Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

“We will not discuss impossibilities, William,” replied Miss Ord. “It is quite impossible for you to enter the church, on account of the cost: therefore dismiss it altogether from your mind. If you get on well in the bank, you may rise in time to be manager and cashier, drawing your seven hundred a year. Why I spoke to you now, was this. I have seen how eager and persevering you are over your studies; but if you enter the bank they will be of less consequence, and Mr. Harkaway will know that. Perhaps, therefore, you need not do so much to-night, but can lay them aside, and go out to tea with me and Annis.”

  “As long as I am in the college I must do my studies, aunt,” he replied in a low tone.

  Miss Ord said no more, but turned coldly and left the room. William rose, softly bolted the door after her, and, leaning his arms on the table, burst into as bitter a flood of tears as ever boy shed. The iron of keen disappointment had entered into his soul.

  CHAPTER II. THE PRECENTOR’S SCHOLARSHIP.

  MONDAY morning dawned, and at seven o’clock the boys were tearing in for early school. The second desk began to compare notes. All had accomplished their set tasks, after a fashion, for there might be no trifling with the head master; but some were done in such a manner that punishment would be the inevitable result.

  “Such a jolly lark we had on Saturday evening,” began Henley to William Ord in a whisper. “I, and St. Aubin, and Jones, and Milbank, and a few more, went up to the gooseberry grounds. We paid the fellow sixpence a piece, and tucked in what we liked: two hours, I know, we were there stuffing. That was not the lark, though. In coming back—”

  “Why, if you were out on Saturday evening, how could you do all this?” interrupted William, pointing to Henley’s prepared lessons, which he saw were as elaborately and well done as his own.

  “That’s telling,” returned Henley, with a wink.

  “Ho, but how did you? Let’s know.”

  “Well, don’t go and split to the school, or they may get up to the same dodge, and I don’t know that it’s orthodox. I did them yesterday.”

  “What — Sunday!” uttered William, looking as if he did not believe.

  Henley gave a nod. “When the hare-and-hounds game was knocked on the head, I did mean to go home then and do them, but somehow I got trapped into stopping for the bandy. After that, St. Aubin asked me home to tea with him, and then we went up to the gardens. Yesterday was passing, and I knew the beastly old things must be done; so, when college was over in the afternoon, I locked myself in my bed-room and set on. Some of ’em came up to know what I was doing there, and I called out that I’d got the headache and wanted to be quiet After tea, when they went to church, I went up again and finished. The governor was in a way at my not appearing at church with the rest: he had gone on first, you know, to get on his surplice, and that — as if one didn’t have enough with the college services, without dancing to church again at night!”

  “You ought not to have done the lessons on Sunday,” remonstrated William. “I would rather have got up by candle light this morning.”

  “Who’s to know it? Harkaway doesn’t, and my father doesn’t, and it’s nothing to anybody else.”

  “ONE knows it, Henley,” was the low-breathed whisper. “It was wrong in principle, wrong in action; for my part, I don’t believe that this sort of doing ever prospers, or brings a fellow good in the end.”

  “Bother!” returned Henley. “What am I the worse for it? I don’t make a practice of it; ’twas only once in a way.”

  “Setting aside other considerations, the acting in this way tends to deaden the perception of right and wrong.”

  “Oh, we know you go in for the right — the doing right for the sake of right,” answered Henley, half good-humouredly, half in mockery. “ Hush! here comes Harkaway.”

  Frederick Henley was a sufficiently well-disposed boy, and was much liked in the school; but he had a talent for getting into mischief. And as to his principles, they were neither better nor worse than those of the generality of schoolboys. Of religion, although he was the son of a clergyman, he possessed but a slight share; it is what boys, take them as a body, do not shine in.

  That same day, at one o’clock, when the morning school was over, and the Reverend Mr. Harkaway had gone home to dinner, he received a visit from Miss Ord. She informed Mr. Harkaway that her nephew would leave at Michaelmas, observing that, although she believed it was not the custom to give notice of removals at the college school, she deemed it but a courtesy due to the head master to do sou “It is a great pity,” observed Mr. Harkaway. “The boy is so fond of his studies, so well advanced in them; he seems just cut out, too, for a clergyman.”

