_ CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. AT COVENTRY
Were you ever at Coventry, reader? I don't mean the quaint old Warwickshire city, but that other place where from morning till night you are shunned and avoided by everybody? Where friends with whom you were once on the most intimate terms now pass you without a word, or look another way as you go by? Where, whichever way you go, you find yourself alone? Where every one you speak to is deaf, every one you appear before is blind, every one you go near has business somewhere else? Where you will be left undisturbed in your study for a week, to fag for yourself, study by yourself, disport yourself with yourself? Where in the playground you will be as solitary as if you were in the desert, in school you will be a class by yourself, and even in church on Sundays you will feel hopelessly out in the cold among your fellow-worshippers?
If you have ever been to such a place, you can imagine Oliver Greenfield's experiences during this Christmas term at Saint Dominic's.
When the gentlemen of the Fifth Form had once made up their minds to anything, they generally carried it through with great heartiness, and certainly they never succeeded better in any undertaking than in this of "leaving Oliver to himself."
The only drawback to their success was that the proceeding appeared to have little or no effect on the _very_ person on whose behalf it was undertaken. Not that Oliver could be _quite_ insensible of the honours paid him. He could not--they were too marked for that. And without doubt they were as unpleasant as they were unmistakable. But, for any sign of unhappiness he displayed, the whole affair might have been a matter of supreme indifference to him. Indeed, it looked quite as much as if Greenfield had sent the Fifth to Coventry as the Fifth Greenfield. If they determined none of them to speak to him, he was equally determined none of them should have the chance; and if it was part of their scheme to leave him as much as possible to himself, they had little trouble in doing it, for he, except when inevitable, never came near them.
Of course this was dreadfully irritating to the Fifth! The moral revenge they had promised themselves on the disgracer of their class never seemed to come off. The wind was taken out of their sails at every turn. The object of their aversion was certainly not reduced to humility or penitence by their conduct; on the contrary, one or two of them felt decidedly inclined to be ashamed of themselves and feel foolish when they met their victim.
Oliver always had been a queer fellow, and he now came out in a queerer light than ever.
Having once seen how the wind lay, and what he had to expect from the Fifth, he altered the course of his life to suit the new circumstances with the greatest coolness. Instead of going up the river in a pair-oar or a four, he now went up in a sculling boat or a canoe, and seemed to enjoy himself quite as much. Instead of doing his work with Wraysford evening after evening, he now did it undisturbed by himself, and, to judge by his progress in class, more successfully than ever. Instead of practising with the fifteens at football, he went in for a regular course of practice in the gymnasium, and devoted himself with remarkable success to the horizontal bar and the high jump. Instead of casting in his lot in class with a jovial though somewhat distracting set, he now kept his mind free for his studies, and earned the frequent commendation of the Doctor and Mr Jellicott.
Now, reader, I ask you, if you had been one of the Fifth of Saint Dominic's would not all this have been very riling? Here was a fellow convicted of a shameful piece of deceit, caught, one might say, in the very act, and by his own conduct as good as admitting it. Here was a fellow, I say, whom every sensible boy ought to avoid, not only showing himself utterly indifferent to the aversion of his class-fellows, but positively thriving and triumphing before their very faces! Was it any wonder if they felt very sore, and increasingly sore on the subject of Oliver Greenfield?
One boy, of course, stuck to the exile through thick and thin. If Oliver had murdered all Saint Dominic's with slow poison, Stephen would have stuck to him to the end, and he stuck to him now. He, at least, never once admitted that his brother was guilty. When slowly he first discovered what were the suspicions of the Fifth, and what was the common talk of the school about Oliver, the small boy's indignation was past description. He rushed to his brother.
"Do you hear the lies the fellows are telling about you, Noll?"
"Yes," said Oliver.
"Why don't you stop it, and tell them?"
"What's the use? I've told them once. If they don't choose to believe it, they needn't."
Any other boy would, of course, have taken this as clear evidence of the elder brother's guilt; but it only strengthened the small boy's indignation.
"_I'll_ let them know, if _you_ won't!" and forthwith he went and proceeded to make himself a perfect nuisance in the school. He began with Wraysford.
