St. Kolgan's Abbey
"After what happened on Latchfield Moors," remarked Vivian Holmes, one
afternoon about a week later, "I think it is extremely good of Miss
Maitland to allow Honor Fitzgerald and Lettice Talbot to go to the
picnic to-morrow. I shouldn't have been in the least surprised if she
had left them both out, and I should certainly have said it served them
right."
Vivian was at an age when stern justice appears more attractive than
mercy. She kept rules rigidly herself, and had scant patience with
those who did not, serving out retribution in her capacity of monitress
with an unsparing hand. She was perhaps too hard on prodigals, but her
influence and authority undoubtedly did much to maintain the high
standard of St. Chad's; and if she were not altogether popular, she
was, at any rate, greatly respected.
Honor's last delinquency had placed her more than ever on Vivian's bad
list. The monitress considered that it completely cancelled the bathing
episode, and regarded "that wild Irish girl" as the black sheep of the
house, ready to lead astray such innocent lambs as Lettice Talbot who
were impressionable enough to be influenced by her example. Miss
Maitland, though grieved at such a relapse from the marked improvement
that Honor had shown, was fortunately a better judge of character. She
knew that old habits are not overcome all at once, and that it takes
many stumblings and fallings and risings again before any human soul
can struggle uphill. She did not want Honor to be discouraged, and
hoped that if the girl felt herself trusted she would make an effort to
be more worthy of confidence.
"I put you on your parole," she said to her. "It would be impossible
for me to take you to Baldurstone if I imagined you were capable of a
repetition of what occurred last week. I think, however, that I need
feel no anxiety on that score."
"I promise faithfully," said Honor, and she meant it.
Vivian's opinions largely led popular feeling, and as Honor did not
hold a high place in her estimation, the other Chaddites also, in
consequence of the affair on the moors, slightly ostracized "Paddy",
letting her understand that they did not altogether approve of her.
Lettice Talbot suffered a severe snubbing from her elder sister, in
addition to Miss Maitland's censure.
"It was such shockingly bad form!" declared Maisie. "Why, you might
have been two little Sunday-school children, running away from your
teacher to buy common sweets at a small village shop! I'm utterly
ashamed of you. We don't do such things at Chessington. No wonder Miss
Maitland was amazed and disgusted. Yes, I know Honor Fitzgerald is
listening; I'm very glad, because she'll hear what I think of your fine
adventure."
Honor undoubtedly felt much crestfallen to find that what she had
regarded as spirited independence was labelled "bad form" at the
College. On reflection it struck her that, apart from all rules, it had
perhaps been scarcely polite to rush away, in direct opposition to the
expressed wishes of one who had been taking so much trouble to make
their walk interesting. In common with all the Chaddites, she keenly
appreciated both Miss Maitland's personality and her knowledge of
nature lore, and had enjoyed the expedition on the hills immensely.
To be left out of the picnic would have been a bitter disappointment.
It was the great event of the summer term. Each house took its
excursion on a separate day, as Miss Cavendish considered that the
whole school made too formidable an invasion for any place. St.
Hilary's and St. Aldwyth's had already respectively visited Weyland
Castle and Eccleston Woods, and it was now the turn of St. Chad's to
choose a destination. Miss Maitland had made a list of several
interesting spots, which were well worth seeing, and had put the matter
to a general ballot, with the result that by a majority of eight the
votes fell in favour of St. Kolgan's Abbey at Baldurstone.
"It's the nicest of all, and Miss Maitland's favourite," announced
Lettice.
"I chose it for three reasons," said Honor: "first, because it's the
farthest off, and I like to have a long journey; secondly, because
we're to go most of the way by steamer, and I love being on the sea;
and thirdly, because Flossie Taylor wanted Haselmere Hall."
"What a very intelligent and desirable motive!" sneered Vivian Holmes,
who happened to overhear. "You evidently go on the principle of pig
philosophy. As a matter of fact, Miss Maitland said she had no
preference."
"I was speaking to Lettice," retorted Honor. "I suppose my motives are
my own business?"
"Oh, certainly! They're not of the slightest interest to me."
"Vivian's rather snappy this evening," whispered Lettice, as the
monitress stalked away. "I believe she voted for Haselmere herself."
