VERNEY BOSCOBEL
"In honour of all who believe that life was made for friendship."
The immediate result of the incident described in the last chapter was
to strengthen the bond between John and Desmond. Desmond had the epic
from Fluff, from the Caterpillar, and finally from John himself.
"You bearded that poisonous beast in his den," exclaimed he; "you
plotted and planned for the scrimmage; you foresaw what would happen.
Well, you are a corker, Jonathan."
"You'd have thought of something much better."
"Not I," Desmond replied.
Scaife, however, made no remarks. Possibly, because Desmond made too
many, singing John's praises behind his back and to his face, in and
out of season. This, of course, was indiscreet, and led to hard words
and harder feelings. Beaumont-Greene realized that John had tarred and
feathered him. The fags, you may be sure, rubbed the tar in. If
Beaumont-Greene threatened to kick an impudent Fourth Form boy, that
youngster would bid him be careful.
"If you don't behave yourself," he would say, "I shall have to send
Verney to your room."
Lovell senior remarked that Beaumont-Greene was a "swine," but that
Verney had put on "lift" and must be snubbed. What? A boy who had not
been two years in the school _dared_ to take the law into his own
hands! The matter ought to have been laid before the Head of the House.
Accordingly, John found himself, much to his dismay, unpopular with the
Olympians. The last month of this term was, in some ways, the most
disagreeable he had yet spent at Harrow.
But the gain of Desmond's friendship far outweighed the loss of
popularity. John tingled with pleasure when he reflected that he had
achieved his ambition to stand between Scaife and Desmond. At the same
time, he was uncomfortably aware that Scaife seemed to have climbed
high above Desmond, who had stood still. In moments of depression John
told himself that he was a makeshift, that Desmond would leave him and
join the Demon whenever that splendid young person chose to whistle him
up. Scaife had failed to get his Football Flannels, but he came so
near to beating all previous records that the School began to regard
him as a "Blood." He was seen arm-in-arm with Lovell, strolling up and
down the High Street, and the fags breathlessly repeated what Desmond
had predicted a year ago: the Demon was the coming man. And always,
when John and Desmond passed him, John thought he could read a derisive
triumph upon the Demon's handsome face, an expression which said
plainly: "You young fool, don't you know that I'm playing cat and mouse
with you?"
The three still met twice daily to prepare work. But the moment that
was done, Scaife disappeared, leaving John and Desmond together.
"He's playing bridge in Lovell's room," said Desmond. More facts were
gleaned from the Caterpillar, who had joined the bridge-players, but
played seldom.
"One draws the line," said he, "at playing for stakes one can't afford
to lose. Lovell and the Demon have made it too hot."
"And Warde will make it hotter," said John.
"Not he," replied the Caterpillar. "The Demon is a wonder. Thanks to
his brains, detection is impossible. He suggested that Lovell's room
should be used. Warde wouldn't dare to burst in upon one of the Sixth.
And you ought to see their dodgy arrangements. Lovell has his young
brother on guard. I'm hanged if the Demon didn't invent a sort of
drill, which they go through with a stopwatch. It's a star
performance, I tell you. Young Lovell bolts in. In thirty-five
seconds--they have got it down to that--the cards and markers are
hidden; and the four of 'em are jawing away about footer."
"All the same," said John, obstinately, "Warde will be too much for
'em."
"Oh, rot!" said the Caterpillar.
The Manor got into the semi-finals of the football matches, and when
the School broke up for the Christmas holidays it was generally
conceded that the fortunes of the ancient house were mending. In the
Manor itself Warde's influence was hardly yet perceptible: only a very
few knew that it was diffusing itself, percolating into nooks and
crevices, undreamed of: the hearts of the Fourth Form, for instance.
In Dirty Dick's time there had been almost universal slackness. In
pupil-room, Rutford read a book; boys could work or not as they
pleased, provided their tutor was not disturbed. Warde, on the other
hand, made it a point of honour to work with his pupils. His
indefatigable energies, his good humour, his patience, were never so
conspicuous as when he was coaching duffers. In other ways he made the
boys realize that he was at the Manor for their advantage, not his own.
