SELF-QUESTIONING
"Friend, of my infinite dreams
Little enough endures;
Little howe'er it seems,
It is yours, all yours.
Fame hath a fleeting breath,
Hope may be frail or fond;
But Love shall be Love till death,
And perhaps beyond."
Until the Metropolitan Railway joined Harrow to Baker Street, the Hill
stood in the midst of genuine and unspoilt country, separated by five
miles of grass from the nearest point of the metropolis, and
encompassed by isolated dwellings, ranging in rank and scale from
villas to country houses.[1] Most of the latter have fallen victims to
the speculative builder, and have been cut up into alleys of brick and
stucco. But one or two still remain among their hayfields and
rhododendrons.
John Verney had an eager curiosity, not common in schoolboys, to know
something about the countryside in which he dwelt. As a Lower Boy,
whenever released from "Compulsory" and House-games, he used to wander
with alert eyes and ears up and down the green lanes of Roxeth and
Harrow Weald, enjoying fresh glimpses of the far-seen Spire, making
friends with cottagers, picking up traditions of an older and more
lawless[2] epoch, and, with these, an ever-increasing love and loyalty
to Harrow. So Byron had wandered a hundred years before.
These solitary rambles, however, were regarded with disfavour by
schoolfellows who lacked John's imaginative temperament. The
Caterpillar, for instance, protested, "Did I see you hobnobbing with a
chaw the other day? I thought so; and you looked like a confounded
bughunter." The Duffer's notions of topography were bounded by the
cricket-ground on the one side of the Hill, and the footer-fields on
the other; and his traditions held nothing much more romantic than A.
J. Webbe's scores at Lord's. Fluff, as has been said, was too far
removed from John to make him more than an occasional companion. And
so, for several terms, John, for the most part, walked alone. By the
time Desmond joined him, he had gleaned a knowledge which fascinated a
friend of like sensibility and imagination. Together they revisited
the old and explored the new. One never-to-be-forgotten day the boys
discovered a deserted house of some pretensions about a mile from the
Hill. Its grounds, covering several acres, were enclosed by a high oak
paling, within which stood a thick belt of trees, effectually
concealing what lay beyond. Grim iron gates, always locked, frowned
upon the wayfarer; but John, flattening an inquisitive nose against the
ironwork, could discern a carriage-drive overgrown with grass and
weeds, and at the end of it a white stone portico. After this the
place became to both boys a sort of Enchanted Castle. A dozen times
they peered through the gates. No one went in or out of the
grass-grown drive. The gatekeeper's lodge was uninhabited; there were
no adjacent cottages where information might be sought. The boys
called it "The Haunted House," and peopled it with ghosts; gorgeous
bucks of the Regency, languishing beauties such as Lawrence painted,
fiery politicians, duellists, mysterious black-a-vized foreigners.
John connected it in fancy with the days when the gorgeous Duke of
Chandos (who had Handel for his chapel-organist and was a Governor of
Harrow and guardian of Lord Rodney) kept court at Cannons. He told
Caesar anecdotes of Dr. Parr, with his preposterous wig, his clouds of
tobacco, his sesquipedalian quotations, coming down from Stanmore; and
also of the great Lord Abercorn, another Governor of the school, who
used to go out shooting in the blue riband of the Garter, and who
entertained Pitt and Sir Walter Scott at Bentley Priory.
"What a lot you know!" said Caesar. "And you have a memory like my
father's. I'm beginning to think, Jonathan, that you'll be a swell
like him some day--in the Cabinet, perhaps."
"Ah," said John, with shining eyes.
"I hope I shall live to see it," Desmond added, with feeling.
"Thanks, old chap. A crust or a triumph shared with a pal tastes twice
as good."
One soft afternoon in spring, after four Bill, Desmond and John were
approaching the iron gates of the Haunted House. They had not taken
this particular walk since the day when Desmond got his Flannels.
During the winter term, Scaife and Desmond became members of the
Football Eleven. During this term Scaife won the hundred yards and
quarter-mile; Desmond won the half-mile and mile. In a word, they had
done, from the athletic point of view, nearly all that could be done.
A glorious victory at Lord's seemed assured. Scaife, Captain and
epitome of the brains and muscles of the Eleven, had grown into a
powerful man, with the mind, the tastes, the passions of manhood.
