_Verney Boscobel_
"In honour of all who believe that life was made for friendship."
The immediate result of the incident described in the last chapter was
to strengthen the bond between John and Desmond. Desmond had the epic
from Fluff, from the Caterpillar, and finally from John himself.
"You bearded that poisonous beast in his den," exclaimed he; "you
plotted and planned for the scrimmage; you foresaw what would happen.
Well, you are a corker, Jonathan."
"You'd have thought of something much better."
"Not I," Desmond replied.
Scaife, however, made no remarks. Possibly, because Desmond made too
many, singing John's praises behind his back and to his face, in and out
of season. This, of course, was indiscreet, and led to hard words and
harder feelings. Beaumont-Greene realized that John had tarred and
feathered him. The fags, you may be sure, rubbed the tar in. If
Beaumont-Greene threatened to kick an impudent Fourth Form boy, that
youngster would bid him be careful.
"If you don't behave yourself," he would say, "I shall have to send
Verney to your room."
Lovell senior remarked that Beaumont-Greene was a "swine," but that
Verney had put on "lift" and must be snubbed. What? A boy who had not
been two years in the school _dared_ to take the law into his own hands!
The matter ought to have been laid before the Head of the House.
Accordingly, John found himself, much to his dismay, unpopular with the
Olympians. The last month of this term was, in some ways, the most
disagreeable he had yet spent at Harrow.
But the gain of Desmond's friendship far outweighed the loss of
popularity. John tingled with pleasure when he reflected that he had
achieved his ambition to stand between Scaife and Desmond. At the same
time, he was uncomfortably aware that Scaife seemed to have climbed high
above Desmond, who had stood still. In moments of depression John told
himself that he was a makeshift, that Desmond would leave him and join
the Demon whenever that splendid young person chose to whistle him up.
Scaife had failed to get his Football Flannels, but he came so near to
beating all previous records that the School began to regard him as a
"Blood." He was seen arm-in-arm with Lovell, strolling up and down the
High Street, and the fags breathlessly repeated what Desmond had
predicted a year ago: the Demon was the coming man. And always, when
John and Desmond passed him, John thought he could read a derisive
triumph upon the Demon's handsome face, an expression which said
plainly: "You young fool, don't you know that I'm playing cat and mouse
with _you_?"
The three still met twice daily to prepare work. But the moment that was
done, Scaife disappeared, leaving John and Desmond together.
"He's playing bridge in Lovell's room," said Desmond.
More facts were gleaned from the Caterpillar, who had joined the
bridge-players, but played seldom.
"One draws the line," said he, "at playing for stakes one can't afford
to lose. Lovell and the Demon have made it too hot."
"And Warde will make it hotter," said John.
"Not he," replied the Caterpillar. "The Demon is a wonder. Thanks to his
brains, detection is impossible. He suggested that Lovell's room should
be used. Warde wouldn't dare to burst in upon one of the Sixth. And you
ought to see their dodgy arrangements. Lovell has his young brother on
guard. I'm hanged if the Demon didn't invent a sort of drill, which they
go through with a stop-watch. It's a star performance, I tell you. Young
Lovell bolts in. In thirty-five seconds--they have got it down to
that--the cards and markers are hidden; and the four of 'em are jawing
away about footer."
"All the same," said John, obstinately, "Warde will be too much for
'em."
"Oh, rot!" said the Caterpillar.
The Manor got into the semi-finals of the football matches, and when the
School broke up for the Christmas holidays it was generally conceded
that the fortunes of the ancient house were mending. In the Manor itself
Warde's influence was hardly yet perceptible: only a very few knew that
it was diffusing itself, percolating into nooks and crevices undreamed
of: the hearts of the Fourth Form, for instance. In Dirty Dick's time
there had been almost universal slackness. In pupil-room Rutford read a
book; boys could work or not as they pleased, provided their tutor was
not disturbed. Warde, on the other hand, made it a point of honour to
work with his pupils. His indefatigable energies, his good humour, his
patience, were never so conspicuous as when he was coaching duffers. In
other ways he made the boys realize that he was at the Manor for their
advantage, not his own. The gardens and park were kept strictly private
by Dirty Dick. Warde threw them open: a favour hardly appreciated in the
whiter quarter, but the House admitted that it would be awfully jolly in
the summer to lie under the trees far from the "crowd." In a word--a
"privilege."
