Chapter Nineteen.
Halting between Two Opinions.
There was no mistaking the doctor’s meaning this time. Sharpe’s had had a long rope, but had come to the end of it at last. I would not for the world have confessed it at the time, but I was half glad a crisis had come. My conscience had smitten me more than once about my work. I had fooled away the good chance with which I had entered Low Heath. Fellows far below me in scholarship had got ahead of me by force of steady plodding, while I was wasting my time. The good resolutions which I had brought up with me had one by one fallen overboard, and I had been content enough to take my place among the rowdies without an effort.
I had counted all through on Tempest’s backing up. If he had been keen on the credit of the house, I felt I could have been so too. If he had been down on me for my neglect of work, I felt I should have stuck to it. As it was, slackness reigned supreme. Tempest was slack because he was out of humour. Pridgin was slack because he was lazy. Wales was slack because he wanted to be in the fashion. And all of us were slack because our betters set us the example. It needs no little courage for a single boy to attempt to stem the drift of slackness in a school house. A dull, dogged boy like Dicky Brown might have done it; but I could not afford to be peculiar, and therefore succumbed, against my judgment, to the prevalent dry rot.
Now that a crisis had come I hoped Tempest might, if not for his own sake, for ours, pull up, and take his house in hand, as he well could do if he chose. A short conversation I overheard as I was fagging in his study that morning, however, was not encouraging.
“What’s it to be,” said Wales, “a lecture or a row?”
“A row, I hope,” said Tempest wearily.
“What’s wrong, old chap?” asked Pridgin.
“Nothing. Out of curl, that’s all,” said Tempest, trying to assume a laugh.
“You’re not going to cave in to Jarman at this time of day,” said Wales, “are you?”
“Do you think it likely?” said Tempest.
“I tell you what I don’t like,” said Pridgin presently; “that’s the way Crofter’s lately taken to do the virtuous.”
“That’s not the worst of him,” said Wales; “but he’s been chumming up with Jarman. I’ve met them twice lately walking together.”
“I suppose he’s got his eye on the headship of the house,” said Tempest, “when I get kicked out.”
“Look here, old chap,” responded Pridgin, looking really anxious, “it’s not to come to that, surely. It would be intolerable to have him over us. Come what will, you must stick to us.”
“All very well,” said Tempest dismally; “that’s England’s affair more than mine. If knuckling under to Jarman is a condition, I’m out of it, and Crofter is welcome to it.”
This was all; and it was bad enough. When the summons to assemble in hall came, I went there in a state of dejection, feeling that the fates were all against me, and that the new leaf I hoped for was several pages further on yet.
My fellow-Philosophers, I regret to say, neither shared in nor appreciated my forebodings.
“Look at that ass Sarah, trying to look virtuous,” said Trimble. “Just like him, when there’s a row on.”
“I’m not trying to look virtuous,” said I; “I’m sick of all these rows, though.”
“Pity you aren’t sick when you’re getting us into them, instead of after. You know you’ve been at the bottom of every row there’s been on this term.”
This sweeping statement was not calculated to allay my discomfort.
“Don’t tell lies,” said I.
“No more we are. Who got us into that mess at Camp Hill Bottom? Sarah did. Who landed us in the row about Jarman’s guy? Old Sarah. Who played the fool with that barge and got us all licked? Cad Sarah. Who started the shindy last night that’s fetched us all in here? Lout Sarah. Who’s going to be expelled? Howling Sarah. And who’ll be a jolly good riddance of bad rubbish? Chimpanzee Sarah. There you are. Make what you like of it, and don’t talk to us.”
This tirade took my breath away. I knew it said more than it meant. Still, it wasn’t flattering, and it taxed my affection sorely to sit quietly and hear it out. But, somehow, to-day I was too anxious and worried to care much what anybody said.
Fortunately the entrance of the doctor, Mr Sharpe, and Mr Jarman, made further discussion for the time being unnecessary—and a gloomy silence fell over the assembly.
