_A Revelation_
"Forty years on, when afar and asunder
Parted are those who are singing to-day,
When you look back, and forgetfully wonder
What you were like in your work and your play;
Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you
Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song,--
Visions of boyhood shall float them before you,
Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along."
Before the end of the summer term, both Desmond and Scaife received
their "caps" and a word of advice from Lawrence.
"There are going to be changes here," said he; "and I wish I could see
'em, and help to bring 'em about. Now, I'm not given to buttering
fellows up, but I see plainly that the rebuilding of this house depends
a lot upon you two. It's not likely that you're able to measure your
influence; if you could, there wouldn't be much to measure. But take it
from me, not a word, not an action of yours is without weight with the
lower boys. Everything helps or hinders. Next term there will be war--to
the knife--between Warde and some fellows I needn't name, and Warde will
win. Remember I said so. I hope you," he looked hard at Desmond, "will
fight on the right side."
The boys returned to their room, jubilant because the house-cap was
theirs, but uneasy because of the words given with it. As soon as they
were alone, Scaife said sullenly--
"Does Lawrence expect us to stand in with Warde against Lovell and his
pals? If he does, he's jolly well mistaken, as far as I'm concerned."
Desmond flushed. He had spent nearly five terms at Harrow, but only two
at the Manor. Of what had been done or left undone by certain fellows in
the Fifth he was still in twilight ignorance. He discerned shadows,
nothing more, and, boylike, he ran from shadows into the sunlight.
Desmond knew that there were beasts at the Manor. Had you forced from
him an expression approaching, let us say, definiteness, he would have
admitted that beasts lurked in every house, in every school in the
kingdom. You must keep out of their way (and ways)--that was all. And he
knew also that too many beasts wreck a house, as they wreck a regiment
or a nation.
But once or twice within the past few months he had suspected that his
cut-and-dried views on good and evil were not shared by Scaife. Scaife
confessed to Desmond that the Old Adam was strong in him. He liked,
craved for, the excitement of breaking the law. Hitherto, this breaking
of the law had been confined to such offences as smoking or drinking a
glass of beer at a "pub,"[25] or using cribs, or, generally speaking,
setting at naught authority. That Scaife had escaped severe punishment
was due to his keen wits.
Now, when Scaife gave Desmond the unexpurgated history of the row which
so nearly resulted in the expulsion of six boys, Desmond had asked a
question--
"Do you _like_ whisky? I loathe it."
Scaife laughed before he answered. Doubtless one reason why he exacted
interest and admiration from Desmond lay in a rare (rare at fifteen)
ability to analyse his own and others' actions.
"I loathe it, too," he admitted. "Really, you know, we drank precious
little, because it _is_ such beastly stuff. But I liked, we all liked,
to believe that we were doing the correct thing--eh? And it warmed us
up. Just a taste made the Caterpillar awfully funny."
"I see."
"Do you see? I doubt it, Caesar. Perhaps I shall horrify you when I tell
you that vice interests me. I used to buy the _Police News_ when I was a
kid, and simply wallow in it. I told a woman that last Easter, and she
laughed--she was as clever as they make 'em--and said that I suffered
from what the French call _la nostalgie de la boue_; that means, you
know, the homesickness for the gutter. Rather personal, but dev'lish
sharp, wasn't it?"
"I think she was a beast."
"Not she, she's a sort of cousin; she came from the same old place
herself; that's why she understood. You don't want to know what goes on
in the slums, but I do. Why? Because my grand-dad was born in 'em."
"He pulled himself out by brains and muscles."
"But he went back--sometimes. Oh yes, he did. And the governor--I'm up
to some of _his_ little games. I could tell you----"
"Oh--shut up!" said Caesar, the colour flooding his cheeks.
Upon the last Saturday of the term the School Concert took place. Few of
the boys in the Manor, and none out of it, knew that John Verney had
been chosen to sing the treble solo; always an attractive number of the
programme. John, indeed, was painfully shy in regard to his singing, so
shy that he never told Desmond that he had a voice. And the
music-master, enchanted by its quality, impressed upon his pupil the
expediency of silence. He wished to surprise the School.
