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Beyond Rhetoric: Adult Learning Policies
and Practices
Beyond
Rhetoric:
Adult
Learning
Policies
and
Practices
Beyond Rhetoric:
Adult Learning
Policies and
Practices
Adults with busy lifestyles, whatever their education level or employment situation, may well ask why
they should resume learning. The reality is that the changing requirements of knowledge-based
societies, skill shortages and the increasing importance of civil participation and social cohesion
drive the need to continually update adults’ skills and knowledge. Yet those who are most in need
are often precisely the ones who participate least in adult learning and training programmes.
This publication aims to identify what works in the policy and practice of adult learning, drawing on
the experience of nine OECD countries: Canada, Denmark, Finland, Norway, Portugal, Spain,
Sweden, Switzerland and the United Kingdom (England). It defines the features of a desirable system
of adult learning, including ways to motivate adults to learn and methods to deliver appropriate
services. Some countries rely more on individual incentive mechanisms; others use national
strategies and public supply; still others apply measures to encourage the private market.
This book will be indispensable to policy makers and those involved in the practice of adult learning.
www.oecd.org
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«
OECD's books, periodicals and statistical databases are now available via www.SourceOECD.org, our online library.
This book is available to subscribers to the following SourceOECD themes:
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Ask your librarian for more details of how to access OECD books online, or write to us at
[email protected]
"More story-books!" criedshe. "I have a good mind to confiscate
them. I do not approve of the number of books his parents
encourage him to read. If you ever catch him reading up here, Mr.
Ringrose, I must ask you to report the matter instantly to me, as I
regret to say that he has given trouble of that kind before."
Harry bowed obedience.
"Little Woodman," continued the schoolmistress, "though sharp
enough when he likes, is, I am sorry to say, one of our most indolent
boys. He would read all day if we would let him. However, he is
going to Mr. Scrafton this term, so he will have to exert himself at
last! And now, if you like your room, Mr. Ringrose, I will leave you to
put on your slippers, and will take you into the schoolroom when
you come downstairs."
The schoolroom was long and bare, but unconventional in that a
long dining-table did away with desks, and the boys appeared to be
shaking off their depression when Harry and his employer entered
five minutes later. They were making a noise through which the
same angry but ineffectual voice could be heard threatening a
hundred lines all round as the door was thrown open. The noise
ceased that moment. The governess rose in an apologetic manner;
while all the boys wore guilty faces, but one who was buried in a
book, sitting hunched up on the floor. Like most irascible persons,
however, the schoolmistress had her moments of conspicuous good-
temper, and this was one.
"These are the little men," said she. "Children, this is your new
master. Miss Maudsley—Mr. Ringrose."
And Harry found himself bowing to the lady with the voice, a lady of
any age, but no outward individuality; even as he did so, however,
Mrs. Bickersteth beckoned to the governess; and in another moment
Harry was alone with the boys.
57.
The new masterhad never felt quite so shy or so self-conscious as
he did during the next few minutes; it was ten times worse than
going to school as a new boy. The fellows stood about him, staring
frankly, and one in the background whispered something to another,
who told him to shut up in a loud voice. Harry seated himself on the
edge of the table, swung a leg, stuck his hands in his pockets
(where they twitched) and asked the other boys their names.
"James Wren," said the biggest, who looked twelve or thirteen, and
was thickly freckled.
"Ernest Wren," said a smaller boy with more freckles.
"Robertson."
"Murray."
"Gifford."
"Simes."
"Perkins."
"Stanley."
"And that fellow on the floor?"
"Woodman," said James Wren. "I say, Woodman, don't you hear?
Can't you get up when you're spoken to?"
Woodman shut his book, keeping, however, a finger in the place,
and got up awkwardly. He was one of the smallest of the boys, but
he wore long trousers, and beneath them irons which jingled as he
came forward with a shambling waddle. He had a queer little face,
dark eyes and the lightest of hair; and he blushed a little as, alone
among the boys, but clearly unconscious of the fact, he proceeded
to shake hands with the new master.
58.
"So you areWoodman?" said Harry.
"Yes, sir," said the boy. "Have you come instead of Mr. Scrafton, sir?"
"No, I have come as well."
At this there were groans, of which Harry thought it best to take no
notice. He observed, however, that Woodman was not among the
groaners, and to get upon safe ground he asked him what the book
was.
"One of Ballantyne's, sir. It's magnificent!" And the dark eyes glowed
like coals in what was again a very pale face.
"The Red Eric," said Harry, glancing at the book. "I remember it well.
You're in an exciting place, eh?"
"Yes, sir: the mutiny, sir."
"Then don't let me stop you—run along!" said Harry, smiling; and
Woodman was back on the floor and aboard his whaler before the
new master realised that this was hardly the way in which he had
been instructed to treat the boy who was always reading.
