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Channings

<h2> CHAPTER XXIX. — A TASTE OF “TAN.” </h2> The cloisters of Helstonleigh were echoing with the sounds of a loud dispute, according as little with their sacred character, as with the fair beauty of the summer’s afternoon. The excitement caused in the college school by the rumour of Lady Augusta Yorke’s having obtained the promise of the head-master that her son should be promoted to the seniorship over the heads of Channing and Huntley, had been smouldering ominously, and gathering greater strength from the very fact that the boys appeared to be powerless in it. Powerless they were: in spite of Tom Channing’s boast at the dinner-table that the school would not stand it tamely, and his meaning nod when Hamish had mockingly inquired whether the school intended to send Lady Augusta a challenge, or to recommend Mr. Pye to the surveillance of the dean. In the first flow of their indignation, the boys, freely ringing the changes of rebellion, had avowed to one another that they would acquaint the dean with the head-master’s favouritism, and request his interference—as too many of us do when things happen that annoy us. We are only too prone to speak out our mind, and to proclaim what our remedy or revenge shall be. But when our anger has subsided, and we see things in their true light, we find that those boasts were only loud talking, and cannot be acted upon. Thus it was with the Helstonleigh college boys. They had hurled forth indignation at the master, had pretty nearly conned over the very words in which they should make known their grievance to the dean; but when the practical part came to be considered, their courage oozed out at their fingers’ ends. The mice, you remember, passed a resolution in solemn conclave that their enemy, the old cat, should be belled: an excellent precaution, and only wanting one small thing to render it efficient—no mouse would undertake to do it. To prefer a complaint to the dean of their head-master was a daring measure; such as the school, with all its hardihood, had never yet attempted. It might recoil upon themselves; might produce no good to the question at issue, and only end in making the master their enemy. On the other hand, the boys were resolved not to submit tamely to a piece of favouritism so unjust, without doing something. In the midst of this perplexity, one of them suddenly mooted the suggestion that a written memorial should be sent to the head-master from the school collectively, respectfully requesting him to allow the choice of senior to be made in the legitimate order of things, by merit or priority, but not by favour. Lame as the suggestion was, the majority were for its adoption simply because no other plan could be hit upon. Some were against it. Hot arguments prevailed on both sides, and a few personal compliments rather tending to break the peace, had been exchanged. The senior boy held himself aloof from acting personally: it was his place they were fighting for. Tom Channing and Huntley were red-hot against what they called the “sneaking,” meaning the underhand work. Gerald Yorke was equally for non-interference, either to the master or the dean. Yorke protested it was not in the least true that Lady Augusta had been promised anything of the sort. In point of fact, there was no proof that she had been, excepting her own assertion, made in the hearing of Jenkins. Gerald gravely declared that Jenkins had gone to sleep and dreamt it. Affairs had been going on in a cross-grained sort of manner all day. The school, taking it as a whole, had been inattentive; Mr. Pye had been severe; the second master had caned a whole desk, and threatened another, and double lessons had been set the upper boys for the following morning. Altogether, when the gentlemen were released at five o’clock, they were not in the sweetest of tempers, and entered upon a wordy war in the cloisters. “What possessed you to take and tear up that paper you were surreptitiously scribbling at, when Pye ordered you to go up and hand it in?” demanded Gaunt, of George Brittle. “It was that which put him out with us all. Was it a love-letter?” “Who was to think he’d go and ask for it?” returned Brittle, an indifferent sort of gentleman, who liked to take things easily. “Guess what it was.” “Don’t talk to me about guessing!” imperiously spoke Gaunt. “I ask you what it was?” “Nothing less than the memorial to himself,” laughed Brittle. “Some of us made a rough shell of it, and I thought I’d set on and copy it fair. When old Pye’s voice came thundering, ‘What’s that you are so stealthily busy over, Mr. Brittle?