CHAPTER VII—HARRY EAST'S
DILEMMAS AND DELIVERANCES.
“The Holy Supper is kept indeed,
In
whatso we share with another's need
Not that which we give, but what we share,
For the gift without the giver is bare.
Who bestows himself with his alms feeds
three,
Himself, his hungering neighbour and Me.”
—LOWELL, The Vision of Sir Launfal.
The next morning, after breakfast, Tom, East, and
Gower met as usual to learn their second lesson together. Tom had been
considering how to break his proposal of giving up the crib to the others, and
having found no better way (as indeed none better can ever be found by man or
boy), told them simply what had happened; how he had been to see Arthur, who
had talked to him upon the subject, and what he had said, and for his part he
had made up his mind, and wasn't going to use cribs any more; and not being
quite sure of his ground, took the high and pathetic tone, and was proceeding
to say “how that, having learnt his lessons with them for so many years, it
would grieve him much to put an end to the arrangement, and he hoped, at any
rate, that if they wouldn't go on with him, they should still be just as good
friends, and respect one another's motives; but—”
Here the other boys, who had been listening with
open eyes and ears, burst in,—
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Gower. “Here, East,
get down the crib and find the place.”
“O Tommy, Tommy!” said East, proceeding to do as
he was bidden, “that it should ever have come to this! I knew Arthur'd be the
ruin of you some day, and you of me. And now the time's come.” And he made a
doleful face.
“I don't know about ruin,” answered Tom; “I know
that you and I would have had the sack long ago if it hadn't been for him. And
you know it as well as I.”
“Well, we were in a baddish way before he came, I
own; but this new crotchet of his is past a joke.”
“Let's give it a trial, Harry; come. You know how
often he has been right and we wrong.”
“Now, don't you two be jawing away about young
Square-toes,” struck in Gower. “He's no end of a sucking wiseacre, I dare say;
but we've no time to lose, and I've got the fives court at half-past nine.”
“I say, Gower,” said Tom appealingly, “be a good
fellow, and let's try if we can't get on without the crib.”
“What! in this chorus? Why, we shan't get through
ten lines.”
“I say, Tom,” cried East, having hit on a new
idea, “don't you remember, when we were in the upper fourth, and old Momus
caught me construing off the leaf of a crib which I'd torn out and put in my
book, and which would float out on to the floor, he sent me up to be flogged
for it?”
“Yes, I remember it very well.”
“Well, the Doctor, after he'd flogged me, told me
himself that he didn't flog me for using a translation, but for taking it in to
lesson, and using it there when I hadn't learnt a word before I came in. He
said there was no harm in using a translation to get a clue to hard passages,
if you tried all you could first to make them out without.”
“Did he, though?” said Tom; “then Arthur must be
wrong.”
“Of course he is,” said Gower—“the little prig.
We'll only use the crib when we can't construe without it.—Go ahead, East.”
And on this agreement they started—Tom, satisfied
with having made his confession, and not sorry to have a locus penitentiae, and
not to be deprived altogether of the use of his old and faithful friend.
The boys went on as usual, each taking a sentence
in turn, and the crib being handed to the one whose turn it was to construe. Of
course Tom couldn't object to this, as, was it not simply lying there to be
appealed to in case the sentence should prove too hard altogether for the
construer? But it must be owned that Gower and East did not make very
tremendous exertions to conquer their sentences before having recourse to its
help. Tom, however, with the most heroic virtue and gallantry, rushed into his
sentence, searching in a high-minded manner for nominative and verb, and
turning over his dictionary frantically for the first hard word that stopped
him. But in the meantime Gower, who was bent on getting to fives, would peep
quietly into the crib, and then suggest, “Don't you think this is the meaning?”
“I think you must take it this way, Brown.” And as Tom didn't see his way to
not profiting by these suggestions, the lesson went on about as quickly as
usual, and Gower was able to start for the fives court within five minutes of
the half-hour.
When Tom and East were left face to face, they
looked at one another for a minute, Tom puzzled, and East chokefull of fun, and
then burst into a roar of laughter.
“Well, Tom,” said East, recovering himself, “I don
t see any objection to the new way. It's about as good as the old one, I think,
besides the advantage it gives one of feeling virtuous, and looking down on
one's neighbours.”
