Chương Chương 11 · A Day of Rest

. A Day of Rest

"There was a letter indeed to be intercepted by a man's father to

do him good with him!"--_Every Man in his Humour._

"I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter,

Sent to my son; nor leave t' admire the change

Of manners, and the breeding of our youth

Within the kingdom, since myself was one."--_Ibid._

Sunday came--a day which was to begin a new week for Mr. Bultitude, and,

of course, for the rest of the Christian world as well. Whether that

week would be better or worse than the one which had just passed away he

naturally could not tell--it could hardly be much worse.

But the Sunday itself, he anticipated, without, however, any very firm

grounds for such an assumption, would be a day of brief but grateful

respite; a day on which he might venture to claim much the same immunity

as was enjoyed in former days by the insolvent; a day, in short, which

would glide slowly by with the rather drowsy solemnity peculiar to the

British sabbath as observed by all truly respectable persons.

And yet that very Sunday, could he have foreseen it, was destined to be

the most eventful day he had yet spent at Crichton House, where none had

proved wanting in incident. During the next twelve hours he was to pass

through every variety of unpleasant sensation. Embarrassment, suspense,

fear, anxiety, dismay, and terror were to follow each other in rapid

succession, and to wind up, strangely enough, with a delicious ecstasy

of pure relief and happiness--a fatiguing programme for any middle-aged

gentleman who had never cultivated his emotional faculties.

Let me try to tell how this came about. The getting-up bell rang an hour

later than on week-days, but the boys were expected to prepare certain

tasks suitable for the day before they rose. Mr. Bultitude found that he

was required to learn by heart a hymn in which the rhymes "join" and

"divine," "throne" and "crown," were so happily wedded that either might

conform to the other--a graceful concession to individual taste which is

not infrequent in this class of poetry. Trivial as such a task may seem

in these days of School Boards, it gave him infinite trouble and mental

exertion, for he had not been called upon to commit anything of the kind

to memory for many years, and after mastering that, there still remained

a long chronological list (the dates approximately computed) of the

leading events before and immediately after the Deluge, which was to be

repeated "without looking at the book."

While he was wrestling desperately with these, for he was determined, as

I have said before, to do all in his power to keep himself out of

trouble, Mrs. Grimstone, in her morning wrapper, paid a visit to the

dormitories and, in spite of all Paul's attempts to excuse himself,

insisted upon pomatuming his hair--an indignity which he felt acutely.

"When she knows who I really am," he thought, "she'll be sorry she made

such a point of it. If there's one thing upon earth I loathe more than

another, it's marrow-oil pomade!"

Then there was breakfast, at which Dr. Grimstone appeared, resplendent

in glossy broadcloth, and dazzling shirt-front and semi-clerical white

tie, and after breakfast, an hour in the schoolroom, during which the

boys (by the aid of repeated references to the text) wrote out "from

memory" the hymn they had learnt, while Paul managed somehow to stumble

through his dates and events to the satisfaction of Mr. Tinkler, who, to

increase his popularity, made a point of being as easily satisfied with

such repetitions as he decently could.

After that came the order to prepare for church. There was a general

rush to the little room with the shelves and bandboxes, where church

books were procured, and great-coats and tight kid gloves put on.

When they were almost ready the Doctor came in, wearing his blandest and

most paternal expression.

"A--it's a collection Sunday to-day, boys," he said. "Have you all got

your threepenny-bits ready? I like to see my boys give cheerfully and

liberally of their abundance. If any boy does not happen to have any

small change, I can accommodate him if he comes to me."

And this he proceeded to do from a store he had with him of that most

convenient coin--the chosen expression of a congregation's

gratitude--the common silver threepence, for the school occupied a

prominent position in the church, and had acquired a great reputation

amongst the churchwardens for the admirable uniformity with which one

young gentleman after another "put into the plate"; and this reputation

the Doctor was naturally anxious that they should maintain.

I am sorry to say that Mr. Bultitude, fearing lest he should be asked if

he had the required sum about him, and thus his penniless condition

might be discovered and bring him trouble, got behind the door at the

beginning of the money-changing transactions and remained there till it

was over--it seemed to him that it would be too paltry to be disgraced

for want of threepence.

Now, being thus completely furnished for their devotions, the school

formed in couples in the hall and filed solemnly out for the march to

church.

Mr. Bultitude walked nearly last with Jolland, whose facile nature had

almost forgotten his friend's shortcomings on the previous day. He kept

up a perpetual flow of chatter which, as he never stopped for an answer,

permitted Paul to indulge his own thoughts unrestrained.

