Were you ever at Coventry, reader? I don't mean the quaint old
Warwickshire city, but that other place where from morning till night
you are shunned and avoided by everybody? Where friends with whom you
were once on the most intimate terms now pass you without a word, or
look another way as you go by? Where, whichever way you go, you find
yourself alone? Where every one you speak to is deaf, every one you
appear before is blind, every one you go near has business somewhere
else? Where you will be left undisturbed in your study for a week, to
fag for yourself, study by yourself, disport yourself with yourself?
Where in the playground you will be as solitary as if you were in the
desert, in school you will be a class by yourself, and even in church on
Sundays you will feel hopelessly out in the cold among your
fellow-worshippers?
If you have ever been to such a place, you can imagine Oliver
Greenfield's experiences during this Christmas term at Saint Dominic's.
When the gentlemen of the Fifth Form had once made up their minds to
anything, they generally carried it through with great heartiness, and
certainly they never succeeded better in any undertaking than in this of
"leaving Oliver to himself."
The only drawback to their success was that the proceeding appeared to
have little or no effect on the _very_ person on whose behalf it was
undertaken. Not that Oliver could be _quite_ insensible of the honours
paid him. He could not--they were too marked for that. And without
doubt they were as unpleasant as they were unmistakable. But, for any
sign of unhappiness he displayed, the whole affair might have been a
matter of supreme indifference to him. Indeed, it looked quite as much
as if Greenfield had sent the Fifth to Coventry as the Fifth Greenfield.
If they determined none of them to speak to him, he was equally
determined none of them should have the chance; and if it was part of
their scheme to leave him as much as possible to himself, they had
little trouble in doing it, for he, except when inevitable, never came
near them.
Of course this was dreadfully irritating to the Fifth! The moral
revenge they had promised themselves on the disgracer of their class
never seemed to come off. The wind was taken out of their sails at
every turn. The object of their aversion was certainly not reduced to
humility or penitence by their conduct; on the contrary, one or two of
them felt decidedly inclined to be ashamed of themselves and feel
foolish when they met their victim.
Oliver always had been a queer fellow, and he now came out in a queerer
light than ever.
Having once seen how the wind lay, and what he had to expect from the
Fifth, he altered the course of his life to suit the new circumstances
with the greatest coolness. Instead of going up the river in a pair-oar
or a four, he now went up in a sculling boat or a canoe, and seemed to
enjoy himself quite as much. Instead of doing his work with Wraysford
evening after evening, he now did it undisturbed by himself, and, to
judge by his progress in class, more successfully than ever. Instead of
practising with the fifteens at football, he went in for a regular
course of practice in the gymnasium, and devoted himself with remarkable
success to the horizontal bar and the high jump. Instead of casting in
his lot in class with a jovial though somewhat distracting set, he now
kept his mind free for his studies, and earned the frequent commendation
of the Doctor and Mr Jellicott.
Now, reader, I ask you, if you had been one of the Fifth of Saint
Dominic's would not all this have been very riling? Here was a fellow
convicted of a shameful piece of deceit, caught, one might say, in the
very act, and by his own conduct as good as admitting it. Here was a
fellow, I say, whom every sensible boy ought to avoid, not only showing
himself utterly indifferent to the aversion of his class-fellows, but
positively thriving and triumphing before their very faces! Was it any
wonder if they felt very sore, and increasingly sore on the subject of
Oliver Greenfield?
One boy, of course, stuck to the exile through thick and thin. If
Oliver had murdered all Saint Dominic's with slow poison, Stephen would
have stuck to him to the end, and he stuck to him now. He, at least,
never once admitted that his brother was guilty. When slowly he first
discovered what were the suspicions of the Fifth, and what was the
common talk of the school about Oliver, the small boy's indignation was
past description. He rushed to his brother.
"Do you hear the lies the fellows are telling about you, Noll?"
"Yes," said Oliver.
"Why don't you stop it, and tell them?"
"What's the use? I've told them once. If they don't choose to believe
it, they needn't."
Any other boy would, of course, have taken this as clear evidence of the
elder brother's guilt; but it only strengthened the small boy's
indignation.
"_I'll_ let them know, if _you_ won't!" and forthwith he went and
proceeded to make himself a perfect nuisance in the school. He began
with Wraysford.
