"Strange
friend, past, present, and
to be;
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold I dream a dream of good,
And mingle all the world with thee."
—TENNYSON.
In the summer
of 1842, our hero stopped
once again at
the well- known station; and
leaving his bag and fishing-rod
with a porter, walked slowly
and sadly up towards the town.
It was now July. He had rushed
away from Oxford the moment
that term was over, for a fishing
ramble in Scotland with two
college friends, and had been
for three weeks living on oatcake,
mutton-hams, and whisky, in
the wildest parts of Skye.
They had descended one sultry
evening on the little inn at
Kyle Rhea ferry; and while
Tom and another of the party
put their tackle together and
began exploring the stream
for a sea-trout for supper,
the third strolled into the
house to arrange for their
entertainment. Presently he
came out in a loose blouse
and slippers, a short pipe
in his mouth, and an old newspaper
in his hand, and threw himself
on the heathery scrub which
met the shingle, within easy
hail of the fishermen. There
he lay, the picture of free-and-
easy, loafing, hand-to-mouth
young England, "improving
his mind," as he shouted
to them, by the perusal of
the fortnight- old weekly paper,
soiled with the marks of toddy-glasses
and tobacco-ashes, the legacy
of the last traveller, which
he had hunted out from the
kitchen of the little hostelry,
and, being a youth of a communicative
turn of mind, began imparting
the contents to the fishermen
as he went on.
"What
a bother they are making
about these wretched
corn-laws! Here's three or
four columns full of nothing
but sliding scales and fixed
duties. Hang this tobacco,
it's always going out! Ah,
here's something better - a
splendid match between Kent
and England, Brown, Kent winning
by three wickets. Felix fifty-six
runs without a chance, and
not out!"
Tom, intent on a fish which
had risen at him twice, answered
only with a grunt.
"Anything about the Goodwood?" called
out the third man.
"Rory O'More drawn. Butterfly
colt amiss," shouted the
student.
"Just my luck," grumbled
the inquirer, jerking his flies
off the water, and throwing
again with a heavy, sullen
splash, and frightening Tom's
fish.
"I say, can't you throw
lighter over there? We ain't
fishing for grampuses," shouted
Tom across the stream.
"Hullo, Brown! here's
something for you," called
out the reading man next moment. "Why,
your old master, Arnold of
Rugby, is dead."
Tom's hand stopped half-way
in his cast, and his line and
flies went all tangling round
and round his rod; you might
have knocked him over with
a feather. Neither of his companions
took any notice of him, luckily;
and with a violent effort he
set to work mechanically to
disentangle his line. He felt
completely carried off his
moral and intellectual legs,
as if he had lost his standing-point
in the invisible world. Besides
which, the deep, loving loyalty
which he felt for his old leader
made the shock intensely painful.
It was the first great wrench
of his life, the first gap
which the angel Death had made
in his circle, and he felt
numbed, and beaten down, and
spiritless. Well, well! I believe
it was good for him and for
many others in like case, who
had to learn by that loss that
the soul of man cannot stand
or lean upon any human prop,
however strong, and wise, and
good; but that He upon whom
alone it can stand and lean
will knock away all such props
in His own wise and merciful
way, until there is no ground
or stay left but Himself, the
Rock of Ages, upon whom alone
a sure foundation for every
soul of man is laid.
As he wearily
laboured at his line, the
thought struck
him, "It may be all false
- a mere newspaper lie." And
he strode up to the recumbent
smoker.
"Let me look at the paper," said
he.
"Nothing else in it," answered
the other, handing it up to
him listlessly. "Hullo,
Brown! what's the matter, old
fellow? Ain't you well?"
"Where is it?" said
Tom, turning over the leaves,
his hands trembling, and his
eyes swimming, so that he could
not read.
"What? What are you looking
for?" said his friend,
jumping up and looking over
his shoulder.
"That - about Arnold," said
Tom.
"Oh, here," said
the other, putting his finger
on the paragraph. Tom read
it over and over again. There
could be no mistake of identity,
though the account was short
enough.
