Chapter 9

RICHARD GOES TO THE TUNBROOK MILITARY INSTITUTE.

Richard had several times before been threatened with a residence at a boarding school. Most of his education had been obtained at home, under the superintendence of tutors, and special teachers in various branches. He had been under little or no restraint; and the consequence was, that his mental discipline had been very imperfect, and his stock of knowledge was small, considering the opportunities he had enjoyed.

His father had long been conscious of his deficiencies, and proposed to send him to a boarding school, for the benefit of its discipline; but Richard was so averse to the idea, that his father had from time to time postponed his departure. When Mr. Grant saw his son associating with bad boys he again proposed to send him, and had actually sought out a suitable place for him; but his own financial trials and troubles had prevented him from executing his purpose.

If Richard's education had failed to develop his intellect in an adequate degree, it had built up a sound and vigorous constitution. Riding on horseback, sailing and rowing, had been pastimes for which he had sacrificed intellectual culture. But there was still time to remedy this deficiency, for the youth was hardly sixteen.

The establishment which Mr. Grant had selected for the future residence of his son was the Tunbrook Military Institute, under the superintendence of Colonel Brockridge. This place had been chosen, not because it was a military institution, but because its principal was a thorough disciplinarian. He had the reputation of being a just and fair man, and was very popular with boys of strong constitution and decisive temperaments. No "milk-and-water" boys were ever sent to him; or, if they were, they soon left the Institute, or became vigorous and decided in their habits.

Colonel Brockridge had been in the army, though his title was won in the militia. He was a thorough teacher, and was conscientious and faithful in the discharge of his duties to those who were intrusted to his care. He was a "positive man," and no fear of what the father or mother would say or do ever induced him to alter his plans, or change his purposes.

Though the Institute was conducted on military principles, it was not peculiarly the school of the soldier. The principal believed in discipline; this was his hobby; and he believed that he could best secure system and order by adopting military routine. His success justified his theory. He had more applicants than he had places.

Richard knew all about the Tunbrook Military Institute. He had carefully read its circular, and its rules and regulations. They did not suit him. He was not a devotee of discipline, in its application to himself. He was very impatient of restraint, as the reader has already seen, and he did not like the idea of being sent to this Institute.

When his father had given him his final sentence, he retired to his chamber. The shame which attended the discovery of his guilt still rested heavily upon him, and he was in a more humble and tractable mood than usual. Under ordinary circumstances he would have rebelled against the decision of his father. He would have frightened his sister by threatening to run away to sea. It is true, this thought occurred to him on the present occasion; but Ben had told him enough about the life of a sailor to convince him that he should not improve his condition by such a course.

There seemed to be no alternative but passive obedience. He did not want to go, but he felt that his father must certainly conquer if he attempted to resist. He had always had his own way to a very great extent. He had always been a conqueror himself--at least he felt so, and he could not endure the thought of being compelled to yield implicit obedience to any person.

At this time Richard's thoughts took a peculiar turn. The shame he endured, the reproaches that had been heaped upon him, caused him to feel that there was something wanting in his character. The path in which he had been travelling, for the first time in his life seemed to lead to destruction. When he considered that he had been detected in the act of stealing, and of setting fire to a barn, and in practising a gross and wicked deception, he felt that his road was down hill; that he should become a dissolute and worthless man.

He was sitting on the stool of repentance. From a prudential penitence he had arrived at a genuine one. Something must be done. There was something to be conquered. There was a harder battle before him than any he had yet fought. He was master of the boats, of the horses, of the servants, and even of his companions at Whitestone; but there was one whom he had never conquered--one that held him in leading-strings, and was pulling him down to ruin and destruction.

He must conquer himself.

Richard had had such thoughts as these before, but they had never seemed so substantial as now. He felt the necessity of reforming his life and character--of conquering himself, his greatest enemy. As he looked upon his dissolute course, upon the events of the preceding night, and its fellow a week before, he was disgusted with himself, and wondered how he could so easily embrace his besetting sin.

While he was engaged in these reflections, his sister Bertha entered his chamber. She had heard of the sentence, and she had come to comfort him. Her eyes were still red with weeping, for she had almost lost hope of the reform of her brother.

"I have been trying to see you for the last two hours," said she, as she sat down by his side.

"Don't cry any more, Berty," said he, with unwonted tenderness.

"I will try not to do so, Richard. Father says you are going away to-morrow."

"Yes, Berty, I suppose I am," replied he, with an appearance of resignation.

"I shall miss you very much."

"It will be a good miss--won't it?"

"Why, Richard! You don't think so--do you?"

"Well, I have been a kind of nuisance to you."

"No, Richard; don't say that."

"I have been in all sorts of scrapes."

"I would a great deal rather have you stay at home, and--and----"

"And be a good boy," added Richard.

"That's what I mean, Richard."

"Berty, I think I have sowed all my wild oats now."

"I hope so."

