CHAPTER VI

I

The following Tuesday John said good-bye to the Marshs and left for

"The Croft" to spend the remainder of his Easter holidays with the

Vernleys. Mrs. Marsh and Teddie drove him to the station, and, as

the train left and he leaned out of the window to wave farewell, he

knew that once more he had found true friends and a house where his

return would be welcome. At dusk he had arrived in the village

station nearest to "The Croft," where he found Bobbie and his brother

Tod waiting for him on the platform.

"Hello, Scissors!" shouted Tod, as the train drew in, "We've a

surprise for you. Where's the luggage--give me that, I'll carry it."

"How's the great Marsh?" asked Vernley. "As supercilious as ever?"

"Yes--in great form, he sends his love and recommends Mother

Wingate's syrup for fatuous persons," answered John.

"Cheek!" retorted Vernley, "and by Jove--don't you think I'm getting

thin--Tod's had me out on the under track every morning at six. I'm

going to pull off the 'half' and mile race next term."

John looked at him critically, and although Vernley was as

delightfully substantial as ever, he had not the heart to disappoint

him.

"He's wasting away like our Narcissus," said Tod, banging his way

through the narrow booking hall. "Look, my son, isn't she a beauty!"

He pointed to a racing car drawn up outside the station. John

noticed its long rectangular bonnet, the beautiful gleam and hidden

strength of the thing, admiration showing in his eyes.

"It's mine!--the Governor's twenty-first birthday present! She was

first in the trials at Brooklands last week," said Tod, dropping the

bag in.

"We're going on a tour next hols--all round this giddy old island,"

cried Vernley. "There'll be a fringe of dead dogs and defunct old

ladies around these shores, that never did and never will stand under

the foot of the--how's the thing go?"

"--proud conqueror," added John. "She is a lovely thing--what's her

name?"

"Haven't decided yet. I've voted for the 'Silver Slayer.' Tod

suggests 'The Gleam.'"

"The Governor says '[OE]dipus Rex' would be more appropriate," added

Tod, his brown hands on the steering wheel.

"Why?"

"Because of the murders at the cross roads that'll be committed.

Ready?"

There was a preparatory purr of the engine, then a delightful roaring

hum, and they glided forwards, imperceptibly gathering speed. The

chill wind whipped John's face. He looked joyously at Vernley seated

beside him and noted the disdainful pose of lordship. Vernley's

utter contempt for a display of feeling always amused John. The

villages tore by, fowls screeched, and flew with fluttered feathers

into the hedge bottoms; they roared up the hills and ran silently

down into the valleys. Half an hour later they had turned in at the

familiar drive and, pulled up at the stone porch. Inside the hall

Mrs. Vernley came to meet John.

"Here you are at last--we are so glad to see you, John."

"Thank you--it's good to be here, Mrs. Vernley." The dogs, as if

welcoming an old friend, bounded forwards.

"Down, Tiger--down, Ruff--down, sir!" yelled Vernley, and they

cowered and wagged their tails, beating a tattoo on the parquet floor.

In the library, gleaming with a rosy fire, its light shining on the

silver tea service, John found Mr. Vernley.

"Hullo, my boy! well, how are you? I hear we've found a great orator

at last!"

John smiled, then halted as he saw some one standing at Mr. Vernley's

side.

"Ribble," said Vernley turning to him, "this is our rising hope."

Then to John, "This is Mr. Ribble--you'll be great friends I'm sure,

though I don't know which side of him you'll like the better. Mr.

Ribble has written some very clever books, and he's in the Cabinet,

so that politicians say he's a good author and a bad politician, and

authors say he's a good politician and a bad author."

"And my wife says I should have been a nonconformist divine. How

d'you do, John; we must hear some of these famous flights of oratory."

"He's the real stuff, sir," said Vernley enthusiastically.--"Doesn't

half work 'em, makes the 'gods' boil over!"

"This empire, this realm upon which the sun has never looked--no,

that's not it, sir--I'm no orator," said Tod. "Let's have tea,

Mother. By Jove, Governor, you should have heard her sing up

Carshott Hill--did it on top, lots in hand. When she's tuned up

she'll take a houseside."

"Lord! You've done nothing but tune up since you had her," cried

Bobbie.

"Now boys, sit down, tea's ready," said Mrs. Vernley, pouring out.

John hoped every moment that Muriel would come in. He was

disappointed when she was not in the hall to meet him, and his heart

sank when he did not find her in the library. Perhaps she had gone

out for a walk. He did not want to ask, for Vernley might think he

had come simply to see her. It was not so, of course. He was glad

to be with Vernley again, but he could not help looking forward to

seeing Muriel, of whom he had been thinking through all those weeks

at school. The talk at the tea-table was chiefly political. Mr.

Vernley was discussing a coming election with Ribble, whom John

thought was the most picturesque old man he had ever seen. He had

long curly white hair, his eyes were surrounded by good-humoured

wrinkles, and he beamed through his spectacles. The mouth was thin

and compressed and had a ghost of a smile always hovering about it

John wondered where he had seen such a face before, and then suddenly

remembered a portrait of Thackeray in Mr. Fletcher's study. There

was a slight resemblance, and Mr. Ribble's character seemed to John

to be somewhat Thackerayish, for John was now half through "The

Newcomes," after a delighted discovery of "Pendennis" and "Henry

Esmond."

"Steer has just published a fine book," Mr. Ribble was saying. "I

think that little poem on Muriel is masterly."

John was alert immediately, and Vernley, eating cake and drinking tea

at the same moment, contrary to all laws, noticed John's interest.

"When's Muriel coming home, Mother?" he asked.

"I read you her letter this morning--to-morrow. You'll have to drive

the trap to the station to meet her in the afternoon."

"Why can't we motor?"

"I'm going to Brooklands in the morning," said Tod, "and I'm taking

Brown--so you'll have to drive the buggy."

"Oh, bother--I hate the old thing!"

But John would have ridden to Paradise in it if such a passenger as

Muriel had awaited him. To-morrow! He looked at Vernley, and it

occurred to him that his question had been what Mr. Fletcher, in

debates, had called a leading one. Vernley had never shown much

interest in John's affair, but he was not so unobservant as the

latter thought.

When the boys were changing for dinner that evening, and while John

was struggling with a bow, his glance fell upon a silver frame

standing on the dressing table. It contained a beautiful portrait of

Muriel who laughed at him out of the frame. John looked long at it,

and finally he realised that the photograph had been placed there for

his delight. It was on his dressing table and not on Vernley's.

Only one person could have placed it there.

"I say, Bobbie," said John, through the open door leading to his

friend's room.

"What?" asked Vernley, standing with one leg in his black trousers,

the other kicking its way through.

"You're a jolly decent sort--being here, you know--and in this room

again--and the--photograph--thanks awfully, old man."

"Thought you were a bit keen, you know--she's not at all bad for a

sister, is she?"

"Rather not!" said John ecstatically, giving his bow a confirmatory

pull.

That evening John knew Mr. Ribble much more intimately, for while one

of Vernley's sisters was accompanying the aspiring prima donna, John

was led off by the politician into the conservatory. The boy began

asking questions about the House of Commons and Mr. Ribble had a

great fund of stories. John learned of Mr. Balfour's aloof manner,

Mr. Churchill's imperturbable genius, Mr. Lloyd George's subtlety,

Mr. Asquith's classic weight and Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman's

personal charm; then he wished to know all about Mr. Austen

Chamberlain and the hereditary monocle, whether Mr. John Burn's

mother really had been a washerwoman, and what tactics were

legitimate in catching the Speaker's eye. Leaving these

personalities, the conversation changed to political economy and John

found himself on new ground and in a world of unknown names.

John felt flattered by the fact that Mr. Ribble took it for granted

that he knew these persons and subjects, but the politician was

deliberately whetting the boy's appetite and trying to lead him into

a channel of serious study. John Stuart Mill, Walter Bagehot, Edmund

Burke, Karl Marx, together with such queer names as Spinoza, Kant,

Schlegel, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, all rolled off Mr. Ribble's

tongue. He was now in the realm of Philosophy, and John, for the

first time in his life, heard of Comte and Positivism, of Darwin and

the Origin of Species, of Huxley and Russell Wallace. Mr. Ribble

talked and John listened, experiencing the wonderful thrill as when

Mr. Steer had shown him the world of poetry.

"I think you had better start with Ruskin's 'Unto This Last,'" said

Mr. Ribble when John asked where he should begin. "He's easy to read

and somewhat superficial. You'll find that philosophy and political

economy are closely related--half brothers in fact, and Ruskin

believes their parents were Social Morality and Private Duty."

Before going to bed that night, John had found a copy of "Unto This

Last" which he took up to bed. The two boys often read before going

to sleep, and Vernley was engrossed in "Kim" so that he did not see

what absorbed John, until growing sleepy, he closed his book and came

into John's room with its light still burning.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Ruskin," replied John, deep in the book.

"Golly--what on earth are you reading that piffle for--what's the

book?"

"Unto This Last."

"Holy Moses--you're the queerest mixture I've ever known. Last hols

it was "Whose dwelling is--"

--"_The light of setting suns_"--began John--

"_And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows and the woods,

And mountains; and of all that--_"

A pillow landed on John's head. It was returned with redoubled

energy. Vernley made a grand attack, John defending with a bolster.

There was a frantic scuffle, the bed groaned, the electric light

swung furiously, Vernley's pyjama coat was torn down the back and

John was soon without a blanket or a sheet on his bed. Suddenly they

were buried in a snowstorm of feathers that floated all over the

room; the pillow case had split; it called for an armistice. John

and Vernley subsided on the bed, silently watching the feather-laden

atmosphere.

"Lord! what a mess!"

"We always seem to be smashing something in this room," said John

ruefully--"last time it was the wash basin."

"It's that infernal Wordsworth--there'll be nothing left now Ruskin's

on the scene too."

"Well--you shouldn't interrupt."

"Do you think I'm going to lie still while you pour out that bosh?"

"It isn't bosh--Mr. Ribble says--"

"Ribble's an old fool--'a nonconformist crank swaddled in the

longclothes of infantile ignorance'--that's what the Governor's

opponent called him last election."

The feathers had now settled.

"What a mess!" said Vernley surveying the room. "I've got an idea!

Open the door, Scissors!" Vernley threw open the two big windows and

the draught thus created swept the feathers out on to the landing.

The two boys followed and peered over the banisters as the white

cloud slowly settled down into the hall below. At that moment the

drawing-room door opened.

"Father!--Just look at this--wherever--" came Mrs. Vernley's voice in

amazement.

"Shut the door, Scissors!" They rushed into the room, switched off

the light and waited breathlessly. All was quiet again.

"If you go on reading every author you're told about, there'll be

nothing left in this house," said Vernley, "and I don't agree, of

course, about that libel on old Ribble--he's a decent old boy. Good

night, Scissors."

