SALVE
Alone upon the wide deserted expanse of the playing fields at Harley
there stood, a picture of misery, the only fellow in the school who had
not dared to go to Rainhurst. There were, it is true, somewhere in the
school, other boys, but they had mostly remained behind under
compulsion. Some were in detention and some in the infirmary. A round
dozen or so were of a type who never did watch football even when it was
taking place under their noses, and they had played no part in that
clandestine excursion simply because it had had no attraction for them.
But there was only this one boy who had been afraid to go.
It was Christopher Woolf Roe. He was by no means happy, and he was
obsessed with a melancholy interest as to what his father would have to
say when he knew what the school had done. He gazed out mournfully over
the forsaken football ground. No sound of any boyish voice reached his
ear. It might have been holiday time. So when a step sounded
unexpectedly behind him on the gravel path he turned in surprise. The
school porter was crossing from the neighbourhood of the Head’s room,
and something in his manner suggested that he was conveying a message.
Roe, starving for company, looked at him as a pig looks at some farm
hand carrying a pan of swill.
“Do you want me?” he asked hopefully enough.
The porter answered with dignity. As a man of discrimination he had been
on the school’s side throughout this strife, and he was not disposed to
make conversation with one whom he considered something of a traitor.
“The Headmaster wishes to speak to you, sir,” said he, and withdrew.
Without a word Roe moved away dejectedly towards the stained-glass
windows of his father’s room, and passed through the old oak door beside
the steps. He had not even the heart to whistle as he went.
He knocked at the door and was greeted by ominous silence. He went in.
The Head was standing by the fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece,
and by every line of his face Roe could see that he was going to address
him not as a father but as the Headmaster of a Public School. He moved
silently across the carpet.
“Did you want me, sir?” said he respectfully.
He placed one hand in the other and rubbed them gently together.
The Head looked at him grimly. Half-an-hour ago he had stood at his
window looking out upon his kingdom. It had struck him quite suddenly
that the neighbourhood of the school was strangely quiet. He had leaned
out a little farther. He could still see nobody about. Finally he had
craned his neck to its limit and turned his head all ways. There was no
doubt about it. The school was deserted. He had never seen the place so
quiet on a Saturday. The seats under the trees were all unoccupied. No
sound came from the fives courts. No figure could be discerned on any
pathway. The only houses that he could see looked uninhabited. Sudden
perplexity had settled upon him. He had furrowed his brows.... Next he
had left his room and had gone into the school and along the corridors
to places from which he could see the playing fields from every angle.
He peered into the common rooms, inspected the library.... His
suspicions became a certainty. There was something wrong. He went back
to his own room, and all the way along the corridor the tap of his
footfall produced a hollow, echoing ring that spoke of utter emptiness.
From his own window he took one final peep on to the football ground.
There at last he had seen a solitary youth, Harley’s Cinderella, walking
with downcast mien aimlessly across his front. It was his son.
In the five minutes that had elapsed since that moment he had
endeavoured to reason things out, but it had been like groping one’s way
in the dark through some strange underworld. He was utterly bewildered,
and he was conscious of fast-growing anger. He eyed his son for a little
while petulantly, and at last he spoke.
“There is nobody anywhere about the school,” said he indignantly. “The
place is deserted. Can you offer any explanation?”
Roe did not hesitate. He was, in point of fact, glad to get it off his
chest. Besides the news was sensational and there is always a certain
gratification in breaking news of a kind that makes a man jump out of
his slippers.
He spoke incisively.
“Yes,” said he, “I think I can tell you what’s happened. The First
Fifteen have gone to Rainhurst to play the match of the season, and
every fellow in the school who could has gone over to see the game.”
The effect of this news exceeded all expectation.
