_Fellowship_
"Fellowship is Heaven, and the lack of it is Hell."
John was squelching through the mud, wondering whether his nose was
broken or not, when Lawrence touched his shoulder.
"Never mind, Verney," he said cheerily; "the Manor will be cock-house at
Torpids next year, and I venture to prophesy that you'll be Captain."
"Oh, thanks, Lawrence," said John.
But, much as he appreciated this tribute from the great man, and much as
it served to mitigate the pangs of defeat, a yet happier stroke of
fortune was about to befall him. Desmond, who always walked up from the
football field with Scaife, conferred upon John the honour of his
company.
"Where's Scaife?" said John.
"The Demon is demoniac," said Desmond. "He's lost his hair, and he
blames me. Well, I did my best, and so did he, and there's no more to be
said. It's a bore that we shall be too old to play next year. I told the
Demon that if we had to be beaten, I would sooner take a licking from
Damer's than any other house; and he told me that he believed I wanted
'em to win. When a fellow's in that sort of blind rage, I call him
dotty, don't you?"
"Yes," said John.
"You played jolly well, Verney; I expect Lawrence told you so."
"He did say something decent," John replied.
The Caterpillar joined them as they were passing through the stile. "We
should have won," he said deliberately, "if the Demon hadn't behaved
like a rank outsider."
"Scaife is my pal," said Desmond, hotly.
The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders, and held high his well-cut,
aquiline nose, as he murmured--
"One doesn't pretend to be a Christian, but as a gentleman one accepts a
bit of bad luck without gnashing one's teeth. What? That Spartan boy
with the fox was a well bred 'un, you can take my word for it. Scaife
isn't."
The Caterpillar joined another pair of boys before Desmond could reply.
John looked uncomfortable. Then Desmond burst out with Irish vehemence--
"Egerton is always jawing about breeding. It's rather snobbish. I don't
think the worse of Scaife because his grandfather carried a hod. The
Egertons have been living at Mount Egerton ever since they left Mount
Ararat, but what have they done? And he ought to make allowances for the
old Demon. He was simply mad keen to win this match, and he has a
temper. You like him, Verney, don't you?"
John hesitated, realizing that to speak the truth would offend the one
fellow in the school whom he wished to please and conciliate. Then he
blurted out--
"No--I don't."
"You don't?" Desmond's frank, blue eyes, Irish eyes, deeply blue, with
black lashes encircling them, betrayed amazement and curiosity--so John
thought--rather than anger. "You don't?" he continued. "Why not? The old
Demon likes you; he says you got him out of a tight place. Why don't you
like him, Verney?"
John's mind had to speculate vaguely whether or not Desmond knew the
nature of the tight place--_tight_ was such a very descriptive
adjective--out of which he had pulled Scaife. Then he said nervously--
"I don't like him because--because he likes--you."
"Likes me? What a rum 'un you are, Verney! Why shouldn't he like me?"
"Because," said John, boldly meeting the emergency with the conviction
that he had burnt his ships, and must advance without fear, "because
he's not half good enough for you."
Desmond burst out laughing; the clear, ringing laugh of his father,
which had often allayed an incipient mutiny below the gangway, and
charmed aside the impending disaster of a snatch-division. And it is on
_one's own side_ in the House of Commons that good temper tells
pre-eminently.
"Not good enough for me!" he repeated. "Thanks awfully. Evidently you
have a high opinion of--_me_."
"Yes," said John.
The quiet monosyllable, so soberly, so seriously uttered, challenged
Desmond's attention. He stared for a moment at John's face--not an
attractive object. Blood and mud disfigured it. But the grey eyes met
the blue unwaveringly. Desmond flushed.
"You've stuck me on a sort of pedestal." His tone was as serious as
John's.
"Yes," said John.
They were opposite the Music Schools. The other Manorites had run on.
For the moment they stood alone, ten thousand leagues from Harrow, alone
in those sublimated spaces where soul meets soul unfettered by flesh.
Afterwards, not then, John knew that this was so. He met the real
Desmond for the first time, and Desmond met the real John in a
thoroughfare other than that which leads to the Manor, other than that
which leads to any house built by human hands, upon the shining highway
of Heaven.
