IN THE GARDEN
"It's tiring work getting up stairs, especially these stairs--ugh!" said
Waterman, as he entered. "If you don't mind, I'll take a seat."
And without waiting for Paul to answer, Waterman dropped down, with his
hands still in his pockets, beside him on the bed.
"It was very good of you to give me a helping hand just now, Waterman."
"Oh, humbug! I've got a wretched sort of memory. Fact is, it's too great
a fag trying to recollect half the things crammed into you at school,
but I seem to have a better memory than most fellows for some things.
And there's one thing I can't forget--I can't forget you coming across
the ground with that little chap, so like a drowned rat, in your arms. I
shall have to be blind, deaf, and silly before I forget it."
Waterman spoke in his usual drawling tone, but its underlying note of
earnestness was quite unusual. Strange that Paul, too, had just been
thinking of Hibbert, but in a scene far different from that to which
Waterman had referred. God had been very good to him after all. He had
been thinking how utterly lonely he was, and yet a friend--true, a
somewhat indolent one--had come to him in his hour of adversity.
"And look here, Percival," went on Waterman, "there's something else I
remember. I don't know why, you know, but I do."
"What's that? Seems to me your memory's improving," said Paul.
"Oh, my memory's fairly good when it's not grubbing about amongst Latin
roots, or making a fellow bald-headed worrying over problems invented by
a fiend calling himself Euclid ever so many years ago. Why the
undertakers couldn't have buried them along with old Euclid, or stowed
them away with his mummy, is one of those things I could never
understand. Then if people wanted to dig them up again, they'd have been
in their right place--in the mummy department of the British Museum.
Where was I? Oh, on memory. Yes, there's one thing I remember, in spite
of the Latin roots and weary old Euclid. I recollect what you told me on
that day when you surprised every one by turning tail at the sand-pits.
I've kept it to myself all this time. Is it necessary to keep it a
secret any longer?"
"Yes, Waterman," answered Paul firmly.
"Why? Let me set you right with the Form? It'll be an awful fag, I know.
Still, the vac's coming on, and one can have a good long rest after
one's pulled through."
"No, Waterman," said Paul, shaking his head; "I'm not going to curry
favour that way. You've been a friend to me--a friend where I least
expected to find one. Bear with me a little longer."
"But you don't understand the dust that Newall, Parfitt & Co. are
kicking up? Can't you see that they've got Moncrief major completely
under their thumb? They'll make Garside too hot to hold you."
"We'll see. I'm not beaten yet."
"Better let me speak," persisted Waterman.
Paul shook his head.
"I give you up. You are worse than old Euclid!" exclaimed Waterman,
plunging his hands deeper into his pockets.
With a yawn he strolled towards the door, edged his shoulder round it
until he had opened it wide enough for his body to pass through, closed
it by a like man[oe]uvre, and with the same measured step went on his
way.
"After all, I've got one friend at Garside," thought Paul, with a smile,
"though he does like to take his time over things."
He looked in the glass. His cheek was swollen and bruised. His
appearance was very much what Stanley's had been when he had returned
from the sand-pits after his encounter with Wyndham.
"I hope Stanley is satisfied," he said, smiling grimly at himself in the
glass.
Then he remembered that he hadn't carried out the purpose for which he
had gone to the common room. He had gone there for the purpose of
speaking to him about Mr. Moncrief's letter. It was useless to think of
doing so now. He would put the letter in his desk till a more convenient
season. His hand went to his pocket. The letter had gone!
The old feeling came over him that had come over him on the day when he
had lost that other letter on his way to Redmead. It had disappeared
from his pocket just as mysteriously. He looked around. There was no
trace of it in the room. Then he remembered that he had pulled out his
handkerchief in the common room to staunch the blood from his cheek. He
must have pulled out the letter with it.
It would not have mattered much had it been an ordinary letter. But it
was not an ordinary one. Far from it. It contained references to Zuker
and Mr. Weevil which might cause no end of mischief were it to get into
the wrong hands.
He did not like the idea of returning to the common room; it was like
swallowing a nauseous draught of medicine. Probably the boys were still
there, laughing over his discomfiture. Yet, nauseous though the draught
was, it had to be swallowed, and it was best to swallow it quickly.
So he again descended to the common room. He faintly hoped that it might
be deserted, but that hope vanished as he reached the room. This time he
heard the voice of Newall. He paused for a moment; then went boldly
forward.
Stanley had gone--he saw that at a glance; so had most of the others;
but Newall, Parfitt, and two or three more had remained, and were
evidently discussing recent events.
They could not have been more startled had a ghost entered, instead of
a being of flesh and blood. Paul searched round the room in the hope of
finding some trace of the missing letter, but found none.
"Dotty!" came the voice of one of the boys, who had by this time
recovered from their surprise at the unexpected return of Paul.
