St. Winifred's; or, The World of School

by F. W. Farrar

  CHAPTER TWELVE.

  MY BROTHER'S KEEPER.

  "'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens to the which our wills are gardeners."

  Othello, Act One Scene 3.

  As Walter lay awake for a few quiet moments before he sent his thoughtsto rest, he glanced critically, like an Indian gymnosophist, over theoccurrences of the day. He could not but rejoice that the last personfor whom he felt real regard had forgiven him his rash act, and that hisoffence had thus finally been absolved on earth as in heaven. Herejoiced, too, that Mr Percival's kind permission to learn his lessonsin his room would give him far greater advantages and opportunities thanhe had hitherto enjoyed. Yet Walter's conscience was not quite at ease.The last scene had disturbed him. The sobs and shiverings of littleEden had fallen very reproachfully into his heart. Walter felt that hemight have done far more for him than he had done. He had, indeed, eventhroughout his own absorbing troubles, extended to the child a generalprotection, but not a special care. It never occurred to him to excusehimself with the thought that he was "not his brother's keeper." Thetruth was that he had found Eden uninteresting, because he had not takenthe pains to be interested in him, and while one voice within his heartreproved him of neglect and selfishness, another voice seemed to say tohim, in a firm yet kindlier tone, "Now that thou are converted,strengthen thy brethren."

  For indeed as yet Eden's had been a very unhappy lot. Bullied, teased,and persecuted by the few among whom accident had first thrown him, andjudged to belong to their set by others who on that account consideredhim a boy of a bad sort, he was almost friendless at Saint Winifred's.And the loneliness, the despair of this feeling, weighing upon hisheart, robbed him of all courage to face the difficulties of work, sothat in school as well as out of it, he was always in trouble. He wasfor ever clumsily scrawling in his now illegible hand the crooked andblotted lines of punishment which his seeming ignorance or sluggishnessbrought upon him; and although he was always to be seen at detention, healmost hailed this disgrace as affording him at least some miserableshadow of occupation, and a refuge, however undesirable, from thetorments of those degraded few to whom his childish tears, his weakentreaties, his bursts of impotent passion, caused nothing but lowamusement. Out of school his great object always was to hide himself;anywhere, so as to be beyond the reach of Jones, Harpour, and otherbullies of the same calibre. For this purpose he would conceal himselffor a whole afternoon at a time up in the fir-groves, listlesslygathering into heaps the red sheddings of their umbrage, and pulling topieces their dry and fragrant cones; or, when he feared that theseresorts would be disturbed by some little gang of lounging smokers, hewould choose some lonely place, under the shadow of the mountain cliffs,and sit for hours together, aimlessly rolling white lumps of quartz overthe shingly banks. Under continued trials like these he became quitechanged. The childish innocence and beauty of countenance, the childishfrankness and gaiety of heart, the childish quickness and intelligenceof understanding, were exchanged for vacant looks, stupid indifference,and that half-cunning expression which is always induced by craven fear.Accustomed, too, to be waited upon and helped continually in the homewhere his mother, a gay young widow, had petted and spoiled him, hebecame slovenly and untidy in dress and habits. He rarely found time orheart to write home, and even when he did, he so well knew that hismother was incapable of sympathy or comprehension of his suffering, thatthe dirty and ill-spelt scrawl rarely alluded to the one dimconsciousness that brooded over him night and day--that he couldn'tunderstand life, and only knew that he was a very friendless, unhappy,unpitied little boy. If he could have found even one to whom to unfoldand communicate his griefs, even one to love him unreservedly, all theinner beauty and brightness of his character would have blown andexpanded in that genial warmth. He once thought that in Walter he hadfound such an one, but when he saw that his dullness bored Walter, andthat his listless manners and untidy habits made him cross, he shrankback within himself. He was thankful to Walter as a protector, but didnot look upon him as a friend in whom he could implicitly confide. Theflower without sunshine will lose its colour and its perfume. Six weeksafter Arthur Eden, a merry, bright-eyed child, alighted from hismother's carriage at the old gate of Saint Winifred's school, no casualstranger would have recognised him again in the pale and moping littlefellow who seemed to be afraid of every one whom he met.

