Chapter Twenty One.
I am advised to lie low.
My first impulse on reading Crofter’s letter was to jump for joy. It meant that Tempest would stay at Low Heath, and that I was to be allowed to assist in keeping him there.
But my second thoughts were more of a surprise than pleasure. Crofter was a mystery to me. His fellow-seniors disliked him, and warned me against him. But, as far as I could see, he was not as bad as they made him out, and certainly never said anything as bad about them as they said about him.
What could be his object now if it was not a disinterested one? He would be permanent captain of the house if Tempest left, and yet he was doing the very thing that would keep Tempest at school. Tempest had openly insulted him during the term, and yet here he was helping his enemy out of a very tight place. I knew he was well off, so probably he could afford the £5; but at the end of the term pocket-money was not a plentiful commodity. He said nothing about being paid back, too; surely he did not mean to make Tempest a free gift of this magnificent amount! The more I thought it over the more I felt Crofter was a brick, and had been scandalously misunderstood. He seemed to me a true type of the virtuous man, who, when struck on one cheek, turns the other, and when robbed of his coat offers his cloak too. I only hoped Tempest might know what he owed him. In short, in the brief time it took me to dress, I had worked myself up into a state of enthusiasm on the subject of Crofter.
As to the mystery of Mr Marple’s letter having got into the doctor’s hands, no doubt I had been careless and dropped the compromising envelope, which some foolish but honest person (it did not occur to me at the time it might have been Crofter himself) had picked up and dropped in the head master’s letter-box, supposing he was doing a very clever thing. Tempest would not be likely to allow me to explain, which was hard on me, and made it all the more virtuous on my part to assist now in putting things right for him. Luckily for him, he had friends at Low Heath in spite of himself.
When I encountered Crofter in the morning, I requested him, with a knowing look of intelligence, to give me an exeat into the town to do some shopping. It was probably the first recognition he had received of his temporary authority as head of the house, and he made no difficulty in granting my request.
I made my way first of all to Marple’s.
“Oh, about that bill you gave me. How much was it?”
“Two pounds and sixpence, young gentleman.”
“I said I’d see it paid for you, didn’t I?”
“You did. I don’t want to show up—”
“All right, you needn’t. Here’s the money; give me the change, please, and a receipt.”
Mr Marple opened his eyes very wide at the sight of a five-pound note within three days of the end of term. “I—I hope it’s all right,” said he, hesitatingly. “You needn’t have it if you don’t want,” said I, mounting my high horse.
“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you, young gentleman,” said the tradesman, giving the note a professional twitch, and proceeding to count out the change from his till. “I shall always be pleased to attend to any little orders from Mr Tempest or you.”
“You can make out the receipt to Tempest,” said I; “I expect he won’t get much more here.”
“Don’t say that. I’m sure no offence was meant.”
It was a delicious sensation to feel myself master of the situation like this. I could have bullied Marple if I had liked, but I resolved not to be too hard on him.
“I’m sure I’m much obliged,” said he, “for all your trouble. Have you seen these pretty little pencil-sharpers? They are quite new. I shall be pleased if you will accept one, young gentleman.”
A pencil-sharpener was the very thing I wanted. All the term I had been wrestling with a blunt penknife, which no sooner uncovered the lead at the end of a pencil than it broke it off. So in a weak moment I accepted the gift, and forfeited my advantage.
From Marple’s I proceeded to the confectioner’s, where a score of nearly a pound stood against Tempest. Here, again, I experienced the sweets of being treated with distinguished consideration, and being asked to partake of a strawberry ice (how Rammage, by the way, continued to have strawberry ices in the middle of December I have never yet clearly understood) while the receipt was being made out.
Mr Winget, the hatter, rather disappointed me by offering me nothing more than his sincere thanks for the settlement of his little bill. He might at least, I thought, have offered me a mourning hatband or a new school ribbon. His bill, however, was only five shillings, so probably the profit did not permit of any gratuitous allowance in recognition of my distinguished services.
I was consoled, however, by Mr Ringstead, the games man, who presented me with a net-bag for holding tennis balls, and urged me, whenever I wanted any little thing in the way of repairs to bats, or fresh spikes to my running shoes, to let him know.
It was all very pleasant, and I grieve to say that the shady side of all this petty bribery and corruption never once occurred to my simple mind.
I returned to school covered with self-satisfaction, and virtuously clutching in my hand half-a-crown, the final change out of the “fiver.” This in due course I put in an envelope, together with the batch of receipts, and laid on Crofter’s table after morning school, with the laconic message under the flap, “All right, T.J. iv.”
