when i had been washed, and my cuts and bruises salved, mr. sant took me in to dinner, having already sent a message to my uncle that i should be late. i was horribly stiff, with blubber lips, and knobs and swellings everywhere; yet i would not for the world have missed one pang which my jaws suffered in eating. for was not each twinge an earnest to me that i was redeemed in my own eyes? the penance was as gratifying as, i think, a catholic’s must be after confession and absolution given.
before we were well finished uncle jenico came in, a little flurried and apologetic over his intrusion. he had guessed pretty well the reason of my detention, and his anxiety would not let him rest. his hands trembled as he adjusted his spectacles to look at me, and removed and wiped them, and put them on again for a second scrutiny.
“so you have conquered?” he said, “my poor boy; my poor, dear boy! why i had no idea boxing punished so. you should not have minded what they said about me, richard—a tough old rascal, and ready to take it all in the day’s luck.”
“i don’t think richard will agree with you, sir,” said mr. sant. “he has won his spurs, and a convert, i hope. he has fought like a gentleman and a christian—by george, sir, it was poor broughton and the norwich butcher over again—and you, i am sure, are as proud of him as i am.”
“eh?” said my uncle, half laughing and half crying; and then falling suddenly grave. “if it’s to inculcate respect—the stitch in time, you know—certainly. but i can’t help wondering, if this is the victor, what is the state of the vanquished?”
“a state of grace, i hope,” said the clergyman, smiling. “but it’s a very proper reflection, sir, and one which, i am sure, richard will take to heart.”
the reminder, nevertheless, was not out of place. it is well at the feast of triumph to remember who pays the cost. i had been self-glorifying a little overmuch; and here, of a sudden, was the picture before me of my beaten enemy slinking away to hide his battered face, at the very moment that i was crowing to everybody to come and look at mine. uncle jenico was the true gentleman among us all; and it was he who had been insulted.
i soon mended of my knocks, and the very next day was ruffling it to my lessons with a new self-confidence that made nothing of possessing the world. dunberry was no longer a siberia to me, but a conquered country full of breezy possibilities. i should have welcomed the prospect of an attack; but no one interfered with me. on the contrary, awed and covert glances greeted me on my way past the school. i dropped a book. an obsequious little courtier scurried to pick it up for me. the news of the fight had got abroad, it was evident, and harry was no longer the cock of the walk. from this moment, with other than the youth of dunberry, i am afraid, my position was secured.
i hope i took no base advantage of the knowledge; yet i won’t say but i might have if mr. sant had not been at my back to prevent it.
“don’t forget you fought for a principle,” he would remind me. “it’s no manner of christian use to turn out a bully that you may usurp his place.”
to prove to me that boxing was not the whole duty of a gentleman, and to school me from presuming on any idea of indulgence because of my victory, he rather put the screw on in my education, and for a time was something of a martinet on questions of study and discipline. i was hurt, and a little bit rebellious at first; but soon, having a fair reason of my own, came to recognize his consistency.
during this time, and for some weeks after the fight, i saw next to nothing of harry harrier. he kept out of my way, sulking and grieving, though he attended school—with phenomenal punctuality, too, i believe—regularly. his father, i heard from old jacob, had been very savage over his beating, and had dressed him well for it. i was furious when i was told, and wanted mr. sant to complain to the squire; but, before he could do so, something happened which made any complaint futile. a new steward, a draco of a man, was appointed to the court, and one day, shortly after his arrival, lo and behold! there was the gamekeeper handcuffed, and being carried off to ipswich gaol in a tax-cart by the officers of the law. it had been discovered that for years he had been in collusion with a gang of poachers, and in the end he had been watched, and caught in flagranti delicto. his wife followed him to the county town, and devoted most of her savings, poor woman, to his defence, but without avail. he was convicted and transported, and i may as well say at once that that was the end of him so far as his family was concerned, for he never turned up again. while the trial was pending, harry—it is not, under all the circumstances, to be wondered at—gave the schoolhouse a wide berth; but, after his father had been sentenced and their home broken up, to the surprise of every one he put in an appearance there again, coming dogged and punctual to a task which must have grown nothing less than a perpetual ordeal to him. we did not, in truth, know the strength of will of the desperate humbled little spirit—not any of us, that is to say, but mr. sant. he had gauged it, i am sure; and, having set his heart on the boy’s reclamation, was watching with an anxious interest the development of the odd little drama which he had helped to engineer. he visited, of course, in virtue of his office, the gamekeeper’s unhappy wife, who had been forced to betake herself to a mean little tenement in the village, where she eked out the small means remaining to her by washing for the rectory; and though, as yet, the son would hardly notice or be civil to him, the mother did not fail to acquaint him, with many fond tears, of her poor, wild little fellow’s real love and resolution, and of the courage which was determining him to train himself to take the place of the breadwinner they had lost. all of which, i knew, made mr. sant the more eager to have the lad recognize him for a friend; only pride stood in the way. for, the truth is, poor harry’s prestige was gone down to zero. always owing in some part to the local reputation of his father for a bully and rowdy, the removal of that gentleman had finished what my victory had begun. and now it was the case of the sick lion. the cowardly little jackals who had formerly cringed to him, egged on by their more cowardly elders taunted him with his disgrace. if he retaliated, they overwhelmed him with numbers, or ran, squealing injured righteousness, to appeal against him to their parents. his heart, swelling in his plucky little breast, must often have had a business of it not to let loose the tears; but he had an indomitable soul, and only time and tact could find the way into it.
