“there’s nothing on earth half so holy
as the innocent heart of a child.”
it was in the midst of morning lessons soon after at the beltham grammar school that an odd thing happened.
it was very hot; not a breath of wind came in at the open doors and windows—nothing but the blazing sunlight that lay in hot patches on the floor, and slowly baked blackboards and slates and desks. it was a very long room, this “great hall,” as they called it; half-a-dozen classes were at work in it, with as many masters; and at the end, on a little, raised platform, sat mr. burnham in front of his desk. he was looking through the euclid exercises of the fourth form, and his brow kept criss-crossing with lines of annoyance at any noise,—the hot, slumbrous air was quite enough to bear, without 79the occasional down-crashing of a pile of slates or the upsetting of a form.
then came the loud note of the locust—the whir-r-r, and pen-inimitable sound of its wings, inside the room, not out. who had dared to bring one of the prohibited creatures into school, after the endless penalties that had been imposed for the offence? mr. burnham scored a red line through one of the exercises and stood up in his place, a heavy frown on his face.
and at the same moment a very small shadow fell just inside the entrance door at the far end of the room, and a very small knock sounded there. nobody said “come in,” though a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes went in the direction with the swiftness natural to gratitude for any break in the monotony of morning school. then there stepped over the threshold a little, slight girl,—a little girl with a very short, holland frock, a great sun-hat, and no gloves; a little girl with a white, small face, great frightened eyes shining strangely, and soft lips very tightly closed. up the long, long room she went, both little hands held tightly together in front of her. no one could tell from the way she walked how her poor little knees were shaking and her poor little heart was beating.
80for a minute mr. burnham’s frown did not disappear—not till he noticed how white her face was; he told himself he had never seen a child’s face so white in all his life.
“what is it, little girl?” he said, and really thought he made his voice quite gentle and encouraging, though to poppet it sounded terrible.
“i——” she said—“you——” something rose in her throat that would not be strangled away, her face grew even whiter, and her lips, white too, twitched a little, but the words would not come.
he took her hand, the little trembling, shut, brown hand, and held it between his own.
“there is nothing to be afraid of, my child; tell me what it is you want”; he drew her closer to the desk, and sat down. he seemed less formidable in that position than towering above her—his eyes looked strangely kind; could it really be the terrible mr. burnham she had heard so much about? the hand he held fluttered a minute, then her lips moved again:
“bunty didn’t do it,” she said in a whisper.
“eh? what?” he said, mystified.
“he didn’t do it—bunty didn’t do it—oh, indeed.”
“but who is bunty? and who are you, my little 81maid?” mr. burnham said, with a smile that lit up his thoughtful eyes.
“he’s my brother,” she said in a voice that had gained a little strength.
then it struck her bunty was not so called at school.
“his name’s john woolcot,” she added, with downcast eyes; “i’m poppet.”
then mr. burnham remembered everything, and his eyes grew stern as he thought of the boy there 82had been so much trouble with; but they softened as they fell again on the little, white, eager face.
“and his little sister is taking up his cudgels; thankless work, i’m afraid—eh?” he said quizzically.
poppet was calm now,—the worst part of the ordeal was over, and she had actually gained the dread head master’s ear; she must make the most of her time.
“won’t you believe him?” she said; “indeed he didn’t do it—oh, indeed.”
“what?” he asked,—“break the window—tell a lie—anything? why, my little child, he owned to it.”
“yes,” said poppet, “he bwoke the glass, i know; and yes, he did tell one story.” her face fell after the last sentence, and a little red crept into her cheek. “but he didn’t take the money—oh no, no!—oh, bunty wouldn’t be a thief—oh, not for anything and anything—oh, indeed.”
the boys were staring at the little, white-faced girl at the head master’s desk, though they could not hear what was being said.
“would you like to come and talk to me privately?” mr. burnham said.
and “oh-h-h!” was poppet’s only answer; but the gratitude in her eyes was so intense, he guessed a little what the ordeal had been to her.
83away down the long room she went again, only this time her hand was being held in a firm, kindly grasp.
“oh!” she said again, when near the door a great, slouching fellow with a big head moved to help another boy with a blackboard.
“what?” said mr. burnham, when they were outside; he had noticed her intense interest.
“was that bull-dog hawkins—the fellow that told?” she said.
he smiled somewhat; hawkins was not a favourite of his, and the fitting name sounded odd on the little girl’s lips.