"Then I'm doubly glad it's to be Baldurstone. Even if people are
monitresses, they've no need to think it's their mission to squash
everybody else perpetually. I can hardly make the least remark without
Vivian sitting upon me."
"You always answer her back, you see, and she thinks that's cheek in a
new girl."
"I'm not new now."
"Yes, you are--you're not through your first term yet. Vivian says it
takes a whole year to become a full-blown Chaddite, and until you've
thoroughly assimilated Chessington ideas you oughtn't to presume to air
outside opinions."
"What bosh!"
"No, it's not bosh. You see, we all think that Chessington is the only
girls' school in England, and that St. Chad's is the one house at
Chessington. One must keep up the traditions of the place, and it
wouldn't do to let every fresh comer take the lead. You'll have to
knuckle under, Paddy, and eat humble pie. Vivian has been here for five
years--she's simply a 'Chaddite of the Chaddites'. That's why she was
chosen monitress. You'll have your chance when you get to the Sixth
Form."
"Shall I ever climb so high up in the school? If I were head of the
house, though, I'd be rather less hard on new arrivals."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't! By the time you've gone through the mill
yourself you'll want to grind everybody else. There's an attraction
about the St. Chad's code; you'll like it better when you're more used
to it, and when you've forgotten any pettifogging notions you may have
brought from anywhere else."
"You're outspoken, at any rate!"
"Certainly! I believe in plain, unvarnished truths."
Honor had already discovered that fact, and also the further one that
whatever a girl's position might be at home, it made no difference to
her standing at the College, where each was judged solely and entirely
on her own merits. She had once unfortunately alluded with a touch of
pride to her family pedigree, but she rued her mistake in a moment, for
Vivian, with uplifted eyebrows, had enquired in a tone of cutting
contempt: "Who are the Fitzgeralds?"
A large public school is indeed a vast democracy, and members are
estimated only by the value they prove themselves to be to the
commonweal: their private possessions and affairs matter little to the
general community, but their examination successes, cricket scores, or
tennis championships are of vital importance. All, to use an old
phrase, must find their own level, and establish a record for
themselves apart from home belongings. Honor was beginning to realize
that among two hundred girls she was a mere unit, and that her opinions
and prejudices counted as nothing against the enormous weight of
universal custom. It was quite a new aspect of life, so new that she
was not sure whether she liked or disliked it; although, if she had
been given her choice of remaining at the College or returning to the
old, slipshod, do-as-you-please regime of her schoolroom at Kilmore,
she would have decided most emphatically, despite strict rules,
scoldings, snubs, and unwelcome truths, in favour of Chessington.
Nobody wished to lie in bed on the morning of the picnic; even Honor,
to whom early rising was still one of the greatest banes of existence,
actually woke up before the bell rang, and had the triumph of rousing
her sleeping companion, a reversal of the customary order of things
that afforded her much satisfaction.
"It's delightful to think that St. Chad's is going off for a jaunt,
while all the other houses will have lessons just as usual," she
remarked. "I'm sure I shall enjoy it twice as much when I think of
Christina Stanton and Mary Nicholls toiling through equations and
physics."
"It will be their turn to chuckle next week, when St. Bride's has its
holiday," said Janie. "You'll feel rather blue then."
"No, I shan't--not if we've had our fun first. I shall turn
philosophical, and say: 'You can't eat your cake and have it', and
'Every dog has his day', or any other little platitude I can think of.
In the meantime, it's our day, and I'm glad to see it's a particularly
fine one."
At precisely nine o'clock, just when the rest of the Chessingtonians
were filing into classes, the Chaddites were assembled in the
quadrangle, and at a signal from Miss Maitland started off, two and
two, to walk to Dunscar, where they were to catch the steamer to
Avonmouth, the nearest point for Baldurstone. Everything seemed
delightful--the brisk march in the fresh morning air, the bright
sunshine, the glinting, sparkling sea, the foam churned up by the
steamer's revolving screw, the cries of the seagulls, and the steady
motion of the vessel as she headed out of the bay. The breeze in the
Channel was exhilarating, and so cool as to make the girls appreciate
Miss Maitland's wisdom in having insisted upon all bringing wraps.
"I thought it seemed as foolish as carrying one's winter fur and muff
on a broiling day like this," commented Lettice, "but I really think I
should have been cold without my coat. It's marvellous what an enormous
difference there is when you get well away from land."