II

The next afternoon Vernley and John harnessed the pony and were on

their way to the station to meet Muriel. Spring was in the air. The

hedgerows were beginning to burst into leaf, and the birds singing in

the lanes filled the country-side with hope. John's heart too was

singing. It was so good to be driving through the sunlit lanes with

a crisp air blowing in their faces, the friendly jog-trot of the pony

beating upon their ears. He looked at Vernley, the imperturbable

Vernley, who was flicking the pony's haunches with his whip. There

was something comfortably solid about him. He represented tradition

and the continuance of a settled conception of life. John had no

difficulty in planning Vernley's future; unlike his own, it depended

upon no caprice of Fate. He would go up to Oxford, travel, and then

settle down to the life of a country gentleman. He would grow stout

and red-cheeked, marry a healthy, unimaginative wife and be the

father of a crowd of noisy, well-developed children. The hunt, a

seat on the bench, June in London and August on the moors--that would

be Vernley's life. And he would not bother his head about political

or religious faiths. He would probably be a Conservative, despite

his father, who was a family renegade, and a Churchman.

Conservative, because caution and security were better than haste and

revolution, and the world on the whole was a jolly old place despite

Socialists and other disgruntled reformers. A Churchman, because he

knew so little about religion, and a respectable ready-made creed,

tried and found suitable as an accommodating policy of living was the

safest and easiest to adopt. Had he been born in Constantinople he

would have been a Mohammedan, in Bombay a Buddhist, in Hongkong a

Confucian, and in Paris a Catholic. And whichever creed environment

had caused him to accept, he would have been a credit to it,

faithfully observing its tenets, a respectable, unthinking,

clean-living fellow.

Vernley looked at John as the station came into sight; the far-away

expression was in his face, a curious detachment that often puzzled

Vernley. Sometimes John seemed to have left his body in another

world. It was uncanny and he remembered that Marsh, referring to

this habit, had called it "the Eastern touch," though what that quite

meant Vernley did not know.

"The train's signalled," said Vernley. "We shall just get there in

time. I wonder whether Muriel is bringing her friend back, she said

she might--a topping girl."

"I hope not--I don't want any one monopolising Muriel," said John

boldly.

"That's all right--I shall look after her friend--so don't you worry."

They pulled up just as the train ran into the station. Vernley sat

still in the trap.

"I must mind the pony,--you go in, Scissors!"

Dear old Vernley, thought John, what a tactician he was! So leaping

out, he went on to the platform just as Muriel descended from the

carriage. There was one glad look of recognition and then a

momentary shyness fell over them. Muriel had brought her friend whom

she introduced with embarrassment. John, scarlet in the face,

pretended to be frantically busy with the luggage, which filled the

trap. Homewards turned, the pony trotted smartly. John sat opposite

Muriel and kept looking at her furtively. She was beautiful. He

wanted to touch her soft flesh, and press back the little strand of

hair that fluttered over her ear and across the cheek. He noticed

the full redness of her lips, and the wonderful beauty of her long

eyelashes. The sight of her filled John with a kind of ecstasy

bordering on intoxication. He was infinitely more in love with her

than on the previous occasion. The absence of three months had

glorified her in his imagination, but now he saw that reality

transcended his most extravagant dreams of her physical perfection.

He was fifteen and this first flush of love left him breathless with

wonder. He did not want to talk; it was enough to sit near her, to

hear her voice, to watch the elfin grace of her movements, to see her

eyes shine, and the whiteness of her small teeth when she laughed.

Had some one told him he was in love, he would have denied it. He

was more a worshipper than a lover. This revelation of the woman, as

he saw it in Muriel, was like sunrise on a new world; he was so lost

in wonder that familiarity became impossible. He was filled with

awe, in which ran fear, the fear that she could not always be there,

that one morning he would get up and find her changed, an ordinary

being, moving on the old earth as he had always known it. But this

afternoon was his time of ecstasy--the friendly trotting of the pony,

Bobbie talking away to Polly, and himself sitting there with Muriel

near him while the birds sang in the hedgerows, and the sunset clouds

in the west reddened behind a black fringe of trees.

"Polly," said Vernley, "you may think so, but my friend is not really

dumb--in fact John is a fearful talker at times."

He laughed at John.

"You've got the field, so I've retired," retorted John. "And I'm

waiting for Muriel to tell me what she's been doing all the holidays."

Muriel responded to this invitation, and, the ice broken, they were

soon engrossed in each other. At the top of Carshott Hill, Vernley

pulled up. He was enjoying himself with Polly, who was sensible, and

to his great relief didn't giggle.

"I say, Scissors, shall we go round by Carshott? It is two miles out

of the way, but we shall be in time for dinner."

"Oh yes," cried Muriel. "It's such a glorious afternoon."

"I'm not a bit hungry," said John tactfully; any excuse for the

prolongation of the drive. So they turned off to Carshott. It was

dark when they arrived at "The Croft" gates and turned up the drive,

so dark that John had been able to hold Muriel's hand in his and

interlace his strong fingers with her slender ones, and he was so

overjoyed that he failed to notice that Vernley had done similarly.

Greetings over in the hall, they hurried off to dress for dinner.

The boys had a hot bath, and John sat on the side while Vernley

lathered himself.

"Polly's a very pretty girl," said John, rubbing hard with the towel.

"Of course!" cried Vernley, banging the sponge on his head, then

spluttering, "and Muriel?---well I suppose you've hardly noticed her

yet," he added satirically--"it was so jolly dark--but I know she has

soft hands."

John coloured, rubbing his head so that Vernley should not see.

"I say, Scissors! I'll bet you I know what Muriel's going to wear

to-night."

"What?"

"That white dress with the blue insertion."

John remembered it. It was all fluffy, and she looked like a fairy

in a cloud. He had admired her in it and told her so.

"How do you know?"

"Why, in honour of the occasion, of course. I called it the froth

and frolic dress, but probably Muriel calls it mode-a-la-Scissors."

"You are an ass!" said John.

"I am your friend," retorted Vernley. "By their companions ye shall

know them."

"Are you coming out of that bath--the dressing bell went half an hour

ago!"

"I'm getting boiled all over--I want to look my freshest to-night.

You are not the only knight on the war-path; and I've got a deadly

rival."

"Who's that?"

"Tod," said Vernley. "Personally I fear nothing from him--he's

harmless, but he's got a car, and that is usually a winner."

"You are a cynic," said John.

"I've had experience--I've been thrown over for a tennis racquet.

You don't know women, my boy."

"Being elderly, I suppose you know all about them."

"Almost, but there's one thing always puzzles me, Scissors, I always

wonder how much these girls confide in one another and giggle at us

for being such asses."

"I don't think Muriel would," said John seriously.

"Angel!" murmured Vernley, kissing the sponge ecstatically.

III

Mr. Ribble did not come down to breakfast the next morning. He was

reviewing a book for the _Nation_ and kept in his room. John saw

breakfast go in to him and wondered if ever the day would come that

he would be so important as to have breakfast sent up to his room.

He went to the window and sat there for a time enjoying the early

morning scene, the light on the distant hills, the sharp sound of a

passing cart down in the lane, and stray noises from the stable yard.

Then he watched the country postman cycle up the drive, his fresh

healthy face perspiring, a heavy mailbag on his shoulders. John got

up and went out into the hall and received the letters, which he

spread out on the table in neat order. There were fifteen for Mr.

Vernley, six for Mr. Ribble--John paused lovingly over these. How

splendid they looked!

"The Rt. Hon. Ellerton Ribble, M.P."

and as he looked the magic letters changed into--

"The Rt. Hon. John N. Dean, M.P."

Day-dreaming he did not see that Mrs. Vernley had entered the hall

and was looking at him.

"Disappointed, John?" she asked. "I am always disappointed when I

get no letters. I like receiving them, but detest answering them."

"Good morning, Mrs. Vernley! No--I was just thinking how splendid

Mr. Ribble's address looks."

"Wondering when your own will be like it?" asked Mrs. Vernley,

placing her hand on the boy's shoulder. She detected the pleasure

her little guess gave him.

"Well, if Muriel has anything to do with it," she added, "you'll be

the youngest Cabinet minister in history."

"Muriel?" asked John.

"Yes, last night she gave Mr. Ribble the worst cross-questioning he

has had for many a long hour. I believe she has planned your whole

career, but I hope, John," said Mrs. Vernley, opening her letters,

"that you are not going to waste yourself in politics. It is the

most futile life a man can lead. I never knew a member of Parliament

who wasn't a harassed mass of vanity. Their lives are made wretched

by pulling wires for a thousand societies that threaten to extract a

dozen votes at their next election. They are the prey of the

parsons, charity organisations and vested interests--"

"But surely Mr. Vernley--" began John.

"One's husband is always excepted from general criticism, John. My

husband is such a bad member of Parliament because he is such a good

husband."

"The world has to be ruled, Mrs. Vernley."

"I do not deny it, but why presume that Parliament rules Britain?

I'm quite sure it doesn't, any more than Congress rules the United

States or the Chamber rules France. There's the gong. I wonder how

many of us will appear at breakfast!"

In the breakfast room they found Tod and Muriel, and a minute later

Vernley came in and took his seat.

"Let's see--this morning? Ah! it's plaice and sausage," he cried.

"Lift the covers, Mother."

Sausage and plaice duly appeared.

"We have a Scotch cook with the mind of a mathematician," said Tod.

"Wednesday, bacon and eggs."

"Friday--kedgeree!" added Vernley.

"Saturday--grilled ham!" supplemented Muriel.

"Sunday--two eggs," contributed Alice.

"Monday--" began Tod.

He was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Vernley.

"I suppose you children are reciting the food calendar as usual?"

"Yes, Dad,--it's your turn," cried Vernley. "Monday--?"

"Monday--liver and bacon!"

"Really," commented Mrs. Vernley, "if cook heard the way you make fun

of her infinite variety--"

"She might give us sausage twice a week which would please me!" said

Tod. "By the way, Mother, is Mrs. Graham coming to-day?"

"Yes, I want you to meet the 11.15, she will arrive by that."

"Let's all go!" cried Vernley. "Jove, she's a stunner, Scissors!"

"Bobbie dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Vernley, "you mustn't talk of Mrs.

Graham like that!"

"Why not, Mother? I told her she was a stunner once and she pinked

with delight."

"I don't know where you boys pick up all your slang," said Mr.

Vernley.

"We get so many M.P.s in the house, pater," suggested Tod. "Will you

play me a round of golf? I did four and seven in bogie yesterday."

"When?"

"This afternoon--three o'clock," said Tod.

"Remember, dear, we have Mr. Crimp coming to tea," urged Mrs. Vernley.

"Then I'll play you, Tod," Mr. Vernley said decisively. "My dear,

why do you ask that man?"

"Because, being a tactful wife, I know he is worth two hundred votes

to you."

"He turns my tea sour," complained Tod. "The pater and I will stay

out to tea."

"That's not fair," cried Muriel. "It means I shall have to talk to

Mr. Crimp."

