"I'm not lazy," he said; "but I'm on the wrong side of Jordan. This
sort of thing is waste of time. I want to go over, and start marching."
"Don't be absurd, Boy. I prefer _this_ side Jordan, thank you; and you
shall stay here until you beat me."
The Boy won the next set.
* * * * *
It was deliciously cool and quiet under the mulberry-tree.
The Boy was quite subdued--for him. He seemed inclined to do his
marching in silence, on this second day.
Miss Charteris felt her mental balance restored. She held the reins
to-day, and began considering how to deal wisely with the Boy. So much
depended upon how she managed him.
At length she said: "Boy, when you were at Trinity, I often used to see
you. I knew you were my Little Boy Blue of all those years ago. I
used to feel inclined to send for you, talk to you for your good, and
urge you to set to, and do great things; but I remembered the stone,
and the bucket; and I did not want to let myself in for a third
snubbing."
The Boy smiled. "Did you think me a lazy beggar?" he asked. "I wasn't
really, you know. I did quite a good deal of all kinds of things. But
I didn't want to get played out. I wanted to do things all the rest of
my life. Fellows who grind at college and come out Senior Wranglers,
begin and end there. You don't hear of 'em again."
"I see," said Miss Charteris, amusement in her eyes. "So you felt it
wisest to avoid being Senior Wrangler?"
"Just so," said the Boy. "I was content with a fairly respectable B.A.
and I hope you saw me take it. How rotten it is, going up in a bunch,
all hanging on to an old chap's fingers."
"Boy, Boy! I know all about you! You wasted golden opportunities; you
declined to use your excellent abilities; you gave the authorities an
anxious time. You were so disgracefully popular, that everybody
thought your example the finest thing to follow, and you were more or
less responsible for every lark and row which took place during your
time."
The Boy did not smile. He looked at her, with a quaint, innocent
seriousness, which made her feel almost uncomfortable.
"Dear," he said, "I had plenty of money, and heaps of friends, and I
wanted to have a good time. Also I wanted all the other fellows to
have a good time; and I enjoyed getting the better of all the old
fogies who had forgotten what youth was like--if they'd ever known it.
And I had no mother to ask me questions, and no sisters to turn up at
my rooms unexpectedly. But I can tell you this, Christobel. I hope to
be married soon; and I hope to marry a woman so sweet and noble and
pure, that her very presence tests a man's every thought, feeling, and
memory. And I can honestly look into your dear eyes and say: My wife
will be welcome to know every detail of every prank I ever played in
Cambridge; nor is there a thing in those three years I need feel
ashamed of her knowing. There! Will that do?"
Miss Charteris threw out a deprecatory hand. "Oh, Boy dear!" she said.
"I never doubted that. My Little Boy Blue, don't I know you? But I
cannot let you talk as if you owe me any explanations. How curious to
think I saw you so often during those years, yet we never actually met."
The Boy smiled. "Yes," he said, "we were all awfully proud of you, you
know. What was it you took at Girton?"
Miss Charteris mentioned, modestly, the highest honours in classics as
yet taken by a woman. The Boy had often heard it before. But he
listened with bated breath.
"Yes," he said, "we were awfully proud of it, because of your tennis,
and because of you being--well, just _you_. If you had been a
round-shouldered little person in a placket, we should have taken it
differently. We always called you 'The Goddess,' because of your
splendid walk. Did you know?"
"No, Boy, I did not know; but I confess to feeling immensely flattered.
Only, take a friend's advice, and avoid conversational allusions to
plackets, because you are obviously ignorant of the meaning of the
word. And now, tell me? Having successfully escaped so serious a
drawback to future greatness as becoming Senior Wrangler, on what
definite enterprise have you embarked?"
"Flying," said the Boy, sitting forward in his chair. "I am going to
break every record. I am going to fly higher, farther, faster, than
any man has ever flown before. This week, if I had not stayed on
here--you know originally I came up only for the 'May week'--I was to
have done a Channel flight. Ah, you don't know what it means, to own
three flying-machines, all of different make, and each the best of its
kind! You feel you own the world! And then to climb into your seat
and go whirling away, with the wonderful hum in your ears, mastering
the air--the hitherto invincible air. May I tell you what I am going
to do for my next fly? Start from the high ground between Dover and
Folkestone; fly over the Channel; circle round Boulogne Cathedral--you
remember the high dome, rising out of the old town surrounded by the
ramparts? Then back across the Channel, and to ground again at
Folkestone; all in one flight; and I hope to do it in record time, if
winds are right."
