Chapter Twenty Nine.
A queer Prize-Day.
The long Christmas term crawled slowly on unsatisfactorily to everybody. It was unsatisfactory to Loman, who, after the football match, discovered that what little popularity or influence he ever had was finally gone. It was unsatisfactory to Wraysford, who, not knowing whether to be ashamed of himself or wroth with his old friend, settled down to be miserable for the rest of the term. It was unsatisfactory to the Fifth, who felt the luck was against them, and that the cloud overhead seemed to have stuck there for good. It was unsatisfactory to Stephen, who raged and fretted twenty times a day on his brother’s behalf, and got no nearer putting him right than when he began. And undoubtedly it must have been unsatisfactory to Oliver, a banished man, forgetting almost the use of tongue and ears, and, except his brother, not being able to reckon on a single friend at Saint Dominic’s outside the glorious community of the Guinea-pigs.
In fact, the only section in the school to whom the term was satisfactory, was these last-named young gentlemen and their sworn foes, the Tadpoles.
Now, at last, they had a clear issue before them—Greenfield senior, was he a hero or was he a blackguard? There was no mistaking sides there. There was no unpleasant possibility of having to make common cause and proclaim an armistice. No! on the question of Greenfield senior, Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles had something to fight about from morning till night, and therefore they, at any rate, were happy!
“Jellicott,” said Dr Senior one day, as the masters met for five minutes’ talk in the head master’s study, “Greenfield in the Fifth is not well, I’m afraid. I never see him out in the playground.”
“Really?” said Mr Jellicott. “I’m so rarely out there that I haven’t noticed. I believe, however, he is quite well.”
“I hope he is not overworking,” said the Doctor. “He has done so very well this term that it would be a pity if he spoiled his chance by knocking himself up.”
“Greenfield senior,” put in Mr Rastle, “appears to be unpopular just at present; at least, so I gather from what I have heard. I don’t know what crime he has committed, but the tribunal of his class have been very severe on him, I fancy.”
The Doctor laughed.
“Boys will be boys! Well, it’s a relief if that’s the solution of the mystery, for I was afraid he was ill. We have no right to interfere with these boyish freaks, as long as they are not mischievous. But you might keep your eye on the little comedy, Jellicott. It would be a pity for it to go too far.”
Mr Jellicott did keep his eye on the little comedy, and came to the conclusion that, whatever Greenfield had done, he was being pretty severely paid out. He reported as much to the Doctor, who, however, still deprecated interference.
“We might only make things worse,” said he, “by meddling. Things like this always right themselves far better than an outsider can right them. Besides, as Greenfield will get his move up after Christmas, he will be less dependent on the good graces of his present class-fellows.”
And so the matter ended for the present, as far as the masters were concerned. The reader will, perhaps, feel very indignant, and declare the Doctor was neglecting his duty in treating so serious a matter so lightly. He ought (some one says) to have investigated the whole affair from beginning to end, and made sure what was the reason of the Fifth’s displeasure and of Oliver’s disgrace. In fact, when one comes to think of it, it is a marvel how the Doctor had not long ago guessed who took the lost examination paper, and treated the criminal accordingly.
Christmas prize-day was always a great event at Saint Dominic’s. For, as all the examinations had been held at the beginning of the term, all the rewards were naturally distributed at the end of it.
Fellows who were leaving made on these occasions their last appearance before their old companions. Fellows who had earned their removes figured now for the last time as members of their old classes; and fellows who had distinguished themselves during the last year generally were patted on the back by the masters and cheered by their schoolfellows, and made much of by their sisters, and cousins, and aunts.
For ladies turned up at the Christmas prize-day at Saint Dominic’s; ladies, and big brothers, and old boys, and the school governors, with the noble Earl at their head to give away the prizes. It was a great occasion. The school was decorated with flags and evergreens; Sunday togs were the order of the day; the Doctor wore his scarlet hood, and the masters their best gowns. The lecture-theatre was quite gay with red-baize carpet and unwonted cushions, and the pyramid of gorgeously-bound books awaiting the hour of distribution on the centre table.
Prize-day, too, was the object of all sorts of preparations long before the eventful date came round. Ten days at least before it arrived the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were wont secretly to buy pumice-stone for their finger ends, and used one by one to disappear casually into Maltby and come back with their hair cut. Then the Fourth Senior, who were for ever getting up testimonials to their master (they gave him a testimonial on an average twice every term), were very busy collecting contributions and discussing whether Mr Brand would prefer an ormolu mustard-pot, or a steel watch-chain, or an antimacassar. The musical set at the school, too, were busy rehearsing part songs for the evening’s festivities, and the dramatic set were terribly immersed for a fortnight beforehand in the preparations for a grand charade.
Altogether the end of the Christmas term at Saint Dominic’s was a busy time, and the present year was certainly no exception to the rule. Greatly to the relief of Stephen and Oliver, Mrs Greenfield found herself unable at the last moment to come down and take part in the proceedings of the eventful day. As long as the boys had expected her to come they had looked forward to prize-day with something like horror, but now that that danger was passed, Oliver recovered his old unconcern, and Stephen relapsed once more into his attitude of terror-in-chief to his big brother, snapping and snarling at any one who dared so much as to mention the name of Greenfield senior in his hearing.
Well, the day came at last, fully as grand an occasion as any one expected. The noble Earl turned up half an hour early, and spent the interval in patting the greasy heads of all the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles he came across. The mothers and sisters swarmed up and down the staircases and in and out the studies, escorted proudly by their dear Johnnys and precious Bobs. The red robes of the Doctor flashed down the corridor, and in the lecture-theatre there was such a rustling of silk gowns and waving of feather bonnets, and gleaming of white collars and sparkling patent-leather boots, as must have fairly astonished that sombre place. Every one was there—every fellow nearly had got a mother or somebody to show off to. Even Bramble turned up with a magnificent grandmother, greatly to the envy of friend and foe, and would have been the proudest Tadpole alive if the dear good old lady had not insisted on taking her descendant’s hand instead of his arm, and trotting him about instead of letting him trot her. Oliver and Stephen alone had no kith and kin to see them on this proud day.
