Chapter Twenty One.
The Fight that did not come off.
On reaching Saint Dominic’s the three boys discovered that the news of their afternoon’s adventure had arrived there before them. Paul, despite his promise of secrecy, had not been able to refrain from confiding to one or two bosom friends, in strict confidence, his version of the fracas on the tow-path. Of course the story became frightfully distorted in its progress from mouth to mouth, but it flew like wildfire through Saint Dominic’s all the same.
When Oliver and his friend with Stephen entered the school-house, groups of inquisitive boys eyed them askance and whispered as they went by. It seemed quite a disappointment to not a few that the three did not appear covered with blood, or as pale as sheets, or with broken limbs. No one knew exactly what had happened, but every one knew something had happened, and it would have been much more satisfactory if the heroes of the hour had had something to show for it.
Oliver was in no mood for gratifying the curiosity of anybody, and stalked off to his study in gloomy silence, attended by his chum and the anxious Stephen.
A hurried council of war ensued.
“I must go and challenge Loman at once,” said Oliver.
“Let me go,” said Wraysford.
“Why?”
“Because most likely if you go you’ll have a row in his study. Much better wait and have it out decently in the gymnasium. I’ll go and tell him.”
Oliver yielded to this advice.
“Look sharp, old man,” he said, “that’s all.”
Wraysford went off on his mission without delay.
He found Loman in his study with his books before him.
“Greenfield senior wants me to say he’ll meet you after tea in the gymnasium if you’ll come there,” said the ambassador.
Loman, who was evidently prepared for the scene, looked up angrily as he replied, “Fight me? What does he want to fight me for, I should like to know!”
“You know as well as I do,” said Wraysford.
“I know nothing about it, and what’s more I’ll have nothing to do with the fellow. Tell him that.”
“Then you won’t fight?” exclaimed the astounded Wraysford.
“No, I won’t to please him. When I’ve nothing better to do I’ll do it;” and with the words his face flushed crimson as he bent it once more over his book.
Wraysford was quite taken aback by this unexpected answer, and hesitated before he turned to go.
“Do you hear what I say?” said Loman. “Don’t you see I’m working?”
“Look here,” said Wraysford, “I didn’t think you were a coward.”
“Think what you like. Do you suppose I care? If Greenfield wants so badly to fight me, why didn’t he do it last term when I gave him the chance? Get out of my study, and tell him I’ll have nothing to do with him or any of your stuck-up Fifth!”
Wraysford stared hard at the speaker and then said, “I suppose you’re afraid to fight me, either?”
“If you don’t clear out of my study I’ll report you to the Doctor, that’s what I’ll do,” growled Loman.
There was no use staying, evidently; and Wraysford returned dejectedly to Oliver.
“He won’t fight,” he announced.
“Not fight!” exclaimed Oliver. “Why ever not?”
“I suppose because he’s a coward. He says because he doesn’t choose.”
“But he must fight, Wray. We must make him!”
“You can’t. I called him a coward, and that wouldn’t make him. You’ll have to give it up this time, Noll.”
But Oliver wouldn’t hear of giving it up so easily. He got up and rushed to Loman’s study himself. But it was locked. He knocked, no one answered. He called through the keyhole, but there was no reply. Evidently Loman did not intend to fight, and Oliver returned crestfallen and disappointed to his study.
“It’s no go,” he said, in answer to his friend’s inquiry.
“Oh, well, never mind,” said Wraysford. “Even if you could have fought, I dare say it wouldn’t have done much good, for he’s such a sullen beggar there would have been no making it up afterwards. If I were you I wouldn’t bother any more about it. I’ll let all the fellows know he refused to fight you!”
“What’s the use of that?” said Oliver. “Why tell them anything about it?”
But tell them or not tell them, the fellows knew already. It had oozed out very soon that a fight was coming off, and instantly the whole school was in excitement. For, however little some of them cared about the personal quarrel between Oliver and Loman, a fight between Fifth and Sixth was too great an event to be passed by unheeded.
The Fifth were delighted. They knew their man could beat Loman any day of the week, and however much they had once doubted his courage, now it was known he was the challenger every misgiving on that score was done away with.
“I tell you,” said Ricketts to a small knot of his class-fellows, “he could finish him up easily in one round.”
“Yes,” chimed in another knowing one, “Loman’s got such a wretched knack of keeping up his left elbow, that he’s not a chance. A child could get in under his guard, I tell you; and as for wind, he’s no more wind than an old paper bag!”
“I wish myself it was a closer thing, as long as our man won,” said Tom Senior, with a tinge of melancholy in his voice. “It will be such a miserably hollow affair I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry it’s not Wren, or Callonby, or one of them,” said another of these amiable warriors; “there’d be some pleasure in chawing them up.”
At this moment up came Pembury, with a very long face.
“It’s no fight after all, you fellows,” said he. “Loman funks it!”
“What! he won’t fight!” almost shrieked the rest. “It must be wrong.”
“Oh, all right, if it’s wrong,” snarled Pembury. “I tell you there’s no fight; you can believe it or not as you like,” and off he hobbled, in unusual ill-humour.
This was a sad blow to the Fifth. They saw no comfort anywhere. They flocked to Oliver’s study, but he was not there, and Wraysford’s door was locked. The news, however, was confirmed by other reporters, and in great grief and profound melancholy the Fifth swallowed their tea, and wondered if any set of fellows were so unlucky as they.
But their rage was as nothing to that of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.
These amiable young animals had of course sniffed the battle from afar very early in the evening, and, as usual, rushed into all sorts of extremes of enthusiasm on the subject. A fight! A fight between Fifth and Sixth! A fight between Greenfield senior and a monitor! Oh, it was too good to be true, a perfect luxury; something to be grateful for, and no mistake!
Of course a meeting was forthwith assembled to gloat over the auspicious event.
Bramble vehemently expressed his conviction that the Sixth Form man would eat up his opponent, and went the length of offering to cut off his own head and Padger’s if it turned out otherwise.
Paul and his friends, on the other hand, as vehemently backed the Fifth fellow.
“When’s it to come off, I say?” demanded Bramble.
“To-night, I should say, or first thing in the morning.”
“Sure to be to-night. My eye! won’t Greenfield senior look black and blue after it!”
“No, he won’t,” cried Paul.
“Turn him out!” shouted Bramble. “No one wants you here; do we, Padger? Get yourself out of the meeting, you sneak!”
“Get yourself out!” retorted Paul.
The usual lively scene ensued, at the end of which the door suddenly opened, and a boy entered.
