The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter XXII
CHAPTER XXII. THE NIGHTINGALE EXAMINATION
But at its best the offence was a grave one, and Oliver more than once felt anxious at the sight of the head-master’s long face during the narrative. However, when it was all over his fears were at once dispelled by the doctor saying, “Well, Greenfield, you’ve done a very proper thing in telling me all this; it is a straightforward as well as a brotherly act. Your brother seems to have been very foolish, but I have no doubt he has got a lesson. You had better send him to me after morning service.”
And so, much relieved, Oliver went off and reported to the grateful Stephen the success of his mission, and the two boys went off to the school chapel together a good deal more happy than they had been the previous day.
“I say,” said Stephen, as they went along, “I suppose you didn’t say anything about Loman, did you?”
“Of course not! he’s no concern of mine,” said Oliver, rather tartly. “But look here, young ’un, I’m not going to let you fag any more for him, or have anything to do with him.”
“All right!” said Stephen, who had no desire to continue his acquaintance with his late “proprietor.”
“But the captain will row me, won’t he?”
“If he does I’ll make that square. You can fag for Wraysford if you like, though, he wants a fellow.”
“Oh, all right!” cried Stephen, delighted, “that’ll be jolly! I like old Wray.”
“Very kind of you,” said a voice close by.
It was Wraysford himself, who had come in for this very genuine compliment.
“Hullo! I say, look here, Wraysford,” said the beaming Stephen, “I’m going to cut Loman and fag for you. Isn’t it jolly?”
“Depends on whether I have you. I don’t want any Guinea-pigs in my study, mind.”
Stephen’s face fell. For even such a privilege as fagging for Wraysford he could not afford to sever the sacred ties which held him to the fellowship of the Guinea-pigs. “I really wouldn’t kick up shines,” said he, imploringly.
“You’d be a queer Guinea-pig if you didn’t!” was the flattering answer. “And how many times a week would you go on strike, eh?”
“Oh!” said Stephen, “I’ll never go on strike again; I don’t like it.”
The two friends laughed at this ingenuous admission, and then Wraysford said, “Well, I’ll have you; but mind, I’m awfully particular, and knock my fags about tremendously, don’t I, Noll?”
“I don’t mind that,” said the delighted Stephen. “Besides, you’ve not had a fag to knock about!”
At that moment, however, the bell for morning chapel cut short all further talk for the present. Stephen obeyed its summons for once in a subdued and thankful frame of mind. Too often had those weekly services been to him occasions of mere empty form, when with his head full of school worries or school fun he had scarcely heard, much less heeded, what was said.
To-day, however, it was different. Stephen was a sobered boy. He had passed through perils and temptations from which, if he had escaped, it had been through no merit of his own. Things might have been far different. His life had been saved, so had his peace of mind, and now even the consequences of old transgressions had been lightened for him. What had he done to deserve all this?
This was the question which the boy humbly asked himself as he entered the chapel that morning, and the Doctor’s sermon fitted well with his altered frame of mind.
It was a sermon such as he had often heard before in that chapel; the words struck him now with a new force which almost startled him. “Forgetting those things which are behind—reaching forth unto those things which are before”—this was the Doctor’s text, and in the few simple words in which he urged his hearers to lay the past, with all its burdens, and disappointments, and shame, upon Him in whom alone forgiveness is to be found, Stephen drank in new courage and hope for the future, and in the thankfulness and penitence of his heart resolved to commit his way more honestly than ever to the best of all keeping, compared with which even a brother’s love is powerless.
Before the morning was over Stephen duly went to the Doctor, who talked to him very seriously. I need not repeat the talk here. Stephen was very penitent, and had the good sense to say as little as possible; but when it was all over he thanked the Doctor gratefully, and promised he should never have to talk to him for bad conduct again.
“You must thank your brother for my not dealing a great deal more severely with the case,” said Dr. Senior; “and I am quite ready to believe it will not occur again. Now, good-bye.”
