Chapter Seven.

Vogue La Galère.

Ah! Diamond, thou little knowest what mischief thou hast done.

Life of Sir I. Newton.

That afternoon Mr Paton, going into the Combination Room, where the masters often met, threw himself into one of the armchairs with an unwonted expression of vexation and disgust on his usually placid features.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Paton?” asked Mr Robertson. “Is to-day’s Times too liberal for your notions, or what?”

“No,” said Mr Paton; “but I have just been caning Evson, a new boy, and the fellow’s stubborn obstinacy and unaccountable coolness annoy me exceedingly.”

“O yes; he’s a pupil of mine, I’m sorry to say, and he has never been free from punishment since he came. Even your Procrustean rule seems to fail with him, Paton. What have you been obliged to cane him for?”

Mr Paton related Walter’s escapade.

“Well, of course you had no choice but to cane him,” replied his colleague, “for such disobedience; but how did he take it?”

“In the oddest way possible. He came in with punctilious politeness, obviously assumed, with sarcastic intentions. When I took up the cane he stood with arms folded, and a singularly dogged look; in fact, his manner disarmed me. You know I detest caning, and I really could not do it, never having had occasion for it for months together. I gave him two cuts, and then left off. ‘May I go, sir?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said, and he left the room with a bow and a ‘Thank you, sir.’ I am really sorry for the boy; for as I was obliged to send him to Dr Lane, he will probably get another flogging from him.”

“What a worthless boy he must be,” answered Mr Robertson.

“No, not exactly worthless; there’s something about him I can’t help liking; but most impudent and stubborn.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr Percival, another of the masters, who had been listening attentively to the conversation; “I humbly venture to think that you’re both mistaken in that boy. I like him exceedingly, and think him as promising a lad as any in the school. I never knew any boy behave more modestly and respectfully.”

“Why, how do you know anything of him?” asked Mr Robertson in surprise.

“Only by accident. I had once or twice noticed him among the detenus, and being sorry to think that a new boy should be an habitué of the extra schoolroom, I asked him one day why he was sent. He told me that it was for failing in a lesson, and when I asked why he hadn’t learnt it, he said, very simply and respectfully, ‘I really did my very best, sir; but it’s all new work to me.’ Look at the boy’s innocent, engaging face, and you will be sure that he was telling me the truth.

“I’m afraid,” continued Mr Percival, “you’ll think this very slight ground for setting my opinion against yours; but I was pleased with Evson’s manner, and asked him to come and take a stroll on the shore, that I might know something more of him. Do you know, I never found a more intelligent companion. He was all life and vivacity; it was quite a pleasure to be with him. Being new to the sea, he didn’t know the names of the commonest things on the shore, and if you had seen his face light up as he kept picking up whelk’s eggs, and mermaid’s purses, and zoophytes, and hermit-crabs, and bits of plocamium or coralline, and asking me all I could tell him about them, you would not have thought him a stupid or worthless boy.”

“I don’t know, Percival; you are a regular conjuror. All sorts of ne’er-do-wells succeed under your manipulation. You’re a first-rate hand at gathering grapes from thorns, and figs from thistles. Why, even out of that Caliban, old Woods, you used to extract a gleam of human intelligence.”

“He wasn’t a Caliban at all. I found him an excellent fellow at heart; but what could you expect of a boy who, because he was big, awkward, and stupid, was always getting flouted on all sides? Sir Hugh Evans is not the only person who disliked being made a ‘vlouting-stog.’”

“You must have some talisman for transmuting boys if you consider old Woods an excellent fellow, Percival. I found him a mass of laziness and brute strength. Do give me your secret.”

“Try a little kindness and sympathy. I have no other secret.”

“I’m not conscious of failing in kindness,” said Mr Robertson drily. “My fault, I think, is being too kind.”

“To clever, promising, bright boys—yes; to unthankful and evil boys (excuse me for saying so)—no. You don’t try to descend to their dull level, and so understand their difficulties. You don’t suffer fools gladly, as we masters ought to do. But, Paton,” he said, turning the conversation, which seemed distasteful to Mr Robertson, “will you try how it succeeds to lay the yoke a little less heavily on Evson?”

“Well, Percival, I don’t think that I’ve consciously bullied him. I can’t make my system different to him and other boys.”

“My dear Paton, forgive my saying that I don’t think that a rigid system is the fairest; summa lex summa crux. Fish of very different sorts and sizes come to our nets, and you can’t shove a turbot through the same mesh that barely admits a sprat.”

“I’ll think of what you say; but I must leave him in Dr Lane’s hands now,” said Mr Paton.

“Who, I heartily hope, won’t flog him,” said Mr Percival.

“Why? I don’t see how he can do otherwise.”

“Because it will simply drive him to despair; because, if I know anything of his character, it will have upon him an effect incalculably bad.”

“I hope not,” said Mr Paton.

The conversation dropped, and Mr Percival resumed his newspaper.