“Look sharp,” he cried: “it’s half over by now. They were—”
But what the end of his sentence was to be, history recordeth not. With a simultaneous yell the youngsters rushed headlong from the room, down the passages, out at the door, across the quadrangle, and into the gymnasium. Alas! it was empty. Only the gaunt parallel bars, and idle swings, and melancholy vaulting-horse.
With a yelp of anger the pack cried back, and made once more for the school-house. At the door they met Stephen.
“Where’s the fight, young Greenfield?” shouted Bramble.
“Nowhere,” replied Stephen.
“What! not coming off?” shrieked the youngsters.
“No,” laconically answered Stephen.
“Has your brother funked it again?” demanded Bramble, in his usual conciliatory way.
“He never funked, you young cad!” retorted the young brother.
“Yes, he did, didn’t he, Padger? That time, you know, last term. But I say, Greenfield junior, why ever’s the fight not coming off?”
“Loman won’t fight, that’s why,” said Stephen; and then, having had quite enough of catechising, turned on his heel and left the indignant youngsters to continue their rush back to the Fourth Junior, there to spend an hour or so in denouncing the caddishness of everybody and to make up by their own conflicts for the shortcomings of others.
Oliver meanwhile had settled down as best he could once more to work, and tried to forget all about the afternoon’s adventures. But for a long time they haunted him and disturbed him. Gradually, however, he found himself cooling down under the influence of Greek accents and Roman history.
“After all,” said he to Wraysford, “if the fellow is a coward why need I bother? Only I should have rather liked to thrash him for what he did to Stee.”
“Never mind—thrash him over the Nightingale instead.”
The mention of the Nightingale, however, did not serve to heighten Oliver’s spirits at all.
He turned dejectedly to his books, but soon gave up further study.
“You can go on if you like,” said he to Wraysford. “I can’t. It’s no use. I think I shall go to bed.”
“What! It’s not quite nine yet.”
“Is that all it is? Never mind; good-night, old man. I’m glad it will all be over on Monday.”
Before Oliver went to bed he had a talk with Stephen in his study. He succeeded in putting pretty vividly before his young brother the position in which he had placed himself by going down to the public-house and associating with a man like Cripps.
“What I advise you is, to make a clean breast of it to the Doctor at once. If he hears of it any other way, you’re done for.” Oliver certainly had an uncompromising way of putting things.
“Oh, Noll, I never could! I know I couldn’t. I say, will you? You can tell him anything you like.”
Oliver hesitated a moment, and then said, “All serene; I’ll do it. Mind, I must tell him everything, though.”
“Oh, yes! I say, do you think I’ll be expelled?”
“I hope not. There’s no knowing, though.”
“Oh, Noll! what shall I do?”
“It’s your only chance, I tell you. If Cripps comes up and talks about it, or Loman tells, you’re sure to be expelled.”
“Well,” said Stephen, with a gulp, “I suppose you’d better tell him, Noll. Need I come too?”
“No, better not,” said Oliver. “I’ll go and see if he’s in his study now. You go up stairs, and I’ll come and tell you what he says.”
Stephen crawled dismally away, leaving his brother to fulfil his self-imposed task.
Oliver went straight to the Doctor’s study. The door stood half-open, but the Doctor was not there. He entered, and waited inside a couple of minutes, expecting that the head master would return; but no one came. After all, he would have to put off his confession of Stephen’s delinquencies till to-morrow; and, half relieved, half disappointed, he quitted the room. As he came out he encountered Simon in the passage.
“Hullo, Greenfield!” said that worthy; “what have you been up to in there?”
“I want the Doctor,” said Oliver; “do you know where he is?”
“If saw him go up stairs a minute ago; that is, I mean down stairs, you know,” said the lucid poet.
This information was sufficiently vague to determine Oliver not to attempt a wild-goose chase after the Doctor that night, so, bidding a hurried good-night to Simon, he took his way down the passage which led to Stephen’s dormitory.
He had not, however, gone many steps when a boy met him. It was Loman. There was a momentary struggle in Oliver’s breast. Here was the—very opportunity which an hour or two ago he had so eagerly desired. The whole picture of that afternoon’s adventures came up before his mind, and he felt his blood tingle as his eyes caught sight of Stephen’s persecutor. Should he pay off the score now?
Loman saw him, and changed colour. He evidently guessed what was passing through his enemy’s mind, for a quick flush came to his face and an angry scowl to his brow.
Oliver for one moment slackened pace. Then suddenly there came upon him a vision of Stephen’s appealing face as he interceded that afternoon for the boy who had done him such mischief, and that vision settled the thing.
Hurriedly resuming his walk, Oliver passed Loman with averted eyes, and went on his way.
“Well?” said Stephen, in the midst of undressing, as his brother entered the dormitory.
“He wasn’t there. I’ll see him in the morning,” said Oliver. “Good-night, Stee.”
“Good-night, Noll, old man! I say, you are a brick to me!” and as the boy spoke there was a tremble in his voice which went straight to his brother’s heart.
“You are a brick to me!” A pretty “brick” he had been, letting the youngster drift anywhere—into bad company, into bad ways, without holding out a hand to warn him; and in the end coming to his help only by accident, and serving him by undertaking a task which would quite possibly result in his expulsion from the school.
A brick, indeed! Oliver went off to his own bed that night more dispirited and dissatisfied with himself than he had ever felt before. And all through his dreams his brother’s troubled face looked up at him, and the trembling voice repeated, again and again, “You are a brick to me—a brick to me!”
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Nightingale Examination.
The next morning early, before breakfast, Oliver joined the Doctor in his study, and made a clean breast to him there and then of Stephen’s delinquencies. He had evidently taken the right step in doing so, for, hearing it all thus frankly confessed by the elder brother, Dr Senior was disposed to take a much more lenient view of the case than he would had the information come to him through any other channel.
But at its best the offence was a grave one, and Oliver more than once felt anxious at the sight of the head master’s long face during the narrative. However, when it was all over his fears were at once dispelled by the doctor saying, “Well, Greenfield, you’ve done a very proper thing in telling me all this; it is a straightforward as well as a brotherly act. Your brother seems to have been very foolish, but I have no doubt he has got a lesson. You had better send him to me after morning service.”
And so, much relieved, Oliver went off and reported to the grateful Stephen the success of his mission, and the two boys went off to the school chapel together a good deal more happy than they had been the previous day.
“I say,” said Stephen, as they went along, “I suppose you didn’t say anything about Loman, did you?”
“Of course not! he’s no concern of mine,” said Oliver, rather tartly. “But look here, young ’un, I’m not going to let you fag any more for him, or have anything to do with him.”
“All right!” said Stephen, who had no desire to continue his acquaintance with his late “proprietor.”
“But the captain will row me, won’t he?”