In due time the lecture-theatre filled up, crowded from floor to ceiling. The noble Earl walked in amid terrific cheers and took his seat. The Doctor walked in after him, amid cheers almost as terrific, and after him the ordinary procession of governors, masters, and examiners; and when they were all seated prize-day had begun.
For up steps Mr Raleigh, the captain of the school, on to the raised daïs, whence, after bowing profoundly to the noble Earl and everybody, he delivers a neat speech in honour of a good old soul who lived three or four centuries ago, and left behind him the parcel of ground on which Saint Dominic’s now stands, and a hatful of money besides, to found the school. Raleigh having said his say (and how proud the smallest boys are of the captain’s whiskers as they listen!), up steps Wren and commences a similar harangue in Greek. The small boys, of course, cheer this even more than the English. Then up gets Mr Winter and spins off a Latin speech, but this does not go down so well, for the juniors know a little Latin, and so are a good deal more critical over that than over the Greek. The French and German speeches however, restore them to good humour, and then the speeches are done.
Then comes the noble Earl. He is an old, old man, and his voice is weak and wavering, and scarcely any one hears a word he says. Yet how they cheer him, those youngsters! They watch the back of his head, and when it bobs then they know the end of a sentence has come, and they let out accordingly.
“My dearie,” says Bramble’s grandmother, “don’t stamp so. The poor old gentleman can’t hear his own voice.”
“That’s no matter,” says “my dearie,” pounding away with his feet. “If we keep it up the old boy may give us an extra week’s holiday.”
The old lady subsided at this, in a resigned way; and certainly when the good old nobleman did reach his final bob, his merry, jovial face looked particularly promising for the extra week. And now the Doctor advances to the table with the prize list in his hand. The prize boys are marshalled in the background, in the order in which their names appear, and Bramble tries hard to look as if nothing but his duty to his grandmother would have kept him from forming one of that favoured band himself.
The prize list is arranged backwards way; that is, the small boys come on first and the great events last.
It is a treat to see the little mites of the First, Second, and Third Junior trot up to get their prizes. They look so pleased, and they blush so, and look so wistfully up to where their relatives are sitting, that it is quite pathetic, and the good old Earl has a vigorous wipe of his spectacles before he calls up the Fourth Junior.
“General proficiency,” reads the Doctor from his list—“Watson.” No one knows Watson; he is quite an obscure member of the glorious community, and so he trots in and out again without much excitement. In fact, all the best prizes of the Form go without much applause, but when the Doctor summons “Paul” to advance and receive “the second arithmetic prize,” there rises a shout enough to bring down the house.
“Bravo, Guinea-pigs!” shouts one small voice up somewhere near the ceiling, whereat there is a mighty laugh and cheer, and Bramble turns crimson in the face, and tells his grandmother gloomily, “That fellow Paul is a beast!”
But the youth’s face brightens when the next name is called: “Third arithmetic—Padger.”
Then doth Bramble the Tadpole stand in his seat and cheer till he is hoarse, and till his grandmother pulleth him by the tail of his jacket. The hero Padger, perspiring very much in the face, but otherwise composed, takes the homage of his chief and the third arithmetic prize with becoming humility, and clears off the arena as fast as he conveniently can.
Surely the Fourth Junior have come to an end now! No! there is one more prize.
“First Latin—Greenfield junior.”
This time there was a louder cheer than ever, for Stephen is a popular boy outside his own class. Oliver joins in the cheer, and Pembury and Wraysford and one or two others, and of course the Guinea-pigs, go in a lump for him. It is quite a minute before the noble Earl can get hold of the words of presentation; and when at last Stephen is dispatched, the Doctor turns round and says, “If you boys will make a little less noise I dare say we shall get through the list quite as satisfactorily, and possibly a little more quickly.”
“Hear, hear!” says one of the governors, and nod, nod goes the noble Earl’s head.
The consequence of this is that the prizes to the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Senior are presented amid something very much like silence, which, however, grows less and less solemn as the proceedings go on. The last Fourth Senior boy to be called is the hero Forrester, who is now fully constituted a member of the first football fifteen. He gets a vehement cheer at all costs, mingled with shouts of “Well kicked, sir!”
“Hack it through!” and the like, which clearly show that the sympathy of Saint Dominic’s is quite as much with the exploits accomplished by the young hero’s feet as by those of his head.
Now for the Fifth! If the Doctor expects the company is to remain solemn during the next quarter of an hour he knows nothing at all about the school over which he presides.
“Fifth Form—(cheers)—French—(cheers)—Pembury—(terrific applause, during which Tony walks in demurely on his crutches and receives his well-merited award). English history—(applause)—Pembury.”
Once more enter Tony on his crutches to receive another prize.
“Bravo, Tony!”
“Hurrah for the Dominican!”
“Well done, Editor!” rise from various parts of the hall, in the midst of which Pembury retires positively for the last time.
“First Greek prize—Wraysford.”
Wraysford advances gravely and slowly. The instant he appears there arises a cheer—the mightiest of any yet. Everybody cheers, and when they have done cheering they stamp, and when they have done stamping they clap. Wraysford stands disconcerted and flushed with the demonstration, at a loss whether to smile or frown. He knows the meaning of that cheer as well as anybody, and it grates on his ear unpleasantly as he listens. What ages it seems before it is done, and the noble Earl at last holds out the book and says, “I have great pleasure, Wraysford, in handing you this prize. Your schoolfellows are all proud of you; I feel sure you deserve their good opinion. I wish you success, Wraysford;” and so saying, the good old gentleman bobs affably, and Wraysford, amid another tempest of applause, bows too, and takes off his prize.