"I say, Wray," he demanded, "do you hear all the lies the fellows are
telling about Noll?"
"Don't make a row now," said Wraysford, shortly. "I'm busy." But
Stephen had no notion of being put down.
"The fellows say he stole an exam paper, the blackguards! I'd like to
punch all their heads, and I will too!"
"Clear out of my study, now," said Wraysford, sharply.
Stephen stared at him a moment. Then his face grew pale as he grasped
the meaning of it all.
"I say, Wray, surely _you_ don't believe it?" he cried.
"Go away now," was Wraysford's only answer.
But this did not suit Stephen, his blood was up, and he meant to have it
out.
"Surely _you_ don't believe it?" he repeated, disregarding the
impatience of the other; "_you_ aren't a blackguard, like the rest?"
"Do you hear what I tell you?" said Wraysford.
"No, and I don't mean to!" retorted the irate Stephen. "If you were
anything of a friend you'd stand up for Oliver. You're a beast,
Wraysford, that's what you are!" continued he, in a passion. "You're a
blackguard! you're a liar! I could kill you!"
And the poor boy, wild with rage and misery, actually flung himself
blindly upon his brother's old friend--the saviour of his own life.
Wraysford was not angry. There was more of pity in his face than anger
as he took the small boy by the arm and led him to the door. Stephen no
longer resisted. After giving vent to the first flood of his anger,
misery got the upper hand of him, and he longed to go anywhere to hide
it. He could have endured to know that Oliver was suspected by a good
many of the fellows, but to find Wraysford among them was a cruel blow.
But in due time his indignation again came to the fore, and he ventured
on another crusade. This time it was to Pembury. He knew before he
went he had little enough to expect from the sharp-tongued editor of the
_Dominican_, so he went hoping little.
To his surprise, however, Pembury was kinder than usual. He told him
plainly that he did suspect Oliver, and explained why, and advised
Stephen, if he were wise, to say as little about Oliver as possible at
present. The young champion was quite cowed by this unexpected
reception. He did his best to fly in a rage and be defiant, but it was
no use, and he retired woefully discomfited from the interview.
Others to whom he applied, when once again his anger got the better of
his wretchedness, met him with taunts, others with contempt, others with
positive unkindness; and after a week Stephen gave it up and retired in
dudgeon to the territory of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, determined
that there at least he would, at the edge of the knuckle, if needs be,
compel a faction to declare for his brother.
In this undertaking, I need hardly say, he was eminently successful.
There were those among the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles who were ready to
declare for anybody or anything as long as there was a chance of a row
on the head of it. Already the question of Greenfield senior had been
occupying their magnificent minds. When the story first fell suddenly
into their midst, it was so surprising that, like the frogs and the log
in the fable, they were inclined to be a little shy of it. But,
gradually becoming accustomed to it, and looking carefully into it from
all sides, it seemed somehow to contain the promise of a jolly row, and
their hearts warmed to it proportionally. No one quite liked to start
the thing at first, for fear doubtless of not doing it full justice, but
it only wanted a spark to kindle the whole lower school on the question
of Greenfield senior. Stephen it was who supplied the spark.
He entered the Fourth Junior room one day, after one of the unsuccessful
crusades of which we have spoken, utterly cast down and out of humour.
He flung his cap on to the peg, and himself on to his seat, in an
unusually agitated manner, and then, to the astonishment of everybody,
broke out into tears!
This was a rare and glorious opportunity, of course, for Bramble.
"Beastly young blub-baby!" exclaimed that doughty hero, "you're always
blubbing! I never knew such a fellow to blub, did you, Padger?"
Padger said it was worse than the baby at home, and the two thereupon
started a mocking caterwaul on their own account, in which not a few of
their nearest and dearest friends joined.
This performance had the effect of restoring Stephen's composure.
Hastily dashing away his tears, he flew with unwonted wrath at his
enemy. Bramble, however, managed to get behind Padger and the rest, and
thus fortified shouted out, "Yah, boo, howling young sucking pig! go
home to your mammy, or your great big cheat of a blackguard thief of a
caddish big brother! Do you hear? Who stole the exam paper? Eh,
Padger? Yah, boo, pack of sneaking Guinea-pigs!"
This last objurgation, which was quite unnecessary to the beauty or
force of the speech, gave rise to a huge tumult.
