Gerald Eversley's Friendship: A Study in Real Life

by J. E. C. Welldon

One reason, no doubt, why Gerald clung so passionately to Harry Venniker was that he was himself not understood by masters or boys. Mr. Brandiston in particular misunderstood him. He liked, as has been said, a boy who worked upon the regular recognised lines of school life. He preferred a boy who was first in his form to one who was second; and a boy who was second, to one who was third. It was his opinion that Gerald, as being an elected scholar, ought to be first. With the studies which occupied so much of Gerald’s time and thought in the library he did not sympathise. Happening one day to come upon him when he was reading Lyell’s ‘Elements of Geology,’ he told him he had better not waste his time. That Gerald’s ability was remarkable he did not doubt. But he thought it might be better employed. He wrote to Mr. Eversley that he wished his son (with whom he had, as he admitted, no positive fault to find) would ‘concentrate himself more,’ and would not be ‘always taking up some new subject that did not bring in any marks.’ The association of Harry and Gerald, in one sense, did not appear to him to have been entirely successful. It had left Harry a healthy, bright, athletic boy; that was well enough. But it had left Gerald what he was at the first—awkward, shy, erratic, studious, recluse. Mr. Brandiston was not wrong in his view of his two pupils; but was he right? Summum jus, says the proverb, summa injuria. The teacher’s profession demands a fine combination of qualities. It needs justice, and justice Mr. Brandiston possessed; the suspicion of favouritism, that one unpardonable offence among boys, never attached itself to his name, and justice, standing by itself, satisfies the needs of ordinary boys—and ordinary boys or men are always (fortunately for the world) the large majority—but there are the few who need not justice only, but the tender, sympathetic insight which is, if any human grace is, the gift of God, and this was not Mr. Brandiston’s. Between him, then, and his strange pupil the gulf widened, slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it widened. Yet Gerald Eversley was not left to fight his way in the school without any appreciation from the masters. The sympathy for which he longed he did not find in his house master. But he found it, by a strange event, in a young master with whom he had never been brought into official connection—Mr. Selby. No story of St. Anselm’s in the years of Mr. Selby’s mastership would be complete without some reference to him. He was not a man whose name was known outside St. Anselm’s. He did not wish to be known. He evaded society. He lived in lodgings in the village, having only three rooms. It was believed that he was poor, that he made himself poor; some said by supporting a large family of nephews and nieces, whose father had gone bankrupt; others said by giving large sums to charitable institutions. It was believed, too, that at some time of his life he had gone through a great sorrow; nobody knew what the sorrow was or when it happened, nor did Mr. Selby ever allude to it; but it was noticed that he always wore a black hatband, and that sometimes, when the conversation was gay at dinner parties or on other festive occasions (if he ever attended them), he would become suddenly silent, and a look of pain would pass over his face; then he would collect himself by a forcible effort, and plunge into conversation again. The boys all felt a deep respect for him as for one who had passed through the shadows of the dark valley which they knew not. They often went to him—he encouraged them to go—when they were in trouble. They were sure that he was their friend. He stood nearer to them than other masters. They felt that, if he could do them any service at the cost of a great personal sacrifice, he would not shrink from doing it. They knew, or at least it was the common belief, that he prayed for them. I think the knowledge of a master’s intercession has a wonderful effect even upon rough and coarse boy-natures. They could not help noticing that in chapel, when the sermon was over and the boys and masters rose from their knees almost immediately, Mr. Selby would remain kneeling often until the chapel was nearly emptied, his face (when it was not hidden in his hands) illumined with a spiritual radiance, and his manner showing the absorption of one whose soul was prostrated by the realisation of the Awful Divine Presence. Mr. Selby was a bachelor and a clergyman.

Gerald’s introduction to Mr. Selby happened in this way. He was sitting one day alone in the library, when Mr. Selby came in. Gerald had a book in his hands as usual, but he was not reading it; he had let it fall on to his knees. He was looking straight before him, meditating upon something that had lately occurred in the house. Mr. Selby, while taking a book from its shelf, caught sight of his face. He went up to him—his power of sympathy had given him an almost intuitive understanding of boys’ thoughts, especially when they were troubled—and said,

‘Is not your name Eversley?’

Gerald, who was surprised at his name being known, answered, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘My dear boy,’ said Mr. Selby, ‘I am sure you are in some trouble. Do tell me what it is; perhaps I can help you.’

And he sat down by Gerald’s side and laid his hand upon his arm.

If Gerald had been like other boys, he would perhaps have tried to parry the question. Or if there had been other boys in the library, it would have been difficult for him to open his heart to a master; nay, it is possible that Mr. Selby would have sought another opportunity of speaking to him. But they were alone. There was something in Mr. Selby’s voice and manner that made deception difficult.

Gerald hung his head down and said nothing.

‘What is it, my dear Eversley?’ Mr. Selby repeated.

Then Gerald told him the following story—not all at once, for Mr. Selby helped him by a good many kindly suggestive questions, and the story was drawn out of him only slowly, but he told it in the simple confidence of truth.