“If he does I’ll make that square. You can fag for Wraysford if you like, though, he wants a fellow.”
“Oh, all right!” cried Stephen, delighted, “that’ll be jolly! I like old Wray.”
“Very kind of you,” said a voice close by.
It was Wraysford himself, who had come in for this very genuine compliment.
“Hullo! I say, look here, Wraysford,” said the beaming Stephen, “I’m going to cut Loman and fag for you. Isn’t it jolly?”
“Depends on whether I have you. I don’t want any Guinea-pigs in my study, mind.”
Stephen’s face fell. For even such a privilege as fagging for Wraysford he could not afford to sever the sacred ties which held him to the fellowship of the Guinea-pigs. “I really wouldn’t kick-up shines,” said he, imploringly.
“You’d be a queer Guinea-pig if you didn’t!” was the flattering answer. “And how many times a week would you go on strike, eh?”
“Oh!” said Stephen, “I’ll never go on strike again; I don’t like it.”
The two friends laughed at this ingenuous admission, and then Wraysford said, “Well, I’ll have you; but mind, I’m awfully particular, and knock my fags about tremendously, don’t I, Noll?”
“I don’t mind that,” said the delighted Stephen. “Besides, you’ve not had a fag to knock about!”
At that moment, however, the bell for morning chapel cut short all further talk for the present. Stephen obeyed its summons for once in a subdued and thankful frame of mind. Too often had those weekly services been to him occasions of mere empty form, when with his head full of school worries or school fun he had scarcely heard, much less heeded, what was said.
To-day, however, it was different. Stephen was a sobered boy. He had passed through perils and temptations from which, if he had escaped, it had been through no merit of his own. Things might have been far different. His life had been saved, so had his peace of mind, and now even the consequences of old transgressions had been lightened for him. What had he done to deserve all this?
This was the question which the boy humbly asked himself as he entered the chapel that morning, and the Doctor’s sermon fitted well with his altered frame of mind.
It was a sermon such as he had often heard before in that chapel; the words struck him now with a new force which almost startled him. “Forgetting those things which are behind—reaching forth unto those things which are before,”—this was the Doctor’s text, and in the few simple words in which he urged his hearers to lay the past, with all its burdens, and disappointments, and shame, upon Him in whom alone forgiveness is to be found, Stephen drank in new courage and hope for the future, and in the thankfulness and penitence of his heart resolved to commit his way more honestly than ever to the best of all keeping, compared with which even a brother’s love is powerless.
Before the morning was over Stephen duly went to the Doctor, who talked to him very seriously. I need not repeat the talk here. Stephen was very penitent, and had the good sense to say as little as possible; but when it was all over he thanked the Doctor gratefully, and promised he should never have to talk to him for bad conduct again.
“You must thank your brother for my not dealing a great deal more severely with the case,” said Dr Senior; “and I am quite ready to believe it will not occur again. Now, good-bye.”
And off Stephen went, the happiest boy alive, determined more than ever to respect the Doctor’s authority, and prove himself a model boy.
Sunday afternoon at Saint Dominic’s was usually spent by the boys in fine weather, in strolling about in the gardens, or rambling into the woods by the banks of the Shar.
This afternoon, however, was somewhat overcast, and a good many of the boys consequently preferred staying indoors to running the risk of spoiling their best hats in a shower. Among those who kept the house was Oliver, who, in reply to Wraysford’s invitation to go out, pleaded that he was not in the humour.
This indeed was the case, for, now that Stephen’s affairs were settled, the dread of the approaching Nightingale examination came back over him like a nightmare, and made him quite miserable. The nearer the hour of trial came the more convinced did Oliver become that he stood no chance whatever of winning, and with that conviction all the bright hopes of a university course, and the prospects of after-success, seemed extinguished.
Of course it was very ridiculous of him to worry himself into such a state, but then, reader, he had been working just a little too hard, and it was hardly his fault if he was ridiculous.
Wraysford, though by no means in high spirits, kept his head a good deal better, and tried to enjoy his walk and forget all about books, as if nothing at all was going to happen to-morrow. As for Loman, he was not visible from morning till night, and a good many guessed, and guessed correctly, that he was at work, even on Sunday.
The small boys, not so much though, I fear, out of reverence for the day as for partisanship of the Fifth, were very indignant on the subject, and held a small full-dress meeting after tea, to protest against one of the candidates taking such an unfair advantage over the others.
“He ought to be expelled!” exclaimed Paul.
“All very well,” said Bramble. “Greenfield senior’s cramming too, he’s been in all the afternoon.”
“He’s not cramming, he’s got a headache!” said Stephen.
“Oh, yes, I dare say, don’t you, Padger? Got a headache—that’s a nice excuse for copying out of cribs on a Sunday.”
“He doesn’t use cribs, and I tell you he’s not working!” said Stephen, indignantly.
“Shut up, do you hear, or you’ll get turned out, Potboy!”
This was too much for Stephen, who left the assembly in disgust, after threatening to take an early opportunity on the next day of giving his adversary “one for himself,” a threat which we may as well say at once here he did not fail to carry out with his wonted energy.
The long Sunday ended at last—a Sunday spoiled to many of the boys of Saint Dominic’s by distracting thoughts and cares—a day which many impatiently wished over, and which some wished would never give place to the morrow.
But that morrow came at last, and with it rose Oliver, strengthened and hopeful once more for the trial that lay before him. He was early at Wraysford’s study, whom he found only just out of bed.
“Look alive, old man. What do you say to a dip in the river before breakfast? We’ve got plenty of time, and it will wash off the cobwebs before the exam.”
“All serene,” said Wraysford, not very cheerily, though. “Anything’s better than doing nothing.”
“Why, Wray, I thought you weren’t going to let yourself get down about it?”
“I thought you weren’t going to let yourself get up—why, you’re quite festive this morning.”
“Well, you see, a fellow can’t do better than his best, and so as I have done my best I don’t mean to punish myself by getting in the blues.”
“Pity you didn’t make that resolution yesterday. You were awfully glum, you know, then; and now I’ve got my turn, you see.”
“Oh, never mind, a plunge in the Shar will set you all right.”
“Stee,” said he, addressing his younger brother, who at that moment entered proudly in his new capacity as Wraysford’s fag, “mind you have breakfast ready sharp by eight, do you hear? the best you can get out of Wray’s cupboard. Come along, old boy.”
And so they went down to the river, Oliver in unusually good spirits, and Wraysford most unusually depressed and nervous. The bathe was not a great success, for Wraysford evidently did not enjoy it.
“What’s wrong, old man?” said Oliver, as they walked back, “aren’t you well?”
“I’m all right,” said Wraysford.
