Chapter Twenty Two.
Birds of a Feather.
What, man! I know them, yea,
And what they weigh even to the utmost scruple;
Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,
That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander.
Much Ado about Nothing, act 5, scene 1.
Walter could not help hearing a part of this conversation, and he was pained and surprised that Kenrick, whom he had regarded as so fine a character, should show his worst side at home, and should speak and act thus unkindly to one whom he was so deeply bound to love and reverence. And he was even more surprised when he went downstairs again and looked on the calm face of his friend’s mother, so lovely, so gentle, so resigned, and felt the charm of manners which, in their natural grace and sweetness, might have shed lustre on a court. All that he could himself do was to show by his own manner to Mrs Kenrick the affection and respect with which he regarded her. When he hinted to Kenrick, as delicately and distantly as he could, that he thought his manner to his mother rather brusque, Kenrick reddened rather angrily, but only replied, “Ah, it’s all very well for you to talk; but you don’t live at Fuzby.”
“Yet I’ve enjoyed my visit very much, Ken; you can’t think how much I love your mother.”
“Thank you, Walter, for saying so. But how would you like to live always at such a place?”
“If I did I should do my best to make it happy.”
“Make it happy!” said Kenrick; and as he turned away he muttered something about making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Soon after he told Walter some of those circumstances about his father’s life which we have recently related. When the three days were over the boys started for Saint Winifred’s. They drove to the station in the pony-chaise before described, accompanied, against Kenrick’s will, by his mother. She bore up bravely as she bade them good-bye, knowing the undemonstrative character of boys, and seeing that they were both in the merriest mood. She knew, too, that their gaiety was natural: the world lay before them, bright and seductive as yet, with no shadow across its light; nor was she all in all to Harry as he was to her. He had other hopes, and another home, and other ties; and remembering this she tried not to grieve that he should leave her with so light a heart. But as she turned away from the platform when the train had started, taking with it all that she held dearest in the world, and as she walked back to the lonely home which had nothing but faith—for there was not even hope—to brighten it, the quiet tears flowed fast over the fair face beneath her veil. Yet as she crossed over her lonely threshold her thoughts were not even then for herself, but they carried her on the wings of prayer to the throne of mercy for the beloved boy from whom she was again to be separated for nearly five long months.
The widowed mother wept; but the boy’s spirits rose as he drew closer to the hills and to the sea, which told him that Saint Winifred’s was near. He talked happily with Walter about the coming half—eager with ambition, with hope, with high spirits, and fine resolutions. He clapped his hands with pleasure when they reached the top of Bardlyn Hill and caught sight of the school buildings.
Having had a long distance to travel they were among the late arrivals, and at the great gate stood Henderson and Power ready to greet them and the other boys who came with them in the same coach. Among these were Eden and Bliss.
“Ah, Eden,” said Henderson, “I’ve been writing a poem about you—
“I’m a shrimp, I’m a shrimp of diminutive size,
Inspect my antennae and look at my eyes;
Quick, quick, feel me quick, for cannot you see
I’m a shrimp, I’m a shrimp, to be eaten with tea?”
“And who’s this?—why,” he said clasping his hands and throwing up his eyes in mock rapture, “this indeed is Bliss!”
“I’ll lick you, Flip,” said Bliss, only in a more good-humoured tone than usual, as he hit at him.
“I think I’ve heard that observation before,” said Henderson, dodging away. “Ah, Walter, how do you do, my dear old fellow? I hope you’re sitting on the throne of health, and reclining under the canopy of a well-organised brain.”
“More than you are, Flip,” said Walter laughing. “You seem madder than ever.”
“That he is,” said Power; “since his return he’s made on an average fifteen thousand bad puns. You ought to be grateful, though, for he and I have got some coffee going for you in my study. Come along; the Familiar will see that your luggage is all right.”
“Yes; and I shall make bold to bring in a shrimp to tea,” said Henderson, seizing hold of Eden.
“All right. I meant to ask you, Eden,” said Power, shaking the little boy affectionately by the hand; “have you enjoyed the holidays?”
“Not very much,” said Eden.
“You’re not looking as bright as I should like,” said Power; “never mind; if you didn’t enjoy the holidays you must enjoy the half.”
“That I shall. I hope, Walter, you’ll be in the same dormitory still. What shall I do if you’re not?”
“O, how’s that to be, Flip?” asked Walter; “you said you’d try to get some of us put together in one dormitory. That would be awfully jolly. I don’t want to leave you, Eden, and would like you to be moved too; but I can’t bear Harpour and that lot.”
“I’ve partly managed it and partly failed,” said Henderson. “You and the shrimp still stay with the rest of the set in Number 10, but as there was a vacant bed I got myself put there too.”
“Hurrah!” said Walter and Eden both at once; “that’s capital.”
“Let me see,” said Walter; “there are Jones and Harpour—brutes certainly both of them; and Cradock—well, he’s rather a bargee, but he’s not altogether bad; and Anthony, and Franklin, who are both far jollier than they used to be; indeed I like old Franklin very much; so with you and Eden we shall get on famously.”
The first few days of term passed very pleasantly. The masters met the boys in the kindliest spirit, and the boys, fresh from home and with the sweet influences of home still playing over them, did not begin at once to reweave the ravelled threads of evil school tradition. They were all on good terms with each other and with themselves, full of good resolutions, cheerful, and happy.
All our boys had got their removes. Walter had won a double remove and was now under his friend Mr Percival. Kenrick was in the second fifth, and Power, young as he was, had now attained the upper fifth, which stands next to the dignity of the monitors and the sixth.
