Chapter Thirty Three.

Martyrdom.

        “Since thou so deeply dost enquire,
I will instruct thee briefly why no dread
Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone
Are to be feared whence evil may proceed,
Nought else, for nought is terrible beside.”
 
Carey’s Dante.

Gradually the persecutions to which Charlie was subjected mainly turned on one point. His tormentors were so far tired of bullying him, that they would have left him in comparative peace if he would have yielded one point—which was this.

The Noelites were accustomed now and then to have a grand evening “spread” as they called it, and when they had finished this supper, which was usually supplied by Dan, they generally began smoking, an amusement which they could enjoy after the lights were out. The smokers used to sit in the long corridor, which, as I have said, led to their dormitory, and the scout was always posted to warn them of approaching danger; but as they did not begin operations till the master had gone his nightly rounds, and were very quiet about it, there was not much danger of their being disturbed. Yet although the windows of the corridor and dormitory were all left wide open, and every other precaution was taken, it was impossible to get rid of the fumes of tobacco so entirely as to avoid all chance of detection. They had, indeed, bribed the servants to secrecy, but what they feared was being detected by some master. The Noelites, therefore, of that dormitory had been accustomed to agree that if they were questioned by any master about the smell of smoking, they would all deny that any smoking had taken place. The other nine boys in the dormitory, with the doubtful exception of Elgood, had promised that they would stick to this assertion in case of their being asked. The question was, “Would Charlie promise the same thing?” If not, the boys felt doubly insecure—insecure about the stability of their falsehood and the secrecy of their proceedings.

And Charlie Evson, of course, refused to promise this. Single-handed he fought this battle against the other boys in his house, and in spite of solicitation, coaxing, entreaty, threats and blows, steadily declared that he was no tell-tale, that he had never mentioned anything which had gone on in the house, but that if he were directly asked whether a particular act had taken place or not, he would still keep silence, but could not and would not tell a lie.

Now some of the house—and especially Mackworth and Wilton—had determined, by the help of the rest, to crush this opposition, to conquer this obstinacy, as they called it; and, since Charlie’s reluctance could not be overcome by persuasion or argument, to break it down by sheer force. So, night after night, a number of them gathered round Charlie, and tried every means which ingenuity or malice could suggest to make him yield on this one point; the more so, because they well knew that to gain one concession was practically to gain all, and Charlie’s uprightness contrasted so unpleasantly with their own base compliances, that his mere presence among them became, from this circumstance, a constant annoyance. One boy with a high and firm moral standard, steadily and consistently good, can hardly fail to be most unpopular in a large house full of bad and reckless boys.

It was a long and hard struggle; so long that Charlie felt as if it would last for ever, and his strength would give way before he had wearied-out his persecutors. For now it seemed to be a positive amusement, a pleasant occupation to them, night after night, to bully him. He dreaded, he shuddered at the return of evening; he knew well that from the time when Preparation began, till the rest were all asleep, he could look for little peace. Sometimes he was tempted to yield. He knew that at the bottom the fellows did not really hate him, that he might be very popular if he chose, even without going to nearly the same lengths as the others, and that if he would but promise not to tell, his assent would be hailed with acclamations. Besides, said the tempter, the chances are very strongly in favour of your not being asked at all about the matter, so that there is every probability of your not being called upon to tell the “cram;” for by some delicate distinction the falsehood presented itself under the guise of a “cram,” and not of a naked lie; that was a word the boys carefully avoided applying to it, and were quite angry if Charlie called it by its right name. One evening the poor little fellow was so weary and hopeless and sad at heart, and he had been thrashed so long and so severely, that he was very near yielding. A paper had been written, the signing of which was tacitly understood to involve a promise to deny that there had been any smoking at night if they were taxed with it; and all the boys except Elgood and Charlie had signed this paper. But the fellows did not care for Elgood; they knew that he dared not oppose them long, and that they could make him do their bidding whenever the time came. Well, one evening, Charlie, in a weak mood, was on the verge of signing the paper, and thus purchasing a cessation of the long series of injuries and taunts from which he had been suffering. He was sitting up in bed, and had taken the pencil in hand to sign his name. The boys, in an eager group round him, were calling him a regular brick, encouraging him, patting him on the back, and saying that they had been sure all along that he was a nice little fellow, and would come round at last. Elgood was among them, looking on with anxious eyes. He had immensely admired Charlie’s brave firmness, and nothing but reliance on the strength of his stronger will had encouraged him in the shadow of opposition. “If young Evson does it,” he whispered, “I will directly.” Charlie caught the whisper; and in an agony of shame flung away the pencil. He had very nearly sinned himself, and forgotten the resolution which had been granted him in answer to his many prayers; but he had seen the effects of bad example, and nothing should induce him to lead others with him into sin. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” was the instant supplication which rose from his inmost heart, as he threw down the pencil and pushed the paper aside.

