Chapter Thirty Two.
Disenchantment.
“How do you get on with the young Evson, Ra?” asked Mackworth of Wilton, with a sneer.
“Not at all,” said Wilton. “He’s awfully particular and strait-laced, just like that brother of his. No more fun while he’s in the house.”
“Confound him,” said Mackworth, frowning darkly; “if he doesn’t like what he sees, he must lump it. He’s not worth any more trouble.”
“So, Mack, you too have discovered what he’s like.”
“Yes, I have,” answered Mackworth savagely. For all his polish, his courtesies, and civilities had not succeeded in making Charlie conceal how much he feared and disliked him. The young horse rears the first time it hears the adder’s hiss, and the dove’s eye trembles instinctively when the hawk is near. Charlie half knew and half guessed the kind of character he had to deal with, and made Mackworth hate him with deadly hatred by the way in which, without one particle of rudeness or conceit, he managed to keep him at a distance, and check every approach to intimacy.
With Kenrick the case was different. Charlie thought that he looked one of the nicest and best fellows in the house, but he could not get over the fact that Wilton was his favourite. It was Wilton’s constant and daily boast that Ken would do anything for him; and Charlie felt that Wilton was not a boy whom Walter or Power at any rate would even have tolerated, much less liked. It was this that made him receive Kenrick’s advances with shyness and coldness; and when Kenrick observed this, he at once concluded that Charlie had been set against him by Walter, and that he would report to Walter all he did and said. This belief was galling to him as wormwood. Suddenly, and with most insulting publicity, he turned Charlie off from being one of his fags, and from that time never spoke of him without a sneer, and never spoke to him at all.
Meanwhile, as the term advanced, Saint Winifred’s gradually revealed itself to Charlie in a more and more unfavourable light. The discipline of the school was in a most impaired state; the evening work grew more and more disorderly; few of the monitors did their duty with any vigour, and the big idle fellows in the fifth set the example of insolence towards them and rudeness to the masters. All rules were set at defiance with impunity, and in the chaos which ensued, every one did what was right in his own eyes.
One evening, during evening work, Charlie was trying hard to do the verses which had been set to his form. He found it very difficult in the noise that was going on. Not half a dozen fellows in the room were working or attempting to work; they were talking, laughing, rattling the desks, playing tricks on each other, and throwing books about the room. The one bewildered new master, who nominally kept order among the two hundred boys in the room, walked up and down in despair, speaking in vain first to one, then to another, and almost giving up the farce of attempting to maintain silence. But seeing Charlie seriously at work he came up and asked if he could give him any assistance.
Charlie gratefully thanked him, and the master sat down to try and smooth some of his difficulties. His doing so was the sign for an audible titter, which there was no attempt to suppress; and when he had passed on, Wilton, whose conduct had been more impertinent than that of any one else, said to Charlie—
“I say, young Evson, how you are grinding.”
“I have these verses to do,” said Charlie simply.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Wilton, as though he had made some good joke. “Here, shall I give you a wrinkle?”
“Yes, if it’s allowed.”
The answer was greeted with another laugh, and Wilton said, “I’ll save you all further trouble, young ’un. Observe the dodge; we’re all up to it.”
He put up a white handkerchief to his nose, and walking to the master said, “Please, sir, my nose is bleeding. May I go out for a minute?”
“Your nose bleeding? That’s the third time your nose has bled this week, and other boys have also come with their noses bleeding.”
“Do you doubt my word, sir?” asked Wilton, his handkerchief still held up, and assuming an injured air.
“I should be sorry to do so until you give me reason,” answered the master, courteously. “It seems a strange circumstance, but you may go.”
It would have been very easy to see whether his nose was bleeding or not, but the master was trying, very unsuccessfully at present, whether implicit confidence would produce a sense of honour among the boys.
Wilton went out hardly concealing his laughter, and in ten minutes returned with the verses, finished and written out. “There,” he said, “Ken did those for me; he knocked them off in five minutes. Ken’s an awfully clever fellow, though he never opens a book. Don’t bore yourself with verses any more; I’ll get them done for you.”
Charlie glanced at the paper, and saw at once that the verses were perfectly done. “Do you mean to show up that copy as your own, Wilton?”
“Of course I do.”
“But we are marked for them.”
“Hear! hear! thanks for the information. So much the better. I shall get a jolly good mark.”
“Shut up, young innocence, and don’t be a muff,” said another Noelite. “We all do the same thing. Take what heaven sends you and be glad to get it.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie, looking round; “you may, but I’d rather not. It isn’t fair.”
“Oh, how good we are! how sweet we are! what an angel we are!” said Wilton, turning up the whites of his eyes, while the rest applauded him. But if they meant their jeers to tell on Charlie’s resolution, they were mistaken. He looked quietly round at them all with his clear eyes, gravely handed the paper back to Wilton, and quietly resumed his work. They were angry to be so foiled, and determined that, if he would not copy the verses, he should at least do them in no other way. One of them took his paper and tore it, another split his quill pens by dashing them on the desk, while a third seized his dictionary. The master, observing that something was going on at that desk, came and stood by; and as long as he was there, Charlie managed to write out what he had done, while the others, cunningly inserting an occasional mistake, or altering a few epithets, copied out the verses which Kenrick had done for Wilton. But directly the master turned away again, a boy on the opposite side of the table, with the utmost deliberation, took hold of Charlie’s fair copy, and emptied the inkstand over it in three or four separate streams.
Vexed as he was—for until this time he had never known unkindness—he took it quietly and good-humouredly. Next morning, before the rest of the boys in his dormitory, who were mainly in his own form, were aware of what he meant to do, he got up early and went to Walter’s study, hoping to write out the verses there from memory. But he found the study in the possession of the housemaid; chapel-bell rang, and after chapel he went into morning school with the exercise unfinished. For this, he, the only boy in the form who had attempted to do his duty, received a punishment, while the rest looked on unabashed, and got marks for their stolen work. Wilton received nearly full marks for his. The master, Mr Paton’s successor, thought it odd that Wilton could do his verses so much better than any of his other work, but he could not detect the cheating, and Wilton always assured him that the verses were entirely his own composition.
It was about time now, Wilton thought, to hoist his true colours; but, as he had abundance of brass, he followed Charlie out of the schoolroom, talked to him familiarly, as if nothing had happened, and finally took his arm. But this was too much; for the boy, who was as open as the day in all his dealings, at once withdrew his arm, and standing still, looked him full in the face.
“So!” said Wilton, “now take your choice—friends or enemies—which shall it be?”
“If you want me to cheat, and tell lies, and be mean—not friends.”
“So! enemies then, mind. Look out for squalls, young Evson. One question, though,” said Wilton, as Charlie turned away.
“Well?”
“Are you going to sneak about this to your brother?”