The first Sunday of term was a glorious day of early spring, and the boys, according to their custom, scattered themselves in various groups in the grounds about Saint Winifred’s School. The favourite place of resort was a broad green field at the back of the buildings, shaded by noble trees, and half encircled by a bend of the river. Here, on a fine Sunday, between dinner and afternoon school, you were sure to find the great majority of the boys walking arm in arm by twos and threes, or sitting with books on the willow trunks that overhung the stream, or stretched out at full length upon the grass, and lazily learning Scripture repetition.
It was a sweet spot and a pleasant time; but Walter generally preferred his beloved seashore; and on this afternoon he was sitting there talking to Power, while Eden, perched on the top of a piece of rock close by, kept murmuring to himself his afternoon lesson. The conversation of the two boys turned chiefly on the holidays which were just over, and Power was asking Walter about his visit to Kenrick’s house.
“How did you enjoy the visit, Walter?”
“Very much for some things. Mrs Kenrick is the sweetest lady you ever saw.”
“But Ken is always abusing Fuzby—isn’t that the name?”
“Yes; it isn’t a particularly jolly place, certainly, but he doesn’t make the best of it; he makes up his mind to detest it.”
“Why?”
“O, I don’t know. They didn’t treat his father well. His father was curate of the place.”
“As far as I’ve seen, Fuzby isn’t singular in that respect. It’s no easy thing in most places for a poor clergyman to keep on good terms with his people.”
“Yes; but Ken’s father does seem to have been abominably treated.” And Walter proceeded to tell Power the parts of Mr Kenrick’s history which Kenrick had told him.
When he had finished the story he observed that Eden had shut up his book and was listening intently.
“Hallo, Arty,” said Walter, “I didn’t mean you to hear.”
“Didn’t you? I’m so sorry. I really didn’t know you meant to be talking secrets, for you weren’t talking particularly low.”
“The noise of the waves prevents that. But never mind; I don’t suppose it’s any secret. Ken never told me not to mention it. Only, of course, you mustn’t tell any one, you know, as it clearly isn’t a thing to be talked about.”
“No,” said Eden; “I won’t mention it, of course. So other people have unhappy homes as well as me,” he added in a low tone.
“What, isn’t your home happy, Arty?” asked Power.
Eden shook his head. “It used to be, but this holidays mamma married again. She married Colonel Braemar—and I can’t bear him.” The words were said so energetically as to leave no doubt that he had some grounds for the dislike; but Power said—
“Hush, Arty, you must try to like him. Are you sure you know your Rep. perfectly?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s take a turn till the bell rings.”
While this conversation was going on by the shore, a very different scene was being enacted in the Croft, as the field was called which I above described.
It happened that Jones, and one of his set, named Mackworth, were walking up and down the Croft in one direction, while Kenrick and Whalley, one of his friends, were pacing up and down the same avenue in the opposite direction, so that the four boys passed each other every five minutes. The first time they met, Kenrick could not help noticing that Jones and Mackworth nudged each other derisively as he passed, and looked at him with a glance unmistakably impudent. This rather surprised him, though he was on bad terms with them both. Kenrick had not forgotten how grossly Jones had bullied him when he was a new boy, and before he had risen out of the sphere in which Jones could dare to bully him with impunity. He was now so high in the school as to be well aware that Jones would be nearly as much afraid to touch him as he always was to annoy any one of his own size and strength; and Kenrick had never hesitated to show Jones the quiet but quite measureless contempt which he felt for his malice and meanness. Mackworth was a bully of another stamp; he was rather a clever fellow, set himself up for an aristocrat on the strength of being second cousin to a baronet, studied “De Brett’s Peerage,” dressed as faultlessly as Tracy himself, and affected at all times a studious politeness of manner. He had been a good deal abroad, and as he constantly adopted the airs and the graces of a fashionable person, the boys had felicitously named him French Varnish. But Mackworth was a dangerous enemy, for he had one of the most biting tongues in the whole school, and there were few things which he enjoyed more than making a young boy wince under his cutting words. When Kenrick came to school, his wardrobe, the work of Fuzbeian artists, was not only well worn—for his mother was too poor to give him new clothes—but also of a somewhat odd cut; and accordingly the very first words Mackworth had ever addressed to Kenrick were—
“You new fellow, what’s your father?”
“My father is dead,” said Kenrick in a low tone.
“Then what was he?”
“He was curate of Fuzby.”
“Curate was he; a slashing trade that,” was the brutal reply. “Curate of Fuzby? are you sure it isn’t Fusty?”
Kenrick looked at him with a strange glowing of the eyes, which, so far from disconcerting Mackworth, only made him chuckle at the success of his taunt. He determined to exercise the lancet of his tongue again, and let fresh blood if possible.
“Well, glare-eyes! so you didn’t like my remark?”
Kenrick made no answer, and Mackworth continued—
“What charity-boy has left you his off-cast clothes? May I ask if your jacket was intended to serve also as a looking-glass? and is it the custom in your part of the country not to wear breeches below the knees?”
There was a corrosive malice in this speech so intense that Kenrick never saw Mackworth without recalling the shame and anguish it had caused. Fresh from home, full of quick sensibility, feeling ridicule with great keenness, Kenrick was too much pained by these words even for anger. He had hung his head and slunk away. For days after, until, at his most earnest entreaty, his mother had incurred much privation to afford him a new and better suit, he had hardly dared to lift up his face. He had fancied himself a mark for ridicule, and the sense of shabbiness and poverty had gone far to crush his spirit. After a time he recovered, but never since that day had he deigned to speak to Mackworth a single word.
He was surprised, therefore, at the obtrusive impertinence of these two fellows, and when next he passed them, he surveyed them from head to foot with a haughty and indignant stare. The moment after he heard them burst into a laugh, and begin talking very loudly.
“It was the rummiest vehicle you ever saw,” he heard Jones say; “a cart, I assure you—nothing more or less, and drawn by the very scraggiest scarecrow of a blind horse.”