"Are you going to put your threepenny-bit in?" said Jolland; "I won't if

you don't. Sometimes, you know, when the plate comes round, old Grim

squints down the pews to see we don't shirk. Then I put in sixpence.

Have you done your hymn? I do hate a hymn. What's the use of learning

hymns? They won't mark you for them, you know, in any exam. I ever heard

of, and it can't save you the expense of a hymnbook unless you learnt

all the hymns in it, and that would take you years. Oh, I say, look!

there's young Mutlow and his governor and mater. I wonder what Mutlow's

governor does? Mutlow says he's a 'gentleman' if you ask him, but I

believe he lies. See that fly driving past? Mother Grim" (the irreverent

youth always spoke of Mrs. Grimstone in this way) "and Dulcie are in it.

I saw Dulcie look at you, Dick. It's a shame to treat her as you did

yesterday. There's young Tom on the box; don't his ears stick out

rummily? I wonder if the 'ugly family' will be at church to-day? You

know the ugly family; all with their mouths open and their eyes

goggling, like a jolly old row of pantomime heads. And oh, Dick, suppose

Connie Davenant's people have changed their pew--that'll be a sell for

you rather, won't it?"

"I don't understand you," said Mr. Bultitude stiffly; "and, if you don't

object, I prefer not to be called upon to talk just now."

"Oh, all right!" said Jolland, "there aren't so many fellows who will

talk to you; but just as you please--I don't want to talk."

And so the pair walked on in silence; Jolland with his nose in the air,

determined that after this he really must cut his former friend as the

other fellows had done, since his devotion was appreciated so little,

and Paul watching the ascending double line of tall chimney-pot hats as

they surged before him in regular movement, and feeling a dull wonder at

finding himself setting out to church in such ill-assorted company.

They entered the church, and Paul was sent down to the extreme end of a

pew next to the one reserved for the Doctor and his family. Dulcie was

sitting there already on the other side of the partition; but she gave

no sign of having noticed his arrival, being apparently absorbed in

studying the rose-window over the altar.

He sat down in his corner with a sense of rest and almost comfort,

though the seat was not a cushioned one. He had the inoffensive Kiffin

for a neighbour, his chief tormentors were far away from him in one of

the back pews, and here at least he thought no harm could come to him.

He could allow himself safely to do what I am afraid he generally did do

under the circumstances--snatch a few intermittent but sweet periods of

dreamless slumber.

But, while the service was proceeding, Mr. Bultitude was suddenly

horrified to observe that a young lady, who occupied a pew at right

angles to and touching that in which he sat, was deliberately making

furtive signals to him in a most unmistakable manner.

She was a decidedly pretty girl of about fifteen, with merry and daring

blue eyes and curling golden hair, and was accompanied by two small

brothers (who shared the same book and dealt each other stealthy and

vicious kicks throughout the service), and by her father, a stout,

short-sighted old gentleman in gold spectacles, who was perpetually

making the wrong responses in a loud and confident tone.

To be signalled to in a marked manner by a strange young lady of great

personal attractions might be a coveted distinction to other schoolboys,

but it simply gave Mr. Bultitude cold thrills.

"I suppose _that's_ 'Connie Davenant,'" he thought, shocked beyond

measure as she caught his eye and coughed demurely for about the fourth

time. "A very forward young person! I think somebody ought to speak

seriously to her father."

"Good gracious! she's writing something on the flyleaf of her

prayer-book," he said to himself presently. "I hope she's not going to

send it to _me_. I won't take it. She ought to be ashamed of herself!"

Miss Davenant was indeed busily engaged in pencilling something on a

blank sheet of paper; and, having finished, she folded it deftly into a

cocked-hat, wrote a few words on the outside, and placed it between the

leaves of her book.

Then, as the congregation rose for the Psalms, she gave a meaning glance

at the blushing and scandalised Mr. Bultitude and by dexterous

management of her prayer-book shot the little cocked-hat, as if

unconsciously, into the next pew.

By a very unfortunate miscalculation, however, the note missed its

proper object, and, clearing the partition, fluttered deliberately down

on the floor by Dulcie's feet.

Paul saw this with alarm; he knew that at all hazards he must get that

miserable note into his own possession and destroy it. It might have his

name somewhere about it; it might seriously compromise him.

So he took advantage of the noise the congregation made in repeating a

verse aloud (it was not a high church) to whisper to Dulcie: "Little

Miss Grimstone, excuse me, but there's a--a note in the pew down by your

feet. I believe it's intended for me."

Dulcie had seen the whole affair and had been not a little puzzled by

it, a clandestine correspondence being a new thing in her short

experience; but she understood that in this golden-haired girl, her

elder by several years, she saw her rival, for whom Dick had so basely

abandoned her yesterday, and she was old enough to feel the slight and

the sweetness of revenge.