“I can’t do it,” he said; “I must not do it; I never told a lie in my life that I remember. Don’t ask me any more.” Instantly the tone and temper of the boys changed. A shower of words, which I will not repeat, assailed his ears; he was dragged out of bed and thrashed more unmercifully than he had ever been before. “You shall give way in the end, mind that,” was the last admonition he received from one of the bigger fellows, as he dragged himself to his bed, sobbing for pain, and aching with disquietude of heart. “The sooner it is the better; for you little muffs and would-be saints don’t go down with us.”

And then for a few evenings, when the candles were put out, and the fellows had nothing better to do, it used to be the regular thing for some one to suggest, “Come, let’s bait No-thank-you; it’ll be rare fun.” Then another would say, “Come, No-thank-you, sign the paper like a good fellow, and spare yourself all the rest.”

“Do,” another insidious friend would add; “I am quite sorry to see you kicked and thrashed so often.”

“I’ll strike a light in one second if you will,” suggested a fourth. “No, you won’t? oh, then, look out, Master No-thank-you, look out for squalls.” But still, however beaten or insulted, holding out like a man, and not letting the tears fall if he could help it, though they swam in his eyes for pain and grief, the brave boy resisted evil, and would not be forced to stain his white soul with the promise of a lie.

There were some who, though they dared not say anything, yet looked on at this struggle with mingled shame and admiration—shame for themselves, admiration for Charlie. It could not be but that there were some hearts among so many which had not seared the tender nerves of pity, and more than once Charlie saw kindly faces looking at him out of the cowardly group of tormentors, and heard timid words of disapprobation spoken to the worst of those who bullied him. More often, too, some young Noelite who met him during the day would seem to address him with a changed nature, would speak to him warmly and with friendliness, would show by little words and actions that he felt for him and respected him, although he had not courage enough to resist publicly the opposing stream. And others of the baser sort observed this. What if this one little new fellow should beat them after all, and end their domination, and introduce in spite of them a truer and better and more natural state of things? it was not to be tolerated for a moment, and he must be put down with a strong hand at once.

Meanwhile Charlie’s heart was fast failing him, dying away within him; for under this persecution his health and spirits were worn out. His face, they noticed, was far paler than when he came, his looks almost haggard, and his manner less sprightly than before. He had honourably abstained hitherto from giving Walter any direct account of his troubles, but now he yearned for some advice and comfort, and went to Walter’s study, not to complain, but to ask if Walter thought there was any chance of his father removing him to another school, because he felt that at Saint Winifred’s he could neither be happy nor in any way succeed.

“Well, Charlie boy, what can I do for you?” said Walter, cheerfully pushing away the Greek Lexicon and Aristophanes over which he was engaged, and wheeling round the armchair to the fire, which he poked till there was a bright blaze.

“Am I disturbing you at your work, Walter?” said the little boy, whose dejected air his brother had not noticed.

“No, Charlie, not a bit; you never disturb me. I was just thinking that it was about time to shut up, for it’s almost too dark too read, and we’ve nearly half an hour before tea-time; so come here and sit on my knee and have a chat. I haven’t seen you for an age, Charlie.”

