"Oh no; but I saw his photo in a winning Thirds group."
"Yes, that would be him. He was a fine forward."
Gordon was glad to think that that was what his friend was remembered
for. Only the good remained. It was as Jeffries would have wished....
The Two Cock drew near. There had been a good chance of winning once,
but influenza had played havoc with the side. Gordon told them they were
going to win, encouraged them, presented a smiling face, but his heart
was heavy. He saw another cup going to join the silver regiment on the
Buller's sideboard. He had never found life quite so hard before; only
Morgan's unshatterable optimism, Ferrer's volcanic energy, and his own
friendship for Morcombe made things bearable at all. And yet he had all
the things he had once wanted. Now Betteridge had left, he was
indisputably the big man in the House. Rudd was a broken reed. At last
he began to see that the mere trappings of power might deceive the
world, but not their wearer.
A week before the Two Cock Tester paid an unexpected week-end visit. He
was full of vitality and exuberance. He was just the same, debonair,
light-hearted, thoroughly happy. Everyone was pleased to see him; he was
pleased to see everyone. He was almost hilarious. But as Gordon watched
him carefully, his mirth seemed like that of Byron in _Don Juan_,
laughter through his tears. The others did not notice, because they had
never known Tester.
Just after prayers he met Tester on his way back from supper with the
Chief.
"Hullo! I have been looking for you," he said; "come for a stroll round
the courts."
"Well," said Tester, as soon as they were out of earshot, "what do you
make of it?"
"Pretty awful."
"Yes, I suppose you have seen a good many ideals go tumbling down. All
our generation has been sacrificed; of course it is inevitable. But it
is rather hard. The older men have seen some of their hopes realised; we
shall see none. I don't know when this war will end; not just yet, I
think. But whenever it does, just as far as we are concerned the days of
roses will be over. For the time being art and literature are dead. Look
at the rotten stuff that's being written to-day. At the beginning we
were deceived by the tinsel of war; Romance dies hard. But we know now.
We've done with fairy tales. There is nothing glorious in war, no good
can come of it. It's bloody, utterly bloody. I know it's inevitable, but
that's no excuse. So are rape, theft, murder. It's a bloody business.
Oh, Caruthers, my boy, the world will be jolly Philistine the next few
years. Commercialism will be made a god."
"Do you mean there is going to be nothing for us after the war?" said
Gordon.
"Not for you or me; for the masses, perhaps. No one can go through this
without having his senses dulled, his individuality knocked out of him.
It will take at least twenty years to recover what we have lost, and
there won't be much fire left in you and me by then. Oh, I can tell you
I am frightened of what's coming after. I can't face it. Of course there
may be a great revival some day. Do you remember what Rupert Brooke
said in _Second Best_ about there waiting for the 'great unborn some
white tremendous daybreak'? That's what may happen. But our generation
will have been sacrificed for it. I suppose we should not grumble. But
we only live once. Do you remember that day of the Radley match, and
what I said about Oxford? I longed for Oxford. I wanted to begin life
over again, to sweep out the past. I was beginning to realise what
beauty meant. And then down comes the war. And I don't suppose I shall
ever have a chance now. I don't know whether there is an after life or
not, but if there is, I shall cut a pretty sorry figure, if there is
going to be a judgment. Well, it is my own fault. I put things off too
late. But I should have been a different chap, I think, if----"
Foster's voice rang out across the night:
"Come on, you two. What are you doing out there? The coffee's boiling
over. Buck up."
"Right you are."
In a second Tester had resumed his old pose of indifference. He played
his part through thoroughly; no one, as he danced with Collins up and
down the narrow study, would have associated him with the despairing
philosopher of a few moments ago. Gordon looked at him in amazement.
What a consummate actor he was! How successfully he kept his true
character to himself.
Early on the Sunday morning he went back to his regiment. Gordon walked
down to the station with him.
"I am going to the front in about a week, you know," said Tester, as
they were standing on the platform.
"Good Lord! man, why didn't you tell us before?"
"Oh, I don't know. I didn't want them all unburdening themselves to
me.... Here's the train. Well, good-bye, Caruthers. Good luck."
"Thanks awfully; and mind you come back all right."
Tester smiled at him rather sadly.
"I am not coming back," he said.
* * * * *
The Two Cock came and went. The score was not very high against the
House. But it was a poor game. The school deserved to win, because they
played less badly than the House. But there was very little life in the
game. This may have been due to a heavy field day two days before; but
whatever it was, the result was pitiable. Gordon had almost ceased to
expect anything. Day followed day. Everyone was discontented; even
Ferrers began to doubt whether the war was having such a good effect on
the Public Schools after all. He said as much in an article in _The
Country_. He was always saying things in _The Country_. It was his
clearing ground.
The Three Cock drew near. And each day Gordon began to think the House
less likely to win. He had watched the outhouses play, and knew how good
they were. One afternoon the Buller's captain challenged the House to a
friendly game. A very hard game resulted in a draw. There was nothing to
choose between the sides. And in the Three Cock Buller's would have
Claremont's and Rogers's to help them.
There were discussions in the House as to whether the score would be
kept under twenty. Someone suggested it would have been a much better
game if they had accepted "the Bull's" offer of playing two houses
instead of three. When the day came the outhouse bloods were confidently
laying three to one on their chances of running up a score of over
thirty.
As Gordon sat in his study after lunch, before going down to change, he
found it hard to believe that this was actually the day that he and his
friends had looked forward to for so long. It was to have marked the
start of a new era of School House greatness. It was to have been the
beginning of the new epoch. With a slightly cynical smile he compared it
with the way in which the Germans had toasted "Der Tag!" Both results
would be much the same. Lethargically he got up, put a coal or two on
the fire, and went down to change.
The game followed much the same course that other Three Cocks had
followed during the last four years. For the first half the House did
fairly well, and kept the score down to thirteen to nil. Collins played
magnificently; Morgan was in form; Gordon himself was not conspicuous.
Then came the second half, when the light School House pack grew tired,
and was pushed about all over the field. The cheering of tries grew
desultory, and unenthusiastic. The final score was forty-seven to nil.
"You know, Caruthers," said Collins on the way up from the field, "we
should have done better to have only taken on two houses."
"Yes," said Gordon shortly.
As soon as he had changed, he went over to "the Bull's" study. He had
already decided that it would be better to alter the condition of the
match once and for all. It meant to him the complete failure of all his
plans. He had set out to lead the House to victory. In the end not only
had he retired, he had actually surrendered.
"The Bull" received him kindly.
"Ah, come round about the match, Caruthers?"
"Yes, sir. I think we had better play a Two Cock in future. Three houses
are a good deal more than we can take on."
"Well, of course, I had seen that all along," said "the Bull." "It _is_
too much. The conditions are so changed. Of course, we can't do this
without the consent of the Games Committee. I think we had better have a
meeting to-morrow afternoon. You might tell the others, will you?"
On the next day after lunch the Games Committee met in "the Bull's"
study. "The Bull" stood with his back to the fireplace.
"As you know, I have called you here this afternoon about the Three
Cock. Of course conditions have so changed that it would be no
reflection on the School House----"
"The Bull" went on. Gordon sat forward on the sofa listening
subconsciously. Scenes rose before his mind. Of Mansell two years back,
after Richard's Thirds, saying: "Wait till 1915." Of Hazelton in the
dormitory saying: "Our day's coming, and you'll see it, Caruthers."
Everyone had expected this year to a triumph. And here he was signing
the death warrant of School House football.
"The Bull" had finished speaking.... A resolution was passed....
"It is a lovely day," said "the Bull," "and I don't want to keep you in.
I expect you all want to be out doing something."
Gordon got out of the study somehow or other.
One of the Games Committee came up to him.
"Jolly good idea of 'the Bull's,' I think. It was much too big a job for
you. Much better arrangement."
"Oh, much."
Gordon went back to the old games study, the very walls of which seemed
eloquent with voices of the dead. The rest of the House had gone for a
run. He was all alone. His head fell forward on his hands. The captaincy
he had tried so hard to gain had ended in pitiable failure. It was the
desolation, the utter desolation!...
Of all that he had worked for during those four years nothing remained,
nothing.