"And if winds are wrong, Boy? If you rush out and take the horrid
risks of the cross-currents you told us about? If something happens to
your propeller, and you fall headlong into the sea?"
"Oh, it's all U P then," said the Boy, lightly. "But one never expects
that sort of thing to happen; and when it does, all is over so quickly
that there is no time for anticipation. Beside, there must be
pioneers. Every good life given, advances the cause."
Christobel Charteris looked at him. His was not the terrible,
unmistakable, relentless face of the bird-man. He was brilliant with
enthusiasm, but it was the enthusiasm of the sportsman, keen to excel;
of Young England, dauntless, fearless, eager to break records. The
spirit of the true bird-man had not, as yet, entered into her Little
Boy Blue.
She pressed her hand upon her bosom. It ached still.
"Boy dear," she said, softly. "Has it ever struck you that, if you
marry, your wife--whoever she might be--would most probably want you to
give up flying? I cannot imagine a woman being able to bear that a man
who was her _all_, should do these things."
The Boy never turned a hair! He did not bound in his seat. He did not
even look at her.
"Why, of course, dear," he said, "if you wished it, I should give up
flying, like a shot, and sell my aeroplanes. I know plenty of chaps
who would like to buy them to-morrow. And I'll tell you what we would
do. We'd buy the biggest, most powerful motor-car we could get, and
we'd tear all over the country, exceeding the speed-limit, and doing
everything jolly we could think of. That would be every bit as good as
flying, if--if we did it together. I say, Christobel--do you know how
to make a sentence of 'together'? Just three words: _to get her_!
That's what 'together' spells for me now."
Miss Charteris smiled. "You might have taken honours in spelling, Boy.
And I am not the sort of person who enjoys exceeding speed-limits.
Also I am afraid I have a troublesome habit of always wanting to stop
and see all there is to see."
But the Boy was infinitely accommodating. "Oh, we wouldn't exceed the
speed-limit--much. And we would stop everywhere, and see everything.
You should breakfast in London; lunch at the Old White Horse, Mr.
Pickwick's inn at Ipswich; have tea at the Maid's Head, beneath the
shadow of Norwich Cathedral, where you could wash your hands in Queen
Elizabeth's fusty old bedroom--what a lot of bedrooms Queen Elizabeth
slept in, and made them all fusty--and have time to show me Little Boy
Blue's breakwater at Dovercourt, before dinner. There's nothing like
motoring!"
"It sounds interesting, certainly," said Miss Charteris.
"And then," continued the Boy, in a calm business-like voice, "it's
less expensive than flying. You run through fifty thousand a year in
no time with aeroplanes. And of course we should want to open both my
places. I'm awfully glad I didn't let the tenants in the old home
renew their lease. As it is, they turn out in three months. Oh, I
say, Christobel, I do believe it is a setting worthy of you. Have you
ever seen it? The great hall, the old pictures, the oak staircase--I
once rode down it on my rocking-horse and came to utter smash. And
outside--the park, the lake, the beech avenue, the rose-garden, the
peacocks. And a funny little old village belongs to us. Think how the
people must want looking after. I believe you would like it all--I
really believe you would! And think, ah, just think what it would be
to me, to see my own splendid wife, queen over everything in my dear
jolly old home! Hullo!--Hark to all the clocks! What is that
striking? Seven? Oh, I say! I'm dining with the Master to-night. I
must rush off, and change. Though I was such a bad lot, they all seem
quite pleased to see me again. Really they do! Have I stayed too
long? ... Sure? ... May I come to-morrow? ... You _are_ most awfully
good to me. Good-bye."
And the Boy was gone. He had held her hand, in a firm, strong clasp, a
second longer than the conventional handshake; his clear eyes, exactly
on a level with hers, had looked at her gravely, wistfully, tenderly;
and he was gone.
She walked slowly up the lawn. She must write a few letters before
post time; then dress for her solitary dinner.
She felt a little flat; quite without cause. What could have been more
satisfactory, in every way, than the Boy's visit; in spite of his
absurd castles in the air? These must be tactfully demolished
to-morrow. To-day, it was wisest just to let him talk.
Poor Little Boy Blue! Instead of the walls of Jericho falling, his own
castles in the air would come tumbling about his ears. Poor Little Boy
Blue!
She felt she had been completely mistress of the situation to-day,
holding it exactly as she wished it to be. There was no need to fear
the remaining days.
And when the seven days were over--what then? ... She certainly felt
very flat this evening. How suddenly the Boy had gone! There was
still so much she wanted to say to him.... And to-morrow was the
Professor's afternoon. Mercifully, he never stayed later than four
o'clock. It was to be hoped the Boy would not turn up early! But
there was never any knowing what the Boy would do.
