”
“I think I could find you something more interesting in the book-shelves.”
“Oh! please, sir, mayn’t I read this?” pleaded Harry, with signs of distress in his pale face.
“Oh, yes, certainly, if you wish. But tell me why you want to read it so very much.”
“Because I have set myself to read it through.”
Hugh saw that the child was in a diseased state of mind, as well as of body.
“You should not set yourself to read anything, before you know whether it is worth reading.”
“I could not help it. I was forced to say I would.”
“To whom?”
“To myself. Mayn’t I read it?”
“Certainly,” was all Hugh’s answer; for he saw that he must not pursue the subject at present: the boy was quite hypochondriacal. His face was keen, with that clear definition of feature which suggests superior intellect. He was, though very small for his age, well proportioned, except that his head and face were too large. His forehead indicated thought; and Hugh could not doubt that, however uninteresting the books which he read might be, they must have afforded him subjects of mental activity. But he could not help seeing as well, that this activity, if not altered in its direction and modified in its degree, would soon destroy itself, either by ruining his feeble constitution altogether, or, which was more to be feared, by irremediably injuring the action of the brain. He resolved, however, to let him satisfy his conscience by reading the book; hoping, by the introduction of other objects of thought and feeling, to render it so distasteful, that he would be in little danger of yielding a similar pledge again, even should the temptation return, which Hugh hoped to prevent.
“But you have read enough for the present, have you not?” said he, rising, and approaching the book-shelves.
“Yes; I have been reading since breakfast.”
“Ah! there’s a capital book. Have you ever read it—Gulliver’s Travels?”
“No. The outside looked always so uninteresting.”
“So does Polexander’s outside.”
“Yes. But I couldn’t help that one.”
“Well, come along. I will read to you.”
“Oh! thank you. That will be delightful. But must we not go to our lessons?”
“I’m going to make a lesson of this. I have been talking to your papa; and we’re going to begin with a holiday, instead of ending with one. I must get better acquainted with you first, Harry, before I can teach you right. We must be friends, you know.”
The boy crept close up to him, laid one thin hand on his knee, looked in his face for a moment, and then, without a word, sat down on the couch close beside him. Before an hour had passed, Harry was laughing heartily at Gulliver’s adventures amongst the Lilliputians. Having arrived at this point of success, Hugh ceased reading, and began to talk to him.
“Is that lady your cousin?”
“Yes. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“I hardly know yet. I have not got used to her enough yet. What is her name?”
“Oh! such a pretty name—Euphrasia.”
“Is she the only lady in the house?”
“Yes; my mamma is dead, you know. She was ill for a long time, they say; and she died when I was born.”
The tears came in the poor boy’s eyes. Hugh thought of his own father, and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry laid his head on Hugh’s shoulder.
“But,” he went on, “Euphra is so kind to me! And she is so clever too! She knows everything.”
“Have you no brothers or sisters?”
“No, none. I wish I had.”
“Well, I’ll be your big brother. Only you must mind what I say to you; else I shall stop being him. Is it a bargain?”
“Yes, to be sure!” cried Harry in delight; and, springing from the couch, he began hopping feebly about the room on one foot, to express his pleasure.
“Well, then, that’s settled. Now, you must come and show me the horses—your ponies, you know—and the pigs—”
“I don’t like the pigs—I don’t know