And as Gordon's mind dwelt on this the love of the monastic life which
had so overwhelmed him the holidays before swept over him again with
renewed vigour. In the Roman Church at any rate was there not something
permanent? _Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus...._ That boast
was surely not in vain. He longed to surrender himself completely, to
fling away his own aims and inclinations, and abandon himself to a life
of quiet devotion safe from the world. It was the natural reaction. He
had been tossed on the waters of trouble and had grown weary of strife.
In Plato's _Republic_ Ulysses asked for the life of a private individual
free from care. "After battle sleep is best. After noise, tranquillity."
Dowson's exquisite lines on the _Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration_ came
back to him:
"_They saw the glory of the world displayed,_
_They saw the bitter of it and the sweet._
_They knew the roses of the world would fade_
_And be trod under by the hurrying feet._
_Therefore they rather put away desire...._"
That was what he wanted, to merge himself into the great silent poetry
of the Catholic life. The Protestant creed could never give him what he
wanted. There was too much tolerance, too much sheltering of the
individuality; he wanted a complete, an utter surrender. He passed the
entire holidays in the world of ideas; he read nothing but poetry, or
what dealt with poetry. He tried to recapture the wonderful
full-blooded enjoyment of that last summer term. But for all that he
found material thoughts stealing in on his most sacred moments. A chance
phrase, a word even, and there would suddenly rise before him the
spectre of his own failure. And he was forced to realise that as yet he
was unfit to lay down the imperious burden of his own personality. The
hold of life was too strong. He still wanted the praise of the populace,
"the triumph and the roses and the wine."
Well, there was one more term; let him make the most of the roses while
he could. In this state of indecision he returned for what was to be his
last term.
* * * * *
A big programme of First Eleven matches had been arranged; and the first
game was at Downside on the second Saturday of the term. Fernhurst won
with ease, and Gordon knocked up forty-two. The match was over before
tea; and, as the side had not to go back till six o'clock, they spent
the interval in walking round the grounds.
Few schools are situated in more perfect surroundings than Downside.
There are wide gardens and flowery walks. Rhododendrons were flaming red
and white, a hedge of gorse shone gold. It was a Roman Catholic school,
and now and then a noble Calvary rose out of the flowers. The Abbey
watched over the place. Monks in long black robes moved about slowly,
magisterially. Gordon went up to one of them and spoke to him shyly.
"A wonderful place this, sir."
"Yes; it is the right sort of place to train a boy in. Surround him with
beautiful things, make a real perception of beauty the beacon light of
his life, when he is young, and he will be safe. For there are so many
things that are beautiful and poisonous like iridescent fungi, and it is
so hard to differentiate between the true and the false. But everything
here is so pure and unworldly that I think we manage to show our boys
what is the highest. We fail at times, but on the whole we succeed."
He looked so kind, so sympathetic, this old man, that Gordon felt bound
to pour out his feelings to him.
"You know, sir," he said, "I have awfully wanted to talk to a Roman
Catholic whom I thought would understand me, and especially one like
yourself, who has willingly abandoned all his own ambitions. There is
something very fine in the complete surrender of your Church. In ours
there is so much room for difference of opinion, so much toleration of
various doctrines. There seems so little certainty. In Rome there seems
no doubt at all."
"Yes, the Catholic Faith is a very beautiful creed," said the old man;
"we are misjudged; we are called narrow-minded and bigoted. They say we
want to make everyone conform to one type, and that we bind them with
chains. But, my son, it is not with chains that the Holy Church binds
her children. It is with loving arms thrown round them. The Church loves
her children far too much to wish them to leave her even for a minute.
She wants them entirely, hers and hers alone. Perhaps you will say that
is selfish; but I do not think so. It is the great far-seeing love that
sees what is best for its own. Love is nearly always right. But if you
wish to keep your own views, to worship God in your own way, well, there
are other creeds. Protestantism, it seems to me, lets out its followers,
as it were, on strings and lets them wander about a little, laugh and
pluck flowers, in the certainty that at the last she can draw her own to
her. Well, that is one way of serving God, and in the Kingdom of God
there is no right or wrong way, provided the service be sincere. There
are many roads to heaven. Our road is one of an infinite love that draws
everything to itself. There are other ways; but that is ours."
"But supposing there was a person," said Gordon, "who really wanted to
surrender himself to that perfect love, but who found the call of the
world too strong. You know, sir, I should give anything to be as you,
safe and secure. But I know I should break away; the world would call me
again. I should return, but when I give myself, I want to give myself
wholly, unconditionally. I want there to be no doubt; and I want to come
to-day."
"I will tell you a story," said the monk. "I was a boy here years ago,
and there was one boy, brilliant at games and work, whom I admired very
much, and by the time I had myself reached a high position he came back
to us as a monk. I used to live in a little village, just behind that
hill, and I used to ask him down to supper sometimes. And I remember one
day my father said to him: 'You know, I envy you a lot.'
"'Why?' he asked.
"'Well,' said my father, 'as far as this world is concerned you are well
provided for. You live in beautiful surroundings, comfortable and happy.
And for the next world, as far as we know, no one could be more certain
of happiness than you.'
"The young monk looked at my father rather curiously, and said:
"'Perhaps so; but when I look round at your happy little family and your
home interests, I think we have given up a good deal.'
"And only a year later that young man ran away with a girl in the
village, and he was excommunicated from the Church. And yet I expect
that the whole time he really loved our life best; only the call of
worldly things was too strong; and he was too weak."
"Then what will be the end of me?" asked Gordon.
"Wait, my son. I waited a long time before I knew for certain that God's
way was best, and that the things men worshipped were vain. Those are
the most fortunate, perhaps, who can see the truth at once, and go out
into the world spreading the truth by the influence of a blameless life.
But we are not all so strong as that. It takes a long time for us to be
quite certain; and even then we have to come and shut ourselves away
from the world. We are too weak. But we have our place. And in the end
you, too, I expect, will so probe the happiness and grief of the world
and find them of little value, and when you have, you will find the Holy
Church waiting for you. It does not matter when or how you come; only
you must bring yourself wholly. It is not so very much we ask of you.
And we give with so infinite a prodigality."
"Yes," said Gordon, "I suppose there will be rest at last."
That evening as he sat discussing the cricket match with Morgan the
captain of the school came in and gave him his "Firsts." Morgan was
profuse with congratulations. Everyone seemed pleased. It was the hour
he had long pictured in his imagination--the hour when he should get
his coveted "Firsts." He himself had wanted them so badly; but somehow
or other they did not mean very much just now.
CHAPTER V: THE THINGS THAT SEEM
But the heart of youth is essentially fickle; and Gordon's lambent
spirit, which had for some time almost ceased to strive for anything,
suddenly swept round to the other extreme, and was filled with the
desire to reassert itself at all costs. Suddenly, almost without
realising it, Gordon was fired with the wish to finish his school career
strongly, not to give way before adversity, but to end as he had begun.
He would be the Ulysses of Tennyson, not of Plato. "Though much is
taken, much abides ... 'tis not too late to seek a newer world." ...
Like a tiger he looked round, growling for his prey, and his opportunity
was not slow in coming.
Ferrers was sitting in his study one afternoon, talking very
despondently about the general atmosphere at Fernhurst.
"It is not what I had hoped for," he said; "in fact, it is quite the
reverse. The young masters are gone, the bloods are gone. The new
leaders are not sure of their feet, and these old pedants have taken
their chance of getting back their old power. And the whole school is
discontented, fed up; no keenness anywhere. The masters tell them: 'If
you aren't good at games you'll be useless in the trenches.' Wretched
boys begin to believe them. They think they are wrong, when really they
are just beginning to see the light. They are beginning to look at games
as they are. There's no glory attached to them now--no true
victories--glamour is all removed. They see games as they are, see the
things they have been worshipping all these years. But the masters tell
them games are right, they are wrong; it is their duty to do as others
did before them. Oh, I wish we could smash those cracked red spectacles
through which every Public School boy is forced to look at life."
"But can't we, sir?"
"It would be no good; they wouldn't believe you. I am getting sick. For
years I have been shouting out, and trying to prove to them what's
wrong. They won't believe. They are blind, and it is the masters' fault,
curse them. There they sit, talking and doing nothing. I begin to
worship that man, I forget his name, who said: 'Those who can, do--those
who can't, teach.' It sums up our modern education. It is all hypocrisy
and show."