And off Stephen went, the happiest boy alive, determined more than ever to respect the Doctor’s authority, and prove himself a model boy.
Sunday afternoon at Saint Dominic’s was usually spent by the boys in fine weather, in strolling about in the gardens, or rambling into the woods by the banks of the Shar.
This afternoon, however, was somewhat overcast, and a good many of the boys consequently preferred staying indoors to running the risk of spoiling their best hats in a shower. Among those who kept the house was Oliver, who, in reply to Wraysford’s invitation to go out, pleaded that he was not in the humour.
This indeed was the case, for, now that Stephen’s affairs were settled, the dread of the approaching Nightingale examination came back over him like a nightmare, and made him quite miserable. The nearer the hour of trial came the more convinced did Oliver become that he stood no chance whatever of winning, and with that conviction all the bright hopes of a university course, and the prospects of after-success, seemed extinguished.
Of course it was very ridiculous of him to worry himself into such a state, but then, reader, he had been working just a little too hard, and it was hardly his fault if he was ridiculous.
Wraysford, though by no means in high spirits, kept his head a good deal better, and tried to enjoy his walk and forget all about books, as if nothing at all was going to happen to-morrow. As for Loman, he was not visible from morning till night, and a good many guessed, and guessed correctly, that he was at work, even on Sunday.
The small boys, not so much though, I fear, out of reverence for the day as for partisanship of the Fifth, were very indignant on the subject, and held a small full-dress meeting after tea, to protest against one of the candidates taking such an unfair advantage over the others.
“He ought to be expelled!” exclaimed Paul.
“All very well,” said Bramble. “Greenfield senior’s cramming too, he’s been in all the afternoon.”
“He’s not cramming, he’s got a headache!” said Stephen.
“Oh, yes, I dare say, don’t you, Padger? Got a headache—that’s a nice excuse for copying out of cribs on a Sunday.”
“He doesn’t use cribs, and I tell you he’s not working!” said Stephen, indignantly.
“Shut up, do you hear, or you’ll get turned out, Potboy!”
This was too much for Stephen, who left the assembly in disgust, after threatening to take an early opportunity on the next day of giving his adversary “one for himself,” a threat which we may as well say at once here he did not fail to carry out with his wonted energy.
The long Sunday ended at last—a Sunday spoiled to many of the boys of Saint Dominic’s by distracting thoughts and cares—a day which many impatiently wished over, and which some wished would never give place to the morrow.
But that morrow came at last, and with it rose Oliver, strengthened and hopeful once more for the trial that lay before him. He was early at Wraysford’s study, whom he found only just out of bed.
“Look alive, old man. What do you say to a dip in the river before breakfast? We’ve got plenty of time, and it will wash off the cobwebs before the exam.”
“All serene,” said Wraysford, not very cheerily, though. “Anything’s better than doing nothing.”
“Why, Wray, I thought you weren’t going to let yourself get down about it?”
“I thought you weren’t going to let yourself get up—why, you’re quite festive this morning.”
“Well, you see, a fellow can’t do better than his best, and so as I have done my best I don’t mean to punish myself by getting in the blues.”
“Pity you didn’t make that resolution yesterday. You were awfully glum, you know, then; and now I’ve got my turn, you see.”
“Oh, never mind, a plunge in the Shar will set you all right.”
“Stee,” said he, addressing his younger brother, who at that moment entered proudly in his new capacity as Wraysford’s fag, “mind you have breakfast ready sharp by eight, do you hear? the best you can get out of Wray’s cupboard. Come along, old boy.”
And so they went down to the river, Oliver in unusually good spirits, and Wraysford most unusually depressed and nervous. The bathe was not a great success, for Wraysford evidently did not enjoy it.
“What’s wrong, old man?” said Oliver, as they walked back, “aren’t you well?”
“I’m all right,” said Wraysford.
“But you’re out of spirits. It’s odd that I was in dumps and you were in good spirits up to the fatal day, and now things are just reversed. But, I say, you mustn’t get down, you know, or it’ll tell against you at the exam.”