Dr England was evidently worried. Secretly, I believe, he was bored by the whole affair, and wished Mr Sharpe and his prefects could manage the affairs of their own house. Perhaps, too, the fact that Mr Jarman was once more the complainant had something to do with his lack of humour.
“Now, boys,” said he, “this is an unusual and unpleasant interview, and I heartily wish it were not necessary. When a whole house is reported for rowdiness, it shows, I’m afraid, that the sense of duty to the school is in a bad way. This is not the first occasion this term on which this house has been reported, but I have previously refrained from interfering, in the hope that the good feeling of the boys themselves would assert itself and make any action of mine unnecessary. I am sorry it has not been so. As to the scrimmage in the quadrangle yesterday, I am not disposed to make too much of that; at any rate, that weighs less with me than what I understand to have been a deliberate act of disobedience to the master, who quite properly interfered to restore order; disobedience, I am sorry to say, encouraged, if not instigated, by the head boy of the house. I hope there may be some mistake about this. Will the boys who were engaged in the fight stand up?”
The Philosophers rose to a man, with a promptitude which was almost aggressive. Bother it all, why should we be backward in admitting that we had gone for those day boys, and “put them to bed” for once?
“I ask you boys to say whether you heard Mr Jarman tell you to wait till he spoke to you?”
“I did, sir,” said Langrish.
“So did I,” said Trimble.
“We all did,” said I.
“And why did you not obey?”
“Tempest told us to come in, so we did,” said I.
“That’s right, sir,” said Coxhead.
And the others assented.
“Very well,” said the doctor. “Tempest, I ask you to say whether you heard Mr Jarman tell the boys to wait?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you tell them, in spite of that, to come in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m head of the house, and I’m responsible for the order of my house.”
“I am glad to hear you think so,” said the doctor drily. “Have you always been equally jealous for the order of your house this term, Tempest?”
This was a “facer,” as we all felt. Tempest flushed and glanced up at the head master.
“No, sir, I have not,” he said.
The doctor was a chivalrous man, and did not try to rub in a sore. Tempest had made a damaging admission against himself, and might be left alone to his own sense of discomfort.
Unluckily, however, Mr Jarman stood by, and the matter could hardly be allowed to drop.
“As regards the incident last night,” said the doctor, “you know quite well, all of you, that no boy, even the head of his house, has the right to set his authority against that of a master. Your conduct was an insult to him, and requires an apology. These small boys may have considered they were not doing wrong in obeying you. Tempest, but you can plead no such ignorance. I expect you to apologise to Mr Jarman.”
A struggle evidently passed through Tempest’s mind. His conscience had been roused by what the doctor had said, and his manner of saying it. Had the apology been demanded for any one else but Mr Jarman, he could have given it, and in one word have put himself on the side of duty. But apologise to Jarman! “If Mr Jarman wants me to tell a lie,” said he, slowly, “I’ll say I’m sorry. I can’t apologise to him.”
“Come, Tempest,” said the doctor, evidently disconcerted at this threatened difficulty, “you must be aware of the consequences, if you refuse to do this.”
“I know, sir, but I can’t help it. I can’t apologise to Mr Jarman.”
Dead silence followed, broken only by the hard breathing of the Philosophers. The doctor twirled the tassel of his cap restlessly. Mr Sharpe looked straight before him through his glasses. Mr Jarman stroked his moustache and smiled. Tempest stood pale and determined, with his eyes on the floor.
“I shall not prolong this scene,” said the doctor at last. “For the remaining week of this term the boys concerned in yesterday’s disturbance are forbidden to appear in the playing fields. You, Tempest, will have a day to think over your determination. Come to me in my house this time to-morrow.”
“I’d sooner it were settled now,” said Tempest respectfully and dismally. “I cannot apologise.”
“Come to me this time to-morrow,” repeated the doctor. “As to the other boys of the house, I want you to understand that you are all concerned in the wellbeing of your house. If, as I fear, a spirit of insubordination is on foot, and your own proper spirit and loyalty to the school is not enough to stamp it out, I must use methods which I have never had to use yet in Low Heath. It may need courage and self-sacrifice in a boy to stand up against the prevailing tone, but I trust there is some of that left even in this misguided house. Now dismiss.”