Lunch was taken on the steamer, and they did not arrive at Avonmouth
until half-past one. They were landed in small boats, for there was no
pier, and vessels of any considerable size could not cross the harbour
bar. Miss Maitland counted up her forty pupils as they stood on the
jetty--a precaution that seemed more of a formality than a necessity,
as everyone had taken good care not to be left behind.
"We have exactly three and a half hours here," she said. "The steamer
will be back at five o'clock. That gives us plenty of time to walk to
the Abbey, and enjoy the ruins. I have ordered tea to be ready for us
as soon as we return on board. We shall be very hungry by then, I'm
afraid, but there is nowhere to buy refreshments in this tiny place."
Avonmouth was, indeed, only a little fishing village, composed of an
irregular row of cottages, huddled together on the beach, and a small,
not-too-clean inn, which looked as if it would be quite incapable of
providing even seats for a party of forty-three, to say nothing of cups
and saucers.
"We're such an army!" said Vivian. "If we were to have tea here we
should clear the whole place of provisions. I don't suppose there'd be
enough milk and bread and butter to go round."
"Couldn't they have been ordered beforehand?" asked Lettice, who had a
leaning towards picnic meals. "We might have sat on the grass outside
the inn."
"Yes, no doubt. But suppose the day had been wet and we hadn't come,
then all the things would have been wasted. A steamer is generally
prepared to cater for any number of people."
St. Kolgan's Abbey stood about two miles from the village, on a
headland overlooking the sea. It was a steady toil uphill the whole
way, but the glorious view at the top was ample reward for the hot
climb between high walls. The beautiful old ruin faced the Channel, and
commanded a wide prospect of blue waves, flecked here and there with
little, foamy crests.
"I wonder if that's the coast of Ireland, on the other side?" remarked
Honor, shading her eyes with her hand to gaze over the dancing water.
"I'm afraid the wish is father to the thought," said Ruth Latimer. "I
don't honestly see anything that can possibly be construed into a
distant coast line, and I've about as long sight as anybody in the
school. Don't you want to come and listen to Miss Maitland? She's going
to tell us a story about St. Kolgan, who founded this place."
Honor followed to the corner of the fallen transept, where Miss
Maitland was installed on a fragment of broken column. The girls, in
various attitudes of comfort, had flung themselves on the grass within
earshot, prepared to listen lazily while revelling in the calm,
tranquil beauty and the old-world atmosphere of the scene. It seemed so
peaceful, so far removed from the bustle and noise of our hurrying,
pushing age, that they could almost throw their minds back through the
centuries, and imagine they heard the vesper bell tolling from the
tower overhead, and the slow footfalls of the monks pacing round the
cloister to those carved seats in the choir of which the very remains
were so exquisite.
"Yes, Baldurstone is a wonderful spot," began Miss Maitland. "I don't
believe any place in the neighbourhood has older traditions. St. Kolgan
was a British saint, and his legend has come down to us from the very
earliest times. You know that there was a thriving and orthodox Celtic
Church in Britain long before St. Augustine's 'introduction' of
Christianity--a Church that was so important and vigorous that it
contributed three bishops to the Council of Arles in A.D. 314, and
several to the Council of Nicaea in 325, thus showing that it formed
a part of united Christendom. It sent missionaries both to Ireland,
where St. Patrick preached the Faith, and to Scotland, where St. Ninian
spread Christian teaching in the north. Then came the invasion of the
heathen Norsemen, the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes of history, who burnt
and plundered every sanctuary they could find, slaying the priests at
the altars, destroying both prelates and people, and forcing the
Britons to take refuge in the woods and mountains. Though driven
westward, the Celtic Church did not perish, and every now and then some
devoted monk would try to establish himself among the worshippers of
Thor and Odin. Such a mission was extremely dangerous, for so intense
was the hatred of the pagan conquerors for the religion of the New
Testament that it was almost impossible for a Christian teacher to show
himself among them and live.
