PAUL WRITES A LETTER
Stanley's head had fallen to his breast as Leveson read that bitter
paragraph from the _Record_. He looked up quickly as Paul entered the
room. For the moment it seemed as though he would speak; then he bit his
lips fiercely to keep back the words that sprang to them, and went from
the room. Newall followed him, then Arbery. One by one they followed his
example--Third Form boys as well as Fifth--until one only
remained--Waterman, who had been comfortably resting in a chair by the
fire throughout the scene described in the last chapter. As the last boy
went out, he glanced up.
"Hallo, Percival! Is that you?"
"Why don't you do the same as the rest of the fellows, and clear out?"
asked Paul bitterly.
"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you."
And Waterman stretched out his legs, and settled himself more
comfortably in his chair. Paul could see that it was not altogether a
question of comfort with Waterman. His laziness was only a cloak to
disguise a real feeling of friendship towards him.
"The fellows were discussing me as I came in?"
"I don't quite know what they were discussing. Oh, young Plunger had
made himself an ass, as usual, over some paragraph in the _Record_. That
was it."
Leveson had screwed up the paper, it will be remembered, when he had
read the paragraph about the honour of the Fifth, and, as Paul entered,
had flung it contemptuously from him into a corner of the room. Paul's
eye went to it as Waterman was speaking.
"Paragraph in the _Record_," he repeated, as he smoothed it out. "What
have they got to say about Plunger?"
He quickly read the paragraphs which had reference to Plunger, and then
he read the one which he knew well enough had reference to himself.
Waterman rose from his chair as the paper dropped from Paul's hand and
placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You're cut up, Percival. I wouldn't let that paragraph worry me. It's
really not worth it. There's nothing in the world worth worrying
about--there really isn't."
"You don't mean what you say, Waterman--though it's kind of you to say
it. Honour's worth troubling about--one's own honour; the honour of
one's form; the honour of one's school; and I know that, disguise it as
you may, you're just as keen on it as any in the school. And all the
fellows believe that I've dragged it through the mud."
"Oh, well, things will clear up some day, Percival; then you'll come
into your own," said Waterman cheerfully.
"Some day I suppose they will; but it may be a long time first, and
there's no game so hard to play as the waiting game."
"That's where you're wrong, Percival. There's no game in the world like
it--the waiting game, I mean. There's no fag about it, and that's what I
like. Just wait your time, you know--take it easy--no flurry--go as you
please. It's the game of all games for my ha'pence. It really is,
Percival. So don't worry, old fellow--and don't flurry."
Paul could not help smiling to himself at Waterman's easy view of
things, but the smile quickly disappeared when he was once more alone.
Waterman had talked about "things clearing up," and "coming into his
own"; but would things ever clear up? Would he ever win back the honour
of the Form, and the confidence of those who belonged to it? Saddest of
all was the memory that Stanley, who had been his greatest friend, now
appeared to be his greatest enemy.
Suddenly it occurred to him--he would write to Mr. Walter Moncrief, and
tell him what had happened that night when he went to Dormitory X. The
idea had occurred to him before, but he had put it off in the hope that
he might have surer evidence to go upon. No further evidence had been
forthcoming, but delay might be dangerous; so he determined to write.
So he went into the writing-room, and wrote to Mr. Moncrief, telling him
exactly what had happened on the night he went to Dormitory X.
"I am pretty well certain," he went on, "that the man I saw with Mr.
Weevil is one of the men who came after me on the night I came to your
house at Redmead--the chief of the two. It was night-time, but I had a
fairly good view of his face. What he has to do with Mr. Weevil, I can't
make out. I should be sorry to think that Mr. Weevil has anything to do
with a traitor to his country; but there must be something at the bottom
of it all. What that something is, you may be able to find out better
than I can. Dr. Colville, our Head, is away, so I cannot go to him. What
ought to be done? Will you let me know what you think?"
Having written this letter, Paul felt more comfortable. So soon as he
heard from Mr. Moncrief, his lips would be unsealed, and he might take
steps to clear his own honour. He would then be able to explain to his
Form--to all the school if need be--what had prevented him from
confronting Wyndham at the sand-pit.
But having finished his letter, there was one great difficulty in the
way. All letters written in the school were supposed to pass, first of
all, through the hands of the master. How could he let that letter pass
through the hands of Mr. Weevil? As he was thinking over this dilemma,
Hibbert entered the room, and told him that Mr. Travers wished to speak
to him. Mr. Travers was master of the Fifth.
Paul rose to his feet, and thrust the letter in his pocket, wondering
what Mr. Travers could want with him. Then it occurred to him that
Hibbert was just the boy he wanted; he could trust Hibbert with
anything. Hibbert would post the letter for him.
"Hibbert, I want you to do me a great favour," he said, drawing the
letter from his pocket. "I want you to post this letter for me. There's
nothing wrong in it, I give you my word of honour; but, I don't want Mr.
Weevil to know. That's why I am not sending it through the school post."
Hibbert expressed his willingness to post it, and Paul handed him the
letter, then went to Mr. Travers' room. Hibbert hastened off with the
letter, but, as ill-luck would have it, he ran full tilt against Mr.
