Chapter Thirty Five.
A Transformation Scene.
Willoughby little dreamed that night, as it went to bed, of the revolutions and changes of the day which had just passed.
It knew that Silk and Gilks had been reported for fighting, and naturally concluded that they had also been punished. It had heard, too, a rumour of young Wyndham’s having been “gated” for breaking bounds.
But beyond that it knew nothing. Nothing of the treaty of peace between the two captains, of the discovery of the boat-race mystery, of the double expulsion that was impending.
And still less did it dream of the unwonted scene which was taking place that evening in the captain’s study.
Riddell and Gilks sat and talked far into the night.
I am not going to describe that talk. Let the reader imagine it.
Let him imagine all that a sympathetic and honest fellow like Riddell could say to cheer and encourage a broken-down penitent like Gilks. And let him imagine all that that forlorn, expelled boy, who had only just discovered that he had a friend in Willoughby, would have to say on this last night at the old school.
It was a relief to him to unburden his mind, and Riddell encouraged him to do it. He told all the sad history of the failures, and follies, and sins which had reached their catastrophe that day; and the captain, on his side, in his quiet manly way, strove all he could to infuse some hope for the future, and courage to bear his present punishment.
Whether he succeeded or not he could hardly tell; but when the evening ended, and the two finally betook themselves to bed in anticipation of Gilks’s early start in the morning, it was with a feeling of comfort and relief on both sides.
“If only I had known you before!” said Gilks. “I don’t know why you should be so kind to me. And now it’s too late to be friends.”
“I hope not,” said Riddell, cheerily. “We needn’t stop being friends because you’re going away.”
“Needn’t we!—will you write to me now and then?” asked Gilks, eagerly.
“Of course I will, and you must do the same. I’ll let you know all the news here.”
Gilks sighed.
“I’m afraid the news here won’t be very pleasant for me to hear,” said he. “What a fury the fellows will be in when they hear about it. I say, Riddell, if you get a chance tell them how ashamed and miserable I was, will you?”
“I will, I promise you,” replied Riddell.
“And, I say, will you say something to young Wyndham? Tell him how I hate myself for all the mischief I did to him, and how thankful I am he had you to keep him straight when I was trying to lead him all wrong. Will you tell him that?”
“I’ll try,” said the captain, with a smile, “part of it. But we ought to be turning in now, or we shall not be up in time.”
“All right,” said Gilks. “Good-night, Riddell.”
“Good-night, old fellow.”
Bloomfield was up early next morning. He had only received the evening before the melancholy notification of the fact that young Wyndham, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, would be unable to play in the second-eleven match next week; and he had it on his mind consequently to find a successor without delay.
Probably, on the principle that the early bird gets the worm, he determined to be out in good time this morning. But for once in a way the bird was too early for the worm, and Bloomfield prowled about for a good quarter of an hour before the aspiring youth of Willoughby mustered at the wickets.
It was during this early prowl, while the hands of the clock were between half-past six and seven, that he received something like a shock from seeing the captain alight at the school gate from the town omnibus.
“Why, whatever’s up? Where have you been?” inquired Bloomfield.
“I have just been to see poor Gilks off,” said the captain.
“What! then it was true?”
“Yes, I hadn’t time to tell you yesterday. He’s been expelled.”
“The cad!” cried Bloomfield. “It’s lucky for him he was able to slink off unnoticed.”
“Oh! don’t be too down on him,” said the captain. “You’d have been sorry for him if you’d have seen how cut up and ashamed he was. After all, he was little better than a tool in somebody else’s hands.”
“Silk’s you mean?” said Bloomfield. “And I suppose he gets off scot-free?”
“No; he is expelled too. He had to confess that he suggested the whole thing, and he is to go this morning.”
“That’s a comfort! But why on earth did they cut our lines instead of yours?”
“That was a blunder. Gilks, in his flurry, got hold of the wrong rudder. I really think that’s why it wasn’t found out long ago.”
“Very likely. But what a nice pair of consciences they must have had ever since! I suppose the doctor will announce that they’ve been expelled?”
“I don’t know. But I hope he won’t be too hard on Gilks if he does. I never saw a fellow so broken-down and sorry. He quite broke down just now at the station as he was starting.”
“Poor fellow!” said Bloomfield. “The fellows won’t take the trouble to abuse him much now he’s gone.”
