# Vice Versa/Chapter 12

'There is a kind of Followers likewise, which are dangerous, being indeed Espials; which enquire the Secrets of the House and beare Tales of them.'—Bacon.
'Then give me leave that I may turn the key,  That no man enter till my tale be done.'
Very possibly Chawner's interference in Mr. Bultitude's private affairs has surprised others besides the victim of it; but the fact is that there was a most unfortunate misunderstanding between them from the very first, which prevented the one from seeing, the other from explaining, the real state of the case.
Chawner, of course, no more guessed Paul's true name and nature than anyone else who had come in contact with him in his impenetrable disguise, and his motive for attempting to prevent an interview with the Doctor can only, I fear, be explained by another slight digression.
The Doctor, from a deep sense of his responsibility for the morals of those under his care, was perhaps a trifle over-anxious to clear his moral garden of every noxious weed, and too constant in his vigilant efforts to detect the growing shoot of evil from the moment it showed above the surface.
As he could not be everywhere, however, it is evident that many offences, trivial or otherwise, must have remained unsuspected and unpunished, but for a theory which he had originated and took great pains to propagate amongst his pupils.
The theory was that every right-minded boy ought to feel himself in such a fiduciary position towards his master, that it became a positive duty to acquaint him with any delinquencies he might happen to observe among his fellows; and if, at the same time, he was oppressed by a secret burden on his own conscience, it was understood that he might hope that the joint revelation would go far to mitigate his own punishment.
It is doubtful whether this system, though I believe it is found successful in Continental colleges, can be usefully applied to English boys; whether it may not produce a habit of mutual distrust and suspicion, and a tone the reverse of healthy.
For myself, I am inclined to think that a schoolmaster will find it better in the long run, for both the character and morals of his school, if he is not too anxious to play the detective, and refrains from encouraging the more weak-minded or cowardly boys to save themselves by turning 'schoolmaster's evidence.'
Dr. Grimstone thought otherwise; but it must be allowed that the system, as in vogue at Crichton House, did not work well.
There were boys, of course, who took a sturdier view of their own rights and duties, and despised the talebearers as they deserved; there were others, also, too timid and too dependent on the good opinion of others to risk the loss of it by becoming informers; but there were always one or two whose consciences were unequal to the burden of their neighbour's sin, and could only be relieved by frank and full confession.
Unhappily they had, as a general rule, contributed largely to the sum of guilt themselves, and did not resort to disclosure until detection seemed reasonably imminent.
Chawner was the leader of this conscientious band; he revelled in the system. It gave him the means at once of gratifying the almost universal love of power and of indulging a catlike passion for playing with the feelings of others, which, it is to be hoped, is more uncommon.
He knew he was not popular, but he could procure most of the incidents of popularity; he could have his little court of cringing toadies; he could levy his tribute of conciliatory presents, and vent many private spites and hatreds into the bargain—and he generally did.
Having himself a tendency to acts of sly disobedience, he found it a congenial pastime to set the fashion from time to time in some one of the peccadilloes to which boyhood is prone, and to which the Doctor's somewhat restrictive code added a large number, and as soon as he saw a sufficient number of his companions satisfactorily implicated, his opportunity came.
He would take the chief culprits aside, and profess, in strict confidence, certain qualms of conscience which he feared could only be appeased by unburdening his guilt-laden soul.
To this none would have had any right to object—had it not necessarily, or at least from Chawner's point of view, involved a full, true, and particular account of the misdoings of each and every one; and consequently, for some time after these professions of misgivings, Chawner would be surrounded by a little crowd of anxiously obsequious friends, all trying hard to overcome his scruples or persuade him at least to omit their names from his revelations.
Sometimes he would affect to be convinced by their arguments and send them away reassured; at others his scruples would return in an aggravated form; and so he would keep them on tenterhooks of suspense for days and weeks, until he was tired of the amusement—for this practising on the fears of weaker natures is a horribly keen delight to some—or until some desperate little dog, unable to bear his torture any longer, would threaten to give himself up and make an end of it.
Then Chawner, to do him justice, always relieved him from so disagreeable a necessity, and would go softly into the Doctor's study, and, in a subdued and repentant tone, pour out his general confession for the public good.