But he went on chatting with the others, and in quite a few minutes
he felt that, as between the boys and himself, all would be plain
sailing. They were nice enough boys—one or two a little awkward—
one or two vocally unacquainted with the first vowel—but all of them
disposed to welcome a man (Harry thought) after the exclusive
authority of resident ladies. Traces of a demoralising rule were not
long in asserting themselves, as when Robertson gave Simes a sly
kick, and Simes started off roaring to tell Mrs. Bickersteth, only to be
hauled back by Harry and given to understand (evidently for the first
time) that only little girls told tales. The bigger boys seemed to
breathe again when he said so. Then they all stood at one of the
windows in the failing light, and Harry talked cricket to them, and
even mentioned his travels, whereat they clamoured for adventures;
59.
but the newmaster was not such a fool as to play all his best cards
first. They were still at the window when the gate opened and in
walked a squat silk-hatted gentleman with a yellow beard and an
evening paper.
"Here comes old Lennie!" exclaimed Gifford, who was the one with
the most to say for himself.
"Who?" said Harry.
"Lennie Bickersteth, sir—short for Leonard," replied Gifford, while
the other boys laughed.
"But you mustn't speak of him like that," said Harry severely.
"Oh, yes, I must!" cried Gifford, excited by the laughter. "We all call
him Lennie, and Reggie Reggie, and Baby Baby; don't we, you
fellows? Bicky likes us to—it makes it more like home."
"Well," said Harry, "I know what Mrs. Bickersteth would not like, and
if you say that again I shall smack your head."
Which so discomfited and subdued the excitable Gifford that Harry
liked him immensely from that moment, and not the less when he
discovered that the boy's incredible information was perfectly
correct.
Mrs. Bickersteth was a widow lady with three grown-up children,
whom she insisted on the boys addressing, not merely by their
Christian names, but by familiar abbreviations of the same. Leonard
and Reginald were City men who went out every morning with a
bang of the big front door, and came home in the evening with a
rattle of their latch-keys. Both were short and stout like their mother,
with beards as yellow as her hair, while Leonard, the elder, was
really middle-aged; but it was against the rules for the boys to
address or refer to them as anything but Lennie and Reggie, and
only the governess and Harry were permitted to say "Mr.
60.
Bickersteth." As forthe baby of the family, who was Baby still to all
her world, she was certainly some years younger; and the name was
more appropriate in her case, since she wore the family hair down to
eyes of infantile blue, and had the kind of giggle which seldom
survives the nursery. She knew no more about boys than any other
lady in the house, but was a patently genuine and good-hearted girl,
and deservedly popular in the school.
When Harry went to bed that night he smelt the smoke of a candle,
though he carried his own in his hand. Woodman was apparently
fast asleep, but, on being questioned, he won Harry's heart by
confessing without hesitation or excuse. He had The Red Eric and a
candle-end under his pillow, and the wax was still soft when he gave
them up. Harry sat on the side of his bed and duly lectured him on
the disobedience and the danger of the detected crime, while the
criminal lay with his great eyes wide open, and his hair almost as
white as the pillow beneath it. When he had done the small boy said
—
"If they had spoken to me like that, sir, last time, sir, I never should
have done it again."
"You shouldn't have done it in any case," said Harry. "You've got to
promise me that it's the last time."
"It's so hard to go asleep the first night of the term, sir," sighed
Woodman. "You keep thinking of this time yesterday and this time
last week, sir."
Harry's eye was on the little irons lying on top of the little heap of
clothes, but he put on the firmest face he could.
"That's the same for all," he said. "How do you know I don't feel like
that myself? Now, you've got to give me your word that you won't
ever do this again!"
"But suppose they say what they said before, sir?"
61.
"Give me yourword," said Harry.
"Very well, sir, I never will."
"Then I give you mine, Woodman, to say nothing about this; but
mind—I expect you to keep yours."
The great eyes grew greater, and then very bright. "I'll promise not
to open another book this term, sir—if you like, sir," the little boy
cried. But Harry told him that was nonsense and to go to sleep, and
turned in himself glowing with new ideas. If he could but influence
these small boys as Innes had influenced him! The thought kept him
awake far into his first night at Teddington. His life there had begun
more happily than he could have dared to hope.
Morning brought the day-boys and work which was indeed within
even Harry's capacity. It consisted principally in "hearing" lessons set
by Mrs. Bickersteth; and it revealed the educational system in vogue
in that lady's school. It was the system of question and answer, the
question read from a book by the teacher, the answer repeated by
rote by the boy, and on no condition to be explained or enlarged
upon by extemporary word of mouth. Harry fell into this error, but
was promptly and publicly checked by the head-mistress, with whom
some of the elder boys were studying English history (from the point
of view of Mrs. Markham and her domestic circle) at the other end of
the baize-covered dining-table.
