CHAPTER VIII—TOM BROWN'S LAST
MATCH.
“Heaven grant the manlier heart, that
timely ere
Youth fly, with life's real tempest would
be coping;
The fruit of dreamy hoping
Is, waking, blank despair.”
CLOUGH,
Ambarvalia.
The curtain now rises upon the last act of our
little drama, for hard-hearted publishers warn me that a single volume must of
necessity have an end. Well, well! the pleasantest things must come to an end.
I little thought last long vacation, when I began these pages to help while
away some spare time at a watering-place, how vividly many an old scene which
had lain hid away for years in some dusty old corner of my brain, would come
back again, and stand before me as clear and bright as if it had happened
yesterday. The book has been a most grateful task to me, and I only hope that
all you, my dear young friends, who read it (friends assuredly you must be, if
you get as far as this), will be half as sorry to come to the last stage as I
am.
Not but what there has been a solemn and a sad
side to it. As the old scenes became living, and the actors in them became
living too, many a grave in the Crimea and distant India, as well as in the
quiet churchyards of our dear old country, seemed to open and send forth their
dead, and their voices and looks and ways were again in one's ears and eyes, as
in the old School-days. But this was not sad. How should it be, if we believe
as our Lord has taught us? How should it be, when one more turn of the wheel,
and we shall be by their sides again, learning from them again, perhaps, as we
did when we were new boys.
Then there were others of the old faces so dear to
us once who had somehow or another just gone clean out of sight. Are they dead
or living? We know not, but the thought of them brings no sadness with it.
Wherever they are, we can well believe they are doing God's work and getting
His wages.
But are there not some, whom we still see
sometimes in the streets, whose haunts and homes we know, whom we could
probably find almost any day in the week if we were set to do it, yet from whom
we are really farther than we are from the dead, and from those who have gone
out of our ken? Yes, there are and must be such; and therein lies the sadness
of old School memories. Yet of these our old comrades, from whom more than time
and space separate us, there are some by whose sides we can feel sure that we
shall stand again when time shall be no more. We may think of one another now
as dangerous fanatics or narrow bigots, with whom no truce is possible, from
whom we shall only sever more and more to the end of our lives, whom it would
be our respective duties to imprison or hang, if we had the power. We must go
our way, and they theirs, as long as flesh and spirit hold together; but let
our own Rugby poet speak words of healing for this trial:—
“To
veer how vain! on, onward strain,
Brave
barks, in light, in darkness too;
Through
winds and tides one compass guides,—
To
that, and your own selves, be true.
“But, O
blithe breeze, and O great seas,
Though
ne'er that earliest parting past,
On your
wide plain they join again;
Together lead them home at last.
“One
port, methought, alike they sought,
One
purpose hold where'er they fare.
O
bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At
last, at last, unite them there!” *
This is not
mere longing; it is prophecy. So over these too, our old friends, who are
friends no more, we sorrow not as men without hope. It is only for those who
seem to us to have lost compass and purpose, and to be driven helplessly on
rocks and quicksands, whose lives are spent in the service of the world, the
flesh, and the devil, for self alone, and not for their fellow-men, their
country, or their God, that we must mourn and pray without sure hope and
without light, trusting only that He, in whose hands they as well as we are,
who has died for them as well as for us, who sees all His creatures
“With
larger other eyes than ours,
To make
allowance for us all,”
will, in His own way and at His own time, lead
them also home.
Another two years have passed, and it is again the
end of the summer half-year at Rugby; in fact, the School has broken up. The
fifth-form examinations were over last week, and upon them have followed the
speeches, and the sixth-form examinations for exhibitions; and they too are
over now. The boys have gone to all the winds of heaven, except the town boys
and the eleven, and the few enthusiasts besides who have asked leave to stay in
their houses to see the result of the cricket matches. For this year the
Wellesburn return match and the Marylebone match are played at Rugby, to the
great delight of the town and neighbourhood, and the sorrow of those aspiring
young cricketers who have been reckoning for the last three months on showing
off at Lord's ground.
The Doctor started for the Lakes yesterday
morning, after an interview with the captain of the eleven, in the presence of
Thomas, at which he arranged in what school the cricket dinners were to be, and
all other matters necessary for the satisfactory carrying out of the
festivities, and warned them as to keeping all spirituous liquors out of the
close, and having the gates closed by nine o'clock.
