Chapter Eleven.

Happier Hours.

“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.