He caught no more as the distance between them lessened, but he heard Jones bubbling over with a stupid giggle at some remark of Mackworth’s about glare-eyes being drawn by a blind horse.
“How rude those fellows are, Ken,” said Whalley; “what do they mean by it?”
“Dogs!” said Kenrick, stamping angrily, while his face was scarlet with rage.
“If they’re trying to annoy you, Ken,” said Whalley, who was a very gentle, popular boy, “don’t give them the triumph of seeing that they succeed. They’re only Varnish and White-Feather—we all know what they’re like.”
“Dogs!” said Kenrick again; “I should like to pitch into them.”
“Let’s leave them, and go and sit by the river, Ken.”
“No, Whalley. I’m sure they mean to insult me, and I want to hear how, and why.”
There was no difficulty in doing this, for Jones and his ally were again approaching, and Jones was talking purposely loud.
“I never could bear the fellow; gives himself such airs.”
“Yes; only fancy going to meet his friends in a hay-waggon! What a start! He! he! he!”
“It’s such impudence in a low fellow like that...” and here Kenrick lost some words, for, as they passed, Jones lowered his voice; but he heard, only too plainly, the words “father” and “dishonest parson”—the rest he could supply with fatal facility.
For half an instant he stood paralysed, his eyes burning with fury, but his face pale as ashes. The next second he sprang upon Jones, seized with both hands the collar of his coat, shook him, flung him violently to the ground, and kicked his hat, which had fallen off in the struggle, straight into the river.
“What the deuce do you mean by that?” asked Jones, picking himself up. “I’ll just give you—fifth-form, or no fifth-form—the best licking you ever had.”
“You’ll just not presume to lay upon him the tip of your finger,” said Whalley, who was quite as big as Jones, and was very fond of Kenrick.
“Not for flinging me down and kicking my hat into the water?”
“No, Jones,” said Whalley, quietly. “I don’t know what you were talking about, but you clearly meant to insult him, from your manner.”
“What’s the row? what’s up?” said a number of boys, who began to throng round.
“Only a plebeian splutter of rage from our well-bred friend there,” said Mackworth, pointing contemptuously at Kenrick, who stood with dilated nostrils, still heaving with rage.
“But what about?”
“Heaven only knows apropos of just nothing.”
“You’re a liar,” said Kenrick impetuously. “You know that you told lies and insulted me; and if you say it again, I’ll do the same again.”
“Only try,” said Jones, in a surly tone.
“Insulted you?” said Mackworth in bland accents. “We were talking about a dishonest parson, as far as I remember. Pray, are you a dishonest parson?”
“You’d better take care,” said Kenrick with fierce energy.
“Take care of what? We didn’t ask you to listen to our conversation; listeners hear no—”
“Bosh!” interposed Whalley; “you know you were talking at the top of your voices, and we couldn’t help hearing you.”
“And what then? Mayn’t we talk as loud as we like?—I assure you, on my word of honour,” he said, turning to the group around them, “we didn’t even mention Kenrick’s name. We were merely talking about a certain dishonest parson who rode in hay-carts, when the fellow sprang on Jones like a tiger-cat. I’m sure, if he’s any objection to our talking of such unpleasant people we won’t do so in his hearing,” said Mackworth, in an excess of venomous politeness.
“French Varnish,” said Whalley, with honest contempt, moved beyond his wont with indignation, though he did not understand the cause of Kenrick’s anger. “I wonder why Kenrick should even condescend to notice what such fellows as you and Jones say. Come along, Ken; you know what we all think about those two;” and, putting his arm in Kenrick’s, he almost dragged him from the scene, while Jones and Mackworth (conscious that there was not a single other boy who would not condemn their conduct as infamous when they understood it) were not sorry to move off in another direction.
But when Whalley had taken Kenrick to a quiet place by the river side, and asked him “what had made him so furious?” he returned no answer, only hiding his face in his hands. He had indeed been cruelly insulted, wounded in his tenderest sensibilities; he felt that his best affections had been wantonly and violently lacerated. It made him more miserable than he had ever felt before, and he could not tolerate the wretched thought that his father’s sad history, probably in some distorted form, had been, by some means or other, bruited about among unsympathising hearers, and made the common property of the school. He knew well indeed the natural delicacy of feeling which would prevent any other boy, except Jones or Mackworth, from ever alluding to it even in the remotest way. But that they should know at all the shameful charge which had broken his father’s heart, and brought temporary suspicion and dishonour on his name, was gall and wormwood to him.
Yet, by what possible means could, this have become known to them? Kenrick knew of one way only. He thought over what Jones had said. “A cart and blind horse—ah! I see; there is only one person who could have told him about that. So, Walter Evson, you amuse yourself and Jones by making fun of our being poor, and by ridiculing what you saw in our house; a very good laugh you’ve all had over it in the dormitory, I’ve no doubt.”
Kenrick did not know that Jones had seen them from the window of the railway-carriage, and that as he had been visiting an aunt at no great distance, he had heard there the particulars of Mr Kenrick’s history. He clutched angrily at the conclusion, that Walter had betrayed him, and turned him into derision. Naturally passionate, growing up during the wilful years of opening boyhood without a father’s wise control, he did not stop to inquire, but leapt at once to a false and obstinate inference. “It must be so; it clearly is so,” he thought; “yet I could not have believed it of him;” and he burst into a flood of bitter and angry tears.
