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Wilfrid Cumbermede

G >> George MacDonald >> Wilfrid Cumbermede




Amongst them was one of the name of Home, who considered himself
superior, from his connection with the Scotch Homes. He was a big,
strong, pale-faced, handsome boy, with the least bit of a sneer always
hovering upon his upper lip. Charley was half a head shorter than he,
and I was half a head shorter than Charley. As we passed him, he said
aloud, addressing the boy next him--

'There they go--a pair of sneaks!'

Charley turned upon him at once, his face in a glow.

'Home,' he said, 'no gentleman would say so.'

'And why not?' said Home, turning and striding up to Charley in a
magnificent manner.

'Because there is no ground for the assertion,' said Charley.

'Then you mean to say I am a liar?'

'I mean to say,' returned Charley, with more promptitude than I could
have expected of him, 'that if you are a gentleman, you will be sorry
for it.'

'There is my apology, then!' said Home, and struck Charley a blow on
the head which laid him on the ground. I believe he repented it the
moment he had done it.

I caught one glimpse of the blood pouring over the transparent
blue-veined skin, and rushed at Home in a transport of fury.

I never was brave one step beyond being able to do what must be done
and bear what must be borne; and now it was not courage that inspired
me, but a righteous wrath.

I did my best, got a good many hard blows, and planted not one in
return, for I had never fought in my life. I do believe Home spared me,
conscious of wrong. Meantime some of them had lifted Charley and
carried him into the house.

Before I was thoroughly mauled, which must have been the final result,
for I would not give in, the master appeared, and in a voice such as I
had never heard from him before, ordered us all into the school-room.

'Fighting like bullies!' he said. 'I thought my pupils were gentlemen
at least!'

Perhaps dimly aware that he had himself given some occasion to this
outbreak, and imagining in his heart a show of justice, he seized Home
by the collar, and gave him a terrible cut with the riding-whip which
he had caught up in his anger. Home cried out, and the same moment
Charley appeared, pale as death.

'Oh, sir!' he said, laying his hand on the master's arm appealingly, 'I
was to blame too.'

'I don't doubt it,' returned Mr Forest. 'I shall settle with you
presently. Get away!'

'Now, sir,' he continued, turning to me--and held the whip suspended,
as if waiting a word from me to goad him on. He looked something else
than a gentleman himself just then. It was a sudden outbreak of the
beast in him. 'Will you tell me why you punish me, sir, if you please?
What have I done?' I said.

His answer was such a stinging blow that for a moment I was bewildered,
and everything reeled about me. But I did not cry out--I know that, for
I asked two of the fellows after.

'You prate about justice!' he said. 'I will let you know what justice
means--to you at least.'

And down came a second cut as bad as the first. My blood was up.

'If this is justice, then there _is_ no God,' I said.

He stood aghast. I went on.

'If there be a God--'

'_If_ there be a God!' he shrieked, and sprang towards me.

I did not move a step.

'I hope there is,' I said, as he seized me again; 'for you are unjust.'

I remember only a fierce succession of blows. With Voltaire and the
French revolution present to his mind in all their horror, he had been
nourishing in his house a toad of the same spawn! He had been remiss,
but would now compel those whom his neglect had injured to pay off his
arrears! A most orthodox conclusion! but it did me little harm: it did
not make me think that God was unjust, for my uncle, not Mr Forest, was
my type of Christian. The harm it did was of another sort--and to
Charley, not to me.

Of course, while under the hands of the executioner, I could not
observe what was going on around me. When I began to awake from the
absorption of my pain and indignation, I found myself in my room. I had
been ordered thither, and had mechanically obeyed. I was on my bed,
staring at the door, at which I had become aware of a gentle tapping.

'Come in,' I said; and Charley--who, although it was his room as much
as mine, never entered when he thought I was there without knocking at
the door--appeared, with the face of a dead man. Sore as I was, I
jumped up.

'The brute has not been thrashing _you_, Charley!' I cried, in a wrath
that gave me the strength of a giant. With that terrible bruise above
his temple from Home's fist, none but a devil could have dared to lay
hands upon him!

'No, Wilfrid,' he answered; 'no such honour for me! I am disgraced for
ever!'

He hid his wan face in his thin hands.

'What do you mean, Charley?' I said. 'You cannot have told a lie!'

'No, Wilfrid. But it doesn't matter now. I don't care for myself any
more.'

'Then, Charley, what _have_ you done?'

