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

by F. W. Farrar

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

  WALTER'S HOLIDAYS.

  Such delights As float to earth, permitted visitants, When in some hour of solemn jubilee The massy gates of Paradise are thrown Wide open.

  Coleridge _Religious Musings_.

  In scenes like these, part sunshine and part storm, the half-year rolledround, and brought the long-desired summer holidays. Once more the endof the half-year saw Power as usual brilliantly successful, and Walteragain at the head of his form. Henderson, too, although he could notproceed with Walter _pari passu_, was among the first six, and hadgained more than one school distinction. But Kenrick this time hadfailed as he had never done before; he was but fourth in his form, andalthough this was the natural fruit of his recent idleness, it causedhim cruel mortification.

  The end of term did not pass off quite so smoothly and pleasantly as itgenerally did. The opposition to monitorial authority which Harpour hadcommenced, and Kenrick abetted, did not pass away at once; it left alarge amount of angry feeling in the minds of numerous boys who had,each of them, influence in their several ways. Kenrick himself alwayswent to the verge of impertinence whenever he could possibly do so indealing with any of the sixth, and to Somers his manner was alwaysintentionally rude, although he just managed to steer clear of any overtinsubordination. He could, of course, act thus without the risk ofincurring any punishment, and without coming to any positive collision.Many boys were unfortunately but too ready to imitate his example.

  These dissensions did not positively break out on the prize day, butthey made the proceedings far less pleasant and unanimous than theywould have been. The cheers usually given to the head of theschool were purposely omitted, from the fear of provoking anycounter-demonstration, and there remained an uneasy feeling in manyminds. The success of the concert which was yearly given by the schoolchoir after the distribution of prizes was also marred by traces of thesame dissension. In this concert Walter had a solo to sing, andalthough he sang it remarkably well in his sweet ringing voice, he wasvexed to hear a few decided hisses among the plaudits which greeted him.Altogether the prize day--a great day at Saint Winifred's--was lesssuccessful than it had ever been known to be.

  It brought, however, one pleasure to Walter, in the acquaintance of SirLawrence and Lady Power, who had heard of him so often in their son'sletters, that they begged to be introduced to him as soon as theyarrived. He was a great deal with them during the day, and he helpedPower to show them all that was interesting about the school and itsenvirons. They saw Eden too, and Lady Power kindly pressed herinvitation on Mrs Braemar, who was also present, and who was not sorrythat Arty could stay with a family so well connected, and of such highposition. When Walter left them, Power earnestly asked his mother whatshe thought of his friend.

  "He is the most charming boy I ever saw," said Lady Power, "and Irejoice that you have chosen him as a friend. But you don't tell meanything about Kenrick, of whom you were once so fond; how is that?"

  "I am still fond of him, mother, but he has changed a good deal lately."At that moment Kenrick passed by arm in arm with Harpour, as though toconfirm Power's words, and recognised him with an ostentatiouslycareless nod.

  It was thus that Walter's first year at Saint Winifred's ended; and inspite of all drawbacks he felt that it had been a distinguished andhappy year. He was now yearning for home, and he felt that he couldmeet his dear ones with honest pride. He made arrangements tocorrespond with Henderson and Eden in the holidays, and Power promisedagain to visit him at Semlyn, on condition that he would come back withhim and spend a week at Severn Park, so that there might be a doublebond of union between them.

  Very early the next morning the boys were swarming into coaches,carriages, brakes, and every conceivable vehicle which could by anypossibility convey them to the nearest station. A hearty cheeraccompanied each coach as it rolled off with its heavy and excitedfreight; by nine o'clock not a boy was left behind. The great buildingsof Saint Winifred's were still as death; the footfall of the chancepasser-by echoed desolately among them. A strange, mournful, conscioussilence hung about the old monastic pile. The young life which usuallyplayed like the sunshine over it, was pouring unwonted brightness intomany happy English homes.

  It was late in the afternoon when Walter found himself on the top of thehill which looks down over Semlyn Lake. The water lay beneath him asheet of placid silver; the flowers were scattered on every side intheir beds of emerald and sunlit moss; the air, just stirred by thelight breeze, was rich and balmy with the ambrosial scent of the summergroves; and high overhead the old familiar hills reared theirmagnificent summits into the deep unclouded blue. But Walter's brighteye was fixed on one spot only of the enchanting scene--the spot wherethe gables of his father's house rose picturesquely on the slope abovethe lake, and where a little bay in the sea of dark green firs gave hima glimpse of their garden, in which he could discover the figures of hisbrothers and sisters at their play. A sense of unspoken, unspeakablehappiness flowed into the boy's warm heart, and if at the same momenthis eyes were suffused with tears, they were the tears that alwaysspring up when the fountain of the heart is stirred by any strongemotion to its inmost depths--the tears that come even in laughter toshow that our very pleasures have their own alloy.

  The coach was still behind him toiling slowly up the ascent. Leaving itto convey his luggage up to the house, he plunged down a green windingpath, ankle-deep in soft grasses and innumerable flowers, which led tohis home by a short cut down, the valley, along the burnside, and underthe waving woods. That sweet woodland path, cool and fragrant on themost burning summer-day, where he had often gathered the little red ripewild strawberries that peeped out here and there from between thescented spikes of golden agrimony, and under the white graceful flowersof the circoea, was familiar and dear to him from the earliestchildhood. He plunged into it with delight, and springing along withjoyous steps, reached in ten minutes the wicket-gate which led into hisfather's grounds. The first thing to see and recognise him was agraceful pet fawn of his sister's, which at his whistle came trotting tohim with delight, jingling the little silver bell which was tied by ablue riband round its neck. Barely stopping to caress the beautifullittle creature's head, he bounded through the orchard into the garden,and the next instant the delighted shout of his brothers and sisterswelcomed him back, as they ran up, with all the glee of innocent andhappy childhood, to greet him with their repeated kisses.