The Wellesburn match was played out with great
success yesterday, the School winning by three wickets; and to-day the great
event of the cricketing year, the Marylebone match, is being played. What a
match it has been! The London eleven came down by an afternoon train yesterday,
in time to see the end of the Wellesburn match; and as soon as it was over,
their leading men and umpire inspected the ground, criticising it rather
unmercifully. The captain of the School eleven, and one or two others, who had
played the Lord's match before, and knew old Mr. Aislabie and several of the
Lord's men, accompanied them; while the rest of the eleven looked on from under
the Three Trees with admiring eyes, and asked one another the names of the
illustrious strangers, and recounted how many runs each of them had made in the
late matches in Bell's Life. They looked such hard-bitten, wiry, whiskered
fellows that their young adversaries felt rather desponding as to the result of
the morrow's match. The ground was at last chosen, and two men set to work upon
it to water and roll; and then, there being yet some half-hour of daylight,
some one had suggested a dance on the turf. The close was half full of citizens
and their families, and the idea was hailed with enthusiasm. The cornopean
player was still on the ground. In five minutes the eleven and half a dozen of
the Wellesburn and Marylebone men got partners somehow or another, and a merry
country-dance was going on, to which every one flocked, and new couples joined
in every minute, till there were a hundred of them going down the middle and up
again; and the long line of school buildings looked gravely down on them, every
window glowing with the last rays of the western sun; and the rooks clanged
about in the tops of the old elms, greatly excited, and resolved on having
their country-dance too; and the great flag flapped lazily in the gentle
western breeze. Altogether it was a sight which would have made glad the heart
of our brave old founder, Lawrence Sheriff, if he were half as good a fellow as
I take him to have been. It was a cheerful sight to see. But what made it so
valuable in the sight of the captain of the School eleven was that he there saw
his young hands shaking off their shyness and awe of the Lord's men, as they
crossed hands and capered about on the grass together; for the strangers
entered into it all, and threw away their cigars, and danced and shouted like
boys; while old Mr. Aislabie stood by looking on in his white hat, leaning on a
bat, in benevolent enjoyment. “This hop will be worth thirty runs to us
to-morrow, and will be the making of Raggles and Johnson,” thinks the young
leader, as he revolves many things in his mind, standing by the side of Mr.
Aislabie, whom he will not leave for a minute, for he feels that the character
of the School for courtesy is resting on his shoulders.
But when a quarter to nine struck, and he saw old
Thomas beginning to fidget about with the keys in his hand, he thought of the
Doctor's parting monition, and stopped the cornopean at once, notwithstanding
the loud-voiced remonstrances from all sides; and the crowd scattered away from
the close, the eleven all going into the School-house, where supper and beds
were provided for them by the Doctor's orders.
Deep had been the consultations at supper as to
the order of going in, who should bowl the first over, whether it would be best
to play steady or freely; and the youngest hands declared that they shouldn't
be a bit nervous, and praised their opponents as the jolliest fellows in the
world, except perhaps their old friends the Wellesburn men. How far a little
good-nature from their elders will go with the right sort of boys!
The morning had dawned bright and warm, to the
intense relief of many an anxious youngster, up betimes to mark the signs of the
weather. The eleven went down in a body before breakfast, for a plunge in the
cold bath in a corner of the close. The ground was in splendid order, and soon
after ten o'clock, before spectators had arrived, all was ready, and two of the
Lord's men took their places at the wickets—the School, with the usual
liberality of young hands, having put their adversaries in first. Old Bailey
stepped up to the wicket, and called play, and the match has begun.
“Oh, well bowled! well bowled, Johnson!” cries the
captain, catching up the ball and sending it high above the rook trees, while
the third Marylebone man walks away from the wicket, and old Bailey gravely
sets up the middle stump again and puts the bails on.
“How many runs?” Away scamper three boys to the
scoring table, and are back again in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven,
who are collected together in a knot between wicket. “Only eighteen runs, and
three wickets down!” “Huzza for old Rugby!” sings out Jack Raggles, the
long-stop, toughest and burliest of boys, commonly called “Swiper Jack,” and
forthwith stands on his head, and brandishes his legs in the air in triumph,
till the next boy catches hold of his heels, and throws him over on to his
back.
