CHAPTER VI.—THE CONSPIRACY.
“Oh, Percy, have you heard the news?” inquired Hugh, eagerly, some five weeks after his arrival at Tickletown; and as he spoke, he began dancing and clinging round his brother in a state of the greatest excitement.
“What news, Hugh?” returned Percy, who, seated at his desk, was writing with the greatest assiduity.
“Oh, then you haven’t heard,” resumed Hugh. “Well, you know that a company of actors are performing at the Tickletown Theatre, and that all the boys are mad to go and see them; and no wonder, either, for, from what Wilfred and others, who have seen one in London, say, a play must be the most wonderful, glorious, jolliest, brickish-est thing going.” Hugh was making surprising advances in slang, under his cousin Wilfred’s able tuition; his progress in dear Dr. Valpy’s Latin Delectus was by no means equally rapid.
“I know what you have told me; but I know, also, that the Doctor has expressly forbidden any of the boys, even of the sixth form, to go to the theatre, on pain of expulsion. His reason—and it seems to me a good one—being, that he cannot exercise any surveillance (that means care, or watchfulness) over them, if they are allowed to be out late at night,” returned Percy, gravely.
“Yes; but you don’t know that the manager has written to the Doctor to say that he will give a morning performance, and select only pieces of which the Doctor shall approve, if he will allow the boys to go; and the dear, good, jolly old Doctor has said ‘yes,’ and granted a half holiday next Thursday for the purpose; and I’ll never call him old Donkey any more, if Biggington kills me for refusing. But Percy, dear Percy, do you think there is any chance that we could go?”
Now, although at first sight this question would appear a very simple one, it was by no means so easy to answer as might be imagined. In the first place, Percy had a vague and indistinct notion that his mother disapproved of theatrical entertainments; certainly, as far as his own personal feelings were concerned, the recent loss he had sustained, with all its painful consequences, rendered him indisposed to enjoy any such amusements.
Then, again, on the score of expense: their pocket-money was very limited, Hugh being allowed sixpence, Percy a shilling a week,—a sum which was barely sufficient to supply slate-pencils, ink, peg-tops, clasp-knives, “toffy,” and all the other innumerable and incomprehensible sine quâ nons of a public school-boy’s existence.
Although he had suffered both obloquy and inconvenience on account of the paucity of his funds, Percy had resolved that, during their first quarter, nothing should induce him to apply to their mother for more; and, when Percy had resolved upon a thing, because he considered it a matter of principle, Hugh was aware that Gibraltar itself was not more immovable.
It was, therefore, with rather a blank expression of countenance that he replied to his brother’s inquiry of what it would cost,—
“The admission is to be half-a-crown each.”
“Then we cannot go,” returned Percy; “for I have not been able to save any of my allowance, neither do I imagine have you.”
One reason why Percy found a difficulty in saving was, that Hugh was for ever losing things which must be replaced, or breaking things which required mending, or earnestly desirous of something or other which Percy could not bear to see him wishing for in vain;—for be it known, that unless some matter of deep feeling, or right principle, were concerned, his elder brother spoiled Hugh as thoroughly and unconsciously as anybody. Thus, in point of fact, Master Hugh spent, in addition to his own sixpence, some ninepence out of every shilling of Percy’s.
But Hugh’s selfishness was a fault of which he was himself perfectly unaware. Not being of what minor treatises on Christian ethics consider it the thing to term “an introspective habit of mind,” and knowing that if Percy required such a sacrifice, he would willingly allow his right hand—the hand with which he played marbles—to be cut off in his service; he was so accustomed to consider that, because he was the youngest, everything was to be given up to him, that he forgot the injustice of such an arrangement.
“Not a halfpenny,” was Hugh’s reply; “that cake woman cleaned me out yesterday! What a goose I am to be so fond of cakes! but I like to have enough to give some to the other fellows too, and all we little chaps have a weakness for cakes;—but have you got no money?”
Percy shook his head. “Breaking windows, and losing other boys’ balls, are expensive amusements, Hugh,” he said. “Remember, I have got you out of several scrapes of that kind since we have been here. Of course, I was glad enough to do so; but I only mention it to account for my being nearly as poor as yourself. A shilling a week is soon exhausted.”
Hugh paused in deep perplexity; at last he said slowly, and in a hesitating voice, “Mamma would send us the money, I think, if you would not mind writing to tell her that you had no objection, and that I wish to go so very, very much.”
“But I should mind writing for such a purpose,” returned Percy; “and I will explain to you why: since dear papa’s death, mamma has been very poor, and she is likely to be poorer still, I am afraid, for she writes me word that Sir Thomas Crawley still persists in his demand, and Mr. Wakefield is afraid she will have to pay it whenever a new clergyman is appointed.”
“How wicked! how cruel of Sir Thomas!” interrupted Hugh, vehemently; “and he is as rich as an old Jew, too;—I hate him!”
“Gently, Hugh, you must not speak in that way; every man has a right to obtain anything the law of the land will award him. But now I have told you this, I am sure you would not wish me to write and ask mamma to send us money to be spent in amusement, which she must deny herself and Emily the actual necessaries of life in order to procure.” Percy waited for an answer with some anxiety, but, in a matter of feeling, Hugh would never have been likely to occasion him disappointment.
