The Three Cock came and went, bringing with it House caps for Lovelace,
Collins and Fletcher, but it caused little stir. Everyone had foreseen
the result, and without Hazelton (ill with mumps) the House stood little
chance of keeping the score under fifty. Hostilities were declared
closed for the time being. The four weeks of training for the sports
came on, and Gordon's Sixth Form privileges were restored. For a short
time the hold of athleticism was weakened, and as it weakened, the hold
of literature became more firm.
"House Caps" were always allowed a fairly slack time after the Three
Cock, and Gordon made the best of his. While the last traces of winter
were disappearing, and the evenings began to draw out into long,
lingering sunsets, he voyaged on into the unknown waters of poetry.
Keats and Shelley, names which had once meant nothing to him, now became
his living prophets. He felt his own life coloured by their
interpretations. During the days of his quest for power, when the scent
of battle had led him on, he had found inspiration only in those whose
moods coincided with his own. But now that the contest was over and
strife was merged into a temporary lull, there came a check in the fiery
search for achievements. He found pleasure in the gentler but far more
beautiful melodies of Keats. Byron and Swinburne had beaten so loudly on
their drums, and blown so forcibly on the clarion that his ears had been
deafened. But in the peaceful afterglow of satisfied desire he asked for
soft and quiet music.
During this time he saw a great deal of Ferrers. Together they discussed
all the questions that to them seemed most vital. The Public School
system came in for a great deal of abuse.
"A lot wants altering," Ferrers said. "Boys come here fresh from
preparatory schools. If they are clever and get into higher forms, they
are put among bigger boys, and they get their outlook coloured by them.
They get wrong impressions shoved into their heads, cease to think at
all, lose all sense of honesty and morality. Then the school that has
made them like this finds out what they are, and sends them away."
"By Jove, that's just what Jeffries said."
"Jeffries--who is Jeffries? I don't know him."
"He was a splendid fellow; but, like most other people, he followed the
crowd, then got caught and had to go."
"That is it; always the same. Usually the least bad are sacked, too;
never heard of a real rake getting sent away; the rakes are far too
clever. Cleverness is what counts, counts all through life. A man is
expelled only because he is not clever enough to avoid being caught, and
then the school thinks it's saving the others by sending him away. And
it does no good. The big wrong 'un stays on, only the weak one goes.
Human nature is a thing that has got to be dealt with carefully, not in
the half-hearted way it is here."
Ferrers wrote a great deal about Public Schools to the various London
papers. He was fast winning a name in the educational world. But he was
always being asked to modify his statements. He raved against the
weakness of the authorities.
"They don't want to know the truth," he said, "they are afraid to hear
it. 'Tell us lies,' that's what they say. 'Lull us into a false
security. A big bust-up is coming soon, but keep it off till after we
are gone.' They know their house is built on sand, running out into the
river. They want to barricade their own tiny houses for a little. I want
to go and search for the big firm land, but they are too comfortable on
their cushions and fine linen to dare to move. Oh, prophesy smooth
things!"
Gordon listened intently to it all. Ferrers was his ideal. Often they
would talk of books: of the modern novel; of Compton Mackenzie, in whom
idealism and realism were one; of Rupert Brooke, the coming poet, who
was to make men believe in the beauties of this earth, instead of
hankering after an immaterial hereafter; of the Elizabethan drama, of
Marlowe, Beaumont, Webster. They were very wonderful, those hours.
Gordon felt that he had at last, after wandering far, come to his
continuing city. Glancing back over his last two years, he used to laugh
and say:
"I don't regret them; I was happy; and the only thing to regret is
unhappiness. But I have outgrown them; they did not last. They were what
Stephen Phillips would number among the 'over-beautiful, quick fading
things.' They were good days, though. But I am happier now. I can see
the future spreading out before me. Next winter Hunter will be captain,
but I shall be second in the team and lead the forwards. It will be a
year of preparation. Then will come my year of captaincy. All the things
I wanted seem falling into my hands. 'Life is sweet, brother,' life is
sweet!"
And, looking back, it seemed as if in the wild orgy of Pack Monday Fair
he had finally burnt the old garments and put on the new. That day had
been the funeral pyre of his old life; and, like Sardanapalus, it had
died of its own free will. A glorious end; no anti-climax. But the
future was still more glorious. When he watched the morning sun flicker
white on the broad Eversham road from the station to the Abbey, the
leaves breaking on the lindens, the dim lights waking in the chapel on
Sunday, he saw how far he had outgrown his old self. Now he had begun to
perceive what life's aim should be--the search for beauty. Tester had
been right when he said that beauty was the only thing worth having, the
one ideal time could not tarnish. And yet Tester was not satisfied. The
hold of the world was too strong on him. He could see where others were
going wrong, but he himself was all astray, at times morbidly wretched,
at others hilarious with excitement. It was merely a question of
temperament. Gordon saw stretching before him the fulfilment of his
hopes. There was no niche for failure. His destiny would unroll smoothly
like a great machine; he was at peace, in sympathy with a world of
beautiful ideas and dreams. At times he would feel an unreasoning anger
with the Public School system, but his rage soon cooled down. After all,
it had left him at the last unscathed, and was in the future to bring
many gifts. Others might be broken on the wheel; but he was still
sufficiently an egoist, sufficiently self-centred to be indifferent to
them. He had come through, with luck perhaps, but still he had come
through. That was all that mattered. He had not read Matthew Arnold's
_Rugby Chapel_. If he had, he might have recognised himself in the
pilgrim who had saved only himself, while the world was full of others,
like the Chief, who were "bringing their sheep in their hand." But
probably even if he had read the poem at that time, he would have been
too happy, too self-contented, too successful to realise its poignant
truth. And it would not have been surprising. Youth is always intolerant
and self-centred. It is only when we grow old, and see so "little done
of all we so gaily set out to do," that we suddenly appreciate that,
even if we have ourselves failed, yet if we can by our experience help
someone else to succeed, our life will not be utterly vain. Altruism is
the philosophy of middle age.
On a few, but very few, occasions Gordon was temporarily roused out of
his secure atmosphere. One of these was on the last day of term, when a
letter appeared in _The Fernhurst School Magazine_ suggesting that the
Three Cock should be changed into a Two Cock, since the School House had
for the last few years proved itself so incapable of holding out against
the strong outhouse combination of three houses against one. Much of
what the writer said was true. The House numbered only about seventy,
while each outhouse contained some forty boys, with perhaps six day boys
attached to each. The House did not take in day boys, so that the House
was always playing against a selection from double its number. A Two
Cock would be far fairer. Nevertheless the House was furious.
"Confounded old ass," said Mansell. "I believe Claremont wrote it. Let
him wait till next year and he will see his beastly blue shirts rolled
in the mud."
"But it is such infernal swank," said Gordon. "We smashed them in the
Thirds; to all intents and purposes we routed them in the Two Cock; the
only thing the outhouses won was the Three Cock; and they are so bucked
about that that they want to clinch a victory, get up and shout: 'Look
at us, what devils of fine fellows we are! You can't touch us. Better
take charity.' Unutterable conceit! Why, we won four times running about
seven years ago. I have a good mind to go to Claremont and give it him
straight. Betteridge, you absurd ass, why did you print this thing?"
"Well, you see, there were a few rather risky things in the paper, and I
thought if I cut it out he might hack about the rest of the rag. And,
besides, it will be an awful score when we win next year, as we are
absolutely certain to. Can't you imagine the account: 'Last year some
rather foolhardy persons doubted the ability of the School House to deal
with a combined side of the best three outhouses, and they were rash
enough to express their doubts in print. But this year, under the able
captaincy of G.F. Hunter, with the forwards admirably led by G.R.
Caruthers, the House gained a thoroughly deserved victory by fifteen
points to three.' We shall crow then, my lads, sha'n't we?"
"Yes, it will be all right then," said Mansell. "My lord, I wish I was
going to be here to play in it. My governor is a fool to make me leave
and go to France."
Mansell was leaving at the end of the term.
