The Loom of Youth Part 20

"What do you mean?"

"You know quite well what I mean. I don't think it's your fault; it is the fault of this rotten system under which we live. You are not what you were when you first came. Of course, it is natural to crib and fool about, but you are going a bit far. One day you will be captain of this House. You'll be sorry then."

"Oh, don't be a d.a.m.ned a.s.s, Betteridge, preaching to me. I know what I am doing. It's not long that I shall have to enjoy myself. I shall be in the Sixth soon, and shall have to slow down then. But at present I shall do d.a.m.ned well what I like. After all, what does it matter if I do rot all day and muck about generally? It makes no difference to you or the House. It's my own d.a.m.ned business, and besides, everyone else does it!"

It was useless to reason with him. The argument that "others do it" is impossible to combat. And, after all, environment is what counts, and it is a fairly dangerous environment with which to surround any but the average sensual being who eats, drinks, laughs and is merry, and never thinks at all. And yet masters are surprised when they find the big man whom they thought impregnable following the accepted customs. They say: "What a pity! A fine fellow gone to the dogs, and after all we've done for him, too!" and yet whose fault is it?

But this is by the wayside. For better or for worse the character of Gordon Caruthers was developing on its own lines. Criticism should be withheld till the last threads are woven, and we can judge of the complex whole.

The summer term was drawing to a close. It had not been very successful as far as Gordon was concerned. His cricket had frankly been a failure, and the prominence he had gained in his House hardly compensated for the misgivings with which the Chief and Buller regarded his future. It seemed as if he could not help running up against "the Bull."

A-K was knocked out of the Senior House compet.i.tion at once. They drew Christy's and were beaten by an innings. Gordon made eleven and fifteen, and was missed three times while making them. Foster, however, got a very st.u.r.dy thirty-three not out, and took three wickets. He got his House cap. Gordon was furious, and swore that he was jolly well not going to try any more that term.

During the final senior he was strolling round the field with Tester, both of them in cloth suits, unchanged for games. "The Bull" came up behind them.

"Caruthers, why aren't you changed this afternoon?"

"Well sir, we only had a House game this afternoon, so Tester and I got leave off to watch the match."

"But your House is not playing in it."

"No, sir."

"Well, then, what on earth do you mean by slacking about the field like this? It's your duty to be training yourself too, so that some day you may be of some use to Fernhurst, and here are you slacking about, instead of asking the pro. to give you a net. Slackness! filthy slackness! I don't know what's wrong with you this term; you were quite keen once."

He strolled off, scratching the back of his head. "The Bull" always did this when in a bad temper.

"Poor old chap," murmured Tester, "he takes these little things so much to heart. He loathes me because I don't sweat myself to death all day at the nets. He never said anything to me; he has given me up as a bad job.

Poor old chap!"

"Well, I suppose we ought to have been at the nets," said Gordon.

"If we did everything that we ought to do in this world, we should never have a moment's time to do the things we liked."

"I suppose so," said Gordon, "but still, you know--oh, well, what the h.e.l.l does it matter? By Jove, well hit, d.y.k.e!"

The conversation turned again to the match.

Next term Gordon had arranged to have a study with Lovelace. Tester was going to be a prefect, and wanted to himself the big upstairs study that Clarke had had. Gordon was staying in No. 1.

He was not sorry. He did not quite understand Tester; he was too clever, and Gordon never knew exactly what he was driving at. Lovelace, on the other hand, was his best friend; they had played together in several sides, and next term Lovelace would captain the footer Colts. The future seemed very roseate. Moreover, he was certain to get into the Sixth, and that meant many privileges. He did not have to attend rolls, he could be late for tea, there was no need for him to get leave to speak to anyone in hall. It meant many study hours, and it would also bring him into contact with the Olympians. There was Garter, who had been in the Sixth four terms, and was in the Second Fifteen. He would meet Betteridge.

There was Rudd to rag. Prothero had reduced his time-table to one hour in school a day, and was an authority to consult on any subject regarding avoiding work. Davenport would be promoted, too. Gordon's day of power was beginning to dawn. Next term he would be distinctly a House blood. It was a ravis.h.i.+ng thought.

One evening in exam. week Hunter announced casually after tea: "I say, do you remember Betteridge talking once about a man called Ferrers?

Well, he is coming here as a master next term."

"Oh, Lord, is he really?" said Fletcher. "I suppose he will be full of rotten new theories, and he will probably want to make us work."

"Well, I always give a master a good fortnight's trial before I do any work for him," said Tester; "at the end of that, I usually find his keenness has worn off. I bet he will be the same as all the rest."

