_ CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. A QUEER PRIZE-DAY
The long Christmas term crawled slowly on unsatisfactorily to everybody. It was unsatisfactory to Loman, who, after the football match, discovered that what little popularity or influence he ever had was finally gone. It was unsatisfactory to Wraysford, who, not knowing whether to be ashamed of himself or wroth with his old friend, settled down to be miserable for the rest of the term. It was unsatisfactory to the Fifth, who felt the luck was against them, and that the cloud overhead seemed to have stuck there for good. It was unsatisfactory to Stephen, who raged and fretted twenty times a day on his brother's behalf, and got no nearer putting him right than when he began. And undoubtedly it must have been unsatisfactory to Oliver, a banished man, forgetting almost the use of tongue and ears, and, except his brother, not being able to reckon on a single friend at Saint Dominic's outside the glorious community of the Guinea-pigs.
In fact, the only section in the school to whom the term was satisfactory, was these last-named young gentlemen and their sworn foes, the Tadpoles.
Now, at last, they had a clear issue before them--Greenfield senior, was he a hero or was he a blackguard? There was no mistaking sides there. There was no unpleasant possibility of having to make common cause and proclaim an armistice. No! on the question of Greenfield senior, Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles had something to fight about from morning till night, and therefore _they_, at any rate, were happy!
"Jellicott," said Dr Senior one day, as the masters met for five minutes' talk in the head master's study, "Greenfield in the Fifth is not well, I'm afraid. I never see him out in the playground."
"Really?" said Mr Jellicott. "I'm so rarely out there that I haven't noticed. I believe, however, he is quite well."
"I hope he is not overworking," said the Doctor. "He has done so very well this term that it would be a pity if he spoiled his chance by knocking himself up."
"Greenfield senior," put in Mr Rastle, "appears to be unpopular just at present; at least, so I gather from what I have heard. I don't know what crime he has committed, but the tribunal of his class have been very severe on him, I fancy."
The Doctor laughed.
"Boys will be boys! Well, it's a relief if that's the solution of the mystery, for I was afraid he was ill. We have no right to interfere with these boyish freaks, as long as they are not mischievous. But you might keep your eye on the little comedy, Jellicott. It would be a pity for it to go too far."
Mr Jellicott did keep his eye on the little comedy, and came to the conclusion that, whatever Greenfield had done, he was being pretty severely paid out. He reported as much to the Doctor, who, however, still deprecated interference.
"We might only make things worse," said he, "by meddling. Things like this always right themselves far better than an outsider can right them. Besides, as Greenfield will get his move up after Christmas, he will be less dependent on the good graces of his present class-fellows."
And so the matter ended for the present, as far as the masters were concerned. The reader will, perhaps, feel very indignant, and declare the Doctor was neglecting his duty in treating so serious a matter so lightly. He ought (some one says) to have investigated the whole affair from beginning to end, and made sure what was the reason of the Fifth's displeasure and of Oliver's disgrace. In fact, when one comes to think of it, it is a marvel how the Doctor had not long ago guessed who took the lost examination paper, and treated the criminal accordingly.
Christmas prize-day was always a great event at Saint Dominic's. For, as all the examinations had been held at the beginning of the term, all the rewards were naturally distributed at the end of it.
Fellows who were leaving made on these occasions their last appearance before their old companions. Fellows who had earned their removes figured now for the last time as members of their old classes; and fellows who had distinguished themselves during the last year generally were patted on the back by the masters and cheered by their schoolfellows, and made much of by their sisters, and cousins, and aunts.
For ladies turned up at the Christmas prize-day at Saint Dominic's; ladies, and big brothers, and old boys, and the school governors, with the noble Earl at their head to give away the prizes. It was a great occasion. The school was decorated with flags and evergreens; Sunday togs were the order of the day; the Doctor wore his scarlet hood, and the masters their best gowns. The lecture-theatre was quite gay with red-baize carpet and unwonted cushions, and the pyramid of gorgeously-bound books awaiting the hour of distribution on the centre table.
