AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR ARRIVES AT GARSIDE
Two things, outside the ordinary school routine, occupied attention on
the morrow. The first was the adventures which had so nearly cost
Hibbert his life; the second the loss of the school flag. The report as
to the condition of Hibbert was neither good nor bad. There was no
improvement, but neither had he gone back. His condition, in fact, was
just what it had been the night before.
The loss of the flag caused the greatest excitement. The masters held a
meeting about it, but nothing was done. The Sixth Form held a meeting
about it, but nothing was done--for the simple reason that nothing could
be done. So far there was not the slightest clue as to what had become
of it. It had disappeared just as mysteriously as the pages torn from
the Black Book.
But in one thing there was a manifest change. A manifest improvement
took place in the school's attitude towards Paul. Whereas previously
nearly all the school was opposed to him, the greater proportion of the
Garsiders now came over to his side with a swing; but his own Form, with
the exception of Waterman, still held aloof. He received a communication
from Stanley, however, through his cousin.
"Stanley's sorry that he did not lend you a helping hand when he met you
with Hibbert yesterday," said Harry. "He did not dream that anything
serious had happened."
Paul had felt it even more than he dared admit to himself that Stanley
had not come forward on the previous day and given him a helping hand
when he was struggling along with Hibbert.
"How could he dream that anything serious had happened unless he
inquired?" he asked, with some bitterness. "Did he really send that
message?"
"Really."
"It's very kind of him. When you next see him say how obliged I am. It's
nice to find people so thoughtful, though it may be a little late in the
day."
Harry felt uncomfortable. He could detect the accent of bitterness
underlying the words.
"Tell you what, Percival, I wish you and Stan were friends again, like
you used to be. It's all through that beastly Beetle, Wyndham. I wish
some one had stepped on him and squashed him first."
"I don't. I can admire a plucky fellow when I see one, even though he
happens to be a Beetle."
Harry opened his eyes, and stared at Paul. Paul, annoyed at the
second-hand message he had received from Stanley, and seeing the
astonished expression on Harry's face, could not help adding: "Yes, I
can admire pluck wherever I see it. I'm not quite sure whether Wyndham
isn't worth half a dozen fellows here."
Harry stayed to hear no more. A Beetle worth half a dozen Gargoyles! It
seemed rank treason to listen to it. Paul felt a savage thrill of
delight in praising Wyndham and seeing the consternation it had caused
in Harry.
"He will tell Stanley every word I have said. Getting his cousin to
bring his mean, petty message. Didn't dream that anything so serious had
happened, indeed! Pah!"
Alas! alas! The breach between the two former friends, instead of
closing, was widening.
All the boys who had taken part in the raft incident were severely
lectured by Mr. Weevil, and were debarred from the usual half-holidays
during the next fortnight, as well as receiving a heavy number of lines
to keep them busily occupied during the same period. Then the master
went on to say:
"Percival has done a brave act. He went to the assistance of Hibbert in
a moment of extreme peril. He placed his life in jeopardy to save him.
God grant that his act of bravery may not have been in vain!"
Mr. Weevil paused for an instant, with closed eyes, as though he were
praying; then, when he opened them again, it seemed as though the
incident and all connected with it had passed from his mind, as, in a
few cold words, he turned to the duties of the day.
Paul was more than gratified with this brief allusion to what he had
done, but he could not help noticing that no reference was made by Mr.
Weevil to the part he had played in the rescue of Baldry and Plunger.
His whole thought seemed centred on Hibbert.
"Strange, his liking for the little chap," thought Paul.
It was as though the master were trying to make up to the frail,
deformed boy for the neglect of others. And whenever Paul now thought of
him, it was not as he remembered him on that night when he had peeped
through the dormitory window, and had seen him talking to Israel Zuker,
but as he had seen him kneeling by Hibbert's bed and babbling to him
tenderly in an unknown tongue.
The next number of the _Gargoyle Record_ made various indirect
references to the "Crusoe incident" in the editor's usual vein.
"Missing Link has turned up in the neighbourhood of the river--latest
mania--punting and desert islands.... Our poet is much obliged for the
response given to his appeal in our last issue. He was stuck, it will be
remembered, for a rhyme to 'hunger,' and the rhyme was to be a name of
some kind--bird, beast, or fish. Curious to say, all our correspondents
have hit upon the same rhyme and name.
"Honour of the Fifth looking up a bit. Tarnished near sand-pit on
Cranstead Common, it has just had a washing in the river. Better for its
bath, though not yet up to its former lustre.
"The Fresher of the Third who was prepared to give hints on the correct
style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats has thought better of it.
Gave it up in order to get some experience of desert islands and punting
in company with the aforesaid Missing Link. Experience disastrous and
not likely to be repeated. Has since taken to stamp-collecting and
ping-pong."
Then, among the usual notices of "Lost, stolen, or strayed," appeared
the following:
"Pages from the Black Book still missing. Greatest loss of all--the old
flag of the school. It waves over the school no longer. We have doffed
the cap and bells, and gone into sackcloth and ashes. Our heart is
heavy. We can smile no longer. We can only whistle one tune--the Dead
March. Our heart will continue heavy. Our noble frontispiece will never
beam again. Our lips will continue to warble the same melancholy tune
until the old flag once more waves over Garside!"
