I
On Christmas eve John had noticed another guest at dinner, but he had
no opportunity of studying the person, who was addressed as Mr.
Steer. The next morning after breakfast, there was a walking party
to Holdfast Covert, about three miles, whence a fine view of the
surrounding country was obtainable. John asked Vernley all about the
stranger, for he was attracted to him by his manner.
"The Governor's frightfully keen on Steer," said Vernley. "He's a
poet and quite well-known--at least I think so. There's always a
mild sensation in the district when Steer's down here."
"Have you read his books?"
"No, I've seen them of course--they're always prominent in the
drawing-room when he comes here. He's not like most of those writing
people who everlastingly talk about themselves, and he's a sportsman.
He'll start love-thirty with any one on the tennis court and beat
'em."
It was on the way back from the covert that John had his first
conversation with Steer. The boy had fallen behind to tie up a shoe
lace, and the poet was hacking away at a wand he had cut out of the
thicket.
"What are you making, sir?" asked John, overtaking him.
"A whistle--can you make one?"
"No--I'm not very handy with a pocket knife."
"Well, there you are--that's a sycamore pipe which you can play--like
the Idle Shepherd Boys," said Steer, giving the stick to John.
"_On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn,--_
I suppose you know that?"
John confessed his ignorance, but he liked the sound of it and wanted
to hear more.
"God bless me," said Steer, "you mean to say that you've not heard of
Wordsworth? I thought every boy out of a nursery had been brought up
on 'We are Seven' and 'The Idle Shepherd Boys.'"
"I've never heard of Mr. Wordsworth," said John naïvely,--"do tell me
about him."
"Oh, he's quite dead now--he was what is called a Lake poet--he lived
at the English Lakes, Grasmere and Rydal to be precise, where there
was a group of these poets and essayists--Coleridge, Southey, De
Quincey, Christopher North--names you've probably heard. 'The Idle
Shepherd Boys' was a favourite poem when I was a lad. I remember
reciting it to my mother for a penny. She used to give me a penny
for every new poem I learned. I remember how she laughed when I
pronounced 'vapours'--'vappers.' The first stanza runs--
_The valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never, never ending song,
To welcome in the May.
The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;
Or through the glittering vapours dart
In very wantonness of heart._"
"Oh, how jolly! Do go on please!" shouted John eagerly, and his new
friend recited the whole poem. The joy on the boy's face greatly
amused him.
"You've evidently got a taste for verse, John--but there's much
better stuff than that. Wordsworth was a philosopher, he wrote
splendid things like--
_Love had he known in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills._"
These words fell upon John's ears as music. It was a spell upon him,
something that took him into a realm of wonderful sounds and visions.
On that walk home, he plied the poet with questions, and Keats,
Shelley, Browning and Byron became more than mere names. He learned
how they had lived, of Byron's picturesque, turbulent career; of
Shelley's passion for reform; of Keats' struggle against disease and
the burning ardour for the glory that was Greece. And then Steer
told him of living men who were writing. "But don't meet them if you
can help," he advised. "You should never meet authors of the books
you admire--they have conserved their best moments in a few pages,
and they cannot live up to your expectations--and authors, too, are
not the pleasantest of mankind. There is sufficient egotism in a
room full of them to lift St. Paul's to the top of Everest."
"But you're a poet yourself, Mr. Steer--and you're not at all
objectionable!" said John laughingly.
"Perhaps that's why I'm such a bad one," answered Steer. They had
now overtaken the others and Vernley, looking round, noticed John's
excited manner.
"Whatever's stirred you up, Scissors?" he asked. "You look as if
you'd found a gold mine!"
"Mr. Steer's been telling me about the poets. Oh, Verney, I'd no
idea they were such a ripping set. Have you got a Wordsworth at
home?"
"Yes--but you haven't come here to read that stuff--you'll have to
read it when you get at your 'remove'--a horrible old man, always
grousing about some 'divine, far-off event'--no, that's Tennyson.