"I say, Wray," he demanded, "do you hear all the lies the fellows are telling about Noll?"
"Don't make a row now," said Wraysford, shortly. "I'm busy." But Stephen had no notion of being put down.
"The fellows say he stole an exam paper, the blackguards! I'd like to punch all their heads, and I will too!"
"Clear out of my study, now," said Wraysford, sharply.
Stephen stared at him a moment. Then his face grew pale as he grasped the meaning of it all.
"I say, Wray, surely _you_ don't believe it?" he cried.
"Go away now," was Wraysford's only answer.
But this did not suit Stephen, his blood was up, and he meant to have it out.
"Surely _you_ don't believe it?" he repeated, disregarding the impatience of the other; "_you_ aren't a blackguard, like the rest?"
"Do you hear what I tell you?" said Wraysford.
"No, and I don't mean to!" retorted the irate Stephen. "If you were anything of a friend you'd stand up for Oliver. You're a beast, Wraysford, that's what you are!" continued he, in a passion. "You're a blackguard! you're a liar! I could kill you!"
And the poor boy, wild with rage and misery, actually flung himself blindly upon his brother's old friend--the saviour of his own life.
Wraysford was not angry. There was more of pity in his face than anger as he took the small boy by the arm and led him to the door. Stephen no longer resisted. After giving vent to the first flood of his anger, misery got the upper hand of him, and he longed to go anywhere to hide it. He could have endured to know that Oliver was suspected by a good many of the fellows, but to find Wraysford among them was a cruel blow.
But in due time his indignation again came to the fore, and he ventured on another crusade. This time it was to Pembury. He knew before he went he had little enough to expect from the sharp-tongued editor of the _Dominican_, so he went hoping little.
To his surprise, however, Pembury was kinder than usual. He told him plainly that he did suspect Oliver, and explained why, and advised Stephen, if he were wise, to say as little about Oliver as possible at present. The young champion was quite cowed by this unexpected reception. He did his best to fly in a rage and be defiant, but it was no use, and he retired woefully discomfited from the interview.
Others to whom he applied, when once again his anger got the better of his wretchedness, met him with taunts, others with contempt, others with positive unkindness; and after a week Stephen gave it up and retired in dudgeon to the territory of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, determined that there at least he would, at the edge of the knuckle, if needs be, compel a faction to declare for his brother.
In this undertaking, I need hardly say, he was eminently successful. There were those among the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles who were ready to declare for anybody or anything as long as there was a chance of a row on the head of it. Already the question of Greenfield senior had been occupying their magnificent minds. When the story first fell suddenly into their midst, it was so surprising that, like the frogs and the log in the fable, they were inclined to be a little shy of it. But, gradually becoming accustomed to it, and looking carefully into it from all sides, it seemed somehow to contain the promise of a jolly row, and their hearts warmed to it proportionally. No one quite liked to start the thing at first, for fear doubtless of not doing it full justice, but it only wanted a spark to kindle the whole lower school on the question of Greenfield senior. Stephen it was who supplied the spark.
He entered the Fourth Juror room one day, after one of the unsuccessful crusades of which we have spoken, utterly cast down and out of humour. He flung his cap on to the peg, and himself on to his seat, in an unusually agitated manner, and then, to the astonishment of everybody, broke out into tears!
This was a rare and glorious opportunity, of course, for Bramble.
"Beastly young blub-baby!" exclaimed that doughty hero, "you're always blubbing! I never knew such a fellow to blub, did you, Padger?"
Padger said it was worse than the baby at home, and the two thereupon started a mocking caterwaul on their own account, in which not a few of their nearest and dearest friends joined.
This performance had the effect of restoring Stephen's composure. Hastily dashing away his tears, he flew with unwonted wrath at his enemy. Bramble, however, managed to get behind Padger and the rest, and thus fortified shouted out, "Yah, boo, howling young sucking pig! go home to your mammy, or your great big cheat of a blackguard thief of a caddish big brother! Do you hear? Who stole the exam paper? Eh, Padger? Yah, boo, pack of sneaking Guinea-pigs!"
This last objurgation, which was quite unnecessary to the beauty or force of the speech, gave rise to a huge tumult.