  Oh, if we knew how rare, how sweet, how deep human love can be, howeasily, yet how seldom it is gained, how inexpressible the treasure iswhen once it _has_ been gained, we should not trample on human hearts aslightly as most men do! Any one who in that hard time had spoken a fewkindly words to Eden--any one who would have taken him gently for ashort while by the hand, and helped him over the stony places that hurthis unaccustomed feet--any one who would have suffered, or who wouldhave invited him, to pour his sorrows into their ears and assist him tosustain them--might have won, even at that slight cost, the deepest andmost passionate love of that trembling young heart. He might have savedhim from hours of numbing pain, and won the rich reward of a gratitudewell-deserved and generously repaid. There were many boys at SaintWinifred's gentle-hearted, right-minded, of kindly and manly impulses;but all of them, except Walter, lost this golden opportunity ofconferring pure happiness by disinterested good deeds. They did not buyup the occasion, which goes away and burns the priceless books sheoffers, if they are not purchased unquestioningly and at once.

  And Walter regretfully felt that he was very very nearly too late; sonearly, that perhaps in a week or two more Eden might have losthopelessly, and for ever, all trace of self-respect--might have beenbenumbed into mental imbecility by the torpedo-like influence ofhelpless grief. Walter felt as if he had been selfishly looking onwhile a fellow-creature was fast sinking in the water, and as if it wereonly at the last possible moment that he had held out a saving hand.But, by God's grace, he _did_ hold out the saving hand at last, and itwas grasped firmly, and a dear life was saved. Years after when ArthurEden had grown into--but stop, I must not so far anticipate my story.Suffice it to say, that Walter's kindness to Eden, helped to bring aboutlong afterwards one of the chief happinesses of his own life.

  "Come a stroll, Eden, before third school, and let's have a talk," hesaid, as they came out from dinner in hall the next day.

  Eden looked up happily, and he was proud to be seen by Walter's side inthe throng of boys, as they passed out, and across the court, and underthe shadow of the arch towards Walter's favourite haunt, the seashore.Walter never felt weak or unhappy for long together, when the sweetnessof the sea-wind was on his forehead, and the song of the sea waves inhis ear. A run upon the shore in all weathers, if only for fiveminutes, was his daily pleasure and resource.

  They sat down; the sea flashed before them a mirror of molten gold,except where the summits of the great mountain of Appenfell threw theirdeep broad shadows, which seemed purple by contrast with the brightnessover which they fell. Walter sat, full of healthy enjoyment as hebreathed the pure atmosphere, and felt the delicious wind upon hisglowing cheeks; and Eden was happy to be with him, and to sit quietly byhis side.

  "Eden," said Walter, after a few moments, "I'm afraid you've not beenhappy lately."

  The poor child shook his head, and answered, "No one cares for me here;every one looks down on me, and is unkind; I've no friends."

  "What, don't you count me as a friend, then?"

  "Yes, Walter, you're very kind; I'm sure I _couldn't_ have lived here ifit hadn't been for you; but you're so much above me, and--"

  Walter would not press him to fill up the omission, he could understandthe rest of the sentence for himself.

  "You mustn't think I don't feel how good you've been to me, Walter,"said the boy, drawing near to him, and taking his hand; "but--"

  "Yes, yes," said Walter; "I understand it all. Well, never mind, I_will_ be a friend to you now."

  A tear trembled on Eden's long eyelashes as he looked up quickly intoW
alter's face. "Will you, Walter? thank you, I have no other friendhere; and please--"

  "Well, what is it?"

  "Will you call me Arthur, as they do at home?"

  Walter smiled. "Well now," he said, "tell me what they were doing toyou last night?"

  "You won't tell them I told you, Walter," he answered, looking round,with the old look of decrepit fear usurping his face, which hadbrightened for the moment.

  "No, no," said Walter, impatiently; "why, what a little coward you are,Eden."