Upon the last Saturday, to John's delight, Desmond asked him to spend a
week in Eaton Square. John had paid two visits to White Ladies; he was
now about to experience something entirely new. White Ladies and Verney
Boscobel were typical of the past; they illustrated the history of the
families who had inhabited them. The great world went to White Ladies to
see the pictures and the gardens, the Gobelin tapestries, the Duchess
and her guests; but the same world dined in Eaton Square to see Charles
Desmond.
During this visit, our John first learned what miracles one individual
may accomplish. At White Ladies, he had dimly perceived, as has been
said, the duties and responsibilities imposed upon rank and wealth. In
Eaton Square he saw more plainly the duties and responsibilities imposed
upon a man of great talents. Both Charles Desmond and the Duke of Trent
were hard workers, but the labours of the duke seemed to John (and to
other wise persons) drab-coloured. Charles Desmond's work, in contrast,
presented all the colours of the spectrum. John left White Ladies,
thanking his stars that he was not a duke; he came away from Eaton
Square filled with the ambition to be Private Secretary to the great
Minister. And when Mr. Desmond said to him with his genial smile, "Well,
young John, Harry, I hope, will be my secretary, and the crutch of my
declining years. But what would you like to be?" John replied fervently,
"Oh, sir, I should like to be Harry's understudy."
"Would you?"
And then John saw the face of his kind host change. The smile faded. Mr.
Desmond had taken his answer as John meant it to be taken--seriously. He
examined John as if he were already a candidate for office. The piercing
eyes probed deep. Then he said slowly, "I should like to have you under
me, John. We shall talk of this again, my boy. My own sons----" He
paused, sighed, and then laughed, tapping John's cheek with his slender,
finely-formed fingers. But he passed on without finishing his sentence.
John knew that, of Caesar's brothers, Hugo, the eldest, was Secretary of
Legation at Teheran; Bill "devilled" for a famous barrister; Lionel wore
her Majesty's livery. Strange that none had elected to serve his own
father! Caesar explained later.
"You see," he said, "the dear old governor outshines everybody. Hugo
and the others felt that under him they would be in eclipse, for ever
and ever--eh?"
"I see," said John, gravely. "Yes, there's something in that. He wants
you, Caesar."
"Dear old governor!" the other replied. "Yes--he's keen on that. But I
hope to make my own little mark. I'd like to have my name on a brass
tablet in Harrow Chapel; that would be something." His eyes began to
glow and sparkle.
Next day, at dinner, Rodney's name cropped up.
"Rodney paved the way for Nelson," Mr. Desmond observed. "I look upon
him as one of our greatest Harrovians. We ought to have a building to
Rodney's memory. I put him before Peel or Byron."
"Oh, I say, father----" Hot protest from Caesar.
"Act before word, Harry; practice before precept. Rodney was a man of
action. I should like to have been Rodney."
"I should like to have been Sheridan," said Caesar. "I often look at his
name on the third panel of the Fourth Form Room."
He glanced at his father, who smiled, knowing that a delicate compliment
was intended, for enthusiastic admirers had spoken of Charles Desmond as
the Richard Brinsley Sheridan of the modern House of Commons. The father
said curtly--
"A sky-rocket, my dear Harry." Then he turned to John. "And of all our
famous Harrovians whom would you like to take as a pattern, young John?"
John hesitated. Two or three of the guests present were celebrities.
Amongst them was England's greatest critic sitting beside an ambassador.
There happened to be a lull in the talk. All looked curiously at John.
"I'd like to be another Lord Shaftesbury," he said slowly.