“Do not write, for the world, Percy,” he said; “I would rather never see a play in my life than grieve dearest mamma. Oh, Percy! I wish I were a man, then I’d work hard, and keep her and Emily, and give them pleasures and luxuries, and make them quite happy; and as for that wicked Sir Thomas, I’d punch his head for him, as Wilfred says.”
So saying, Hugh returned the caress his delighted brother bestowed on him, and walked off manfully. But his courage only lasted till he had made his way into an old hayloft over a large rambling stable, capable of holding twenty horses, but now devoted to the use of the doctor’s fat pony, and a cow and a calf, also the property of that dignitary. Having reaches his hiding-place, his fortitude gave way, and he bewailed his disappointment with a hearty cry; for he was but a child after all, poor little fellow! and a spoiled one as well, and to such, however differently far-advanced Christians may appreciate the quality, self-denial appears a very harsh and uncomfortable virtue.
On the morning of the important day, a fresh trial awaited him; Wilfred Jacob, who had thoroughly fulfilled his promise to Ernest Carrington, by saving Hugh from ill-usage, and Percy from many of the annoyances to which his proud, sensitive nature rendered him peculiarly susceptible, as soon as breakfast was concluded, shouted vociferously for his fag—
“Hugh, Hugh Colville! where has the young warment hidden himself? Oh, there you are; come here, you imp of darkness, I shall have to give you that thrashing I’ve owed you so long, I know I shall, and when it does come, old Bogie have mercy on your precious bones! for I shall have none. Now, listen to me; the moment morning school is up, cut away like a flash of greased lightning, and turn out my things to dress. Let me see—I shall wear—hold up your head, sir, and look attentive!—I shall wear—ahem!—my white d’Orsay overcoat; the light-blue coatee with fancy silk buttons; the pink satin under-waistcoat; the green embroidered vest with coral buttons; the blue necktie with crimson ends; the MacFerntosh plaid trousers, those with the green ground and broad red, and blue, and white checks over it; and the polished boots—do you twig? Now, then, repeat it all, that I may be sure you’ve taken it in correct.”
“D’Orsay wrap; blue coatee; pink under, green and coral over-vests; blue and crimson choker; MacFerntosh sit-upons; and japanned trotter-cases,” returned Hugh, gabbling over the-different items with the velocity at which tradition has decreed it proper to inform society that “Peter Piper picked a peck of pepper.”
“Bravo, young’un, you improve apace; but you took to slang uncommon kindly from the first, I will say that for you. Well, when you’ve looked out the toggery, and—ahem! brought me my shaving water;—I’ve felt, for some time past, a tickling sensation at the sides of my face, which, I am sure, indicates the approach of whiskers. Ar—I should be rather a good-looking fellow if I had but got whiskers, I flatter myself; wouldn’t I wear ’em bushy, that’s all. As soon as you’ve done all I’ve told you, jump into your own juvenile habiliments, and be ready to go with me at a moment’s notice.”
“But—but you know, Wilfred, I’m not to go,” faltered poor Hugh.
“Not to go, why not? Who says so? What! has Percy cut up rough, with his sanctified, Puritanical, Puseyitical, Pontifical, Hieroglyphical notions; oh! leave him to me, I’ll soon talk him round;—I’ve the highest possible veneration for morality and piety, and all that sort of thing, particularly on Sundays; but to fancy they’ve got anything to do with going to the play, is an association of ideas little short of downright sacrilege, to my notion.”
“No, it is not that,” returned Hugh; “Percy would have let let me go, only——”
“Only what?” inquired Wilfred, “come, make haste, I’ve got thirty lines of Terence to knock off before I go up to Carrington.”
“Only we’ve both spent our allowance, and I’ve not got money to pay,” replied poor Hugh, fairly driven into confessing his poverty.
“Phew!” whistled his patron, “no assets forthcoming, eh, that’s unfortunate, all the more so, because just at the present epoch my own financial arrangements are in a somewhat embarrassed condition—ar—banker’s account over-drawn—owing to their confounded free-trade, I expect, I can’t get my rents paid up,—in fact, to be frank with you, when this play business was first started, I, with incautious liberality, volunteered to make one of a jovial crew of fifth-formers, who intend to follow up the theatrical entertainments with a sort of extempore déjeuné à la fourchette of oysters and porter. Well, sir, when I came to examine into the state of my funds, I, after much deep and intricate calculation, arrived at the following result viz., that I had contracted liabilities to the amount of one pound five, while to meet them I possessed the exact sum of two shillings and threepence halfpenny—the halfpenny being scarcely an efficient coin of the realm, by reason of my having that morning punched a large hole in its centre, in pursuance of a mechanical experiment which failed. Under these circumstances I immediately wrote to the governor, saying that several unusually distressing cases of charity having come under my notice since I had last received his blessing and a ten-pound note, the blessing alone remained; adding that another case more urgent than any of the former now appealing to my sympathies, I trusted he would not object to replace the money without unnecessary delay. They say it is a wise child that knows its own father; certainly in this particular instance I seem to have formed a strangely mistaken estimate of the manners and customs of mine, for yesterday morning I received from him the following heartless reply:—
“‘Dear Wilfred Jacob,—As I happen to know your charity is of the kind which begins and ends at home, and as two pounds a week is rather more than I wish you to spend on lollipops, I strongly recommend total abstinence from such delicacies for the next fortnight, at the expiration of which period you may look for a five-pound note (the last you will receive before the holidays), from,
“‘Your affectionate father.’”
