deven367/babylm-100M-gutenberg · Datasets at Hugging Face

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petition. "You only abet him, sir!" she cried. "If I had to do it
myself, it should be done!" And Harry, with sadness and wrath in his
countenance, left the room by the door through which Mr. Ward and his
brother had just issued.
The widow sank down in a great chair near it, and sat a while vacantly
looking at the fragments of the broken cup. Then she inclined her head
towards the door. For a while there was silence; then a loud outcry,
which made the poor mother start.
Mr. Ward came out bleeding from a great wound on his head, and behind him
Harry, with flaring eyes, and brandishing a little ruler of his
grandfather, which hung, with others of the Colonel's weapons, on the
library wall.
"I don't care. I did it," says Harry. "I couldn't see this fellow strike
my brother; and as he lifted his hand, I flung the great ruler at him. I
couldn't help it. I won't bear it; and if one lifts a hand to me or my
brother, I'll have his life," shouts Harry, brandishing the hanger.
The widow gave a great gasp and a sigh as she looked at the young
champion and his victim. She must have suffered terribly during the few
minutes of the boys' absence; and the stripes which she imagined had been
inflicted on the elder had smitten her own heart. She longed to take both
boys to it. She was not angry now. Very likely she was delighted with the
thought of the younger's prowess and generosity. "You are a very naughty,
disobedient child," she said in an exceedingly peaceable voice. "My poor
Mr. Ward! What a rebel to strike you! Let me bathe your wound, my good
Mr. Ward, and thank Heaven it was no worse. Mountain! Go fetch me some
court-plaster. Here comes George. Put on your coat and waistcoat, child!
You were going to take your punishment, sir, and that is sufficient. Ask
pardon, Harry, of good Mr. Ward, for your wicked, rebellious spirit. I
do, with all my heart, I am sure. And guard against your passionate
nature, child, and pray to be forgiven. My son, oh my son!"
Here with a burst of tears which she could no longer control the
little woman threw herself on the neck of her first born, whilst Harry
went up very feebly to Mr. Ward, and said, "Indeed, I ask your pardon,
sir. I couldn't help it; on my honour, I couldn't; nor bear to see my
brother struck."
The widow was scared, as after her embrace she looked up at George's pale
face. In reply to her eager caresses, he coldly kissed her on the
forehead, and separated from her. "You meant for the best, mother," he
said, "and I was in the wrong. But the cup is broken; and all the king's
horses and all the king's men cannot mend it. There--put the fair side
outwards on the mantelpiece, and the wound will not show."
Then George went up to Mr. Ward, who was still piteously bathing his eye
and forehead in the water. "I ask pardon for Hal's violence, sir," he
said in great state. "You see, though we are very young, we are
gentlemen, and cannot brook an insult from strangers. I should have
submitted, as it was mamma's desire; but I am glad she no longer
entertains it."
"And pray, sir, who is to compensate me?" says Mr. Ward; "who is to
repair the insult done to _me_?"
"We are very young," says George, with another of his old-fashioned bows.
"We shall be fifteen soon. Any compensation that is usual amongst
gentlemen--"
"This, sir, to a minister of the Word!" bawls out Ward, starting up, and
who knew perfectly well the lad's skill in fence, having a score of times
been foiled by the pair of them.
"You are not a clergyman yet. We thought you might like to be considered
as a gentleman. We did not know."
"A gentleman! I am a Christian, sir!" says Ward, glaring furiously, and
clenching his great fists.
"Well, well, if you won't fight, why don't you forgive?" says Harry. "If
you won't forgive, why don't you fight? That's what I call the horns of a
dilemma." And he laughed his jolly laugh.
But this was nothing to the laugh a few days afterwards, when, the
quarrel having been patched up along with poor Mr. Ward's eye, the
unlucky tutor was holding forth according to his custom, but in vain. The
widow wept no more at his harangues, was no longer excited by his
eloquence. Nay, she pleaded headache, and would absent herself of an
evening, on which occasions the remainder of the little congregation were
very cold indeed. One day Ward, still making desperate efforts to get
back his despised authority, was preaching on the necessity of obeying
our spiritual and temporal rulers. "For why, my dear friends," he asked,
"why are the governors appointed, but that we should be governed? Why are
tutors engaged, but that children should be taught?" (Here a look at the
boys.) "Why are rulers--" Here he paused, looking with a sad, puzzled
face at the young gentlemen. He saw in their countenances the double
meaning of the unlucky word he had uttered, and stammered and thumped the
table with his fist. "Why, I say are rulers--rulers--"
"_Rulers_," says George, looking at Harry.
"Rulers!" says Hal, putting his hand to his eye, where the poor tutor
still bore marks of the late scuffle. "Rulers, o-ho!" It was too much.
The boys burst out in an explosion of laughter. Mrs. Mountain, who was
full of fun, could not help joining in the chorus; and little Fanny
Mountain, who had always behaved very demurely and silently at these
ceremonies, crowed again, and clapped her little hands at the others
laughing, not in the least knowing the reason why.
This could not be borne. Ward shut down the book before him; in a few
angry but eloquent and manly words said he would speak no more in that
place; and left Castlewood not in the least regretted by Madame Esmond,
who had doted on him three months before.
After the departure of her unfortunate spiritual adviser and chaplain,
Madame Esmond and her son seemed to be quite reconciled: but although
George never spoke of the quarrel with his mother, it must have weighed
upon the boy's mind very painfully, for he had a fever soon after the
last recounted domestic occurrences, during which illness his brain once
or twice wandered, when he shrieked out, "Broken! Broken! It never,
never, can be mended!" to the silent terror of his mother, who sat
watching the poor child as he tossed wakeful upon his midnight bed. That
night, and for some days afterwards, it seemed very likely that poor
Harry would become heir of Castlewood; but by Mr. Dempster's skilful
treatment the fever was got over, the intermittent attacks diminished in