Tom shoved his hand into his back hair. “I ain't
so sure,” said he; “you two fellows carried me off my legs. I don't think we
really tried one sentence fairly. Are you sure you remember what the Doctor
said to you?”
“Yes. And I'll swear I couldn't make out one of my
sentences to-day—no, nor ever could. I really don't remember,” said East, speaking
slowly and impressively, “to have come across one Latin or Greek sentence this
half that I could go and construe by the light of nature. Whereby I am sure
Providence intended cribs to be used.”
“The thing to find out,” said Tom meditatively,
“is how long one ought to grind at a sentence without looking at the crib. Now
I think if one fairly looks out all the words one don't know, and then can't
hit it, that's enough.”
“To be sure, Tommy,” said East demurely, but with
a merry twinkle in his eye. “Your new doctrine too, old fellow,” added he,
“when one comes to think of it, is a cutting at the root of all school
morality. You'll take away mutual help, brotherly love, or, in the vulgar
tongue, giving construes, which I hold to be one of our highest virtues. For
how can you distinguish between getting a construe from another boy and using a
crib? Hang it, Tom, if you're going to deprive all our school-fellows of the
chance of exercising Christian benevolence and being good Samaritans, I shall
cut the concern.”
“I wish you wouldn't joke about it, Harry; it's
hard enough to see one's way—a precious sight harder than I thought last night.
But I suppose there's a use and an abuse of both, and one'll get straight
enough somehow. But you can't make out, anyhow, that one has a right to use old
vulgus-books and copy-books.”
“Hullo, more heresy! How fast a fellow goes
downhill when he once gets his head before his legs. Listen to me, Tom. Not use
old vulgus-books! Why, you Goth, ain't we to take the benefit of the wisdom and
admire and use the work of past generations? Not use old copy-books! Why, you
might as well say we ought to pull down Westminster Abbey, and put up a
go-to-meeting shop with churchwarden windows; or never read Shakespeare, but
only Sheridan Knowles. Think of all the work and labour that our predecessors
have bestowed on these very books; and are we to make their work of no value?”
“I say, Harry, please don't chaff; I'm really
serious.”
“And then, is it not our duty to consult the
pleasure of others rather than our own, and above all, that of our masters?
Fancy, then, the difference to them in looking over a vulgus which has been
carefully touched and retouched by themselves and others, and which must bring
them a sort of dreamy pleasure, as if they'd met the thought or expression of
it somewhere or another—before they were born perhaps—and that of cutting up,
and making picture-frames round all your and my false quantities, and other
monstrosities. Why, Tom, you wouldn't be so cruel as never to let old Momus hum
over the 'O genus humanum' again, and then look up doubtingly through his
spectacles, and end by smiling and giving three extra marks for it—just for old
sake's sake, I suppose.”
“Well,” said Tom, getting up in something as like
a huff as he was capable of, “it's deuced hard that when a fellow's really
trying to do what he ought, his best friends'll do nothing but chaff him and
try to put him down.” And he stuck his books under his arm and his hat on his
head, preparatory to rushing out into the quadrangle, to testify with his own
soul of the faithlessness of friendships.
“Now don't be an ass, Tom,” said East, catching
hold of him; “you know me well enough by this time; my bark's worse than my
bite. You can't expect to ride your new crotchet without anybody's trying to
stick a nettle under his tail and make him kick you off—especially as we shall
all have to go on foot still. But now sit down, and let's go over it again.
I'll be as serious as a judge.”
Then Tom sat himself down on the table, and waxed
eloquent about all the righteousnesses and advantages of the new plan, as was
his wont whenever he took up anything, going into it as if his life depended
upon it, and sparing no abuse which he could think of, of the opposite method,
which he denounced as ungentlemanly, cowardly, mean, lying, and no one knows
what besides. “Very cool of Tom,” as East thought, but didn't say, “seeing as
how he only came out of Egypt himself last night at bedtime.”