one day mr. sant and i, when walking together, came unnoticed upon the rear of such a scene. the victim moved on in front, his head hanging a little, though he would not force his pace an inch to accommodate his tormentors, who followed behind, at a safe distance, hooting and jeering at him.
“oo stole the pawtridges! when did ’ee last ’ear from the ’ulks! why don’t ’ee git your mawther to wash your dirty linen, ’ar-ree?” and such-like insults they bawled.
i burned with indignation, and was running to retaliate on my enemy by helping him as he had once helped me, when mr. sant seized me with a determined hand, and bent to whisper in my ear—
“he will hate you, if you do. leave him to fight his own battles.”
as he spoke the little wretches let fly a shower of small missiles, and a stone struck the boy smartly on the neck. he leapt about at once, and came rushing back with clenched fists and a blazing face. the mob dispersed before his onset; but he cut off one panic-stricken unit of it, and smote the lubberly coward with a thorny crash into the hedge. his eyes looked red, his breast was heaving stormily; he would have done some evil, i think, had not mr. sant run and put himself between. then he backed away, without a word; but his cheeks were quite white now, and the wings of his nostrils going like a little winded horse’s.
consternation held the scattered enemy. they stood each where he had been halted by the unexpected vision of their rector and me. the assaulted one, sitting on spikes, stuffed his face into his elbow and boo-hoo’d from stentorian lungs. mr. sant smiled with rather an ugly look.
“blubber away, derrick,” he said. “you’ve been well served for a dirty act.” then he scowled abroad. “are you english boys, to kick a downed one! not one of you, cowards, but if he passed this harrier alone would hug his fists in his pockets! it is no shame of his, but yours. to bait him ten to one—o! what fine courageous fellows! but i’ll have no more of it; d’ye hear? i’ll have no more of it!”
he stamped, in a little access of passion, and again turned sharply on the fallen.
“get up!” he said.
his tone was so peremptory that the boy rose, snuffling and wiping his eyes with his cuff.
“it was you threw the stone,” said mr. sant. “i saw you. very well, then, it’s got to be one of two things: fight, or put your tail between your legs and run. quick now! which is it to be?”
derrick did not move, but raised his wail to a pitch so artificially dismal that i had to laugh.
“ah!” exclaimed mr. sant, still very grim for his part, and snapped himself round. “he means fight, harrier.”
if he did, the battle he contemplated was a battle of the spurs. clapping his hand to the thorns in him, and too frightened now to remember to cry, he took to his heels and, turning a corner, was out of sight in a moment. his answer to the resolution claimed for him was so ludicrous that even his little abettors were set off chuckling.
i was looking across at harry, and saw his face, too, relax and lighten. drawn by its expression, i walked up to him, with my hand held out.
“why won’t you, harry?” i said.
he stared at me, but made no response.
“we knew you could look after yourself,” i went on, “and—and i wasn’t going to interfere; at least—i mean—why won’t you let us stand up for one another, harry?” i ended, with a burst and a blush.
his face, too, was very red again, and i could see his lips were trembling. pride and gratitude were fighting within him for mastery; but the former—still too hot with recent suffering to surrender—remained the more stubborn of the two. while my hand was yet held out, he turned his back on me, on us all, and walked off erect.
i was bitterly hurt and chagrined. i felt that i had done the handsome thing by a boor, and had been meetly rebuffed for my condescension. i came back to mr. sant, swelling with indignation. he understood at a glance.
“give him time, dick,” he said quietly; “give him time.”
