I
It had been arranged that John should spend the Christmas and Easter
holidays with his housemaster. Fletcher had a cottage in Wales where
he went at the end of each term to repair his shattered constitution.
There, he dressed in a most amazing assortment of tweeds, smoked
endlessly, loved to sit in village bars and listen to village gossip,
and tramped over the mountains with inexhaustible energy.
John spent the first fortnight with the Fletchers, after which he
went on to Vernley's people, who sent him a cordial invitation to
their home in Essex. It was there that John first became acquainted
with the amazing possibilities of life.
The Vernleys lived in a rambling old house with long corridors in
which John could lose himself. Indeed, everything was on the
spacious side, with that heavy, solid prosperity stamped on it which
somehow fitted the Vernleys and all of John's preconceptions of them.
Mr. Vernley was a broad-shouldered man with a shock of black hair and
a tremendous voice. Mrs. Vernley was stout and tall, talked rather
loudly and made a draught whenever she moved, but she radiated
kindliness. The family, too, was on the large scale, for John found
himself being introduced to a crowd of brothers and sisters who
varied from being wonderfully beautiful to uncompromisingly ugly.
There was Kitty, aged twenty-two, a big-boned woman, who talked
horses all day long; then Alice two years her junior, the musical
genius of the family. Vernley had great faith in his sister's future
as a singer because she was so fat. Tod, twenty, and in the first
flush of glory at Balliol, was the Vernley Adonis. He had the good
looks that wonderful health and spirits bestow. His cheeks were
tanned, his laugh cheery, and when he didn't sing or talk, he
whistled. Vernley said that sitting near Tod was like being near a
radiator, he warmed you like an animal. With great cheerfulness, Tod
offered to teach the two boys how to box. He took them up into a dim
roomy attic, stripped them, tied the gloves on to their hands, and
made them pound away at each other while he bellowed his
encouragement. At the end of half an hour, the two boys being
utterly exhausted, he just tucked them under his arms, walked down to
the bathroom and turned the cold water tap on them as if they had
been two mice he had wished to drown. They emerged from their first
boxing lesson with a black eye each. In addition John had a swollen
nose and Vernley a cut lip. When they both appeared at tea-time, the
family yelled with delight, save Mrs. Vernley, whose motherly
instinct forbade further boxing lessons.
And here it was that the amazing complexity of life first dawned upon
John's consciousness. Mr. Vernley was a member of Parliament and he
brought his friends on week-end visits to "The Croft." John looked
at these persons with considerable awe. They were all doing, or
going to do something big. Among them was Chadburn, quiet,
unassuming, strictly conscientious, with a fine face and a courteous
manner.
John walked with him through the woods one Sunday morning, and at the
end of half an hour, fell in love with him; all that night he had
visions of himself as a private secretary. It would be glorious to
be near him each day, to go in on a thick-carpeted floor with a sheaf
of papers and say, "Will you sign these, sir?" or, "A deputation
wishes to see you, sir," or "Your speech is in your bag, sir," and
his hero would say, "Thank you, Dean; I shall be back to-morrow--take
cuttings from the _Times_ and _Telegraph_," Perhaps he could
accompany his chief to a big meeting and see him sway the crowd, hear
him cheered in the packed hall and he would want to get up, and say,
"That is my chief--I am his secretary." John went to bed that Sunday
with life revealing a wonderful vista before him, for as he had
passed through the lounge where the men sat smoking, he had heard
Chadburn say, "That boy's as intelligent as he's handsome." As the
two boys undressed, Vernley noticed his friend's elation.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.
"Oh, ripping! It's glorious here, Vernley--I don't know how to thank
you," which sent the devoted Vernley to bed equally happy.