"But, sir," said Gordon, "we can't do much, but let's do what we can.
Now, when the glamour has fallen off athleticism, let's show the school
what wretched things they have been serving so long. If we can in any
way put a check on this nonsense now, if in Fernhurst only, we shall be
doing something. After the war we shall have a fine Fifteen winning
matches, and the school will feel its feet. We must stop it now--now,
when there is no glamour, when the school is tired of endless 'uppers,'
and sick of the whole business. Now's the time."
"Yes; but how? This sort of thing doesn't happen in a night."
"I know; but we can sow the seeds now. The Stoics is the thing. We can
have a debate on the 'Value of Athletics,' and, heavens! I bet the whole
House will vote against them. The House is sick of it all. We'll carry
the motion. We'll get the best men to speak. We'll give sound arguments.
Then we'll have formed a precedent. It will appear in the school
magazine that the Stoics, the representative society of Fernhurst
thought, has decided that the blind worship of games is harmful. It will
make the school think. It's a start, sir, it's a start."
"You are right, Caruthers, you are right. We'll flutter the Philistine
dovecots."
Gordon had not the slightest doubt about the success of the scheme. He
himself was at the very summit of his power. He had been making scores
for the Eleven out of all proportion to his skill; he was almost certain
for the batting cup. His influence was not to be discounted. He could
get the House to vote as he wanted; he was sure of it. He told
Davenport of the scheme, and he also was enthusiastic.
"By Jove! that's excellent. It's about time the school realised that
caps and pots are not the alpha and omega of our existence."
The air was full of the din of onset.
Nearly the whole House attended the meeting, and the outhouses rolled up
in good numbers, more out of curiosity than anything else. They thought
the whole thing rather silly. There had been a debate more than two
years back on "whether games should be compulsory." Only six had voted
against compulsion. "The Bull" remembered this, and came to the debate,
strong in his faith in the past. He wanted to see this upstart Ferrers
squashed.
Ferrers himself opened the discussion with typical exuberance.
"How much longer," he finished, "are we going to waste our time, our
energy, our force on kicking a football? We have no strength for
anything else. And all the time, while Germany has been plotting against
us, piling up armaments, we have been cheering on Chelsea and West Ham
United. Look at the result. We were not prepared, we are only just
getting ready now. And why? Because we had wasted our time on trivial
things, instead of things that mattered; and unless we turn away from
all this truck, trash and cant about athleticism, England is not going
to stand for anything worth having."
He sat down amid tempestuous applause. The audience were really excited.
They had gradually grown sick of games during the last two terms, and
now apparently they had the best authority for doing so. Everyone likes
being congratulated.
The opposition suffered in having Burgess to support them. We have heard
of him before. Years had not altered him much. He was the same
conceited, self-righteous puppet as of old. People got tired of
listening to him. There was a sound of shuffling, a window began to bang
with unnecessary noise. He sat down to an apathetic recognition.
Davenport then made a very biting speech against games.
"The Bull" was surprised to see him speaking on Ferrer's side. He was
in the Second Fifteen, and a very useful outside.
"Whatever we may have done before the war," he cried, "and we did many
foolish things, it is quite obvious that now this worship of sport must
cease. Let us hope it is not revived. We are sent here to be
educated--that is, to have our minds trained; instead of that, we have
our bodies developed, our minds starved. We play footer in the
afternoon, we have gym. at all hours of the day, and other experiments
in voluntary compulsion, such as puntabouts after breakfast. The result
is we work at our play, and play at our work...." He elaborated the
scheme in an amusing way. There was a lot of laughter. "The Bull" looked
fierce. Rudd, who had for a "rag" insisted on speaking for the
opposition, discoursed on the value of "_mens sana in corpore sano_."
Everyone shrieked with laughter.
He finished up thus:
"Well, look at me. I am the hardest-working fellow in the school." A
roar of laughter went up. Rudd had nearly been deprived of his position
of school prefect for doing so little work. "I am also a fine athlete.
To-day I clean bowled two people on the pick-up, and hit a splendid four
over short-slip's head. I am what I am because of our excellent system
of work and play. Look at me, I say, and vote for athleticism."
Buffoonery is often more powerful than the truest oratory.
The motion was put before the House.
A lot of people spoke. All in favour of the motion. It was great fun
watching "the Bull's" face grow gradually darker. Morgan said that only
fools and Philistines cared for games. They were amusing to pass an
afternoon with, and because one had to have exercise, but that was all.
Gordon waited till near the end, then he got up.
"I must first congratulate everyone on the broadminded view they have
taken of this important question; and I think it is an infallible proof
that the days of athletic domination are ended. For, after all, is it
any wonder that clear-thinking men like A.C. Benson pull our system to
pieces, when we have to own that for the last twenty years at least the
only thing Public School boys have cared about is games? And with such
a belief they go out into life, to find the important posts seized by
men who have really worked. No one works at a Public School. People who
do are despised. If they happen to be good at games as well, they are
tolerated. It is a condemnation of the whole system. And, after all,
what are games? Merely a form of exercise; we have got to keep our
bodies healthy, because, as Mr Rudd so wisely put it, a healthy mind
means a healthy body. Games were invented because people wanted to enjoy
their exercise. We all enjoy games. I love cricket; but that does not
make me worship it. I like eating; but I don't make a god of a chocolate
eclair. We can like a thing without bowing down to it, and that's how we
have got to treat games. Some fool said 'the battle of Waterloo was won
on the playing fields of Eton'; and a fool he was, too. Games don't win
battles, but brains do, and brains aren't trained on the footer field.
It is time we realised that; and I think from the way the speaking has
gone to-night, the school is beginning to understand. Now is the chance
to show that you think so. There are no good athletes in the school
to-day, the Eleven's rotten and the Fifteen is worse. Men like Lovelace
major _were_ almost worth worshipping, because they were men; they made
athletics appear grand, because they were such glorious creatures
themselves; but there are none of that sort here now. We can see games
as they really are without any false mist of sentiment, and we can see
that for years we have been worshipping something utterly wrong."
Gordon's speech really made an impression. After all, he was a blood,
one of the best all-round athletes in the school, and if he thought like
that, there must be something in what so many people were saying.
The question was put to the vote, and was carried by an enormous
majority.
"The Bull" looked for a moment at the crowd of faces that had spurned
the things he admired, looked as one who saw nothing, turned on his heel
and strode out of the room.
"Well, we won! Glorious!" said Ferrers.
"Yes," said Gordon, "'we have lit this day a candle that, by the grace
of God, shall never be put out'!"
He went down to hall, flushed with triumph. After all, there were some
compensations for everything; but he could not remove the feeling that
out of all the change and turmoil of his Fernhurst career he had
retained nothing tangible. He had written his name upon water; he had as
yet found nothing that would accompany him to the end of his journey. He
knew that his friendship for Morcombe would lead to nothing: very few
school friendships last more than a year or so after one or other has
left. He thought of Byron's line: "And friendships were formed too
romantic to last." It was too true, he had yet to find his real ideal.
He was about to begin the serious battle of life. He was standing on the
threshold. The night was black before him; he had no beacon fire to lead
him. He dimly perceived that beauty was the goal to which he was
striving. But he had only a vague comprehension of its meaning. He had
no philosophy. Doubtless in the end the Roman Church, the mother of
wanderers, would take him to her breast. But that was a long way off
yet, and he wished to bring himself to the final surrender, strong and
clean-hearted, not a vessel broken on the back-wash of existence. And
yet he had no true guide for the years that stretched before him. This
last episode of the debate seemed to bring it home to him more clearly.
His life had so far been composed of isolated triumphs and isolated
defeats, which had not yet so combined one with another as to form a
bedrock of experience which would serve as a standard for future
judgments. He had made merry, careless of what the next day would bring.
He had fought with "the Bull"; and in the struggle he had achieved some
things, and failed to achieve more. He had at one time prayed for the
long contention to cease; at another he had laughed in the face of his
enemy, flushed with the joy of battle. Gazing back on his past, he
seemed to stand as a spectator, watching a person who was himself and
yet not himself, going through a life of many varied experiences, now
plunging in the mud, now soaring to the heights. But the incidents only
affected him in a dull, subconscious manner. He had learnt nothing from
them. His school days would soon be over, and yet he felt as though he
were beginning life all over again. He had found nothing that could
stand the wear of time and chance.