"Good! Capital!" Mr. Desmond nodded his head. "I knew him well." He
poured out anecdote after anecdote illustrating the character and
temperament of the statesman-philanthropist: his self-sacrifice, his
devotion to an ideal, his curious exclusiveness, his refinement, his
faith in an aristocracy never diminished by the indefatigable zeal
wherein he laboured to better the condition of the poor. "If every rich
man were animated by Shaftesbury's spirit," said Mr. Desmond, in
conclusion, "extreme poverty would be wiped out of England, and yet we
should retain all that makes life charming and profitable. He was no
leveller, save of foul rookeries. First and last he believed in order,
particularly his own--a true nobleman. And the inspiration of his great
career came to him on the Hill."
"Indeed?" said the Critic.
"John Verney will tell you all about it," said Mr. Desmond, glancing
cheerily at our hero. His was ever the habit to draw out the humblest of
his guests.
So John recited how young Anthony Ashley, standing on the Hill, just
below the churchyard, chanced to see a pauper's coffin fall to the
ground and burst open, revealing the pitiful corpse within, and how he
had exclaimed in horror, "Good heavens! Can this be permitted simply
because the man was poor and friendless?" And how, then and there, the
boy had sworn to devote his powers to the amelioration of
poverty-stricken lives.
"Yes," said Mr. Desmond. "He told me that the next fifteen minutes
decided his career. Ah, he succeeded greatly. Why, when I was at Harrow
we used to cross from Waterloo to Euston through some of the worst slums
in the world. You boys can't realize what they looked like. And
Shaftesbury's work and example wiped them out of our civilization."[27]
When John returned to his uncle's house of Verney Boscobel (his home
since his father's death), Caesar Desmond accompanied him. Then it seemed
to John that his cup brimmed, that everything he desired had been
granted unto him. Verney Boscobel stood in the heart of the great
forest, one of the few large manors within that splendid demesne. The
boys arrived at Lyndhurst Road Station late in the evening, long after
dusk, and were driven in darkness through Bartley and Minstead up to the
high-lying moors of Stoneycross. Next morning, early, John woke his
friend, and opened the shutters.
"Jolly morning," he said. "Have a look at the Forest, old chap."
Caesar jumped out of bed, and drew a long breath.
"Ah!" he exclaimed; "it's fairyland."
Frost had silvered all things below. Above, motionless upon the blue
heavens, as if still frozen by the icy fingers of a December night, were
some aerial transparencies of aqueous vapour, amethystine in colour,
with edges of white foam. In the east, obscured, but not concealed, by
grey mist, hung the crimson orb of the sun. From it faint rays shot
forth, touching the clouds beneath, which, roused, so to speak, out of
sleep, drifted lethargically in a southerly direction.
"Underneath the young grey dawn
A multitude of dense, white, fleecy clouds
Were wandering in thick flocks, ...
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind."
Desmond drew in his breath, sighing with purest delight. From the lawns
encompassing the house his eyes strayed into a glade of bracken, gold
gleaming through silver--a glade shadowed by noble oaks and beeches,
with one birch tree in the middle of it surpassingly graceful. Upon this
each delicate bough and spray were outlined sharply against the sky.
Beyond the glade stretched the moor, rugged, bleak, and treeless,
sloping sharply upward. Beyond the moor lay the Forest--belts of firs
darkly purple; and flanking these the irregular masses of oaks and
beeches, varying in tint from palest lavender to rose and brown, some
still in shadow, some in ever-increasing glow of sunlight; not one the
same and each in itself containing a thousand differing forms, yet all
harmonious parts of the resplendent whole.
"I'm so glad you like my home," said John. "Shall we have a gallop
before breakfast? It's only a white frost."
So they galloped away into fairyland, returning with mortal appetites to
the oak-panelled dining-hall, whence a Verney had ridden forth to join
his kinsman, Sir Edmund, in arms for the King upon the distant field of
Edge Hill. After breakfast the boys explored the quaint old house; and
John showed Caesar the twenty-bore gun, and promised his guest much
rabbit-shooting, and two days' hunting, at least, with the New Forest
Hounds, and some pike-fishing, and possibly an encounter with a big
grayling--which, later, the boys saw walloping about in the Test above
Broadlands--a splendid fish, once hooked by John, and lost--a
three-pounder, of course.