The gardens and park were kept strictly private by Dirty Dick. Warde
threw them open; a favour hardly appreciated in the winter quarter, but
the House admitted that it would be awfully jolly in the summer to lie
under the trees far from the "crowd." In a word--a "privilege."
Upon the last Saturday, to John's delight, Desmond asked him to spend a
week in Eaton Square. John had paid two visits to White Ladies; he was
now about to experience something entirely new. White Ladies and
Verney Boscobel were typical of the past; they illustrated the history
of the families who had inhabited them. The great world went to White
Ladies to see the pictures and the gardens, the Gobelin tapestries, the
Duchess and her guests; but the same world dined in Eaton Square to see
Charles Desmond.
During this visit, our John first learned what miracles one individual
may accomplish. At White Ladies, he had dimly perceived, as has been
said, the duties and responsibilities imposed upon rank and wealth. In
Eaton Square he saw more plainly the duties and responsibilities
imposed upon a man of great talents. Both Charles Desmond and the Duke
of Trent were hard workers, but the labours of the duke seemed to John
(and to other wise persons) drab-coloured. Charles Desmond's work, in
contrast, presented all the colours of the spectrum. John left White
Ladies, thanking his stars that he was not a duke; he came away from
Eaton Square filled with the ambition to be Private Secretary to the
great Minister. And when Mr. Desmond said to him with his genial
smile, "Well, young John, Harry, I hope, will be my secretary, and the
crutch of my declining years. But what would you like to be?" John
replied fervently, "Oh, sir, I should like to be Harry's understudy."
"Would you?"
And then John saw the face of his kind host change. The smile faded.
Mr. Desmond had taken his answer as John meant it to be
taken--seriously. He examined John as if he were already a candidate
for office. The piercing eyes probed deep. Then he said slowly, "I
should like to have you under me, John. We shall talk of this again,
my boy. My own sons----" He paused, sighed, and then laughed, tapping
John's cheek with his slender, finely-formed fingers. But he passed on
without finishing his sentence. John knew that, of Caesar's brothers,
Hugo, the eldest, was Secretary of Legation at Teheran; Bill "devilled"
for a famous barrister; Lionel wore her Majesty's livery. Strange that
none had elected to serve his own father! Caesar explained later.
"You see," he said, "the dear old governor outshines everybody. Hugo
and the others felt that under him they would be in eclipse, for ever
and ever--eh?"
"I see," said John, gravely. "Yes, there's something in that. He
wants you, Caesar."
"Dear old governor!" the other replied. "Yes--he's keen on that. But
I hope to make my own little mark. I'd like to have my name on a brass
tablet in Harrow Chapel; that would be something." His eyes began to
glow and sparkle.
Next day, at dinner, Rodney's name cropped up.
"Rodney paved the way for Nelson," Mr. Desmond observed. "I look upon
him as one of our greatest Harrovians. We ought to have a building to
Rodney's memory. I put him before Peel or Byron."
"Oh, I say, father----" Hot protest from Caesar.
"Act before word, Harry; practice before precept. Rodney was a man of
action. I should like to have been Rodney."
"I should like to have been Sheridan," said Caesar. "I often look at
his name on the third panel of the Fourth Form Room."
He glanced at his father, who smiled, knowing that a delicate
compliment was intended, for enthusiastic admirers had spoken of
Charles Desmond as the Richard Brinsley Sheridan of the modern House of
Commons. The father said curtly--
"A sky-rocket, my dear Harry." Then he turned to John. "And of all
our famous Harrovians whom would you like to take as a pattern, young
John?"
John hesitated. Two or three of the guests present were celebrities.
Amongst them was England's greatest critic sitting beside an
ambassador. There happened to be a lull in the talk. All looked
curiously at John.
"I'd like to be another Lord Shaftesbury," he said slowly.
