FullReads

Still I clung on to my pride. Broken down as I was, and unnerved and damaged in my self-respect, there was but a week more of the term to run, and I would try to hold out till the end. If I could only do that, I was safe, for I would get my father to take me away at Christmas for good. No–would I?–that would be the biggest surrender of all. I could not think what I would do.

So I sat down and wrote to Browne for lack of any better occupation, and told him how I envied him his expulsion, and wished any such luck could happen to me.

Then I grimly set myself to endure the remaining days of my slow torture.

Oh, the silence of those days! The noise and laughter of the fellows was nothing to it. I could endure the one, and in my extremity was even glad of it. But the sealed lips of everyone that met me were like so many daggers.

At last I was really ill–or at any rate I was so reduced that unless relief came soon I must either capitulate or run away.

Even yet I found it hard to contemplate the former alternative. I met Harrison one morning in the passage. I suppose I must have looked specially miserable, for, contrary to his usual practice now, instead of looking away, he slackened speed as he came up and looked at me. Now was my time surely. I was famished for want of a friendly word or look, and my pride was at its last gasp. I believe I had actually begun to speak, when a sound in the passage startled us both, and we passed by as of old–strangers.

I rushed off to my study, ashamed and disappointed, and paced round it like a caged animal. What could I do? Should I write to some of the fellows? Should I tell Draven? or–should I escape?

Then it occurred to me, had not I a right to know why I was being treated like this? What had I done? Was I a sneak, or a leper, or a murderer, that I should thus be excommunicated and tortured? What a fool I had been, not to think of this before! Alas! it was too late now. My pride had made it impossible for me to speak the first word without surrendering all along the line; and even yet, at the eleventh hour, I could not face that. So I shut myself up for another day, miserable, nervous, and ill, and counted the minutes to bedtime.

The evening post brought a letter from Browne, and, thankful for any diversion, and the silent company even of a friendly piece of paper, I crawled off early to my study to make the most of my little comfort.

I started before I had read two lines, and uttered an exclamation of amazement.

“Dear Smither,–

“There’s been a most frightful mistake. By the same post as brought your letter I got enclosed from Williams. What a set of cads they’ve been, and all my fault! I’ve written to Williams that if it’s not all put right in twenty-four hours I’ll come down, disgraced as I am, and tell Draven. I’m in too great a rage to write more. Unless I get a telegram `All right!’ by ten to-morrow morning I’ll come.

“Yours ever,–

“P. Browne.”

Williams’s letter enclosed–or rather part of it, for Browne had kept one sheet–was as follows, though my head was swimming so much at the time that I could scarcely take it all in.

“The fellows here haven’t forgotten you, and they’re showing it in a pretty decided way at present. About three weeks ago we discovered that Smither, who called himself your friend, was the sneak who went to Draven the morning you were expelled, and let out about you. He was seen coming from D.’s study early, and young Wright, who happened to be in the next room, heard him speaking about you. Well, we’ve boycotted him. Not a fellow is allowed to speak to him, or notice him, or go near him. Everybody’s been bound over, and unless some one plays traitor, the place will get too hot for him before the term’s up. And serve him right too. Harrison and I–“