"Well, all the same, it's a vile insult to the House," said Gordon.
"Whether he meant it or not, it's an insult."
But his annoyance passed quickly. He was far too certain of the future
to worry much about what anyone said. He was sure the House would win in
the end. It was only a question of time. And when the prize-giving came,
his anger gave way to pride. His place in form gave him little
satisfaction, for he was easily bottom of the Sixth; but after the books
had been given there came the turn of the House cups. Amid enormous
cheers Lovelace went up for the Thirds cup; amid still louder cheers he
and the outhouse captain stepped up together to receive the Two Cock
cup. Then at tea Hazelton walked into hall carrying the two trophies to
place on the mantelpiece, and the House burst forth in a roar of
cheering. It was all sheer joy; and beyond the present glory shone the
dawn of great triumphs to come. The House was just entering on its
career of success. The day of Buller's was at an end. There only
remained to them the remnants of their earlier glory. Where they had
stood the House was about to stand. And in that hour of triumph Gordon
himself would be the protagonist.
The short Easter holidays passed happily. Over the fresh grass of
Hampstead Heath Gordon wandered alone on those April mornings, when the
trees were breaking into a green splendour, when the long waters of the
Welsh Harp lay out in the morning sun like a sheet of gold. Looking
across from the firs he saw the spire of Harrow church cutting the red
sky, and the long stretch of country in between rolling out into a
panorama of loveliness. On the road to Parliament Hill he passed the
spot where Shelley found a starving woman dying in the snow, and took
her to Leigh Hunt's house to give her warmth. Near John Masefield's
house was the garden where Keats had written his immortal _Ode to a
Nightingale_. Hampstead was prodigal of associations, and they stirred
the boy's imagination like a trumpet call.
Then followed the long summer term, with its drowsy afternoons, its
white flannels, its long evening shadows creeping across the courts, its
ices, its innumerable lemonades; everything conspired to make Gordon
supremely happy. Scholastically he had at last achieved his great wish
of specialising in history; a fine-sounding programme which actually
implied that he would not need to do another stroke of work during his
Fernhurst career. Specialising in history was an elastic activity, and
might mean a few hours a week in which to read up political economy. It
might mean what Prothero made it mean--seven hours in school a week, and
the remainder pretending to read history in his study.
The grey and lifeless Finnemore superintended the history, and, like
everything else he superintended, it was scandalously neglected.
Outhouse people occasionally did a little work; School House men never.
Gordon began by taking quite modest privileges. He knew he had heaps of
time to enlarge his advantages. He started by doing one prose and one
"con" a week, instead of two proses and two "cons" like the rest of the
form. He also gave up one Latin construe book and one Greek book. That
meant about two hours a day to idle in his study. But he found it quite
easy to turn that two into three, and he was well aware that by
Christmas his daily hours of indolence would have reached five. Prothero
at the present moment was only going into school for divinity and
French, and as often as not he told his French master that he was so
much occupied with history that he could not come to French at all.
Nominally he went into school seven hours a week, actually he very
rarely went in more than three.
The method of teaching history at Fernhurst had been the same from time
immemorial. Gordon was told to buy _Modern Europe_, by Lodge, price
seven shillings and sixpence. He did not, however, put his father to
this expense. History specialists in the School House had for years used
the same book. It had once belonged to a fabulous Van Hepworth, who had
gained a History exhibition at Selwyn somewhere in the nineties.
No one knew anything of this Van Hepworth. His name was on the school
boards, but he had never been seen or heard of since he had left
Fernhurst for the romantic atmosphere of Cambridge. But he had left
behind him a name that will be remembered in the School House as long as
history is taught by Finnemore. For on his last day, in a fit of
gratitude, he had left to future historians the legacy of his history
notebook. It contained all that Finnemore knew!
Every week Finnemore set three questions to his specialists--to be done
with books. He had a stock of these questions, and Van Hepworth had
written exhaustive essays on every one of them. All that was needed was
to consult the oracle, and then copy out what he had written. Sometimes,
by way of a change, Finnemore would think of a new subject. But Gordon
would say:
"Oh, sir, I have been reading about Mary de Medici, and am very much
interested in her. I wondered if I could do a question on her."
"Of course. I always like you to do what you are interested in. Let me
see. I have a nice little question on her: 'Mary de Medici: was she an
unmixed evil?' An interesting subject which raises quite a lot of
points. And I have one more question for you. 'Compare Richelieu and
Mazarin,' an interesting little psychological study. I think you will
enjoy them."
Then Gordon would have recourse to the unfailing authority, Van
Hepworth. Sometimes he felt too slack to copy out the questions at all.
On such occasions he would simply read Van Hepworth's essay straight out
of the old, battered book.
"I hope you won't mind my reading this to you, but I was in rather a
hurry and I doubt if you could quite read my handwriting."
Finnemore would listen with the greatest interest.
"Very nice indeed, Caruthers, very sound attitude to adopt. An essay
well worth preserving. You will copy it out neatly, won't you?"
"Oh yes, sir."
Gordon wanted to institute a Van Hepworth memorial, and put up a plate
to him somewhere. But there were many obstacles to this. The Chief might
want to know more about him, and the legend had to be kept secret. In
the end he contented himself with having the book bound in full morocco,
so that it might be preserved for future generations, for already the
cardboard cover had become sadly torn. Where Van Hepworth is now, who
knows? This only is certain, that although he has most likely by now
lost all clear recollection of Fernhurst and the grey School House
studies, yet his name is remembered there to-day, with far greater
veneration and respect than was ever paid to him during the days of his
school career.
"Let us now praise famous men,
Men of little showing,
For their work continueth,
Deep and long continueth,
Wide and far continueth, far beyond their knowing."
And so Gordon's scholastic career came to an end. He had reached the
"far border town." There would be no need to fret himself about form
orders any more. "Strong men might go by and pass o'er him"; he had
retired from the fray. While others crammed their brains with obscure
interpretations of AEschylus, he lay back reading English poetry and
English prose, striving to get a clear hold of the forces that went to
produce each movement, and incidentally doing himself far more good than
he would have done by binding himself down to the classical regime,
which trained boys to imitate, and not to strike out on their own.
Gordon had already acquired enough of the taste and sense of form which
the classics alone can provide, and which are essential to a real
culture. But he was lucky in stopping soon enough to prevent himself
being forced into a groove, from which he could only judge new movements
by the Ciceronian standards, without grasping the fact that technique
and form are merely outward coverings of genius, and not genius in
themselves.
To the other delights of this delightful term was added the sudden and
unexpected success of Gordon's cricket. For the first fortnight Gordon
found himself playing on House and Colts games. But as he gathered runs
there with ease, he was soon transplanted to the First Eleven nets,
which he thenceforward only left for a brief spell, after an attack of
chicken-pox. For a member of the School Eleven life has nothing better
to offer than a summer term. There were usually two matches a week. The
team would get off work at ten o'clock, and just as the school was
pouring out in break they would stroll leisurely down to the cricket
field. Everything, in fact, was carried out leisurely. A wonderful
atmosphere of repose hangs over a cricket field in the morning, when the
grass is still sparkling with dew, and there is silence and vast
emptiness where usually is the sound of shouting and hurrying feet.
There was the long luncheon interval, when the members of the Eleven
would wander round the field arm in arm, or lounge on the seats lazy and
contented. Gordon loved to sit in the pavilion balcony watching the
white forms change across between the overs, the red ball bounce along
the grass, the wicket-keeper whip off the bails, the umpire's finger go
up. The whole tableau was so unreal, so idealistic. Then the school
would come down after lunch with rugs and cushions, and would clamour
outside the tuck-shop for ices and ginger beer. Gordon could hardly
connect his present existence with the past two years of doubts,
uncertainties, wild excitements, hurry, bustle--never a second's peace.
One of his most perfect days was the Radley match. After a long journey,
at the very end of the day they passed through Oxford, and Gordon caught
one fleeting glimpse of those wonderful "dreaming spires," rising golden
in the dying sun. As the team walked up from Abingdon to the college,
Tester, who had at last got into the side, came up and took Gordon's
arm.