“Steady there; don't be such an ass, Jack,” says
the captain; “we haven't got the best wicket yet. Ah, look out now at
cover-point,” adds he, as he sees a long-armed bare-headed, slashing-looking
player coming to the wicket. “And, Jack, mind your hits. He steals more runs
than any man in England.”
And they all find that they have got their work to
do now. The newcomer's off-hitting is tremendous, and his running like a flash
of lightning. He is never in his ground except when his wicket is down. Nothing
in the whole game so trying to boys. He has stolen three byes in the first ten
minutes, and Jack Raggles is furious, and begins throwing over savagely to the
farther wicket, until he is sternly stopped by the captain. It is all that
young gentlemen can do to keep his team steady, but he knows that everything
depends on it, and faces his work bravely. The score creeps up to fifty; the
boys begin to look blank; and the spectators, who are now mustering strong, are
very silent. The ball flies off his bat to all parts of the field, and he gives
no rest and no catches to any one. But cricket is full of glorious chances, and
the goddess who presides over it loves to bring down the most skilful players.
Johnson, the young bowler, is getting wild, and bowls a ball almost wide to the
off; the batter steps out and cuts it beautifully to where cover-point is
standing very deep—in fact almost off the ground. The ball comes skimming and
twisting along about three feet from the ground; he rushes at it, and it sticks
somehow or other in the fingers of his left hand, to the utter astonishment of
himself and the whole field. Such a catch hasn't been made in the close for
years, and the cheering is maddening. “Pretty cricket,” says the captain,
throwing himself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long breath. He
feels that a crisis has passed.
I wish I had space to describe the match—how the
captain stumped the next man off a leg-shooter, and bowled small cobs to old
Mr. Aislabie, who came in for the last wicket; how the Lord's men were out by
half-past twelve o'clock for ninety-eight runs; how the captain of the School
eleven went in first to give his men pluck, and scored twenty-five in beautiful
style; how Rugby was only four behind in the first innings; what a glorious
dinner they had in the fourth-form school; and how the cover-point hitter sang
the most topping comic songs, and old Mr. Aislabie made the best speeches that
ever were heard, afterwards. But I haven't space—that's the fact; and so you
must fancy it all, and carry yourselves on to half-past seven o'clock, when the
School are again in, with five wickets down, and only thirty-two runs to make
to win. The Marylebone men played carelessly in their second innings, but they
are working like horses now to save the match.
There is much healthy, hearty, happy life
scattered up and down the close; but the group to which I beg to call your
especial attention is there, on the slope of the island, which looks towards
the cricket-ground. It consists of three figures; two are seated on a bench,
and one on the ground at their feet. The first, a tall, slight and rather gaunt
man, with a bushy eyebrow and a dry, humorous smile, is evidently a clergyman.
He is carelessly dressed, and looks rather used up, which isn't much to be
wondered at, seeing that he has just finished six weeks of examination work;
but there he basks, and spreads himself out in the evening sun, bent on
enjoying life, though he doesn't quite know what to do with his arms and legs.
Surely it is our friend the young master, whom we have had glimpses of before,
but his face has gained a great deal since we last came across him.
And by his side, in white flannel shirt and
trousers, straw hat, the captain's belt, and the untanned yellow cricket shoes
which all the eleven wear, sits a strapping figure, near six feet high, with
ruddy, tanned face and whiskers, curly brown hair, and a laughing, dancing eye.
He is leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and dandling his
favourite bat, with which he has made thirty or forty runs to-day, in his
strong brown hands. It is Tom Brown, grown into a young man nineteen years old,
a praepostor and captain of the eleven, spending his last day as a Rugby boy,
and, let us hope, as much wiser as he is bigger, since we last had the pleasure
of coming across him.
And at their feet on the warm, dry ground,
similarly dressed, sits Arthur, Turkish fashion, with his bat across his knees.
He too is no longer a boy—less of a boy, in fact, than Tom, if one may judge
from the thoughtfulness of his face, which is somewhat paler, too, than one
could wish; but his figure, though slight, is well knit and active, and all his
old timidity has disappeared, and is replaced by silent, quaint fun, with which
his face twinkles all over, as he listens to the broken talk between the other
two, in which he joins every now and then.
All three are watching the game eagerly, and
joining in the cheering which follows every good hit. It is pleasing to see the
easy, friendly footing which the pupils are on with their master, perfectly
respectful, yet with no reserve and nothing forced in their intercourse. Tom
has clearly abandoned the old theory of “natural enemies” in this case at any
rate.