“Well, my father being thus obdurate, the only alternative that remained for me was to apply to my uncle, in consequence of which application, my watch will have a little extra ticking to do for the next fortnight; ‘my relation, on the security of that valuable, favouring me with the loan of five and twenty shillings. Thus, the admission to the theatre being two and sixpence, you will perceive, by a reference to ‘Bonnycastle’s Arithmetic,’ or ‘Smith’s Wealth of Nations,’ I am still two-pence-halfpenny behind the world, which sum I must beg, borrow, or otherwise realise before two o’clock to-day, at which time the doors open. So, you see, young’un, I literally cannot treat you, for which, without chaffing, I’m really uncommon sorry; but never mind, put your trust in jollity, and depend upon it something to your advantage will turn up some day and with this well-meant, but slightly vague attempt at consolation,” Wilfred Jacob passed on to have, as he termed it, a “go in” at Terence.
In the meantime, a solemn and important discussion was being held among the boys of the sixth form (some of whom were lads of seventeen and eighteen, and considered themselves young men), as to whether these morning theatricals, being got up solely with a view to the juveniles, were not infra dig. Biggington, who had grown up to fit his name, and stood six feet one in his stockings, and who, moreover, in virtue of the date of his entrance, as well as from his strength and prowess, was looked upon as leader of the school, decidedly set his face against it, and declared, with unnecessary vehemence of expression, that the play might be—that to which its author would have especially objected—before he would go to see it.
Stradwick quite agreed with him, which fact possessed every advantage but that of novelty; Stradwick being a mere reflection, and by be means a brilliant one, of Biggington.
Fowler also considered the thing would be infernally slow, nothing sporting about it; besides, Jackass (alas for boy nature, that so could paraphrase the respectable name of Doctor John Donkiestir!) was going himself, and would have nothing to do but to watch them, so that if a fellow happened to sneeze, he would be safe to get an imposition for winking at an actress; for his part he’d rather be in school at once.
Norman and Piper followed on the same side; Swann, Pitt, Kitely, Martin, and Jones, agreed with the foregoing, but had an original opinion of their own, that old Donkey was growing superannuated.
On the other hand, Warmingham, Gaston, and some dozen others, although considering that an exception ought to have been made in favour of the sixth form, thought the measure a judicious one, as far as the little fellows were concerned, and were, therefore, prepared to pocket their dignity and go;—-unless anybody had got anything better to propose.
“I tell you what, Gaston, that was not a bad notion of yours about an exception being made in favour of the sixth; surely, if that were properly placed before old Jack, he could never be so besotted as to refuse,” observed Fowler.
“Bravo, Fowler,” exclaimed several voices; “let us draw up a formal representation of the affair, and send up a deputation with it to Jack.”
“What do you say, Biggington?” inquired Fowles.
“Simply that I’ll have nothing to do with it; I’ll neither sign the address, nor head the deputation,” was the sulky reply; “I consider I have demeaned myself too much to Jack already, in submitting to his absurd prejudices.”
“Biggington and I view the matter exactly in the same light,” observed Stradwick: “you’d all better give up the notion directly.”
“Speak for yourself, stupid!” returned Biggington: “if Fowler and the rest like to try, let them, and they’ll see what will come of it; my own feelings are purely personal. Don’t you see, fool,” he continued, drawing his satellite aside, “by the plan I adopt, they will do the dirty work, and, if they succeed, I shall profit by it; if they fail, I avoid the slight of having my request refused.”
“Then what shall I do?” inquired Stradwick, who possessed just intellect enough to perceive that the rule of blindly following his leader would, in this case, annoy rather than propitiate the autocrat.
“Why—a—you see, you are—that is, we are differently—a—in fact, in your position I should decidedly sign the address; though—stop, wait a minute—on second thoughts it strikes me it may look odd to have every name but one on the list: Jack may think I’ve got some dodge in my head, Well, never mind; if you like to follow my example you can,” returned the slightly selfish Biggington.
Accordingly, Gaston, who was famous as a scribe, wrote the address; and Fowler, and some half-dozen others, carried it up to the Doctor.
Dr. Donkiestir, who was a tall, fine-looking man, of about fifty, with a clever, energetic countenance, marked, however, by the stern, worried expression common to schoolmasters, received the deputation courteously, read the address, and then observed—
“All the sixth appear to have signed this, except Biggington and Stradwick: why are their names absent?”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Fowler, who was naturally of an open, fearless disposition, replied—
“I believe, sir, Biggington preferred giving up going to the theatre, to asking a favour which he considered it unlikely you would grant; and Stradwick generally does whatever Biggington does.”