"Good! Capital!" Mr. Desmond nodded his head. "I knew him well." He
poured out anecdote after anecdote illustrating the character and
temperament of the statesman-philanthropist: his self-sacrifice, his
devotion to an ideal, his curious exclusiveness, his refinement, his
faith in an aristocracy never diminished by the indefatigable zeal
wherein he laboured to better the condition of the poor. "If every
rich man were animated by Shaftesbury's spirit," said Mr. Desmond, in
conclusion, "extreme poverty would be wiped out of England, and yet we
should retain all that makes life charming and profitable. He was no
leveller, save of foul rookeries. First and last he believed in order,
particularly his own--a true nobleman. And the inspiration of his
great career came to him on the Hill."
"Indeed?" said the Critic.
"John Verney will tell you all about it," said Mr. Desmond, glancing
cheerily at our hero. His was ever the habit to draw out the humblest
of his guests.
So John recited how young Anthony Ashley, standing on the Hill, just
below the churchyard, chanced to see a pauper's coffin fall to the
ground and burst open, revealing the pitiful corpse within, and how he
had exclaimed in horror, "Good heavens! Can this be permitted simply
because the man was poor and friendless?" And how, then and there, the
boy had sworn to devote his powers to the amelioration of
poverty-stricken lives.
"Yes," said Mr. Desmond. "He told me that the next fifteen minutes
decided his career. Ah, he succeeded greatly. Why, when I was at
Harrow we used to cross from Waterloo to Euston through some of the
worst slums in the world. You boys can't realize what they looked
like. And Shaftesbury's work and example wiped them out of our
civilization." [1]
When John returned to his uncle's house of Verney Boscobel (his home
since his father's death), Caesar Desmond accompanied him. Then it
seemed to John that his cup brimmed, that everything he desired had
been granted unto him. Verney Boscobel stood in the heart of the great
forest, one of the few large manors within that splendid demesne. The
boys arrived at Lyndhurst Road Station late in the evening, long after
dusk, and were driven in darkness through Bartley and Minstead up to
the high-lying moors of Stoneycross. Next morning, early, John woke
his friend, and opened the shutters.
"Jolly morning," he said. "Have a look at the Forest, old chap."
Caesar jumped out of bed, and drew a long breath.
"Ah!" he exclaimed; "it's fairyland."
Frost had silvered all things below. Above, motionless upon the blue
heavens, as if still frozen by the icy fingers of a December night,
were some aerial transparencies of aqueous vapour, amethystine in
colour, with edges of white foam. In the east, obscured, but not
concealed, by grey mist, hung the crimson orb of the sun. From it
faint rays shot forth, touching the clouds beneath, which, roused, so
to speak, out of sleep, drifted lethargically in a southerly direction.
"Underneath the young grey dawn
A multitude of dense, white, fleecy clouds
Were wandering in thick flocks, . . .
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind."
Desmond drew in his breath, sighing with purest delight. From the
lawns encompassing the house his eyes strayed into a glade of bracken,
gold gleaming through silver--a glade shadowed by noble oaks and
beeches, with one birch tree in the middle of it surpassingly graceful.
Upon this each delicate bough and spray were outlined sharply against
the sky. Beyond the glade stretched the moor, rugged, bleak, and
treeless, sloping sharply upward. Beyond the moor lay the
Forest--belts of firs darkly purple; and flanking these the irregular
masses of oaks and beeches, varying in tint from palest lavender to
rose and brown, some still in shadow, some in ever-increasing glow of
sunlight; not one the same, and each in itself containing a thousand
differing forms, yet all harmonious parts of the resplendent whole.
"I'm so glad yon like my home," said John. "Shall we have a gallop
before breakfast? It's only a white frost."
So they galloped away into fairyland, returning with mortal appetites
to the oak-panelled dining-hall, whence a Verney had ridden forth to
join his kinsman, Sir Edmund, in arms for the King upon the distant
field of Edge Hill. After breakfast the boys explored the quaint old
house; and John showed Caesar the twenty-bore gun, and promised his
guest much rabbit-shooting, and two days' hunting, at least, with the
New Forest Hounds, and some pike-fishing, and possibly an encounter
with a big grayling--which, later, the boys saw walloping about in the
Test above Broadlands--a splendid fish, once hooked by John, and
lost--a three-pounder, of course.