But still there remained a few more weeks of Fernhurst; whatever
happened, he swore that he would finish as befitted a king. "Samson
would quit himself like Samson." There would be time enough for doubts
and introspection when it was all over, when for the last time the
familiar eight-forty swept him out of Fernhurst's life for ever. At
present it was his to leave behind him a name that would survive a
little while, "nor all glut the devouring grave." It should be
remembered of him that during his day of power he had never once given
way, had stood his ground, had never known the poignancy of the
"second-best."
Until now Gordon had never really quarrelled with anyone in his own
house. All his encounters had been with outhouse men or "the Bull": he
might have helped to make the House feel independent of the school, but
he had always aimed at the unity of the House's aim. It was a pity that
his last contest should have been with the head of his own house.
Rudd was a bad head; there could be no doubt about that. His dormitory
made him apple-pie beds, and soaked his candle in water, so that it
would not light. The day-room ragged him mercilessly. Gordon had never
minded. In comparison with Rudd's weakness his own strength shone the
more. It made him so essentially the big power in the House. But things
reached a limit shortly after half term, when Rudd tried to drag him in
to help him in his troubles, and shelter behind the rest of the
prefects.
It all arose from a most "footling" source. Rudd was taking hall, and
the usual music hall performance was in full swing. Bray had asked to
borrow some ink, and having once gained a pretext for walking about, was
dancing up and down the floor singing _What would the Seaside be without
the Ladies?_ Everyone was, of course, talking. Now a certain Stockbrew,
imagining himself a poet, immortalised the occasion with the following
stirring lyric:--
"_Ruddy-doodle went to town_
_In his little suit of brown,_
_As he could not find his purse_
_He cried aloud, 'Oh, where's my nurse?_'"
Like the famous quatrain _The Purple Cow_, this poem immediately
achieved a success totally out of proportion to its merits. It was
passed slowly down the table. Finally it reached Bray.
"Ah, Rudd," he said, "I believe this is meant for you."
Rudd read it, and flushed a dusky red.
"Who wrote this?"
Proudly the author claimed his work.
"Well--er--let me see," said Rudd: "it is er--gross impertinence. Come
and see me after breakfast to-morrow."
The poet sat down, and his friends showered condolences on him; Bray
recommenced his wanderings.
That night in second hall Rudd called a prefects' meeting to discuss the
affair. He pointed out that it was gross insolence to a prefect, and
that a prefects' beating was the recognised punishment for such an
offence. Gordon protested vehemently.
"But, damn it all, Rudd, if you are such a weak-kneed ass as to be
ragged by a fool like Stockbrew, you jolly well oughtn't to be head of
the House. And, by the way, we haven't heard this masterpiece of satire
read out yet."
"I don't think there's any need," said Rudd.
"Well, I think there is," said Gordon. "I am not going to see a kid
beaten for an unknown piece of cheek. Read the thing out!"
With many blushes Rudd read it out.
"Ah, jolly suitable, too," said Foster. "What you want is a nurse. Good
lord, man, can't you look after yourself in hall. Jolly ignominious,
isn't it, having to call up a lot of prefects to back you up? Fine
example to the rest of the House, isn't it?"
"Well," stammered Rudd, "I don't pretend to be a strong prefect."
"You certainly aren't," said Foster.
"That's beside the point," said Rudd. "I have been cheeked by Stockbrew,
and I am a prefect. The punishment for that is a prefects' beating.
There'll be a pre.'s meeting here to-morrow at eight, and if you have
anything to grouse about, go to the Chief."
He flounced out of the room like a heroine of melodrama.
"I don't think we'll go to Chief," said Gordon, "he would be utterly
fed up. But I am jolly well not going to be made an ass of by Rudd.
Think what fools we shall look trotting about on Rudd's apron strings
like policemen after a cook."
"Well, what can we do?" said Davenport.
"Do? Why, make Rudd look a bigger ass than we. We have got to give this
lad a pre.'s beating. There's no way out of it. We have got to. But if
we let the House know about this, a crowd will collect; Rudd will go
first and make two fairly effective shots. We shall then proceed in
rotation. We will just tap him; the crowd will roar with laughter; it
will be damned amusing, and Rudd will look a most sanguinary ass."
"I see," said Foster. "Hat's off to the man with the brain."
"But is it quite the game?" suggested Davenport, a stickler for
etiquette.
"Is it the game for Rudd to drag us in to back him up? In this world,
unfortunately, two blacks invariably make a white."
"I suppose it's all right," said Davenport.
No one else made any objection. Foster and Gordon usually got their own
way. The prefects dispersed. Gordon went to tell Morgan the glad
tidings. The news was all round the House in a few minutes. Rudd was
generally regarded as a priceless fool; it was sure to be good sport.
Then next morning Stockbrew presented himself at Rudd's study. He was
terribly overcome at the sight of so formidable a gathering. He wished
he had padded. No one had told him of what was to happen. It would have
spoilt the situation.
The prefects sat in chairs round the room; Rudd, terribly nervous, was
perched on the table. He delivered as short a lecture as possible on the
sacredness of the prefectorial dignity and the insignificance of the
day-room frequenter.
In a procession they moved to the V. A green. Stockbrew led, Rudd
followed, cane in hand. It was all very impressive. Round the V. A green
runs a stone path; a good many people were clustered there; there were
faces in the V. B class-room just opposite; in the library on the right;
even in the Sixth Form class-room on the left.
"Quite an audience for this degrading business," sighed Foster.
"'Butchered to make a Roman holiday,'" said Davenport, who loved a stale
quotation. Stockbrew bent over the chain that ran round two sides of the
green. Rudd delivered two fairly accurate shots. Stockbrew stirred
uncomfortably. He had dim recollections of Claremont reading a poem by
Mrs Browning on "the great God Pan" and how cruel it was to "make a poet
out of a man!" He saw her meaning now. Then the farce began.
Gordon went up, carefully arranged the victim's coat, stepped back as if
preparing a brutal assault, and then flicked him twice. A roar of
laughter broke from all sides. Rudd shifted uneasily on his feet.
Foster went up and did the same, then Davenport, then the rest of the
prefects. The very walls seemed shrieking with laughter.
Flushing dark red, Rudd strode across to his study. Such dignity as he
had ever had, had been taken from him. Everyone had seen his ignominy.
The next time he took hall a pandemonium broke out such as never had
been heard before. A game of cricket was played with a tennis ball and a
Liddell and Scott; Gordon crossing the courts heard it, and he decided
to clinch his victory. He went down to the day-room and walked straight
in. There was instant silence. Gordon took no notice of Rudd whatever.
"Look here, you men, you are making a filthy row down here. I heard it
right across the courts. The Chief might hear it easily. You have got to
shut up. If I hear any more noise I shall give every man two hundred
lines; so shut up."
There was comparative peace after this. Rudd had ceased to count in
House politics. To all intents and purposes Gordon was head of the
House, and the House regarded him as such. Rudd was generally known as
the "nominal head." Gordon had got his power, and for the next six weeks
he decided to enjoy it to the full. On the cricket field, although not
quite keeping to the promise or the luck of May, he did well enough to
make the batting cup quite certain. There was now no fear of any defeat
clouding his last days. He had ceased to worry himself with analysing
his emotions. He let himself enjoy the hour of happiness while he still
had it, and did not trouble to question himself how long it would last.
He had passed through the time of blind depression during the Easter
term when he had seen hope after hope go down: he had come through
somehow. It did not matter with what inward searchings of heart.
Outwardly he had been a success. Now his outward triumph was even more
pronounced. As a few weeks before he had been too prone to look at the
inward to the total exclusion of the outward aspect of things, now he
began to consider only the things that seem. It was the swing of the
pendulum. It remained for him to find the _media via_.
* * * * *
The last days of June and the early weeks of July passed calmly. In the
mornings he lounged in his study, reading novels, or talking to Morgan.
