Chapter Nine.
Disaster
Saint Kirwin’s boasted a really beautiful chapel, large, lofty, rich in stained glass and abundant sculpture of first-rate design and execution. The services, which were fully choral, were rendered by an excellent choir drawn from the school, and on Sundays and on certain saints’ days its performance would have done credit even to the average cathedral. The structure was in shape a parallelogram, the seats running in long rows, tier upon tier the whole length, certain stalls, however, being returned against the west wall on either side of the entrance. The principal of these was that of the headmaster, who thus had the whole assemblage under his view. And his lynx gaze was quick to descry any irregularity, and woe indeed to the prefect in whose row such should occur, and still greater woe to the delinquent or delinquents.
We have said that Dr Bowen cut an imposing figure as he entered the big schoolroom in cap and gown amid an awed silence, but he looked, if possible, more imposing still in chapel, in his snowy voluminous surplice and great scarlet hood, as, preceded by a verger, he made his way along the aisle to read the Lessons from the great eagle lectern which stood in the middle of the choir; indeed, so majestic was his gait and bearing on these occasions as to be the source of a good deal of surreptitious fun on the part of the more satirically minded, among whom, needless to say, was our friend Haviland.
Now the latter, on this ill-fated afternoon, was standing outside the door, striving to recover breath after the length and severity of his run. If only he could enter and reach his place unseen by the Doctor, it would be all right. The master of the week – in this case Mr Williams – his own dormitory master, a good-natured and genial athlete, would give him an imposition, as in duty bound, but would almost certainly not report him at head-quarters, which he was not strictly bound to do. But how on earth could he accomplish any such entrance seeing that the Doctor’s stall was next to the door, and commanded everything that went on, as we have said? And then there occurred to him a desperate scheme, one which spoke much for his readiness and resource, and on that account alone deserved to succeed. What if he were to seize the opportunity when the Doctor should descend from his stall, and, the moment his back was turned, slip in and walk close behind him all the way to the lectern. Arrived there, the attention of the Great Panjandrum would be momentarily diverted while turning to ascend the steps, and he could slip into his seat, which, luckily, stood there hard by. The chance was a desperate one indeed, but it was his only one. He would risk it.
Would the chanting never cease? Haviland’s heart thumped, and a mist seemed to come before his gaze. Ah, now for it! The voices were tailing off into an Amen; the organ stopped with a final snarl, then silence, only relieved by a rustling sound and that of footsteps on the stone floor. Now was his time.
The door, fortunately, was not quite closed, and so could be opened noiselessly. Now it was done, and Haviland was within the chapel, his rubber-soled shoes making no noise as he stole along, conscious of a confused sea of faces; and, indeed, that progress seemed to his excited brain like hours instead of minutes, and the great scarlet hood adorning the Doctor’s back seemed like a huge red-hot furnace before his eyes.
This strange procession had reached the lectern. Haviland felt safe. He had calculated his move to a nicety, and in a fraction of a second would have gained his place. But he had reckoned without the consummate shrewdness, which was the result of long experience, of the headmaster of Saint Kirwin’s.
For the look of surprise, of interest, on the rows of faces on either side of him as he paced up the aisle had not escaped that potentate, but he was not going to impair the majestic dignity of his march by turning then. When he had gained his objective he did just half turn, and in the momentary compression of the lips and that one look on the Doctor’s face Haviland knew that his fate was sealed. To many there who had witnessed the episode, and there were few who had not, it seemed that there was a menacing growl in the sonorous voice rolling out the splendid old Scriptural English.
“Well, Haviland, what have you got to say for yourself?” said Mr Williams, when our friend went to report himself afterwards.
“My watch stopped, sir. I thought I had plenty of time, and then heard the bell begin when I was just coming off Sidebury Down. Even then I tried to do it, but it was impossible.”
“Well, I can’t help that. You’ll have to do four hundred lines,” answered Mr Williams, fully intending to let him off half of them. “One of my prefects, too,” he added, half quizzically, half with a mock aggrieved air.
“Very sorry, sir.”
The imposition was really less than he had expected. If only the matter were to rest there, he thought.
“I say, Haviland,” subsequently remarked Laughton in hall. “You’re a cool customer, marching in behind Nick in that stately manner. Did you think he wouldn’t see you?”
“Yes. It was the only chance, and I took it. He wouldn’t have, either, if all those asses hadn’t given, the show away by gaping like so many idiots, confound them.”
“What’s Williams given you?”
“Four hundred. I believe I’ll try and get him to let me off one. He hasn’t gated me either. He’s a good sort, is Williams. What do you think, Laughton? Think Nick’ll take the thing any further? The old brute looked vicious, and he perfectly hates me. I don’t know why.”
