Chapter Five.
How a Chapter of Misfortunes befel My Friend Smith and Me.
The summer wore on, and with it the gloom of Stonebridge House sunk deeper and deeper into our spirits. After a week or two even the sense of novelty wore off, and we settled down to our drudges’ doom as if we were destined all our lives never to see any place outside the Henniker’s domain.
If it hadn’t been for Smith I don’t know how I should have endured it. Not that we ever had much chance of enjoying one another’s society. In school it was wholly impossible. In the playground (particularly after our recent escapade), we had very little opportunity given us; and at night, when secretly we did contrive to talk, it was with the constant dread of detection hanging over us.
What concerned me most of all, though, was the bad way in which Smith seemed to get on with every one of his schoolfellows except me, and—perhaps Flanagan. With the bullies, like Philpot and Rathbone, he was at daggers drawn; towards the others he never took the trouble to conceal his dislike, while with Hawkesbury an explosion seemed always, imminent.
I could not understand why he got on so badly, especially with Hawkesbury, who certainly never made himself disagreeable, but, on the contrary, always appeared desirous to be friendly. I sometimes thought Smith was unreasonable to foster his instinctive dislike as he did.
“Jack,” said I one night as he was “paying a call” to my bedside—“Jack, I’m half beginning to think Hawkesbury isn’t so bad a fellow after all.”
“Why?” demanded Smith.
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s done me one or two good turns lately.”
“What sort?”
“Well, he helped me in the Latin the other day, of his own accord, and—”
“Go on,” said Smith, impatiently.
“And he gave me a knife to-day. You know I lost mine, and he said he’d got two.”
Smith grunted.
“I’d like to catch him doing a good turn to me, that’s all,” said he. “I’d cure him of that!”
I didn’t like to hear Smith talk like this. For one thing, it sounded as if he must be a great deal less foolish than I was, which nobody likes to admit; and for another thing, it seemed wrong and unreasonable, unless for a very good cause, to persist in believing nothing good about anybody else.
So I changed the subject.
“I say,” said I, “what are you going to do these holidays?”
“Stay here,” said he. “Are you going home?”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Stay here for four weeks with the old Hen? Why ever, Jack?”
“Don’t know—but that’s what I’ve got to do. Are you going home?”
“I suppose so,” said I, with an inward groan. “But, Jack, what will you do with yourself?”
“Much as usual, I expect. Sha’n’t get much practice in talking till you come back!” added he, with a low laugh.
“Jack, why don’t you go home?” I exclaimed. “Are you in a row there, or what? You never tell me a word about it.”
“Look-out, I hear some one moving!” cried Smith, and next moment he was back in his bed.
I was vexed. For I half guessed this alarm had been only an excuse for not talking about home, and I didn’t like being silenced in that way. Altogether that night I was a good deal put out with Smith, and when presently he whispered across “Good-night,” I pretended to be asleep, and did not answer.
But I was not asleep, and could not sleep. I worked myself first into a rage, then into an injured state, and finally into a miserable condition over my friend Smith.
Why should he keep secrets from me, when I kept none from him? No, when I came to think over it, I did not keep a single secret from him! Did he think I was not to be trusted, or was too selfish to care? He might have known me better by this time. It was true I had told him my secrets without his asking for them; in fact, all along he had not seemed nearly as anxious as I had been for this friendship of ours. My conscience stung me at this last reflection; and there came upon me all of a sudden a sense of the utter desolation of this awful place without a single friend! No, I determined it should take more than a little pique to make me cast away my only friend. And with the thought, though it must have been far on in the night, I slipped from my bed and crawled to his.
He was fast asleep, but at the first touch of my hand he started up and said, “What’s the row?”
“I’m sorry, Jack; but I was in a temper to-night, and couldn’t go to sleep till I made it up.”
“A temper! what about?” said he. “I didn’t know you were.”
“I fancied you wouldn’t—that is, that you thought—you didn’t trust me, Jack.”
“You’re the only fellow I do trust, Fred, there,” said he, taking my arm. Then, with a sigh, he added, “Why shouldn’t I?”
“What a beast I was, Jack!” cried I, quite repentant. “I don’t—”
“Hush!” said Jack. Then, whispering very close to my ear, he added, “There are some things, you know, I can’t tell even you—about home—”
There was a sound in the room, as of a boy, suddenly aroused, starting up in his bed. Our blood turned cold, and we remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe, straining our ears in the darkness.
Suddenly the boy, whoever he was, sprang from his bed, and seizing the lucifers, struck a light.
It was Hawkesbury! I had almost guessed it. I felt Jack’s hand tighten on my arm as the sudden glare fell full upon us, and Hawkesbury’s voice cried, “Oh, you fellows, what a start you gave me! I couldn’t make out what the talking was. I thought it must be thieves!”
At the same moment the dormitory door opened, and a new glare lit up the scene. It was Miss Henniker in her dressing-gown, with a candle.
“What, talking? Who was talking?” she said, overhearing Hawkesbury’s last exclamation.