The afternoons went by like a cavalcade, with the white figures on the
cricket ground, the drowsy atmosphere of the pavilion, the shadows
lengthening across the ground. Then the evenings came, with Morcombe
sitting in his study getting helped in his work, or talking about books
and people and ideas. The House matches began. A-K senior had an average
side, but no one expected them to do very much, and it was a surprise
when, by beating Christy's and Claremont's, they qualified to meet an
exceptionally strong Buller's side in the final. Foster and Gordon
looked forward to their last match at Fernhurst with the cheerful
knowledge that they had no chance of winning, and that therefore they
had nothing to fear of disappointment. It would be a jolly friendly game
to finish up with. The days raced past so quickly that it came as a
shock to Gordon to discover that his last week, with its examinations
and threatening form lists, had really come.
"I shall be sorry to leave, you know," he said to Foster. "I am not at
all looking forward to the army."
"Last Christmas I would have given anything to get out of this place,"
Foster answered. "But now, my Lord; I wish I was coming back. We've had
a good time this term."
The first three days of that last week it rained incessantly. The
Senior final was postponed till the Thursday. Examinations took their
desultory course. Gordon had often in the past slacked in exams, but
never had he treated them in quite the same indifferent way as he did
this term. He had no intention of spoiling his last days by working.
Every morning the Sixth went in for a three hours' paper, at
nine-thirty. Before eleven Gordon had always shown up his papers, and
strolled out of the room to read _Paradise Lost_ in his study. In the
afternoon he usually managed to toss off the two hours' exam. in three
quarters of an hour.
He was "finishing in style." On Thursday the rain stopped at last, and
the Senior final began.
"Foster," said Gordon, as the two walked down to the field, "I believe
ours is one of the very worst sides that ever got into the final. There
are two Firsts, you and I. Collins was tried for the Colts two years
ago. There are eight others."
"Oh, you forget Bray, a fine, free bat with an unorthodox style. But ...
I believe he made fourteen on a House game the other day."
"Yes, that is a recommendation, of course, but somehow I don't think we
shall win."
"Win!" echoed Foster. "We shall be lucky if we avoid an innings defeat."
And this supposition proved still more likely when half-an-hour later
the House, having won the toss, had lost three wickets for as many runs.
Jack Whitaker, now captain of Buller's, had gone on to bowl first from
the end nearest the National Schools. In his first over he clean bowled
Gordon, and in the next he got Foster leg before, and Bradford caught in
the slips.
"I foresee," said Collins, "that we shall spend most of this game
fielding. A poor way of occupying our last few days."
"That's where I score," said Gordon; "the wicket-keeper has no running
to do, and, besides, I rather enjoy a game in which there is nothing to
lose, no anxiety or anything. It is a peaceful end to a turgid
career.... Oh, well hit!"
Bray had just lifted a length ball off the middle stump over short-leg's
head.
"That's the sort of cricket I like," said Gordon; "a splendid contempt
for all laws and regulations. Heavens! there he goes again!"
A lucky snick flew over the slips to the boundary.
"This is something like," said Foster, and prepared to enjoy himself.
And certainly Bray's cricket was entertaining. He treated every ball the
same; he stepped straight down the pitch with his left foot, raised his
bat in the direction of point and then, as the ball was bowled, he
pivoted himself violently on his left foot and, going through a complete
half-circle, finished, facing the wicket-keeper, with both feet outside
the crease, but his bat well over the line. The chief attraction of this
gymnastic feat was the unexpectedness of it all. No one knew where the
ball would go if it was hit. Once when he timed his shot a little late
he caught the ball just as it was passing him and drove it flying past
the wicket-keeper's head to where long-stop would have been. The
fielding side was always glad to see Bray's back, and it usually did not
have to wait long. But to-day he bore a charmed life. He was missed at
point once, twice he gave a chance of being stumped, the ball shaved his
wickets times innumerable. But nearly every other ball he managed to hit
somewhere. In the pavilion the School House rocked with laughter.
At the other end Davenham poked about scoring singles here and there.
The score crept up. Amid cheers in which laughter was blended, the fifty
went up. Then Bray, in a particularly gallant effort to steer a ball
well outside the off stump round to short-leg, hit, all three wickets
flying out of the ground. It was a suitable end to an unusual innings.
He received a royal welcome in the pavilion.
"Bray, my son," said Gordon, "you are a sportsman. Come to the tuck-shop
and have a drink. Nellie, mix this gentleman an ice and a lemonade, and
put it down to my account. Thank you. Ah, there's Collins. Good luck,
Collins; keep your head."
Two minutes later Collins returned to the pavilion with a downcast face.
"The damned thing broke," he said, as if he considered breaks illegal in
House matches.
The rest of the side played in the usual light-hearted School House
spirit. There were some fine hits made, and some scandalous ones, too.
It was like a cinematograph show. Everyone slammed about; the Buller's
men missed catches galore. Davenport was missed four times in making
fourteen. Somehow the score reached respectable heights. Byes helped
considerably. The final score was one hundred and twenty.
"And now," said Collins, "we have got to field for two hours to-day.
To-morrow is not a half, so we shall have to field all the time; we
sha'n't get a knock till after roll on Saturday. Five hours' fielding.
Damn!"
"And it will do you a lot of good, too," said Foster. "Are you all
ready, House? Come on then."
A-K Senior filed out into the field. A loud cheer rose from the crowd.
The House was amazingly partisan. Whether a House side is losing by an
innings or winning by two hundred runs, it is always sure of the same
reception when it goes on to the field from its own men. The light had
grown rather bad and Foster began bowling with the trees at his back, so
as to hide his delivery. At the other end Bradford was to bowl.
The start was sensational.
Buller's sent in Crampin and Mitchell first, two hefty footballers, with
strong wrists and no science, who had run up some big scores in the
preliminary rounds.
Foster ran up to bowl. Crampin had a terrific swipe. The ball turned
from the bat. The bat only just touched it.
"How's that?" roared Gordon.
The finger went up. A ripple of clapping ran along the side of the
ground.
"You stick to that," said Collins, "and we shall get them out by
to-morrow night."
"Dry up," said Gordon ironically. "Can't you see we are going to win?...
Man in!"
Jack Whitaker came in. He was far and away the most stylish bat in the
school, and had scored a lot of runs during the season. He faced the
bowling confidently; he had played Foster a hundred times at the nets,
and knew his tricks well. He played through the over with ease. The last
ball he placed in front of short-leg for a single.
Bradford went on to bowl. He was a House match class of bowler. No idea
of length, or direction, only an indefatigable energy and considerable
pace. His first ball was a long hop wide on the off. Whitaker banged it
past point for four.
The next ball was a full pitch to leg. Collins had to run about a
hundred yards to rescue it from the road. Bradford looked fierce. He
took a longer run than usual, rushed up to the wicket, and plunged the
ball in with all his force. A howl of untuneful applause rose from under
the trees. The ball not only happened to be straight, but was also a
yorker. Whitaker's middle stump fell flat.
There are times when a panic seizes the very best side, and for the next
hour and a half the House had the pleasant experience of watching an
unusually strong Buller side rabbit out before a very moderate attack.
Buller's side contained four First and two Second Eleven colours, to say
nothing of three Colts caps. And yet by six o'clock the whole team was
dismissed for eighty-three. There was nothing to account for the rot.
Foster and Bradford bowled unchanged. Bradford took six of the wickets,
four clean bowled. It was incomprehensible.
"I can't understand it," said Gordon at tea. "Bradford was bowling the
most utter drivel half the time, I would have given anything to have
been batting. And you were not bowling at your best, you know, Foster."
"I am well aware of that; but, heavens! it was sheer joy. Look at old
Collins, down there, beaming at the thought of not having to field
to-morrow."
"It's all right," mumbled Collins from a huge cup of tea.
"By Jove! wouldn't it be gorgeous if we could win this match, and finish
up by beating the Buller crowd at their own game?" said Gordon. "Damn it
all, I don't see why we shouldn't. What we have done once we can do
again. They are a better side, I know, but we'll have a damned good shot
at winning."
Of course Buller's laughed at the whole thing.
"It's really rather funny," they said. "But, of course, we are in
absolutely no danger of losing. We couldn't wreck like that again; and,
what's more, we shouldn't let an ass like Bray make so many runs again.