But it is time to listen to what they are saying,
and see what we can gather out of it.
“I don't object to your theory,” says the master,
“and I allow you have made a fair case for yourself. But now, in such books as
Aristophanes, for instance, you've been reading a play this half with the Doctor,
haven't you?”
“Yes, the Knights,” answered Tom.
“Well, I'm sure you would have enjoyed the
wonderful humour of it twice as much if you had taken more pains with your
scholarship.”
“Well, sir, I don't believe any boy in the form
enjoyed the sets-to between Cleon and the Sausage-seller more than I did—eh,
Arthur?” said Tom, giving him a stir with his foot.
“Yes, I must say he did,” said Arthur. “I think,
sir, you've hit upon the wrong book there.”
“Not a bit of it,” said the master. “Why, in those
very passages of arms, how can you thoroughly appreciate them unless you are
master of the weapons? and the weapons are the language, which you, Brown, have
never half worked at; and so, as I say, you must have lost all the delicate
shades of meaning which make the best part of the fun.”
“Oh, well played! bravo, Johnson!” shouted Arthur,
dropping his bat and clapping furiously, and Tom joined in with a “Bravo,
Johnson!” which might have been heard at the chapel.
“Eh! what was it? I didn't see,” inquired the
master. “They only got one run, I thought?”
“No, but such a ball, three-quarters length, and
coming straight for his leg bail. Nothing but that turn of the wrist could have
saved him, and he drew it away to leg for a safe one.—Bravo, Johnson!”
“How well they are bowling, though,” said Arthur;
“they don't mean to be beat, I can see.”
“There now,” struck in the master; “you see that's
just what I have been preaching this half-hour. The delicate play is the true
thing. I don't understand cricket, so I don't enjoy those fine draws which you
tell me are the best play, though when you or Raggles hit a ball hard away for
six I am as delighted as any one. Don't you see the analogy?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, looking up roguishly, “I
see; only the question remains whether I should have got most good by
understanding Greek particles or cricket thoroughly. I'm such a thick, I never
should have had time for both.”
“I see you are an incorrigible,” said the master,
with a chuckle; “but I refute you by an example. Arthur there has taken in
Greek and cricket too.”
“Yes, but no thanks to him; Greek came natural to
him. Why, when he first came I remember he used to read Herodotus for pleasure
as I did Don Quixote, and couldn't have made a false concord if he'd tried ever
so hard; and then I looked after his cricket.”
“Out! Bailey has given him out. Do you see, Tom?”
cries Arthur. “How foolish of them to run so hard.”
“Well, it can't be helped; he has played very
well. Whose turn is it to go in?”
“I don't know; they've got your list in the tent.”
“Let's go and see,” said Tom, rising; but at this
moment Jack Raggles and two or three more came running to the island moat.
“O Brown, mayn't I go in next?” shouts the Swiper.
“Whose name is next on the list?” says the
captain.
“Winter's, and then Arthur's,” answers the boy who
carries it; “but there are only twenty-six runs to get, and no time to lose. I
heard Mr. Aislabie say that the stumps must be drawn at a quarter past eight
exactly.”
“Oh, do let the Swiper go in,” chorus the boys; so
Tom yields against his better judgment.
“I dare say now I've lost the match by this
nonsense,” he says, as he sits down again; “they'll be sure to get Jack's
wicket in three or four minutes; however, you'll have the chance, sir, of
seeing a hard hit or two,” adds he, smiling, and turning to the master.
“Come, none of your irony, Brown,” answers the
master. “I'm beginning to understand the game scientifically. What a noble game
it is, too!”
“Isn't it? But it's more than a game. It's an
institution,” said Tom.
“Yes,” said Arthur—“the birthright of British boys
old and young, as habeas corpus and trial by jury are of British men.”
“The discipline and reliance on one another which
it teaches is so valuable, I think,” went on the master, “it ought to be such
an unselfish game. It merges the individual in the eleven; he doesn't play that
he may win, but that his side may.”
“That's very true,” said Tom, “and that's why
football and cricket, now one comes to think of it, are such much better games
than fives or hare-and-hounds, or any others where the object is to come in
first or to win for oneself, and not that one's side may win.”