  "Ah, there are papa and mamma," he cried, breaking away from thelaughing group, as his mother advanced with open arms to meet him, andpressed him to her heart in a long embrace.

  "I'm first in my form, papa," he said, looking joyously up into hisfather's face. "Head remove again."

  "Are you, Walter? I am so happy to hear it. Few things could give memore pleasure."

  "But that's nothing to being at _home_," he said, shouting aloud in theuncontrolled exuberance of his spirits, and hardly knowing which way toturn in the multiplicity of objects which seemed to claim his instantattention.

  "Do come the rounds with me, Charlie," he said to his favourite brother,"and let me see all the dear old places again. We shall be back in afew minutes."

  "And then, I dare say, you'll be glad of some tea," said his mother.

  "_Rather_!" said Walter; "let's have it out here on the lawn, mother."

  The proposal was carried by acclamation, and very soon the table waslaid under the witch elm before the house, while Walter's little sistershad heaped up several dishes with freshly plucked fruit, laid in themidst of flowers and vine leaves, and Walter, his face beaming and hiseyes dancing with happiness, was asking and answering a thousandincessant questions, while yet he managed to enjoy very thoroughly alarge bunch of grapes, and an immense plate of strawberries and cream.

  And when tea was over they still sat out in the lovely garden until thewitch elm had ceased to chequer their faces with its rain of flickeringlight; and until the lake had paled from pure gold to r
ose-colour, andfrom rose-colour to dull crimson, and from dull crimson to silver grey,and rippled again from silver grey into a deep black blue, relieved by athousand flashing edges of molten silver and quivering gold, under thecrescent moon and the innumerable stars. And the bats had almost ceasedto wheel, and in the moist air of early night the flowers were diffusingtheir luscious sweetness, and the nightingale was flooding the grovewith her unimaginable rapture, and the eager talk had hushed itself intoa delicious calm of happy silence, before they moved. It was abeautiful picture--the father and mother still youthful enough to enjoylife to the full, happy at heart, and proud of their eldest boy; his twoyoung brothers looking up to him with such eager hope and love; thelittle sisters with their arms twined round his neck, and their fairhair falling over his shoulders; the noble, mirthful, fearless, thricehappy boy himself--a family circle unseparated by distance, unshadowedby sorrow, unbroken by death, seated in this exquisite scene on the lawnof their own happy English home.

  Thrice happy! yes, in spite of sin and sorrow, and retribution andremorse, there _are_ hours when the cup sparkles in our hands, filled tothe brim; not (as often) with earthly waters; not with the intoxicatingwine that flames in the magic bowl of pleasure; not with the red andragged lees of wrath and satiety; but with the crystal rivers of thewater of life itself. There _are_ such hours at any rate for some.Whether they come to all mankind I know not; whether the squalid Andamanor the hideous Fuegian ever feel them I know not; nay, I know notwhether they ever come, whether they ever can come, to the wretchedoutcasts of earth's abject poverty and fathomless degradation; whetherthey ever come, whether they ever can come, to the cruel and the proud,to the malicious and the mean, to the cynical and discontented; yet, ifthey come not to these, God help them! for they are the surest pledgesof our immortality; and to the young and innocent--ay, and even to theyoung and guilty--they do sometimes come--these hours of absorbinglimitless enjoyment; these glimpses of dimly remembered paradise; theseodours snatched from a primal Eden, from a golden age when justice stilllived upon the earth, and crime was as yet unknown. There are suchhours, and for this English family this hour was one of them.

  Thrice happy Walter! and almost like a dream of happiness these holidaysat home--and at _such_ a home--flew by. Every day and hour was a changefrom pleasure to pleasure; among the hills, in the boat on the sunlitlake, plunging for his cool morning swim in the fresh waters,cricketing, riding, fishing, walking with his father and mother andbrothers, sitting and talking at the cool nightfall in the moonlitgarden, Walter was as happy as the day was long. And when Power came tospend a week with them, again charming every one whom he saw with hischeerful unselfishness and engaging manners, and himself charmed beyondexpression with all he saw at Walter's home, they agreed that nothingwas wanting to make their happiness "an entire and perfect chrysolite."

  Power, we have seen, was something of a young poet, and on the day heleft Semlyn with Walter, who was to accompany him home, he sat a longtime silent in the train, and then tore out a leaf of his pocket-book,on which he had scribbled the following lines on Semlyn Lake.

  If earthly homes can shine so fair With sky and wave so purely blue, Beneath the balmy purple air, If hills can don so rich a hue;

  If fancy fails to paint a scene In Eden's soft and floral glades, Where azure clear and golden green More sweetly blend with silver shades;

  If marked and flecked with sinful stains, Earth hath not lost her power to bless, But still, beneath the cloud, remains So steeped in perfect loveliness;

  Merged, as we are, in doubt and fear, Yet, when we yearn for realms of bliss, We scarce can dream, while lingering here, Of any fairer heaven than this.

  Poor verses, and showing too delicate a sensibility to be healthy in anyboy; yet dear to me and dear to Walter for Power's sake, and becausethey show the strange charm which Semlyn has for those who have the giftof appreciating those natural treasures with which earth plentifullyfills her lap.

  CHAPTER THIRTY.