Gordon went back to the old games study, the very walls of which seemed eloquent with voices of the dead. The rest of the House had gone for a run. He was all alone. His head fell forward on his hands. The captaincy he had tried so hard to gain had ended in pitiable failure. It was the desolation, the utter desolation!...
Of all that he had worked for during those four years nothing remained, nothing.
And as Gordon's mind dwelt on this the love of the monastic life which had so overwhelmed him the holidays before swept over him again with renewed vigour. In the Roman Church at any rate was there not something permanent? Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus.... That boast was surely not in vain. He longed to surrender himself completely, to fling away his own aims and inclinations, and abandon himself to a life of quiet devotion safe from the world. It was the natural reaction. He had been tossed on the waters of trouble and had grown weary of strife. In Plato's Republic Ulysses asked for the life of a private individual free from care. "After battle sleep is best. After noise, tranquillity." Dowson's exquisite lines on the Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration came back to him:
"They saw the glory of the world displayed,
They saw the bitter of it and the sweet.
They knew the roses of the world would fade
And be trod under by the hurrying feet.
Therefore they rather put away desire...."
That was what he wanted, to merge himself into the great silent poetry of the Catholic life. The Protestant creed could never give him what he wanted. There was too much tolerance, too much sheltering of the individuality; he wanted a complete, an utter surrender. He passed the entire holidays in the world of ideas; he read nothing but poetry, or what dealt with poetry. He tried to recapture the wonderful full-blooded enjoyment of that last summer term. But for all that he found material thoughts stealing in on his most sacred moments. A chance phrase, a word even, and there would suddenly rise before him the spectre of his own failure. And he was forced to realise that as yet he was unfit to lay down the imperious burden of his own personality. The hold of life was too strong. He still wanted the praise of the populace, "the triumph and the roses and the wine."
Well, there was one more term; let him make the most of the roses while he could. In this state of indecision he returned for what was to be his last term.
A big programme of First Eleven matches had been arranged; and the first game was at Downside on the second Saturday of the term. Fernhurst won with ease, and Gordon knocked up forty-two. The match was over before tea; and, as the side had not to go back till six o'clock, they spent the interval in walking round the grounds.
Few schools are situated in more perfect surroundings than Downside. There are wide gardens and flowery walks. Rhododendrons were flaming red and white, a hedge of gorse shone gold. It was a Roman Catholic school, and now and then a noble Calvary rose out of the flowers. The Abbey watched over the place. Monks in long black robes moved about slowly, magisterially. Gordon went up to one of them and spoke to him shyly.
"A wonderful place this, sir."