“The next name,” says the Doctor, referring to his list, “is that of the winner of the Nightingale Scholarship—(sensation)—and I may tell your lordship that the boy is, in the opinion of his examiners and myself, one of the most promising boys for his age that Saint Dominic’s has known. The examiners report that his answers to the questions on the paper deserve the greatest credit. I will say only this before his face: Nightingale Scholarship—Greenfield senior.”
A solemn silence marks the close of the Doctor’s speech, in the midst of which Oliver, with pale face, but otherwise unmoved, advances to where the noble Earl stands. A few of the strangers greet his appearance with a clapping of hands, but the sound falls strangely on the silence all round.
The noble Earl, who is evidently ready with a neat little speech which shall sum the applause that never comes, is disconcerted at this unwonted stillness. You might hear a pin fall as the old gentleman, in dumb show, places the certificate into the boy’s hand and tries to get at the words which the silence has scared away.
Oliver waits no longer than he can help. With a bow, he takes the parchment and turns to quit the scene.
It is at this moment, that somewhere or other in the hall, there rises a faint, almost whispered, hiss. Slight as it is, it falls with startling effect upon the dead silence which reigns. Then, like the first whisper of a storm, it suddenly grows and swells and rushes, angrily and witheringly, about the head of the wretched Oliver. Then as suddenly it dies away into silence, and the presentation of the Nightingale Scholarship is at an end.
The visitors, the committee, the ladies, the noble Earl, look about them in blank astonishment and misery. The Doctor’s face flushes up mightily as he glares for one instant around him, and then drops his head over the prize list.
The only thing there is for him to do he does. He calls on the next name as composedly as he can, and proceeds with the business of the day.
But the magic has suddenly gone out of prize-day, and no coaxing can bring it back. The Fifth, and after them the Sixth, advance and receive their rewards amidst the listless indifference of the audience, and uncheered by the faintest spark of enthusiasm. No one takes the trouble to cheer anybody. Even Raleigh, the captain, comes in and out almost unheeded; and when at last the final name is reached, it is a relief to every one.
The rest of the day drags heavily—it is no use trying to get up the steam. The visitors are out of humour, and the noble Earl leaves early. The musical feast provided by the glee club is a failure altogether. A few only come to it, and nothing interferes with music like a poor audience.
As to the charade, it is abandoned at the last moment.
Then a great many mothers and aunts make the discovery that there is an evening train from Maltby; and having made it, act upon it; and the tide of emigration sets out forthwith.
Among the first to depart is Wraysford.
As he appears at the school door, trunk in hand, waiting for the school omnibus (which vehicle, by the way, is having a busy time of it), Pembury hobbles up, similarly equipped for the road.
“You off by this train?” says the latter to Wraysford.
“Yes; are you?”
“I may as well. I can get home by nine; and my people won’t be in a great rage if I turn up earlier than they expect.”
“Well, we may as well get a fly as wait for the wretched omnibus,” says Wraysford. “Come along; there are flies at the corner of Hall Street.”
Out walked the two, saying good-bye to one or two on the road. At the drive gate two boys are standing waiting for the omnibus. Wraysford and Pembury are upon them before they observe that these are Oliver and his brother.
What is to be done? There is no escaping them—they must pass; yet both of them, somehow, would at that moment—they couldn’t tell why—have dropped into the earth.
Oliver looks up as they approach.
Now or never! Wraysford feels he must say something!
“Good-bye, Greenfield,” he says. “I hope—”
Oliver quietly takes Stephen’s arm and turns on his heel.
Wraysford stares after him for a moment, and then slowly goes on his way, breathing hard.
“I wonder,” said Pembury, after a long silence—“I wonder, Wray, if it’s possible we are wrong about that fellow?”
Wraysford says nothing.
“He doesn’t act like a guilty person. Just fancy, Wray,”—and here Tony pulls up short, in a state of perturbation—“just fancy if you and I and the rest have been making fools of ourselves all the term!”
Ah! my Fifth Form heroes, just fancy!
Chapter Thirty.
A new Turn of the Tide.
The three weeks of Christmas holiday darted past only too rapidly for most of the boys at Saint Dominic’s. Holidays have a miserable knack of sliding along. The first few days seem delightfully long. Then, after the first week, the middle all of a sudden becomes painfully near. And the middle once passed, they simply tear, and bolt, and rush pitilessly on to the end, when, lo and behold! your time is up before you well knew it had begun.
So it happened with most of the boys. With one or two, however, the holiday dragged heavily, and one of these was Master Thomas Senior. This forlorn youth, no longer now rollicking Tom of the Fifth, but the meek and mild, and withal sulky, hopeful of the Reverend Thomas Senior, D.D., of Saint Dominic’s, watched the last of his chums go off with anything but glee. He was doomed to three weeks’ kicking of his heels in the empty halls and playgrounds of Saint Dominic’s, with nothing to do and no one to do it with. For the boy’s mother was ill, which kept the whole family at home, and Tom’s baby brother, vivacious youth as he was, was hardly of a companionable age yet.
As to the Doctor (Tom, by the way, even in the bosom of his family, always thought and talked of his father as the “Doctor”)—as for the Doctor, well, Tom was inclined to shirk the risk of more tête-à-têtes than he could possibly help with so formidable a personage, even though he was his own parent.
But try all he could, Tom was let in for it once, when he found himself face to face one day at dinner with the Doctor, and no third person to help him out.
The occasion was quite early in the holidays, and was indeed about the first opportunity the father had had since breaking-up for anything like a conversation with his affable son.
Tom’s conversational powers were never very brilliant, and when in the subduing presence of his father they always dwindled down to nothing. It was, therefore, somewhat difficult, under the circumstances, to keep the talk going, but the Doctor did his best. Tom answered in monosyllables, and looked fearfully sheepish, and found his best policy was always to keep his mouth full, and so have the excuse of good manners on his side for his silence.
“Tom,” said the Doctor, presently, steering round to a subject which it had been for some time in his mind to question his son about, “that was an extraordinary demonstration on prize-day, when Greenfield senior came up to get his scholarship.”
“It wasn’t me,” said Tom, colouring up.
