THE ENCAMPMENT
It was the morning of the first Monday in June, and Tony had wandered
out into the garden all by himself. Monday mornings were very busy, and
once Clipture was over Jan and Meg became socially useless to any
self-respecting boy.
There was all the washing to sort and divide into two large heaps: what
might be sent to Mrs. Chitt in the village, and what might be kept for
the ministrations of one Mrs. Mumford, who came every Monday to Wren's
End. And this division was never arrived at without a good deal of
argument between Jan and Meg.
If Jan had had her way, Mrs. Mumford's heap would have been very small
indeed, and would have consisted chiefly of socks and handkerchiefs. If
Meg had had hers, nothing at all would have gone to Mrs. Chitt. Usually,
too, Hannah was called in as final arbitrator, and she generally sided
with Meg. Little Fay took the greatest interest in the whole ceremony,
chattered continually, and industriously mixed up the heaps when no one
was looking.
At such times Tony was of the opinion that there were far too many women
in the world. On this particular morning, too, he felt injured because
of something that had happened at breakfast.
It was always a joy to Meg and Jan that whatever poor Fay might have
left undone in the matter of disciplining her children, she had at least
taught them to eat nicely. Little Fay's management of a spoon was a joy
to watch. The dimpled baby hand was so deft, the turn of the plump wrist
so sure and purposeful. She never spilled or slopped her food about. Its
journey from bowl to little red mouth was calculated and assured. Both
children had a horror of anything sticky, and would refuse jam unless it
was "well covelled in a sangwidge."
That very morning Jan and Meg exchanged congratulatory glances over
their well-behaved charges, sitting side by side.
Then, all at once, with a swift, sure movement, little Fay stretched up
and deposited a spoonful of exceedingly hot porridge exactly on the top
of her brother's head, with a smart tap.
Tony's hair was always short, and had been cut on Saturday, and the hot
mixture ran down into his eyes, which filled him with rage.
He tried to get out of his high chair, exclaiming angrily, "Let me get
at her to box her!"
Jan held him down with one hand while she wiped away the offending mess
with the other, and all the time Tony cried in _crescendo_, "Let me get
at her!"
Little Fay, quite unmoved, continued to eat her porridge with studied
elegance, and in gently reproachful tones remarked, "Tony velly closs
littoo boy."
Jan and Meg, who wanted desperately to laugh, tried hard to look
shocked, and Meg asked, "What on earth possessed you to do such a
thing?"
"Tony's head so shiny and smoove."
Tony rubbed the shiny head ruefully.
"Can't I do nuffin to her?" he demanded.
"No," his sister answered firmly, "loo can't, 'cos I'm plitty littoo
Fay."
"Can't I plop some on _her_ head?" he persisted.
"It certainly seems unfair," Jan said thoughtfully, "but I think you'd
better not."
"It _is_ unfair," Tony grumbled.
Jan loosed his hands. "Now," she said, "you can do what you like."
Little Fay leaned towards her brother, smiling her irresistible,
dimpled, twinkling smile, and held out a spoonful of her porridge.
"Deah littoo Tony," she cooed, "taste it."
And Tony meekly accepted the peace-offering.
"You haven't smacked her," Jan remarked.
Tony sighed. "It's too late now--I don't feel like it any more."
All the same he felt aggrieved as he set out to seek Earley in the
kitchen garden.
Earley was not to be found. He saw Mrs. Mumford already hanging kitchen
cloths on a line in the orchard, but he felt no desire for Mrs.
Mumford's society.
Tony's tormented soul sought for something soothing.
The garden was pleasant, but it wasn't enough.
Ah! he'd got it!
He'd go to the river; all by himself he'd go, and not tell anybody. He'd
look over the bridge into that cool deep pool and perhaps that big fat
trout would be swimming about. What was it he had heard Captain
Middleton say last time he was down at Amber Guiting? "The Mayfly was
up."
He had seemed quite delighted about it, therefore it must mean something
pleasant.