“Well, Tom,” said he at last, “you see, when you
and I came to school there were none of these sort of notions. You may be
right—I dare say you are. Only what one has always felt about the masters is,
that it's a fair trial of skill and last between us and them—like a match at
football or a battle. We're natural enemies in school—that's the fact. We've
got to learn so much Latin and Greek, and do so many verses, and they've got to
see that we do it. If we can slip the collar and do so much less without
getting caught, that's one to us. If they can get more out of us, or catch us
shirking, that's one to them. All's fair in war but lying. If I run my luck
against theirs, and go into school without looking at my lessons, and don't get
called up, why am I a snob or a sneak? I don't tell the master I've learnt it.
He's got to find out whether I have or not. What's he paid for? If he calls me
up and I get floored, he makes me write it out in Greek and English. Very good.
He's caught me, and I don't grumble. I grant you, if I go and snivel to him,
and tell him I've really tried to learn it, but found it so hard without a
translation, or say I've had a toothache, or any humbug of that kind, I'm a
snob. That's my school morality; it's served me, and you too, Tom, for the
matter of that, these five years. And it's all clear and fair, no mistake about
it. We understand it, and they understand it, and I don't know what we're to
come to with any other.”
Tom looked at him pleased and a little puzzled. He
had never heard East speak his mind seriously before, and couldn't help feeling
how completely he had hit his own theory and practice up to that time.
“Thank you, old fellow,” said he. “You're a good
old brick to be serious, and not put out with me. I said more than I meant, I
dare say, only you see I know I'm right. Whatever you and Gower and the rest
do, I shall hold on. I must. And as it's all new and an uphill game, you see,
one must hit hard and hold on tight at first.”
“Very good,” said East; “hold on and hit away,
only don't hit under the line.”
“But I must bring you over, Harry, or I shan't be
comfortable. Now, I'll allow all you've said. We've always been honourable
enemies with the masters. We found a state of war when we came, and went into
it of course. Only don't you think things are altered a good deal? I don't feel
as I used to the masters. They seem to me to treat one quite differently.”
“Yes, perhaps they do,” said East; “there's a new
set you see, mostly, who don't feel sure of themselves yet. They don't want to
fight till they know the ground.”
“I don't think it's only that,” said Tom. “And
then the Doctor, he does treat one so openly, and like a gentleman, and as if
one was working with him.”
“Well, so he does,” said East; “he's a splendid
fellow, and when I get into the sixth I shall act accordingly. Only you know he
has nothing to do with our lessons now, except examining us. I say, though,”
looking at his watch, “it's just the quarter. Come along.”
As they walked out they got a message, to say that
Arthur was just starting, and would like to say goodbye. So they went down to
the private entrance of the School-house, and found an open carriage, with
Arthur propped up with pillows in it, looking already better, Tom thought.
They jumped up on to the steps to shake hands with
him, and Tom mumbled thanks for the presents he had found in his study, and
looked round anxiously for Arthur's mother.
East, who had fallen back into his usual humour,
looked quaintly at Arthur, and said,—
“So you've been at it again, through that hot-headed
convert of yours there. He's been making our lives a burden to us all the
morning about using cribs. I shall get floored to a certainty at second lesson,
if I'm called up.”
Arthur blushed and looked down. Tom struck in,—
“Oh, it's all right. He's converted already; he
always comes through the mud after us, grumbling and sputtering.”
The clock struck, and they had to go off to
school, wishing Arthur a pleasant holiday, Tom, lingering behind a moment to
send his thanks and love to Arthur's mother.
Tom renewed the discussion after second lesson,
and succeeded so far as to get East to promise to give the new plan a fair
trial.
Encouraged by his success, in the evening, when
they were sitting alone in the large study, where East lived now almost, “vice
Arthur on leave,” after examining the new fishing-rod, which both pronounced to
be the genuine article (“play enough to throw a midge tied on a single hair
against the wind, and strength enough to hold a grampus”), they naturally began
talking about Arthur. Tom, who was still bubbling over with last night's scene
and all the thoughts of the last week, and wanting to clinch and fix the whole
in his own mind, which he could never do without first going through the
process of belabouring somebody else with it all, suddenly rushed into the
subject of Arthur's illness, and what he had said about death.