At this point two Parrett’s juniors came past. They were Lawkins and Pringle, two of the noisiest and most impudent of their respectable fraternity.
Among their innocent amusements, that of hooting the captain had long been a favourite, and at the sight of him now, as they concluded, in altercation with their own hero, they thought they detected a magnificent opening for a little demonstration.
“Hullo! Booh! Fiddle de Riddell!” cried Pringle, jocosely, from a safe distance.
“Who cut the rudder-lines? Cheat! Kick him out!” echoed Lawkins.
The captain, who was accustomed to elegant compliments of this kind from the infant lips of Willoughby, took about as much notice of them now as he usually did. In other words, he took no notice at all.
But Bloomfield turned wrathfully, and shouted to the two boys, “Come here, you two!”
“Oh, yes; we’ll come to you!” cried Lawkins.
“You’re our captain; we’ll obey you!” said Pringle, with a withering look at Riddell.
“What’s that you said just now?” demanded Bloomfield.
“I only said, ‘Kick him out!’” said Lawkins, somewhat doubtfully, as he noticed the black looks on the Parrett’s captain’s face.
Bloomfield made a grab at the two luckless youths, and shook them very much as a big dog shakes her refractory puppies.
“And what do you mean by it, you young cubs!” demanded he, in a rage.
“Why, we weren’t speaking to you,” whined the juniors.
“No, you weren’t; but I’m speaking to you! Take that, for being howling young cads, both of you!” and he knocked their two ill-starred heads together with a vigour which made the epithet “howling” painfully accurate. “Now beg Riddell’s pardon at once!” said he.
They obeyed with most abject eagerness.
“Mind I don’t catch you calling my friends names like that any more,” said Bloomfield. “Riddell’s captain here, and if you don’t look out for yourselves you’ll find yourselves in the wrong box, I can tell you! And you can tell the rest of your pack, unless they want a hiding from me, they’d better not cheek the captain!”
So saying, he allowed the two terrified youngsters to depart; which they did, shaking in their shoes and marvelling inwardly what wonder was to happen next.
The morning passed, and before it was over, while all the school was busy in class, Silk left Willoughby. His father had arrived by an early train, and after a long interview with the doctor had returned taking his boy with him. No one saw him before he went, and for none of those whom he had wronged and misled did he leave behind any message of regret or contrition. He simply dropped out of Willoughby life, lamented by none, and missed only by a few who had suffered under his influence and were now far better without him.
After morning classes the doctor summoned the school to the great hall, and there briefly announced the changes that had taken place.
“Two boys,” said he, “are absent to-day—absent because they have left Willoughby for good. Now that they are gone, I need not dwell on the harm they have done, except to warn any boys present, who may be tempted to follow in their steps, of the disgrace and shame which always follow vice and dishonesty.”
There was a great stir and looking round as the doctor reached this point. He had not yet announced the names, though most present were able to guess them.
“It’s not you two, then?” whispered Telson across the bench to where Cusack and Pilbury sat in mutual perplexity.
“Two things at least are comforting in what has passed,” continued the doctor. “One is that by the confession of these two boys a very unpleasant mystery, which affected the honour of the whole school, has been cleared up; I mean, of course, the accident at the boat-race early in the term.”
It was then, that! Willoughby bristled up with startled eagerness to hear the rest, and even Telson found no joke ready to hand.
“The other consolation is that one of the boys, Gilks—”
There was a sudden half-suppressed exclamation as the name was announced, which disconcerted the doctor for a moment.
“Gilks,” pursued he, “expressed deep contrition for what he had done, and wished, when leaving, that the school should know of his shame and sorrow. He left here a softened and, I hope, a changed boy; and I feel sure this appeal to the generosity of his old schoolfellows will secure for him what he most desires—your forgiveness.”
There was a silence, and every face was grave, as the doctor concluded, “I wish I could say as much of his companion, and I fear, leader in wrong—Silk.”
There was another start, but less of surprise than assent this time. For when Gilks had been named as one culprit every one knew the name of the other.
“I have no message for you from him,” said the doctor, with a voice in which a faint tremble was discernible; “but on his behalf we may at least hope that in new scenes, and under more favourable conditions, he may be able to recover the character he lost here. An event like this carries its own lesson. Do not be too ready to blame them, but let their example be humbly taken by each one of you as a warning against the first approach of temptation, from which none of us is free, and which by God’s help only can any of us hope ever to resist or overcome.”