Shall we try to set down Desmond's feelings at this crisis? Till now,
his life had run gaily through fragrant gardens, so to speak:
pleasaunces full of flowers, of sweet-smelling herbs, of stately trees,
a paradise indeed from which the ugly, the crude, the harmful had been
rigorously excluded. Happy the boy who has such a home as was allotted
to Harry Desmond! And from it, ever since he could remember, he had
received tender love, absolute trust, the traditions of a great family
whose name was part of English history, an exquisite refinement, and
with these, the gratification of all reasonable desires. And this
magnificent upbringing shone out of his radiant face, the inexpressible
charm of youth unspotted--white. Scaife's upbringing, of which you shall
know more presently, had been far different, and yet he, the cynic and
the unclean, recognized the God in Harry Desmond. He had not, for
instance, told Desmond of the nature of that "tight" place; he had kept
a guard over his tongue; he had interposed his own strong will between
his friend and such attention as a boy of Desmond's attractiveness might
provoke from Lovell senior and the like. It is true that Scaife was well
aware that without these precautions he would have lost his friend; none
the less, above and beyond this consciousness hovered the higher, more
subtle intuition that the good in Desmond was something not lightly to
be tampered with, something awe-inspiring; the more so because, poor
fellow! he had never encountered it before.
Desmond stood still, with his eyes upon John's discoloured face. Not the
least of Caesar's charms was his lack of self-consciousness. Now, for the
first time, he tried to see himself as John saw him--on a pedestal. And
so strong was John's ideal that in a sense Desmond did catch a glimpse
of himself as John saw him. And then followed a rapid comparison, first
between the real and the ideal, and secondly between himself and Scaife.
His face broke into a smile.
"Why, Verney," he exclaimed, "you mustn't turn me into a sort of Golden
Calf. And as for Scaife not being good enough for me, why, he's miles
ahead of me in everything. He's cleverer, better at games, ten thousand
times better looking, and one day he'll be a big power, and I shall
always be a poor man. Why, I--I don't mind telling you that I used to
keep out of Scaife's way, although he was always awfully civil to me,
because he has so much and I so little."
"He's not half good enough for you," repeated John, with the Verney
obstinacy. Unwittingly he slightly emphasized the "good."
"Good? Do you mean 'pi'? He's not _that_, thank the Lord!"
This made John laugh, and Desmond joined in. Now they were Harrow boys
again, within measurable distance of the Yard, although still in the
shadow of the Spire. The Demon described as "pi" tickled their ribs.
"You must learn to like the Demon," Desmond continued, as they moved on.
Then, as John said nothing, he added quickly, "He and I have made up our
minds not to try for remove this term. You see, next term is the
jolliest term of the year--cricket and 'Ducker'[19] and Lord's. And we
shall know the form's swat thoroughly, and have time to enjoy ourselves.
You'll be with us. Your remove is a 'cert'--eh?"
John beamed. He had made certain that Caesar would be in the Third Fifth
next term and hopelessly out of reach.
"Oh yes, I shall get my remove. So will the Caterpillar."
"Hang the Caterpillar," said Desmond.
"He'd ask for a silken rope, as Lord Ferrers did," said John, with one
of his unexpected touches of humour. Again Desmond bent his head in the
gesture John knew so well, and laughed.
"I say, Verney, you _are_ a joker. Well, the old Caterpillar's a good
sort, but he's not fair to Scaife. Here we are!"
They ran upstairs to "tosh" and change. John found the Duffer just
slipping out of his ducks. He looked at John with a rueful grin.
"Are you going to chuck me?" he asked.
"Chuck you?"
"Fluff says you've chucked him. He was in here a moment ago to ask if
your nose was squashed. I believe the silly little ass thinks you the
greatest thing on earth."
"I don't chuck anybody," said John, indignantly. And he made a point of
asking Fluff to walk with him on Sunday.
After the Torpid matches the school settled down to train (more or less)
for the athletic sports. John came to grief several times at Kenton
brook, essaying to jump it at places obviously--as the Duffer pointed
out--beyond his stride. The Duffer and he put their names down for the
house-handicaps, and curtailed their visits to the Creameries. After
this self-denial it is humiliating to record that neither boy succeeded
in winning anything. Caesar won the house mile handicap; Scaife won the
under sixteen high jump--a triumph for the Manor; and Fluff, the
despised Fluff, actually secured an immense tankard, which one of the
Sixth offered as a prize because he was quite convinced that his own
particular pal would win it. The distance happened to be half a mile.
Fluff was allowed an enormous start and won in a canter.