Charlie was silent. Without any intention of procuring Walter’s interference, he had meant to talk to him about his difficulties, and to ask his advice. But if this was to be stigmatised as sneaking he felt that he had rather not do it, for there is no action a boy fears more, and considers more mean than this.
“Oh, I see,” said Wilton; “you do mean to peach, blab, tell tales, do you? Well, it don’t matter much; you’ll find he can do precious little; and it will be all the worse for you in the long-run.”
“I shan’t tell him,” said Charlie, shortly; and those words sealed his lips, as with a heavy heart he entered the breakfast-room, and meditated on troubles to come.
Which troubles came quite fast enough—very fast indeed. For the house, or rather the leading spirits in it, thought that they had wasted quite enough time, and with quite sufficient success in angling for the new boys, and determined to resume without any further delay their ordinary courses. If Charlie was fool enough to resist them, they said, so much the worse for him. During the day, indeed, he was saved from many of the annoyances which Walter had been obliged to endure, by escaping from the Great Schoolroom to the happy and quiet refuge of Walter’s, or Power’s or Eden’s study. There he could always be unmolested, and enjoy the kindness with which he was treated, and the cheerful, healthy atmosphere which contrasted so strangely in its moral sweetness with the turbid and polluted air of Noelite society. But in the evening at Preparation, and afterwards in the dormitories, he was wholly at the mercy of that bad confederacy which had tried to mould him to its own will. He was in a large dormitory of ten boys, and as this was the principal room in Mr Noel’s house, it formed the regular refuge every night for the idle and the mischievously inclined. When the candles were put out at bed-time it was seldom long before they were relit in this room—which was somewhat remote from the others, at the end of a long corridor, and of which the window opened on a secluded part of Dr Lane’s garden. If a scout were placed at the end of the corridor he could give timely warning of any danger, so that the chance of detection was very small. Had the candles been relit only for a game of play, Charlie would have been the first to join in the fun. But the Noelites were far too vitiated in taste to be long content with mere bolstering or harmless games. It seemed to Charlie that the candles were relit chiefly for the purpose of eating and drinking forbidden things, of playing cards, or of bullying and tormenting those boys who were least advanced in general wickedness.
“I say, young Evson,” said Wilton to him one night soon after the fracas above narrated, “we’re going to have some fun to-night. Stone, like a brick as he is, has stood a couple of bottles of wine, and Hanley some cards. We shall have a smoke too.”
All this was said in a tone of braggadocio, meant to be exceedingly telling, but it only made Charlie feel that he loathed this swaggering little boy with his premature savoir vivre, more and more. He understood, too, the hint that two of the new fellows had contributed to the house carousal, and fully expected that he would be asked next. He secretly, however, determined to refuse, because he knew well that a mere harmless feast was not intended, but rather a smoking and drinking bout. He had subscribed liberally to all the legitimate funds—the football, the racquet court, the gymnasium; but he saw no reason why he should be taxed for things which he disliked and disapproved. The result of that evening confirmed him in his resolution. It was a scene of drinking, gluttony, secret fear, endless squabbling, and joyless excitement.
“Of course you’ll play, and put into the pool?” said Wilton.
“No, thank you.”
“No, thank you,” said Wilton, scornfully mimicking his tone. “Of course not; you’ll do nothing except set yourself up for a saint, and make yourself disagreeable.”
During the evening Stone brought him some wine, which Charlie again declined, with “No, thank you, Stone.” Wilton again echoed the refusal, which was chorused by a dozen others; and from that time Charlie was duly dubbed with the nickname of “No-thank-you.” He was forcibly christened by this new name, by being held in bed while half a wine-glass of port was thrown in his face. The wine poured down and stained his night-shirt, and then they all began to dread that it would lead to their being discovered, and threatened Charlie with endless penalties if he dared to tell. There was, however, little danger, as the Noelites had bribed the servants who waited on them and cleaned their rooms.
The same scene, with slight variations, was constantly repeated, and every fresh refusal was accompanied by a kick or a cuff from the bigger boys, a sneer or an insult from the younger; for Charlie himself was one of the youngest of them all. One night it was, “I say, you fellow—you, No-thank-you—will you fork out for some wine to-night? No? Well then, take that and that, and be hung to you for a little muff.” Another time it would be, “Hi there, No-thank-you—we want sixpence for a pack of cards. Oh, you won’t be so sinful as to part with sixpence for cards? Confounded little miser;” “Niggard,” said another; “Skinflint,” shouted a third. And a general cry of “Saint,” which expressed the climax of villainy, ended the verbal portion of the contest. And then, some one would slap him on the cheek, with “take that,” “and that,” from another, “and that,” from a third—the last being a boot or a piece of soap shied at his head.
It cannot be more wearisome to the reader than it is to me to linger in these coarse scenes; but, for Charlie, it was a long martyrdom most heroically borne. He was almost literally alone and single-handed against the rest of the house; yet he would not give way. Walter, and Power, and Henderson, all knew that he was bullied, sorely bullied; this they learnt far more from Eden, and from other sources, than from Charlie himself, for he, poor child, held himself bound by his promise to Wilton, and kept his lips resolutely sealed. But these friends knew that he was suffering for conscience sake; and Walter helped him with tender, brotherly affection, and Power with brave words and kindly sympathy, as well as by noble example, and Henderson by his cheering and playful manner; and this caused him much happiness all day long, until he felt that, with that short but heart-uttered prayer which he breathed so earnestly from “the altar of his own bedside,” he had strength sufficient to meet and to conquer the trials which night brought.
In the house one boy and one only helped him. That boy ought to have been Kenrick; his monitorial authority and many responsible privileges were entrusted to him, as he well knew, for the main express purpose of putting down all immorality, and all cruelty, with a strong and remorseless hand. It required very little courage to do this; the sympathies of the majority of boys, unless they be suffered to grow corrupted with an evil leaven, are naturally and strongly on the side of right. In Mr Robertson’s house, for instance, where Walter and Henderson were monitors, such wrong-doings could not have gone on with impunity, or rather could not have gone on at all. There, a little boy, treated with gross severity or injustice, would not have hesitated for an instant to invoke the assistance of the monitors, whom he looked upon as his natural guardians, and who would be eager to extend to him a generous and efficient protection.
The same was the case in Mr Edwardes’s house, of which Power was the head. Power, indeed, had no coadjutor on whom he could at all rely. One of the monitors associated with him was Legrange, who rather followed Kenrick’s lead, and the other was Brown, who, though well-intentioned, was a boy of no authority. Yet these two houses were in a better condition than any others in the school, because the heads of them did their duty; and it was no slight credit to Walter and Henderson that their house stood higher in character than any other, although it contained both Harpour and Jones. This could not have been the case had not those two worthies found a powerful counterpoise in two other fifth-form fellows, Franklin and Cradock, whose excellence was almost solely due to Walter’s influence. Kenrick, on the other hand, never interfered in the house, and let things go on exactly as they liked, although they were going to rack and ruin.
