Chapter Five.
A “Coach” Drive!
If any one had told me two days ago that it would be reserved to an assistant teacher in a girls’ school to inspire me with an ardent interest in Latin and arithmetic I should have laughed him to scorn.
Miss Steele, however, succeeded in achieving the impossible. I am bound to confess that my new-born ardour was not mainly due to affection for the dead language in question, or even to esteem for my preceptress. But the idea of taking Low Heath, so to speak, by storm, had fairly roused my ambition. The glory of rising superior to my fate, of shaking off the ill-tutored Mr Evans and his works, and rejoining my old school-comrade with all the prestige of a fellow-exhibitioner, captivated my imagination and steeled me to the endurance of hardships of which I had hitherto conceived myself utterly incapable.
Miss Steele had no notion of letting me off my bargain. She procured particulars of the examinations, and very formidable appeared the list of subjects as we conned them. Still she was firm in her belief that I could do it if I only worked, and since her eagerness fully equalled my own, there was not much chance of my work dropping slack.
If any other incentive was wanted it was the supreme discomfort of my position at my guardian’s office.
My comrades there persistently misunderstood me.
They put me down as an opiniated young prig, with whom all sorts of liberties might be taken, and out of whom it was lawful, for their own amusement, to take unlimited “rise.”
I was, of course, unmercifully chaffed about the girls’ school.
“He’s getting on,” said one of them, on the very morning after my début. “They walk out together.”
“That was not Miss Bousfield you saw me with at all,” I explained. “That was my mother.”
“Quite time she came to look after you, too. How did she like your curls? You should put them in papers overnight, then we shouldn’t have to do them every day.”
Where upon I was seized, and had my locks tied up in wads of blotting-paper, and ordered to sit down and lick envelopes, and not dare to put my hand to my head till leave was accorded me from headquarters.
In this plight my guardian came in and discovered me.
“Please, Mr Girdler—” said I, not waiting for him to remark on my curious appearance.
But Mr Girdler, who was not ordinarily given to mirth, abruptly left the room with a smile on his face before I could proceed.
When he re-entered he was stern and severe.
“Make yourself decent at once, sir,” said he. “No, I don’t want any of your explanations. No doubt they are highly satisfactory. I begin to understand now why you were sent away from school. It strikes me an idiot asylum is the proper place for you.”
I dismally tore my curl-papers out of my hair and went on with my work till the blessed hour of release came.
Then I hied straight to the nearest barber.
“I want my hair as short as you can cut it,” said I.
“Very good, sir; we can give you the county crop, if you like.”
“Is that the shortest you do?” inquired I, not knowing what the “county crop” was.
“Well, sir, we ain’t asked to take more off as a rule, unless it is a clean shave you want.”
“No, the county crop will do,” said I.
And, to do the barber justice, I got it. I barely knew myself in the glass when the operation was over. I had some misgivings as to the remarks of Evans & Company in the morning—at any rate, they wouldn’t curl my hair any more.
Miss Bousfield and Miss Steele regarded me with something like dismay when they saw me, but were polite enough to make no remark beyond giving me permission to wear my hat if I felt a draught.
“Miss Steele has been telling me of your plan of work,” said Miss Bousfield; “and I fully approve, on the understanding you are serious about it. I am not so sanguine as Miss Steele is; still, I do not wish to discourage you, Jones. But understand, it means a year’s hard work.”
I assured her I was prepared for any amount of work, and Miss Steele, whose ambition was as keenly aroused as mine, gave a general promise on my behalf that I would work like a horse.
“Now,” said she, when Miss Bousfield had left us, “you’re in for it, Jones. If you don’t work, mind, it will be a disgrace to me as well as you.”
I fear, during the months that followed, this ardent young “coach” was frequently on the point of disgrace. For a week or two I surprised myself with my industry. Then I caught myself wondering at odd times whether I was really as sure of passing as I fancied, and whether, if I failed, it would not be a horrible sell to have worked so hard for nothing.
Then for a day or so I came in a little late, and took to grumbling over my tasks.
“Now, look here, Jones,” said she, one day, “you were five minutes late on Monday, ten minutes late on Tuesday and Wednesday, and a quarter of an hour late to-day. How much is that in the week?”
“Forty minutes,” said I; mental arithmetic was a strong point with me.
“Very good; there’s forty minutes lost. The examination may turn on the very lesson you might have learned in that time. Now, I’m not going to threaten you, but what should you say if I were to call at the office and fetch you every day?”
I nearly jumped out of my chair.
“Oh, don’t, please don’t, Miss Steele!” said I. “I’ll be here to the second, in future, I promise.”
“All right,” said she, with a smile, and the subject dropped.
This dreadful threat kept me up to the mark for the next few weeks, but even it lost its terrors in time, and my preceptress had to apply the spur in other ways as the time went on.
Once, after I had been particularly slack, and had, moreover, been so rude to her that she ended the lesson abruptly, I thought it was all up. For, when I presented myself next day, I was informed by the servant that Miss Steele was busy, and had no time to see me.