"Thank you," said
he at last, dropping the paper. "I
shall go for a walk. Don't
you and Herbert wait supper
for me." And away he strode,
up over the moor at the back
of the house, to be alone,
and master his grief if possible.
His friend looked after him,
sympathizing and wondering,
and, knocking the ashes out
of his pipe, walked over to
Herbert. After a short parley
they walked together up to
the house.
"I'm
afraid that confounded newspaper
has spoiled Brown's
fun for this trip."
"How odd that he should
be so fond of his old master," said
Herbert. Yet they also were
both public-school men.
The two, however, notwithstanding
Tom's prohibition, waited supper
for him, and had everything
ready when he came back some
half an hour afterwards. But
he could not join in their
cheerful talk, and the party
was soon silent, notwithstanding
the efforts of all three. One
thing only had Tom resolved,
and that was, that he couldn't
stay in Scotland any longer:
he felt an irresistible longing
to get to Rugby, and then home,
and soon broke it to the others,
who had too much tact to oppose.
So by daylight the next morning
he was marching through Ross-
shire, and in the evening hit
the Caledonian Canal, took
the next steamer, and travelled
as fast as boat and railway
could carry him to the Rugby
station.
As he walked up to the town,
he felt shy and afraid of being
seen, and took the back streets
- why, he didn't know, but
he followed his instinct. At
the School-gates he made a
dead pause; there was not a
soul in the quadrangle - all
was lonely, and silent, and
sad. So with another effort
he strode through the quadrangle,
and into the School-house offices.
He found the little matron
in her room in deep mourning;
shook her hand, tried to talk,
and moved nervously about.
She was evidently thinking
of the same subject as he,
but he couldn't begin talking.
"Where shall I find Thomas?" said
he at last, getting desperate.
"In the servants' hall,
I think, sir. But won't you
take anything?" said the
matron, looking rather disappointed.
"No, thank you," said
he, and strode off again to
find the old verger, who was
sitting in his little den,
as of old, puzzling over hieroglyphics.
He looked up through his spectacles
as Tom seized his hand and
wrung it.
"Ah! you've heard all
about it, sir, I see," said
he. Tom nodded, and then sat
down on the shoe-board, while
the old man told his tale,
and wiped his spectacles, and
fairly flowed over with quaint,
homely, honest sorrow.
By the time he had done Tom
felt much better.
"Where is he buried,
Thomas?" said he at last.
"Under the altar in the
chapel, sir," answered
Thomas. "You'd like to
have the key, I dare say?"
"Thank
you, Thomas - yes, I should,
very much."
And the old
man fumbled among his bunch,
and then got up,
as though he would go with
him; but after a few steps
stopped short, and said, "Perhaps
you'd like to go by yourself,
sir?"
Tom nodded, and the bunch
of keys were handed to him,
with an injunction to be sure
and lock the door after him,
and bring them back before
eight o'clock.
He walked
quickly through the quadrangle
and out into
the close. The longing which
had been upon him and driven
him thus far, like the gad-fly
in the Greek legends, giving
him no rest in mind or body,
seemed all of a sudden not
to be satisfied, but to shrivel
up and pall. "Why should
I go on? It's no use," he
thought, and threw himself
at full length on the turf,
and looked vaguely and listlessly
at all the well-known objects.
There were a few of the town
boys playing cricket, their
wicket pitched on the best
piece in the middle of the
big-side ground - a sin about
equal to sacrilege in the eyes
of a captain of the eleven.
He was very nearly getting
up to go and send them off. "Pshaw!
they won't remember me. They've
more right there than I," he
muttered. And the thought that
his sceptre had departed, and
his mark was wearing out, came
home to him for the first time,
and bitterly enough. He was
lying on the very spot where
the fights came off - where
he himself had fought six years
ago his first and last battle.
He conjured up the scene till
he could almost hear the shouts
of the ring, and East's whisper
in his ear; and looking across
the close to the Doctor's private
door, half expected to see
it open, and the tall figure
in cap and gown come striding
under the elm-trees towards
him.
