AN UGLY FALL.
There was a row royal when Pamela got back to Newnham. She told Lucy
that her conduct was disgraceful, and that if it came to the ears of
the Dons she would be 'hauled.'
There had been several girls 'hauled' lately for the same
offence--walking with an undergraduate to the very gate of the college.
Lucy mildly suggested that she was not exactly alone, that Pamela and
her brother were with her, and that she herself, when she came up to
her on the bridge, was walking in the young man's society.
'You forget that Eric was with me,' Pamela replied sharply. 'It makes
all the difference if you have a brother, or any male relative, with
you; but to be walking alone, tearing along at the rate you were,
and talking confidentially--anyone could see that you were talking
confidentially--dozens of girls have been sent down for less than that!'
Lucy wasn't 'hauled,' and she wasn't 'sent down'; but Pamela behaved
like a bear to her for the remainder of the term.
Lucy was so anxious about the Master that she went over to the lodge
the next day directly after lunch. Cousin Mary was out; she had left
him sitting in his chair taking his after-dinner nap as usual, and
she had gone out. He woke up directly Lucy came in, and began to
talk to her about her father and the old time. She was very glad
that she had not brought Pamela in with her, or any of the Newnham
girls, as she sometimes did. He would have told them that ridiculous
story that was running in his mind, how his brother Dick had met her
mother at a dancing-booth at the fair. He would have dwelt on all the
homely details of their humble history. It would have been all over
Newnham the next day that her father was a ploughman, and her mother
kept a stall in the butter-market. Annabel Crewe, who had a fine
taste for caricature, would have drawn delightful pictures of Lucy's
progenitors--a lovely old man in a smock-frock with straw round his
legs, and a milkmaid with her pail!
She couldn't divert the Master's attention from this ridiculous topic.
He had forgotten all about the things that had happened in later years,
and had gone back in memory to the old familiar scenes and faces of his
youth. His eyes were brighter to-day, and he was more restless than
usual; he wanted to go out into the garden and sit in his accustomed
seat on the lawn. It was such a perfect May day that no wonder he
wanted to get out of that dark, gloomy old room, with the stuffy moreen
curtains over the windows, and the faded carpets, and the worm-eaten,
old-fashioned furniture, and the musty old books, into the sweet summer
sunshine, where everything was fresh and new.
There was nothing dark and gloomy and oppressive out there in that
sweet leafy Fellows' garden. The lilacs were in their prime, pale
puce and white and purple, every delightful indescribable hue, and
the laburnum was dropping gold upon the grass. There was a cuckoo
somewhere, calling, and the thrushes were singing, and the blackbird's
note was still shrill and clear. It would soon be hoarse as a raven's,
and the thrush would be silent, and the cuckoo would have altered his
tune, and the lilac would have faded, and the gold of the gleaming,
down-dropping laburnums would have turned to gray--and--and he might
not be here to see it. If he wanted to enjoy the fleeting sunshine and
the flying blossoms of the year, there was no time like the present.
The Master didn't exactly put it in this way, but he was impatient to
be out in the garden, in his old seat, and he wouldn't wait a minute
longer for anybody.
If Mary wasn't there he would go without her.
There are none so impatient as the old. The young have plenty of
time to spare--they have their life before them; but the old have not
a minute to lose. The Master went out as usual, leaning on the arm
that had supported him so many years, that had never failed him yet.
Mrs. Rae and Lucy took him out between them. He walked in his slow
accustomed way, leaning rather heavily on these two frail props until
he reached his seat beneath the walnut-tree, and here he ought to have
sat down.
But he didn't sit down. He insisted on going farther; he insisted on
going down the path to the greenhouse. Mary had been saying something
about it, repeating what the Tutor had said yesterday about having
it done up and turned to some account, and the Master would not be
satisfied until he had seen it. He must be consulted about it; nothing
should be done in the gardens without his consent. He had been worrying
about it all night.
He had got half-way down the path, when Lucy fancied he was beginning
to lean heavily, more heavily than she could bear, though she put out
all her strength. There was not a seat near, but she stopped and begged
the Master to rest awhile. He was so anxious to see the greenhouse
that he would not listen to her. He never thought of the women who
were being weighed down with his great weight. He was as eager and
determined as a child.
'I am sure, aunt, you are not strong enough to keep him up,' Lucy said
in despair; she was getting really frightened. 'We must get someone to
help him back. Oh, if someone would only come in!'
