A burst of laughter from all quarters of the room attested the merriment of the company at learning the remark which had excited this visible commotion. The old gentleman alone did not seem amused; he turned away, muttering something which sounded like ‘Why did not he tell me that before?’ But the laughter, and the incident which gave rise to it, diverted the thoughts of all who were present from Gerald’s adventure; it was not referred to any more.
In this way is reputation won, and in this way too, perhaps, it is lost.
CHAPTER VII
‘DE PROFUNDIS’
Gerald Eversley’s first act upon returning to school was to inquire after the health of Lady Venniker. He learnt from Harry that she had not suffered permanent injury from the fright experienced at seeing the girl run under the horses’ feet, and that her recovery had been accelerated when she knew that the girl was getting well of her fractured leg and would soon be able to walk about again. ‘It was lucky, old man,’ said Harry, ‘that you were in the carriage with her; I don’t know what would have happened if she had been alone.’
It was the Michaelmas term of 186—, three years since the two boys had come to St. Anselm’s. There was good hope that, before the term came to an end, Mr. Brandiston’s house would be the cock house at football. By a strange chance the house was drawn in the first round of the matches against one of the two houses which were expected to be its most dangerous rivals; in fact, the prevailing opinion of the school was that if the house was successful in its first match it would be successful in all. The match was played on a fine afternoon at the end of October. A stiff wind was blowing down the ground. Sometimes, when the two sides in a football match are very evenly balanced, the winning of the toss is decisive of the issue, for it gives one side the right of beginning play with the wind at its back, and as the goals are gained alternately by the two sides, the side which is playing with the wind having always the advantage, the side which obtains the first goal wins the match. The side opposed to Mr. Brandiston’s won the toss. The match was hotly contested from the ‘kick-off’ to the finish. Every one who has been a spectator at a house football match in a public school knows the volleys of cheering which attend the efforts of the two sides, and the torrents of rebuke, invective, exhortation, applause, poured out at critical moments of the game upon the players. Nowhere perhaps in human life is so much irresponsible advice given as at such a time, and nowhere is it so futile. Great indeed was the excitement on this day. It was a point of honour with all the members of the two contending houses to be present at the match, and to make their presence known by loud vociferation. According to custom, the boys of Mr. Brandiston’s house stood on one side of the match-ground, and the boys of the rival house on the other side, their feelings being presumably too much excited to allow of their coming without peril to closer quarters. Loud and eager were the cries as the balance of the match shifted this way and that—while Zeus, in Homeric phrase, ‘held the cords of battle even’—such as ‘Play up,’ ‘Well played,’ ‘Back up, will you?’ ‘Off side,’ ‘Well fouled,’ first one player and then another being held to cover himself with an eternal weight of glory or of ignominy. At last there remained only ten minutes—eight minutes—six minutes to the call of ‘time.’ The score of the two houses stood at three goals each. The wind had somewhat abated. A fine rain was beginning to fall. It became clear that whichever side obtained the next goal, if any were obtained, would win the match.
Not to have been educated at a public school is not to understand the thrilling, enthralling excitement of such a moment. In some sense a house match is more exciting than a match between rival schools; for all the players are intimately known to all the spectators, and every incident is criticised not only in itself, but in relation to the player who is concerned in it. It would need the pen of a Thucydides depicting the scene in the great harbour at Syracuse to convey an idea of the conflicting emotions and expressions and the energetic actions by which the partisans of one house or the other testify their own vivid interest in the match. Nor is any occasion of human life fraught with reminiscences so terrible of mistakes that are made. Lifelong friendships have been formed—friendships, too, I am afraid, have not seldom been broken—by the events of a house match. It is difficult for the most Christian mind to forgive, quite impossible to forget, the mistake which lost the match. There are elderly gentlemen leading quiet respectable lives in remote parts of the country who cannot now meet after fifty years without exchanging words like these: ‘You remember that catch;’ ‘My dear fellow, why did you let that ball go through your legs?’
The youthful champions in Mr. Brandiston’s house match were not unaware of the great issue dependent upon their prowess. They performed untold feats of gallantry and daring. They ‘ran’ and ‘charged’ and ‘passed’ as if their lives, no less than their reputations, were at stake. Hardly more than three minutes of ‘time’ remained when the ball was forced by Mr. Brandiston’s boys into the neighbourhood of the enemy’s goal, and one of the players attempting to ‘middle’ it sent it by a too violent kick a good way past the centre of the ground to a spot where the two players who would have the best chance of reaching it were Venniker and one of the ‘backs’ (as I think they are technically called) belonging to the opposite side. Both boys made for it amidst the cheers of the spectators. The ball bounded on towards the ‘back;’ he made ready to give it a mighty kick before Venniker was upon him; his leg flashed—it was literally a flash—in the air, and a loud shout rising from both sides of the ground—of exultation on one side, of indignation on the other—told that he had missed the ball. Whether it was that Harry Venniker was so close upon him as to disturb his aim, or that he did not allow for the unevenness of the surface along which the ball was rolling, he missed it and fell sprawling on the ground. It was but the work of a moment for Harry to ‘dodge’ past him and turn the ball in the direction of the goal. So sudden, so unexpected had been the manœuvre that in a straight line between Harry and the goal stood the goalkeeper only. ‘Shoot, shoot!’ was the cry raised instantly by Mr. Brandiston’s boys. But Harry was still too far from the goal to be sure of success. He gave the ball a short sharp kick which brought it into line with the goal-post; the goalkeeper hesitated for a moment—that fatal moment!—uncertain whether to run forward and ‘charge’ him, or to fall back upon the goal and take the chance of being able to stop the ball when it was kicked; Harry followed close upon the ball, steadied himself for an instant, and then, just as three of his enemies were within a yard or two of him, kicked it hard, and full in view of all the spectators it passed clear over the goalkeeper’s head between the posts. There was a shout that rent the heavens. The spectators rushed upon the ground—for they knew there was no hope of resuming play—the members of Mr. Brandiston’s house clustering around the victorious eleven, most of all around Harry Venniker, applauding on the ground and all the way up the hill and along the street and through the courtyard into the house. It was a striking and inspiring sight. Boys are the only beings who know how to clap or cheer, all other clapping and cheering seems impotent after theirs, and Mr. Brandiston’s boys made full use of their knowledge. Mr. Brandiston himself, meeting Harry Venniker at the entrance to the house, remarked with more than his usual graciousness that he had done the house good service; he added, ‘You will never be a greater person in life, Venniker, than you are to-day.’
Gerald Eversley, who was not often seen on the football field, had watched the match with an interest in which his zeal for Harry’s success overshadowed all other feelings; it was no surprise to him that Harry should become the hero of the hour, he felt a sort of reflected honour in the honour paid to his friend; he did not venture to offer him congratulations in the presence of the shouting throng, but as soon as Harry had retired to his room Gerald went to it and said, ‘Oh! how are you? Are you all right? How splendidly you played! I am so glad. All the school are talking about it.’
Harry Venniker shook hands with him, but said only, ‘Thanks, dear old fellow.’
Gerald thought he seemed weary.