Perhaps the most patriotic rejoicings that evening were in Welch’s house. They cared but little about the rivalry between Parrett’s, and the schoolhouse, and were therefore free to exult as Willoughbites pure and simple, bestowing, of course, a special cheer on their own man, Riddell, who, though not having performed prodigies, had yet done honest work for his eleven, and at any rate made one smart catch.
“I tell you what,” said Fairbairn, who along with Coates and Porter had escaped from the violent applause of the schoolhouse and sought refuge that evening in the captain’s study—“I tell you what, I’m getting perfectly sick of this everlasting schoolhouse against Parrett business.”
“So am I,” said Porter. “As if they need go into the sulks because our fellows did better than they did!”
“They’ve brought it on themselves, anyhow,” said Coates, “and it may do them good to have to sing small for once.”
“I’m afraid if it had been the other way our fellows would have been just as much cut up as theirs are,” said Fairbairn. “Upon my word I half envy you, Riddell, old man, being a Welcher.”
Riddell smiled.
“Our fellows certainly consider themselves free to abuse or cheer all round, without the least partiality. Listen to them now.”
And certainly the hubbub that was going on was a trifle outrageous, even for Welchers.
Indeed it was so outrageous that Riddell was obliged to ask his visitors to excuse him for a moment while he went and quieted them.
As he opened the door of the preparation-room, where the house was assembled, a louder cheer than ever arose in his honour; and then those who waited in the study heard a general lull in the noise, which continued in subdued animation after he had left the scene and returned to his friends.
This casual illustration of the captain’s influence in his new house was quite a revelation to the three schoolhouse monitors.
“Why, what do you do to them to shut them up like that?” asked Coates, with something like envy in his tones. “It takes half an hour’s bawling to stop a row like that in our house, and a licking or two into the bargain; doesn’t it, you fellows?”
Riddell laughed.
“They are cricket-mad at present,” said he, “and I suppose they’re afraid of having their match against Parrett’s stopped.”
It was a modest way, no doubt, of accounting for their obedience to his authority; but whatever the reason might be, it was certain the captain had no further occasion to interfere that evening.
“There’s one comfort about this match,” said Fairbairn, after a pause, “we probably shall not hear any more of that wretched boat-race now.”
Whatever induced him to start this most unfortunate topic at this time of all others?
Riddell, who amid all the excitement of the match had contrived partially to forget the burden that lay on his spirit, started uncomfortably at the words, and his face changed to one of undisguised trouble. The others could hardly help noticing it.
“No, we’re never likely to get at the bottom of it,” said Porter; “so the sooner it drops the better.”
“It’s very odd, all the same,” said Fairbairn, “that there’s not been a single hint as to who did it. I wonder if, perhaps, we were wrong in taking for granted it was more than an accident.”
This last question was addressed to Riddell, who replied, nervously and uneasily, “No, that is, yes. It can’t have been. I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.”
His three friends looked perplexed by his sudden confusion and change of manner, and Porter had the presence of mind to change the subject.
“I hear there’s a jolly row on between Silk and Gilks,” said he. “No one knows exactly why.”
“I heard it was a bet,” said Coates.
“At any rate they’ve had a split,” said Porter.
“They never did much good while they were in partnership,” said Coates. “Young Wyndham got rather drawn in by them, I heard.”
“Rather!” said Fairbairn. “He was precious near going to the dogs altogether if old Riddell here hadn’t pulled him up.”
Riddell seemed to lack spirit to join in the conversation, which continued without him.
“Yes, the young ’un cuts them dead now,” said Porter, “but he’s a bit afraid of them still, I fancy.”
“I suppose they could let out upon him about some scrape or other,” said Coates, “and that’s what gives them a pull.”
“Anyhow, it’s a good job he has pulled up,” said Fairbairn, “for he’s not a bad youngster. He’s got into the second-eleven just lately, and is tremendously proud of it. He’s vowed he’ll get old Wyndham to come down and umpire in the match with Templeton second-eleven next month.”
All this talk was anything but pleasant for poor Riddell. Little did the speakers dream of the connection between the boat-race and young Wyndham; in fact, the latter topic, as he knew quite well, had been started on purpose to get over the awkwardness which his own confusion about the former had caused.
But to Riddell, with that knife burning in his pocket, it was all one prolonged torture, so that he was heartily glad when at length his friends rose to depart.
He excused himself from walking across the quadrangle with them, and said good-night in a spiritless way, very different from the cheery manner in which he had welcomed them an hour ago.
“I never saw such a rum fellow as Riddell,” said Coates, as the three strolled over. “Did you see how cut up he got when something was said about the boat-race?”
“He’s a little cracked on that subject,” said Fairbairn. “I do believe, until the culprit is found out, he considers himself responsible for the whole affair.”
“Well, to judge by his looks he might have been the culprit himself,” said Porter, laughing. “Hullo, here’s young Wyndham.”
“Where are you off to?” asked Fairbairn, with due monitorial solemnity, of that flighty youth; “don’t you know it’s nearly eight?”
