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The articles of capitulation having been ratified, as mentioned in
the last chapter, the Captain was anxious to set out immediately with
William, for Mr. Waddel's school; but Mrs. Mitten declared that it
would be impossible to prepare a suitable outfit for her son, short of
a fortnight. “Remember,” said she with a filling eye, “my poor
child is going among strangers, where he will find none to make or
mend for him. He is to be gone at least five months, even if you
will permit him to come home in the vacation; or if you will not,
then for a year, or it may be”—here Mrs. Mitten's swelling heart
stifled utterance. The Captain regarded her for a moment in silence,
in thoughtfulness, in petulance, in pity, and then said: “Well, if
there be a stranger thing on this green earth than a woman, I should
like to know what it is—at least a woman with a smart, pretty, good-for-nothing
son. I thought if there was anything in this world that
I did know, it was my own sister; but I find that I know nothing
about her. A woman! Let her be as good, as sensible, as amiable
as she may be, and give her a child, and forthwith her head is
turned topsy-turvey. She is as blind to her child's faults as a bat,
and she mistrusts everybody who is not as blind to them as she is.
I have come to the conclusion that a woman may have a soul before
she has a child, but never afterwards—that is, a sound one—a rational
one. After that, all is impulse or instinct with her—at least,
in all that touches her offspring. She may have a thousand proofs
that her indulgence is ruining her child, and she will indulge him
still. She will believe him before she will believe any one else;
and when his iniquities stand broadly out before her face, she will
find an apology for them all. He is `unfortunate,' or `he has been
tempted to vice by bad company,' or `he is slandered,' or `he is the
victim of envy,' or `prejudice,' or—”

“Why, dear me, brother David, I don't see what I've said or done
to call forth this harangue.”

“Why, you are talking and acting just as though I had taken your
child from you by force, and meant to afflict him in all forms possible.
`If you will permit him to come home in vacation, and if
not.' Do you suppose that I ever dreamed of keeping him away
from you during the holidays? Do you suppose that I take charge
of him only to torment him?”

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“My dear brother, don't be angry with me. I had not the most
distant idea of offending you in what I said. I never questioned for
a moment your kindly feelings towards me and my child; but have
some charity for a mother's love—folly, if you choose to call it so.
I never was separated from William a fortnight in my life. He is
not torn from me, but he is taken from me—with my consent—necessarily,
I grant, but it is a sore necessity. He is to be carried
among strangers, to be treated, I know not how. If sick, to suffer
for a mother's care—at least for a time—perchance to die for the
want of it. Now, when all these things crowd upon a mother's
heart, is it wonderful that it should be depressed?”

“I am not angry with you, Anna, that is—I—believe I am not.
I know I don't wish to be; but I am amazed at your want of firmness,
your want of resignation to necessities; your surrender of judgment
to feeling; your patience under present evils; and your distress
at imaginary ones. I am alarmed at the intimations you
already give, of the speedy blowing up of our arrangement—not
from a breach of your pledge, but from your anxieties, your griefs,
your fears, your yearning to be with your son, which will leave me
no alternative but to restore him to you, or to see you waste away
under their continual corrodings. I pray you nerve yourself up to
the exigencies of the case. That William can stay no longer here,
you know. That he is in the broad road to ruin here, I know, and
you ought to know. That he is getting beyond your control you
confess, and in a little time he will be beyond mine. Now, think of
these things, and let them reconcile you to any unpleasant issues of
our new arrangement. Let this reflection quiet, or at least solace all
future anxieties about your son. `It is impossible for things to be
worse than they are.' Be cheerful, at least till evils come, and bear
them with fortitude when they do come.”

Mrs. Mitten promised to do her best, and the Captain continued:

“Don't consume time in gathering up an extensive wardrobe
for your son. Let us get him out of this place as soon as possible;
for he is rotting here faster than a dead rat in August—”

“Oh, brother! How can you speak of your sister's child in that
way?”