"On foreign stamps," murmured Bobbie. "He'll love Scissors--don't

look so glum, Scissors--you look quite crimpled up!"

Tod's aim was unerring; the tea cosy ruffled Vernley's well-plastered

hair.

"Stop! I won't have my breakfast service smashed!" cried Mrs.

Vernley in alarm, but protest was useless. The cosy flew back with

redoubled vigour. Its flight was unimpeded by its destined

objective, for Tod ducked. It went over his head. Polly who had sat

very quiet all through breakfast, received it on her empty plate

where it ousted an egg cup with a clatter, and the familiar sound of

a crash followed as it broke into a dozen pieces.

"You awful children!" cried Mrs. Vernley.

"Never mind, Mum," said Tod, bending and kissing her. "You know

you're proud of your bouncing offspring."

IV

It was no exaggeration to say that the arrival of Mrs. Graham was an

event in John's life. Ever afterwards he could recall vividly the

first sharp impression of that bright Easter morning when he stood on

the country station platform. His impression was always clear, even

in its detail. Recalling her advent and attempting analysis, he was

never sure whether his first surprise was caused by beauty, by dress

or by aroma. There was something distinctive in the perfume Mrs.

Graham used. Only once afterwards did he encounter it, in the foyer

of a Paris theatre, when it brought back in swift vision the English

Easter morning, and the graceful lady extending her hand to him as he

stood, cap in hand, admiring every line of her figure.

True, on the way to the station, above the purr of the car, he had

heard the ecstatic praise of Tod, and the no less fervent admiration

of Bobbie. But their tribute, faithful and generous, omitted the

something that caught John in the mesh. Was it her voice, so rich

with its quality, a speaking voice that gave such distinction to all

she said, that made a trivial comment noteworthy? Was it her

beauty?--that Romney-like picture of colour and contour, the shapely

nose, the lovely arched lips, the delicate rose-bloom of her cheeks

and the dark, quick vivacity of her eyes? Or was it her ornaments,

the grace and style of their choice and use? No earrings ever hung

like hers; they seemed to gather beauty from the lobes they

decorated. The string of pearls that nestled about her throat,

shapely as a swan's neck, in its sheen seemed to derive lustre from

the sweetness of her flesh. Was it those all-expressive hands, that

tapered so fascinatingly with nails that exhibited the charm of

nature and art? Something perhaps of all these, yet something which,

without all these, would make her a woman of memorable beauty.

Her dress was elegant, noteworthy, but women had dressed so a hundred

times and achieved nothing distinctive. John had seen features as

perfect, hands as lovely--but here was something not wholly

extraneous. He knew now why she was always called, "the beautiful

Mrs. Graham"; why, to this woman of thirty-five, clung the air of a

tragedy queen; why, since that dread period of newspaper notoriety,

she had never been allowed to relapse into obscurity, but was

photographed and paragraphed. Would her sin ever find full expiation?

Sin! How absurd that word seemed. Was there such a thing in the

presence of such perfection? John gazed at her as she sat at his

side in the car, talking to Bobbie, while Tod drove. She was alluded

to as a "notorious" woman, and as John thought of it, he almost

laughed aloud; what chance had all the dull, dingy, respectable women

at the side of this empress of life? John, of course, did not know

the details of the divorce case which had made her, for six weeks,

the most discussed woman in the world. The young peer who had ruined

his life and hers, and who, strangely enough, had found all the

sympathy while she took all the blame, who had declared himself

powerless in her presence. Perhaps so, but if so, why so

contemptible in that power, why the ready surrender of her character,

the confession of impotence? She was unfaithful, a married

experienced woman of thirty-five, and he a young boy of twenty-one.

But whose was the sacrifice? She should have known better, said the

world, she corrupted a boy. But if his was the ardour, if the

passion of first love and the lyrical song of youth were laid at her

feet, how could she resist, she a grown woman, who saw youth lapsing

like a spent wave on the shore of Life, one whose elderly husband

could not guess the tumult of nature beating at the doors of her

heart, about to close on summer for ever?

Seven hundred years ago, such love was romance; not even the dagger

of Giovanni had been needed to draw, with its blood, the tears and

sympathy of lovers of all ages for Paolo and Francesca. But

Francesca in the twentieth century must stand in the witness box for

legal luminaries to torture, must hear every nameless act given the

label of lust, and finally, hear Paolo fling the insult of age and

cunning into her face, and plead the ignorance of youth.

And then, when the whole dreadful nightmare was over, another

reappearance in a hopeless battle for her child; then peace again,

while the world whispers of the disappearance from society of the

beautiful Mrs. Graham. But Life would not leave her alone; five

years might have brought some healing to a heart that asked

forgetfulness. The suicide of the young Earl, with a last love

declaration, set the world by the ears again. So he loved her to the

last! She laughed almost. He had died for his love of her, said the

world. Women envied her the compliment of his suicide. He might

have loved her sufficiently to live, she reflected, and once more

passed through a nightmare of picture papers; herself as a bride,

bathing at Ostend; herself in the box; extracts from the trial; her

tears in the last scene, then--God in heaven!--her boy at school, not

in the first school he had had to leave, but another, which he would

now have to leave. And through it all, as if to excite envy and

scandal by obstinacy, her beauty grew, and she remained "the

beautiful Mrs. Graham."

But it was not an aura of tragedy that fascinated John. He had not

exchanged a dozen words when he recognised what he had heard, with

mirth, the school porter call "quality." In the first place her

voice--that was a revelation. What a wonderful instrument the human

voice was! When she spoke her words were invested with alluring

music; then also there was a hint of--no, not worldliness--of--

"Bond Street, Rumpelmeyer's--cum Papier Poudre," supplied Tod a few

days later, alluding to the same hint. She was one of those women of

whom one asked inwardly--was that rouge, was that carmine, did she

pencil? and you were never sure. If so, it was wonderfully done and

fascinating. If not, she was amazingly perfect and unbelievable.

But you never knew for sure. Of her powder, she made no secret. No

beautiful woman ever does, for it is an embroidery which beauty only

can justify.

And as John sat there he experienced a cheap sensation. That it was

cheap he knew, and despised himself for it. She was a divorced

woman--notorious even. Were not the Vernleys bold? Then a hot flush

of shame leapt to his face at the meanness of the thought--he was

like the rest.

His sudden colouring was noticed by Mrs. Graham, who, unaware of its

cause, thought the handsome lad at her side was shy. She began to

talk to him and by the time they reached "The Croft," she had made a

fervent disciple. At lunch he sat between her and Muriel, and felt

an uncomfortable twinge of his conscience. Had Muriel felt

neglected? But she would understand how fascinating it was to talk

to Mrs. Graham, or rather, to hear her talk, for she seemed to have

been everywhere. Big-game shooting in Africa, the wonder of Lake

Louise, the views from Mons Pilatus, the charm of Copenhagen and

other diversions of the Tivoli; the house-fringed shores of the

Little Belt, the crowded Hohestrasse of a Sunday evening in Cologne,

the colour and _gelati_ of the Piazza San Marco, the brightness of

Unter den Linden on a June morning, the approach to the Brandenburg

Gate, Le Touquet and its golf, the winter sports at Murren--the

little glimpses of all these lighted her conversation.

She had dined at most of the Embassies in Europe; delightful little

anecdotes, pointed with the witty brevity of a French phrase,

scintillated in her talk. Yes, she had met "Anatole France," and

told a story of his courtly grumpiness; she had crossed the Atlantic

with Paderewski, who had played for her his "Romance," on the evening

of its composition, played it in the lonely drawing-room while

passengers were at dinner, with such elegance, delicacy of touch and

strength of tone. Had she read "Mr. Polly?" asked John. That

reminded her immediately; they saw Mr. Wells in a Kent house writing

all the morning, playing hockey all the afternoon, and always the

busy little man in a blue serge suit, pouring out a medley of

history, theology, romance and hard-headed business talk. There was

a flashlight of Rodin in his palatial studio. "Madame has beautiful

hands--they must be immortalised," and one saw the robust personality

of Roosevelt at a small dinner party at the Plaza, New York, with a

later snapshot of him speechmaking from the platform of a Pullman at

a wayside station in Indiana. "A lovable man--he made that speech

just to enable fifty country school children to say in after life

that they had heard the President."

What a luncheon hour, with Tod cross-questioning, Muriel laughing,

Vernley dumb, Mr. Vernley corroborating and Mrs. Vernley beseeching

her guest to get something to eat; and whenever a break in the

conversation came, Mr. Ribble restarted the flow of anecdote with a

query or a scholarly footnote. John would have wished that luncheon

hour to last for ever, but before they had risen from the table Tod

had slipped away and a few minutes later the car was purring in the

drive.

"Come along, sir," he called as they rose.

"Not yet, not yet, Tod," protested Mr. Vernley.

"Yes, now--if you go upstairs for a nap, there'll be no golf this

afternoon. Mrs. Graham is coming too."

"But Tod, I have no clubs," protested Mrs. Graham.

"I have--the car's waiting now. Are you coming, Mr. Ribble?"

"No thank you, my boy--I am still ink-bound. Muriel has promised me

a nice cup of tea in the study at four o'clock, and we have Mr. Crimp

coming, I believe."

"That's why we're going."

"Tod, dear!" protested his mother. "How rude you are!"

"I loathe the fellow!"

"And you have no reason, dear."

"Loathing," said Mrs. Graham, "is perhaps the safest of all feelings,

it relies more on instinct than intellect."

"And what are you children going to do?" asked Mr. Vernley.

"Children, pater!" protested Bobbie.

"We are having a double on the lawn. Thomson says it will be quite

good playing to-day. He cut it this morning," said Muriel.

"Well, when we return, if you've any steam left in you, Mrs. Graham

and I will take on the winners."

"Good!" cried Bobbie. "Come on, Scissors, let's change." In his

room, Vernley found John a pair of flannel trousers. There was nine

inches to spare round the waist, and a serious gap above the ankles.

"If I had known I was going to look ridiculous," said John "I

shouldn't have played--" He pulled out the top of the trousers.

"'The expanse of spirit in a waist of shame,' that's what I look

like."

"Don't be rude, Scissors--you know my figure fills you with envy.

Jove, I do hate playing this game with women. Those kids have no

idea how to use a racquet. They'll just stand and squeak every time

they miss a ball by a yard, and you're expected to say 'Hard luck.'"

"Can Mrs. Graham play?"

"Yes, she can make Tod work. If Alice and Kitty were at home we'd

get a good set. I say, Scissors, do you mind playing with Polly?"

"No--but why?"

"Because if I play with her and lose, as I shall, she'll be quite

huffy, whereas if she plays against me and wins, she'll be quite nice

to me," explained Vernley.

"But what about Muriel?"

"Oh--that doesn't matter. Nothing will dim you in Muriel's eyes."

John bent over and tied his shoes.

"How do you mean?" he asked without looking up.

