THE STORM BREAKS
As Paul approached the common-room, the sound of voices came through the
open door, and clear above the hubbub rose the voice of some one making
free use of his name. He knew the voice well enough. It was Stanley's.
Why were they discussing him?
On entering the room, the voices ceased as by magic. Every eye was
turned in his direction. Several boys were gathered round the fireplace.
Foremost in the group were Newall, Parfitt, and Stanley.
"I thought I heard my name?" Paul exclaimed, as he stepped into the
room.
"Quite right," said Stanley, coming from the group and confronting him.
"I've been looking for you."
Paul was on the point of saying that he also had been looking for
Stanley, but the silence that followed Stanley's words, the concentrated
gaze of that group of boys, and, above all, the face of Stanley
himself--white, yet with a burning, feverish light in the eyes--kept
back the words.
"Looking for me?" he repeated.
"Yes; I did hope that I should never have to speak to you again, but one
or two things that have just happened make me. All the fellows here know
how much it's against the grain."
Paul's face fell. He had come in search of Stanley with the hope of
bringing about a reconciliation. That hope receded in an instant to the
far distance.
"If it's against the grain, I wonder you should trouble," he could not
help answering.
"Oh, we have to swallow things we don't like sometimes." Then he broke
off into a tone of banter. "So you've brought the flag back to Garside?"
Paul did not answer. He was only conscious that the group had drawn
closer to him, and that Stanley's eyes were burning at a fiercer heat.
It seemed some other than Stanley who was speaking. He had assumed the
tone and manner of Newall; but he was forcing himself into a part which
did not suit him, so that he acted it badly.
"The worst of Percival is that he's so modest. He doesn't know what a
smart thing he's done," went on Stanley. "It isn't to be wondered at
that the kids of the Third and Fourth have been cheering him like mad.
Why should we be left out in the cold, eh?"
"Why?" echoed Parfitt. "Let's give him a rouser."
Parfitt led off the cheers--cheers which fell with a hollow sound on
Paul's ears, for he knew well enough they were only mocking him.
"When we hear about a smart thing, we're naturally anxious to know how
it was done," jeered Parfitt.
"Naturally," echoed Newall, followed by cries of assent from the rest.
"Order! Order for Percival!" exclaimed Stanley, holding up his hand for
silence.
Silence instantly reigned. You might have heard a pin drop as they
waited for Paul to speak; but they waited in vain. He neither spoke nor
moved. He was not thinking of himself, nor of the boys that stood around
him. He had ears and eyes for Stanley, and no other. It was a
transformed Stanley--not the Stanley he had once known.
"Lost your tongue?" cried Stanley, breaking the silence. "Come, out with
it. We can't wait here all day! How did you manage to get hold of the
flag? Who had it, and how did you get it back to Garside? Don't be so
awfully modest? You've hidden your light under a bushel too long."
"The flag is back at Garside," answered Paul firmly, ignoring the taunt.
"For the rest you had better ask Mr. Weevil. I don't owe any explanation
to you or any other fellow in the Form!"
He turned away, but Stanley sprang between him and the door.
"That won't do? You do owe us an explanation, and I mean having it!"
"You?"
There was more of sorrow than anger in Paul's voice, but to the
sensitive ears of Stanley, strung to the highest tension, it sounded
strangely like contempt.
"I! What were you doing with the Beetle we saw you with near the
sand-pits this afternoon?"
"The Beetle you ran away from, you know," added Newall. "The Beetle you
left Moncrief to fight for you!"
This wholly unnecessary piece of information sent the scarlet back for a
moment into the white face of Stanley. His hands opened spasmodically;
then closed in a firmer grip than before.
The gibe acted differently on Paul. He recalled that Stanley had really
suffered for him; he recalled too, the note of warning that had been
left for him in his dormitory. Perhaps, after all, it had been written
by Stanley? The Stanley he had once known as a friend. And there came
over him the old longing to clasp him by the hand.
"I will try to explain to you if you will meet me somewhere alone," he
said, drawing near to Stanley, and speaking in a little more than a
whisper.
"Speak out! I want no secrets!" cried Stanley.
"All the fellows in the Form have as much right to hear as I have! What
I can hear they can hear! I don't want to go about sneaking and
whispering in corners!"
Murmurs of applause greeted this expression of opinion.
"If that's the way you look at it," answered Paul sorrowfully, "the
thing's ended. I've nothing more to say."
"But I have, and you must hear--must!" repeated Stanley, with emphasis,
as Paul tried to pass him. "It's your honour I'm thinking of, as much as
the honour of the school. Do you know what they are saying?"
"I don't know or care," came the swift answer. "As for my honour, it can
very well take care of itself."
"Like it did at the sand-pits," put in Parfitt, amid an outburst of
laughter.