'You are always so kind, Wilfrid!' he returned, with a hopelessness
which seemed almost coldness.

'Charley,' I said, 'if you don't tell me what has happened--'

'Happened!' he cried. 'Hasn't that man been lashing at you like a dog,
and I _didn't_ rush at him, and if I couldn't fight, being a milksop,
then bite and kick and scratch, and take my share of it? O God!' he
cried, in agony, 'if I had but a chance again! But nobody ever has more
than one chance in this world. He may damn me now when he likes: I
don't care!'

'Charley! Charley!' I cried; 'you're as bad as Mr Forest. Are you to
say such things about God, when you know nothing of him? He may be as
good a God, after all, as even we should like him to be.'

'But Mr Forest is a clergyman.'

'And God was the God of Abraham before ever there was a clergyman to
take his name in vain,' I cried; for I was half mad with the man who
had thus wounded my Charley. '_I_ am content with you, Charley. You are
my best and only friend. That is all nonsense about attacking Forest.
What could you have done, you know? Don't talk such rubbish.'

'I might have taken my share with you,' said Charley, and again buried
his face in his hands.

'Come, Charley,' I said, and at the moment a fresh wave of manhood
swept through my soul; 'you and I will take our share together a
hundred times yet. I have done my part now; yours will come next.'

'But to think of not sharing your disgrace, Wilfrid!'

'Disgrace!' I said, drawing myself up, 'where was that?'

'You've been beaten,' he said.

'Every stripe was a badge of honour,' I said, 'for I neither deserved
it nor cried out against it. I feel no disgrace.'

'Well, I've missed the honour,' said Charley; 'but that's nothing, so
you have it. But not to share your disgrace would have been mean. And
it's all one; for I thought it was disgrace, and I did not share it. I
am a coward for ever, Wilfrid.'

'Nonsense! He never gave you a chance. _I_ never thought of striking
back: how should _you?_'

'I will be your slave, Wilfrid! You are _so_ good, and I am _so_
unworthy.'

He put his arms round me, laid his head on my shoulder, and sobbed. I
did what more I could to comfort him, and gradually he grew calm. At
length he whispered in my ear--

'After all, Wilfrid, I do believe I was horror-struck, and it _wasn't_
cowardice pure and simple.'

'I haven't a doubt of it,' I said. 'I love you more than ever.'

'Oh, Wilfrid! I should have gone mad by this time but for you. Will you
be my friend whatever happens?--Even if I should be a coward after
all?'

'Indeed I will, Charley.--What do you think Forest will do next?'

We resolved not to go down until we were sent for; and then to be
perfectly quiet, not speaking to any one unless we were spoken to; and
at dinner we carried out our resolution.

When bed-time came, we went as usual to make our bow to Mr Forest.

'Cumbermede,' he said sternly, 'you sleep in No. 5 until further
orders.'

'Very well, sir,' I said, and went, but lingered long enough to hear
the fate of Charley.

'Home,' said Mr Forest, 'you go to No. 3.'

That was our room.

'Home,' I said, having lingered on the stairs until he appeared, 'you
don't bear me a grudge, do you?'

'It was my fault,' said Home. 'I had no right to pitch into you. Only
you're such a cool beggar! But, by Jove! I didn't think Forest would
have been so unfair. If you forgive me, I'll forgive you.'

'If I hadn't stood up to you, I couldn't,' I returned. 'I knew I hadn't
a chance. Besides, I hadn't any breakfast.'

'I was a brute,' said Home.

'Oh, I don't mind for myself; but there's Osborne! I wonder you could
hit _him_.'

'He shouldn't have jawed me,' said Home.

'But you did first.'

We had reached the door of the room which had been Home's and was now
to be mine, and went in together.

'Didn't you now?' I insisted.

'Well, I did; I confess I did. And it was very plucky of him.'

'Tell him that, Home,' I said. 'For God's sake tell him that. It will
comfort him. You must be kind to him, Home. We're not so bad as Forest
takes us for.'

'I will,' said Home.

And he kept his word.

We were never allowed to share the same room again, and school was not
what it had been to either of us.

Within a few weeks Charley's father, to our common dismay, suddenly
appeared, and the next morning took him away. What he said to Charley I
do not know. He did not take the least notice of me, and I believe
would have prevented Charley from saying good-bye to me. But just as
they were going Charley left his father's side, and came up to me with
a flush on his face and a flash in his eye that made him look more
manly and handsome than I had ever seen him, and shook hands with me,
saying--

'It's all right--isn't it, Wilfrid?'