"Well, you're on a pedestal that six-love can't damage. You know you

did talk brilliantly at lunch. I don't know how you do it."

"But I was listening to Mrs. Graham."

"And she to you--why, together you held the table, and old Ribble

kept persuading you both to go on."

"I hope I didn't talk too--" began John.

"You old fraud, you were both soaring and you knew it. You like it,

Scissors. I've seen you take the platform before."

"Rot!" commented John, a little angry at being discovered.

V

When the tea bell rang, four red-faced youngsters trooped in to find

the Reverend Crimp mid-way in a monologue on the woes of the

Dodenesian Islanders. On the appearance of the tennis party, he put

down his cup very deliberately, rose from the comfortable depths of

the divan, folded his puffy hands and beamed upon the young people.

"I think you know John," said Mrs. Vernley.

"Ah, yes," began Mr. Crimp in a minor key. "Of course I know John.

I have a delightful memory of our last meeting. How d'ye do? I

perceive you have grown. Fresh air, eh, and good food, I am sure.

It is a true maxim, early to bed, early to rise--"

"Not much good food at Sedley, Mr. Crimp," said Bobbie. "We always

go to bed hungry."

"I'm sure," commented Mr. Ribble from a corner seat, "your remarks

are libellous; they are certainly belied by your figure."

"That's what I tell Bobbie," cried Muriel, "but he says the cause of

stoutness is atmospheric, not gastronomic."

A few minutes later the drawing room door abruptly opened and Tod

entered, followed by Mrs. Graham and Mr. Vernley.

"Any tea left, Mother?" he cried. "Mrs. Graham has led us all the

way. Jove, she took the last hole in four!" Then, seeing the

clergyman, "Good afternoon, Mr. Crimp." Mr. Vernley crossed the room

and shook hands with him, while Tod was just about to draw up a chair

for Mrs. Graham when Mr. Vernley said, "I do not think you have met

Mrs. Graham, Mr. Crimp?"--and turning--"this is Mr. Crimp, our

clergyman, Mrs. Graham."

Tod, still grasping the proffered chair, saw her hold out her hand to

the clergyman, who moved his in response and then suddenly faltered,

paused, and withdrew his hand. Mrs. Vernley, teapot in action, held

it suspended. Mr. Ribble seemed intent on selecting a cake. John,

Bobbie, Tod and Mr. Vernley were transfixed, waiting the blow.

Surely the fellow would not be so insane, so incredibly rude, thought

Mrs. Vernley. He would not dare!

Mr. Crimp was speaking in a hollow, affected voice.

"The lady's face is familiar to me--in circumstances I do not care to

recall," he said stiffly.

The blow had fallen. It was followed with a painful silence. How

would she take it? With suspended breath, John, his heart aching,

watched her. Yes, she was superb, and dignity did not desert her.

Her face was calm; there was no sign of surprise, not even

embarrassment--perhaps this scene was not new to her. She looked at

Mr. Crimp, the ugly little man puffed out in his asserted dignity.

"I'm sorry," she said, "to awaken your unpleasant memories. I will

retire." She turned to go.

"Julie, dear," cried Mrs. Vernley, putting down the teapot and rising

suddenly to intercept her, "you mustn't listen to--"

"You cad!" blazed Tod, turning on the clergyman, who had gone pale.

"Really, sir, after insulting my guest I must ask you to retire."

Mr. Vernley's voice hardly restrained its anger.

"If there is any insult, it is I who have suffered," replied Mr.

Crimp. "The dignity of my calling--"

"Damn your calling!" cried Tod.

"Sir!" flared Mr. Crimp.

"Tod, be quiet," pleaded Mrs. Vernley.

Mrs. Graham had now reached the door, Mrs. Vernley following, but

John was there first and opened it.

"Leave me dear, please," said Mrs. Graham, turning, and the other

woman saw how it was with her and stopped. Mrs. Graham passed out;

John following, closed the door. He had not meant to follow her but

in his confusion he had closed the door and shut himself out with

her. Mrs. Graham looked at him half blindly, he thought. He dropped

his hand from the handle, and followed her into the hall.

"Mrs. Graham," he called, "I--I'm--" but his lip trembled and the

words choked him.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, then impulsively caught his

outstretched hand, and pressed it.

"You dear boy--I know, I know!" she cried, holding his hand for a

moment, and then swiftly she mounted the stairs. John watched her

go, the blood singing in his ears. He heard her bedroom door close,

and then silence. He turned and looked at the drawing-room door.

What was happening in there? As if in answer, it opened and the Rev.

Crimp emerged, alone, closing it after him with a bang. For a moment

he paused in the hall, flushed, uncertain which way to turn, then,

seizing his hat from the hall stand, he hurried out. When the door

banged and he was gone, John started. His brow was damp with

perspiration and he was trembling. Tod came out.

"Come in, Scissors, and finish your tea."

"No--no, thanks Tod, I don't want any."

"None of us do--the swine!" said Tod fiercely.

John followed him into the drawing-room.

"Has Mrs. Graham gone to her room, John?" asked Mrs. Vernley. He

nodded.

"I must go up to her--poor thing," she said. Muriel, in distraction,

had lifted the piano lid and struck a chord.

"For God's sake! Don't play that now! Oh hell!" cried Tod. Then

seeing the reproach in his mother's eyes, "I beg your pardon,

Mother--but I could murder some one! Come on, boys--I'm going to the

garage."

Bobbie and John followed with alacrity.

Mrs. Graham did not appear at dinner. She kept to her room, and

there was a cloud over the party throughout the evening, despite Mr.

Ribble's delicious sallies of humour, and a fascinating discussion in

the library afterwards between him and Mr. Vernley on Proportional

Representation, a discussion very tedious to Tod and Bobbie, who

slipped away into the billiard room after vehement signals to John to

follow, which he ignored. He absorbed every detail, eager for a

political education, and very occasionally he ventured to ask a

question, which Mr. Ribble answered fully and seriously as though

John had been a grown-up person. Here was a new theme for the

debating society! So he sat, listening until the clock struck

eleven, and Mr. Vernley and Mr. Ribble lapsed into a silence filled

with tobacco smoke, whereon John rose and said good night.

He found Bobbie perched on the edge of his bed, pulling off a sock.

"Good Lord!" was the greeting. "Have you been in the library all the

time?"

"Yes--isn't Mr. Ribble a wonderful man?"

"They say so," assented Vernley, "but I always want to yawn when he

and the pater get going. It is an awful business having to live in a

house where M.P.s are always about. They talk for ever about things

nobody would give a brass button for."

"But surely the method of government--" began John.

"My dear old Scissors--what does it matter how we are governed so

long as we are left alone? Judging from those fellows who come down

here, you'd think the universe would cease to revolve if they went

out of office, and when they do go nobody would know, if it weren't

for their own newspapers which lament so over 'em. And it's all a

game. I've heard these fellows abuse one another, and use the vilest

terms, and, Lord bless us, they're playing bridge or golf together

the next day."

"But that reveals our sporting instinct."

"That's not yours, Scissors. It's the pater's, I recognise it--he

always quotes that when he throws over what he said the night before

about a man." Then ploughing his hands through his thick ruffled

hair, "Lord, what a mess!" he exclaimed.

"What, politics?"

"No--that filthy Crimp and Mrs. Graham."

John started; in his selfish interest he had forgotten the incident.

"There's one blessing," said Vernley, slowly squeezing out some

tooth-paste onto his brush, "we shan't be worried by that swine here

any more. He always made me sick. I wish I could generate a good

hate like Tod's."

"Tod always did dislike him, didn't he?"

"Yes. Good night, Scissors."

"Good night."

John did not sleep for a long time. He lived over that dreadful

episode in the drawing-room. Was Mrs. Graham sleeping now? Perhaps

she was crying, and women hated crying, for it made their eyes red,

and betrayed them in the morning. It would be awkward at breakfast

to meet her as though nothing had happened. Still he looked forward

to doing so. They were friends, she trusted him--that pressure on

his hand told him so. Then he wondered if Crimp was asleep down at

the Vicarage. Probably the beast was snoring now--he looked like a

man who could snore, with those horrible protruding teeth. Then he

fell asleep, and when he woke again Vernley was sitting on his chest.

"You've been snoring," said Vernley.

"I haven't," denied John indignantly. "I couldn't, I don't know how

to."

"But I've heard you in my room--you woke me."

"That proves I haven't, I should have woked myself first," said John

with a fine disregard of grammar. "I'm a lighter sleeper than you."

"You've been dreaming, I'm sure."

"Well, I have--of old Crimp," confessed John.

"That accounts for the snoring. Hurry up, the first gong's gone."

Downstairs, Muriel was the first to meet John.

"Mrs. Graham's going," she told him. "Isn't it a shame?"

"Going?--what, now?"

"No, soon after breakfast. She told Mother she couldn't stay. Of

course she knows we're all sympathetic and all that, but she says she

finds sympathy as hard to endure as the other things. There are

always scenes like this wherever she goes, and she doesn't intend

ever going out again. I'm dreadfully sorry for her."

"So am I, but Muriel, we mustn't show it; we must pretend nothing's

happened. Let's joke with her at breakfast."

They went in together. Mrs. Graham was there, and she was not

red-eyed. Indeed, to John, she seemed more beautiful than ever. She

talked wittily to them all, and Muriel and John found their desperate

resolution quite unnecessary. After breakfast they all walked round

the grounds. Mrs. Graham was leaving in half an hour. To his

delight John found himself walking with her down the rhododendron

drive.

"I'm so sorry you're going, Mrs. Graham," he said.

"That's kind of you, Scissors--may I call you Scissors?" she asked,

smiling at him.

"Oh, please!" he answered.

"And I hope," she added, "this will not be our last meeting. If ever

you come up to town, and would care, you must call at my little flat.

I will give you my address." She opened her chatelaine and extracted

a card. John took it.

"I should love to, Mrs. Graham--when the next holidays come--will you

be in town then?"

"Yes," and he noticed she hesitated before adding quickly, "but you

must ask your guardian first."

John's heart stopped. The cruelty of it!

"I shall do nothing of the kind," he said hotly. "I--I think you're

wonderful, Mrs. Graham," he added in boyish admiration, and he

noticed she turned her head away. A moment later they had come out

of the drive and joined the others.

BOOK III

GROWTH

CHAPTER I

I

The chronicles of youth, filled with trivial incidents, but acute at

the moment of experience, swiftly pass. John found himself, on his

seventeenth birthday, hardly aware that he was leaving boyhood behind

him. He was very different from the shy sensitive youngster who on

that momentous day of his arrival at Sedley had stood miserably on

the platform watching with an aching heart the receding train. He

had altered, almost incredibly, and yet he had not altered. In the

handsome, self-possessed lad, a leader of his house, something of a

god to the younger boys, with already a distinguished 'career' behind

him, as athlete and scholar, a President of the Literary Society, a

leading light in debate, the Editor of the school magazine, Sedley

indeed had a creditable specimen of its training.