"You know, when I saw Oxford lying out there so peaceful and calm, I
thought I had at last reached the end of searching. This was my first
view of Oxford; by passing the certificate I didn't need to go up for
smalls. Thank God, I am going up there next term. I think I shall forget
all my old misgivings in so completely peaceful an atmosphere. I can't
shake off the Public School ideas yet; I am all adrift; still, I think
it will be all right there."
Gordon wondered indeed how anyone could fail to find all their dreams
realised in so secluded, so monastic a Utopia.
The next two days were supremely happy. Gordon, Lovelace and Foster were
put into the same house; and they spent half the night ragging in their
old light-hearted fashion. The match resembled most of the other
performances of that year's Eleven. The whole side was out for eighty.
Gordon hit two fours and was then leg before; Lovelace, with laborious
efforts and much use of his pads, made twenty-three and five leg byes.
But it was a sorry performance, and Radley put up over two hundred.
Fernhurst went in again; and that day Gordon and Lovelace were sent in
first.
It was an amazing performance. Gordon's cricket was, in honest fact, one
of the biggest frauds that had ever been inflicted on an opposing side.
He had three shots--a cut, a slash shot past cover, and a drive that
landed the ball anywhere from mid-wicket to over short-slip. People used
to say that he tried each of these shots in rotation. That perhaps was
hardly fair; but he invariably cut straight balls and pulled good length
balls on the off stump to the on boundary. This evening, at any rate, he
was in luck. With terrific violence he smote the Radley bowling all
round the field. Some shots went along the ground, more fell just out of
reach of a fielder. It was invigorating but hardly classic cricket.
Still, whatever it was, it produced seventy-two runs, while Lovelace had
scored three. After he left Lovelace became still more cautious. A man
from Christy's was in at the other end, who had been instructed to keep
up his end for an hour. As a matter of fact, they scored exactly two
runs between them in about half-an-hour. That two was from a drive from
Lovelace past cover.
At such daring Lovelace became much elated.
"Come on, I say, come on. Lots of runs here. Come on."
The Radley men were very amused. Lovelace took nothing seriously. It was
as well that "the Bull" was absent. Once, just as the bowler was rushing
up to bowl, Lovelace flung out his hand and said: "Stop! Move the screen
please; your hand is just behind a tree!"
With great difficulty the screens were moved.
Once he patted the ball a little way down the pitch, and shouted to the
batsman at the other end, with hand extended: "Stay!"
There was some subdued laughter.
Lovelace turned round to the wicket-keeper and said: "Strange as it may
seem, I am the worst member of this rotten side, and I am playing for my
place. This is the way to keep your place at Fernhurst."
The final achievement was a successful appeal against the light.
The next day it rained in torrents.
"Jolly rotten luck," said Lovelace, "and I was certain for a bat for
making my fifty, too."
"Do you think so?" said Tester. "You know, they don't play to a finish
in England. You are thinking of Australian rules."
Commemoration came and went, with its tea-parties, parasols, calf-bound
books, sermons and cricket match. The term drew to its close.
"This is the best term I have ever had," said Gordon. "By Jove, we have
had some good days."
Yet, of all things, that which remained clearest in his memory was one
day early in the term, when he and Lovelace were recovering from
chicken-pox. The school had gone for a field day to Salisbury, and they
were left behind with Archie Fletcher, who had been ragging Jenks, and
had been kept back for punishment, and a quantity of small fry. No work
was done. In the morning they all had to go into the big schoolroom and
hear Claremont read _Lycidas_ and parts of _Comus_.
Claremont read remarkably well, and Gordon, in an atmosphere of genial
tolerance and good humour, was able to get a clearer insight into the
real soul of the pedant of the Lower Fifth. For, shorn of his trappings,
Claremont was "a dear old fellow." Among books he had found the lasting
friendship and consolation that among his colleagues he had sought in
vain. And as he read _Comus_, in many ways the most truly poetical poem
in the English language, Gordon realised how sensitively Claremont's
heart was wrought upon by every breath of beauty.
The afternoon they had to themselves. A net was put up on the field, and
for an hour or so they beat about, regardless of science and footwork. A
relaxation was a good thing now and again. Then they went back to the
studies, and in the absence of its owner laid hold of the games study.
They had the run of it now, and, with an enormous basket of strawberries
before them, played tunes on the gramophone and roared the chorus. As
the evening fell, and the lights began to wake, Gordon and Archie stole
down to the fried fish shop, strictly out of bounds, and returned with
an unsavoury, but none the less palatable, parcel of fried fish and
chips.
It was a glorious day; they enjoyed all Fernhurst's privileges with its
restrictions removed, and when the notes of _Land of Hope and Glory_
proclaimed that the corps was marching up Cheap Street, they considered
the return to realities to be almost an intrusion on their isolated
peace.
In the last week of the term the Colts played Downside, and Gordon was
still young enough to play for them. "The Bull" went with them, and
could not have been kinder. He walked round the ground with Gordon in
the interval, as if there had been never any cause of quarrel between
them at all. They talked of books as well as cricket; and though "the
Bull's" gods were not Gordon's, there was real sympathy between them for
an hour. On the way back in the train, Gordon wondered whether, after
all, he had not been right at the beginning, when he promised to curb
his personality, and merge it into "the Bull's." What good was there in
going his own way, in fighting for what he thought right? Buller always
had had his own way, and things had gone on all right. Why should he try
and alter things? Having realised "the Bull's" faults, should he not
make allowance for them, seeing that his virtues so outnumbered his
failings? He was certainly intolerant of any other opinions but his own;
but then so was Ferrers, whom Gordon worshipped on the other side of
idolatry. The pity was that Ferrers was intolerant of the things he
hated, while Buller was intolerant of the things he admired. It was all
very difficult. For the moment he did not feel ready to come to any
decision. He was too happy to trouble himself. "Sufficient for the day
were the day's evil things." Let the future reveal itself. He would see
how things turned out.
The concert came, with its _Valete_ of many memories. The school songs
were howled out; hands crossed and swung in _Auld Lang Syne_; the
_Carmen_ nearly brought the roof down. Lying back in bed, Gordon saw
little to regret in the school year that was just ending. Considering he
had been second in the batting averages, he thought they might have
given him his "Firsts"; but it did not matter very much. There was heaps
of time. Three years of fulfilment. Half his school life was over. The
threads of his youth had been unravelled at last; and in the coming year
they would be woven upon the wonderful loom of youth, with its bright
colours, its sunshine and its laughter. As the spring morn flings aside
its winter raiment, so he had put off the garb of his wandering
adolescence. He was prepared for whatever might come. But he was certain
that it was only happiness that was waiting for him. Three years of
success in which would be mingled the real poetry of existence. He would
not write his poetry on paper; he would write it, as Herod had written
it, in every action of his life. His innings was just about to begin.
BOOK IV: THE WEAVING
"Alba Ligustra cadunt; vaccinia nigra leguntur."
VERGIL.
"Life like an army I could hear advance
Halting at fewer, fewer intervals."
HAROLD MONRO.
CHAPTER I: THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS
It is good to dream; but "Man proposes: God in His time disposes," and
Gordon's dream was scattered at its dawn. Hardly a week later a great
nation forgot its greatness, and Europe trembled on the brink of war.
During those days of awful suspense, when it was uncertain whether
England would enter into the contest or not, Gordon could hardly keep
still with nervous excitement. When on the Sunday before Bank Holiday
J.L. Garvin poured out his warning to the Liberal Government, it seemed
for a moment as if they were going to back out.
On the Tuesday Gordon went to the Oval; Lovelace major was playing
against Surrey. In the Strand he ran into Ferrers.
"Come on, sir I am just off to the Oval to see Lovelace's brother bat.
Great fellow! Captain of the House my first term."
"Right you are. Come on. There's a bus!"
For hours, or what seemed like hours, two painfully correct
professionals pottered about, scoring by ones and twos. Gordon longed
for them to get out. A catch was missed in the slips.