We are quite safe!"
The School House kept quiet. They were not going to shout their hopes
all over the school. It would look so bad if they got thoroughly beaten
in the end. But in the studies and dormitories that night there was only
one thought in all those minds--that victory was possible.
The next day it rained the whole time. The courts were flooded with
water, the branches dripped with a tired languor. Gordon polished off
two exams with masterly speed, and returned to his study.
Saturday morning broke grey and wet. It rained spasmodically till
mid-day, and then cleared up. With a sigh of relief Gordon walked up the
big schoolroom to show up the last piece of work that he would do at
Fernhurst. For a last composition it was hardly creditable. A long paper
on the _OEdipus Tyrannus_ was finished in under an hour. But Gordon
had ceased to care for academic distinctions. As he closed the door of
the big school, and went out into the cloisters, he realised that a
certain stage of his journey was over and done with for ever.
By lunch-time all signs of rain had cleared off, and the sun shone down
on an absolutely sodden ground. Runs would be very hard to get. A lead
of thirty-seven meant a lot on such a wicket. An atmosphere of nervous
expectation overhung the House. Everyone was glad when the meal was
over.
The match began directly after lunch. There would be very likely some
difficulty in finishing the game that day. Collins and Foster went in
first. Gordon had asked to be kept back till later. The start was dull.
Foster was taking no risks, and Collins seemed unable to time the ball
at all, which was luckily always off the wicket. Ten went up after
quarter of an hour's play.
And then Foster, reaching out to play forward, slipped on the wet grass
and was stumped. Three balls later Bradford was caught and bowled. It
was Gordon's turn to go in. Nearly everything depended on him. If he
failed, the whole side would probably collapse. The tail had done
miracles in the first innings; but it could not be expected to do the
same again.
Gordon took guard nervously. He resolved to play himself in carefully,
but he never could resist the temptation to have a "go." The first ball
was well up, just outside the off stump. Gordon stepped across and let
fly. He had forgotten how slow the pitch was. The ball hung; he was much
too soon; the ball sailed straight up into the air! Point and
cover-point both ran for it. "Crampin!" yelled out Whitaker. Neither
heard; they crashed into one another; the ball fell with a dull thud.
The House gave a gasp of relief.
It was a costly mistake. For when once he got his eye in, Gordon was
very hard to get out. And, moreover, he was one of the few people who
could get runs quickly on a really wet wicket, for the simple reason
that nearly all his shots went into the air; and so he did not find the
sodden ground making off drives which should have resulted in fours only
realise singles.
That afternoon Gordon found the bowling perfectly simple. At the other
end wickets fell slowly, but he himself was scoring fast. A hard shot
over cover-point sent up his individual fifty, and two overs later he
drove a length ball on the off stump past mid on to the boundary, and
the hundred went up amid cheers.
"It is a mystery to me," said Foster, "how that man Caruthers ever gets
a run at all; he has no defence, and hits straight across everything."
"Don't let's worry about that," said Collins; "sufficient be it that he
is hitting these Buller's swine all over the place. Oh, good shot!"
A half-volley had landed first bounce among the masters sitting under
the wall. The umpire signalled six.
One hundred and fifty went up.
And then Gordon mistimed a slow yorker, and was clean bowled for
eighty-five.
He was received with a storm of clapping; the House lined up cheering as
he ran in between the ropes.
"Gratters! Well done!" shouted Foster. "That's a damned fine knock to
finish your Fernhurst cricket days with! Well done!"
Everyone came up and congratulated him. It was a proud moment, in some
ways the proudest of his whole career.
A few minutes later another burst of clapping signalled the end of the
innings. The side had made one hundred and eighty-six. Buller's were
left with two hundred and twenty-three to win. Anything might happen.
Just before five Foster led the House on to the field.
The next hour and a half was fraught with delirious happiness and
excitement. Foster bowled magnificently, Bradford managed to keep a
length; the whole side fielded splendidly. Wicket after wicket fell.
Victory became a certainty. Gloom descended over the Buller's side.
Round the pavilion infants with magenta hat ribbons yelled themselves
hoarse. It was one of those occasions in which eternity seems compressed
into an hour. Half-past six came. No one went up to tea, everyone was
waiting for the end. At last it came. Whitaker, who alone had been able
to withstand the School House attack, over-reached himself, Gordon
gathered the ball quickly, the bails flew off. The umpire's hand rose. A
wild shriek rose from the crowd. Gordon's last game at Fernhurst was
over; his last triumph had come; at last "Samson had quit himself like
Samson." Through the lines of shrieking juniors the team passed into the
pavilion. Gordon began to collect his things, to pack up his bag. He
gave it to a fag to carry up.
Collins and Foster and Gordon walked up from the field arm in arm.
"Well, if we stopped on here for a hundred years," said Foster, "we
shouldn't find a better hour to leave."
"Yes, the end has made up for any disappointments on the way. It will be
a long time before we have as wonderful a time again," Gordon said, as
he passed in the sunset, for the last time, through the gate of the
cricket-field which had been, for him, the place of so many happy
hours.
CHAPTER VI: THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED
To Gordon this match seemed the ideal rounding off of his career. There
had been no anti-climax, with him the best had come at the end. He would
not have to look back and compare his last term unfavourably with the
glories of yester year. He had done what he set out to do, he would step
rose-garlanded out of the lighted room, in the flush of his success. It
was exactly as he had wished. Perfectly satisfied, he lay back in his
chair, with his feet on the table, too tired to do anything, merely
thinking.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in."
Rudd came in nervously with a House list in his hand.
"The Chief wants a list of the trains people are going home by."
"Eight-forty to Waterloo."
"Thanks."
Rudd walked towards the door, but as he put his hand on the knob he
turned round.
"Well," he began falteringly, "I suppose you are jolly proud of yourself
now, aren't you?"
"What the hell do you mean?"
"You know quite well. You have done damned well according to your own
point of view. You have aimed at getting the supreme power, and you have
got it all right." Rudd had lost his nervousness now, he was shifting
his feet a little, but the sentences flowed easily. "I am a weak head, I
know, and you have managed to smash me quite easily. It wasn't very
hard, although you pretend you are the devil of a fellow."
"What on earth are you driving at?"
"Oh, not much; only I want to show you how much you have done for the
House. You are big, and you're strong, and all that; you've broken up
any authority I ever had, and you've taken it yourself. And, of course,
as long as you are here, it's all very well. But what about when you
have left? You are too self-centred to see anybody else's point of view.
_Apres moi le deluge_; that's your philosophy. As long as you yourself
prosper, you don't care a damn what happens to anyone else, and you have
prospered right enough. You'll have left a name behind you, all right."
"I don't want to have to kick you out, Rudd," said Gordon.
"I don't care what you say; I'm going to finish what I have got to say.
You'll probably not understand, you are too short-sighted. But what sort
of future have you left the House? Order was kept all right when you
were here; you are strong. But when you have left, who is going to take
your place? Foster could have, but he's leaving. Davenport's leaving
too, so's Collins. The new prefects will be weak. At the best they would
have had a hard time. But probably the prefectorial dignity would have
been sufficient, if you hadn't smashed it up. You say 'personality' must
rule, but there is not so much personality flying about. We weak men
have got to shelter ourselves behind the strength of a system, and you
have smashed that. No one is going to obey me next term. They know I am
incapable; but they wouldn't have found it out but for you. That's what
you've done this term. You yourself have succeeded, but your success has
meant the ruin of the House for at least a year, that's what you have
done. And I expect you are jolly proud of yourself, too. You only care
for yourself."
Rudd finished exhausted, and stood there gasping. Gordon looked straight
at him for a second or so, then picked up a book and began to read; Rudd
shifted from foot to foot for a minute and then moved out quickly.
What an ass the man was, thought Gordon. The beaten man always tries to
make the victor's defeat seem less. It is all he has to do. Damn it all,
a man has to look after himself in this world; everyone was struggling
to get to the top, and the weak had to be knocked out of the way.
