He therefore belaboured him till his sullen obstinacy gave way to a roar for mercy, and promises never so to offend again.
At this crisis he flung the boy from him with a “phew” of disgust, and said, “I give nothing for your word; but if ever you do bully in this way again, and I see or hear of it, your present punishment shall be a trifle to what I shall then administer. At present, thank me for not informing your master.” So saying, he made Barker pick up the cap, and, turning away, walked home with Eric leaning on his arm.
Barker, too, carried himself off with the best grace he could; but it certainly didn’t mend matters when he heard numbers of fellows, even little boys, say openly, “I’m so glad; serves you right.”
From that day Eric was never troubled with personal violence from Barker or any other boy. But rancour smouldered deep in the mind of the baffled tyrant, and, as we shall see hereafter, there are subtler means of making an enemy wretched than striking or kicking him.
Volume One--Chapter Four.
Cribbing.
Et nos ergo manum ferulae subduximus.—Juvenal i. 15.
It must not be thought that Eric’s year as a home-boarder was made up of dark experiences. Roslyn had a very bright as well as a dark side and Eric enjoyed it “to the finger-tips.” School-life, like all other life, is an April day of shower and sunshine. Its joys may be more childish, its sorrows more trifling, than those of after years;—but they are more keenly felt.
And yet, although we know it to be a mere delusion, we all idealise and idolise our childhood. The memory of it makes pleasant purple in the distance, and as we look back on the sunlight of its blue far-off hills, we forget how steep we sometimes found them.
Upon Barker’s discomfiture, which took place some three weeks after his arrival, Eric liked the school more and more, and got liked by it more and more. This might have been easily foreseen, for he was the type of a thoroughly boyish nature in its more genial and honourable characteristics, and his round of acquaintances daily increased. Among others, a few of the sixth, who were also day-scholars, began to notice and walk home with him. He looked on them as great heroes, and their condescension much increased his dignity both in his own estimation and that of his equals.
Now, too, he began to ask some of his most intimate acquaintances to spend an evening with him sometimes at home. This was a pleasure much coveted, for no boy ever saw Mrs. Williams without loving her, and they felt themselves humanised by the friendly interest of a lady who reminded every boy of his own mother. Vernon, too, now a lively and active child of nine, was a great pet among them, so that every one liked Eric who “knew him at home.” A boy generally shows his best side at home; the softening shadows of a mother’s tender influence play over him, and tone down the roughnesses of boyish character. Duncan, Montagu and Owen were special favourites in the home circle, and Mrs. Williams felt truly glad that her son had singled out friends who seemed, on the whole, so desirable. But Montagu and Russell were the most frequent visitors, and the latter became almost like one of the family; he won so much on all their hearts that Mrs. Williams was not surprised when Eric confided to her one day that he loved Russell almost as well as he loved Vernon.
As Christmas approached, the boys began to take a lively interest in the half-year’s prizes, and Eric was particularly eager about them. He had improved wonderfully, and as both his father and mother prevented him from being idle, even had he been so inclined, he had soon shown that he was one of the best in the form. Two prizes were given half-yearly to each remove; one for “marks,” indicating the boy who had generally been highest throughout the half-year, and the other for the best proofs of proficiency in a special examination. It was commonly thought in the form that Owen would get the first of these prizes, and Eric the other; and towards the approach of the examination, he threw his whole energy into the desire to win. The desire was not selfish. Some ambition was of course natural; but he longed for the prize chiefly for the delight which he knew his success would cause at Fairholm, and still more to his own family.
During the last week an untoward circumstance happened, which, while it increased his popularity, diminished a good deal (as he thought) his chance of success. The fourth-form were learning a Homer lesson, and Barker, totally unable to do it by his own resources, was trying to borrow a crib. Eric, much to their mutual disgust, still sat next to him in school, and would have helped him if he had chosen to ask; but he never did choose, nor did Eric care to volunteer. The consequence was, that unless he could borrow a crib, he was invariably turned, and he was now particularly anxious to get one, because the time was nearly up.
There was a certain idle, good-natured boy, named Llewellyn, who had “cribs” to every book they did, and who, with a pernicious bonhommie, lent them promiscuously to the rest, all of whom were only too glad to avail themselves of the help, except the few at the top of the form, who found it a slovenly way of learning the lesson, which was sure to get them into worse difficulties than an honest attempt to master the meaning for themselves. Llewellyn sat at the farther end of the form in front, so Barker scribbled in the fly-leaf of his book, “Please send us your Homer crib,” and got the book passed on to Llewellyn, who immediately shoved his crib in Barker’s direction. The only danger of the transaction being noticed was when the book was being handed from one bench to another, and as Eric unluckily had an end seat, he had got into trouble more than once.
On this occasion, just as Graham, the last boy on the form in front, handed Eric the crib, Mr. Gordon happened to look up, and Eric, very naturally anxious to screen another from trouble, popped the book under his own Homer.
“Williams, what are you doing?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Eric, looking up innocently.
“Bring me that book under your Homer.”
Eric blushed, hesitated—but at last, amid a dead silence, took up the book. Mr. Gordon looked at it for a minute, let it fall on the ground, and then, with an unnecessary affectation of disgust, took it up with the tongs, and dropped it into the grate. There was a titter round the room.
“Silence!” thundered the master; “this is no matter for laughing. So, sir, this is the way you get up to the top of the form?”
“I wasn’t using it, sir,” said Eric.
“Not using it. Why, I saw you put it, open, under your Homer.”
“It isn’t mine, sir.”
“Then whose is it?” Mr. Gordon, motioning to Eric to pick up the book, looked at the fly-leaf, but of course no name was there; in those days it was dangerous to write one’s name in a translation.
Eric was silent.
“Under the circumstances, Williams, I must punish you,” said Mr. Gordon. “Of course I am bound to believe you, but the circumstances are very suspicious. You had no business with such a book at all. Hold out your hand.”
As yet Eric had never been caned. It would have been easy for him in this case to clear himself without mentioning names, but (very rightly) he thought it unmanly to clamour about being punished, and he felt nettled at Mr. Gordon’s merely official belief of his word. He knew that he had his faults, but certainly want of honour was not among them. Indeed, there were only three boys out of the twenty in the form who did not resort to modes of unfairness far worse than the use of cribs, and those three were—Russell, Owen, and himself; even Duncan, even Montagu, inured to it by custom, were not ashamed to read their lesson off a concealed book, or copy a date from a furtive piece of paper. They would have been ashamed of it before they came to Roslyn School, but the commonness of the habit had now made them blind or indifferent