It was a queer picture that moment, and I can recall it even now. Hawkesbury standing in his night-shirt in the middle of the room. I, as lightly clad, crouching transfixed beside my friend’s bed, who was sitting up with his hand on my arm. And the Henniker there at the door, in her yellow-and-black dressing-gown and curl-papers, holding her candle above her head, and looking from one to the other.
“Who was talking?” she demanded again, turning to Hawkesbury.
Hawkesbury, smiling, returned to his bed, as he replied, “Oh, nothing. I think I must have been dreaming, and woke in a fright.”
But as he spoke his eyes turned to us two, and Miss Henniker’s followed naturally. Then the whole truth dawned upon her.
I rose from my knees and walked sheepishly back to my bed.
“What are you doing out of your bed, sir?” demanded she.
It was little use delaying matters by a parley, so I replied, bluntly, “Talking to Smith.”
“And I,” added the loyal Smith, “was talking to Batchelor!”
“Silence!” cried the Griffin. “Batchelor, dress immediately, and follow me!”
I did as I was bid, mechanically—that is, I slipped on my knickerbockers and slippers—and found myself in a couple of minutes, thus airily attired, following Miss Henniker, like a ghost, down the long passage. She led the way, not, as I expected, to the parlour, or to Mr Ladislaw’s room, but conducted me upstairs and ushered me into a small and perfectly empty garret.
“Remain here, Batchelor!” said she, sternly.
The next moment she was gone, locking the door behind her, and I was left shivering, and in total darkness, to spend the remainder of the night in these unexpected quarters.
My first sensation was one of utter and uncontrollable rage. I was tempted to fling myself against the door, to shout, to roar until some one should come to release me. Then as suddenly came over me the miserable certainty that I was helpless, and that anything I did would be but labour lost, and injure no one but myself. And, Smith, too! It was all up with our precious secret parleys; perhaps we should not even be allowed to see one another any more. In my misery I sat down on the floor in a corner of my dungeon and felt as if I would not much care if the house were to fall about my ears and bury me in the ruins. Cheerful reflection this for a youth of my tender years!
As I sat, shivering and brooding over my hard fate, I heard footsteps ascending the stairs. When you are sitting alone in an empty room, at the dead of night, this is never a very fascinating sound, and I did not much enjoy it.
And as I listened I could make out that the footsteps belonged to two people. Perhaps I was going to be murdered, I reflected, like Prince Arthur, or the two boys in the Tower! At the same moment a streak of light glimmered through the crack of the door, and I heard a voice say, “Come this way, Smith.”
So Smith, too, was going to be locked up for the night. My heart bounded as for an instant it occurred to me it would be in my dungeon! No such good fortune! They passed my door. At any rate, my chum should know where I was, so I proceeded to make a demonstration against my door and beseech, in the most piteous way, to be released. Of course, it was no use, but that did not matter; I never expected it would.
I listened hard to the retreating footsteps, which stopped at the end of the passage. Then a door opened and shut again, a key turned, one pair of steps again returned past my door, and as I peeped through the keyhole I had a vague idea of a yellow-and-black gown, and knew that the Henniker had gone back to her place.
If only Smith had been shut up next door to me I might have been able to shout to him so that he could hear, but what chance was there when three or four rooms at least divided us? After all, except that he was near me, and knew where I was, things were not much better than they had been before. So I sat down again in my corner and sulkily watched the first glimmers of dawn peep in at the little window. It must be about 3 a.m., I thought. And that meant four good hours before any chance of a release came. And as it was, my feet were pretty nearly dead with cold, and a thin nightgown is not much covering for a fellow’s body and arms. It rather pleased me to think the adventure might end fatally, and that at my inquest Miss Henniker might be brought in guilty of manslaughter.
It must be breezy, for those leaves have been tapping away at my window the last minute or so pretty hard. Bother the leaves! And yet, when you come to think of it, you do not often hear leaves tap as hard as that! My window will be smashed in if they keep it up at that rate. So I get up lazily and approach the scene of action.
I nearly screamed as I did so, for there, close up against the window, was a face! I was so taken aback that it took me a good minute to recover my wits and perceive that the apparition was none other than my faithful friend Jack Smith, and that the tapping I had been giving the leaves such credit for had been his eager attempts to attract my attention.
I sprang to the window, jubilant, and opened it.
“Oh, Jack! hurrah! However did you get here?”
“Oh, you have spotted me at last, have you?” said he, with a grim smile. “I’ve been here five or ten minutes.”
“You have!” exclaimed I.
“Yes. My window opened on to this ledge, too; so I didn’t see why I shouldn’t come.”
“You might have fallen and killed yourself. But I say, Jack, won’t you come in? Even if we do get caught things can’t be much worse than they are.”
“I know that—so I think you’d better come out.”
“What for?” exclaimed I, in astonishment.
“To get away—anywhere,” said he.
In a moment I was up on the window-sill, scrambling out on to the ledge beside him. The fresh morning breeze blew on my face as I did so, and a glorious sense of freedom took hold of both our drooping spirits. We needed no words. Only let us get free!
