Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
After a while Archer left the lake. He went at an easy jog trot toward the little wood and the fields. As he passed the playing field he saw some sort of game in progress, heard the sports rd shouting directions. In the wood one of the little boys was playing alone. He was very small but quite sufficient unto himself. He was in fact a train. Moving his arms as wheels, making chugging noises in his throat, he passed rigidly along the rails of his fancy. He came to a certain tree, halted, and called out, in a shrill little voice, — “Belleville!” Farther on it was — “Port Hope!” Then — “Kingston!” Clumps of sweet-smelling hepaticas were about him, coming up through the moist dead leaves of last year. The delicate white petals of trilliums were about to unfold, but he saw nothing of them. He was machinery, pure and simple, or the minion of machinery. He gave not the slightest attention to Archer who stood regarding his activities with the deepest pessimism. Archer had no recollection of ever having indulged in such futilities.
He jogged on till suddenly he spied a snake. It was a small green one, sunning itself on the path. In a moment he had it by the tail. He examined it with a coldly critical eye, then jogged on, through the wood, into the field. Now the sun was almost hot. The sound of a bugle came to him from where a cadet was practising.
Two of the younger rds were lying on a grassy knoll in the field. They had gone there to talk and to be away from the boys. Lying there luxuriously they saw Archer approach.
“It’s Whiteoak three,” said one, “with a snake.”
“Oh, Lord,” said the other. “You won’t get away from that kid.”
Archer gave his sweet smile. “Please, sir,” he said, “would you mind looking after my snake for a few minutes?” He placed the tip of the snake’s tail between the reluctant finger and thumb of the rd and ran off.
After a while he returned with a snake in either hand — harmless snakes, but the young rd did not want to touch one. He rolled on to his side and turned his face away. Archer said:
“The first of these snakes may be a
Thamnophis Sirtalis
, the other may be a
Natrix Sipedon
. But they’re both very unusual specimens. I must show them to Mr. Wickens. So will you please help me carry them to him?”
“Don’t you think he’ll be too busy this morning to look at them?” asked one of the young men.
“He is never too busy,” returned Archer severely, “to look at specimens.”
Soon the three went, in Indian file, down the little path, Archer leading the way, each of the rds holding gingerly, at arm’s length, a snake. They entered the little wood where the very small boy was still chugging along imaginary railway lines and did not turn his head to look at them. The sunshine was suddenly much brighter, the air very warm. The three snakes, heads down, writhed and stretched.
Having deposited them with the science rd Archer turned his steps toward the tuck shop, which was in charge of a fifth form boy named Yuell. As Archer went in he met three small boys coming out each carrying a bottle of ginger ale and a chocolate bar. Inside, on an upturned box, sat Archer’s cousin, Philip Whiteoak, drinking a “coke.” He was a strongly built handsome boy, with bright blue eyes and yellow hair. His cadet uniform was very becoming to him. From his shoulder was suspended his bugle. It was he whom Archer had heard sounding the Reveille. He had just rded it and was so fascinated he could scarcely keep the bugle from his lips.
Yuell, rearranging his wares, turned to Archer.
“Want something?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Archer, “but I haven’t any money.”
“Then you’d better clear out.”
Philip set down the empty bottle. “Give him a coke on me,” he said.
Yuell did and Philip picked up his bugle. He sounded the Reveille with vigour, his eyes growing prominent from the effort and his cheeks pink. Archer, the bottle to his lips, looked at him with respect.
“Pretty good,” said Yuell. “Almost perfect.”
“Almost?”
Philip stared, not pleased.
“Well, what do
you
think?”
“Oh, I guess it could have been better.”
“I think it was pretty good,” said Archer.
It was cheek for him to offer an opinion.
“A lot you know about bugling,” said Philip. He put the bugle to his lips and again sounded the Reveille.
The spring air was shattered like fine glass by the ringing notes.
“How’s that?” asked Philip.
Yuell answered, — “Fine.”
Archer was silent.
“Have you anything to say against it?” Philip demanded.
“Keep practising,” said Archer, “and you’ll do it right.” He set down his empty bottle and stalked out. He was so remarkably straight that his neck had a look of arrogant stiffness.