“But you’re out of spirits. It’s odd that I was in dumps and you were in good spirits up to the fatal day, and now things are just reversed. But, I say, you mustn’t get down, you know, or it’ll tell against you at the exam.”
“It strikes me every answer I give will tell against me. All I hope is that you get the scholarship.”
“I mean to try, just like you and Loman.”
And so they went into breakfast, which was a solemn meal, and despite Stephen’s care in hunting up delicacies, not very well partaken of.
It seemed ages before the nine o’clock bell summoned them down to the Fifth Form room.
Here, however, the sympathy and encouragement of their class-fellows amply served to pass the time till the examination began.
“Well, you fellows,” cried Pembury, as the two entered, “do you feel like winning?”
“Not more than usual,” said Oliver. “How do you feel?”
“Oh, particularly cheerful, for I’ve nothing to do all day, I find. I’m not in for the Nightingale, or for the Mathematical Medal, or for the English Literature. Simon’s in for that, you know, so there’s no chance for any one.”
Simon smiled very blandly at this side compliment.
“So you fellows,” continued Tony, “may command my services from morning to night if you like.”
“Loman was grinding hard all yesterday,” said Braddy. “I’m afraid he’ll be rather a hot one to beat.”
“But we must beat him, mind, you fellows,” said Ricketts, calmly, comprehending the whole class in his “we.”
“Why, Wray,” said another, “how jolly blue you look! Don’t go and funk it, old man, or it’s all UP.”
“Who’s going to funk it?” said Oliver, impatiently, on his friend’s behalf. “I tell you Wray will most likely win.”
“Well, as long as one of you does,” said Tom Senior, with noble impartiality, “we don’t care which; do we, Braddy?”
“Of course not.”
So, then, all this sympathy and encouragement were not for the two boys at all, but for their Form. They might just as well have been two carefully trained racehorses starting on a race with heavy odds upon them.
The Doctor’s entry, however, put an end to any further talk, and, as usual, a dead silence ensued after the boys had taken their seats.
The Doctor looked a little uneasy. Doubtless he was impressed, too, by the importance of the occasion. He proceeded to call over the lists of candidates for the different examinations in a fidgety manner, very unlike his usual self, and then turning abruptly to the class, said:
“The Mathematical Medal candidates will remain here for examination. The English Literature and Nightingale Scholarship candidates will be examined in the Sixth Form room. Boys not in for either of these examinations may go to their studies till the twelve o’clock bell rings. Before you disperse, however,”—and here the Doctor grew still more fidgety—“I want to mention one matter which I have already mentioned in the Sixth. I mention it not because I suspect any boy here of a dishonourable act, but because—the matter being a mystery—I feel I must not neglect the most remote opportunity of clearing it up.”
What on earth was coming? It was as good as a ghost story, every one was so spellbound and mystified.
“On Saturday evening I had occasion to leave my study for rather less than five minutes, shortly after nine o’clock. I had been engaged in getting together the various papers of questions for to-day’s examinations, and left them lying on the corner of the table. On returning to my study—I had not been absent five minutes—I found that one of the papers—one of the Nightingale Scholarship papers, which I had only just copied out, was missing. If I were not perfectly sure the full number was there before I left the room, I should conclude I was mistaken, but of that I am sure. I just wish to ask this one question here, which I have already asked in the Sixth. Does any boy present know anything about the missing paper?”
You might have heard a pin drop as the Doctor paused for a reply.
“No? I expected not; I am quite satisfied. You can disperse, boys, to your various places.”
“What a fellow the Doctor is for speeches, Wray,” said Oliver, as he and his friend made their way to the Sixth Form room.
“Yes. But that’s a very queer thing about the paper, though.”
“Oh, he’s certain to have mislaid it somewhere. It’s a queer thing saying anything about it; for it looks uncommonly as if he suspected some one.”
“So it does. Oh, horrors! here we are at the torture-chamber! I wish it was all over!”
They entered the Sixth Form room, which was regularly cleared for action. One long desk was allotted to the three Nightingale candidates, two others to the English Literature boys, and another to the competitors in a Sixth Form Greek verse contest.
Loman was already in his place, waiting with flushed face for the ordeal to begin. The two friends took their seats without vouchsafing any notice of their rival, and an uncomfortable two minutes ensued, during which it seemed as if the Doctor were never to arrive.
He did arrive at last, however, bringing with him the examination papers for the various classes.
“Boys for the Greek verse prize come forward.”
Wren, Raleigh, Winter, and Callonby advanced, and received each one his paper.
“Boys for the Nightingale Scholarship come forward.”
The three competitors obeyed the summons, and to each was handed a paper.
It was not in human nature to forbear glancing hurriedly at the momentous questions, as each walked slowly back to his seat. The effect of that momentary glance was very different on the three boys. Wraysford’s face slightly lengthened, Loman’s grew suddenly aghast, Oliver’s betrayed no emotion whatever.
“Boys for the English Literature prize come forward.”
These duly advanced and were furnished, and then silence reigned in the room, broken only by the rapid scratching of pens and the solemn tick of the clock on the wall.
Reader, you doubtless know the horrors of an examination-room as well as I do. You know what it is to sit biting the end of your pen, and glaring at the ruthless question in front of you. You know what it is to dash nervously from question to question, answering a bit of this and a bit of that, but lacking the patience to work steadily down the list. And you have experienced doubtless the aggravation of hearing the pen of the man on your right flying along the paper with a hideous squeak, never stopping for a moment to give you a chance. And knowing all this, there is no need for me to describe the vicissitudes of this particular day of ordeal at Saint Dominic’s.
The work went steadily on from morning to afternoon. More than one anxious face darted now and then nervous glances up at the clock, as the hour of closing approached.
Loman was one of them. He was evidently in difficulties, and the Fifth Form fellows, who looked round occasionally from their English Literature papers, were elated to see their own men writing steadily and hard, while the Sixth man looked all aground. There was one boy, however, who had no time for such observations. That was Simon. He had got hold of a question which was after his own heart, and demanded every second of his attention—“Describe, in not more than twelve lines of blank verse, the natural beauties of the River Shar.” Here was a chance for the Dominican poet!
“The Shar is a very beautiful stream,
Of the Ouse a tributary;
Up at Gusset Weir it’s prettiest, I ween,
Because there the birds sing so merry.”
These four lines the poet styled, “Canto One.” Cantos 2, 3, and 4 were much of the same excellence, and altogether the effusion was in one of Simon’s happiest moods. Alas! as another poet said, “Art is long, time is fleeting.” The clock pointed to three long before the bard had penned his fifth canto; and sadly and regretfully he and his fellow-candidates gathered together and handed in their papers, for better or worse.