Prize-day, too, was the object of all sorts of preparations long before the eventful date came round. Ten days at least before it arrived the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were wont secretly to buy pumice-stone for their finger ends, and used one by one to disappear casually into Maltby and come back with their hair cut. Then the Fourth Senior, who were for ever getting up testimonials to their master (they gave him a testimonial on an average twice every term), were very busy collecting contributions and discussing whether Mr Brand would prefer an ormolu mustard-pot, or a steel watch-chain, or an antimacassar. The musical set at the school, too, were busy rehearsing part songs for the evening's festivities, and the dramatic set were terribly immersed for a fortnight beforehand in the preparations for a grand charade.
Altogether the end of the Christmas term at Saint Dominic's was a busy time, and the present year was certainly no exception to the rule. Greatly to the relief of Stephen and Oliver, Mrs Greenfield found herself unable at the last moment to come down and take part in the proceedings of the eventful day. As long as the boys had expected her to come they had looked forward to prize-day with something like horror, but now that that danger was passed, Oliver recovered his old unconcern, and Stephen relapsed once more into his attitude of terror-in-chief to his big brother, snapping and snarling at any one who dared so much as to mention the name of Greenfield senior in his hearing.
Well, the day came at last, fully as grand an occasion as any one expected. The noble Earl turned up half an hour early, and spent the interval in patting the greasy heads of all the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles he came across. The mothers and sisters swarmed up and down the staircases and in and out the studies, escorted proudly by their dear Johnnys and precious Bobs. The red robes of the Doctor flashed down the corridor, and in the lecture-theatre there was such a rustling of silk gowns and waving of feather bonnets, and gleaming of white collars and sparkling patent-leather boots, as must have fairly astonished that sombre place. Every one was there--every fellow nearly had got a mother or somebody to show off to. Even Bramble turned up with a magnificent grandmother, greatly to the envy of friend and foe, and would have been the proudest Tadpole alive if the dear good old lady had not insisted on taking her descendant's _hand_ instead of his arm, and trotting him about instead of letting him trot her. Oliver and Stephen alone had no kith and kin to see them on this proud day.
In due time the lecture-theatre filled up, crowded from floor to ceiling. The noble Earl walked in amid terrific cheers and took his seat. The Doctor walked in after him, amid cheers almost as terrific, and after him the ordinary procession of governors, masters, and examiners; and when they were all seated prize-day had begun.
For up steps Mr Raleigh, the captain of the school, on to the raised dais, whence, after bowing profoundly to the noble Earl and everybody, he delivers a neat speech in honour of a good old soul who lived three or four centuries ago, and left behind him the parcel of ground on which Saint Dominic's now stands, and a hatful of money besides, to found the school. Raleigh having said his say (and how proud the smallest boys are of the captain's whiskers as they listen!), up steps Wren and commences a similar harangue in Greek. The small boys, of course, cheer this even more than the English. Then up gets Mr Winter and spins off a Latin speech, but this does not go down so well, for the juniors know a _little_ Latin, and so are a good deal more critical over that than over the Greek. The French and German speeches however, restore them to good humour, and then the speeches are done.
Then comes the noble Earl. He is an old, old man, and his voice is weak and wavering, and scarcely any one hears a word he says. Yet how they cheer him, those youngsters! They watch the back of his head, and when it bobs then they know the end of a sentence has come, and they let out accordingly.
"My dearie," says Bramble's grandmother, "don't stamp so. The poor old gentleman can't hear his own voice."
"That's no matter," says "my dearie," pounding away with his feet. "If we keep it up the old boy may give us an extra week's holiday."
The old lady subsided at this, in a resigned way; and certainly when the good old nobleman did reach his final bob, his merry, jovial face looked particularly promising for the extra week. And now the Doctor advances to the table with the prize list in his hand. The prize boys are marshalled in the background, in the order in which their names appear, and Bramble tries hard to look as if nothing but his duty to his grandmother would have kept him from forming one of that favoured band himself.