Had Mr. Fletcher, who had watched over him with a father's care, been

asked for his most reliable boy, it would have been John that he

named, or for his most promising, again, John, despite the dazzling

brilliance of the fitful Marsh; and yet Mr. Fletcher knew his

weaknesses--the tendency to dream, the sudden sensitiveness that made

John seem afraid of life, and occasionally, but rarely now, that

strange oriental preoccupation, that came over him, and shut him out

from his fellows. There was always something a little mysterious,

thought Mr. Fletcher. He loved and knew well all his boys. Even

Marsh's fanciful versatility held no secrets from him. But he never

quite plumbed the bottom of John's nature. Affectionate, deeply so,

revealed in a hundred small acts of tribute, Mrs. Fletcher had drawn

out the fires of devotion in the boy's heart, even sometimes, to

little whimsical confessions that she knew were signs of his absolute

trust. He had talked of his mother often. It was in Mrs. Fletcher's

drawing-room, where she had first seen father and son together, that

they talked of the reunion, after a parting of three years' duration.

She laughed away all John's fears of that meeting, soothed his

feverish anticipation.

"Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, will father think I've grown?" he would ask.

"Why of course,--you're almost a man now."

"But do you think I have grown as he would wish?"--half fearfully

this, at which Mrs. Fletcher would laugh, "Why you silly boy, are you

afraid your father won't be glad to see you?"

"Oh,--it's not that--only you know Mrs. Fletcher--he thought so much

of me when I was a kid--I'm almost afraid he might be disappointed."

"Fathers and mothers never change, John, it's the children who do

that," she answered him. "And look at all you've done and--" she was

going to add, what a handsome fellow you've grown into, but she

checked herself. She didn't believe in turning a boy's head.

So the momentous day came. John, up very early, very scrupulously

dressed, excited by a confirmatory telegram, was filled with anxiety

as to whether the taxicab would be in time to meet the train. He

slacked shamelessly in form that morning, but the master was

indulgent. Something of his anxiety and excitement permeated his

friends. Even Vernley became aware of the meaning of nerves, good

old Vernley, fatter and more faithful than ever, sharer of all joys,

woes, triumphs, disasters, and food.

But the great moment came; the train drew up, the doors flew open, a

sudden flooding of the platform, a boy's flushed face under a straw

hat, an eager survey, with heart tremendously thumping, and a strong

resolution not to ran or cry, a terrible fear that he had not come

after all, and then--

There! His father! He had not changed!

"Dad!" he shouted rapturously, waving a hand. The father stared a

while.

"John, my boy--what a great lad you are!" There was a swift,

astonished survey. This tall, clean-limbed, laughing boy his son!

This lad, with the glimmering grace of an athlete, the boy he had

nursed at Amasia? His eyes lingered on every feature, noted the

broadening shoulders, the straightness of his carriage, the direct

level glance of the eyes. Presently they were seated side by side in

the taxi, and then, absurdly enough, John found he had nothing to

say, not one of those thousand premeditated questions to ask. The

father, too, felt restrained, and waited.

"Ali sends his love," he said, at last.

"Dear old Ali! How is he, Dad?"

"Grown, but not like you, and quite a grave married man now."

"Married! What a joke--Ali married!"

"He does not think it a joke, he is very serious about it. He was

married the week before I left. I met his father in Constantinople.

Ali seemed a little sad because you did not write oftener. I showed

him your last photograph. He looked at it for a long time and then

said you were a great lord. I told him you were more probably a

great anxiety."

Then followed lunch at Mr. Fletcher's--just his father and Mr. and

Mrs. Fletcher, and, by the way of a great favour to John in

celebration of the event--Vernley and Marsh as special guests. John

was frightfully anxious about his friends. He wanted them to admire

his father as he did, and in turn he hoped desperately that his

father would take to Vernley and Marsh. He was not long in doubt,

for the elderly man had soon won his way into the boys' hearts, and

had broken down their stiff reserve.

"Isn't he ripping, Scissors!" whispered Vernley, during the second

course, "and you're alike as two peas." Under encouragement, Marsh

was radiant. John felt his father was such a success that he would

ask Lindon to the great tea in his study. A little in awe of the

hypercritical god, he had held Lindon in reserve, but Marsh had been

conquered and that young gentleman was critical and seldom approved

of parents. "An outworn institution," he always declared as he

observed them on Prize Day.

Marsh, however, rose to great heights of enthusiasm and made the tea

party an unqualified success. It was true there were not enough

buns, owing to the repetition of some guests before the plate reached

others, and the kettle fell off the fire and soaked the muffins.

These were incidents. The great event was Mr. Dean's stories of Asia

Minor. And it was Marsh who kept him going, Marsh with an incredible

knowledge of strange Eastern ways, and an insight and intelligent

curiosity that amazed John's father. When the bell went and they all

trooped away, John knew it had been a triumphant day.

Mr. Dean left the next morning. He had business to attend to before

his holidays, but he crowned his success with his last act. He asked

Vernley, Marsh and Lindon to join him and John for the first

fortnight of the summer holidays. He had taken a house at Grasmere

for a month, after which he and John were making visits to his

friends. With this promise of a happy reunion, Mr. Dean left them.

That holiday became a great memory to John. They had a small house

that nestled on the side of Fairfield, with wonderful views from all

its windows of Grasmere and the lovely little lake, the road to

sylvan Rydal, the fern covered side of Red Bank. These were days

when they all set out, knapsack on backs, with stout boots, shorts

and sweaters, to climb the mountains. And what talk was theirs!

There was Marsh with his inimitable irony; where did he gather all

that he knew? Mr. Dean said that he must be a reincarnation.

"No, please!" retorted Marsh. "Have you noticed how all the cranks

who profess to be reincarnations always claim something regal or

aristocratic or famous, for their previous existence? Mr. Smith will

tell you he was Marc Antony, while little Miss Titmouse, who lives on

nuts and uncooked food, and believes bad thoughts make bad weather,

will assure you she was mother to Marcus Aurelius, which in some way

explains that fellow's incessant moralising. Now if I have to be a

reincarnation, let me be original. I don't want to be an echo of

Demosthenes, or a second edition of Hannibal, or Henry the

Eighth--I'm much more likely to have been dustman to Ptolemy the

First, providing there were dustmen in that era."

In the evening, after dinner, when tired in every limb with a long

jaunt across the mountains, with that pleasant ache that follows

exercise, they would sit in the lamp-light listening to a reading

from the poets; or a passage descriptive of the ground they would

explore on the morrow. Perhaps, after many requests, Lindon would

sit at the piano and play a ballade or a sonata, while they looked

out across the gathering gloom at a solitary light on the opposite

side of the valley; and they would notice how bright and lonely were

the stars hanging over the mountain heights. As John sat there in

the dimly lit room with his friends and his father, listening

intently, a deep melancholy stole into his heart. This might never

happen again, this strange jolly time, and there was his future in

the world and all life so strange before him. But the sadness of

these reflections brought him a glow of pleasure. He felt so acutely

conscious of everything, he seemed so capable in this fresh

experience of Life to accomplish anything he wanted. So he let

himself dream pleasantly, which Vernley would notice and suddenly

exclaim, "Scissors has gone East again!" for it was that old far-away

expression which had so often come into John's face, but was rarer

now.

So with crowded hours the end of the holiday came. Invitations to

spend a week at Vernley's and at Marsh's were accepted, the rest of

the holiday was to be spent by John and his father together. They

travelled down with Vernley from Windermere to his home, and here Mr.

Dean once more entered that large world of men and affairs with which

he had lost touch. His holiday in England was not unconnected with a

proposal that might result in his permanent return a few years hence,

for which he was striving. It was essential that John should be kept

in England and have a large field of opportunity at his disposal. He

had made arrangements with Mr. Fletcher for John to enter at King's

College when his time ended at Sedley, as it would, next year. It

would be time enough then to decide upon John's career, if the boy

had not revealed any preference.

He liked the Vernleys and was glad to find John had chosen his

friends so well. He had hoped to take his son on a visit to some of

his own friends, but it was obvious that John had chosen his friends

with a regard for their quality of character. There was something

very open and faithful about young Vernley and this was reflected by

the whole household. However much Mr. Vernley might try to deceive

himself, and believe and attempt to impress the belief that he was a

man of affairs, Dean soon detected that he was naturally lazy and

extremely good-hearted, with a passion for horses, a glass of port

after dinner and a good cigar.

As for Muriel, that little fairy danced her way into the father's

heart as she had into the son's. John had been very guarded in his

remarks about Muriel, so guarded, that his father guessed all

immediately. Muriel herself soon decided that Mr. Dean should have

been Mr. Ribble's brother. There was the same genial, somewhat

"curly-crinkly" appearance, as she called it, and as she confessed to

him one evening when he had begged a kiss in return for a box of

chocolates, she was glad he was not as serious as John, "who looks at

me like a collie dog and wags his tail when I smile." Mr. Dean

laughed heartily at this, it was so truly descriptive of John, who

followed her in silence and devotion. When Mr. Dean left, he took

Muriel on one side.

"I wonder if I can ask you a favour?--it's for John's sake," he

added, as she looked up at him. "You see he has no brothers, and no

sisters, which is even more important for a boy, and living somewhat

lonely, I'm afraid he may become self-centred, which means being

selfish, so I want you to be his official sister. He'll talk to you.

I think he'll even tell you his dreams and ambitions, things he would

never tell to other boys because he feels he is just a little

different from them. I think he is, for instance, too highly

sensitive. I want him to grow out of that; and only sharing

confidences will help him. So I'm asking you, Muriel, to make a

brother of him, if you will?"

Muriel had never quite looked at it in this light; then she had a

swift intuition that Mr. Dean was not in the dark. A sister--that

meant service in return. It meant something more than having John as

a courtier--it meant, yes, running after him a little bit if

necessary, and--oh clever Mr. Dean!--sharing him with other friends.

She promised readily. She was going to be a sister to John.

Another week and they had left the Vernleys and were at the Marsh's.

John's father had been doubtful regarding young Marsh for a day or

two. There was no question of the boy's brilliance, but he

distrusted precocious persons, and Marsh's omniscient cynicism was

not healthy in a boy of seventeen. He attached too much importance

to the smartness of a thing. All his opinions were original and

brilliant, but they were dominated by those ends rather than by a

love of truth. It was not good that John should see the ridiculous,

bizarre or cynical aspect of life before he had tasted its

wholesomeness; and there was that in Marsh's character, so restless,

so desirous of things because they were new rather than good or

genuine, which made his judgments unbalanced for all their refreshing

enthusiasm.