As Fowler announced this well-known fact, a general smile, which even the Doctor’s presence could not entirely restrain, went the round of the deputation.
The Doctor seemed not to notice it, though a twinkle in the corner of his eye revealed to those who knew his every look, that he was not so unobservant as he appeared.
“Biggington and his friend are very prudent,” he said, with a slight ironical emphasis on the last word. He then paused a moment in thought ere he continued, “I am very sorry that I consider it my duty to refuse your request, for the straightforward, gentlemanly way in which you have preferred it has much pleased me; but I cannot believe that I should be fulfilling the trust reposed in me by your parents, if I were to allow you to be exposed to the temptations of a theatre, in a town, at night, when it would be impossible for me to exercise the slightest vigilance over you; and this applies more strongly to the sixth form than to the younger boys, as many of you are almost young men, and peculiarly liable to the evil influences to which I allude. As some compensation I will grant a whole holiday, either for skating, if the weather permits, or boating, or cricketing, later in the season, whichever you may prefer. I hope, as a proof that you do not think I have been unnecessarily strict, the sixth will think better of it, and that I shall see many of their faces at the theatre this morning.”
The Doctor’s harangue was not without its effect, for Fowler (who, though somewhat of a pickle, was of a warm-hearted, generous disposition) thanked the head master for the promised holiday, and declared his intention of going to the morning performance. Gaston, Warmingharn, and the rest of that party, followed his lead, and the deputation withdrew.
“So you’ve eaten humble pie for nothing, been humbugged into promising to go to a childish affair you ought to be ashamed to be seen at, and been choused out of the only bit of fun and jollity that has come in our way this half. I wish you joy of your promised holiday, you good little boys,” was Biggington’s sarcastic speech, when he learned the result of their mission.
“Chaff away, Big-un” (a familiar abbreviation of Biggington’s patronymic, of which only the elite of the sixth were permitted to make use), returned Fowler, good-humouredly. “Jacky’s a stunning good old fellow, after all, and I, for one, shall go, to show him I don’t bear malice; you’d better pocket your dignity for once, Big-un, and come too!”
“Not if I know it, to please either old fools or young ones,” was the unamiable reply; and, turning on his heel, Biggington walked angrily away, followed, at no great distance, by Stradwick and two or three other recusants.
In spite, however, of their disapproval, the morning performance went off with great éclat; and those who attended it, amongst whom were a large proportion of the sixth form boys, raved about their delight to such a degree, that even Bigging-ton, albeit he pretended to take the matter with a high hand, felt intensely provoked, and thrashed most unmercifully a small boy, who, in the innocence of his heart, incautiously promulgated his opinion, within the tyrant’s hearing, that “any one who could have gone and did not, must be a precious slow coach, and no mistake.”
As for the fictions founded on facts, upon which the prolific imagination of Wilfred Jacob delighted to expatiate, they had such an effect upon poor Hugh, that he fairly cried himself to sleep that night, from sheer vexation and disappointment.
The next morning, a flashily dressed, sharp-looking young man, who was none other than the usher introduced by Wilfred Jacob into his description of the Tickletown masters by the nickname of Pentameter, but whose proper appellation was Sprattly, and who was, as Wilfred had truly stated, anything but a gentleman, approached a group, consisting of Biggington, Stradwick, and one or two others, with whom he appeared on the most intimate and confidential terms.
“I say, old fellows,” he began, “is it actually true that the Doctor won’t let you go to the theatre at night?”
“Yes, worse luck,” was the reply.
“And are you going to stand it quietly?” continued Sprattly.
“Eh? why what can we do to help ourselves? If the whole of the sixth had stuck together, we might have made something of it; but that ass, Fowler, was talked over. He says Jack appealed to his feelings, or sympathies, or some such disgusting rubbish. So Fowler went, and took half the form with him; and altogether, if I was to express my true opinion, I think the whole affair is about as absurd, not to say disgraceful, to all parties as it well can be.”
Norman, the speaker, was a tall, slender stripling about seventeen, with well-cut features and beautiful glossy hair of a raven blackness, which he wore long, and evidently bestowed much care upon; but his cold, grey eyes, and the immovable expression of his mouth, gave a clue to his true character—viz., a clear, vigorous intellect, but a total deficiency of that which is commonly called heart. He was very anxious to leave the school, as a rich relation, who had taken a fancy to him, and intended to make him his heir, had purchased for him a commission in a cavalry regiment, on the strength of which he affected a pococurante air; and possessing great natural powers of sarcasm, made himself feared and looked up to by the other boys. Outwardly he and Biggington were the greatest allies possible, but beneath the surface lay hidden a mine of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, which only required the application of a match to cause an explosion, the effects of which could scarcely be foreseen.
“It’s an awful bore, really,” replied Sprattly, “for my cousin Courtenay Trevanion——”
“Which, being interpreted, means Jack Sprattly,” interrupted Norman, sarcastically.