  “I should be glad to see him one,” replied Miss Ord; “but circumstances are unfavourable. When boys evince a strong predilection or aptitude for any particular calling, profession, or trade, I think it is wrong to deny it to them. Quite half the failures and the ill success we see in life arise from young men being put to what they are unfitted.”

  Quite true; and it would be well if parents generally took the truth home to their hearts. The callings in life of their children are frequently decided at hazard, not with reference to their respective capabilities. “We will make Thomas a clergyman, and Harry a lawyer, and Robert shall go to a merchant,” say they; whereas perhaps not one of the three boys has capacity or inclination for the pursuit fastened upon him. Rely upon it no one was ever born into this world but was gifted by his Creator with an aptitude for some particular sphere of usefulness beyond all others, and very, very rarely is that sphere found out by the parents, or sought to be found out. Later in life, when it is over, and the man finds that he is tied to what he does not like — what, moreover, nature has not given him capacity for — he says, “Pity I was made what I am; had I been so-and-so, I should have loved my work, and shone in it.” Let every one, so far as he can, find out what it is his boy is pre-eminently fitted for; it is some one particular thing, never doubt. Place him at it, and he will rise, and spend a life of satisfaction, for his heart will be in his calling; place him at what he is not calculated for, and he will fail, receiving little pleasure from his days and years.

  “Will he like going to the bank?” asked Mr. Harkaway.

  “He must like it,” replied Miss Ord; “there is nothing much to like or dislike in it. As I say, I would willingly have consented to his being a clergyman, but who is to bear the cost? It cannot be thought of. How his mother intended to manage it, out of her small income, I am at a loss to imagine; but my means are limited, and I cannot debar myself of every little comfort.”

  “Very true,” remarked Mr. Harkaway, and he bowed out Miss Ord, feeling that there was no chance left for William, and that he would leave at Michaelmas.

  In the afternoon, the head master called William up. “So I hear you are going to leave,” he said.

  The red emotion dyed his face, for the subject was one of intense pain. “I hear so too, sir,” he answered.

  The master looked keenly at him through his spectacles. “I see it is a disappointment to you,” he observed. “You would rather have remained and pursued your studies.”

  “Yes, sir,” was his only answer, in a low, quiet tone.

  “Ord,” said the master, “we all have to bend to circumstances, every one of us, from the lowest to the highest; not one but meets with crosses and disappointments in life. There is one thing that will help us to meet them bravely, and that is, to bring our minds to make the best of them; and that is the advice I would give you. Try it, my boy; it will take off half the sting.”

  William said, “Thank you, sir,” and returned to his place. The boys were all eager to know what the master wanted him for — what he had been saying, but William did not satisfy them; therefore they jumped to the conclusion that he had been enjoying a “blowing up.”

  A few days went on. William Ord did his lessons as usual, pursued his ordinary duties, but his very spirit seemed to have died within him. Like most thoughtful, meditative natures,
he was excessively attached to the place and scenes he had been reared amongst. Unable to join much in the boisterous sports of the boys, he had found his happiness in the inward life, in thought, in imagination, in reading. For the cathedral and its associations he felt a love and reverence bordering upon passion; and hopeful visions had buoyed up his mind of passing his days in connexion with it, until old age should come. My dear boys, you who are blessed with robust health, and run, and leap, and jump, and play at will, can scarcely form an idea of the active mind of a weakly boy, one who cannot bear the fatigue of rough sports; such a one must of necessity live, if I may so express it, in the inward life. He thinks of the future; he plans, he hopes, he anticipates. A doubt that his career would be frustrated — the one planned out for him of going into the church — had never crossed William Ord’s imagination; his secret ambition had been to become one of the clergy of that cathedral, a minor canon; and there was nothing extravagant in the wish. Three of the present minor canons had been educated in the school. It had been a glowing wish; it had grown into an ardent hope, a positive aim, and now — it was rudely broken.