East had given him the desired opening. After a
serio-comic grumble, “that life wasn't worth having, now they were tied to a
young beggar who was always 'raising his standard;' and that he, East, was like
a prophet's donkey, who was obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man who
went after the prophet; that he had none of the pleasure of starting the new
crotchets, and didn't half understand them, but had to take the kicks and carry
the luggage as if he had all the fun,” he threw his legs up on to the sofa, and
put his hands behind his head, and said,—
“Well, after all, he's the most wonderful little
fellow I ever came across. There ain't such a meek, humble boy in the school.
Hanged if I don't think now, really, Tom, that he believes himself a much worse
fellow than you or I, and that he don't think he has more influence in the
house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter, and isn't ten yet. But he turns you
and me round his little finger, old boy—there's no mistake about that.” And
East nodded at Tom sagaciously.
“Now or never!” thought Tom; so, shutting his eyes
and hardening his heart, he went straight at it, repeating all that Arthur had
said, as near as he could remember it, in the very words, and all he had
himself thought. The life seemed to ooze out of it as he went on, and several
times he felt inclined to stop, give it all up, and change the subject. But
somehow he was borne on; he had a necessity upon him to speak it all out, and
did so. At the end he looked at East with some anxiety, and was delighted to
see that that young gentleman was thoughtful and attentive. The fact is, that
in the stage of his inner life at which Tom had lately arrived, his intimacy
with and friendship for East could not have lasted if he had not made him aware
of, and a sharer in, the thoughts that were beginning to exercise him. Nor
indeed could the friendship have lasted if East had shown no sympathy with
these thoughts; so that it was a great relief to have unbosomed himself, and to
have found that his friend could listen.
Tom had always had a sort of instinct that East's
levity was only skin-deep, and this instinct was a true one. East had no want
of reverence for anything he felt to be real; but his was one of those natures
that burst into what is generally called recklessness and impiety the moment
they feel that anything is being poured upon them for their good which does not
come home to their inborn sense of right, or which appeals to anything like
self-interest in them. Daring and honest by nature, and outspoken to an extent
which alarmed all respectabilities, with a constant fund of animal health and
spirits which he did not feel bound to curb in any way, he had gained for
himself with the steady part of the school (including as well those who wished
to appear steady as those who really were so) the character of a boy with whom
it would be dangerous to be intimate; while his own hatred of everything cruel,
or underhand, or false, and his hearty respect for what he would see to be good
and true, kept off the rest.
Tom, besides being very like East in many points
of character, had largely developed in his composition the capacity for taking
the weakest side. This is not putting it strongly enough: it was a necessity
with him; he couldn't help it any more than he could eating or drinking. He
could never play on the strongest side with any heart at football or cricket,
and was sure to make friends with any boy who was unpopular, or down on his
luck.
Now, though East was not what is generally called
unpopular, Tom felt more and more every day, as their characters developed,
that he stood alone, and did not make friends among their contemporaries, and
therefore sought him out. Tom was himself much more popular, for his power of
detecting humbug was much less acute, and his instincts were much more
sociable. He was at this period of his life, too, largely given to taking
people for what they gave themselves out to be; but his singleness of heart,
fearlessness, and honesty were just what East appreciated, and thus the two had
been drawn into great intimacy.
This intimacy had not been interrupted by Tom's
guardianship of Arthur.
East had often, as has been said, joined them in
reading the Bible; but their discussions had almost always turned upon the
characters of the men and women of whom they read, and not become personal to
themselves. In fact, the two had shrunk from personal religious discussion, not
knowing how it might end, and fearful of risking a friendship very dear to
both, and which they felt somehow, without quite knowing why, would never be
the same, but either tenfold stronger or sapped at its foundation, after such a
communing together.
What a bother all this explaining is! I wish we
could get on without it. But we can't. However, you'll all find, if you haven't
found it out already, that a time comes in every human friendship when you must
go down into the depths of yourself, and lay bare what is there to your friend,
and wait in fear for his answer. A few moments may do it; and it may be (most
likely will be, as you are English boys) that you will never do it but once.
But done it must be, if the friendship is to be worth the name. You must find
what is there, at the very root and bottom of one another's hearts; and if you
are at one there, nothing on earth can or at least ought to sunder you.