There was not a gardener in sight, and it was not likely that anyone
would come in. Nobody but the Fellows ever walked in that garden.
The Master tottered on, feebler at every step; but he would not be kept
back, and the two frightened women held him up as well as they could.
He seemed to want more support every step he took; he was as feeble
and helpless as a child, but still he pressed on. Lucy was sure she
couldn't bear the strain a minute longer, and the dear old mistress was
straining with all her might to keep up with him. She was putting out
all her strength. It wasn't much to put out at the best, but she didn't
keep back a feather weight. Oh, if someone would only come!
They came in sight of that wretched greenhouse at last, and here the
Master stopped. He didn't exactly stop, but he tottered forward, and
Lucy with a supreme effort kept him up, and with all his weight upon
her he swayed to and fro, and before she knew what was happening he had
slipped through her arms to the ground. He lay on the path, as he fell,
all of a heap. He had no power to help himself, and he lay panting and
breathing heavily as he had fallen, and the women stood beside him
wringing their hands.
Lucy didn't stand beside him long. There was a door in the wall beside
the greenhouse that led out into one of the courts, and she flew over
to it. Fortunately the door was unlocked. Lucy looked eagerly round
the deserted court and raised her feeble cry for help. It was such a
feeble, piteous cry; it was like a wail. A man sitting reading at an
open window looked out at that strange sound, and Lucy called to him:
'Oh, come, come, do come!'
The man didn't stay to ask what had happened; he was at Lucy's side
in another moment, and she took him in through the open door to where
the Master lay. It was Wyatt Edgell. A gyp coming across the court had
heard the cry for help, and between them they bore the Master back to
the lodge.
When Mary Rae came in she found a little anxious group gathered round
him, and Wyatt Edgell was trying to reassure the frightened women.
Nothing very serious had happened. No bones were broken, but the Master
was very much shaken, and he was not quite himself. Wyatt Edgell stayed
with him until the doctor had come, and had ascertained that things
were not very bad--not so bad as they might have been--and had calmed
the fears of the women; and then Lucy was so shaken that he walked
back with her to Newnham.
Lucy certainly would have been 'hauled' if the Dons had seen her
walking back leaning heavily on an undergraduate's arm. She would have
been invited to an interview with the authorities in the Principal's
room, and she would have received a caution, perhaps a reprimand, and
she would have been very lucky if nothing worse had happened. Lucy
forgot all about the Dons and Pamela's warning. She only thought about
that poor old man at the lodge.
'I don't think he will ever get over this,' she said, or rather sobbed.
She was not herself at all. She was such a tearful, frightened little
Lucy. She was not in the least like a Stoic.
'I am afraid not,' said Edgell. 'The Master has been failing for some
time. The men all remarked that he would never read the Litany again in
chapel.'
'You think he is so bad as that?' Lucy said tearfully.
'Yes, quite. Think of his age. His time must come some day, and he has
lived longer than most men. You could not expect him, in any case, to
live for many months longer.'
'No,' said Lucy sadly; and then he saw the tears dropping down her pale
face. He could not believe she was weeping for that old, old man whose
time had come, and who was a stranger to her till yesterday.
'What will you do when he is gone?' he asked abruptly.
'Do? I don't know--I have not thought. I shall stay at Newnham, I
suppose, two years; I shall not be able to afford three; and then--and
then I shall go out as a governess.'
'You shall never go out as a governess!' said Edgell with an oath.
Lucy looked at him, frightened and bewildered; she couldn't think what
he meant, and then she broke down and began to cry.
'Dear Miss Rae--Lucy!' he said, and then he stopped and looked at
the girl. He would have liked to take her in his arms, but there were
several Newnham girls all hurrying down the road, and they looked at
him, and they looked at Lucy. Some of them blushed, and some turned
pale, and all were shocked. It was a dreadful precedent.
The atmosphere of Newnham revived Lucy, and she paused at the gate and
looked up into his face with a little white smile.
'I am very stupid,' she said, 'but the Master frightened me so much,
and I am not quite myself.'
He held her hand longer than he need have done, and he looked down into
the small white face with a smile of ownership and protection that was
quite new to Lucy. Nobody had ever looked in her eyes like that before,
and, instead of drawing her hand away, Lucy hung her head and blushed
like a poppy.
'Shall I bring you word how the Master is the first thing in the
morning?' he said, still holding her hand; 'how early will you be out
in the lane if I come?'
'Oh, as early as you like; seven o'clock!'
And so Lucy made her first appointment to meet Wyatt Edgell.