A REVELATION
"Forty years on, when afar and asunder
Parted are those who are singing to-day,
When you look back, and forgetfully wonder
What you were like in your work and your play;
Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you
Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song,--
Visions of boyhood shall float them before you,
Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along."
Before the end of the summer term, both Desmond and Scaife received
their "caps" and a word of advice from Lawrence.
"There are going to be changes here," said he; "and I wish I could see
'em, and help to bring 'em about. Now, I'm not given to buttering
fellows up, but I see plainly that the rebuilding of this house depends
a lot upon you two. It's not likely that you're able to measure your
influence; if you could, there wouldn't be much to measure. But take
it from me, not a word, not an action of yours is without weight with
the lower boys. Everything helps or hinders. Next term there will be
war--to the knife--between Warde and some fellows I needn't name, and
Warde will win. Remember I said so. I hope you," he looked hard at
Desmond, "will fight on the right side."
The boys returned to their room, jubilant because the house-cap was
theirs, but uneasy because of the words given with it. As soon as they
were alone, Scaife said sullenly--
"Does Lawrence expect us to stand in with Warde against Lovell and his
pals? If he does, he's jolly well mistaken, as far as I'm concerned."
Desmond flushed. He had spent nearly five terms at Harrow, but only
two at the Manor. Of what had been done or left undone by certain
fellows in the Fifth he was still in twilight ignorance. He discerned
shadows, nothing more, and, boylike, he ran from shadows into the
sunlight. Desmond knew that there were beasts at the Manor. Had you
forced from him an expression approaching, let us say, definiteness, he
would have admitted that beasts lurked in every house, in every school
in the kingdom. You must keep out of their way (and ways)--that was
all. And he knew also that too many beasts wreck a house, as they
wreck a regiment or a nation.
But once or twice within the past few months he had suspected that his
cut-and-dried views on good and evil were not shared by Scaife. Scaife
confessed to Desmond that the Old Adam was strong in him. He liked,
craved for, the excitement of breaking the law. Hitherto, this
breaking of the law had been confined to such offences as smoking or
drinking a glass of beer at a "pub," [1] or using cribs, or, generally
speaking, setting at naught authority. That Scaife had escaped severe
punishment was due to his keen wits.
Now, when Scaife gave Desmond the unexpurgated history of the row which
so nearly resulted in the expulsion of six boys, Desmond had asked a
question--
"Do you _like_ whisky? I loathe it."
Scaife laughed before he answered. Doubtless one reason why he exacted
interest and admiration from Desmond lay in a rare (rare at fifteen)
ability to analyse his own and others' actions.
"I loathe it too," he admitted. "Really, you know, we drank precious
little, because it is such beastly stuff. But I liked, we all liked,
to believe that we were doing the correct thing--eh? And it warmed us
up. Just a taste made the Caterpillar awfully funny."
"I see."
"Do you see? I doubt it, Caesar. Perhaps I shall horrify you when I
tell you that vice interests me. I used to buy the _Police News_ when
I was a kid, and simply wallow in it. I told a woman that last Easter,
and she laughed--she was as clever as they make 'em--and said that I
suffered from what the French call _la nostalgie de la boue_; that
means, you know, the homesickness for the gutter. Rather personal, but
dev'lish sharp, wasn't it?"
"I think she was a beast."
"Not she, she's a sort of cousin; she came from the same old place
herself, that's why she understood. You don't want to know what goes
on in the slums, but I do. Why? Because my grand-dad was born in 'em."
"He pulled himself out by brains and muscles."
"But he went back--sometimes. Oh yes, he did. And the governor--I'm
up to some of _his_ little games. I could tell you----"
"Oh--shut up!" said Caesar, the colour flooding his cheeks.
Upon the last Saturday of the term the School Concert took place. Few
of the boys in the Manor, and none out of it, knew that John Verney had
been chosen to sing the treble solo; always an attractive number of the
programme. John, indeed, was painfully shy in regard to his singing,
so shy that he never told Desmond that he had a voice. And the
music-master, enchanted by its quality, impressed upon his pupil the
expediency of silence. He wished to surprise the School.