So she held her head rather higher than usual, with her firm little chin

projecting wilfully, and waited for the next verse but one before

retorting, "Little Master Bultitude, I know it is."

"Could you--can you manage to reach it?" whispered Paul entreatingly.

"Yes," said Dulcie, "I could."

"Then will you--when they sit down?"

"No," said Dulcie firmly, "I shan't."

The other girl, she noticed with satisfaction, had become aware of the

situation and was evidently uneasy. She looked as imploringly as she

dared at remorseless little Dulcie, as if appealing to her not to get

her into trouble; but Dulcie bent her eyes obstinately on her book and

would not see her.

If the letter had been addressed to any other boy in the school, she

would have done her best to shield the culprits; but this she could not

bring herself to do here. She found a malicious pleasure in remaining

absolutely neutral, which of course was very wrong and ill-natured of

her.

Mr. Bultitude began now to be seriously alarmed. The fatal paper must be

seen by some one in the Doctor's pew as soon as the congregation sat

down again; and, if it reached the Doctor's hands, it was impossible to

say what misconstruction he might put upon it or what terrible

consequences might not follow.

He was innocent, perfectly innocent; but though the consciousness of

innocence is frequently a great consolation, he felt that unless he

could imbue the Doctor with it as well, it would not save him from a

flogging.

So he made one more desperate attempt to soften Dulcie's resolution:

"Don't be a naughty little girl," he said, very injudiciously for his

purpose, "I tell you I must have it. You'll get me into a terrible mess

if you're not careful!"

But although Dulcie had been extremely well brought up, I regret to say

that the only answer she chose to make to this appeal was that slight

contortion of the features, which with a pretty girl is euphemised as a

"_moue_," and with a plain one is called "making a face." When he saw it

he knew that all hope of changing her purpose must be abandoned.

Then they all sat down, and, as Paul had foreseen, there the white

cocked-hat lay on the dark pew-carpet, hideously distinct, with _billet

doux_ in every fold of it!

It could only be a question of time now. The curate was reading the

first lesson for the day, but Mr. Bultitude heard not a verse of it. He

was waiting with bated breath for the blow to fall.

It fell at last. Dulcie, either with the malevolent idea of hastening

the crisis, or (which I prefer to believe for my own part) finding that

her ex-lover's visible torments were too much for her desire of

vengeance, was softly moving a heavy hassock towards the guilty note.

The movement caught her mother's eye, and in an instant the compromising

paper was in her watchful hands.

She read it with incredulous horror, and handed it at once to the

Doctor.

The golden-haired one saw it all without betraying herself by any

outward confusion. She had probably had some experience in such matters,

and felt tolerably certain of being able, at the worst, to manage the

old gentleman in the gold spectacles. But she took an early opportunity

of secretly conveying her contempt for the traitress Dulcie, who

continued to meet her angry glances with the blandest unconsciousness.

Dr. Grimstone examined the cocked-hat through his double eyeglasses,

with a heavy thunder-cloud gathering on his brows. When he had mastered

it thoroughly, he bent forward and glared indignantly past his wife and

daughter for at least half a minute into the pew where Mr. Bultitude was

cowering, until he felt that he was coming all to pieces under the

piercing gaze.

The service passed all too quickly after that. Paul sat down and stood

up almost unconsciously with the rest; but for the first time in his

life he could have wished the sermon many times longer.

The horror of his position quite petrified him. After all his prudent

resolutions to keep out of mischief and to win the regard and confidence

of his gaoler by his good conduct, like the innocent convict in a

melodrama, this came as nothing less than a catastrophe. He walked home

in a truly dismal state of limp terror.

Fortunately for him none of the others seemed to have noticed his

misfortune, and Jolland made no further advances. But even the weather

tended to increase his depression, for it was a bleak, cheerless day,

with a bitter and searching wind sweeping the gritty roads where

yesterday's rain was turned to black ice in the ruts, and the sun shone

with a dull coppery glitter that had no warmth or geniality about it.

The nearer they came to Crichton House the more abjectly miserable

became Mr. Bultitude's state of mind. It was as much as he could do to

crawl up the steps to the front door, and his knees positively clapped

together when the Doctor, who had driven home, met them in the hall and

said in a still grave voice, "Bultitude, when you have taken off your

coat, I want you in the study."