"Surrey are the worst slip-fielding side in England," announced Gordon
fiercely. The Oval crowd, always so ferociously partisan, moved round
him uneasily.
At last a roar went up, as Hitch knocked the leg stump flying out of the
ground. Then Lovelace came in. He looked just as he had looked on the
green Fernhurst sward, only perhaps a little broader. He was wearing the
magenta and black of the School House scarf. He was an amateur of the
R.E. Foster type--wrist shots past cover, and an honest off-drive.
A change came over the play at once. In his first over he hit two fours.
There was a stir round the ground. His personality was as strong as
ever.
A boy ran on the field with a telegram for him.
"I bet that means he has got to join his regiment," said Gordon, "and it
also means we are going to fight."
Lovelace shoved the telegram into his pocket, and went on batting just
as if nothing had happened, just as if he did not realise that this was
his last innings for a very long time. He hit all round the wicket.
At last a brilliant piece of stumping sent him back to the pavilion amid
a roar of cheering.
"My word, Mr Ferrers, there goes the finest man Fernhurst has turned out
since I have been there. And, my word, it will be a long time before we
turn out another like him. There will be nothing to see now he has
gone."
They wandered out into the Kennington Road, excited, feverish. They had
lunch at Gatti's, went into _Potash and Perlmutter_, and came out after
the first act.
"This is no time for German Jews," said Ferrers, "let's try the
Hippodrome."
It was an expensive day. They rushed from one thing to another. The
strain was intolerable. After supper they went to the West End Cinema,
and there, just before closing-time, a film, in which everyone was
falling into a dirty duck-pond for no ostensible reason, was suddenly
stopped, and there appeared across the screen the flaming notice:
ENGLAND HAS DECLARED WAR ON GERMANY
GOD SAVE THE KING!
There was dead silence for a moment. Then cheer upon cheer convulsed the
house. The band struck up the National Anthem. The sequel to the tragedy
of the duck-pond was never known.
"Glorious! Glorious!" said Ferrers, as they staggered out into the cool
night air. "A war is what we want. It will wake us up from sleeping;
stir us into life; inflame our literature. There's a real chance now of
sweeping away the old outworn traditions. In a great fire they will all
be burnt. Then we can build afresh. I wish I could go and fight. Damn my
heart! To think of all the running it stood at Oxford; and then suddenly
to give way. My doctor always tells me to be careful. If I could go, by
God, I would have my shot at the bloody Germans; but still I'll do
something at Fernhurst. Stoics, you know; Army class English. How old
are you? Sixteen! We shall have you for two years yet. This war is going
to save England and everything! Glorious!"
The flaring lights of Leicester Square, the tawdry brilliance of
Piccadilly seemed to burst into one volcano of red splendour; a thousand
cannons spitting flame; a thousand eyes bright with love of England. The
swaying Tube swept Gordon home in a state of subconscious delirium to
the starlit calm of Hampstead.
Throughout the long summer holidays this feeling of rejoicing sustained
Gordon's heart. He saw an age rising out of these purging fires that
would rival the Elizabethan. He saw a second Marlowe and a second
Webster. His soul was aflame with hope. He had no doubt as to the
result. Even the long retreat from Mons, with its bitter list of
casualties, failed to terrorise him. Half the holidays he spent in
Wychtown, a little Somersetshire village, and his enthusiasm at one time
took the form of buying bundles of newspapers, which he distributed at
the cottages, so as to keep everyone in touch with the state of affairs.
At one time he thought of going round discussing the war with some of
the villagers; but he soon abandoned this project. He began with an aged
man who had fought at Majuba.
"Well, Mr Cavendish, and what do you think of the war this morning."
"Lor' bless you, things beant what they were in my young days. At
Majuba, now, we did things a bit different-like. But these 'ere Germans,
now, they be getting on right well. Be they for us?"
After this Gordon decided that the natural simplicity of the yokel was
proof against anything he might have to say. He pitied electioneering
agents.
A week before the beginning of term he received two letters. The first
was from Lovelace, who had got a nomination to Sandhurst, and would not
return to school next term. The other was from Hunter, saying that he
had won a commission in the Dorsets.
"_Well, Caruthers, old fellow_," he added, "_this means that you will be
captain of the House. I had greatly looked forward to being captain
myself, and had thought out a good many new ideas. But of course all
that has got to go now, and I don't intend to try and pass off my
theories on you; you'll probably have many more than I had, and a good
deal better ones. All I can say is that I wish the very best of luck to
you and to the House. I have no doubt you'll do jolly well. Good luck._"
Gordon sat silent for a long while. Sorrow at losing Lovelace strove
with the joy of reaching his heart's desire so soon. Finally all other
emotions were lost in the overflowing sense of relief that his days of
waiting for achievement were over.
In a mood of supreme self-confidence he returned to Fernhurst.
At Waterloo everyone was talking at the top of his voice.
"Is it true Akerman has left?"
"Yes; got a commission in the Middlesex."
"Good Lord! that'll mean Gregory captain."
"Hunter has left, too, I hear."
"Has he?"
"Caruthers will be captain of the House, then."
Broken sentences were wafted like strange music to Gordon's ears. He
felt that the eyes of those who once had been his equals looked at him
with a sort of Oriental admiration, in which there lurked traces of
fear.
He found himself addressed with more respect. One or two people came up
to congratulate him. The green flag waved. The train moved majestically
westward, and his reign had begun. He did not feel the slightest tremor
of nervousness. He remembered Hunter saying at the end of last term that
it was ticklish work being captain of the House. Was it? To Gordon it
seemed no more than the inevitable entrance into a kingdom which was
his by right of conquest.
The Eversham road swept in its broad curve up to the Abbey, black with
moving figures. Gordon slowly walked up to the House. It was the
privilege of School House prefects to enter by a small gate near the
masters' common room. Haughtily he rang the bell. A wizened old lady
opened the door, bowing with a "Hope you 'ad a good 'oliday, sir." It
was the first sensation of power.
A crowd had collected round the notice-board in the changing-room.
Gordon murmured "Thank you," and two or three Eton collars moved aside
to give him room. What a change! All the giants of the former generation
had gone. Betteridge had, at the express request of the Chief, come back
for one term. But he alone remained. Gordon was fifth in the House; and,
good Lord, that amazing ass Rudd was a prefect, and second in the House!
He and Gordon had a double dormitory on the lower landing. The number of
boys in the House had sunk to sixty-two, rather a desolating thought for
House matches.
The Chief was not in his study. Gordon dropped a health certificate on
his table, and gave instructions to one Morgan, a round-faced, ruddy
youth, to shove his bag into his dormitory. Then he wandered over to the
games study. And so this study was going to be his! He had often sat
there with Carter; but he had always felt himself an excrescence. Now it
was his own. He pictured the evenings after a hard game of football,
sitting in front of the fire; the long mornings when he was supposed to
be preparing history for Finnemore, spent in this atmosphere of
luxurious calm. He planned his furnishing of the room. In the broad
window he would hang two bookshelves for his smaller books. On each side
of the fireplace there was also room for bookshelves. Then, standing
against the wooden partition that jutted out into the room would be his
large oak bookcase for the heavy volumes. He would repaper the room, and
a new carpet was a necessity. He went over to the porter's lodge to give
instructions.
He had already decided to ask Foster to share the study with him. Foster
would be captain of cricket next summer. They would get on well
together. Foster never quarrelled with anyone; and it would be a
suitable combination. He met Foster by the eight-ten train from Exeter,
and informed him of the fact.
When prayers came, and Gordon stood under the mantelpiece behind the
arm-chair where the captain of the House sat, and looked down at the row
of new boys at the day-room table, it seemed incredible to him that he
had ever been like that. And yet it was only three years ago since he
had sat there, dazed and frightened.
Prayers were ended. Gordon sat back, his hands resting on the arms of
his big oak chair. The Chief came round, shaking hands.
"Caruthers, Foster and Davenport, you might come and speak to me for a
moment after you have finished your supper."