"It is quite unnecessary for you to enter into explanations, Mr.
Ringrose," said Mrs. Bickersteth down the length of the table. "I
have used Little Steps for very many years, and I am sure that it
explains itself, in a way that little people can understand, better than
you can explain it. Where it does not go into particulars, Little Arthur
does; so no impromptu explanations, I beg."
Whereafter Harry received the answers to the questions in Little
Steps to Great Events without comment, and was equally careful to
62.
take no explanatoryliberties with Mangnall's Questions or with the
Child's Guide to Knowledge when these works came under his nose
in due course.
Saturday was, of course, a half-holiday; nor could the term yet be
said to have begun in earnest. It appeared there were some weekly
boarders who would only return on the Monday, while Mr. Scrafton
also was not due until that day. Meanwhile an event occurred on the
Saturday afternoon which quite took the new master's mind off the
boys who were beginning to fill it so pleasantly: an event which
perplexed and distracted him on the very threshold of this new life,
and yet one with a deeper and more sinister significance than even
Harry Ringrose supposed.
63.
CHAPTER XVII.
AT FAULT.
Harryhad been requested to put on his boots in order to take the
elder boys for a walk. He was to keep them out for about an hour
and a half, but nothing had been said as to the direction he should
take, and he was indiscreet enough to start without seeking definite
instruction on the point.
"Do you always walk two-and-two?" he asked the boys, as they
made for the High Street in this doleful order.
"Yes, sir," said two or three.
"But we needn't if you give us leave not to," added the younger
Wren, with a small boy's quickness to take advantage.
"No, you must do as you always do, at any rate until we get out of
the village," said Harry as they came to the street. "Now which way
do you generally go?"
The boys saw their chance of the irregular, and were not slow to air
their views. Bushey Park appeared to be the customary resort, and
the proverbial mischief of familiarity was discernible in the glowing
description which one boy gave of Kingston Market on a Saturday
afternoon and in the enthusiasm with which another spoke for
Kneller Hall. Richmond Park, said a third, would be better than
Bushey Park, only it was rather a long walk.
To Harry, however, who had come round by Wimbledon the day
before, it was news, and rather thrilling news, that Richmond Park
was within a walk at all. The boys told him it would be near enough
when they made a bridge at Teddington.
64.
"There's the ferry,"said one; and when Harry said, "Oh, there is a
ferry, then?" a little absently, his bias was apparent to the boys.
"The ferry, the ferry," they wheedled, jumping at the idea of such an
adventure.
"It's splendid over Ham Common, sir."
"The ferry, sir, the ferry!"
Of course it was very weak in Harry, but the notion of giving the
boys a little extra pleasure had its own attraction for him, and his
only scruple was the personal extravagance involved. However, he
had some silver in his pocket, and the ferryman's toll only came to
pennies that Harry could not grudge when he saw the delight of the
boys as they tumbled aboard. One of them, indeed, nearly fell into
the river—which caused the greatest boy of them all his first
misgivings. But across Ham fields they hung upon his arms in the
friendliest and pleasantest fashion, begging and coaxing him to tell
them things about Africa; and he was actually in the midst of the
yarn that had failed on paper, when there occurred on the Common
that which was to puzzle him in the future even more than it startled
him at the moment. A lady and gentleman strolled into his ken from
the opposite direction, and that instant the story ceased.
"Go on, sir, go on! What happened then?"
"I'll tell you presently; here are some friends of mine, and you
fellows must wait a moment."
He shook them off and stepped across the road to where his friends
were passing without seeing him. Thus his back was turned to the
boys, who fortunately could not see how he blushed as he raised his
hat.
"It's Mr. Ringrose!" cried Fanny Lowndes.
65.
"The deuce itis!" her father exclaimed. "Why, Ringrose, what the
blazes are you doing down here, and who are your young friends?"
"I'm awfully sorry I didn't let you know," said Harry, "but the whole
thing was so sudden. As I told you when you came to see us, Miss
Lowndes, I have been trying for a mastership for some time; and
just as I had given it up——"
"You have got one!"
"Yes, quite unexpectedly, at the beginning of this week."
The girl looked both glad and sorry, but her father's nose was
twitching with amusement and his eyes twinkling in their gold
frames.
"You did well to take what you could get," said he, lowering his voice
so that nothing could be heard across the road. "Writing for your
living means writing for your life, and that's no catch; but by Jove,
Ringrose, you ought to get off some good things with such a capital
safety-valve as boys always on hand! When you can't think of a
rhyme, run round and box their ears till one comes. When you get a
rejected manuscript, try hammering their knuckles with the ruler!
Where's the school, Ringrose, and who keeps it?"
Harry hung his head.
"I am almost ashamed to tell you. It's a dame's school—at
Teddington."