“Well, I would have used a more delicate comparison, for your
sake, if I had thought of it; but as for Bill—however, get him
ready as soon as you can. A few changes of apparel is all that he
needs; and let them be plain and stout. Waddel's school is in the
woods, where nobody sees, and nobody cares how the boys are

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dressed. It is made up, I hear, principally of hardy rustic youths,
most of whom, probably, never had a broadcloth coat, a linen shirt,
or a pair of store-stockings on in their lives. If therefore, you send
your son among them, dressed out in fine clothes, you will expose
him to ridicule from his young companions, and to other petty annoyances,
which will give him a distaste for the place even greater
than he now has. Better for you, and for him, that his clothing be
cheap, plain, and durable.” Mrs. Mitten promised to get him ready
as soon as she could, and the Captain left her.

In the meantime, William behaved himself uncommonly well. He
was too much saddened by the prospect before him to relish either
amusements or books. He spent most of his time at home in deep
despondency; for as soon as it was noised abroad that William Mitten
was going to Waddel's school, the reports of Waddel's severities
doubled in number, and quadrupled in exaggeration. Any one, to
have heard them, as passed among the young ones of the village,
might have supposed that he fried a pair of little boys for breakfast,
and roasted a big one for dinner every day.

William had heard these reports in all their variations, and they
filled him with horror. His mother offered him encouragements
with the tongue, but discouragements with the eye, every day, the
last, of course, neutralized the first. After twelve days of preparation,
Mrs. Mitten informed her brother that William would be ready
to take his departure the next day. The Captain visited his sister
that night, to make all preliminary arrangements for the commencement
of the journey, early the next morning. He found the family
alone, for the hour of William's departure had been purposely kept
secret, to avoid the intrusion of visitors on this solemn evening.
They were all seated around the fire silent and dejected. On the
candle-stand, by the mother's side, lay the family Bible open—next
to her, in the order of their ages, sat the two daughters, and William
rested his drooping head upon the pillar of the mantle-piece. The
servants stood around, with their eyes fixed upon him, as if for the
last time. They had all just risen from prayers, hurried a little from
fear of interruption. The tears which from every eye had accompanied
the mother's devotion, had just ceased to flow. A death-like
silence reigned throughout the group, broken only by sighs more or
less heavy, as they rose from hearts more or less depressed. As the
Captain entered, all burst into tears afresh.

“What!” said he, with a feigned indifference to the scene, which
he did not feel, “All this mourning at sending a little shaver to
school!”

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The Captain was not a religious man, but he was almost persuaded
to be a christian; and the sight of his sister at prayer always inspired
him with an instinctive philosophy upon “souls,” much more impressive,
if not more rational, than the impulsive philosophy which
he had recently delivered. He glanced his eye to the candle stand,
and took his seat in the circle as mute as the mutest. A minute or
more elapsed before another word was spoken; and the first, to the
surprise of all, fell from William.

“Uncle,” said he, in a grief-stricken, faltering voice, “Uncle—
you can—save me—from going to Mr. Waddel's school, if you will.
It isn't too late yet—If you please, Uncle, don't send me there—
I'll go any where else in the world that you choose to send me, and
not complain. If you will only not send me to that school, I never
will disobey you, or Ma again. I know I've done wrong”—Here
the elder sister interposed, kneeling: “Oh, my dear Uncle, you
cannot, you will not, resist that—no, your streaming eyes tell me
you will not—here on my knees before you, I beg you, I implore
you”—“And I, Uncle,” said the younger, dropping by her sister's
side, “We both beseech you for your dear, our only brother. Why
that school, in preference to all other schools in the world?—”

“Girls be seated!” said the Captain; and they obeyed him.

A long pause in the conversation emboldened even the servants to
drop a word in William's behalf.

There was but one of the group who did not; and she felt more
than all of them together. Under circumstances so trivial, no poor
heart ever ran through such a hurricane of turbulent emotions in a
few short moments, as did hers. She had never seen her child so
moved by fear before. She had never seen him an humble suppliant
before; and now, it was to her substitute, not to her! She
had never heard such accents of humility and contrition from his
lips before. She had hardly ever before seen the manly cheek of her
brother moistened with a tear, and never hoped to see it, by the eloquence
of her boy. Long sinking hopes rose buoyantly from the
scene before her; she “would yet see her first anticipations from her
gifted son fully realized”—“her brother's censures would soon be
turned into praises; his roughness, to kindness.” Anxiety crowded
in upon hope—anxiety for the issue of her son's appeal. If successful,
“what then? where then?” Alarms pressed upon anxiety.
“If he is foiled in this appeal, will he ever make another—will he
not be driven to desperation?”

