DEAL SCHOOL

If one chanced to examine the catalogues of Kingsbridge College for the past hundred years it would be found that in most of them is recorded the name of some dead and gone Deering—a name famous in the annals of the South—who came up from Louisiana, “marched through the four long happy years of college,” as the old song has it, with an arts degree to his credit; or, perchance, marched out at the end of one or two of them with nothing to his credit at all. Kingsbridge was a tradition in the Deering family, southern though it was—a tradition that was hardly broken, even when in 1861 Victor Deering and a hundred other chivalrous youths threw their text-books out of the windows and enlisted in the armies of the Confederacy. Victor’s father, Basil, too, was in the war, and laid down his arms at Appomattox as a brigadier-general—brevetted for gallantry on the field of action. For a while it seemed that no Deerings would go to Kingsbridge, but time at length healed the old antagonisms, and when it became a question where young Anthony, Victor’s boy, should go to college, there was no longer any question that Kingsbridge should be the place.

Preparing for Kingsbridge, before the war, had meant going first for three or four years to Deal School, another CÆsarean seat of learning, almost as well known as the college itself. The warm-hearted old general had as fond memories of the school-topped, wind-swept hill above the rocks of Deal, as he had of the meadows and hills about Kingsbridge. There were a great many family counsels held in the old house on the bayou; some prejudices pocketed; some feminine qualms appeased and tears dried; and a great deal of correspondence was exchanged between the Head Master of Deal and the old General, who ruled his family to the third and fourth generation.

And so at length on a bright crisp September morning, when he was about fifteen years old, Anthony Deering found himself getting out of the little way-train that runs from Coventry to Monday Port across the CÆsarean flats, and enquiring diligently for a hack to drive him out to Deal School. He had made the journey up from New Orleans alone, without a quaver until he came to his journey’s end. He was a day late for the opening of school, so that he was the only passenger to alight at Monday Port.

A vociferous cabman offered him the services of a dilapidated fly and a bony horse. He looked about for better, but not finding them, he pulled his belt a trifle tighter, swallowed the lump in his throat, and quieted the man by thrusting his bag into his hand. Then he jumped into the crazy vehicle, and shouted in a high voice, “Deal School!”

Tony had never been to Monday Port before, but he had heard a great deal of it from his mother, who had spent gay summers there in her girlhood, before the war. It had once been a favorite resort for Southerners, but after their exodus, was taken up by Northern people, and for a decade or so was one of the most popular CÆsarean watering-places. The town occupied a long stretch of level country between the sea and a range of low-lying sandhills. Its streets were pretty and clean, shaded for the most part by maple trees, with modest cottages on either side, and here and there more pretentious modern “villas,” representing almost every conceivable style of architecture. Tony was not much interested in Monday Port, however, and he eyed these pleasant homes with a rueful glance, which gave an odd expression to his attractive young face; for despite the shadows in his gray-blue eyes and the frown on his dark brows, it was evident that he was anything but a surly or fretful lad. There was a sparkle in the depths of the shadow; lines of cheerfulness behind the frown; the glow of health in his cheeks.

At last the old horse dragged the fly listlessly out of the shady street and they came into an open space, which fronted on a broad sheet of water flowing down with a fine sweep to the sea. A long bridge led across Deal Water to a straight white road which cleft a clean path through the rising meadowland. Eastward the wide expanse of green was edged by a line of tawny sands, where the turf swept down to the bluffs. Beyond lay the sea, sparkling like a great splendid jewel. Tony loved the sea, and a thrill went through him as he saw it again now after a long time. A load seemed lifted from his heart, though there was still some wistfulness for the sleepy bayou and the old plantation and the dear familiar faces. He remembered how so many Deerings before him had crossed that great still pond on their way to school, and had known that restless sea during happy boyhood.

“Is that the school?” he cried to the driver, springing up as he caught sight of a pile of buildings which crowned a hill-top at the end of the long white road ahead of them. There seemed to be a great many of these buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder, long and low for the most part, but one higher than the rest, marked by a tapering spire. The rays of the morning sun glinted on the windows so that they seemed ablaze with light. A fresh breeze was blowing off the ocean. There was the smell of seaweed in the air and of herby autumnal flowers. Here and there a field was stained literally purple with Michaelmas daisies,—a vivid contrast to the deep green of the meadows.

Tony could scarcely contain himself as the fly crawled up the steep road. Then, just as they reached the summit, a few paces before they turned into the school drive, another splendid view opened to them unexpectedly. On the other side of the school grounds the hill descended much more precipitously toward a point of rocky land which jutted into the sea; to the east the land bent with an enormous curve, embracing a wide beach about a mile in length; then, turning sharply again, rose into hilly land, thickly wooded, rocky-shored, which crowded about the great inlet, somewhat misnamed the Strathsey River. Across the morning haze gleamed the shores of a broad peninsula known as Strathsey Neck. In the midst of the river,—or bay, for it was really that,—a pile of rocks jutted from the waters, on which was situate a lighthouse, marked in the charts as Deigr Light.

Tony was a little bewildered by the unexpected impelling beauty of the situation. The cab turned into the school driveway then, and at the end of a graveled elm-shaded avenue, he saw a low long building of gray stone—of Tudor architecture, he learned afterwards—approached by a broad flight of stone steps.