The term came to an end soon after these achievements, and John spent a
week of the holidays at White Ladies, the Duke of Trent's Shropshire
place. Here, for the first time, he saw that august and solemn
personage, a Groom of the Chambers, with carefully-trimmed whiskers, a
white tie, a silky voice, and the appearance of an archdeacon. This
visit is recorded because it made a profound impression upon a plastic
mind. John had never sat in the seats of the mighty. Verney Boscobel was
a delightful old house, but it might have been put, stables and all,
into White Ladies, and never found again. Fluff showed John the famous
Reynolds and Gainsborough portraits, the Van Dycks and Lelys, the
Romneys and Richmonds. Fair women and brave men smiled or frowned at our
hero wherever he turned his wondering eyes. After the first tour of the
great galleries, he turned to his companion.
"I say," he whispered solemnly, "some of 'em look as if they didn't like
my calling you--Fluff."
"I wish you'd call me Esme."
"All right," said John, "I will; and--er--although you didn't get into
the Torpids, you can call me--John."
"Oh, John, thanks awfully."
Ponies were provided for the boys to ride, and they shot rabbits in the
Chase. Also, they appeared at dinner, a tremendous function, and were
encouraged by some of the younger guests to spar (verbally, of course)
with the duke's Etonian sons. Fluff looked so much stronger and happier
that his parents, delighted with their experiment, were inclined to cry
up the Hill, much to the exasperation of the dwellers in the Plain.
When he left White Ladies John had learned one valuable lesson. His
sense of that hackneyed phrase, _noblesse oblige_, the sense which
remains nonsense with so many boys (old and young), had been quickened.
Little more than a child in many ways, he realized, as a man does, the
true significance of rank and wealth. The Duke of Trent had married a
pleasure-loving dame; White Ladies was essentially a pleasure-house, to
which came gladly enough the wit and beauty of the kingdom. And yet the
duke, not clever as compared to his guests, not even good-looking as
compared to the splendid gentlemen whom Van Dyck and Lely had painted,
_undistinguished_, in fine, in everything save rank and wealth, worked,
early and late, harder than any labourer upon his vast domain. And when
John said to Fluff, "I say, Esme, why does the duke work so beastly
hard?" Fluff replied with emphasis, "Why, because he has to, you know.
It's no joke to be born a duke, and I'm jolly glad that I'm a younger
son. Father says that he has no amusements, but plenty of occupation.
Mother says he's the unpaid land-agent of the Trent property."
John went back to Verney Boscobel, and repeated what Fluff had said, as
his own.
"It was simply splendid, mum, like a sort of castle in fairyland and all
that, but I _am_ glad I'm not a duke. And I expect that even an earl has
a lot of beastly jobs to do which never bother _us_."
"Oh, you've found that out, have you, John? Well, I hesitated when the
invitation came; but I'm glad now that you went."
"Yes; and it's ripping to be home again."
* * * * *
The summer term began in glorious sunshine; and John forgot that he
owned an umbrella. The Caterpillar and he had achieved their remove, but
the unhappy Duffer was left behind alone with the hideous necessity of
doing his form's work by himself. The boys occupied the same rooms, but
John prepared his Greek and Latin with Scaife, Caesar, and the
Caterpillar; whom he was now privileged to call by their nick-names.
They began to call him John, hearing young Kinloch do so; and then one
day, Scaife, looking up with his derisive smile, said--
"I'm going to call you Jonathan."
"Good," said Desmond. "All the same, we can't call either the Duffer or
Fluff--David, can we?"
"I was not thinking of Kinloch or Duff," said Scaife, staring hard at
John. And John alone knew that Scaife read him like a book, in which he
was contemptuously amused--nothing more. After that, as if Scaife's will
were law, the others called John--Jonathan.
Very soon, the sun was obscured by ever-thickening clouds. John happened
to provoke the antipathy of a lout in his form known as Lubber Sprott.
Sprott began to persecute him with a series of petty insults and
injuries. He accused him of "sucking up" to a lord, of putting on "lift"
because he was the youngest boy in the Upper Remove, of kow-towing to
the masters--and so forth. Then, finding these repeated gibes growing
stale, he resorted to meaner methods. He upset ink on John's books, or
kicked them from under his arm as he was going up to the New Schools.
He put a "dringer"[20] into the pocket of John's "bluer."[21] He pinched
him unmercifully if he found himself next to John in form, knowing that
John would not betray him. When occasion offered he kicked John. In
short, he was successful in taking all the fun and sparkle out of the
merrie month of May.
