Time passed, and although Carstairs kept a good look out, he saw
nothing of Sam, the gipsy; he bought a substantial ash walking stick
which he kept constantly by him. On the night shift he tackled
Bounce, the ex-sailor. "Can you fence?"
"Yes, sir, I'm very good at fencing."
Carstairs smiled, but he knew all the same that it was a simple
statement of the truth without any affected modesty or blatant
boasting. "I'll bring down a couple of sticks, and you can give me a
little instruction if you will."
"I shall be very pleased, sir."
He had a manner all his own of making even this simple statement; it
suggested an equality of manhood while admitting an inferiority of
station; every word and action showed a confident, self-contained,
self-respecting man.
So in the wee sma' hours of the morning, when everyone else was in
bed, Carstairs and Bounce fenced with single sticks in a clear space
in the engine room. They got very chummy over these contests.
Carstairs had frequently had long yarns with Bounce before in the
quietness of the night watch, but now as they smote each other good
and hard (for they wore neither helmets, jackets, nor aprons) and
Carstairs smiled and Bounce grinned like a merry imp, and
occasionally apologized for an "extra stiff un," they seemed to draw
very close together, so much so, that one night Carstairs told him
the tale of Sam the gipsy.
Bounce shook his head seriously. "Gipsies is nasty blokes," he
observed, pondering deeply. "Some good fighting men amongst 'em,
too." He pondered again. "I should think now that a bit of boxing
would be more useful to you than fencing. Or--have you got a pistol?"
"Yes, and a set of gloves. I'll bring them both down to-morrow."
Next night Bounce's eyes scintillated light as he fingered the
well-made brown leather boxing gloves, and examined the beautiful
little American target revolver. "This is fancy," he said, in regard
to the latter. "It wouldn't stop a man, though."
"Depends where you hit him," suggested Carstairs.
"That's true, sir."
They retired to a secluded corner of the boiler house, and Bounce
fastened a piece of board on the wall and stuck three tin tacks in
it, then he drew back as far as the dimensions of the place would
admit, which was about fifteen yards. "Shall I have first shot,
sir?" he asked.
Carstairs handed him the revolver, and then a box of cartridges. He
loaded, then raised his arm, and, taking a fairly long sight at the
board, fired. "That's a miss," he observed. "I'll get a bit of
chalk."
Stepping up to the board, Carstairs saw that he had missed the head
of a tin tack by about a sixteenth of an inch.
Bounce returned from the engine room with a piece of chalk and
whitened over the heads of the tin tacks. "I ain't had a shot with a
revolver for two years, or more," he observed, apologetically. Then
he took another shot and burst the head of one tin tack; his next
shot bent the second tin tack over on one side. The third shot drove
the remaining tack right home. "There you are, sir," he said, with
some pride, handing Carstairs the revolver.
"Look here, Bounce! Is there anything much in the way of offence and
defence that you can't do?" Carstairs asked with open admiration.
"Well, I don't think there is very much, sir. I've fired everything
up to a six-inch gun, over that I ain't quite sure. Mind, I have
afired a twelve-inch, but I ain't quite sure. A twelve-inch takes
some handling, see." He stood up very straight, looking Carstairs
steadily in the eyes as he made this simple statement.
Then they boxed, and the applicability of his surname struck
Carstairs more than ever; he seemed literally to bounce out of the
way, just when Carstairs was going to hit him, and he bounced in
again with singular directness and precision immediately Carstairs
had missed him. Every night for the rest of the week they boxed for
half an hour at a time, and Carstairs, with his clear head and steady
nerves, soon began to make progress.
"What you wants, principally, is to hit hard, an' quick an'
straight." Bounce laid it down as a law, and suiting his own actions
accordingly, he bounced in and hit Carstairs in the eye, so that it
afterwards turned a lively shade of deep, blue-black.
Bounce apologized, then he grinned like a healthy fiend. "It do show
up," he observed, "but a black eye ain't near so painful as a good un
on the nose."
Carstairs smiled too. "Oh! it doesn't matter in the least," he said.
"It's part of the game. Unfortunately I'm going home to see my
people to-morrow." He gazed at it thoughtfully in the looking-glass
in the lavatory. "The guv'nor'll understand, but the mater----"
"I knows, sir."
Next day Carstairs went home to the little vicarage of Chilcombe, and
on his way to the station he caught sight of a rough-looking man in
well-worn gaiters, a fur cap and a heavy coat with big poacher's
pockets, limping down a side street. Carstairs felt angry. "That's
the swine," he said, to himself. Then a sudden surge of pity
overwhelmed him. "Poor devil! he does limp."
He got a seat in the corner of an empty third-class carriage and
opened a paper he had purchased, but he did not read, he thought of
the rough-looking man with the limp, of the beautiful girl in
Scotland and Darwen--the three seemed inextricably mixed up, somehow.
"Darwen's a skunk," he said, but that was the only definite
conclusion at which he could arrive.