O golden age! You will never forget that Christmas--will you, John?
If you live to be Prime Minister of England, the memory of those first
days alone with your friend will remain green when the colour has been
sucked by Time out of everything else. Fifty years hence, maybe, you
will see Caesar's curly head and his blue eyes full of fun and life,
and you will hear his joyous laughter--peal upon peal--echoing through
the corridors of Verney Boscobel. Your mother took him to her
heart--didn't she? And all the servants, from butler to scullerymaid,
voted him the jolliest, cheeriest boy that ever came to Hampshire.
Why, Mrs. Osman, the cook, with a temper like tinder from too much
heat, refused flatly to let Caesar make toffee in her kitchen. But
just then a barrel-organ turned up, and before she could open her
mouth, Caesar was dancing a polka with her; and after that he could
make toffee, or hay, or anything else, wherever and whenever he pleased.
When they returned to the Manor, John hoped and prayed that this
blessed intimacy would continue. It did--for a time. The three boys
got their remove, and found themselves in the Second Fifth, where they
proposed to linger till after the summer term. Lovell and Scaife
seemed inseparable, and bridge began again, apparently an inexhaustible
source of amusement and excitement. Then came the Torpid matches; and
John, as Lawrence predicted, was captain of the cock-house Eleven--the
first great victory of the Manorites. During the term, Scaife and
Desmond won no races, being in age betwixt and between winners of Upper
and Lower School races. Scaife refused to train. Desmond took a few
runs, but abandoned them for racquets, the chief game in the Easter
term, but only played regularly by boys whose purses are well lined.
John confined his attention to "Squash." Caesar played "Harder" with
the Demon. The three worked together as of yore. John now perceived
that Scaife had joined a clique pledged to fight Reform. It was in the
air that something might happen. Warde eyed the big fellows shrewdly,
as if measuring weapons. He confounded some by asking them to dine
with him. At dessert he would talk of sport, or games, or
politics--everything, in fine, except "shop." The more worthy came
away from these pleasant evenings with rather a hangdog expression, as
if they had been receiving goods under false pretences. John and
Desmond were made especially welcome. And, after dinner, John, whose
voice had not yet cracked, would sing, to Mrs. Warde's accompaniment,
such songs as "O Bay of Dublin, my heart yu're throublin'," or "Think
of me sometimes," or Handel's "Where'er you walk." The Caterpillar
made no secret of a passion for Iris Warde, and became a dangerous
rival of one of the younger masters. He talked to Warde about
genealogies and hunting, topics of conversation in which they had a
common interest outside Harrow. John guessed that Warde was making an
effort to secure Egerton, who, for his part, took the world as he found
it, consorting alike with John and his friends, and also with Lovell
and Co. From the Caterpillar John learned that Beaumont-Greene had
begun to play bridge.
"Scaife and Lovell are skinning the beast," he added confidentially.
"Green he is, and no error."
"Ructions soon," said John.
"I don't believe it," replied the Caterpillar. "Take my word, Warde
knows what he's about. He's playing up to the younger members of the
house--you, Caesar, and you, Jonathan--and he's letting the others
slide."
"Giving 'em rope," said John, "to hang 'emselves."
"Well, now, there's something in that. That hadn't occurred to me.
What? You think that he's eggin' 'em on, eh? Eggin' 'em on!"
"I think that, if I were you, Caterpillar, I'd cut loose from that
gang."
"They've made it rather warm for you."
"I don't care a hang about that."
As a matter of fact, John's life had been made very unpleasant by the
fast set. Upon the other hand, the Duffer, Fluff, and many Lower
School boys reckoned him their leader and adviser. And--such is the
irony of Fate--John's popularity with friends caused him more anxiety
than unpopularity with enemies. Towards the end of the term, Desmond
spoke of applying to Warde for a certain room to be shared by himself
and John. John had to decline an arrangement desired passionately,
because he had indiscreetly promised not to chuck the Duffer. Caesar
dropped the subject. After this, John noticed a slight coldness. He
wondered whether Caesar were jealous, jealousy being John's own
besetting sin. Finally, he came to the conclusion that his friend
might be not jealous but unreasonable. In any case, during the last
three weeks of the term, John saw less of Caesar, and more--more,
indeed, than he wanted--of the Duffer and Fluff.