The Guinea-pigs present took it up as a direct challenge to themselves, and it decided them instantly to declare in favour of Stephen and his big brother. Paul led the attack.
"Shut up, you young cad, will you?" said he; "you know well enough _you_ stole the paper."
Of course no one, not even Paul himself, attached any meaning to such an absurd accusation, but it came conveniently to hand.
This declaration of war was promptly taken up on all sides, and for a short period the Fourth Junior had a rather dusty appearance. When at length a little order was restored, a lively discussion on the crime of Greenfield senior ensued. The Tadpoles to a man believed in it, and gave it as their candid opinion that the fellow ought to be hung. "Yes, and expelled too!" added a few of the more truculent.
The Guinea-pigs, on the other hand, whatever they thought, protested vehemently that Greenfield senior was the most virtuous, heroic, saintly, and jolly fellow in all Saint Dominic's, and denounced the Tadpoles and all the rest of the school as the most brutal ruffians in Christendom.
"They ought all to be expelled, every one of them," said one; "all except Greenfield senior, and I hope they will be."
"All I know is," said Paul, "I'll let them have a bit of my mind, some of them."
"So will I," said another.
"You haven't got any to give 'em a bit of," squealed Bramble, "so now!"
"All right, I'll give 'em a bit of _you_ then," retorted Paul.
"You wouldn't get any of them to touch him with a pair of tongs," added another.
This was too much for Bramble, and another brief period of dust ensued. Then, comparative quiet once more prevailing, Paul said, "I tell you what, _I_ mean to stick to Greenfield senior."
"So do I," said another youth, with his face all over ink. "I mean _to fag_ for him."
"So do I!" shouted another.
"So do I!" shouted another.
And a general chorus of assent hailed the idea.
"We'll all fag for him, I vote, eh, Stee?" said Paul, "the whole lot of us! My eye, that'll be prime! Won't the others just about look black and blue!"
It was a magnificent idea! And no sooner conceived than executed.
There was a great rush of Guinea-pigs to Oliver's study. He was not there. So much the better. They would give him a delightful surprise!
So they proceeded straightway to empty his cupboards and drawers, to polish up his cups, to unfold his clothes and fold them again, to take down his books and put them up again, to upset his ink and mop it up with one of his handkerchiefs, to make his tea and spill it on the floor, to dirty his collars with their inky hands, to clean his boots with his hat-brush, and many other thoughtful and friendly acts calculated to make the heart of their hero glad.
In the midst of their orgies, Wraysford and Pembury passed the door, and stopped to look in, wondering what on earth the tumult was about. But they were greeted with such a storm of yells and hisses that they passed on, a little uneasy in their minds as to whether or no hydrophobia had broken out in Saint Dominic's.
After them a detachment of Tadpoles, headed by Bramble appeared on the scene, for the purpose of mocking. But, whatever their purpose may have been, it was abandoned for more active opposition when Paul presently emptied a tumblerful of lukewarm tea in the face of Master Bramble.
A notable battle was fought on the threshold of Greenfield senior's study, in which many were wounded on both sides, and in the midst of which Oliver arrived on the scene, kicking right and left, and causing a general rout.
How their hero appreciated the attentions his admirers had paid him during his absence the Guinea-pigs did not remain or return to ascertain. They took for granted he was grateful, and bashfully kept out of the way of his thanks for a whole day.
After that their enthusiasm returned, but this time it found a new vent. They decided that, although they would all fag for him to the end of his days, they would not for a season, at any rate, solicit jobs from him, but rather encourage him by their sympathy and applause at a more respectful distance.
So they took to cheering him in the playground, and following him down the passages. And this not being enough, they further relieved themselves by hooting (at a respectful distance also) the chiefs of the senior school, whose opinions on the question of Greenfield senior were known not to agree with their own.
If Oliver was not grateful for all this moral support in his trouble, he must have been a villain indeed of the deepest dye. He never said in so many words he was grateful; but then the Guinea-pigs remembered that feelings are often too deep and too many for words, and so took for granted the thanks which their consciences told them they deserved.
Meanwhile a fresh number of the _Dominican_ was in progress, and rapidly nearing the hour of publication. _