But fuller knowledge of the boy modified these reservations. His was

a razor-edge intellect, and highly combative. John, inclined to be

sensitive, introspective, was shaken up and drawn out of himself by

Marsh, who challenged all his ideas and made him defend them with

passion. Moreover, Marsh had, for a mere youth, an amazing range,

not of experience, but of thought. The literature of Greece, Rome,

Germany, France and England were not strange to him. He read rapidly

and talked volubly; true, his ideas were ill-digested, but he had

ideas, and they flowed in his conversation. His curiosity was

tireless as his enthusiasm. On their Lakeland holiday Mr. Dean had

been amazed by his turbulent spirits, his readiness to rhapsodise,

argue, and run, swim, box, climb, read and eat at any time of the day

and night. He had no temper in the meaning of the word. His

equanimity was never shaken.

"You know, sir," he said one day, "old Scissors thinks I'm the

Voltaire of the party, but when he likes to wake up he can make us

all take a back seat. Sometimes his quiet efficiency annoys me. He

is always so infernally correct. Something-like always does for me,

whether it's a quotation or a figure, but Scissors always has the

exact thing and knocks you down with it, and the queer thing is, that

he's got imagination--and they don't often go together; you don't get

the Scottish lawyer working with the Welsh preacher."

Mr. Dean was amazed at this bit of schoolboy psychology, but it

raised Marsh in his estimation, and from that time he saw there was

something more than scintillating wit in Marsh's observation. With

this view of the boy, all his preconceptions of his parents were

shattered on meeting them. How came this bird of such bright plumage

in so sombre a nest?

Teddy Marsh met them at Loughboro Station, in exuberant spirits as

usual. "Good morning, sir," he cried, waving his straw hat as soon

as he sighted the guests on the platform. "Hello, Scissors, you

rusty old blade! Come along, sir, our wigwam on wheels awaits you.

The pony's in a vile temper this morning, and will probably insist on

going in the opposite direction. Yes, they're all well, thanks.

Mother's got a new creed--let's see, what was it when you were here

last, Scissors, a Nutfooder or a Christadelphian, or was it

Rawsonism?--well now she's a Sunrayer. You'll hear all about it;

they're a sect she's linked up with in middle America; they lie in

the sunshine all day, think violet thoughts, and achieve salvation by

sunburn. The governor's horrified and threatens excommunication.

All aboard?--won't that bag topple over? Hold on, I'm going to

tickle Flossie's flanks."

He whirled the whip and with a running fire of questions, answers and

comments, they rolled along the leafy lanes towards the vicarage.

II

As before, that visit was composed of long sunny days in the garden,

endless tennis sets, or cricket parties at the Hall, and always in

the evening, after dinner, there was Mrs. Marsh's wonderful playing

in the drawing-room. Tea-time was the favourite hour with John. He

always felt glad when he saw the maid, changed from her pink and

white dress for the morning into official black and white, with lace

cap, bearing the folding table which she set under the walnut tree.

Then hammock chairs appeared; after that a white tea cloth, and the

rattle of china and the glint of the silver sugar basin--how he knew

the design!--two folding lids, with soft white sugar like flour

inside--jampot and teaspoons and cake knives. Then--after what

seemed a long time--the glad tinkle of the tea-bell, with Mrs. Marsh

crossing to the table, her first appearance for the afternoon. Mr.

Marsh would follow a few minutes late, and sometimes Teddie would

rouse him in the study, where he dozed after lunch when the weather

was hot. Generally there were a couple of guests to make a tennis

four, either the solicitor's daughter, or the governess from the

Hall, who played the best tennis of any lady in the county and was

always in danger of losing her situation because visitors at the Hall

would always mistake her for the mistress.

It was a merry tea-time. Mr. Marsh was not always quite awake, and

he had, at this function, quite a gift for Spoonerisms.

"Pass me the plake, kease," he would say.

"Certainly, sad," would respond Teddie.

After tea, John's father and Mr. Marsh usually disappeared. On two

occasions they were challenged to a tennis double and to the

amazement of exuberant youth, won. But generally they disappeared at

the end of the garden.

"They've gone to talk roses again," commented Mrs. Marsh.

"The governor's mouth's watering with the names Mr. Dean's given

him--he'll go about talking Turkish to the gardener for the next two

months," said Teddie.

Dressing for dinner, too, was like a prelude to the delight of the

meal and the music to follow. John's dress shirt and jacket and

trousers lay neatly spread out on the bed.

There was, at six-thirty prompt, the copper jug, filled with hot

water, with its initialled felt cover; and the country bathroom!

John always wanted to sing in his. There was the low music of the

running water, the lucid green shimmer, reflected on the porcelain

sides, sending waves of rippling light over the ceiling.

Then, with gleaming shirt front and glossy hair, an immaculate boy

would descend to the drawing room and wait with the others for the

dinner gong. John soon grew to love those country sounds just before

dinner; through the windows glowed long stretches of wooded country;

often a thrush marked even song, and there was the retiring twitter

of the birds. A cow driven byre-wards lowed in the valley, and the

cawing of rooks in the Hall drive came on eddyings of the evening

breeze.

At lamplight in the drawing-room, after coffee, Teddie would raise

the dark reflective lid of the grand.

"Now, Mother, come and break the Beckstein," he said; almost a

formula, that sentence, to John. And Mrs. Marsh would rise and seat

herself at the keyboard, carefully adjusting the height of the seat,

moving back the music-rack slide, playing a preparatory major scale,

that descended in the minor, before proceeding to the real business.

Then, a momentary silence, the death of talk, and the first notes

trembling into harmony. Never would John forget that first night on

which, squatting on the floor at his father's feet, he heard Mrs.

Marsh play Schumann's _Papillons_, It opened a new world to him; he

seemed to be looking down a long grove of trees into a glade filled

with moonlight, where an intruding wind, lost and hesitating, ran

from bough to bough awakening whispers. That hesitating prelude, the

slow, then quickening announcement of the theme, and the glad,

butterfly-flutter of the melody, dying away again into melancholy and

silence.

Somehow, as John sat there, with his father so near, it brought back

other nights, nights on that verandah overlooking the silver Yeshil

Irmak, as it flowed singing along the dark gorge, with the high moon

peering over the cliffs of Amasia; and a great longing filled him to

be back there again just once, to sit in that hot, spiced dusk, to

hear the tinkle of the camel bells from the highway, and perhaps the

soft voice of Ali, dear old Ali, dignified and melancholy, sitting

cross-legged, and reading every mysterious sound of that Eastern

night.

"There, that's enough for me," cried Mrs. Marsh, breaking across

John's reverie. "Come along, John, you've got to sing."

"John, sing?" cried Mr. Dean. "I never knew he could sing."

"I can't, Dad, it's Mrs. Marsh's idea!"

"But he can! Come along, John," and she struck the opening chords of

"Drink to me only." "Why, Mr. Dean, your lazy son used to sit here,

watching me work night after night, and it was only by accident I

found he had a voice--I heard him singing in the bathroom one

morning."

"Mother's heard me in the bathroom," said Teddie, "but that's why she

doesn't ask me."

"No shirking, John," called Mrs. Marsh, replaying the opening bars,

and obediently John stood up and sang in a light baritone voice.

When he had finished there was applause. There was feeling in John's

voice; the spirit breaking through the flesh.

"You should hear him sing, 'Who is Sylvia?' Mr. Fletcher makes him

sing it," said Teddie.

"But Mrs. Marsh has no music," answered John finding a loophole for

escape.

"You fraud--you know you can play it."

Mrs. Marsh jumped up. "I believe he can do lots of things--and he

sits selfishly here listening to us all blundering."

John sat down, placed his hands on the keyboard, and began softly,

being very nervous, chiefly because his father was listening.

"_Who is Sylvia, what is she?

That all her swains commend her.

Holy, fair and wise is she;

The heavens grace did lend her,

That adored she might be._"

"And now that's finished," said Teddie, "let's have Sedley Field

Song."

"You asked me to sing 'Who is Sylvia,'" retorted John.

"I know, but ours is better."

"All right then, here you are,"--and once more John's hands pressed

down the black and white keys while his voice went soaring into

"Field Song."

"_Summer days, winter days, when a fellow's young

And friends are many and pains are few,

When the ball going over filled every fellow's lung

With cheers for--_"

Yes, those were beautiful nights in the lamp-lit vicarage

drawing-room. Their memories sank deep into the heart of a happy

impressionable boy. But one more impression. Enter, on Thursday

night, two days before the termination of their visit, Veronica, aged

seventeen and all the Spring sweetness thereof. It was thoughtful of

Mrs. Marsh to ask a lonely girl from a neighbouring manor house, but

she could not have seen the effect on John. He first saw her in the

hall. He had just come down the stairs, immaculate and well-groomed,

with shining hair and the rose-red of health in his face. He heard a

mingling of voices--Mrs. Marsh's and another--that other! His heart

stopped. It was like the trill of a bird. Then he saw a flimsy

cloak fall away, revealing a thin, elfin girl, with gleaming

shoulders and a dress swan-like in the dim hall light. She turned

and he could see her face--an oval, petite face with a little

whimsical mouth which might be just going to laugh or cry, and the

small head tumbling with curls, short and bobbed, and shaking as she

turned. It was a vision and the youth on the stairs paused--would

she vanish into the darkness of the doorway again, or--

"Here's John," said Mrs. Marsh coming forward. "Veronica, this is

John Dean, Teddie's friend."

"How d' you do," she said to John, and half held out her hand, but

John, embarrassed, withheld his, and then bowed stiffly. Mrs. Marsh

noticed his gaucherie, and guessed the cause.

"You're to take Veronica into dinner," she said, leading the way to

the drawing-room. He should have said something polite in response,

but he walked like a stick at the side of the girl, tongue-tied, and

furious at his own stupidity. He had never known his self-possession

to desert him in this manner. Even Muriel had not left him

speechless. Here, he began a comparison with Muriel, and felt a

twinge of disloyalty. Of course he was not disloyal---and disloyal

to what? But the thought perturbed, with the result that Miss

Veronica Chase, used to adoration, found the good-looking youth at

her side very dull, despite his romantic appearance. The entrance of

Teddie with "Hello, Veronica old thing!" relieved the tension, and by

the time they were seated at dinner, John had found his tongue. He

had asked her if she lived thereabouts, when followed a minute

description of their old manor house, with one of the thousands of

beds which that poor restless queen, Elizabeth, was reported to have

slept on.

"Why don't you and Teddie came over to-morrow for tea? It's only two

miles from here."

"I should like to very much," said John. What an enchanting little

hand she had; he watched the thin fingers as they played with a fork.

When she turned to speak to Teddie, he took the opportunity to study

her profile, fascinated by the beautiful curve of her neck, the

little pink ear, half clouded in a curl, the mouth--with its pensive

corners. This is perfection, thought John.

"_Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life too high,

It is a bird that hath no feet for earth:

Strange wings, strange eyes, go seek another sky,

And find thy fellows of an equal birth._"

--He recalled Richard le Gallienne's lines. And the real John

disappeared that night--he was a creature of mono-syllables, and

Marsh had no flint on which to strike the sparks of his wit. He

realised that John had been swamped in the flood of Beauty, and

gallantly came to the rescue. True, John emerged somewhat in the

drawing-room, and to-night, he sang readily and well, his effort

being repaid by Veronica's "you sing beautifully--I could listen all

night," although she jarred somewhat slightly by adding, "Do you know

any comic songs?" Though he abhorred them, John would gayly have

responded, and made a note to add a comic song to his repertoire.