That was not long. No one had ever been known to touch any of the
first-night soup; Gordon had often wondered what happened to it. There
was much of it, and all wasted.
The Chief greeted them with his invariable fluttering smile.
"I suppose you know what I want you for? Kitchener called up his
reserves, so I have had to call up mine. None of you would, I think, in
the ordinary course of events have become prefects this term. But as it
is, I am sure you will all do well; and remember that being a prefect
does not merely consist in the privilege of being late for breakfast.
Some of you, who may very likely have views of your own on certain
subjects, must try and make them conform with mine. We must all try to
work together, and I am always ready to give any of you advice if I am
able to, and of course----"
At this moment there came the discordant sounds that proclaimed the
arrival of the last train from town. Gordon could imagine some wretched
new boy huddled underneath the stairs, ignorant and timid.
Rudd burst in with a health certificate and outside came the babble of
voices. "I must go and see Chief ... Health certificate ... Confirmation
classes ... Going to specialise in stinks."
It was clear that the Chief was to have a hard time for the next twenty
minutes interviewing all these candidates for a satisfactory division of
labour.
"Well, I think that is all just now, thank you."
He gave them a nod of dismissal. They filed out into the passage, black
with its crowd of clamouring applicants.
It was not until the next day, however, that Gordon fully realised the
change that had come over Fernhurst. Nearly all the bloods had left.
Gregory was still there, but he had sent his papers in, and expected to
be gazetted in a week or so, and of the Fifteen of the year before he
was the only remaining colour. Two members of the Second Fifteen
remained: one because he was only seventeen, the other, Akerman's
younger brother, because he was going to be a medical student and was
not allowed to take a commission by the War Office.
The staff also had undergone several changes. Ferrers was practically
the only master under thirty. The rest had all taken commissions, and
their places were filled by grey-beards and bald-heads, long since past
their prime. It was a case of extreme youth face to face with extreme
age.
"There will be some fun this term," prophesied Archie Fletcher, for whom
the immediate future stretched out into a long series of colossal
"rags."
Rogers was imperially himself. The Corps was, of course, to be allowed
considerably more time this term. There were two parades a week, one a
company drill on Friday, the other a field day on Wednesday. Besides
this, between twelve-thirty and lunch there would be section and platoon
drill every day. Rogers imagined that O.T.C. work would shortly become
more important and more popular than football; he saw himself taking the
position once held by Buller. On the strength of this alluring prospect
he bought a new uniform.
For the first few days life was entertainingly disorganised. The
time-table worked out all wrong. Gregory got gazetted; and Akerman, on
becoming captain, forgot the numbers of the football grounds, thus
causing endless and hilarious confusion. No one quite knew what was
happening, but everyone was happily excited, and vaguely garrulous about
"how the war has changed things."
Gordon found that his new position brought with it certain other
honours. In the Corps, for instance, where for three years he had so
tempered slackness with insolence as to make him the worst private in
the company, he found himself a lance-corporal, in charge of a section.
He was elected to the Dolts Literary Society, under the placid autocracy
of Claremont, who called them his "stolidi." But nothing showed more
clearly the change wrought by the war than the fact that Gordon was
nominated to the Games Committee, before which august body hardly six
months ago he had cut such an inglorious figure. It was a strange irony.
In the School House every prefect was allowed four fags, so as Foster
and Gordon were both prefects, the games study had a goodly crowd of
menials. For the most part they were simple, insignificant,
Eton-collared mortals, who flitted round the room after breakfast with
dusters, and at various other times of the day came in to see after the
fire. Gordon took little notice of them. Foster had made out a list of
the days on which each fag was on duty; one, Hare, was put in charge,
and when anything went wrong, Hare was considered responsible and
beaten. After two such castigations the excellence of the fagging was
maintained at an unusually high standard.
The first fortnight of the term was feverish. Corps work was revivified
under the stimulus of war; the field days by Babylon Hill provided
genuine excitement, in spite of the prolixity of Rogers's subsequent
summary of the day's work. There were going to be very few football
matches; but "uppers" were played with the old keenness, and there was
fierce competition for the last places in the scrum. Ferrers wrote a
long article to _The Country_ on "The Public Schools and the War," which
bubbled over with enthusiasm.
Gordon found authority a pleasant thing. There were, of course, bound to
be little worries, but they were transient. The new boys caused him a
certain amount of trouble. They never would take the trouble to find out
if they were posted for House games. The result was that as often as not
the House found itself playing with only six forwards. Gordon made a
speech to the House on the subject. The very next day Golding, a most
wretched-looking specimen, failed to turn up on a House game.
Gordon gave him a lecture on the insignificance of the new boy and the
importance of games.
"This sort of thing can't go on," he said, using the formula that every
prefect has used since the day prefects were first made. "If it did, we
might find everyone cutting House games and going off to pick-ups! What
would happen then?"
Golding was far too frightened to have any views on the subject.
"Well, I shall have to beat you."
Gordon led the way to the empty space by the cloisters where roll was
called.
"Bend over there!"
Golding showed a natural reluctance to do anything of the sort.
"No, right down; and lift up your coat."
Gordon gave him a fairly hard stroke. Golding squealed "Oh!" and rose,
holding his trousers, and looking round fretfully. Gordon's heart
melted. After all, this was a new kid, and a pretty poor specimen at
that.
The next shot was very gentle.
The sequel reached Gordon three days later. Golding had gone back down
to the day-room. Rudd was taking hall, which was, of course, an excuse
for everyone to talk.
"How many?" asked several voices. "Did he hurt?"
"Oh, only one and a half," announced Golding, puffed out with pride.
"First hardly hurt me at all, and the second one was quite a misfire."
This was rather a surprise to those who remembered Gordon's driving
power. Golding was thought rather a "lad" after all.
Gordon, however, soon dispelled this illusion. A week later he went down
to the House game in which Golding was playing and cursed him roundly
all the afternoon with perfect justice. After tea he gave him six for
slacking: and all delusions about Golding's bravery were immediately
dispelled.
"Damned little tick," said Gordon. "He made such a fuss that I let him
off lightly, and then he goes down to the day-room and makes out I am a
wreck. Collins, I charge thee, put away compassion! It does not pay with
these degenerates."
There is nothing more interesting to the artist than watching a thing
grow under one's hand. And Gordon, who had the ambition of the artist in
embryo, was thoroughly engrossed in the training of his House sides. A-K
Junior was a promising side; it beat Claremont's by twenty points, and
Rogers's by over fifty.
Morgan captained the side, and was easily the best man in it, but among
the lesser lights there was a great display of energy, much of it
misplaced. The worst offender was Bray. To watch him play was to witness
a gladiatorial display of frightfulness. His fists flew about like a
flail, his legs were everywhere. On the whole he did more damage to his
own side than to his opponents. And the amount of energy he wasted every
game in hacking the bodies of any who got in his way must have been
exhausting. Gordon had to speak to him almost severely once or twice.
In the game against Rogers's, Bray nearly got sent off the field. There
had been a tight scrum which had more or less collapsed. The whistle
blew. Jenks had been persuaded to referee.
"Now then, form up properly there."
When the two scrums assorted themselves, Bray was discovered about five
yards from the ball, sitting on the head of a wretched, fat, unwashed
product of Rogers's, punching him violently and ejaculating after each
punch:
"Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!"
Jenks looked very fierce.
"Now then, you stupid fellows. If you go on like that, I shall have to
report you to the Headmaster, and you know what that will mean."
Bray looked a little frightened, and for the future devoted his energies
to the football and not the footballers, to the distinct advantage of
the side.
But Gordon began to find that the more his interest increased in House
games, the less interest he took in uppers and Fifteen puntabouts. He
was always wanting to go and see how his House was getting on. As soon
as the first keenness wore off he found the interminable "uppers,"
totally unrelieved by the excitement of matches, amazingly dull. Indeed,
the whole school side was beginning to grow weary. Every Monday and
Thursday there was a puntabout. Every Tuesday and Saturday there was the
same game--First Fifteen _v._ Second Fifteen--with one or two masters,
such as Christy, who were no longer as young as they had been. The
result was invariably the same; the First Fifteen won by forty points,
and were cursed by "the Bull" for not winning by sixty. No one could
possibly enjoy such monotony. Every week the business became more
unpopular.