O golden age! You will never forget that Christmas--will you, John? If
you live to be Prime Minister of England, the memory of those first days
alone with your friend will remain green when the colour has been sucked
by Time out of everything else. Fifty years hence, maybe, you will see
Caesar's curly head and his blue eyes full of fun and life, and you will
hear his joyous laughter--peal upon peal--echoing through the corridors
of Verney Boscobel. Your mother took him to her heart--didn't she? And
all the servants, from butler to scullery maid, voted him the jolliest,
cheeriest boy that ever came to Hampshire. Why, Mrs. Osman, the cook,
with a temper like tinder from too much heat, refused flatly to let
Caesar make toffee in her kitchen. But just then a barrel-organ turned
up, and before she could open her mouth, Caesar was dancing a polka with
her; and after that he could make toffee, or hay, or anything else,
wherever and whenever he pleased.
When they returned to the Manor, John hoped and prayed that this blessed
intimacy would continue. It did--for a time. The three boys got their
remove, and found themselves in the Second Fifth, where they proposed to
linger till after the summer term. Lovell and Scaife seemed inseparable,
and bridge began again, apparently an inexhaustible source of amusement
and excitement. Then came the Torpid matches; and John, as Lawrence
predicted, was captain of the cock-house Eleven--the first great victory
of the Manorites. During the term, Scaife and Desmond won no races,
being in age betwixt and between winners of Upper and Lower School
races. Scaife refused to train. Desmond took a few runs, but abandoned
them for racquets, the chief game in the Easter term, but only played
regularly by boys whose purses are well lined. John confined his
attention to "Squash." Caesar played "Harder" with the Demon. The three
worked together as of yore. John now perceived that Scaife had joined a
clique pledged to fight Reform. It was in the air that something might
happen. Warde eyed the big fellows shrewdly, as if measuring weapons. He
confounded some by asking them to dine with him. At dessert he would
talk of sport, or games, or politics--everything, in fine, except
"shop." The more worthy came away from these pleasant evenings with
rather a hangdog expression, as if they had been receiving goods under
false pretences. John and Desmond were made especially welcome. And,
after dinner, John, whose voice had not yet cracked, would sing, to Mrs.
Warde's accompaniment, such songs as "O Bay of Dublin, my heart yu're
throublin'," or "Think of me sometimes," or Handel's "Where'er you
walk." The Caterpillar made no secret of a passion for Iris Warde, and
became a dangerous rival of one of the younger masters. He talked to
Warde about genealogies and hunting, topics of conversation in which
they had a common interest outside Harrow. John guessed that Warde was
making an effort to secure Egerton, who, for his part, took the world
as he found it, consorting alike with John and his friends, and also
with Lovell and Co. From the Caterpillar John learned that
Beaumont-Greene had begun to play bridge.
"Scaife and Lovell are skinning the beast," he added confidentially.
"Green he is, and no error."
"Ructions soon," said John.
"I don't believe it," replied the Caterpillar. "Take my word, Warde
knows what he's about. He's playing up to the younger members of the
house--you, Caesar, and you, Jonathan--and he's letting the others
slide."
"Giving 'em rope," said John, "to hang 'emselves."
"Well, now, there's something in that. That hadn't occurred to me. What?
You think that he's eggin' 'em on, eh? Eggin' 'em on!"
"I think that, if I were you, Caterpillar, I'd cut loose from that
gang."
"They've made it rather warm for you."
"I don't care a hang about that."
As a matter of fact, John's life had been made very unpleasant by the
fast set. Upon the other hand, the Duffer, Fluff, and many Lower School
boys reckoned him their leader and adviser. And--such is the irony of
Fate--John's popularity with friends caused him more anxiety than
unpopularity with enemies. Towards the end of the term, Desmond spoke of
applying to Warde for a certain room to be shared by himself and John.