“Oh, do you mind my going across to Riddell’s?” asked the boy; “he’ll think I’ve cut him if I don’t show up. I’ve not been to his room for half a week.”
“It’s a curious thing he has survived it so long,” said Fairbairn, laughing. “Mind you are back by 8:30, though, for I’ll have lock-up punctual to-night, while there’s so much row going on.”
“Thanks, Fairbairn,” said Wyndham. “I say, what a stunning score our house knocked up in the second innings. Why, we—”
“Cut off,” cried Fairbairn, “and tell Riddell all about it. Come on, you fellows.”
Wyndham hurried on full of the prospect of a talk over the match with Riddell.
Just at the door of Welch’s, however, he met Silk.
The two had scarcely met since the day of the election, when Wyndham, to spite Riddell, had joined himself to this bad friend, and yielded to his persuasion to go down, against leave, to Shellport.
“Oh, young ’un,” said Silk, in friendly tones, “you turned up? I’d almost given you up for good.”
“I’m going to Riddell’s,” said Wyndham, determined for once to stand by his colours and have nothing more to do with this tempter.
Silk’s face fell, as it always did when Riddell’s name was mentioned. He had imagined the boy was coming to see him, and it did not please him to find himself mistaken.
“Are you?” said he. “Come along to my study first, though; I want to speak to you.”
“I can’t come, thank you,” said Wyndham.
“Can’t! Why ever not?” exclaimed Silk.
“I don’t want to come, that’s why,” said Wyndham, doggedly, and attempting to move past.
But this by no means suited Silk.
“Suppose I tell you you must come,” demanded he, stepping in front of the boy with a menacing air.
“Please let me go by,” repeated Wyndham, making another attempt.
“Not till you tell me what you mean by saying you won’t do as I tell you.”
> “I mean that I’m not going to your study,” said young Wyndham.
“Oh, very well,” said Silk, standing back to let him pass.
There was something in his tone and manner as he said the words which made Wyndham uneasy. He had made up his mind at all costs he would break with Silk; yet now he could not help remembering he was at the fellow’s mercy.
So, instead of going on, he stood where he was, and said, rather less defiantly, “Can’t you say what you’ve got to say here?”
“Oh, of course. I can easily tell the whole school of your—”
“Oh, hush, please!” cried the boy in alarm; “you promised you wouldn’t tell any one. I’ll come to your study.”
Silk, with a triumphant sneer, turned and led the way, followed by his chafing victim, who devoutly wished he had never thought of coming to see Riddell at all.
When they were in the study, Silk turned and said, “All I want to say is, that, I don’t choose for you to be going such a lot to Riddell. I don’t like him, and you’d better keep away.”
“Why?” faltered Wyndham. “It doesn’t do you any harm.”
“How do I know you don’t blab all my secrets to him, eh?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do it for anything. I promised you and Gilks.”
“Bah! what’s the use of that? You go and tell him everything you do yourself, and of course he knows it means us as well as you.”
“No, he doesn’t — really. I’ve never said a word to him about — about Beamish’s.”
“It’s a good job you haven’t; and you’d better not, I can tell you.”
“I won’t,” said the boy.
“I don’t choose to have my concerns talked about to anybody,” said Silk, “I suppose it was he put you up to cutting me.”
“No — that is,” said Wyndham, “yes, he did advise me not to be so much with Gilks and you.”
“He did?” exclaimed Silk, in a rage. “I thought so; and you—”
Fortunately at this moment Tucker and one or two other of the noisy Welchers broke into the room; and in the diversion so created Wyndham was thankful to slip away.
This, then, was the end of his good resolutions and the hopes they had fostered! He was as much in the power of this bad friend as ever — nay, more, for had he not that very evening been forced to renew the one promise which kept him from confiding everything to Riddell?
He proceeded dejectedly to the captain’s study, his cricket enthusiasm strangely damped, and the load of his old short-comings heavy upon him.
Riddell, who was pacing the room moodily, stopped in a half-startled way as his visitor entered.
“Do you want me?” he said.
“No,” said Wyndham. “I only just came across to see you, because I thought you’d wonder what had become of me.”
“Yes,” said Riddell, trying to compose himself, “with all this cricket practice there’s not been much chance of seeing one another.”
“No,” replied Wyndham, whom the very mention of cricket was enough to excite. “I say, wasn’t it an awfully fine licking we gave them? Our fellows are crowing like anything, and, you know, if it hadn’t been for your catch it might have been a much more narrow affair.”
“Ah, well! it’s all over now,” said Riddell; “so I suppose you’ll come and see me oftener?”
“I hope so. Of course, there’s the second-eleven practices still going on for the Templeton match, but I’ll turn up here all the same.”
Riddell took a turn or two in silence. What was he to do? A word from him, he felt, could ruin this boy before all Willoughby, and possibly disgrace him for life.
He, Riddell, as captain of the school, seemed to have a clear duty in the matter. Had the culprit been any one else—had it been Silk, for instance, or Gilks — would he have hung back? He knew he would not, painful as the task would be. The honour of the school was in question, and he had no right to palter with that.