The concerts at Harrow take place in the great Speech-room. Their
characteristic note is the singing of Harrow songs. To any boy with an
ear for music and a heart susceptible of emotion these songs must appeal
profoundly, because both words and music seem to enshrine all that is
noble and uplifting in life. And, sung by the whole School (as are most
of the choruses), their message becomes curiously emphatic. The spirit
of the Hill is acclaimed, gladly, triumphantly, unmistakably, by
Harrovians repeating the creed of their fathers, knowing that creed will
be so repeated by their sons and sons' sons. Was it happy chance or a
happier sagacity which decreed that certain verses should be sung by the
School "Twelve," who have struggled through form after form and know
(and have not yet had time to forget) the difficulties and temptations
which beset all boys? They, to whom their fellows unanimously accord
respect at least, and often--as in the case of a Captain of the Cricket
Eleven--enthusiastic admiration and fealty; these, the gods, in a word,
deliver their injunction, transmit, in turn, what has been transmitted
to them, and invite their successors to receive it. To many how poignant
must be the reflection that the trust they are about to resign might
have been better administered! But to many there must come upon the
wings of those mighty, rushing choruses the assurance that the Power
which has upheld them in the past will continue to uphold them in the
future. In many--would one could say in all--is quickened, for the first
time, perhaps, a sense of what they owe to the Hill, the overwhelming
debt which never can be discharged.
Desmond sat beside Scaife. Scaife boasted that he could not tell "God
save the Queen" from "The Dead March in Saul." He confessed that the
concert bored him. Desmond, on the other hand, was always touched by
music, or, indeed, by anything appealing to an imagination which gilded
all things and persons. He was Scaife's friend, not only (as John
discovered) because Scaife had a will strong enough to desire and secure
that friendship, but because--a subtler reason--he had never yet seen
Scaife as he was, but always as he might have been.
Desmond told Scaife that he could not understand why John had bottled up
the fact that he was chosen to sing upon such an occasion. Scaife smiled
contemptuously.
"You never bottle up anything, Caesar," said he.
"Why should I? And why should he?"
"I expect he'll make an awful ass of himself."
"Oh no, he won't," Desmond replied. "He's a clever fellow is Jonathan."
As he gave John his nickname, Desmond's charming voice softened. A boy
of less quick perceptions than Scaife would have divined that the
speaker liked John, liked him, perhaps, better than he knew. Scaife
frowned.
"There are several Old Harrovians," he said, indicating the seats
reserved for them. "It's queer to me that they come down for this
caterwauling."
Desmond glanced at him sharply, with a wrinkle between his eyebrows. For
the moment he looked as if he were short-sighted, as if he were trying
to define an image somewhat blurred, conscious that the image itself was
clear enough, that the fault lay in the obscurity of his own vision.
"They come down because they're keen," he replied. "My governor can't
leave his office, or he'd be here. I like to see 'em, don't you, Demon?"
"I could worry along without 'em," the Demon replied, half-smiling. "You
see," he added, with the blend of irony and pathos which always
captivated his friend, "you see, my dear old chap, I'm the first of my
family at Harrow, and the sight of all your brothers and uncles and
fathers makes me feel like Mark Twain's good man, rather _lonesome_."
At once Desmond responded, clutching Scaife's arm.
"You're going to be Captain of the cricket and footer Elevens, and
School racquet-player, and a monitor; and after you leave you'll come
down here, and you'll see that Harrow hasn't forgotten you, and then
you'll know why these fellows cut engagements. My governor says that an
hour at a School Concert is the finest tonic in the world for an Old
Harrovian."
"Oh, shut up!" said Scaife; "you make me feel more of an outsider than
good old Snowball." He glanced at a youth sitting close to them.
Snowball was as black as a coal: the son of the Sultan of the Sahara.
"Yes, Caesar, you can't get away from it, I _am_ an 'alien.'"