“And then the captain of the eleven!” said the
master; “what a post is his in our School-world! almost as hard as the
Doctor's—requiring skill and gentleness and firmness, and I know not what other
rare qualities.”
“Which don't he may wish he may get!” said Tom,
laughing; “at any rate he hasn't got them yet, or he wouldn't have been such a
flat to-night as to let Jack Raggles go in out of his turn.”
“Ah, the Doctor never would have done that,” said
Arthur demurely. “Tom, you've a great deal to learn yet in the art of ruling.”
“Well, I wish you'd tell the Doctor so then, and
get him to let me stop till I'm twenty. I don't want to leave, I'm sure.”
“What a sight it is,” broke in the master, “the
Doctor as a ruler! Perhaps ours is the only little corner of the British Empire
which is thoroughly, wisely, and strongly ruled just now. I'm more and more
thankful every day of my life that I came here to be under him.”
“So am I, I'm sure,” said Tom, “and more and more
sorry that I've got to leave.”
“Every place and thing one sees here reminds one
of some wise act of his,” went on the master. “This island now—you remember the
time, Brown, when it was laid out in small gardens, and cultivated by
frost-bitten fags in February and March?”
“Of course I do,” said Tom; “didn't I hate
spending two hours in the afternoon grubbing in the tough dirt with the stump
of a fives bat? But turf-cart was good fun enough.”
“I dare say it was, but it was always leading to
fights with the townspeople; and then the stealing flowers out of all the
gardens in Rugby for the Easter show was abominable.”
“Well, so it was,” said Tom, looking down, “but we
fags couldn't help ourselves. But what has that to do with the Doctor's
ruling?”
“A great deal, I think,” said the master; “what
brought island-fagging to an end?”
“Why, the Easter speeches were put off till
midsummer,” said Tom, “and the sixth had the gymnastic poles put up here.”
“Well, and who changed the time of the speeches,
and put the idea of gymnastic poles into the heads of their worships the sixth
form?” said the master.
“The Doctor, I suppose,” said Tom. “I never
thought of that.”
“Of course you didn't,” said the master, “or else,
fag as you were, you would have shouted with the whole school against putting
down old customs. And that's the way that all the Doctor's reforms have been
carried out when he has been left to himself—quietly and naturally, putting a
good thing in the place of a bad, and letting the bad die out; no wavering, and
no hurry—the best thing that could be done for the time being, and patience for
the rest.”
“Just Tom's own way,” chimed in Arthur, nudging
Tom with his elbow—“driving a nail where it will go;” to which allusion Tom
answered by a sly kick.
“Exactly so,” said the master, innocent of the
allusion and by-play.
Meantime Jack Raggles, with his sleeves tucked up
above his great brown elbows, scorning pads and gloves, has presented himself
at the wicket; and having run one for a forward drive of Johnson's, is about to
receive his first ball. There are only twenty-four runs to make, and four
wickets to go down—a winning match if they play decently steady. The ball is a
very swift one, and rises fast, catching Jack on the outside of the thigh, and
bounding away as if from india-rubber, while they run two for a leg-bye amidst
great applause and shouts from Jack's many admirers. The next ball is a
beautifully-pitched ball for the outer stump, which the reckless and unfeeling
Jack catches hold of, and hits right round to leg for five, while the applause
becomes deafening. Only seventeen runs to get with four wickets! The game is
all but ours!
It is over now, and Jack walks swaggering about
his wicket, with his bat over his shoulder, while Mr. Aislabie holds a short
parley with his men. Then the cover-point hitter, that cunning man, goes on to
bowl slow twisters. Jack waves his hand triumphantly towards the tent, as much
as to say, “See if I don't finish it all off now in three hits.”
Alas, my son Jack, the enemy is too old for thee.
The first ball of the over Jack steps out and meets, swiping with all his
force. If he had only allowed for the twist! But he hasn't, and so the ball
goes spinning up straight in the air, as if it would never come down again.
Away runs Jack, shouting and trusting to the chapter of accidents; but the
bowler runs steadily under it, judging every spin, and calling out, “I have
it,” catches it, and playfully pitches it on to the back of the stalwart Jack,
who is departing with a rueful countenance.
“I knew how it would be,” says Tom, rising. “Come
along; the game's getting very serious.”