Yet how could he deal thus with young Wyndham? — his friend’s brother, the fellow he cared for most in Willoughby, over whose struggles he had watched so anxiously, and for whom, now, better resolves and honest ambitions were opening up so cheery a prospect. How could he do it?
Was there no chance that after all he might be mistaken? Alas! that cruel knife and the memory of that evening crushed out the hope. What could he do? To do nothing would be simply adding his own crime to that of another. If only the boy would confess voluntarily! Could that have possibly been the object which brought him there that evening? The last time they had talked together, even in the midst of his contrition, he had been strangely reserved about something in the past. Might not this be the very secret he had now come to confide?
“How have you been getting on the last week?” he asked, gravely. “Have you been able to keep pretty straight?”
“Yes, I hope so,” said Wyndham. “You see, this cricket doesn’t give a fellow much chance of going wrong.”
“No; but of course one needs to do more than merely not go wrong,” said the captain.
“What do you mean?”
“I suppose when any of us has done wrong we ought to try to make up for it somehow.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Wyndham, feeling a little uncomfortable. “The worst of it is, you can’t always do that except by keeping right in future.”
“Supposing you had owed some fellow a sovereign last term, you would consider that all you had to do was not to owe him any more this term?” said Riddell.
“No; of course not! I’d have to pay him, I know,” said Wyndham.
“Well, what I mean,” said the captain, “is that — that — why, the fact is, Wyndham,” said he, “I’m afraid you have still some old scores you ought to clear up.”
Wyndham looked hard at the captain, and coloured.
“I see what you mean,” he said, in a low voice. “I know you’re right. I wish I could do it.”
“You wish!” exclaimed Riddell. “Wishing will not do it.”
Wyndham looked hard at him once more, and answered, in agitated tones.
“I say, Riddell. Do you know about it, then?”
“I think I do.”
At that moment a bell began to sound across the quadrangle.
“That’s lock-up; I must go!” exclaimed Wyndham, wildly. “For goodness’ sake, don’t tell any one, Riddell! Oh what a fool I have been!”
And next moment he was gone.
Riddell continued to pace the room, half stupefied with bewilderment and misery.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t tell any one!” The cry rang in his ears till it drove him nearly mad.
Poor Wyndham! What must his state of mind be? What must it have been all this time, with that miserable secret lurking there and poisoning his whole life? And yet the chance had been given him, and he had clung to the secret still, and in the face of discovery had no other cry than this, “For goodness’ sake, don’t tell any one!”
That evening, so jubilant all over Willoughby, was one of the most wretched Riddell ever spent.
Chapter Twenty Six
An Explosion of “SkyRockets.”
Parson, Bosher, King, and the other Parrett’s juniors were in bad spirits. It was not so much the Rockshire match that was preying on the brotherhood, grievous as that blow had been. Nor were they at the present suffering under any particular infliction, or smarting under any special sense of injustice. Their healths and digestions were all tolerably good, and the mutual friendship in which they had been wont to rejoice showed no signs of immediate dissolution.
The fact was, they didn’t know exactly what was the matter with themselves. They could not pretend that it was remorse for the little amount of work they had done during the term, for they stoutly denied that they had done little. On the contrary, they insisted that they were being crammed to a shameful extent.
Nor was their conscience reproaching them for their past transgressions. Of course, they could not help admitting that they had occa
sionally got into rows lately, but, as every one knew, it was never their fault. It had always been owing to some accident or piece of bad luck, and it was quite enough to get punished for it, without being expected to reproach themselves for it.
No. When they came to think of it they didn’t see that they had anything to reproach themselves with. On the whole, they were more to be pitied than blamed. They invariably meant well, but they never got any credit for their good intentions, while they were everlastingly getting into trouble on account of their ill-luck!
The fact of the matter was, these virtuous young gentlemen were suffering from that most painful of maladies — dulness.
They had nothing to do — that is, they had nothing to do but work and play cricket. The latter was all very well, but even cricket, when it means three practices a day presided over by a strict senior, gets to be a little wearisome.
As for the work — they groaned as they thought of it. It hadn’t been so bad at the beginning of the term, when Bosher’s crib to the Caesar and Wakefield’s key to Colenso’s arithmetic had lent them their genial aid. But ever since Mr Parrett, in the vindictiveness of his heart, had suddenly started Eutropius in the place of Caesar, and Todhunter in the place of Colenso, life had barely been worth living.
It was this last grievance which was the special topic of discussion at an informal tea-party held, about a week after the Rockshire match, in Parson’s study.
The company solaced their wounded feelings with unlimited bloater-paste and red-currant jam, and under the soothing influence of these condiments, aided by the watery contents of Parson’s teapot, their sorrows found relief in words.
“I bet anything he pitched on Eutropius,” said Parson, with his cup to his lips, “because he knows nobody ever wrote a crib to him.”
“I don’t suppose any one could make him out enough,” said King. “It’s awful rot.”
“Yes, and Ashley says it’s awfully bad Latin.”
Parson laughed satirically.
The Willoughby Captains Page 28