The end of the evening came all too soon; the car waited outside to

bear her away. The two boys lingered round it while the chauffeur

tucked the rugs about his young mistress. Then she went with a

farewell wave of the hand and a musical "Good night," which John,

standing there in the porch, heard drift up to the star-light.

"Are you going to stand there forever, O stricken heart?" asked

Marsh. "I want to fasten this door--and bar Love out."

John went in. Upstairs, in their room, he was silent.

"Scissors, you poor impressionable young calf, I hope you're not

going to pine away in the night."

"Oh shut up!"

"That is not a gift of mine, as you know. Scissors, old thing,

you're racing your phagocytes, as Metchnikoff would say, since all

love is stimulation. She isn't worth it. I know old Veronica.

She's a heart-cracker. She counts her conquests by the hundred."

"I don't think it's very decent of you to--" began John, a little

peevish. Marsh's flippancy irritated him.

"To abuse our guest? No, it's not, Scissors, but I don't want to see

you going about with sticking plaster on your heart. Old Veronica

and I understand each other perfectly. She cracked me once, and then

laughed. That kid hasn't the brains of a beetle; she's merely an

agitator of pink youth. Flirt with her, yes, and she'll give you a

good time, for she's got a sporting instinct--but don't take her

seriously--she doesn't know what it means. Did you hear her ask you

for a comic song?--and you did sing well to-night, Scissors--the

nightingale to his mate."

Marsh touched the tender spot. That comic song request rankled.

"You didn't talk much with her?" asked Marsh.

"No."

"Well--do so to-morrow. Ask her what she reads, what she likes, the

pictures she prefers. She's got a mind like an illustrated Sunday

paper--you've had the comic supplement to-night."

John groaned. Marsh's arrows always hit.

"I think you're beastly about her," he said desperately.

"No, I'm not. Veronica and I are great pals, but she doesn't come

deer-stalking on this estate. You're a sweet kid, Scissors, and I'm

not going to let you cry yourself to sleep for a butterfly with the

brains of a bat!"

"Oh rot--you do rag, Teddie."

"Well, well, dear infant, just investigate to-morrow."

Why did Marsh delight in pricking balloons? He was right: horribly

right, thought John, as they drove away from the manor house next

evening. That afternoon had been one long disillusionment. She was

just as beautiful, just as attractive, and John feasted his eyes and

heart on her. But she made a mistake when she took him down to pick

gooseberries, in the far end of the garden, away from the others.

"Give me your hand," she cried, and he helped her up the bank. He

tried to master an impulse to squeeze it, and just failing, was going

to, when she anticipated him. That sent the first cool little wind

around his heart. She laughed frankly into his eyes. She was

irresistibly beautiful, "and she knows it," thought John.

"Shut your eyes, Scissors, and open your mouth."

He obeyed. A cool thin hand held his chin, the fingers of another

pushed a berry in his mouth.

"Swallow!"

He swallowed obediently.

"Open!" she commanded.

He opened his eyes, her face was very near to his, her bewitching red

mouth smiled at him, and he saw two little devils of mischief dancing

in blue eyes that looked straight into his.

John looked back into them. There was a pause.

"You're shy," she said reproachfully.

"I know," he answered. Her hand slid off his shoulder.

"I wonder who's winning the game," she said, moving towards a bush.

"Perhaps we ought to go back."

"But I want to talk to you," said John.

"Do you?--you are a strange boy," Veronica said.

"I'm not a boy--at least, no more than you are a girl," he retorted

somewhat resentfully.

Another silence. They came to a summer house with a table in it, on

which a book was turned down. John picked it up. It was by a

popular woman novelist whose sex sentimentality swamped the

bookstalls.

"Do you read Amelia Serkle?" she asked. "I love them."

"No---I've never read her books--are you fond of reading?"

"Awfully."

"What do you like? Have you read Conrad?"

"No."

"Wells--or Bennett?" he added.

"Yes--one of Bennett's--I didn't like it. I like Amelia Serkle and

Helena Thinne best."

"Oh," said John. She was fast losing marks.

"And poetry, I adore poetry!" she said ecstatically.

"So do I," said John, warming. "Isn't Masefield splendid, and

Thompson and Swinburne--"

"I haven't read any of those, I think. I like Laurence Hope, and oh,

I love Ella Wheeler Wilcox! Do you know her 'Poems of Passion?'"

"I looked at them--once," said John. There was no hope left in his

voice. He did not disguise the fact very successfully.

"We'd better go back," she said.

They joined the others, who had finished their set. It was late and

Marsh suggested going.

"Good-bye," he said, at the end of the drive, down which Veronica

accompanied them. Even then John marvelled at her beauty, enhanced

by the setting of those elms and the old manor house.

"Good-bye," she said, offering John her hand.

"Good-bye," he responded. And as he said the word it was obvious

that they had lost all interest in each other. It really was

"Good-bye," and neither minded.

Half a mile from the house, walked in comparative silence, Marsh

burst into laughter.

"What's the joke?" asked John.

"I can't help laughing at that poor kid--she's so crude."

"Who--Veronica--why?"

"I'm wondering how many romances she's killed in the gooseberry

bushes."

John glanced angrily at Marsh, and then the humour of it caught him

and he laughed also.

"How did you guess?" he asked.

"Because I've shut my eyes and opened my mouth," said Marsh. "Poor

old Veronica. She is a flirt! If only she had brains--just a few.

And there are a lot like her. Now, I'll tell you of a girl that's my

type, jolly sensible too. I want to see more of her next Prize Day."

"Who?" asked John interested.

"Vernley's sister," replied Marsh.

"Oh--yes," said John, knocking down a nettle with a swish of his

tennis racquet.

Then came the end. The train drew away from Loughboro Station.

John's father leaned back in his seat while John hung out of the

window, waving to Teddie and Mr. and Mrs. Marsh on the platform,

until the arch of the bridge shut them from sight. John sank back

into his seat.

"Aren't they jolly, Dad!" he cried.

"Splendid, old son,--you make good friends."

III

There was one unsuccessful event in their holidays, that was the

visit to John's uncle. Mr. Dean went, John thought, from a spirit of

duty rather than pleasure. John had only seen his uncle once, when

he had come to the school on Prize Day and had treated John as a

child of five and adopted an air of patronage towards his father,

which the boy deeply resented. They had not responded to each other

in a single detail. "Just like his father," said Sir Henry to his

wife, the next day, "as impractical as Charles and as wayward. The

boy wants strong handling. I told his house-master so." He had

departed without asking John home for the holidays, greatly to John's

relief, for he would have gone in a spirit of martyrdom. John felt

he was resented because he was his father's son. It must be galling

to the uncle with no sons and two daughters, to know, unless he was

more fortunate, that his nephew would inherit the title. It was the

one unsuccessful fact in Sir Henry's life. He could and did ignore

his brother, but hang it, he could not ignore his brother's son. He

never read without anger in the Baronetage, "Heir-presumptive,

Charles Dean q.v." and q.v. led him to John Narcissus Dean.

Narcissus! What a preposterous name to give a boy--to an heir!

Their visit did not improve the mutual opinion. Charles Dean

resented his brother's air of patronage, his smug self-satisfaction,

his ill-disguised vanity over his estates which somehow he seemed to

attribute to his own ability. Four tedious days, in which every

minute held the possibility of friction, brought the visit to an end.

John's father did not say much afterwards, but John realised all he

thought. Once only did he reveal in words what John surmised.

"I hope you will never have cause to ask help from any

relations--stand on your own feet, John," he said.

John accompanied his father down to Southampton. It seemed almost

impossible that this was the end, that he would not see him again for

two years. How far away was Amasia--and now that they were together,

so closely together, it seemed as if they had never been apart.

"Two more years, John--and I shall have a directorship here--it won't

be long, old son--you're seventeen and time flies at that age."

They stood at the top of the gangway. A gong was sounding, and an

officer came down the deck. "Visitors ashore, please!" he shouted.

Father and son grasped hands. It was a long tight grip, with John

trying to look squarely into his father's eyes, summoning a stiff lip

to his aid, the father simply saying,

"Good-bye, dear lad."

"Good-bye, Father."

A loosening of the grip, a turn, and his feet were blundering down

the steep, trellised gangway. He halted on the quay, while the ship

was being warped out. They were too far apart for words, his father

high up above him, leaning over the deck rail. Now the boat was

away, the last rope drawn aboard; the stern propellers thrashed the

waters into a white foam, the gulls cried, wheeled and followed.

John pulled out his handkerchief and waved it, though he felt soon he

might have to put it to another use. There was a responding flutter,

and then distance grew between them, distance across which John's

heart was stretching until it well nigh broke; a grey spot on the

horizon, and it was all over.

He walked along the quay, the rain began to drizzle down. It turned

cold and he shivered as he walked back to the station.

England seemed a lonely place to live in.

CHAPTER II

I

A busy year, a year filled with little successes, trials and

triumphs, and John, taller and a little quieter, perhaps too quiet

for a healthy lad of eighteen. He had achieved his object by winning

the Mansell Exhibition, not of great value, it was true, but £50

would help and the real value of success lay in the fact that his

father would know he had worked since they had parted. In June,

Vernley and he had gone to Cambridge for the King's College entrance

examination. It had not troubled either of them greatly, although

Vernley, with an unshaken belief in his own stupidity, swore he had

been ploughed. Their glimpse of Cambridge filled them with dreams of

a golden age. They stayed on for a couple of days after the

examination and made visits and excursions. Vernley's cousin was at

Trinity and had a large bare room, reached by a winding staircase

that looked on to the Backs, with a vista of bridges and elm-tree

walks.

The day after their return to Sedley, Mr. Fletcher sent for John. It

was late in the evening when young Jones came to his study with the

summons, and John was just finishing a game of chess with Marsh.

Vernley sat in the window trying to read "Henry Esmond" in the sunset

light. The Triumvirate, as they were called, had recently moved into

this large room in the corner of the quadrangle. It was regarded as

the lap of luxury by the small boys who saw with envious eyes its

easy chairs, the cretonne curtains and the piano which Marsh had

imported.

"Shan't be long," said John going out. What could Fletcher want him

for? Perhaps a house matter--he was a prefect now. He tapped at the

green baize door, pushed it open, then crossed the small hall of the

Fletcher household, and knocked again at the study door. Mr.

Fletcher bade him enter.

"Oh--Dean, I want to see you--come in--sit down. It's about a

matter--a--" he hesitated. Why did the man fumble so, and fidget

with the blotter on his desk? The room was almost dark, he could

hardly see the master's face. Suddenly Mr. Fletcher got up and

walked across the room to the fireplace where he stood for a moment

with his back to John. Then abruptly he turned.

