Читать книгу The Life and Exploits of the Scarlet Pimpernel - Emmuska Orczy - Страница 28

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And thus his last term came all too soon. By that time, with universal consent and general acclamations, the school had elected Blakeney head of the Philatheletic Club; the masters, for reasons best known to themselves, had promoted him to the dignity of “School Monitor,” one of the select “twelve,” and for the short period of thirteen weeks, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., could boast that he was, in truth, the head boy of Harrow, both in work and in play.

As the day of ultimate parting drew close he experienced the strange, yet fruitful emotion of regret. He looked back and saw, in a new perspective, these years of boyhood; the lost opportunities, the waste of time, the compelling atmosphere of tradition. The years had sped by on golden wings and there seemed to be nothing to catch, nothing to stop and gaze at with awe or with pride. The larks were now reduced to absurd futilities: the revolts diminished to inconsequent follies.

In a moment the proportions appeared reversed, in inverse ratio to their former significance, as if the events were fleeing before the onrush of infinity, whilst dwindling down to zero. Boyhood was gone: he was now a man and must emerge into a man’s world — a world in which there was no room for petty grievances or harsh authorities. And others would step into the shoes so lately shed: new monitors would take his place, new boys would sit in the empty form: new “Bloods” would replace the old and everything would continue on the Hill as if he had never existed.

The old Hall reverberated for the last time to Sir Percy’s laughs, to his quips and jests, which echoed through the sacred Yard. On his left and right sat the quartette. They pledged each other in sound, full-bodied port, drunk from tankards.

“We meet in London, my hearties,” roared Sir Percy Blakeney, “this day week, and, by God, we’ll paint the old town red!”

Forty years on, when afar and asunder

Parted are those who are singing today,

When you look back, and forgetfully wonder

What you were like in your work and your play,

Then it may be, there will often come o’er you

Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song —

Visions of boyhood shall float then before you,

Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along,

Follow up!