John had to decline an arrangement desired passionately, because he had
indiscreetly promised not to chuck the Duffer. Caesar dropped the
subject. After this, John noticed a slight coldness. He wondered whether
Caesar were jealous, jealousy being John's own besetting sin. Finally, he
came to the conclusion that his friend might be not jealous but
unreasonable. In any case, during the last three weeks of the term, John
saw less of Caesar, and more--more, indeed, than he wanted--of the Duffer
and Fluff.
And then came the paralysing news that Desmond had promised to spend ten
days with Scaife's people, that a Professional had been hired, and that
both boys were going to give their undivided energies to cricket.
Afterwards, John often wondered whether Scaife, with truly demoniac
insight into Desmond's character, had let him go, so as to seize him
with more tenacious grasp when an opportunity presented itself.
* * * * *
As soon as John saw Caesar after the Easter holidays, he knew that,
temporarily, at any rate, he had lost his friend. Caesar, indeed, was
demonstratively glad to see him, and dragged him off next day to walk to
a certain bridge where a few short weeks before the boys had carved
their names upon the wooden railing, surrounding them with a circle and
the Crossed Arrows. But Caesar could talk of nothing else but Scaife and
cricket. They had both "come on" tremendously. Scaife's people had a
splendid cricket-ground.
Poor John! If he could have submerged the Scaife cricket-ground and the
Scaife family by nodding his head, I fear that he would have nodded it,
although he told himself that he was an ungenerous beast and cad not to
sympathize with his pal.
And before the boys got back to the Manor, Caesar said, not without a
blush, that he had learned to play bridge.
"I shall teach you, Jonathan."
"No."
"I say--yes."
"You're not going to play with Lovell and that beast Beaumont-Greene?"
"The Demon says no cards this term, when lock-up's late. And look here,
Jonathan, I've made the Demon promise to make the peace between Lovell
and you. You'll play for the House, of course, and we must all pull
together, as Warde says."
John might have smiled at this opportune mention of Warde, but sense of
humour was swamped in apprehension. Desmond went on to talk about
Scaife.
"He'll make 'em sit up, you see! The 'pro.' we had is the finest
cover-point in England. I never saw such a chap. He dashes at the ball.
Hit it as hard as you please, he runs in, picks it up, and snaps it back
to the wicket-keeper as easy as if he was playing pitch and toss. And,
by Jove! the Demon can do it. You wait. I never saw any fellow like him.
He's only just sixteen, and he'll get his Flannels. You needn't shake
your old head, I know he will. And we must work like blazes to get ours
next summer."
John discounted much of this talk, but he soon found out that Caesar had
not overestimated the Demon's activity. The draw at Lord's in the
previous summer had been attributed, by such experts as Webbe and
Hornby, to bad fielding. The Demon told John, with his hateful, derisive
smile, that he had remembered this when he selected a "pro." Not for the
first time, John realized Scaife's overpowering ability to achieve his
own ends. Who, but Scaife, would have made fielding the principal object
of his holiday practice?
Within a fortnight, Scaife was put into the Sixth Form game. Desmond
found himself--thanks to Scaife--playing in the First Fifth game; but
John was placed in Second Fifth Beta. Fortunately, he found an ally in
Warde, who had a private pitch in the small park surrounding the Manor,
where he coached the weaker players of his House. John told himself that
he ought to get his "cap"; but, as the weeks slipped by, despite several
creditable performances, he became aware that the "cap" was withheld,
although it had been given to Fluff. There were five vacancies in the
House Eleven, but, according to precedent, these need not be filled up
till after the last House-match, and possibly not even then. In a word,
John might play for the House, and even distinguish himself, without
receiving the coveted distinction. How sore John felt!
About the end of May he noticed that something was amiss with Caesar.
Generally they walked together on Sunday, but not always. During these
walks, as has been said, Caesar did most of the talking. Now, of a
sudden, he became a half-hearted listener, and to John's repeated
question, "What's up?" he would reply irritably, "Oh, don't
bother--nothing."
Finally, John heard from the Caterpillar that Caesar was playing bridge,
and losing.