Laughton wouldn’t commit himself to an opinion, and the general feeling at the prefects’ table was about evenly divided as to whether the Doctor would take it up or not.
“If you could only have seen yourself, Haviland!” cut in Cluer, another prefect. “It was enough to kill a cat, I swear it was. It looked for all the world as if you and Nick were trying which could crowd on the most side.” And he spluttered over the recollection.
“Jolly good fun for you, Cluer, no doubt,” said Medlicott, “and for all of us, but it’s beastly rough on Haviland, remember.”
“Rather, if Nick’s in one of his rotten moods,” said Laughton. “But let’s hope he won’t be.”
Alas for any such hopes! On the way out of hall the fatal summons came: “Haviland to go to the Doctor’s study after prep, bell.”
“All up!” groaned the implicated one.
When, at the appointed time, Haviland entered the dread presence, there was no doubt but that the headmaster was “in one of his rotten moods,” as Laughton had so graphically put it. Seated there at his study table, his face wore a very thundercloud of sternness, as he curtly invited the other to make his explanation. This was exactly the same as that offered to Mr Williams, but here it was received with a wrathful grunt – and then in his most magisterial manner the Doctor proceeded to deliver himself.
“You have been guilty of a double breach of rules, in that you were absent from calling-over – for a part of which, by virtue of your office, you were personally responsible – and you were late for chapel. It is no excuse to say that your watch stopped; if that were any valid reason, why then half the school might stay away from calling-over, and, indeed, we might as well do away with calling-over altogether, or any other rule. For a prefect to break the rules, which it is his bounden duty to help in enforcing – to do which, indeed, is the very reason of his official existence – has always been, in my eyes, a ten times greater offence than the same conduct on the part of a junior.
“Now, over and above this double breach of the rules you have been guilty of two further and very serious offences. You have disturbed the decorum and dignity of divine service by entering the chapel in the way you did, and you practised deceit in making that entrance in such manner that you hoped it would escape my observation. Let me tell you that nothing escapes my observation – ”
“No, by Jingo it doesn’t!” thought the delinquent, ruefully.
” – and of late that observation has convinced me that you are unfit to hold the office you bear, for I have had you specially under my notice for some time past. As, therefore, you have proved yourself utterly unfit to hold office, I have made up my mind to deprive you of it, and you may now consider yourself no longer a prefect.”
Here Haviland broke in desperately: —
“Sir, has there ever been any report against me – I mean of any disorder arising where I was in charge?”
The unheard-of audacity of this expostulation seemed to take away the Doctor’s breath, to render him utterly speechless. He to be answered, remonstrated with! Why, the thing was unprecedented!
“Silence, sir!” he thundered, rising in his seat, and Haviland thought he was going to strike him. However, he did not, and went on: —
“And as you have abused the reasonable liberty which the rules of the school allow – and that not once, but continually – thus setting a bad example where it was your duty to set a good one, you will be confined to the school grounds from now until the end of the term. You may go.”
Seen from the windows of the somewhat sombre room in which he stood, the fair open country seemed to Haviland’s gaze more alluring than ever in the summer twilight, as he heard his sentence of imprisonment. And now he might roam it no more.
Then, as he went forth from the dread sanctum, a feeling of desperation dashed with recklessness came upon him. They might just as well expel him now, he thought, and perhaps he would do something to deserve even that. Practically gated until the end of the term – a matter of about seven weeks! Yes, he felt desperate.
At the breaking up of preparation that evening there was considerable excitement among the groups scuffling to get a glimpse of the notice board in the big schoolroom, in the brief time allowed between prep, and prayers, and the attraction was a brand-new notice which ran thus: —
“Haviland – prefect.
“Suspended from his office and confined to the school grounds for the remainder of the term for gross breach of rules and general misconduct.
“Nicholas Bowen, D.D., Headmaster.”
“It was a pretty stiff account to have to settle, all because a fellow’s watch happened to stop,” Haviland had remarked to Laughton and some others when giving an account as to how he had fared. “Suspended, gated for the rest of the term, and four hundred lines to do for Williams into the bargain.”
The latter, however, was not to be added to his already burdened shoulders, for at dormitory time, when he went to report to Mr Williams that he was no longer a prefect, the latter said: —
“I’m sorry to hear that, Haviland. But now you must just lie quiet a bit and keep out of mischief. The Doctor’s sure to reinstate you. Oh, and look here. You needn’t do those lines I set you this afternoon. It doesn’t seem fair that a fellow should have two punishments for the same offence.”
