________________________________________________
_ I may spare the reader more details about my hero's school days. He
rose, always in spite of himself, into the Doctor's form, and for
the last two years or so of his time was among the praepostors,
though he never rose into the upper half of them. He did little,
and I think the Doctor rather gave him up as a boy whom he had
better leave to himself, for he rarely made him construe, and he
used to send in his exercises or not, pretty much as he liked. His
tacit, unconscious obstinacy had in time effected more even than a
few bold sallies in the first instance would have done. To the end
of his career his position inter pares was what it had been at the
beginning, namely, among the upper part of the less reputable class-
-whether of seniors or juniors--rather than among the lower part of
the more respectable.
Only once in the whole course of his school life did he get praise
from Dr Skinner for any exercise, and this he has treasured as the
best example of guarded approval which he has ever seen. He had had
to write a copy of Alcaics on "The dogs of the monks of St Bernard,"
and when the exercise was returned to him he found the Doctor had
written on it: "In this copy of Alcaics--which is still excessively
bad--I fancy that I can discern some faint symptoms of improvement."
Ernest says that if the exercise was any better than usual it must
have been by a fluke, for he is sure that he always liked dogs,
especially St Bernard dogs, far too much to take any pleasure in
writing Alcaics about them.
"As I look back upon it," he said to me but the other day, with a
hearty laugh, "I respect myself more for having never once got the
best mark for an exercise than I should do if I had got it every
time it could be got. I am glad nothing could make me do Latin and
Greek verses; I am glad Skinner could never get any moral influence
over me; I am glad I was idle at school, and I am glad my father
overtasked me as a boy--otherwise, likely enough I should have
acquiesced in the swindle, and might have written as good a copy of
Alcaics about the dogs of the monks of St Bernard as my neighbours,
and yet I don't know, for I remember there was another boy, who sent
in a Latin copy of some sort, but for his own pleasure he wrote the
following -
The dogs of the monks of St Bernard go
To pick little children out of the snow,
And around their necks is the cordial gin
Tied with a little bit of bob-bin.
I should like to have written that, and I did try, but I couldn't.
I didn't quite like the last line, and tried to mend it, but I
couldn't."
I fancied I could see traces of bitterness against the instructors
of his youth in Ernest's manner, and said something to this effect.
"Oh, no," he replied, still laughing, "no more than St Anthony felt
towards the devils who had tempted him, when he met some of them
casually a hundred or a couple of hundred years afterwards. Of
course he knew they were devils, but that was all right enough;
there must be devils. St Anthony probably liked these devils better
than most others, and for old acquaintance sake showed them as much
indulgence as was compatible with decorum.
"Besides, you know," he added, "St Anthony tempted the devils quite
as much as they tempted him; for his peculiar sanctity was a greater
temptation to tempt him than they could stand. Strictly speaking,
it was the devils who were the more to be pitied, for they were led
up by St Anthony to be tempted and fell, whereas St Anthony did not
fall. I believe I was a disagreeable and unintelligible boy, and if
ever I meet Skinner there is no one whom I would shake hands with,
or do a good turn to more readily."
At home things went on rather better; the Ellen and Mother Cross
rows sank slowly down upon the horizon, and even at home he had
quieter times now that he had become a praepostor. Nevertheless the
watchful eye and protecting hand were still ever over him to guard
his comings in and his goings out, and to spy out all his ways. Is
it wonderful that the boy, though always trying to keep up
appearances as though he were cheerful and contented--and at times
actually being so--wore often an anxious, jaded look when he thought
none were looking, which told of an almost incessant conflict
within?
Doubtless Theobald saw these looks and knew how to interpret them,
but it was his profession to know how to shut his eyes to things
that were inconvenient--no clergyman could keep his benefice for a
month if he could not do this; besides he had allowed himself for so
many years to say things he ought not to have said, and not to say
the things he ought to have said, that he was little likely to see
anything that he thought it more convenient not to see unless he was
made to do so.
It was not much that was wanted. To make no mysteries where Nature
has made none, to bring his conscience under something like
reasonable control, to give Ernest his head a little more, to ask
fewer questions, and to give him pocket money with a desire that it
should be spent upon menus plaisirs . . .