Probably the Doctor did not altogether respect the instruments he saw fit to use in this way; some would have declined to hear the informer out, flogged him well, and forgotten it; but Dr. Grimstone—though he was hardly likely to be impressed by these exhibitions of noble candour, and did not fail to see that the prospect of obtaining better terms for the penitent himself had something to do with them—yet encouraged the system as a matter of policy, went thoroughly into the whole affair, and made it the cause of an explosion which he considered would clear the moral atmosphere for some time to come.
I hope that, after this explanation, Chawner's opposition to Mr. Bultitude's plans will be better understood.
After tea, he made Paul a little sign to follow him, and the two went out together into the little glass-house beyond the schoolroom; it was dark, but there was light enough from the room inside for them to see each other's face.
'Now, sir,' began Paul, with dignity, when he had closed the glass door behind him, 'perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me how you mean to prevent me from seeing Dr. Grimstone, and telling him—telling him what I have to tell him?'
'I'll tell you, Dickie,' said Chawner, with an evil smirk. 'You shall know soon enough.'
'Don't stand grinning at me like that, sir,' said the angry Mr. Bultitude; 'say it out at once; it will make no difference to me, I give you warning!'
'Oh, yes it will, though. I think it will. Wait. I heard all you said to Grimstone in the study to-day about that girl—Connie Davenant, you know.'
'I don't care; I am innocent. I have nothing to reproach myself with.'
'What a liar you are!' said Chawner, more in admiration than rebuke. 'You told him you never gave her any encouragement, didn't you? And he said if he ever found you had, nothing could save you from a licking, didn't he?'
'He did,' said Paul, 'he was quite right from his point of view—what then?'
'Why, this,' said Chawner: 'Do you remember giving Jolland, the last Sunday of last term, a note for that very girl?'
'I never did!' said poor Mr. Bultitude, 'I never saw the wretched girl before.'
'Ah!' said Chawner, 'but I've got the note in my pocket! Jolland was seedy and asked me to take it for you, and I read it, and it was so nicely written that I thought I should like to keep it myself, and so I did—and here it is!'
And he drew out with great caution a piece of crumpled paper and showed it to the horrified old gentleman. 'Don't snatch . . . it's rude; there it is, you see: 'My dear Connie' . . . 'yours ever, Dick Bultitude.' No, you don't come any nearer . . . there, now it's safe. . . . Now what do you mean to do?'
'I—I don't know,' said Paul, feeling absolutely checkmated. 'Give me time.'
'I tell you what I mean to do; I shall keep my eye on you, and directly I see you making ready to go to Grimstone, I shall get up first and take him this ... then you'll be done for. You'd better give in, really, Dickie!'
The note was too evidently genuine; Dick must have written it (as a matter of fact he had; in a moment of pique, no doubt, at some caprice of his real enslaver Dulcie's—but his fickleness brought fatal results on his poor father's undeserving head)—if this diabolical Chawner carried out his threats he would indeed be 'done for'; he did not yet fully understand the other's motive, but he thought that he feared lest Paul, in declaring his own sorrows, might also accuse Tipping and Coker of acts of cruelty and oppression, which Chawner proposed to denounce himself at some more convenient opportunity; he hesitated painfully.
'Well?' said Chawner, 'make up your mind; are you going to tell him, or not?'
'I must!' said Paul hoarsely. 'I promise you I shall not bring any other names in . . . I don't want to . . . I only want to save myself—and I can't stand it any longer. Why should you stand between me and my rights in this currish way? I didn't know there were boys like you in the world, sir; you're a young monster!'
'I don't mean you to tell the Doctor anything at all,' said Chawner. 'I shall do what I said.'
'Then do your worst!' said Paul, stung to defiance.
'Very well, then,' returned Chawner meekly, 'I will—and we'll see who wins!'
And they went back to the schoolroom again, where Mr. Bultitude, boiling with rage and seriously alarmed as well, tried to sit down and appear as if nothing had happened.
Chawner sat down too, in a place from which he could see all Paul's movements, and they both watched one another anxiously from the corners of their eyes till the Doctor came in.
'It's a foggy evening,' he said as he entered: 'the younger boys had better stay in. Chawner, you and the rest of the first form can go to church; get ready at once.'