And then came the paralysing news that Desmond had promised to spend
ten days with Scaife's people, that a Professional had been hired, and
that both boys were going to give their undivided energies to cricket.
Afterwards, John often wondered whether Scaife, with truly demoniac
insight into Desmond's character, had let him go, so as to seize him
with more tenacious grasp when an opportunity presented itself.
As soon as John saw Caesar after the Easter holidays, he knew that,
temporarily, at any rate, he had lost his friend. Caesar, indeed, was
demonstratively glad to see him, and dragged him off next day to walk
to a certain bridge where a few short weeks before the boys had carved
their names upon the wooden railing, surrounding them with a circle and
the Crossed Arrows. But Caesar could talk of nothing else but Scaife
and cricket. They had both "come on" tremendously. Scaife's people
had a splendid cricket-ground.
Poor John! If he could have submerged the Scaife cricket-ground and
the Scaife family by nodding his head, I fear that he would have nodded
it, although he told himself that he was an ungenerous beast and cad
not to sympathize with his pal.
And before the boys got back to the Manor, Caesar said, not without a
blush, that he had learned to play bridge.
"I shall teach you, Jonathan."
"No."
"I say--yes."
"You're not going to play with Lovell and that beast Beaumont-Greene?"
"The Demon says no cards this term, when lock-up's late. And look
here, Jonathan, I've made the Demon promise to make the peace between
Lovell and you. You'll play for the House, of course, and we must all
pull together, as Warde says."
John might have smiled at this opportune mention of Warde, but sense of
humour was swamped in apprehension. Desmond went on to talk about
Scaife.
"He'll make 'em sit up, you see! The 'pro.' we had is the finest
cover-point in England. I never saw such a chap. He dashes at the
ball. Hit it as hard as you please, he runs in, picks it up, and snaps
it back to the wicket-keeper as easy as if he was playing pitch and
toss. And, by Jove! the Demon can do it. You wait. I never saw any
fellow like him. He's only just sixteen, and he'll get his Flannels.
You needn't shake your old head, I know he will. And we must work like
blazes to get ours next summer."
John discounted much of this talk, but he soon found out that Caesar
had not overestimated the Demon's activity. The draw at Lord's in the
previous summer had been attributed, by such experts as Webbe and
Hornby, to bad fielding. The Demon told John, with his hateful,
derisive smile, that he had remembered this when he selected a "pro."
Not for the first time, John realized Scaife's over-powering ability to
achieve his own ends. Who, but Scaife, would have made fielding the
principal object of his holiday practice?
Within a fortnight, Scaife was put into the Sixth Form game. Desmond
found himself--thanks to Scaife--playing in the First Fifth game; but
John was placed in Second Fifth Beta. Fortunately, he found an ally in
Warde, who had a private pitch in the small park surrounding the Manor,
where he coached the weaker players of his House. John told himself
that he ought to get his "cap"; but, as the weeks slipped by, despite
several creditable performances, he became aware that the "cap" was
withheld, although it had been given to Fluff. There were five
vacancies in the House Eleven, but, according to precedent, these need
not be filled up till after the last House-match, and possibly not even
then. In a word, John might play for the House, and even distinguish
himself, without receiving the coveted distinction. How sore John felt!
About the end of May he noticed that something was amiss with Caesar.
Generally they walked together on Sunday, but not always. During these
walks, as has been said, Caesar did most of the talking. Now, of a
sudden, he became a half-hearted listener, and to John's repeated
question, "What's up?" he would reply irritably, "Oh, don't
bother--nothing."
Finally, John heard from the Caterpillar that Caesar was playing
bridge, and losing.