How does it run? I've got it--
_a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns
And the round ocean and the living air--_"
"That's beautiful, it's--" exclaimed John.
"I call it utter tosh. Parse and analyse. Subject; there isn't one,
predicate; find it if you can; object--Good Lord, why don't these
fellows write sense? Whoever saw a round ocean?"
"But that isn't what he meant--you mustn't take it pictorially."
"Bravo, John, you've got the sense of it," interjected Steer.
"Bobbie's attempted to analyse it,--that's fatal."
Vernley stared at John curiously for a moment, amazed at his friend's
enthusiasm, then--
"You are a rum beggar, Scissors; I believe you'd like to write stuff
like that yourself."
"Perhaps he will--alas," sighed Steer.
"Why do you say 'alas'?" asked John. "You're not at all sad, you're
quite jolly and--"
"You can play tennis, sir," added Vernley in a consolatory voice.
II
For the remainder of the day, John's head was full of poetry. He had
found a copy of Wordsworth in the library, and after lunch, when
every one disappeared for a nap, he stole up to his bedroom,
successfully evading Vernley, who, he knew, would cover him with
derision if detected. Fortunately Vernley had gone across to the
vicarage with a message, and he was detained there with lemonade and
mince pies for a whole hour. In that time John read through "The
Idle Shepherd Boys" and "Lucy Gray." He then attempted "The
Excursion" and found it altogether too much for him, save one jolly
bit--
"_He loved; from a swarm of rosy boys
Singled me out, as he in sport would say,
For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years,_"
which ministered to his egotism, and helped him to build up visions
of long walks with Mr. Steer, in which he saw down into the soul of a
poet. He had given up "The Excursion" in despair, but later, turning
over the pages, he recognised the lines Vernley had quoted. Like an
old friend they seemed. He had just finished the "Lines composed
about Tintern Abbey," when Vernley, or Bobbie as the household called
him, burst in, searching for him.
"Scissors, I've been all over the house--what are you doing?"
"Reading." John closed the book and half hid it behind him, but
Vernley was too sharp and made a grab. One look, and the secret was
out.
"Scissors! I've a good mind to scrag you."
"If you can--but isn't it ripping--
_Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air--_
--it's like eating caramels."
"If you say it again, I will scrag you!"
"_Whose dwelling is the light--_" began John provocatively.
Vernley leapt upon him and they went down together, John underneath.
"Say it again, Scissors!" cried Vernley, holding John's head firmly
to the floor. John wriggled and tried to shift the hand over his
mouth.
"Whose dwelling is the--" he managed to get out before he was choked.
There was a wild scrimmage which ended with a great crash. They had
cannoned into the washstand, and the jug and basin lay in a thousand
fragments.
"Golly!--what a mess!" commented Vernley from where he lay, surveying
the ruins.
"Will your mater be angry?" asked John nervously.
"No--she's used to having things smashed--it's a family failing.
I've made a mess of your collar, you'll have to put a clean one on.
Old Crimp's coming to tea, I've just been to the vicarage. He's a
dreadful old bore--but he's got a ripping kid. I can't think how he
did it."
"Did what?" asked John naïvely.
Vernley looked a him for a moment, and then went scarlet.
"Scissors," he said, taking his arm, "you are a bit of an angel--"
"_Whose dwelling--_" began John derisively.
"Shut up!--do you want to smash the looking glass next? Get your
collar on--there's the gong for tea."
Those days at "The Croft" went all too swiftly, and the morning came
when the two boys lifted their trunks into the car and were whirled
down the drive to the station. John left feeling that the end of
life had come. He had been among friends and had felt almost as if
he had been to his own home--the kind of home of which he had
dreamed. Mrs. Vernley had mothered him, and John's secret pleasure
at being petted had been expressed in many little acts of devotion.
"What a lovable boy he is!" she said to her husband as she watched
the car recede down the drive.