When Walter went to Dr Lane in the evening, the Doctor inquired kindly and carefully into the nature of his offence. This, unfortunately, was clear enough, and Walter was far too ingenuous to attempt any extenuation of it. Even if he had not been intentionally idle, it was plain, on his own admission, that he had been guilty of the greatest possible insubordination and disrespect. These offences were rare at Saint Winifred’s, and especially rare in a new boy. Puzzled as he was by conduct so unlike the boy’s apparent character, and interested by his natural and manly manner, yet Dr Lane had in this case no alternative but the infliction of corporal punishment.

Humiliated again, and full of bitter anger, Walter returned to the great schoolroom, where he was received with sympathy and kindness by the others in his class. It was the dark part of the evening before tea-time, and the boys, sitting idly round the fire, were in an apt mood for folly and mischief. They began a vehement discussion about Paton’s demerits, and called him every hard name they could invent. Walter took little part in this, for he was smarting too severely under the sense of oppression to find relief in mere abuse; but, from his flashing eyes and the dark scowl that sat so ill on his face it was evident that a bad spirit had obtained the thorough mastery over all his better and gentler impulses.

“Can’t we do something to serve the fellow out?” said Anthony, one of the boys in Walter’s dormitory.

“But what can we do?” asked several.

“What, indeed?” asked Henderson, mockingly; and as it was his way to quote whatever he had last been reading, he began to spout from the peroration of a speech which he had seen in the paper—“Aristocracy, throned on the citadel of power, and strong in—”

“What a fool you are, Henderson,” observed Franklin, another of the group; “I’ll tell you what we can do: we’ll burn that horrid black book in which he enters the detentions and impositions.”

“Poor book!” said Henderson; “what pangs of conscience it will suffer in the flames! Give it not the glory of such martyrdom. Walter,” he continued, in a lower voice, “I hope that you’ll have nothing to do with this humbug?”

“I will though, Henderson; if I’m to have nothing but canings and floggings, I may just as well be caned and flogged for something as for nothing.”

“The desk’s locked,” said Anthony; “we shan’t be able to get hold of the imposition-book.”

“I’ll settle that,” said Walter; “here, just hand me the poker, Dubbs.”

“I shall do no such thing,” said Daubeny quietly, and his reply was greeted with a shout of derision.

“Why, you poor coward, Dubbs,” said Franklin, “you couldn’t get anything for handing the poker.”

“I never supposed I could, Franklin,” he answered; “and as for being a coward, the real cowardice would be to do what’s absurd and wrong for fear of being laughed at or being kicked. Well, you may hit me,” he said quietly, as Franklin twisted his arm tightly round, and hit him on it, “but you can’t make me do what I don’t choose.”

“We’ll try,” said Franklin, twisting his arm still more tightly, and hitting harder.

“You’ll try in vain,” answered Daubeny, though the tears stood in his eyes at the violent pain.

“Drop his arm, you Franklin,” indignantly exclaimed Henderson, who, though he was always teasing Daubeny, was very fond of him; “drop his arm, or, by Jove! you’ll find that two can play at that. Dubbs is quite right, and you’re a set of asses if you think you’ll do any good by burning the punishment book. I’ve got the poker, and you shan’t have it to knock the desk open. I suppose Paton can afford sixpence to buy another book; and enter a tolerable fresh score against you for this besides.”

“But he won’t remember my six hundred lines, and four or five detentions,” said Walter. “Here, give me the poker.”

“Pooh! pooh! Evson, of course he’ll remember them. Here, I’ll help you with the lines; I’ll do a couple of hundred for you, and the rest you can write with two pens at a time; it won’t take you an hour. I’ll show you the two-pen dodge; I’ll admit you into the two-pen-etralia. Like Milton, you shall ‘touch the slender tops of various quills.’ No, no,” he continued, in a playful tone in order not to make Walter in a greater passion than he was, “you can’t have the poker; anyone who wants that must take it from me vi et armis.”

“It doesn’t matter; this’ll do as well; and here goes,” said Walter, seizing a wooden stool. “There’s the desk open for you,” he said, as he brought the top of the stool with a strong blow against the lid, and burst the lock with a great crash.

“My eyes! we shall get into a row,” said Franklin, opening his eyes to illustrate his exclamation.

“Well, what’s done’s done; let’s all take our share,” said Anthony, diving his hand into the desk. “Here’s the imposition-book for you, and here goes leaf number one into the fire; you can tear out the next if you like, Franklin.”

“Very well,” said Franklin; “in for a penny in for a pound; there goes the second leaf.”

“And here the third; over ankles over knees,” said Barton, another of those present.

“Proverbial Fool-osophy,” observed Henderson, contemptuously, as Burton handed him the book. “Shall I be a silly sheep like the rest of you, and leap over the bridge because your leader has? I suppose I must, though it’s very absurd.” He wavered and hesitated; sensible enough to disapprove of so useless a proceeding, he yet did not like to be thought afraid. He minded what fellows would think.