“Come along,” said Jack, crawling along the narrow ledge which ran round the top of the house.
“How shall we get down?” I asked.
“That’s what I want to find out,” said Jack. “Isn’t there a water-pipe or something in front?”
Carefully we made our perilous journey round the side of the house towards the front. Smith leaned over and peered down.
“Yes,” said he, “there’s a water-pipe we could easily slide down, if we could only get at it. Look!”
I looked over too. The ground seemed a long way below, and I felt a trifle nervous at the prospect of trying to reach it by such unorthodox means as a water-pipe, even could we get at that pipe. But the ledge on which
we were overhung the side of the house, and the pipe began under it, just below where we stood.
“We must try, anyhow,” said Jack, desperately. “I’ll go first; catch hold of my hands, Fred.”
And he was actually going to attempt to scramble over and round under the ledge, when he suddenly paused, and cried, “Hold hard. I do believe this bit of ledge is loose!”
So it was. It shook as we stood upon it.
“We might be able to move it,” said Jack.
So we knelt down and with all our might tugged away at the stone that divided us from our water-pipe. It was obstinate at first, but by dint of perseverance it yielded to pressure at last, and we were able triumphantly to lift it from its place.
It was easy enough now reaching the pipe. But here a new peril arose. Sliding down water-pipes is an acquired art, and not nearly as easy as it seems. Jack, who volunteered to make the first descent, looked a little blue as he found the pipe was so close to the wall that he couldn’t get his hands round, much less his feet.
“You’ll have to grip it hard with your ankles and elbows,” he said, beginning to slide down an inch or two; “and go slow, whatever you do.”
It was nervous work watching him, and still more nervous work when at length I braced myself up to the effort and proceeded to embrace the slender pipe. How I ever managed to get to the bottom I can’t say. I remember reflecting about half way down that this would be good daily exercise for the Henniker, and the mere thought of her almost sent me headlong to the bottom.
At last, however, I stood safe beside my chum on the gravel walk.
“Now!” said he.
“Now,” I replied, “where shall we go?”
“London, I think,” said he, solemnly as ever, “All right—how many miles?”
“Eighty or ninety, I fancy—but where’s your coat?”
“In the dormitory. I was too much flurried to put it on.”
“Never mind, we can use mine turn about. But I wish we’d got boots instead of slippers.”
“So do I,” replied I, who even as I stood felt the sharp gravel cutting my feet; “ninety miles in slippers will be rather rough.”
“Never mind,” said Jack, “come on.”
“Come on,” said I.
At that moment, to our dismay and misery, we heard a window above us stealthily opened, close to the water-pipe, and looking up beheld the Henniker’s head and yellow-and-black body suddenly thrust out.
“Batchelor and Smith—Mr Ladislaw,” (here her voice rose to pretty nearly a shriek)—“Mr Ladislaw! come at once, please—Batchelor and Smith, running away. Mr Ladislaw, quick! Batchelor and Smith!”
We stood motionless, with no spirit left to fly, until the door was opened, and Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford, all three, sallied out to capture us.
Among them we were dragged back, faint and exhausted, into Stonebridge House, all thoughts of freedom, and London, effectually banished from our heads, and still worse, with the bitter sense of disappointment added to our other miseries.
Mr Hashford was set to watch us for the rest of the night in the empty schoolroom. And he had an easy task. For even though he fell asleep over it, we had no notion of returning to our old scheme. Indeed, I was shivering so, I had no notion of anything but the cold. Jack made me put on his coat, but it made very little difference. The form I was on actually shook with my shivering. Mr Hashford, good soul that he was, lent me his own waistcoat, and suggested that if we all three sat close together—I in the middle—I might get warmer. We tried it, and when at six o’clock that same eventful morning the servant came to sweep the room she found us all three huddled together—two of us asleep and one in a fever.
I have only a dim recollection of what happened during the next week or so. I was during that time the most comfortable boy in all Stonebridge House. For the doctor came every day, ordered me all sorts of good things, and insisted on a fire being kept in my room, and no lessons. And if I wished to see any of my friends I might do so, and on no account was I to be allowed to fret or be disturbed in mind. I couldn’t help feeling half sorry for Miss Henniker being charged with all these uncongenial tasks; but Stonebridge House depended a great deal on what the doctor said of it, and so she had to obey his orders.
I took advantage of the permission to see my friends by requesting the presence of Smith very frequently. But as the Henniker generally thought fit to sit in my room at the same time, I didn’t get as much good out of my chum as I might have done. I heard he had had a very smart flogging for his share of that eventful night’s proceedings, and that another was being saved up for me when I got well.
It was quite a melancholy day for me when the doctor pronounced me convalescent, and said I might resume my ordinary duties. It was announced to me at my first appearance in school, that on account of my delinquencies I was on the “strict silence” rule for the rest of the term, that my bed was removed to the other dormitory, and that I was absolutely forbidden to hold any further communication, either by word or gesture, with my friend Smith.
Thus cheerfully ended my first term at Stonebridge House.