"You're a silly old ass! I say, who's the guest of honour?"
Next to the Head Master was sitting a thin man upon whose face were
fixed hundreds of eyes. The School had not been told that a famous Field
Marshal, the hero of a hundred fights, was coming to the concert. And,
indeed, he had accepted an invitation given at the last moment--accepted
it, moreover, on the understanding that his visit was to be informal.
None the less, his face was familiar to all readers of illustrated
papers. And, suddenly, conviction seized the boys that a conqueror was
among them, an Old Etonian, making, possibly, his first visit to the
Hill. Scaife whispered his name to Desmond.
"Why, of course," Desmond replied eagerly. "How splendid!"
He leaned forward, devouring the hero with his eyes, trying to pierce
the bronzed skin, to read the record. From his seat upon the stage John,
also, stared at the illustrious guest. John was frightfully nervous, but
looking at the veteran he forgot the fear of the recruit. Both Desmond
and he were wondering what "it felt like" to have done so much.
And--they compared notes afterwards--each boy deplored the fact that the
great man was not an Old Harrovian. There he sat, cool, calm, slightly
impassive. John thought he must be rather tired, as a man ought to be
tired after a life of strenuous endeavour and achievement. He had
done--so John reflected--an awful lot. Even now, he remained the active,
untiring servant of Queen and country. And he had taken time to come
down to Harrow to hear the boys sing. And, dash it all! he, John, was
going to sing to him.
At that moment Desmond was whispering to Scaife--
"I say, Demon; I'm jolly glad that I've not got to sing before _him_. I
bet Jonathan is in a funk."
"A big bit of luck," replied Scaife, reflectively. Then, seeing the
surprise on Desmond's face, he added, "If Jonathan can sing--and I
suppose he can, or he wouldn't be chosen--this is a chance----"
"Of what?"
"Caesar, sometimes I think you've no brains. Why, a chance of attracting
the notice of a tremendous swell--a man, they say, who never
forgets--never! Jonathan may want a commission in the Guards, as I do;
and if he pleases the great man, he may get it."
"Jonathan's not thinking of that," said Desmond. "Shush-h-h!"
The singers stood up. They faced the Field Marshal, and he faced them.
He looked hardest at Lawrence, pointed out to him by the Head Master.
Perhaps he was thinking of India; and the name of Lawrence indelibly cut
upon the memories of all who fought in the Mutiny. And Lawrence, you may
be sure, met his glance steadily, being fortified by it. The good fellow
felt terribly distressed, because he was leaving the Hill; and, being a
humble gentleman, the old songs served to remind him, not of what he had
done, but of what he had left undone--the words unspoken, the actions
never now to be performed. The chief caught his eye, smiled, and nodded,
as if to say, "I claim your father's son as a friend."
When the song came to an end, John was seized with an almost
irresistible impulse to bolt. His turn had come. He must stand up to
sing before nearly six hundred boys, who would stare down with gravely
critical and courteously amused eyes. And already his legs trembled as
if he were seized of a palsy. John knew that he could sing. His mother,
who sang gloriously, had trained him. From her he had inherited his
vocal chords, and from her he drew the knowledge how to use them.
When he stood up, pale and trembling, the silence fell upon his
sensibilities as if it were a dense, yellow fog. This silence, as John
knew, was an unwritten law. The small boy selected to sing to the
School, as the representative of the School, must have every chance. Let
his voice be heard! The master playing the accompaniment paused and
glanced at his pupil. John, however, was not looking at him; he was
looking within at a John he despised--a poltroon, a deserter about to
run from his first engagement. He knew that the introduction to the song
was being played a second time, and he saw the Head Master whispering to
his guest. Paralysed with terror, John's intuition told him that the
Head Master was murmuring, "That's the nephew of John Verney. Of course
you know him?" And the Field Marshal nodded. And then he looked at John,
as John had seen him look at Lawrence, with the same flare of
recognition in the steel-grey eyes. Out of the confused welter of faces
shone that pair of eyes--twin beacons flashing their message of
encouragement and salvation to a fellow-creature in peril--at least, so
John interpreted that piercing glance. It seemed to say, far plainer
than words, "I have stood alone as you stand; I have felt my knees as
wax; I have wished to run away. But--_I didn't_. Nor must you. Open your
mouth and sing!"
