"Sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid
you."
Othello, act 1, scene 1.
When chapel was over, Walter, having brushed his hair, and made himself
rather neater and more spruce than a schoolboy usually is at the middle
of a long half, went to Mr Percival's room. Mr Percival, having been
detained, had not yet come in; but Henderson, Kenrick, and Power, who
had also been asked to tea, were there waiting for him when Walter
arrived, and Henderson, as usual, amusing the others and himself with a
flood of mimicry and nonsense.
"You know that mischievous little Penkridge," said Kenrick; "he nearly
had an accident this morning. We were in the classroom, and Edwards was
complaining of the bad smell of the room--"
"Bad smell!" interrupted Henderson, "I'll bet you what you like Edwards
didn't say bad smell. _He's_ not the man to call a spade a spade; he
calls it an agricultural implement for the trituration of the soil."
"Why, what _should_ he say?" asked Kenrick, "if he didn't say `bad
smell'?"
"Why, `What a malodorous effluvium!'" said Henderson, imitating exactly
the master's somewhat drawling tone; "`what a con-cen-trra-ted malarious
miasma; what an unendurable'--I say Power, give us the Greek, or Hebrew,
or Kamschatkan, for `smell.'"
"Odwde," suggested Power.
"That's it to a T," said Henderson; "I bet you he observed, `What an
un-en-duu-rrable osus.' Now, didn't he? Confess the truth."
"Well, I believe he did say something of the kind," said Kenrick,
laughing; "at least I know he called it Stygian and Tartarean. But, as
I was saying, he set Penkridge (who happened to be going round with the
lists) to examine the cupboards, and see if by chance some inopportune
rat had died there; and Penkridge, opening one of them where the floor
was very rotten, and poking about with his foot, knocked a great piece
of plaster off the great schoolroom ceiling, and was as nearly as
possible putting his foot through it."
"Fancy if he had," said Walter, "how astonished we should have been down
below. I say, Henderson, what _would_ Paton have said?"
"Oh! Paton," said Henderson, delighted with any opportunity for
mimicry, "he'd have whispered quietly, in an emotionless voice,
`Penkridge, Penkridge, come here--come here, Penkridge. This is a very
unusual method, Penkridge, of entering a room--highly irregular. If you
haven't broken your leg or your arm, Penkridge, you must write me two
hundred lines.'"
"And Robertson?" asked Kenrick.
"Oh! Robertson--he'd have put up his eye-glass," said Henderson, again
exactly hitting off the master's attitude, "and he'd have observed, `Ah!
Penkridge has fallen through the floor; probably fractured some bones.
Slippery fellow, he won't be able to go to the Fighting Cocks _this_
afternoon, at any rate.' Whereupon Stevens would have gone up to him
with the utmost tenderness, and asked him if he was hurt; and Penkridge,
getting up, would, by way of gratitude, have grinned in his face."
"Well, you'd better finish the scene," said Power; "what would Percival
have said?"
"Thunder-and-lightning? Oh! that's easy to decide; he'd have made two
or three quotations; he'd have immediately called the attention of the
form to the fact that Penkridge had been:--
"`Flung by angry Jove
Sheer o'er the crystal battlements; from morn
Till noon he fell, from noon till dewy eve;
A winter's day, and as the tea-bell rang,
Shot from the ceiling like a falling star
On the great schoolroom floor.'"
"Would he, indeed?" said Mr Percival, pinching Henderson's ear, as he
came in just in time to join in the laugh which this parody occasioned.
Tea at Saint Winifred's is a regular and recognised institution. There
are few nights on which some of the boys do not adjourn after chapel to
tea at the masters' houses, when they have the privilege of sitting up
an hour and a half later. The masters generally adopt this method of
seeing their pupils and the boys in whom they are interested. The
institution works admirably; the first and immediate result of it is,
that here boys and masters are more intimately acquainted, and being so,
are on warmer and friendlier terms with each other than perhaps at any
other school--certainly on warmer terms than if they never met except in
the still and punishment-pervaded atmosphere of the schoolrooms; and the
second and remoter result is, that not only in the matter of work
already alluded to, but also in other and equally important particulars,
the tone and character of Saint Winifred's boys is higher and purer than
it would otherwise be. There is a simplicity and manliness there which
cannot fail to bring forth its rich fruits of diligence, truthfulness,
and honour. Many are the boys who have come from thence, who, in the
sweet yet sober dignity of their life and demeanour, go far to realise
the beautiful ideal of Christian boyhood. Many are the boys there who
are walking, through the gates of humility and diligence, to certain,
and merited, and conspicuous honour.