"They don't play often," the Caterpillar added; "but on wet afternoons
they make up for lost time. Caesar is outclassed. I've told him, but
he's mad keen about the game."
Later, John learned from the same source that Sunday afternoon was a
bridge-fixture with Lovell and Co. At any rate, Caesar did not play on
Sunday. That was something.
Upon the following Saturday, after making an honest fifteen runs and
taking three wickets in a closely-contested game, John was running into
the Yard just before six Bill, when Lovell stopped him.
"You can get your 'cap,'" he said coldly.
"Oh, thanks; thanks awfully!"
Caesar received this agreeable news with indifference.
"You ought to have had it before Fluff," he growled.
"To-morrow, we'll walk to John Lyon's farm," said John, eagerly.
"Engaged," Caesar replied.
"Oh, Caesar, you're--you're----"
"Well?"
"You're going to play bridge?"
"Yes. What of it? It's only once in a way. I _do_ bar cards on
Sunday; but there are reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Reasons which--er--I'll keep to myself."
"All right," said John, stiffly, but with a breaking heart.
Next day he asked Fluff to walk with him, but Fluff was walking with
some one else. The Duffer had letters to write, and stigmatized
walking as a beastly grind. John determined to walk by himself; but as
he was leaving the Manor he met the Caterpillar, a tremendous buck,
arrayed in his best--patent-leather boots, white waistcoat, a flower in
his buttonhole.
"Where are you off to, Jonathan?"
"To Preston. You'd better come, Caterpillar."
"I never walk far in these boots. Peal made 'em."
"Change 'em, can't you?"
"Right."
While he was absent, John seriously considered the propriety of taking
Egerton into his confidence. Sincerely attached to Egerton, and
valuing his advice, he knew, none the less, that the Caterpillar looked
at everybody and everything with the eyes of a colonel in the Guards.
To tell Colonel Egerton's son that one's heart was lacerated because
Caesar Desmond was playing bridge on Sunday, seemed to invite jeers.
And, besides, that wasn't the real reason. John felt wretched because
the Sunday walk had been sacrificed to Moloch. Presently Egerton came
downstairs, spick and span, but not quite so smart. The boys walked
quickly, talking of cricket.
"The Demon'll get his Flannels," said Egerton. "I'm glad Lovell gave
you your cap, Jonathan; you deserved it a month ago. It wasn't my
fault you didn't get it at the beginning of the term."
"I'm sure of that," said John, gratefully.
"You don't look particularly bucked-up. A grin improves your face, my
dear fellow."
At this John burst into explosive speech. Those beasts had got hold of
Caesar. The Caterpillar stared; he had never heard John let himself
go. John's vocabulary surprised him.
"Whew-w-w!" he whistled. "Gad! Jonathan, you do pile on the agony.
Caesar's all right. Don't worry."
"He's not all right. I thought Caesar had backbone, I----"
"Hold on," said the Caterpillar, gravely.
John thought he was about to be rebuked for disloyalty to a pal, an
abominable sin in the Caterpillar's eyes.
"Well?" said John.
"I'm going to tell you something," said Egerton. "But you must swear
not to give me away."
"I'll swear."
"You're a good little cove, Jonathan, but sometimes you smell just a
little bit of--er--bread and butter. Keep cool. Personally, I would
sooner that you, at your age, did smell of bread and butter than
whisky. Well, you think that Caesar is going straight to the bow-wows
because he plays bridge. You accuse him in your own little mind of
feebleness, and so forth. Yes, just so. And it's doosid unfair to
Caesar, because he's given up his walk to-day entirely on your account.
Ah! I thought that would make you sit up."
"My account?" John repeated blankly.
"Yes; Caesar would be furious if he knew that I was peaching, but he
won't know, and instead of this--er--trifling affair weakening your
good opinion of your pal, it will strengthen it."
"Oh, do go on, Caterpillar."