East had remained lying down until Tom finished
speaking, as if fearing to interrupt him; he now sat up at the table, and leant
his head on one hand, taking up a pencil with the other, and working little
holes with it in the table-cover. After a bit he looked up, stopped the pencil,
and said, “Thank you very much, old fellow. There's no other boy in the house
would have done it for me but you or Arthur. I can see well enough,” he went
on, after a pause, “all the best big fellows look on me with suspicion; they
think I'm a devil-may-care, reckless young scamp. So I am—eleven hours out of
twelve, but not the twelfth. Then all of our contemporaries worth knowing
follow suit, of course: we're very good friends at games and all that, but not
a soul of them but you and Arthur ever tried to break through the crust, and
see whether there was anything at the bottom of me; and then the bad ones I
won't stand and they know that.”
“Don't you think that's half fancy, Harry?”
“Not a bit of it,” said East bitterly, pegging
away with his pencil. “I see it all plain enough. Bless you, you think
everybody's as straightforward and kindhearted as you are.”
“Well, but what's the reason of it? There must be
a reason. You can play all the games as well as any one and sing the best song,
and are the best company in the house. You fancy you're not liked, Harry. It's
all fancy.”
“I only wish it was, Tom. I know I could be
popular enough with all the bad ones, but that I won't have, and the good ones
won't have me.”
“Why not?” persisted Tom; “you don't drink or
swear, or get out at night; you never bully, or cheat at lessons. If you only
showed you liked it, you'd have all the best fellows in the house running after
you.”
“Not I,” said East. Then with an effort he went
on, “I'll tell you what it is. I never stop the Sacrament. I can see, from the
Doctor downwards, how that tells against me.”
“Yes, I've seen that,” said Tom, “and I've been
very sorry for it, and Arthur and I have talked about it. I've often thought of
speaking to you, but it's so hard to begin on such subjects. I'm very glad
you've opened it. Now, why don't you?”
“I've never been confirmed,” said East.
“Not been confirmed!” said Tom, in astonishment.
“I never thought of that. Why weren't you confirmed with the rest of us nearly
three years ago? I always thought you'd been confirmed at home.”
“No,” answered East sorrowfully; “you see this was
how it happened. Last Confirmation was soon after Arthur came, and you were so
taken up with him I hardly saw either of you. Well, when the Doctor sent round
for us about it, I was living mostly with Green's set. You know the sort. They
all went in. I dare say it was all right, and they got good by it; I don't want
to judge them. Only all I could see of their reasons drove me just the other
way. 'Twas 'because the Doctor liked it;' 'no boy got on who didn't stay the
Sacrament;' it was the 'correct thing,' in fact, like having a good hat to wear
on Sundays. I couldn't stand it. I didn't feel that I wanted to lead a
different life. I was very well content as I was, and I wasn't going to sham
religious to curry favour with the Doctor, or any one else.”
East stopped speaking, and pegged away more
diligently than ever with his pencil. Tom was ready to cry. He felt half sorry
at first that he had been confirmed himself. He seemed to have deserted his
earliest friend—to have left him by himself at his worst need for those long
years. He got up and went and sat by East, and put his arm over his shoulder.
“Dear old boy,” he said, “how careless and selfish
I've been. But why didn't you come and talk to Arthur and me?”
“I wish to Heaven I had,” said East, “but I was a
fool. It's too late talking of it now.”
“Why too late? You want to be confirmed now, don't
you?”
“I think so,” said East. “I've thought about it a
good deal; only, often I fancy I must be changing, because I see it's to do me
good here—just what stopped me last time. And then I go back again.”
“I'll tell you now how 'twas with me,” said Tom
warmly. “If it hadn't been for Arthur, I should have done just as you did. I
hope I should. I honour you for it. But then he made it out just as if it was
taking the weak side before all the world—going in once for all against
everything that's strong and rich, and proud and respectable, a little band of
brothers against the whole world. And the Doctor seemed to say so too, only he
said a great deal more.”
