Chapter Eight.
How the Rebellion collapsed, and we left Stonebridge House.
I was roused next morning early by the sound of voices, and found that a fresh council of war was being held in the big bed on the question of the ultimatum. Smith was away at the time.
“I mean to say,” said Rathbone, “Smith’s far too mild to suit me.”
I felt called upon to stick up for my chum.
“Why did you make him captain?” I said. I had long got past the stage of being afraid either of Rathbone or Philpot at Stonebridge House.
“Well,” retorted the malcontent, “why doesn’t he go the whole hog?”
“Depends on what you call the whole hog,” I replied.
“Why, instead of feeding them up like fighting-cocks I’d starve them—I would. And I’d have locked them all together in an empty garret, and not in rooms with sofas and beds and all that nonsense. And I wouldn’t let them out till they came out on their knees and promised to do whatever they were ordered. That’s what I’d do, and I’ll tell—”
“Now then, Rathbone,” cried Smith, entering at that moment, “it’s your turn to look after the grub, remember. Look alive, or we shall have no breakfast.”
It was a curious indication of the power that was in my friend Smith, that Rathbone—though the words of mutiny were even then on his lips—quietly got up and went off to his allotted duties without saying a word.
“Look here,” said Smith, presently, pulling two papers from his pocket, “I’ve written out the terms we agreed to. How will this do?
“‘To Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford,—We, the undersigned boys of Stonebridge House, are willing to release you on the following conditions:
“‘1. That leave be given to the boys to talk to one another when not in class.
“‘2. That detention for bad marks given by Miss Henniker be abolished.
“‘3. That you say nothing to any one about all this.
“‘As long as you stick to these conditions, and Miss Henniker doesn’t plague us, we agree to be steady and not mutiny any more.’ That’s about all we need say, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see,” said Philpot, “the use of the last clause. We don’t want to bind ourselves down.”
“There’s no harm, though, in saying we won’t kick up a row if they treat us properly.”
“I don’t know,” said Philpot, doubtfully. “I don’t want to sign away my right to kick up a row.”
We laughed at this ingenuous admission, and Smith said, “Well, I think we’ve a better chance of bringing them to book if we keep it in. What do you say, Flanagan?”
“Oh yes, keep it in. You know I like rows as well as anybody, but what’s the use of them when there’s nothing to make them about?”
“I think it had better stay in,” said I. “What do you say, Hawkesbury?”
Hawkesbury smiled in an amused way, as if it was a joke.
This appeared to incense Smith greatly, as usual.
“Why ever don’t you say what you think instead of grinning?” he blurted out.
“Why, you know, my dear fellow, we leave it all to you. I agree to anything!”
I verily believe if Smith had had a boot in his hand it would have found its way in the direction of his enemy’s smile. Happily he hadn’t; so he turned his back on the speaker, and proceeded, “Very well, then we’d better sign these at once. I’ve got a pen and ink here. Look sharp, you fellows.”
“Don’t you think,” said Hawkesbury, blandly, once more, “as it’s all been left to the captain, he had better sign the paper in the name of the school? You don’t mind, Smith, I’m sure?”
Smith snatched up the pen hastily, and signed his name at the foot of each document.
“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean.”
I could watch the working of his face as he hurriedly folded each paper up into the form of a note, and knew the storm that was going on in his own breast. Certainly Hawkesbury, however good his intentions, was a little aggravating.
“Perhaps you’ll throw that in over the Henniker’s door?” said Smith, handing one of the notes to Hawkesbury.
Again Hawkesbury smiled as he replied, “Really, I’m such a bad shot; I’d much rather you did it.”
“Give it me,” I cried, interposing before my friend could retort. “I’ll throw it in.”
Saying which I took the missive, and after one or two bad shots, succeeded in getting it through the ventilator and hearing it drop in the middle of the Henniker’s floor.
“A letter for you,” I cried by way of explanation. “You’ve an hour to give an answer.”
“Batchelor,” replied Miss Henniker from within, in what seemed rather a subdued voice, “you are doing very wrong. Let me out immediately, Batchelor.”
“Not till you promise what’s written in the note,” replied I, quitting the place.
A similar ceremony was enacted by Smith in delivering the “ultimatum” to the two masters, and we then adjourned for breakfast.
“What shall we do to-day?” asked Flanagan, who was quite fresh again after yesterday’s hard work.
“Oh, any mortal thing you like,” said Shankley. “I mean to go and have a rare walk over the roof.”
“I vote we make up a party and go down to the village,” said another.