"Yes, and sharp too. They may well call him 'Scissors'--that boy
will cut his way through," replied Mr. Vernley. "Where's Muriel? I
thought she was going to the station with them?"
Mrs. Vernley looked intently at her husband, but his face told her
nothing. Ten minutes before she had hurried a sobbing Muriel off to
her bedroom, where she was now going to lecture her on the absurdity
of falling in love at sixteen, but as she secretly sympathised with
her daughter she did not say anything to her husband. Upstairs in
the bedroom she found Muriel with watery eyes, standing by the
window, and screwing up a miniature handkerchief. Mrs. Vernley
looked at her and decided that further words would bring a deluge.
So she talked about everything but the thing in both their minds, and
the only allusion to John's departure was when she said,
"Now, Muriel, wash your face. Miss Lane will be here for the music
lesson in a few minutes."
It was then that Muriel found courage to make her confession.
"I gave him a photograph, Mother--I hope you don't mind?"
"Well, it's a little immodest for you to be presenting your
photograph so freely."
"He asked me for it, Mother."
"Oh,--but really, you children are very absurd! I shall dread Bobbie
bringing friends home with him if it means you are going to have red
eyes every time. But there--you'll get over it," she said kindly, as
she stooped and kissed her. "Now come along, dear, I'm afraid you
haven't done much practising for Miss Lane."
The subject was never alluded to again, but Mr. Vernley the following
morning almost provoked another flood of tears.
"You'll miss John, Muriel," he said genially at breakfast. "No more
morning gallops together--you looked quite a loving pair on
horseback." There was silence, then looking from Muriel to her
mother, a glance told him everything.
"Why, bless me!--you don't mean to tell me--"
Muriel had dropped her eggspoon in a desperate search for a
handkerchief. "My dear child!" cried Mr. Vernley, pinching her ear,
"I'd no idea young Master Scissors had made such a conquest. The
young beggar, I'll teach him to upset my daughter." He laughed
good-heartedly, saw Muriel force a smile through her tears, and then
diplomatically prevented further observation by spreading out the
_Times_.
III
The two boys in the train were very silent. Vernley immersed in a
copy of "The Hill." John sat staring out of the window. But it was
not the swiftly passing fields that engaged his attention, for at
that moment he was exercising what Mr. Steer, in the explanation of
Wordsworth's poem, had called "the inward eye, which is the bliss of
solitude." John's thoughts were not at all blissful. He was feeling
quite blue. The end of a glorious holiday had come, and having what
another poet had called "the passion of the past," he was reluctantly
taking stock of his memories. He had found delightful friends.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Vernley; he could never feel quite lonely in
England now. They represented home for John, being people who could
understand and sympathise. There was Mr. Chadburn who had talked to
him quite seriously. John had found a great friend in Mr. Steer.
They had had wonderful walks together, when John had been taken into
a new world that awaited his discovery. Steer had invited him to
call at his house when he was in London. He wondered whether Mrs.
Steer would be just as delightful.
Then his thoughts turned to Muriel. She would be having her music
lesson from Miss Lane now. He had made her tell him all she was
going to do that day. After the music lesson she was going to visit
the stables. He saw her walking round the wing of the house, he saw
her small hand press the catch on the wicket gate, and her short
graceful steps as she crossed the cobbled stable-yard to the corner
where the horses were stabled. He knew exactly how she would lift
the iron bar out of its socket, swing back the half-door, call
"Bess!" and then stroke the white patch running from between the eyes
down to the nose. He could even smell the stable, with that
delightful manure and horsey aroma.
He could see the deftness with which she slipped the bridle over
Bess's head, and the firm way in which she led her out of the stable,
for she insisted on attending to Bess herself, and with a sharp
movement she would be in the saddle at his side, level with and
laughing into his face, and their horses would walk clattering across
the cobbles, before breaking into a canter in the lane. He knew
every inch of that lane, just where the horses would gallop, and
where they would walk. He remembered the crest of the hill, with its
pattern below of fields and farmhouses and stacks; with the dim blue
clumps of leafless trees, and the barren telegraph poles, carrying
the singing wires across the valley towards the railway siding. Half
a mile over that crest was the copse where the robin sang as he
kissed her that wonderful morning when they had ridden ahead of the
others.
