The World's Greatest Books - Volume 5 Part 17

Tom and East and another Schoolhouse boy rushed into the matron's room in high spirits when they got back on the first day of the next half-year. She sent off the others, but kept Tom to tell him Mrs. Arnold wished him to take a new boy to share the study he had hoped to share with East. She had told Mrs. Arnold she thought Tom would be kind to him, and see that he wasn't bullied.

In the far corner of the room he saw a slight, pale boy, who looked ready to sink through the floor. The matron watched Tom for a minute, and saw what was pa.s.sing in his mind.

"Poor little fellow," she said, almost in a whisper. "His father's dead, and his mamma--such a sweet, kind lady--almost broke her heart at leaving him. She said one of his sisters was like to die of a decline---- "

"Well, well," burst in Tom, "I suppose I must give up East. Come along, young 'un! What's your name? We'll go and have supper, and then I'll show you our study."

"His name's George Arthur," said the matron. "I've had his books and things put into the study, which his mamma has had new papered, and the sofa covered, and new curtains. And Mrs. Arnold told me to say she'd like you both to come up to tea with her."

Here was an announcement for Master Tom! He was to go up to tea the first night, just as if he were of importance in the school world instead of the most reckless young scapegrace among the f.a.gs. He felt himself lifted on to a higher moral platform at once; and marched off with his young charge in tow in monstrous good humour with himself and all the world. His cup was full when Dr. Arnold, with a warm shake of the hand, seemingly oblivious of all the sc.r.a.pes he had been getting into, said, "Ah, Brown, you here! I hope you left all well at home. And this is the little fellow who is to share your study? Well, he doesn't look as we should like to see him. You must take him some good long walks, and show him what little pretty country we have about here."

The tea went merrily off, and everybody felt that he, young as he was, was of some use in the school world, and had a work to do there. When Tom was recognised coming out of the private door which led from the doctor's house, there was a great shout of greeting, and Hall at once began to question Arthur.

"What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the general comment. And it must be confessed that so thought Tom himself as he lighted the candle in their study, and surveyed the new curtains with much satisfaction.

"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cosy! But look here now, you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you ever talk about home or your mother or sisters."

Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.

"But please, mayn't I talk about home to you?"

"Oh, yes, I like it. But not to boys you don't know. What a jolly desk!"

And soon Tom was deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, and hardly thought of his friends outside till the prayer-bell rang.

He thought of his own first night there when he was leading poor little Arthur up to No. 4, and showing him his bed. The idea of sleeping in a room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before. He could hardly bare to take his jacket off. However, presently off it came, and he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting on his bed, talking and laughing.

"Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands?"

"Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring. "You'll have to go down for more water if you use it all." On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his undressing, and looked round more nervously than ever. The light burned clear, the noise went on. This time, however, he did not ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry of the tender child, or the strong man.

Tom was unlacing his boots with his back towards Arthur, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed, and one big, brutal fellow picked up a slipper and shied it at the kneeling boy.

The next moment the boot Tom had just taken off flew straight at the head of the bully.

"If any other fellow wants the other boot," said Tom, stepping on to the floor, "he knows how to get it!"

At this moment the Sixth Form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into bed, and finished unrobing there.

Sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. The thought of his promise to his mother came over him, never to forget to kneel at his bedside and give himself up to his Father before he laid his head on the pillow from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.

Next morning he was up and washed and dressed just as the ten-minutes bell began, and then in the face of the whole room knelt down to pray.

Not five words could he say; he was listening for every whisper in the room. What were they all thinking of him? At last, as it were from his inmost heart, a still, small voice seemed to breathe: "G.o.d be merciful to me, a sinner." He repeated the words over and over again, and rose from his knees comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole school. It was not needed; two other boys had already followed his example. Before either Tom or Arthur left the Schoolhouse there was no room in which it had not become the regular custom.

_IV.--Tom Brown's Last Match_

The curtain now rises on the last act of our little drama. Eight years have pa.s.sed, and it is the end of the summer half-year at Rugby. The boys have scattered to the four winds, except the Eleven, and a few enthusiasts who are permitted to stay to see the result of the cricket matches. For this year the return matches are being played at Rugby, and to-day the great event of the year, the Marylebone match, is being played. I wish I had s.p.a.ce to describe the whole match; but I haven't, so you must fancy it all, and let me beg to call your attention to a group of three eagerly watching the match. The first, evidently a clergyman, is carelessly dressed, and looks rather used up, but is bent on enjoying life as he spreads himself out in the evening sun. By his side, in white flannel shirt and trousers, and the captain's belt, sits a strapping figure near six feet high, with ruddy, tanned face and a laughing eye. He is leaning forward, dandling his favourite bat, with which he has made thirty or forty runs to-day. It is Tom Brown, spending his last day as a Rugby boy. And at their feet sits Arthur, with his bat across his knees. He is less of a boy, in fact, than Tom, if one may judge by the thoughtfulness of his face, which is somewhat paler than we could wish, but his figure is well-knit and active, and all his old timidity has disappeared, and is replaced by silent, quaint fun, as he listens to the broken talk, and joins in every now and then. Presently he goes off to the wicket, with a last exhortation from Tom to play steady and keep his bat straight.