"Dean--I hardly know what to say--how to tell you--I'm--I'm--you must

be brave, my dear lad, but I know you will be--you will be," he

repeated. John just stared at him. What had happened--and was he to

blame in any way?

"What's the matter, sir?" he asked.

Fletcher drew near and put his hand on John's shoulder.

"I have sad news, John. Your father--"

John started to his feet; why had Mr. Fletcher's hand trembled so?

"There's nothing wrong, sir?" he asked, his heart sinking within him,

for he knew now something was wrong.

"No, not wrong, Dean--but everything that could be brave, and like

him. My poor boy, your father is dead--there--there, it is terrible

for you, I know." Mr. Fletcher pressed him down on to his seat again.

"Dead!" said John,--"not--not dead, sir?" he pleaded, raising his

hand as if to ward off a blow.

"This letter has just come, Dean, by express post."

John took it, and the master crossed the room to the electric switch.

"I'd rather it was dark, sir,--I think I can see it," said John.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Fletcher, and with an aching heart he

watched the boy go to the window and peer over the letter. It seemed

an eternity before John turned and spoke.

"There--there seems no hope, sir--the company has none," he said in

an expressionless voice.

"No, Dean, I fear not--it is terrible."

"Yes," echoed John.

Why did the boy stand there so silent, so emotionless, with the

letter in his hand? Anything was better than this unnatural calm.

Did he realise yet?

"Dad--died fighting," said John, jerkily.

"Yes--to the last, they say. He defended them magnificently--you

have that to remember. These massacres are terrible, terrible--I--"

he paused. Still John stood there. Mr. Fletcher had expected an

outburst, had prepared himself for it; and here they stood in the

dark facing each other, silent; nothing but the ticking of the clock

sounding in the abyss of these tense moments. The entrance of Mrs.

Fletcher was welcome. She moved to John's side, saying nothing, but

he felt her sympathy.

Then, folding up the letter, "Thank you, sir. I will go now," he

said.

"Yes, Dean--if you would like to stay here--we can--"

"Thank you, sir, but I'll go--I'm--I'm all right, sir," he replied,

moving towards the door. Mrs. Fletcher, saw his drawn face. He was

so pitifully brave. He had reached the door now, was turning the

handle. He hesitated a moment, they saw him pause and turn, then

swiftly he moved towards them, flung himself face down on the couch,

buried his face in the cushions, and sobbed like a child.

Mrs. Fletcher sat down beside him, and motioned to her husband to go.

He went out silently, leaving them in the dark room.

"Oh, Mrs. Fletcher--my dear Dad! My dear Dad!"

Mrs. Fletcher put her hand on the bowed head and stroked his hair.

There was nothing to say; she sat there, simply, her sympathy tending

him, until the storm passed.

II

John never forgot the details of those three days that followed.

First there was the anxiety of his father's fate. That he was dead

he knew beyond hope, but there was a lack of details, of the manner

and the circumstances. The letter from Messrs. Agnew & Cust merely

quoted the cable they had received stating the death of his father at

Amasia defending some Armenians who had taken refuge in his house

during a massacre. That was all, and three days elapsed before they

wrote again, enclosing another cable which said that his father had

been shot through the head, had died instantaneously, while fighting

his way out, with his servants, to effect a juncture with a relief

detachment from the American hospital at Marsovan, where his body had

been conveyed and buried. John wondered whether his father lay in

that cemetery where, on a memorable day he had seen him crying over

the grave of his mother.

During those days of waiting, John realised, more deeply then before,

the meaning of friendship. Vernley and Marsh were always with him.

They said little, for what could they say? They knew that John had

rather they did not touch upon the knowledge so heavy on their

hearts, and sometimes their watchfulness, their eagerness to serve

him brought him to a point of open breakdown. For his own sake John

went on with his form work. It was a slight distraction from the

anxiety of the days that must pass before a letter could come from

Asia Minor. One night, about a week after the receipt of the news,

Vernley and Marsh sat in their study doing their preparation. John

had been sent for by Mr. Fletcher, and had been absent some time.

Vernley looked at his watch.

"Shall I get supper?" he asked--"Are you finishing?"

"Yes," replied Marsh, closing his Euripides. "I say, what a

miserable devil old Euripides was; he's always talking about death.

A good job some of his plays were burnt at Alexandria---there were

ninety of 'em. I hate thinking about death."

"And just now--with poor old Scissors," added Vernley.

"By the way, Bobbie," said Marsh, flinging one leg over the arm of

his chair, "what's Scissors going to do? I don't like asking him."

"Do--how do you mean?"

"His future--you see there's the money question. I don't know much

about his affairs--but Cambridge means money--and I don't know

whether his governor had any--he seemed too jolly for money-making."

"Oh, he'll have left some--and there's the Exhibition," said Vernley.

Money matters were always easily dismissed in his presence. "He'll

be all right, I expect."

"Well--we've got to see."

"But it's no business of ours."

"It is," retorted Marsh.

"It is?" asked Vernley.

"Yes--supposing there is no money?"

Vernley had never supposed such a thing. He was silent a moment,

thinking.

"You mean--he must go to Cambridge with us?"

"Of course--and that's three hundred a year."

"Three hundred?" said Vernley. He had never realised that so much

was being spent on him. Then quietly, "Well--if old Scissors is

stuck, we'll find it somehow."

"That's what I'm driving at. Three years at three hundred a year is

nine hundred pounds--and that's college expenses only. It'll mean a

thousand all told."

"That's nothing--my guvnor'll never miss it. He'd do anything for

Scissors," said Vernley, cutting the cheese. "He'd adopt him and

depose me to-morrow."

"And there's my governor--he'd want to come in," said Marsh.

"Well, there you are, that's settled!" Vernley took a large slice of

cucumber. He disposed of money problems just as easily.

"But it's not settled, my child. You've forgotten the chief person

in the settlement--there's Scissors."

"Well?"

"You can take a mule to the water, but you can't make him

drink--suppose he wouldn't be helped?"

"Oh--he would!--he'd be quite decent about it--he'd know it would

please us. But I don't think we need worry. He's sure to have some

money and there's his relations."

"From all I've heard of his relations--we've a better chance,"

commented Marsh. "I suppose you guessed why Scissors refused the

captaincy of the beagles last winter?"

"He wanted to work for his Exhibition."

"It wasn't that--really--he couldn't afford it."

"How do you know?"

"I heard him making discreet enquiries as to how much it would

cost--and old Scissors wanted it awfully."

"I never knew that--I wouldn't have been captain had I known."

"That's why I didn't tell you," Marsh explained, "but it shows you

that Scissors gets pressed. If he only--"

"Ssh," whispered Vernley as the door handle rattled. John entered.

He looked worried and carried a letter.

"News?" asked Marsh eagerly.

"No--only a letter from the firm--about a job," said John.

"A job?" queried Vernley.

"Yes--they've offered me a junior clerkship at £80 a year in case I

need it." He did not add that the wording had cut him to the quick

with its "in excess of the customary figure at which our junior

clerks begin, but in view of probable necessitous circumstances," etc.

"But you're going up to Cambridge with us!" cried Marsh.

"Of course, or we don't go," added Vernley.

"I don't know," said John, sitting down wearily. "It depends,--I may

not be able. I don't know yet how I'm--"

"If it's a matter of--" began Marsh, when a warning look from Vernley

cut him short.

"You're sure to hear soon, Scissors--I shouldn't worry yet," said

Vernley. "We're all going up together, we've always said so. You

know if you only think hard enough it always is so."

"Sounds like the mater and the Higher Thought circle," commented

Marsh, wondering what plan Vernley had suddenly conceived when he

sent that warning signal.

"Well--anyhow, I could eat something," said John, putting the letter

in his pocket.

"Righto!--draw up!" said Vernley, passing the bread and cheese.

"Oh--I've written home to say that you'll spend the holidays with us."

"He won't--at least he'll spend part with me," corrected Marsh.

"Thanks--but I can't make any plans, you see I don't know what's

going to happen yet."

"But you must go somewhere, Scissors," cried Vernley lightly. The

moment he had said it, and saw the dumb pain in John's eyes he would

have torn his tongue out to retrieve the careless remark. "Scissors,

I don't mean it that way--you know I don't!" he added desperately.

"No, I know you don't," agreed John, swallowing hard, and trying to

look steadily back. They ate their supper in silence. Even Marsh's

forced gaiety failed.

The weeks leading to the end of the term went swiftly. Bit by bit

the news dribbled through, news of how his father had been

killed--this in a letter from the doctor at the American Mission.

His father had been buried next to his mother at Marsovan, under the

same almond tree whose blossom John could still picture in his mind,

so deeply was the first impression etched. Then later came Mr. Glass

from his father's company, somewhat surprised and hurt at John's

refusal of the clerkship. His father had been insured for £500.

There was that, and a small balance at the bank, not more than £600

in all. Was he wise in refusing the opening, which would lead, in

years to come, to a very good position? John looked at Mr. Glass,

with his bald head, large stomach and expressionless face, and the

result of success did not appeal to him. Mr. Glass prepared to

depart.

"Well, you may think better of it, my boy. Your father would have

wished it, I know. I don't see what more we can do for you--but

there, if you do change your mind and need us, we are there,

remember."

Clumsily done, but well meant, and John realising this, thanked him

and shook the hand extended towards him. After Mr. Glass had gone

Fletcher looked at John.

"I suppose you intend going up to King's?" he said. "I think you

will pull through all right with care."

"No, sir, I feel I ought to begin doing what must be done--earn my

living. Six hundred pounds is not much, and I shouldn't feel happy

knowing that I was using it up."

"But Cambridge may lead to opportunities--a Fellowship--at least a

degree, which is useful. At the worst you can become a--a

schoolmaster." He smiled apologetically for the joke against himself.

"And meanwhile, sir, make expensive friends and acquire expensive

tastes? Why shouldn't I do the last thing first, and learn whether I

have the inclination."

"The last?" queried Mr. Fletcher.

"Yes, sir, I thought of getting a junior mastership--if I could. A

year would not matter greatly. If I failed at that--then I would go

up to Cambridge--it would not be too late."

"No, but you are wasting a year."

"Yes, sir, but I want--oh, I feel I must work it all out. I'm afraid

you don't understand, sir," added John lamely.

"I think I do--this has altered your whole life, or at least you feel

so--nothing really does affect our lives to anything like the extent

we imagine it does. Experience proves that we are always ourselves.

As for a mastership--it is not easy without a degree. I have a

friend at a scholastic agency. If you wish I will write to him--that

is, if you want to take this step. Personally, I advise you to--no,

I won't advise you, John--you must decide for yourself."

Two weeks after that conversation, John was glad of the step he had

taken. The insurance company had refused to pay the claim; the

policy did not provide for the contingency in which Mr. Dean lost his

life. John's capital now was £132. Mr. Fletcher's friend had

obtained for him a junior mastership at a preparatory school in

Hampshire.