I know that there are many who believe in none of these things, and care
not for them; who repudiate the necessity and duty of early godliness;
who set up no ideal at all, because to do so would expose them to the
charge of sentiment or enthusiasm, a charge which they dread more than
that of villainy itself. These men regard the heart as a muscle
consisting of four cavities, called respectively the auricles and the
ventricles, and useful for no other purpose but to aerate the blood; all
other meanings of the word they despise or ignore. They regard the
world not as a scene of probation, not as a passage to a newer and
higher life, but as a "convenient feeding-trough" for every low passion
and unworthy impulse; as a place where they can build on the foundation
of universal scepticism a reputation for superior ability. This
degradation of spirit, this premature cynicism, this angry sneering at a
tone superior to their own, this addiction to a low and lying satire,
which is the misbegotten child of envy and disbelief, has infected our
literature to a deplorable and almost hopeless extent. It might be
sufficient to leave it, in all its rottenness and inflation, to every
good man's silent scorn, if it had not also so largely tainted the
intellect of the young. If, in popular papers or magazines, boys are to
read that, in a boy, lying is natural and venial; that courtesy to, and
love for, a master, is impossible or hypocritical; that swearing and
corrupt communication are peccadilloes which none but preachers and
pedagogues regard as discreditable--how can we expect success to the
labours of those who toil all their lives, amid neglect and ingratitude,
to elevate the boys of England to a higher and holier view? I have seen
this taint of _atheistic disregard for sin_ poison article after
article, and infuse its bitter principle into many a young man's heart;
and worse than this--adopted as it is by writers whom some consider to
be mighty in intellect and leaders of opinion, I have seen it corrode
the consciences and degrade the philosophy of far better and far
worthier men.
It is a solemn duty to protest, with all the force of heart and
conscience, against this dangerous gospel of sin, this "giving to
manhood's vices the privilege of boyhood." It was _not_ the gospel
taught at Saint Winifred's; there we were taught that we were baptised
Christian boys, that the seal of God's covenant was on our foreheads,
that the oath of His service was on our consciences, that we were His
children, and the members of His Son, and the inheritors of His kingdom;
that His laws were our safeguard, and that our bodies were the temples
of His Spirit. We were not taught--_that_ was left for the mighty
intellects of this age to discover--that as we were boys, a Christian
principle and a Christian standard were above our comprehension, and
alien from our possible attainments; we did not believe then, nor will I
now, that a clear river is likely to flow from a polluted stream, or a
good tree grow from bitter fibres and cankered roots.
Walter and the others spent a very happy evening with Mr Percival.
When tea was over they talked as freely with him, and with each other in
his presence, as they would have done among themselves; and the
occasional society of their elders and superiors was in every way good
for them. It enlarged their sympathies, widened their knowledge, and
raised their moral tone.
Among many other subjects that evening they talked over one which never
fails to interest deeply every right-minded boy--I mean their homes. It
was no wonder that, as Walter talked of the glories of Semlyn lake and
its surrounding hills, his face lighted up, and his eyes shone with
pleasant memories. Mr Percival, as he looked at him, felt more puzzled
than ever at his having gone wrong, and more confirmed than ever in the
opinion that he had been hard and unjust to him of late, and that his
original estimate of him was the right one after all.
Power's home was a statelier one than Walter's. His father, Sir
Lawrence Power, was a baronet, the owner of broad acres, whose large and
beautiful mansion stood on one of the undulations in a park shadowed by
ancestral trees, under whose boughs the deer fed with their graceful
fawns around them. Through the park flowed a famous river, of which the
windings were haunted by herons and kingfishers, and the pleasant waters
abounded in trout and salmon. And to this estate and title Power was
heir; though of course he did not tell them this while he spoke of the
lovely scenery around the home where his fathers had so long lived.
Henderson, again, was the son of a rich merchant, who had two houses--
one city and one suburban. He was a regular little man of the world.
After the holidays he had always seen the last feats of Saltori, and
heard the most recent strains of Tiralirini. He always went to a round
of entertainments, and would make you laugh by the hour while he sang
the songs or imitated the style of the last comic actor or Ethiopian
minstrel.
While they were chatting over their holiday amusements and occupations,
Kenrick said little; and, wondering at his silence, Mr Percival asked
him in what part of the world he lived.
"I, sir?" he said, as though awaked from a reverie; "Oh, I live at
Fuzby, a village on the border of the fens, and in the very middle of
the heavy clays." And Kenrick turned away his head.