Charlie said nothing, but he was in a weary mood, and was glad to sit on his brother’s knee and put his arm round his neck; for he was more than four years Walter’s junior, and had never left home before, and that night the homesickness was very strongly upon him.

“Why, what’s the matter, Charlie boy?” asked Walter playfully. “What’s the meaning of this pale face and red eyes? I’m afraid you haven’t found Saint Winifred’s so jolly as you expected; disenchanted already, eh?”

“O Walter, I’m very, very miserable,” said Charlie, overcome by his brother’s tender manner towards him; and leaning his head on Walter’s shoulder he sobbed aloud.

“What is it, Charlie?” said Walter, gently stroking his light hair. “Never be afraid to tell me anything. You’ve done nothing wrong, I hope?”

“O no, Walter. It’s because I won’t do wrong that they bully me.”

“Is that it? Then dry your tears, Charlie boy, for you may thank God, and nothing in earth or under the earth can make you do wrong if you determine not—determine in the right way, you know, Charlie.”

“But it’s so hard, Walter; I didn’t know it would be so very hard. The house is so bad, and no one helps me except Bliss. I don’t think you were ever troubled as I am, Walter.”

“Never mind, Charlie. Only don’t go wrong whatever they do to you. You don’t know how much this will smooth your way all the rest of your school-life. It’s quite true what you say, Charlie, and the state of the school is far worse than ever knew it; but that’s all the more reason we should do our duty, isn’t it.”

“O Walter, but I know they’ll make me do wrong some day. I wish I were at home. I wish I might leave. I get thrashed and kicked and abused every night, Walter, and almost all night long.”

“Do you?” asked Walter, in angry amazement. “I knew that you were rather bullied—Eden told me that—but I never knew it was so bad as you say. By jove, Charlie, I should like to catch some one bullying you, and—well, I’ll warrant that he shouldn’t do it again.”

“O, I forgot, Walter, I oughtn’t to have told you; they made me promise not. Only it is so wretched.”

“Never mind, my poor little Charlie,” said Walter. “Do what’s right and shame the devil. I’ll see if I can’t devise some way of helping you; but anyhow, hold up till the end of term, and then no doubt papa will take you away if you still wish it. But what am I to do without you, Charlie?”

“You’re a dear, dear good brother,” said Charlie, gratefully; “and but for you, Walter, I should have given in long ago.”

“No, Charlie, not for me, but for a truer friend than even I can be, though I love you with all my heart. But will you promise me one thing faithfully?”

“Yes, that I will.”

“Well, promise me then that, do what they will, they shan’t make you tell a lie, or do anything else that you know to be wrong.”

“I’ll promise you, Walter, if I can,” said the little boy humbly; “but I’ve been doing my best for a long time.”

“You couldn’t tell a lie, Charlie boy, without being found out; that I feel sure of,” said Walter, smiling, as he held his brother’s ingenuous face between his hands, and looked at it. “I don’t doubt you for an instant; but I’ll have a talk with Power about you. As head of the school he may be able to do something, perhaps. It’s Kenrick’s duty properly, but—”

“Kenrick, Walter? He’s of no use; he lets the house do just as it likes, and I think he must have taken a dislike to me, for he turned me off quite roughly from being his fag.”

“Never mind him or any one else, Charlie. You’re a brave little fellow, and I’m proud of you. There’s the tea-bell; come in with me.”

“Ah, Walter, it’s only in the evenings when you’re away that I get pitched into. If I were but in the same house with you, how jolly it would be.” And he looked wistfully after his brother as they parted at the door of the hall, and Walter walked up to the chief table where the monitors sat, while he went to find a place among the boys in his own form and house. He found that they had poured his tea into his plate over his bread and butter, so he got very little to eat or drink that evening.

It was dark as they streamed out after tea to go into the Preparation-room, and he heard Elgood’s tremulous voice saying to him, “Oh, Evson, shall you give way to-night, and sign?”