petition. "You only abet him, sir!" she cried. "If I had to do it

myself, it should be done!" And Harry, with sadness and wrath in his

countenance, left the room by the door through which Mr. Ward and his

brother had just issued.

The widow sank down in a great chair near it, and sat a while vacantly

looking at the fragments of the broken cup. Then she inclined her head

towards the door. For a while there was silence; then a loud outcry,

which made the poor mother start.

Mr. Ward came out bleeding from a great wound on his head, and behind him

Harry, with flaring eyes, and brandishing a little ruler of his

grandfather, which hung, with others of the Colonel's weapons, on the

library wall.

"I don't care. I did it," says Harry. "I couldn't see this fellow strike

my brother; and as he lifted his hand, I flung the great ruler at him. I

couldn't help it. I won't bear it; and if one lifts a hand to me or my

brother, I'll have his life," shouts Harry, brandishing the hanger.

The widow gave a great gasp and a sigh as she looked at the young

champion and his victim. She must have suffered terribly during the few

minutes of the boys' absence; and the stripes which she imagined had been

inflicted on the elder had smitten her own heart. She longed to take both

boys to it. She was not angry now. Very likely she was delighted with the

thought of the younger's prowess and generosity. "You are a very naughty,

disobedient child," she said in an exceedingly peaceable voice. "My poor

Mr. Ward! What a rebel to strike you! Let me bathe your wound, my good

Mr. Ward, and thank Heaven it was no worse. Mountain! Go fetch me some

court-plaster. Here comes George. Put on your coat and waistcoat, child!

You were going to take your punishment, sir, and that is sufficient. Ask

pardon, Harry, of good Mr. Ward, for your wicked, rebellious spirit. I

do, with all my heart, I am sure. And guard against your passionate

nature, child, and pray to be forgiven. My son, oh my son!"