So John opened his mouth and sang. The first verse of the lyric went
haltingly.
Scaife growled to Desmond, "He _is_ going to make an ass of himself."
And Desmond, meeting Scaife's eyes, half thought that the speaker wished
that John would fail--that he grudged him a triumph. None the less, the
first verse, sung feebly, with wrong phrasing and imperfect
articulation, revealed the quality of the boy's voice; and this quality
Desmond recognized, as he would have recognized a fine painting or a bit
of perfect porcelain. All his short life his father had trained him to
look for and acclaim quality, whether in things animate or inanimate. He
caught hold of Scaife's arm.
"Make an ass of himself!" he whispered back. "Not he. But he may make an
ass of me."
Even as he spoke he was aware that tears were horribly near his eyes.
Some catch in John's voice, some subtle inflection, had smitten his
heart, even as the prophet smote the rock.
"Rot!" said Scaife, angrily.
He was angry, furiously angry, because he saw that Caesar was beyond his
reach, whirled innumerable leagues away by the sound of another's voice.
John had begun the second verse. He stared, as if hypnotized, straight
into the face of the great soldier, who in turn stared as steadily at
John; and John was singing like a lark, with a lark's spontaneous
delight in singing, with an ease and self-abandonment which charmed eye
almost as much as ear. Higher and higher rose the clear, sexless notes,
till two of them met and mingled in a triumphant trill. To Desmond, that
trill was the answer to the quavering, troubled cadences of the first
verse; the vindication of the spirit soaring upwards unfettered by the
flesh--the pure spirit, not released from the pitiful human clay without
a fierce struggle. At that moment Desmond loved the singer--the singer
who called to him out of heaven, who summoned his friend to join him, to
see what he saw--"the vision splendid."
John began the third and last verse. The famous soldier covered his face
with his hand, releasing John's eyes, which ascended, like his voice,
till they met joyfully the eyes of Desmond. At last he was singing to
his friend--_and his friend knew it_. John saw Desmond's radiant smile,
and across that ocean of faces he smiled back. Then, knowing that he was
nearer to his friend than he had ever been before, he gathered together
his energies for the last line of the song--a line to be repeated three
times, loudly at first, then more softly, diminishing to the merest
whisper of sound, the voice celestial melting away in the ear of
earth-bound mortals. The master knew well the supreme difficulty of
producing properly this last attenuated note; but he knew also that
John's lungs were strong, that the vocal chords had never been strained.
Still, if the boy's breath failed; if anything--a smile, a frown, a
cough--distracted his attention, the end would be--weakness, failure. He
wondered why John was staring so fixedly in one direction.
Now--now!
The piano crashed out the last line; but far above it, dominating it,
floated John's flute-like notes. The master played the same bars for the
second time. He was still able to sustain, if it were necessary, a
quavering, imperfect phrase. But John delivered the second repetition
without a mistake, singing easily from the chest. The master put his
foot upon the soft pedal. Nobody was watching him. Had any one done so,
he would have seen the perspiration break upon the musician's forehead.
The piano purred its accompaniment. Then, in the middle of the phrase,
the master lifted his hands and held them poised above the instrument.
John had to sing three notes unsupported. He was smiling and staring at
Desmond. The first note came like a question from the heart of a child;
the second, higher up, might have been interpreted as an echo to the
innocent interrogation of the first, the head no wiser than the heart;
but the third and last note had nothing in it of interrogation: it was
an answer, all-satisfying--sublime. Nor did it seem to come from John at
all, but from above, falling like a snowflake out of the sky.
And then, for one immeasurable moment--_silence_.
