with great dignity. "Go away, you quarrelsome young ruffian! Get one of
your schoolfellows to fight you, if you must fight. I don't want to be
mixed up with you in any way."
But at this Tipping, whose blood was evidently at boiling point, came
prancing down on him in a Zulu-like fashion, swinging his long arms like
a windmill, and finding that his enemy made no attempt at receiving him,
but only moved away apprehensively, he seized him by the collar as a
prelude to dealing him a series of kicks behind.
Although Mr. Bultitude, as we have seen, was opposed to fighting as a
system he could not submit to this sort of thing without at least some
attempt to defend himself; and judging it of the highest importance to
disable his adversary in the most effectual manner before the latter had
time to carry out his offensive designs, he turned sharply round and hit
him a very severe blow in the lower part of his waistcoat.
The result fulfilled his highest expectations. Tipping collapsed like a
pocket-rule, and staggered away speechless, and purple with pain, while
Paul stood calm and triumphant. He had shown these fellows that he
wasn't going to stand any nonsense. They would leave him alone after
this, perhaps.
But once more there were cries and murmurs of "Shame!" "No hitting below
the belt!" "Cad--coward!"
It appeared that, somehow, he had managed to offend their prejudices
even in this. "It's very odd," he thought; "when I didn't fight they
called me a coward, and now, when I do, I don't seem to have pleased
them much. I don't care, though. I've settled _him_."
But after a season of protracted writhing by the parallel bars, Tipping
came out, still gasping and deadly pale, leaning on Biddlecomb's
shoulder, and was met with universal sympathy and condolence.
"Thanks!" he said with considerable effort. "Of course--I'm not
going--to fight him after a low trick like that; but perhaps you fellows
will see that he doesn't escape quite as easily as he fancies?"
There was a general shout. "No; he shall pay for it! We'll teach him to
fight fair! We'll see if he tries that on again!"
Paul heard it with much uneasiness. What new devilry were they about to
practise upon him? He was not left long in doubt.
"I vote," suggested Biddlecomb, as if he were proposing a testimonial,
"we make him run the gauntlet. Grim won't come out and catch us. I saw
him go out for a drive an hour ago." And the idea was very favourably
entertained.
Paul had heard of "running the gauntlet," and dimly suspected that it
was not an experience he was likely to enjoy, particularly when he saw
everyone busying himself with tying the end of his pocket-handkerchief
into a hard knot. He tried in vain to excuse himself, declaring again
and again that he had never meant to injure the boy. He had only
defended himself, and was under the impression that he was at perfect
liberty to hit him wherever he could, and so on. But they were in no
mood for excuses.
With a stern magisterial formality worthy of a Vehm-Gericht, they formed
in two long lines down the centre of the playground; and while Paul was
still staring in wonder at what this strange manoeuvre might mean,
somebody pounced upon him and carried him up to one end of the ranks,
where Tipping had by this time sufficiently recovered to be able to "set
him going," as he chose to call it, with a fairly effective kick.
After that he had a confused sense of flying madly along the double line
of avengers under a hail of blows which caught him on every part of his
head, shoulders, and back till he reached the end, where he was
dexterously turned and sent spinning up to Tipping again, who in his
turn headed him back on his arrival, and forced him to brave the
terrible lane once more.
Never before had Mr. Bultitude felt so sore and insulted. But they kept
it up long after the thing had lost its first freshness--until at last
exhaustion made them lean to mercy, and they cuffed him ignominiously
into a corner, and left him to lament his ill-treatment there till the
bell rang for dinner, for which, contrary to precedent, his recent
violent exercise had excited little appetite.
"I shall be killed soon if I stay here," he moaned; "I know I shall.
These young brigands would murder me cheerfully, if they were not
afraid of being caned for it. I'm a miserable man, and I wish I was
dead!"
Although that afternoon, being Saturday, was a half-holiday, Mr.
Bultitude was spared the ordeal of another game at football; for a smart
storm of rain and sleet coming on about three o'clock kept the
school--not altogether unwilling prisoners--within doors for the day.