"A dame's school at Teddington! Not Mrs. Bickersteth's?"
"Yes—do you know it?"
Harry had looked up in time to catch the other's expression, and it
was a very singular one. The lad had never seen such a look on any
other face, but on this face he had seen it once before. He had seen
it in the train, during the journey back to London, on the day that he
66.
could never forget.It was the look that had afterwards struck him as
a guilty look, though, to be sure, he had never thought about it from
the moment when he took up his father's letter, and saw at a glance
that it was genuine, until this one.
"Do I know it?" echoed Lowndes, recovering himself. "Only by repute
—only by repute. So you have gone there!" he added below his
breath, strangely off his guard again in a moment.
"Come," said Harry, "do you know something against the school, or
what?"
"Oh, dear, no; nothing against it, and very little about it," replied
Lowndes. "Only the school is known in these parts—people in
Richmond send their boys there—that is all. I have heard very good
accounts of it. Are you the only master?"
"No, there's a daily pedagogue, named Scrafton, who seems to be
something of a character, but I haven't seen him yet. Do you know
anything about him?"
The question was innocently asked, for Harry's curiosity had been
aroused by the repeated necessity of preventing the boys from
opening their hearts to him about Mr. Scrafton. If he had stopped to
think, he would have seen that he had the answer already—and
Lowndes would not have lost his temper.
"How should I know anything about him?" he cried. "Haven't I just
asked you if you were the only master? Either your wits are
deserting you, Ringrose, or you wish to insult me, my good fellow. In
any case we must be pushing on, and so, I have no doubt, must
you."
Harry could not understand this ebullition, which was uttered with
every sign of personal offence, from the ridiculously stiff tones to the
remarkably red face. He simply replied that he had spoken without
thinking and had evidently been misunderstood, and he turned
67.
without more adoto shake hands with Miss Lowndes. The father's
goodwill had long ceased to be a matter of vital importance to him;
but it went to his heart to see how pale Miss Fanny had turned
during this exchange of words, and to feel the trembling pressure of
that true friend's hand. It was as though she were asking him to
forgive her father, at whose side she walked so dejectedly away that
it was not pure selfishness which made Harry Ringrose long just
then to change places with Gordon Lowndes.
The whole colloquy had not lasted more than two or three minutes;
yet it had ended in the most distinct rupture that had occurred, so
far, between Harry and his parents' friend; and that about the most
minute and seemingly insignificant point which had ever been at
issue between them.
The boys found their new master poor company after this. He
finished his story in perfunctory fashion, nor would he tell another.
He not only became absent-minded and unsociable, but displayed an
unsuspected capacity for strictness which was really irritability. More
than one young wiseacre whispered a romantic explanation, but the
majority remembered that it was to the gentleman old Ring-o'-ring-
o'-roses had chiefly addressed himself; and the general and correct
impression was that the former had been "waxy" with old Ring-in-
the-nose. Harry's nickname was not yet fixed.
Those, however, with whom he had been "waxy" in his turn had a
satisfaction in store for them at the school, where Mrs. Bickersteth
awaited them, watch in hand, and with an angry spot on each fresh-
coloured cheek. She ordered the boys downstairs to take their boots
off, and in the same breath requested Mr. Ringrose to speak to her in
the study, in a tone whose significance the boys knew better than
Harry.
"I was under the impression, Mr. Ringrose, that I said an hour and a
half?" began the lady, with much bitter-sweetness of voice and
manner.
68.
Harry pulled outhis own watch, and began apologising freely; he
was some twenty minutes late.
"When I say an hour and a half," continued the schoolmistress, "I do
not mean two hours. I beg you will remember that in future. May I
ask where you have been?"
Harry said they had been to Richmond Park. The lady's eyes literally
blazed.
"You have walked my boys to Richmond Park and back? Really, Mr.
Ringrose, I should have thought you would know better. The
distance is much too great. I am excessively angry to hear they have
been so far."
"I beg your pardon," said Harry, with humility, "but I don't think the
distance was quite so great as you imagine. Though we have walked
back through Kingston, we made a short cut in going, for I took the
liberty of taking the boys across the river in the ferry-boat."
This was the last straw, and for some moments Mrs. Bickersteth was
practically speechless with indignation. Then with a portentous
inclination of her yellow head, "It was a liberty," said she; "a very
great liberty indeed, I call it! I requested you to take them for a
walk. I never dreamt of your risking their lives on the river. Have the
goodness to understand in future, Mr. Ringrose, that I strongly
disapprove of the boys going near the river. It is a most undesirable
place for them—most unsootable in every way. Excessively angry I
am!"