—hand it in,’ of course I could only tear it into minute pieces, and pretend to be deaf.” “You had best not try it on again,” said Gaunt. “Nothing puts out Pye like disobeying him to his face.” “Oh, doesn’t it, though!” returned Brittle. “Cribs put him out the worst. He thought that was a crib, or he’d not have been so eager for it.” “What sort of a shell is it?” asked Harry Huntley. “Who drew it out?” “It won’t do at all,” interposed Hurst. “The head of it is, ‘Revered master,’ and the tail, ‘Yours affectionately.’” A shout of laughter; Brittle’s voice rose above the noise. “And the middle is an eloquent piece of composition, calculated to take the master’s obdurate heart by storm, and move it to redress our wrongs.” “We have no wrongs to redress of that sort,” cried Gerald Yorke. “Being an interested party, you ought to keep your mouth shut,” called out Hurst to Yorke. “Keep yours shut first,” retorted Yorke to Hurst. “Not being interested, there’s no need to open yours at all.” “Let’s see the thing,” said Huntley. Brittle drew from his pocket a sheet of a copy-book, tumbled, blotted, scribbled over with the elegance that only a schoolboy can display. Several heads had been laid together, and a sketch of the memorial drawn out between them. Shorn of what Hurst had figuratively called the head and tail, and which had been added for nonsense, it was not a bad production. The boys clustered round Brittle, looking over his shoulder, as he read the composition aloud for the benefit of those who could not elbow space to see. “It wouldn’t be bad,” said Huntley, critically, “if it were done into good grammar.” “Into what?” roared Brittle. “The grammar’s as good as you can produce any day, Huntley. Come!” “I’ll correct it for you,” said Huntley, coolly. “There are a dozen faults in it.” “The arrogance of those upper-desk fellows!” ejaculated Brittle. “The stops are not put in yet, and they haven’t the gumption to allow for them. You’ll see what it is when it shall be written out properly, Huntley. It might be sent to the British Museum as a model of good English, there to be framed and glazed. I’ll do it to-night.” “It’s no business of yours, Mr. Brittle, that you should interfere to take an active part in it,” resumed Gerald Yorke. “No business of mine! That’s good! When I’m thinking of going in for the seniorship myself another time!” “It’s the business of the whole batch of us, if you come to that!” roared Bywater, trying to accomplish the difficult feat of standing on his head on the open mullioned window-frame, thereby running the danger of coming to grief amongst the gravestones and grass of the College burial-yard. “If Pye does not get called to order now, he may lapse into the habit of passing over hard-working fellows with brains, to exalt some good-for-nothing cake with none, because he happens to have a Dutchman for his mother. That would wash, that would!” “You, Bywater! do you mean that for me?” hotly demanded Gerald Yorke. “As if I did!” laughed Bywater. “As if I meant it for any cake in particular! Unless the cap happens to fit ‘em. I don’t say it does.” “The thing is this,” struck in Hurst: “who will sign the paper? It’s of no use for Brittle, or any other fellow, to be at the bother of writing it out, if nobody can be got to sign it.” “What do you mean? The school’s ready to sign it.” “Are the seniors?” With the seniors there was a hitch. Gaunt put himself practically out of the affair; Gerald Yorke would not sign it; and Channing could not. Huntley alone remained. Why could not Channing sign it? Ah, there was the lever that was swaying and agitating the whole school this afternoon. Poor Tom Channing was not just now reposing upon rose-leaves. What with his fiery temper and his pride, Tom had enough to do to keep himself within bounds; for the school was resenting upon him the stigma that had fallen upon Arthur. Not the whole school; but quite sufficient of it. Not that they openly attacked Tom; he could have repaid that in kind; but they were sending him to Coventry. Some said they would not sign a petition to the master headed by Tom Channing:—Tom, you remember, stood on the rolls next to Gaunt. They said that if Tom Channing were to succeed as senior of the school, the school would rise up in open rebellion. That this feeling against him was very much fostered by the Yorkes, was doubted. Gerald was actuated by a twofold motive, one of which was, that it enhanced his own chance of the seniorship. The other arose from resentment against Arthur Channing, for having brought disgrace upon the office which contained his brother Roland. Tod fraternized in this matter with Gerald, though the same could not be said of him in general; no two brothers in the school agreed less well than did the Yorkes. Both of them fully believed Arthur to be guilty. “As good have the thing out now, and settle it,” exclaimed Griffin, who came next to Gerald Yorke, and would be fourth senior when Gaunt should leave. “Are you fellows going to sign it, or not?” “To whom do you speak?” demanded Gaunt. “Well, I speak to all,” said Griffin, a good-humoured lad, but terribly mischievous, and, for some cause best known to himself, warmly espousing the cause of Gerald Yorke. “Shall you sign it, Gaunt?” “No. But I don’t say that I disapprove of it, mind you,” added Gaunt. “Were I going in for the seniorship, and one below me were suddenly hoisted above my head and made cock of the walk, I’d know the reason why. It is not talking that would satisfy me, or grumbling either; I’d act.” “Gaunt doesn’t sign it,” proceeded Griffin, telling off the names upon his fingers. “That’s one. Huntley, do you?” “I don’t come next to Gaunt,” was Huntley’s answer. “I’ll speak in my right turn.” Tom Channing stood near to Huntley, his trencher stuck aside on