And now he was being carried away from all that happiness! He was
going back to bare noisy rooms, to a crowd of boys and worried
masters. Would such times as he had had ever come again? His hand
at that moment rested on something hard in his pocket. It was
Muriel's photograph which she had given him before breakfast. He had
looked at it hurriedly then, in its tissue cover. Now he wanted to
take it out and feast his eyes upon it. He looked up; Vernley was
chewing butterscotch and still immersed in his book. He did not want
the old lady sitting near to see him gazing at the photograph, so he
got up and went into the adjoining lavatory. There he bolted the
door and pulled out the precious packet.
Slipping the photograph from its paper cover, he saw it was a small
cabinet in sepia by Neame, New Bond Street, of Muriel in her riding
coat and cap. As he pulled it out something dropped to the floor.
It was a small piece of tissue paper. He was disappointed, for he
thought it was a note. Then seeing its shape, he knew it contained
something, which, after unwrapping, proved to be a strand of hair.
John immediately kissed it with all the sentiment of fifteen. He was
about to wrap it up again, when he had an inspiration. It was
another pledge of love and should be placed with Ali's gift. John
pulled out the chain with its moonstone pendant, which he faithfully
wore, and tied the strand of hair around the link. Then, putting the
photograph back into his pocket, he returned to the carriage.
The platform was crowded when they arrived at Sedley and there was a
fierce fight for seats in the brake. John found himself separated
from Vernley, but half an hour later, as he was going towards Mrs.
Fletcher's room, he was caught by the arm.
"I say, Scissors, what do you think?" asked Vernley excitedly.
"We've got a new study! Maitland told me, and I didn't believe him,
but it's on the list. There's another fellow in with us--what a
nuisance! I don't know who he is."
"What's his name?"
"Marsh--Maitland says he's a new kid, tons of money and a motor bike.
He was at Eton and has come here for some reason. It looks queer--we
don't want Eton's cast-offs."
"I beg your pardon," said a quiet voice. The boys turned to find
themselves surveyed by a calm young gentleman. He smiled at them in
a superior way.
"My name is Marsh--of whom you speak. If my presence is offensive to
your secluded domain, I'll remove myself."
"Pompous ass," thought John. Vernley stared at him.
"Well, we are friends y' see," said Vernley at last.
"So I perceive," murmured the tall youth, looking at Vernley, who had
his arm in John's. There might have been something offensive in the
fact, and the stranger impressed this upon them. Vernley drew his
arm away.
"Do you always _perceive_ things?" asked John sarcastically.
"When they are worth it," retorted Marsh. "When I've finished
unpacking, I'll speak to you again. So long," and he turned and
walked down the corridor, with deliberate dignity.
"Well I'm snubbed," said Vernley. "Does Fletcher think we'll put up
with that piece of skin and grief!"
"He'll speak to us again!--when he has finished unpacking! Bobbie,
we are dismissed!" cried John.
Their next encounter with Marsh was more genial. They found him
sitting in the new study. When John and Vernley opened the door they
stood on the threshold and gasped. It was an amazing spectacle they
beheld. Two lounge chairs covered with chintz were placed on each
side of the fireplace. A blue cloth covered the table on which lay a
shallow black bowl. In the bowl was water on which floated, in
careless design, a dozen narcissi dropped in by the hand of Marsh.
The window was draped in chintz and in the far recess was a
magnificent bookcase. It towered up to the ceiling and was crammed
with sumptuous books in highly-coloured leather bindings. There were
four pictures on the walls, of a mysterious nature; those
sallow-faced maidens and thin-legged youths in red hose, John learned
later, were from the hand of Botticelli. A lady with a curious smirk
occupied the place of honour over the fireplace. When John asked
Marsh if it was his mother, the boy exclaimed sadly, "Alas, no!" and
going to the bookshelf read from a volume a long analysis of the
lady's smile written by a person called Pater in prose which, to
John, seemed a long time getting to the point.