There were two other incidents of that holiday that stood out in his
memory for many years. The first dawn of adolescence stirred in him,
disquieting, but wonderful. Muriel awakened him, Muriel the
vivacious, sixteen, home from school in Belgium, the prettiest of the
Vernley girls and just ready to fall in love for the simple adventure
of it. They liked each other at sight; she admired his slim grace,
the brown healthiness of his skin, the fine ring in his laughter; he,
her elusive charm and tomboyish air. Her quick, witty chatter in
English or French was music to the enchanted John; and she rode her
horse like a princess.
Each morning, after breakfast, three or four mounts were brought
round from the stables, the groom waiting until the riding party was
ready. Sometimes Vernley and Kitty made up the quartette, with John
and Muriel. John sat his horse superbly, the legacy of Amasian days,
with the result that he and Muriel were often far in advance of the
other couple, for Vernley rolled on his seat like a sack, and Kitty
acted as whipper-in.
One morning, after a breathless gallop, John and Muriel found
themselves alone together on the white road running through a little
copse of birch trees. The girth of Muriel's saddle had slackened,
and John helped her to dismount and tightened it. Then slipping
their reins over their arms, they walked the horses on to the soft
turf bordering the road. On a barren bough a robin began to sing
cheerfully. Muriel gave a little cry of delight, and as John looked
at her, his flesh thrilled with her laughter. She was flushed, with
her fair hair falling over two pink ears, and as she turned to him
with her beautiful eyes, she caught him in the act of open
admiration. Muriel looked away, pretending she had not noticed.
"Shall we mount and get on?" she said awkwardly. She placed one foot
in the stirrup, and John placed his hand under the other to help her
into the saddle. It was the first time he had ever touched her and a
queer self-consciousness caused him to bungle, for she failed to gain
the saddle. The horse moved, and Muriel fell back into his arms. It
was an accident which John took as a gift from the gods. He gave an
awkward little laugh as he looked down into her timid eyes and she
tried to hide her face on his shoulder. The soft brushing of her
hair on his cheek gave him courage; holding her in his strong young
arms, he raised her face with one hand and saw the laughter in her
eyes. Then deliberately he kissed her lips, her soft wavy hair
falling over his brow, her arms pressed tight and warm around his
neck. It was a moment's delight, with no passion in it--only youth
discovering youth and thrilled with the wonder of it.
Almost gravely John helped her into the saddle, and they started off
at a canter. The wind whipped their faces, the superb vitality of
the horses seemed to flow through their bodies. Ahead lay the wooded
country and the chimneys of "The Croft." John remembered that white
strip of road, the birch-tree copse and the laughter in Muriel's eyes
evermore. In the years that followed he was to love, but it was
never quite the same, there was more intelligence in it, more
consciousness, more passion, but not the quick edge of sharp surprise.
II
John's Christmas at "The Croft" was his first experience of life at
an English country house, and he saw there how money and leisure
could make existence almost ideally tranquil. He learned too, the
patrician order of things. Hitherto, humanity for him had only been
classed in nationalities. He had recognised, of course, that mankind
itself was divided into the rich and poor, those who did what they
wished, and those who laboured as they must. But he now saw that
Society was more subtly divided; it had its rigorous caste systems,
and he was living in the strictest caste of all. The county type
that he met at "The Croft" was something distinct. It spoke very
definitely of humanity as "the masses." Clearly they were a slightly
inferior people, to whom a duty must be performed. They had to be
kept in their places, taught to recognise superiority and to render
homage without servility; in return for this recognition they were
rewarded with the influence and interest of those who controlled
their lives.
Down in the village John found that, as the guest of the Vernleys, he
was somebody. The villagers touched their caps to him, the
postmistress was effusively polite. All this seemed strange at first
to John, for accustomed to the deference of the Moslem before all
Englishmen, he had conceived a socialistic idea of the position and
powers of all who spoke his native tongue. After a time he grew
accustomed to the patrician attitude. It was so easy to assume the
air of command, to know that servants, even English ones, were there
to serve, and that one could be perfectly polite to them and forfeit
no respect or authority.