The Guinea-pigs present took it up as a direct challenge to themselves,
and it decided them instantly to declare in favour of Stephen and his
big brother. Paul led the attack.
"Shut up, you young cad, will you?" said he; "you know well enough _you_
stole the paper."
Of course no one, not even Paul himself, attached any meaning to such an
absurd accusation, but it came conveniently to hand.
This declaration of war was promptly taken up on all sides, and for a
short period the Fourth Junior had a rather dusty appearance. When at
length a little order was restored, a lively discussion on the crime of
Greenfield senior ensued. The Tadpoles to a man believed in it, and
gave it as their candid opinion that the fellow ought to be hung. "Yes,
and expelled too!" added a few of the more truculent.
The Guinea-pigs, on the other hand, whatever they thought, protested
vehemently that Greenfield senior was the most virtuous, heroic,
saintly, and jolly fellow in all Saint Dominic's, and denounced the
Tadpoles and all the rest of the school as the most brutal ruffians in
Christendom.
"They ought all to be expelled, every one of them," said one; "all
except Greenfield senior, and I hope they will be."
"All I know is," said Paul, "I'll let them have a bit of my mind, some
of them."
"So will I," said another.
"You haven't got any to give 'em a bit of," squealed Bramble, "so now!"
"All right, I'll give 'em a bit of _you_ then," retorted Paul.
"You wouldn't get any of them to touch him with a pair of tongs," added
another.
This was too much for Bramble, and another brief period of dust ensued.
Then, comparative quiet once more prevailing, Paul said, "I tell you
what, _I_ mean to stick to Greenfield senior."
"So do I," said another youth, with his face all over ink. "I mean _to
fag_ for him."
"So do I!" shouted another.
"So do I!" shouted another.
And a general chorus of assent hailed the idea.
"We'll all fag for him, I vote, eh, Stee?" said Paul, "the whole lot of
us! My eye, that'll be prime! Won't the others just about look black
and blue!"
It was a magnificent idea! And no sooner conceived than executed.
There was a great rush of Guinea-pigs to Oliver's study. He was not
there. So much the better. They would give him a delightful surprise!
So they proceeded straightway to empty his cupboards and drawers, to
polish up his cups, to unfold his clothes and fold them again, to take
down his books and put them up again, to upset his ink and mop it up
with one of his handkerchiefs, to make his tea and spill it on the
floor, to dirty his collars with their inky hands, to clean his boots
with his hat-brush, and many other thoughtful and friendly acts
calculated to make the heart of their hero glad.
In the midst of their orgies, Wraysford and Pembury passed the door, and
stopped to look in, wondering what on earth the tumult was about. But
they were greeted with such a storm of yells and hisses that they passed
on, a little uneasy in their minds as to whether or no hydrophobia had
broken out in Saint Dominic's.
After them a detachment of Tadpoles, headed by Bramble appeared on the
scene, for the purpose of mocking. But, whatever their purpose may have
been, it was abandoned for more active opposition when Paul presently
emptied a tumblerful of lukewarm tea in the face of Master Bramble.
A notable battle was fought on the threshold of Greenfield senior's
study, in which many were wounded on both sides, and in the midst of
which Oliver arrived on the scene, kicking right and left, and causing a
general rout.
How their hero appreciated the attentions his admirers had paid him
during his absence the Guinea-pigs did not remain or return to
ascertain. They took for granted he was grateful, and bashfully kept
out of the way of his thanks for a whole day.
After that their enthusiasm returned, but this time it found a new vent.
They decided that, although they would all fag for him to the end of
his days, they would not for a season, at any rate, solicit jobs from
him, but rather encourage him by their sympathy and applause at a more
respectful distance.
So they took to cheering him in the playground, and following him down
the passages. And this not being enough, they further relieved
themselves by hooting (at a respectful distance also) the chiefs of the
senior school, whose opinions on the question of Greenfield senior were
known not to agree with their own.
If Oliver was not grateful for all this moral support in his trouble, he
must have been a villain indeed of the deepest dye. He never said in so
many words he was grateful; but then the Guinea-pigs remembered that
feelings are often too deep and too many for words, and so took for
granted the thanks which their consciences told them they deserved.
Meanwhile a fresh number of the _Dominican_ was in progress, and rapidly
nearing the hour of publication.