The prize list is arranged backwards way; that is, the small boys come on first and the great events last.
It is a treat to see the little mites of the First, Second, and Third Junior trot up to get their prizes. They look so pleased, and they blush so, and look so wistfully up to where their relatives are sitting, that it is quite pathetic, and the good old Earl has a vigorous wipe of his spectacles before he calls up the Fourth Junior.
"General proficiency," reads the Doctor from his list--"Watson." No one knows Watson; he is quite an obscure member of the glorious community, and so he trots in and out again without much excitement. In fact, all the best prizes of the Form go without much applause, but when the Doctor summons "Paul" to advance and receive "the second arithmetic prize," there rises a shout enough to bring down the house.
"Bravo, Guinea-pigs!" shouts one small voice up somewhere near the ceiling, whereat there is a mighty laugh and cheer, and Bramble turns crimson in the face, and tells his grandmother gloomily, "That fellow Paul is a beast!"
But the youth's face brightens when the next name is called: "Third arithmetic--Padger."
Then doth Bramble the Tadpole stand in his seat and cheer till he is hoarse, and till his grandmother pulleth him by the tail of his jacket. The hero Padger, perspiring very much in the face, but otherwise composed, takes the homage of his chief and the third arithmetic prize with becoming humility, and clears off the arena as fast as he conveniently can.
Surely the Fourth Junior have come to an end now! No! there is one more prize.
"First Latin--Greenfield junior."
This time there was a louder cheer than ever, for Stephen is a popular boy outside his own class. Oliver joins in the cheer, and Pembury and Wraysford and one or two others, and of course the Guinea-pigs, go in a lump for him. It is quite a minute before the noble Earl can get hold of the words of presentation; and when at last Stephen is dispatched, the Doctor turns round and says, "If you boys will make a _little_ less noise I dare say we shall get through the list quite as satisfactorily, and possibly a little more quickly."
"Hear, hear!" says one of the governors, and nod, nod goes the noble Earl's head.
The consequence of this is that the prizes to the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Senior are presented amid something very much like silence, which, however, grows less and less solemn as the proceedings go on. The last Fourth Senior boy to be called is the hero Forrester, who is now fully constituted a member of the first football fifteen. He gets a vehement cheer at all costs, mingled with shouts of "Well kicked, sir!"
"Hack it through!" and the like, which clearly show that the sympathy of Saint Dominic's is quite as much with the exploits accomplished by the young hero's feet as by those of his head.
Now for the Fifth! If the Doctor expects the company is to remain solemn during the next quarter of an hour he knows nothing at all about the school over which he presides.
"Fifth Form--(cheers)--French--(cheers)--Pembury--(terrific applause, during which Tony walks in demurely on his crutches and receives his well-merited award). English history--(applause)--Pembury."
Once more enter Tony on his crutches to receive another prize.
"Bravo, Tony!"
"Hurrah for the _Dominican_!"
"Well done, Editor!" rise from various parts of the hall, in the midst of which Pembury retires positively for the last time.
"First Greek prize--Wraysford."
Wraysford advances gravely and slowly. The instant he appears there arises a cheer--the mightiest of any yet. Everybody cheers, and when they have done cheering they stamp, and when they have done stamping they clap. Wraysford stands disconcerted and flushed with the demonstration, at a loss whether to smile or frown. He knows the meaning of that cheer as well as anybody, and it grates on his ear unpleasantly as he listens. What ages it seems before it is done, and the noble Earl at last holds out the book and says, "I have great pleasure, Wraysford, in handing you this prize. Your schoolfellows are all proud of you; I feel sure you deserve their good opinion. I wish you success, Wraysford;" and so saying, the good old gentleman bobs affably, and Wraysford, amid another tempest of applause, bows too, and takes off his prize.