She smiled as she mounted the flight of stone steps, and passed into
the house.
* * * * *
And, outside the postern gate, the Boy threw up his cap, and caught it;
then started off and sprinted a hundred yards; then, turning aside,
leapt a five-barred gate, and made off across the fields. When he
pulled up at last, in his own bedroom, he had just time to tub, shave,
and wrestle with his evening clothes. He communed with himself in the
few moments of enforced stillness, while he mastered his tie.
"That was all right," he said. "I jolly well worked _that_ all right!
There was nothing to frighten her to-day--not a thing. Dear lips!
They never trembled once; and no more turning faint. And, my Goody,
how she lectured me! I wonder who's been telling her what. I know why
she did it too. She wanted to feel quite sure she was bossing the
show. And so she was, bless her! But I marched round! Yes, I jolly
well marched round.... Oh, I say! Can't you stop where I put you?"
This, to his tie.
Then, with _her_ golden rose in his button-hole, fastened by _the_ pin
from his flannel coat, off went the Boy to dine with the Master of his
college.
* * * * *
"_And the evening and the morning were the second day._"
* * * * *
THE THIRD DAY
THE BOY INVADES THE KITCHEN
The Boy sat on a corner of the kitchen table, swinging a loose leg, and
watching Martha make hot buttered-toast.
He had arrived early, and, finding no one in the garden, had entered
the house by the garden-door, to pursue investigations upstairs.
On the mat in the hall he saw a pair of goloshes; in the
umbrella-stand, a very large, badly-rolled umbrella; hanging on a peg
near by, a professor's cap and gown.
The Boy stood stock still in the middle of the little hall, and looked
at the goloshes.
Then from the drawing-room, through the closed door, came the voice of
Miss Charteris--full, clear, measured, melodious--reading Greek tragedy.
_errois anaides, en tachei neania_
declaimed Miss Charteris; and the Boy fled.
Arrived in the kitchen, he persuaded Martha that cigarette smoke was
fatal to black-beetles. He went about, blowing fragrant clouds into
every possible crack and cranny. Martha watched him, out of the corner
of her eye, crawling along under the dresser in his immaculate white
flannels, and Martha blessed her stars that her kitchen floor was so
spotlessly clean. Only this morning she had remarked to Jenkins that
he could very well eat his dinner off the boards. Mercifully,
Jenkins--tiresome man though he usually was--had not taken this
literally; or he might have made the floor less fit for the Boy's
perambulations.
Having taken all this trouble in order to establish his unquestioned
right to smoke in Martha's kitchen, and to pose as a public benefactor
while so doing, the Boy seated himself on the edge of the table,
exactly behind Martha; lighted a fresh "Zenith," and prepared to enjoy
himself.
Martha glanced nervously at the smoke, issuing from cracks and holes on
all sides. It gave her a feeling that the house was on fire. Of
course she knew it was not; but to _feel_ the house is on fire, is only
one degree less alarming than to _know_ it is. However, beetles are
nasty things; and the condescending kindness and regard for Martha's
personal comfort, which crawled about after them in white flannels, was
gratifying to a degree.
So Martha turned and gave the Boy one of her unusual smiles. He was
very intently blowing rings--"bubbles" Martha called them afterwards,
when explaining them to Jenkins; but that was Martha's mistake. They
were smoke rings. It was one of the Boy's special accomplishments. He
was an expert at blowing rings.
Presently:--"Martha, my duck--" he said suddenly.
Martha jumped. "Bless us, Mr. Guy! What a name!"
"What's the matter with it?" inquired the Boy, innocently. "I consider
it a very nice name, and scriptural."
"Oh, I didn't mean m' own name," explained Martha, more flushed than
the warmth of the fire warranted. "Not but what m' godfathers and
godmothers might well 'ave chosen me a better."
"Oh, don't blame them, overmuch, Martha," said the Boy, earnestly.
"You see their choice was limited. If you study your catechism you
will find that it had to be 'N' or 'M'--'Naomi' or 'Martha.' Even at
that early age, they thought you favoured 'Martha' rather than 'Naomi';
so they named you 'Martha.'"
"Well I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins. "'N' or 'M'! So it is! Now I
never noticed _that_ before. We live and learn! And Jenkins--silly
man--'as always bin annoyed that they named 'im 'Noah.' But how about
when _you_ was christened, Mr. Guy?"