Desmond, on the other hand, while nearly as tall (and much handsomer in
John's eyes), still retained the look of youth. Indeed, he looked
younger than John, although a year his senior; and John knew himself to
be the elder and wiser, knew that Desmond leaned upon him whenever a
crutch was wanted.
The chief difficulty which besets a school friendship between two boys
is that of being alone together. In Form, in the playing-fields, in
the boarding-house, life is public. Even in the most secluded lane, a
Harrow boy is not secure against the unwelcome salutations of heated
athletes who have been taking a cross-country run, or leaping over, or
into, the Pinner brook. To John the need of sanctuary had become
pressing.
Upon this blessed spring afternoon--ever afterwards recalled with
special affection--a retreat was suddenly provided. As the boys jumped
over the last stile into the lane which led to the Haunted House,
Desmond exclaimed--
"By Jove, the gates are open!"
Then they saw that a man, a sort of caretaker, was in the act of
shutting them.
"May we go in?" John asked civilly.
The man hesitated, eying the boys. Desmond's smile melted him, as it
would have melted a mummy.
"There's nothing to see," he said.
Then, in answer to a few eager questions, he told the story of the
Haunted House; haunted, indeed, by the ghosts of what might have been.
A city magnate owned the place. He had bought it because he wished to
educate his only son at Harrow as a "Home-Boarder," or day-boy. A few
weeks before the boy should have joined the school, he fell ill with
diphtheria, and died. The mother, who nursed him, caught the disease
and died also. The father, left alone, turned his back upon a place he
loathed, resolving to hold it till building-values increased, but never
to set eyes on it again. The caretaker and his wife occupied a couple
of rooms in the house.
The boys glanced at the house, a common-place mansion, and began to
explore the gardens. To their delight they found in the shrubberies,
now a wilderness of laurel and rhododendron, a tower--what our
forefathers called a "Gazebo," and their neighbours a "Folly." The top
of it commanded a wide, unbroken view--
"Of all the lowland western lea,
The Uxbridge flats and meadows,
To where the Ruislip waters see
The Oxhey lights and shadows."
"There's the Spire," said John.
The man, who had joined them, nodded. "Yes," said he, "and my mistress
and her boy are buried underneath it. She wanted him to be there--at
the school, I mean--and there he is."
"We're very much obliged to you," said Desmond. He slipped a shilling
into the man's hand, and added, "May we stay here for a bit? and
perhaps we might come again--eh?"
"Thank you, sir," the man replied, touching his hat. "Come whenever
you like, sir. The gates ain't really locked. I'll show you the trick
of opening 'em when you come down."
He descended the steep flight of steps after the boys had thanked him.
"Sad story," said John, staring at the distant Spire.
Desmond hesitated. At times he revealed (to John alone) a curious
melancholy.
"Sad," he repeated. "I don't know about that. Sad for the father, of
course, but perhaps the son is well out of it. Don't look so amazed,
Jonathan. Most fellows seem to make awful muddles of their lives. You
won't, of course. I see you on pinnacles, but I----" He broke off
with a mirthless laugh.
John waited. The air about them was soft and moist after a recent
shower. The south-west wind stirred the pulses. Earth was once more
tumid, about to bring forth. Already the hedges were green under the
brown; bulbs were pushing delicate spears through the sweet-smelling
soil; the buds upon a clump of fine beeches had begun to open. In this
solitude, alone with teeming nature, John tried to interpret his
friend's mood; but the spirit of melancholy eluded him, as if it were a
will-o'-the-wisp dancing over an impassable marsh. Suddenly, there
came to him, as there had come to the quicker imagination of his
friend, the overpowering mystery of Spring, the sense of inevitable
change, the impossibility of arresting it. At the moment all things
seemed unsubstantial. Even the familiar Spire, powdered with gold by
the slanting rays of the sun, appeared thinly transparent against the
rosy mists behind it. The Hill, the solid Hill, rose out of the
valley, a lavender-coloured shade upon the horizon.
"He came here," continued Desmond, dreamily--John guessed that he was
speaking of the father--"a rich, prosperous man. I dare say he worked
like a slave in the city. And he wanted peace and quiet after the
Stock Exchange. Who wouldn't? And he planted out these gardens,
thinking that every plant would grow up and thrive, and his son with
them. And then the boy died; and the wife followed; and the enchanted
castle became a place of horror; and now it is a wilderness. Haunted?
I should think it was--haunted! I wish we'd never set foot in it.
There's a curse on it."
"Let's go," said John.