I was locked out! My dismay knew no bounds. Suppose she had “chucked” me altogether, what would become of my chance of getting into Low Heath?
I retired home in great perturbation, and confided the state of the case to my mother, who advised me there and then to sit down and write an apology.
I had never done such a thing in my life. Once I had verbally begged Tempest’s pardon for some error; but to commit myself in writing to a girl!
“My dear Miss Steele,” I wrote,—“I’m sorry. Yours truly, T. Jones.”
“That will do very well,” said my mother. “It’s not too long, at the same time it says what you want to say.”
I wasn’t altogether pleased with it myself, but allowed the maid to take it up to the school, with instructions to wait for an answer.
In due time she returned with a missive from Miss Steele.
“My dear Jones,—To-morrow as usual. Yours truly, M. Steele.”
I am sure no model letter-writer ever said as much in as few words.
This little correspondence cleared the air for the time. No reference was made to it when I turned up as usual the next day; but from the way I worked, and the way she taught, it was evident we had both had a shake.
My next relapse was even more serious. It came early in the spring, after our work had proceeded for about nine months.
I really had made good progress all round. Not in Latin only, but in Greek grammar, arithmetic, and English, and was naturally inclined to feel a little cocky of the result.
“Don’t crow, Jones,” she said; “you’ve a lot to do yet.”
But I did not altogether agree with her, and was inclined to indulge myself a little of an evening when I was supposed to be preparing my work. In an evil day I fell across an old book-shop, and found two books, which helped to undo me. One was a rollicking story of a pirate who swept the Western Main, and captured treasure, and seized youths and maidens, and ran blockades, and was finally brought to book in a sportsmanlike manner by a jolly young English middy, amid scenes of terrific slaughter amidships. That was one purchase. The other was even more disturbing. It was a “crib” to the arithmetic I was doing, with all the sums beautifully worked out and the answers given.
So—I must make the confession—I astonished Miss Steele greatly for a while by my extraordinary proficiency in arithmetic, and during the same time spent my evenings in imagination on the high seas, flying aloft the black flag, and shooting across the bows of Her Majesty’s ships wherever I sighted them.
This career of duplicity could not be expected to last long. One afternoon Miss Steele brought matters to a crisis by calling upon me to work a sum on the spot which was not in the book.
I failed egregiously.
“That’s singular,” said she; “it’s far simpler than those you brought with you to-day. How long did it take you to do them?”
I looked hard at Miss Steele, and she looked hard at me. The pirate game was up at last.
“About two minutes each,” said I.
“Two minutes?”
“Yes—as fast as I could copy them out of the crib. I’m sorry, Miss Steele.”
She shut up her book abruptly.
“I didn’t expect it of you, Jones,” said she; “you’ve been making a fool of me. I’ve lost confidence in you; now you can go.”
“Oh, I say. Miss Steele, I’m so awfully—”
“Be quiet, sir, and go!” said she, more fiercely than I had ever known her.
I took up my cap and went. She was in no humour to listen to explanations, but it was clear I had done for myself now. After what had happened she was not likely to give me another chance.
I did not care to tell my mother how matters stood this time. It would be difficult to put my case in a favourable light, and I was quite sure my mother could not help me out of my difficulty.
I solemnly burned my crib that night in the parlour fire, after every one was in bed. It took ages to consume, and nearly set the chimney on fire in the operation. But when that was done I was as far off a solution of my difficulty as ever.
I hardly slept a wink, and in the morning my mother added to my discomfort by remarking on my looks.
“You’re working too hard, dear boy,” said she. “I must ask Miss Steele to give you a little holiday, or you’ll be quite knocked up.”
“Please don’t,” said I. “I’m all right.”
Here the postman’s knock caused a diversion.
“A letter for you, Tommy,” said my mother.
It was from Tempest, of all people—the first he had condescended to write me since we had parted company in Plummer’s hall nearly a year ago.
It was a rambling, patronising effusion, in his usual style; but every word of it, in my present plight, had a sting for me.
“It’s a pity you’re not here,” wrote he; “it’s a ripping place. Everything about the place is ripping except the drilling master and the dumplings on Mondays, which are both as vile as vile can be. I’m in the upper fifth, and shall probably get my ribbon and perhaps my house after summer. Plummer’s was regular tomfooling to this. We’ve a match on with Rugby this term, and I’m on the reserve for the Eleven. I suppose you know young Brown is coming here; though I’m sorry to say as a day boy. His people are going to live in the town, so he’ll be able to come on the cheap. I shall do what I can for him, but I expect he’ll have a hot time, for the day boys are rather small beer. The exhibitioners have the best time of it. If Brown could get a junior exhibition and live in school, he could fag for me and have a jolly time. But poor Dicky hasn’t got it in him. I got rather lammed after I got home from Plummer’s; but it was all right when Plummer wrote to say that a burglar had shot the dog, and he was sorry there had been a mistake, and hoped I’d go back. Catch me! It’s better fun here—as much cricket as you like, and a river, and gymnasium, and all sorts of sprees. It wouldn’t be half bad if you were here, kid; but I suppose you’re a young gent with a topper and a bag at your guardian’s office. I hope it suits you—wouldn’t me—” and so on.