A maid-servant met him at the door, surmised that he was the new boy, and said, “I will show you at once to the Doctor’s study.” They passed through a large hall, which Tony just could see was attractive, with its black oak paneling and the great open fireplace at the farther end, and then he was ushered into a cheerful pleasant-looking room, his hand was heartily clasped, and a gruff kindly voice bade him welcome.

Tony looked up, and saw a pair of sharp blue eyes, set deep under shaggy gray brows in a firm strongly-lined face, under a mass of thick gray hair, looking enquiringly into his. It was a kindly, inquisitive glance, as though their owner were wondering what manner of boy this was. Doctor Forester was growing old now, but he was still in the prime of his activity as a vigorous and effective head master. He looked down upon the fair copper-colored head of the boy, and into his frank gray-blue eyes, which looked back fearlessly.

“Ah, Deering, I am glad to see you. I am sorry you are late, however, for it is not the best way to begin,” he said, speaking with a sharp accent, and in quick phrases, which Tony was to learn were characteristic.

“I know, sir, but my grandfather—”

“Your grandfather, my boy, used to get caned once a week by old Doctor Harvey for the same incorrigible offense. But I understand the situation. You are not to blame. You are to have a room in Standerland Hall and sit at Mr. Morris’s table in the dining-room. Stop here a moment, while I send for a boy to show you about. Then you can get your books, and go into class the last morning period. We are going to try you in the Third. The master-in-charge will assign you a seat in the schoolroom.” The doctor touched a bell on his desk. “Send Lawrence to me, please,” he said to the servant who answered it; and then turning to Deering again, “Well, my boy, how is your grandfather? Has he told you that we were at Kingsbridge together? He was a senior when I was a freshman. He rescued me one night at a hazing-bee. Those were good old days—never the like of them again! I am glad they are sending you north to school and college. Ah, Lawrence! come in, come in. Lawrence, this is Anthony Deering. He is to be in your form and hall. Take him about a bit—that’s a good fellow—introduce him to the masters—and report to Mr. Morris before the last period. Good-bye now. Come to the Rectory to tea this afternoon, Deering, and we can have some talk about the General.”

The Doctor said all this very rapidly, and almost before Deering and Lawrence had finished their embarrassed greeting, he had turned to his desks and was busy with his papers.

James Lawrence—or Jimmie, as he was always called—was a slender, dark-haired handsome youth. He had a frank countenance, an engaging smile, black hair, and beautiful dark eyes. He recovered his self-possession in a moment and looked Tony over critically, as he waited for the Doctor to finish speaking. “Very good, sir,” he said, at length. “Come along, Deering, and I’ll show you where you are to room.”

“You may think the old gentleman is in the clouds,” he said, as they turned into a long corridor leading from the Doctor’s study, “but we have to wake up early in the morning to fool him—not that we don’t, you know!—but he is keen enough to make it mighty interesting. Why I have got twenty-five distinct directions about you already. You are to sit next me at table, for instance, and poor old Teddy Lansing is transferred to Mr. Williams.”

“Will he mind?” asked Tony, a trifle anxiously.

“Well, you’ll find out if he does mind. Teddy’s a noisy brute. There! that’s the way into the schoolroom,” he interrupted himself to say, “you’ll wish you could forget it in a week or so. Take a tip, watch Kit Wilson and me; we’ll show you a trick or two. But you are so beastly new.... See that animated broomstick toddling along? That’s old Roylston, the Latin master; you’ll meet him too soon for your comfort; we won’t stop now, despite the Doctor’s instructions. Give him a wide berth, and don’t bluff him.”

By this time they had got outside the Old School on the terrace, with the wonderful outlook over bay and sea. Tony began to make some remark about the view.

“Oh, the view!” exclaimed Lawrence, “You’ll get used to that too. That’s Lovel’s Woods over yonder,” he said, pointing to a stretch of thickly-wooded hilly land by the Strathsey shore, “rather useful in the winter term. You’re in Standerland, eh? That’s that long crazy gray stone building over the quad. Lucky dog to get a room, say I. Bill Morris is the master—a decent sort; an old boy, strong therefore with the doctor. Thank heaven and the Head that you’re going to be under Bill. No, we aren’t going over there now. You’ll have to scamper over there to wash up before dinner. I’ve got a page of CÆsar to do before last period, so let’s toddle to the schoolroom. Bill’s in charge, and he’ll smooth things over. Wait for me after school and I’ll pilot you in to grub.”

They had brought up now at the entrance to the Schoolhouse, which was connected with the Old School by a cloister and formed the north side of a great quadrangle. To the west lay Standerland House and the Chapel, a pure Gothic structure with a beautiful tower and spire, and the Rectory, the Head Master’s residence, between. Eastward lay the Gymnasium and the Refectory or dining-hall, the latter on a line with the Old School. North of the Schoolhouse was another quadrangle, flanked by Standerland and the Gymnasium, with Montrose and Howard Houses on its northern side. Beyond that still lay the playing-fields. All this Jimmie barely had time to indicate, as the two boys ran up a wide flight of steps, traversed a broad corridor, and entered the schoolroom, where he introduced Tony to the master-in-charge.

Tony could never remember what was said by either of them; he felt as if the gaze of the hundred pair of eyes, belonging to the hundred boys bent over their desks, was burning into his back. There was a vague sort of comfort in the pleasant tones of Mr. Morris’s voice, and somehow he came back to consciousness a little later, and found himself seated at a desk, with a brand new copy of the Gallic Wars open before him, and his lips pronouncing over and over in a meaningless sort of way—“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres....”

Thus Deering’s school days at Deal began.