CRIBBING
“Et nos ergo manum ferulæ subduximus.”--Juv. i. 15.
It must not be thought that Eric’s year as a home boarder was made up of
dark experiences. Roslyn had a very bright as well as a dark side, and
Eric enjoyed it “to the finger-tips.” School-life, like all other life,
is an April day of shower and sunshine. Its joys may be more childish,
its sorrows more trifling than those of after years;--but they are more
keenly felt.
And yet, although we know it to be a mere delusion, we all idealise and
idolise our childhood. The memory of it makes pleasant purple in the
distance, and as we look back on the sunlight of its blue far-off hills,
we forget how steep we sometimes found them.
After Barker’s discomfiture, which took place some three weeks after his
arrival, Eric liked the school more and more, and got liked by it more
and more. This might have been easily foreseen, for he was the type of a
thoroughly boyish mind in its more genial and honorable characteristics,
and his round of acquaintances daily increased. Among others, a few of
the sixth, who were also day-scholars, began to notice and walk home
with him. He looked on them as great heroes, and their condescension
much increased his dignity both in his own estimation and that of
his equals.
Now, too, he began to ask some of his most intimate acquaintances to
spend an evening with him sometimes at home. This was a pleasure much
coveted, for no boy ever saw Mrs. Williams without loving her, and they
felt themselves humanised by the friendly interest of a lady who
reminded every boy of his own mother. Vernon, too, now a lively and
active child of nine, was a great pet among them, so that every one
liked Eric who “knew him at home.” A boy generally shows his best side
at home; the softening shadows of a mother’s tender influence play over
him, and tone down the roughness of boyish character. Duncan, Montagu,
and Owen were special favorites in the home circle, and Mrs. Williams
felt truly glad that her son had singled out friends who seemed, on the
whole, so desirable. But Montagu and Russell were the most frequent
visitors, and the latter became almost like one of the family; he won so
much on all their hearts that Mrs. Williams was not surprised when Eric
confided to her one day that he loved Russell almost as well as be
loved Vernon.
As Christmas approached, the boys began to take a lively interest in the
half-year’s prizes, and Eric was particularly eager about them. He had
improved wonderfully, and as both his father and mother prevented him
from being idle, even had he been so inclined, he had soon shown that
he was one of the best in the form. Two prizes were given, half-yearly
to each remove; one for “marks” indicating the boy who had generally
been highest throughout the half year, and the other for the test proofs
of proficiency in a special examination. It was commonly thought in the
form that Owen would get the first of these prizes, and Eric the other;
and towards the approach of the examination, he threw his whole energy
into the desire to win. The desire was not selfish. Some ambition was of
course natural; but he longed for the prize chiefly for the delight
which he knew his success would cause at Fairholm, and still more to his
own family.
During the last week, an untoward circumstance happened, which, while it
increased his popularity, diminished a good deal (as he thought) his
chance of success. The fourth form were learning a Homer lesson, and
Barker, totally unable to do it by his own resources, was trying to
borrow a crib. Eric, much to their mutual disgust, still sat next to him
in school, and would have helped him if he had chosen to ask; but he
never did choose, nor did Eric care to volunteer. The consequence was,
that unless he could borrow a crib, he was invariably turned, and he was
now particularly anxious to get one, because the time was nearly up.
There was a certain idle, good-natured boy, named Llewellyn, who had
“cribs” to every book they did, and who, with a pernicious _bonhommie,_
lent them promiscuously to the rest, all of whom were only too glad to
avail themselves of the help, except the few at the top of the form, who
found it a slovenly way of learning the lesson, which was sure to get
them into worse difficulties than an honest attempt to master the
meaning for themselves. Llewellyn sat at the farther end of the form in
front, so Barker scribbled in the fly-leaf of his book, “Please send us
your Homer crib,” and got the book passed on to Llewellyn, who
immediately shoved his crib in Barker’s direction. The only danger of
the transaction being noticed, was when the book was being handed from
one bench to another, and as Eric unluckily had an end seat, he had got
into trouble more than once.
On this occasion, just as Graham, the last boy on the form in front,
handed Eric the crib, Mr. Gordon happened to look up, and Eric, very
naturally anxious to screen another from trouble, popped the book under
his own Homer.