"Call that not much indeed," laughed Ernest, as I read him what I
have just written. "Why it is the whole duty of a father, but it is
the mystery-making which is the worst evil. If people would dare to
speak to one another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less
sorrow in the world a hundred years hence."
To return, however, to Roughborough. On the day of his leaving,
when he was sent for into the library to be shaken hands with, he
was surprised to feel that, though assuredly glad to leave, he did
not do so with any especial grudge against the Doctor rankling in
his breast. He had come to the end of it all, and was still alive,
nor, take it all round, more seriously amiss than other people. Dr
Skinner received him graciously, and was even frolicsome after his
own heavy fashion. Young people are almost always placable, and
Ernest felt as he went away that another such interview would not
only have wiped off all old scores, but have brought him round into
the ranks of the Doctor's admirers and supporters--among whom it is
only fair to say that the greater number of the more promising boys
were found.
Just before saying good-bye the Doctor actually took down a volume
from those shelves which had seemed so awful six years previously,
and gave it to him after having written his name in it, and the
words [Greek text], which I believe means "with all kind wishes from
the donor." The book was one written in Latin by a German--
Schomann: "De comitiis Atheniensibus"--not exactly light and
cheerful reading, but Ernest felt it was high time he got to
understand the Athenian constitution and manner of voting; he had
got them up a great many times already, but had forgotten them as
fast as he had learned them; now, however, that the Doctor had given
him this book, he would master the subject once for all. How
strange it was! He wanted to remember these things very badly; he
knew he did, but he could never retain them; in spite of himself
they no sooner fell upon his mind than they fell off it again, he
had such a dreadful memory; whereas, if anyone played him a piece of
music and told him where it came from, he never forgot that, though
he made no effort to retain it, and was not even conscious of trying
to remember it at all. His mind must be badly formed and he was no
good.
Having still a short time to spare, he got the keys of St Michael's
church and went to have a farewell practice upon the organ, which he
could now play fairly well. He walked up and down the aisle for a
while in a meditative mood, and then, settling down to the organ,
played "They loathed to drink of the river" about six times over,
after which he felt more composed and happier; then, tearing himself
away from the instrument he loved so well, he hurried to the
station.
As the train drew out he looked down from a high embankment on to
the little house his aunt had taken, and where it might be said she
had died through her desire to do him a kindness. There were the
two well-known bow windows, out of which he had often stepped to run
across the lawn into the workshop. He reproached himself with the
little gratitude he had shown towards this kind lady--the only one
of his relations whom he had ever felt as though he could have taken
into his confidence. Dearly as he loved her memory, he was glad she
had not known the scrapes he had got into since she died; perhaps
she might not have forgiven them--and how awful that would have
been! But then, if she had lived, perhaps many of his ills would
have been spared him. As he mused thus he grew sad again. Where,
where, he asked himself, was it all to end? Was it to be always
sin, shame and sorrow in the future, as it had been in the past, and
the ever-watchful eye and protecting hand of his father laying
burdens on him greater than he could bear--or was he, too, some day
or another to come to feel that he was fairly well and happy?
There was a gray mist across the sun, so that the eye could bear its
light, and Ernest, while musing as above, was looking right into the
middle of the sun himself, as into the face of one whom he knew and
was fond of. At first his face was grave, but kindly, as of a tired
man who feels that a long task is over; but in a few seconds the
more humorous side of his misfortunes presented itself to him, and
he smiled half reproachfully, half merrily, as thinking how little
all that had happened to him really mattered, and how small were his
hardships as compared with those of most people. Still looking into
the eye of the sun and smiling dreamily, he thought how he had
helped to burn his father in effigy, and his look grew merrier, till
at last he broke out into a laugh. Exactly at this moment the light
veil of cloud parted from the sun, and he was brought to terra firma
by the breaking forth of the sunshine. On this he became aware that
he was being watched attentively by a fellow-traveller opposite to
him, an elderly gentleman with a large head and iron-grey hair.
"My young friend," said he, good-naturedly, "you really must not
carry on conversations with people in the sun, while you are in a
public railway carriage."
The old gentleman said not another word, but unfolded his Times and
began to read it. As for Ernest, he blushed crimson. The pair did
not speak during the rest of the time they were in the carriage, but
they eyed each other from time to time, so that the face of each was
impressed on the recollection of the other. _
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