The fact was that Kenrick, though he would hardly have admitted it even to himself, was in a particularly ready mood to take offence. He had observed that Walter disapproved of his manner towards his mother, and his sensitive pride had already been ruffled by the fact that Walter had exercised the moral courage of pointing out, though in the most delicate and modest way, the brusquerie which he reprobated. At the time he had said little, but in reality this had made him very, very angry; and the more so because he was jealous enough to fancy that he now stood second only, or even third, in Walter’s estimation, and that Power and Henderson had deposed him from the place which he once held as his chief friend; and that Walter had also usurped his old place in their affections. This displeased him greatly, for he was not one who could contentedly take the second place. He could not have had a more excellent companion than the manly and upright Whalley; but in his close intimacy with him he had rather hoped to pique Walter, and show him that his society was not indispensable to his happiness. But Walter’s open and generous mind was quite incapable of understanding this unworthy motive, and with feelings far better trained than those of Kenrick, he never felt the slightest qualm of this small jealousy.
“Never mind, my dear fellow,” said Whalley, patting him on the back; “why should you care so much because two such fellows as White-feather and Varnish try to be impudent. I shouldn’t care the snap of a finger for anything they could say.”
“It isn’t that, Whalley, it isn’t that,” said Kenrick proudly, drying his tears. “But how did those fellows know the things they were hinting at? Only one person ever heard them, and he must have betrayed them to laugh at me behind my back. It’s that that makes me miserable.”
“But whom do you mean?”
“The excellent Evson,” said Kenrick bitterly. “And mark me, Whalley, I’ll never speak to him again.”
“Evson,” said Whalley, “I don’t believe he’s at all the fellow to do it. Are you certain?”
“Quite. No one else could know the things.”
“But surely you’ll ask him first?”
“It’s no use,” answered Kenrick, gloomily; “but I will, in order that he may understand that I have found him out.”
Chapter Twenty Three.
A Broken Friendship.
Everard, Everard, which was the truest,
God in the future, and Time will show,
Ne’er will I stoop to defence or excuses—
If you despise me—be it so!
But, my Everard, still (for I love you)
This to the end my prayer shall be—
Ne’er may you be so sternly treated,
Never be judged as you judge me.—F.
Kenrick did not happen to meet Walter during the remainder of that Sunday, because Walter was chiefly sitting in Mr Percival’s room, but the next day, still nursing the smouldering fire of his anger, he determined to get the first opportunity he could of meeting him, in order that he might tax him with his supposed false friendship and breach of confidence.
Accordingly, when school was over next day, he went with Whalley to look for him in the playground. Walter was walking with Henderson, never dreaming that anything unpleasant was likely to happen. Henderson was the first to catch sight of them, and as he never saw Whalley without chaffing him in some ridiculous way or other—for Whalley’s charming good humour made him a capital subject for a joke—he at once began, as might have been expected, to sing—
“O Whalley, Whalley up the bank,
And Whalley, Whalley down the brae,
And Whalley, Whalley, by yon burnside—”
whereupon his song was interrupted by Whalley’s giving chase to him, which did not end till he had been led a dance half round the school buildings, while the ground was left clear for Kenrick’s expostulations.
Walter came up to him as cordially as usual, but stopped short in surprise, when he caught the scornful lowering expression of his friend’s face; but as Kenrick did not speak at once, he took him by the hand, and said, “Why, Ken, what’s the matter?”
Kenrick very coldly withdrew his hand.
“Evson, I came to ask you if—whether—if you’ve been telling to any of the fellows all about me; all I told you about my father?”
As Walter instantly remembered that he had mentioned the story to Power, he could not at once say “No,” but was about to explain.
“Telling any of the fellows all about you and your father?” he repeated; “I didn’t know—”
“Please, I don’t want any excuses. If you haven’t, it’s easy to say ‘No’; if you have, I only want you to say ‘Yes.’”
“But you never told me that I wasn’t to—”
“Yes or no?” said Kenrick, with an impatient gesture.
“Well, I suppose I must say ‘Yes,’ then; but hear me explain. I only mentioned it to—”
“That’s enough, thank you. I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t want to know whom you mentioned it to;” and Kenrick turned short on his heel, and began to walk off.
“But hear me, Ken,” said Walter eagerly, walking after him, and laying his hand on his shoulder.
“My name’s Kenrick,” said he, shaking off Walter’s hand. “You may apologise if you like; but even then I shan’t speak to you again.”
“I have nothing to apologise for. I only told—”
“I tell you I don’t care whom you ‘only’ told. It’s ‘only’ all over the school. And it’s not the ‘only’ time you’ve behaved dishonourably.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Walter, who was rapidly getting into as great a passion as Kenrick.
“Betraying confidence is almost as bad as breaking open desks, and burning—” Such a taunt, coming from Kenrick, was base and cruel, and he knew it to be so.
“Thank you for the allusion,” said Walter; “I deserve it, I own, but I’m surprised, Kenrick, that you, of all others; should make it. That, I admit, was an act of sin and strange folly for which I must always feel humiliated, and implore to be forgiven. And every generous person has long ago forgiven me and forgotten it. But in this case, if you weren’t in such a silly rage, I could show you that I’ve done nothing wrong. Only I know you wouldn’t listen now, and I shan’t condescend—”
“Condescend! I like that,” said Kenrick, interrupting him with a scornful laugh, which made Walter’s blood tingle. “You condescend to me, forsooth.” Higher words might have ensued, but at this moment Henderson, still pursued by Whalley, came running up, and seeing that something had gone wrong, he said to Kenrick—
“Hallo, Damon! what has Pythias been saying to you?”
Kenrick vouchsafed no answer, but turning his back on them, went off abruptly.
“He’s very angry with you, Evson,” said Whalley, “because he thinks you’ve been telling Jones and that lot his family secrets.”
“I’ve done nothing whatever of the kind,” said Walter, indignantly. “I admit that I did thoughtlessly mention it to Power; and one other overheard me. It never occurred to me for a moment that Kenrick would mind. You know I wouldn’t dream of speaking about it ill-naturedly, and if that fellow wasn’t blind with rage I could have explained it to him in about five minutes.”