"Too late. We'll stay now, and we'll come again, every Sunday. Wild
and desolate as things look, they will be lovely when we get back in
summer. Don't talk. I'm going to light a pipe."
Through the circling cloud of tobacco-smoke John stared at the face
which had illumined nearly every hour of his school-life. Its peculiar
vividness always amazed John, the vitality of It, and yet the perfect
delicacy. Scaife's handsome features were full of vitality also, but
coarseness underlay their bold lines and peered out of the keen,
flashing eyes. When the Caterpillar left Harrow he had said to John--
"Good-bye, Jonathan. Awful rot your going to such a hole as Oxford!
One has had quite enough schooling after five years here. It's settled
I'm going into the Guards. My father tells me that old Scaife tried to
get the Demon down on the Duke's list. But we don't fancy the Scaife
brand."
Often and often John wondered whether Desmond saw the brand as plainly
as the Caterpillar and he did. Sometimes he felt almost sure that a
word, a look, a gesture betraying the bounder, had revolted Desmond;
but a few hours later the bounder bounded into favour again,
captivating eye and heart by some brilliant feat. And then his brains!
He was so diabolically clever. John could always recall his face as he
lay back in the chair in No. 15, sick, bruised, befuddled, and yet even
in that moment of extreme prostration able to "play the game," as he
put it, to defeat house-master and doctor by sheer strength of will and
intellect. It was Scaife who had persuaded Desmond to smoke. . . .
Caesar's voice broke in upon these meditations.
"I say--what are you frowning about?"
John, very red, replied nervously, "Now that you're in the Sixth, you
ought to chuck smoking."
"What rot!" said Caesar. "And here, in this tower, where one couldn't
possibly be nailed----"
"That's it," said John. "It's just because you can't possibly be
nailed that it seems to me not quite square."
Caesar burst out laughing. "Jonathan, you are a rum 'un. Anyway--here
goes!"
As he spoke he flung the pipe into the bushes below.
"Thanks," said John, quietly.
"We'll come here again. I like this old tower."
"You won't come here without me?"
"Oh, ho! I'm not to let the Demon into our paradise--eh? What a
jealous old bird you are! Well, I like you to be jealous." And he
laughed again.
"I am jealous," said John, slowly.
The School broke up on the following Tuesday, and Desmond went home
with John.
This happened to be the first time that the friends had spent Easter
together. John wondered whether Caesar would take the Sacrament with
his mother and him. He and Caesar had been confirmed side by side in
the Chapel at Harrow. He felt sure that Desmond would not refuse if he
were asked. On Easter Eve, Mrs. Verney said, in her quiet, persuasive
voice--
"You will join us to-morrow morning, Harry?"
Desmond flushed, and said, "Yes."
Not remembering his own mother, who had died when he was a child, he
often told John that he felt like a son to Mrs. Verney. Upon Easter
morning, the three met in the hall, and Desmond asked for a Prayer-book.
"I've lost mine," he murmured.
That afternoon, when they were alone upon the splendid moor above
Stoneycross, Desmond said suddenly--
"Religion means a lot to you, Jonathan, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"But you never talk about it."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know how to begin."
"There's such sickening hypocrisy in this world."
John nodded.
"But your religion is a help to you, eh? Keeps you straight?"
John nodded again. Then Desmond said with an air of finality--
"I wish I'd some of your faith. I want it badly."
"If you want it badly, you will get it."
A long silence succeeded. Then Desmond exclaimed--
"Hullo! By Jove, there's a fox, a splendid fellow! He's come up here
amongst the rabbits for a Sunday dinner. Gone awa-a-a-ay!"
He put his hand to his mouth and halloaed. A minute later he was
talking of hunting. Religion was not mentioned till they were
approaching the house for tea. On the threshold, Desmond said with a
nervous laugh--
"I'd like your mother to give me a Prayer-book--a small one, nothing
expensive."
During the following week they hunted with fox hounds or stag-hounds
every day, except Wednesday. In the New Forest the Easter hunting is
unique. Tremendous fellows come down from the shires--masters of
famous packs, thrusters, keen to see May foxes killed. And the Forest
entertains them handsomely, you may be sure. Big hampers are unpacked
under the oaks which may have been saplings when William Rufus ruled in
England; there are dinners, and, of course, a hunt-ball in the ancient
village of Lyndhurst. But as each pleasant day passed, John told
himself that the end was drawing near. This was almost the last
holidays Caesar and he would spend together; and, afterwards, would
this friendship, so romantic a passion with one at least of them--would
it wither away, or would it endure to the end?