"The Bull" stamped up and down with a whistle in his hand.
"I never saw such slackness. What good do you imagine you men will be in
the trenches, if you can't last out a short game of rugger like this? I
don't know what the school is coming to!"
The side, which had never been good, got worse daily. As a captain, the
younger Akerman was a nonentity. Buller was captain of the side in
everything but name.
"You know, Foster," said Gordon one Saturday evening after a more than
usually dreary performance, "these uppers are getting about the ruddy
limit."
"Have you taken all this time to find that out?" growled Foster. "I used
to like footer once. Last year we had a good time on those Colts games.
Of course the old buffalo lost his hair a good deal, but the games were
level at any rate. I can see no sort of fun in winning every time by
forty points. Why can't we have pick-up games, so as to get level
sides."
"I suppose 'the Bull' wants to get the side working together."
"Perhaps he does; but why, if there are going to be no matches till
half-way through November? The Downside match is four weeks off, and
till then we have to continue this silly farce twice a week. And, after
all, it does not teach us defence in the least. Our three-quarter men
have not to do any collaring. If we run up against a side that is any
use at attack, we shall be hopelessly dished."
"I think we shall be dished anyhow. And I am damned if I care much.
Buller has knocked all the keenness out of me, and the rest of the side
say the same thing. Do you know, I actually look forward to Corps parade
day."
"The same with me. I am fed to death with footer."
"Still we are having a jolly good time off the field."
"Are we?"
"Oh, yes; we are prefects; we haven't got to do any work, and it's
interesting coaching the kids."
Foster looked dubiously at him. He had no side to coach. He also had to
do some work for his Sandhurst exam. next term. But Gordon's crown was
as yet too fresh to feel the tarnishing damp of disappointment.
* * * * *
October went by with its red-gold leaves and amber sunlight. November
swept in bringing a procession of long evenings and flickering lights.
The first boom of the war fever died down. The Fifteen played
listlessly, Upper followed Upper. Puntabout followed puntabout. No one
cared who was in the side. Foster was left out--and thanked heaven!
"I am about sick of being cursed off my feet, and told I shall be no
good in the trenches because I miss my passes. 'The Bull' has gone
war-mad."
Gordon _had_ to keep in the side; it would not do for the House captain
to get a reputation for slackness. His play lacked its old fire and
dash, but was still good enough to earn him his place. He knew he was
going off; that he was not nearly so good as he had been the year
before; the thought worried him. But still A-K Junior was doing very
well.
One Saturday evening there came the sound of thumping feet down the
passage, someone banged himself against the door, and a well-known voice
was shouting:
"Hullo, Caruthers, my lad!"
Gordon swung round to find Mansell, with out-stretched hand, looking
magnificent in the top-boots and spurs of the R.F.A.
"Come in. Sit down. By Jove! this is like old times. I must call up
Archie! Archie!... Here's someone to see you."
Mansell was just the same as he had been a year ago, a little older, a
little stronger, a little more the man of the world. He was full of
stories; how his men had nearly mutinied because they thought their
separation allowance insufficient; how he had chased deserters half
across England; how he had taken the pretty waitress at the cafe to the
music hall.
"It's life, that's what it is! I never knew what life was till I went to
Bournemouth. Oh, my God, we do have a time! Damned hard work, of course,
but we do have a time in the evenings! My lord, I nearly put my foot in
it the other night. I saw the devil of a smart girl walking down the
street, and I could have sworn I knew her. I went up and said: 'Coming
for a stroll?' O Lord, you should have seen her turn round. I thought
she would fetch a policeman. And we have a jolly good footer side, too.
We fairly smashed the S.W.B. last week. Oh, it's grand. But, still, I
suppose you are not having a bad time here. It's good to see you lads
again."
On the next day Mansell stood an enormous tea in the games study.
Everyone of any importance came. The gramophone played, songs were sung.
Never was there seen so much food before. Mansell seemed like a Greek
god who had for a moment descended to earth to reveal a glimpse of what
Olympus was like.
Gordon went down and saw him off by the five-forty-five.
"My word! I envy you, Mansell," he said.
"I shouldn't. I often wish I was back again in the House. All those old
days with Claremont and Trundle, the footer; and all that. We had a
darned fine time. Make the most of it while you've got it."
As Gordon walked back alone, he had the unpleasant feeling that the best
was over, that the days of ragging, of footer, of Claremont, of Trundle
had gone beyond recall. The friends of his first term, Hunter, Lovelace,
Mansell, they had all gone, scattered to the winds. He alone remained,
and with a sudden pain he wondered whether he had not outlived his day,
whether, like Tithonus, he was not taking more than he had been meant to
take. But then, as he walked through the small gateway, and majestically
wandered up the Chief's drive, he reflected that, even if his splendour
was a lonely one, without the laughter and comradeship he could have
wished for, yet it was none the less a splendour. He must hold on. As
Mansell had said, he must make the best of it while he had it.
A small boy came up nervously.
"Please, Caruthers, may I have leave off games for a week? I have had a
bad foot."
"Did Matron say so?"
"Oh yes."
"All right, then."
He walked up the stairs to his study, smiling to himself. What had he
been fretting himself about? He had his power. He had the things he had
wanted.
"_Is it not brave to be a king?_
_Is it not passing brave to be a king_
_And ride in triumph through Persepolis?_"
Marlowe had been right, Marlowe with the pagan soul that loved material
things, glitter and splendour, crowns and roses, red lips and gleaming
arms.
"_A god is not so glorious as a king ..._
_To ask and have, command and be obeyed._"
And there was no doubt he was a king. He must make the best of his
kingdom while he held it.
CHAPTER II: SETTING STARS
The same atmosphere of monotonous depression that overhung football soon
began to affect the military side of school life as well. At first there
had been the spur of novelty. The substitution of platoon drill for the
old company routine and the frequent field days led to keenness. But
even the most energetic get weary of doing exactly the same thing three
times a week. There are only three different formations in platoon
drill, which anyone can learn in half-an-hour; and the days were long
past when Gordon's extraordinary commands would form his platoon into an
impossible rabble that could only be extricated by the ungrammatical
but effective command that School House section commanders had used from
the first day of militarism: "As you did ought."
Those days were over. No mistakes. For thirty-five minutes every Monday,
Wednesday and Friday the School House platoon would move round the
courts in lifeless and perfect formation. And by now the School had
begun to suspect that the field days were conducted mainly to satisfy
Rogers's inordinate conceit. His house had always the advantage. The
limit of endurance was reached one day early in November, when Rogers
took his house out to defend Babylon Hill against the rest of the corps.
The attack was really rather brilliant. Babylon Hill overlooks the
country for miles. There was a splendid field of fire. It was a boiling
hot day. Rogers's men lay happily on the hill firing spasmodically at
khaki figures crawling up the long valley. Their position seemed
impregnable.
Early in the proceedings, however, Ferrers, who was conducting the
attack, sent Betteridge with the School House platoon on an enormous
detour to bring in a flank attack. If successful the School House
platoon would be quite sufficient to wipe out the defence, and Rogers
would never notice their loss, as they were sent off at a moment when
the attack was crossing some dead ground.
Forlorn hopes occasionally come off, and, by a fluke, at the very moment
when the attack surged over the crest of the hill, Betteridge's
exhausted platoon, with shouts and cheers, burst into Rogers's flank.
There was not the slightest doubt that the defence had been cut to
pieces.
For a minute or two Rogers looked perplexed at the sea of enemies. Then
with customary urbanity he told Ferrers to form up his men and seat them
on the ground, while he gave his impression of the day's work.
