The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's Part 52

The occasion was quite early in the holidays, and was indeed about the first opportunity the father had had since breaking-up for anything like a conversation with his affable son.

Tom's conversational powers were never very brilliant, and when in the subduing presence of his father they always dwindled down to nothing.

It was, therefore, somewhat difficult, under the circ.u.mstances, to keep the talk going, but the Doctor did his best. Tom answered in monosyllables, and looked fearfully sheepish, and found his best policy was always to keep his mouth full, and so have the excuse of good manners on his side for his silence.

"Tom," said the Doctor, presently, steering round to a subject which it had been for some time in his mind to question his son about, "that was an extraordinary demonstration on prize-day, when Greenfield senior came up to get his scholars.h.i.+p."

"It wasn't me," said Tom, colouring up.

"My dear boy, I never supposed it was," said the Doctor, laughing. "But it surprised me very much, as well as pained me."

"I couldn't help it," again said Tom.

"Of course you couldn't, Tom. But I am sorry to find Greenfield is so unpopular in the school."

The Doctor did not care to put a direct question to Tom on the matter that was perplexing him. He hoped to draw him out by more indirect means. But he was mistaken if he ever expected it, for Tom, with the perversity of a fellow who _will_ take everything that is said as a rebuke to himself, showed no inclination to follow the lead. The Doctor had, therefore, to ask outright.

"What dreadful crime has he committed, Tom, to be treated so severely?"

"I don't want to treat him severely," said Tom. "Tom," said the Doctor, half angrily, "you are very foolish. I was not referring to you particularly, but to the whole school."

Tom sulked at this more than ever. _He_ wasn't going to be called foolish. The Doctor, however, tried once more.

"What has he done to offend you all? Has he missed a catch at cricket, or a kick at football? I hope, whatever it is--"

"It isn't me!" once more growled Tom, heartily wis.h.i.+ng the meal was over.

The Doctor gave it up as a bad job. There was no use trying to get a rise out of Tom. If that ingenuous youth had been trying to s.h.i.+eld his Form, he could not have done it better. As it was, he was only stupidly trying to s.h.i.+eld himself, and letting his dread of his "Doctor" father get the better of his common sense and good manners.

Luckily for Tom, a friend wrote to invite him to spend the last week of the holidays in London, an invitation which that youth, as well as his parent for him, thankfully accepted. Indeed, during the holidays Mrs Senior became so ill that the poor Doctor had no thoughts to spare for anybody or anything but her and her hope of recovery. He watched her night and day through all the vicissitudes of her fever, and when at last the crisis was over, and the doctors said she would recover, they said also that unless Dr Senior wanted to have an illness himself he must go away and get perfect rest and change for a week or two at the very least.

The consequence of all this was that Saint Dominic's had to rea.s.semble after the Christmas holidays without the Doctor.

To some of the boys this was sorrowful news; others regarded the circ.u.mstance with indifference, while one section there was who received the intelligence with positive joy.

Strange that that section should contain in it two such opposites as Loman of the Sixth and Bramble of the Fourth Junior.

Loman, despite his "run of luck," had spent an uneasy holiday. He had been in constant terror of seeing Cripps every time he ventured outside his house; and he had been in still more terror of Cripps calling up at Saint Dominic's and telling the Doctor all about him directly after the holidays. For now Loman's time was up. Though he had in one way and another paid off all his debt to the landlord of the c.o.c.kchafer but eight pounds, still he knew Cripps could make himself quite as unpleasant about eight pounds as about thirty pounds, and probably would.

But as long as the Doctor was away it didn't matter so much. And, besides, the examination for the exhibition would of course be postponed, which meant so much longer time for preparation--which meant so much better chance for Loman of winning it. For, when he tried, he could work hard and effectively.

So Loman was very glad to hear the Doctor was away ill. So was Bramble!

That youth (who, by the way, had during the holidays quite recovered from the sobering effect of his grandmother's visit to the school) was always on a look-out for escaping the eye of the const.i.tuted authorities. He hardly ever saw the Doctor from one month's end to another; but somehow, to know he was away--to know any one was away who ought to be there to look after him--was a glorious opportunity! He launched at once into a series of revolutionary exploits on the strength of it. He organised mutinies ten times a day, and had all the specifications drawn up for blowing up Saint Dominic's with paraffin oil. There was nothing, in short, Bramble would not venture while the Doctor was away; and there is no knowing how far he might have carried his bloodthirsty conspiracies into effect had not Mr Rastle caught him one day with a saw, sawing the legs off the writing-master's stool, and given him such a chastis.e.m.e.nt, bodily and mental, as induced him for a brief season to retire from public life, and devote all his spare time to copying out an imposition.

On the first morning after rea.s.sembling, Mr Jellicott, the master in charge of Saint Dominic's, summoned the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth to meet him in the lecture-theatre, and there announced to them the reason of the head master's absence.

"In consequence of this," said Mr Jellicott, "the removes gained last term will not be put into force for a week or two, till the head master returns; but, meanwhile, Dr Senior is anxious that the work of the school should go on as usual. We shall, therefore, resume studies to-morrow; and on Monday next the examination for the Waterston Exhibition will be held, as arranged. The three boys--Loman, Greenfield senior, and Wraysford--entered for this will be excused ordinary lessons till after the examination."