“The Doctor doesn’t seem to think so, sir,” he could not restrain himself from saying. “But thank you very much, sir. Reinstate me? No. The Doctor has a regular spite against me – why I can’t think.”
“Oh, nonsense, Haviland,” said the master very kindly. “At any rate you must try not to think so. Good night.”
But while uttering this protest officially, Mr Williams did so half-heartedly, for in his own mind he thought the young fellow had been very severely treated indeed, and that the punishment was out of all proportion to the offence.
Chapter Ten.
Brooding
Haviland, fallen from his high estate, did not take his misfortunes well. He was of a proud and sensitive temperament, and now that he found himself humiliated, reduced to the level of the rank and file, deprived of the very material privileges he had formerly enjoyed, shorn of his powers, and now in a position to obey where for so long he had been accustomed to command – yes, the humiliation was intolerable, and for no greater crime than that his watch had unfortunately stopped. A mere accident.
Not that his former colleagues were in the least likely to add to his humiliation by word or act of theirs. Esprit de corps was strong among them, very largely fostered indeed by his own influence while in a position to exert it. Even the two or three among them who disliked him would have shrunk from such an act, as being one of unspeakable meanness. And his fall was great. In seniority he had stood next to Laughton, the captain of the school, and were he eventually reinstated, he would lose this, and have to start again at the bottom of the list.
As for the juniors, some were unfeignedly glad, though their instinct of self-preservation made them remarkably careful not to obtrude that fact upon him, yet, though his strictness while in office had rendered him unpopular, now that he had fallen most of their sympathies were with him.
But from sympathy or condolence alike he himself shrank. His mind was bitter with thoughts of hatred and revenge – the latter, if only it could be obtained – yet why not? He was utterly reckless now. They could but expel him, and for that he didn’t care – at least, so he told himself. It was in this dangerous mood the day after his suspension that he encountered Jarnley – Jarnley and his gang.
But Jarnley had seen him coming, and tried to shuffle away. So, too, did his gang.
“Here – Hi, Jarnley!” he cried. “Wait a bit. I want to speak to you.”
There was no escape, short of taking to his heels, wherefore Jarnley stopped, with a very bad grace and faced round.
“Eh? What is it, Haviland?”
“Just this. That day I smacked your head for bullying Cetchy you said you’d fight me if I wasn’t a prefect. Well, I’m not a prefect now, so – come on.”
“Oh, I was only humbugging, Haviland,” returned Jarnley, not in the least eager to make good his words.
“Then you’d rather not fight?”
“Of course I don’t want to,” said Jarnley, shrinkingly. “And, look here, Haviland, I’m beastly sorry you’ve been reduced.”
What was to be done with a cur like this? Haviland knew that the other was lying, and was the reverse of sorry for his misfortunes. He had intended to give Jarnley his choice between fighting and being thrashed, but how, in the name of common decency, could he punch a fellow’s head who expressed such effusive sympathy? He could not. Baulked, he glared round upon the group.
“Any one else like to take advantage of the opportunity?” he said. “You, Perkins?”
“I don’t want to fight, Haviland,” was the sullen answer.
“Very well, then. But don’t let me hear of any of you bullying Cetchy any more. He can tell me now, because I’m no longer a prefect; and any fellow who does will get the very best hammering he ever had in his life. That’s all.”
His former colleagues spared no pains to let him see that they still regarded him as one of themselves. Among other things they pressed him to use the prefects’ room as formerly, but this he refused to do. If he had been walking with any of them he would stop short at the door, and no amount of persuasion could prevail on him to enter.
“You needn’t be so beastly proud, Haviland,” Laughton had said, half annoyed by these persistent refusals. “Why, man, Nick’s bound to reinstate you before long. The notice, mind, says ‘suspended’ only.”
At which Haviland had shaken his head and laughed strangely.
The confinement to grounds told horribly upon his spirits. Three miserable cricket fields – as a matter of fact they were remarkably open and spacious – to be the sole outlet of his energies during all these weeks! He hated every stick and stone of them, every twig and leaf. He saw others coming and going at will, but he himself was a prisoner. Not even to the swimming pool might he go.
In sheer desperation he had followed Laughton’s advice, and gone in for cricket, but had proved so half-hearted over the game, then bad-tempered and almost quarrelsome, that no one was sorry when he declared his intention of giving it up. More and more he became given over to brooding – seeking a quiet corner apart, and looking out on to the open country from which he was debarred. While thus occupied one day, a hand dropped on his shoulder. Turning angrily – thinking some other fellow was playing the fool, and trying to startle him – he confronted Mr Sefton.
“What were you thinking about, Haviland?” said the latter in his quick, sharp, quizzical way.