Paul's heart leaped with triumph; with his enemy out of the way, he could carry out his purpose unhindered. The same thing apparently occurred to Chawner, for he said mildly, 'Please, sir, may Richard Bultitude come too?'
'Can't Bultitude ask leave for himself?' said the Doctor.
'I, sir!' said the horrified Paul, 'it's a mistake—I don't want to go. I—I don't feel very well this evening!'
'Then you see, Chawner, you misunderstood him. By the way, Bultitude, there was something you were to tell me, I think?'
Chawner's small glittering eyes were fixed on Paul menacingly as he managed to stammer that he did want to say something in private.
'Very well, I am going out to see a friend for an hour or so—when I come back I will hear you,' and he left the room abruptly.
Chawner would very probably have petitioned to stay in that evening as well, had he had time and presence of mind to do so; as it was, he was obliged to go away and get ready for church, but when his preparations were made he came back to Paul, and leaning over him said with an unpleasant scowl, 'If I get back in time, Bultitude, we'll see whether you baulk me quite so easily. If I come back and find you've done it—I shall take in that letter!'
'You may do what you please then,' said Paul, in a high state of irritation, 'I shall be well out of your reach by that time. Now have the goodness to take yourself off.'
As he went, Mr. Bultitude thought, 'I never in all my life saw such a fellow as that, never! It would give me real pleasure to hire someone to kick him.'
The evening passed quietly; the boys left at home sat in their places, reading or pretending to read. Mr. Blinkhorn, left in charge of them, was at his table in the corner noting up his diary. Paul was free for a time to think over his position.
At first he was calm and triumphant; his dearest hopes, his long-wished-for opportunity of a fair and unprejudiced hearing, were at last to be fulfilled—Chawner was well out of the way for the best part of two hours—the Doctor was very unlikely to be detained nearly so long over one call; his one anxiety was lest he might not be able, after all, to explain himself in a thoroughly effective manner—he planned out a little scheme for doing this.
He must begin gradually of course, so as not to alarm the schoolmaster or raise doubts of his sincerity or, worse still, his sanity. Perhaps a slight glance at instances of extraordinary interventions of the supernatural from the earliest times, tending to show the extreme probability of their survival on rare occasions even to the present day, might be a prudent and cautious introduction to the subject—only he could not think of any, and, after all, it might weary the Doctor.
He would start somewhat in this manner: 'You cannot, my dear sir, have failed to observe since our meeting this year, a certain difference in my manner and bearing'—one's projected speeches are somehow generally couched in finer language than, when it comes to the point, the tongue can be prevailed upon to utter. Mr. Bultitude learned this opening sentence by heart, he thought it taking and neat, the sort of thing to fix his hearer's attention from the first.
After that he found it difficult to get any further; he knew himself that all he was about to describe was plain, unvarnished fact—but how would it strike a stranger's ear? He found himself seeking ways in which to tone down the glaring improbability of the thing as much as possible, but in vain; 'I don't know how I shall ever get it all out,' he told himself at last; 'if I think about it much longer I shall begin to disbelieve in it myself.'
Here Biddlecomb came up in a confidential manner and sat down by Paul; 'Dick,' he began, in rather a trembling voice, 'did I hear the Doctor say something about your having something to tell him?'
'Oh Lord, here's another of them now!' thought Paul. 'You are right, young sir,' he said: 'have you any objection? mention it, you know, if you have, pray mention it. It's a matter of life and death to me, but if you at all disapprove, of course that ought to be final!'
'No, but,' protested Biddlecomb, 'I, I daresay I've not treated you very well lately, I——'
'You were kind enough to suggest several very uncommonly unpleasant ways of annoying me, sir,' said Paul resentfully, 'if you mean that. You've kicked me more than once, and your handkerchief, unless I am very much mistaken, had the biggest and the hardest knot in it yesterday. If that gives you the right to interfere and dictate to me now, like your amiable friend, Master Chawner, I suppose you have it.'
'Now you're angry,' said Biddlecomb humbly; 'I don't wonder at it. I've behaved like a cad, I know, but, and this is what I wanted to say, I was sorry for you all the time.'
'That's very comforting,' said Paul drily; 'thank you. I'm vastly obliged to you.'
'I was, though,' said Biddlecomb. 'I, I was led away by the other fellows—I always liked you, you know, Bultitude.'