“No! come, really Norman, ’pon my life you’re too bad. I told you of his being my relation quite in confidence. All theatricals have a professional name, and a fellow may as well choose a spicy one as not, while he is about it,” continued Sprattly; “but I was going to tell you about to-night. They are going to do the ‘Beggars’ Opera,’ Juliet Elphinstone——”
“Alias Betsey Slasher,” put in the incorrigible Norman.
“Plays Polly Peachum,” continued Sprattly, not heeding the interruption; “Coralie, the French girl, does Lucy Lockit; and Courtenay—or Jack, if you will have it so,” he added quickly, perceiving that Norman was again about to speak—“Jack himself is cast for Macheath; stunningly he’ll play it too, for I heard him last winter—can’t he just tip ’em, ‘How happy could I be with either’ in style!—Uncommon well he looks, too, in the highwaymen’s dress—red frock-coat, with gold frogs, and high shiny leather boots; but Jack’s a regular spicy-looking fellow.”
“Little too much of the lamps and sawdust about him,” returned Norman, superciliously.
He paused a moment, then turning to Biggington, he said abruptly, fixing his piercing glance upon him as he spoke—
“Big., we must go to this affair.”
Thus appealed to, the cock of the school, who at heart was more dunghill than game, like most other bullies, turned rather pale as he replied in a low voice—
“How is it to be done?”
“I have ideas on the subject,” returned Norman, confidently; “but we need not trouble other folks with our private affairs. I don’t exactly agree with Solomon about the advisability of a multitude of counsellors.”
“If you’re good for a spree I’ll stick to you to the backbone!” exclaimed Terry, a boy nearly sixteen, who lived only for mischief, and worshipped Norman, as Stradwick did Biggington, only with enthusiasm, instead of servility.
Stradwick, the remaining member of the party, was beginning slowly and gravely, “I shall do whatever Big———” when a shout of laughter from Norman, Sprattly, and Terry, cut him short. As soon as Sprattly had sufficiently recovered from the effects of his hilarity to be able to speak, he observed—
“Well, if you naughty boys are determined to plot mischief, of course I must not hear it: only, if we should meet by any accident behind the scenes of the theatre, I shall have much pleasure in introducing you to Polly Peachum and the fascinating Coralie;—by-the-bye, let me give you a hint! that stuck-up parson, young Carrington, is a precious sight more wide awake than the Don, so keep out of his way as much as you can.” And having thus spoken, Pentameter Sprattly carried off his five feet four of vulgar humanity, with the most conceited air possible of underbred pretensions.
“What a thorough snob that unfortunate little Pen. has improved into!” observed Norman, as soon as the amiable usher was out of earshot.
“He never was anything else since I’ve known the animal,” returned Biggington, surlily; “that’s him all the world over: he’ll give a fellow information which he knows will set him raving to do a thing, and then come out with his humbugging, ‘Well, you would do it; I told you you’d get into a scrape.’ I wonder what his object now is?”
“Oh! merely to help his cousin, or, more likely brother. Jack,” was the reply; “they’re as much alike as two men can be, only one spratt left off growing a couple of years too soon: if Jack draws a good house his salary will be raised. And now I’ll explain to you my plan, as far as it is at present matured,” and so saying, Norman unfolded to them a scheme— with the details whereof we need not trouble the reader—which, from his intimate acquaintance with the manners and customs of both masters and boys, he had been enabled to adapt to circumstances so cleverly, that even the cautious Biggington confessed he could only discover one flaw in it.
“And that is,” he continued, “supposing everything to have gone smoothly up to the moment of our return, pray how are we to get in, when every door and window will be carefully closed and barred, and the Doctor’s six-barrelled revolver, which he is so proud of, awaiting us if we make noise sufficient to rouse him?”
“I’ve ideas on that point, too,” returned Norman, meditatively; “I’m certain I remember a window in that old loft over the stable, by which I used, when a little shaver, to get in and out through the school-room skylight: I must contrive to make some excuse for inspecting the premises.”
“I’ll tell you who knows more about the loft than all the rest of us put together,” exclaimed Terry; “and that is little Colville: he has a pet cat which resides in those parts, and he is constantly climbing and scrambling about up there, and has the place pretty much to himself, I suspect; for most of the juveniles have faith in a ghost, which Hugh Colville seems too plucky to care for.”
“That was exactly my case some ten years ago,” returned Norman: “find little Colville and send him here to me, and let us meet again in Biggington’s room after morning school, when I will report progress, and the affair shall be finally arranged. Now be off with you different ways: we must not be seen talking together too long.”
And so with breasts more or less burdened by a consciousness of their evil secret, the conspirators parted.
CHAPTER VII.—TEMPTATION.
“Come here, Colville. How is your cat this morning?” inquired Norman, as Hugh approached, a good deal puzzled, and rather alarmed, at his summons, by reason of the fact that when a sixth-form boy sent for one of the little fellows, the interview, however it might begin, generally ended by the juvenile coming in for a thrashing.
“Thank you, sir, she is very well,” replied Hugh; then, judging from Norman’s face that no very adverse fate awaited him, he continued, “If you please, sir, she caught a rat to-day all her own self; such a monster, sir.”