It had been a memorable interview. The doctor might have stormed and raged, and done nothing. As it was, he had talked like a quiet gentleman, and made us all thoroughly ashamed of ourselves.
And yet, as we all of us felt, everything now depended on Tempest. If he surrendered he might count on us to fall in line and make up to him for all he had sacrificed on our behalf. If he held out, and refused his chance, we too refused ours and went out with him! If only any one could have brought home to him how much depended on him!
Yet who could blame him for finding it impossible to apologise to Jarman, who had persecuted him all the term with a petty rancour which, so far from deserving apology, had to thank Tempest’s moderation that it did not receive much rougher treatment than it had? He might go through the words of apology, but it would be a farce, and Tempest was too honest to be a hypocrite.
There was unwonted quiet in Sharpe’s house that afternoon. Fellows were too eagerly speculating as to the fate in store for them to venture on a riot. The Philosophers, of course, stoutly advocated a policy of “no surrender”; but one or two of us, I happened to know, would have been unfeignedly glad to hear that Tempest had squared matters with his pride, and left himself free to take our reform in hand.
Tempest himself preserved a glum silence until after afternoon chapel, when he said to me,—
“Isn’t this one of Redwood’s evenings, youngster? I’ll go with you if you’re going.”
The Redwoods had given me an open invitation to drop in any Thursday evening to tea and bring a friend. I had been several times with Dicky, and once, in great triumph, had taken Tempest as my guest. It had been a most successful experiment. Not only had Tempest taken the two little girls (and therefore their mother) by storm, but between him and Redwood had sprung up an unexpected friendship, born of mutual admiration and confidence. Since then he had once repeated the visit, and to-night, to my great satisfaction, proposed to go again.
To me it was a miniature triumph to carry off the hero of Sharpe’s from under the eyes of his house, and on an occasion like the present, to a destination of which he and I alone knew the secret.
I flattered myself that, in spite of their mocking comments, the Philosophers were bursting with envy. It is always a rare luxury to be envied by a Philosopher; and I think I duly appreciated my blessings, and showed it in the swagger with which I marched my man under the faggery window.
Tempest was depressingly gloomy as we walked along, and my gentle reminder that we could not take the short cut across the playing fields, after the doctor’s prohibition, but should have to walk round, did not tend to cheer him up. I half feared he would propose to walk over, in defiance of all consequences. Possibly, if he had been alone, he would have done so, but on my account he made a grudging concession to law and order.
At the Redwoods’, however, he cheered up at once. He received a royal welcome from the little girls—in marked contrast to Miss Mamie’s sulky reception of me as the destroyer of her nice sash. Redwood himself was delighted to see him, and the family tea was quite a merry one.
When we adjourned to the captain’s “den” afterwards I was decidedly out of it. Indeed, it was broadly hinted to me that the little girls downstairs were anxious for some one to teach them “consequences”; would I mind?
Considering there was no game I detested more than “consequences,” and no young ladies less open to instruction than the Misses Redwood, I did not jump at the offer. It was evident, however, Tempest and Redwood wanted to talk, and with a vague sense that by leaving them to do so I was somehow acting for the benefit of Low Heath, I sacrificed myself, and sat down to assist in the usual composite stories; how, for instance, the square Dr England met the mealy-faced Sarah (the little girls knew my nickname as well as the Philosophers) up a tree. He said to her, “We must part for ever;” she (that is I) said to him, “My ma shall know of this;” the consequence was that there was a row, and the world said, “It’s all up.”
In present circumstances these occult narratives were full of serious meaning for me, and my thoughts were far more with the two seniors above than with the two exacting female juniors below. However, the time passed, and presently Tempest’s “Come along, youngster,” apprised me that the hour of release had come.
Redwood walked back with us, and from certain fragments of conversation which fell on my ears I was able to gather something of the result of the conference.
“If it were only yourself, you know,” said Redwood, “I’d say stick out.”