No, no; that sight could never
be seen again. There was no
flag flying on the round tower;
the School-house windows were
all shuttered up; and when
the flag went up again, and
the shutters came down, it
would be to welcome a stranger.
All that was left on earth
of him whom he had honoured
was lying cold and still under
the chapel floor. He would
go in and see the place once
more, and then leave it once
for all. New men and new methods
might do for other people;
let those who would, worship
the rising star; he, at least,
would be faithful to the sun
which had set. And so he got
up, and walked to the chapel
door, and unlocked it, fancying
himself the only mourner in
all the broad land, and feeding
on his own selfish sorrow.
He passed through the vestibule,
and then paused for a moment
to glance over the empty benches.
His heart was still proud and
high, and he walked up to the
seat which he had last occupied
as a sixth-form boy, and sat
himself down there to collect
his thoughts.
And, truth
to tell, they needed collecting
and setting in order
not a little. The memories
of eight years were all dancing
through his brain, and carrying
him about whither they would;
while, beneath them all, his
heart was throbbing with the
dull sense of a loss that could
never be made up to him. The
rays of the evening sun came
solemnly through the painted
windows above his head, and
fell in gorgeous colours on
the opposite wall, and the
perfect stillness soothed his
spirit by little and little.
And he turned to the pulpit,
and looked at it, and then,
leaning forward with his head
on his hands, groaned aloud.
If he could only have seen
the Doctor again for one five
minutes - have told him all
that was in his heart, what
he owed to him, how he loved
and reverenced him, and would,
by God's help, follow his steps
in life and death - he could
have borne it all without a
murmur. But that he should
have gone away for ever without
knowing it all, was too much
to bear. "But am I sure
that he does not know it all?" The
thought made him start. "May
he not even now be near me,
in this very chapel? If he
be, am I sorrowing as he would
have me sorrow, as I should
wish to have sorrowed when
I shall meet him again?"
He raised himself up and looked
round, and after a minute rose
and walked humbly down to the
lowest bench, and sat down
on the very seat which he had
occupied on his first Sunday
at Rugby. And then the old
memories rushed back again,
but softened and subdued, and
soothing him as he let himself
be carried away by them. And
he looked up at the great painted
window above the altar, and
remembered how, when a little
boy, he used to try not to
look through it at the elm-trees
and the rooks, before the painted
glass came; and the subscription
for the painted glass, and
the letter he wrote home for
money to give to it. And there,
down below, was the very name
of the boy who sat on his right
hand on that first day, scratched
rudely in the oak panelling.
And then came the thought
of all his old schoolfellows;
and form after form of boys
nobler, and braver, and purer
than he rose up and seemed
to rebuke him. Could he not
think of them, and what they
had felt and were feeling -
they who had honoured and loved
from the first the man whom
he had taken years to know
and love? Could he not think
of those yet dearer to him
who was gone, who bore his
name and shared his blood,
and were now without a husband
or a father? Then the grief
which he began to share with
others became gentle and holy,
and he rose up once more, and
walked up the steps to the
altar, and while the tears
flowed freely down his cheeks,
knelt down humbly and hopefully,
to lay down there his share
of a burden which had proved
itself too heavy for him to
bear in his own strength.
Here let us leave him. Where
better could we leave him than
at the altar before which he
had first caught a glimpse
of the glory of his birthright,
and felt the drawing of the
bond which links all living
souls together in one brotherhood
- at the grave beneath the
altar of him who had opened
his eyes to see that glory,
and softened his heart till
it could feel that bond?
And let us not be hard on
him, if at that moment his
soul is fuller of the tomb
and him who lies there than
of the altar and Him of whom
it speaks. Such stages have
to be gone through, I believe,
by all young and brave souls,
who must win their way through
hero-worship to the worship
of Him who is the King and
Lord of heroes. For it is only
through our mysterious human
relationships - through the
love and tenderness and purity
of mothers and sisters and
wives, through the strength
and courage and wisdom of fathers
and brothers and teachers -
that we can come to the knowledge
of Him in whom alone the love,
and the tenderness, and the
purity, and the strength, and
the courage, and the wisdom
of all these dwell for ever
and ever in perfect fullness.
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