“Indeed! she must be a most meritorious and praiseworthy animal,” returned Norman; then, anxious to set the little fellow at his ease before he began to pump him, he continued—“How did you like the play yesterday? were you very much charmed?”
“I did not go, if you please, sir.”
“Ha! how was that? Did the Doctor keep you in for a punishment, or don’t you care about such things?” inquired Norman, pretty well foreseeing the answer.
“No, it was not that, sir,” returned Hugh. “I should have been delighted to go; but I had spent all my pocket money, and so could not pay for entrance.”
“Unlucky for you—very,” rejoined Norman; “I wish I’d known it ‘sooner, I’d have tipped you the half-crown; more particularly as I want you to do something for me. You know the loft well?”
Hugh grinned, as he replied, “Every inch of it, sir.”
“So used I when I was your age. Is not there a little square window, or trap door, by which one can get on the top of the school-room, near the part of the skylight which opens? and which can be reached by standing on the doctor’s desk?” inquired Norman.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply; “I often get up that way if the boys are plaguing me; and they don’t dare to follow me because it is dark inside that part of the loft, and they are afraid of a ghost; but I’m sure there’s no ghost, or else Puss would not leave her kittens there: if the kittens are safe, why should not I be?”
Norman smiled at this specimen of juvenile logic
“That’s right,” he said, stroking Hugh’s curly pate, “you’re plucky little fellow; and now show me this window. I want to see if I have forgotten the way.”
“I’ll show it to you, and willingly, sir,” returned Hugh, whose affections were easily won, more especially when one of the sixth condescended to lay siege to them; “but you won’t be able to get through yourself, now. You were a little fellow’ like me, I suppose, when you used to do so.”
This information was what the immortal Dick Swiveller would have termed “a staggerer,” and for a moment, Norman began to fear his scheme was knocked on the head; but possessing two main elements of greatness, namely—presence of mind and fertility of resource, an alternative occurred to him, which, although by no means so safe or easy as his original plan, might yet be practicable. Everything depended on the character of the child before him: of its strong points he had already some experience, and felt satisfied that he might rely on them. The boy possessed pluck enough for his purpose: he had now to test his weakness.
“Suppose,” he begun—“mind, I only say suppose—there were yet a chance of your going to the theatre, what should you think of it?”
“Think! why I should be ready to jump out of my skin for joy, to be sure!” returned Hugh, his eyes sparkling, and his cheeks flushing at the bare idea.
Norman had gained a step: he perceived the strength of the temptation he had to offer.
“Well,” he said, after keeping Hugh in an agony of expectation for a minute or two, “there is a chance; but it must depend on whether you do exactly as I wish and approve. In the first place, promise me not to say a word to anybody about this conversation, or even mention that I have been talking to you;—in the second place, come to me in Biggington’s room, as soon as dinner is over.”
“Please, sir, may not I tell Percy? I always tell him everything,” pleaded Hugh.
“Did you tell him who broke the Doctor’s inkglass?” inquired Norman, sarcastically.
Now this inquiry referred to a little affair which had occurred within a week of Hugh’s first arrival at school. Indulging in what propensity common alike to boys and monkeys, viz., of examining everything with their fingers’ ends, Hugh had allowed to fall, and thus broken, Dr. Donkiestir’s own peculiar inkglass. Overwhelmed with the awful nature of the offence he had committed, and expecting, at the very least, to be flogged for the same, the poor child sat down by the side of the devastation he had caused, and commenced the uncomfortable operation of crying his-eyes out.
In this forlorn condition he was discovered by Norman, who, without being really kind-hearted, possessed that not uncommon species of negatively selfish good-nature, which leads people to dislike to look on distress, physical or mental. Moreover, the fact of Hugh being a very pretty boy pleased his taste; and therefore interested him. Accordingly, he first inquired the cause of his grief, and then devised a remedy.
It so happened that Norman’s own inkbottle and the one which Hugh had just broken, were, as nearly as possible, similar. He knew, moreover, that the Doctor was by no means observant of such minor particulars. He, accordingly, substituted his bottle for the broken one, assisted Hugh to clear away all traces of the accident, and, advising him to keep his own counsel, left him greatly consoled. But Hugh felt a consciousness that there was something in this transaction of which Percy would not approve; and, fearful lest, in his strict sense of honour, he should pronounce it necessary to acquaint the Doctor with his delinquency, his moral courage failed him, and, up to the moment in which Norman asked him the question, he had never revealed the misdeed to his brother. It was the first time he had ever been guilty of that mildest form of lying—suppression of the truth; but the stone of dissimulation, once set rolling, soon gathers force, which the feeble hand that sufficed to put it in motion is powerless to restrain.
Nor was Hugh’s first “little sin” fated to prove an exception to the rule. Of course he was obliged to confess to Norman that he had not told his brother, and of course Norman replied that what he had done once he could do again: and that if he cared to go to the play, he must not tell Percy or any one; and Hugh, not having a word to say in denial, the discussion ended by his promising to preserve a strict silence on the subject, and to come to Norman in Biggington’s room.