"I think the attack was quite satisfactory. Of course, it stood little
chance against the well-organised defence for which I myself was in a
way responsible. I believe most of the forces would have been destroyed
coming up the hill. But I think the day had a good effect on the morale
of the troops. Now morale----" He enlarged on the qualities of morale
and discipline for about ten minutes, and concluded with the following
courteous reference to the School House flanking movement:--
"I could not clearly discern what those persons were doing who came up
on my left. They would have been entirely wiped out. I considered it
somewhat foolish."
A contemptuous titter broke from the School House platoon, in which
amusement and annoyance were equally mixed.
"What is the good of trying at all?" said Gordon at tea that night.
"There were we, sweating over ploughed fields, banging through fences,
racing up beastly paths, and then that mouthing prelate says 'rather
silly'! What's the use of trying?"
"There is none," said Betteridge. "I am going to conduct this platoon in
future on different lines. 'Evil be thou my good,' as the lad Milton
said. We will be unorthodox, original and rebellious."
A few days later, Gordon and Rudd saw displayed in a boot-shop window a
wondrous collection of coloured silk shoe-laces.
"Does anyone really wear those things?" said Gordon.
"I suppose so, or they wouldn't show them."
"They are certainly amazing."
They stood looking at them as one would at a heathen god. Then suddenly
Gordon clutched Rudd's sleeve.
"A notion! My word, a notion! Let's buy some pairs and wear them at
platoon drill to-morrow."
Gordon was about to burst in to the shop when Rudd detained him.
"Steady, man, this is a great idea. Let's buy enough for the whole
platoon. It will be a gorgeous sight! Let's fetch Betteridge."
Flinging prefectorial dignity to the winds, they rushed down to the
studies.
"Betteridge, you've got to let us draw upon the House funds for a good
cause."
They poured out the idea. Betteridge was enthusiastic. For six shillings
they bought forty pairs of coloured laces.
At twelve-thirty next morning a huge crowd lined up under the lindens to
watch the School House parade. Rumour had flown round.
It was a noble spectacle. Each section wore a different coloured
shoe-lace. Gordon's wore pale blue, Rudd's pink, Foster's green, and
Collin's orange. Everyone was shaking with laughter. Betteridge formed
the platoon up in line facing the School House dormitories; sooner or
later Rogers would pass by on his way from the common room. At last he
was sighted turning the corner of the Chief's drive. Half the school had
assembled by the gates.
"Private Morgan," shouted Betteridge, "fall out and do up your
shoe-lace.
"Remainder--present ARMS!"
Rogers was far too self-satisfied and certain of his own importance to
see that the demonstration was meant for him. But the school saw it, and
so did certain members of the staff, who made everything quite clear to
Rogers that afternoon. Finally, the Chief learnt of the affair.
Betteridge got a lecture on military discipline and on prefectorial
dignity. But a good many of the younger masters thoroughly enjoyed the
rag, and the story of the coloured shoe-laces is still recounted in
common room, when Rogers has made himself unusually tedious about his
own virtues and his cleverness in scoring off his enemies.
CHAPTER III: ROMANCE
The Tonford match was a sad travesty of Fernhurst football. The school
lost by over forty points. Gordon got his "Seconds," in company with
nearly the entire Fifteen. He was not very elated. These things had lost
their value. Still, it was as well to have them.
The school authorities then came to the conclusion that the expense of
travelling was too great during war-time, and the Dulbridge match was
scratched.
The Fifteen continued to play uppers. There was nothing to train for.
There was no chance of there being any matches, but the same routine
went on.
It was in this period of depression that Gordon began to take an
interest in Morcombe.
Morcombe was considerably Gordon's junior; not so much in years--there
was, as a matter of fact, only a few months between them--as in
position. Morcombe had come late; had made little mark at either footer
or cricket; and had drifted into the Army class, where, owing to private
tuition and extra hours, he found himself somewhat "out of it" in the
House. In hall he used to sit at the top of the day-room table.
Gordon very rarely took hall. He generally managed to find someone to
assume the duty for him; but one day everyone seemed engaged on some
pursuit or other, so with every anticipation of a dull evening he went
down to hall. He began to read Shelley but the surroundings were
unpropitious. All about him sat huddled fragments of humanity scratching
half-baked ideas with crossed nibs into dog-eared notebooks. There was a
general air of unrest. Gordon tried _Sinister Street_; some of the
episodes in Lepard Street were more in harmony with his feelings, but
there was in Compton Mackenzie's prose a Keats-like perfection of phrase
which seemed almost as much out of place as _Adonais_. As a last resort
he began to talk to the two boys nearest him, Bray and Morcombe. Bray
always amused him; his whole outlook on life was so exactly like his
footer. But for once Gordon found him dull. Morcombe was so much more
interesting.
In second hall that evening Gordon discovered from a House list that
Morcombe was in the Army class. He consulted Foster on the subject.
"Know anything about a lad called Morcombe?"
"Yes; he is in the Army class. Rather a fool. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I was talking to him in hall to-night. He didn't seem so
bad."
"Perhaps he isn't. I haven't taken much interest in him."
"I see."
Gordon returned to his book. Five minutes later he began again.
"Is Morcombe fairly high in form?"
"Not very. Why this sudden interest?"
"Nothing."
Foster looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" said Gordon.
"Oh, nothing."
Gordon looked fierce, and returned once more to the history of Michael
Fane.
Two nights later Gordon came into his study to find Morcombe sitting
with Foster, preparing some con.
"Hope you don't mind me bringing this lad in," said Foster, "I am in
great difficulties with some con."
Gordon grunted, and proceeded to bury himself in _The Pot of Basil_.
"I say, Caruthers," broke in Foster. "You might help us with this
Vergil? It's got us licked. Here you are: look, 'Fortunate Senex----'"
Gordon went through the familiar passage with comparative ease.
"There now, you see," said Foster, "there's some use in these Sixth Form
slackers after all. By the way, what did you think of Claremont's sermon
last night?"
Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, at times, amusing.
Gordon unaccountably found himself trying to appear at his best.
"You know," he was saying, "I do get so sick of these masters who go
about with the theory of 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the
world,' and in war-time, too! With all these men falling, and no advance
being made from day to day."
"Yes," said Morcombe; "I agree with the 'much good, but much less good
than ill' philosophy."
Gordon was surprised out of himself.
"I shouldn't have thought you had read the _Shropshire Lad_."
"We are not all Philistines, you know."
Thus began a friendship entirely different from any Gordon had known
before. He did not know what his real sentiments were; he did not even
attempt to analyse them. He only knew that when he was with Morcombe he
was indescribably happy. There was something in him so natural, so
unaffected, so sensitive to beauty. After this Morcombe came up to
Gordon's study nearly every evening, and usually Foster left them alone
together, and went off in search of Collins.
Indeed this friendship, coupled with his admiration for Ferrers, was all
that kept Gordon from wild excesses during the dark December days and
the drear opening weeks of the Easter term. During the long morning
hours, when Gordon was supposed to be reading history, more than once
there came over him a wish to plunge himself into the feverish waters of
pleasure, and forget for a while the doubts and disappointments that
overhung everything in his life. At times he would sit in the big
window-seat, when the school was changing class-rooms, and as he saw the
sea of faces of those, some big, some small, who had drifted with the
stream, and had soon forgotten early resolutions and principles in the
conveniently broadminded atmosphere of a certain side of Public School
life, he realised how easily he could slip into that life and be
engulfed. No one would mind; his position would be the same; no one
would think worse of him. Unless, of course, he was caught. Then
probably everyone would turn round upon him; that was the one
unforgivable sin--to be found out. But it was rarely that anyone was
caught; and the descent was so easy. In his excitement he might perhaps
forget a little.
And then, perhaps, Ferrers would come rushing up to his study, aglow
with health and clean, fresh existence. And he would talk of books and
poetry, and life and systems, and Gordon would realise the ugliness of
his own misgivings when set beside the noble idealism of art. Ferrers
was not a preacher; he never lectured anyone. He believed in setting
boys high ideals. "We needs must love the highest when we see it." And
during these months his influence on Gordon was tremendous.