Stripped of its note of bombast, this last paragraph echoed pretty
accurately the feeling of the Garsiders at the loss of their flag. Their
pride had been more sorely wounded even than it had been by the affair
at the sand-pit. They had been flouted and dishonoured, and, though no
proof was forthcoming, they felt sure that this insult had been placed
upon them by their rivals--at St. Bede's.
Paul, meantime, had seen nothing of Hibbert since the day when his
confession had been interrupted by Mr. Weevil. Frequently he recalled
that strange scene--the boy's eerie-looking, pain-drawn face, the sad
eyes fixed on his, the earnest voice, with its suppressed note of
fear--as he began to unfold to him the secret that weighed upon his
heart and conscience. It seemed so real, yet so unreal. The face looking
up into his seemed real enough. It was the words he could not make sure
of. Hibbert must have been wandering.
At any rate, he had not sent for him since the afternoon he had spoken
such strange words, and that was nearly a week since.
"Of course, he was wandering, poor little chap, and has forgotten all
about it by this time. I shall have a good laugh with him about it when
he gets on his legs again," he told himself.
It was the sixth day after the accident on the river that Paul was
informed by Bax that a visitor wished to see him in the visitors' room.
A visitor! Who could it be? Paul had very few visitors to see him.
"Ah, it's Mr. Moncrief; come at last in answer to my letter!" he
thought, as he made his way to the room.
He was doomed to disappointment, however, for he found, on entering the
room, that the visitor was a perfect stranger to him--a slim,
wiry-figured gentleman, with a frock-coat buttoned closely over his
chest, reddish-brown full beard, and glasses, through which a sharp pair
of eyes at once went to Paul. Mr. Weevil was standing beside the visitor
on the hearthrug.
"This is the lad I spoke of, Mr. Hibbert--Paul Percival."
The master briefly introduced them. Paul was at once interested. This
gentleman with the tawny beard, and erect, alert, military bearing, was
Hibbert's father.
"I have only recently returned to England, and have but just heard of
the accident that has befallen my son," said Mr. Hibbert. "You saved his
life. I was anxious not to go before I had thanked you."
He took Paul's hand in his, and pressed it hard. A boy less strong than
Paul would have winced under that grip of steel.
"I'm glad to know Hibbert's father."
"And I'm glad to know Paul Percival. It isn't often one meets with a
brave lad like you."
Again he gripped Paul's hand, and seemed to be regarding him as keenly
as ever through his glasses to see if he stood his grip without
flinching.
"I think you would find many who would do as I did--even here at
Garside. It was my luck to be a good swimmer. And that luck--if I may
call it luck--I owe to my father."
"Your father taught you, you mean."
"No," said Paul, shaking his head sadly; "I wish he had. He died when I
was very young--when I could scarcely more than walk; but he was in the
Navy, and it was by his wish that I was taught swimming. The saddest
part is that he was drowned--drowned in saving another man's life."
"Really? That is sad. I hope that the man whom your father saved from a
watery grave was as grateful to him as I am to you."
Paul was silent. He was thinking that if Mr. Hibbert's gratitude were no
greater than the gratitude of the spy whom his father had saved from
drowning it would not count for much.
"I trust this will not be our last meeting. When my son gets well again,
I hope to see more of you. Perhaps we may see a few of the sights of
London together, if your mother has no objection."
Paul thanked him and went out. He was glad that he had met Hibbert's
father, though he was not a bit like the man he had pictured. He had
somehow pictured him with something of the deformity that marked
Hibbert, with the same sad, pathetic eyes; but they were as unlike as
could be, except the voice. Hibbert's voice had somehow struck a
familiar note when he first heard it. So did the father's. But there the
resemblance began and ended.
That same evening Paul went to the sick-room as usual, and inquired
after Hibbert. This time Mrs. Trounce beckoned him in.
"He's always asking after you, and it's cruel to keep you out," she
whispered.
"Who wants to keep me out?"
"Mr. Weevil thinks it makes the lad feverish, but I asked the doctor
expressly to-day, and he says it will do him good rather than harm to
see any friend he asks for. Poor little dear, he hasn't many friends.
His father didn't seem to care over much for him, and his visit was a
short one. He asked after you directly his father was gone. I've been
obliged to deny him all this time, but I can't deny him any longer. He's
dozing now. Step softly to the bed. Won't he be pleased when he wakes up
and sees you! I've never had a boy on my hands who is half so good and
patient as he is--I fear he is too patient, poor dear."
It was quite certain that during this time of trouble, Hibbert had found
one more friend in Mrs. Trounce--the kind-hearted matron, who always
tried to make the boys believe that she was a perfect virago with a
heart of flint. Paul followed her on tiptoe to the bed and looked down
on the sleeper. And as he looked, it seemed as though ice-cold fingers
were clutching him by the heart-strings, so strangely still were the
face and form of the little sleeper.