"Oh," explained the Boy, with a wave of his cigarette, "I was
christened a bit later than you, Martha; and, by that time, Parliament
had sat in solemn convocation, and had brought in a Bill to the effect
that all needless and vexatious limitations and restrictions in the
Prayer Book might for the future be disregarded. The first to go was
'N' or 'M.'"
"Well, I never!" said Martha. "I wish they'd ha' done it afore _my_
time."
"You see," expounded the Boy, who was enjoying himself vastly, and
getting the conjunction of the goloshes and the Greek play off his
mind; "you see, Martha, those progressive Bills, intimately affecting
the whole community, of vital importance to the nation at large, are
always blocked by the House of Lords. If the Commons could have had
their own way, you might have been named 'Lucy' or 'Clara.'"
"I don't incline to 'Lucy' or 'Clara,' sir," said Mrs. Jenkins,
decidedly; "being, as they always strikes me, sickly story-book sort of
names; but I _do_ like justice and a free country! I always have felt
doubtful o' them Lords, since I listened to my married niece's husband,
a very respectable journeyman tailor but mostly out of work; and if
it's _their_ doing that I'm 'Martha,' well, _I_ shall know what to do
with Jenkins's vote--that's all!"
The Boy slapped his leg and rocked. "Martha, you ought to be put up to
speak at political meetings. That's the whole thing in a nutshell:
cause, effect, results, arguments, everything! Oh, my wig!--Yes, they
are a lot of old stick-in-the-muds in the Upper House, aren't they?"
pursued the Boy--who had had a long line of dignified ancestors in that
much abused place; had an uncle there at the present moment, and was
more than likely eventually to have to sit there himself--"a rotten lot
of old stick-in-the-muds, Martha; but I think they did well by you.
I'd give them the benefit of Jenkins's vote. I really would. I am
glad they chose 'M,' not 'N.' Naomi was a widow and dismal. She never
made the smallest effort to buck up. But Martha was a nice person; a
bit flurried perhaps, and hot-tempered; but well up in cooking, and
keen on it. I like Martha."
The Boy sat and meditated. Why did she read Greek plays with a person
who left goloshes on the mat, and brought out an ancient umbrella with
a waist, on an absolutely cloudless day?
"It wasn't m' own name surprised me, Mr. Guy, sir," remarked Martha,
coyly; "it was the name you was pleased to _h_add."
The Boy pulled himself together. "Eh, what? Oh, 'Martha, my duck'? I
see. I hope you don't mind, Martha. It seemed to me rather a suitable
and pretty addition to 'Martha.' You see, yours is a name which cannot
be shortened when one feels affectionate. 'Sarah' can be 'Sally';
'Amelia' can be 'Milly'; 'Caroline' can be 'Carrie'; but 'Martha'
remains 'Martha' however loving people feel. What does Jenkins call
you when he feels affectionate?"
Martha snorted. "Jenkins knows 'is place," she said, jerking the round
lid off the stove, and putting on the kettle.
"Jenkins is a model," smiled the Boy.
Then Martha looked round, her feminine curiosity, and perhaps a touch
of jealousy, getting the better of her respectful discretion. She had
seen so much, and heard so little; and she was a very old family
servant.
"What do you call _her_, Mr. Guy?" she asked, in a confidential
whisper, with a jerk of the head toward the mulberry-tree.
"Her?" repeated the Boy, surprised. Then his whole tone softened. It
was so sweet to speak her name to some one. "I call her 'Christobel,'"
he said, gently.
But Martha wanted to know more. Martha was woman enough to desire an
unshared possession of her own. She bent over the fire, stirring it
through the bars.
"Mr. Guy, sir, I suppose you don't--I suppose you do--that is to say,
sir--Do you call _her_ what you've been pleased to call me?"
"Eh, what?" said the Boy, vaguely.
"Oh, I see. 'Christobel, my----' Oh, no, Martha. No, I don't! Not
even when I feel most affectionate." Here the Boy was seized with
sudden convulsions, slapped his knee noiselessly, and rocked on the
kitchen table. He whispered it, in an ecstasy of enjoyment.
"'Christobel, my duck!' Oh, lor! 'Christobel, my duck!' I hope I
shall be able to resist telling her. I should have to own I had called
Martha so. 'Christobel, my----'"
Martha, wondering at the silence, looked round suddenly. But the Boy
had that instant recovered, and was sitting gravely on the corner of
the table.
"Martha, my duck," he said, "to return to the original opening of this
conversation: has Jenkins ever told you what a nice little wisp of hair
you have, behind your left ear?"
"Get along, sir!" retorted Martha, fairly blushing. "You're making
game of me."