I was far too knowing to let out my secret to the Philosophers, whose agitation and indignation at Tempest’s probable expulsion knew no bounds and somewhat amused me.
“Look here, Sarah,” said Langrish, as I entered for the first time after my disgrace of the previous day—I knew my comrades well enough to be sure they would like to see me—“we all know you’re about the beastliest, howlingest cad in Low Heath; so that’s all right.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Yes, and you’ve been told to clear out, as it’s your fault Tempest’s expelled.”
“Is it? That’s all you know,” said I.
“Yes, and you’re kicked out of the Philosophers, and we’re going to invite Dicky Brown to join us. He’s a decent chap.”
This was rather a blow.
“I thought no town-boys were eligible.”
“No cads are; that’s why you’re out of it.”
“Look here—” said I.
“We’re not going to look here. You can cut and go, and sit on the stairs. We don’t want you in here, do we, you chaps?”
“Rather not, unless we’ve got our kicking boots on.”
“All right,” said I, feeling I must play one or two of my trumps. “I sha’n’t tell you what I was going to.”
“Pooh, we know all about it,” said Coxhead. But it was plain by the way they had all pricked their ears they did not.
“Oh, if you know, it’s all right. But you don’t know the latest.”
“We don’t want to, unless it’s that old Tempest has got off.”
“That’s just what it is,” said I triumphantly.
“Good old Sarah! how do you know?”
“Never mind, it’s a secret; but it’s a fact, honour bright.”
“What, has he paid all his bills?”
“They’re all paid, I know that.”
“I suppose,” said Langrish, “as that motion about Sarah being kicked out wasn’t properly seconded, it’s off, isn’t it?”
“Does any gentleman second the motion?” said Coxhead, glancing round the assembled Philosophers.
No one seconded it.
“Jolly lucky shave for you, young Sarah,” said Coxhead.
“Thanks awfully,” said I.
“We may as well divide up the pool now?” suggested Warminster.
With a generosity which was really touching, the Philosophers had clubbed together the shattered fragments of their term’s pocket-money to assist Tempest in his financial troubles. They had done it ungrudgingly, nay enthusiastically, and it was not against them that the enthusiasm remained now as each one unexpectedly received back his Philosopher’s mite from the depths of the kindly “pool.”
It is all very well keeping a secret like mine for twenty-four hours. It was an effort, but I did it, and prevailed on my comrades to keep it too. It was even harder work to prevail upon them as a matter of policy to accept the temporary supremacy of Crofter in the house. Nothing would induce them to refrain from cheering Tempest (much to his displeasure) on every possible occasion. It made it awkward for me sometimes when this happened in Crofter’s presence; for as things now were in Sharpe’s, a cheer for the old captain meant a hoot at the new; and I felt that Crofter, did the fellows only know all, did not deserve their resentment.
After forty-eight hours I could not restrain myself any longer. It was not fair to myself, or Crofter, or Low Heath, that every one should suppose Tempest was to be expelled when he really was not. So, with some misgivings, I decided to put myself in his way and break the agreeable news to him, and so have everything cleared up before the end of term.
It was not difficult to find an excuse. I had not been to Tempest’s rooms since our unlucky quarrel, and had been suffering inconvenience ever since by the fact that my Latin Gradus was there. On the last day but one of the term, therefore, I developed a burning desire to consult my missing handbook, and must needs go in search of it.
Tempest was sitting, miserably enough, before the fire, with his feet on the fender and his hands up to the back of his head as I entered. It was not till I was well in the room and had closed the door that he turned round and saw me.
I thought at first he meant to fly at me, his face clouded so angrily. But it changed to a look of contempt as he said,—
“Well?”
“Tempest, I’m awfully sorry, really I am, but—”
“Don’t let us have any of that. If I thought you’d meant it, I should precious soon know what to do. You’ve done me about the worst turn a fellow could, and if you weren’t a conceited young ass it would be some use thrashing you. As it is, somebody else may do that when I’m gone.”
The wretchedness of his tone quite touched me. I forgot my anger and sense of resentment, and all the old affection and loyalty came back with a rush. How could I ever have imagined a fellow like Crofter was worthy to hold a candle to my old Dux?
“Really, Tempest,” began I, losing my head and blundering I scarcely knew whither, “when you saw me talking to Crofter—” He uttered an angry exclamation.
“There, now, shut up about your friend Crofter. I don’t want to hear about him.”
“He’s not my friend, Tempest; he’s—he’s yours.”
He wheeled round in his chair and laughed bitterly.
“It’s a queer time to joke,” said he, with a laugh that cut me through.
