At Bevis’s home the authorities were still more wroth when they received
the scrap of paper sent by Charlie, who scampered off before he could be
questioned. There was more wrath about the battle than any of their
previous misdeeds, principally because it was something novel. No one
was hurt, and no one had even had much of a knock, except the larger
boys, who could stand it. There was more rattling of weapons together
than wounds. Ted’s forehead was bruised, and Bevis’s ankle was tender
where some one had stepped on it while he was down. This was nothing to
the bruises they had often had at football.
The fall over the quarry indeed might have been serious, so too the
sinking of the punt; but both those were extrinsic matters, and they
might have fought twenty Pharsalias without such incidents. All of them
had had good sense enough to adhere to the agreement they had come to
before the fighting. They could not anyhow have hurt themselves more
than they commonly did at football, so that the authorities were perhaps
a little too bitter about it. If only they had known what was going on,
and had had it explained, if it had not been kept secret, so that the
anxiety about Bevis being lost might not have been so great, there would
not have been much trouble.
But now Bevis and Mark were in deep disgrace. As for their going away
they might go and stay away if they wished. For the first day, indeed,
it was quite a relief, the house was so quiet and peaceful; it was like
a new life altogether. It would be a very good plan to despatch these
rebels to a distance, where they would be fully employed, and under
supervision. How peaceful it would be! The governor and Bevis’s mother
thought with such a strain removed they should live fully ten years
longer.
But next day somehow it did not seem so pleasant. There was a sense of
emptiness about the house. The rooms were vacant, and occasional voices
sounded hollow. No one chattered at breakfast. At dinner-time Pan was
called in that there might be some company, and in the stillness they
could hear the ring, ring of the blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil. When
Bevis was at home they could never hear that.
The governor rode off in the afternoon, and Bevis’s mother thought now
these tormentors were absent it would be a good time to sit down calmly
at some needlework.
Every five minutes she got up and looked out of window. Who was that
banged the outer gate? Was it Bevis? The familiar patter of steps on
the flags, the confused murmur which came before them did not follow.
It was only John Young gone out into the road. The clock ticked so
loud, and Pan snored in the armchair, and looked at her reproachfully
when she woke him. By-and-by she went upstairs into their bedroom. The
bed was made, but no one had slept in it.
There was a gimlet on the dressing-table, and Bevis’s purse on the
floor, and the half-sovereign in it. A great tome, an ancient
encyclopaedia, which Bevis had dragged upstairs, was lying on a chair,
open at “Magic.” Mark’s pocket-knife was stuck in the bed-post, and in
his best hat there were three corn-crake’s eggs, blown, of course, and
put there for safety, as he never wore it.
She went to the window, and the swallows came to their nests above under
the eaves. Bevis’s jackets and things were lying everywhere, and as she
left the room she saw a curious mark on the threshold, all angles and
points. He had been trying to draw the wizard’s foot there, inking the
five angles, to keep out the evil spirits and witches, according to the
proper way, lest they should take the magician by surprise.
Next she went to the bench-room--their armoury--and lifted the latch,
but it was locked, the key in Bevis’s pocket. The door rattled hollow.
She looked through the keyhole, and could see the crossbow and the
rigging for the ship. Downstairs again, sitting with her needlework,
she heard the carrier’s van go by, marking the time to be about four.
There was the booing of distant cows, and then a fly buzzed on the pane.
She took off her thimble and looked at old Pan in the armchair--old
Pan, Bevis’s friend.
It was deadly quiet. No shout, and bang, and clatter upstairs. No loud
“I must,” “I will.” No rushing through the room, upsetting chairs,
twisting tables askew. No “Ma, where’s the hammer?” “Ma, where’s my
bow?” “Ma, where’s my hat?”
She rang the bell, and told Polly to go down and ask Frances to come and
take tea with her, as she was quite alone. Frances came, and all the
talk was about Bevis, and Mark, and big Jack. So soon as she had heard
about the battle Frances immediately took their part, and thought it was
very ingenious of Bevis to contrive it, and brave to fight so
desperately. Then mamma discovered that it was very good of Mark, and
very affectionate, and very brave to row all up the water in the storm
to fetch Bevis from the island.