"Yesterday I was in Lovell's room. We were talking of the first House
match. Scaife and Caesar were there. I took it upon myself to say you
ought to be given your 'cap'; and then Caesar burst out, 'Oh yes,
Lovell, do give him his "cap." If you knew how he'd slaved to earn
it.' But Lovell only laughed. And then Scaife chipped in, 'Look here,
Caesar,' he said, 'do I understand that you put this thing, which after
all is none of your business or mine, as a favour which Lovell might do
_you_?' And Caesar answered, 'You can put it that way, if you like,
Demon.' And then Scaife laughed. I don't like Scaife's laugh,
Jonathan."
"I loathe it," said John.
"Well, when Scaife laughed, Lovell looked first at him and then at
Caesar. It came to me that Lovell was primed to say something. At any
rate, he turned to Caesar, and said slowly, 'Tit for tat. If I do this
for you, will you do something for me?' And Caesar spoke up as usual,
without a second's hesitation, 'Of course, I will.' And then Scaife
laughed again, just as Lovell said, 'All right, I'll give Verney his
"cap" before tea, and you will make a fourth at bridge with us
to-morrow afternoon.'"
"Oh, oh!" groaned John.
"Dash it all, don't look so wretched. There's not much more. Caesar
hesitated a moment. Then he said quietly enough, 'Done!' Personally,
I don't think Lovell was playing--well--cricket, but I do know that he
wanted a fourth at bridge, because I'd just refused to make that fourth
myself. They play too high for me."
"It's awfully good of you to have told me this."
"Pray don't mention it! Hullo! What's up now?"
John's face was very red, and his fists were clenched.
"Nothing," he gasped. "Only this--I'd like to kill Scaife. I'd like
to cut off his infernal head."
The Caterpillar laughed indulgently. "Jonathan, you're a rum 'un. You
think it wicked to play cards on Sunday; but you would like"--he
imitated John's trembling, passionate voice--"you would like to cut off
Scaife's infernal head."
"Yes--I would," said John.
That same week he had a memorable talk with Warde; recorded because it
illustrates Warde's methods, and because, ultimately, it came to be
regarded by John as the turning-point of his intellectual life. Since
he had taken the Lower Remove, John's energies of mind and body had
been concentrated upon improving himself at games. Vaguely aware that
some of the School-prizes were within his grasp, he had not deemed them
worth the winning. To him, therefore, Warde abruptly began--
"You pride yourself upon being straight--eh, Verney?"
"Why, yes," said John, meeting Warde's blue eyes not without misgiving.
"Well, to me, you're about as straight as a note of interrogation. I
never see you without saying to myself, 'Is Verney going to bury his
talents in the cricket-ground?'"
"Oh!"
"Some parents, too many of them, send their boys here to make a few
nice friends, to play games, to scrape up the School with a remove once
a year. That, I take it, is not what Mrs. Verney wants?"
"N--no, sir."
"You ought to be in the Sixth--and you know it. Twice, or oftener, you
have deliberately taken things easy, because you wanted a soft time of
it during the summer term, and because you wished to remain in the same
form with Desmond, who, intellectually, is your--inferior. Is that
square dealing with your people?"
John was silent, but red of countenance. Warde went on, more
vehemently--
"I know all about your co-operative system of work. I have a harder
name for it. And I know just what you can do, and I want to see you do
it, for your own sake, for the sake of Mrs. Verney, and for the Hill's
sake. I've pushed you on at cricket a bit, haven't I? Yes. You owe
me something. Pay up by entering for a School-prize, and winning it!"
"A School-prize?"
"Yes; Lord Charles Russell's Shakespeare Medal. The exam. is next
October. I'll coach you. Is it a bargain?"
He held out his hand, staring frankly, but piercingly, into John's eyes.
"All right, sir," said John, after a pause. "I'll try."
"And buck up for your remove."
John smiled feebly, and sighed.
[1] There is a tablet on the wall of the Old Schools which bears the
following inscription:--Near this spot ANTHONY ASHLEY COOPER Afterwards
the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, K.G. While yet a boy in Harrow School Saw
with shame and indignation The pauper's funeral Which helped to awaken
his lifelong Devotion to the service of the poor And the oppressed.