  The boy shrank back into himself as if he had received a blow, andrelaxed his grasp of Walter's hand; but Walter, struck with thesensitive timidity which unkindness had caused, and sorry to have givenhim pain in all his troubles, said kindly--

  "There, Arty, never mind; I didn't mean it; don't be afraid; tell mewhat they did to you. I saw a light in our dormitory as I was comingback from Percival's, and I saw something dragged through the window.What was it?"

  "That was me," said Eden naively.

  "You?"

  "Yes; poor me. They let me down by a sheet which they tied round mywaist."

  "What, from that high window? I hope they tied you tight."

  "Only one knot; I ever so nearly slipped out of it last night, andthat's what frightened me so, Walter."

  "How horribly dangerous," said Walter indignantly.

  "I know it is horribly dangerous," said Eden, standing up, andgesticulating violently, in one of those bursts of passion which flashedout of him now and then, and were the chief amusement of hispersecutors; "and I dream about it all night," he said, bursting intotears, "and I know, I know that some day I shall slip, or the knot willcome undone, and I shall fall and be smashed to atoms. But what do theycare for that? and I sometimes wish I were dead myself, to have it allover."

  "Hush, Arty, don't talk like that," said Walter, as he felt the littlesoiled hand trembling with passion and emotion in his own. "But what onearth do they let you down for?"

  "To go to--but you won't tell?" he said, looking round again. "Oh, Iforgot, you didn't like my saying that. But it's they who have made mea coward, Walter; indeed it is."

  "And no wonder," thought Walter to himself. "But you needn't be afraidany more," he said aloud; "I promise you that no one shall do anythingto you which they'd be afraid to do to me."

  "Then I'm safe," said Eden, joyfully. "Well, they made me go to--toDan's."

  "Dan's? what, the fisherman's just near the shore."

  "Yes; ugh!"

  "But don't you know, Arty, that Dan's a brute, and a regular smuggler,and that if you were caught going there, you'd be sent away?"

  "Yes; you can't think, Walter, how I _hate_, and how frightened I am togo there. There's Dan, and there's that great lout of a wicked son ofhis, and they're always drunk, and the hut--ugh! it's so nasty; and lastnight Dan seized hold of me with his horrid red hand, and wanted me todrink some gin, and I shrieked." The very remembrance seemed to makehim shudder.

  "Well, then, after that I was nearly caught. I think, Walter, that evenyou would be a coward if you had such long long frights. You know thatto get to Dan's, after the gates are locked, the only way is to go overthe railing, and through Dr Lane's garden, and I'm always frightened todeath lest his great dog should be loose, and should catch hold of me.He did growl last night. And then as I was hurrying back--you know itwas rather moonlight last night, and not very cold--and who should I seebut the Doctor himself walking up and down the garden. I crouched in aminute behind a thick holly-tree, and I suppose I made a rustle, thoughI held my breath, for the Doctor stopped and shook the tree, and said`shoo,' as though he thought a cat were hidden there. I was half deadwith fright, though I did hope, after all, that he would catch me, andthat I might be sent away from this horrid place. But when he turnedround, I crept away, and made the signal, and they let down the sheet,and then, as they were hauling me up, I heard voices--I suppose theymust have been yours and Kenrick's; but they thought it was some master,and doused the glim, and oh! so nearly let me fall; so, Walter, pleasedon't despise me, or be angry with me because you found me crying andshivering in bed. The cold made me shiver, and I couldn't help crying;indeed I couldn't."

  "Poor Arty, poor Arty," said Walter, soothingly. "But have they everdone this before?"

  "Yes, once, when you were at the choir-supper, one night."

  "They never shall again, I swear," said Walter, frowning, as he thoughthow detestably cruel they had been. "But what did they send you for?"

  "For no good," said Eden.

  "No; I knew it would be for no good, if it was to Dan's that they sentyou."

  "Well, Walter, the first time it was for some drink; and the second timefor some more drink," he said, after a little hesitation.

  Walter looked serious. "But don't you know, Arty," he said, "that it'svery wrong to get such things for them? If they want to have anydealings with that beast Dan, who's not fit to speak to, let them gothemselves. Arty, it's very wrong; you mustn't do it."