'It _is_ all right, Charley, come what will,' I answered.

'Good-bye then, Wilfrid.'

'Good-bye, Charley.'

And so we parted.

I do not care to say one word more about the school. I continued there
for another year and a half. Partly in misery, partly in growing
eagerness after knowledge, I gave myself to my studies with more
diligence. Mr Forest began to be pleased with me, and I have no doubt
plumed himself on the vigorous measures by which he had nipped the bud
of my infidelity. For my part I drew no nearer to him, for I could not
respect or trust him after his injustice. I did my work for its own
sake, uninfluenced by any desire to please him. There was, in fact, no
true relation between us any more.

I communicated nothing of what had happened to my uncle, because Mr
Forest's custom was to read every letter before it left the house. But
I longed for the day when I could tell the whole story to the great,
simple-hearted man.




CHAPTER XXIII.


ONLY A LINK.

Before my return to England, I found that familiarity with the sights
and sounds of a more magnificent nature had removed my past life to a
great distance. What had interested my childhood had strangely
dwindled, yet gathered a new interest from its far-off and forsaken
look. So much did my past wear to me now the look of something read in
a story, that I am haunted with a doubt whether I may not have
communicated too much of this appearance to my description of it,
although I have kept as true as my recollections would enable me. The
outlines must be correct: if the colouring be unreal, it is because of
the haze which hangs about the memories of the time.

The revisiting of old scenes is like walking into a mausoleum.
Everything is a monument of something dead and gone. For we die daily.
Happy those who daily come to life as well!

I returned with a clear conscience, for not only had I as yet escaped
corruption, but for the greater part of the time at least I had worked
well. If Mr Forest's letter which I carried to my uncle contained any
hint intended to my disadvantage, it certainly fell dead on his mind;
for he treated me with a consideration and respect which at once
charmed and humbled me.

One day as we were walking together over the fields, I told him the
whole story of the loss of the weapon at Moldwarp Hall. Up to the time
of my leaving for Switzerland I had shrunk from any reference to the
subject, so painful was it to me, and so convinced was I that his
sympathy would be confined to a compassionate smile and a few words of
condolence.

But glancing at his face now and then as I told the tale, I discovered
more of interest in the play of his features than. I had expected; and
when he learned that it was absolutely gone from me, his face flushed
with what seemed anger. For some moments after I had finished he was
silent. At length he said,

'It is a strange story, Wilfrid, my boy. There must be some explanation
of it, however.'

He then questioned me about Mr Close, for suspicion pointed in his
direction. I was in great hopes he would follow my narrative with what
he knew of the sword, but he was still silent, and I could not question
him, for I had long suspected that its history had to do with the
secret which he wanted me to keep from myself.

The very day of my arrival I went up to my grandmother's room, which I
found just as she had left it. There stood her easy-chair, there her
bed, there the old bureau. The room looked far less mysterious now that
she was not there; but it looked painfully deserted. One thing alone
was still as it were enveloped in its ancient atmosphere--the bureau. I
tried to open it--with some trembling, I confess; but only the drawers
below were unlocked, and in them I found nothing but garments of
old-fashioned stuffs, which I dared not touch.

But the day of childish romance was over, and life itself was too
strong and fresh to allow me to brood on the past for more than an
occasional half-hour. My thoughts were full of Oxford, whither my uncle
had resolved I should go; and I worked hard in preparation.

'I have not much money to spare, my boy,' he said; 'but I have insured
my life for a sum sufficient to provide for your aunt, if she should
survive me; and after her death it will come to you. Of course the old
house and the park, which have been in the family for more years than I
can tell, will be yours at my death. A good part of the farm was once
ours too, but not for these many years. I could not recommend you to
keep on the farm; but I confess I should be sorry if you were to part
with our own little place, although I do not doubt you might get a good
sum for it from Sir Giles, to whose park it would be a desirable
addition. I believe at one time, the refusal to part with our poor
little vineyard of Naboth was cause of great offence, even of open feud
between the great family at the Hall and the yeomen who were your
ancestors; but poor men may be as unwilling as rich to break one strand
of the cord that binds them to the past. But of course when you come
into the property, you will do as you see fit with your own.'

