"And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps,
And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame."
It was a wild, wet morning, some days after the Oakby dinner-party.
Summer weather was apt in those regions to be invaded in August by
something very like autumn; bits of brown and yellow appeared here and
there among the green, and fires became essential. To-day the mist was
driving past the windows of the boys' sitting-room, blotting out the
view, till the wind rent it apart and showed dim sweeps of distant moor.
Bob Lester was sitting at the table, with his eyes fixed, _not_ on the
exceedingly inky copy of Virgil before him, but on the window, as he
remarked dolefully,--
"Birds are wild enough already, without all this wind to make them
worse."
Jack was writing at the other end of the table; Nettie, with an old
waterproof cloak on, was kneeling on the window-seat, watching the
weather, with Buffer, apparently similarly occupied, by her side; and
Cheriton, with considerable sharpness of manner, was endeavouring to
drive the Latin lesson into Bob's head.
For Bob was under discipline. Such a bad report of him had come from
school as to idleness, troublesomeness, and general misbehaviour, that
his father, after a private interview, the nature of which Bob did not
disclose, had ordered a certain amount of work to be done every day, to
be taken back to school, and had forbidden a gun or a fishing-rod to be
touched till this was accomplished. Cherry in the early days of his
convalescence, had received Bob's growls on the subject, and had offered
to help him, as Jack's efforts as a tutor were not found to answer, and
had actually coaxed a certain amount of information into him. Lately,
however, the lessons had not gone off so well. Cheriton had made a
great point of them, and held Bob as if in a vice by the force of his
will; but he was sarcastic instead of playful, and contemptuous instead
of encouraging, and now lost patience, laying down his book and speaking
in a cutting, incisive tone that made Bob start--and stare.
"We have all got aims in life, I suppose; I wish we were all as likely
to succeed in them as you are, Bob."
"I haven't got an aim in life," said Bob, turning round as if affronted.
"No? I thought your aim was to be the greatest dunce in the county.
It's well to know one's own line, and do a thing _well_ while one's
about it. A low aim's a mistake in all things."
Jack laid down his pen, and stared hard at Cheriton. Bob waited
unconscious, expecting the smile and twinkle that took the sting out of
all Cherry's mischief, but none came.
"Come now, you needn't be down on a fellow in that way," he said,
angrily. "My line mayn't be yours, but I'll--I'll stick to it one day."
"I just observed that you were sticking to it now, heart and soul. Let
all your wits lie fallow; with the skill and energy you are showing at
present, you may get to the level of a ploughboy in time."
"I say, Cherry," said Jack, "that's a little strong."
Bob shut the book with a bang and stood up.
"I'm not going to stand that," he said; and Cheriton recollected himself
and coloured. "I beg your pardon, Bob," he said. "It was too bad. I--
I was only joking. Will you go on now?"
"No," said Bob. "I won't be made game of."
"You tire Cherry to death," said Jack. "No wonder he loses patience."
"_I_ didn't ask him to do it," said Bob. "Nettie, where are you going?"
"Out," said Nettie, briefly.
"Then I'm going too," said Bob, following her; while Cheriton wearily
threw himself down on the cushions in the window-seat and in his turn
stared out at the mist. Jack sat and watched him. He had never uttered
a word even to Alvar, but he was full of anxiety. What was the matter
with Cherry?
He was lively enough at meal-times and with his father and grandmother;
he had resumed all his usual habits, except that the bad weather had
prevented him from going out shooting. He had laughed at Alvar for
being over-anxious about him, and had taken a great deal of unnecessary
trouble about sundry village matters and affairs at home. He had talked
what Alvar called "philosophy" to Jack with unusual seriousness; and yet
Jack, with whom perhaps he was least on his guard, missed something.
And then Mrs Ellesmere had remarked that she did not like to see
Cheriton with such a pink colour and such black circles round his eyes,
and had warned her husband not to let him fatigue himself on some walk
they were taking. Surely Cherry coughed oftener, and was more easily
tired, than he had been ten days ago.