He was as long about taking off his coat as he dared, but at last he

went trembling into the study, which he found empty. He remembered the

room well, with its ebony-framed etchings on the walls, bookcases and

blue china over the draped mantelpiece, even to a large case of

elaborately carved Indian chessmen in bullock-carts and palanquins, on

horses and elephants, which stood in the window-recess. It was the very

room to which he had been shown when he first called about sending his

son to the school. He had little thought then that the time would come

when he would attend there for the purpose of being flogged; few things

would have seemed less probable. Yet here he was.

But his train of thought was abruptly broken by the entrance of the

Doctor. He marched solemnly in, holding out the offending missive. "Look

at this, sir!" he said, shaking it angrily before Paul's eyes. "Look at

this! what do you mean by receiving a flippant communication like this

in a sacred edifice? What do you mean by it?"

"I--I didn't receive it," said Paul, at his wits' end.

"Don't prevaricate with me, sir; you know well enough it was intended

for you. Have the goodness to read it now, and tell me what you have to

say for yourself!"

Paul read it. It was a silly little school-girl note, half slang and

half sentiment, signed only with the initials C.D. "Well, sir?" said the

Doctor.

"It's very forward and improper--very," said Paul; "but it's not my

fault--I can't help it. I gave the girl no encouragement. I never saw

her before in all my life!"

"To my own knowledge, Bultitude, she has sat in that pew regularly for a

year."

"Very probably," said Paul, "but I don't notice these matters. I'm past

that sort of thing, my dear sir."

"What is her name? Come, sir, you know that."

"Connie Davenant," said Paul, taken unawares by the suddenness of the

question. "At least, I--I heard so to-day." He felt the imprudence of

such an admission as soon as he had made it.

"Very odd that you know her name if you never noticed her before," said

the Doctor.

"That young fellow--what's-his-name--Jolland told me," said Paul.

"Ah, but it's odder still that she knows yours, for I perceive it is

directed to you by name."

"It's easily explained, my dear sir," said Paul; "easily explained. I've

no doubt she's heard it somewhere. At least, I never told her; it is not

likely. I do assure you I'm as much distressed and shocked by this

affair as you can be yourself. I am indeed. I don't know what girls are

coming to nowadays."

"Do you expect me to believe that you are perfectly innocent?" said the

Doctor.

"Yes, I do," said Mr. Bultitude. "I can't prevent fast young ladies from

sending me notes. Why, she might have sent _you_ one!"

"We won't go into hypothetical cases," said the Doctor, not relishing

the war being carried into his own country; "she happened to prefer you.

But, although your virtuous indignation seems to me a trifle overdone,

sir, I don't see my way clear to punishing you on the facts, especially

as you tell me you never encouraged these--these overtures, and my

Dulcie, I am bound to say, confirms your statement that it was all the

other young lady's doing. But if I had had any proof that you had begun

or responded to her--hem--advances, nothing could have saved you from a

severe flogging at the very least--so be careful for the future."

"Ah!" said Paul rather feebly, quite overwhelmed by the narrowness of

his escape. Then with a desperate effort he found courage to add, "May

I--ah--take advantage of this--this restored cordiality to--to--in fact

to make a brief personal explanation? It--it's what I've been trying to

tell you for a long time, ever since I first came, only you never will

hear me out. It's highly important. You've no notion how serious it is!"

"There's something about you this term, Richard Bultitude," said the

Doctor slowly, "that I confess I don't understand. This obstinacy is

unusual in a boy of your age, and if you really have a mystery it may be

as well to have it out and have done with it. But I can't be annoyed

with it now. Come to me after supper to-night, and I shall be willing to

hear anything you may have to say."

Paul was too overcome at this unexpected favour to speak his thanks. He

got away as soon as he could. His path was smoothed at last!

That afternoon the boys, or all of them who had disposed of the work set

them for the day, were sitting in the schoolroom, after a somewhat

chilly dinner of cold beef, cold tarts, and cold water, passing the time

with that description of literature known as "Sunday reading."

And here, at the risk of being guilty of a digression, I must pause to

record my admiration for this exceedingly happy form of compromise,

which is, I think, peculiar to the British and, to a certain extent, the

American nations.

It has many developments; ranging from the mild Transatlantic compound

of cookery and camp-meetings, to the semi-novel, redeemed and chastened

by an arrangement which sandwiches a sermon or a biblical lecture

between each chapter of the story--a great convenience for the race of

skippers.

Then there are one or two illustrated magazines which it is always

allowable to read on the Sabbath without fear of rebuke from the

strictest--though it is not quite easy to see why.

Open any one of the monthly numbers, and the chances are that you may

possibly find at one part a neat little doctrinal essay by a literary

bishop; the rest of the contents will consist of nothing more serious

than a paper upon "cockroaches and their habits" by an eminent savant; a

description of foreign travel, done in a brilliant and wholly secular

vein; and, further on again, an article on aesthetic furniture--while the

balance of the number will be devoted to instalments of two thrilling

novels by popular authors, whose theology is seldom their strongest

point.