Charlie’s sole friend and helper in the house then was, not Kenrick, but Bliss. Poor Bliss quite belied his name, for his school work, in which he never could by any effort succeed, kept him in a state of lugubrious disappointment. Bliss lived a dim kind of life, seeing all sorts of young boys get above him and beat him in the race, and vaguely groping in thick mental darkness. Do what he could the stream of knowledge fled from his tantalised lip whenever he stooped to drink; and the fruits, which others plucked easily, sprang up out of his reach when he tried to touch the bough. He was constantly crushed by a desolating sense of his own stupidity; and yet his good temper was charming under all his trials, and he loved with a grateful humility all who tolerated his shortcomings. For this reason he had a sincere affection for Henderson, who plagued him, indeed, incessantly, but never in an unkind or insulting way; and who more than made up for the teasing by patient and constant help, without which Bliss would not have succeeded even as well as he did. Bliss was a strong active fellow, and good at the games, so that with most of the school he got on very well; but, nevertheless, he was generally set down as nearly half-witted—a mere dolt. Dolt or not, he did Charlie inestimable service; and if any boy is in like case with Bliss, let him take courage, for even the merest dolt has immense power for good as well as for harm, and Bliss extended to Charlie a gentle and manly sympathy which many a clever boy might have envied. He knew that Charlie was ill-used. Not being in the same dormitory, and joining very little in the house concerns, he was not able to interfere very directly in his aid; but he never failed to encourage him to resist iniquity of every kind. “Hold out, young Evson,” he would often say to him; “you’re a good, brave little chap, and don’t give in; you’re in the right and they in the wrong; and right is might, be sure of that.”
It was something in those days to meet with approbation for well-doing among the Noelites; and Charlie, with genuine gratitude, never forgot Bliss’s kind support; till Bliss left Saint Winifred’s they continued firm friends and fast.
“Have you made any friends in the house?” asked Mr Noel of Charlie on one occasion; for he often seized an opportunity of talking to his younger boys, for whom he felt a sincere interest, and whom he would gladly have shielded from temptation to the very utmost of his power, had he but known that of which he was unhappily so ignorant—the bad state of things among the boys under his care.
“Not many, sir,” said Charlie.
“Haven’t you? I’m sorry to hear that. I like to see boys forming friendships for future life; and there are some very nice fellows in the house. Wilton, for instance, don’t you like him? He’s very idle and volatile, I know, but still he seems to me a pleasant boy.”
Charlie could hardly suppress a smile, but said nothing; and Mr Noel continued, “Who is your chief friend, Evson, among my boys?”
“Bliss, sir,” said Charlie, with alacrity.
“Bliss!” answered Mr Noel in surprise. “What makes you like him so much? Is he not very backward and stupid?”
But Charlie would not hear a word against Bliss, and speaking with all the open trustfulness of a new boy, he exclaimed, “O sir, Bliss is an excellent fellow; I wish there were many more like him; he’s a capital fellow, sir, I like him very much; he’s the best fellow in the house, and the only one who stands by me when I am in trouble.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve found one friend, Evson,” said Mr Noel; “no matter who he is.”
One way in which Bliss showed his friendship was by going privately to Kenrick, and complaining of the way in which Charlie was bullied. “Why don’t you interfere, Kenrick?” he asked.
“Interfere, pooh! It will do the young cub good; he’s too conceited, by half.”
“I never saw a little fellow less conceited, anyhow.”
Kenrick stared at him. “What business is it of yours, I should like to know?”
“It is business of mine; he is a good little fellow, and he’s only kicked because the others can’t make him as bad a lot as they are themselves; there’s that Wilton—”
“Shut up about Wilton, he’s a friend of mine.”
“Then more shame for you,” said Bliss.
“He’s worth fifty such chickens as little Evson, any day.”
“Chickens!” said Bliss, with a tone as nearly like contempt as he had ever assumed; “it’s clear you don’t know much about him; I wish, Kenrick, you’d do your duty more, and then the house would not be so bad as it is.”
Kenrick opened his eyes wide; he had never heard Bliss speak like this before. “I don’t want the learned, the clever, the profound Bliss to teach me my duty,” he said, with a proud sneer; “what business have you to abuse the house, because it is not full of young ninnies like Evson? You’re no monitor of mine, let me tell you.”
“You may sneer, Kenrick, at my being stupid, if you like; but, for all your cleverness, I wouldn’t be you for something; and if you won’t interfere, as you ought, I will, if I can.” And as Bliss said this, with clear flaming anger, and fixed on Kenrick his eyes, which were lighted up with honest purpose, Kenrick thought he had never seen him look so handsome, or so fine a fellow. “Yes, even he is superior to me now,” he thought, with a sigh, as Bliss left the room. Poor Ken—there was no unhappier boy at Saint Winifred’s; as he ate and ate of those ashy fruits of sin, they grew more and more dusty and bitter to his parched taste; as he drank of that napthaline river of wayward pride, it scorched his heart and did not quench his thirst.
Chapter Thirty Three.
Martyrdom.
“Since thou so deeply dost enquire,
I will instruct thee briefly why no dread
Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone
Are to be feared whence evil may proceed,
Nought else, for nought is terrible beside.”
Carey’s Dante.
Gradually the persecutions to which Charlie was subjected mainly turned on one point. His tormentors were so far tired of bullying him, that they would have left him in comparative peace if he would have yielded one point—which was this.
The Noelites were accustomed now and then to have a grand evening “spread” as they called it, and when they had finished this supper, which was usually supplied by Dan, they generally began smoking, an amusement which they could enjoy after the lights were out. The smokers used to sit in the long corridor, which, as I have said, led to their dormitory, and the scout was always posted to warn them of approaching danger; but as they did not begin operations till the master had gone his nightly rounds, and were very quiet about it, there was not much danger of their being disturbed. Yet although the windows of the corridor and dormitory were all left wide open, and every other precaution was taken, it was impossible to get rid of the fumes of tobacco so entirely as to avoid all chance of detection. They had, indeed, bribed the servants to secrecy, but what they feared was being detected by some master. The Noelites, therefore, of that dormitory had been accustomed to agree that if they were questioned by any master about the smell of smoking, they would all deny that any smoking had taken place. The other nine boys in the dormitory, with the doubtful exception of Elgood, had promised that they would stick to this assertion in case of their being asked. The question was, “Would Charlie promise the same thing?” If not, the boys felt doubly insecure—insecure about the stability of their falsehood and the secrecy of their proceedings.
And Charlie Evson, of course, refused to promise this. Single-handed he fought this battle against the other boys in his house, and in spite of solicitation, coaxing, entreaty, threats and blows, steadily declared that he was no tell-tale, that he had never mentioned anything which had gone on in the house, but that if he were directly asked whether a particular act had taken place or not, he would still keep silence, but could not and would not tell a lie.