“My dear boy, I never supposed it was,” said the Doctor, laughing. “But it surprised me very much, as well as pained me.”
“I couldn’t help it,” again said Tom.
“Of course you couldn’t, Tom. But I am sorry to find Greenfield is so unpopular in the school.”
The Doctor did not care to put a direct question to Tom on the matter that was perplexing him. He hoped to draw him out by more indirect means. But he was mistaken if he ever expected it, for Tom, with the perversity of a fellow who will take everything that is said as a rebuke to himself, showed no inclination to follow the lead. The Doctor had, therefore, to ask outright.
“What dreadful crime has he committed, Tom, to be treated so severely?”
“I don’t want to treat him severely,” said Tom. “Tom,” said the Doctor, half angrily, “you are very foolish. I was not referring to you particularly, but to the whole school.”
Tom sulked at this more than ever. He wasn’t going to be called foolish. The Doctor, however, tried once more.
“What has he done to offend you all? Has he missed a catch at cricket, or a kick at football? I hope, whatever it is—”
“It isn’t me!” once more growled Tom, heartily wishing the meal was over.
The Doctor gave it up as a bad job. There was no use trying to get a rise out of Tom. If that ingenuous youth had been trying to shield his Form, he could not have done it better. As it was, he was only stupidly trying to shield himself, and letting his dread of his “Doctor” father get the better of his common sense and good manners.
Luckily for Tom, a friend wrote to invite him to spend the last week of the holidays in London, an invitation which that youth, as well as his parent for him, thankfully accepted. Indeed, during the holidays Mrs Senior became so ill that the poor Doctor had no thoughts to spare for anybody or anything but her and her hope of recovery. He watched her night and day through all the vicissitudes of her fever, and when at last the crisis was over, and the doctors said she would recover, they said also that unless Dr Senior wanted to have an illness himself he must go away and get perfect rest and change for a week or two at the very least.
The consequence of all this was that Saint Dominic’s had to reassemble after the Christmas holidays without the Doctor.
To some of the boys this was sorrowful news; others regarded the circumstance with indifference, while one section there was who received the intelligence with positive joy.
Strange that that section should contain in it two such opposites as Loman of the Sixth and Bramble of the Fourth Junior.
Loman, despite his “run of luck,” had spent an uneasy holiday. He had been in constant terror of seeing Cripps every time he ventured outside his house; and he had been in still more terror of Cripps calling up at Saint Dominic’s and telling the Doctor all about him directly after the holidays. For now Loman’s time was up. Though he had in one way and another paid off all his debt to the landlord of the Cockchafer but eight pounds, still he knew Cripps could make himself quite as unpleasant about eight pounds as about thirty pounds, and probably would.
But as long as the Doctor was away it didn’t matter so much. And, besides, the examination for the exhibition would of course be postponed, which meant so much longer time for preparation—which meant so much better chance for Loman of winning it. For, when he tried, he could work hard and effectively.
So Loman was very glad to hear the Doctor was away ill. So was Bramble!
That youth (who, by the way, had during the holidays quite recovered from the sobering effect of his grandmother’s visit to the school) was always on a look-out for escaping the eye of the constituted authorities. He hardly ever saw the Doctor from one month’s end to another; but somehow, to know he was away—to know any one was away who ought to be there to look after him—was a glorious opportunity! He launched at once into a series of revolutionary exploits on the strength of it. He organised mutinies ten times a day, and had all the specifications drawn up for blowing up Saint Dominic’s with paraffin oil. There was nothing, in short, Bramble would not venture while the Doctor was away; and there is no knowing how far he might have carried his bloodthirsty conspiracies into effect had not Mr Rastle caught him one day with a saw, sawing the legs off the writing-master’s stool, and given him such a chastisement, bodily and mental, as induced him for a brief season to retire from public life, and devote all his spare time to copying out an imposition.
On the first morning after reassembling, Mr Jellicott, the master in charge of Saint Dominic’s, summoned the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth to meet him in the lecture-theatre, and there announced to them the reason of the head master’s absence.
“In consequence of this,” said Mr Jellicott, “the removes gained last term will not be put into force for a week or two, till the head master returns; but, meanwhile, Dr Senior is anxious that the work of the school should go on as usual. We shall, therefore, resume studies to-morrow; and on Monday next the examination for the Waterston Exhibition will be held, as arranged. The three boys—Loman, Greenfield senior, and Wraysford—entered for this will be excused ordinary lessons till after the examination.”
Greenfield senior! Then Oliver was in for it after all! The announcement amazed Wraysford as much as it did Loman and every one else. It had never entered their minds that he would go in for it. Hadn’t he got the Nightingale? and wasn’t that enough for one half-year? And didn’t every one know how he had got it, and how could the fellow now have the assurance to put in for another examination?
Oliver always had been a queer fellow, and this move struck every one as queerer than ever.
But to Wraysford and one or two others it occurred in a different light. If Oliver had really won the Nightingale in the manner every one suspected, he would hardly now boldly enter for another examination, in which he might possibly not succeed, and so prove those suspicions to be true. For the subjects were almost exactly the same as those examined in for the Nightingale, and unless Oliver did as well here as he did there—and that was remarkably well—it would be open for anybody to say, “Of course—he couldn’t steal the paper this time, that’s why!”
Wraysford, as he thought over it, became more and more uneasy and ashamed of himself. One moment he persuaded himself Oliver was a hypocrite, and the next that he was innocent. “At any rate,” said he to himself, “this examination will settle it.”
In due time the examination day came, and once more the three rivals heard their names called upon to come forward and occupy that memorable front desk in the Sixth Form room.
This time at any rate there had been no chance for any one to take an unfair advantage, for the Doctor’s papers did not reach Saint Dominic’s till the morning of the examination. Indeed, Mr Jellicott was opening the envelope which contained them when the boys entered the room.
