The Vagaries of Tod and Peter

by L. Allen Harker

Instantly his companion seized him by his, and arm in arm they sought the sheltered walk loved well by Joseph Addison.

III

After that they met every day in the quadrangle of the Bodleian by appointment, and together mounted to their favorite seat in the picture-gallery. The boy no longer read a magazine; instead, he asked questions—endless, anxious, exhaustive questions—as to the usual doings and habits of boys who lived with each other and were brought up by men. All his ideas on the subject were gathered from school stories, and in consequence were crude and chimerical in the extreme. It was undoubtedly a shock to him when this kindly friend of his frankly admitted that he had frequently caned boys, and that he was supposed to have “rather a heavy hand.” And the schoolmaster was still more shocked at the bitterness of soul he discovered in this queer, quiet boy. He gathered that the aunts—generally spoken of as “they”—were ladies wholly absorbed in politics and every kind of movement for the emancipation of women, and the schoolmaster pictured them as members of the shrieking sisterhood, ill-favored and ill-dressed, oblivious of the fact that feminine political opinions do not necessarily march in elastic-sided boots. When the boy did condescend to mention one of his aunts by name it was always of “Aunt Amabel” he spoke. She appeared to be the guiding spirit of the trio, busy, strong, and energetic, spending what time she could spare from politics in the pursuit of all those games from which the unfortunate boy was debarred by lack of comrades, and the schoolmaster found himself thinking with quite unusual enthusiasm of the sister who kept house for him. At times he had regretted her exclusively domestic talents. Now he even began to share her serene conviction that women were, on the whole, so much superior to men that only the very foolish could wish to resemble them.

In the course of their long talks the schoolmaster had enlightened his companion as to what constituted, in his simple creed, the whole duty of boy; and so far as his ideals related to honor and courage and truthfulness, he found the child singularly receptive and responsive; but when he touched on the chivalry that should be shown to women, when he tried to arouse the protective instinct that is generally so deeply rooted and spontaneous in even the most rough and tumble average boy, he was met by blank incomprehension, or a veiled hostility that puzzled and depressed him. “If this,” thought he to himself, “is the result of the feminist movement on the rising generation of men, God help the next generation of women!”

The men had come up, and the schoolmaster’s holiday was nearly ended. In two days more he would need to return to his duties in the North, to look after the cricket pitches in the playing-fields, and to see that all was shipshape for the boys’ next term. For the last time he met his sad-faced little friend in Catharine Street. This time they did not go up to the picture-gallery. It was a sunny day in late April, when Oxford seems to burgeon and blossom in a riotous ecstasy of youth and gladness. River and playing-fields were gay with lithe, flannelled figures, and everywhere the air was sweet with the scent of opening lilacs.

“We’ll go on the river this afternoon,” cried the schoolmaster when he spied the little figure waiting for him; “it’s far too fine to be boxed up indoors. I’ll take you in a Canadian canoe. You must sit very still, you know. You don’t think your aunts would mind, do you?”

“They’re in London. Aunt Amabel comes back to-night, but she’ll be off again in a day or two; she’s always going to meetings. I’m jolly glad she’s been away this week; she might have wanted to interfere——”

“I don’t think she would mind your coming out with me, or I wouldn’t take you. You must tell her all about it this evening. I’ll give you my card to show her, and you can explain how we met.”

The boy’s dark eyes were mutinous as he took the proffered card and put it in his pocket, but he said nothing. On the river in the bright sunshine the schoolmaster noticed how very ill he looked, and a great desire possessed this kindly soul to make things easier for the boy. The sight of the black shadows encircling the sombre eyes that should have been so bright with youth and hope decided the schoolmaster to do what he most hated doing—to interfere in another’s affairs, where he had no possible excuse or even reason for so doing.

He walked back with the boy to his home, one of the large, ugly, comfortable houses “standing in its own grounds,” that have sprung up on the outskirts of beautiful old Oxford: a house that looked excessively well-to-do and trim and neat. “Nothing of Mrs. Jellyby here,” thought the schoolmaster.