Now some of the house—and especially Mackworth and Wilton—had determined, by the help of the rest, to crush this opposition, to conquer this obstinacy, as they called it; and, since Charlie’s reluctance could not be overcome by persuasion or argument, to break it down by sheer force. So, night after night, a number of them gathered round Charlie, and tried every means which ingenuity or malice could suggest to make him yield on this one point; the more so, because they well knew that to gain one concession was practically to gain all, and Charlie’s uprightness contrasted so unpleasantly with their own base compliances, that his mere presence among them became, from this circumstance, a constant annoyance. One boy with a high and firm moral standard, steadily and consistently good, can hardly fail to be most unpopular in a large house full of bad and reckless boys.
It was a long and hard struggle; so long that Charlie felt as if it would last for ever, and his strength would give way before he had wearied-out his persecutors. For now it seemed to be a positive amusement, a pleasant occupation to them, night after night, to bully him. He dreaded, he shuddered at the return of evening; he knew well that from the time when Preparation began, till the rest were all asleep, he could look for little peace. Sometimes he was tempted to yield. He knew that at the bottom the fellows did not really hate him, that he might be very popular if he chose, even without going to nearly the same lengths as the others, and that if he would but promise not to tell, his assent would be hailed with acclamations. Besides, said the tempter, the chances are very strongly in favour of your not being asked at all about the matter, so that there is every probability of your not being called upon to tell the “cram;” for by some delicate distinction the falsehood presented itself under the guise of a “cram,” and not of a naked lie; that was a word the boys carefully avoided applying to it, and were quite angry if Charlie called it by its right name. One evening the poor little fellow was so weary and hopeless and sad at heart, and he had been thrashed so long and so severely, that he was very near yielding. A paper had been written, the signing of which was tacitly understood to involve a promise to deny that there had been any smoking at night if they were taxed with it; and all the boys except Elgood and Charlie had signed this paper. But the fellows did not care for Elgood; they knew that he dared not oppose them long, and that they could make him do their bidding whenever the time came. Well, one evening, Charlie, in a weak mood, was on the verge of signing the paper, and thus purchasing a cessation of the long series of injuries and taunts from which he had been suffering. He was sitting up in bed, and had taken the pencil in hand to sign his name. The boys, in an eager group round him, were calling him a regular brick, encouraging him, patting him on the back, and saying that they had been sure all along that he was a nice little fellow, and would come round at last. Elgood was among them, looking on with anxious eyes. He had immensely admired Charlie’s brave firmness, and nothing but reliance on the strength of his stronger will had encouraged him in the shadow of opposition. “If young Evson does it,” he whispered, “I will directly.” Charlie caught the whisper; and in an agony of shame flung away the pencil. He had very nearly sinned himself, and forgotten the resolution which had been granted him in answer to his many prayers; but he had seen the effects of bad example, and nothing should induce him to lead others with him into sin. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” was the instant supplication which rose from his inmost heart, as he threw down the pencil and pushed the paper aside.
“I can’t do it,” he said; “I must not do it; I never told a lie in my life that I remember. Don’t ask me any more.” Instantly the tone and temper of the boys changed. A shower of words, which I will not repeat, assailed his ears; he was dragged out of bed and thrashed more unmercifully than he had ever been before. “You shall give way in the end, mind that,” was the last admonition he received from one of the bigger fellows, as he dragged himself to his bed, sobbing for pain, and aching with disquietude of heart. “The sooner it is the better; for you little muffs and would-be saints don’t go down with us.”
And then for a few evenings, when the candles were put out, and the fellows had nothing better to do, it used to be the regular thing for some one to suggest, “Come, let’s bait No-thank-you; it’ll be rare fun.” Then another would say, “Come, No-thank-you, sign the paper like a good fellow, and spare yourself all the rest.”
“Do,” another insidious friend would add; “I am quite sorry to see you kicked and thrashed so often.”
“I’ll strike a light in one second if you will,” suggested a fourth. “No, you won’t? oh, then, look out, Master No-thank-you, look out for squalls.” But still, however beaten or insulted, holding out like a man, and not letting the tears fall if he could help it, though they swam in his eyes for pain and grief, the brave boy resisted evil, and would not be forced to stain his white soul with the promise of a lie.
There were some who, though they dared not say anything, yet looked on at this struggle with mingled shame and admiration—shame for themselves, admiration for Charlie. It could not be but that there were some hearts among so many which had not seared the tender nerves of pity, and more than once Charlie saw kindly faces looking at him out of the cowardly group of tormentors, and heard timid words of disapprobation spoken to the worst of those who bullied him. More often, too, some young Noelite who met him during the day would seem to address him with a changed nature, would speak to him warmly and with friendliness, would show by little words and actions that he felt for him and respected him, although he had not courage enough to resist publicly the opposing stream. And others of the baser sort observed this. What if this one little new fellow should beat them after all, and end their domination, and introduce in spite of them a truer and better and more natural state of things? it was not to be tolerated for a moment, and he must be put down with a strong hand at once.
Meanwhile Charlie’s heart was fast failing him, dying away within him; for under this persecution his health and spirits were worn out. His face, they noticed, was far paler than when he came, his looks almost haggard, and his manner less sprightly than before. He had honourably abstained hitherto from giving Walter any direct account of his troubles, but now he yearned for some advice and comfort, and went to Walter’s study, not to complain, but to ask if Walter thought there was any chance of his father removing him to another school, because he felt that at Saint Winifred’s he could neither be happy nor in any way succeed.
“Well, Charlie boy, what can I do for you?” said Walter, cheerfully pushing away the Greek Lexicon and Aristophanes over which he was engaged, and wheeling round the armchair to the fire, which he poked till there was a bright blaze.
“Am I disturbing you at your work, Walter?” said the little boy, whose dejected air his brother had not noticed.
“No, Charlie, not a bit; you never disturb me. I was just thinking that it was about time to shut up, for it’s almost too dark too read, and we’ve nearly half an hour before tea-time; so come here and sit on my knee and have a chat. I haven’t seen you for an age, Charlie.”
Charlie said nothing, but he was in a weary mood, and was glad to sit on his brother’s knee and put his arm round his neck; for he was more than four years Walter’s junior, and had never left home before, and that night the homesickness was very strongly upon him.
“Why, what’s the matter, Charlie boy?” asked Walter playfully. “What’s the meaning of this pale face and red eyes? I’m afraid you haven’t found Saint Winifred’s so jolly as you expected; disenchanted already, eh?”
“O Walter, I’m very, very miserable,” said Charlie, overcome by his brother’s tender manner towards him; and leaning his head on Walter’s shoulder he sobbed aloud.
“What is it, Charlie?” said Walter, gently stroking his light hair. “Never be afraid to tell me anything. You’ve done nothing wrong, I hope?”