At the end of a fortnight, Desmond returned to Eaton Square. Upon the
eve of departure, Mrs. Verney gave him a small Prayer-book.
"I have written something in it," she said; "but don't open it now."
He looked at the fly-leaf as the train rolled out of Lyndhurst Station.
Upon it, in Mrs. Verney's delicate handwriting, were a few lines.
First his name and the date. Below, a text--"Unto whomsoever much is
given, of him shall be much required." And, below that again, a verse--
"Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days:
But such a heart whose pulse may be--
Thy praise."
Desmond stared at the graceful writing long after the train had passed
Totton. "Am I ungrateful?" he asked himself. "Not to them," he
muttered; "surely not to them." He recalled what Warde had said about
ingratitude being the unpardonable sin. Ah! it was loathsome,
ingratitude! And much had been given to him. How much? For the first
time he made, so to speak, an inventory of what he had received--his
innumerable blessings. _What had he given in return_? And now the
fine handwriting seemed blurred; he saw it through tears which he ought
to have shed. "Oh, my God," he murmured, "am I ungrateful?" The
question bit deeper into his mind, sinking from there into his soul.
When the School reassembled, a curious incident occurred. John
happened to be going up the fine flight of steps that leads to the Old
Schools. He was carrying some books and papers. Scaife, running down
the steps, charged into him. By great good fortune, no damage was done
except to a nicely-bound Sophocles. John, however, felt assured that
Scaife had deliberately intended to knock him down, seized, possibly,
by an ecstasy of blind rage not uncommon with him. Scaife smiled
derisively, and said--
"A thousand apologies, Verney."
"_One_ is enough," John replied, "if it is sincere."
They eyed each other steadily. John read a furious challenge in
Scaife's bold eyes--more, a menace, the threatening frown of power
thwarted. Scaife seemed to expand, to fill the horizon, to blot out
the glad sunshine. Once again the curious certainty gripped the
younger that Scaife was indeed the personification of evil, the more
malefic because it stalked abroad masked. For Scaife had outlived his
reputation as a breaker of the law. Since that terrible experience in
the Fourth Form Room, he had paid tithe of mint and cummin. As a Sixth
Form boy he upheld authority, laughing the while in his sleeve. He
knew, of course, that one mistake, one slip, would be fatal. And he
prided himself on not making mistakes. He gambled, but not with boys;
he drank, not with boys; he denied his body nothing it craved; but he
never forgot that expulsion from Harrow meant the loss of a commission
in a smart cavalry regiment. When it was intimated to him that the
Guards did not want his father's son, he laughed bitterly, and swore to
himself that he would show the stuck-up snobs what a soldier they had
turned away. A soldier he fully intended to be--a dashing cavalry
leader, if the Fates were kind. His luck would stand by him; if
not--why--what was life without luck? He had never been a reader, but
he read now the lives of soldiers. Murat, Uxbridge, Cardigan, Hodson,
were his heroes. Talking of their achievements, he inflamed his own
mind and Desmond's.
The pleasant summer days passed. May melted into June. And each
Sunday John and Desmond walked to the Haunted House, ascended the
tower, and talked. Scaife was leaving at the end of the summer.
Desmond was staying on for the winter term; then John would have him
entirely to himself. This thought illumined dark hours, when he saw
his friend whirled away by Scaife, transported, as it were, by the
irresistible power of the man of action. That nothing should be
wanting to that trebly-fortunate youth, he had helped to win the Public
Schools' Racquets Championship. The Manor was now the crack
house--cock-house at racquets and football, certain to be cock-house at
cricket. And Scaife got most of the credit, not Warde, who smiled more
than ever, and talked continually of Balliol Scholarships. He never
bragged of victories past.