Oddly enough, too, when these very novels come out later in three-volume

form, with the "mark of the beast" in the shape of a circulating library

ticket upon them, they will be fortunate if they are not interdicted

altogether by some of the serious families who take in the magazines as

being "so suitable for Sundays."

Mr. Bultitude, at all events, had reason to be grateful for this

toleration, for in one of the bound volumes supplied to him he found a

most interesting and delightfully unsectarian novel, which appealed to

his tastes as a business man, for it was all about commerce and making

fortunes by blockade-running; and though he was no novel reader as a

rule, his mind was so relieved and set at rest by the prospect of seeing

the end of his trouble at last, that he was able to occupy his mind with

the fortunes of the hero.

He naturally detected technical errors here and there. But that pleased

him, and he was becoming so deeply absorbed in the tale that he felt

seriously annoyed when Chawner came softly up to the desk at which he

was sitting, and sat down close to him, crossing his arms before him,

and leaning forward upon them with his sallow face towards Paul.

"Dickie," he began, in a cautious, oily tone, "did I hear the Doctor say

before dinner that he would hear anything you have to tell him after

supper? Did I?"

"I really can't say, sir," said Paul; "if you were near the keyhole at

the time, very likely you did."

"The door was open," said Chawner, "and I was in the cloak-room, so I

heard, and I want to know. What is it you're going to tell the Doctor?"

"Mind your own business, sir," said Paul sharply.

"It is my own business," said Chawner; "but I don't want to be told what

you're going to tell him. I know."

"Good heavens!" said Mr. Bultitude, annoyed to find his secret in

possession of this boy of all others.

"Yes," repeated Chawner. "I know, and I tell you what--I won't have it!"

"Won't have it! and why?"

"Never mind why. Perhaps I don't choose that the Doctor shall be told

just yet; perhaps I mean to go up and tell him myself some other day. I

want to have a little more fun out of it before I've done."

"But--but," said Paul, "you young ghoul, do you mean to say that all you

care for is to see other people's sufferings?"

Chawner grinned maliciously. "Yes," he said suavely; "it amuses me."

"And so," said Paul, "you want to hold me back a little longer--because

it's so funny; and then, when you're quite tired of your sport, you'll

go up and tell the Doctor my--my unhappy story yourself, eh? No, my

friend; I'd rather not tell him myself--but I'll be shot if I let _you_

have a finger in it. I know my own interests better than that!"

"Don't get in a passion, Dickie," said Chawner; "it's Sunday. You'll

have to let me go up instead of you--when I've frightened them a little

more."

"Who do you mean by them, sir?" said Paul, growing puzzled.

"As if you didn't know! Oh, you're too clever for me, Dickie, I can

see," sniggered Chawner.

"I tell you I don't know!" said Mr. Bultitude. "Look here, Chawner--your

confounded name is Chawner, isn't it?--there's a mistake somewhere, I'm

sure of it. Listen to me. I'm not going to tell the Doctor what you

think I am!"

"What do I think you are going to tell him?"

"I haven't the slightest idea; but, whatever it is, you're wrong."

"Ah, you're too clever, Dickie; you won't betray yourself; but other

people want to pay Coker and Tipping out as well as you, and I say you

must wait."

"I shan't say anything to affect anyone but myself," said Paul; "if you

know all about it, you must know that--it won't interfere with your

amusement that I can see."

"Yes, it will," said Chawner irritably, "it will--you mayn't mean to

tell of anyone but yourself; but directly Grimstone asks you questions,

it all comes out. I know all about it. And, anyway, I forbid you to go

up till I give you leave."

"And who the dooce are you?" said Mr. Bultitude, nettled at this

assumption of authority. "How are you going to prevent me, may I ask?"

"S'sh! here's the Doctor," whispered Chawner hurriedly. "I'll tell you

after tea. What am I doing out of my place, sir? Oh, I was only asking

Bultitude what was the collect for to-day, sir. Fourth Sunday after the

Epiphany? thank you, Bultitude."

And he glided back to his seat, leaving Paul in a state of vague

uneasiness. Why did this fellow, with the infernal sly face and glib

tongue, want to prevent him from righting himself with the world, and

how could he possibly prevent him? It was absurd; he would take no

notice of the young scoundrel--he would defy him.

But he could not banish the uneasy feeling; the cup had slipped so many

times before at the critical moment that he could not be sure whose hand

would be the next to jog his elbow. And so he went down to tea with

renewed misgivings.