  “William, darling, don’t grieve,” Annis whispered to him more than once. “I can see that you are grieving to yourself. Perhaps you will be just as happy in the bank, as you would have been as a clergyman.”

  “Yes, perhaps I shall,” he said, smiling faintly. “I shall get over the disappointment, I daresay, in time.”

  “You do mean to try it — to try what aunt wishes,” she returned, timidly; “you do not mean to rebel?”

  “Rebel, Annis! no, I shall not rebel. That would not be the right way of going to work. What my aunt says, has reason in it, and if there are no funds to pay the necessary expenses, it is useless for me to think longer of being a clergyman. I must do as Mr. Harkaway told me — make the best of it.”

  Just what William Ord was trying to do: he was endeavouring to reconcile himself to the idea. He had a sure and perfect trust in God’s good care; he had been brought up in the trust from his earliest infancy; he knew that, to those who put their entire faith in Him, who resign themselves to His protection and strive to please Him, all things are directed for the best; in great things and in small, it is God who guides and governs them — who is their powerful protector, their firm friend. Therefore there was no rebellion in his heart. Night and morning he knelt and asked God to undertake for him, to order things for the best; and thus he knew that, whatever might turn out, for the best it would be. Boys, how many of you possess this sure reliance upon God? Perhaps you have not yet learnt it. I can tell you that when you shall have learnt it — and I hope you all will some time — you will find it better worth having than anything else in life. Riches, power, pomp, ambition, are as nothing to it. You do not believe me? No, because you have not experienced it, and you can know nothing of what you are as yet in ignorance of; nevertheless, when once you shall have made it yours, you will say that I have told you but the simple truth. William Ord would not have parted with it for the grandest and greatest things in the world.

  I am now going to tell you of an incident that occurred, and which you will feel disinclined to believe in, for it looks like one of those put in to make up the story of a romance; but, if you look abroad, you will find as strange ones taking place every day. The senior minor canon of the cathedral was named Parker; he was called the precentor. He was a widower, and his only child, Thomas Parker, had died a few months ago, after a few days’ illness. Mr. Parker was one of those who had been educated in the college school, a king’s scholar; it was natural that he should place his son in it; and, at the time of the boy’s death, he was the second of the second desk, between Ord and Henley, and about their age. People said how greatly his death had told upon his father; and so it had. In the past few months the precentor s hair had turned from grey to white, and he seemed to have aged twenty years.

  In the sultry month of August, two or three weeks after this story opens, the precentor paid a visit to the head master for the purpose of making a communication to him, a communication that greatly astonished the master. It concerned the college school, and will best be explained by transcribing the announcement made to the boys on the following day by the master.

  It happened to be the head master’s week for chanting, therefore he came in from the cathedral with the choristers at eleven o’clock, when morning prayers were over. Instead of the notice, “First class, come up for Greek construing,” as was expected, the master cleared his throat, took off his spectacles, wiped them and put them on again, and then turned them on the school, speaking in a loud, sonorous tone —

  “Gentlemen, walk up, and range yourselves in a circle round my desk; upper and lower boys.”

  With various degrees of consternation the boys walked up, not a few quaking in their shoes, lest some dreadful mischief should have come to light.

  “What I have to say, more immediately concerns the second upper desk, Ord’s desk,” began the master; “ but it is well that you should all hear it. You have not forgotten your late companion, Thomas Parker.”

  The senior boys, who alone dared speak, hastened to say that they had not. Tom Parker had been a favourite in the school.

  “The rev the precentor came to me yesterday, and imparted to me his intention of founding a scholarship in remembrance of his son,” proceeded the head master. “He has invested funds that will bring in fifty pounds yearly for ever. The term for which each boy (who may be fortunate enough to obtain it) shall enjoy the gift, is seven years; and those only who are in the second upper class, the class his son was in when he died, will be eligible to compete for it. It is to take effect on and from the 1st of October next.”