his head, his honest face glowing. One arm was full of books, the other rested on his hip: his whole attitude bespoke self-possession; his looks, defiance. Griffin went on. “Gerald Yorke, do you sign it?” “I’d see it further, first.” “That’s two disposed of, Gaunt and Yorke,” pursued Griffin. “Huntley, there’s only you.” Huntley gave a petulant stamp. “I have told you I will not speak out of my turn. Yes, I will speak, though, as we want the affair set at rest,” he resumed, changing his mind abruptly. “If Channing signs it, I will. There! Channing, will you sign it?” “Yes, I will,” said Tom. Then it was that the hubbub arose, converting the cloisters into an arena. One word led to another. Fiery blood bubbled up; harsh things were said. Gerald Yorke and his party reproached Tom Channing with being a disgrace to the school’s charter, through his brother Arthur. Huntley and a few more warmly espoused Tom’s cause, of whom saucy Bywater was one, who roared out cutting sarcasms from his gymnasium on the window-frame. Tom controlled himself better than might have been expected, but he and Gerald Yorke flung passionate retorts one to the other. “It is not fair to cast in a fellow’s teeth the shortcomings of his relations,” continued Bywater. “What with our uncles and cousins, and mothers and grandmothers, there’s sure to be one among them that goes off the square. Look at that rich lot, next door to Lady Augusta’s, with their carriages and servants, and soirées, and all the rest of their grandeur!—their uncle was hanged for sheep-stealing.” “I’d rather steal a sheep and be hanged for it, than help myself to a nasty bit of paltry money, and then deny that I did it!” foamed Gerald. “The suspicion might have fallen on my brother, but that he happened, by good luck, to be away that afternoon. My opinion is, that Arthur Channing intended suspicion to fall upon him.” A howl from Bywater. He had gone over, head foremost, to make acquaintance with the graves. They were too much engrossed to heed him. “Your brother was a great deal more likely to have helped himself to it, than Arthur Channing,” raged Tom. “He does a hundred dirty things every day, that a Channing would rather cut off his arm than attempt.” The disputants’ faces were almost touching each other, and very fiery faces they were—that is, speaking figuratively. Tom’s certainly was red enough, but Gerald’s was white with passion. Some of the bigger boys stood close to prevent blows, which Gaunt was forbidding. “I know he did it!” shrieked Gerald. “There!” “You can’t know it!” stamped Tom. “You don’t know it!” “I do. And for two pins I’d tell.” The boast was a vain boast, the heat of passion alone prompting it. Gerald Yorke was not scrupulously particular in calm moments; but little recked he what he said in his violent moods. Tom repudiated it with scorn. But there was another upon whom the words fell with intense fear. And that was Charley Channing. Misled by Gerald’s positive and earnest tone, the boy really believed that there must be some foundation for the assertion. A wild fear seized him, lest Gerald should proclaim some startling fact, conveying a conviction of Arthur’s guilt to the minds of the school. The blood forsook his face, his lips trembled, and he pushed his way through the throng till he touched Gerald. “Don’t say it, Gerald Yorke! Don’t!” he imploringly whispered. “I have kept counsel for you.” “What?” said Gerald, wheeling round. “I have kept your counsel about the surplice. Keep Arthur’s in return, if you do know anything against him.” I wish you could have witnessed the change in Gerald Yorke’s countenance! A streak of scarlet crossed its pallor, his eyes blazed forth defiance, and a tremor, as of fear, momentarily shook him. To the surprise of the boys, who had no notion what might have been the purport of Charley’s whisper, he seized the boy by the arm, and fiercely dragged him away up the cloisters, turning the corner into the west quadrangle. “Get down!” he hissed; “get down upon your knees, and swear that you’ll never breathe a syllable of that calumny again! Do you hear me, boy?” “No, I will not get down,” said brave Charley. Gerald drew in his lips. “You have heard of a wild tiger, my boy? One escaped from a caravan the other day, and killed a few people. I am worse than a wild tiger now, and you had better not provoke me. Swear it, or I’ll kill you!” “I will not swear,” repeated the child. “I’ll try and keep the promise I gave you, not to betray about the surplice—I will indeed; but don’t you say again, please, that Arthur is guilty.” To talk of killing somebody, and to set about doing it, are two things. Gerald Yorke’s “killing” would have amounted to no more than a good thrashing. He held the victim at arm’s length, his eyes dilating, his right hand raised, when a head was suddenly propelled close upon them from the graveyard. Gerald was so startled as to drop his hold of Charley. The head belonged to Stephen Bywater, who must have crept across the burial-ground and chosen that spot to emerge from, attracted probably by the noise. “What’s the row?” asked he. “I was about to give Miss Channing a taste of tan,” replied Gerald, who appeared to suddenly cool down from his