After the reading was finished and Marsh had pronounced it to be
"luscious," he invited them to sit down, which was singular, since it
was their study,--but he was a person who evidently took command.
Appreciating comfort, and a little proud of the envy their study
would arouse in others, they settled down amicably.
At the end of the month, they were inseparable. The trio became
famous. Vernley was the athlete, Marsh the scholar, and John--that
amazing discovery was made by John almost by accident. It filled his
dreams for a whole term.
It was in the school debating society that John made his great
discovery. Mr. Fletcher was in the chair. The meeting was in the
lecture theatre with its tiers of seats climbing up to the back
windows, in one of which John sat listening. There was a mock
government in office, trying to introduce a bill for compulsory
military training. The debate was opened by the captain of the
Officers' Training Corps, a man John disliked intensely, mainly
because he had prominent teeth that were not prolonged on parallel
lines. John had attended three meetings of the society, but had not
spoken. The small boys sat silent in the presence of the sixth form
gods. John would not have spoken on this occasion except for an
accident. He was sitting on the window seat, jammed in between two
other boys, who, in the course of an attack upon each other's head,
ejected John from his position. He fell with an amazing noise on the
hollow boarding, and the Speaker, looking up, caught John's eye. The
boy had no intention of speaking but Mr. Fletcher evidently
misconstrued his action, and very kindly paused to give John his
opportunity. So there was nothing else for him to do but to open his
mouth. He stammered for half a minute, uttered a witticism and
provoked a laugh, which encouraged him to proceed to a superb piece
of youthful cynicism. The house gasped, but liked the sensation; the
leader of the debate sat amazed at the junior's audacity.
But John had tasted blood. He felt the flattery of the attention he
was commanding. He grew bolder. A few of Marsh's grandiloquent
phrases came into his head, odd readings from those leather-bound
books pointed his arguments gracefully, his ear for a choice phrase
kept his listeners intent. At the end of ten minutes John sat down
abruptly. There was a great silence. He had made a fool of himself,
he thought, and was blushing with shame when the tide of applause
caught him. It seemed to rock the theatre. He was being applauded,
the whole theatre was applauding him! He was no longer a nonentity,
but somebody! It dazed him a little. For the next half hour he
heard his name mentioned in the debate. When they all trooped out of
the theatre, he was smiled at, and patted on the back. The crowning
moment came when Mr. Fletcher looked at him closely through his
spectacles and said--
"I hardly like to approve of your audacity, Dean, but I am pleased
that my house has such an eloquent representative. I'm afraid the
bitterness of your spirit suggests a misspent youth and the
convictions of a Labour leader." And with a good-natured smile, in
which John detected whole-hearted approval, Fletcher passed on.
A fortnight later, John was the leader of the Opposition. It was an
unheard-of thing for a junior boy to sit on the front bench, but John
had broken all traditions. He was aided by Marsh who loved to be
diplomatic. Marsh carried on an insidious campaign against all who
opposed John's nomination. He held tea-parties at which he collected
his forces. He despatched his lieutenants to the fields, the five
courts, the common room, the quadrangles, the armoury and the tuck
shop. Vernley brought round the athletic vote--"the blockhead
squirearchy," Marsh called it, and the fifth and sixth form 'bloods'
were bribed by the thoughtful loan of French novels.
"Scissors," announced March on the momentous day of the election,
"you should be eternally grateful to the French scribes. Anatole
France, Flaubert, Maupassant and Daudet--these have won the day.
