Hughes_School_Days_at_Rugby.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
stay left but
, the of , upon whom alone a sure
foundation for every soul of man is laid.
he wearily laboured at his line, the thought
struck him, " it may all be false, a mere newspaper
lie," and he strode up to the recumbent smoker.
" me look at the paper," said he.
" else in it,'^ answered the other, handing
it up to him listlessly. ", ! what's the
matter, old fellow ain't you well?"
" is it ? " said , turning over the leaves,
his hands trembling, and his eyes swimming, so that
be could not read.
. 399
" ? are you looking for ? " said his
friend, jumping up and looking over his shoulder.
about ," said .
" here," said the other, putting his finger on
the paragraph. read it over and over again ;
there could be no mistake of identity, though the
account was short enough.
" you," said he at last, dropping the paper,
" shall go for a walk : don't you and wait
supper for me." away he strode, up over the
moor at the back of the house, to be alone, and
master his grief if possible.
friend looked after him, sympathizing and
wondering, and knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
walked over to . a short parley they
walked together up to the house.
" 'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled
's fun for this trip."
" odd that he should be so fond of his old
master," said . they also were both pub-
lic-school men.
two, however, notwithstanding 's pro-
hibition, waited supper for him, and had every-
thing ready when he came back some half-an-
hour. afterwards. he could not join in their
cheerful talk, and the party was soon silent, not-
withstanding the efforts of all three. thing
only had resolved, and that was that he
couldn't stay in any longer; he felt an
irresistible longing to get to , and then home,
and soon broke it to the others, who had too much
tact to oppose.
400 .
by daylight the next morning he was marching
through , and in the evening hit the -
donian canal, took the next steamer, and travelled as
fast as boat and railway could carry him to the
station.
he walked up to the town he felt shy and
afraid of being seen, and took the back streets ; why,
he didn't know, but he followed his instinct.
the school-gates he made a dead pause ; there was
not a soul in the quadrangle all was lonely, and
silent, and sad. with another effort he strode
through the quadrangle, and into the school-house
offices.
found the little matron in her room, in deep
mourning ; shook her hand, tried to talk, and moved
nervously about: she was evidently thinking of
the same subject as he, but he couldn't begin talk-
ing.
" shall find ? " said he at last,
getting desperate.
" the servants' hall, think, sir. won't you
take any thing?" said the matron, looking rather
disappointed.
" , thank you," said he, and strode off again to
find the old verger, who was sitting in his little den
as of old, puzzling over hieroglyphics.
looked up through his spectacles, as seized
his hand and wrung it.
" ! you've heard all about itj sir, see," said
he.
nodded, and then sat down on the shoe-
board, while the old man told his tale, and wiped
. 401
his spectacles, and fairly flowed over with quaint,
homely, honest sorrow.
the time he had done, felt much better.
" is he buried, ? " said he at
last.
" ( the altar in the chapel, sir," answered
.. " 'd like to have the key, dare say."
" you, yes, should, very much."
the old man fumbled among his bunch, and
then got up, as though he would go with him ; but
after a few steps stopped short and said, "
you'd like to go by yourself, sir ? "
nodded, and the bunch of keys were handed
to him with an injunction to be sure and lock the
door after him, and bring them back before eight
o'clock.
walked quickly through the quadrangle and
out into the close. longing which had been
upon him and driven him thus far, like the gad-fly
in the legends, giving him no rest in mind
or body, seemed all of a sudden not to be satisfied,
but to shrivel up, and pall. " should go on ?
's no use," he thought, and threw himself at full
length on the turf, and looked vaguely and listlessly
at all the well-known objects. were a few
of the town boys playing cricket, their wicket
pitched on the best piece in the middle of the
big-side ground, a sin about equal to sacrilege in
the eyes of a captain of the eleven. was very
nearly getting up to go and send them off; " !
they won't remember me. 've more right there
than ," he muttered. the thought that his
402 .
sceptre had departed, and bis mark was wearing
out, came home to him for the first time; and bit-
terly enough. was lying on the very spot where
the fights came ofT; where he himself had fought
six years ago his first and last battle. conjured
up the scene till he could almost hear the shouts of
the ring, and 's whisper in his ear ; and looking
across the close to the 's* private door, half
expected to see it open, and the tall figure in cap
and gown come striding under the elm-trees towards
him.