'You've a very odd way of showing your affection,' remarked Mr. Bultitude; 'but go on, let me hear all you have to say.'
'It isn't much,' said Biddlecomb, quite broken down; 'only don't sneak of me this time, Dick, let me off, there's a good fellow. I'll stick up for you after this, I will really. You used not to be a fellow for sneaking once. It's caddish to sneak!'
'Don't be alarmed, my good friend,' said Paul; 'I won't poach on that excellent young man Chawner's preserves. What I am going to tell the Doctor has nothing to do with you.'
'On your honour?' said Biddlecomb eagerly.
'Yes,' said Paul testily, 'on my honour. Now, perhaps, you'll let me alone. No, I won't shake hands, sir. I've had to accept your kicks, but I don't want your friendship.'
Biddlecomb went off, looking slightly ashamed of himself but visibly relieved from a haunting fear. 'Thank goodness!' thought Paul, 'he wasn't as obstinate as the other fellow. What a set they are! I knew it, there's another boy coming up now!'
And indeed one boy after another came up in the same way as Biddlecomb had done, some cringing more than others, but all vowing that they had never intended to do any harm, and entreating him to change his mind about complaining of his ill-treatment. They brought little offerings to propitiate him and prove the depth of their unaltered regard—pencil-cases and pocket-knives, and so forth, until they drove Paul nearly to desperation. However, he succeeded in dispelling their fears after some hot arguments, and had just sent away the last suppliant, when he saw Jolland too rise and come towards him.
Jolland leaned across Paul's desk with folded arms and looked him full in the face with his shallow light green eyes. 'I don't know what you've said to all those chaps,' he began; 'they've come back looking precious glum, but they won't tell me what you said,' (Mr. Bultitude had in satisfying their alarm taken care to let them know his private opinion of them, which was not flattering), 'but I've got something to say to you, and it's this. I never thought you would quite come down to this sort of thing!'
'What sort of thing?' said Paul, who was beginning to have enough of it.
'Why, going up and letting on against all of us—it's mean, you know. If you have got bashed about pretty well since you came back, it's been all your own fault, and you know it. Last term you got on well enough—this time you began to be queer and nasty the very first day you came. I thought it was one of your larks at first, but I don't know what it is now, and I don't care. I stood up for you as long as I could, till you acted like a funk yesterday. Then I took my share in lamming you, and I'd do it again. But if you are cad enough to pay us all out in this way, I'll have no more to do with you—mind that. That's all I came to say.'
This was an unpalatable way of putting things, but Paul could not help seeing that there was some truth in it. Jolland had been kind to him, too, in a careless sort of way, and at some cost to himself; so it was with more mildness than temper that he answered him.
'You're on the wrong tack, my boy, the wrong tack. I've no wish to tell tales of anyone, as I've been trying to explain to your friends. There's something the matter with me which you wouldn't understand if I told you.'
'Oh, I didn't know,' said Jolland, mollified; 'if it's only physic you want.'
'Whatever it is,' said Paul, not caring to undeceive him, 'it won't affect you or anyone here, but myself. You're not a bad young fellow, I believe. I don't want to get you into trouble, sir; you don't want much assistance, I'm afraid, in that department. So be off, like a good fellow, and leave me in peace.'
All these interviews had taken time. He was alarmed on looking at the clock to see that it was nearly eight; the Doctor was a long time over that call—for the first time he began to feel uneasy—he made hurried mental calculations as to the probability of the Doctor or Chawner being the first to return.
The walk to church took about twenty minutes; say the service took an hour, allowing for the return, he might expect Chawner by about half-past eight; it was striking the hour now—half an hour only in which he could hope for any favourable result from the interview!
For he saw this plainly, that if Chawner were once permitted to get the Doctor's ear first and show him that infamous love-note, no explanation of his (even if he had nerve to make it then, which he doubted) could possibly seem anything more than a desperate and far-fetched excuse; if he could anticipate Chawner, on the other hand, and once convince the Doctor of the truth of his story, the informer's malice would fall flat.
And still the long hand went rapidly on, as Mr. Bultitude sat staring stupidly at it with a faint sick feeling—it had passed the quarter now—why did the Doctor delay in this unwarrantable manner? What a farce social civilities were—if he had allowed himself to be prevailed on to stay to supper! Twenty minutes past; Chawner and the others might return at any moment—a ring at the bell; they were there! all was over now—no, he was saved, that was Dr. Grimstone's voice in the hall—what an unconscionable time he was taking off his great coat and gloves.