This speech might have been heard over half the house, and by the
end Harry was fairly angry himself. But for his mother, and for a
resolution he had made not to take Mrs. Bickersteth seriously, but to
put up with all he possibly could, it is highly probable that the
Hollies, Teddington, would have known Harry Ringrose for twenty-
four hours only. As it was he maintained a sarcastic silence, and,
69.
when the wrathfullady had quite finished, left her with a bow and
the assurance that what had happened should not occur again; he
merely permitted himself to put some slight irony into his tone.
And, indeed, the insulting character of a reprimand which was not,
however, altogether unmerited, worried him far less in early
retrospect than the inexplicable manner of Gordon Lowndes on Ham
Common. What did he know about the school? What could have
brought that odd look back to his face? And why in the world should
the master of an excellent temper have lost it on provocation so
ludicrously slight? These were the questions that kept Harry
Ringrose awake and restless in the still small hours of the Sabbath
morning.
70.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. SCRAFTON.
Inthe basement was a good-sized but ill-lighted room where three
long tables, resting on trestles, were sufficiently crowded on the four
days of the week when the day-boys stayed to dinner. On the two
half-holidays only one table was in use, and the boarders scarcely
filled it, with Miss Maudsley and Mr. Ringrose in state at either end.
But on Sundays all meals were in the big schoolroom, and were
graced by the presence of Mrs. Bickersteth's City sons, who brought
with them a refreshing whiff of the outside world, besides
contributing to Harry's enjoyment in other ways. He never forgot
those Sunday meals. He was fond of describing them to his friends
in after years.
At breakfast on his first Sunday he was quite sure that Mrs.
Bickersteth had heard of the death of a near relative. Her face and
voice were those of a chief mourner, and she appeared to be
shedding tears as she heard the boys their Collect at the breakfast
table, rewarding those who knew it with half a cold sausage apiece.
The boys were by no means badly fed, but that half-sausage was
their one weekly variant from porridge and bread-and-butter for
breakfast, and they used to make pathetically small bites of it. Mrs.
Bickersteth, however, scarcely broke her fast, but would suffer all
day, and every Sabbath, from what Harry came to consider some
acute though intermittent form of religious melancholia. Towards the
end of breakfast the sons would come down in wool-work slippers, a
little heavy after "sleeping in," and it was not at this meal that they
were most entertaining.
The next hour was one of the few which Harry had entirely to
himself. Most days he was on duty from eight in the morning to half-
71.
past eight atnight, but the hour between Sunday breakfast and
morning service was the new master's very own, and he spent it in a
way which surely would have made Mrs. Bickersteth's remarkable
hair stand straight on end. Even Sunday letter-writing was forbidden
in her Sabbatarian household, and yet Harry had the temerity to
spend this hour in composing vulgar verses for the Tiddler. He had
discovered that contributions for the Saturday's issue must reach the
office on the Monday, and it is to be feared that the consequent
urgency of the enterprise led him into still more reprehensible
excesses. What he could not finish in his bedroom he would mentally
continue in church, whither it was his duty to take the majority of
the boys, while the rest accompanied the Bickersteths to chapel.
The dinner that followed was what Harry enjoyed. It was an
excellent dinner, and all but Mrs. Bickersteth were invariably in the
best of spirits. This lady used to stand at the head of her table and
carve the hissing round of secular beef with an air of Christian
martyrdom quite painful to watch. Not that it affected her play with
the carving-knife, which was so skilful that Harry Ringrose used to
wonder why the schoolmistress must needs lap a serviette round
either forearm, and a third about her ample waist, for the better
protection of her Sunday silk. This, however, was a trick of the whole
family, who might have formed the nucleus of a Society for the
Preservation of Sunday Clothes. Thus Reggie, the younger and more
dapper son, used to appear on these occasions in a brown velvet
coat and waistcoat, with his monogram on every button, but would
mar the effect by tucking his table-napkin well in at the neck and
spreading it out so as to cover as much as possible of his person.
Lennie, the elder and more sedate, though he had no such grandeur
to protect, nevertheless took similar precautions; while the good-
natured Baby used to pull off a pair of immensely long cuffs, the
height of a recent fashion, and solemnly place them on the table
beside her tumbler, before running any risks.
72.
Water was thebeverage of one and all, yet the spirits of the majority
would rise with the progress of the meal. Reggie, who was a very
facetious person, would begin to say things nicely calculated to
make the boys titter; the elder brother would air a grumpy wit of his
own; and Mrs. Bickersteth would shake the cap awry on her yellow
head and beg them both to desist. The good-hearted Baby would
add her word in vindication of the harmless character of her
brothers' jokes, and at the foot of the table the governess would
trim her sails with great dexterity, looking duly depressed when she
caught Mrs. Bickersteth's eye and coyly tickled on encountering
those of the gentlemen. Harry sat between Leonard Bickersteth and
a line of little boys, and facing the flaxen-haired Baby, who gave him
several kindly, reassuring smiles for which he liked her. The young
men also treated him in a friendly fashion; but he was quite as
careful as his fair colleague not to commit himself to too open an
appreciation of their sallies.
