by F. W. Farrar
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
HAPPIER HOURS.
"Sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you."
Othello, act 1, scene 1.
When chapel was over, Walter, having brushed his hair, and made himselfrather neater and more spruce than a schoolboy usually is at the middleof a long half, went to Mr Percival's room. Mr Percival, having beendetained, had not yet come in; but Henderson, Kenrick, and Power, whohad also been asked to tea, were there waiting for him when Walterarrived, and Henderson, as usual, amusing the others and himself with aflood of mimicry and nonsense.
"You know that mischievous little Penkridge," said Kenrick; "he nearlyhad an accident this morning. We were in the classroom, and Edwards wascomplaining of the bad smell of the room--"
"Bad smell!" interrupted Henderson, "I'll bet you what you like Edwardsdidn't say bad smell. _He's_ not the man to call a spade a spade; hecalls it an agricultural implement for the trituration of the soil."
"Why, what _should_ he say?" asked Kenrick, "if he didn't say `badsmell'?"
"Why, `What a malodorous effluvium!'" said Henderson, imitating exactlythe master's somewhat drawling tone; "`what a con-cen-trra-ted malariousmiasma; what an unendurable'--I say Power, give us the Greek, or Hebrew,or Kamschatkan, for `smell.'"
"Odwde," suggested Power.
"That's it to a T," said Henderson; "I bet you he observed, `What anun-en-duu-rrable osus.' Now, didn't he? Confess the truth."
"Well, I believe he did say something of the kind," said Kenrick,laughing; "at least I know he called it Stygian and Tartarean. But, asI was saying, he set Penkridge (who happened to be going round with thelists) to examine the cupboards, and see if by chance some inopportunerat had died there; and Penkridge, opening one of them where the floorwas very rotten, and poking about with his foot, knocked a great pieceof plaster off the great schoolroom ceiling, and was as nearly aspossible putting his foot through it."
"Fancy if he had," said Walter, "how astonished we should have been downbelow. I say, Henderson, what _would_ Paton have said?"
"Oh! Paton," said Henderson, delighted with any opportunity formimicry, "he'd have whispered quietly, in an emotionless voice,`Penkridge, Penkridge, come here--come here, Penkridge. This is a veryunusual method, Penkridge, of entering a room--highly irregular. If youhaven't broken your leg or your arm, Penkridge, you must write me twohundred lines.'"
"And Robertson?" asked Kenrick.
"Oh! Robertson--he'd have put up his eye-glass," said Henderson, againexactly hitting off the master's attitude, "and he'd have observed, `Ah!Penkridge has fallen through the floor; probably fractured some bones.Slippery fellow, he won't be able to go to the Fighting Cocks _this_afternoon, at any rate.' Whereupon Stevens would have gone up to himwith the utmost tenderness, and asked him if he was hurt; and Penkridge,getting up, would, by way of gratitude, have grinned in his face."
"Well, you'd better finish the scene," said Power; "what would Percivalhave said?"
"Thunder-and-lightning? Oh! that's easy to decide; he'd have made twoor three quotations; he'd have immediately called the attention of theform to the fact that Penkridge had been:--
"`Flung by angry Jove Sheer o'er the crystal battlements; from morn Till noon he fell, from noon till dewy eve; A winter's day, and as the tea-bell rang, Shot from the ceiling like a falling star On the great schoolroom floor.'"
"Would he, indeed?" said Mr Percival, pinching Henderson's ear, as hecame in just in time to join in the laugh which this parody occasioned.
Tea at Saint Winifred's is a regular and recognised institution. Thereare few nights on which some of the boys do not adjourn after chapel totea at the masters' houses, when they have the privilege of sitting upan hour and a half later. The masters generally adopt this method ofseeing their pupils and the boys in whom they are interested. Theinstitution works admirably; the first and immediate result of it is,that here boys and masters are more intimately acquainted, and being so,are on warmer and friendlier terms with each other than perhaps at anyother school--certainly on warmer terms than if they never met except inthe still and punishment-pervaded atmosphere of the schoolrooms; and thesecond and remoter result is, that not only in the matter of workalready alluded to, but also in other and equally important particulars,the tone and character of Saint Winifred's boys is higher and purer thanit would otherwise be. There is a simplicity and manliness there whichcannot fail to bring forth its rich fruits of diligence, truthfulness,and honour. Many are the boys who have come from thence, who, in thesweet yet sober dignity of their life and demeanour, go far to realisethe beautiful ideal of Christian boyhood. Many are the boys there whoare walking, through the gates of humility and diligence, to certain,and merited, and conspicuous honour.