But all comes to the man who waits. In another moment the Doctor looked in, singled out Mr. Bultitude with a sharp glance, and a, 'Now, Bultitude, I will hear you!' and led the way to his study.
Paul staggered rather than walked after him: as usual at the critical moment his carefully prepared opening had deserted him—his head felt heavy and crowded—he wanted to run away, but forced himself to overcome such a suicidal proceeding and follow to the study.
There was a lighted reading-lamp with a green glass shade upon the table. The Doctor sat down by it in an armchair by the fire, crossed his legs, and joined the tops of his fingers together. 'Now, Bultitude,' he said again.
'Might I—might I sit down?' said poor Mr. Bultitude in a thick voice; it was all that occurred to him to say.
'Sit by all means,' said the Doctor blandly.
So Paul drew a chair opposite the Doctor and sat down. He tried desperately to clear his head and throat and begin; but the only distinct thought in his mind just then was that the green lamp-shade lent a particularly ghastly hue to the Doctor's face.
'Take your time, Bultitude,' said the latter, after a long minute, in which a little skeleton clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly—'there's no hurry, my boy.'
But this only reminded Paul that there was every need for hurry—Chawner might come in, and follow him here, unless he made haste.
Still, he could only say, 'You see me in a very agitated state, Dr. Grimstone—a very agitated state, sir.'
The Doctor gave a short, dry cough. 'Well, Bultitude,' he said.
'The fact is, sir, I'm in a most unfortunate position, and—and the worst of it is, I don't know how to begin.' Here he made another dead stop, while the Doctor raised his heavy eyebrows, and looked at the clock.
'Do you see any prospect of your finding yourself able to begin soon?' he inquired at last, with rather suspicious suavity. 'Perhaps if you came to me later on——'
'Not for the world!' said Paul, in a highly nervous condition. 'I shall begin very soon, Doctor, I shall begin directly. Mine is such a very singular case; it's difficult, as you see, to, to open it!'
'Have you anything on your mind?' asked the Doctor suddenly.
Paul could hear steps and voices in the adjoining cloakroom—the churchgoers had returned. 'Yes—no!' he answered, losing his head completely now.
'That's a somewhat extraordinary, not to say an ambiguous, reply,' said the Doctor; 'what am I to understand by——'
There was a tap at the door. Paul started to his feet in a panic. 'Don't let him in!' he shrieked, finding his voice at last. 'Hear me first—you shall hear me first! Say that other rascal is not to come in. He wants to ruin me!'
'I was going to say I was engaged,' said the Doctor; 'but there's something under this I must understand. Come in, whoever you are.'
And the door opened softly, and Chawner stepped meekly in; he was rather pale and breathed hard, but was otherwise quite composed.
'Now, then, Chawner,' said the Doctor impatiently, 'what is it? Have you something on your mind, too?'
'Please, sir,' said Chawner, 'has Bultitude told you anything yet?'
'No, why? Hold your tongue, Bultitude. I shall hear Chawner now—not you!'
'Because, sir,' explained Chawner, 'he knew I had made up my mind to tell you something I thought you ought to know about him, and so he threatened to come first and tell some falsehood (I'm sure I don't know what) about me, sir. I think I ought to be here too.'
'It's a lie!' shouted Paul, 'What a villain that boy is! Don't believe a word he says, Dr. Grimstone; it's all false—all!'
'This is very suspicious,' said the Doctor; 'if your conscience were good, Bultitude, you could have no object in preventing me from hearing Chawner. Chawner, in spite of some obvious defects in his character,' he went on, with a gulp (he never could quite overcome a repulsion to the boy), 'is, on the whole, a right-minded and, ah, conscientious boy. I hear Chawner first.'
'Then, sir, if you please,' said Chawner, with an odious side smirk of triumph at Paul, who, quite crushed by the horror of the situation, had collapsed feebly on his chair again, 'I thought it was my duty to let you see this. I found it to-day in Bultitude's prayerbook, sir.' And he handed Dick's unlucky scrawl to the Doctor, who took it to the lamp and read it hurriedly through.
