第 四十四 章 · 第44章

. 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 præpostors, 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 præpostor. 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 φιλιας και

ευνοιας χαριν, which I believe means “with all kind wishes from the

donor.” The book was one written in Latin by a German—Schömann: “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.