Thanks to the lasciviousness of Madame Bovary and the voluptuousness
of Sappho, the full-blooded gods of Upper School will nod in your
favour. I have seduced them with questionable literature. I have
undermined their morals and pandered to their secret viciousness. In
grateful recollection of the delicious nights I have given them, they
are your henchmen to-day. I have suffered in the cause. This
morning, the Censor, in the heavy shape of Fletcher, produced his
warrant and searched my shelves. His disgusting taste has been
satiated. Look--'A Rebours,' 'Thaïs' and 'Sappho' have been
abducted. Those bleeding gaps are the memorials of my enthusiasm in
the cause. In your hours of triumph, O Scissors, forget not the hand
that raised you to your dizzy eminence. Let me whisper in your ear,
and remind you, as the Cæsars of old, of the fickleness of Fate."
"Shut up, you ass," exclaimed Vernley. "Scissors'll romp in. I've
exhausted the bank in buns and lemonade, and have given away enough
cigarettes to smoke the enemy out."
"We shall probably be unseated for corruption," said John. "Your
support, Marsh, is a questionable advantage."
"That's the kind of rotten remark one expects from a politician.
You've a great political career in front of you, Scissors--you have
the necessary lack of gratitude and want of principle. Et tu, Brute!
O shades of the departed! Bovary, Thaïs and Sappho, behold the
ingratitude of this friend who wades to glory over your dead bodies!
Scissors, the first day you're in power you've got to abolish the
censorship. There shall be no peace in your Parliament until I can
read Wilde and Baudelaire in bed, without interruption or
confiscation."
IV
As anticipated, Scissors headed the poll, and henceforth he was
leader of the Opposition. The result was a high political fever.
Immediately after breakfast each morning, he rushed round to the
library and read through the newspapers. At first he modelled
himself upon Winston Churchill, to whom he was supposed to have some
facial likeness, but he found he had not the cool self-assumption of
his prototype. He found himself more akin to Lloyd George, that
Welsh lawyer whose name was as blasphemy to some and holy song to
others. The role suited John. He was a born iconoclast. He had the
Welshman's gift of stinging epithet, and he surprised himself with
the veneer of venom that added lustre to his sentences. He learnt
from his prototype the art of swift descent from Parnassus to
Limehouse; he punctuated his periods with cheers provoked from the
blubber-headed section of his audience; he knew the pathetic touch,
the 'lump-in-the-throat' moment, as he called it, and he used them
until his opponents were powerless to stem the avalanche of his
invective.
All this alarmed Mr. Fletcher. He saw his house becoming
socialistic. The authority of the prefects was becoming undermined,
the junior boys no longer feared the Upper Remove. They frankly
stated their dislikes. In one debate they declared their hatred of
compulsory cricket with such vehemence that he had to move the
closure, whereupon John attacked him as a champion of tyranny, the
feeble upholder of bloated tradition. This so alarmed Fletcher that
he had a private interview with John, who suggested very skilfully
that his overture was a form of corruption. The fact was that John
was getting a swollen head. Marsh, whose hornet-like nature
delighted in the stinging of authority, encouraged John in his most
daring attacks. Vernley, lost in admiration at John's brilliance,
worshipped silently and approved without question. The other boys
followed in John's path, hardly realising the power of his leadership.
The awakening came rapidly from an unseen quarter. It fell like a
thundercloud over the sunshine of John's triumph, and he resented his
defeat all the more because it was the hand of a friend who brought
him low, and his fall had no dignity. It was not intellectual. He
would have borne that. It was physical, and he felt sick with shame.
Inwardly he was conscious that he had provoked disaster, and most of
his anger fell upon himself for being such a fool and not realising
the need of tact.
It happened one Wednesday half, towards the end of term. Lindon was
the instrument of Fate. John was fagging that day and had been told
to lay tea at four in Lindon's study. He had always been allowed
great liberty by his fagmaster and he took his own time to perform
his duties. John did not worry, therefore, when four o'clock struck
as he finished a game in the fives' courts. He leisurely walked
across to the bathroom, stripped and sat on the side of the bath,
whistling while the water ran in. As he waited for the bath to fill,
Marsh appeared through the steam.
"London's been calling like blazes for you. He said he told you to
lay tea at four."