Among the last to finish up was Oliver, who had been working hammer and tongs during the whole examination.
“How did you get on?” said Wraysford, as they walked back to the Fifth.
“Middling, not so bad as I feared; how did you?”
“Not very grand, I’m afraid; but better than I expected,” said Wraysford. “But I say, did you see how gravelled Loman seemed? I fancy he didn’t do very much.”
“So I thought; but I hadn’t time to watch him much.”
In the Fifth there was a crowd of questioners, eager to ascertain how their champions had fared; and great was their delight to learn that neither was utterly cast down at his own efforts.
“You fellows are regular bricks if you get it!” cried Ricketts.
“It’ll be the best thing that has happened for the Fifth for a long time.”
“Oh, I say,” said Simon, suddenly, addressing Oliver in a peculiarly knowing tone, “wasn’t it funny, that about the Doctor losing the paper? Just the very time I met you coming out of his study, you know, on Saturday evening. But of course I won’t say anything. Only wasn’t it funny?”
What had come over Oliver, that he suddenly turned crimson, and without a single word struck the speaker angrily with his open hand on the forehead?
Was he mad? or could it possibly be that—
Before the assembled Fifth could recover from their astonishment or conjecture as to the motive for this sudden exhibition of feeling, he turned abruptly to the door and quitted the room.
Chapter Twenty Three.
A Turn of the Tide.
An earthquake could hardly have produced a greater shock than Oliver’s strange conduct produced on the Fifth Form at Saint Dominic’s. For a moment or two they remained almost stupefied with astonishment, and then rose a sudden clamour of tongues on every hand.
“What can he mean?” exclaimed one.
“Mean! It’s easy enough to see what he means,” said another, “the hypocrite!”
“I should never have thought Greenfield senior went in for that sort of thing!”
“Went in for what sort of thing?” cried Wraysford, with pale face and in a perfect tremble.
“Why—cheating!” replied the other.
“You’re a liar to say so!” shouted Wraysford, walking rapidly up to the speaker.
The other boys, however, intervened, and held the indignant Wraysford back.
“I tell you you’re a liar to say so!” again he exclaimed. “He’s not a cheat, I tell you; he never cheated. You’re a pack of liars, all of you!”
“I say, draw it mild, Wray, you know,” interposed Pembury. “You needn’t include me in your compliments.”
Wraysford glared at him a moment and then coloured slightly.
“You don’t call Oliver a cheat?” he said, inquiringly.
“I shouldn’t till I was cock-sure of the fact,” replied the cautious editor of the Dominican.
“Do you mean to say you aren’t sure?” said Wraysford.
Pembury vouchsafed no answer, but whistled to himself.
“All I can say is,” said Bullinger, who was one of Wraysford’s chums, “it looks uncommonly ugly, if what Simon says is true.”
“I don’t believe a word that ass says.”
“Oh, but,” began Simon, with a most aggravating cheerfulness, “I assure you I’m not telling a lie, Wraysford. I’m sorry I said anything about it. I never thought there would be a row about it. I promise I’ll not mention it to anybody.”
“You blockhead! who cares for your promises? I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I know I met Greenfield senior coming out of the Doctor’s study on Saturday evening, about five minutes past nine. I’m positive of that,” said Simon.
“And I suppose he had the paper in his hand?” sneered Wraysford, looking very miserable.
“No; I expect he’d put it in his pocket, you know, at least, that is, I would have.”
This candid admission on the part of the ingenious poet was too much for the gravity of one or two of the Fifth. Wraysford, however, was in no laughing mood, and went off to his study in great perturbation.
He could not for a moment believe that his friend could be guilty of such a dishonourable act as stealing an examination paper, and his impulse was to go at once to Oliver’s study and get the suspicions of the Fifth laid there and then. But the fear of seeming in the least degree to join in those suspicions kept him back. He tried to laugh the thing to scorn inwardly, and called himself a villain and a traitor twenty times for admitting even the shadow of a doubt into his own mind. Yet, as Wraysford sat that afternoon and brooded over his friend’s new trouble, he became more and more uncomfortable.
When on a former occasion the fellows had called in question Oliver’s courage, he had felt so sure, so very sure the suspicion was a groundless one, that he had never taken it seriously to heart. But somehow this affair was quite different. What possible object would Simon, for instance, have for telling a deliberate lie? and if it had been a lie, why should Oliver have betrayed such confusion on hearing it?
These were questions which, try all he would, Wraysford could not get out of his mind.
When Stephen presently came in, cheery as ever, and eager to hear how the examination had gone off, the elder boy felt an awkwardness in talking to him which he had never experienced before. As for Stephen, he put down the short, embarrassed answers he received to Wraysford’s own uneasiness as to the result of the examination. Little guessed the boy what was passing in the other’s mind!
There was just one hope Wraysford clung to. That was that Oliver should come out anywhere but first in the result. If Loman, or Wraysford himself, were to win, no one would be able to say his friend had profited by a dishonourable act; indeed, it would be as good as proof he had not taken the paper.
And yet Wraysford felt quite sick as he called to mind the unflagging manner in which Oliver had worked at his paper that morning, covering sheet upon sheet with his answers, and scarcely drawing in until time was up. It didn’t look like losing, this.
He threw himself back in his chair in sheer misery. “I would sooner have done the thing myself,” groaned he to himself, “than Oliver.” Then suddenly he added, “But it’s not true! I’m certain of it! He couldn’t do it! I’ll never believe it of him!”
Poor Wraysford! It was easier to say the generous words than feel them.
Pembury looked in presently with a face far more serious and overcast than he usually wore.
“I say, Wray,” said he, in troubled tones, “I’m regularly floored by all this. Do you believe it?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Wraysford, but so sadly and hesitatingly that had he at once confessed he did, he could not have expressed his meaning more plainly.
“I’d give anything to be sure it was all false,” said Pembury, “and so would a lot of the fellows. As for that fool Simon—”
“Bah!” exclaimed Wraysford, fiercely, “the fellow ought to be kicked round the school.”
“He’s getting on that way already, I fancy,” said Pembury. “I was saying I’d think nothing at all about it if what he says was the only thing to go by, but—well, you saw what a state Greenfield got into about it?”
“Maybe he was just in a sudden rage with the fellow for thinking of such a thing,” said Wraysford.
“It looked like something more than rage,” said Pembury, dismally, “something a good deal more.”
Wraysford said nothing, but fidgeted in his chair. A long silence followed, each busy with his own thoughts and both yearning for any sign of hope. “I don’t see what good it could have done him if he did take the paper. He’d have no time to cram it up yesterday. He was out with you, wasn’t he, all the afternoon?”