, no ! that sight could never be seen again.
was no flag flying on the round tower; the
school-house windows were all shuttered up ; and
when the flag went up again, and the shutters came
downj it would be to welcome a stranger. that
was left on earth of him whom he had honoured,
was lying cold and still under the chapel floor.
would go in and see the place once more, and then
leave it once for all. men and new methods
might do for other people ; let those who would
worship the rising star, he at least would be faithful
to the sun which had set. so he got up, and
walked to the chapel door and unlocked it, fancying
himself the only mourner in all the broad land, and
feeding on his own selfish sorrow.
passed through the vestibule, and then paused
for a moment to glance over the empty benches.
heart was still proud and high, and he walked
up to the seat 'which he had last occupied as a sixth-
form boy, and sat himself down there to collect his
thoughts.
7INIS. 403
, truth to tell, they needed collecting and set-
ting in order not a little. memories of eight
years were all dancing through his brain, and carry-
ing him about whither they would ; while beneath
them all, his heart was throbbing with the dull sense
of a loss that could never be made up to him.
rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the
painted windows above his head and fell in gorgeous
colours on the opposite wall, and the perfect still-
ness soothed his spirit by little and little. he
turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then lean-
ing forward, with his head on his hands, groaned
aloud. ' he could only hav'e seen the
again for one five minutes, to have told him all that
was in his heart, what he owed to him, how he loved
and reverenced him, and , by 's help, fol-
low his steps in life and death, he could have borne
it all without a murmur. that he should have
gone away for ever without knowing it all, was too
much to bear.' " am sure that he does not
know it all ? " the thought made him start "
he not even now be near me, in this very chapel ?
he be, am sorrowing as he would have me sor-
row as shall wish to have sorrowed when shall
meet him again ? "
raised himself up and looked round ; and after
a minute rose and walked humbly down to the low-
est bench, and sat down qn the very seat which he
had occupied on his first at .
then the old memories rushed back again, but soft-
ened and subdued, and soothing him as he let him-
self be cEurried away by them. he looked up
404 .
at the great painted window above the altar, and
remembered how, when a little boy, he used to try
not to look through it at the elm-trees and the rooks,
before the painted glass came and the subscription
for the painted glass, and the letter he wrote home
for mon6y to give to it. there, down below,
was the very name of the boy who sat on his right
hand on that first day, scratched rudely in the oak
panelling.
then came the thought of all his old school-
fellows , and form after form of boys, nobler, and
braver, and purer than he, rose up and seemed to
rebuke him. he not think of them, and what
they had felt and were feeling ; they who had hon-
oured and loved from the first, the man whom he had
taken years to know and love ? he not think
of those yet dearer to him who was gone, who bore
his name and shared his blood, and were now without
a husband or a father ? the grief which he be-
gan to share with others became gentle and holy, and
he rose up once more, and walked up the steps to
the altar ; and while the tears flowed freely down his
cheeks, knelt down humbly and hopefully, to lay
down there his share of a burden which had proved
itself too heavy for him to bear in his own strength.
let us leave him where better could we leave
him, than at the altar, before which he had first caught
a glimpse of the glory of his birthright, and felt the
drawing of the bond which links all living souls to-
gether in one brotherhood at the grave beneath the
altar of him who had opened his eyes to see that glory,
and softened his heart till it could feel that bond.
404
. 405
let us not be hard on him, if at that moment
his soul is fuller of the tomb and him who lies there,
than of the altar and of whom it speaks.
stages have to be gone through, believe, by all
young and souls, who must win their way
through hero-worship, to the worship of who is
the and of heroes. it is only through
our mysterious human relationships, through the love
and tenderness and purity of mothers, and sisters, and
wives, through the strength. and courage and wis-
dom of fathers, and brothers, and teachers, that we
can come to the knowledge of , in whom alone
the love, and the tenderness, and the pm-ity, and the
strength, and the courage, and the wisdom of all
these dwell forever and ever in perfect fullness.