“No, no,” said Smith, looking up, “we must stay indoors, or the thing will soon get known. You can do anything you like indoors.”
There was a little growling at this, although we knew there was reason in the prohibition.
“I don’t see any harm in going out on the heath,” said Rathbone; “you did that yourself once.”
“Yes, and some one saw me do it,” replied Smith. “I say, stay in doors.”
His tone was peremptory, and as usual it had its due effect. The fellows ate their breakfast quietly and said no more about it.
The meal was rather a protracted one, owing to Rathbone having forgotten to put the bag in the coffee-pot before he inserted the coffee, and thus spoiling the beverage altogether. He was sent back to make it over again—a circumstance which by no means had the effect of soothing his spirits.
By the time breakfast was done the hour had nearly arrived when our prisoners were to give their answers to our manifesto.
As we were preparing to march up stairs, with a view to ascertain their decision, Hawkesbury met us, coming down with his hat on.
“Where are you going?” demanded Smith.
Hawkesbury looked very pleasant indeed as he replied, “Oh, please don’t mind me. I’m going out for a walk. I’ve got a headache, and really I don’t see much use playing about indoors.”
Smith’s face darkened. “Didn’t you hear me say there was no going out?” he said.
Hawkesbury smiled and seemed much amused. Smith’s wrath was rising apace. “What I said I’ll stick to!” cried he, standing across the step. “You sha’n’t go out!”
“Hawkesbury,” I interposed, anxious to avert a row, “we’ve all promised to obey the captain, you know.”
“Really,” replied Hawkesbury, “I didn’t. Please let me pass, Smith.”
“Then you were speaking false,” exclaimed the irate Smith, “when you said you did promise?”
“Really, Smith, I didn’t say I did promise—”
“Wretched liar!” replied Smith.
“That’s not a nice name to call a fellow,” mildly replied Hawkesbury. “I hope I’m a gentleman, and don’t deserve it.”
“Bah,” said Smith, in tones of utter disgust, standing aside and letting his enemy pass. “Go where you like, we want no sneaks here!”
Hawkesbury walked on, smiling pleasantly.
“Good-bye for the present,” said he. “Mind you obey your captain, you fellows. We all know he’s a gentleman, don’t we?”
And he went out, leaving us all in a state of utter astonishment.
A babel of voices at once arose. Some declared Hawkesbury was quite right not to stand being ordered about; others said he ought to have been stopped going out, and others said, “Who cared if he did go?”
In the midst of this my eyes turned to Jack Smith. His face, which had been flushed and excited, was now pale and solemn. He either did not hear or did not heed the discussion that was going on; and I must confess I felt half-frightened as my eyes suddenly met his. Not that he looked dangerous. He had a strange look—half of baffled rage and half of shame—which was quite new to me, and I waited anxiously to discover what he meant.
As his eye met mine, however, he seemed to recover himself and to make up his mind.
“Batchelor,” said he, “get the screwdriver.”
“What are you going to do?” asked some one. “Are you going to lock Hawkesbury out?”
“No,” said Smith, quietly; “but I’m going to let out the others.”
“What!” cried the fellows at this astounding announcement: “without waiting for their answer? We shall all get expelled!”
“No, you won’t!” said Smith, doggedly, and rather scornfully.
“You don’t mean to say you’re going to show the white feather?” said Rathbone.
“I mean to say I’m going to let them out.”
“Yes, and get all the credit of it, and leave us to get into the row,” said Philpot.
Smith turned round short on the speaker and held out the screwdriver. “Here,” said he, “if you want the credit, go and do it yourself!”
Of course, Philpot declined the tempting offer, and, without another word, Smith walked up to the passage and began pulling away the desks from the parlour door.
Flanagan and one or two of us, sorely perplexed, helped him; the others stood aloof and grumbled or sneered.
The two masters within heard the noise, but neither of them spoke.
At last all was clear, and Smith said, “Now then, you’d better go, you fellows!”
We obeyed him, though reluctantly. Our curiosity as well as our anxiety prompted us to stay. We retired to the end of the passage, where from a distant door we nervously watched Smith turn the key and draw out first one screw then the other from the door that divided him and us from our masters.
At last we saw it open. Smith walked into the room and shut the door behind him. What happened inside we never exactly knew. After half an hour, which seemed to us as long as a day, the three emerged, and walked straight down the passage and up the stairs that led to Miss Henniker’s room. Smith, with the screwdriver, walked in the middle, very solemn and very pale.