All these conflicting emotions she bore with marvelous composure;

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but when the first words of her brother's response fell upon her ear:
“God bless you, my dear, dear orphan boy!” her self command entirely
forsook her. She crossed her arms upon her Bible, dropt her
head upon them, cried “Amen! and Amen!” and sobbed convulsively,
loud and long.

“God bless you, my dear, dear orphan boy,” said the Captain,
“you are now in the right way, my son, and while you walk therein
your Uncle will be a father to you—he will love you, he will serve
you, he will do any and everything that he can, to make you happy.
If he deny you anything, be sure it is for your own good. And
now, if you or your Mother will tell me what other teacher I can
send you to, with any hope of having you well instructed, and your
morals well guarded, I will not send you to Mr. Waddel.”

“Can't you send me back to Mr. Markham?”

“Well, come, your Mother shall answer that question for me.”

“In an evil hour, son, I vowed you should never go back to Mr.
Markham,” said the mother.

“Well, Anna,” continued the Captain, “in the present state of
things, I think you are released from that vow; but supposing yourself
entirely released from it, would you be willing to keep William
longer in this town at any school?”

“Well, as he is penitent, and promises amendment, if I could
feel myself free from my vow, I believe I would be willing to see
him return to Mr. Markham. But it is not worth while to discuss
this subject; I cannot feel myself released from my vow. It is
known all over the village, and nobody will believe you put him
there without my consent; and every body will think I pretended to
turn William over to you, just to shuffle out of my vow. Be this as
it may, my conscience is involved in the matter, and I am not going
to expose it to any nice questions. If I err at all, let me err on
the safe side. I therefore, give no consent to his going to Mr. Markham,
and I would rather that you should not expose me to the suspicion
of having given my consent to it.”

“Well, William,” resumed the Captain, “that door's closed.
Now, hear me, my son. Don't you remember how sorry you were
that I did not have my way with you when you were taken from Mr.
Markham? Well, just so it will be by and by, if I do not have my
way with you now. You must get away from the bad boys of this
town. Haven't they often tempted you to do what you had fully resolved
not to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

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“Now, I know you think you will never be led away by them
again, if I let you stay here; but you will be as you have been.
You have been alarmed by false and foolish reports about Mr. Waddel's
severity and cruelty. If they were true, his school could not
be as celebrated as it is. He could not have the number of scholars
he has. I am told he has largely over a hundred scholars, some of
them the sons of the first men in the State, and that thousands of
people from far and near attend his exhibitions. If you'll go there,
and get a premium (as I know you can, if you will,) it will be worth
having. It will be heard of in two or three States. Come, son, try
Uncle's advice this one time. All things are ready now—the time
appointed for us to go—if we let it slip, you'll be here doing nothing
and worse than nothing, for I know not how long. Cheer up, my
boy; you can surely stand a school of such renown, and if you will
do your best, you will stand ahead of these big men's sons. Now,
what say you, son; will you go or not?”

“I'll go, Uncle,” said William, with a promptness and a firmness
that astonished all present.

“That's a fine fellow,” said the Captain. “I wouldn't take a
thousand dollars for my part in you, this day.”

William's decision was conclusive upon the family; and the
Mother felt herself in duty bound not to disturb it by word, action,
or look. She therefore assumed to be pleased, though she was so
confident of William's entire and radical reform, from what had just
passed before her, that she would have preferred Markham to Waddel,
if conscience had been out of the way.

“Anna,” said the Captain, “Mary” (his wife,) “and the children
will come over with me in the morning to bid William good-bye,
and Mary will spend the day with you. I shall be here with the
chaise, after an early breakfast, and let all things be ready.”

The Captain had anticipated some such scene as that which he
had just passed through, and to lighten the burden of it, he would
not allow his family to accompany him that night.

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