Finally, Caesar got an inkling of what was going on.
"Is Sprott ragging you?" he asked point-blank.
"Ye-es," said John, blushing. "It's n-nothing," he added nervously.
"He'll get tired of it, I expect."
"I saw him kick you," said Desmond, frowning. "Now, look here, Jonathan,
you kick him; kick him as hard as ever you can where, where he kicks
you--eh? And do it to-morrow in the Yard, at nine Bill, when everybody
is looking on. You can dodge into the crowd; but if I were you I'd kick
him at the very moment he gets into line, and then he can't pursue. And
if he does pursue--which I'll bet you a bob he don't, he'll have to
tackle you and me."
"I'll do it," said John.
Next day, a whole holiday, at nine Bill, both Caesar and John were
standing close to the window of Custos' den, waiting for Lubber Sprott
to appear. While waiting, an incident occurred which must be duly
chronicled inasmuch as it has direct bearing upon this story. Only the
week before Rutford had come up to the Yard late for Bill, he being the
master whose turn it was to call over. Such tardiness, which happens
seldom, is reckoned as an unpardonable sin by Harrow boys. Briefly it
means that six hundred suffer from the unpunctuality of one. Therefore,
when Rutford appeared, slightly flushed of countenance and visibly
annoyed, the School emphasized their displeasure by derisive cheers.
Rutford, ever tactless where boys were concerned, was unwise enough to
make a speech from the steps condemning, in his usual bombastic style, a
demonstration which he ought to have known he was quite powerless to
punish or to prevent. When he had finished, the School cheered more
derisively than before. After Bill, he left the Yard, purple with rage
and humiliation.
Upon this particular morning, one of the younger masters, Basil Warde,
was calling Bill. The School knew little of Warde, save that he was an
Old Harrovian in charge of a Small House, and that his form reported
him--_queer_. He had instituted a queer system of punishments, he made
queer remarks, he looked queer: in fine, he was generally regarded as a
radical, and therefore a person to be watched with suspicion by boys
who, as a body, are intensely conservative. He was of a clear red
complexion with lapis-lazuli blue eyes, that peculiar blue which is the
colour of the sea on a bright, stormy day. The Upper School knew that,
as a member of the Alpine Club, Warde had conquered half a dozen
hitherto unconquerable peaks.
Into the Yard and into this book Warde comes late. As he hurried to his
place, the School greeted him as they had greeted Rutford only the week
before. If anything, the demonstration was slightly more hostile. That
Bill should be delayed twice within ten days was unheard-of and
outrageous. When the hoots and cheers subsided, Warde held up his hand.
He smiled, and his chin stuck out, and his nose stuck up at an angle
familiar to those who had scaled peaks in his company. In silence, the
School awaited what he had to say, hoping that he might slate them,
which would afford an excuse for more ragging. Warde, guessing, perhaps,
the wish of the crowd, smiled more genially than before. Then, in a
loud, clear voice, he said--
"I beg pardon for being late. And I thank you for cheering me. I haven't
been cheered in the Yard since the afternoon when I got my Flannels."
A deafening roar of applause broke from the boys. Warde might be queer,
but he was a good sort, a gentleman, and, henceforward, popular with
Harrovians.
He began to call over as Lubber Sprott neared the place where Desmond
and John awaited him. The Lubber took up his position near the boys,
turning a broad back to them. He stood with his hands in his pockets,
talking to another boy as big and stupid as himself. The Lubber, it may
be added, ought to have worn "Charity" tails, but he had not applied for
permission to do so. He was fat and gross rather than tall, and
certainly too large for his clothes.
"Now," said Caesar.
John measured the distance with his eye, as Caesar thoughtfully nudged
other members of the Upper Remove. John had room for a very short run.
The Lubber was swaying backwards and forwards. John timed his kick,
which for a small boy he delivered with surprising force, so accurately
that the Lubber fell on his face. The boys looking on screamed with
laughter. The Lubber, picking himself up (John dodged into the crowd,
who received him joyfully) and glaring round, encountered the
contemptuous face of Desmond.
"Let me have a shot," said Caesar.
The Lubber advanced, spluttering with rage.
"Where is he--where is he, that infernal young Verney?"
By this time fifty boys at least were interested spectators of the
scene. Desmond stood square in the Lubber's path.