“No,” said Wraysford, not looking up, “he had a headache and stayed in.”
Pembury gave a low whistle of dismay.
“I say, Wray,” said he, presently, “it really does look bad, don’t you think so yourself?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Wraysford, with a groan; “I’m quite bewildered.”
“It’s no use pretending not to see what’s as plain as daylight,” said Pembury, as he turned and hobbled away.
The Fifth meanwhile had been holding a sort of court-martial on the affair.
Simon was made to repeat his story once more, and stuck to it too, in spite of all the browbeating he got.
“What makes you so sure of the exact time?” asked one of his inquisitors.
“Oh, because, you know, I wanted to get off a letter by the post, and thought I was in time till I saw the clock opposite the Doctor’s study said five minutes past.”
“Did Greenfield say anything to you when he saw you?” some one else asked.
“Oh, yes, he asked me if I knew where the Doctor was.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Oh, yes, I said he’d gone down to the hall or somewhere.”
“And did Greenfield go after him?”
“Oh, no, you know, he went off the other way as quick as he could,” said Simon, in a voice as though he would say, “How can you ask such an absurd question?”
“Did you ask him what he wanted in the study?”
“Oh, yes; but of course he didn’t tell me—not likely. But I say, I suppose we’re sure to win the Nightingale now, aren’t we? Mind, I’m not going to tell anybody, because, of course, it’s a secret.”
“Shut up, you miserable blockhead, unless you want to be kicked!” shouted Bullinger. “No one wants to know what you’re going to do. You’ve done mischief enough already.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t mean, you know,” said the poet; “all I said was I met him coming—”
“Shut up, do you hear? or you’ll catch it!” once more exclaimed Bullinger.
The wretched Simon gave up further attempts to explain himself. Still what he had said, in his blundering way, had been quite enough.
The thing was beyond a doubt; and as the Fifth sat there in judgment, a sense of shame and humiliation came over them, to which many of them were unused.
“I know this,” said Ricketts, giving utterance to what was passing in the minds of nearly all his class-fellows, “I’d sooner have lost the scholarship twenty times over than win it like this.”
“Precious fine glory it will be if we do get it!” said Braddy.
“Unless Wray wins,” suggested Ricketts.
“No such luck as that, I’m afraid,” said Bullinger. “That’s just the worst of it. He’s not only disgraced us, but he’s swindled his best friend. It’s a blackguard shame!” added he, fiercely.
“At any rate, Loman is out of it, from what I hear; he got regularly stuck in the exam.”
“I tell you,” said Ricketts, “I’d sooner have had Loman take the scholarship and our two men nowhere at all, than this.”
There was nothing more than this to be said, assuredly, to prove the disgust of the Fifth at the conduct of their class-fellow.
“I suppose Greenfield will have the grace to confess it, now it’s all come out,” said Ricketts.
“If he doesn’t I fancy we can promise him a pretty hot time of it among us,” said Braddy.
One or two laughed at this, but to most of those present the matter was past a joke.
For it must be said of the Dominicans—and I think it may be said of a good many English public schoolboys besides—that, however foolish they may have been in other respects, however riotous, however jealous of one another, however well satisfied with themselves, a point of honour was a point which they all took seriously to heart. They could forgive a schoolfellow for doing a disobedient act sometimes, or perhaps even a vicious act, but a cowardly or dishonourable action was a thing which nothing would excuse, and which they felt not only a disgrace to the boy perpetrating it, but a disgrace put upon themselves.
Had Oliver been the most popular boy in the school it would have been all the same. As it was, he was a long way from being the most popular. He never took any pains to win the good opinion of his fellows. When, by means of some achievement in which he excelled, he had contrived (as in the case of the cricket match last term) to bring glory on his school and to make himself a hero in the eyes of Saint Dominic’s, he had been wont to take the applause bestowed on him with the utmost indifference, which some might even construe into contempt. And in precisely the same spirit would he take the displeasure which he now and then managed to incur.
Boys don’t like this. It irritates them to see their praise or blame made little of; and for this reason, if for no other, Oliver would hardly have been a favourite.
But there was another reason. Now that the Fifth found their faith in Greenfield senior rudely dashed to the ground, they were not slow to recall the unpleasant incidents of last term, when, by refusing to thrash Loman, he had discredited the whole Form, and laid himself under the suspicion of cowardice.
Most of the fellows had at the time of the Nightingale examination either forgotten, or forgiven, or repented of their suspicions, and, indeed, by his challenge to Loman the previous Saturday Oliver had been considered quite to have redeemed his reputation in this respect. But now it all came up again. A fellow who could do a cowardly deed at one time could do a mean one at another. If one was natural to his character, so was the other, and in fact one explained the other. He was mean when he showed himself a coward last term. He was a coward when he did a mean act this term.
What wonder, in these circumstances, if the Fifth felt sore, very sore indeed, on the subject of Oliver Greenfield?
To every one’s relief, he did not put in an appearance again that day. He kept his study, and Paul brought down word at prayer time that he had a headache and had gone to bed.
At this the Fifth smiled grimly and said nothing.
Next morning, however, Oliver turned up as usual in his place. He looked pale, but otherwise unconcerned, and those who looked-for traces of shame and self-abasement in his face were sorely disappointed.
He surely must have known or guessed the resolution the Fifth had come to with regard to him; but from his unabashed manner he was evidently determined not to take it for granted till the hint should be given pretty clearly.
On Ricketts, whose desk was next to that of Oliver, fell the task of first giving this hint.
“How did you get on yesterday in the English Literature?” asked Oliver.
Ricketts’ only answer was to turn his back and begin to talk to his other neighbour.
Those who were watching this incident noticed a sudden flush on Oliver’s cheek as he stared for an instant at his late friend. Then with an effort he seemed to recover himself.
He did not, however, attempt any further conversation either with Ricketts or his other neighbour, Braddy, who in a most marked manner had moved as far as possible away from him. On the contrary, he coolly availed himself of the extra room on the desk and busied himself silently with the lessons for the day.
But he now and then looked furtively up in the direction of Wraysford, who was seated at an opposite desk. The eyes of the two friends met now and then, and when they did each seemed greatly embarrassed. For Wraysford, after a night’s heart-searching, had come to the determination not, after all, to cut his friend; and yet he found it impossible to feel and behave towards him as formerly. He tried very hard indeed not to appear constrained, but the more he tried the more embarrassed he felt. After class he purposely walked across the room to meet his old chum.
“How are you?” he said, in a forced tone and manner utterly unlike his old self.
It was a ridiculous and feeble remark to make, and it would have been far better had he said nothing. Oliver stared at him for a moment in a perplexed way, and then, without answering the question, walked somewhere else.