John slipped back to his seat, crimson with bashfulness, while the
School thundered applause. The Field Marshal shouted "Encore," as loudly
as any fag; but the Head Master whispered--
"We don't encourage _encores_. A small boy's head is easily turned."
"Not his," the hero replied.
Two numbers followed, and then the School stood up, and with them all
Old Harrovians, to sing the famous National Anthem of Harrow, "Forty
Years on." Only the guests and the masters remained seated.
"Forty years on, growing older and older,
Shorter in wind, as in memory long,
Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder,
What will it help you that once you were strong?
God give us bases to guard or beleaguer,
Games to play out, whether earnest or fun;
Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager,
Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on!
Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up!
Till the field ring again and again,
With the tramp of the twenty-two men.
Follow--up!"
As the hundreds of voices, past and present indissolubly linked
together, imposed the mandate, "_Follow up!_" the Head Master glanced at
his guest, but left unsaid the words about to be uttered. Tears were
trickling down the cheeks of the man who, forty years before, had won
his Sovereign's Cross--For Valour.
* * * * *
After the concert, but before he left the Speech-room, the Field Marshal
asked the Head Master to introduce Lawrence and John, and, of course,
the Head of the School. When John came up, there was a twinkle in the
veteran's eye.
"Ha--ha!" said he; "you were in a precious funk, John Verney."
"I was, sir," said John.
"Gad! Don't I know the feeling? Well, well," he chuckled, smiling at
John, "you climbed up higher than I've ever been in my life. What was
it--hey? 'F' in 'alt'?"
"'G,' sir."
"You sang delightfully. Tell your uncle to bring you to see me next time
you are in town. You must consider me a friend," he chuckled again--"an
old friend. And look ye here," his pleasant voice sank to a whisper, "I
daren't tip these tremendous swells, but I feel that I can take such a
liberty with you. Shush-h-h! Good-bye."
John scurried away, bursting with pride, feeling to the core the strong
grip of the strong man, hearing the thrill of his voice, the thrill
which had vibrated in thousands of soldier-hearts. Outside, Fluff was
awaiting him.
"Oh, Jonathan, you can sing, and no mistake."
"Five--six--seven mistakes," John answered.
The boys laughed.
John told Fluff what the hero had said to him, and showed the piece of
gold.
"What ho! The Creameries! Come on, Esme."
At the Creameries several boys congratulated John, and the Caterpillar
said--
"You astonished us, Jonathan; 'pon my soul you did. Have a 'dringer'
with me? And Fluff, too? By the way, be sure to keep your hair clipped
close. These singing fellows with manes may be lions in their own
estimation, but the world looks upon 'em as asses."
"That's not bad for you, Caterpillar," said a boy in the Fifth.
"Not my own," said the Caterpillar, solemnly--"my father's. I take from
him all the good things I can get hold of."
John polished off his "dringer," listening to the chaff, but his
thoughts were with Desmond. He had an intuition that Desmond would have
something to say to him. As soon as possible he returned to the Manor.
There he found his room empty. John shut the door and sat down, looking
about him half-absently. The Duffer had not contributed much to the
mural decoration, saying, loftily, that he preferred bare walls to
rubbishy engravings and Japanese fans. But, with curious inconsistency
(for he was the least vain of mortals), he had bought at a "leaving
auction" a three-sided mirror--once the property of a great buck in the
Sixth. The Duffer had got it cheap, but he never used it. The lower boys
remarked to each other that Duff didn't dare to look in it, because what
he would see must not only break his heart but shatter the glass.
Generally, it hung, folded up, close to the window, and the Duffer said
that it would come in handy when he took to shaving.
John's eye rested on this mirror, vacantly at first, then with gathering
intensity. Presently he got up, crossed the room, opened the two
folding panels, and examined himself attentively, pursing up his lips
and frowning. He could see John Verney full face, three-quarter face,
and half-face. And he could see the back of his head, where an obstinate
lock of hair stuck out like a drake's tail. John was so occupied in
taking stock of his personal disadvantages that a ringing laugh quite
startled him.