The doctor’s words did not fail to make a deep impression on those present. There were not a few whose consciences told them that after all the difference between them and the expelled boys was not very great, and it had needed a warning like this to arouse them.
The rest of the day a subdued atmosphere hung over Willoughby. A good many boys thought more than was their wont, and even the noisiest shrunk from indulging their high spirits to their customary extent.
But the chief feeling that day was one of relief. Not that two bad boys had been expelled, but because the hateful boat-race mystery had been finally cleared up, and with it the reproach on the honour of Willoughby had been removed. As long as it had hung like a black cloud over the term, boys had lacked spirit and encouragement to rally for the good of the school. House had been divided against house, set against set, captain against captain, and the order and discipline of the school had gone down to a miserable pitch.
Against all these opposing influences the new captain, as we have seen, had struggled gallantly, and not wholly without success; but even his influence could not disperse all the suspicions, and heartburnings, and jealousies that centred round that unlucky race. Now, however, the clearing up of that mystery, and, still more, the new alliance, rumours of which were spreading fast, between the two captains, opened new hopes for the old school.
There were not a few who at first treated the rumours of the new alliance with sceptical derision, but they had soon cause to discover that it was more than a joke.
Stutter and Wibberly, two of the sceptics, happened to be caught that very afternoon by Bloomfield in the act of “skulking” dinner—that is, of answering to their names at the call-over, and then slipping off unobserved to enjoy a rather more elaborate clandestine meal in their own study. It was not a very uncommon offence, or perhaps a very terrible one, but it was an offence which monitors were bound to report.
“Where are you off to?” demanded Bloomfield, encountering these two deserters.
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Wibberly, “we’ve been called over. We’re only going to Stutter’s study.”
“Go back at once,” said Bloomfield, “and go to the captain after six.”
Wibberly laughed.
“You’re joking surely,” said he; “you usen’t to mind the extra feeds now and then.”
“If I shirked my duty once it’s no reason I should do it for ever. Go back, do you hear? at once.”
“What, won’t you let us go this time?” said Wibberly, quite bewildered by this unexpected sternness on the part of his old patron.
“Do you hear what I say?” thundered Bloomfield. “Do you want to be licked into the bargain?”
“Oh, very well,” said Wibberly, with a last fond thought of Stutter’s good bill of fare. “But, I say, you needn’t give us lines, Bloomfield.”
“I’ve nothing to do with giving you lines. That’s the captain’s affair.”
“What do you mean? Do you mean to say you’ll report us to Riddell?”
“Of course. He’s the captain.”
“Oh, look here!” cried Wibberly, quite convinced now that the rumours were no joke. “We’ll go back, and we’ll do lines for you, but for goodness’ sake don’t send us up to him.”
“We had no warning, you see,” said Stutter, “that things were changed.”
“Go back, then,” said Bloomfield, “and make up your minds unless you keep rules you’ll get treated just the same as any other rowdies. I won’t report you this time, but you’d better take care what you do.”
This little incident made a remarkable impression, not only on the two boys immediately concerned, but on the school generally. For it soon got noised about, and no public proclamation could have made the state of Bloomfield’s mind clearer.
But a day or two later the last glimmer of doubt was removed by the proceedings which took place in that august assembly, the Willoughby Parliament.
Honourable members assembled in large numbers, as they always did after any special school excitement, and even had this inducement been lacking, the significant sentence, “Resignation of Mr Bloomfield—Election of President,” on the notice-board would have sufficed to pack the house.
Riddell had implored Bloomfield not to take this step, or at least to defer it to the beginning of the next term. But he might as well have pleaded with a lamp-post. The Parrett’s captain was inexorable.
“No,” said he; “if it was the last day of the term I’d do it. It would serve me right if I was kicked round the school for sticking there so long.”
Before the business began Crossfield rose and asked to be allowed to put a question. This was the signal for a general buzz of anticipation which was not lessened by the sight of Messrs Game and Ashley looking very uncomfortable where they sat.
“I should like to ask Mr Game, whom I see present, if he will kindly report to the House the proceedings of the last special meeting, which he summoned in the interests of the honour of the school. I hope the gentleman will speak out, as we are all anxious to hear him.”
Game blushed up to the roots of his hair, and dug his hands in his pocket, and tried to look as unconcerned as possible at the laughter which greeted this innocent question.