“O no, Walter. It’s because I won’t do wrong that they bully me.”
“Is that it? Then dry your tears, Charlie boy, for you may thank God, and nothing in earth or under the earth can make you do wrong if you determine not—determine in the right way, you know, Charlie.”
“But it’s so hard, Walter; I didn’t know it would be so very hard. The house is so bad, and no one helps me except Bliss. I don’t think you were ever troubled as I am, Walter.”
“Never mind, Charlie. Only don’t go wrong whatever they do to you. You don’t know how much this will smooth your way all the rest of your school-life. It’s quite true what you say, Charlie, and the state of the school is far worse than ever knew it; but that’s all the more reason we should do our duty, isn’t it.”
“O Walter, but I know they’ll make me do wrong some day. I wish I were at home. I wish I might leave. I get thrashed and kicked and abused every night, Walter, and almost all night long.”
“Do you?” asked Walter, in angry amazement. “I knew that you were rather bullied—Eden told me that—but I never knew it was so bad as you say. By jove, Charlie, I should like to catch some one bullying you, and—well, I’ll warrant that he shouldn’t do it again.”
“O, I forgot, Walter, I oughtn’t to have told you; they made me promise not. Only it is so wretched.”
“Never mind, my poor little Charlie,” said Walter. “Do what’s right and shame the devil. I’ll see if I can’t devise some way of helping you; but anyhow, hold up till the end of term, and then no doubt papa will take you away if you still wish it. But what am I to do without you, Charlie?”
“You’re a dear, dear good brother,” said Charlie, gratefully; “and but for you, Walter, I should have given in long ago.”
“No, Charlie, not for me, but for a truer friend than even I can be, though I love you with all my heart. But will you promise me one thing faithfully?”
“Yes, that I will.”
“Well, promise me then that, do what they will, they shan’t make you tell a lie, or do anything else that you know to be wrong.”
“I’ll promise you, Walter, if I can,” said the little boy humbly; “but I’ve been doing my best for a long time.”
“You couldn’t tell a lie, Charlie boy, without being found out; that I feel sure of,” said Walter, smiling, as he held his brother’s ingenuous face between his hands, and looked at it. “I don’t doubt you for an instant; but I’ll have a talk with Power about you. As head of the school he may be able to do something, perhaps. It’s Kenrick’s duty properly, but—”
“Kenrick, Walter? He’s of no use; he lets the house do just as it likes, and I think he must have taken a dislike to me, for he turned me off quite roughly from being his fag.”
“Never mind him or any one else, Charlie. You’re a brave little fellow, and I’m proud of you. There’s the tea-bell; come in with me.”
“Ah, Walter, it’s only in the evenings when you’re away that I get pitched into. If I were but in the same house with you, how jolly it would be.” And he looked wistfully after his brother as they parted at the door of the hall, and Walter walked up to the chief table where the monitors sat, while he went to find a place among the boys in his own form and house. He found that they had poured his tea into his plate over his bread and butter, so he got very little to eat or drink that evening.
It was dark as they streamed out after tea to go into the Preparation-room, and he heard Elgood’s tremulous voice saying to him, “Oh, Evson, shall you give way to-night, and sign?”
“Why to-night in particular, Elgood?”
“Because I’ve heard them say that they’re going to have a grand gathering to-night, and to make you, and me too; but I can’t hold out as you do, Evson.”
“I shall try not to give way; indeed, I won’t be made to tell a lie,” said Charlie, thinking of his interview with Walter, and the hopes it had inspired.
“Then I won’t either,” said Elgood, plucking up courage. “But we shall catch it awfully, both of us.”
“They can’t do more than lick us,” said Charlie, trying to speak cheerily, “and I’ve been licked so often that I’m getting accustomed to it.”
“And I’d rather be licked,” said a voice beside them, “and be like you two fellows, than escape being licked, and be like Stone and Symes, or even like myself.”
“Who’s that?” asked Elgood hastily, for it was not light enough to see.
“Me—Hanley. Don’t you fellows give in; it will only make you miserable, as it has done me.”
They went in to Preparation, which was succeeded by chapel, and then to their dormitories. They undressed and got into bed, as usual, although they knew that they should be very soon disturbed, for various signs told them that the rest had some task in hand. Accordingly, the lights were barely put out, when a scout was posted, the candles were re-lighted, and a number of other Noelites, headed by Mackworth, came crowding into the dormitory.
“Now you, No-thank-you, you’ve got one last chance—here’s this paper for you to sign; fellows have always signed it before, and you shall too, whether you like or no. We’re not going to alter our rules because of you. We want to have a supper again in a day or two, and we can’t have you sneaking about it.” Mackworth was the speaker.
“I don’t want to sneak,” said Charlie firmly; “you’ve been making me wretched, and knocking me about, all these weeks, and I’ve never told of you yet.”
“We don’t want any orations; only Yes or No—will you sign?”
“Stop,” said Wilton, “here’s another fellow, Mac, who hasn’t signed;” and he dragged Elgood out of bed by one arm.
“Oh, you haven’t signed, haven’t you? Well, we shall make short work of you. Here’s the pencil, here’s the paper, and here’s the place for your name. Now, you poor little fool, sign without giving us any more trouble.”
Elgood trembled and hesitated.
“Look here,” said Mackworth brutally; “I don’t want to break such a butterfly as you upon the wheel, but—how do you like that?” He drew a cane from behind his back, and brought it down sharply on Elgood’s knuckles, who, turning very white, sat down and scrawled his name hastily on the paper; but no sooner had he done it than, looking up, he caught Charlie’s pitying glance upon him, and running the pencil through his signature, said no more, but pushed the paper hastily away and cowered down, expecting another blow, while Charlie whispered, “Courage.”
“You must take the other fellow first, Mac, if you want to get on,” suggested Wilton. “Evson, as a friend, I advise you not to refuse.”
“As a friend!” said Charlie, with simple scorn, looking full at Wilton. “You are no friend of mine; and, Wilton, I wouldn’t even now change places with you.”
“Wouldn’t you?—Pitch into him, Mac. And you,” he said to Elgood, “you may wait for the present.” He administered a backhander to Elgood as he spoke, and the next minute Charlie, roused beyond all bearing, had knocked him down. Twenty times before he would have been tempted to fight Wilton, if he could have reckoned upon fair play; but what he could stand in his own person was intolerable to him to witness when applied to another.
Wilton sprang up in perfect fury, and a fight began; but Mackworth at once pulled Charlie off, and said, “Fight him another time, if you condescend to do so, Raven; don’t you see now that it’s a mere dodge of his to get off. Now, No-thank-you, the time has come for deeds; we’ve had words enough. You stand there.” He pushed Charlie in front of him. “Now, will you sign?”
“Never,” said Charlie, in a low but firm tone.