Stealthily we crawled up after them, and hid where we could observe what was to follow.
Mr Ladislaw knocked at the Henniker’s door.
“Well?” said a voice within.
The word was mildly spoken, and very unlike the snap to which we had been accustomed in former days.
“It is I,” said Mr Ladislaw, “and Mr Hashford.”
“I shall be glad if you will immediately have my door opened,” was the reply.
“Smith, unscrew the door at once,” said Mr Ladislaw.
Smith solemnly proceeded to do as he was bid, and presently the screws were both dislodged.
“Is it done?” said the Henniker when the sound ceased.
“Yes, Miss Henniker; the door is quite free.”
“Then,” said the Henniker—and there positively seemed to be a tremor in the voice—“please go; I will be down presently.”
So the little procession turned and once more walked down the stairs, Smith, with his screwdriver, still walking solemnly in the middle. We who were in hiding were torn by conflicting desires. Our first impulse was to remain and enjoy the spectacle of the crestfallen Henniker marching forth from her late prison. But somehow, rough boys as we were, and not much given to chivalric scruples, the sound of that tremble in the Henniker’s voice, and with it the recollection of the part we had taken in her punishment, made us feel as if, after all, the best thing we could do was not to remain, but to follow the others down stairs.
As we were doing so the ten o’clock bell rang for morning classes, and we naturally sought the schoolroom, where, with Mr Hashford in the desk, school was assembled just as if nothing had happened. Hawkesbury was the only absentee.
I certainly admired Mr Hashford on this occasion. He appeared to be the only person in the room who was not thoroughly uncomfortable. Indeed, as we went on with our work, and he, almost pleasantly, entered into it with us, we felt ourselves getting comfortable too, and could hardly believe that the usher now instructing us had, an hour ago, been our prisoner, and that we so recently had been shouting words of mutiny and defiance all over the school. It was like a dream—and, after all, not a very nice dream.
But we were recalled to ourselves when presently, along the passage outside our door, there resounded a footstep which instinct told us belonged to the Henniker. Not much chance of feeling comfortable with that sound in one’s ears!
But to our surprise and comfort it passed on and descended the stairs. It was like a reprieve to convicted felons.
Class went on, and the clock was getting on to twelve—the usual hour for a break—when the door opened, and Mr Ladislaw put in his head and said, “Smith, will you step down to my study? Mr Hashford, the mid-day bell will not ring till one to-day.”
Smith solemnly followed the master from the room, and for another hour we worked in class—one of us, at any rate—feeling very anxious and not a little uneasy.
When the bell did ring, and we went down stairs, not knowing exactly what was to become of us, my first thought was, what had become of Smith? He was not in the playground, where we wandered about listlessly for a quarter of an hour before dinner, nor was he to be seen when presently we assembled in the memorable parlour for our mid-day repast.
It was not a very grand meal, that dinner. We partook of the cold remains of a joint which one of ourselves had made a woeful attempt to cook the day before, and which now tasted anything but delicious. Miss Henniker was in her usual place, and as we sat with our eyes rigidly fixed on the plates before us, we were conscious of her glancing once or twice towards one and another of us, and then turning away to speak to Mr Ladislaw, who was also present. Except for the whispered conversation of these two not a word was uttered during the meal. Even Flanagan, when, in reaching the salt, he knocked over his water, did not receive the expected bad mark, but was left silently to mop up the spill as best he could.
It was a terrible meal, and my anxiety about my friend Smith made it all the worse.
Dinner was over, and we were descending to afternoon class in Mr Ladislaw’s study, when the front door opened and Hawkesbury entered.
We could see he was taken aback and utterly astonished to see Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker at liberty and us once more at our old tasks. For a moment his face looked concerned and doubtful, then, suddenly changing, it broke out into smiles as he ran up to Mr Ladislaw.
“Oh, Mr Ladislaw,” cried he, “and Miss Henniker, I am so glad! I really couldn’t bear to be in the school while they were treating you so shamefully!”
“Where have you been, Hawkesbury?” said Mr Ladislaw.
“Oh! I went out in hopes of being able to—”
“You have told no one of what has occurred?” said Mr Ladislaw, sternly.
“Oh, no!” said the smiling Hawkesbury; “I really went out because I couldn’t bear to be in the school and be unable to do anything for you and Miss Henniker. I am so glad you have got out!”
None of us had the spirit to protest. We could see that Hawkesbury’s statement, and his expressed joy at their liberation, had gone down both with Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker—and at our expense, too; and yet we dared not expostulate or do ourselves justice.