The concerts at Harrow take place in the great Speech-room. Their
characteristic note is the singing of Harrow songs. To any boy with an
ear for music and a heart susceptible of emotion these songs must
appeal profoundly, because both words and music seem to enshrine all
that is noble and uplifting in life. And, sung by the whole School (as
are most of the choruses), their message becomes curiously emphatic.
The spirit of the Hill is acclaimed, gladly, triumphantly,
unmistakably, by Harrovians repeating the creed of their fathers,
knowing that creed will be so repeated by their sons and sons' sons.
Was it happy chance or a happier sagacity which decreed that certain
verses should be sung by the School "Twelve," who have struggled
through form after form and know (and have not yet had time to forget)
the difficulties and temptations which beset all boys? They, to whom
their fellows unanimously accord respect at least, and often--as in the
case of a Captain of the Cricket Eleven--enthusiastic admiration and
fealty; these, the gods, in a word, deliver their injunction, transmit,
in turn, what has been transmitted to them, and invite their successors
to receive it. To many how poignant must be the reflection that the
trust they are about to resign might have been better administered!
But to many there must come upon the wings of those mighty, rushing
choruses the assurance that the Power which has upheld them in the past
will continue to uphold them in the future. In many--would one could
say in all--is quickened, for the first time, perhaps, a sense of what
they owe to the Hill, the overwhelming debt which never can be
discharged.
Desmond sat beside Scaife. Scaife boasted that he could not tell "God
save the Queen" from "The Dead March in Saul." He confessed that the
concert bored him. Desmond, on the other hand, was always touched by
music, or, indeed, by anything appealing to an imagination which gilded
all things and persons. He was Scaife's friend, not only (as John
discovered) because Scaife had a will strong enough to desire and
secure that friendship, but because--a subtler reason--he had never yet
seen Scaife as he was, but always as he might have been.
Desmond told Scaife that he could not understand why John had bottled
up the fact that he was chosen to sing upon such an occasion. Scaife
smiled contemptuously.
"You never bottle up anything, Caesar," said he.
"Why should I? And why should he?"
"I expect he'll make an awful ass of himself."
"Oh no, he won't," Desmond replied. "He's a clever fellow is Jonathan."
As he gave John his nickname, Desmond's charming voice softened. A boy
of less quick perceptions than Scaife would have divined that the
speaker liked John, liked him, perhaps, better than he knew. Scaife
frowned.
"There are several Old Harrovians," he said, indicating the seats
reserved for them. "It's queer to me that they come down for this
caterwauling."
Desmond glanced at him sharply, with a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
For the moment he looked as if he were short-sighted, as if he were
trying to define an image somewhat blurred, conscious that the image
itself was clear enough, that the fault lay in the obscurity of his own
vision.
"They come down because they're keen," he replied. "My governor can't
leave his office, or he'd be here. I like to see 'em, don't you,
Demon?"
"I could worry along without 'em," the Demon replied, half-smiling.
"You see," he added, with the blend of irony and pathos which always
captivated his friend, "you see, my dear old chap, I'm the first of my
family at Harrow, and the sight of all your brothers and uncles and
fathers makes me feel like Mark Twain's good man, rather lonesome."
At once Desmond responded, clutching Scaife's arm.
"You're going to be Captain of the cricket and footer Elevens, and
School racquet-player, and a monitor; and after you leave you'll come
down here, and you'll see that Harrow hasn't forgotten you, and then
you'll know why these fellows cut engagements. My governor says that
an hour at a School Concert is the finest tonic in the world for an Old
Harrovian."
"Oh, shut up!" said Scaife; "you make me feel more of an outsider than
good old Snowball." He glanced at a youth sitting close to them.
Snowball was as black as a coal: the son of the Sultan of the Sahara.
"Yes, Caesar, you can't get away from it, I _am_ an 'alien.'"