“It’s no joke, Tempest. You don’t know what he’s done for you.”
“Don’t I? I fancy I do.”
“About the bills,” said I, faltering, “you know.”
“Ah! don’t come here to tell me about that.”
“It was all of his own accord he paid them.”
“He what?” shouted Tempest, springing from his chair and facing round.
“Paid them, you know; at least, I paid them for him.”
“You? Paid?” and he caught me by the collar and shook me like a puppy.
“You said you knew,” gasped I.
“Paid my bills! You say that blackguard had the cheek to—”
“He got me to do it; it was his money, though.”
He groaned as if some one had wounded him. A crimson flush of shame and mortification overspread his face, and for a moment he stared at me speechless.
Then he pulled himself together and strode out of the room. Utterly bewildered and half terrified, I followed him. What had I done to offend him? Had all the trouble of the term turned his head?
To my alarm he made straight for Crofter’s study. No one was there. He turned and saw me.
“Tell Crofter I want him at once.”
I departed with my heart in my mouth. At the foot of the staircase I met Crofter.
“Tempest wants to see you,” said I; “he sent me to—to ask you to come.”
“He doesn’t know?” inquired Crofter.
“Yes—I told him—I—I thought I ought to let him know.” Crofter laughed his sweet laugh.
“If I had wanted it known all over Low Heath,” said he, “I could hardly have done better than tell you to keep it a secret. I’d much sooner he had not known. However—where is he?”
“In your study, I think.”
I felt constrained to follow. Crofter evidently was expecting to be the recipient of an outburst of effusive gratitude. I had not the courage to disabuse him.
He walked pleasantly and graciously into his study, where Tempest stood, flushing and biting his lips, awaiting him. “Is this true what that youngster says, that you’ve had the—that you’ve paid bills of mine?”
“I’m sorry he told you, Tempest. I thought it might get you out of a difficulty, and I—”
“And you expect me to thank you! Take that, for daring to meddle in my affairs!”
And he struck Crofter on the cheek—not a hard blow, but one which sent the recipient reeling across the room with astonishment.
For a moment I expected a fight. Crofter, however, pale, but smiling still, declined the challenge.
“You’ll be sorry, I’m sure,” said he, as coolly as he could. “I only wanted to do you a good turn, and—”
“I’m sorry already,” said Tempest, who had already gathered himself together. “I hoped you’d fight like a man. As you’re afraid to, I’m sorry I touched you.”
“I see nothing to fight about,” said Crofter. “I don’t see what there is to be angry about.”
Tempest waited motionless for a few uncomfortable moments, in the hope that Crofter would pluck up spirit to accept the challenge. But, as Crofter only smiled, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. As he passed me, he beckoned me imperiously to follow him. I did so in terror.
He put a piece of paper and a pen before me.
“Write down there an account of every bill you paid, and the amount.”
I obeyed—my memory fortunately served me for the task.
“Now go. You’ve had the satisfaction of seeing me make an ass of myself in striking that cad—he’s not worth it. You may go and tell him I’m sorry if you like. As for you, I don’t want to see any more of you. Go to your captain, and leave me alone.”
And he flung himself miserably into his chair, leaning forward with his head on his hands, and apparently indifferent whether I stayed or went.
I went, leaving him thus. And the memory of him sitting there haunted me all that night and for weeks to come.
When, next day, the news went round that Tempest had escaped expulsion, the general delight was tempered with amazement at the rumour which accompanied it, that he owed his escape to Crofter. No one but Crofter himself could have put the latter story into circulation, and to any one knowing the two seniors as well as I did, it was obvious that what had completed the humiliation of one had been the crowning triumph of the other.
Crofter could not have avenged himself for the insults of the term more effectively; and Tempest’s proud nature could not have suffered a bitterer wound than to know that he had been put under an obligation in spite of himself, and without the possibility of preventing it, by his worst enemy.
The ordinary “Sharper” could hardly be expected to trouble himself about questions of motive. It was sufficient for him that his hero was saved, and that the credit of the popular act which saved him belonged to Crofter.
Consequently both were cheered equally when they appeared in public, and of the two Crofter accepted his popularity with a far better grace than his mortified adversary.
But it was all very miserable to me as I slunk home that afternoon in the train. All the hopes of the wonderful term had been disappointed. I was a recognised dunce and idler at Low Heath. I had lost my best friend and sold myself to his enemy. My self-respect was at a low ebb. I knew that in a post or two would come a report which would bring tears to my mother’s eyes, and cause my guardian to grunt and say, “I expected as much.” The worst of it was, I could not get it out of my head yet that I was rather a fine young fellow if only people knew it, and that my misfortunes were more to blame for the failure of the term than my faults.