I know that there are many who believe in none of these things, and carenot for them; who repudiate the necessity and duty of early godliness;who set up no ideal at all, because to do so would expose them to thecharge of sentiment or enthusiasm, a charge which they dread more thanthat of villainy itself. These men regard the heart as a muscleconsisting of four cavities, called respectively the auricles and theventricles, and useful for no other purpose but to aerate the blood; allother meanings of the word they despise or ignore. They regard theworld not as a scene of probation, not as a passage to a newer andhigher life, but as a "convenient feeding-trough" for every low passionand unworthy impulse; as a place where they can build on the foundationof universal scepticism a reputation for superior ability. Thisdegradation of spirit, this premature cynicism, this angry sneering at atone superior to their own, this addiction to a low and lying satire,which is the misbegotten child of envy and disbelief, has infected ourliterature to a deplorable and almost hopeless extent. It might besufficient to leave it, in all its rottenness and inflation, to everygood man's silent scorn, if it had not also so largely tainted theintellect of the young. If, in popular papers or magazines, boys are toread that, in a boy, lying is natural and venial; that courtesy to, andlove for, a master, is impossible or hypocritical; that swearing andcorrupt communication are peccadilloes which none but preachers andpedagogues regard as discreditable--how can we expect success to thelabours of those who toil all their lives, amid neglect and ingratitude,to elevate the boys of England to a higher and holier view? I have seenthis taint of _atheistic disregard for sin_ poison article afterarticle, and infuse its bitter principle into many a young man's heart;and worse than this--adopted as it is by writers whom some consider tobe mighty in intellect and leaders of opinion, I have seen it corrodethe consciences and degrade the philosophy of far better and farworthier men.
It is a solemn duty to protest, with all the force of heart andconscience, against this dangerous gospel of sin, this "giving tomanhood's vices the privilege of boyhood." It was _not_ the gospeltaught at Saint Winifred's; there we were taught that we were baptisedChristian boys, that the seal of God's covenant was on our foreheads,that the oath of His service was on our consciences, that we were Hischildren, and the members of His Son, and the inheritors of His kingdom;that His laws were our safeguard, and that our bodies were the templesof His Spirit. We were not taught--_that_ was left for the mightyintellects of this age to discover--that as we were boys, a Christianprinciple and a Christian standard were above our comprehension, andalien from our possible attainments; we did not believe then, nor will Inow, that a clear river is likely to flow from a polluted stream, or agood tree grow from bitter fibres and cankered roots.
Walter and the others spent a very happy evening with Mr Percival.When tea was over they talked as freely with him, and with each other inhis presence, as they would have done among themselves; and theoccasional society of their elders and superiors was in every way goodfor them. It enlarged their sympathies, widened their knowledge, andraised their moral tone.
Among many other subjects that evening they talked over one which neverfails to interest deeply every right-minded boy--I mean their homes. It
was no wonder that, as Walter talked of the glories of Semlyn lake andits surrounding hills, his face lighted up, and his eyes shone withpleasant memories. Mr Percival, as he looked at him, felt more puzzledthan ever at his having gone wrong, and more confirmed than ever in theopinion that he had been hard and unjust to him of late, and that hisoriginal estimate of him was the right one after all.
Power's home was a statelier one than Walter's. His father, SirLawrence Power, was a baronet, the owner of broad acres, whose large andbeautiful mansion stood on one of the undulations in a park shadowed byancestral trees, under whose boughs the deer fed with their gracefulfawns around them. Through the park flowed a famous river, of which thewindings were haunted by herons and kingfishers, and the pleasant watersabounded in trout and salmon. And to this estate and title Power washeir; though of course he did not tell them this while he spoke of thelovely scenery around the home where his fathers had so long lived.
Henderson, again, was the son of a rich merchant, who had two houses--one city and one suburban. He was a regular little man of the world.After the holidays he had always seen the last feats of Saltori, andheard the most recent strains of Tiralirini. He always went to a roundof entertainments, and would make you laugh by the hour while he sangthe songs or imitated the style of the last comic actor or Ethiopianminstrel.
While they were chatting over their holiday amusements and occupations,Kenrick said little; and, wondering at his silence, Mr Percival askedhim in what part of the world he lived.
"I, sir?" he said, as though awaked from a reverie; "Oh, I live atFuzby, a village on the border of the fens, and in the very middle ofthe heavy clays." And Kenrick turned away his head.
