The Retrospect

by Ada Cambridge

On 1st November—a "beautiful day"—we went to Sutton Vallance. November was the month of departure, and this, the last of my country excursions, was peculiarly interesting and memorable. For at Sutton Vallance my beloved godmother, the eldest aunt, had lived for some years, and in the graveyard of the parish church she lies—carried there by her last wish when she died in London. In girlhood I had wanted to visit her at this place, and had not been able; after her death I made a promise to myself that I would keep tryst with her dear ghost at the Kentish graveside some day, if ever I got the chance.

It was not for that, however, that the expedition to Sutton Vallance was planned. The claims of life came foremost, and it was life, not death, that called us thither, a set of circumstances to which I gladly yielded precedence over any affair of mine.

To C. and her sister came, the day before, two friends from the West Indies, a pleasant man and wife. They represented old families of their island, and his had the custom of colonial gentlefolk, the world over, of sending their sons home to be educated. He was himself an "old boy" of Sutton Vallance Grammar School, as I think he said his father had been, and as he intended his own sons to be in due course. He was delightedly revisiting England after years of absence—from fifteen to twenty, perhaps—and to him the heart of England was this village above the Weald and the old buildings that crowned it. We went to Sutton Vallance that he might report himself to his old Headmaster, still in harness, and show his wife the studies and dormitories, prayer-room and playing grounds, where he had lived his schoolboy life, and where her children would live theirs in the days to come. We had the landau from Maidstone again, and set forth a party of five; if we had been a party of a hundred instead, I do not think another member of it could have entered into his feelings as I did. In the sympathy engendered by the similarity of our circumstances, I enjoyed the afternoon, I am sure, as much as he did—the neglected grave notwithstanding.

We passed it—the churchyard where I knew it was—while he was eagerly identifying each little feature of the road as the scene of some schoolboy prank or other; he spoke of the path beside which my dear one lay, to describe the order in which the school was marched to church—"through that gate ... in at that door"—and I did not bring upon the living brightness of his hour a suggestion of the shadows that would fall all too soon in any case.

The 1st of November was a Sunday. His time in England, like mine, was short, and this was the only day available for the momentous visit. It had to be now, or perhaps never. So, when we reached the school, temporary disappointments were encountered. The Headmaster was out. So was the only under master left of the old staff. The strange matron and some elder boys, deeply interested in a guest with such credentials, did what they could to repair the loss, and he played host to his wife and us. It was delightful to observe and to listen to him as he rummaged over the place; to hear him and the matron instructing each other in the differences between Then and Now; to see him with his old boy's hand on the young boys' shoulders—"you fellows"—telling them what Sybarites they were with their hot water laid on, and inquiring of them how the sporting credit of the old shop stood in comparison with that of rival schools. I am afraid it was found that the old shop had fallen from grace in some particulars; the mother of the boys who were to go there in a few years was certainly critical, and I had seen schools as big that were better ordered in my own country overseas; but it was full of interest, plus precious associations, for me as for him, and that was distinctly a "happy day"—happy for me, the neglected grave notwithstanding; while as for him, I prophesy that in his old age he will look back upon it as one of the happiest of his life.

It would hardly have been that without a sight of his old Headmaster. And when we had quite "done" the school, and were down on the street where our carriage waited, an inward reluctance to make an end just there was felt by all, and resulted in suggestions calculated to give the Headmaster another chance. The hour was late, we were far from home, and—we had had no tea. F. proposed that we should forage in the village for our evening meal. I demurred on behalf of C. and the secret weaknesses. C. said the night air would do her no harm inside the carriage, and that she would wind a scarf over her mouth. Then F. named a local house of entertainment. "No, no," said our Old Boy, "you must come with me to the old tuck shop"—which in the palmy days, it seemed, had been good for every comforting kind of meal. This we did. The old tuck shop was found to be in its old place, unchanged; even the old proprietor (who looked ninety) and his old wife (who still looked young) were there; they and the Old Boy all but fell into each other's arms. We were shown into an inner parlour, a table was swiftly spread and piled with good things, including a sufficient teapot; and we four ladies rested and refreshed ourselves in great content. The Old Boy dodged in and out, snatching a cake or a slice of bread-and-butter, returning to talk with his old friends, reappearing for a gulp of tea and to gaze ardently out of the unblinded window adown the darkening street. Anon we saw him through that same window sprinting as for his life after a vanishing bicycle. When he came back, in about half-an-hour, it was to express his satisfaction at having caught, made himself known to, and had a nice chat with, the remaining under master. So night closed around us, and the great hope of the day was given up.

Suddenly, as we were all sitting together, about to summon our coachman, who had also had his tea, there was a stir outside, the door of our parlour was impetuously flung open, and a tall old man strode in, at sight of whom the Old Boy sprang to his feet with an inarticulate grunt of joy.

I felt that it was a meeting we should not have witnessed, but it was good to witness it. The swift interchange of words told what their relations in the past had been, but the tones of voice, the glow of eyes, the grip of hands, still more. I could not easily forget the face of the younger man when he said he had sons for the old school, nor the face of the elder taking that tribute of filial loyalty. In the gap of years lay the grave of the Headmaster's wife, and he was not destined to train up another generation; the Old Boy was a strong and useful man of the world, come into his inheritance of all that a boy of the right sort grows up for. He introduced his wife. The stress of repressed emotion was relieved. Would we not all come back and dine with him, the Headmaster asked. He begged us to do so, but we could not. Then would we all come back and dine with him to-morrow? Again we could not. The Old Boy's business of life compelled his return to London next morning. So the great occasion passed. The Headmaster gripped hands again, and returned to the school which would be ever the dearer to him for these few minutes out of it; and the Old Boy stood amongst us visibly transfigured, like Moses just down from the Mount.

"Now," said he intensely, "do you wonder at my wanting to come back to my old school?"

Subdued and thoughtful and silent, we drove home. Moonlight and fog wove the veil of evening through which glimmered the headstones of the churchyard as we went by. There was not time now to stop the carriage and pay my own tribute to the past and dear. Already C. was too late, and there was not light to distinguish one grave from another. Well, it did not matter whether I stood over my beloved one's coffined dust or looked from a few yards' distance at the dim grass covering it. That which haunted the spot was just as close to me.