"You're a silly old ass! I say, who's the guest of honour?"
Next to the Head Master was sitting a thin man upon whose face were
fixed hundreds of eyes. The School had not been told that a famous
Field Marshal, the hero of a hundred fights, was coming to the concert.
And, indeed, he had accepted an invitation given at the last
moment--accepted it, moreover, on the understanding that his visit was
to be informal. None the less, his face was familiar to all readers of
illustrated papers. And, suddenly, conviction seized the boys that a
conqueror was among them, an Old Etonian, making, possibly, his first
visit to the Hill. Scaife whispered his name to Desmond.
"Why, of course," Desmond replied eagerly. "How splendid!"
He leaned forward, devouring the hero with his eyes, trying to pierce
the bronzed skin, to read the record. From his seat upon the stage
John, also, stared at the illustrious guest. John was frightfully
nervous, but looking at the veteran he forgot the fear of the recruit.
Both Desmond and he were wondering what "it felt like" to have done so
much. And--they compared notes afterwards--each boy deplored the fact
that the great man was not an Old Harrovian. There he sat, cool, calm,
slightly impassive. John thought he must be rather tired, as a man
ought to be tired after a life of strenuous endeavour and achievement.
He had done--so John reflected--an awful lot. Even now, he remained
the active, untiring servant of Queen and country. And he had taken
time to come down to Harrow to hear the boys sing. And, dash it all!
he, John, was going to sing to him.
At that moment Desmond was whispering to Scaife--
"I say, Demon; I'm jolly glad that I've not got to sing before _him_.
I bet Jonathan is in a funk."
"A big bit of luck," replied Scaife, reflectively. Then, seeing the
surprise on Desmond's face, he added, "If Jonathan can sing--and I
suppose he can, or he wouldn't be chosen--this is a chance----"
"Of what?"
"Caesar, sometimes I think you've no brains. Why, a chance of
attracting the notice of a tremendous swell--a man, they say, who never
forgets--never! Jonathan may want a commission in the Guards, as I do;
and if he pleases the great man, he may get it."
"Jonathan's not thinking of that," said Desmond. "Shush-h-h!"
The singers stood up. They faced the Field Marshal, and he faced them.
He looked hardest at Lawrence, pointed out to him by the Head Master.
Perhaps he was thinking of India; and the name of Lawrence indelibly
cut upon the memories of all who fought in the Mutiny. And Lawrence,
you may be sure, met his glance steadily, being fortified by it. The
good fellow felt terribly distressed, because he was leaving the Hill;
and, being a humble gentleman, the old songs served to remind him, not
of what he had done, but of what he had left undone--the words
unspoken, the actions never now to be performed. The chief caught his
eye, smiled, and nodded, as if to say, "I claim your father's son as a
friend."
When the song came to an end, John was seized, with an almost
irresistible impulse to bolt. His turn had come. He must stand up to
sing before nearly six hundred boys, who would stare down with gravely
critical and courteously amused eyes. And already his legs trembled as
If he were seized of a palsy. John knew that he could sing. His
mother, who sang gloriously, had trained him. From her he had
inherited his vocal chords, and from her he drew the knowledge how to
use them.
When he stood up, pale and trembling, the silence fell upon his
sensibilities as if it were a dense, yellow fog. This silence, as John
knew, was an unwritten law. The small boy selected to sing to the
School, as the representative of the School, must have every chance.
Let his voice be heard! The master playing the accompaniment paused
and glanced at his pupil. John, however, was not looking at him; he
was looking within at a John he despised--a poltroon, a deserter about
to run from his first engagement. He knew that the introduction to the
song was being played a second time, and he saw the Head Master
whispering to his guest. Paralysed with terror, John's intuition told
him that the Head Master was murmuring, "That's the nephew of John
Verney. Of course you know him?" And the Field Marshal nodded. And
then he looked at John, as John had seen him look at Lawrence, with the
same flare of recognition in the steel-grey eyes. Out of the confused
welter of faces shone that pair of eyes--twin beacons flashing their
message of encouragement and salvation to a fellow-creature in
peril--at least, so John interpreted that piercing glance. It seemed
to say, far plainer than words, "I have stood alone as you stand; I
have felt my knees as wax; I have wished to run away. But--_I didn't_.