He went to the lake and there found a canoe not in use. He arranged himself in it and took up the paddle. Dipping it gently he moved out across the shining surface of the lake. He saw the raised head of a snake as it swam toward the reedy shore. He envied it its freedom. To be a water snake, free to do as it liked on land or in water, at no one’s bidding. He liked snakes better than he liked most people. He never wanted to beat them with sticks — to kill them, as some of the boys did.
His mind moved to his coming confirmation and he wondered what it would do to him. It would admit him to the taking of the Communion; but what would it do to him inside? He remembered the boys who were confirmed last year. What had it changed in them? Nothing. He was sure of that. They could not be changed. They were too stupid. But he would be changed. He pictured to himself how the rds and boys would look at him in wonder and whisper to each other, — “How greatly Whiteoak three has changed!” He plied his paddle and swept out to the breezy middle of the lake.
Archbishop and parents were arriving before lunch and the ceremony was to take place soon after. Everywhere was the bustle of preparation. Archer was late in coming to the dormitory to dress. Elton was the only boy there and he was putting the last touch to his tie. He said, — “Better hurry up. You’ve just five minutes. I saw your mother and father and sister coming in.”
Archer began to pull off his jacket and shirt. Then, with his shirt over his head, he remembered that he had not given his blue Sunday suit to the housemaid to be sent to the cleaners. He had forgotten this as he forgot everything that did not interest him.
“Hurry up!” shouted Elton and ran out of the room and down the passage.
Archer emerged from the shirt and looked about the room. It had been in order when the boys had come in to dress, with each boy’s clean Sunday suit stretched on his bed. All but Archer’s. Now all were gone but Trotter’s which lay in readiness. But where was Trotter? Archer had no time to waste. He got out his Sunday suit and looked with dismay at its spotty front. He pictured his mother’s fastidious turning away, his father’s frown, Adeline’s grin. He laid his suit on Trotter’s bed, spotty side down, and took Trotter’s Suit in its stead. He must hurry or Trotter would catch him in the act. He put on a clean white shirt.
The suit was a little large, for Trotter was a plumper boy than Archer, but it looked very nice. He put on his collar and tie with satisfaction — his clean socks and best shoes. He was just tying the laces when Trotter came running in. He was red in the face and Archer could see that he had been crying.
“Get a move on,” said Archer. “You’re late.”
“I know,” murmured Trotter. “Gee, I bet I get into more trouble! Whiteoak, will you help me with my tie?”
“No time. There goes the bell!”
He ran down the stairs. The clamour in the passage subsided into an orderly entrance into the dining room. The Headrd said the Latin grace and everybody sat down. Archer stared at the Headrd’s table where he could see his mother sitting beside the Archbishop. He could see his father’s head and shoulders, Adeline’s profile set off by her copper-coloured hair. Archer did not want his lunch. He felt apprehensive, as he had felt before his tonsil operation. Elton was eating hungrily, enjoying rhubarb pie, first of the season. Trotter was eating too, in a distraught sort of way. He looked ready to burst out of Archer’s spotty suit but his collar was nice and clean. The hum of voices was subdued. It was strange to hear the sound of women’s voices from the Head’s table.
Alayne’s eyes roved over the boys, trying to find her son. She discovered Nooky, manly and self-contained. Always he had been a favourite of hers. He had been such a shy sensitive little boy; now he was developing into just the sort of man she had hoped for. He had a look of Pheasant though he was fair.… Then she found Philip, whom Renny called “the spit of Piers” — with his bold mouth and handsome head … But, where was her darling?
She whispered to Renny, — “Do you see Archer?”
“why, yes, at the second table from the end, the fourth boy — looking very spruce and nice.”
She looked and her heart quickened its beat. There he was, his pale rather stiff hair up from his high forehead! So intent was her gaze that it caught his and his face lighted with a smile — a smile so fleeting it made her feel sad. She had felt anxious and hurt by his not being on hand to meet her when she arrived. She wondered what had kept him from her. She pointed him out to the Archbishop who showed a gracious interest in discovering him.
After lunch there was time for a brief reunion before they went to the chapel. On the sunny lawn Alayne threw an arm about Archer’s shoulders. “Do you mind if I kiss you?” she asked.