Afternoon school went on, and still no Smith appeared. Was he locked up in the coal-hole or in one of the attics up stairs? I wondered; or had he been given into custody, or what? No solution came to the mystery all that afternoon or evening. We worked silently on, conscious that the Henniker’s eyes were upon us, but aware that she neither spoke nor interfered with us.
Bedtime came at last, and, in strange trouble and anxiety, I went up. I almost made up my mind to ask Mr Hashford or Mr Ladislaw what had become of Smith, but I could not screw my courage up to the pitch.
As I was undressing, Hawkesbury came near me and whispered, “Where is Smith?”
I vouchsafed no reply. I had been used to give Hawkesbury credit for good intentions, but I had had my confidence shaken by that day’s events.
“Don’t be cross with me, Batchelor,” said he; “I really don’t deserve it.”
“Why did you desert and leave us all in the lurch?” growled I.
“I did not mean to do it,” said he, very meekly; “but really, when I woke this morning I felt I was doing wrong, Batchelor, and could not bear to stay in and stand by while Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker were kept shut up. That’s really the reason, and I thought it would be kinder of me to keep out of the way and not spoil your fun. Smith quite misunderstood me, he did really.”
“Why didn’t you say you wouldn’t join before we began?” I asked.
“Why, because you know, Batchelor, I was in a bad frame of mind then, and was angry. But I tried hard to forgive, and I blame myself very much that I even seemed to agree. You mustn’t think too hardly of me, Batchelor.”
I said nothing, but went on undressing, more perplexed than ever to know what to think. Hawkesbury, after a warm “Good-night,” left me, and I was thankful, at any rate, for the prospect of a few hours’ sleep and forgetfulness.
I was just getting into bed, and had turned back the clothes to do so, when I suddenly caught sight of a scrap of paper appearing from under my pillow.
I first supposed it must be some remnant of last night’s sports, but, on taking it out, found that it was a note carefully rolled up and addressed to me in Smith’s well-known hand.
With eager haste I unfolded it and read, “I’m expelled. Good-bye. Write ‘J.,’ Post-Office, Packworth.”
Expelled! sent off at an hour’s notice, without even a word of good-bye! My first sensations were selfish, and as I curled myself up in bed, with his note fast in my hand, I felt utterly wretched, to know that my only friend, the only comfort I had at Stonebridge House, had been taken away. What should I do without him?
Expelled! Where had he gone to, then? Packworth, I knew, was a large town about ten miles from Brownstroke, where my uncle now and then went on business. Did Jack live there, then? And if he did, why had he never told me? At any rate, I could get over and see him in the holidays. “Write to me.” How was that possible here? unless, indeed—unless I could smuggle the letter into the post. Poor Jack expelled! Why should he be expelled more than any of us, except Hawkesbury? What a fury he had been in with Hawkesbury that very morning! Certainly Hawkesbury was aggravating. Strange that my friend Smith and Hawkesbury—that my friend Jack—that Jack and Hawk—
And here, in a piteous muddle of mind and spirit, I fell asleep.
I remained another year at Stonebridge House after Jack Smith had been expelled. We did not get a single holiday during that period, so that my scheme of walking over from Brownstroke, and finding him out at Packworth, never came off. And I only contrived to write to him once. That was the first time, the Sunday after he had left, when the Henniker saw me dropping my letter into the post. After that I was closely watched, and I need hardly say, if Jack ever wrote to me, I never got his letter. Still I cherished the memory of my friend, and even when Stonebridge House was most desolate, found some consolation in feeling pretty sure I had a friend somewhere, which is more than every one can say.
I made steady progress with my arithmetic and other studies during the year, thanks to Mr Hashford, who, good fellow that he was, took special pains with me, so that at the end of the year I was pronounced competent to take a situation as an office-boy or junior clerk, or any like post to which my amiable uncle might destine me.
I was not sorry to leave Stonebridge House, as you may guess. During the last year, certainly, things were better than they had been. No reference was made on any occasion, either in public or in private, to the great rebellion of that summer. The Henniker never quite got over the shake she had had when we rose in arms against her, and Mr Ladislaw appeared proportionately subdued, so on the whole things were rather more tolerable. And for lack of my lost friend, I managed to improve the acquaintance of the good-natured Flanagan, besides retaining the favour of the smiling Hawkesbury.
So passed another year, at the end of which I found myself a wiser and a sadder boy, with my back turned at length on Stonebridge House, and my face towards the wide, wide world.