Such delights
As float to earth, permitted visitants,
When in some hour of solemn jubilee
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown
Wide open.
Coleridge _Religious Musings_.
In scenes like these, part sunshine and part storm, the half-year rolled
round, and brought the long-desired summer holidays. Once more the end
of the half-year saw Power as usual brilliantly successful, and Walter
again at the head of his form. Henderson, too, although he could not
proceed with Walter _pari passu_, was among the first six, and had
gained more than one school distinction. But Kenrick this time had
failed as he had never done before; he was but fourth in his form, and
although this was the natural fruit of his recent idleness, it caused
him cruel mortification.
The end of term did not pass off quite so smoothly and pleasantly as it
generally did. The opposition to monitorial authority which Harpour had
commenced, and Kenrick abetted, did not pass away at once; it left a
large amount of angry feeling in the minds of numerous boys who had,
each of them, influence in their several ways. Kenrick himself always
went to the verge of impertinence whenever he could possibly do so in
dealing with any of the sixth, and to Somers his manner was always
intentionally rude, although he just managed to steer clear of any overt
insubordination. He could, of course, act thus without the risk of
incurring any punishment, and without coming to any positive collision.
Many boys were unfortunately but too ready to imitate his example.
These dissensions did not positively break out on the prize day, but
they made the proceedings far less pleasant and unanimous than they
would have been. The cheers usually given to the head of the
school were purposely omitted, from the fear of provoking any
counter-demonstration, and there remained an uneasy feeling in many
minds. The success of the concert which was yearly given by the school
choir after the distribution of prizes was also marred by traces of the
same dissension. In this concert Walter had a solo to sing, and
although he sang it remarkably well in his sweet ringing voice, he was
vexed to hear a few decided hisses among the plaudits which greeted him.
Altogether the prize day--a great day at Saint Winifred's--was less
successful than it had ever been known to be.
It brought, however, one pleasure to Walter, in the acquaintance of Sir
Lawrence and Lady Power, who had heard of him so often in their son's
letters, that they begged to be introduced to him as soon as they
arrived. He was a great deal with them during the day, and he helped
Power to show them all that was interesting about the school and its
environs. They saw Eden too, and Lady Power kindly pressed her
invitation on Mrs Braemar, who was also present, and who was not sorry
that Arty could stay with a family so well connected, and of such high
position. When Walter left them, Power earnestly asked his mother what
she thought of his friend.
"He is the most charming boy I ever saw," said Lady Power, "and I
rejoice that you have chosen him as a friend. But you don't tell me
anything about Kenrick, of whom you were once so fond; how is that?"
"I am still fond of him, mother, but he has changed a good deal lately."
At that moment Kenrick passed by arm in arm with Harpour, as though to
confirm Power's words, and recognised him with an ostentatiously
careless nod.
It was thus that Walter's first year at Saint Winifred's ended; and in
spite of all drawbacks he felt that it had been a distinguished and
happy year. He was now yearning for home, and he felt that he could
meet his dear ones with honest pride. He made arrangements to
correspond with Henderson and Eden in the holidays, and Power promised
again to visit him at Semlyn, on condition that he would come back with
him and spend a week at Severn Park, so that there might be a double
bond of union between them.
Very early the next morning the boys were swarming into coaches,
carriages, brakes, and every conceivable vehicle which could by any
possibility convey them to the nearest station. A hearty cheer
accompanied each coach as it rolled off with its heavy and excited
freight; by nine o'clock not a boy was left behind. The great buildings
of Saint Winifred's were still as death; the footfall of the chance
passer-by echoed desolately among them. A strange, mournful, conscious
silence hung about the old monastic pile. The young life which usually
played like the sunshine over it, was pouring unwonted brightness into
many happy English homes.
It was late in the afternoon when Walter found himself on the top of the
hill which looks down over Semlyn Lake. The water lay beneath him a
sheet of placid silver; the flowers were scattered on every side in
their beds of emerald and sunlit moss; the air, just stirred by the
light breeze, was rich and balmy with the ambrosial scent of the summer
groves; and high overhead the old familiar hills reared their
magnificent summits into the deep unclouded blue. But Walter's bright
eye was fixed on one spot only of the enchanting scene--the spot where
the gables of his father's house rose picturesquely on the slope above
the lake, and where a little bay in the sea of dark green firs gave him
a glimpse of their garden, in which he could discover the figures of his
brothers and sisters at their play. A sense of unspoken, unspeakable
happiness flowed into the boy's warm heart, and if at the same moment
his eyes were suffused with tears, they were the tears that always
spring up when the fountain of the heart is stirred by any strong
emotion to its inmost depths--the tears that come even in laughter to
show that our very pleasures have their own alloy.
The coach was still behind him toiling slowly up the ascent. Leaving it
to convey his luggage up to the house, he plunged down a green winding
path, ankle-deep in soft grasses and innumerable flowers, which led to
his home by a short cut down, the valley, along the burnside, and under
the waving woods. That sweet woodland path, cool and fragrant on the
most burning summer-day, where he had often gathered the little red ripe
wild strawberries that peeped out here and there from between the
scented spikes of golden agrimony, and under the white graceful flowers
of the circoea, was familiar and dear to him from the earliest
childhood. He plunged into it with delight, and springing along with
joyous steps, reached in ten minutes the wicket-gate which led into his
father's grounds. The first thing to see and recognise him was a
graceful pet fawn of his sister's, which at his whistle came trotting to
him with delight, jingling the little silver bell which was tied by a
blue riband round its neck. Barely stopping to caress the beautiful
little creature's head, he bounded through the orchard into the garden,
and the next instant the delighted shout of his brothers and sisters
welcomed him back, as they ran up, with all the glee of innocent and
happy childhood, to greet him with their repeated kisses.