Any one closely observing the three boys as they glanced each down his paper would once more have been struck by the strange contrast in their faces. Oliver’s, as his eyes glanced rapidly down the page, was composed and immovable; Wraysford’s, as he looked first at his paper and then hurriedly at Oliver and Loman, was perplexed and troubled; Loman’s was blank and pale and desponding.
But of the three, the happiest that morning was Wraysford—not that he was sure of success, not that his conscience was clear of all reproach, but because, as he sat there, working hard himself and hearing some one’s pen on his left flying with familiar sound quickly over the paper, he felt at last absolutely sure that he had misjudged his friend, and equally resolved that, come what would of it, and humiliating as the confession would be, he would, before that day ended, be reconciled to Oliver Greenfield. What mattered it to him, then, who won the exhibition? Loman might win it for all he cared, as long as he won back his friend.
However, Loman at that moment did not look much like winning anything. If he had been in difficulties in the former examination, he was utterly stranded now. He tried first one question, then another, but no inspiration seemed to come; and at last, after dashing off a few lines at random, he laid down his pen, and, burying his face in his hands, gave himself up to his own wretched thoughts. He must see Cripps soon; he must go to him or Cripps would come up to Saint Dominic’s, and then—
Well, Loman did not do much execution that morning, and was thankful when presently Mr Jellicott said, “Time will be up in five minutes, boys.”
The announcement was anything but welcome to the other two competitors, both of whom were writing, hammer and tongs, as though their lives depended on it. Loman looked round at them and groaned as he looked. Why should they be doing so well and he be doing so ill?
“Look at those two beggars!” said Callonby to Stansfield, in a whisper, pointing to Wraysford and Oliver. “There’s a neck-and-neck race for you!”
So it was. Now Oliver seemed to be getting over the ground quicker, and now Wraysford. Now Wraysford lost a good second by looking up at the clock; now Greenfield made a bad shot with his pen at the inkpot, and had to dip again, which threw him back half a second at least.
Unconscious of the interest and amusement they were exciting among the sporting section of the Sixth, they kept the pace up to the finish, and when at last Mr Jellicott said, “Cease writing and bring up your papers,” both groaned simultaneously, as much as to say, “A second or two more would have done it.”
The examination was over, but the event of that memorable day was still to take place.
Five minutes later Oliver, who had retired alone, as usual, to his study, there to announce to the anxious Stephen how he had fared in the examination, caught the sudden sound of an old familiar footstep outside his door, which sent the blood to his cheeks with strange emotion. Stephen heard it, and knew it too.
“There’s that beast Wraysford,” he said, at the very instant that Wraysford, not waiting to knock, flung open the door and entered.
There was no need for him to announce his errand. It was written on his face as he advanced with outstretched hand to his old friend.
“Noll, old man,” was all he could say, as their eyes met, “the youngster’s right—I am a beast!”
At the first word—the first friendly word spoken to him for months—Oliver started to his feet like one electrified; and before the sentence was over his hand was tightly grasping the hand of his friend, and Stephen had disappeared from the scene. It is no business of ours to pry into that happy study for the next quarter of an hour. If we did the reader would very likely be disappointed, or perhaps wearied, or perhaps convinced that these two were as great fools in the manner of their making up as they had been in the manner of their falling out.
Oh! the happiness of that precious quarter of an hour, when the veil that has divided two faithful friends is suddenly dashed aside, and they rush one to the other, calling themselves every imaginable bad name in the dictionary, insisting to the verge of quarrelling that it was all their fault, and no fault at all of the other, far too rapturous to talk ordinary common sense, and far too forgetful of everything to remember that they are saying the same thing over and over again every few minutes.
“The falling out of faithful friends”—as the old copybooks say in elegant Virgilian Latin—“renewing is of love.” And so it was with Oliver and Wraysford.
Why, they were twice the friends they were before! Twice! Fifty times! And they laughed and talked and made fools of themselves for a whole half-hour over the discovery, and might have done so for an hour, had not Stephen, who had patiently remained outside for a reasonable time, now returned to join in the celebration.
“Stee, you young beggar,” said Wraysford, as the boy entered, “if you don’t have my tea piping hot to-night, and fresh herrings for three done to a regular turn, I’ll flay you alive, my boy. And now, if you’re good, you may come and kick me!”
Stephen, overflowing with joy, and quite rickety with emotion, flew at his old friend, and, instead of kicking him, caught hold of his arm, and turning to his brother, cried, “Oh, Noll! isn’t this prime? Why, here’s old Wray—”
“That beast Wraysford,” suggested the owner of the title; “do give a fellow his proper name, young ’un.”
This little interruption put Stephen off his speech; and the three, locking the study-door, settled down to talk rationally, or, at any rate, as rationally as they could, over affairs.
“You see,” said Wraysford, “I can’t imagine now what possessed me to make such a fool of myself.”
“Now you needn’t begin at that again,” said Oliver. “If I hadn’t cut up so at that jackass Simon, when he began about my being in the Doctor’s study that evening, it would never have happened.”
“Bah! any one might have known the fellow was telling lies.”
“But he wasn’t telling lies,” said Oliver. “I was in the Doctor’s study all alone that evening, and at the very time the paper went too. That’s just the queer thing about it.”
“You were?” exclaimed both the boys, for this was news even to Stephen.
“Yes, of course I was. Don’t you know I went to see him about Stephen, and that row he had up at the Lock?”
“Oh, yes,” said Stephen, “I remember. I was in a regular blue funk that evening.”
“Well, the Doctor wasn’t there. I hung about a few minutes for him, and then, as he didn’t turn up, I left, and met that old booby just as I was coming out of the door.”
“And he’s gone and told everybody he saw you coming out with the paper in your pocket.”
Oliver laughed loud at this.
“Upon my word, the fellow must have sharp eyes if he could do that! Well, I was so disgusted when he came up after the examination, and began to insinuate that I knew all about the missing paper, that—Well, you know how I distinguished myself.”
“It would have served him right if you’d throttled him,” observed Wraysford. “But I say, Noll,” added he more gravely, “why on earth, old man, didn’t you say all this then? What a lot of unpleasantness it would have saved.”