“Then—”
“Not with the cane, not with the cane, Mackworth,” cried several voices in agitation, but not in time to prevent the cane descending with heavy hand across the child’s back.
Charlie’s was one of those fine, nervous, susceptible temperaments, which feel every physical sensation, and every mental emotion, with tenfold severity. During the whole of this scene; so painfully anticipated, in which he had stood alone among a group of boys, whose sole object seemed to be to show their hatred, and who were twice as strong as himself, his feelings had been highly wrought; and though he had had many opportunities of late to train his delicate organisation into manly endurance, yet the sudden anguish of this unexpected blow quite conquered him. A thrilling cry broke from his lips, and the next moment, when the cane again tore his shoulders, a fit of violent hysteria supervened, which alarmed the brutes who were trying to master his noble resolution.
And at this crisis the door burst open with a sudden crash, and Bliss entered in a state of burning indignation, followed more slowly by Kenrick.
“O, I am too late,” he said, stamping his foot; “what have you been doing to the little fellow?” and thrusting some of them aside, he took up Charlie in his arms, and gradually soothed and calmed him till his wild sobs and laughter were hushed, while the rest looked on silent. But feeling that Charlie shrank as though a touch were painful to him, Bliss unbared his back, and the two blue weals all across it showed him what had been done.
“Look there, Kenrick,” he said, with great sternness, as he pointed to the marks; and then, laying Charlie gently down on his bed, he thundered out, in a voice shaken with passion, “You dogs, could you look on and allow this? By heavens, Kenrick, if you mean to suffer this, I won’t. Out of my way, you.” Scattering the rest before him like a flock of sheep, he seized Mackworth with his strong hands, shook him violently by both shoulders, and then tearing the cane out of his grasp, he demanded, “Was it you who did this?”
“What are you about, you Bliss?” said Mackworth, with very ruffled dignity. “Mind what you’re after, and don’t make such a row, you ass’s head,” he continued authoritatively, “or you’ll have Noel or some one in here.”
“Ho! that’s your tone, you cruel, reprobate bully,” said Bliss, supplied by indignation with an unusual flow of words; “we’ve had enough of that, and too much. You can look at poor little Evson there, and not sink into the very earth for shame! By heavens, Belial, you shall receive what you’ve given. I’ll beat you as if you were a dog. Take that.” The cut which followed showed that he was in desperate earnest, and that, however immovable he might generally be, it was by no means safe to trifle with him in such a mood as this.
Mackworth tried in vain to seize the cane; Bliss turned him round and round as if he were a child; and as it was quite clear that he did not mean to have done with him just yet, Mackworth’s impudent bravado was changed into abject terror as he received a second weighty stroke, so heartily administered that the cane bent round him, in the hideous way which canes have, and caught him a blow on the ribs.
Mackworth sprang away, and fled, howling with shame and pain, through the open door, but not until Bliss had given him two more blows on the back, with one of the two cutting open his coat from the collar downwards, with the other leaving a mark at least as black as that which he had inflicted on the defenceless Charlie.
“To your rooms, the rest of you wretches,” said he, as they dispersed in every direction before him. “Kenrick,” he continued, brandishing the cane, “I may be a dolt, as you’ve called me before now, but since you won’t do your duty, henceforth I will do it for you.”
Kenrick slank off, half afraid that Bliss would apply the cane to him; and, speaking in a tone of authority, Bliss said to the boys in the dormitory, “If one of you henceforth touch a hair of Evson’s head, look out; you know me. You little scamp and scoundrel, Wilton, take especial care.” He enforced the admonition by making Wilton jump with a little rap of the cane, which he then broke, and flung out of the window. And then, his whole manner changing instantly into an almost womanly tenderness, he sat by poor little Charlie, soothing and comforting him till his hysterical sobs had ceased; and, when he felt sure that the fit was over, gently bade him good-night, and went out, leaving the room in dense silence, which no one ventured to break but the warm-hearted little Hanley, who, going to Charlie’s bedside, said—
“Oh, Charlie, are you hurt much?”
“No, not very much, thank you, Hanley.”
Hanley pressed his hand, and said, “You’ve conquered, Charlie; you’ve held out to the end. Oh, I wish I were like you!”
Chapter Thirty Four.
A Conspiracy Foiled.
As the feathery snows
Fall frequent on some wintry day...
The stony volleys flew.
Cowper.
Yes, Charlie had conquered, thanks to the grace that sustained him, and thanks, secondarily, to a good home training, and to Walter’s strong and excellent influence. And in gaining that one point he had gained all. No one dared directly to molest him further, and he had never again to maintain so hard a struggle. He had resisted the beginnings of evil; he had held out under the stress of persecution; and now he could enjoy the smoother and brighter waters over which he sailed.
His enemies were for the time discomfited, and even the hardy Wilton was abashed. For a week or two there was considerably less bravado in his face and manner, and his influence over those of his own age was shaken. That little rap of the cane which Bliss had given him had a most salutary effect in diminishing his conceit. Hanley retracted his promise to deny all knowledge of anything wrong that went on, and openly defied Wilton; even Elgood ceased to fear him. Charlie had felt inclined to cut him, but, with generous impulse, he forgave all that was past, and, keeping on civil terms with him, did all he could to draw him to less crooked paths.
Mackworth was so ashamed that he hardly ventured to show his face. He had always made Bliss a laughing-stock, had nicknamed him Ass’s Head, and had taught others to jeer at his backwardness. He had presumed on his lazy good humour, and affected to patronise and look down on him. An eruption in a long-extinct volcano could not have surprised him more than the sudden outburst of Bliss’s wrath, and if the two blows which he had received as he fled before him in sight of the whole house had been branded on his back with a hot iron, they could hardly have caused him more painful humiliation. For some time he slunk about like a whipped puppy, and imagined, not without some ground, that no one saw him without an inclination to smile.
Kenrick, too, had reason to blush. Every one knew that it was Bliss, and not he, who had rescued the house from attaching to its name another indelible disgrace; and when he heard the monitors and sixth-form talking seriously among themselves of the bad state into which the Noelites had fallen, he felt that the stigma was deserved, and that he, as being the chief cause of the mischief, must wear the brand.
All Kenrick’s faults and errors had had their root in an overweening pride, a pride which grew fast upon him, and the intensity of which increased in proportion as it grew less and less justifiable. But now he had suffered a salutary rebuke. He had been openly blamed, openly slighted, and openly set aside, and was unable to gainsay the justice of the proceeding. He felt that with every boy in the school, who had any right feeling, Bliss was now regarded as a more upright and honourable—nay, even as a more important and influential, person than himself. Among other mortifications, it galled him especially to hear the warm thanks and cordial praise which Power and Walter and Henderson expressed when first they happened to meet Bliss. He saw Walter wring his hand, and overheard him saying in that genial tone in which he himself had once been addressed so often—“Thank you, Bliss, a thousand times for saving my dear little brother from the hands of those brutes. Charlie and I will not soon forget how much we owe you.” Walter said it with tears in his eyes, and Bliss answered with a happy smile—“Don’t thank me, Walter; I only did what any fellow would have done who was worth anything.”