Paul bit his lip to keep back the angry words that sprang to his tongue.
And the gibe went again as a poisoned shaft to the wound that was lying
as a canker in the breast of Stanley.
"Well, we'll leave your honour out of it, if you don't care to stick up
for it. But there's the honour of the school, and do you know what
they're saying? They're saying that the flag business was all a
dodge--that it's been engineered between you and the Beetle you would
not stand up to in the sand-pits!"
"Engineered! How do you mean?" demanded Paul, staggered by this fresh
accusation.
"That it was all arranged between you and the Beetle."
"I--I can't quite see. I don't understand. Do you mean----"
"Let him have it straight; so that he can't wriggle out of it!"
exclaimed Newall, as Paul paused, unable to get out the words that came
as a torrent to the lips.
"I mean that the theft of the flag was arranged between you and that
fellow at St. Bede's; and that it's come back again by the same clever
piece of trickery."
"Is that what they're saying?" demanded Paul.
"That's what they're saying."
"And--and--what do you say, Stan?" The name came out in a gulp.
Had Stanley only followed his better impulse, he would have answered:
"I don't believe it. Though appearances are against you, I cannot
believe it. I still have faith in you, as I used to have. We have
wandered apart, but Garside has never been what it was since we ceased
to speak. I have been unhappy--miserable."
But the gibes of Newall and Parfitt were still rankling in his breast.
He seemed to feel again the blows of Wyndham on his face. So instead of
answering as his better nature dictated, he replied:
"I stand by the Form. I say the same."
"Then it's a lie--a dirty lie. Let me pass."
Paul was choking. It would not so much have mattered what his Form said.
He could trust to time to bring them round again; but that Stanley could
have believed him guilty of such mean, despicable trickery--there was
the sting. Stanley had felt the blows of Wyndham on his face, but that
was as nothing to the torture endured at that moment by Paul. It was as
a flail cutting deep down into his very flesh.
Stanley still barred the way to the door, and did not move.
"Let me pass!" came again the hoarse, choking cry.
Stanley did not budge. Neither did he answer. He was as dumb, as
immovable, and as white as a block of marble. Paul could endure it no
longer. He caught him by the arm to turn him aside. His touch started
the statue before him into life. As though it were an insult to be wiped
out, Stanley struck out blindly with his fist. Paul received the blow
full on the face, and fell to the ground like a log.
It was a cruel blow. Stanley knew it the moment he had struck his
one-time friend, and he would have given all he possessed to have
recalled it. But it was too late.
"Well hit!" applauded Parfitt, as though Stanley had just made a
brilliant drive in the cricket-field instead of striking his best
friend.
"First knockdown and blood to Moncrief!" exclaimed Newall. "Oh, he's all
right, Waterman. He doesn't want any help from you."
Waterman, who had been standing in the background, leaning in his usual
indolent manner against the most comfortable corner of the fireplace,
shook on his lethargy as Stanley struck the blow which felled Paul to
the ground, and at once left his favourite spot by the fireplace and
went to his assistance.
"Hurt, Percival?" he asked as, heedless of Newall's remarks, he wiped
away the blood that was trickling down Paul's cheek.
Paul had been momentarily dazed by the unexpected blow; but he was
strong, and soon shook the feeling off.
"Thanks, Waterman. No; I'm not hurt," he whispered, rising slowly to his
feet.
The boys gathered round. The excitement had grown from the moment Paul
had entered the room. From that instant the storm-clouds had begun to
gather, and with the blow struck by Moncrief major they had burst.
What would happen?
"Steady yourself, Percival," whispered Waterman. "So--Are you sure you
are all right?"
"Quite."
Waterman let go his arm. The blood still trickled down Paul's face, but
he walked steadily up to Stanley, who had thrown up his arms in defence,
as though expecting a return of the blow.
"You can put down your hands, Stanley. I'm not going to fight you," said
Paul calmly.
"He's moulting again--more feathers!" cried Newall.
"And aren't they white ones?" added Parfitt.
"I'm not going to fight you," repeated Paul, looking Stanley squarely in
the face; "but I'll pay you back again--some day."
Stanley did not attempt to stop him this time; so Paul made his way back
to his room, and sank upon his bed thinking. He had done nothing of
which he was ashamed, but the blow of Stanley was burning on his cheek,
and he felt wretched, miserable. He had striven for the best, but
somehow things had turned out for the worst. Once before when things
were at their blackest, there was one who had come to him, and placed a
little hand in his; but now there was no one, save the good God above.
He was thinking thus, when there was a tap on the door; the door was
jerked open with a shoulder; and Waterman, with his hands thrust deep
into his pockets, strode indolently in--just for all the world as though
he were coming to a picnic.