When the governor returned, to his surprise, he found two ladies
confronting him with reasons why Bevis and Mark were heroes instead of
scamps. He did not agree, but it was of no use; of course he had to
yield, and the result was the dog-cart was sent for them on the
following morning. But Bevis was not in the least hurry to return, not
a bit. He was disposed, on the contrary, to disobey, and remain where
he was. Mark persuaded him not to do this, but still he kept the
dog-cart waiting several hours, till long after dinner.
They tried hard to get Jack to let them take the rifle with them,
unsuccessfully, for he thought the authorities would not like it. At
last Bevis deigned to get up, and they were driven home, for in his
sullen mood Bevis would not even touch the reins, nor let Mark. He was
very much offended. The idea of resentment against Ted had never
entered his mind. Ted was his equal for one thing, in age.
But he hated to be looked at with a severe countenance as if he had been
a rogue and stolen sixpence by the authorities against whom he did not
feel that he had done anything. He burned against them as the
conspirators abroad burn with rage against the government which rules
them. They were not Ted, and equal; they had power and used it over
him. Bevis was wrong and very unjust, for they were the tenderest and
kindest of home authorities.
At home there was a dessert waiting on the table for them, and some
Burgundy. The Burgundy, a wine not much drunk in the country, had been
got a long time ago to please Bevis, who had read that Charles the Bold
was fond of and took deep draughts of it. Bevis fancied he should like
it, and that it would make him bold like Charles. Mamma poured him out
a glassful, Mark took his, and said “Thank you.”
Bevis drank in silence.
“Aren’t you glad to come home?” said mamma.
“No, _that_ I’m not,” said Bevis, and marched off up into the
bench-room. Mamma saw that Mark wanted to follow, so she kissed him,
recollecting that he had ventured through the storm after Bevis, and
told him to do as he liked.
“The sails ought to be finished by now,” said Bevis, as Mark came up.
“Yes,” said Mark, “they’re sure to be. But you know I can’t go.”
“You ought to fetch them,” said Bevis, “you’re lieutenant; captains
don’t fetch sails.” He was ready for any important exertion, but he had
a great idea of getting other people to do these inferior things for
him.
“I can’t go,” said Mark, “Frances hates me.”
“O! very well,” said Bevis savagely, and ready to quarrel with anybody
on the least pretext. The fact was, though resentful, he did not feel
quite certain that he approved of his own conduct to his mother. He
could have knocked any one down just to recover confidence. He pushed
by Mark, slammed the door, and started to get the sails.
Frances laughed when she saw him. “Ah!” she said, “Mark did not care to
come, did he?” She brought out the sails nicely hemmed--they had been
ready some days--and made them into a parcel for him.
“So you ran away from the battle,” she said.
“I didn’t,” said Bevis rudely.
“You sailed away--floated away.”
“Not to run away.”
“Yes, you did. And you were called Caesar.”
She liked to tease him, being fond of him; she stroked his short golden
curls, pinched his arm, kissed him, taunted him, and praised him; walked
with him as he went homewards, asked him why he did not offer her his
arm, and when he did, said she did not take boys’ arms--_boys_ with
emphasis--till he grew scarlet with irritation. Then she petted him,
asked him about the battle, and said it was wonderful, and he must show
her over the battlefield. She made him promise to take her for a sail,
and looked so delicious Bevis could not choose but smile.
She had her hat in her hand, such a little hand and so white, like a
speck of sunshine among shadows. Her little feet peeped out among the
grass and the blue veronica flowers. Her rounded figure, not too tiny
at the waist, looked instinct with restless life, buoyant as if she
floated. The bright light made her golden brown hair gleam. She lifted
her long eyelashes, and looked him through and through with her grey
eyes. Delicate arched eyebrows, small regular features, pouting lips,
and impudent chin.
“You’re very little,” said Bevis, able to speak again. “I believe I
could lift you over the stile.”
She was little--little and delicious, like a wild strawberry, daintily
tinted, sweet, piquant, with just enough acid to make you want some
more, rare, and seldom found.
“As you are so impertinent,” said she, “I shall not come any farther.”