As he made no offer to reply, Crossfield thereupon regaled the House with a highly facetious report of that famous meeting, amid much laughter and cheers, not a few of which were directed to the heroic “Skyrockets.” This little diversion being at an end, it was suggested by the Chair that perhaps the matter might now drop, which, greatly to the relief of the discomfited ex-monitors, it accordingly did, and after a few other questions the orders of the day were reached.
“Gentlemen,” said Bloomfield, rising and speaking nervously, but resolutely, “you will see by the notice-paper that I am going to resign the office of President of the Willoughby Parliament. (No, no.) Gentlemen, there’s a proverb which says, ‘It’s never too late to mend.’ That’s the principle on which I am doing this now. I’ve been in this chair under false pretences. (No, no.) I was elected here under false pretences. (No, no.) I was a fool to let myself be elected, and I’m ashamed of myself now. Gentlemen, I am not the captain of Willoughby! I never was; and I had no more right to be than any fag present. (Loud cheers from Parson, Telson, Cusack, and others.) The only thing I can do now, gentlemen, to show how ashamed I am, is to resign. And I do resign. For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, let’s be done with the folly that’s been working the very mischief in Willoughby all this term. I know I’ve been as bad as any one, so I’ve no right to abuse any one. But we’ve time to pull ourselves right yet. It wants three clear weeks to the holidays. (Groans from Bosher.) In three weeks, if we choose, we can make the old school what it was the day old Wyndham left. (Cheers.) We’ve had more than folly among us this term. We’ve had foul play—thank goodness no one here was concerned in that. We don’t want to kick fellows that are down, but now they’ve gone our chance of pulling up is all the better, and we’ll do it. (Cheers.) I said the only thing I could do to atone for my folly was to resign. No, gentlemen, there is something else I can do, and will do. I propose that the captain of Willoughby be elected our President! (Cheers.) He’s a jolly good fellow, gentlemen—(cheers)—and I can tell you this (and I’m not given to romancing), if it hadn’t been for him, gentlemen, there would have been scarcely anything of Willoughby left to pick up.”
Bloomfield, whose spirited address had carried his audience by storm, as only a genuine, hearty outburst can, sat down amid tremendous cheers. The school had fast been coming round to his way of thinking, but it had wanted some one to give it utterance. Riddell, in his speech a week or two ago, had hit the right nail on the head, and now Bloomfield had driven it home.
When presently the applause subsided, young Wyndham was discovered, all excitement and eagerness, trying to be heard.
“I want to second that!” he cried, in a voice that positively trembled. “I’m only a Limpet, and I’ve been in lots of rows, but you none of you know what a brick he is. Gentlemen, he’s worth the lot of us put together! I mean it. If you only knew what he’s done for me, you’d say so. I’m in a row now.” (“Hear! hear!” from Cusack.) “I’m detained all the rest of the term. (Cheers from Bosher.) I can’t play in the second-eleven next week—(loud laughter)—but, gentlemen, I don’t care a hang now old Riddell’s put where he ought to be, at the head of the school—(applause)—and I’m proud to be allowed to second it.”
This was no ordinary meeting truly. No sooner was Wyndham done, but Telson leapt on his form, and shouted,—
“On behalf of the kids—(laughter)—I third that. (Laughter.) I don’t know what you’re grinning at—(laughter)—but, I can tell you, we all mean to back him up. (Loud cheers.) That’s all I’ve got to say!”
Other speeches followed, equally cordial, from Fairbairn and the captain’s old schoolhouse friends, and even from some unexpected quarters where every one supposed the old partisanship still lurked.
Amid much enthusiasm Riddell was elected President, and duly installed by his old rival.
Then there were loud calls for “A speech!” from the captain. It was long before he could sufficiently overcome his nervousness to attempt it, but at last he said—or rather stammered—amidst the enthusiasm of the meeting, “I am much obliged, gentlemen. I wish Bloomfield had kept the post. I’m afraid I sha’n’t make a good President. Gentlemen, if we go on as we have begun to-day the captain of Willoughby will have nothing to do. The old school is looking up fast. (Cheers.) Now we are all pulling one way, I should like to see what can stop us! But I really can’t make a speech now. If you knew all I feel—but there, I shall only break down if I try to go on, so I’d better stop.”
And thus Willoughby returned once more to her right mind.