  The master’s voice ceased, and a dead silence reigned in the room. Not one interrupted it “Do you quite understand me, boys? I will bring it home to you in detail Suppose that you gained the prize, you, Jackson, for example,” said the master, as his eye fell upon Jackson, a great tall fellow next to Henley, “you would in October come into my house, one of my boarders, for that is a condition, and remain with me and in the school as private pupil until you were of an ago to proceed to the university, the fifty pounds per annum defraying the cost of your maintenance in my house and of your education; for your term as a king’s scholar will soon be out. After that, the fifty pounds would go towards your expenses at Oxford, until you could take orders. You comprehend now.”

  William Ord’s heart leaped into his mouth, a strangely wild leap, rousing every vestige of the hope that had died within him. A voice appeared to whisper that he should gain it, and it seemed like a boon sent direct from God.

  “Please, sir, if I should get it and have it for seven years, who’d have it next?”

  There was a general titter as Jackson put the question; for, of all the class, he was about the least likely, being a thorough dunce, and lazy to a degree.

  “At the expiration of seven years it would lapse from you, and there would be another trial between those boys who would then form the second upper class, the most deserving gaining it.”

  “What are to be the subjects of the trial, sir?” inquired Henley, whose cheeks and eyes were shining.

  “That I will enter upon later. Greek, Latin, English, and Mathematics will comprise them. The period of competition will be limited to one month, and the examination, day will most probably be fixed for the feast of St. Michael.”

  The head master ceased, called up the first desk, and the business of the school went on as usual. As one o’clock struck, out clattered the boys; but, instead of rushing home to dinner, they forgot their hunger for once, and gathered in the cloisters to discuss the news.

  “Isn’t he a trump, that old Parker! Let’s cheer him.”

  The boys simultaneously raised a shout, such as only college boys can raise. Three times three for old Parker, and one cheer more.

  “The tug will lie between two of you fellows,” observed the senior boy, looking towards the second class, who h
ad formed in a group. “No good the rest of you attempting it.”

  “Which two do you mean, Durham?”

  “Ord and Henley, of course. None of the others could come within miles of them, in a downright trial of strength.”

  “Oh, I shan’t try; and be hanged to it!” uttered Jackson. “They are not going to make me into a parson. I’d rather go in for the clown at the theatre. It’ll suit Ord; it’s in his line.”

  “Suit Henley too, for the matter of that,” remarked Jones. “Both of ’em want to be parsons, only the tin runs scarce.”

  “I don’t mind freely owning that it would be a stunning windfall for me,” spoke up Henley; “and I shall try for it with all my might and main.”

  “Right, old fellow!” cried Trail “That’s being candid. What do you say, Ord?”

  William Ord smiled. “I think the windfall would be even greater to me than to Henley. I shan’t leave a stone unturned to earn it.”

  “What’s fifty pounds a year?” exclaimed St. Aubin, turning up his nose. “It wouldn’t half keep a fellow at the university. Where’s the good of going there, or making yourselves into parsons, you chaps who don’t possess a single coin? My big brother spent seven hundred pounds at Cambridge, besides his college expenses; obliged to do it, he said. It’s all bosh, folks trying to get on who have no fortunes.”

  “Pray, whose absurd tongue is that?” cried out a stentorian voice from their very midst, and the boys turned to it. Standing there was the Rev. Mr. Turbeville, the oldest of the minor canons in years, not in precedence; a short stout man, with a bald head and a red face. He was a sincere, plain-speaking man, inclined to be jocund by nature, very fond of taking the college boys to task. He would roar at them like any Martinet; making the cloisters echo with his voice, threaten them with unheard of punishments, and then, as he walked off, fling back a handful of halfpence, or perhaps a shilling to be scuffled for!”

  “Blest if it isn’t old Turby!” cried the boys, sotto voce. He stood there, rapping his stick on the flags, his head thrown back, his mouth thrown forward. He dressed in the old-fashioned clerical style, as some of the higher clergy dress still. A frilled cambric shirt front, and white neckcloth, black knee-breeches, gaiters and silver buckles.