"Why, Jonathan! Giving yourself a treat--eh?"
John turned a solemn face to Desmond. "I think my head is hideous," he
said ruefully.
"What do you mean?"
"It's too long," John explained. "I like a nice round head like yours,
Caesar. I wish I wasn't so ugly."
Desmond laughed. John always amused him. Caesar was easily amused, saw
the funny side of things, and contrasts tickled his fancy agreeably. But
he stopped laughing when he realized that John was hurt. Then, quickly,
impulsively, he said--
"Your head is all right, old Jonathan. And your voice is simply
beautiful." He spoke seriously, staring at John as he had stared in the
Speech-room when John began to sing. "I came here to tell you that. I
felt odd when you were singing--quite weepsy, you know. You like me, old
Jonathan, don't you?"
"Awfully," said John.
"Why did you look at me when you sang that last verse? Did you know that
you were looking at me?"
"Yes."
"You looked at me because--well, because--bar chaff--you--liked--me?"
"Yes."
"You--you like me better than any other fellow in the school?"
"Yes; better than any other fellow in the world."
"Is it possible?"
"I have always felt that way since--yes--since the very first minute I
saw you."
"How rum! I've forgotten just where we did meet--for the first time."
"I shall never forget," said John, in the same slow, deliberate fashion,
never taking his eyes from Desmond's face. Ever since he had sung, he
had known that this moment was coming. "I shall never forget it," he
repeated--"never. You were standing near the Chapel. I was poking about
alone, trying to find the shop where we buy our straws. And I was
feeling as all new boys feel, only more so, because I didn't know a
soul."
"Yes," said Desmond, gravely; "you told me that. I remember now; I
mistook you for young Hardacre."
"You smiled at me, Caesar. It warmed me through and through. I suppose
that when a fellow is starving he never forgets the first meal after
it."
"I say. Go on; this is awfully interesting."
"I can remember what you wore. One of your bootlaces had burst----"
"Well; I'm----"
"I had a wild sort of wish to run off and buy you a new lace----"
"Of all the rum starts I----"
"Afterwards," John continued, "I tried to suck-up. I asked you to come
and have some 'food.' Do you remember?"
"I'll bet I came, Jonathan."
"No; you didn't. You said 'No.'"
"Dash it all! I certainly said, 'No thanks.'"
"I dare say; but the 'No' hurt awfully because I did feel that it was
cheek asking you."
"Jonathan, you funny old buster, I'll never say 'No' again. 'Pon my
word, I won't. So I said 'No.' That's odd, because it's not easy for me
to say 'No.' The governor pointed that out last hols. Somehow, I can't
say 'No,' particularly if there's any excitement in saying 'Yes.' And my
beastly 'No' hurt, did it? Well, I'm very, _very_ sorry."
He held out his hand, which John took. Then, for a moment, there was a
pause before Desmond continued awkwardly--
"You know, Jonathan, that the Demon is my pal. You like him better than
you did, don't you?"
John had the tact not to speak; but he shook his head dolefully.
"And I couldn't chuck him, even if I wanted to, which I don't--which I
don't," he repeated, with an air of satisfying himself rather than John.
And John divined that Scaife's hold upon Desmond's affections was not so
strong as he had deemed it to be. Desmond continued, "But I want you,
too, old Jonathan, and if--if----"
"All right," said John, nobly. He perceived that Desmond's loyalty to
Scaife made him hesitate and flush. "I understand, Caesar, and if I can't
be first, let me be second; only, remember, with me you're first, rain
or shine."
Desmond looked uneasy. "Isn't that a case of 'heads I win, tails you
lose'?"
John considered; then he smiled cheerfully, "You know you are a winner,
Caesar. You're cut out for a winner; you can win whatever you want to
win."
"Oh, that's all rot," said Desmond. He looked very grave, and in his
eyes lay shadows which John had never seen before.
And so ended John's first year at Harrow.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] All Public Houses are out of bounds.