After that there was a terrible moment of dead silence; then the Doctor looked up and said shortly, 'You did well to tell me of this, Chawner; you may go now.'
When they were alone once more he turned upon the speechless Paul with furious scorn and indignation. 'Contemptible liar and hypocrite,' he thundered, pacing restlessly up and down the room in his excitement, till Paul felt very like Daniel, without his sense of security, 'you are unmasked—unmasked, sir! You led me to believe that you were as much shocked and pained at this girl's venturing to write to you as I could be myself. You called it, quite correctly, "forward and improper"; you pretended you had never given her the least encouragement—had not heard her name even—till to-day. And here is a note, written, as I should imagine, some time since, in which you address her as "Connie Davenant," and have the impudence to admire the hat she wore the Sunday before! I shudder, sir, to think of such duplicity, such precocious and shameless depravity. It astounds me. It deprives me of all power to think!'
Paul made some faint and inarticulate remark about being a family man—always most particular, and so forth—luckily it passed unheard.
'What shall I do with you?' continued the Doctor; 'how shall I punish such monstrous misconduct?'
'Don't ask me, sir,' said Paul, desperately—'only, for heaven's sake, get it over as soon as possible.'
'If I linger, sir,' retorted the Doctor, 'it is because I have grave doubts whether your offence can be expiated by a mere flogging—whether that is not altogether too light a retribution.'
'He can't want to torture me,' thought Paul.
'Yes,' said the Doctor again, 'the doubt has prevailed. On a mind so hardened the cane would leave no lasting impression. I cannot allow your innocent companions to run the risk of contamination from your society. I must not permit this serpent to glide uncrushed, this cockatrice to practise his epistolary wiles, within my peaceful fold. My mind is made up—at whatever cost to myself—however it may distress and grieve your good father, who is so pathetically anxious for you to do him credit, sir. I must do my duty to the parents of the boys entrusted to my care. I shall not flog you, sir, for I feel it would be useless. I shall expel you.'
'What!' Paul leaped up incredulous. 'Expel me? Do I hear you aright, Dr. Grimstone? Say it again—you will expel me?'
'I have said it,' the Doctor said sternly; 'no expostulations can move me now' (as if Mr. Bultitude was likely to expostulate!) 'Mrs. Grimstone will see that your boxes are packed the first thing to-morrow morning, and I shall take you myself to the station and consign you to the home you have covered with blushes and shame, by the 9.15 train, and I shall write a letter to-night explaining the causes for your dismissal.'
Mr. Bultitude covered his face with his hands, to hide, not his shame and distress, but his indecent rapture. It seemed almost too good to be true! He saw himself about to be provided with every means of reaching home in comfort and safety. He need dread no pursuit now. There was no chance, either, of his being forced to return to the prison-house—the Doctor's letter would convince even Dick of the impossibility of that. And, best of all, this magnificent stroke of good luck had been obtained without the ignominy and pain of a flogging, without even the unpleasant necessity of telling his strange secret.
But (having gained some experience during his short stay at the school) he had the duplicity to pretend to sob bitterly.
'But one night more, sir,' continued the Doctor, 'shall you pass beneath this roof, and that apart from your fellows. You will occupy the spare bedroom until the morning, when you quit the school in disgrace—for ever.'
I said in another chapter that this Sunday would find Paul, at its close, after a trying course of emotions, in a state of delicious ecstasy of pure relief and happiness—and really that scarcely seems too strong an expression for his feelings.
When he found himself locked securely into a comfortable, warm bedroom, with curtains and a carpet in it, safe from the persecutions of all those terrible boys, and when he remembered that this was actually the last night of his stay here—that he would certainly see his own home before noon next day, the reaction was so powerful that he could not refrain from skipping and leaping about the room in a kind of hysterical gaiety.
And as he laid his head down on a yielding lavender-scented pillow, his thoughts went back without a pang to the varied events of the day; they had been painful, very painful, but it was well worth while to have gone through them to appreciate fully the delightful intensity of the contrast. He freely forgave all his tormentors, even Chawner—for had not Chawner procured his release?—and he closed his eyes at last with a smile of Sybaritic satisfaction and gentle longing for the Monday's dawn to break.
And yet some, after his experiences, would have had their misgivings.