In that same apartment was assembled, that afternoon, a solemn conclave. Biggington took the chair (there was but one); Stradwick drew a box from under the bed, and seated himself upon it, in an attitude exactly copied from that of Biggington.
Norman, resting his elbow on the chimney-piece, remained standing; while Terry turned a wash-hand basin topsy-turvy, and perched himself, monkey-like, on the apex of the semi-cone thus created. After a moment’s silence, Biggington exclaimed—“Well, Norman, how are we going on? have you brought your plan to perfection yet?”
“Unforeseen difficulties have sprung up,” was the reply, “but none which the three Ps—patience, perseverance, and pluck—will not carry us through.”
“Difficulties be hanged!” rejoined Biggington, impetuously. “I tell you one thing, go I will, by fair means or foul; the fact is, Trevanion” (“Jack Spratty,” murmured Norman. “With a great pair of dyed moustachios on him,” urged Terry) “has been here, and promised to take us behind the scenes, and to come and sup with us at the Bull afterwards, and induce Coralie and the other girl to come too.”
“Ay! and Coralie’s a stunner, and no mistake,” observed Terry; “such a pair of black eyes, by Jove! they go through a fellow like—like——”
“Bradawls,” suggested Stradwick, complacently.
“A pointed illustration, decidedly,” resumed Terry; “but I was walking the day before yesterday with old Beaugentil, when we met this said Coralie, taking a constitutional for the benefit of her complexion; the moment Beaugentil set eyes upon her, he went off into an ecstacy, throwing up his arms and capering about like a bear on hot bricks. ‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible!’ he exclaimed, ‘vot shall I be ’old? Est-ce toi, Coralie? Am it thou, Coreliar, zie daugtaire of thy mama, zie beloafed de ma premiere jeunesse! et quelle ange! vot an angle! vrai ange du ciel, a right angle of ’eaven! Voyez donc, Monsieur Terrie; permettez que je vous présente mon cher élève, Monsieur Terrie, june homme charmant; mais n’est-ce pas que Mademoiselle est jolie; ees not Mees superbe, beautifu, magnifique, pretty vell!’ and so the old boy ran on till I was in fits.”
“What is your confounded difficulty, Norman?” inquired Biggington, abruptly.
“Why, the window in the loft turns out to be too small for anything bigger than a boy to get through,” was the reply.
Biggington muttered something unintelligible, which it would be the height of charity to consider a good word, as he continued—“What do you mean to do, then?”
“Put a small boy through it, who shall open the back door into the school-room for us, whereby we shall enter and walk up to bed,” returned Norman, stroking the raven down on his upper lip, where the “cavalry moustache” was just beginning to show itself.
“And what chance is there of finding a boy whom you can trust to do such a thing?” asked Biggington, gloomily.
“He is already found, or I am much mistaken,” was the answer. “Moreover, properly handled, he’ll do the thing well, and con amore; I’d sooner work with one willing agent than with twenty forced ones.”
“And his name?”
“The younger Colville.”
Biggington mused. “He might do it; but his brother will not allow him,” he said after a pause.
“His brother will have no voice in the matter, for he will know nothing about it,” returned Norman; “but you shall judge for yourselves, for I have appointed the boy to come to me here. Only leave me to talk to him, and don’t bully or frighten the little fellow, else you will defeat your own object. If, when you have seen him, you wish me to persevere with the plan, Biggington, stroke your chin thus.”
As Norman raised his hand to indicate the appointed signal, a modest tap at the door was audible, and, on the bolt being withdrawn, Hugh made his appearance, and, at a sign from Norman, entered. The door was closed and fastened by Terry, who resumed his scat on the inverted wash-hand basin, with the air of a monarch ascending his throne. Hugh bore the scrutiny to which all the plotters, Biggington in particular, subjected him, unflinchingly; he looked rather more grave and anxious than was his wont, but did not appear intimidated or abashed, though he stood in the awful presence of the cock of the school.
“Come here, Colville,” began Norman; then, as the boy approached, he continued, fixing his piercing glance upon him, “have you mentioned what we were talking about this morning to anybody?”
“No, sir,” was the unhesitating reply.
“Not to your brother, eyen? don’t attempt to deceive me!”
“No, indeed, sir, I would not tell a lie; if I had mentioned it to Percy, I’d say so at once,” returned Hugh, colouring at his assertion being doubted.
“I believe you,” replied Norman, glancing towards Biggington as he spoke to attract his attention. “I am sure you are a brave, honourable boy, who would neither tell a lie nor betray a secret, which is worse, if anything.”
At this commendation, Hugh’s eyes sparkled, and a bright, honest smile lit up his innocent, childish face, which ought to have touched the hearts and disarmed the purpose of those who, for their own selfish ends, were thus deliberately leading him into evil; it probably would have done so, were it not a well-established fact in pathology, that, during the phase of public schoolboyhood, the human heart remains in a torpid or chrysalis state; the animal, at that period, consisting of a head, a stomach, and (fortunately for those who have the control of it, as well for its future chance of developing into a reasonable mortal) a tail also. Not being actuated by any such tender feelings, or indeed by an feelings at all, except selfish ones, Biggington replied to Norman’s look by stroking his chin. Stradwick stroked his at the same moment, giving involuntarily a slight shudder at the alarming future to which he was thus committing himself. Terry only grinned, which indeed was his invariable custom on all occasions, solemn or comic.