“Oh, I don’t know, sir. Nothing very particular, I suppose,” forcing a laugh, for he was not going to whine to Sefton.
The latter looked at him with straight, penetrating gaze.
“They tell me you’ve given up cricket again. Why?”
“I don’t care for it, sir, never did. Everybody seems to have a notion that nothing can be of any use, or even right, but that confounded – I beg your pardon, sir – cricket and football. A fellow is never to be allowed to take his own line.”
“Yes, but it’s a good wholesome rule that if a fellow can’t take his own line he’d better adapt himself to the lines of others. Eh?”
Haviland did not reply. He merely smiled, cynically, disdainfully. Mr Sefton, watching his face, was interested, and more sorry for him than his official position allowed him to say. He went on: —
“Don’t mope. There’s nothing to be gained by it. Throw yourself into something. If one has lost a position, it is always possible to regain it. I know, and some others know, your influence has always been used in the right direction. Do you think that counts for nothing? Eh?”
“It hasn’t counted for much, sir, in a certain quarter,” was the bitter reply. “It isn’t the position I mind – I don’t care a hang about it, sir!” he burst forth passionately, “but to be stuck down in these three beastly fields, in the middle of a crowd all day and every day – I’d rather have been expelled at once.”
“Don’t be an ass, Haviland,” said the master, stopping short – for they had been walking up and down – and peering at him in his quaint way. “Do you hear? Don’t be an ass.”
This commentary, uttered as it was, left no room for reply, wherefore Haviland said nothing.
“Why don’t you go to the Doctor and ask him to remove your ‘gates’?” went on Mr Sefton.
“I wouldn’t ask him anything, sir.”
The tone, the expression of hatred and vindictiveness in the young fellow’s face, almost startled the other. As a master, ought he not to administer a stern rebuke; as a clergyman, was it not his duty to reason with him? But Mr Sefton, no part of an ass himself, decided that this was not the time for doing anything of the sort.
“You talk about not caring if you were expelled, Haviland,” he went on. “How about looking at it from your father’s point of view? How would he feel, d’you think, if you ended up your school life with expulsion? Eh?”
He had struck the right chord there, for in the course of their conversations he had gathered that the young fellow was devotedly attached to his father, whom he regarded as about a hundred times too good for the barren, ungrateful, and ill-requited service to which he had devoted his life – at any rate, looking at it from the unregenerate and worldly point of view. And, with a consciousness of having said just the right thing at the right time, Mr Sefton wisely decided to say no more.
“Think it over, Haviland. Think it over. D’you hear?” and with a friendly nod of farewell, he went his way.
A few minutes later he was walking along a field-path, his hat on the back of his head as usual, and swinging his stick. With him was Mr Williams.
“I’ve just been talking to that fellow Haviland,” he was saying. “Of course, I didn’t tell him so, but Nick has made a blunder this time. He’s piled it on to him too thick.”
The Doctor’s sobriquet, you see, had got among the assistant masters. It was short and handy, and so among themselves they used it – some of them, at any rate.
“I think he’s been most infernally rough on him, if you ask me,” replied Mr Williams, who, by the way, was not in orders, but an athletic Oxford graduate of sporting tastes, and who was generally to be met when off the grounds surrounded by three or four dogs, and puffing at a briar-root pipe. This he was even now engaged in relighting. “One would think it’d be enough to kick the poor devil out of his prefectship without gating him for the rest of the term into the bargain. I promptly let him off the lines I’d given him when I heard of it.”
“That’s just my opinion, Williams. And it’s the gating that’s making him desperate. And he is getting desperate, too. I shouldn’t be surprised if he did something reckless.”
“Then he’ll get the chuck. That’ll be the last straw. Why has Nick got such a down on him, eh, Sefton?”
“I don’t know, mind, but perhaps I can guess,” said the other, enigmatically. “But look here, Williams. Supposing we put in a word for him to Nick. Get him to take off the fellow’s gates, at any rate? Eh? Clay would join, and so would Jackson, in fact we all would.”
“That’d make it worse. Nick would think we were all in league against him. He isn’t going back one jot or tittle on his infallible judgment, so don’t you believe it. We’d get properly snubbed for our pains.”
“Well, I’m going to tackle him, anyhow. I’m not afraid of Nick for all his absurd pomposity,” rejoined Mr Sefton, with something like a snort of defiance, and his nose in the air. He meant it, too. Yet, although the above expression of opinion between these two masters very fairly represented the general estimate in which the whole body held the Head, they were fully alive to the latter’s good points, and supported him loyally in upholding the discipline and traditions of the school.