Wraysford was quite conscious of his own mistake; still it hurt him sorely that his well-meant effort, which had cost him so much, should be thus summarily thrust aside without a word. For the first time in his life he felt a sense of resentment against his old friend, the beginning of a gap which was destined to become wider as time went on.
The only person in the room who did meet Oliver on natural ground was the poetic Simon. To him Oliver walked up and said, quietly, “I beg your pardon for hitting you yesterday.”
“Oh,” said Simon, with a giggle. “Oh, it’s all right, Greenfield, you know; I never meant to let it out. It’ll soon get hushed up; I don’t intend to let it go a bit farther.”
The poet was too much carried away by the enthusiasm of his own magnanimity to observe that he was in imminent risk, during the delivery of this speech, of another blow a good deal more startling than that of yesterday. When he concluded, he found Oliver had left him to himself and hurriedly quitted the room.
Chapter Twenty Four.
The Result of the Examination.
The adventures of the morning did not certainly tend to make the Fifth think better of Oliver Greenfield.
Had he appeared before them humble and penitent, there were some who even then might have tried to forgive him and forget what was done. But instead of that he was evidently determined to brazen the thing out, and had begun by snubbing the very fellows whom he had so deeply injured.
Wraysford felt specially hurt. It had cost him a good deal to put on a friendly air and speak as if nothing had happened; and to find himself scorned for his pains and actually avoided by the friend who had wronged him was too much. But even that would not have been so bad, had not Oliver immediately gone and made up to Simon before all the class.
Wraysford did not remain to join in the chorus of indignation in which the others indulged after morning school was over. He left them and strolled out dismally into the playground.
He must do something! He must know one way or the other what to think of Oliver. Even now he would gladly believe that it was all a dream, and that nothing had come between him and his old friend. But the more he pondered it the more convinced he became it was anything but a dream.
He wandered unconsciously beyond the playground towards the woods on the side of the Shar, where he and Oliver had walked so often in the old days.
The old days! It was but yesterday that they had last walked there. Yet what an age ago it seemed! and how impossible that the old days should ever come back again.
He had not got far into the wood when he heard what seemed to him familiar footsteps ahead of him. Yesterday he would have shouted and whistled and called on the fellow to hold hard. But now he had no such inclination. His impulse was to turn round and go back.
“And yet,” thought he, “why should I go back? If it is Oliver, what have I to feel ashamed of?”
And so he advanced. The boy in front of him was walking slowly, and Wraysford soon came in view of him. As he expected, it was Oliver.
At the sight of his old friend, wandering here solitary and listless, all Wraysford’s old affection came suddenly back. At least he would make one more effort. So he quickened his pace. Oliver turned and saw him coming. But he did not wait. He walked on slowly as before, apparently indifferent to the approach of anybody.
This was a damper certainly to Wraysford. At least Oliver might have guessed why his friend was coming after him.
It was desperately hard to know how to begin a conversation. Oliver trudged on, sullen and silent, in anything but an encouraging manner. Still, Wraysford, now his mind was made up, was not to be put from his purpose.
“Noll, old man,” he began, in as much of his old tone and manner as he could assume.
“Well?” said Oliver, not looking up.
“Aren’t we to be friends still?”
The question cost the speaker a hard effort, and evidently went home. Oliver stopped short in his walk, and looking full in his old friend’s face, said, “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m afraid we are not friends at this moment.”
“And whose fault is that?” said Oliver, scornfully.
The question stung Wraysford as much as it amazed him. Was he, then, of all the fellows in the school, to have an explanation thus demanded of him from one who had done him the most grievous personal wrong one schoolboy well could do to another?
His face flushed as he replied slowly, “Your fault, Greenfield; how can you ask?”
Oliver gave a short laugh very like contempt, and then turned suddenly on his heel, leaving Wraysford smarting with indignation, and finally convinced that between his old friend and himself there was a gulf which now it would be hard indeed to bridge over.
He returned moodily to the school. Stephen was busy in his study getting tea.
“Hullo, Wray,” he shouted, as the elder boy entered; “don’t you wish it was this time to-morrow? I do, I’m mad to hear the result!”
“Are you?” said Wraysford.
“Yes, and so are you, you old humbug. Noll says he thinks he did pretty well, and that you answered well too. I say, what a joke if it’s a dead heat, and you both get bracketed first.”
“Cut away now,” said Wraysford, as coolly as he could, “and don’t make such a row.”
There was something unusual in his tone which surprised the small boy. He put it down, however, to worry about the examination, and quietly withdrew as commanded.
The next day came at last. Two days ago, in the Fifth Form, at any rate, it would have been uphill work for any master to attempt to conduct morning class in the face of all the eagerness and enthusiasm with which the result of the examinations would have been looked-for. Now, however, there was all the suspense, indeed, but it was the suspense of dread rather than triumph.
“Never mind,” said Ricketts to Pembury, after the two had been talking over the affair for the twentieth time. “Never mind; and there’s just this, Tony, if Wray is only second, it will be a splendid win for the Fifth all the same.”
“I see nothing splendid in the whole concern,” said Pembury. And that was the general feeling.
Oliver entered and took his accustomed seat in silence. No one spoke to him, many moved away from him, and nearly all favoured him with a long and unfriendly stare.
All these things he took unmoved. He sat coolly waiting for class to begin, and when it did begin, any one would have supposed he was the only comfortable and easy-minded fellow in the room. The lesson dragged on languidly that morning. Most of the boys seemed to regard it as something inflicted on them to pass the time rather than as a serious effort of instruction. The clock crawled slowly on from ten to eleven, and from eleven to half-past, and every one was glad when at last Mr Jellicott closed his book. Then followed an interval of suspense. The Doctor was due with the results, and was even now announcing them in the Sixth. What ages it seemed before his footsteps sounded in the passage outside the Fifth!
At last he entered, and a hush fell over the class. One or two glanced quickly up, as though they hoped to read their fate in the head master’s face. Others waited, too anxious to stir or look up. Others groaned inwardly with a sort of prophetic foresight of what was to come.
The Doctor walked up to the desk and unfolded his paper.
Wraysford looked furtively across the room to where his old friend sat. There was a flush in Oliver’s face as he followed the Doctor with his eyes; he was breathing hard, Wraysford could see, and the corners of his mouth were working with more than ordinary nervousness.
“Alas!” thought Wraysford, “I don’t envy him his thoughts!”
The Doctor began to speak.