The boys were in Harry's charge for the afternoon, but it seemed
that on Sundays they never went for a walk for walking's sake.
Occasionally, as it turned out, he would be requested to take them
to some children's service; but on that first Sunday, and as a rule,
they spent the afternoon in the smaller school-room upstairs, where
some strictly Sabbatarian periodicals were given out for the day's
use, and only such books as Sunday Echoes in Week-day Hours, and
the stories of Miss Hesba Stretton, permitted to be read. Harry used
to feel sorry for little Woodman on these occasions. He would catch
the small boy's great eyes wandering wistfully to the shelf in which
his Mangnall's Questions and The Red Eric showed side by side; or
the eyes would stare into vacancy by the hour together, seeing
doubtless his Devonshire home, and all that his "very superior
people" would be doing there at the moment. Harry liked Woodman
the best of the boys, partly because he had a variety of complaints
but never uttered one. The new master was much too human, and
perhaps as much too unsuited by temperament for his work, not to
73.
have favourites fromthe first, and Woodman and Gifford were their
names.
After tea they all went off to evening service, and after that came a
peaceful half-hour in the pretty drawing-room, where the boys sang
hymns till bed-time. There was something sympathetic in this
proceeding, the conduct of which was in Baby Bickersteth's kindly
hands. The young lady presided at the piano, which she played
admirably, and the boys stood round her in a semicircle, and each
boy chose his favourite hymn. Lennie and Reggie joined in from their
chairs, and Mrs. Bickersteth's lips would move as she followed the
words in a hymn-book. When the last hymn had been sung, the
schoolmistress read prayers; and when the boys said good-night she
kissed each of them in a way that quite touched Harry on the
Sunday evening after his arrival. He saw the boys to bed in a less
captious frame of mind than had been his all day, and when he
turned in himself he was rather ashamed of some of his previous
sentiments towards the schoolmistress. He had seen the pathos of
her pious depression, and he was beginning to divine the hourly
irritants of keeping school at Mrs. Bickersteth's time of life. Instead
of his cynical resolve not to take her seriously, he lay down
chivalrously vowing to resent nothing from a woman who was also
old. He seemed to have seen a new side of the schoolmistress, and
henceforth she had his sympathy.
Indeed there was a something human in all these people; they had
kind hearts, when all was said; and Harry Ringrose began to feel
that for a time at any rate, he need not be unhappy in their midst.
He had still to encounter the master spirit of the place.
When all the boys were standing round the long dining-table next
morning, having taken turns in reading a Chapter aloud, Mrs.
Bickersteth made an announcement as she closed her Testament.
"This term," said she, "Mr. Scrafton is coming at half-past ten instead
of at eleven, and those boys who are to go to him will be in their
74.
places in theupper schoolroom at twenty-five minutes past ten each
morning."
A list followed of the boys who were promoted to go to Mr. Scrafton
that term; it ended with the name of little Woodman. Harry
happened to be engaged in the background in the intellectual task of
teaching a tiny child his alphabet. He could not help seeing some
ruddy cheeks turn pale as the list was read; but Woodman, with a
fine regardlessness, was reading a letter from Devonshire behind
another boy's back.
Punctually at ten-thirty a thunderous knock resounded from the front
door, and Harry was sorry that he had not been looking out of the
window. He saw Mrs. Bickersteth jump up and bustle from the room
with a most solicitous expression, and he heard a loud voice greeting
her heartily in the hall. Heavy feet ran creaking up the stairs a few
minutes later, and Mrs. Bickersteth returned to her task of hearing
tables and setting sums.
Meanwhile Harry was devoting himself to the very smallest boys in
the school, mites of five and six, whose nurses brought them in the
morning and came back for them at one o'clock. About eleven,
however, Mrs. Bickersteth suggested that these little men would be
the better for a breath of air, and would Mr. Ringrose kindly take
them into the back-garden for ten minutes, and see that they did not
run on the grass? Now, Harry's pocket was still loaded with a missive
addressed to the editor of Tommy Tiddler, which obviously must be
posted by his own hand, and might even now be too late. He
therefore asked permission to go as far as the pillar-box at the
corner, in order to post a letter; and Mrs. Bickersteth, who was
luckily in the best of tempers, not only nodded blandly, but added
that she would be excessively obliged if Mr. Ringrose would also post
some letters of hers which he would find upon the hall-table. So
Harry sallied forth, with an infant in sailor-clothes holding each of his
75.
hands, and whomshould he find loitering at the corner but Gordon
Lowndes?
"Why, Ringrose," cried he, "this is well met indeed! I was just on my
way to have a word with you. I was looking for the house."