After all, on a soft, not too sunny morning in early June, with a west
wind rustling the leaves in the hedges, the world was not such a bad
place; for even if there were rather too many women in it, there were
dogs and rivers and country roads where adventurous boys could see life
for themselves.
William agreed with Tony in his dislike of Monday mornings. He went and
lay on the front door mat so that he was more than ready to accompany
anyone who happened to be going out.
By the time they reached the bridge all sense of injury had vanished,
and buoyant expectation had taken its place.
Three men were fishing. One was far in the distance, one about three
hundred yards up stream, and one Tony recognised as Mr. Dauncey,
landlord of "The Full Basket," the square white house standing in its
neat garden just on the other side of the bridge. The fourth gentleman,
who had forgotten his hat, and was clad in a holland smock, sandals,
and no stockings, leaned over luxuriously, with his elbows on the low
wall and his bare legs thrust out. He was very still, even trying not to
twitch when William licked his bare legs, as he did at intervals just to
show he was there on guard.
There had been heavy rain in the night and the water was discoloured.
Nobody noticed Tony, and for about an hour nothing happened. Then Mr.
Dauncey got a rise. The rigid little figure on the bridge leaned further
over as Mr. Dauncey's reel screamed and he followed his cast down
stream.
Presently, with a sense of irritation, Tony was aware of footsteps
coming over the bridge. He felt that he simply could not bear it just
then if anyone leaned over beside him and talked. The footsteps came up
behind him and passed; and William, who was lying between Tony's legs
and the wall, squeezed as close to him as possible, gave a low growl.
"Hush, William, naughty dog!" Tony whispered crossly.
William hushed, and drooped as he always did when rebuked.
It occurred to Tony to look after this amazing person who could cross a
bridge without stopping to look over when a reel was joyfully
proclaiming that some fisherman was having luck.
It was a man, and he walked as though he were footsore and tired. There
was something dejected and shabby in his appearance, and his clothes
looked odd somehow in Amber Guiting. Tony stared after the stranger,
and gradually he realised that there was something familiar in the back
of the tall figure that walked so slowly and yet seemed trying to walk
fast.
The man had a stick and evidently leant upon it as he went. He wore an
overcoat and carried nothing in his hand.
Mr. Dauncey's reel chuckled and one of the other anglers ran towards him
with a landing-net.
But Tony still stared after the man. Presently, with a deep sigh, he
started to follow him.
Just once he turned, in time to see that Mr. Dauncey had landed his
trout.
The sun came out from behind the clouds. "The Full Basket," the river,
brown and rippled, the bridge, the two men talking eagerly on the bank
below, the muddy road growing cream-coloured in patches as it dried,
were all photographed upon Tony's mind. When he started to follow the
stranger he was out of sight, but now Tony trotted steadily forward and
did not look round again.
William was glad. He had been lying in a puddle, and, like little Fay,
he preferred "a dly place."
Meanwhile, at Wren's End the washing had taken a long time to count and
to divide. There seemed a positively endless number of little smocks and
frocks and petticoats and pinafores, and Meg wanted to keep them all for
Mrs. Mumford to wash, declaring that she (Meg) could starch and iron
them beautifully. This was quite true. She could iron very well, as she
did everything she undertook to do. But Jan knew that it tired her
dreadfully, that the heat and the wielding of the heavy iron were very
bad for her, and after much argument and many insulting remarks from Meg
as to Jan's obstinacy and extravagance generally, the things were
divided. Meg put on little Fay's hat and swept her out into the garden;
whereupon Jan plunged into Mrs. Mumford's heap, removed all the things
to be ironed that could not be tackled by Anne Chitt, stuffed them into
Mrs. Chitt's basket, fastened it firmly and rang for Anne and Hannah to
carry the things away.
She washed her hands and put on her gardening gloves preparatory to
going out, humming a gay little snatch of song; and as she ran down the
wide staircase she heard the bell ring, and saw the figure of a man
standing in the open doorway.
The maids were carrying the linen down the back stairs, and she went
across the hall to see what he wanted.
"Well, Jan," he said, and his voice sounded weak and tired. "Here I am
at last."
He held out his hand, and as she took it she felt how hot and dry it
was.