Weevil, just as he reached the outer door. In doing so, he stumbled, and
would have fallen to the ground had not the master caught him by the
arm.
[Illustration: "AS ILL-LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, HIBBERT RAN FULL TILT AGAINST
MR. WEEVIL, JUST AS HE REACHED THE OUTER DOOR."]
"Hallo! Where are you running to in such a hurry?" he asked, in that
gentle voice he always used to Hibbert--softer than that used by him to
any other boy in the school.
"Out--in--the grounds, sir."
In stumbling, Hibbert's hand had been jerked from his breast, and Mr.
Weevil caught sight of the letter.
"What's that--a letter?"
Hibbert did not answer. It was useless denying it.
"Step this way."
Mr. Weevil's tone had now become quite stern. He led the way into one of
the class-rooms; then closed the door.
"Now have the goodness to hand me that letter," he said, gazing at
Hibbert through half-closed eyes.
Hibbert dared not refuse; so he handed him the letter.
Mr. Weevil's eyes opened to their fullest extent when he saw the address
on it:
W. MONCRIEF, Esq.,
Redmead,
Oakville (Kent).
"For whom were you posting this letter--Moncrief major, or Moncrief
minor?"
"Neither," came the low answer.
"Who, then? Come; no harm shall befall you if you speak the truth."
"I don't mind myself, but--but--I don't want any harm to happen
to--to----"
"The one who sent you--eh? Well, we'll see. Just tell me frankly who
sent you with this letter? It is quite easy for me to find out by
opening it, you know; but I would much rather hear it from you."
"Percival," answered the boy, hesitatingly, seeing there was no help for
it.
"Percival!" echoed the master. "Wait here a moment."
He left the room with the letter. Hibbert wondered what he intended
doing with it. Would he open it, or would he send for Percival? He was
on thorns. Percival had particularly wished to keep the note from Mr.
Weevil. The very first thing he had asked him to do--and that so
simple--he had made a mess of.
"How stupid of me! How stupid of me! Percival will never trust me with
anything again."
In a few minutes Mr. Weevil returned. His face had not lost its
sternness.
"In sending you with that letter, Percival knew well enough he was
acting against the rules of the school."
"I--I--dare say it slipped his memory, sir."
"Nothing of the sort. He knew well enough he was breaking the rules of
the school, and, worse still, that he was making you an accomplice in
the act. However, I do not intend to deal severely with the case, for
your sake. You are quite new to the ways and rules of this place. Take
the letter. Post it; but don't say a word to Percival that I stopped
you. Do you understand?"
"Yes; I understand," said the boy, as he took the letter, and ran off
with it to the post. He looked at the letter as he ran. Was it the same?
Yes, the very same--the same address, in Paul's handwriting. It was very
kind of Mr. Weevil, and he would always be grateful to him for his
kindness.
Paul, meanwhile, had gone to Mr. Travers, wondering what he could want
with him. The master of the Fifth was a man of about thirty, who led a
studious, secluded life. He was a capable master, but had not succeeded
in winning the sympathies of the scholars. One of the chief reasons was
that, though he took an interest in their studies, he took little
interest in their sports. He preferred instead long, solitary rambles.
Paul was, therefore, the more surprised when he found that the object of
Mr. Travers in sending for him was to question him as to the relations
between him and his class-mates.
"I've noticed that you do not appear to be on very good terms with the
Form, Percival," he said. "I should not have said anything about it,
only I happened to be near the Common Room this afternoon when you
entered, and found that that was a signal for the others to march out. I
don't like a feeling of that kind in my Form. I know well enough that
boys will have their quarrels, and that they can be usually trusted to
settle them alone; but this seems to me deeper than an ordinary quarrel,
otherwise I should not have spoken. I have no wish to press for your
confidence, but if you will tell me what the cause of this ill-feeling
is, I might do something to bring about a better understanding between
you and the Form."
"Oh, it's only a bit of a dispute between me and Moncrief major."
"And for a dispute between you and Moncrief major all the Form are
against you?"
"They take his side, sir. They think that he is right and I'm in the
wrong--that is all."
"That is all!" echoed the master. "And that is all the explanation you
can give? Remember, I'm not forcing an explanation from you. I'm not
asking you as your master, but as your friend."
Paul was drawn to him as he had never been drawn before, such is the
power of sympathy. He regretted more than ever that he had sent the
letter to Mr. Moncrief; but it was impossible to recall it. Hibbert was
on his way with it at that moment to the post.
"That is all the explanation I can give, sir."
"Very well, Percival"--the manner of Mr. Travers changed as the words
fell from Paul's lips; he was again the master, and frigid as ice--"then
there is nothing more to be said. I regret that I sent for you."
Thus curtly dismissed, Paul went out, feeling miserable. At the time
when he so wanted a friend he had lost one. And yet how else could he
have acted? There was no other way. He must wait and see what the
letter to Mr. Moncrief would bring forth. And with this thought
uppermost in his mind he went to the writing-room to await the return
of Hibbert.