"You like to kick small boys," said Caesar, in a very loud voice. "I'm
small, half your size, why don't you kick me?"
The Lubber could have crushed the speaker by mere weight; but he
hesitated, and the harder he stared at Desmond the less he fancied the
job of kicking him. Quality confronted quantity.
"Kick me," said Desmond, "if--if you dare, you big, hulking coward and
cad!"
"Come on, Lubber, get into line!" shouted some boy.
Sprott turned slowly, glancing over his vast, fat shoulder to guard
against further assault. Then he took his place in the line, and passed
slowly out of the Yard and out of these pages. He never persecuted John
again.[22]
Not yet, however, was the sun to shine in John's firmament. As the days
lengthened, as June touched all hearts with her magic fingers,
insensibly relaxing the tissues and warming the senses, John became more
and more miserably aware that, in the fight between Scaife and himself
for the possession of Desmond, the odds were stupendously against him.
Truly the Demon had the subtlety of the serpent, for he used the
failings which he was unable to hide as cords wherewith to bind his
friend more closely to him. When the facts, for instance, of what had
taken place in Lovell's room came to Desmond's ears, he denied fiercely
the possibility of Scaife, his pal, making a "beast" of himself. The
laughter which greeted his passionate protest sent him hot-foot to
Scaife himself.
"They say," panted Caesar, "that last winter you were dead drunk in
Lovell's room. I told the beasts they lied."
Scaife's handsome face softened. Was he touched by Caesar's loyalty? Who
can tell? Always he subordinated emotion to intelligence: head commanded
heart.
"Perhaps they did," he answered steadily; "and perhaps they didn't. I
deny nothing; I admit nothing. But"--his fine eyes, so dark and
piercing, flamed--"Caesar, if I was dead drunk at your feet now, would
you turn away from me, would you chuck me?"
Desmond winced. Scaife pursued his advantage.
"If you _are_ that sort of a fellow--the Pharisee"--Desmond winced
again--"the saint who is too pure, too holy, to associate with a
sinner, say so, and let us part here--and now. For I _am_ a--sinner. You
are not a sinner. Hold hard! let me have my say. I've always known that
this moment was coming. Yes, I am a sinner. And my governor is a sinner,
a hardened sinner. His father made our pile by what you would call
robbery. The whole world knows it, and condones it, because we are so
rich. Even my mother----"
He paused, trembling, white to the lips.
"Don't," said Desmond. "Please don't."
"You're right. I won't. But I'm handicapped on both sides. It's only
fair that you should know what sort of a fellow you've chosen for a pal.
And it's not too late to chuck me. Rutford will put Verney in here, if I
ask him. And, by God! I'm in the mood to ask him _now_. Shall I go to
him, Desmond, or shall I stay?"
He had never raised his voice, but it fell upon the sensitive soul of
the boy facing him as if it were a clarion-call to battle.
Desmond sprang forward, ardent, eager, afire with generous
self-surrender.
"Forgive me," he cried. "Oh, forgive me, because I can't forgive
myself!"
After this breaking of barriers, Scaife took less pains to disguise a
nature which turned as instinctively to darkness as Desmond's to light.
A score of times protest died when Scaife murmured, "There I go again,
forgetting the gulf between us"; and always Desmond swore stoutly that
the gulf, if a gulf did yawn between them, should be bridged by
friendship and hope. But, insensibly, Caesar's ideals became tainted by
Scaife's materialism. Scaife, for instance, spent money lavishly upon
"food" and clothes. So far as a Public Schoolboy is able, he never
denied his splendid young body anything it coveted. Desmond, too proud
to receive favours without returning them, tried to vie with this
reckless spendthrift, and found himself in debt. In other ways a keen
eye and ear would have marked deterioration. John noticed that Caesar
laughed, although he never sneered, at things he used to hold sacred;
that he condemned, as Scaife did, whatever that clever young reprobate
was pleased to stigmatize as narrow-minded or intolerant.
Cricket, however, kept them fairly straight. Each was certain to get his
"cap,"[23] if, as Lawrence told them, they stuck to the rigour of the
game. This was Lawrence's last term. He had stayed on to play at Lord's,
and when he left Trieve would become the Head of the House--a prospect
very pleasing to the turbulent Fifth.
About the middle of June John suffered a parlous blow. He was never so
happy as when he was sitting in Scaife's room, cheek by jowl with
Desmond, sharing, perhaps, a "dringer," poring over the same dictionary.