Nor must you. Open your mouth and sing!"
So John opened his mouth and sang. The first verse of the lyric went
haltingly.
Scaife growled to Desmond, "He _is_ going to make an ass of himself."
And Desmond, meeting Scaife's eyes, half thought that the speaker
wished that John would fail--that he grudged him a triumph. None the
less, the first verse, sung feebly, with wrong phrasing and imperfect
articulation, revealed the quality of the boy's voice; and this quality
Desmond recognized, as he would have recognized a fine painting or a
bit of perfect porcelain. All his short life his father had trained
him to look for and acclaim quality, whether in things animate or
inanimate. He caught hold of Scaife's arm.
"Make an ass of himself!" he whispered back. "Not he. But he may make
an ass of me."
Even as he spoke he was aware that tears were horribly near his eyes.
Some catch in John's voice, some subtle inflection, had smitten his
heart, even as the prophet smote the rock.
"Rot!" said Scaife, angrily.
He was angry, furiously angry, because he saw that Caesar was beyond
his reach, whirled innumerable leagues away by the sound of another's
voice. John had begun the second verse. He stared, as if hypnotized,
straight into the face of the great soldier, who in turn stared as
steadily at John; and John was singing like a lark, with a lark's
spontaneous delight in singing, with an ease and self-abandonment which
charmed eye almost as much as ear. Higher and higher rose the clear,
sexless notes, till two of them met and mingled in a triumphant trill.
To Desmond, that trill was the answer to the quavering, troubled
cadences of the first verse; the vindication of the spirit soaring
upwards unfettered by the flesh--the pure spirit, not released from the
pitiful human clay without a fierce struggle. At that moment Desmond
loved the singer--the singer who called to him out of heaven, who
summoned his friend to join him, to see what he saw--"the vision
splendid."
John began the third and last verse. The famous soldier covered his
face with his hand, releasing John's eyes, which ascended, like his
voice, till they met joyfully the eyes of Desmond. At last he was
singing to his friend--_and his friend knew it_. John saw Desmond's
radiant smile, and across that ocean of faces he smiled back. Then,
knowing that he was nearer to his friend than he had ever been before,
he gathered together his energies for the last line of the song--a line
to be repeated three times, loudly at first, then more softly,
diminishing to the merest whisper of sound, the voice celestial melting
away in the ear of earth-bound mortals. The master knew well the
supreme difficulty of producing properly this last attenuated note, but
he knew also that John's lungs were strong, that the vocal chords had
never been strained. Still, if the boy's breath failed; if anything--a
smile, a frown, a cough--distracted his attention, the end would
be--weakness, failure. He wondered why John was staring so fixedly in
one direction.
Now--now!
The piano crashed out the last line; but far above it, dominating it,
floated John's flute-like notes. The master played the same bars for
the second time. He was still able to sustain, if it were necessary, a
quavering, imperfect phrase. But John delivered the second repetition
without a mistake, singing easily from the chest. The master put his
foot upon the soft pedal. Nobody was watching him. Had any one done
so, he would have seen the perspiration break upon the musician's
forehead. The piano purred its accompaniment. Then, in the middle of
the phrase, the master lifted his hands and held them poised above the
instrument. John had to sing three notes unsupported. He was smiling
and staring at Desmond. The first note came like a question from the
heart of a child; the second, higher up, might have been interpreted as
an echo to the innocent interrogation of the first, the head no wiser
than the heart; but the third and last note had nothing in it of
interrogation: it was an answer, all-satisfying--sublime. Nor did it
seem to come from John at all, but from above, falling like a snowflake
out of the sky.
And then, for one immeasurable moment--_silence_.