“What!” exclaimed Oliver, suddenly firing up, “do you suppose, when the fellows all chose to believe that miserable idiot’s story, I was going to stir a finger or bother myself a snap about what they thought? Bah! I’m not angry now, Wray; but, upon my word, when I think of that time—”
“What a pack of curs we all were,” said Wraysford, almost as angry as his friend.
“Hear, hear!” put in Stephen, an observation which had the effect of making the whole thing ridiculous and so restoring both the friends to their composure.
“But, Noll, I say, old man,” said Wraysford, presently, “of course you didn’t intend it, but if you meant to make every one believe you did it, you couldn’t have gone on better than you did. I’m certain not half the fellows would have believed Simon if you hadn’t—”
“Made such an ass of myself,” said Oliver, laughing. “Of course I can see now how it would all work in beautifully against me, and I’m certain I’ve myself to thank for the whole business.”
“Now, don’t say that. Nothing can excuse the way all of us treated you, poor old boy. But, thank goodness, it’s all right now. I’ll let them know—”
“Now, Wray, that’s just what I won’t have you do. You must not say a word to them about it, or, seriously, I’ll be in a great rage. If they can’t think well of me of their own accord, I won’t have them do it for anybody else’s, so there.”
“But, Noll, old man—”
“Upon my word, Wray, I mean what I say. Not a word to anybody.”
“Do you mean to say you intend to live at Coventry all your life?”
“It’s not Coventry now, is it, Stee, old boy?” said Oliver, with a bright smile. “And now, Wray,” said he, “I want to know how you got on in the exam to-day. You were going ahead furiously, it seemed to me.”
“Yes, but wasn’t doing much good, I’m afraid. How have you done?”
“Pretty well; but I hadn’t time to touch the last question.”
“I knew, as soon as I saw you were entered for the exam,” said Wraysford, “we had all been taking you up wrong. I can guess now why you went in for it.”
“Well, it struck me it might be a way of putting myself right with the fellows if I won; but I’m half afraid I won’t win, and then their highnesses will be doubly sure of my villainy!”
“I know you will win,” said Wraysford.
“If I do I shall feel an awful blackguard, for you would have been certain of it.”
“I’m not so very sure. However, I think I could have beaten Loman.”
“He seemed out of it, quite. Do you know I think that fellow is going to the dogs altogether?”
“Pity,” said Wraysford, “if he is, but it does look like it.”
Chapter Thirty One.
Loman in Luck again.
It certainly did look as if Loman was going to the dogs. And any one able to see and know all that was going on in his mind would have found out that he was a good deal nearer “the dogs” even than he seemed.
On the evening after the examination he received a note from Cripps—brought up in a most barefaced way by one of the potboys at the Cockchafer—requesting the pleasure of Mr Loman’s company at that pleasant spot immediately, to talk over business!
“Why didn’t he send it by post?” demanded Loman, angrily, of the disreputable messenger. “Don’t you know if you were seen up here there’d be a row?”
“Dunno so much about that, but the governor, he says he’s dead on the job this time, he says, and if you don’t show up sharp with the stumpy, he says he’ll give you a call himself and wake you up, he says—”
“Tell him I’ll come, and go off quick,” said Loman, hurriedly.
“Beg pardon, mister,” said the potboy, with a leer, and touching his cap, “anything allowed for this here little job—carrying up the letter?”
“I’ll allow you a kick if you don’t go!” exclaimed the wretched Loman, furiously.
“Oh, very good,” said the boy, making a long nose. “Wait till the governor walks up. We’ll see who’ll kick then!”
And so saying the amiable and respectable youth departed.
“Hullo!” said Wren, coming up just at this moment, “who’s your friend, Loman? He looks a nice sort of boy!”
Wren was now captain and head monitor at Saint Dominic’s—far too blunt and honest ever to be an object of anything but dislike and uneasiness to Loman. Now the uneasiness was the more prominent of the two. Loman replied, confused and reddening, “Oh, that boy? Why—oh, he’s a shop-boy from the town, come up about an order—you know—for a hat-box.”
“I don’t know. Do you mean Morris’s boy?”
“Ye—yes. A new boy of Morris’s.”
“Well, whoever he is, he’s a precious cheeky specimen. Why didn’t you kick him?”
“Eh? Kick him? Yes, I was just going to,” began Loman, scarcely knowing what he said, “when—”
“When I turned up? Well, I shouldn’t have interfered. By the way, Loman, I suppose you’ve given up going to that public now? What’s the fellow’s name?”
“Cripps,” said Loman. “Oh, I never go near the place now.”
“That’s a good job. It was awkward enough his turning up as he did last term, and all a chance the Doctor didn’t hear of it, I can tell you. Anyhow, now I’m captain, that sort of thing will have to drop, mind.”
“Oh, I assure you I’ve never been near the place since,” said Loman, meekly, anxious if possible to keep the new captain in humour, much as he disliked him.
“I’m glad of it,” said Wren, coldly.
Just at that moment a third personage arrived on the scene. This was Simon, who approached, not noticing Wren, and crying out with his usual gush, “Hullo, Loman, I say. I saw Cripps to-day. He was asking after you. He says you’ve not been down since last Sat—Hullo, Wren!”
And here the poet caught sight of the captain.
“So you’ve been down to the Cockchafer, have you?” inquired Wren.
“Well. Oh, don’t tell, Wren, I say. I don’t often go. Ask Loman if I do. He’s always there, and could easily tell if I went. Do I go often, Loman? Besides, I’ve given it up now!”
“Quick work,” observed Wren, drily, “if you were down there this morning.”
“Well,” said Simon, shifting his ground slightly, “I didn’t think there could be any harm, as Loman goes. He’s a monitor. And then I don’t owe Cripps money, do I, Loman? Or play cards and bet, like you, do I? Oh, look here, Wren, do let us off this time. Don’t report me, there’s a good fellow. I promise I won’t do it again! Oh, I say, Loman, beg us off. I never let out on you—not even when you got—”
Wren, who had allowed this burst of eloquence to proceed thus far, here turned sharply on his heel, and left the two companions in wrong in possession of the field.