"The next name," says the Doctor, referring to his list, "is that of the winner of the Nightingale Scholarship--(sensation)--and I may tell your lordship that the boy is, in the opinion of his examiners and myself, one of the most promising boys for his age that Saint Dominic's has known. The examiners report that his answers to the questions on the paper deserve the greatest credit. I will say only this before his face: Nightingale Scholarship--Greenfield senior."
A solemn silence marks the close of the Doctor's speech, in the midst of which Oliver, with pale face, but otherwise unmoved, advances to where the noble Earl stands. A few of the strangers greet his appearance with a clapping of hands, but the sound falls strangely on the silence all round.
The noble Earl, who is evidently ready with a neat little speech which shall sum the applause that never comes, is disconcerted at this unwonted stillness. You might hear a pin fall as the old gentleman, in dumb show, places the certificate into the boy's hand and tries to get at the words which the silence has scared away.
Oliver waits no longer than he can help. With a bow, he takes the parchment and turns to quit the scene.
It is at this moment, that somewhere or other in the hall, there rises a faint, almost whispered, hiss. Slight as it is, it falls with startling effect upon the dead silence which reigns. Then, like the first whisper of a storm, it suddenly grows and swells and rushes, angrily and witheringly, about the head of the wretched Oliver. Then as suddenly it dies away into silence, and the presentation of the Nightingale Scholarship is at an end.
The visitors, the committee, the ladies, the noble Earl, look about them in blank astonishment and misery. The Doctor's face flushes up mightily as he glares for one instant around him, and then drops his head over the prize list.
The only thing there is for him to do he does. He calls on the next name as composedly as he can, and proceeds with the business of the day.
But the magic has suddenly gone out of prize-day, and no coaxing can bring it back. The Fifth, and after them the Sixth, advance and receive their rewards amidst the listless indifference of the audience, and uncheered by the faintest spark of enthusiasm. No one takes the trouble to cheer anybody. Even Raleigh, the captain, comes in and out almost unheeded; and when at last the final name is reached, it is a relief to every one.
The rest of the day drags heavily--it is no use trying to get up the steam. The visitors are out of humour, and the noble Earl leaves early. The musical feast provided by the glee club is a failure altogether. A few only come to it, and nothing interferes with music like a poor audience.
As to the charade, it is abandoned at the last moment.
Then a great many mothers and aunts make the discovery that there is an evening train from Maltby; and having made it, act upon it; and the tide of emigration sets out forthwith.
Among the first to depart is Wraysford.
As he appears at the school door, trunk in hand, waiting for the school omnibus (which vehicle, by the way, is having a busy time of it), Pembury hobbles up, similarly equipped for the road.
"You off by this train?" says the latter to Wraysford.
"Yes; are you?"
"I may as well. I can get home by nine; and my people won't be in a great rage if I turn up earlier than they expect."
"Well, we may as well get a fly as wait for the wretched omnibus," says Wraysford. "Come along; there are flies at the corner of Hall Street."
Out walked the two, saying good-bye to one or two on the road. At the drive gate two boys are standing waiting for the omnibus. Wraysford and Pembury are upon them before they observe that these are Oliver and his brother.
What is to be done? There is no escaping them--they must pass; yet both of them, somehow, would at that moment--they couldn't tell why--have dropped into the earth.
Oliver looks up as they approach.
Now or never! Wraysford feels he must say something!
"Good-bye, Greenfield," he says. "I hope--"
Oliver quietly takes Stephen's arm and turns on his heel.
Wraysford stares after him for a moment, and then slowly goes on his way, breathing hard.
"I wonder," said Pembury, after a long silence--"I wonder, Wray, if it's possible we are wrong about that fellow?"
Wraysford says nothing.
"He doesn't act like a guilty person. Just fancy, Wray,"--and here Tony pulls up short, in a state of perturbation--"just fancy if you and I and the rest have been making fools of ourselves all the term!"
Ah! my Fifth Form heroes, just fancy! _