"At about the beginning of the seventh century, when the Saxons had
spread so far westward as Dunscar and Avonmouth, and were practically
masters of all the country round, a monk called Kolgan came over from
Ireland with a little band of brethren, and prevailed upon Osric, the
chief, or 'under king', of the district, to allow him to settle at
Baldurstone. Those Celtic pioneers built a small monastery, and worked
very earnestly among the people, some of whom they persuaded to become
adherents of the Cross. Osric, though a pagan himself, tolerated them
for the sake of his British wife, Toura, and for a while they went
unmolested. When Osric died, however, the chiefdom fell to Wulfbert, a
fierce warrior, who was determined to annihilate by fire and bloodshed
any faith that had taken root among his subjects. In daily peril of
their lives, Kolgan and his monks stayed on, knowing that if they
deserted their post the last light of Christianity in the district
would flicker out. One day a cowherd, who had been cured of a dangerous
wound at the little settlement, came running to warn the brethren that
Wulfbert and a band of armed men were advancing against them; and he
besought them at once to flee into the woods. Kolgan marshalled his
trembling companions, and, giving them the altar vessels to carry into
a place of safety, sent them straightway to seek refuge in the vast
forest that stretched ever northward and westward beyond the dominion
of the Saxons.
"He himself was determined to remain. He knew that many of those who
were coming with Wulfbert had, in Osric's time, been converts, either
openly or secretly, of the Church; and he hoped, even at the eleventh
hour, that he might recall their lost allegiance. Alone, with a cross
uplifted in his hand, he stood at the door of the monastery to meet the
Norsemen. The fierce band paused in amazement at the sight of his
temerity; it was something those savage men had not known before. The
swift rush through the battlefield of the warrior who hoped by
slaughter to gain Valhalla, they could understand; but this calm
courage in the face of death was beyond their experience. Kolgan seized
the opportunity of the moment's respite to appeal to them in the name
of the Trinity, and thundered out a denunciation against those who
forsook the Faith. A few trembled, but Wulfbert, rallying his ranks,
cried: 'Cowards! Are ye afraid of the empty words of an unarmed
priest?' and rushing forward, he struck the first blow with his
battle-axe.
"Kolgan fell where he stood, the little settlement was plundered and
ravaged, and for the time it seemed as though his work had been of no
avail. But brighter days were in store for the Church; slowly and
gradually Christianity had begun to spread, not only from Celtic, but
from Saxon sources, and before many years were past Wulfbert himself
had accepted baptism. The monastery was by his special desire rebuilt
in honour of St. Kolgan, and became afterwards one of the greatest
centres of learning in the west country. For nine hundred years it
flourished, till at last it was suppressed in the reign of Henry VIII,
and the buildings, untended and neglected, fell into the state that we
see now."
"And is this actually the place built by Wulfbert?" asked Ruth Latimer.
"Oh, no! That must have been a very rude and primitive erection;
probably it had wattled walls, and a thatched roof. The Abbey was
reconstructed more than once, and the present ruins are the remains of
fourteenth-century work."
"What a shame that it should have been destroyed!" said Dorothy
Arkwright.
"Yes and no. One much regrets the ruin of so lovely a place, but the
monks had grown idle and self-indulgent, and were as different from the
founders of their order as could well be imagined. The old,
self-sacrificing spirit had passed away; and the days were gone, too,
when the monastery had stood as the sole centre of light in a dark age,
at once the substitute for school, college, hospital, and alms-house,
as well as the home of painting, literature, music, and all the refined
arts. When any custom or institution, however beautiful, becomes
effete, the ruthless hand of progress sweeps it away, and supplants it
with something else, leaving us only ivy-covered ruins to show us what
our forefathers loved and valued."
"How grand St. Kolgan was!" said Vivian. "I think it was simply
splendid the way he stood at the door and braved the Saxons!"
"Yes; but to me the truest part of his heroism was not his death, but
his life. It needed far greater self-denial and true courage to spend
each day in trying to teach a wild and hostile people, making long and
fatiguing journeys, and suffering the loss of every joy that earth
could offer him, than it did to summon up the supreme spirit to meet
martyrdom. It is just the same in most of our lives," continued Miss
Maitland, with a glance in Honor's direction; "it takes more real and
strenuous effort to do plain, ordinary things, obeying rules and
keeping our tempers, than one occasional very brave thing; and, though
I would not for a moment depreciate the latter, I think that in the
aggregate the others are of greater importance. Anybody, however, who
can do a courageous deed is capable of living up to it every day, and
thus rising to a still higher level. We must consider ourselves as
failures unless we are trying to develop the very best that is in us."