John slipped back to his seat, crimson with bashfulness, while the
School thundered applause. The Field Marshal shouted "Encore," as
loudly as any fag; but the Head Master whispered--
"We don't encourage _encores_. A small boy's head is easily turned."
"Not his," the hero replied.
Two numbers followed, and then the School stood up, and with them all
Old Harrovians, to sing the famous National Anthem of Harrow, "Forty
Years on." Only the guests and the masters remained seated.
"Forty years on, growing older and older,
Shorter in wind, as in memory long,
Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder,
What will it help you that once you were strong?
God give us bases to guard or beleaguer,
Games to play out, whether earnest or fun;
Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager,
Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on!
Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up!
Till the field ring again and again,
With the tramp of the twenty-two men.
Follow--up!"
As the hundreds of voices, past and present indissolubly linked
together, imposed the mandate, "_Follow up_!" the Head Master glanced
at his guest, but left unsaid the words about to be uttered. Tears
were trickling down the cheeks of the man who, forty years before, had
won his Sovereign's Cross--For Valour.
After the concert, but before he left the Speech-room, the Field
Marshal asked the Head Master to introduce Lawrence and John, and, of
course, the Head of the School. When John came up, there was a twinkle
in the veteran's eye.
"Ha--ha!" said he; "you were in a precious funk, John Verney."
"I was, sir," said John.
"Gad! Don't I know the feeling? Well, well," he chuckled, smiling at
John, "you climbed up higher than I've ever been in my life. What was
it--hey? 'F' in 'alt'?"
"'G,' sir."
"You sang delightfully. Tell your uncle to bring you to see me next
time you are in town. You must consider me a friend," he chuckled
again--"an old friend. And look ye here," his pleasant voice sank to a
whisper, "I daren't tip these tremendous swells, but I feel that I can
take such a liberty with you. Shush-h-h! Good-bye."
John scurried away, bursting with pride, feeling to the core the strong
grip of the strong man, hearing the thrill of his voice, the thrill
which had vibrated in thousands of soldier-hearts. Outside, Fluff was
awaiting him.
"Oh, Jonathan, you can sing, and no mistake."
"Five--six--seven mistakes," John answered.
The boys laughed.
John told Fluff what the hero had said to him, and showed the piece of
gold.
"What ho! The Creameries! Come on, Esmé."
At the Creameries several boys congratulated John, and the Caterpillar
said--
"You astonished us, Jonathan; 'pon my soul you did. Have a 'dringer'
with me? And Fluff too? By the way, be sure to keep your hair dipped
close. These singing fellows with manes may be lions in their own
estimation, but the world looks upon 'em as asses."
"That's not bad for you, Caterpillar," said a boy in the Fifth.
"Not my own," said the Caterpillar, solemnly--"my father's. I take
from him all the good things I can get hold of."
John polished off his "dringer," listening to the chaff, but his
thoughts were with Desmond. He had an intuition that Desmond would
have something to say to him. As soon as possible he returned to the
Manor.
There he found his room empty. John shut the door and sat down,
looking about him half-absently. The Duffer had not contributed much
to the mural decoration, saying, loftily, that he preferred bare walls
to rubbishy engravings and Japanese fans. But, with curious
inconsistency (for he was the least vain of mortals), he had bought at
a "leaving auction" a three-sided mirror--once the property of a great
buck in the Sixth. The Duffer had got it cheap, but he never used it.
The lower boys remarked to each other that Duff didn't dare to look in
it, because what he would see must not only break his heart but shatter
the glass. Generally, it hung, folded up, close to the window, and the
Duffer said that it would come in handy when he took to shaving.
John's eye rested on this mirror, vacantly at first, then with
gathering intensity. Presently he got up, crossed the room, opened the
two folding panels, and examined himself attentively, pursing up his
lips and frowning. He could see John Verney full face, three-quarter
face, and half face. And he could see the back of his head, where an
obstinate lock of hair stuck out like a drake's tail. John was so
occupied in taking stock of his personal disadvantages that a ringing
laugh quite startled him.