He admired the young squire manner of his friend Vernley--the way in
which he obtained all he wanted. The whole country-side was his, the
farmhouses all gladly opened their doors at his approach. The name
of Vernley was powerful. The next thing John realised was that the
name was loved. The Vernleys had lived on the land for generations,
and their knowledge of every family on the estate was unique. They
knew the hereditary tendencies of Farmer Jenkins' children, the
constitutional inclination of the Wichsteeds to bronchitis, the
wanderlust that was in the blood of all the Wilkinsons' younger sons.
John's friend too was intimate with all the village boys. He played
cricket with them, called them by their Christian names, and assumed
leadership in their midst without any rivalry or jealousy.
This was new and strange to John; but it all seemed part of the
landscape. The village people were the natural possessions of the
Vernleys, just as much as the fine old copper beeches in their drive,
or the splendidly level lawn and flower-bordered terraces. It had
always been so, and there was no reason why it should ever change.
The village church, with its tombs of dead Vernleys also showed that
their religion was a family affair, looked after by the vicar who
held his living by appointment of a Vernley.
Comfort too was so visible in that home. There were solidarity and
security in those massive oak doors under the stone portico. The
heavy carpets sank richly under the feet; one felt majestic ascending
the broad staircase with its crest-panelled pillars. The bedrooms
with the blues, reds, and greens of carpets and eiderdowns and
couches had a solemn splendour, particularly after the coldness of a
school dormitory. It gave John a peculiar sense of pleasure to watch
the maid in the morning enter his room with the hot water. The
copper water can gleamed as the felt cover with its monogram came
off. The curtains as they were drawn, fell back in heavy beautiful
folds, and his bed was a massive thing built to endure for
generations.
John revelled in all these things so new in his life and he looked at
Vernley closely when that young gentleman expressed no particular
delight, no pride of proprietorship. John, of course, was careful
not to show his ecstasy. He accepted everything without comment, but
secretly he exulted. Life was going to be pleasant enough with such
splendid traditions and beautiful houses. He would spend his days
visiting friends; he would find such a house himself, and entertain
large parties. The wine should stand richly in beautiful glasses, as
it did on the Vernleys' table at night time, discreetly lit with
shaded candles in the silver candelabra. He would find servants as
well trained, a butler as majestic, and the stables at the back of
his house should be filled with superb horses, flawlessly groomed.
Dreaming in this manner one night as he lay in bed, he suddenly
started with a recollection that his home had once been like the
Vernleys. He had seen photographs of "Fourways," and heard his
father speak of Tom the groom--a splendid beater or loader. With a
thrill of discovery John recalled his inheritance; it explained so
much, his joy in these surroundings, the feeling that somehow he was
at home again among the Vernleys. This was no new life; it was the
old life, the one his father had known.
And then John realised how much he had lost. The mention of family
misfortune had formerly conveyed nothing to him. He had been quite
happy in his home at Amasia. There was nothing wanting, and he had
often wondered at his father's ceaseless recollections of "Fourways."
Now he realised all that the change to that hard, bright, lonely life
in Amasia had meant, and the fuller knowledge clouded the boy's
happiness. He would build up the family fortune again and take his
father back to "Fourways." So thinking, he fell asleep to dream of
his father greeting Tom who came to welcome him back, and somehow in
that dream he mingled--but he was not alone. There was Muriel with
him, flushed with riding, her cheeks whipped with the wind, her eyes
bright with happiness, and her hand, soft and warm, holding his as he
helped her down from the saddle.
John awoke in the morning to the sound of bells. It was Christmas
Day, and springing out of bed he ran to the window that overlooked
the drive opposite the church gate. The bells were clamouring
merrily and he could see the villagers making their way to the early
morning service. Picking up his towel he rushed off to the bathroom,
shouted loudly at the shock of the cold shower, dressed quickly and
ran downstairs just as the breakfast gong sounded. In the dining
room the family was busy opening presents. There were three for him,
one from Vernley and two from his host and hostess. With boyish
impulse he went up and kissed Mrs. Vernley delightedly. Life was
good!