'You don't think, uncle, I would sell this house, or the field it
stands in, for all the Moldwarp estate? I too have my share of pride in
the family, although as yet I know nothing of its history.'

'Surely, Wilfrid, the feeling for one's own people who have gone before
is not necessarily pride!'

'It doesn't much matter what you call it, uncle.'

'Yes, it does, my boy. Either you call it by the right name or by the
wrong name. If your feeling _is_ pride, then I am not objecting to the
name, but the thing. If your feeling is not pride, why call a good
thing by a bad name? But to return to our subject: my hope is that, if
I give you a good education, you will make your own way. You might, you
know, let the park, as we call it, for a term of years.'

'I shouldn't mind letting the park,' I answered, 'for a little while;
but nothing should ever make me let the dear old house. What should I
do if I wanted it to die in?'

The old man smiled, evidently not ill-pleased.

'What do you say to the bar?' he asked.

'I would rather not,' I answered.

'Would you prefer the Church?' he asked, eyeing me a little doubtfully.

'No, certainly, uncle,' I answered. 'I should want to be surer of a
good many things before I dared teach them to other people.'

'I am glad of that, my boy. The fear did cross my mind for a moment
that you might be inclined to take to the Church as a profession, which
seems to me the worst kind of infidelity. A thousand times rather would
I have you doubtful about what is to me the highest truth, than
regarding it with the indifference of those who see in it only the
prospect of a social position and livelihood. Have you any plan of your
own?'

'I have heard,' I answered, circuitously, 'that many barristers have to
support themselves by literary work, for years before their own
profession begin to show them favour. I should prefer going in for the
writing at once.'

'It must be a hard struggle either way,' he replied; 'but I should not
leave you without something to fall back upon. Tell me what makes you
think you could be an author?'

'I am afraid it is presumptuous,' I answered, 'but as often as I think
of what I am to do, that is the first thing that occurs to me. I
suppose,' I added, laughing, 'that the favour with which my
school-fellows at Mr Elder's used to receive my stories is to blame for
it. I used to tell them by the hour together.'

'Well,' said my uncle, 'that proves, at least, that, if you had
anything to say, you might be able to say it; but I am afraid it proves
nothing more.'

'Nothing more, I admit. I only mentioned it to account for the notion.'

'I quite understand you, my boy. Meantime, the best thing in any case
will be Oxford. I will do what I can to make it an easier life for you
than I found it.'

Having heard nothing of Charley Osborne since he left Mr Forest's, I
went one day, very soon after my return, to call on Mr Elder, partly in
the hope of learning something about him. I found Mrs Elder unchanged,
but could not help fancying a difference in Mr Elder's behaviour,
which, after finding I could draw nothing from him concerning Charley,
I attributed to Mr Osborne's evil report, and returned foiled and
vexed. I told my uncle, with some circumstance, the whole story:
explaining how, although unable to combat the doubts which occasioned
Charley's unhappiness, I had yet always hung to the side of believing.

'You did right to do no more, my boy,' said my uncle; 'and it is clear
you have been misunderstood--and ill-used besides. But every wrong will
be set right some day.'

My aunt showed me now far more consideration--I do not say--than she
had _felt_ before. A curious kind of respect mingled with her kindness,
which seemed a slighter form of the observance with which she
constantly regarded my uncle.

My study was pretty hard and continuous. I had no tutor to direct me or
take any of the responsibility off me.

I walked to the Hall one morning to see Mrs Wilson. She was kind, but
more stiff even than before. From her I learned two things of interest.
The first, which beyond measure delighted me, was, that Charley was at
Oxford--had been there for a year. The second was that Clara was at
school in London. Mrs Wilson shut her mouth very primly after answering
my question concerning her; and I went no further in that direction. I
took no trouble to ask her concerning the relationship of which Mr
Coningham had spoken. I knew already from my uncle that it was a fact,
but Mrs Wilson did not behave in such a manner as to render me inclined
to broach the subject. If she wished it to remain a secret from me, she
should be allowed to imagine it such.




CHAPTER XXIV.


CHARLEY AT OXFORD.

I have no time in this selection and combination of the parts of my
story which are more especially my history, to dwell upon that portion
of it which refers to my own life at Oxford. I was so much of a student
of books while there, and had so little to do with any of the men
except Charley, that, save as it bore upon my intellect, Oxford had
little special share in what life has made of me, and may in the press
of other matter be left out. Had I time, however, to set forth what I
know of my own development more particularly, I could not pass over the
influence of external Oxford, the architecture and general surroundings
of which I recognized as affecting me more than anything I had yet met,
with the exception of the Swiss mountains, pine-woods, and rivers. It
is, however, imperative to set forth the peculiar character of my
relation to and intercourse with Charley, in order that what follows
may be properly understood.