“If you merely mentioned it to Power, I’m sure Kenrick would not so much mind. I’ll tell him about it when he’s cooler,” said Whalley.
“As you like, Whalley; Kenrick has no business to suspect me in that shameful way, and to abuse me, and treat me as if I was quite beneath his notice, and cast old faults in my teeth,” answered Walter, with deep vexation. “Let him find out the truth for himself. He can, if he takes the trouble.”
Both the friends were thoroughly angry with each other; each of them imagined himself deeply wronged by the other, and each of them, in his irritation, used strong and unguarded expressions which lost nothing by repetition. Thus the “rift of difference” was cleft deeper and deeper between them; and, chiefly through Kenrick’s pride and precipitancy, a disagreement which might at first have been easily adjusted became a serious, and threatened to become a permanent, quarrel.
“Power, did you repeat what I told you about Kenrick to any one?” asked Walter, next time he met him.
“Repeat it?” said Power; “why, Walter, do you suppose I would? What do you take me for?”
“All right, Power; I know that you couldn’t do such a thing; but Kenrick declares I’ve spread it all over the school, and has just been abusing me like a pickpocket.” Walter told him the circumstances of the case, and Power, displeased for Walter’s sake, and sorry that two real friends should be separated by what he could not but regard as a venial error on Walter’s part, advised him to write a note to Kenrick and explain the true facts of the case again.
“But what’s the use, Power?” said Walter; “he would not listen to my explanation, and said as many hard things of me as he could.”
“Yes, in a passion. He’ll be sorry for them directly he’s calm; for you know what a generous fellow he is. You can forgive them, I’m sure, Walter, and win the pleasure of being the first to make an advance.”
Walter, after a little struggle with his resentment, wrote a note, and gave it to Whalley to give to Kenrick next time he saw him. It ran as follows:—
“My dear Kenrick,—I think you are a little hard upon me. Who can have told Jones anything about you and your home secrets I don’t know. He could not have learnt them through me. It’s true I did mention something about your father to Power when I was talking in the most affectionate way about you. I’m very sorry for this, but I never dreamt it would make you so angry. Power is the last person to repeat such a thing. Pray forgive me, and believe me always to be—
“Your affectionate friend, Walter Evson.”
Kenrick’s first impulse on receiving this note was to seek Walter on the earliest occasion, and “make it up” with him in the sincerest and heartiest way he could. But suddenly the sight of Jones and Mackworth vividly reminded his proud and sensitive nature of the scene that had caused him such acute pain. He did not see how Jones could have learnt about the vehicle, at any rate, without Walter having laughed over it to some one. Instead of seeking further explanation, or thinking no evil and hoping all things, he again gave reins to his anger and suspicion, and wrote:—
“I am bound to believe your explanation as far as it goes. But I have reason to know that something more must have passed than what you admit yourself to have said. I am astonished that you should have treated me so unworthily. I would not have done so to you. I will try to forget this unpleasant business; but it is only in a sense that I can sign myself again.
“Your affectionate friend. H. Kenrick.”
Walter had not expected this cold, ungracious reply. When Whalley gave him Kenrick’s note he tore it open eagerly, anticipating a frank renewal of their former friendship; but a red spot rose to his cheeks as he saw the insinuation that he had not told the whole truth, and as he tore up the note, he indignantly determined to take no further step towards a reconciliation.
Yet as he thought how many pleasant hours they had spent together, and how firmly on the whole Kenrick had stood by him in his troubles, and how lovable a boy he really was, Walter could not but grieve over this difference. He found himself often yearning to be on the old terms with Kenrick; he felt that at heart he still loved him well; and after a few days he again stifled all pride, and wrote:—
“Dear Ken,—Is it possible that you will not believe my word? If you still feel any doubt about what I have said, do come and see me in Power’s study. I am sure that I would convince you in five minutes that you must be under some mistake; and if I have done you any wrong, or if you think that I have done you any wrong, Ken, I’ll apologise sincerely without any pride or reserve. I miss your society very much, and I still am and shall be, whatever you may think and whatever you may say of me.—Yours affectionately, W.E.”
As he naturally did not wish any third person to know what was passing between them he did not entrust this note to any one, but himself placed it between the leaves of an Herodotus which he knew that Kenrick would use at the next school. He had barely put it there when a boy who wanted an Herodotus happened to come into the classroom, and seeing Kenrick’s lying on the table, coolly walked off with it, after the manner of boys, regardless of the inconvenience to which the owner might be put. As this boy was reading a different part of Herodotus from that which Kenrick was reading, Walter’s note lay between the leaves where it had been placed, unnoticed. When the book was done with, the boy forgot it, and left it in school, where, after kicking about for some days unowned, it was consigned, with other stray volumes, to a miscellaneous cupboard, where it lay undisturbed for years. Kenrick supposed that it was lost, or that some one had “bagged” it; and, unknown to Walter, his note never reached the hands for which it had been destined. In vain he waited for a reply; in vain he looked for some word or sign to show that Kenrick had received his letter. But Kenrick still met him in perfect silence, and with averted looks; and Walter, surprised at his obstinate unkindness, thought that he could do nothing more to disabuse him of his false impression, and was the more ready to forego a friendship which by every honourable means he had endeavoured to retain.
