X
THE CAREYS made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon, and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little.
When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster.
‘What's Mr Watson like?' asked Philip, after a while.
‘You'll see for yourself.'
There was another pause. Mr Carey wondered why the headmaster did not come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.
‘Tell him I've got a club-foot,' he said.
Before Mr Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr Watson swept into the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr Carey, and then took Philip's small hand in his.
‘Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?' he shouted.
Philip reddened and found no word to answer.
‘How old are you?'
‘Nine,' said Philip.
‘You must say sir,' said his uncle.
‘I expect you've got a good lot to learn,' the headmaster bellowed cheerily.
To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers. Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch.
‘I've put him in the small dormitory for the present. . . . You'll like that, won't you?' he added to Philip. ‘Only eight of you in there. You won't feel so strange.'
Then the door opened, and Mrs Watson came in. She was a dark woman with black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. Her husband introduced Mr Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly push towards her.
‘This is a new boy, Helen. His name's Carey.'
Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr Carey how much Philip knew and what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little embarrassed by Mr Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two got up.
‘I think I'd better leave Philip with you now.'
‘That's all right,' said Mr Watson. ‘He'll be safe with me. He'll get on like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?'
Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great bellow of laughter. Mr Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away.
‘Come along, young fellow,' shouted Mr Watson. ‘I'll show you the schoolroom.'
He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms.
‘Nobody much here yet,' said Mr Watson. ‘I'll just show you the playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself.'
Mr Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large playground with high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately, kicking up the gravel as he walked.
‘Hullo, Venning,' shouted Mr Watson. ‘When did you turn up?'
The small boy came forward and shook hands.
‘Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully him.'
The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them.
‘What's your name?'
‘Carey.'
‘What's your father?'
‘He's dead.'
‘Oh! Does your mother wash?'
‘My mother's dead, too.'
Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little.
‘Well, did she wash?' he went on.
‘Yes,' said Philip indignantly.
‘She was a washerwoman then?'
‘No, she wasn't.'
‘Then she didn't wash.'
The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then he caught sight of Philip's feet.
‘What's the matter with your foot?'
Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the one which was whole.
‘I've got a club-foot,' he answered.
‘How did you get it?'
‘I've always had it.'
‘Let's have a look.'
‘No.'
‘Don't then.'
The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin, which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable.
But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.
‘No,' answered Philip. ‘I've got a club-foot.'
The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologize and looked at Philip awkwardly.
XI
NEXT MORNING when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he was.
‘Are you awake, Singer?'
The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was aired in the morning.
Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning, and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realize that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his washing was done in a small basin on a washstand, which, with the bed and a chair, made up t
he furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of the two long tables in the schoolroom; and Mr Watson, followed by his wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr Watson read prayers in an impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip listened with anxiety. Then Mr Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and butter.
Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which they had brought in their playboxes; and some had ‘extras', eggs or bacon, upon which Mr Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr Carey whether Philip was to have these, Mr Carey replied that he did not think boys should be spoilt. Mr Watson quite agreed with him—he considered nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads—but some parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.
Philip noticed that ‘extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them.
After breakfast the boys wandered out into the playground. Here the day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of the officers at the depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one, leading out of it, used by Mr Watson, who taught the first form. To attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven and they were let out for ten minutes' rest.
The whole school rushed noisily into the playground. The new boys were told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was seized and the mystic words said—one, two, three, and a pig for me—he became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him, mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using all his strength to prevent himself from crying.
Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr Rice could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his feet. He tucked them under the bench.
In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr Watson stopped Philip on the way out after dinner.
‘I suppose you can't play football, Carey?' he asked him.
Philip blushed self-consciously.
‘No, sir.'
‘Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that, can't you?'
Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.
‘Yes, sir.'
The boys went in charge of Mr Rice, who glanced at Philip and, seeing he had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.
‘Mr Watson said I needn't, sir,' said Philip.
‘Why?'
There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the reply.
‘He's got a club-foot, sir.'
‘Oh, I see.'
Mr Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.
‘Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you.'
Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in groups of two or three.
‘You'd better come along with me, Carey,' said the master. ‘You don't know the way, do you?'
Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.
‘I can't go very fast, sir.'
‘Then I'll go very slow,' said the master, with a smile.
Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.
But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's.
‘I say, let's look at your foot,' he said.
‘No,' answered Philip.
He jumped into bed quickly.
‘Don't say no to me,' said Singer. ‘Come on, Mason.'
The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off him, but he held them tightly.
‘Why can't you leave me alone?' he cried.
Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched on the blanket. Philip cried out.
‘Why don't you show us your foot quietly?'
‘I won't.'
In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him, but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn it.
‘Oh, don't, don't,' said Philip. ‘You'll break my arm.'
‘Stop still then and put out your foot.'
Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The pain was unendurable.
‘All right. I'll do it,' said Philip.
He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He looked curiously at the deformity.
‘Isn't it beastly?' said Mason.
Another came in and looked too.
‘Ugh,' he said, in disgust.
‘My word, it is rum,' said Singer, making a face. ‘Is it hard?'
He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it were something that had a life of its own. Suddenly they heard Mr Watson's heavy tread on the stairs. They threw the clothes back on Philip and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. Mr Watson came into the dormitory. Raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore the green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the cubicles. The little boys were safely in bed. He put out the light and went out.
Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got his teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. He was not crying for the pain they ha
d caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord.
And then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his childish mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no particular reason he remembered that cold morning when Emma had taken him out of bed and put him beside his mother. He had not thought of it once since it happened, but now he seemed to feel the warmth of his mother's body against his and her arms around him. Suddenly, it seemed to him that his life was a dream, his mother's death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two wretched days at school, and he would awake in the morning and be back again at home. His tears dried as he thought of it. He was too unhappy, it must be nothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and Emma would come up presently and go to bed. He fell asleep.
But when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell, and the first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his cubicle.
XII
AS TIME went on Philip's deformity ceased to interest. It was accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable corpulence. But meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could help it, because he knew it made his limp more conspicuous, and he adopted a peculiar walk. He stood still as much as he could, with his club-foot behind the other, so that it should not attract notice, and he was constantly on the look out for any reference to it. Because he could not join in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to him; he only interested himself from the outside in their doings; and it seemed to him that there was a barrier between them and him. Sometimes they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football, and he was unable to make them understand. He was left a good deal to himself. He had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became silent. He began to think of the difference between himself and others.