The boys sat in their places in their schoolroom, amusing themselves
after their several fashions--some reading, some making libellous copies
of drawings that took their fancy in the illustrated papers, some
playing games; others, too listless to play and too dull to find
pleasure in the simplest books, filled up the time as well as they could
by quarrelling and getting into various depths of hot water. Paul sat in
a corner pretending to read a story relating the experiences of certain
infants of phenomenal courage and coolness in the Arctic regions. They
killed bears and tamed walruses all through the book; but for the first
time, perhaps, since their appearance in print their exploits fell flat.
Not, however, that this reflected any discredit upon the author's
powers, which are justly admired by all healthy-minded boys; but it was
beyond the power of literature just then to charm Mr. Bultitude's
thoughts from the recollection of his misfortunes.
As he took in all the details of his surroundings--the warm close room;
the raw-toned desks and tables at which a rabble of unsympathetic boys
were noisily whispering and chattering, with occasional glances in his
direction, from which, taught by experience, he augured no good; the
high uncurtained windows, blurred with little stars of half-frozen rain,
and the bare, bleak branches of the trees outside tossing drearily
against a low leaden sky--he tried in vain to cheat himself into a
dreamy persuasion that all this misery could not be real, but would fade
away as suddenly and mysteriously as it had stolen upon him.
Towards the close of the afternoon the Doctor came in and took his
place at the writing-table, where he was apparently very busy with the
composition of some sort of document, which he finished at last with
evident satisfaction at the result of his labour. Then he observed that,
according to their custom of a Saturday afternoon, the hour before
tea-time should be devoted to "writing home."
So the books, chess-boards, and dominoes were all put away, and a new
steel pen and a sheet of notepaper, neatly embossed with the heading
"Crichton House School" in old English letters, having been served out
to everyone, each boy prepared himself to write down such things as
filial affection, strict truthfulness, and the desire of imparting
information might inspire between them.
Paul felt, as he clutched his writing materials, much as a shipwrecked
mariner might be expected to do at finding on his desolate island a
good-sized flag and a case of rockets. His hopes revived once more; he
forgot the smarts left by the knots in the handkerchiefs, he had a whole
hour before him--it was possible to set several wires in motion for his
release in an hour.
Yes, he must write several letters. First, one to his solicitor
detailing, as calmly and concisely as his feelings would allow, the
shameful way in which he had been treated, and imploring him to take
measures of some sort for getting him out of his false and awkward
position; one to his head clerk, to press upon him the necessity of
prudence and caution in dealing with the impostor; notes to Bangle and
Fishwick putting them off--they should not be outraged by an
introduction to a vulgar pantomime clown under his roof; and lastly
(this was an outburst he could not deny himself), a solemn impressive
appeal to the common humanity, if not to the ordinary filial instincts,
of his undutiful son.
His fingers tingled to begin. Sentences of burning, indignant eloquence
crowded confusedly into his head--he would write such letters as would
carry instant conviction to the most practical and matter-of-fact
minds. The pathos and dignity of his remonstrances should melt even
Dick's selfish, callous heart.
Perhaps he overrated the power of his pen--perhaps it would have
required more than mere ink to persuade his friends to disbelieve their
own senses, and see a portly citizen of over fifty packed into the frame
of a chubby urchin of fourteen. But, at all events, no one's faith was
put to so hard a test--those letters were never written.
"Don't begin to write yet, any of you," said the Doctor; "I have a few
words to say to you first. In most cases, and as a general rule, I think
it wisest to let every boy commit to paper whatever his feelings may
dictate to him. I wish to claim no censorship over the style and diction
of your letters. But there have been so many complaints lately from the
parents of some of the less advanced of you, that I find myself obliged
to make a change. Your father particularly, Richard Bultitude," he
added, turning suddenly upon the unlucky Paul, "has complained bitterly
of the slovenly tone and phrasing of your correspondence; he said very
justly that they would disgrace a stable-boy, and unless I could induce
you to improve them, he begged he might not be annoyed by them in
future."
It was by no means the least galling part of Mr. Bultitude's trials,
that former forgotten words and deeds of his in his original condition
were constantly turning up at critical seasons, and plunging him deeper
into the morass just when he saw some prospect of gaining firm ground.