“As I am now convinced that you are trustworthy,” resumed Norman, “I am going to tell you a secret; the secret, in fact, upon the safe keeping of which depends your going to the play.”
“Or getting every bone in your skin broken,” muttered Biggington in an aside, which was, however, sufficiently audible to convey to Hugh a knowledge of the alternative which awaited him.
“Mr. Biggington, these other gentlemen, and myself,” continued Norman, “mean to go to the theatre this evening, and if you will do exactly as we tell you, we will take you with us.”
“But the Doctor!” exclaimed Hugh, aghast.
“That is the very point I was about to touch upon,” rejoined Norman, in no way discomposed: “the Doctor not approving of the younger boys being out at night, thought himself obliged to give a general order to the whole school; but at the same time he contrived to have it hinted privately to us, that if the elder members of the sixth form chose to go, he should not make any inquiries about it; the only point he insisted on being, that such an expedition must be managed privately, and without his being supposed to know anything about it. Now in order to contrive this, we had thought of making our way in at night (we can easily get out unobserved after five o’clock school), through the window in the loft; but, as you say, and as I now remember, it is too small to render that possible,—we want you to get through the sky-light into the school-room (as we were talking about this morning), and unfasten the little door which opens into the playground; it is only secured by one bolt, which is not above your reach, so you can easily undo it. If you will undertake this, and promise faithfully not to breathe a word about it to anybody, you shall go with us to the play.” Poor Hugh was sorely puzzled; and his sense of right and wrong entirely confused; one idea, however, soon extricating itself from the chaos, he immediately gave it utterance. “The Doctor,” he said, “will be angry with me, sir, though he may not be so with you, for I am only a little fellow, and a long way off the sixth form.”
Norman hesitated; he knew that if they were discovered he should be quite unable to protect the child from punishment, and a sense of self-respect made him adverse to pledge himself to anything which he could not perform.
Biggington was trammelled by no such scruples. “Never fear, young’un,” he said; “if the Doctor should by any chance speak to you on the subject, just refer, him quietly to me; merely say,—Biggington desired me to go; Biggington will explain everything;—and you’ll have no more trouble from the Doctor. Don’t you think so, Stradwick?”
“Oh! certainly,” was the reply: “refer him to Biggington, by all means; say—Biggington desired me to go; Biggington will——”
“That will do,” interrupted Terry, grinning. “Shut up, Slow-coach, we didn’t encore the sentiment; moreover, I can perceive by the expression of our young friend’s optics, that he is awake to a sense of his sitiwation. The play, a jolly good supper, and immortal honour and renown on one hand; and an awful thrashing from Biggington, with a gentle refresher from myself appended, on the other; between such a Scylla and Charybdis he will hardly be inclined to forestall Jack Sprattly by singing, ‘How happy could I be with either.’ So now, young’un, favour us with your sentiments.”
“If I might but tell Percy!” pleaded Hugh, glancing appealingly towards Norman.
That individual shook his head.
“If you do,” he said, “you will have broken the trust reposed in you, and proved yourself a mean-spirited, cowardly child, quite unfit for the service we require of you, or the pleasure with which we propose to reward you;—tell your brother, and you lose the play.”
Poor Hugh! his better nature made one final struggle, but he had dallied with the temptation till it had obtained too firm a hold on his imagination to be shaken off; and so, like many folks older and wiser than himself, who have indulged in a reprehensible longing for some forbidden fruit till the appetite has grown too strong to be resisted, he fell.
“I will promise,” he said. “I do so want to see the play, and you will take care of me if the Doctor is angry, Mr. Biggington?”
“Oh, decidedly; both myself and Stradwick,” was the reply. “Stradwick and the Doctor are hand and glove just now, because Straddy’s such a dab at Euripides.”
This insinuation referred to the uncomfortable fact, that the head-master had that morning informed Stradwick, in consequence of his total inability to construe the works of the ancient Greek in question, that if after another week he did not perceive a very decided improvement, he should be under the disagreeable necessity of degrading him to the fifth form. Stradwick, therefore, hung his head sheepishly as he echoed—
“Oh yes, decidedly.”
“We understand each other, then, and had better agree to meet here, prepared to start, at a quarter to six,” observed Norman.
A general assent was given, and the conspirators separated. Norman glanced at his victim; there was a determined look in the boy’s face, which gave assurance that he would go through with the task he had undertaken. Resolution was one of the few qualities Norman reverenced, and for the moment he repented the evil into which he was leading the child; but the two strongest passions of his nature, ambition and revenge, were linked with his scheme for that evening, and he could not relinquish it.
“Courage, little one,” he said, laying his hand on Hugh’s curly pate; “if you and I live, and, as something here”—and he touched his forehead as he spoke—“tells me will be the case, I achieve greatness, I will not forget this evening. Silence and courage!”