Poor Kenrick! he felt as much as Walter did that he had lost one of his truest and most pleasant friends, and he, too, often yearned for the old intercourse between them. Even his best friends, Power, Henderson, and Whalley, all thought him wrong; and in consequence a coolness rose between them and him. He felt thoroughly miserable, and did not know where to turn; yet none the less he ostentatiously abstained from making the slightest overture to Walter; and whereas the two boys might have enjoyed together many happy hours, they felt a continual embarrassment at being obliged to meet each other very frequently in awkward silence, and apparent unconsciousness of each other’s presence. This silent annoyance recurred continually at all hours of the day. They threw away the golden opportunity of smoothing and brightening for each other their schoolboy years. It is sad that since true friends are so few, such slight differences, such trivial misunderstandings, should separate them for years. If a man’s penitence for past follies be humble and sincere, his crimes and failings may well be buried in a generous oblivion; but, alas! his own friends, and they of his own household, are too often the last to forgive and to forget. Too often they do not condone the fault till years of unhappiness and disappointment have intervened; till the wounds which they have inflicted are cicatrised; till the sinner’s loneliness has taught him to look for other than human sympathy; till he is too old, too sorrowful, too heartbroken, too near the Great White Throne, to expect any joy from human friendship, or any consolation in human love.
Twice did chance throw the friends into situations in which a reconciliation would have been easy. Once, when the school was assembled to hear the result of some composition prizes, they found themselves accidentally seated, one on each side of Power. The mottoes on the envelopes which were sent in with the successful exercises were always read out before the envelope was opened, and in one of the prizes for which there had been many competitors, the punning motto, Ezousiazo, told them at once that Power had again achieved a brilliant success. The Great Hall was always a scene for the triumphs of this happy boy. Both Walter and Kenrick turned at the same moment to congratulate him, Walter seizing his right-hand and Kenrick his left. Power, after thanking them for their warm congratulations, grasped both their hands, and drew them towards each other. Kenrick was aware of what he meant, and his heart fluttered as he now hoped to regain a lost friend; but just at that moment Walter’s attention happened to be attracted by Eden, who, though sitting some benches off, wished to telegraph his congratulations to Power. Unfortunately, therefore, Walter turned his head away, before he knew that Kenrick’s hand was actually touching his. He did not perceive Power’s kind intention until the opportunity was lost; and Kenrick, misinterpreting his conduct, had flushed with sudden pride, and hastily withdrawn his hand. On the second occasion Walter had gone up the hill to the churchyard, by the side of which was a pleasant stile, overshadowed by aged elms, on which he often sat reading or enjoying the breeze and the view. It suddenly occurred to him that he would look at Daubeny’s grave, to see if the stone had yet been put up. He found that it had just been raised, and he was sorrowfully reading the inscription, when a footstep roused him from his mournful recollections. A glance showed him that Kenrick was approaching, evidently with the same purpose. He came slowly to the grave and read the epitaph. Their eyes met in a friendly gaze. A sudden impulse to reconciliation seized them both, and they were on the verge of shaking hands, when three boys came sauntering through the churchyard—one of them was the ill-omened Jones. The association jarred on both their minds, and turning away without a word they walked home in different directions.
Chapter Twenty Four.
Eden’s Troubles.
Et tibi quae Samios diduxit littera ramos,
Surgentem dextro monstravit limite callem.
Pers. three 56.
There has the Samian Y’s instructive make,
Pointed the road thy doubtful foot should take;
There warned thy raw and yet unpractised youth,
To tread the rising right-hand path of truth.
Brewster.
They went home in different directions, and morally too their paths henceforth were widely diverse. The Pythagoreans chose the letter Y as their symbol for a good and evil life. The broad, sloping, almost perpendicular left-hand stroke is an apt emblem for the facile downward descent into Avernus; the precipitous and narrow right-hand stroke aptly presents the slippery, uphillward struggle of a virtuous course I remember to have seen, as a child, another and a similar emblem which impressed me much. On the one side of the picture a snail was slowly creeping up a steep path; on the other a stag rushed and bounded unrestrained down the sheer proclivities of a wide and darkening hill. Improvement is ever slow and difficult; degeneracy is too often startling rapid. From henceforth, as we shall have occasion to see hereafter, Walter was progressing from strength to strength, adding to faith virtue, and to virtue temperance, and to temperance knowledge, and to knowledge brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness charity—
“Springing from crystal step to crystal step
Of the bright air—;”
while our poor Kenrick was gradually descending deeper and deeper into darkness and despair.
Yet he loved Walter, and sighed for the old intimacy, while he was daily abusing his character and affecting to scorn his conduct. In short, a change came over Kenrick. There had always been a little worm at the root of his admiration of and affection for Walter. It was jealousy. He did not like to hear him praised so loudly by his friends and schoolfellows; and besides this he was vexed that Walter, Henderson, and Power, were more closely allied to each other than to him. He had struggled successfully against these unworthy feelings so long as Walter was his friend, but now that he had allowed himself to seek a quarrel with him they grew up with tremendous luxuriance. And he was so thoroughly in the wrong, and so obstinate in persisting to misunderstand and misrepresent his former friend, that gradually, by his pertinacity and injustice, he alienated the regard of all those who had once been his chosen companions. Even Whalley grew cool towards him. He had to look elsewhere for associates, and unhappily he looked in the wrong direction.