So, on this occasion, he did remember that, being in a more than usually
bad temper one day last year, he had, on receiving a sprawling,
ill-spelt application from Dick for more pocket-money, to buy fireworks
for the 5th of November, written to make some such complaint to the
schoolmaster. He waited anxiously for the Doctor's next words; he might
want to read the letters before they were sent off, in which case Paul
would not be displeased, for it would be an easier and less dangerous
way of putting the Doctor in possession of the facts.
But his complaints were to be honoured by a much more effectual remedy,
for it naturally piqued the Doctor to be told that boys instructed under
his auspices wrote like stable-boys. "However," he went on, "I wish your
people at home to be assured from time to time of your welfare, and to
prevent them from being shocked and distressed in future by the crudity
of your communications, I have drawn up a short form of letter for the
use of the lower boys in the second form--which I shall now proceed to
dictate. Of course all boys in the first form, and all in the second
above Bultitude and Jolland, will write as they please, as usual.
Richard, I expect you to take particular pains to write this out neatly.
Are you all ready? Very well then, ... now;" and he read out the
following letter, slowly--
"My dear Parents (or parent according to circumstances) comma" (all of
which several took down most industriously)--"You will be rejoiced to
hear that, having arrived with safety at our destination, we have by
this time fully resumed our customary regular round of earnest work
relieved and sweetened by hearty play. ('Have you all got "hearty play"
down?'" inquired the Doctor rather suspiciously, while Jolland observed
in an undertone that it would take some time to get _that_ down.) "I
hope, I trust I may say without undue conceit, to have made considerable
progress in my school-tasks before I rejoin the family circle for the
Easter vacation, as I think you will admit when I inform you of the
programme we intend" ('D.V. in brackets and capital letters'--as before,
this was taken down verbatim by Jolland, who probably knew very much
better), "intend to work out during the term.
"In Latin, the class of which I am a member propose to thoroughly master
the first book of Virgil's magnificent Epic, need I say I refer to the
soul-moving story of the Pious AEneas?" (Jolland was understood by his
near neighbours to remark that he thought the explanation distinctly
advisable), "whilst, in Greek, we have already commenced the thrilling
account of the 'Anabasis' of Xenophon, that master of strategy! nor
shall we, of course, neglect in either branch of study the syntax and
construction of those two noble languages"--("noble languages," echoed
the writers mechanically, contriving to insinuate a touch of irony into
the words).
"In German under the able tutelage of Herr Stohwasser, who, as I may
possibly have mentioned to you in casual conversation, is a graduate of
the University of Heidelberg" ("and a silly old hass," added Jolland
parenthetically), "we have resigned ourselves to the spell of the
Teutonian Shakespeare" (there was much difference of opinion as to the
manner of spelling the "Teutonian Shakespeare"), "as, in my opinion,
Schiller may be not inaptly termed, and our French studies comprise such
exercises, and short poems and tales, as are best calculated to afford
an insight into the intricacies of the Gallic tongue.
"But I would not have you imagine, my dear parents (or parent, as
before), that, because the claims of the intellect have been thus amply
provided for, the requirements of the body are necessarily overlooked!
"I have no intention of becoming a mere bookworm, and, on the contrary,
we have had one excessively brisk and pleasant game at football already
this season, and should, but for the unfortunate inclemency of the
weather, have engaged again this afternoon in the mimic warfare.
"In the playground our favourite diversion is the game of 'chevy,' so
called from the engagement famed in ballad and history (I allude to the
battle of Chevy Chase), and indeed, my dear parents, in the rapid
alternations of its fortunes and the diversity of its incident, the game
(to my mind) bears a striking resemblance to the accounts of that
ever-memorable contest.
"I fear I must now relinquish my pen, as the time allotted for
correspondence is fast waning to its close, and tea-time is approaching.
Pray give my kindest remembrance to all my numerous friends and
relatives, and accept my fondest love and affection for yourselves, and
the various other members of the family circle.