“his name is hawkins,” he said; “and yes, he gave the information; but that has nothing to do with it, my child. now, tell me what it is you have to say.”
he had taken her into a little room the walls of which were lined with books; he drew up a chair for himself, and one for her, but she preferred standing against his knee.
almost she convinced him, so great was the belief in her shining eyes, so utterly unshaken her trust. she told him everything, and he listened patiently and attentively even to the smallest detail, asking a question here and there, but for the most part; letting her tell her story in her own way.
84when she told of the kiss by the staircase window, she broke down a little; but he slipped his arm round her waist, and she shed her tears on his coat sleeve,—how bunty would have stared! she showed the dirty scrap of paper, and he read it thoughtfully.
“if only he had never told a lie before,” he said, “then perhaps——”
oh, if only she could have flung back her head and said, “he has never told a lie in his life, sir; never—never!”
shame at not being able to do so made the dear, curly head droop a little, and two more tears forced their way from under her eyelids and fell sadly down her cheek.
“i’m sure he never will again!” she said, with sorrowful hopefulness. “but, oh, sir, he couldn’t be a thief! oh, how could he?”
“well, i don’t see how he could be altogether bad with such a little sister,” he said slowly. “what sort of a boy is he at home? is he good to you?”
“oh yes,” said poppet,—“oh yes, indeed!”
and it is a fact that not a single act that disproved this came to the little girl’s mind. she remembered nothing but the times he had been good to her.
“twice i was sent to bed without tea, and he bwought me all his pudding in some newspaper,” 85she said eagerly; “and when i had difeeria, and they wouldn’t let him in, he used to climb up the creeper when no one was in the room and smile at me through the window. an’ another time i was ill he sat on the mat outside the door all night; meg found him in the morning asleep with his head on the oilcloth. an’ when it was my birthday—i was nine—and he had no money, so he sold his guinea-pigs to one of the fellows—and he liked them better than anything he’d got—and he went and bought me a doll’s pwambulator, ’cause peter smashed mine with filling it with stones. oh, and lots and lots and lots of things! he was vewy good to me—oh, indeed!”
such a flushed, little, eager face it was now—such a fluent little tongue that told of bunty’s goodness! the child’s beautiful trust, affection, and courage had quite touched the head master’s heart.
he took a bunch of keys from his pocket.
“you are a dear, brave, little girl, poppet,” he said. “by the way, haven’t you a prettier name than that?”
“oh, it’s winifred, of course, really,” said poppet.
“something in a name,” he said, half to himself. then aloud:
“well, winifred, then, just because you have believed in your brother and done this for him, i 86am going to reward you in the way i know will gladden you most.”
he unlocked a tin box on the table, and counted out five sovereigns, while the surprise in poppet’s eyes deepened every minute.
“have you a purse?” he asked.
“no,” she said in a very low tone. it made her feel fit to cry to think he should give her money, even such a large, beautiful amount, for doing this.
“because i want you to give this to captain woolcot,” he continued, “and tell him i have had reason to doubt whether john was guilty, and until i am perfectly sure it is not fair to the lad to take it.”
how poppet’s eyes shone, albeit the tears were not dry! how her lips smiled and quivered! and how the glad, warm colour rushed all over her little, sweet face! not a word of thanks she said, and he would not have had it; only she clung very tightly to his arm for a minute, and hid her face. when he saw it, he felt he had had more than thanks.
and that was not all he did. he took her back with him to the schoolroom, and walked up to the raised platform, and held her hand all the time.
“boys,” he said, in his clear, far-carrying voice, “i have reason to believe that john woolcot is not guilty of the theft that you have all heard of. i wish you all to give him the benefit of the doubt, 87since he is not here to clear himself. for my part, i believe him innocent.”
how the boys cheered! it was not that bunty was a special favourite, though he had his own friends; but they felt it was expected of them, and it was another break in the monotony to be able to do so. besides, they felt a vague pity and admiration for the little girl standing there, with such a smiling, tear-wet face.
after that mr. burnham took her all the way home to misrule himself. meg and nellie went into the drawing-room to see him, and poppet slipped away. he told them what the child had done, praised her high courage and simple faith. “if,” he said, as he took his leave an hour later,—“if all my boys had such sisters as little poppet is, my school would be a better place, and later, the world.”