Then, when the long evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in the games
study, his face flushed with the glow of the leaping fire, talking of
Keats and Shelley, himself a poem, Gordon used to wonder how he could
ever have wished to dabble in ugly things, out of his cowardice to face
the truth. Those evenings were, in fact, the brightest of his Fernhurst
days; their happiness was unsubstantial, inexplicable, incomprehensible,
but none the less a real happiness.
They vanished, however; and the day would begin again, with the lonely
hours of morning school, when Gordon realised once more the emptiness
of his position, and how hopelessly he had failed to do any of the
things he had set out to do.
* * * * *
The state of affairs was summed up by Archie Fletcher in the last week
of the Christmas term.
"This place is simply ghastly, all the best fellows have gone," he said.
"Next term we shall have Rudd head of the House. All the young masters
have gone, and we are left with fossils, fretting because they are too
old to fight, and making our lives unbearable because we are too young.
As soon as I am old enough I mean to go and fight; but I can't stick the
way these masters croak away about the trenches all day long. If you
play badly at rugger you are asked what use you will be in a regiment.
If your French prose is full of howlers, you are told that slackers
aren't wanted in the trenches. Damn it all, we know that all these
O.F.'s who are now fighting in France slacked at work and cribbed; and
they weren't all in the Fifteen. And splendid men they are, too.
Fernhurst isn't what it was. Last term we had a top-hole set of chaps,
and I loved Fernhurst, but I am not going to stick here now. I am going
back home till I am eighteen. Then I'll go and fight. This is no place
for me."
It was the requiem of all "the old dreams"; and Gordon knew it for his
own as well.
During the Christmas holidays Gordon tried to forget as far as possible
Fernhurst, and all that Fernhurst stood for. More and more he found
himself turning for consolation to the poets; but now it was to
different poets that he turned. The battle-cry of Byron, the rebel flag
of Swinburne lost their hold over him. He himself was so entangled in
strife that he wanted soothing companions. In the poetry of Ernest
Dowson he read something of his own failure to realise the things he had
hoped for. _Endymion_, rolling like a stream through valleys and wooden
plains, carried him outside the hoarse babble of voices; _Comus_ lulled
him into a temporary security with its abundance of perfect imagery. He
discovered The Poetry Bookshop in Devonshire Street and went there for
the evening readings. There was a perfect serenity in the small room at
the top of the wooden stairs, with the dark blue curtains, the intent
faces, the dim, shaded lights, the low voice reading. He wished that
thus, in some monastic retreat, he might spend his whole life in a world
of dreams and illusions. But he realised that the hold of life was too
strong on him. At the same time he loved and hated the blare of
trumpets, the stretching plain, the spears glimmering in the sun. He had
sought for power and position; yet when they were won he despised them.
The future was impenetrable. But he returned for the Easter term
determined to do his duty by the House, however much he might disappoint
himself.
On the very first day of the term "the Bull" called him up.
"You remember," he began, "there was some talk last year about altering
the conditions of the Three Cock. I think it would be much better in
every way if we could come to some arrangement by which you should play
against two houses instead of three. Conditions are so very changed.
When the match was started you had ninety boys and each outhouse had
thirty. Now you have under seventy and each outhouse over thirty-five.
It is ten years now since you won, and it is a pity it is not more of a
game. Your men can't enjoy it, and I know mine don't. What do you
think?"
"I think we would all rather go on as we are at present, sir."
"But don't you see how hard it is for you ever to win?"
"Yes, sir; and it is also rather hard for us to accept charity."
"Of course, I can't force anything on you. It is a matter for you to
decide. But it does seem a pity to make a match like the Three Cock a
permanent farce, merely because you are too proud to see that you can't
take on the whole school. We'll discuss the matter at the end of the
term again."
When the House learnt of this interview it raged furiously.
"Confounded insolence calling it a farce," said Foster. "And, after all,
we stand a chance of winning. Heavens! we will boot them to blazes."
Everyone in the School House considered the idea of a change
preposterous. Gordon alone realised that the present was an impossible
state of affairs. Sixty-four against a hundred and twenty! They couldn't
hope to win more than once in six years. He pointed this out to Morcombe
in second hall that evening.
"As a matter of fact, if we win this year, I believe I shall go to 'the
Bull' and offer to change it."
"But why?" said Morcombe. "There are times when I can't understand you,
and this is one of them. Surely, if we win, it is a proof that we are
good enough to go on playing! Why stop then?"
"Because, if we did win, it would be only once in a way. And I can't
bear to think of our giving in after a beating by seventy points. It is
an anti-climax. I would much rather lay down our privilege willingly.
That's why I admire Sulla so much. At the very height of his power he
laid it down, and went into a glorious retirement. His is the most
dramatic exit in history. I should like the House to do that. We have
taken on too big a thing. We have got to give in sooner or later."
"Perhaps so," said Morcombe; "and I suppose 'the Bull' thinks you are
thoroughly conceited and proud."
"I believe so," said Gordon. "But let us talk about something else."
* * * * *
As a whole the Easter term began far more satisfactorily than the
Christmas term had ended.
There were no "uppers." House captains ran everything. Morgan had been
promoted into the Lower Sixth, and Gordon found him a most entertaining
person. Naturally clever and naturally indolent, Morgan's work presented
a strange contrast. He and Gordon would settle down to prepare
_OEdipus Tyrannus_ for Finnemore. They would begin lethargically.
After ten lines Morgan would ask whether they had done enough; Gordon
would fling a book at his head; somehow or other they would slop through
thirty lines. Then Morgan would shut his book, and refuse to do any
more.
"Thirty lines is enough for Finnemore, and, besides, I feel rather slack
to-night."
Gordon did not take the trouble to point out that the same feeling of
slackness overcame him every night.
They would both pull up their chairs in front of the fire, and waste the
rest of hall talking. The next morning, however, Gordon would discover
that the lines they had prepared the night before conveyed no meaning to
him at all. He would curse Morgan, and then go up to the library, rout
out Jebbs' translation, and prepare the Greek. Then he would move across
to school with the contented feeling of work well done.
Morgan would be put on to con. Gordon would wait, laughing to himself.
He was sure Morgan would make an awful mess of things. But somehow or
other Morgan always managed to translate it correctly, if not stylishly.
"Morgan, you did that again when I wasn't there," Gordon would say
afterwards.
"Oh no; we prepared it pretty well last night for a change."
After a while Gordon got used to this apparent miracle; but he himself
had invariably to consult the English authority. He did not tell Morgan
that. The climax was reached when Finnemore, who liked Gordon and
thought him rather clever, wrote in Morgan's report: "He relies rather
too much on Caruther's help for his Sophocles translation." It was an
interpretation that had occurred to neither.
CHAPTER IV: THE DAWN OF NOTHING
Slowly the Easter term moved on. As the days went by the sense of
failure, which had overhung everything Gordon had done the term before,
returned with an increased poignancy. The Thirds ended in a defeat which
was rendered no more pleasant by the fact that it was inevitable. No one
expected the House to win. The defeat was no reflection on Gordon's
leadership. The Chief, in fact, said to him: "We were much too small a
side, Caruthers, but I think we put up a plucky fight. You haven't
anything to grumble at. We did much better than I expected."
But Gordon was always too prone to judge by results. He contrasted the
game with last year's triumphs, and with the glorious defeat of the
year before, which had brought more honour than many victories. It was
very different from what he had hoped for. There would not be much to
remember his captaincy by.
One morning towards the middle of February he was glancing down the
casualty list, when he saw Jeffries's name among those killed. He put
the paper down, and walked very quietly across to his study. Jeffries
was well out of it, perhaps; but still Gordon wished he could have seen
him once more. That last terrible scene in Study 16 rose before his
eyes. He could almost hear the bang of the Chief's door. And now
Jeffries was dead; and no one would care. A master, perhaps, might
notice his name and say: "Just as well; he would have made a mess of his
life." They had never known Jeffries.
"You look rather upset this morning," murmured Morgan from a corner of
the room. Gordon had not noticed him.
"I am rather; a chap who had a study with me ... Jeffries ... he is in
the casualty list this morning."
"A.R. Jeffries?"