“Do what’s right,” said Daubeny, “and shame the devil. Here, give me the book. Now, you fellows, you’ve torn out these leaves, and done quite mischief enough. Let me put the book back, and don’t be like children who hit the fender against which they’ve knocked their heads.”

“Or dogs that bite the stick they’ve been thrashed with,” said Henderson. “You’re right, Dubbs, and I respect you; ay, you fellows may sneer if you like, but I advised you not to do it, and I won’t make myself an idiot because you do.”

“Never mind,” drawled Howard Tracy. “I hate Paton, and I’ll do anything to spite him,” whereupon he snatched the book from Daubeny, and threw it entire into the flames. Poor Tracy had been even in more serious scrapes with Mr Paton than Walter had; his vain manner was peculiarly abhorrent to the master, who took every opportunity of snubbing him; but nothing would pierce through the thick cloak of Tracy’s conceit, and fully satisfied with himself, his good looks, and his aristocratic connections, he sat down in contented ignorance, and despised learning too much to be in the least put out by being invariably the last in his form.

“What, is there nothing left for me to burn?” said Walter, who sat glowering on the high iron fender, and swinging his legs impatiently. “Let’s see what else there is in the desk. Here are a pack of old exercises, apparently; they’ll make a jolly blaze. Stop, though, are they old exercises? Well, never mind; if not, so much the better. In they shall go.”

“Stop! what are you doing, Walter?” said Henderson, catching him by the arm; “you know these can’t be old exercises. Paton always puts them in his waste-paper basket, not in his desk. Oh, Walter, what have you done?”

“The outside sheets were exercises anyhow,” said Walter gloomily. “Here, it’s no good trying to save them now, whatever they were” (for Henderson was attempting to rake them out between the bars); “they’re done for now,” and he pressed down the thick mass of foolscap into the reddest centre of the fire, and held it there until nothing remained of it but a heap of flaky crimson ashes.

A dead silence followed, for the boys felt that now, at any rate, they were “in for it.”

The sound of the tea-bell prevented further mischief; and as Henderson thrust his arm through Walter’s, he said, “Oh, Evson, I wish you hadn’t done that! I wish I’d got you to come away before. What a passionate fellow you are!”

“Well, it’s done now,” said Walter, already beginning to soften, and to repent of his fatuity.

“What can we do?” said Henderson anxiously.

“Take the consequences, that’s all,” answered Walter.

“Hadn’t you better go and tell Paton about it at once instead of letting him find it out?”

“No,” said Walter; “he’s done nothing but bully me, and I don’t care.”

“Then let me go,” said his friend earnestly. “I know Paton well; I’m sure he’d be ready to forgive you, if I explained it all to him.”

“You’re very good, Flip; but don’t go:—it’s too late.”

“Well, Walter, you mustn’t think that I had no share in this because of being afraid. I was one of the group, and I’ll share the punishment with you, whatever it is. I hope for your sake it won’t be found out.”

But if Henderson had seen a little deeper he would have hoped that it would be found out, for there is nothing that works quicker ruin to any character than undiscovered sin. It was happy for Walter that his wrong impulses did not remain undiscovered; happy for him that they came so rapidly to be known and to be punished.

It was noised through the school in five minutes that Evson, one of the new fellows, had smashed open Paton’s desk and burned the contents. “What an awful row he’ll get into!” was the general comment. Walter heard Kenrick inquiring eagerly about it as they sat at tea; but Kenrick didn’t ask him about it, though they sat so near each other. After the foolish, proud manner of sensitive boys, Walter and Kenrick, though each liked the other none the less, were not on speaking terms. Walter, less morbidly proud than Kenrick, would not have suffered this silly alienation to continue had not his attention been occupied by other troubles. Neither of them, therefore, liked to be the first to break the ice, and now in his most serious difficulty Walter had lost the advice and sympathy of his most intimate friend.

The fellows seemed to think that he must inevitably be expelled for this fracas. The poor boy’s thoughts were very, very bitter as he laid his head that night on his restless pillow, remembered what an ungovernable fool he had been, and dreamt of his happy and dear-loved home. How strangely he seemed to have left his old, innocent life behind him, and how little he would have believed it possible, two months ago, that he could by any conduct of his own have so soon incurred, or nearly incurred, the penalty of expulsion from Saint Winifred’s School.

He had certainly yielded very quickly to passion, and he felt that in consequence he had made his position more serious than that of other boys who were in every sense of the word twice as bad as himself. But what he laid to the score of his ill-luck was in truth a very happy providence by which punishment was sent speedily and heavily upon him, and so his evil tendencies, mercifully nipped in the bud, crushed with a tender yet with an iron hand before they had expanded more blossoms and been fed by deeper roots. He might have been punished less speedily had his faults been more radical, or his wrong-doings of a deeper dye.