"I am, I am rejoiced to say, in the enjoyment of excellent health, and
surrounded as I am by congenial companions, and employed in interesting
and agreeable pursuits, it is superfluous to add that I am happy.
"And now, my dear parents, believe me, your dutiful and affectionate
son, so and so."
The Doctor finished his dictation with a roll in his voice, as much as
to say, "I think that will strike your respective parents as a chaste
and classical composition; I think so!"
But unexceptionable as its tone and sentiments undoubtedly were, it was
far from expressing the feelings of Mr. Bultitude. The rest accepted it
not unwillingly as an escape from the fatigue of original composition,
but to him the neat, well-balanced sentences seemed a hollow mockery. As
he wrote down each successive phrase, he wondered what Dick would think
of it, and when at last it was finished, the precious hour had gone for
another week!
In speechless disgust but without protest, for his spirit was too broken
by this last cruel disappointment, he had to fold, put into an envelope
and direct this most misleading letter under the Doctor's superintending
eye, which of course allowed him no chance of introducing a line or even
a word to counteract the tone of self-satisfaction and contentment which
breathed in every sentence of it.
He saw it stamped, and put into the postbag, and then his last gleam of
hope flickered out; he must give up struggling against the Inevitable;
he must resign himself to be educated, and perhaps flogged here, while
Dick was filling his house with clowns and pantaloons, destroying his
reputation and damaging his credit at home. Perhaps, in course of time,
he would grow accustomed to it, and, meanwhile, he would be as careful
as possible to do and say nothing to make himself remarkable in any way,
by which means he trusted, at least, to avoid any fresh calamity.
And with this resolution he went to bed on Saturday night, feeling that
this was a dreary finish to a most unpleasant week.
11. _A Day of Rest_
"There was a letter indeed to be intercepted by a man's father to
do him good with him!"--_Every Man in his Humour._
"I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter,
Sent to my son; nor leave t' admire the change
Of manners, and the breeding of our youth
Within the kingdom, since myself was one."--_Ibid._
Sunday came--a day which was to begin a new week for Mr. Bultitude, and,
of course, for the rest of the Christian world as well. Whether that
week would be better or worse than the one which had just passed away he
naturally could not tell--it could hardly be much worse.
But the Sunday itself, he anticipated, without, however, any very firm
grounds for such an assumption, would be a day of brief but grateful
respite; a day on which he might venture to claim much the same immunity
as was enjoyed in former days by the insolvent; a day, in short, which
would glide slowly by with the rather drowsy solemnity peculiar to the
British sabbath as observed by all truly respectable persons.
And yet that very Sunday, could he have foreseen it, was destined to be
the most eventful day he had yet spent at Crichton House, where none had
proved wanting in incident. During the next twelve hours he was to pass
through every variety of unpleasant sensation. Embarrassment, suspense,
fear, anxiety, dismay, and terror were to follow each other in rapid
succession, and to wind up, strangely enough, with a delicious ecstasy
of pure relief and happiness--a fatiguing programme for any middle-aged
gentleman who had never cultivated his emotional faculties.
Let me try to tell how this came about. The getting-up bell rang an hour
later than on week-days, but the boys were expected to prepare certain
tasks suitable for the day before they rose. Mr. Bultitude found that he
was required to learn by heart a hymn in which the rhymes "join" and
"divine," "throne" and "crown," were so happily wedded that either might
conform to the other--a graceful concession to individual taste which is
not infrequent in this class of poetry. Trivial as such a task may seem
in these days of School Boards, it gave him infinite trouble and mental
exertion, for he had not been called upon to commit anything of the kind
to memory for many years, and after mastering that, there still remained
a long chronological list (the dates approximately computed) of the
leading events before and immediately after the Deluge, which was to be
repeated "without looking at the book."
While he was wrestling desperately with these, for he was determined, as
I have said before, to do all in his power to keep himself out of
trouble, Mrs. Grimstone, in her morning wrapper, paid a visit to the
dormitories and, in spite of all Paul's attempts to excuse himself,
insisted upon pomatuming his hair--an indignity which he felt acutely.
"When she knows who I really am," he thought, "she'll be sorry she made
such a point of it. If there's one thing upon earth I loathe more than
another, it's marrow-oil pomade!"