“Ah!” groaned East, “but there again, that's just
another of my difficulties whenever I think about the matter. I don't want to
be one of your saints, one of your elect, whatever the right phrase is. My
sympathies are all the other way—with the many, the poor devils who run about
the streets and don't go to church. Don't stare, Tom; mind, I'm telling you all
that's in my heart—as far as I know it—but it's all a muddle. You must be
gentle with me if you want to land me. Now I've seen a deal of this sort of
religion; I was bred up in it, and I can't stand it. If nineteen-twentieths of
the world are to be left to uncovenanted mercies, and that sort of thing, which
means in plain English to go to hell, and the other twentieth are to rejoice at
it all, why—”
“Oh! but, Harry, they ain't, they don't,” broke in
Tom, really shocked. “Oh, how I wish Arthur hadn't gone! I'm such a fool about
these things. But it's all you want too, East; it is indeed. It cuts both ways
somehow, being confirmed and taking the Sacrament. It makes you feel on the
side of all the good and all the bad too, of everybody in the world. Only
there's some great dark strong power, which is crushing you and everybody else.
That's what Christ conquered, and we've got to fight. What a fool I am! I can't
explain. If Arthur were only here!”
“I begin to get a glimmering of what you mean,”
said East.
“I say, now,” said Tom eagerly, “do you remember
how we both hated Flashman?”
“Of course I do,” said East; “I hate him still.
What then?”
“Well, when I came to take the Sacrament, I had a
great struggle about that. I tried to put him out of my head; and when I
couldn't do that, I tried to think of him as evil—as something that the Lord
who was loving me hated, and which I might hate too. But it wouldn't do. I
broke down; I believe Christ Himself broke me down. And when the Doctor gave me
the bread and wine, and leant over me praying, I prayed for poor Flashman, as
if it had been you or Arthur.”
East buried his face in his hands on the table.
Tom could feel the table tremble. At last he looked up. “Thank you again, Tom,”
said he; “you don't know what you may have done for me to-night. I think I see
now how the right sort of sympathy with poor devils is got at.”
“And you'll stop the Sacrament next time, won't
you?” said Tom.
“Can I, before I'm confirmed?”
“Go and ask the Doctor.”
“I will.”
That very night, after prayers, East followed the
Doctor, and the old verger bearing the candle, upstairs. Tom watched, and saw
the Doctor turn round when he heard footsteps following him closer than usual,
and say, “Hah, East! Do you want to speak to me, my man?”
“If you please, sir.” And the private door closed,
and Tom went to his study in a state of great trouble of mind.
It was almost an hour before East came back. Then
he rushed in breathless.
“Well, it's all right,” he shouted, seizing Tom by
the hand. “I feel as if a ton weight were off my mind.”
“Hurrah,” said Tom. “I knew it would be; but tell
us all about it.”
“Well, I just told him all about it. You can't
think how kind and gentle he was, the great grim man, whom I've feared more
than anybody on earth. When I stuck, he lifted me just as if I'd been a little
child. And he seemed to know all I'd felt, and to have gone through it all. And
I burst out crying—more than I've done this five years; and he sat down by me,
and stroked my head; and I went blundering on, and told him all—much worse
things than I've told you. And he wasn't shocked a bit, and didn't snub me, or
tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but pride or wickedness, though I
dare say it was. And he didn't tell me not to follow out my thoughts, and he
didn't give me any cut-and-dried explanation. But when I'd done he just talked
a bit. I can hardly remember what he said yet; but it seemed to spread round me
like healing, and strength, and light, and to bear me up, and plant me on a
rock, where I could hold my footing and fight for myself. I don't know what to
do, I feel so happy. And it's all owing to you, dear old boy!” And he seized
Tom's hand again.
“And you're to come to the Communion?” said Tom.
“Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays.”
Tom's delight was as great as his friend's. But he
hadn't yet had out all his own talk, and was bent on improving the occasion: so
he proceeded to propound Arthur's theory about not being sorry for his friends'
deaths, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by which he was much
exercised; for he didn't feel it honest to take what pleased him, and throw
over the rest, and was trying vigorously to persuade himself that he should
like all his best friends to die off-hand.
But East's powers of remaining serious were
exhausted, and in five minutes he was saying the most ridiculous things he
could think of, till Tom was almost getting angry again.
Despite of himself, however, he couldn't help
laughing and giving it up, when East appealed to him with, “Well, Tom, you
ain't going to punch my head, I hope, because I insist upon being sorry when
you got to earth?”
And so their talk finished for that time, and they
tried to learn first lesson, with very poor success, as appeared next morning,
when they were called up and narrowly escaped being floored, which ill-luck,
however, did not sit heavily on either of their souls.