“And you’ll look after Charlie for me now and then, will you?”
“That I will,” said Bliss; “but you needn’t fear for him—he’s a hero, a regular hero—that’s what I call him, and I’d do anything for him.”
So Kenrick, vexed and discontented, almost hid himself in those days in his own study, the victim of that most wearing of intolerable and sickening diseases—a sense of shame. Except to play football occasionally, he seldom left his room or took any exercise, and fell into a dispirited, broken way of life, feeling unhappy and alone. He had no associates now except his inferiors, for his conduct had forfeited the regard of his equals, and with many of them he was at open feud. The only pleasure left to him was desperately hard work. Not only was he stimulated by a fiery ambition, a mad desire to excel in the half-year’s competition, and show what he was yet capable of, and so to some extent redeem his unhappy position, but also his heart was fixed on getting, if possible, the chief scholarship of Saint Winifred’s—a scholarship sufficiently valuable to pay the main part of those college expenses which it would be otherwise impossible for his mother to bear. He feared, indeed, that he had little or no chance against Power, or even against Walter, who were both competitors, but he would not give up all hope. His abilities were of the most brilliant order, and if he had often been idle at Saint Winifred’s, he had, on the other hand, often worked exceedingly hard during the holidays at Fuzby, where, unlike other boys, he had little or nothing else to amuse him. Mrs Kenrick, sitting beside him silent at her work for long hours, would have been glad enough to see in him more elasticity, more kindliness, less absorption in his own selfish pursuits; but she rejoiced that at home, at any rate, he did not waste his vacant days in idleness, or spend them in questionable amusements and undesirable society.
Almost the only boy of whom he saw much now was Wilton, and but for him, I do believe, that in those days he would have changed his whole tone of thought and mode of life. But he had a strange liking for this worthless boy, who kept alive in him his jealousy of Walter, his opposition to the other monitors, his partisanship, his recklessness, and his pride. Sometimes Kenrick felt this. He saw that Wilton was bad as well as attractive, and that their friendship, instead of doing Wilton any good, only did himself harm. But he could not make up his mind to throw him off, for there was no one else who seemed to feel for him as a close and intimate friend. Many of Kenrick’s failings rose from that. He had offended, and rejected, and alienated his early and true friends, and he felt now that it was easier to lose friends than to make them, or to recover their affection when it once was lost.
But the bad set at Saint Winifred’s, though in one house their influence was weakened, were determined not to see it wane throughout the school. Harpour and his associates organised a regular conspiracy against the monitors. When the first light snow fell they got together a very large number of fellows, and snowballed all the monitors except Kenrick, as they came out of morning school. The exception was very much to Kenrick’s discredit, and in his heart he felt it to be so. During the first day or two that this lasted the monitors took it good-humouredly, returning the snowballs, and regarding it as a joke, though an annoying one; but when it became more serious, when some snowballs had been thrown at the masters also, and when some of the worst fellows began to collect snowballs beforehand and harden them into great lumps of ice as hard as stones, and when Brown, who was short-sighted, and was therefore least able to protect himself, had received a serious blow, Power, by the advice of the rest, put up a notice that from that time the snowballing must cease, or the monitors would have to punish the boys who did it. This notice the school tried to resist, but the firmness of Power and his friends put a stop to their rebellion. If the notice was disregarded he determined, by Walter’s, advice, to seize the ringleaders, and not notice the younger boys whom they incited. Accordingly next morning they found the school gathered as usual, in spite of the notice, for the purpose of pelting them, and, saying nothing, they kept their eyes on the biggest fellows in the group. A shower of snowballs fell among them, hitting several of them, and, to the great amusement of the school, knocking over several hats into the snow.
“Harpour,” said Walter, very sternly, “I saw you throw a snowball. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself that you, a fellow at the head of the eleven, should set such a bad example? Don’t suppose that your size or position shall get you off. Come before the monitors directly after breakfast.”
“Hanged if I do,” answered Harpour, with a sulky laugh.
“Well, I daresay you will be hanged in the long-run,” was the contemptuous reply; “but come, or else take the consequences.”
“Tracy,” said Henderson, “I saw you throw a snowball which knocked off Power’s hat. It was a hard one too. You come before the monitors with Harpour.”
“I shall be quaite delaighted,” drawled out Tracy.
“Glad to hear it; I hope you’ll be quaite equally delaighted when you leave us.” The mimicry was so perfect that all the boys broke into a roar of laughter, which was all the louder because Tracy immediately began to chafe and “smoke.”
“And, Jones,” said Power, as the laugh against Tracy subsided, “I think I saw you throw a snowball and hit Smythe. I strongly suspect, too, that you were the fellow who hit Brown yesterday. I think every one will know, Jones, why you chose Smythe and Brown to pelt, instead of any other monitors. You too come to the sixth-form room after breakfast.”
“I didn’t throw one,” said Jones.
“You astounding liar,” said Henderson, “I saw you with my own eyes.”
“Oh, ay; of course you’ll say so to spite me.”
“Spite you,” said Henderson scornfully; “my dear fellow, you don’t enter into my thoughts at all. But mark you, Master Jones, I know moreover that you’ve been the chief getter-up of this precious demonstration. You told the fellows that you’d lead them. I’m not sure that you didn’t quote to them the lines—
“‘Press where ye see my white plume shine amid the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of—Jones.’”
Another peal of laughter followed this allusion to Jones’s well-known nickname of White-feather, a nickname earned by many acts of conspicuous cowardice.
“Hush, Flip,” whispered Power, “we mustn’t make this quite a joke. Jones,” he continued aloud, “do you deny throwing a snowball just now at Smythe?”
“I didn’t throw one,” said Jones, turning pale as he heard the hiss, and the murmur of “White-feather again,” which followed his denial.
“Why, what a pitiful, wretched, sneaking coward you are,” burst out Franklin; “I heard you egging on these fellows to pelt the monitors—they wouldn’t have done it but for you and Harpour—and I saw you hit Smythe just now. You took care to pelt no one else, and now you deny it before all of us who saw you. Upon my word, Jones, I feel inclined to kick you, and I will too.”
“Stop, Franklin,” said Walter, laying his hands on his shoulder, “leave him to us now. Do you still deny throwing, Jones?”
“Well, it was only just a little piece of snow,” said Jones, showing in his blotched face every other contemptible passion fused into the one feeling of abject fear.
“Faugh!” said Power, with scorn and disgust curling his lip and burning in his glance; “really, Jones, you’re almost too mean and nasty to have any dealings with. I don’t think we can do you the honour of convening you. You shall apologise to Smythe here and now, and that shall be enough for you.”