"They don't play often," the Caterpillar added; "but on wet afternoons
they make up for lost time. Caesar is outclassed. I've told him, but he's
mad keen about the game."
Later, John learned from the same source that Sunday afternoon was a
bridge-fixture with Lovell and Co. At any rate, Caesar did not play on
Sunday. That was something.
Upon the following Saturday, after making an honest fifteen runs and
taking three wickets in a closely-contested game, John was running into
the Yard just before six Bill, when Lovell stopped him.
"You can get your 'cap,'" he said coldly.
"Oh, thanks; thanks awfully!"
Caesar received this agreeable news with indifference.
"You ought to have had it before Fluff," he growled.
"To-morrow, we'll walk to John Lyon's farm," said John, eagerly.
"Engaged," Caesar replied.
"Oh, Caesar, you're--you're----"
"Well?"
"You're going to play bridge?"
"Yes. What of it? It's only once in a way. I _do_ bar cards on Sunday;
but there are reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Reasons which--er--I'll keep to myself."
"All right," said John, stiffly, but with a breaking heart.
Next day he asked Fluff to walk with him, but Fluff was walking with
some one else. The Duffer had letters to write, and stigmatized walking
as a beastly grind. John determined to walk by himself; but as he was
leaving the Manor he met the Caterpillar, a tremendous buck, arrayed in
his best--patent-leather boots, white waistcoat, a flower in his
buttonhole.
"Where are you off to, Jonathan?"
"To Preston. You'd better come, Caterpillar."
"I never walk far in these boots. Peal made 'em."
"Change 'em, can't you?"
"Right."
While he was absent, John seriously considered the propriety of taking
Egerton into his confidence. Sincerely attached to Egerton, and valuing
his advice, he knew, none the less, that the Caterpillar looked at
everybody and everything with the eyes of a colonel in the Guards. To
tell Colonel Egerton's son that one's heart was lacerated because Caesar
Desmond was playing bridge on Sunday seemed to invite jeers. And,
besides, that wasn't the real reason. John felt wretched because the
Sunday walk had been sacrificed to Moloch. Presently Egerton came
downstairs, spick and span, but not quite so smart. The boys walked
quickly, talking of cricket.
"The Demon'll get his Flannels," said Egerton. "I'm glad Lovell gave you
your cap, Jonathan; you deserved it a month ago. It wasn't my fault you
didn't get it at the beginning of the term."
"I'm sure of that," said John, gratefully.
"You don't look particularly bucked-up. A grin improves your face, my
dear fellow."
At this John burst into explosive speech. Those beasts had got hold of
Caesar. The Caterpillar stared; he had never heard John let himself go.
John's vocabulary surprised him.
"Whew-w-w!" he whistled. "Gad! Jonathan, you do pile on the agony.
Caesar's all right. Don't worry."
"He's not all right. I thought Caesar had backbone, I----"
"Hold on," said the Caterpillar, gravely.
John thought he was about to be rebuked for disloyalty to a pal, an
abominable sin in the Caterpillar's eyes.
"Well?" said John.
"I'm going to tell you something," said Egerton. "But you must swear not
to give me away."
"I'll swear."
"You're a good little cove, Jonathan, but sometimes you smell just a
little bit of--er--bread and butter. Keep cool. Personally, I would
sooner that you, at your age, did smell of bread and butter than whisky.
Well, you think that Caesar is going straight to the bow-wows because he
plays bridge. You accuse him in your own little mind of feebleness, and
so forth. Yes, just so. And it's doosid unfair to Caesar, because he's
given up his walk to-day entirely on your account. Ah! I thought that
would make you sit up."
"My account?" John repeated blankly.
"Yes; Caesar would be furious if he knew that I was peaching, but he
won't know, and instead of this--er--trifling affair weakening your good
opinion of your pal, it will strengthen it."
"Oh, do go on, Caterpillar."