The hearty manner and the genial tone would have been enough for
Harry at an earlier stage of his acquaintance with this man; but now
instinctively he knew them for a cloak, and he would not relinquish
the small boys' hands for the one which he felt was awaiting his,
though his eyes had never fallen from Lowndes's spectacles.
"I am not sure that you would have been able to see me," was his
reply. "I am on duty even now. What was the point?"
"Is it impossible for me to have a word with you alone?"
Harry told the little boys to walk on slowly to the pillar. "It will
literally have to be a word," he added pointedly. Yet his curiosity was
whetted. What could the man want with him here and now?
"Very well—very well," said Lowndes briskly. "I merely desire to
apologise for my—my hastiness when we met on Saturday. I fear—
that is, my daughter tells me—but indeed I am conscious myself—
that I quite misunderstood your meaning, Ringrose, on a point in
itself too trifling to be worth naming. You may remember, however,
that you asked me if I knew anything about a person of whose very
existence I had just exposed my ignorance?"
"I remember," said Harry. "A mere slip of the tongue, due to my
curiosity about the man."
"And is your curiosity satisfied?" inquired Lowndes, becoming
suddenly preoccupied in wiping the dust from his eye-glasses.
"Well, I haven't seen him yet, though he is in the house."
76.
"Ah!" said Lowndes,as though he had not listened. "Well, Ringrose,
all I wanted was to tell you frankly that I didn't mean to be rude to
you on Saturday afternoon; so I took the train on here before going
to the City; and now I've just time to catch one back—so good-bye."
"It was hardly worth while taking so much trouble," said Harry dryly;
for he knew there was some other meaning in the move, though as
yet he could not divine what.
"Hardly worth while?" said Lowndes. "My dear boy, that's not very
kind. I have always been fond of you, Ringrose, and for your own
sake as well as on every other ground I should be exceedingly sorry
to offend you. Things are looking up with the Company, you know,
and I can't afford to quarrel with our future Secretary!"
And with that cunning unction he walked away laughing, but Harry
knew there was no laughter in his heart, and that every word he had
spoken was insincere. What then was the meaning? To keep friendly
with him, doubtless; but why? And such were the possibilities of
Gordon Lowndes, and such the imagination of Harry Ringrose, that
the latter took his little boys back to the school with the very wildest
and most far-fetched explanations surging through his brain.
In the hall he heard a strident voice raging in the schoolroom
overhead. He could not help going a little way upstairs to discover
whether anything serious was the matter. And outside the
schoolroom door stood one of the biggest boys, crying bitterly, with
his collar torn from its stud, and one ear and one cheek as crimson
as though that side of his face had been roasted before a fire.
At one o'clock the whole school went for a walk before dinner, and it
was then that Harry at last set eyes on the formidable Scrafton, as
he came downstairs in his creaking shoes, with his snuff-box open in
his hand, and his extraordinary head thrown back to take a pinch.
There are some faces which one has to see many times before one
knows them, as it were, by heart; there are others which one passes
77.
in the streetwith a shudder, and can never afterwards forget; and
here was a face that would have haunted Harry Ringrose even
though he had never seen it but this once.
A magnificent forehead was its one fine feature; the light blue eyes
beneath were spoilt by their fiery rims, and yet they gleamed with a
fierce humour and a keen intelligence which lent them distinction of
a kind. These were the sole redeeming points. The rest was either
cruel or unclean or both. The creature's skin was very smooth and
yellow, and it shone with an unwholesome gloss. Abundant hair, of a
dirty iron-grey, was combed back from the forehead without a
parting, and gathered in unspeakable curls on the nape of a happily
invisible neck. A long, lean nose, like a vulture's beak, overhung a
grey moustache with a snuffy zone in the centre, and lost pinches of
snuff lingered in a flowing beard of great length. The man wore a
suit of pristine black, now brown with age and snuff, and Harry
noticed a sallow gleam between his shoes and his trousers as he
came creaking down the stairs. In warm weather he wore no socks.
"This is the new master of whom I spoke to you," said Mrs.
Bickersteth, who was waiting in the hall to introduce Harry to Mr.
Scrafton.
"That a master?" bellowed Scrafton. "Why, I thought it was a new
boy!" And he let out a roar of laughter that left his blue eyes full of
water; then he strode across the hall with a horrible hand out-
stretched; the long nails had jagged, black rims, and in another
moment Harry was shuddering from a clasp that was at once
clammy and strong.
"What's your name?" asked Mr. Scrafton, grinning like a demon in
Harry's face.
"Mr. Ringrose," said Mrs. Bickersteth.
78.
"What name?" roaredScrafton. He had turned from Harry to the
schoolmistress. Harry saw her quail, and he took the liberty of
repeating his surname in a very distinct voice.
"Where do you come from?" demanded Scrafton, turning back to
Harry, or rather upon him, with his red-rimmed eyes glaring out of
an absolutely bloodless face.