"Indeed, I'm not," said the Boy, seriously. "If you made it into a
curl, Martha, and fastened it with an invisible pin, it would be quite
too fascinating. You ask Jenkins. I say, Martha? What's a placket?"
"A placket, sir," said Martha, on her way to fetch something from a
shelf near which hung the kitchen mirror; "a placket, sir, is a thing
which shows when it shouldn't."
"I see," said the Boy. "Then you couldn't exactly go about in one.
Martha, whose goloshes are those, sitting on the mat in the hall?"
Martha snorted. "An old woman's," she said, wrathfully.
The Boy considered this. "And does the umbrella with the waist belong
to the same old woman?"
Martha nodded.
"And the Professor's cap and gown, hanging near by?"
Martha hesitated. "'Tain't always petticoats makes an old woman," she
said, sententiously.
"Martha, you are _pro_-foundly right," said the Boy. "Does the
Professor stay to tea?"
"Thank goodness no, sir. We draw the line at that, 'cept when Miss
_H_ann comes too."
"Who is Miss _H_ann?"
"She's the Professor's sister." Martha hesitated; poured hot water
into the silver teapot; then turned to whisper confidentially, with
concentrated dislike: "She's always a-_h_egging of 'em on!"
"What a curious occupation," remarked the Boy, blowing a smoke-ring.
"Does Miss _H_ann come often?"
"No, Mr. Guy. Thanks be, she's a _h_invalid."
"Poor Miss _H_ann. What's the matter with her?"
Martha snorted. "Fancies herself too much."
"What a curious complaint. What are the symptoms?"
"Fancies herself in a bath-chair," said Martha, scornfully.
"I see," said the Boy. "Oh, poor Miss _H_ann! I should feel very sick
if I fancied myself in a bath-chair. I wish I could meet Miss _H_ann.
I should like to talk to her about the _h_egging-on business."
"_You'd_ make her sit up," said Martha, with spiteful enjoyment.
"Oh no, I shouldn't," said the Boy. "That would not be kind to an
invalid. I should see that she reclined, comfortably; and then I
should jolly well flatten her out."
At that moment a shadow fell across the sunny window. Miss Charteris,
her guest having departed, passed down the garden steps, and moved
across the lawn.
The Boy sprang to his feet. At sight of her, his conscience smote him
that he should have thus gossiped and chaffed with old Martha. He
suddenly remembered why he had originally found his way to the kitchen.
"Martha," he said; "I want you to let me carry out the tea-tray this
afternoon. She doesn't know I am here. She will think it is you or
Jenkins, till she looks round. Let me carry it out, Martha, there's a
duck!"
"As you please, sir," said Martha; "but if you want her to think it's
Jenkins, you must put it down with a clatter. It takes a man to be
clumsy."
The Boy walked over to the window. The mulberry-tree was not visible
from the kitchen table.
"Don't go there, Mr. Guy!" cried Martha. "Miss Christobel will see
you, sir. This window, and the pantry, show from the garden. If you
want to 'ave a look at her, go through that door into the storeroom.
The Venetian blind is always down in there. There is one crack through
which I----"
Martha stopped short, disconcerted.
"One crack through which you think I could see? Thank you, Martha,"
said the Boy, readily. "Hurry up with the tray."
He went into the store-room; found Martha's chink, and realized exactly
what had been the extent of Martha's view, during the last two days.
Then he bent his hungry young eyes on Christobel.
She was seated in a garden chair, her back to the house, her face
towards the postern gate in the old red wall at the bottom of the
garden. The rustic table, upon which he would soon deposit the
tea-tray, was slightly behind and to the left of her. The sun shone
through the mulberry leaves, glinting on the pure whiteness of her
gown. She leaned her beautiful head back wearily. Her whole attitude
betokened fatigue. He could not see her face; but he felt sure her
eyes were open; and he knew her eyes were on the gate.
The Boy's lips moved. "Christobel," he whispered.
"Christobel--beloved?"
She was waiting; and he knew she was waiting for him.
Presently he dropped the lath of the Venetian blind, and turned to go.
But first he took out his pocket-book and fastened the lath which
lifted most easily, to those above and below it, with halfpenny stamps.
He knew old Martha would take a hint from him. There must be no eyes
on the mulberry-tree to-day.
In the kitchen the tray was ready; tea freshly made, thin
bread-and-butter, cucumber sandwiches; hot buttered-toast in
perfection; cornflour buns, warranted to explode; all the things he
liked most; and, best of all, cups for two. He grasped the tray firmly
with both hands.