"Yesterday I was in Lovell's room. We were talking of the first House
match. Scaife and Caesar were there. I took it upon myself to say you
ought to be given your 'cap'; and then Caesar burst out, 'Oh yes, Lovell,
do give him his "cap." If you knew how he'd slaved to earn it.' But
Lovell only laughed. And then Scaife chipped in, 'Look here, Caesar,' he
said, 'do I understand that you put this thing, which after all is none
of your business or mine, as a favour which Lovell might do _you_?' And
Caesar answered, 'You can put it that way, if you like, Demon.' And then
Scaife laughed. I don't like Scaife's laugh, Jonathan."
"I loathe it," said John.
"Well, when Scaife laughed, Lovell looked first at him and then at
Caesar. It came to me that Lovell was primed to say something. At any
rate, he turned to Caesar, and said slowly, 'Tit for tat. If I do this
for you, will you do something for me?' And Caesar spoke up as usual,
without a second's hesitation, 'Of course I will.' And then Scaife
laughed again, just as Lovell said, 'All right, I'll give Verney his
"cap" before tea, and you will make a fourth at bridge with us to-morrow
afternoon.'"
"Oh, oh!" groaned John.
"Dash it all, don't look so wretched. There's not much more. Caesar
hesitated a moment. Then he said quietly enough, 'Done!' Personally, I
don't think Lovell was playing--well--cricket, but I do know that he
wanted a fourth at bridge, because I'd just refused to make that fourth
myself. They play too high for me."
"It's awfully good of you to have told me this."
"Pray don't mention it! Hullo! What's up now?"
John's face was very red, and his fists were clenched.
"Nothing," he gasped. "Only this--I'd like to kill Scaife. I'd like to
cut off his infernal head."
The Caterpillar laughed indulgently. "Jonathan, you're a rum 'un. You
think it wicked to play cards on Sunday; but you would like"--he
imitated John's trembling, passionate voice--"you would like to cut off
Scaife's infernal head."
"Yes--I would," said John.
That same week he had a memorable talk with Warde; recorded because it
illustrates Warde's methods, and because, ultimately, it came to be
regarded by John as the turning-point of his intellectual life. Since he
had taken the Lower Remove, John's energies of mind and body had been
concentrated upon improving himself at games. Vaguely aware that some of
the School-prizes were within his grasp, he had not deemed them worth
the winning. To him, therefore, Warde abruptly began--
"You pride yourself upon being straight--eh, Verney?"
"Why, yes," said John, meeting Warde's blue eyes not without misgiving.
"Well, to me, you're about as straight as a note of interrogation. I
never see you without saying to myself, 'Is Verney going to bury his
talents in the cricket-ground?'"
"Oh!"
"Some parents, too many of them, send their boys here to make a few nice
friends, to play games, to scrape up the School with a remove once a
year. That, I take it, is not what Mrs. Verney wants?"
"N--no, sir."
"You ought to be in the Sixth--and you know it. Twice, or oftener, you
have deliberately taken things easy, because you wanted a soft time of
it during the summer term, and because you wished to remain in the same
form with Desmond, who, intellectually, is your--inferior. Is that
square dealing with your people?"
John was silent, but red of countenance. Warde went on, more
vehemently--
"I know all about your co-operative system of work. I have a harder name
for it. And I know just what you can do, and I want to see you do it,
for your own sake, for the sake of Mrs. Verney, and for the Hill's sake.
I've pushed you on at cricket a bit, haven't I? Yes. You owe me
something. Pay up by entering for a School-prize, and winning it!"
"A School-prize?"
"Yes; Lord Charles Russell's Shakespeare Medal. The exam. is next
October. I'll coach you. Is it a bargain?"
He held out his hand, staring frankly, but piercingly, into John's eyes.
"All right, sir," said John, after a pause. "I'll try."
"And buck up for your remove."
John smiled feebly, and sighed.
FOOTNOTES:
[27] There is a tablet on the wall of the Old Schools which bears the
following inscription:--Near this spot ANTHONY ASHLEY COOPER Afterwards
the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, K.G. While yet a boy in Harrow School Saw
with shame and indignation The pauper's funeral Which helped to awaken
his lifelong Devotion to the service of the poor And the oppressed.