passion. “He’d have got it sweetly, had you not come up. I’ll tan you too, Mr. Bywater, if you come thrusting in yourself, like that, where you are not expected, and not wanted.” “Tan away,” coolly responded Bywater. “I can tan again. What had the young one been up to?” “Impudence,” shortly answered Yorke. “Mark you, Miss Channing! I have not done with you, though it is my pleasure to let you off for the present. Halloa! What’s that?” It was a tremendous sound of yelling, as if some one amidst the throng of boys was being “tanned” there. Gerald and Charley flew off towards it, followed by Bywater, who propelled himself upwards through the mullioned frame in the best way he could. The sufferer proved to be Tod Yorke, who was writhing under the sharp correction of some tall fellow, six feet high. To the surprise of Gerald, he recognized his brother Roland. You may remember it was stated in the last chapter that Roland Yorke flew off, in wild indignation, from Lady Augusta’s news of the parting of the Reverend Mr. Yorke and Constance Channing. Roland, in much inward commotion, was striding through the cloisters on his way to find that reverend divine, when he strode up to the throng of disputants, who were far too much preoccupied with their own concerns to observe him. The first distinct voice that struck upon Roland’s ear above the general hubbub, was that of his brother Tod. When Gerald had rushed away with Charley Channing, it had struck Tod that he could not do better than take up the dispute on his own score. He forced himself through the crowd to where Gerald had stood in front of Tom Channing, and began. For some little time the confusion was so great he could not be heard, but Tod persevered; his manner was overbearing, his voice loud. “I say that Tom Channing might have the decency to take himself out of the school. When our friends put us into it, they didn’t expect we should have to consort with thieves’ brothers.” “You contemptible little reptile! How dare you presume to cast aspersion at my brother?” scornfully uttered Tom. And the scorn was all he threw at him; for the seniors disdained, whatever the provocation, to attack personally those younger and less than themselves. Tod Yorke knew this. “How dare I! Oh!” danced Tod. “I dare because I dare, and because it’s true. When my brother Gerald says he knows it was Arthur Channing helped himself to the note, he does know it. Do you think,” he added, improving upon Gerald’s suggestion, “that my brother Roland could be in the same office, and not know that he helped himself to it? He—” It was at this unlucky moment that Roland had come up. He heard the words, dashed the intervening boys right and left, caught hold of Mr. Tod by the collar of his jacket, and lifted him from the ground, as an angry lion might lift a contemptible little animal that had enraged him. Roland Yorke was not an inapt type of an angry lion just then, with his panting breath, his blazing eye, and his working nostrils. “Take that! and that! and that!” cried he, giving Tod a taste of his strength. “You speak against Arthur Channing!—take that! You false little hound!—and that! Let me catch you at it again, and I won’t leave a whole bone in your body!” Tod writhed; Tod howled; Tod shrieked; Tod roared for mercy. All in vain. Roland continued his “and thats!” and Gerald and the other two absentees came leaping up. Roland loosed him then, and turned his flashing eyes upon Gerald. “Is it true that you said you knew Arthur Channing took the bank-note?” “What if I did?” retorted Gerald. “Then you told a lie! A lie as false as you are. If you don’t eat your words, you are a disgrace to the name of Yorke. Boys, believe me!” flashed Roland, turning to the wondering throng—“Gaunt, you believe me—Arthur Channing never did take the note. I know it. I know it, I tell you! I don’t care who it was took it, but it was not Arthur Channing. If you listen again to his false assertions,” pointing scornfully to Gerald, “you’ll show yourselves to be sneaking curs.” Roland stopped for want of breath. Bold Bywater, who was sure to find his tongue before anybody else, elbowed his way to the inner circle, and flourished about there, in complete disregard of the sad state of dilapidation he was in behind; a large portion of a very necessary article of attire having been, in some unaccountable manner, torn away by his recent fall. “That’s right, Roland Yorke!” cried he. “I’d scorn the action of bringing up a fellow’s relations against him. Whether Arthur Channing took the note, or whether he didn’t, what has that to do with Tom?