"Why, Jonathan! Giving yourself a treat--eh?"
John turned a solemn face to Desmond. "I think my head is hideous," he
said ruefully.
"What do you mean?"
"It's too long," John explained. "I like a nice round head like yours,
Caesar. I wish I wasn't so ugly."
Desmond laughed. John always amused him. Caesar was easily amused,
saw the funny side of things, and contrasts tickled his fancy
agreeably. But he stopped laughing when he realized that John was
hurt. Then, quickly, impulsively, he said--
"Your head is all right, old Jonathan. And your voice is simply
beautiful." He spoke seriously, staring at John as he had stared in
the Speech-room when John began to sing. "I came here to tell you
that. I felt odd when you were singing--quite weepsy, you know. You
like me, old Jonathan, don't you?"
"Awfully," said John.
"Why did you look at me when you sang that last verse? Did you know
that you were looking at me?"
"Yes."
"You looked at me because--well, because--bar chaff--you--liked--me?"
"Yes."
"You--you like me better than any other fellow in the school?"
"Yes; better than any other fellow In the world."
"Is it possible?"
"I have always felt that way since--yes--since the very first minute I
saw you."
"How rum! I've forgotten just where we did meet--for the first time."
"I shall never forget," said John, in the same slow, deliberate
fashion, never taking his eyes from Desmond's face. Ever since he had
sung, he had known that this moment was coming. "I shall never forget
it," he repeated--"never. You were standing near the Chapel. I was
poking about alone, trying to find the shop where we buy our straws.
And I was feeling as all new boys feel, only more so, because I didn't
know a soul."
"Yes," said Desmond, gravely; "you told me that. I remember now; I
mistook you for young Hardacre."
"You smiled at me, Caesar. It warmed me through and through. I
suppose that when a fellow is starving he never forgets the first meal
after it."
"I say. Go on; this is awfully interesting."
"I can remember what you wore. One of your boot-laces had burst----"
"Well; I'm----"
"I had a wild sort of wish to run off, and buy you a new lace----"
"Of all the rum starts I----"
"Afterwards," John continued, "I tried to suck-up. I asked you to come
and have some 'food.' Do you remember?"
"I'll bet I came, Jonathan."
"No; you didn't. You said 'No.'"
"Dash it all! I certainly said, 'No, thanks.'"
"I dare say; but the 'No' hurt awfully because I did feel that it was
cheek asking you."
"Jonathan, you funny old buster, I'll never say 'No' again. 'Pon my
word, I won't. So I said 'No.' That's odd, because it's not easy for
me to say 'No.' The governor pointed that out last hols. Somehow, I
can't say 'No,' particularly if there's any excitement in saying 'Yes.'
And my beastly 'No' hurt, did it? Well, I'm very, _very_ sorry."
He held out his hand, which John took. Then, for a moment, there was a
pause before Desmond continued awkwardly--
"You know, Jonathan, that the Demon is my pal. You like him better
than you did, don't you?"
John had the tact not to speak; but he shook his head dolefully.
"And I couldn't chuck him, even if I wanted to, which I don't--which I
don't," he repeated, with an air of satisfying himself rather than
John. And John divined that Scaife's hold upon Desmond's affections
was not so strong as he had deemed it to be. Desmond continued. "But
I want you, too, old Jonathan, and if--if----"
"All right," said John, nobly. He perceived that Desmond's loyalty to
Scaife made him hesitate and flush. "I understand, Caesar, and if I
can't be first, let me be second; only, remember, with me you're first,
rain or shine."
Desmond looked uneasy. "Isn't that a case of 'heads I win, tails you
lose'?"
John considered; then he smiled cheerfully, "You know you are a winner,
Caesar. You're cut out for a winner; you can win whatever you want to
win."
"Oh, that's all rot," said Desmond. He looked very grave, and in his
eyes lay shadows which John had never seen before.
And so ended John's first year at Harrow.
[1] All Public Houses are out of bounds.