Meantime, John was devoting all energies to the competition for the
Prize Essay. The Head Master had propounded as theme: "The History and
Influence of Parliamentary Oratory." Bit by bit, John read or
declaimed it to Desmond. Then, according to custom, Desmond copied it
out for his friend. Signed "_Spero Infestis_," with a sealed envelope
containing John's name inside and the motto outside, the MS. was placed
in the Head Master's letter-box. John, cooling rapidly after the fever
of composition, condemned his stuff as hopelessly bad; Caesar went
about telling everybody that Jonathan would win easily, "with a bit to
spare." John did win, but that proved to be the least part of his
triumph. The Essay had to be declaimed upon Speech Day. Once more
John experienced the pangs that had twisted him at the concert, long
ago, when he had sung to the Nation's hero. And as before, he began
weakly. Then, the fire seizing him, self-consciousness was exorcised
by feeling, and forgetful of the hundreds of faces about him, he burst
into genuine oratory. Thrilled himself, he thrilled others. His voice
faltered again, but with an emotion that found an echo in the hearts of
his audience; his hand shook, feeling the pulse of old and young in
front of him. Dominated, swept away by his theme, he dominated others.
When he finished, in the silence that preceded the roar of applause, he
knew that he had triumphed, for he saw Desmond's glowing countenance,
radiant with pleasure, transfigured by amazement and admiration. Next
day a great newspaper hailed the Harrow boy as one destined to delight
and to lead, perhaps, an all-conquering party in the House of Commons.
And yet, warmed to the core by this praise, John counted it as nothing
compared with his mother's smile and Desmond's fervent grip.
Fortune, however, comes to no man--or boy--with both hands full.
Immediately after Speech Day, John's bubble of pride and happiness was
pricked by Scaife. Midsummer madness seized the Demon. One may
conceive that the innate recklessness of his nature, suppressed by an
iron will, and smouldering throughout many months, burst at last into
flame. Desmond told John that the Demon had spent a riotous night in
town. He had slipped out of the Manor after prayers, had driven up to
a certain club in Regent Street, returned in time for first school,
fresh as paint--so Desmond said--and then, not content with such an
achievement, must needs brag of it to Desmond.
"And if he's nailed, Eton wins," concluded Desmond. "I've told you,
because together we must put a stop to such larks."
John slightly raised his thick eyebrows. It was curious that Caesar
always chose to ignore the hatred which he must have known to exist
between his two friends. Or did be fatuously believe that, because
John exercised an influence over himself, the same influence would or
could be exercised over Scaife?
"We?" said John.
"I've tried and failed. But together, I say----"
"I shan't interfere, Caesar."
"Jonathan, you must."
"It would be a fool's errand."
"We three have gone up the School together. You have never been fair
to Scaife. I tell you he's sound at core. Why, after he was
swished----"
Desmond told John what had passed; John shook his head. He could
understand better than any one else why Scaife had broken down.
"He has splendid ambitions," pursued Desmond. "He's going to be a
great soldier, you see. He thinks of nothing else. You never have
liked him, but because of that I thought you would do what you could."
The disappointment and chagrin in his voice shook John's resolution.
"To please you, I'll try."
And accordingly the absurd experiment was made. Afterwards, John asked
himself a thousand times why he had not foreseen the inevitable result.
But the explanation is almost too simple to be recorded: he wished to
convince a friend that he would attempt anything to prove his
friendship.
That night they went together to Scaife's room. The second-best room
in the Manor, situated upon the first floor, it overlooked the back of
the garden, where there was a tangled thicket of laurustinus and
rhododendron. Scaife had spent much money in making this room as
comfortable as possible. It had the appearance of a man's room, and
presented all the characteristics of the man who lived in it.
Everything connected with Scaife's triumphal march through the School
was preserved. On the walls were his caps, fezes, and cups. You could
hardly see the paper for the framed photographs of Scaife and his
fellow "bloods." Scaife as cricketer, Scaife as football-player,
Scaife as racquet-player and athlete, stared boldly and triumphantly at
you. He had a fine desk covered with massive silver ornaments. Upon
this, as upon everything else in the room, was the hall-mark of the
successful man of business. The papers, the pens and pencils, the
filed bills and letters, the books of reference, spoke eloquently of a
mind that used order as a means to a definite end. All his books were
well bound. His boots were on trees. His racquets were in their
press. Had you opened his chest of drawers, you would have found his
clothes in perfect condition. Obviously, to an observant eye, the
owner of this room gave his mind to details, because he realized that
on details hang great and successful enterprises.
Scaife stared at John, but welcomed him civilly enough. Cricket, of
course, explained this unexpected visit. As Desmond blurted out what
was in his mind, Scaife frowned; then he laughed unpleasantly.
"And so I told Jonathan," concluded Desmond.
"So you told Jonathan," repeated Scaife. "Are you in the habit of
telling Jonathan,"--the derisive inflection as he pronounced the name
warned John at least that he had much better have stayed away--"things
which concern others and which don't concern him?"