Here with a burst of tears which she could no longer control the

little woman threw herself on the neck of her first born, whilst Harry

went up very feebly to Mr. Ward, and said, "Indeed, I ask your pardon,

sir. I couldn't help it; on my honour, I couldn't; nor bear to see my

brother struck."

The widow was scared, as after her embrace she looked up at George's pale

face. In reply to her eager caresses, he coldly kissed her on the

forehead, and separated from her. "You meant for the best, mother," he

said, "and I was in the wrong. But the cup is broken; and all the king's

horses and all the king's men cannot mend it. There--put the fair side

outwards on the mantelpiece, and the wound will not show."

Then George went up to Mr. Ward, who was still piteously bathing his eye

and forehead in the water. "I ask pardon for Hal's violence, sir," he

said in great state. "You see, though we are very young, we are

gentlemen, and cannot brook an insult from strangers. I should have

submitted, as it was mamma's desire; but I am glad she no longer

entertains it."

"And pray, sir, who is to compensate me?" says Mr. Ward; "who is to

repair the insult done to _me_?"

"We are very young," says George, with another of his old-fashioned bows.

"We shall be fifteen soon. Any compensation that is usual amongst

gentlemen--"

"This, sir, to a minister of the Word!" bawls out Ward, starting up, and

who knew perfectly well the lad's skill in fence, having a score of times

been foiled by the pair of them.

"You are not a clergyman yet. We thought you might like to be considered

as a gentleman. We did not know."

"A gentleman! I am a Christian, sir!" says Ward, glaring furiously, and

clenching his great fists.

"Well, well, if you won't fight, why don't you forgive?" says Harry. "If

you won't forgive, why don't you fight? That's what I call the horns of a

dilemma." And he laughed his jolly laugh.

But this was nothing to the laugh a few days afterwards, when, the

quarrel having been patched up along with poor Mr. Ward's eye, the

unlucky tutor was holding forth according to his custom, but in vain. The

widow wept no more at his harangues, was no longer excited by his

eloquence. Nay, she pleaded headache, and would absent herself of an

evening, on which occasions the remainder of the little congregation were

very cold indeed. One day Ward, still making desperate efforts to get

back his despised authority, was preaching on the necessity of obeying

our spiritual and temporal rulers. "For why, my dear friends," he asked,

"why are the governors appointed, but that we should be governed? Why are

tutors engaged, but that children should be taught?" (Here a look at the

boys.) "Why are rulers--" Here he paused, looking with a sad, puzzled

face at the young gentlemen. He saw in their countenances the double

meaning of the unlucky word he had uttered, and stammered and thumped the

table with his fist. "Why, I say are rulers--rulers--"

"_Rulers_," says George, looking at Harry.

"Rulers!" says Hal, putting his hand to his eye, where the poor tutor

still bore marks of the late scuffle. "Rulers, o-ho!" It was too much.

The boys burst out in an explosion of laughter. Mrs. Mountain, who was

full of fun, could not help joining in the chorus; and little Fanny

Mountain, who had always behaved very demurely and silently at these

ceremonies, crowed again, and clapped her little hands at the others

laughing, not in the least knowing the reason why.

This could not be borne. Ward shut down the book before him; in a few

angry but eloquent and manly words said he would speak no more in that

place; and left Castlewood not in the least regretted by Madame Esmond,

who had doted on him three months before.

After the departure of her unfortunate spiritual adviser and chaplain,

Madame Esmond and her son seemed to be quite reconciled: but although

George never spoke of the quarrel with his mother, it must have weighed

upon the boy's mind very painfully, for he had a fever soon after the

last recounted domestic occurrences, during which illness his brain once

or twice wandered, when he shrieked out, "Broken! Broken! It never,

never, can be mended!" to the silent terror of his mother, who sat

watching the poor child as he tossed wakeful upon his midnight bed. That

night, and for some days afterwards, it seemed very likely that poor

Harry would become heir of Castlewood; but by Mr. Dempster's skilful

treatment the fever was got over, the intermittent attacks diminished in