So they leave the island and go to the tent; and
after deep consultation, Arthur is sent in, and goes off to the wicket with a
last exhortation from Tom to play steady and keep his bat straight. To the
suggestions that Winter is the best bat left, Tom only replies, “Arthur is the
steadiest, and Johnson will make the runs if the wicket is only kept up.”
“I am surprised to see Arthur in the eleven,” said
the master, as they stood together in front of the dense crowd, which was now
closing in round the ground.
“Well, I'm not quite sure that he ought to be in
for his play,” said Tom, “but I couldn't help putting him in. It will do him so
much good, and you can't think what I owe him.”
The master smiled. The clock strikes eight, and
the whole field becomes fevered with excitement. Arthur, after two narrow
escapes, scores one, and Johnson gets the ball. The bowling and fielding are
superb, and Johnson's batting worthy the occasion. He makes here a two, and
there a one, managing to keep the ball to himself, and Arthur backs up and runs
perfectly. Only eleven runs to make now, and the crowd scarcely breathe. At
last Arthur gets the ball again, and actually drives it forward for two, and
feels prouder than when he got the three best prizes, at hearing Tom's shout of
joy, “Well played, well played, young un!”
But the next ball is too much for the young hand,
and his bails fly different ways. Nine runs to make, and two wickets to go
down: it is too much for human nerves.
Before Winter can get in, the omnibus which is to
take the Lord's men to the train pulls up at the side of the close, and Mr.
Aislabie and Tom consult, and give out that the stumps will be drawn after the
next over. And so ends the great match. Winter and Johnson carry out their
bats, and, it being a one day's match, the Lord's men are declared the winners,
they having scored the most in the first innings.
But such a defeat is a victory: so think Tom and
all the School eleven, as they accompany their conquerors to the omnibus, and
send them off with three ringing cheers, after Mr. Aislabie has shaken hands
all round, saying to Tom, “I must compliment you, sir, on your eleven, and I
hope we shall have you for a member if you come up to town.”
As Tom and the rest of the eleven were turning
back into the close, and everybody was beginning to cry out for another
country-dance, encouraged by the success of the night before, the young master,
who was just leaving the close, stopped him, and asked him to come up to tea at
half-past eight, adding, “I won't keep you more than half an hour, and ask
Arthur to come up too.”
“I'll come up with you directly, if you'll let
me,” said Tom, “for I feel rather melancholy, and not quite up to the
country-dance and supper with the rest.”
“Do, by all means,” said the master; “I'll wait
here for you.”
So Tom went off to get his boots and things from
the tent, to tell Arthur of the invitation, and to speak to his second in
command about stopping the dancing and shutting up the close as soon as it grew
dusk. Arthur promised to follow as soon as he had had a dance. So Tom handed
his things over to the man in charge of the tent, and walked quietly away to
the gate where the master was waiting, and the two took their way together up
the Hillmorton road.
Of course they found the master's house locked up,
and all the servants away in the close—about this time, no doubt, footing it
away on the grass, with extreme delight to themselves, and in utter oblivion of
the unfortunate bachelor their master, whose one enjoyment in the shape of
meals was his “dish of tea” (as our grandmothers called it) in the evening; and
the phrase was apt in his case, for he always poured his out into the saucer
before drinking. Great was the good man's horror at finding himself shut out of
his own house. Had he been alone he would have treated it as a matter of
course, and would have strolled contentedly up and down his gravel walk until
some one came home; but he was hurt at the stain on his character of host,
especially as the guest was a pupil. However, the guest seemed to think it a
great joke, and presently, as they poked about round the house, mounted a wall,
from which he could reach a passage window. The window, as it turned out, was
not bolted, so in another minute Tom was in the house and down at the front
door, which he opened from inside. The master chuckled grimly at this
burglarious entry, and insisted on leaving the hall-door and two of the front
windows open, to frighten the truants on their return; and then the two set
about foraging for tea, in which operation the master was much at fault, having
the faintest possible idea of where to find anything, and being, moreover,
wondrously short-sighted; but Tom, by a sort of instinct, knew the right
cupboards in the kitchen and pantry, and soon managed to place on the snuggery
table better materials for a meal than had appeared there probably during the
reign of his tutor, who was then and there initiated, amongst other things,
into the excellence of that mysterious condiment, a dripping-cake. The cake was
newly baked, and all rich and flaky; Tom had found it reposing in the cook's
private cupboard, awaiting her return; and as a warning to her they finished it
to the last crumb. The kettle sang away merrily on the hob of the snuggery,
for, notwithstanding the time of year, they lighted a fire, throwing both the
windows wide open at the same time; the heaps of books and papers were pushed
away to the other end of the table, and the great solitary engraving of King's
College Chapel over the mantelpiece looked less stiff than usual, as they
settled themselves down in the twilight to the serious drinking of tea.