Then Foster came in aglow with excitement, and the two went up to the
tuck-shop and ate numerous ices, and made a great row, and knocked over
many chairs, and threw sugar about. Rudd was clean forgotten, as they
rolled back triumphantly, just as the roll bell was ringing. Work was
over. Gordon wandered round the studies, talking to everyone; in second
hall they had a celebration supper for the whole side. They had two
huge pies, a ham, countless eclairs; they sang songs, laughed and told
anecdotes. They finished with the school _Carmen_, and drank to the
House's future success. Laughing and singing, they at last made for the
dormitories.
But when the lights went out, and silence descended on the dormitory,
Gordon began to think of his conversation with Rudd; and, as he thought,
there came over him again the fierce longing to get to the heart of
things and to see life as it was, shorn of its coverings. Looking at his
career from the spectator's point of view, even Christy would have to
own that it had been eminently successful. He had been captain of the
House; no one had blamed him that the House had failed to win their
matches; no one can make bricks without straw; what did matter was that
he had always stood up for the House's rights, he had never given way to
"the Bull," he had been strong. This last term he had been head of the
House in all but name; he had won the batting cup; and he had finished
by playing a big part in the biggest triumph that the House had achieved
for several years. In all outward aspects he had been a great success.
But Gordon had had enough of outward aspects. He wanted to get to the
root of things, to get on terms of equality with life; he was tired of
seeing everything through flickering glass. What had he actually done?
And when he began to sum up his achievements, he was forced to own that
most of them were athletic triumphs, and athletics meant little to him.
He had long ceased to worship them. Because a man could make a big score
in a House match, it did not mean that he was in any way fit for the
battle of life; and what else had he done? He had carried on guerrilla
warfare with "the Bull." It had never come to a real head; so little
does. Most things are left unaccomplished in the end; and what had he
gained by this contest, and what had been the use of it? "The Bull" was
one of the few really fine masters in the school. He was a man, and
towered above the puny pettiness of Rogers; he was the "noblest Roman of
them all," yet Gordon had spent a whole year fighting against a man whom
he at heart admired. It was, of course, the inevitable clash of two
egotisms; but that did not alter the facts. He had been wasting himself
fighting against a fine man, when there were so many rotten traditions
and useless customs that ought to be attacked; but he had let them
alone. The only abuse he had attacked was the worship of sport, and he
began to wonder whether it had been worth it. Might it not have been
better to have let the school go on believing in its gods a little
longer? He had broken down a false god, but had he given the School
anything to worship in its stead? Better a false god than no god at all.
Rudd had been right. He had smashed through a garden of dandelions. He
had rooted up flowers and weeds indiscriminately. He had done nothing
wonderful; and he had left desolation behind him. Nothing would grow for
some time in the plot he had ruined. And yet he was "a great success,"
the world said.
"Only the superficial do not judge by appearances," Wilde had said,
mocking at society; and he had been right. Life was a sham, a mass of
muddled evolutions; the world was too slack to find out the truth, or
perhaps it was afraid to discover it. For the truth was not pleasant.
Gordon did not know what it was; all he saw was that life was built of
shams, that no one worshipped anything but the god of things that seem.
He lay supine, cursing at the darkness.
The next morning he woke with the same feeling of depression; he looked
round his dormitory. There were seven of them, all perfectly happy and
contented. And why? Merely because they looked at the surface, because
they did not take the trouble to find out what was true and what was
false. They were happy in their ignorance, and he, too, could be happy
if he just took things as they were. His last few weeks had been so full
of joy, because he had not taken the trouble to think. Thought was the
cause of unhappiness. And yet he had to think. He hated half measures.
For a certain space he had to live on earth, and he wanted to discover
what life really was. What lay beyond the grave he did not know,
"sufficient for the day were the day's evil things." But he felt that he
must try and plumb the depth or shallowness of the day's interests. He
could not bear the idea of a contentment purchased by cowardice.
Yet he had learn from Tester that the soul is man's most sacred
possession, and must not be shown to the crowd; that he must always mask
his true emotions, except in the company of those who could understand
them.
So he went down to breakfast telling Collins the latest joke from _The
London Mail_. On his way back to the studies he ran into a fag.
"Caruthers, Chief wants to see you in his study."
Gordon found the Chief waiting for him.
"You are not busy, I hope, are you, Caruthers?"
"Oh no, sir."
"Well, at any rate, I shall keep you only for a minute. I just wanted to
speak to you for a second before you left. Everything is such a rush on
the last day. I suppose you have found that authority brings a good many
difficulties with it, and I have heard that you have had a row or two.
But I think you have done very well on the whole. I did not say very
much about it at the time, but about two years ago I had very grave
doubts about how you were going to turn out; I must say that I was very
nervous about making you a prefect. But, still, I think your last year
has really developed your character, and you certainly have had the
wisdom and luck, shall we say, like the host at the wedding, to keep
your best till last."
The Chief smiled the smile that was peculiarly his own, and peculiarly
winning. "I must not keep you any longer. But I did want to take this
opportunity of telling you that I have been pleased with you this term,
though perhaps my praise sounds weak beside the applause you got after
your innings. At any rate, I wish you the very best of luck."
With mixed feelings Gordon left the study. He valued the Chief's opinion
amazingly, but he could not help knowing that he did not deserve it. He
felt as though he had deceived the Chief. If only the Chief knew how he
had plunged along in his own way, an egotist, an iconoclast! And then
suddenly there came over him the shock of discovery, that everything in
life was so distorted and hidden by superficial coverings, that even the
wisest failed to discern between the true and the false.
He was able to see himself as he was, to realise the littleness of his
own performances. Yet the Chief who, if anyone "saw life steadily, and
saw it whole," who was always more ready to judge an action by the
intention than by the result--the Chief himself had not really seen how
far his achievements were below his possibilities. And if the Chief was
at times deceived by the superficial, how was he, a self-willed,
blundering boy, ever likely to be able to come to a true understanding?
He shrugged. There still remained a few hours in which to enjoy the
fruits of a success which, if it meant little to him, conveyed a good
deal to the world outside. And power is very sweet.
He tried to fling himself into the light-hearted atmosphere of rejoicing
in which the whole House was revelling, but he found it impossible. His
laughter was forced; yet his friends noticed no change in him; he was to
them just as he had always been.
Even Morcombe, who was to him more than other friends, had failed to
understand.
"It must be rather decent to be leaving in the way you are," he said, as
they were sitting in the games study before evening chapel. "I doubt if
you stopped on if you would ever quite equal the appropriateness of that
last innings."
"Yes," said Gordon, with a conscious irony, "it's certainly dramatic."
What use was it to try and show him what he was thinking? He had learnt
that it is better to leave illusions untouched.
Often in the past he had tried to imagine what a last chapel service
must be like. The subject has been done to death by the novelist. In
every school story he had read, the hero had always felt the same
emotions: contentment with work well done, sorrow at leaving a
well-loved place. He had wondered whether he would want to cry; and if
so, whether he would be able to stop it. He had looked inquiringly in
the faces of those who were leaving and had never read anything very
new. Some were enigmas; some looked glad in a way that they were going
to begin a life so full of possibilities. Some vaguely realised that
they had reached the height of their success at nineteen.
But now that his time had come, his thoughts were very different from
what he had imagined. He felt the sorrow that is inevitable to anyone
who is putting a stage of his life clean out of sight behind him; but
for all that he had come to the conclusion that he was not really sad at
leaving. Fernhurst was for him too full of ghosts; so many dreams were
buried there. His feelings were mixed. He felt himself that he had
failed, but he knew that he was hailed a success. He half wished that in
the light of experience he could go through his four years again; but if
he did, he saw that in outward show, at any rate, he could never eclipse
the glory that was his for the moment. He remembered that sermon over
three years back in which the Chief had asked each boy to imagine
himself passing his last hours at school. "_How will it feel,_" the
Chief had said, "_if you have to look back and think only of shattered
hopes and bright unfulfilled promises?... To the pathos of human sorrow
there is no need to add the pathos of failure._" What was he to
think?--he whose career had so curiously mingled failure and success.
The service slowly drew to its end. The final hymn was shouted by small
boys, happy at the thought of seven weeks' holiday. The organ boomed out
_God Save the King_; there was a moment's silence. Then the school
poured out into the cloisters. Gordon hardly realised his last service
was over. He had been so long a spectator of these partings that he
could not grasp the fact that he was himself a participator in them.