"I doubt it," said Betteridge; "he is a man."

"Well, whatever he is, he is going to have no effect on me," said Gordon, with a finality that quite closed the question.

CHAPTER IV: THROUGH A GLa.s.s DARKLY

As often as not, it is mere chance that provides the most essentially important moments in our lives. It is easy to talk of the inevitable march of Fate, but more usually a chance word or look alters our entire outlook on life. And so it was that the course of Gordon's whole career was suddenly changed into a different channel, at a moment when he was drifting placidly on the stream of a lax conventionality, and was frittering away all his opportunities for sheer lack of anything that would spur him on to a clearer conception of what life means.

During the whole of the term, Tester and Gordon had done their early morning preparation on the V. A green. As they had answered their names at roll, they would take out deck-chairs and cus.h.i.+ons and luxuriously pa.s.s the three quarters of an hour before breakfast reclining back, putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the evening's work. It is a very beautiful spot, the V. A green. On three sides it is flanked with buildings; on the fourth is a low wall, which is used as an exit for nocturnal expeditions. It was under the V. A cla.s.s-room that Gordon and Tester put their chairs. Opposite them was the grey library; beyond rose the Abbey, solemn and austere; on the left was the chapel and the long cloister leading to big school. In the early morning a great hush pervaded the place. The only sound was the faint tolling of the Almshouse bell. Between the Abbey and the library the sun rose in a blaze of glory.

On the last morning of the term Gordon and Tester lolled back in their comfortable chairs. Gordon was trying to learn his rep. for the exam.

that morning. Tester was reading _The Oxford Book of English Verse_; the exams for the Sixth were over.

"Oh, d.a.m.n this," said Gordon. "I can't learn the stuff."

He flung the book down, and lay back watching the first rays of the sun flicker on the cold bronze of the Abbey.

"This has been a rotten term, you know," he said at last.

"Yes?" said Tester. He was engrossed in poetry.

"Well, I got into the deuce of a row with Chief, and I never got my House cap, and I've broken it off with Jackson."

Tester put down his book and sat up.

"Caruthers, you know you are wasting your time. Here are you with all your brilliance and your personality worrying only about House caps and petty intrigues, and little things like that. What you want to realise is that there is something beyond the aim of a Fernhurst career. You are clever enough; but poetry and art mean nothing to you."

"Oh poetry, that's all right for Claremont and a.s.ses like that, but what's the use of it?"

"Oh, use, use! Nothing but this eternal cry about the use of a thing.

Poetry is the sort of beacon-light of man. What's wrong with you is that you've read the wrong stuff. It is all very well for a middle-aged man to wors.h.i.+p Wordsworth and calm philosophy. But youth wants colour, life, pa.s.sion, the poetry of revolt. Now look here, let me read you this, and then tell me what you think of it."

"Oh, all right. Is it long?"

"No, not very."

In a low, clear voice, Tester began to read the great spring Chorus in _Atalanta_, into which Swinburne has crowded all that he ever knew of joy and happiness. In everyone there lies the love of beauty--"we needs must love the highest when we see it"--but the pity is that so few of us are ever brought face to face with the really lovely, or perhaps, if we are, we come to it too late. Our power of appreciation has lain too long dormant ever to be aroused. And at school it is the common thing for boys to pa.s.s through their six years' traffic without ever realising what beauty is. They are told to read Vergil, Tennyson and Browning, the philosophers, the comforters of old age, poets who "had for weary feet the gift of rest." But boys never hear of Byron, Swinburne and Rossetti, men with big flaming hearts that cried for physical beauty and the loveliness of tangible things. As a result they drift out into the world, to take their place with the dull, commonplace Philistine who has made the House of Commons what it is.

But as Gordon heard Tester reading the wonderful riot of melody, which conjures up visions of rainbows, and far-receding sunsets, of dew gleaming like crystals in the morning, of water gliding like forgotten songs, a strange peace descended on him. He had not known that there could be anything so intensely beautiful. Over the great Abbey the sun was rising heavenwards; down the street past the Almshouses he heard the happy sound of a young girl laughing. The world was full of strange new things; there was a new meaning in the song of the blackbird, in the rustle of the leaves, in the whispering of the warm wind. And suddenly there came over him a sensation of how far he himself was below the splendour of it all. He had walked through life with blinded eyes; with dulled senses he had stared at the ground, while all the time the great ideal of beauty was s.h.i.+ning from the blue mountains of man's desire.

Tester had finished reading.