"Come in, Hugo," she said quietly. "Why didn't you let me know you were
coming, and I'd have met you."
The man followed her as she led the way into the cool, fragrant
drawing-room. He paused in the doorway and passed his hand across his
eyes. "It does bring it all back," he said.
He sat down in a deep chair and leaned his head against the back,
closing his eyes. Jan saw that he was thin to emaciation, and that he
looked very ill; shabby, too, and broken.
The instinct of the nurse that exists in any woman worth her salt was
roused in Jan. All the passionate indignation she had felt against her
brother-in-law was merged at the moment in pity and anxiety.
"Hugo," she said gently, "I fear you are ill. Have you had any
breakfast?"
"I came by the early train to avoid ordering breakfast; I couldn't have
paid for it. I'd only enough for my fare. Jan, I haven't a single rupee
left."
He sat forward in the chair with his hands on the arms and closed his
eyes again.
Jan looked keenly at the handsome, haggard face. There was no pretence
here. The man was gravely ill. His lips (Jan had always mistrusted his
well-shaped mouth because it would never really shut) were dry and
cracked and discoloured, the cheekbones sharp, and there was that deep
hollow at the back of the neck that always betrays the man in
ill-health.
She went to him and pressed him back in the chair.
"What do you generally do when you have fever?" she asked.
"Go to bed--if there is a bed; and take quinine and drink hot tea."
"That's what you'd better do now. Where are your things?"
"There's a small bag at the station. They promised to send it up. I
couldn't carry it and I had no money to pay a boy. I came the long way
round, Jan, not through the village. No one recognised me."
"I'll get you some tea at once, and I have quinine in the house. Will
you take some now?"
Hugo laughed. "Your quinine would be of no earthly use to me, but I've
already taken it this morning. I've got some here in my pocket. The
minute my bag comes I'll go to bed--if you don't mind."
Someone fumbled at the handle of the door, and Tony, followed by
William, appeared on the threshold.
Hugo Tancred opened his eyes. "Hullo!" he said. "Do you remember me,
young shaver?"
Tony came into the room holding out his hand. "How do you do?" he said
solemnly.
Hugo took it and stared at his son with strange glazed eyes. "You look
fit enough, anyhow," he said, and dropped the little hand.
"I came as quick as I could," Tony said eagerly to Jan. "But Mr. Dauncey
caught a trout, and I _had_ to wait a minute."
"Good heavens!" Hugo exclaimed irritably. "Do you all _still_ think and
talk about nothing but fishing?"
"Come," said Jan, holding out her hand to Tony, "and we'll go and see
about some breakfast for Daddie."
William, who had been sniffing dubiously at the man in the chair, dashed
after them.
As they crossed the hall Tony remarked philosophically: "Daddie's got
fever. He'll be very cross, then he'll be very sad, and then he'll want
you to give him something, and if you do--p'raps he'll go away."
Jan made no answer.
Tony followed her through the swing door and down the passage to speak
to Hannah, who was much moved and excited when she heard Mr. Tancred had
arrived. Hannah was full of sympathy for the "poor young widower," and
though she could have wished that he had given them notice of his
coming, still, she supposed him to be so distracted with grief that he
forgot to do anything of the kind. She and Anne Chitt went there and
then to make up his bed, while Jan boiled the kettle and got him some
breakfast.
While she was doing this Meg and little Fay came round to the back to
look for Tony, whom they found making toast.
"Who's tum?" asked little Fay, while Jan rapidly explained the situation
to Meg.
"Your Daddie's come."
Little Fay looked rather vague. "What sort of a Daddie?" she asked.
"You take her to see him, Tony, and I'll finish the toast," said Jan,
taking the fork out of his hand.
When the children had gone Meg said slowly: "And Mr. Ledgard comes
to-morrow?"
"He can't. I must telegraph and put him off for a day or two. Hugo is
really ill."
"I shouldn't put him off long, if I were you."
Jan seized the tray: "I'll send a wire now, if you and the children will
take it down to the post-office for me."
"Why send it at all?" said Meg. "Let him come."