He felt very tired, and was glad when bed-time came. He experienced the
same sensations that he had known as a new boy--a physical and mental
weariness that longed for the ending of the day.
For a few hours silence hung round the ghostly Abbey; then, tremendous
in the east, Gordon's last whole day at Fernhurst dawned.
As far as the Sixth were concerned, work was over. The rest of the
school had to go in for two hours for the rep. exam. The drowsy
atmosphere of a hot summer morning overhung everything. The studies were
very quiet. Gordon took a deck-chair on to the Sixth Form green and
settled down to read _Endymion_.
But he found it impossible to concentrate his thoughts on anything but
the riotous wave of introspection that was flooding his brain. He soon
gave up the attempt; and putting down the book, he lay back, his hands
behind his head, gazing at the great grey Abbey opposite him, while
through his brain ran Gilbert Cannan's words: "Life is round the
corner." He had failed. He knew he had failed. But where and why? Then,
as he began to question himself, suddenly he saw it all clearly. He had
failed because he had set out to gain only the things that the world
valued. He had sought power, and he had gained it; he had asked for
praise, and he had won it; he had fought, and he had conquered. But at
the moment of his triumph he had realised the vanity of all such
success; when he had come to probe it to the root, he had found it
shallow. For all the things that the world valued were shallow and
without depth, because the world never looked below the surface. He had
found no continuing city; his house was built upon sand.
The truth flashed in on him; he knew now that as long as he was content
to take the world's view of anything, he was bound to meet with
disillusionment. He would have to sift everything in the sieve of his
own experience. The judgment of others would be of no avail. He would be
an iconoclast. The fact that the world said a thing was beautiful or
ugly, and had to be treated as such, must mean nothing to him. He would
search for himself, he would plumb the depths, if needs be, in search of
the true ideal which was lurking somewhere in the dark. Tester had been
right. It was useless to look back to the past for guidance. He had a
few hours back asked for some fixed standard by which to judge the false
from the true. There were no standards except a man's own experience.
Here at Fernhurst he had failed to find anything, because he had sought
for the wrong things; he had at once accepted the crowd's statement for
the truth. Now it would be different. In his haste he had said that
Fernhurst had taught him nothing. He had been wrong. It had taught him
what many took years to learn, and sometimes never learnt at all. It had
taught him to rely upon himself. In the future he would take his courage
in his hands, and work out his own salvation on the hard hill-road of
experience.
The school was just pouring out from the rep. exam. He heard Foster
shouting across the courts.
"Caruthers, you slacker, come up to the tuck-shop."
"Right-o!" he yelled back; and racing across the green jumped the
railings, and went laughing up to the tuck-shop.
"I say, Foster, let's have a big tea this afternoon. We had a supper for
the A-K side on Saturday. Let's have the rest up to-day."
Gordon flushed with excitement at what lay before him. He wanted
everyone else to laugh with him too. An enormous tea was ordered. Men
from the outhouses came down, the tables were drawn up on the V. A
green, and the afternoon went by in a whirl of happiness. They rolled
out arm in arm for the prize-giving. For the last time Gordon saw the
whole staff sitting on "their dais serene." He looked at the row of
faces. There was Rogers puffed out with pride; Christy, pharisee and
humbug, superbly satisfied with himself. Finnemore sat in the
background, a pale grey shadow, that had been too weak to get to grips
with life at all. Trundle nursed his chin, twittering in a haze of
indecision. Ferrers was fidgeting about, impatient of delay. He, at any
rate, was not being misled by outside things; if he was misled by
anything, it was by the impulse of his own feverish temperament. He was
the splendid rebel leader of forlorn hopes, the survival of those
"_Lonely antagonists of destiny_
_That went down scornful before many spears._"
There, again, was Macdonald, with the same benign smile that time could
not change. As he looked at him, Gordon thought that he at least could
not have been deceived, but had too kind, too wide a heart to
disillusion the young. And, above all, sat Buller, a second Garibaldi,
with a heart of gold, an indomitable energy, a splendid sincerity, the
most loyal of Fernhurst's sons. And as Gordon looked his last at his old
foe, he felt that "the Bull" was so essentially big, so strong, so noble
of heart, that it hardly mattered what he worshipped. There hung round
him no false trapping of the trickster; sincerity was the keynote of his
life. Gordon would search in vain, perhaps, for a brighter lodestar. As
two vessels that have journeyed a little way together down a river, on
taking their different courses at the ocean mouth, signal one another
"good luck," so Gordon from the depth of his heart wished "the Bull"
farewell and Godspeed.
At last the form lists were read out. A titter rewarded Gordon's
position of _facile ultimus_. The cups were distributed. Gordon went up
for the batting cups, his own individual one, and the challenge one that
went to the House. Foster went up for the Senior cricket; it was a
veritable School House triumph. The Chief made his usual good-bye
speech, kindly, hopeful, encouraging. The head of the school shouted
"Three cheers for the masters!"--the gates swept open, the cloisters
were filled with hurrying feet.
The last hours passed all too swiftly. In a far corner of the gallery
Gordon sat with Morgan, listening to his last school concert. Opposite
the choir in their white shirts, and brushed-back hair, sang the school
songs inseparable from the end of the school year. There was the summer
song, the "Godspeed to those that go," the poignant _Valete_:
"_We shall watch you here in our peaceful cloister_,
_Faring onward, some to renown, to fortune_,
_Some to failure--none if your hearts are loyal--_
_None to dishonour._"
To Gordon every word brought back with it a flood of memories. He could
see himself, the small boy, reading those verses for the first time
before he went to Fernhurst, ignorant of what lay before him. How soon
he had changed his fresh innocency! How soon his bright gold had grown
dim! Then he saw himself this time last year, listening to those words
with an unbounded confidence, certain that he at least would never
achieve failure. Visions in the twilight! And what was the dawn to
bring?
The Latin _Carmen_ began. The school stood on their seats and howled it
out. Then came _Auld Lang Syne_. They clasped hands, swaying in chorus.
The echoes of _God Save the King_ shook the timbered ceiling, someone
was shouting "Three cheers for the visitors!"; the school surged towards
the door; Gordon found his feet on the small stone stairway. He looked
back once at the warm lights; the honour-boards that would never bear
his name; the choir still in their places; the visitors putting on their
coats and wraps. Then the stream moved on; the picture faded out; and
from the courts came the noise of motors crunching on the gravel.
As Gordon walked into the cool air he ran into Ferrers.
"Good-bye, sir."
"You are off, are you? Well, good luck. Write to me in the hols; I'll
look you up if I'm in town. If not, cheer-o!"
He was gone in a second.
"_'So some time token the last of all our evenings_
_Crowneth memorially the last of all our days ...'_"
Gordon murmured to himself as he walked slowly down to the dining
hall....
The next morning there was the inevitable bustle, the tipping of the
servants, the good-byes, the promises to write at least twice during the
holidays, the promises which were never kept.
"Here, Bamford, I say," shouted Gordon, "take my bag down to the
station."
Bamford looked almost surly at being told to do anything on that last
day. "Authority forgets a dying king," thought Gordon. His power could
not have been so great if it began to wane almost before he had gone.
The eight-forty came into the station, snorting and puffing.
Gordon secured a corner seat, and leant out of the window, shaking hands
with everyone he could see.
"You'll be down next term, won't you?" yelled Morgan, bursting as ever
with good will.
"I expect so," said Gordon.
But in his heart of hearts he knew that he would never come back. He
would be afraid lest he should find the glamour with which he had
surrounded the grey studies and green walks of Fernhurst merely a mist
of sentiment that would fade away. So many things that he had believed
in he had found untrue. But he wanted to keep fresh in his mind the
memory of Fernhurst as he had last seen it, beautiful and golden in the
morning sun.
The train slowly steamed out. Hands were waved, handkerchiefs fluttered.
Slowly the Abbey turned from ochre-brown to blue, till it was hidden out
of sight.
Gordon sank back into his seat. He was on the threshold of life; and he
stepped out into the sunlight with a smile, which, though it might be a
little cynical, as if he had been disillusioned, held none the less the
quiet confidence of a wayfarer who knew what lay before him, and felt
himself well equipped and fortified "for the long littleness of life."