"I'm surprised to see Arthur in the Eleven," says the master.

"Well, I'm not sure he ought to be for his play," said Tom; "but I couldn't help putting him in. It will do him so much good, and you can't think what I owe him!"

The master smiled. Later he returned to the subject

"Nothing has given me greater pleasure," he said, "than your friendship for him. It has been the making of you both."

"Of me, at any rate," answered Tom. "It was the luckiest chance in the world that sent him to Rugby and made him my chum."

"There was neither luck nor chance in that matter," said the master. "Do you remember when the Doctor lectured you and East when you had been getting into all sorts of sc.r.a.pes?"

"Yes; well enough," said Tom. "It was the half-year before Arthur came."

"Exactly so," said the master. "He was in great distress about you both, and after some talk, we both agreed that you in particular wanted some object in the school beyond games and mischief. So the Doctor looked out the best of the new boys, and separated you and East in the hope that when you had somebody to lean on you, you'd be steadier yourself, and get manliness and thoughtfulness. He has watched the experiment ever since with great satisfaction."

Up to this time Tom had never fully given in to, or understood, the Doctor. He had learnt to regard him with love and respect, and to think him a very great and wise and good man. But as regarded his own position in the school, he had no idea of giving anyone credit but himself.

It was a new light to Tom to find that besides teaching the Sixth, and governing and guiding the whole school, editing cla.s.sics, and writing histories, the great headmaster had found time to watch over the career even of him, Tom Brown, and his particular friends. However, the Doctor's victory was complete from that moment. It had taken eight long years to do it, but now it was done thoroughly.

The match was over.

Tom said good-bye to his tutor, and marched down to the Schoolhouse.

Next morning he was in the train and away for London, no longer a schoolboy.

Tom Brown at Oxford

"Tom Brown at Oxford," a continuation of "Tom Brown's Schooldays," was published in 1861, but, like most sequels, it failed to achieve the wide popularity of its famous predecessor. Although the story, perhaps, lacks much of the freshness of the "Schooldays," it nevertheless conveys an admirable picture of undergraduate life as it was in the middle of the nineteenth century. Notwithstanding the changes that have taken place since then, it is still remarkably full of vitality, and the description of the boat races, and the b.u.mping of Exeter and Oriel by St. Ambrose's boat might well have been written to-day. In spite of its defects, the story, with its vigorous morals, is worthy to rank with anything that came from the pen of Tom Hughes, the great apostle of muscular Christianity.

_I.--St. Ambrose's College_

In the Michaelmas term, after leaving school, Tom went up to matriculate at St. Ambrose's College, Oxford, but did not go up to reside till the following January.

St. Ambrose's College was a moderate-sized one. There were some seventy or eighty undergraduates in residence when our hero appeared there as a freshman, of whom a large proportion were gentleman-commoners, enough, in fact, to give the tone to the college, which was decidedly fast.

Fewer and fewer of the St. Ambrose men appeared in the cla.s.s-lists or among the prize men. They no longer led the debates in the Union; the boat lost place after place on the river; the eleven got beaten in all the matches. But now a reaction had begun. The fellows recently elected were men of great attainments, chosen as the most likely persons to restore, as tutors, the golden days of the college.

Our hero, on leaving school, had bound himself solemnly to write all his doings to the friend he had left behind him, and extracts from his first letter from college will give a better idea of the place than any account by a third party.

"Well, first and foremost, it's an awfully idle place--at any rate, for us freshmen. Fancy now, I am in twelve lectures a week of an hour each.

There's a treat! Two hours a day; and no extra work at all. Of course, I never look at a lecture before I go in; I know it all nearly by heart, and for the present the light work suits me, for there's plenty to see in this place. We keep very gentlemanly hours. Chapel every morning at eight, and evening at seven. You must attend once a day, and twice on Sundays, and be in gates at twelve o'clock. And you ought to dine in hall perhaps four days a week. All the rest of your time you do just what you like with.