Greenfield senior! Then Oliver _was_ in for it after all! The announcement amazed Wraysford as much as it did Loman and every one else. It had never entered their minds that he would go in for it.

Hadn't he got the Nightingale? and wasn't that enough for one half-year?

And didn't every one know _how_ he had got it, and how could the fellow now have the a.s.surance to put in for another examination?

Oliver always had been a queer fellow, and this move struck every one as queerer than ever.

But to Wraysford and one or two others it occurred in a different light.

If Oliver had really won the Nightingale in the manner every one suspected, he would hardly now boldly enter for another examination, in which he might possibly not succeed, and so prove those suspicions to be true. For the subjects were almost exactly the same as those examined in for the Nightingale, and unless Oliver did as well here as he did there--and that was _remarkably_ well--it would be open for anybody to say, "Of course--he couldn't steal the paper this time, that's why!"

Wraysford, as he thought over it, became more and more uneasy and ashamed of himself. One moment he persuaded himself Oliver was a hypocrite, and the next that he was innocent. "At any rate," said he to himself, "this examination will settle it."

In due time the examination day came, and once more the three rivals heard their names called upon to come forward and occupy that memorable front desk in the Sixth Form room.

This time at any rate there had been no chance for any one to take an unfair advantage, for the Doctor's papers did not reach Saint Dominic's till the morning of the examination. Indeed, Mr Jellicott was opening the envelope which contained them when the boys entered the room.

Any one closely observing the three boys as they glanced each down his paper would once more have been struck by the strange contrast in their faces. Oliver's, as his eyes glanced rapidly down the page, was composed and immovable; Wraysford's, as he looked first at his paper and then hurriedly at Oliver and Loman, was perplexed and troubled; Loman's was blank and pale and desponding.

But of the three, the happiest that morning was Wraysford--not that he was sure of success, not that his conscience was clear of all reproach, but because, as he sat there, working hard himself and hearing some one's pen on his left flying with familiar sound quickly over the paper, he felt at last absolutely sure that he had misjudged his friend, and equally resolved that, come what would of it, and humiliating as the confession would be, he would, before that day ended, be reconciled to Oliver Greenfield. What mattered it to him, then, who won the exhibition? Loman might win it for all _he_ cared, as long as he won back his friend.

However, Loman at that moment did not look much like winning anything.

If he had been in difficulties in the former examination, he was utterly stranded now. He tried first one question, then another, but no inspiration seemed to come; and at last, after das.h.i.+ng off a few lines at random, he laid down his pen, and, burying his face in his hands, gave himself up to his own wretched thoughts. He must see Cripps soon; he must go to him or Cripps would come up to Saint Dominic's, and then--

Well, Loman did not do much execution that morning, and was thankful when presently Mr Jellicott said, "Time will be up in five minutes, boys."

The announcement was anything but welcome to the other two compet.i.tors, both of whom were writing, hammer and tongs, as though their lives depended on it. Loman looked round at them and groaned as he looked.

Why should they be doing so well and he be doing so ill?

"Look at those two beggars!" said Callonby to Stansfield, in a whisper, pointing to Wraysford and Oliver. "There's a neck-and-neck race for you!"

So it was. Now Oliver seemed to be getting over the ground quicker, and now Wraysford. Now Wraysford lost a good second by looking up at the clock; now Greenfield made a bad shot with his pen at the inkpot, and had to dip again, which threw him back half a second at least.

Unconscious of the interest and amus.e.m.e.nt they were exciting among the sporting section of the Sixth, they kept the pace up to the finish, and when at last Mr Jellicott said, "Cease writing and bring up your papers," both groaned simultaneously, as much as to say, "A second or two more would have done it."

The examination was over, but the event of that memorable day was still to take place.

Five minutes later Oliver, who had retired alone, as usual, to his study, there to announce to the anxious Stephen how he had fared in the examination, caught the sudden sound of an old familiar footstep outside his door, which sent the blood to his cheeks with strange emotion.

Stephen heard it, and knew it too.

"There's that beast Wraysford," he said, at the very instant that Wraysford, not waiting to knock, flung open the door and entered.

There was no need for him to announce his errand. It was written on his face as he advanced with outstretched hand to his old friend.

"Noll, old man," was all he could say, as their eyes met, "the youngster's right--I _am_ a beast!"

At the first word--the first friendly word spoken to him for months-- Oliver started to his feet like one electrified; and before the sentence was over his hand was tightly grasping the hand of his friend, and Stephen had disappeared from the scene. It is no business of ours to pry into that happy study for the next quarter of an hour. If we did the reader would very likely be disappointed, or perhaps wearied, or perhaps convinced that these two were as great fools in the manner of their making up as they had been in the manner of their falling out.

Oh! the happiness of that precious quarter of an hour, when the veil that has divided two faithful friends is suddenly dashed aside, and they rush one to the other, calling themselves every imaginable bad name in the dictionary, insisting to the verge of quarrelling that it was all their fault, and no fault at all of the other, far too rapturous to talk ordinary common sense, and far too forgetful of everything to remember that they are saying the same thing over and over again every few minutes.

"The falling out of faithful friends"--as the old copybooks say in elegant Virgilian Latin--"renewing is of love." And so it was with Oliver and Wraysford.