How this letter made me long to be at Low Heath, and how it made me realise what an ass I had been to go in for that crib! I really felt too bad to go that day to Miss Steele, even if she would have let me! and wandered about cudgelling my brains how on earth I could get her to take me back again.
She wouldn’t believe my protestations, I knew; but she might believe deeds, not words.
So I shut myself up in my room and took down my arithmetic, and worked out sum after sum all off my own bat, till my brain reeled and I could hardly distinguish one figure from another. Some I knew were wrong, others I hoped were right; all were bonâ fide. I stuck to it till nearly midnight, and then, merely writing my name on the top, put them into an envelope, under the flap of which I wrote, “I’ve burnt the crib. Try me this once,” and posted them to my offended teacher.
No answer came for twenty-four hours, which I spent on pins and needles, working away frantically during my leisure hours, and occupying part of my business time in personally avenging an insult offered to Miss Steele’s name by one of my guardian’s junior clerks. I wished she could have seen me. I got a terrible blow on the eye, but I gave him two, and caused him to regret audibly that he had spoken disparagingly of my cruel fair.
Next morning a note came to my mother.
“Please tell your boy I shall be in this afternoon.”
In fear and trembling I presented myself, and confronted not Miss Steele but Miss Bousfield, who addressed me in terse and forcible language, and gave me to understand that I was a person of extremely second-rate character and attainments. I acknowledged it, but hoped for an opportunity of improving her impressions.
“I shall leave it to Miss Steele to do as she thinks best,” said the head mistress. “I am sorry indeed her time has been wasted over a worthless pupil. You had better wait till she comes.”
I waited grimly, like a culprit for the jury. When she came in and saw, as I suppose, my woebegone face, I read hope in her manner.
“I got your note, Jones,” said she.
“Oh! I say, Miss Steele, I’m really frightfully sorry. I know it was a caddish thing to do, especially when you had been so kind. Look here, I did all those sums myself, without help; and here’s another batch I’ve done since; and—and—” (here I resolved to play a trump card) “and I got this black eye sticking up for you.”
That settled it. She smiled once more and said, “Well, Jones, I’ll say no more about it this once. I had made up my mind it was no use our going on together; but I’ll try, if you will.”
“Try—I’ll kill myself working,” said I, “to make up.”
“That wouldn’t do much good,” said she; “but I’ll try to forget all this ever happened, and we’ll go on just where we left off.”
“That was page 72,” said I eagerly; “and, I say, Miss Steele, you remember my telling you about Tempest, and Dicky Brown, you know; well—”
“Is that on page 72, or is it something which we can talk about when work is done?”
So I got my chance once again, and this time I stuck to it.
The nearer the time came, the more desperately we worked. Sometimes Miss Steele had positively to hunt me out for a walk, or, if I would not go alone, to drag me along with her to some place where, regardless of our possible detection by Evans and his friends, we could combine fresh air and education.
The fatal day came at last when I had to go off to my ordeal. I was obliged at the last moment to disclose my well-kept secret to my mother and my guardian. The former fell on my neck, the latter grunted incredulously and embarrassed me by presenting me with a five-shilling piece.
Miss Steele came down to see me off at the station. “Keep cool,” said she; “sit where you can see the clock, and don’t try to answer two questions at once.”
Never did tyro get better advice!
I was too excited to heed much of the big stately building I was so eager some day to claim as my own school. It was holiday time, and only a little band of combatants like myself huddled into one corner of the big hall, and gazed up in an awestruck way at the portrait of the Jacobean knight to whom Low Heath owed its foundation.
To me it was all like a dream. I woke to discover a paper on the desk before me; a paper bristling with questions, each of them challenging me to get into the school if I could. Then I remember dashing my pen into the ink and beginning to write.
“Keep cool. Keep your eye on the clock. Try one question at a time,” echoed a voice in my ear.
How lonely I felt there all by myself! How I wished I could turn and see her at my side!
The clock crawled round from eleven to three, and I went on writing. Then I remember a hand coming along the desk and taking the papers out of my sight. Then a bewildered train journey home, and a hundred questions at the other end.
I went on dreaming for a week, conscious sometimes of my mother’s face, sometimes of Miss Steele’s, sometimes of Mr Evans’s. But what I did with myself in the interval I should be sorry to be called upon to tell.
At last, one morning, I woke with a vengeance, as I held in my hand a paper on which were printed a score or so of names, third among which I made out the words—
“Jones, T.—(Miss M. Steele, High School, Fallowfield): Exhibition, £40.”
So I was a Low Heathen at last!