This delightful intimacy came to a sudden end in this wise. The
form-master of the Upper Remove happened to be a precisian in English. A
sure road to his favour was the right use of a word. The Demon,
appreciating this, bought a dictionary of synonyms, and made a point of
discarding the commonplace and obvious, substituting a phrase likely to
elicit praise and marks. Desmond and John joined in this hunt of the
right word with enthusiasm.
One evening the four boys encountered the simple sentence--"_majoris
pretii quam quod aestimari possit_."
"'Priceless''ll cover that," said Caesar.
"Or 'inest_ee_mable,'" said the Demon.
The three other boys stared at the Demon, and then at each other. The
Caterpillar, something of a purist in his way, drawled out--
"One pronounces that 'inestimable.'"
"My father doesn't," said Scaife, hotly. "I've heard him say
'inesteemable.'"
"No doubt," said Egerton, coldly. "How does _your_ father pronounce it,
Caesar?"
Desmond said hurriedly, "Oh, 'inestimable'; but what does it matter?"
The Demon sprang up, furious. "It matters this," he cried. "I'm d----d
if I'll have Egerton sitting in my room sneering at my governor. After
this he'll do his work in his own room, or I'll do mine in the passage."
Before Desmond could speak, Scaife had whirled out of the room, slamming
the door. John looked stupefied with dismay.
The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders. Then he said slowly--
"Scaife's father pronounces 'connoisseur' 'connoysure,' and so does
Scaife."
Desmond stood up, flushed and distressed, but emphatic.
"Scaife is right about one thing," he said. "He won't sit here like a
cad and listen to Egerton sneering at his father. I'm very sorry, but
after this we'd better split up. Verney and you, Egerton; and Scaife and
I."
"Certainly," said the Caterpillar, rising in his turn.
Poor John cast a distracted and imploring glance at Desmond, which
flashed by unheeded. Then he got up, and followed the Caterpillar out of
the room. The passage was empty.
The Caterpillar sniffed as if the atmosphere in Scaife's room had been
polluted.
"One has nothing to regret," he remarked. "Scaife has good points,
and--er--bad. You've noticed his hands--eh! _Very_ unfinished! And his
foot--short, but broad." The Caterpillar surveyed his long, slender feet
with infinite satisfaction; then he added, with an accent of finality,
"Scaife talks about going into the Grenadiers; but they'll give him a
hot time there, a very hot time. One is really sorry for the poor
fellow, because, of course, he can't help being a bounder. What does
puzzle me is, why did Caesar want such a fellow for his pal?"
"But he didn't," said John.
"Eh?--what?"
"Scaife wanted Caesar," John explained. "And I've noticed, Caterpillar,
that whatever Scaife wants he gets."
"He wants breeding, Jonathan, but he'll never get that--never."
After this, John saw but little of Desmond; and Scaife hardly spoke to
him. Accordingly, much of our hero's time was spent in the company of
the Duffer and Fluff. The three passed many delightful hours together at
"Ducker." Armed with buns and chocolate, they would rush down the hill,
bathe, lie about on the grass, eat the buns, and chaff the kids who were
learning to swim.
"Long, long, in the misty hereafter
Shall echo, in ears far away,
The lilt of that innocent laughter,
The splash of the spray."
During the School matches they spent the afternoons on the Sixth Form
ground, carefully criticizing every stroke. The theory of the game lay
pat to the tongue, but in practice John was a shocking bungler. At his
small preparatory school in the New Forest, he had not been taught the
elementary principles of either racquets or cricket; but he had a good
eye, played a capital game of golf, rode and shot well for a small boy.
Fluff, although still delicate, gave promise of being a cricketer as
good, possibly, as his brothers, when he became stronger.
Upon Speech Day John's mother and uncle came down to Harrow, and you may
be sure that John escorted them in triumph to the Manor. Mrs. Verney has
since confessed that John's expression as she greeted him surprised and
distressed her. He looked quite unhappy. And the dear woman, thinking
that he must be in debt, seriously considered the propriety of tipping
him handsomely _in advance_. A moment later, as she slipped out of an
old and shabby dust-cloak, revealing the splendours of a dress fresh
from Paris, she divined from John's now radiant face what had troubled
him.
"John," she said, "you didn't really think that I was going to shame you
by wearing this dreadful cloak--did you?"
"I wasn't quite sure," John answered; then he burst out, "Mum, you look
simply lovely. All the fellows will take you for my sister."
