Ben was there, and Richard began to question him, for Mr. Presby had intimated that the boatman was with him the night before. From him he learned all the facts in regard to their movements. It appeared that the old gentleman had heard Richard when he opened the window, and had watched him closely, fully satisfied, however, that he was asleep.

When Mr. Presby, from the roof of the conservatory, had noted the direction he took, he had closed the window, and called the boatman to a.s.sist him. They had followed him in the large sail boat, and landed near the point where Sandy was taken on board the Greyhound. By this time, Ben's original idea that Richard was wide awake was adopted by Mr. Presby. By the exercise of great skill and caution, they had kept near the boys, and had put out the fire almost as soon as it was kindled.

While they were still on the ground, Mr. Batterman, who had been awakened by the bright light of the burning hay, made his appearance.

He found the two old men in the very act of putting out the fire. Mr.

Presby smothered the flames by throwing his great-coat upon it.

"Now, Mr. Richard," continued the boatman, "Mr. Presby saved you. He was acquainted with Batterman, and has a mortgage on his farm. The farmer suspected who had attempted to burn his building; he laid it to you at once, and told us all about the sc.r.a.pe when you stole the melons. You don't know how mad he was, Mr. Richard. But Mr. Presby made it all right with him, and he promised not to prosecute. Mr. Richard, you had better not walk in your sleep any more."

Richard did not like this last remark, and he walked down the pier. The state prison was only a bugbear then; but his father meant to do something. He was about to get into his skiff to visit the Greyhound when Ben hailed him.

"My orders are, not to let you have any of the boats," said he.

The new order of things had begun, and he returned to the house. His father was in the sitting room when he entered.

"Richard," said Mr. Grant, "to-morrow you will leave home for some months. I have decided to place you in a boarding school, where you will be under the eye of one who is competent to manage you."

This was the great matter which a little fire had kindled.

CHAPTER IX.

RICHARD GOES TO THE TUNBROOK MILITARY INSt.i.tUTE.

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 a.s.sociating 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 const.i.tution.

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 Inst.i.tute, under the superintendence of Colonel Brockridge. This place had been chosen, not because it was a military inst.i.tution, but because its princ.i.p.al was a thorough disciplinarian. He had the reputation of being a just and fair man, and was very popular with boys of strong const.i.tution and decisive temperaments. No "milk-and-water" boys were ever sent to him; or, if they were, they soon left the Inst.i.tute, or became vigorous and decided in their habits.

Colonel Brockridge had been in the army, though his t.i.tle 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 Inst.i.tute was conducted on military principles, it was not peculiarly the school of the soldier. The princ.i.p.al 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 Inst.i.tute. 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 Inst.i.tute.

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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sive 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 sc.r.a.pes."

"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!"