“Williams, what are you doing?”
“Nothing, Sir,” said Eric, looking up innocently.
“Bring me that book under your Homer.”
Eric blushed, hesitated--but at last, amid a dead silence, took up the
book. Mr. Gordon looked at it for a moment, let it fall on the ground,
and then, with an unnecessary affectation of disgust, took it up with
the tongs, and dropped it into the fire. There was a titter round
the room.
“Silence,” thundered the master; “this is no matter for laughing. So,
sir, _this_ is the way you get up to the top of the form?”
“I wasn’t using it, sir,” said Eric.
“Not using it! Why, I saw you put it, open, under your Homer.”
“It isn’t mine, sir.”
“Then whose is it?” Mr. Gordon looked at the fly leaf, but of course no
name was there; in those days it was dangerous to write one’s name in a
translation.
Eric was silent.
“Under the circumstances, Williams, I must punish you,” said Mr. Gordon.
“Of course I am _bound_ to believe you, but the circumstances are very
suspicious. You had no business with such a book at all. Hold out
your hand.”
As yet, Eric had never been caned. It would have been easy for him in
this case to clear himself without mentioning names, but (very rightly)
he thought it unmanly to clamor about being punished, and he felt
nettled at Mr. Gordon’s merely official belief of his word. He knew that
he had his faults, but certainly want of honor was not among them.
Indeed, there were only three boys out of the twenty in the form, who
did not resort to modes of unfairness far worse than the use of cribs,
and those three were Russell, Owen, and himself; even Duncan, even
Montagu, inured to it by custom, were not ashamed to read their lesson
off a concealed book, or copy a date from a furtive piece of paper. They
would have been ashamed of it before they came to Roslyn school, but the
commonness of the habit had now made them blind or indifferent to its
meanness. It was peculiarly bad in the fourth form, because the master
treated them with implicit confidence, and being scrupulously honorable
himself, was unsuspicious of others. He was therefore extremely
indignant at this apparent discovery of an attempt to overreach him in
a boy so promising and so much of a favorite as Eric Williams.
“Hold out your hand,” he repeated.
Eric did so, and the cane tingled sharply across his palm. He could bear
the pain well enough, but he was keenly alive to the disgrace; he, a boy
at the head of his form, to be caned in this way by a man who didn’t
understand him, and unjustly too! He mustered up an indifferent air,
closed his lips tight, and determined to give no further signs. The
defiance of his look made Mr. Gordon angry, and he inflicted in
succession five hard cuts on either hand, each one of which, was more
excruciating than the last.
“Now, go to your seat.”
Eric did go to his seat, with all his bad passions roused, and he walked
in a jaunty and defiant kind of way that made the master really grieve
at the disgrace into which he had fallen. But he instantly became a hero
with the form, who unanimously called him a great brick for not telling,
and admired him immensely for bearing up without crying under so severe
a punishment. The punishment _was_ most severe, and for some weeks after
there were dark weals visible across Eric’s palm, which rendered the use
of his hands painful.
“Poor Williams,” said Duncan, as they went out of school, “how very
plucky of you not to cry.”
“Vengeance deep brooding o’er the _cane_,
Had locked the source of softer woe;
And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the gentler tear to flow,”
said Eric, with a smile.
But he only bore up until he got home, and there, while he was telling
his father the occurrence, he burst into a storm of passionate tears,
mingled with the fiercest invectives against Mr. Gordon for his
injustice.
“Never mind, Eric,” said his father; “only take care that you never get
a punishment _justly_, and I shall always be as proud of you as I am
now. And don’t cherish this resentment, my boy; it will only do you
harm. Try to forgive and forget.”
“But, Papa, Mr. Gordon is so hasty. I have indeed been rather a favorite
of his, yet now he shows that he has no confidence in me. It is a great
shame that he shouldn’t believe my word. I don’t mind the pain; but I
shan’t like him any more, and I’m sure, now, I shan’t get the
examination prize.”
“You don’t mean, Eric, that he will be influenced by partiality in the
matter?”