“But,” said Tempest, “he knows I’m not sorry, even if I say so.”
“It’s a choice between humble pie and Low Heath losing you,” said the captain.
“Not much loss.”
“That’s all you know. There’s not a fellow we could spare less.”
They walked on in silence; then Redwood said,—
“England ought to see that Jarman rots everything the way he goes on. We’ll be in a better position to get it altered if you cave in this once.”
“I vowed I wouldn’t do it. He’ll only chuckle,” said Tempest, with a groan.
“Let him! Who cares whether Jarman chuckles or not?” retorted the captain. “Look here, old chap, don’t you think he’d chuckle more if you got expelled? That would be the biggest score you could give him. Take my advice, and only give him the smallest.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” said Tempest.
“Of course you will, for the sake of Low Heath. Next term we’ll go ahead, and the fellows will owe you more than they think.”
Here, by an odd chance, just as we came to the school gate, we met Mr Jarman and Crofter walking out in deep confabulation.
I do not know if they saw us. If they did, they pretended not to have done so, and walked on, leaving us to proceed.
“Do you see that?” said Tempest.
“Rather. I know what it means too. It’s an extra reason why you should swallow your pride for once, in order to sell them. I tell you they are probably counting on your sticking out, and nothing would disappoint them more.”
“Well, old chap,” said Tempest, as we came to our door, “it’s not your fault if I don’t do it. I know you’re right, but—”
“But it’s a jolly bitter pill, and I wish I could swallow it for you. Good night.”
I had the sense for once to keep what I had heard to myself, and retired to bed more hopeful that all would turn out right than I had been for a day or two.
The next morning I was wandering about, aloof from my comrades, in the quadrangle, waiting for the bell to ring for first school, when Marple, the town bookseller, a tradesman familiar to most Low Heathens, accosted me. He was evidently not at home in the school precincts, and, with my usual modesty, I felt he had come to the right source for information.
“Do you belong to Mr Sharpe’s house, young gentleman?” said he, with a respectful nod which quite captivated me.
“Yes. Who do you want?”
“I want to see Mr Tempest very particular.”
“Oh, he’s up in his room. Wait a bit till the bell rings, and he’ll come out.”
So Mr Marple and I stopped and chatted about the holidays, which were to begin in a day or two, and the football matches and the river.
“You know Mr Tempest pretty well?” said he.
“Rather; I’m his fag, you know.”
“A nice gentleman, I fancy. Pretty well off, eh?”
“Oh no. He’s a swell, but his people are poor, I know.”
“Oh, indeed. Not likely to buy much in my way, eh?”
“Rather not. He’s hard up as it is. It’s not much good your trying to sell him anything,” said I, remembering the rumour about my friend’s indebtedness, and anxious to screen him from further debt.
“Ah, indeed—he’s in debt, is he—all round?”
“How do you know that?” said I, bristling up. “I don’t expect he owes you anything.”
Mr Marple laughed.
“That’s just what he does; that’s why I’ve stepped over. I don’t like showing young gents up, but—”
“Look here,” cried I aghast, “for mercy’s sake, don’t show him up, Marple! It’s as likely as not he’s to be expelled as it is; this would finish him up.”
“If he’s likely to be expelled, all the more reason I should get my money before he goes.”
“How much is it?” I gasped.
“A matter of two pounds,” said the tradesman.
“Look here,” said I, “I’ll promise you shall be paid. Wait till the last day of the term, do, Marple.”
Mr Marple stared at me. The security I fear was not good enough for him. On the other hand, he probably knew that it would not be good for trade if he were to show up a “Low Heathen.”
He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. It contained Tempest’s bill for sundry stationery, magazines, books, postage stamps, and so on; headed “Fourth and final application.” The envelope itself was addressed, “Dr England, with W. Marple’s respectful compliments.”
The bell rang just then, and I was so anxious to get Marple off the scene that I wildly promised anything to be rid of him, and was finally left, just in time, to meet Tempest unconsciously strolling across the quadrangle on his way to keep his appointment with the doctor.