The One Moss-Rose | Page 6

render to them good for evil."
When Leonard Dobbin arrived James Courtenay had been sent for, and had been obliged with crimsoned cheeks to listen to this story of the poor crippled boy's feelings; and now he would have given all the roses in the world, if they were his, to restore poor Jacob to life, or never to have meddled with his flower; but what had been done could not be undone, and no one could awake the poor boy from his long cold sleep in the silent grave.
"Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, after he had sat for some time moodily, with his face buried in his hands, "this is the worst blow I have ever had in life. I would give ��10,000 hard money, down on that table, this very moment, that my boy had never touched your boy's rose. But what is done cannot be undone; go home, and when I've thought upon this matter I'll see you again."
"Meyers," said the squire, turning to the other tenant, "I was hasty in saying a little while ago that I'd turn you out of your farm next Michaelmas; you need have no fear about the matter; instead of turning you out, I'll give you a lease of it. I hope you won't talk more than can be helped about this terrible business. Now go."
The two men stood talking together for a while at the lodge before they left the grounds of the great house; and old Leonard could not help wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his rough coat, as he said to Meyers, "Ah, neighbour, 'tis sore work having a child without the fear of God before his eyes. I'd rather be the father of poor Jacob in his grave, than of the young squire up yonder at the Hall."
* * * * *
Bitter indeed were Squire Courtenay's feelings and reflections when the two old men had left, and, his son having been ordered off to his chamber, he found himself once more alone. The dusk of the evening came on, but the squire did not seem to care for food, and, in truth, his melancholy thoughts had taken all appetite away. At last he went to the window, which looked out over a fine park and a long reach of valuable property, and he began to think: What good will all these farms do this boy, if the tenants upon them only hate him, and curse him? Perhaps, with all this property, he may come to some bad end, and bring disgrace upon his family and himself. And then the squire's own heart began to smite him, and he thought: Am not I to blame for not having looked more closely after him, and for not having corrected him whenever he went wrong? I must do something at once. I must send him away from this place, where almost every one lets him do as he likes, until he learns how to control himself, at least so far as not to do injustice to others.
Meanwhile the young squire's punishment had begun. When left to the solitude of his room, after having heard the whole of Leonard Dobbin's account of Jacob's death, a great horror took possession of his mind. Many were the efforts the young lad made to shake off the gloomy thoughts which came trooping into his mind; but every thought seemed to have a hundred hooks by which it clung to the memory, so that once in the mind, it could not be got rid of again. At length the young squire lay down upon his bed, trembling as if he had the ague, and realizing how true are the words, that "our sin will find us out," and that "the way of transgressors is hard."
At last, to his great relief, the handle of his door was turned, and old Aggie made her appearance.
"O Aggie, Aggie," cried James Courtenay, "come here. I'm fit to die, with the horrid thoughts I have, and with the dreadful things I see. Jim Meyers said I murdered Jacob Dobbin; and I believe I have, though I didn't intend to do it. I wish I had never gone that way; I wish I had never seen that rose; I wish there had never been a rose in the world.--O dear, my poor head, my poor head! I think 'twill burst;" and James Courtenay put his two hands upon the two sides of his head, as though he wanted to keep them from splitting asunder.
Aggie saw that there was no use in speaking while James Courtenay's head was in such a state as this. All she could do was to help him into bed, and give him something to drink,--food he put from him, but drink he asked for again and