—or with us? They are saying, some of them, that Tom Channing shan’t sign a petition to the master about the seniorship!” “What petition?” uttered Roland, who had not calmed down a whit. “Why! about Pye giving it to Gerald Yorke, over the others’ heads,” returned Bywater. “You know Gerald’s crowing over it, like anything, but I say it’s a shame. I heard him and Griffin say this morning that there was only Huntley to get over, now Tom Channing was put out of it through the bother about Arthur.” “What’s the dean about, that he does not give Pye a word of a sort?” asked Roland. “The dean! If we could only get to tell the dean, it might be all right. But none of us dare do it.” “Thank you for your defence of Arthur,” said Tom Channing to Roland Yorke, as the latter was striding away. Roland looked back. “I am ashamed for all the lot of you! You might know that Arthur Channing needs no defence. He should not be aspersed in my school, Gaunt, if I were senior.” What with one thing and another, Roland’s temper had not been so aroused for many a day. Gaunt ran after him, but Roland would not turn his head, or speak. “Your brothers are excited against Tom Channing, and that makes them hard upon him, with regard to this accusation of Arthur,” observed Gaunt. “Tom has gone on above a bit, about Gerald’s getting his seniorship over him and Huntley. Tom Channing can go on at a splitting rate when he likes, and he has not spared his words. Gerald, being the party interested, does not like it. That’s what they were having a row over, when you came up.” “Gerald has no more right to be put over Tom Channing’s head, than you have to be put over Pye’s,” said Roland, angrily. “Of course he has not,” replied Gaunt. “But things don’t go by ‘rights,’ you know. This business of Arthur Channing’s has been quite a windfall for Gerald; he makes it into an additional reason why Tom, at any rate, should not have the seniorship. And there only remains Huntley.” “He does, does he!” exclaimed Roland. “If the dean—” Roland’s voice—it had not been a soft one—died away. The dean himself appeared suddenly at the door of the chapter-house, which they were then passing. Roland raised his hat, and Gaunt touched his trencher. The dean accosted the latter, his tone and manner less serene than usual. “What is the cause of this unusual noise, Gaunt? It has disturbed me in my reading. If the cloisters are to be turned into a bear-garden, I shall certainly order them to be closed to the boys.” “I’ll go and stop it at once, sir,” replied Gaunt, touching his trencher again, as he hastily retired. He had no idea that the dean was in the chapter-house. Roland, taking no time for consideration—he very rarely did take it, or any of the Yorkes—burst forth with the grievance to the dean. Not that Roland was one who cared much about justice or injustice in the abstract; but he was feeling excessively wroth with Gerald, and in a humour to espouse Tom Channing’s cause against the world. “The college boys are in a state of semi-rebellion, Mr. Dean, and are not so quiet under it as they might be. They would like to bring their cause of complaint to you; but they don’t dare.” “Indeed!” said the dean. “The senior boy leaves the school at Michaelmas,” went on Roland, scarcely giving the dean time to say the word. “The one who stands first to step into his place is Tom Channing; the next is Huntley; the last is Gerald Yorke. There is a belief afloat that Mr. Pye means to pass over the two first, without reference to their merits or their rights, and to bestow it upon Gerald Yorke. The rumour is, that he has promised this to my mother, Lady Augusta. Ought this to be so, Mr. Dean?—although my asking it may seem to be opposed to Lady Augusta’s wishes and my brother’s interests.” “Where have you heard this?” inquired the dean. “Oh, the whole town is talking of it, sir. Of course, that does not prove its truth; but the college boys believe it. They think,” said Roland, pointedly, “that the dean ought to ascertain its grounds of foundation, and to interfere. Tom Channing is bearing the brunt of this false accusation on his brother, which some of the cowards are casting to him. It would be too bad were Pye to deprive him of the seniorship!” “You think the accusation on Arthur Channing to be a false one?” returned the dean. “There never was a more false accusation brought in this world,” replied Roland, relapsing into excitement. “I would answer for Arthur Channing with my own life. He is entirely innocent. Good afternoon, Mr. Dean. If I stop longer, I may say more than’s polite; there’s no telling. Things that I have heard this afternoon have put my temper up.” He strode away towards the west door, leaving the dean looking after him with a smile. The dean had been on terms of friendship with Dr. Yorke, and was intimate with his family. Roland’s words were a somewhat singular corroboration of Arthur Channing’s private defence to the dean only an hour ago. Meanwhile Gaunt had gone up to scatter the noisy crew. “A nice row you have got me into with your quarrelling,” he exclaimed. “The dean has been in the chapter-house all the time, and isn’t he in a passion! He threatens to shut up the cloisters.” The announcement brought stillness, chagrin. “What a bothering old duffer he is, that dean!” uttered Bywater. “He is always turning up when he’s not wanted.” “Take your books, and disperse in silence,” was the command of the senior boy. “Stop a bit,” said Bywater, turning himself round and about for general inspection. “Look at me! Can I go home?” “My!” roared the boys, who had been too preoccupied to be observant. “Haven’t they come to grief!” “But can I go through the streets?” “Oh yes! Make a rush for it. Tell the folks you have been in the wars.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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