Meanwhile the train hurried him homewards, and very soon he arrived
at the main line junction, and changed into the crawling local. He
had written to say which train he would arrive by, and as the train
drew up at the pretty country station, he saw the tall, black-garbed
figure of his father on the platform. They shook hands solemnly, and
eyes so much like his own beamed approval and pleasure as the strong
brown cricketer's hand gripped his. Suddenly they sobered down into
a look half amusement, half pain, as they rested on the discoloured
skin (by careful doctoring reduced to a bright yellow) round his eye.
"What's the matter with the eye, Jack?"
"Oh, that's boxing."
"Ah!" It was a sigh of relief and distinct approval.
"Yes; a man at the works, engine driver, you know, ex-sailor,
light-weight champion of the Mediterranean Fleet, he's coaching me."
"Ah, very good, excellent sport. Suppose you don't lose your temper?"
"Oh, no! Not with Bounce." He laughed. "How's the mater and all
the rest of them?"
"Your mother's very well, very well indeed. Phillip is going on very
well in India."
"Got a rise yet?"
"Rise?--er--no. In fact, you're doing the best of any, so far. Mrs
Bevengton was inquiring about you; she and Bessie are coming over to
tea to-morrow." He shot a sudden, keen glance at his son. "Very
nice girl, Bessie, extremely nice."
"That's so," Jack admitted.
"Have you seen anything more of your gipsy maiden?" There was a note
of anxiety in his father's voice.
"Yes; seen her once for a few minutes."
"Ah!" It seemed as if Jack had explained something, some obscure
point.
"Her fancy man flattened me out."
"Flattened you out?"
"Hit me on the back of the head with a stick."
"Nothing very serious, I suppose; still it's a pity you got mixed up
with those people."
"Yes; the girl came down next night with another stick to flatten out
her fancy man." Unconsciously there was a note of pride in Jack's
voice.
"Dear me, what terrible people! It's a very great pity you got mixed
up with them at all--a very great pity."
"Yes, it is a pity," Jack agreed. He seemed so pensive that his
father regarded him in some concern.
"Many young men entirely wreck their lives by these youthful
entanglements," he said. "Those sort of girls, who appear beautiful
and fascinating at your age, usually strike one as coarse and outré a
few years later."
"That's very possible," Jack admitted, and he smiled as though a
weight had been lifted off his mind.
They turned in at the big double gates.
"By the way, there is--er--no necessity to mention that little affair
to your mother. Women brood over these things, and build up all
sorts of vague horrors and possibilities of their own."
"Quite so," Jack admitted, very soberly, so that his father glanced
quickly at him again. But they were at the house and there was no
time for further questioning.
Jack's mother noticed his discoloured eye at once. "Oh, Jack,
whatever have you been doing?"
"Only boxing, mother."
"I wish you'd be more careful; you're so violent. I'm sure cricket
and lawn tennis are much nicer."
"They're nice enough, mater, but not nearly so useful."
There was a seriousness in the way he said it that made both father
and mother look at him sharply. "Useful?"
He smiled, his calm, easy smile. "I mean to say, stokers and so on
sometimes get abusive, you know, and in the interests of real peace
it is best to know how to flatten 'em out if necessary."
"I wish Jack, you wouldn't use such slangy expressions."
"Very sorry, mater."
But his father's keen, blue eyes continued to watch him steadily, and
after Mrs Carstairs had gone to bed, he stayed down for half an hour
chatting with his son. "I suppose," he said, "there is no
possibility of those gipsies molesting you further?"
Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Can't say," he drawled. "I left them
in Scotland."
"They wander, these people, you know."
"That's true; however, there is always the police, you know." Jack
was very unconcerned. "By the way, guv'nor, could you come back and
stay with me for a few days? Another fellow and myself are digging
together, you know. He's a jolly decent sort; opens his mouth rather
wide at times, says more than he means, you know, but he's a good
sort. Got me my job, as a matter of fact. He wants you to come too.
Wants to get to know some decent people; he's a dancing man and that
sort of thing. Thinks you'll probably bump up against some one you
know, give us a lift in our jobs besides making things more pleasant.
You understand."
The Reverend Carstairs' shrewd eyes twinkled merrily. "You want to
utilize your old father, eh? What about this young man's father?"
"He hasn't got one; drowned at sea when he was a kid."
"Ah!" The grey eyes softened into sympathy at once. "Of course I'll
come. It's quite the right view to take; young men cast adrift in a
strange town usually get acquainted with quite the wrong people.
Southville? Southville? Ah, yes. I think the vicar of St James'
there is an old Christ Church man. Let me see." He got up and
reached down a book of reference. "Here we are. Southville, St
James. Yes! Moorhouse. Ah! I thought so. He was not exactly a
chum, but a friend. I've no doubt he'll be pleased to see me. What
is your friend like?"
"Oh, about the same as myself, but exceedingly handsome, striking,
you know. Sort of chap you turn round to look at. Very dark, almost
Italian looking."