And after the great function in Speech-room came the cheering. How
John's heart throbbed when the Head of the School, standing just outside
the door, proclaimed the illustrious name--
"Three cheers for Mr. John Verney."
And how the boys in the road below cheered, as the little man descended
the steps, hat in hand, bowing and blushing! Everybody knew that he was
on the eve of departure for further explorations in Manchuria. He would
be absent, so the papers said, three years at least. The School cheered
the louder, because each boy knew that they might never see that gallant
face again.
Later in the afternoon a selection of Harrow songs was given in the
Speech-room. "Five Hundred Faces," as usual, was sung by a new boy, who
is answered, in chorus, by the whole School. How John recalled his own
feelings, less than a year ago, as he stood shivering upon the bank of
the river, funking the first plunge! And his uncle, now sitting beside
him, had said that he would soon enjoy himself amazingly--and so he had!
The new boy began the second verse. His voice, not a strong one,
quavered shrilly--
"A quarter to seven! There goes the bell!
The sleet is driving against the pane;
But woe to the sluggard who turns again
And sleeps, not wisely, but all too well!"
In reply to the weak, timid notes came the glad roar of the School--
"Yet the time may come, as the years go by,
When your heart will thrill
At the thought of the Hill,
And the pitiless bell, with its piercing cry!"
Ah, that pitiless bell! And yet because of it one wallowed in Sunday and
whole-holiday "frowsts."[24] John, you see, had the makings of a
philosopher. And now the Eleven were grunting "Willow the King." And
when the last echo of the chorus died away in the great room, Uncle John
whispered to his nephew that he had heard Harrow songs in every corner
of the earth, and that convincing proof of merit shone out of the fact
that their charm waxed rather than waned with the years; they improved,
like wine, with age.
Caesar's father came down with the Duke of Trent. The duke tipped John
magnificently and asked him to spend his exeat at Trent House, and to
witness the Eton and Harrow match at Lord's from the Trent coach. John
accepted gratefully enough; but his heart was sore because, just before
the row over that infernal word "inestimable," Caesar had asked John if
he would like to occupy an attic in Eaton Square. After the row nothing
more was said about the attic; but John would have preferred bare boards
in Eaton Square to a tapestried chamber in Park Lane.
Now, during the whole of this summer term there was much animated
discussion in regard to the rival claims of lines or spots upon the
white waistcoat worn by all self-respecting Harrovians at Lord's. Upon
this important subject John had betrayed scandalous indifference.
Accordingly, just before the match, the Caterpillar took him aside and
spoke a solemn word.
"Look here," he said; "one doesn't as a rule make personal remarks, but
it's rather too obvious that you buy your clothes in Lyndhurst. I was
sorry to see that the Duke of Trent was the worst-dressed man at
Speecher; but a duke can look like a tinker, and nobody cares."
"I'd be awfully obliged if you'd tell me what's wrong," said John,
humbly.
"Everything's wrong," said the Caterpillar, decisively. He looked
critically at John's boots. "Your boots, for instance--most excellent
boots for wading through the swamps in the New Forest, but quite
impossible in town. And the 'topper' you wear on Sunday! Southampton,
you say? Ah, I thought it was a Verney heirloom. Now, it wouldn't
surprise me to hear that your mother, who dresses herself quite
charmingly, bought your kit."
"She did," John confessed.
"Just so. One need say no more. Now, you come along with me."
They marched down the High Street to the most fashionable of the School
tailors, where John was measured for an Eton jacket of the best, white
waistcoat with blue spots, light bags; while the Caterpillar selected a
new "topper," an umbrella, a pair of gloves, and a tie.
"Be _very_ careful about the bags," said the Caterpillar. "They are
cutting 'em in town a trifle tighter about the lower leg, but loose
above. You understand?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Egerton," replied the obsequious snip. "What we call the
'tighto-looso' style, sir."
"I don't think they call it that in Savile Row," said the Caterpillar;
"but be careful."
The tailor was assured that he would receive an order properly signed by
Mr. Rutford. And then John was led to the bootmaker's, and there
measured for his first pair of patent-leathers. The Caterpillar was so
exhausted by these labours that a protracted visit to the Creameries
became imperative.
"You've always looked like a gentleman," said the Caterpillar, after his
"dringer," "and it's a comfort to me to think that now you'll be dressed
like one."