"Don't abuse the clay," said Walter to cheer him up; "I'm very fond ofthe clay; it produces good roses and good strawberries--and those arethe two best things going, in any soil."
"Half-past ten, youngsters," said Mr Percival, holding up his watch;"off with you to bed. Let yourselves in through the grounds; here's thekey. Good-night to you. Walter," he said, calling him back as he wasabout to leave, "one word with you alone; you three wait for him amoment outside. I wanted to tell you that, although I have seemed harshto you, I dare say, of late, yet now I hear that you are making the mosthonourable efforts, and I have quite forgotten the past. My goodopinion of you, Walter, is quite restored; and whenever you want to bequiet to learn your lessons, you may always come and sit in my room."
Mr Percival was not the only Saint Winifred's master who thusgenerously abridged his own leisure and privacy to assist the boys inwhat he felt an interest. Walter thanked him with real gratitude, andrejoined the other three. "He's let me sit in his room," said Walter.
"Has he?" said Henderson; "so he has me. How jolly! we shall get ontwice as well."
"What's that?" said Power, pointing upwards, as they walked through thegarden to their house door.
Glancing in the direction, Walter saw a light suddenly go out in hisdormitory, and a great bundle (apparently) disappear inside the window,which was then shut down.
"I'll go and see," he said. "Good-night, you fellows."
All was quiet when he reached his room, but one of the candles,ineffectually extinguished, was still smoking, and when he looked toEden's bed he saw by the gaslight that shone through the open door, thatthe child was awake, and crying bitterly.
"What's the matter, Eden?" he said kindly, sitting down upon his bed.
"If you peach," said Harpour and Jones together; "you know what you'llget."
"Have you fellows been bullying poor little Eden?" asked Walterindignantly.
"I've not," and "I've not," said Anthony and Franklin, who were betterthan the rest in every way; and "I haven't touched the fellow, Evson,"said Cradock, who meant no harm, and at Walter's earnest request hadnever again annoyed Eden since the first night.
"Poor little Eden--poor little fiddlestick," said Jones, "it does theyoung cub good."
"Send him home to his grandmamma, and let him have his bib and hisnight-cap," growled Harpour; "is he made of butter, and are you afraidof his melting, you Evson, that you make such a fuss with him? You wantyour lickings yourself, and shall have them if you don't look out."
"I don't care what you do to _me_, Harpour," rejoined Walter, "and Idon't think you'll do very much. But I do tell you that it's ablackguard shame for a great big fellow like you to torment a littledelicate chap like Eden; and what's more, you shan't do it."
"Shan't! my patience. I like that I why, who is to prevent me?"
"I suppose he'll turn sneak, and peach," said Jones; "he'd do anythingthat's mean, we all know."
Walter was always liable to that taunt now. It was a part of hispunishment, and the one which lasted longest. From any other boy hemight have winced under it; but really, coming from Jones, it was toocontemptible to notice.
"You shut up, Jones," he said angrily; "you shan't touch Eden again, Ican tell you, whatever Harpour does, and he'd better look out what hedoes."
"Look out yourself," said Harpour, flinging a football boot at Walter'shead.
"You'll find your boot on the grass outside to-morrow morning," saidWalter, opening the window, and dropping it down. He wasn't a bitafraid, because he always went on the instinctive and never-mistakenassumption, that a bully must be a coward in his inmost nature. Crueltyto the weaker is incompatible with the generosity of all true courage.
"By Jove, I'll thrash you for that to-morrow," shouted Harpour.
"_To-morrow_!" said Walter with great contempt.
"Oh, don't make him angry, Walter," whispered Eden; "you know what astrong fellow he is," (Eden shuddered, as though _he_ had reason toknow); "and you can't fight him; and you mustn't get a thrashing for mysake. I'm not worth that. I'd rather bear it myself, Walter--indeed Iwould."
"Good-night, poor little Eden," said Walter; "you're safe to-night atany rate. Why, how cold you are! What _have_ they been doing to you?"
"I daren't tell you to-night, Walter; I will to-morrow," he answered ina low tone, shivering all over.
"Well, then, go to sleep now, my little man; and don't you be afraid ofHarpour or any one else. I won't let them bully you if I can help it."
Eden squeezed Walter's hand tight, and sobbed his thanks, while Waltergently smoothed the child's pillow and dried his tears.
Poor Eden! as I said before, he was too weak, too delicate, too tenderlynurtured, and far, far too young for the battle of life in a publicschool. For even at Saint Winifred's, as there are and must be at allgreat schools, there were some black sheep in the flock undiscovered,and therefore unseparated from the rest.