“It strikes me every answer I give will tell against me. All I hope is that you get the scholarship.”
“I mean to try, just like you and Loman.”
And so they went in to breakfast, which was a solemn meal, and despite Stephen’s care in hunting up delicacies, not very well partaken of.
It seemed ages before the nine o’clock bell summoned them down to the Fifth Form room.
Here, however, the sympathy and encouragement of their class-fellows amply served to pass the time till the examination began.
“Well, you fellows,” cried Pembury, as the two entered, “do you feel like winning?”
“Not more than usual,” said Oliver. “How do you feel?”
“Oh, particularly cheerful, for I’ve nothing to do all day, I find. I’m not in for the Nightingale, or for the Mathematical Medal, or for the English Literature. Simon’s in for that, you know, so there’s no chance for any one.”
Simon smiled very blandly at this side compliment.
“So you fellows,” continued Tony, “may command my services from morning to night, if you like.”
“Loman was grinding hard all yesterday,” said Braddy. “I’m afraid he’ll be rather a hot one to beat.”
“But we must beat him, mind, you fellows,” said Ricketts, calmly, comprehending the whole class in his “we.”
“Why, Wray,” said another, “how jolly blue you look! Don’t go and funk it, old man, or it’s all U P.”
“Who’s going to funk it?” said Oliver, impatiently, on his friend’s behalf. “I tell you Wray will most likely win.”
“Well, as long as one of you does,” said Tom Senior, with noble impartiality, “we don’t care which; do we, Braddy?”
“Of course not.”
So, then, all this sympathy and encouragement were not for the two boys at all, but for their Form. They might just as well have been two carefully trained racehorses starting on a race with heavy odds upon them.
The Doctor’s entry, however, put an end to any further talk, and, as usual, a dead silence ensued after the boys had taken their seats.
The Doctor looked a little uneasy. Doubtless he was impressed, too, by the importance of the occasion. He proceeded to call over the lists of candidates for the different examinations in a fidgety manner very unlike his usual self, and then turning abruptly to the class, said—
“The Mathematical Medal candidates will remain here for examination. The English Literature and Nightingale Scholarship candidates will be examined in the Sixth Form room. Boys not in for either of these examinations may go to their studies till the twelve o’clock bell rings. Before you disperse, however,”—and here the Doctor grew still more fidgety—“I want to mention one matter which I have already mentioned in the Sixth. I mention it not because I suspect any boy here of a dishonourable act, but because—the matter being a mystery—I feel I must not neglect the most remote opportunity of clearing it up.”
What on earth was coming? It was as good as a ghost story, every one was so spellbound and mystified.
“On Saturday evening I had occasion to leave my study for rather less than five minutes, shortly after nine o’clock. I had been engaged in getting together the various papers of questions for to-day’s examinations, and left them lying on the corner of the table. On returning to my study—I had not been absent five minutes—I found that one of the papers—one of the Nightingale Scholarship papers, which I had only just copied out, was missing. If I were not perfectly sure the full number was there before I left the room, I should conclude that I was mistaken, but of that I am sure. I just wish to ask this one question here, which I have already asked in the Sixth. Does any boy present know anything about the missing paper?”
You might have heard a pin drop as the Doctor paused for a reply.
“No? I expected not; I am quite satisfied. You can disperse, boys, to your various places.”
“What a fellow the Doctor is for speeches, Wray!” said Oliver, as he and his friend made their way to the Sixth Form room.
“Yes. But that’s a very queer thing about the paper, though.”
“Oh, he’s certain to have mislaid it somewhere. It’s a queer thing saying anything about it; for it looks uncommonly as if he suspected some one.”
“So it does. Oh, horrors! here we are at the torture-chamber! I wish it was all over!”
They entered the Sixth Form room, which was regularly cleared for action. One long desk was allotted to the three Nightingale candidates, two others to the English Literature boys, and another to the competitors in a Sixth Form Greek verse contest.