To my relief a letter came early in the holidays from Dicky Brown’s people, asking me to spend the last two weeks with them, I jumped at it, for in my present miserable frame of mind even home was dismal.
But when I found myself back at Low Heath, installed in Dicky’s quiet little family circle, I was almost sorry I had come. For Dicky was all high spirits and jubilation. He had won a form prize; everything had gone swimmingly for him. The Urbans looked up to him; the head master had patted him on the back; the Redwoods had taken a fancy to him. No one thought of calling him by a feminine nickname.
“I think Low Heath’s a ripping place,” said he, as we strolled past the gate of the empty quadrangle in one of our holiday rambles. “I’m jolly glad we got kicked out of Dangerfield, ain’t you?”
“Middling,” said I; “the fact is, Dicky, you may as well know it, but I’m rather sick of this place.”
“Hullo!” said he, looking at me, “why, I thought you were having such a high old time.”
“I—I’ve come a bit of a howler, Dicky;” here I gulped ominously, much to Dicky’s concern. “I’ve fooled things rather, you know.” I was in for my confession now, and gave the penitent horse his head. “I’m jolly miserable, Dicky, that’s all about it, and wish I was dead, don’t you know, and that sort of thing.”
“What’s up, old chappie?” said Dicky, taking my arm, and evidently in a fright lest I should compromise myself by breaking down on the spot. “Come down by the willows; it’s rather muddy, but it’s quieter.”
So we ploughed through the mud under the willows, and I let out on Dicky all that was in my heart. I’m sure he thought it a lot of bosh, but he was too kind to say so, and hung on to my arm, and never once contradicted me when I called myself a fool.
“You have rotted it a bit,” remarked he, when the story was complete. “Never mind, old chap, it can’t be helped. You’ll worry through all right.”
This was true comfort. If Dicky had been a prig like me, he would have tried to talk to me like a father, and driven me crazy. It made all the difference that he understood me, and yet believed in me a little.
“It strikes me,” said he, with refreshing candour, “you fancy yourself a bit too much, Tommy. I’d advise you to lie low a bit, and it will all come round.”
“That’s just exactly what Tempest said to me the first day of term,” said I, with a groan.
“There you are,” said he; “bless you, you’re not going to get done over one wretched term, are you? I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“But all the chaps are down on me.”
“What do you care?” said he, with a snort. “Who cares twopence about the lot of them—chaps like them too? You’re a cut better than that lot, I fancy—ought to be, anyhow.”
What balm it all was to my wounds! What miles of mud we ploughed through that afternoon! and how, as the water gradually leaked into my boots, my heart rose out of them, and got back somehow to its proper place, and enabled me to look at things in their proper light. I think Dicky, little as he knew it, was sent by God to help me pull myself together, and I shall always think better of him for his blunt, genuine encouragement that day.
On our way back he pulled up at Redwood’s door.
“Let’s see if he’s in,” said he; “he won’t mind.”
“All right,” said I, beginning to quail again a little, and yet determined to go through with the whole business.
Redwood was in, mending a pair of skates, in anticipation of a day or two’s frost before the holidays were over.
“Look here, Redwood,” said Dicky, determined to make things easy for me. “Old Jones minimus is in the blues. He’s been fooling it rather this term, you know, but he’s a bit sick of it, and we thought you’d like to know, didn’t we, young Jones minimus?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind, Redwood,” said I.
“Wait a bit—tea’s just ready. We’ll have ours up here,” said the captain.
Over tea Dicky trotted out my troubles second-hand to our host, appealing to me every now and then to confirm his statement that I’d rather “mucked” it over this and that, and so on.
Redwood nibbled away at his tea, looking up now and then with a friendly nod to show he agreed with all that was said about me.
When all was said, he remarked—
“I wouldn’t worry, youngster, if I were you. It’s been a poor show last term, but you’ll pull yourself together right enough. Take my advice, and lie low a bit, that’s the best thing for your complaint.”
“Why,” said I, “that’s just exactly what Tempest said to me.”
“There you are again,” broke in Dicky, cutting himself a hunch of cake.
Presently Redwood began to “draw” me on the subject of Tempest, and looked rather blank when I told him of the dismal circumstances in which the term had closed at Sharpe’s. However, he did not favour Dicky and me with much comment on the matter, and finally got us to help him sharpen his skates and talk about other things.
I went to bed that night at Dicky’s more easy and hopeful than I had been for weeks, and felt half-impatient for term to begin again, so that I might put into practice the new and trebly-patent specific of lying low.