“What! do you hesitate?” said Franklin; “you don’t know when you’re well off. Be quick, for we all want our breakfast.”
“Never mind making him apologise,” said Smythe; “he’s sunk quite low enough already.”
“It’s his own doing,” said Walter. “We can’t have lies like his told without a blush at Saint Winifred’s. Apologise he must and shall.”
“Don’t do it,” said Mackworth.
“What!” said Henderson, “is that Mackworth speaking? Ah! I thought so—Bliss isn’t here!”
Henderson’s manner was irresistibly comic; and as Mackworth winced and slunk back to the very outside of the crowd, the loud laugh which followed showed that the complete exposure of the worthlessness of their champions had already turned the current of feeling among the young conspirators, and that they were beginning to regret their unprovoked attack on the upper boys.
“Now then, Jones, this is what you have to read,” said Walter, who had been writing it on a slip of paper—“I humbly beg Smythe’s pardon for pelting him, and the pardon of all present for my abominable lies.”
Jones began to mumble it out, but there arose a general shout of—
“On your knees, White-feather; on your knees, and much louder.”
Franklin, who was boiling over with anger and contempt, sprang forward, took Jones by the neck, and forced him on his knees in the snow, where he made him read the apology, and then let him loose. A shower of snowballs followed him as he ran to the refuge of the breakfast-hall, for there was not a boy present, no matter to what faction he belonged, who did not feel for Jones a very hearty contempt.
“I hope we shall have no more of this, boys,” said Power, before the rest dispersed. “There have been monitors at Saint Winifred’s for a hundred years now, and it’s infinitely better for the school that there should be. I suppose you would hardly prefer to be at the mercy of such a fellow as that,” he said, pointing in the direction of Jones’s flight. “I don’t know why we should be unpopular amongst you. You know that not one of us has ever abused his authority, or behaved otherwise than kindly to you all. But I am sorry to see that you are set on—set on by fellows who ought to know better. Don’t suppose, any of you, that they will frighten us from doing what we know to be right, or that you can intimidate us when we are acting for the good of the school.”
They cheered his few simple words, for they were proud of him as head-monitor. They had never had at Saint Winifred’s a better scholar, or a more honourable boy; and though Harpour and his friends affected to sneer at him, Power was a general favourite, and the firm attitude which he now assumed increased the respect and admiration which he had always inspired.
“No more notice will be taken of this, you little fellows,” said Walter to the crowd of smaller boys; “we know very well that you have merely been the tools in other hands, and that is why we only singled out three fellows. I am quite sure you won’t behave in this way again; but if you do, remember we shan’t pass it over so lightly.”
“Come here you, Wilton,” said Henderson, as the rest were dispersing. “You’ve been particularly busy, I see. So! six good hard snowballs in your jacket pocket, eh? Now, you just employ yourself in collecting every one of these snowballs that are lying ready here, and throw them into the pond. Don’t let me see one when I come out. Belial junior will have to curtail his breakfast-time this morning, I guess,” he continued to Whalley; “the young villain! shall we ever bring him to a right mind?”
Wilton, in a diabolical frame of mind, began his appointed task, and had just finished it as the boys came out of breakfast. “That will do,” said Henderson. “I must trouble you for one minute more. Come with me.” Shaking with cold and alarm, Wilton obeyed, muttering threats of vengeance, and driven almost frantic by the laughter with which Henderson received them. He walked across to the sixth-form room, and then seeing that all the monitors were assembled, sent him “to tell his friends, Harpour and Tracy, that their presence was demanded immediately.”
“Never mind, Raven,” said Kenrick to him; “it’s a shame of them to bully you.”
“I have made him collect some snowballs which he had a chief hand in making, and with one of which yesterday a monitor was seriously hurt; then I have sent him a message for two worthless fellows, whose counsels he generally follows; both of which things I have done to teach him a mild but salutary lesson. Is that what you call bullying?”
“I believe you spite the boy because you know I like him. It’s just the kind of conduct worthy of you.”
“If it gives you any comfort to say so, Kenrick, pray do; but let me tell you, that after the way you have allowed young Evson and others to be treated in your house, the charge of bullying comes with singularly ill grace from you.”
An angry retort sprang to Kenrick’s lips; but at that moment the two offenders came to the door, and Power said, “Hush, you two. We need unity now, if ever, and it will be very harmful if these fellows find a quarrel going on Kenrick, I wish you would try to—”
“Oh; yes; it’s always Kenrick, of course,” said he angrily. “I’ll have nothing to do with your proceedings;” and, rising, from his place, he flung out of the room, not sorry to be absent from a scene which he thought might compromise his popularity with some of those who excepted him from the list of the monitors, whom they professed to consider as their natural enemies.
Harpour and Tracy had thought that when convened before the monitors they would have an opportunity for displaying plenty of insolence and indifference; but when they found themselves standing in the presence of those fifteen upper boys, each one of whom was in all respects their superior, all their courage evaporated. But they were let off very easily. The monitors were content with the complete triumph they had gained that morning, and with the disgrace to which these fellows had been compelled to submit. All that they now required from them was an expression of regret for what they had done, and a promise not to offend in the same way again; and when these had been extorted, they were dismissed by Power with some good advice, and a tolerably stern reprimand. Power did this with an ease and force which moved the admiration of all his brother monitors; no one could have done it as he did it, who was not supported by the authority of a high and stainless character consistently maintained. What he said was not without effect; even the coarse burly Harpour dared not look up, but could only fix his eyes on the floor and kick the matting in sullen wrath while this virtuous and noble boy looked at him and rebuked him; but Tracy was more deeply moved. Tracy, weak, foolish, and feebly fast as he was, had some elements of good and gentlemanly feeling in him, and, with more wisely chosen associates, would have developed a much less contemptible character. When Power had done speaking, he looked up and said, without one particle of his usual affectation—
“I really am sorry for helping to get up this affair. I see I’ve been in the wrong, and I beg pardon sincerely. You may depend on my not having anything more to do with a thing of this kind.”
“Thank you, Tracy,” said Walter; “that was spoken like a man. We’ve known each other for some time now, and I wish we could get on more unitedly. You might do some good in the school if you chose.”
“Not much, I’m afraid now,” said Tracy, “but I’ll tr(ai)y.”
“Well, then, Tracy, we’ll shake hands on that resolve, and bygones shall be bygones,” said Henderson. “You’ll forgive my making fun of you this morning.”
He shook hands with Henderson and with Walter, while Power, holding out his hand, said, smiling, “It’s never too late to mend.”
“No,” said Tracy, looking at one of his boots, which he had a habit of putting out before the other.
“He applied your remark to his boots, Power,” said Henderson, laughing. “Did you observe how the hole in one of them distressed him.”
So the monitors separated, not without hopes that things were beginning to look a little brighter than before.