After some talk on the match, and other
indifferent subjects, the conversation came naturally back to Tom's approaching
departure, over which he began again to make his moan.
“Well, we shall all miss you quite as much as you
will miss us,” said the master. “You are the Nestor of the School now, are you
not?”
“Yes, ever since East left,” answered Tom.
“By-the-bye, have you heard from him?”
“Yes, I had a letter in February, just before he
started for India to join his regiment.”
“He will make a capital officer.”
“Ay, won't he!” said Tom, brightening. “No fellow
could handle boys better, and I suppose soldiers are very like boys. And he'll
never tell them to go where he won't go himself. No mistake about that. A
braver fellow never walked.”
“His year in the sixth will have taught him a good
deal that will be useful to him now.”
“So it will,”' said Tom, staring into the fire.
“Poor dear Harry,” he went on—“how well I remember the day we were put out of
the twenty! How he rose to the situation, and burnt his cigar-cases, and gave
away his pistols, and pondered on the constitutional authority of the sixth,
and his new duties to the Doctor, and the fifth form, and the fags! Ay, and no
fellow ever acted up to them better, though he was always a people's man—for
the fags, and against constituted authorities. He couldn't help that, you know.
I'm sure the Doctor must have liked him?” said Tom, looking up inquiringly.
“The Doctor sees the good in every one, and
appreciates it,” said the master dogmatically; “but I hope East will get a good
colonel. He won't do if he can't respect those above him. How long it took him,
even here, to learn the lesson of obeying!”
“Well, I wish I were alongside of him,” said Tom.
“If I can't be at Rugby, I want to be at work in the world, and not dawdling
away three years at Oxford.”
“What do you mean by 'at work in the world'?” said
the master, pausing with his lips close to his saucerful of tea, and peering at
Tom over it.
“Well, I mean real work—one's profession—whatever
one will have really to do and make one's living by. I want to be doing some
real good, feeling that I am not only at play in the world,” answered Tom,
rather puzzled to find out himself what he really did mean.
“You are mixing up two very different things in
your head, I think, Brown,” said the master, putting down the empty saucer,
“and you ought to get clear about them. You talk of 'working to get your
living,' and 'doing some real good in the world,' in the same breath. Now, you
may be getting a very good living in a profession, and yet doing no good at all
in the world, but quite the contrary, at the same time. Keep the latter before
you as your one object, and you will be right, whether you make a living or
not; but if you dwell on the other, you'll very likely drop into mere
money-making, and let the world take care of itself for good or evil. Don't be
in a hurry about finding your work in the world for yourself—you are not old
enough to judge for yourself yet; but just look about you in the place you find
yourself in, and try to make things a little better and honester there. You'll
find plenty to keep your hand in at Oxford, or wherever else you go. And don't
be led away to think this part of the world important and that unimportant.
Every corner of the world is important. No man knows whether this part or that
is most so, but every man may do some honest work in his own corner.” And then
the good man went on to talk wisely to Tom of the sort of work which he might
take up as an undergraduate, and warned him of the prevalent university sins,
and explained to him the many and great differences between university and
school life, till the twilight changed into darkness, and they heard the truant
servants stealing in by the back entrance.
“I wonder where Arthur can be,” said Tom at last,
looking at his watch; “why, it's nearly half-past nine already.”
“Oh, he is comfortably at supper with the eleven,
forgetful of his oldest friends,” said the master. “Nothing has given me
greater pleasure,” he went on, “than your friendship for him; it has been the
making of you both.”
“Of me, at any rate,” answered Tom; “I should
never have been here now but for him. It was the luckiest chance in the world
that sent him to Rugby and made him my chum.”
“Why do you talk of lucky chances?” said the
master. “I don't know that there are any such things in the world; at any rate,
there was neither luck nor chance in that matter.”
Tom looked at him inquiringly, and he went on. “Do
you remember when the Doctor lectured you and East at the end of one half-year,
when you were in the shell, and had been getting into all sorts of scrapes?”