Next morning, when Loman got up, he found the following note on his table:
“Wraysford takes your place as monitor. The Doctor will be told you have ‘resigned.’—C.W.”
Loman crushed the paper angrily in his hand, and muttered a curse as he flung it into the fire. He felt little enough gratitude to Wren for describing him merely as resigned, and not, as was actually the case, dismissed. Yet, even in his wretchedness, there was an atom of relief in knowing that at least a shred of his good old name remained.
Poor shred indeed! but better than nothing.
Every one treated him as usual—except Wren, who cut him contemptuously. The Sixth, ever since the exposure at the football match last term, had lost any respect they ever had for their comrade, and many had wondered how it was he was still allowed to remain a monitor. Every one now supposed he had taken “the better part of valour” in resigning, and, as it mattered very little to any one what he did, and still less what he thought, they witnessed his deposition from the post of honour with profound indifference.
Poor Loman! Some righteous reader will be shocked at my pitying such a foolish, miserable failure of a fellow as this Edward Loman; and yet he was to be pitied, wasn’t he? He hadn’t been naturally a vicious boy, or a cowardly boy, or a stupid boy, but he had become all three; and as he sat and brooded over his hard luck, as he called it, that morning, his mind was filled with mingled misery and fear and malice towards every one and everything, and he felt well-nigh desperate.
His interview with Cripps came off that afternoon. The landlord of the Cockchafer, as the reader may have gathered, had changed his tone pretty considerably the last few days, and Loman found it out now.
“Well?” said he, gloomily, as the boy entered.
“Well?” said Loman, not knowing how to begin.
“I suppose you’ve got my money?” said Cripps.
“No, Cripps, I haven’t,” said the boy.
“All right,” said Cripps; “that’s quite enough for me;” and, to Loman’s astonishment and terror, he walked away without another word, and left the unhappy boy to stay or go as he pleased.
Loman could not go, leaving things thus. He must see Cripps again, if it was only to know the worst. So he stayed in the bar for the landlord’s return. Cripps took no notice of him, but went on with his ordinary pursuits, smiling to himself in a way which perfectly terrified his victim. Loman had never seen Cripps like this before.
“Cripps,” he said, after half an hour’s waiting—“Cripps, I want to speak to you.”
“You may want,” was the surly reply. “I’ve done with you, young gentleman.”
“Oh, Cripps, don’t talk like that! I do mean to pay you, every farthing, but—”
“Yes, you’re very good at meaning, you are,” said the other. “Anyhow, it don’t much matter to me now.”
“What do you mean, Cripps? Oh, do give me a little more time! A week—only a week longer.”
“Aren’t you done?” was the only reply; “aren’t you going home?”
“Will you, Cripps? Have pity on me! I’m so miserable!”
Cripps only whistled pleasantly to himself.
Loman, almost frantic, made one last effort.
“Give us just a week more,” he entreated.
No answer.
“Do speak, Cripps; say you will; please do!”
Cripps only laughed and went on whistling.
“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” cried the wretched boy. “I shall be ruined if you don’t have some pity—”
“Look here,” said Cripps, curtly, “you’d better stop that noise here, my lad. You can go; do you hear? Look alive.”
It was no use staying further. Loman went What anguish he endured for the next twenty-four hours no one knows. What plans he turned in his head, what wild schemes, what despair, what terrors filled him, only he himself could tell. Every moment he expected the fatal vision of Cripps at Saint Dominic’s, and with it his own certain disgrace and ruin, and, as time went on, his perturbation became so great that he really felt ill with it.
But Cripps did not come that day or the next. The next day was one of mighty excitement in Saint Dominic’s. The result of the examination for the Waterston Exhibition was announced.
Had any other three boys but those actually taking part been the competitors, few outsiders would have felt much interest in the result of an ordinary examination confined to Sixth Form boys. But on this occasion, as we have seen, the general curiosity was aroused. No one expected much of Loman. The school had discovered pretty well by this time that he was an impostor, and their chief surprise had been that he should venture into the list against two such good men as Oliver and Wraysford.
But which of those two was to win? That was the question. Every one but a few had been positive it would be Wraysford, whom they looked upon as the lawful winner of the Nightingale last term, and whom, they were convinced, Oliver was unable to beat by fair means. And yet to these it had been a great astonishment to hear that Oliver had entered for the examination. Unless he was certain of winning he would only do himself harm by it, and confirm the suspicions against him. And yet, if he should win after all—if he was able fairly to beat Wraysford—why should he have gone to the trouble last term of stealing the examination paper and making himself the most unpopular boy in all Saint Dominic’s?
These questions sorely exercised the school, and made them await eagerly the announcement of the result.
The news came at last.
“I have just received,” said Mr Jellicott that morning, when the Fifth and Sixth were assembled together in the lecture-theatre—“I have just received from the examiners the report on the Waterston examination. The result is as follows: First—Greenfield, 108 marks; second—Wraysford, 96 marks; third—Loman, 20 marks.”
Here Mr Jellicott was interrupted by a laugh and a muttered “Bravo, Loman! very good!” in what sounded to the knowing something like Pembury’s voice. The master looked up and frowned angrily, and then proceeded: “The examiners add an expression of their very high approval of Greenfield’s answers. The highest marks obtainable were 120, and, considering he left the last question untouched—doubtless for want of time—they feel that he has passed with very great distinction, and fully in accordance with their expectations of the winner of the Nightingale Scholarship last term. We will now proceed to the usual lessons.”
This announcement made the strangest impression on all present. No one attempted any demonstration, but while Mr Jellicott was speaking many perplexed and troubled faces turned to where Oliver, by the side of his friend Wraysford, was sitting. Wraysford’s face was beaming as he clapped his friend on the back. Oliver looked as unconcerned and indifferent as ever. The fellow was a puzzle, certainly.