"I suppose I have been a very bad boy," said he, with a kind of deprecating smile, as though he did not believe more than one half he said.

"It was all those bad boys you went with; if it hadn't been for them, you would have done very well. That Sandy Brimblecom hasn't done you any good."

"I hope I haven't done him any hurt, Berty. I won't be mean, when I get into trouble. I don't think Sandy is any worse than I am. I don't know but that he is a little better. I suppose he and I must part company now."

"It will be all for the best."

"Berty, I am off to-morrow. I have given you a great deal of trouble. I mean to do better. I am going to turn over a new leaf."

"O, I hope so, Richard!"

"I mean so, this time."

"I am so glad!"

"Don't you think father will let me stay at home, if I do well?"

"Perhaps he will."

"I don't like the idea of being put into a strait jacket, and tied to a bell rope."

"It would be hard for you."

"I can't stand it, any how. I have made up my mind to be a saint. I intend to keep out of all scrapes, and behave with perfect propriety all the time, night and day."

"I hope you are not jesting, Richard," said Bertha, who did not like the facetious language with which he clothed his resolutions.

"I'm in earnest. I mean every word I say. I solemnly promise you that I will be a pattern of propriety; but I don't like the Tunbrook Military Institute. I don't like the idea of being tied down to Colonel Brockridge's little finger; of being drummed and fifed here and there; and of reciting a Latin lesson at six o'clock in the morning, after an hour's drill on the parade ground. Berty, to tell you the truth, I don't believe I shall be able to keep my good resolutions, if I am to be tied to a bell rope, or have to move by the tap of a drum."

"I hope you will."

"If I could stay at home, and have my pony and my boat, I should do first rate."

Whatever the experienced reader may think of Richard's sincerity, he was uttering an honest opinion. He sincerely feared that his courage would not be equal to the work of submitting to the discipline of Tunbrook, and conquering himself, at one and the same time. Tunbrook and Colonel Brockridge seemed to be formidable obstacles in the path of reform.

"You would soon get used to the discipline of the Institute," suggested Bertha.

"I might get used to it as the old man's horse got used to living upon shavings--when he died. If I go, I shall try to submit; but I don't want to go."

"I don't see how it can be avoided. Father is determined that you shall go."

"You can save me from this strait jacket, if you will, Berty."

"What can I do, Richard?"

"Mr. Presby will do any thing you ask him to do. You can tell him that you think it would injure me to be sent to Tunbrook. Then he can talk with father about it; and father will do any thing that Mr. Presby wishes."

Bertha promised to speak to Mr. Presby about the matter, and she did so at once; but instead of Bertha convincing him that it would injure Richard to be sent to the Military School, he convinced her that it would be the best thing in the world for him.

"I am afraid I spoiled my own children by over indulgence, and I cannot counsel your father to do the same thing," said the old gentleman, with deep feeling.

Bertha returned to her brother with his answer. Richard was not angry, as she feared he would be, and this was a very hopeful sign. But he went over his argument against strait jackets, bell ropes, and drums and fifes, once more, and then proposed that he should be put on probation for one or two months; and if he did any thing wrong, he would submit without a murmur.

Bertha went to Mr. Presby again, and was so far successful that the old gentleman agreed to speak with Mr. Grant in the evening. He kept his promise, but the father carried a stronger argument than the friend of the family. Richard was doomed to go to the Military Institute, and the fact was patent to him before he retired. He felt as though he wanted to submit, but the unconquered enemy that had so often led him astray was rebellious.

He did not sleep well that night. He was excited by the prospect before him. His good resolutions seemed to be very shaky, and he found himself running away from them. When he heard the clock strike twelve, he actually jumped out of bed, under a sudden impulse, fully resolved to run away and go to sea. He thought he would take the Greyhound, and make his way down to the city and ship the next day. He put on a portion of his clothes, under the influence of this impulse.

"This would be becoming a saint with a vengeance!" said he to himself, as he threw off his clothes, and got into bed again. "I told Bertha I would try to submit, and I will."

This was the first decided advantage which Richard had gained over his great enemy; but the battle was a mere skirmish with the outposts of the potent foe. It was a victory, however, and it strengthened him. It improved the _morale_ of his fighting element.

He had resisted temptation, and angels ministered unto him. While they ministered, peace came, and he fell asleep.

At an early hour in the morning he was called by his father. With the assistance of Bertha he packed his trunk and prepared himself for the journey. He was sad, but submissive. At nine o'clock, having bid adieu to all his friends, and taken a sorrowful survey of Woodville, he and his father were driven down to the railroad station.

Before night they reached Tunbrook, and Richard was introduced to the terrible Colonel Brockridge. He was a little man of fifty, with great bushy red whiskers, whose whole face seemed to be eclipsed by the wonderful sharpness of his eyes. He shook hands with Richard, spoke to him very kindly, and hoped they should be good friends. The new recruit was shown to his quarters, as his room was called, and Mr. Grant took his leave.

Richard felt that he was alone with the future.