For one moment his father merely looked dazed. But as he began to
recover Roe slowly backed towards the wall. Then he found himself
staring helplessly towards his father’s table, absolutely fascinated by
the fixed glare of his wide eyes shining with concentrated anger from
behind their spectacles, just as a rabbit is frozen still by the cold
eyes of a snake. His father did not speak. He just subsided slowly into
his chair and his eyes never left his son’s unhappy countenance. He was
looking him through and through, and Roe could see that he was at the
same time turning it all over in his mind and looking at this outburst
by a fettered school from every possible angle. Nothing was going to
escape consideration. The probability was that he was no more vexed at
the open lawlessness of such a match than at the astounding fact that
the officially appointed captain of football at the school had been left
out of the team by those who had selected it. He was very clearly taken
aback.
At last his lips jerked open and he spoke, but no muscle of his body
moved, and his eyes never for one instant shifted from their close
examination of his son. His voice was ominously hard and dry. He said:
“If you knew that this was going to happen why did you not mention it in
time for me to stop it?”
Roe moved a pace nearer to the wall.
“Coles said——” he began.
“Coles?” snapped the Head. “What part has he in this? Has he gone with
the team? Is Coles playing for the school?”
Roe tried to steady himself before he spoke. He answered after a
moment’s pause:
“He’s playing. But he had a reason. He thought that if he refused
suspicion would settle upon him and spoil our chance of doing any good
later on. There was another thing too. He had made a plan.”
“What plan?” The Head stood up. “Coles seems to imagine,” he exclaimed,
“that I wish him to come to my support with underhand plots. I require
no such help whatever. His suggestions of late have been an open insult
to the power of my authority. You will tell Coles that whatever I
require of him will be obtained by exacting his obedience to my
instructions and not by lending my ear to subterfuges. Coles utterly
misconceives his position. You will tell him that I am exceedingly angry
to find that to advance some plot of his own he agreed to disobey my
orders.”
Roe shivered miserably.
“And you,” declared his father, “what have you done to _stop_ this open
defiance of my instructions? You are captain of football here, and as my
own son you came to this school with a ready-made reputation. You could,
by strong action, have swayed the school to my support within a
fortnight. Instead you have been crassly inactive. This match has taken
place under your very nose and you have not so much as lifted a finger
to prevent it. We are well into the second half of term, and instead of
showing determination in tackling the state of affairs you are content
to be made ridiculous by a youngster whose sole qualification to
captaincy is his popularity. I am amazed.”
Roe moved a step farther back.
“I thought——” he began.
“Be silent,” commanded the Head. “Listen to me. Immediately Rouse
returns you will tell him to come to my room without a moment’s delay——”
Roe interrupted.
“It’s no use sending for Rouse,” said he. “Everybody who’s playing has
sworn to take a share of the blame.”
The Head stared at him. Roe proceeded to explain, but the Head was
impatient.
“I shall see Rouse,” he repeated. “And you, as captain of football, will
make it your business to give him those instructions personally. There
is another thing. Mr Nicholson has gone up to London for the day. I
understand he is returning by car very late to-night. Instruct the
porter to send to his rooms and leave word that I require to see him
here to-morrow morning immediately before chapel. You yourself will
remain about the school until Rouse returns. Whatever time it may be you
will see that he comes here forthwith. If I am not here he will wait
until I return. You clearly understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Roe, in a melancholy whisper.
The Head pointed towards the door, turned in his chair and picked up a
paper with hands that were trembling with suppressed wrath. Roe closed
the door gently behind him.
As soon as he had gone the Head threw his paper on to the floor and
stood up. He moved to the window and stood there a moment looking out
upon the school’s strange solitude. It was tea-time. By now the match
must be nearly over. Within a few hours those who had broken his strict
command would be returning and going to their respective houses.
He had until then to make up his mind as to the penalty that must be
paid. Rouse had challenged his son’s authority, and his son had proved
hopelessly unable to compete with him. Sudden keen disappointment came
into the Head’s heart. He felt extraordinarily alone. There was no
single being in the whole school who was upon his side. He had sent for
his son in the belief that his son stood out amongst ordinary boys as he
stood out amongst ordinary headmasters. His son had failed. He had
nobody now to depend upon. He stood entirely alone. But the school had
challenged him and he must find an answer.