“Why to-night in particular, Elgood?”

“Because I’ve heard them say that they’re going to have a grand gathering to-night, and to make you, and me too; but I can’t hold out as you do, Evson.”

“I shall try not to give way; indeed, I won’t be made to tell a lie,” said Charlie, thinking of his interview with Walter, and the hopes it had inspired.

“Then I won’t either,” said Elgood, plucking up courage. “But we shall catch it awfully, both of us.”

“They can’t do more than lick us,” said Charlie, trying to speak cheerily, “and I’ve been licked so often that I’m getting accustomed to it.”

“And I’d rather be licked,” said a voice beside them, “and be like you two fellows, than escape being licked, and be like Stone and Symes, or even like myself.”

“Who’s that?” asked Elgood hastily, for it was not light enough to see.

“Me—Hanley. Don’t you fellows give in; it will only make you miserable, as it has done me.”

They went in to Preparation, which was succeeded by chapel, and then to their dormitories. They undressed and got into bed, as usual, although they knew that they should be very soon disturbed, for various signs told them that the rest had some task in hand. Accordingly, the lights were barely put out, when a scout was posted, the candles were re-lighted, and a number of other Noelites, headed by Mackworth, came crowding into the dormitory.

“Now you, No-thank-you, you’ve got one last chance—here’s this paper for you to sign; fellows have always signed it before, and you shall too, whether you like or no. We’re not going to alter our rules because of you. We want to have a supper again in a day or two, and we can’t have you sneaking about it.” Mackworth was the speaker.

“I don’t want to sneak,” said Charlie firmly; “you’ve been making me wretched, and knocking me about, all these weeks, and I’ve never told of you yet.”

“We don’t want any orations; only Yes or No—will you sign?”

“Stop,” said Wilton, “here’s another fellow, Mac, who hasn’t signed;” and he dragged Elgood out of bed by one arm.

“Oh, you haven’t signed, haven’t you? Well, we shall make short work of you. Here’s the pencil, here’s the paper, and here’s the place for your name. Now, you poor little fool, sign without giving us any more trouble.”

Elgood trembled and hesitated.

“Look here,” said Mackworth brutally; “I don’t want to break such a butterfly as you upon the wheel, but—how do you like that?” He drew a cane from behind his back, and brought it down sharply on Elgood’s knuckles, who, turning very white, sat down and scrawled his name hastily on the paper; but no sooner had he done it than, looking up, he caught Charlie’s pitying glance upon him, and running the pencil through his signature, said no more, but pushed the paper hastily away and cowered down, expecting another blow, while Charlie whispered, “Courage.”

“You must take the other fellow first, Mac, if you want to get on,” suggested Wilton. “Evson, as a friend, I advise you not to refuse.”

“As a friend!” said Charlie, with simple scorn, looking full at Wilton. “You are no friend of mine; and, Wilton, I wouldn’t even now change places with you.”

“Wouldn’t you?—Pitch into him, Mac. And you,” he said to Elgood, “you may wait for the present.” He administered a backhander to Elgood as he spoke, and the next minute Charlie, roused beyond all bearing, had knocked him down. Twenty times before he would have been tempted to fight Wilton, if he could have reckoned upon fair play; but what he could stand in his own person was intolerable to him to witness when applied to another.

Wilton sprang up in perfect fury, and a fight began; but Mackworth at once pulled Charlie off, and said, “Fight him another time, if you condescend to do so, Raven; don’t you see now that it’s a mere dodge of his to get off. Now, No-thank-you, the time has come for deeds; we’ve had words enough. You stand there.” He pushed Charlie in front of him. “Now, will you sign?”

“Never,” said Charlie, in a low but firm tone.

“Then—”

“Not with the cane, not with the cane, Mackworth,” cried several voices in agitation, but not in time to prevent the cane descending with heavy hand across the child’s back.