He raised his forehead and she kissed it. Renny patted his back, while Adeline regarded him with detached curiosity.
“You seem to have shrunken,” she said.
“why, Archer,” cried Alayne, “you
are
thinner! Do you eat enough?”
Here was too good a chance to let slip. “There’s never anything I like,” he said. “Trotter has a hamper sent to him every week.”
“Nonsense,” said Renny. “The food is good.”
“Oh, but I must arrange for him to have more milk,” exclaimed Alayne. “His suit is
loose
on him.”
They could see the Trotter family taking a large hamper from their large car. The parents beamed as their son staggered with it into the school, followed by a horde of other small boys, gathering like locusts about the prize. Archer’s eyes followed them contemplatively, knowing how short a while the contents of the hamper would last and how small a share would be Trotter’s.
Mrs. Trotter came and spoke to Alayne. “It’s disgraceful,” she said, “the lack of care that’s given to the boys’ clothes. Here is my boy going to be confirmed today in a suit covered with spots.”
Certainly, thought Alayne, remembering her glimpse of the son, he was not a very prepossessing boy, his hair untidy, his eyelids pink, and his suit a size too small for him. She said:
“It is all so difficult. One never knows. One is practically helpless. My boy looks thin to me.”
“He is a charming boy,” said Mrs. Trotter. “Such nice manners and so well-groomed. I’m just ashamed of Herbie. But he’s so happy it makes up for a great deal.”
The boys had now gone into the chapel. The parents followed, strolling across the grass beneath the trees, reluctant to leave the sunshine and the breeze that blew in from the lake. The little boy who had been a train, now shunted, huffing and puffing, last of all the boys.
Inside the organ began to peal. Alayne, Renny, and Adeline were led to a seat near the chancel. Seated there in two pews were the boys who were to be confirmed. To Alayne Archer’s face stood out with startling clearness, the silvery fair hair, the pallor, the look of complete composure. He sat between Trotter and Elton. Trotter’s eyes were fixed on the Archbishop, in his magnificent robes. Elton’s eyes roved, the dimples at the corners of his mouth could not be restrained. Even so solemn an occasion as this could not make him solemn.
The school chaplain, in a surplice that seemed to swing of its own volition, jauntily proceeded with the service. A psalm was read by Nooky Whiteoak from his place among the sixth form boys. The great moment arrived when those to be confirmed came one by one and knelt at the Archbishop’s feet. How small they looked! How weak and defenceless! Alayne’s throat was constricted as Archer took his place. The Archbishop laid his hand on the child’s head. “Defend, O Lord, this thy child with thy heavenly grace, that he may continue thine for ever; and daily increase in thy Holy Spirit more and more, until he come to thy everlasting kingdom. Amen.”
Alayne was an agnostic. She had been brought up in the Unitarian faith of her earnest parents. This ceremony held no early associations for her, but because of her child, because of the benign beauty of the Archbishop’s face, she was moved. Renny sat, with his intent dark gaze on his son, wondering what sort of life he would have, what sort of world he would grow up in — very different from the world he himself had grown up in. He liked the sermon the Archbishop preached to the boys — easy to understand — not too long. But he was not sorry when it was over. He must remember to give Archer a little money before he left.
All was a dream to Adeline, seen through the shining prospect of her voyage to Ireland. It was as though part of her were already on the way. Before the moment of saving good-bye arrived she had already said it in imagination. Nooky drew her aside. “Think of me,” he said, “swatting at exams while you and Maurice disport yourselves on the ould sod.”
“Oh, Nook, I wish you were coming!”
“why has Maurice all the good luck?” he exclaimed. “He inherits a fine place in Ireland and money to keep it up, and when he goes over to claim it he has you for company.”
“You’d have hated to leave home as he was made to, when he was a small boy.”
“I shouldn’t have minded.”
“Nooky, you would have howled your head off. You were such a clinging little boy.”
“I’m still clinging,” he said, giving her a warm look.
“Well, you’ve plenty to cling to.”
“Not you.”
They laughed, a little embarrassed.
The visitors were moving into the Headrd’s large living room where tea was served. With them were allowed to go those boys whose relatives they were. Nook brought tea to Adeline and a scone.