Meanwhile Walter, although he constantly grieved at the loss of a friend, was otherwise very happy. The boys at Saint Winifred’s were not overworked; there was enough work to stimulate but not to oppress them, and Walter’s work grew more promising every day. He was fond of praise, and Mr Percival, while he always took care so to praise him as to obviate the danger of conceit, was not so scant of his approbation as most men are. His warm and generous appreciation encouraged and rewarded Walter’s exertions, so that he was quite the “star” of his form. Many other boys did well under Mr Percival. There was a bright and cheerful emulation among them all, and they took especial pains with their exercises, which Mr Percival varied in every possible way, so as to call out the imagination and the fancy, to exercise both the reason and the understanding, and to test the powers of attention and research. His method was so successful that it was often a real pleasure to look over the exercises of his form, and he had adopted one plan for keeping up the boys’ interest in them, which was eminently useful. All the best exercises, if they attained to any positive excellence, were sent to Dr Lane; and at the end of the half-year, a number, printed opposite to the boy’s name, showed how often he had thus been “sent up for good.” If in one fortnight four separate exercises were so sent up, the form obtained, by this proof of industry, the remission of an hour’s work, and as this honour could never be cheaply won it was highly prized. Now two or three times Walter’s unusually brilliant exercises had been the chief contribution towards winning these remitted hours, and this success caused him double happiness, because it necessarily made him a general favourite with the form. Henderson (who had only got a single remove at the beginning of the term, but had worked so hard in his new form that he had succeeded in his purpose of winning a remove during the term, and so being again in the same division with Walter) did his best to earn the same distinction, but he only succeeded when the exercise happened to be an English one, and on a subject which gave some opportunity for his sense of the ludicrous. He generally contrived to introduce some purely fictitious “Eastern Apologue” as he called it; and as he rarely managed to keep the correct Oriental colouring, his combinations of Sultans, Tchokadars, Odaliques, and white bears, were sometimes so inexpressibly absurd that Mr Percival, to avoid fits of laughter, was obliged to look over his exercises alone. Nor were his eccentricities always confined to his English themes; his Latin verses were occasionally no less extraordinary, and in one set, on the suicide of Ajax, the last few lines consisted of fragmentary words interspersed here and there with numerous stars—a phenomenon which he explained to Mr Percival in the gravest manner possible, by saying that here the voice of Ajax was interrupted by sobs!
Happy in his work, Walter was no less happy in his play. The glorious mid-day bathes on the hard sparkling yellow sands when the sea was smooth as the blue of heaven, and clear as transparent glass—the long afternoons on the green and sunny cricket field—the strolls over the mountains, and lazy readings under a tree in the fragrant fir-groves—all invigorated him, and gave to his face the health, and to his heart the mirth, which told of an innocent life and a vigorous frame.
But it must not be supposed that he escaped troubles of his own, and his first trouble rose out of the kind boyish protectorate which he had established over little Eden’s interests.
His rescue of Eden from the clutches of a bad lot was one of Walter’s proudest and gladdest reminiscences. Instead of moping about miserable and lonely, and rapidly developing into a rank harvest the evil seeds which his tormentors had tried to plant in his young heart, Eden was now the gayest of the gay. Secure from most annoyances by possessing the refuge of Power’s study, and the certainty of Walter’s help, he soon began to assert his own position among all the boys of his own age and standing. No longer crushed and intimidated by bullying and bad companions, he was lively, happy, and universally liked, but never happier than when Walter and Power admitted him, as they constantly did, into their own society.
Harpour and Jones, in their hatred against Walter, had an especial reason to keep Eden as far as they could under subjection, in addition to their general propensity to bully and domineer. They did not care to torment him when Walter was present, because with him, in spite of their hostility, they felt it wise to maintain an armed neutrality. But whenever Walter was absent, they felt themselves safe. None of the other boys in their dormitory interfered except Henderson, and his interposition, though always generous, was both morally and physically weaker than Walter’s. He would not, indeed, allow any positive cruelty, but he was not thoughtful or stable enough to see the duty of interfering to prevent other and hardly less tolerable persecutions.
It so happened that at a game of cricket Walter by accident had received a blow on the knee from the cricket-ball bowled by Franklin, who was a tremendously hard and swift bowler. The hurt which this had caused was so severe that he was ordered by Dr Keith to sleep on the ground-floor in the cottage for a fortnight, in order to save him the exertion of running up and down so many stairs. The opportunity of this prolonged absence was maliciously seized by the tyrants of Number 10; but Eden bore up far more manfully than he had done in the old days. He was quite a different, and a far braver little fellow, thanks to Walter, than he had been the term before; and, looking forward to his friend’s speedy return, he determined to bear his troubles without saying a word about them. He was far more bullied during this period than Henderson knew of, for some of the threats and commands by which he was coerced were given in Henderson’s absence, as he was allowed to sit up half an hour later than those in the form below. For instance, Eden was ordered never to look at a book or to finish learning his lessons in the bedroom; and he was strictly forbidden to get up until the second bell rang in the morning. If he disobeyed these orders, he was soused with water, pelted with shoes, and beaten with slippers, and on the whole he found it better to be content to lose place in form, and to get impositions for missing chapel, than to attempt to brave these hindrances. When, however, he had been late two mornings running, Henderson got the secret out of him, and at once entreated Harpour and Jones to abandon this cruelty, throwing out hints that if they refused, he would take some measures to get it stopped by one of the monitors. If Eden had been plucky enough to embrace his natural right of obtaining protection from one of his own schoolfellows in the sixth, he would have been efficiently defended. Appealing to a monitor in order to secure immunity from disgraceful and wholly intolerable bullying is a very different thing from telling a master; and although the worst boys tried to get it traditionally regarded as an unmitigated form of sneaking, yet the public opinion of the best part of the school would have been found to justify it. But the two bullies knew that Eden would never have the heart to venture on this appeal; and although they desisted from this particular practice at Henderson’s request, they knew that he was too wavering a character, and too fond of popularity to be easily induced to make them his open enemies. If Eden had only told Walter, he knew that Walter would have sheltered him from unkindness at all hazards; but he was a thoroughly grateful child, and did not wish to get Walter into any difficulties on his account. So, in schoolboy phrase, there was nothing left for him but to “grin and bear it;” which he heroically did, earnestly longing for Walter’s return to the dormitory as for some golden age. But his trials were not over yet.