Loman was already in his place, waiting with flushed face for the ordeal to begin. The two friends took their seats without vouchsafing any notice of their rival, and an uncomfortable two minutes ensued, during which it seemed as if the Doctor were never to arrive.
He did arrive at last, however, bringing with him the examination papers for the various classes.
“Boys for the Greek verse prize come forward.”
Wren, Raleigh, Winter, and Callonby advanced, and received each one his paper.
“Boys for the Nightingale Scholarship come forward.”
The three competitors obeyed the summons, and to each was handed a paper.
It was not in human nature to forbear glancing hurriedly at the momentous questions, as each walked slowly back to his seat. The effect of that momentary glance was very different on the three boys. Wraysford’s face slightly lengthened, Loman’s grew suddenly aghast, Oliver’s betrayed no emotion whatever.
“Boys for the English Literature prize come forward.”
These duly advanced and were furnished, and then silence reigned in the room, broken only by the rapid scratching of pens and the solemn tick of the clock on the wall.
Reader, you doubtless know the horrors of an examination-room as well as I do. You know what it is to sit biting the end of your pen, and glaring at the ruthless question in front of you. You know what it is to dash nervously from question to question, answering a bit of this and a bit of that, but lacking the patience to work steadily down the list. And you have experienced doubtless the aggravation of hearing the pen of the man on your right flying along the paper with a hideous squeak, never stopping for a moment to give you a chance. And knowing all this, there is no need for me to describe the vicissitudes of this particular day of ordeal at Saint Dominic’s.
The work went steadily on from morning to afternoon. More than one anxious face darted now and then nervous glances up at the clock, as the hour of closing approached.
Loman was one of them. He was evidently in difficulties, and the Fifth Form fellows, who looked round occasionally from their English Literature papers, were elated to see their own men writing steadily and hard, while the Sixth man looked all aground. There was one boy, however, who had no time for such observations. That was Simon. He had got hold of a question which was after his own heart, and demanded every second of his attention—“Describe, in not more than twelve lines of blank verse, the natural beauties of the River Shar.” Here was a chance for the Dominican poet!
“The Shar is a very beautiful stream, Of the Ouse a tributary; Up at Gusset Weir it’s prettiest, I ween, Because there the birds sing so merry.”
These four lines the poet styled, “Canto One.” Cantos 2, 3, and 4 were much of the same excellence, and altogether the effusion was in one of Simon’s happiest moods. Alas! as another poet said, “Art is long, time is fleeting.” The clock pointed to three long before the bard had penned his fifth canto; and sadly and regretfully he and his fellow-candidates gathered together and handed in their papers, for better or worse.
Among the last to finish up was Oliver, who had been working hammer and tongs during the whole examination.
“How did you get on?” said Wraysford, as they walked back to the Fifth.
“Middling, not so bad as I feared; how did you?”
“Not very grand, I’m afraid; but better than I expected,” said Wraysford. “But I say, did you see how gravelled Loman seemed? I fancy he didn’t do very much.”
“So I thought; but I hadn’t time to watch him much.”
In the Fifth there was a crowd of questioners, eager to ascertain how their champions had fared; and great was their delight to learn that neither was utterly cast down at his own efforts.
“You fellows are regular bricks if you get it!” cried Ricketts.
“It’ll be the best thing that has happened for the Fifth for a long time.”
“Oh, I say,” said Simon, suddenly, addressing Oliver in a peculiarly knowing tone, “wasn’t it funny, that about the Doctor losing the paper? Just the very time I met you coming out of his study, you know, on Saturday evening. But of course I won’t say anything. Only wasn’t it funny?”
What had come over Oliver, that he suddenly turned crimson, and without a single word struck the speaker angrily with his open hand on the forehead?
Was he mad? or could it possibly be that—
Before the assembled Fifth could recover from their astonishment or conjecture as to the motive for this sudden exhibition of feeling, he turned abruptly to the door and quitted the room.