“No, Papa, not exactly; at least I dare say he won’t _intend_ to be. But
it is unlucky to be on bad terms with a master, and I know I shan’t
work so well.”
On the whole, the boy was right in thinking this incident a misfortune.
Although he had nothing particular for which to blame himself, yet the
affair had increased his pride, while it lowered his self-respect; and
he had an indistinct consciousness that the popularity in his form would
do him as much harm as the change of feeling in his master. He grew
careless and dispirited, nor was it till in the very heat of the final
competition, that he felt his energies fully revived.
Half the form were as eager about the examination as the other half
were indifferent; but none were more eager than Eric. He was much
hindered by Barker’s unceasing attempt to copy his papers
surreptitiously; and very much disgusted at the shameless way in which
many of the boys “cribbed” from books, and from each other, or used torn
leaves concealed in their sleeves, or dates written on their wristbands,
and on their nails. He saw how easily much of this might have been
prevented; but Mr. Gordon was fresh at his work, and had not yet learnt
the practical lesson, that to trust young boys to any great extent, is
really to increase their temptations. He _did_ learn the lesson
afterwards, and then almost entirely suppressed the practice, partly by
increased vigilance, and partly by forbidding _any_ book to be brought
into the room during the time of examination. But meanwhile, much evil
had been done by the habitual abuse of his former confidence.
I shall not linger over the examination. At its close, the day before
the breaking-up, the list was posted on the door of the great
school-room, and most boys made an impetuous rush to see the result. But
Eric was too nervous to be present at the hour when this was usually
done, and he had asked Russell to bring him the news.
He was walking up and down the garden, counting the number of steps he
took, counting the number of shrubs along each path, and devising every
sort of means to beguile the time, when he heard hasty steps, and
Russell burst in at the back gate, breathless with haste, and bright
with excitement.
“Hurrah! old fellow,” he cried, seizing both Eric’s hands; “I never
felt so glad in my life;” and he shook his friend’s arms up and down,
laughing joyously.
“Well! tell me,” said Eric.
“First, {Owen/Williams} Aequales,” “you’ve got head remove you see, in
spite of your forebodings, as I always said you would; and I
congratulate you with all my heart.”
“No?” said Eric, “have I really?--you’re not joking? Oh! hurrah!--I must
rush in and tell them;” and he bounded off.
In a second he was back at Russell’s side. “What a selfish animal I am!
Where are you placed, Russell?”
“Oh! magnificent; I’m third;--far higher than I expected.”
“I’m so glad,” said Eric. “Come in with me and tell them. I’m head
remove, mother,” he shouted, springing into the parlor where his father
and mother sat.
In the lively joy that this announcement excited, Russell stood by for
the moment unheeded; and when Eric took him by the hand to tell them
that he was third, he hung his head, and a tear was in his eye.
“Poor boy! I’m afraid you’re disappointed,” said Mrs. Williams kindly,
drawing him to her side.
“Oh no, no! it’s not _that_,” said Russell, hastily, as he lifted his
swimming eyes towards her face.
“Are you hurt, Russell?” asked Eric, surprised.
“Oh! no; don’t ask me; I am only foolish to-day;” and with a burst of
sorrow he flung his arms round Mrs. Williams’ neck. She folded him to
her heart, and kissed him tenderly; and when his sobs would let him
speak, he whispered to her in a low tone, “It is but a year since I
became an orphan.”
“Dearest child,” she said, “look on me as a mother; I love you very
dearly for your own sake as well as Eric’s.”
Gradually he grew calmer. They made him stay to dinner and spend the
rest of the day there, and by the evening he had recovered all his usual
sprightliness. Towards sunset he and Eric went for a stroll down the
bay, and talked over the term and the examination.
They sat down on a green bank just beyond the beach, and watched the
tide come in, while the sea-distance was crimson with the glory of
evening. The beauty and the murmur filled them with a quiet happiness,
not untinged with the melancholy thought of parting the next day.
At last Eric broke the silence. “Russell, let me always call you Edwin,
and call me Eric.”
“Very gladly, Eric. Your coming here has made me so happy.” And the two
boys squeezed each other’s hands, and looked into each other’s faces,
and silently promised that they would be loving friends for ever.