Is there in human nature an instinctive cruelty? That there is in it—when ill-trained—an absorbing selfishness, a total absence of all tenderness and delicate consideration, is abundantly obvious. But besides this, there is often an astonishing and almost incredible tendency to take positive pleasure in the infliction of pain. Now it so happens that Jones and Harpour were bad boys, as I have shown already, in the worst sense of the word, and yet the real enjoyment which they felt in making little Eden’s life miserable is an inexplicable phenomenon. One would have thought that the mere sight of the little boy, his tender age; his delicate look, his extreme gentleness and courtesy of manner, and the mute appealing glance in his blue eyes, would have sufficed to protect him from wanton outrage. It did suffice with most boys; but if anything, it added zest and piquancy to the persecutions of those two big bullies.
Reader, have you ever been “taken prisoner?” that is to say, have you ever been awaked from a sweet sleep by feeling an intolerable agony in your right toe, and finding that it is caused by somebody having tied a string tight round it without waking you, and then pulling the said string with all his force? If not, congratulate yourself thereupon, and accept the assurance of one who has undergone it, that the pain caused by this process is absolutely excruciating. It was this pain which made Eden start up with a scream during one of the nights I speak of, and the cry rose in intensity as he grew fully awake to the sensation.
“Hallo! what’s the row, Eden?” said Henderson, starting up in bed; but the child could only continue his screams, and Henderson, springing out of bed stumbled against the string, and instantly (for the trick was a familiar one) knew what was being done. As quick as thought he seized the string with his right-hand and, by pulling it towards Eden, slackened the horrible tension of it, while with his left-hand he rapidly took out a knife from his coat pocket and cut the cord in two.
Jones and Harpour, tittering at the success of their machination, were standing with the string in their hands just outside the door in the passage, and the sudden jerk showed them that the string was severed.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Henderson to them, with the most deliberate emphasis, “I don’t care if you do lick me for telling you the truth, but you two are just a couple of the greatest brutes in the school.”
“What’s the matter, Flip?” asked Franklin, from his bed, in a drowsy tone.
“Matter! why those two brutes,” said Henderson, with strong indignation, “have been taking poor little Eden prisoner, and hurting him awfully.”
“What a confounded shame!” said Franklin and Anthony in one voice; for they, too, though they were sturdy fellows, had had some experience of the bullies in their earlier school days; and of late, following Walter’s example, they had always energetically opposed this maltreatment of Eden.
“Draw it mild, you three, or we’ll kick you,” said Harpour.
“But we won’t draw it mild,” said Franklin; “it’s quite true; you and Jones are brutes to bully that poor little fellow so. He never hurt you.”
“What an uppish lot you nips are,” said Harpour; “it’s all that fellow Evson’s doing. Hang me, if I don’t take it out of you;” and he advanced with a slipper in his hand towards Franklin.
“Touch him if you dare,” said Henderson; “if you do Anthony and I will stick by him; and, Cradock, you’ll see fair play, won’t you?”
“Pooh,” said Cradock. “I’m asleep. Fight it out by yourselves.”
“Never mind these little fools, Harpour,” said Jones; “they’re beneath your notice. Besides, it’s time to turn off to sleep.” For Jones had earned his soubriquet by always showing a particularly large white feather when there was any chance of a fray.
“Phew, Jones; none of us would give much for you,” said Henderson contemptuously. “Little fools, indeed! You know very well that you daren’t lay a finger on the least of us, whether we’re beneath your notice or no. An ostrich is a big bird, but its white feathers are chiefly of use in helping it to run away.” He went to Eden’s bedside, for the child was still sobbing with pain, and was evidently in a great state of nervous agitation.
“Never mind, Eden,” he said, in a kind and soothing voice; “think no more of it; we won’t let them take you prisoner again.” And as he spoke he took his place by Eden’s side, and looked with angry defiance at the two bullies.
“Those fellows hurt me so,” said Eden, in an apologetic tone, bravely trying to check his tears. “Oh, I wish Evson would come back.”
“He is coming back in a night or two; his knee is nearly well. I haven’t helped you enough, poor little fellow. I’m so sorry. I say, you brutes,” he continued, raising his voice, “next time you bully Eden, I’ll tell Somers as sure as fate.”
“Tell away then,” jeered Harpour; “better go and tell him before your shoes wear out.”
“Ah, you’ll change your tone, Master Harpour, when you’ve been well whopped,” answered Henderson.
“I should like to see Somers or any one else whop me,” said Harpour, in an extremely “Ercles vein”; “by Jove! Lane himself shouldn’t do it.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“I’ll ‘oh, indeed,’ you!” said Harpour, getting out of bed; but here Cradock interfered, seized Harpour with his brawny arm, and said—
“There, that’s badgering enough for one night. Do let a fellow go to sleep.”
Harpour got into bed again, and Henderson, once more reassuring Eden that he should not be again molested, followed his example. But, half with fright and half with pain, the poor boy lay awake most of the night, and when he did fall asleep he constantly started up again with troubled dreams.
Next morning the two parties in the dormitory would hardly speak to each other. They rose at daggers drawn, and in the highest dudgeon. Henderson was glad Anthony and Franklin had openly espoused the right side, and was pleased at anything which drew them out of the pernicious influence of the other two. This wasn’t by any means a pleasant state of things for Jones and Harpour, and it made them hate Eden, the innocent cause of it, more than ever. Moreover, Harpour who was not accustomed to be openly bearded, did not choose to let the reins of despotism slip so easily out of his hands, and he determined to avenge himself yet, and to show that neither entreaties nor threats should prevent him from being as great a bully as he chose.
“Understand you, Henderson,” he said, while they were dressing; “that I shall do exactly what I like to that little muff there.”
Eden reddened and said nothing; but Henderson, looking up from his wash-hand basin, replied—“And understand you, Harpour, that if you bully him any more, I’ll tell the head of the school.”
Harpour made a spring at Henderson to thrash him for these words, but again the burly Cradock interposed by saying, good-humouredly, as he put himself in Harpour’s way, “There, stop squabbling, for goodness’ sake, you two, and let’s have a little peace. Flip, you shut up.”