As soon as lesson was over, the Fifth retired to its own quarters in a perturbed state of mind, there to ponder over what had happened. Oliver spared them the embarrassment of his society as usual, and Wraysford was not there either. So the Fifth were left pretty much to their own devices and the guidance of some lesser lights.
“Isn’t it queer?” said Ricketts. “Whoever would have thought of it turning out like this?”
“One could understand it,” said Braddy, “if there had been any chance of his repeating the dodge of last term. But he couldn’t have done that.”
“I don’t know,” said another; “he may have been up to some other dodge. Perhaps he copied off Wraysford.”
“Hardly likely,” said Bullinger, “up on the front desk just under Jellicott’s nose.”
“Well, I can’t make it out at all,” said Ricketts.
“Nor can I,” said Bullinger.
All this while Pembury had not spoken, but he now turned to Simon, and said, “What do you think, Simon? Did you see Greenfield stealing the examination paper this time, eh?”
“Oh, no, not this time,” promptly replied the poet; “last term it was, you know. I didn’t see him this time.”
“Oh, you didn’t even see him with it in his pocket? Now, be very careful. Are you sure he didn’t have it in his pocket a day before the exam?”
“Why,” said Simon, laughing at Pembury’s innocence, “how could I see what was in a fellow’s pocket, Pembury, you silly! I can’t tell what’s in your pocket.”
“Oh, can’t you? I thought you could, upon my honour. I thought you saw the paper in Greenfield’s pocket last term.”
“So I did. That is—”
Here the wretched poet was interrupted by a general laugh, in the midst of which he modestly retired to the background, and left the Fifth to solve the riddle in hand by themselves.
“Suppose,” began Pembury, after a pause—“suppose, when Braddy’s done playing the fool, if such a time ever comes—”
Here Braddy collapsed entirely. He would sooner be sat upon by Dr Senior himself than by Pembury.
“Suppose,” once more began Pembury, amid dead silence—“suppose, instead of Greenfield senior being a thief and liar, I and all of you have been fools and worse for the last six months? Wouldn’t that be funny, you fellows?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” demanded Tom Senior.
“Why, you don’t suppose I mean anything, do you?” retorted the cross-grained Tony. “What’s the use of saying what you mean—”
“But do you really—” began Bullinger.
“I say, suppose I and you, Bullinger, and one or two others here who ought to have known better, have been making fools of ourselves, wouldn’t that be funny?”
There was a pause, till Simon, plucking up heart, replied, “Very funny!”
The gravity even of Pembury broke down at this, and the present conference of the Fifth ended without arriving at any nearer conclusion on the question which was perplexing it.
Meanwhile, Oliver and Wraysford were in their study, talking over the event of the day.
“I was certain how it would be, old boy,” said Wraysford, genuinely delighted. “I wonder what the Fifth will say now? Bah! it doesn’t become me to say too much, though, for I was as bad as any of them myself.”
“No, you weren’t, old boy; you never really believed it. But I say, Wray, I don’t intend to take this exhibition. You must have it.”
“I!” exclaimed Wraysford. “Not a bit of me. You won it.”
“But I never meant to go in for it, and wouldn’t have if it had not been for the Fifth. After all, it’s only twenty pounds. Do take it, old man. I’ve got the Nightingale, you know.”
“What does that matter? I wouldn’t have this for anything. The fellows tried to make me think I was the real winner of the Nightingale, and I was idiot enough half to believe it. But I think I’ve had a lesson.”
“But, Wray—”
“Not a word, my dear fellow; I won’t hear of it.”
“Very well, then; I shall shy the money when I get it into the nearest fish-pond.”
“All serene,” said Wraysford, laughing; “I hope the fish will relish it.”
At that moment there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Oliver.
The door opened, and, to the astonishment of the two boys, Loman entered.
Was it peace, or war, or what? Loman’s miserable face and strange manner quickly answered the question.
“Oh, Greenfield,” he said, “excuse me. I want to speak to you;” and here he glanced at Wraysford, who rose to go.
“Stay where you are, Wray,” said Oliver. “What is it, Loman?”
Loman, quite cowed, hardly knew how to go on.
“I was glad to hear you got the Waterston,” he said. “I—I thought you would.”
What was the fellow at?
After a long pause, which seemed to drive Loman almost to despair, he said, “You’ll wonder what I have come here for. I know we’ve not been friends. But—but, Greenfield, I’m in awful trouble.”
“What is it?” again asked Oliver.
“Why, the fact is,” said Loman, gaining courage, as he found neither Oliver nor Wraysford disposed to resent his visit—“the fact is, Greenfield, I’m in debt. I’ve been very foolish, you know, betting and all that. I say, Greenfield, could you possibly—would you lend me—eight pounds? I don’t know why I ask you, but unless I can pay the money to-day, I shall—”
“What!” exclaimed Oliver, “eight pounds to pay your bets?”
“Oh, no, not all bets. I’ve been swindled too—by Cripps. You know Cripps.”
And here Loman, utterly miserable, threw himself down on a chair and looked beseechingly at the two friends.
“I could pay you back in a month or so,” he went on; “or at any rate before Easter. Do lend it me, please, Greenfield. I don’t know where else to go and ask, and I shall get into such an awful row if I can’t pay. Will you?”
Oliver looked at Wraysford; Wraysford looked at Oliver; and then both looked at Loman. The sight of the wretched boy there entreating money of the very fellow who had least reason in all Saint Dominic’s to like him, was strange indeed.
“Wray,” said Oliver, abruptly, after another pause, during which he had evidently made up his mind, “have you any money about you?”
“I’ve three pounds,” said Wraysford, taking out his purse.
Oliver went to his desk and took from it a five-pound note which was there, his savings for the last year. This, with Wraysford’s three sovereigns, he handed without a word to Loman. Then, not waiting to hear the thanks which the wretched boy tried to utter, he took Wraysford’s arm and walked out of the study.