“he shall have all the time he likes, sir,” i said, “before i meddle with him again.”
he did not answer, which was perhaps wise; and we continued our walk. but thenceforth my heart was darkened to my unchivalrous foe, and when we passed in the street i ignored him.
my studied indifference had not, however, the effect of making him avoid me. on the contrary, he seemed rather to resume his earlier practice, going out of his way to get in mine, and strutting by whistling to show his unconsciousness of my neighbourhood. yet all the time, i knew, he was never more in need of a friend. mr. sant’s protest, followed by a public rebuke in the school, had put an end to the active bullying; but, to compensate themselves for this deprivation, his companions had, by tacit agreement, sent poor harry to perpetual coventry. he was disclaimed and excluded from all games and conversation; isolated in the midst of the others’ merriment. what this meant to the bright fallen little spirit only lucifer himself, perhaps, could say; and only lucifer himself, perhaps, so endure with unlowered crest while the iron ate into his soul. but, in justice to myself, i could make no further overtures where my every advance was wilfully misunderstood.
so the year went its course without any reconciliation between us; and early in november fell a hard frost, with snow that seemed disposed to stop. awaking one morning, we saw the whole land locked in white under a stiff leaden canopy, as if sea and sky had changed places. the desolation of this remote coast winter-bound it is impossible to describe. we seemed as cut off from the world as esquimaux; and uncle jenico, who had never conceived such a situation, stood aghast before the prospect of a beach ankle-deep in snow. so we found it. the golden sand was all replaced by dazzling silver, into which the surf, so spotless in summer, thrust tongues of a bilious yellow. the sea, from being sportive with weak stomachs, looked sick unto death itself; and the wind in one’s teeth was like a file sharpening a saw. and all this lifelessness cemented itself day by day, until it seemed that we could never emerge again from the depths of winter into which we had fallen.
one afternoon i was loitering very dismal, and quite alone as i thought, near the foot of dunberry gap, when a snowball took me full on the back of the head and knocked my cap off. i was stooping to pick it up, when another came splosh in my face, blinding, and half suffocating me. i staggered to my feet, gasping, only to find myself the butt of a couple of snow forts, between whose fires i had unconsciously strayed. a row of little heads was sprung up on either side, and i was being well pounded before i could collect my wits.
i must premise that at this time my empire was much fallen from its former greatness. never having confirmed it by a second achievement, it had gradually lost the best of its credit, and, though i was still respected by the unit, there was a psychologic point in the association of units beyond which my reputation was coming to be held cheap. i was learning, in fact, the universal truth that to rest on one’s laurels is to resume them, in case of emergency, in a lamentably squashed condition.
now, with half the breath knocked out of my body and my arm protecting my face, i tried to struggle out of the line of fire, only to find the opposing forces basely combining to pelt me into helplessness. i made some show of retaliating; but what was one against twenty? in the midst, i looked up the gap, my one way of retreat, and there, standing halfway down, watching the fray, was harry harrier. i was smarting all over, with rills of melted snow running down my neck, and still the bombardment took me without mercy.
“harry!” i cried. “come and help me!”
the appeal did at a stroke what months of propitiation would have missed. it put him right with himself once more. like a young deer he came leaping down, stooping and gathering ammunition as he approached. the shower ceased on the instant; the craven enemy retreated pell-mell to its double lines of shelter.
“are you ready, sir?” said harry, excitedly. “git your wind and coom on. we’ll drive en out of one o’ them places, and take cover there ourselves.”
he was eagerly gathering and piling the snow as he spoke. in a minute i was myself again, and burning for reprisals. each of us well armed, we charged upon the left-hand position, which seemed the more accessible of the two, and carried it by storm against a faint show of resistance. the garrison shot out and fled, encountering a volley from the opposing force, while we peppered it in the rear. our victory was complete. as we sank back, breathed but glowing, i looked harry silently in the face and held out my hand for the last time. he took it in his own, hanging his silly head; but the nip he gave it felt like a winch’s.
“that’s all right, then,” said i. “it’s pax between us, ain’t it, you old fool?”
he nodded. a long silence fell between us, and i began to whistle. suddenly he looked up shyly, but his eyes were quick with curiosity.
“i say,” he said, “what’s a parryshoot?”
the problem had evidently haunted him ever since i had told him that my uncle had fallen from one.
“well, what do you think?” says i.
“i dunno,” he answered carelessly. “thought, maybe, ’twas one o’ them things that shoots the malt refuge out of brewhouses.”
i sniggered with laughter. fancy uncle jenico having been shot out of a brewery!
“it’s an umbrella,” i said; “a thing that you jump into the air with off a cliff, and come down without hurting yourself.”
“mighty!” he cried, all excitement. “is it reelly? let’s make one—and try it first on that derrick,” he added, with commendable foresight.
my heart crowed at the idea. we discussed it for many minutes. in the midst we heard a sound of distant jeering, and cautiously raised our heads above the snow rampart. the whole body of our enemies was in full retreat, and already nearing the top of the gap. we were left alone, sole inseparable masters of the field. it was the happiest omen of what was to be.