“The following are the results of the various examinations held on Monday. English Literature—maximum number of marks 100. 1st, Bullinger, 72 marks; 2nd, West, 68; 3rd, Maybury, 51; 4th, Simon, 23. I’m afraid, Simon, you were a little too venturesome entering for an examination like this. Your paper was a very poor performance.”
Simon groaned and gulped down his astonishment.
“I say,” whispered he to Oliver, who sat in front of him, “I know it’s a mistake: you know I wrote five cantos about the Shar—good too. He’s lost that. I say, had I better tell him?”
Oliver vouchsafing no reply, the unfortunate poet merely replied to the head master’s remarks, “Yes, sir,” and then subsided, more convinced than ever that Saint Dominic’s was not worthy of him.
“The Mathematical Medal—maximum number of marks 80. 1st, Heath, 65; 2nd, Price, 54; 3rd, Roberts, 53. Heath’s answers, I may say, were very good, and the examiners have specially commended him.”
Heath being a Sixth Form man, this information was absolutely without interest to the Fifth, who wondered why the Doctor should put himself out of the way to announce it.
“The Nightingale Scholarship.”
Ah, now! There was a quick stir, and then a deeper silence than ever as the Doctor slowly read out, “The maximum number of marks possible, 120. First, Greenfield, Fifth Form, 112 marks. And I must say I and the examiners are astonished as well as highly gratified with this really brilliant performance. Greenfield, I congratulate you as well as your class-fellows on your success. It does you the very greatest credit!”
A dead silence followed this eulogium. Those who watched Oliver saw his face first glow, then turn pale, as the Doctor spoke. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the paper in the head master’s hand, as if waiting for what was to follow.
The Doctor went on, “Second, Wraysford, Fifth Form, 97 marks, also a creditable performance.”
One or two near Wraysford clapped him warmly on the back, and throughout the class generally there was a show of satisfaction at this result, in strange contrast with the manner in which the announcement of Oliver’s success had been received.
Still, every one was too eager to hear the third and final announcement to disturb the proceedings by any demonstration just now.
“Loman, Sixth Form—” and here the Doctor paused, and knitted his brows.
“Loman, Sixth Form, 70 marks!”
This finally brought down the house. Scarcely was the Doctor’s back turned, when a general clamour rose on every hand. He, good man, set it down to applause of the winners, but every one else knew it meant triumph over the vanquished.
“Bravo, Wray! old man. Hurrah for the Fifth!” shouted Bullinger.
“Ninety-seven to seventy. Splendid, old fellow!” cried another.
“I was certain you’d win,” said another.
“I have not won,” said Wraysford, drily, and evidently not liking these marked congratulations; “I’m second.”
“So you are, I quite forgot,” said Ricketts: then turning to Oliver, he added, mockingly, “Allow me to congratulate you, Greenfield, on your really brilliant success. 112 marks out of 120! You could hardly have done better if you had seen the paper a day or two before the exam! Your class, I assure you, are very proud of you.”
A general sneer of contempt followed this speech, in the midst of which Oliver, after darting one angry glance at the speaker, deliberately quitted the room.
This proceeding greatly irritated the Fifth, who had hoped at least to make their class-fellow smart while they had the opportunity. They greeted his departure now with a general chorus of hissing, and revenged themselves in his absence by making the most of Wraysford.
“Surely the fellow won’t be allowed to take the scholarship after this?” said Ricketts. “The Doctor must see through it all.”
“It’s very queer if he doesn’t,” said Bullinger.
“The scholarship belongs to Wray,” said Braddy, “and I mean to say it’s a blackguard shame if he doesn’t get it!”
“It’s downright robbery, that’s what it is!” said another; “the fellow ought to be kicked out of the school!”
“I vote some one tells the Doctor,” said Braddy.
“Suppose you go and tell him now, yourself,” said Pembury, with a sarcastic smile; “you could do it capitally. What do you say?”
Braddy coloured. Pembury was always snubbing him.
“I don’t want to tell tales,” he said. “What I mean is, Wraysford ought not to be cheated out of his scholarship.”
“It’s a lucky thing Wray has got you to set things right for him,” snarled Pembury, amid a general titter.
Braddy subsided at this, and left his tormentor master of the situation.
“There’s no use our saying or doing anything,” said that worthy. “We shall probably only make things worse. It’s sure to come out in time, and till then we must grin and bear it.”
“All very well,” said some one, “but Greenfield will be grinning too.”
“I fancy not,” said Pembury. “I’m not a particular angel myself, but I’ve a notion if I had cheated a schoolfellow I should be a trifle off my grinning form; I don’t know.”
This modest confession caused some amusement, and helped a good deal to restore the class to a better humour.
“After all, I don’t envy the fellow his feelings this minute,” continued Pembury, following up his advantage.
“And I envy his prospects in the Fifth still less,” said Ricketts.
“If you take my advice,” said Pembury, “you’ll leave him pretty much to himself. Greenfield is a sort of fellow it’s not easy to score off; and some of you would only make fools of yourselves if you tried to do it.”
Wraysford had stood by during this conversation, torn by conflicting emotions. He was undoubtedly bitterly disappointed to have missed the scholarship; but that was as nothing to the knowledge that it was his friend, his own familiar friend, who had turned against him and thus grievously wronged him. Yet with all his sense of injury he could hardly stand by and listen to all the bitter talk about Oliver in his absence without a sense of shame. Two days ago he would have flared up at the first word, and given the rash speaker something to remember. Now it was his misery to stand by and hear his old chum abused and despised, and to feel that he deserved every word that was spoken of him!
If he could only have found one word to say on his behalf!
But he could not, and so left the room as soon as it was possible to escape, and retired disconsolately to his own study.
As for the Fifth, Pembury’s advice prevailed with them. There were a few who were still disposed to take their revenge on Oliver in a more marked manner than by merely cutting him; but a dread of the tongue of the editor of the Dominican, as well as a conviction of the uselessness of such procedure, constrained them to give way and fall in with the general resolution.
One boy only was intractable. That was Simon. It was not in the poet’s nature to agree to cut anybody. When the class dispersed he took it into his gifted head to march direct to Oliver’s study. Oliver was there, writing a letter.
“Oh, I say, you know,” began Simon, nervously, but smiling most affably, “all the fellows are going to cut you, you know, Greenfield. About that paper, you know, the time I met you coming out of the Doctor’s study. But I won’t cut you, you know. We’ll hush it all up, you know, Greenfield; upon my word we will. But the fellows think—”
“That will do!” said Oliver, angrily.
“Oh, but you know, Greenfield—”
“Look here, if you don’t get out of my study,” said Oliver, rising to his feet, “I’ll—”
Before he could finish his sentence the poet, who after all was one of the best-intentioned jackasses in Saint Dominic’s, had vanished.