When Miss Maitland and the girls had dispersed to explore the ruins
more thoroughly, Honor lay still on the grass, gazing hard at the wide,
shining expanse of sea. Janie stayed too, and sat abstractedly plucking
daisy-heads and pulling them to pieces, or crumbling little pieces of
mortar from the wall. For a long time neither spoke.
"I believe Miss Maitland was having a shot at me," said Honor at last;
"only, I don't understand exactly what she meant."
"I do," returned Janie. "She thinks that you're capable of very much
more than ordinary people."
"I can't imagine why!"
"Because it's in you. You've brains, and pluck, and 'go', and all kinds
of things that other folks haven't. You might do such a splendid amount
in the world some day!"
"I, my dear girl!" cried Honor in amazement. "Why, I'm sure I'm not up
to much!"
"You could be, if you tried."
"There are some things that aren't possible, however hard one tries. I
can no more be really and truly good than you could win the Atalanta
race at the sports!"
The colour flushed into Janie's thin cheeks. Her lack of physical
prowess was sometimes rather a sore subject to her. Though she did not
enjoy games, she would, nevertheless, have dearly liked the credit of
excelling in them. For a moment or two she did not reply. She was
considering hard, and making up her mind on a difficult point. When she
spoke, it was with a touch of diffidence and hesitation in her voice.
"Suppose I could win the 'Atalanta', would you think it possible to be
what Miss Maitland wants you?"
"Indeed, I'd think anything possible!" replied Honor, with more truth
than politeness.
"Then shall we make it a bargain--if I win the race, you're going to
try your very hardest?"
"Turn over a new leaf, in fact?"
"Yes."
"All right; I've no objection. I should like to see you flying round
the quad!"
"And I should like to see you doing other things! Will you promise,
then?"
"On my honour, if you want."
"Very well. Give me something as a pledge."
"You can have this small compass," said Honor, rummaging in her pocket.
"It's rather a treasure. Brian brought it me from Switzerland, and it's
made of agate."
"All the better, because you'll want to have it back. I'll give you my
silver fruit-knife, which I'm equally loath to part with. We must each
keep each other's token until after the sports."
"And then?"
"Ah! that remains to be seen," said Janie, as she rose and strolled
leisurely away.
All the Chaddites agreed that the visit to Baldurstone was one of the
most interesting excursions they had ever taken, and that the ruins
were the most picturesque in the neighbourhood, far exceeding Weyland
Castle, favoured by the Hilaryites; and Clayton House, the destination
of St. Bride's. The memory of their delightful day was sufficient to
carry them through the ordeal of recapitulation that always preceded
the examinations, necessitating an extra half-hour of preparation in
the evenings, and, as Lettice described it, "concentrating one's
unfortunate brains to absolute splitting point".
Whether Lettice's mental exertions were sufficient to bring her to such
an unhappy crisis was a question on which her class mistress might have
expressed some doubt, though she herself thought she had proof
conclusive one afternoon during the week following the picnic. She ran
in from the grounds in quite a state of excitement, and hailed a group
of friends assembled in the recreation room.
"Girls!" she exclaimed, "I've seen a vision, a most extraordinary and
peculiar sight! You wouldn't believe what it was! I happened to be at
the bottom of the garden, and in that quiet path behind the laundry I
actually saw Janie Henderson tearing up and down, as if she were doing
the last spurt of a Marathon."
"Janie Henderson! Impossible!" cried everybody.
"Just what I said. I rubbed my eyes, and came to the conclusion that
I'd been overstudying, and must be suffering from a delusion. Do I look
queer?"
"Not in the least; your cheeks are as red as peonies."
"Well, my eyesight must be defective, then, for I certainly thought I
saw her."
"You've been dreaming!"
"It's about as likely as seeing Miss Cavendish performing with a
skipping rope."
"Yes, it's absurd on the face of it. It must have been somebody else."
"A case of mistaken identity."
"There are heaps of girls the same height, and with long, light hair."
"No doubt. I was a fairly good distance off too. And yet," added
Lettice to herself, as she went to change her cricket shoes, "I verily
believe it was Janie Henderson, after all!"