"If you're going to take it like that----"
"Keep cool, Caesar. I'll admit that you mean well. I should like to
hear what Verney has to say."
At that John spoke--haltingly. Fluent speech upon any subject very
dear to him had always been difficult. He could talk glibly enough
about ordinary topics; his sense of humour, his retentive memory, made
him welcome even in the critical society of Eaton Square, but you know
him as a creature of unplumbed reserves. The matter in hand was so
vital that he could not touch it with firm hands or voice. He spoke at
his worst, and he knew it; concluding an incoherent and slightly
inarticulate recital of the reasons which ought to keep Scaife in his
house at night with a lame "Two heads ought to prevail against one."
Scaife showed his fine teeth. "You think that? Your head and Caesar's
against mine?"
The challenge revealed itself in the derisive, sneering tone.
John shrugged his shoulders and rose. "I have blundered; I am sorry."
"Hold hard," said Scaife. He read censure upon Desmond's ingenuous
countenance. Then his temper whipped him to a furious resentment
against John, as an enemy who had turned the tables with good breeding;
who had gained, indeed, a victory against odds. Scaife drew in his
breath; his brows met in a frown. "You have not blundered; and you are
not sorry," he said deliberately. "I'm not a fool, Verney; but perhaps
I have underrated your ability. You're as clever as they make 'em.
You knew well enough that you were the last person in the world to lead
me in a string; you knew that, I say, and yet you come here to pose as
the righteous youth, doing his duty--eh?--against odds, and accepting
credit for the same from Caesar. Why, it's plain to me as the nose
upon your face that in your heart you would like me to be sacked."
Desmond interrupted. "You are mad, Demon. Take that back; take it
back!"
"Ask him," said Scaife. "He hates me, and common decency ought to have
kept him out of this room. But he's not a liar. Ask him. Put it your
own way. Soften it, make pap of it, if you like, but get an answer."
"Jonathan, it is not true, is it? You don't like Scaife; but you would
be sorry, very sorry, to see him--sacked."
"I'm glad you've not funked it," said Scaife. "You've put it squarely.
Let him answer it as squarely."
John was white to the lips, white and trembling; despicable in his own
eyes, how much more despicable, therefore, in the eyes of his friend,
whose passionate faith in him was about to be scorched and shrivelled.
Scaife began to laugh.
"For God's sake, don't laugh!" said Desmond. "Jonathan, I know you are
too proud to defend yourself against such an abominable charge."
"He's not a liar," said Scaife.
"It's true," said John, in a strangled voice.
"You have wished that he might be sacked?"
"Yes."
John met Desmond's indignant eyes with an expression which the other
was too impetuous, too inexperienced, to interpret. Into that look of
passionate reproach he flung all that must be left unsaid, all that
Scaife could read as easily as if it were scored in letters of flame.
Because, in his modesty and humility, he had ever reckoned that Scaife
would prevail against himself--because, with unerring instinct, he had
apprehended, as few boys could apprehend, the issues involved, he had
desired, fervently desired, that Scaife should be swept from Caesar's
path. But this he could not plead as an excuse to his friend; and
Scaife had known that, and had used his knowledge with fiendish
success. John lowered his eyes and walked from the room.
When he met Desmond again, nothing was said on either side. John told
himself that he would speak, if Desmond spoke first. But evidently
Desmond had determined already the nature of their future relations.
They no longer shared No. 7, John being in the Upper Sixth with a room
to himself, but they still "found" together. To separate would mean a
public scandal from which each shrank in horror. No; let them meet at
meals as before till the end of the term. Indeed, so little change was
made in their previous intercourse, that John began to hope that Caesar
would walk with him as usual upon the following Sunday. And if he
did--if he did, John felt that he would speak. On the top of the
tower, looking towards the Spire, alone with his friend, exalted above
the thorns and brambles or the wilderness, words would come to him.
But on the following Sunday Desmond walked with Scaife.
[1] Of these, the Park, now a boarding-house, was a characteristic
specimen. It belonged to Lord Northwick, Lord of the Manor of Harrow.
[2] In the thirties Harrow boys played "Jack o' Lantern," or nocturnal
Hare and Hounds. They used to attend Kingsbury Races and Pinner Fair.
Lord Alexander Russell, when he was a boy at the Grove, kept a pack of
beagles at the foot of the Hill.