  "But how can I help it?" said the boy, looking frightened and ashamed."Oh, must I always be blamed by every one," he said, putting his handsto his eyes. "It isn't my sin, Walter, it's theirs. They made me."

  "_Nobody can ever make anyone else do what's wrong_, Arty."

  "Oh, yes; it's all very easy for _you_ to say that, Walter, who canfight anybody, and who are so strong and good, and whom no one daresbully, and who are not laughed at, and made a butt of, as I am."

  "Look at Power," said Walter, "or look at Dubbs. They came as young asyou, Arty, and as weak as you, but no one ever made _them_ do wrong.Power somehow looks too noble to be bullied by anyone; they're afraid ofhim, I don't know why. But what had Dubbs to protect him? Yet not allthe Harpours in the world would ever make him go to such a place asDan's."

  Poor Eden felt it hard to be blamed for this; he was not yet strongenough to learn that the path of duty, however hard and thorny, howeverhedged in with difficulties and antagonisms, is always the easiest andthe pleasantest in the end.

  "But they'd half kill me, Walter," he said plaintively.

  "They'll have much more chance of doing that as it is," said Walter."They'd thrash you a little, no doubt, but respect you more for it. Andsurely it would be better to bear one thrashing, and not do what'swrong, than to do it and to go two such journeys out of the window, andget the thrashings into the bargain? So even on _that_ ground you oughtto refuse. Eh, Arty?"

  "Yes, Walter," he said, casting down his eyes.

  "Well; next time either Harpour, or any one else, tries to make you dowhat's wrong, remember they _can't_ make you, if you don't choose; andsay flatly `_No_!' and stick to it in spite of everything, like a bravelittle man, will you?"

  "I did say `No!' at first, Walter; but they threatened to frighten me,"he said. "They knew I daren't hold out."

  Yes; there was the secret of it all. Walter saw that they had played onthis child's natural terrors with such refinement of cruelty, that fearhad become the master principle in his mind; they had only to touch thatspring and he obeyed them mechanically like a puppet, and because of hisvery fear, was driven to do things that might well cause genuine fear,till he lived in such a region of increasing fear and dread, thatWalter's only surprise was that he had not been made an idiot already.Poor child! it was no wonder that he was becoming more stupid, cunning,untidy, and uninteresting, every day. And all this was going on underthe very eyes of many thoroughly noble boys, and conscientious masters,and yet they never saw or noticed it, and looked on Eden as an idle andunprincipled little sloven. O our harsh human judgments! The Priestand the Levite still pass the wounded man, and the good Samaritans arerare on this world's highways.

  What was Walter to do? He did not know the very name of psychology, buthe did know the unhinging, desolating power of an overmastering spiritof fear. He knew that fear hath torment, but he had no conception bywhat means that demon can be exorcised. Yet he thought, as he raisedhis eyes for one instant to
heaven in silent supplication, that therewere few devils who would not go out by prayer, and he made a strongresolve that he would use every endeavour to make up for his pastneglectfulness, and to save this poor unhappy child.

  "I'm not blaming you, Arthur," he said, "but I like you, and don't wantto see you go wrong, and be a tool in bad boys' hands. I hope you askGod to help you, Arthur?"

  Eden looked at him, but said nothing. He had been taught but little,and by example he had been taught _nothing_ of the Awful Far-off FriendWho is yet so near to every humble spirit, and Who even now had sent Hisangel to save this lamb who knew not of His fold.

  "Listen to me, Arthur--ah! there I hear the third school-bell, and wemust go in--but listen! I'll be your friend; I want to be your friend.I'll try and save you from all this persecution. Will you always trustme?"

  Eden's look of gratitude more than repaid him, and Walter added, "And,Arty, you must not give up your prayers. Ask God to help you, and tokeep you from going wrong, and to make you brave. Won't you, Arty?"

  The little boy's heart was full even to breaking with its weight ofhappy tears; it was too full to speak. He pressed Walter's hand for onemoment, and walked in by his side, without a word.