"Ah! You ought to be able to make things very pleasant for
yourselves down there. I'll go back with you on Monday." His father
stood up.
"Thanks very much. Shall I turn out the light?"
"Thanks, if you will. Good night."
So Jack turned in once more in the old familiar bed in the old
familiar room at the corner of the house, with windows overlooking a
wide sweep of the rolling Cotswold Hills.
Next morning after church he met Mrs Bevengton and Bessie; she
coloured slightly as she shook hands with him, and her dimples sprang
into prominent evidence in a smile that expressed more than pleasure.
Jack regarded her thoughtfully, with very great pleasure too. She
seemed the personification of beauty, not so much in the physical as
the moral sense; as he walked by her side slowly down the
brown-gravel path in the warm light of an autumn sun, countless
little incidents of his childhood's days returned to him, bearing a
fuller and a newer meaning; this girl had always been clean, clean as
it is understood in England, honest and unspiteful, she never
cheated. When he parted at the gate it was with a distinct sense of
pleasure that he was to meet her again in the afternoon. She
laughed, a jolly, happy laugh, when he explained the discolouration
of his eye.
Mrs Carstairs and Mrs Bevengton coming behind had observed them with
mutual approval: "Don't you think Bessie's improved?" Jack's mother
said to him as they walked home together.
"She's better looking if that's what you mean, otherwise she was
always a jolly decent girl."
"Yes, there are not many girls like her."
"In that, mater, your opinion should be of considerably more value
than mine, I haven't met very many girls."
"You're getting old enough to think about these things now."
"Yes, mater, to _think_ about them."
About three o'clock in the afternoon, Dr and Mrs Bevengton and Bessie
arrived. After half an hour's exchange of family greetings, Jack and
Bessie went out into the garden, leaving the old people indoors.
"Shall we go for a stroll through Cleeve woods?" Jack asked,
presently.
"Yes, I haven't been there for a long time."
Cleeve woods were the private property of Lady Cleeve, but Jack and
Bessie were privileged persons, allowed to trespass whenever they
liked. They wandered along the well-known paths, going very slowly;
every tree and bush held its own secret for them, recalling each its
own little tragedy or comedy of their early lives.
Bessie stopped in front of a tall pine tree. "Do you remember when
you climbed up there and took the kestrel's eggs?"
"I remember curly-haired 'Fatty,' and Jim down below keeping 'cave,'
in case the keeper came."
The dimples burst out anew. "I was a fatty then, wasn't I? You came
down all the way without a word. I knew you'd got eggs by the
careful way you were watching your pockets. I thought it was only a
magpie's, then you glanced round like a burglar and just showed one
eye over the top of your pocket, I knew it was a hawk's because it
was red."
"A kestrel is a falcon, Bessie, not a hawk. You said, 'O-oh,' under
your breath, and Jim whispered 'what is it?' Jim never could tell
one egg from another."
"We all felt like desperate poachers and crept out of the wood in
breathless haste, and you blew them under the chestnut tree on your
lawn."
Jack looked at her with a sudden admiration.
"You were always a pal and full of pluck," he said. "When I was up
old Giles' apple tree and he came out with his dog, Jim bolted like a
rabbit, but you stayed behind like a brick and waited for me."
"Yes, I remember, my knees were knocking together with fright."
"Oh, you crammer, you threw an apple at the dog."
Bessie laughed. "Old Giles was a good sort. He knew who we were
right enough, but he never told father."
Talking thus they strolled on till they came out on the trimmed
laurels and well-kept lawn that surrounded Lady Cleeve's house. Jack
stopped. "I expect the footman will come out and ask impertinent
questions if we go over the lawn, won't he?"
"Oh, no! he knows me very well."
Still they stopped for some time admiring the house and the well-kept
grounds. It was just getting dusk and lights were already beginning
to appear in some of the windows of the big old house. "I should
like to own a place like this some day," Jack said. He stepped on to
the lawn. "By Jove! these lawns are grand, aren't they? Do you
remember that time I was on holidays from Cheltenham, when they gave
a sort of tea fight to the whole village? And the yokels were
playing kiss-in-ring on the lawn?"
Bessie coloured a good red and looked down at the smooth carpet-like
grass, poking aimlessly with the point of her umbrella. They were
fairly close to the house. Suddenly one of the near windows sprang
into a glare of light, showing up everything within with great
distinctness. A female servant, in cap and apron, was lighting the
gas. Her profile showed clear and distinct against the light.
"Oh! there's that new maid who's just come to the Hall. Don't you
think she's remarkably handsome, Jack?"
Carstairs looked up, the girl in the room turned, so that the light
was full on her face, and every feature was distinct: the blood
seemed to bound in his veins, he was astonished at the thrill he felt.
It was some seconds, perhaps a minute, before he answered, then it
was a very slow drawl. "Yes, exceedingly handsome."
Then they went home almost in silence, for Carstairs had recognized
in Lady Cleeve's new housemaid, his gipsy girl from Scotland.