Then there was breakfast, at which Dr. Grimstone appeared, resplendent
in glossy broadcloth, and dazzling shirt-front and semi-clerical white
tie, and after breakfast, an hour in the schoolroom, during which the
boys (by the aid of repeated references to the text) wrote out "from
memory" the hymn they had learnt, while Paul managed somehow to stumble
through his dates and events to the satisfaction of Mr. Tinkler, who, to
increase his popularity, made a point of being as easily satisfied with
such repetitions as he decently could.
After that came the order to prepare for church. There was a general
rush to the little room with the shelves and bandboxes, where church
books were procured, and great-coats and tight kid gloves put on.
When they were almost ready the Doctor came in, wearing his blandest and
most paternal expression.
"A--it's a collection Sunday to-day, boys," he said. "Have you all got
your threepenny-bits ready? I like to see my boys give cheerfully and
liberally of their abundance. If any boy does not happen to have any
small change, I can accommodate him if he comes to me."
And this he proceeded to do from a store he had with him of that most
convenient coin--the chosen expression of a congregation's
gratitude--the common silver threepence, for the school occupied a
prominent position in the church, and had acquired a great reputation
amongst the churchwardens for the admirable uniformity with which one
young gentleman after another "put into the plate"; and this reputation
the Doctor was naturally anxious that they should maintain.
I am sorry to say that Mr. Bultitude, fearing lest he should be asked if
he had the required sum about him, and thus his penniless condition
might be discovered and bring him trouble, got behind the door at the
beginning of the money-changing transactions and remained there till it
was over--it seemed to him that it would be too paltry to be disgraced
for want of threepence.
Now, being thus completely furnished for their devotions, the school
formed in couples in the hall and filed solemnly out for the march to
church.
Mr. Bultitude walked nearly last with Jolland, whose facile nature had
almost forgotten his friend's shortcomings on the previous day. He kept
up a perpetual flow of chatter which, as he never stopped for an answer,
permitted Paul to indulge his own thoughts unrestrained.
"Are you going to put your threepenny-bit in?" said Jolland; "I won't if
you don't. Sometimes, you know, when the plate comes round, old Grim
squints down the pews to see we don't shirk. Then I put in sixpence.
Have you done your hymn? I do hate a hymn. What's the use of learning
hymns? They won't mark you for them, you know, in any exam. I ever heard
of, and it can't save you the expense of a hymnbook unless you learnt
all the hymns in it, and that would take you years. Oh, I say, look!
there's young Mutlow and his governor and mater. I wonder what Mutlow's
governor does? Mutlow says he's a 'gentleman' if you ask him, but I
believe he lies. See that fly driving past? Mother Grim" (the irreverent
youth always spoke of Mrs. Grimstone in this way) "and Dulcie are in it.
I saw Dulcie look at you, Dick. It's a shame to treat her as you did
yesterday. There's young Tom on the box; don't his ears stick out
rummily? I wonder if the 'ugly family' will be at church to-day? You
know the ugly family; all with their mouths open and their eyes
goggling, like a jolly old row of pantomime heads. And oh, Dick, suppose
Connie Davenant's people have changed their pew--that'll be a sell for
you rather, won't it?"
"I don't understand you," said Mr. Bultitude stiffly; "and, if you don't
object, I prefer not to be called upon to talk just now."
"Oh, all right!" said Jolland, "there aren't so many fellows who will
talk to you; but just as you please--I don't want to talk."
And so the pair walked on in silence; Jolland with his nose in the air,
determined that after this he really must cut his former friend as the
other fellows had done, since his devotion was appreciated so little,
and Paul watching the ascending double line of tall chimney-pot hats as
they surged before him in regular movement, and feeling a dull wonder at
finding himself setting out to church in such ill-assorted company.
They entered the church, and Paul was sent down to the extreme end of a
pew next to the one reserved for the Doctor and his family. Dulcie was
sitting there already on the other side of the partition; but she gave
no sign of having noticed his arrival, being apparently absorbed in
studying the rose-window over the altar.