"Ah, there are papa and mamma," he cried, breaking away from the
laughing group, as his mother advanced with open arms to meet him, and
pressed him to her heart in a long embrace.
"I'm first in my form, papa," he said, looking joyously up into his
father's face. "Head remove again."
"Are you, Walter? I am so happy to hear it. Few things could give me
more pleasure."
"But that's nothing to being at _home_," he said, shouting aloud in the
uncontrolled exuberance of his spirits, and hardly knowing which way to
turn in the multiplicity of objects which seemed to claim his instant
attention.
"Do come the rounds with me, Charlie," he said to his favourite brother,
"and let me see all the dear old places again. We shall be back in a
few minutes."
"And then, I dare say, you'll be glad of some tea," said his mother.
"_Rather_!" said Walter; "let's have it out here on the lawn, mother."
The proposal was carried by acclamation, and very soon the table was
laid under the witch elm before the house, while Walter's little sisters
had heaped up several dishes with freshly plucked fruit, laid in the
midst of flowers and vine leaves, and Walter, his face beaming and his
eyes dancing with happiness, was asking and answering a thousand
incessant questions, while yet he managed to enjoy very thoroughly a
large bunch of grapes, and an immense plate of strawberries and cream.
And when tea was over they still sat out in the lovely garden until the
witch elm had ceased to chequer their faces with its rain of flickering
light; and until the lake had paled from pure gold to rose-colour, and
from rose-colour to dull crimson, and from dull crimson to silver grey,
and rippled again from silver grey into a deep black blue, relieved by a
thousand flashing edges of molten silver and quivering gold, under the
crescent moon and the innumerable stars. And the bats had almost ceased
to wheel, and in the moist air of early night the flowers were diffusing
their luscious sweetness, and the nightingale was flooding the grove
with her unimaginable rapture, and the eager talk had hushed itself into
a delicious calm of happy silence, before they moved. It was a
beautiful picture--the father and mother still youthful enough to enjoy
life to the full, happy at heart, and proud of their eldest boy; his two
young brothers looking up to him with such eager hope and love; the
little sisters with their arms twined round his neck, and their fair
hair falling over his shoulders; the noble, mirthful, fearless, thrice
happy boy himself--a family circle unseparated by distance, unshadowed
by sorrow, unbroken by death, seated in this exquisite scene on the lawn
of their own happy English home.
Thrice happy! yes, in spite of sin and sorrow, and retribution and
remorse, there _are_ hours when the cup sparkles in our hands, filled to
the brim; not (as often) with earthly waters; not with the intoxicating
wine that flames in the magic bowl of pleasure; not with the red and
ragged lees of wrath and satiety; but with the crystal rivers of the
water of life itself. There _are_ such hours at any rate for some.
Whether they come to all mankind I know not; whether the squalid Andaman
or the hideous Fuegian ever feel them I know not; nay, I know not
whether they ever come, whether they ever can come, to the wretched
outcasts of earth's abject poverty and fathomless degradation; whether
they ever come, whether they ever can come, to the cruel and the proud,
to the malicious and the mean, to the cynical and discontented; yet, if
they come not to these, God help them! for they are the surest pledges
of our immortality; and to the young and innocent--ay, and even to the
young and guilty--they do sometimes come--these hours of absorbing
limitless enjoyment; these glimpses of dimly remembered paradise; these
odours snatched from a primal Eden, from a golden age when justice still
lived upon the earth, and crime was as yet unknown. There are such
hours, and for this English family this hour was one of them.
Thrice happy Walter! and almost like a dream of happiness these holidays
at home--and at _such_ a home--flew by. Every day and hour was a change
from pleasure to pleasure; among the hills, in the boat on the sunlit
lake, plunging for his cool morning swim in the fresh waters,
cricketing, riding, fishing, walking with his father and mother and
brothers, sitting and talking at the cool nightfall in the moonlit
garden, Walter was as happy as the day was long. And when Power came to
spend a week with them, again charming every one whom he saw with his
cheerful unselfishness and engaging manners, and himself charmed beyond
expression with all he saw at Walter's home, they agreed that nothing
was wanting to make their happiness "an entire and perfect chrysolite."
Power, we have seen, was something of a young poet, and on the day he
left Semlyn with Walter, who was to accompany him home, he sat a long
time silent in the train, and then tore out a leaf of his pocket-book,
on which he had scribbled the following lines on Semlyn Lake.
If earthly homes can shine so fair
With sky and wave so purely blue,
Beneath the balmy purple air,
If hills can don so rich a hue;
If fancy fails to paint a scene
In Eden's soft and floral glades,
Where azure clear and golden green
More sweetly blend with silver shades;
If marked and flecked with sinful stains,
Earth hath not lost her power to bless,
But still, beneath the cloud, remains
So steeped in perfect loveliness;
Merged, as we are, in doubt and fear,
Yet, when we yearn for realms of bliss,
We scarce can dream, while lingering here,
Of any fairer heaven than this.
Poor verses, and showing too delicate a sensibility to be healthy in any
boy; yet dear to me and dear to Walter for Power's sake, and because
they show the strange charm which Semlyn has for those who have the gift
of appreciating those natural treasures with which earth plentifully
fills her lap.