“Yes, well enough,” said Tom; “it was the
half-year before Arthur came.”
“Exactly so,” answered the master. “Now, I was
with him a few minutes afterwards, and he was in great distress about you two.
And after some talk, we both agreed that you in particular wanted some object
in the School beyond games and mischief; for it was quite clear that you never
would make the regular school work your first object. And so the Doctor, at the
beginning of the next half-year, looked out the best of the new boys, and
separated you and East, and put the young boy into your study, in the hope that
when you had somebody to lean on you, you would begin to stand a little
steadier yourself, and get manliness and thoughtfulness. And I can assure you
he has watched the experiment ever since with great satisfaction. Ah! not one
of you boys will ever know the anxiety you have given him, or the care with
which he has watched over every step in your school lives.”
Up to this time Tom had never given wholly in to
or understood the Doctor. At first he had thoroughly feared him. For some
years, as I have tried to show, he had learnt to regard him with love and
respect, and to think him a very great and wise and good man. But as regarded
his own position in the School, of which he was no little proud, Tom had no
idea of giving any one credit for it but himself, and, truth to tell, was a
very self-conceited young gentleman on the subject. He was wont to boast that
he had fought his own way fairly up the School, and had never made up to or
been taken up by any big fellow or master, and that it was now quite a
different place from what it was when he first came. And, indeed, though he
didn't actually boast of it, yet in his secret soul he did to a great extent
believe that the great reform in the School had been owing quite as much to
himself as to any one else. Arthur, he acknowledged, had done him good, and
taught him a good deal; so had other boys in different ways, but they had not
had the same means of influence on the School in general. And as for the
Doctor, why, he was a splendid master; but every one knew that masters could do
very little out of school hours. In short, he felt on terms of equality with
his chief, so far as the social state of the School was concerned, and thought
that the Doctor would find it no easy matter to get on without him. Moreover,
his School Toryism was still strong, and he looked still with some jealousy on
the Doctor, as somewhat of a fanatic in the matter of change, and thought it
very desirable for the School that he should have some wise person (such as
himself) to look sharply after vested School-rights, and see that nothing was
done to the injury of the republic without due protest.
It was a new light to him to find that, besides
teaching the sixth, and governing and guiding the whole School, editing
classics, and writing histories, the great headmaster had found time in those
busy years to watch over the career even of him, Tom Brown, and his particular
friends, and, no doubt, of fifty other boys at the same time, and all this
without taking the least credit to himself, or seeming to know, or let any one
else know, that he ever thought particularly of any boy at all.
However, the Doctor's victory was complete from
that moment over Tom Brown at any rate. He gave way at all points, and the
enemy marched right over him—cavalry, infantry, and artillery, and the land
transport corps, and the camp followers. It had taken eight long years to do
it; but now it was done thoroughly, and there wasn't a corner of him left which
didn't believe in the Doctor. Had he returned to School again, and the Doctor
begun the half-year by abolishing fagging, and football, and the Saturday
half-holiday, or all or any of the most cherished School institutions, Tom
would have supported him with the blindest faith. And so, after a half
confession of his previous shortcomings, and sorrowful adieus to his tutor,
from whom he received two beautifully-bound volumes of the Doctor's sermons, as
a parting present, he marched down to the Schoolhouse, a hero-worshipper, who
would have satisfied the soul of Thomas Carlyle himself.
There he found the eleven at high jinks after
supper, Jack Raggles shouting comic songs and performing feats of strength, and
was greeted by a chorus of mingled remonstrance at his desertion and joy at his
reappearance. And falling in with the humour of the evening, he was soon as
great a boy as all the rest; and at ten o'clock was chaired round the
quadrangle, on one of the hall benches, borne aloft by the eleven, shouting in
chorus, “For he's a jolly good fellow,” while old Thomas, in a melting mood,
and the other School-house servants, stood looking on.
And the next morning after breakfast he squared up
all the cricketing accounts, went round to his tradesmen and other
acquaintance, and said his hearty good-byes; and by twelve o'clock was in the
train, and away for London, no longer a school-boy, and divided in his thoughts
between hero-worship, honest regrets over the long stage of his life which was
now slipping out of sight behind him, and hopes and resolves for the next stage
upon which he was entering with all the confidence of a young traveller.
*
Clough, Ambarvalia.
