_ That same term there took place at Dunwood House another event.
With their private tragedy it seemed to have no connection; but
in time Rickie perceived it as a bitter comment. Its developments
were unforeseen and lasting. It was perhaps the most terrible
thing he had to bear.
Varden had now been a boarder for ten months. His health had
broken in the previous term,--partly, it is to be feared, as the
result of the indifferent food--and during the summer holidays he
was attacked by a series of agonizing earaches. His mother, a
feeble person, wished to keep him at home, but Herbert dissuaded
her. Soon after the death of the child there arose at Dunwood
House one of those waves of hostility of which no boy knows the
origin nor any master can calculate the course. Varden had never
been popular--there was no reason why he should be--but he had
never been seriously bullied hitherto. One evening nearly the
whole house set on him. The prefects absented themselves, the
bigger boys stood round and the lesser boys, to whom power was
delegated, flung him down, and rubbed his face under the desks,
and wrenched at his ears. The noise penetrated the baize doors,
and Herbert swept through and punished the whole house, including
Varden, whom it would not do to leave out. The poor man was
horrified. He approved of a little healthy roughness, but this
was pure brutalization. What had come over his boys? Were they
not gentlemen's sons? He would not admit that if you herd to-
gether human beings before they can understand each other the
great god Pan is angry, and will in the end evade your
regulations and drive them mad. That night the victim was
screaming with pain, and the doctor next day spoke of an
operation. The suspense lasted a whole week. Comment was made in
the local papers, and the reputation not only of the house but of
the school was imperilled. "If only I had known," repeated
Herbert--"if only I had known I would have arranged it all
differently. He should have had a cubicle." The boy did not die,
but he left Sawston, never to return.
The day before his departure Rickie sat with him some time, and
tried to talk in a way that was not pedantic. In his own sorrow,
which he could share with no one, least of all with his wife, he
was still alive to the sorrows of others. He still fought against
apathy, though he was losing the battle.
"Don't lose heart," he told him. "The world isn't all going to be
like this. There are temptations and trials, of course, but
nothing at all of the kind you have had here."
"But school is the world in miniature, is it not, sir?" asked the
boy, hoping to please one master by echoing what had been told
him by another. He was always on the lookout for sympathy--: it
was one of the things that had contributed to his downfall.
"I never noticed that myself. I was unhappy at school, and in the
world people can be very happy."
Varden sighed and rolled about his eyes. "Are the fellows sorry
for what they did to me?" he asked in an affected voice. "I am
sure I forgive them from the bottom of my heart. We ought to
forgive our enemies, oughtn't we, sir?"
"But they aren't your enemies. If you meet in five years' time
you may find each other splendid fellows."
The boy would not admit this. He had been reading some
revivalistic literature. "We ought to forgive our enemies," he
repeated; "and however wicked they are, we ought not to wish them
evil. When I was ill, and death seemed nearest, I had many kind
letters on this subject."
Rickie knew about these "many kind letters." Varden had induced
the silly nurse to write to people--people of all sorts, people
that he scarcely knew or did not know at all--detailing his
misfortune, and asking for spiritual aid and sympathy.
"I am sorry for them," he pursued. "I would not like to be like
them."
Rickie sighed. He saw that a year at Dunwood House had produced a
sanctimonious prig. "Don't think about them, Varden. Think about
anything beautiful--say, music. You like music. Be happy. It's
your duty. You can't be good until you've had a little happiness.
Then perhaps you will think less about forgiving people and more
about loving them."
"I love them already, sir." And Rickie, in desperation, asked if
he might look at the many kind letters.
Permission was gladly given. A neat bundle was produced, and for
about twenty minutes the master perused it, while the invalid
kept watch on his face. Rooks cawed out in the playing-fields,
and close under tile window there was the sound of delightful,
good-tempered laughter. A boy is no devil, whatever boys may be.
The letters were chilly productions, somewhat clerical in tone,
by whomsoever written. Varden, because he was ill at the time,
had been taken seriously. The writers declared that his illness
was fulfilling some mysterious purpose: suffering engendered
spiritual growth: he was showing signs of this already. They
consented to pray for him, some majestically, others shyly. But
they all consented with one exception, who worded his refusal as
follows:--
Dear A.C. Varden,--
I ought to say that I never remember seeing you. I am sorry that
you are ill, and hope you are wrong about it. Why did you not
write before, for I could have helped you then? When they pulled
your ear, you ought to have gone like this (here was a rough
sketch). I could not undertake praying, but would think of you
instead, if that would do. I am twenty-two in April, built rather
heavy, ordinary broad face, with eyes, etc. I write all this
because you have mixed me with some one else, for I am not
married, and do not want to be. I cannot think of you always, but
will promise a quarter of an hour daily (say 7.00-7.15 A.M.), and
might come to see you when you are better--that is, if you are a
kid, and you read like one. I have been otter-hunting--
Yours sincerely,
Stephen Wonham _