Charlie’s was one of those fine, nervous, susceptible temperaments, which feel every physical sensation, and every mental emotion, with tenfold severity. During the whole of this scene; so painfully anticipated, in which he had stood alone among a group of boys, whose sole object seemed to be to show their hatred, and who were twice as strong as himself, his feelings had been highly wrought; and though he had had many opportunities of late to train his delicate organisation into manly endurance, yet the sudden anguish of this unexpected blow quite conquered him. A thrilling cry broke from his lips, and the next moment, when the cane again tore his shoulders, a fit of violent hysteria supervened, which alarmed the brutes who were trying to master his noble resolution.

And at this crisis the door burst open with a sudden crash, and Bliss entered in a state of burning indignation, followed more slowly by Kenrick.

“O, I am too late,” he said, stamping his foot; “what have you been doing to the little fellow?” and thrusting some of them aside, he took up Charlie in his arms, and gradually soothed and calmed him till his wild sobs and laughter were hushed, while the rest looked on silent. But feeling that Charlie shrank as though a touch were painful to him, Bliss unbared his back, and the two blue weals all across it showed him what had been done.

“Look there, Kenrick,” he said, with great sternness, as he pointed to the marks; and then, laying Charlie gently down on his bed, he thundered out, in a voice shaken with passion, “You dogs, could you look on and allow this? By heavens, Kenrick, if you mean to suffer this, I won’t. Out of my way, you.” Scattering the rest before him like a flock of sheep, he seized Mackworth with his strong hands, shook him violently by both shoulders, and then tearing the cane out of his grasp, he demanded, “Was it you who did this?”

“What are you about, you Bliss?” said Mackworth, with very ruffled dignity. “Mind what you’re after, and don’t make such a row, you ass’s head,” he continued authoritatively, “or you’ll have Noel or some one in here.”

“Ho! that’s your tone, you cruel, reprobate bully,” said Bliss, supplied by indignation with an unusual flow of words; “we’ve had enough of that, and too much. You can look at poor little Evson there, and not sink into the very earth for shame! By heavens, Belial, you shall receive what you’ve given. I’ll beat you as if you were a dog. Take that.” The cut which followed showed that he was in desperate earnest, and that, however immovable he might generally be, it was by no means safe to trifle with him in such a mood as this.

Mackworth tried in vain to seize the cane; Bliss turned him round and round as if he were a child; and as it was quite clear that he did not mean to have done with him just yet, Mackworth’s impudent bravado was changed into abject terror as he received a second weighty stroke, so heartily administered that the cane bent round him, in the hideous way which canes have, and caught him a blow on the ribs.

Mackworth sprang away, and fled, howling with shame and pain, through the open door, but not until Bliss had given him two more blows on the back, with one of the two cutting open his coat from the collar downwards, with the other leaving a mark at least as black as that which he had inflicted on the defenceless Charlie.

“To your rooms, the rest of you wretches,” said he, as they dispersed in every direction before him. “Kenrick,” he continued, brandishing the cane, “I may be a dolt, as you’ve called me before now, but since you won’t do your duty, henceforth I will do it for you.”

Kenrick slank off, half afraid that Bliss would apply the cane to him; and, speaking in a tone of authority, Bliss said to the boys in the dormitory, “If one of you henceforth touch a hair of Evson’s head, look out; you know me. You little scamp and scoundrel, Wilton, take especial care.” He enforced the admonition by making Wilton jump with a little rap of the cane, which he then broke, and flung out of the window. And then, his whole manner changing instantly into an almost womanly tenderness, he sat by poor little Charlie, soothing and comforting him till his hysterical sobs had ceased; and, when he felt sure that the fit was over, gently bade him good-night, and went out, leaving the room in dense silence, which no one ventured to break but the warm-hearted little Hanley, who, going to Charlie’s bedside, said—

“Oh, Charlie, are you hurt much?”

“No, not very much, thank you, Hanley.”

Hanley pressed his hand, and said, “You’ve conquered, Charlie; you’ve held out to the end. Oh, I wish I were like you!”