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!”