"Let him call," said John, turning on the cold tap and hiding himself
in steam.
"You'd better hurry up, Scissors--he's quite scrubby."
John merely yelled as he plunged his leg into the hot water. He had
just nicely soaped himself from head to foot, and was working up a
white lather on his head, when he heard his name called, and looking
up saw London.
"I asked you for tea at four," he said.
John's face was covered with white soap, but he smiled sweetly.
"I know, I'm coming when I've finished here."
"Indeed!--get out!"
"I say, Lindon, do be reasonable!"
"I have been--too much so. Are you going to get out?"
"No!" answered John, sullenly, rubbing his head.
"Very well!" A moment later the door slammed. John lay back in the
bath. He had won. The warm water made him feel very comfortable.
He wondered if Lindon felt sick. While he was contemplating, Lindon
reappeared. He had a switch in his hand. The business took on a
serious aspect.
"Are you coming out?" he asked severely.
John pouted. "No!" he said obstinately.
Lindon immediately pulled out the plug and turned on the cold water
tap. John sat still, getting colder every second. Soon he was
shivering. At last he had to stand up, and the moment he did so,
Lindon's switch whistled through the air and left a red weal across
John's thigh. Involuntarily he yelled, then blazing with shame and
anger, he picked up the wet sponge and flung it full in Lindon's
face. The squelch ruined the prefect's neat collar and tie, but
Lindon only looked cooler, which frightened John. The next moment he
was lifted bodily out of the bath, and before he recovered from his
amazement at Lindon's strength, he was pinned head downwards over the
drying rack and being thrashed like a puppy. He screamed at the top
of his voice, not in pain but in anger. When he was released, he saw
three boys waiting in the doorway with towels. They had seen all,
and overcome with wounded vanity and misery, John fell in a heap on
the floor and cried. He lay there, moaning, and Lindon as he watched
him, relented.
"Scissors," he said kindly, bending down.
John looked at the face, and hated its strength. Madly, he struck
Lindon full in the face with all his might. The boys in the door
stood breathless at this act, watching. The elder boy was the most
amazed of all. For a moment he stared at John, with an angry red
mark under his right eye. Suddenly turning, he strode out of the
room.
Utterly miserable and smarting, John dressed himself. He had acted
like a little cad and Lindon would be quite just in refusing to
accept his apology. He was miserable, not because he feared the
consequences of this act, serious as they were, but he had lowered
himself in the eyes of one whom he admired. Nothing could hurt him
so much as that Lindon should hold him in contempt. He hurried along
to the study, tapped and entered. Lindon sat in a wicker chair with
his back to John, talking to three other fellows. They had finished
tea. John hesitated, he had expected to find him alone, and his
courage failed.
"I came to lay tea," he said feebly.
"We've had it," replied Lindon without turning his head. John paused
awkwardly; there seemed no more to say so he went out of the room
quietly. All the evening he hung about miserably. Marsh tried to
cheer him up with witticisms about his being honoured with the
disorder of the bath. Vernley quite bluntly told him that he had
acted like a cad, which John knew very well. So he quarrelled with
them both, and was glad when it was bed time. But in bed he could
not sleep. He longed for the morning and the opportunity of
apologising. Finally he buried his head under the sheets, and in
sheer wretchedness cried himself to sleep.
The next morning, immediately after prayers, he went round to
Lindon's study. There was no one there, so he sat down and waited.
After ten minutes, as the bell rang for morning school, Staveley
looked in for a book he had lent.
"Hullo!" he said.
"Do you know where Lindon is?" asked John.
"Yes--in the 'San.' He won't be here again I expect this term. He's
suspect--chicken pox. Seven of Field House are down. You'd better
cut, that's second bell."
When the end of term came, a fortnight later, Lindon had not
reappeared. John went across to the Sanitorium and learned that he
was convalescent, but could not be seen. Yet he knew Staveley had
visited him. It was obvious he did not wish to see John. So ended a
wretched term.