Chapter V: Robert's Confession

WITHOUT another word on the painful subject, Mr. Woodward began to talk about some news he had read in his paper. By selecting the choicest tit-bits, he coaxed his wife's failing appetite, to eat enough to sustain her strength through the anxieties of the afternoon.

"Let me manage him," she pleaded as they arose from the table. "I shall not feel that I have discharged my duty to the poor child unless I talk with him."

"But, Josephine, he imposes on you. He is a shameless liar."

"I had rather try to make him confess," she still urged. "I know where to go for wisdom."

"Have it your own way, Josephine," said her husband with some irritation in his voice and manner, "and see where you and he will come out."

He put on his hat to go, then came back, and added tenderly. "It is for your own sake I said that. I know you are better fitted to move the boy than any one; that is, if he has any conscience left, which I doubt. But Josephine, don't give the boy a particle of encouragement that he can stay here. I wont have you so worried for a dozen like him."

She put her hand in his to show that she understood and appreciated his tenderness. Then turning, she walked slowly and deliberately toward the library.

Robert had thrown himself into the most comfortable chair, and was sobbing aloud, but stopped short when his aunt entered. It was an immense relief that his uncle had not come.

"I'm awful hungry," he said springing to his feet. "Can't I have some dinner?"

"Sit down, Robert, I have something to say to you. I want you to remember that God, who hates liars, is here. He can look into your heart; and he hears every word you speak. Now tell me truly, have you nothing to confess in regard to your conduct this morning?"

"I don't know what you mean, aunty. I thought you'd say I was right smart to get my lessons."

"We will talk about the lessons by and by. There is some thing of far more importance to settle first. Have you nothing to confess?"

After a long, searching glance in her face, Robert answered.

"No, I don't know what you mean."

"Oh Robert, Robert!" she burst out in a passion of grief. "Are you so hardened as this? I hoped and prayed that you would confess your sin. I know that you spent your time not in study, but in drawing caricatures on your slate. I know that you jumped from your window upon the shed, and then to the ground. I know that you have been to-day and at other times to my closet and stolen cake and raisins."

Robert was startled now. He screamed, and then hid his face.

"What have you to say for yourself?" she asked, still sobbing.

He grew almost as pale as she had been, but for some time did not attempt to reply. The tears began to stream down his face, and he presently said in a faint voice and hesitating manner:

"I'm right sorry, aunty, 'deed I am. I got awful tired studying; and then I heard the music way off, and I opened the window, and I saw how easy I could get out, and I forgot what you told me. And I went, but only for a minute."

"Don't make it worse by more lies," said his aunt with more severity than he had ever heard in her voice before. "Your uncle saw you down in town pelting a poor drunken soldier. What do you suppose your mother will say when you are sent home to her in disgrace?"

His voice changed now to real distress.

"Oh, aunt Josephine?" he shrieked, "you wont send me home just for this once. I'll study all day. I never will be naughty again. Do, do try me once more. I can't go home. I can't! I can't!"

"Hush, Robert, I can say nothing while you cry so. Hush at once and tell me why you don't wish to go home. Tell me every thing. If I find you have lied about it, or have not told all the truth, I shall send you away at once."

"Must I?" faltered Robert as if speaking to himself.

Then he wiped his eyes and glanced in his aunt's face. There was an expression on it which told him she meant what she said, so he resolved to confess:

"I was real naughty, before I came here, aunty. I learned it of the soldiers, 'deed I did. I played cards with them, and I made some money too, and—and once I went to a store, and there was nobody in it. The man was down cellar and—and I—I took a few nuts, and a handful of figs."

"Robert, Oh Robert!" groaned the lady, putting her handkerchief to her face.

"The man was awful mean. He came up softly when I didn't see him. I was just going to look in his money drawer. I didn't mean to take any, 'deed I didn't, he put his great hand right on mine, and held me fast. Then he shook me 'till I couldn't see. He hurt my stomach awfully. He didn't let me go till he'd felt in my pockets, and taken every thing out. He said he'd lock me up in jail, but he didn't. He got a constable and sent him home with me."

"Why was not this told me before?" asked the lady indignantly.

"Mother forbid me to say any thing about it. She said she'd whip me worse than she ever did if I told. Grandpa paid the man five dollars for his trouble, and he promised to keep still. Mother kept scolding and scolding, till I got real sick of hearing about it. Then you came and brought me back with you."

"Do you know, Robert, what has led you into all this sin?"

"No, aunty."

"It is idleness. If you had gone regularly to school, and entered into your studies with diligence as you ought, I should never have heard this disgraceful story. Do you know how many times idleness and sloth are condemned in the Bible?"

"I didn't know the Bible said any thing about it."

She opened the sacred book and read,—

"'Work with your own hands . . . that ye may walk honestly toward them that are without, and that ye may have lack of nothing . . . We commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.'"

"And here is another verse.

"'If any man obey not in word' (that is to work and earn his own bread)
'note that man, and have no company with him, that he may be ashamed.'"

"I know a hymn about being idle," said Robert softly. "Grandma made me learn it:

"'For Satan finds some mischief still,
For idle hands to do.'"

"You see he has found a great deal of mischief for you," remarked the lady sorrowfully.