"Don't abuse the clay," said Walter to cheer him up; "I'm very fond of
the clay; it produces good roses and good strawberries--and those are
the two best things going, in any soil."
"Half-past ten, youngsters," said Mr Percival, holding up his watch;
"off with you to bed. Let yourselves in through the grounds; here's the
key. Good-night to you. Walter," he said, calling him back as he was
about to leave, "one word with you alone; you three wait for him a
moment outside. I wanted to tell you that, although I have seemed harsh
to you, I dare say, of late, yet now I hear that you are making the most
honourable efforts, and I have quite forgotten the past. My good
opinion of you, Walter, is quite restored; and whenever you want to be
quiet to learn your lessons, you may always come and sit in my room."
Mr Percival was not the only Saint Winifred's master who thus
generously abridged his own leisure and privacy to assist the boys in
what he felt an interest. Walter thanked him with real gratitude, and
rejoined the other three. "He's let me sit in his room," said Walter.
"Has he?" said Henderson; "so he has me. How jolly! we shall get on
twice as well."
"What's that?" said Power, pointing upwards, as they walked through the
garden to their house door.
Glancing in the direction, Walter saw a light suddenly go out in his
dormitory, and a great bundle (apparently) disappear inside the window,
which was then shut down.
"I'll go and see," he said. "Good-night, you fellows."
All was quiet when he reached his room, but one of the candles,
ineffectually extinguished, was still smoking, and when he looked to
Eden's bed he saw by the gaslight that shone through the open door, that
the child was awake, and crying bitterly.
"What's the matter, Eden?" he said kindly, sitting down upon his bed.
"If you peach," said Harpour and Jones together; "you know what you'll
get."
"Have you fellows been bullying poor little Eden?" asked Walter
indignantly.
"I've not," and "I've not," said Anthony and Franklin, who were better
than the rest in every way; and "I haven't touched the fellow, Evson,"
said Cradock, who meant no harm, and at Walter's earnest request had
never again annoyed Eden since the first night.
"Poor little Eden--poor little fiddlestick," said Jones, "it does the
young cub good."
"Send him home to his grandmamma, and let him have his bib and his
night-cap," growled Harpour; "is he made of butter, and are you afraid
of his melting, you Evson, that you make such a fuss with him? You want
your lickings yourself, and shall have them if you don't look out."
"I don't care what you do to _me_, Harpour," rejoined Walter, "and I
don't think you'll do very much. But I do tell you that it's a
blackguard shame for a great big fellow like you to torment a little
delicate chap like Eden; and what's more, you shan't do it."
"Shan't! my patience. I like that I why, who is to prevent me?"
"I suppose he'll turn sneak, and peach," said Jones; "he'd do anything
that's mean, we all know."
Walter was always liable to that taunt now. It was a part of his
punishment, and the one which lasted longest. From any other boy he
might have winced under it; but really, coming from Jones, it was too
contemptible to notice.
"You shut up, Jones," he said angrily; "you shan't touch Eden again, I
can tell you, whatever Harpour does, and he'd better look out what he
does."
"Look out yourself," said Harpour, flinging a football boot at Walter's
head.
"You'll find your boot on the grass outside to-morrow morning," said
Walter, opening the window, and dropping it down. He wasn't a bit
afraid, because he always went on the instinctive and never-mistaken
assumption, that a bully must be a coward in his inmost nature. Cruelty
to the weaker is incompatible with the generosity of all true courage.
"By Jove, I'll thrash you for that to-morrow," shouted Harpour.
"_To-morrow_!" said Walter with great contempt.
"Oh, don't make him angry, Walter," whispered Eden; "you know what a
strong fellow he is," (Eden shuddered, as though _he_ had reason to
know); "and you can't fight him; and you mustn't get a thrashing for my
sake. I'm not worth that. I'd rather bear it myself, Walter--indeed I
would."
"Good-night, poor little Eden," said Walter; "you're safe to-night at
any rate. Why, how cold you are! What _have_ they been doing to you?"
"I daren't tell you to-night, Walter; I will to-morrow," he answered in
a low tone, shivering all over.
"Well, then, go to sleep now, my little man; and don't you be afraid of
Harpour or any one else. I won't let them bully you if I can help it."
Eden squeezed Walter's hand tight, and sobbed his thanks, while Walter
gently smoothed the child's pillow and dried his tears.
Poor Eden! as I said before, he was too weak, too delicate, too tenderly
nurtured, and far, far too young for the battle of life in a public
school. For even at Saint Winifred's, as there are and must be at all
great schools, there were some black sheep in the flock undiscovered,
and therefore unseparated from the rest.