For no other reason than that my uncle had been there before me, I went
to Corpus Christi, while Charley was at Exeter. It was some days before
we met, for I had twice failed in my attempts to find him. At length,
one afternoon, as I entered the quadrangle to make a third essay, there
he was coming towards the gate with a companion.

When he caught sight of me, he advanced with a quick yet hesitating
step--a step with a question in it: he was not quite sure of me. He was
now approaching six feet in height, and of a graceful though not
exactly dignified carriage. His complexion remained as pale and his
eyes as blue as before. The pallor flushed and the blue sparkled as he
made a few final and long strides towards me. The grasp of the hand he
gave me was powerful, but broken into sudden almost quivering
relaxations and compressions. I could not help fancying also that he
was using some little effort to keep his eyes steady upon mine.
Altogether, I was not quite satisfied with our first meeting, and had a
strong impression that, if our friendship was to be resumed, it was
about to begin a new course, not building itself exactly on the old
foundations, but starting afresh. He looked almost on the way to become
a man of the world. Perhaps, however, the companionship he was in had
something to do with this, for he was so nervously responsive, that he
would unconsciously take on, for the moment, any appearance
characterizing those about him.

His companion was a little taller and stouter-built than he; with a
bearing and gait of conscious importance, not so marked as to be at
once offensive. The upper part of his face was fine, the nose
remarkably so, while the lower part was decidedly coarse, the chin too
large, and the mouth having little form, except in the first movement
of utterance, when an unpleasant curl took possession of the upper lip,
which I afterwards interpreted as a doubt disguising itself in a sneer.
There was also in his manner a degree of self-assertion which favoured
the same conclusion. His hands were very large, a pair of merely
blanched plebeian fists, with thumbs much turned back--and altogether
ungainly. He wore very tight gloves, and never shook hands when he
could help it. His feet were scarcely so bad in form: still by no
pretence could they be held to indicate breeding. His manner, where he
wished to conciliate, was pleasing; but to me it was overbearing and
unpleasant. He Was the only son of Sir Giles Brotherton of Moldwarp
Hall. Charley and he did not belong to the same college, but, unlike as
they were, they had somehow taken to each other. I presume it was the
decision of his manner that attracted the wavering nature of Charley,
who, with generally active impulses, was yet always in doubt when a
moment requiring action arrived.

Charley, having spoken to me, turned and introduced me to his friend.
Geoffrey Brotherton merely nodded.

'We were at school together in Switzerland,' said Charley.

'Yes,' said Geoffrey, in a half-interrogatory, half-assenting tone.

'Till I found your card in my box, I never heard of your coming,' said
Charley.

'It was not my fault,' I answered. 'I did what I could to find out
something about you, but all in vain.'

'Paternal precaution, I believe,' he said, with something that
approached a grimace.

Now, although I had little special reason to love Mr Osborne, and knew
him to be a tyrant, I knew also that my old Charley could not have thus
coolly uttered a disrespectful word of him, and I had therefore a
painful though at the same time an undefined conviction that some
degree of moral degeneracy must have taken place before he could
express himself as now. To many, such a remark will appear absurd, but
I am confident that disrespect for the preceding generation, and
especially for those in it nearest to ourselves, is a sure sign of
relaxing dignity, and, in any extended manifestation, an equally sure
symptom of national and political decadence. My reader knows, however,
that there was much to be said in excuse of Charley.

His friend sauntered away, and we went on talking. My heart longed to
rest with his for a moment on the past.

'I had a dreary time of it after you left, Charley,' I said.

'Not so dreary as I had, Wilfrid, I am certain. You had at least the
mountains to comfort you. Anywhere is better than at home, with a meal
of Bible oil and vinegar twice a day for certain, and a wine-glassful
of it now and then in between. Damnation's better than a spoony heaven.
To be away from home is heaven enough for me.'

'But your mother, Charley!' I ventured to say.

'My mother is an angel. I could almost be good for her sake. But I
never could, I never can get near her. My father reads every letter she
writes before it comes to me--I know that by the style of it; and I'm
equally certain he reads every letter of mine before it reaches her.'

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