Harry answered the question with his head held high.
"Son of Henry Ringrose, the ironmaster?"
"I am."
"I thought so! A word with you, ma'am," cried Scrafton—and himself
led the way into Mrs. Bickersteth's study.
79.
CHAPTER XIX.
ASSAULT ANDBATTERY.
Harry was left alone in the hall. The boys were in the basement,
putting on their boots. There were high words in the study, and yet
Scrafton seemed to be speaking much below his normal pitch. Harry
sauntered into the deserted schoolroom to avoid eavesdropping. And
as if in spite of him, the voices rose, and this much reached his ears:
"I tell you it will ruin the school!"
"Then let me tell you, Mr. Scrafton, that the school is mine, and I
have done it with my eyes open."
"The son of a common swindler! I know it to my cost——"
To his cost! How could he know it to his cost, this suburban
schoolmaster? Harry had shut the door; he stood against it in a
torment of rage and shame, his fingers on the handle, only listening,
only waiting, for that other door to open. So in the end the two
doors opened as one, and the two masters met in the hall and
glared in each other's faces without a word.
"Mr. Ringrose!" cried Mrs. Bickersteth hastily.
Harry turned from the baleful yellow face in a paroxysm of contempt
and loathing, and was next moment closeted with a trembling old
woman whose pitiable agitation was another tribute to the terrible
Scrafton.
Mrs. Bickersteth's observations were both brief and broken. She had
just heard from Mr. Scrafton what indeed was not exactly new to her.
The name was uncommon. Her sons had recalled the case on the
arrival of Harry's application for the junior mastership. They had not
80.
painted the casequite so black as Mr. Scrafton had done, and they
had all agreed that the—the sin of the father—should not disqualify
the son. She had not meant to let Mr. Ringrose know that she knew
(Harry thanked her in a heartfelt voice), but she had hoped that
nobody else would know: and Mr. Scrafton knew for one.
"Do you want to get rid of me?" asked Harry bluntly.
The lady winced.
"Not unless you want to go. No—no—I have neither the inclination
nor the right to take such a course. But if, after this, you would
rather not stay, I—I would not stand in your way, Mr. Ringrose."
Harry saw how it was with Mrs. Bickersteth. She did not want to be
unjust, she did not want to give in to Scrafton, but oh! if Mr.
Ringrose would save the situation by going of his own accord!
"Will you give me the afternoon to think it over?" said he.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Bickersteth. "I wish you to consult your own
feelings only. I wish to be just, Mr. Ringrose, and—and to meet your
ideas. If you are going to town, any time before ten o'clock will be
time enough for your return."
Harry expressed his gratitude, and said that in that case it would be
unnecessary for him to absent himself before the close of afternoon
school; nor did he do so; for he was not going to town at all.
He was going straight to Richmond Hill, to put the whole matter
before Gordon Lowndes, and to beg the explanation he felt certain
the other could give. Why should Scrafton have lost his colour and
his temper at the bare mention of the name of Ringrose? Was it true
that he knew that name already "to his cost"? Then how did he
know it to his cost, and since when, and what was the subtle
connection between Mr. Ringrose and this same Scrafton? Was
Lowndes aware of any?
81.
Yes, there wassomething that Lowndes knew, something that he
had known on the Saturday afternoon, something to account for his
surprise on learning to what school Harry had gone as master. He
had indignantly denied all knowledge of Scrafton, but Harry could no
longer accept that gratuitous and inexplicable repudiation. It was the
very fact that he did know something about Scrafton, something
which he wished to keep to himself, that had made him angrily
disclaim such knowledge.
Harry was coming back to his old idea that Lowndes had been more
deeply implicated in his father's flight than anybody supposed. He no
longer suspected foul play—that was impossible in the face of the
letter from Dieppe—but he did suspect complicity on the part of
Lowndes. What if Lowndes had swindled wholesale in the
ironmaster's name, and what if Scrafton were one of his victims?
What if Lowndes could tell him where his father lay in hiding abroad!
The thought brought a happy moment and an hour of bitterness; no,
it were better they should never know; better still if he were dead.
And the bitter hour that followed was the last and the loveliest of a
warm September day; and Harry Ringrose spent it in walking across
Ham Common and through Richmond Park, in the mellow sunset, on
his way to Richmond Hill.
When he got there it was dusk, and two men were pacing up and
down the little garden in front of Lowndes's house. Harry paused at
the gate. The men had their heads close together, and were
conversing so earnestly that they never saw him. They were
Lowndes and Scrafton.
Harry stepped back without a sound. All his suppositions had been
built upon the hypothesis that these two were enemies; it had never
entered his head that they might be friends. To find them together
was the last thing he had expected, and the discovery chilled him in
a way for which he could not instantly account. He knew there was
82.
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