So John went up to town looking very smart indeed; and Fluff (who had
ordered a similar kit) whispered to John at luncheon that his brothers,
the Etonians, had expressed surprise at the change for the better in
their general appearance.
This luncheon was eaten on the top of the duke's coach, and it happened
that the next coach but one belonged to Scaife's father. John could just
see Scaife's handsome head, and Caesar sitting beside him. The boys
nodded to each other, and the Etonians asked questions. At the name of
Scaife, however, the young Kinlochs curled contemptuous lips.
"Unspeakable bounder, old Scaife, isn't he?" they asked; and the duchess
replied--
"My dears, his cheques are honoured to any amount, even if _he_ isn't."
Her laughter tinkled delightfully; but John reflected that Desmond was
eating the Scaife food and drinking the Scaife wine--all bought with
ill-gotten gold.
Later in the afternoon it became evident that the Scaife champagne was
flowing freely. To John's dismay, the Harrovians (including Caesar) on
the top of the Scaife coach became noisy. The Caterpillar and his
father, Colonel Egerton, sauntered up, and were invited by the duke to
rest and refresh themselves. John was amused to note that the colonel
was even a greater buck than his son. He quite cut out the poor old
Caterpillar, challenging and monopolizing the attention of all who
beheld him.
"Those boys are makin' the devil of a row," said the colonel, fixing his
eyeglass. "Ah, the Scaifes! A man I know dined with them last week. He
reported everything _over_done, except the food. Their _chef_ is
Marcobruno, you know."
Presently, to John's relief, Desmond left the Scaifes and joined the
Trent party, upon whom his gay, radiant face and charming manners made a
most favourable impression. He laughed at the duchess's stories, and
made love to her quite unaffectedly. The Etonians looked rather glum,
because their wickets were falling faster than had been expected.
Desmond told the duke, in answer to a question, that his father was in
his seat in the pavilion, with his eyes glued to the pitch.
"He's awfully keen," said Caesar.
"You boys are not so keen as we were," said the duke, nodding
reflectively.
"Oh, but we are, sir--indeed we are," said Caesar. "Aren't we,
Caterpillar?"
The Caterpillar replied, thoughtfully, "One bottles up that sort of
thing, I suppose."
"Ah," said the duke, kindly, "if it's the right sort of thing, it's none
the worse for being bottled up."
The boys went to the play that night and enjoyed themselves hugely. Next
day, however, the match ended in a draw. John was standing on the top of
the coach, very disconsolate, when he saw Desmond beckoning to him from
below. The expression on Caesar's face puzzled him.
"How can you pal up with those Etonians?" whispered Caesar, after John
had descended. "Every Eton face I see now I want to hit." Then he added,
with a smile and a chuckle, "I say, there's going to be a ruction in
front of the Pavvy. Come on."
A minute later John was in the thick of a very pretty scrimmage between
the Hill and the Plain. Hats were bashed in; cornflowers torn from
buttonholes; pale-blue tassels were captured; umbrellas broken. Finally,
the police interfered.
"Short, but very, very sweet," said Caesar, panting.
John and he were lamentable objects for fond parents to behold, but the
sense of depression had vanished. And then Caesar said suddenly--
"By Jove! I _have_ got a bit of news. It quite takes the sting out of
this draw."
"What's happened?"
"My governor has been talking with Warde. Rutford is leaving Harrow."
John gasped. "That is ripping."
"Isn't it? But who do you think is coming to us? Why, Warde himself. He
was at the Manor when it was _the_ house, and the governor says that
Warde will make it _the_ house, again. He's got his work cut out for
him--eh?"
"You bet your life," said John.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] "Duck-Puddle," the school bathing-place.
[20] A "Dringer" is composed of the following ingredients: a layer of
strawberries is secreted in sugar and cream at the bottom of a clean
jam-pot; and this receives a decent covering of strawberry ice, which
brings the surface of the dringer and the top edge of the jam-pot into
the same plane. The whole may be bought for sixpence. (P. C. T., 1905.)
[21] A "Bluer" is the blue-flannel jacket worn in the playing fields. It
must be worn _buttoned_ by boys who have been less than three years in
the school.
[22] Small boys are not advised to copy John's tactics. The victory is
not always to the weak.
[23] The house-cap, only worn by members of the House Cricket Eleven.
[24] Lying in bed in the morning when there is no First School is a
"frowst." By a subtle law of association, an armchair is also a
"frowst."