"Looking for the courage that oozed out at his heels," sneered Parfitt.
"I've lost a letter," said Paul, on whom these facetious remarks were
quite lost. "You don't happen to have seen it?"
No one answered him. They stared blankly at him. They did not mind
speaking at him. Speaking to him was quite a different thing.
It was perfectly useless to expect an answer from them; so Paul went
out, feeling far from comfortable. He could only hope that no bad use
would be made of the letter, supposing it had fallen into their hands.
_The Gargoyle Record_ came out next day. Among other items of
information were the following:
"Old flag back to tower. Brought back by 'two P's' of the Fifth. Great
enthusiasm--little waddlers of the Third cheering like lunatics; big
cacklers of the Fifth hissing like geese. Mystery in three volumes. Vol.
I.--How the flag disappeared from Garside. Vol. II.--Where it went to.
Vol. III.--How 'two P's' got it back again. Snorters of the Fifth
getting excited. A commission of inquiry into the conduct of 'two P's.'
"Rumours of a scrum in common room. 'Two P's' again distinguishes
himself. Still living up to his old motto:
"He who fights and runs away
Will live to fight another day."
"What has become of that promising junior whose name rhymes with hunger?
Nothing has been seen or heard of him for the last day or two. What has
come over him? His native modesty seems to have left him. He has
retreated to a back seat. Is he projecting further adventures in desert
islands, or giving lessons in punting? Anxious inquiries are being made
at the offices of the _Record_. Colonial papers in the neighbourhood of
desert islands, please copy."
Paul, on reading these paragraphs, knew well enough who was meant by
"two P's." They were the initials of his own name--Paul Percival.
But his mind was taken from these happenings by a message from the
sick-room. Hibbert had been up for a few hours each day, and had pleaded
hard with the doctor to be allowed to go out; so the doctor at last gave
the nurse permission. On two days the invalid went out with the nurse.
On the third day he asked Paul, as a special favour, to take him out.
Paul willingly consented, only too pleased to feel that he could be of
some help to him again. There was one favourite spot to which the
solitary boy used to go when he was well. It was in the garden attached
to the schoolhouse, apart altogether from the playing-fields. It was
marked "Private," and the boys, as a rule, were not allowed there. It
was chiefly used by the masters.
It was because it was so tranquil, so different from the playing-fields,
and because the sun seemed to linger around this old garden longer than
anywhere else, that the dreamy boy loved it, and used to steal there
when he was well.
"I'm so glad to feel you on my arm again, Hibbert!" said Paul, as he led
him to a basket-seat, with cushions, beneath a wide-spreading elm.
"I feel better now than I've felt for a long time, Paul. How I must have
wearied people lying up there!"
He glanced in the direction of the school.
"Don't say that, Hibbert. It sounds as though there was no one in the
world who cared for you."
"I know it sounds ungrateful; but even when we care for people, we must
get weary of them when they're ill a long time. I don't mean you, but
the nurse, and doctor, and--other people."
Paul knew that Hibbert was thinking chiefly of his father, who, absorbed
in his own schemes, had only been to see him once since his illness--on
that afternoon when Mr. Weevil had introduced him to Zuker.
To turn the boy's mind from these sad thoughts, Paul told him some of
the latest exploits of Plunger, winding up with his recent discovery of
him under the bed in his dormitory. Hibbert was amused and interested.
"Plunger's a funny lot. He makes me smile to think of him. I hope he's
never worried himself much about that raft accident?"
"Plunger's not the sort of fellow to worry himself much about anything
for long; but he's often asked me about you."
"I was thinking a good deal about what happened on the raft last night.
I could not sleep for thinking of it; and then, when I went to sleep, I
dreamed--dreamed that my mother was standing by me all in white. She was
smiling down at me, and held out her arms to me. I tried to get to her,
and in trying to get to her I awoke. Do you know, I was so disappointed!
The dream was better than the awaking. I so wished my mother had lived,
for then you would have known her, Paul. I'm sure you would have liked
her, and that she would have liked you. But perhaps it is best as it
is."
"I'm sure it's for the best, though it seems hard to say so. Everything
is for the best, Hibbert. We don't see it, because we're only blind
people leading the blind. But God sees, and God knows. That's what my
mother has told me so often that I've never forgotten it. It has helped
me a lot--more than I can tell you. You've talked about your mother, let
me tell you a little about my own."
And Paul talked to Hibbert about his own mother. The boy listened
eagerly, with one hand resting in Paul's, a smile upon his lips.
Suddenly he drew a deep sigh of content; the fragile head fell back upon
the chair; the hand in Paul's grew suddenly cold.
Paul looked into the boy's face. The smile still hovered about his lips,
but he saw something in the face he had never seen there before.
"Hibbert!" he cried. But there was no response.
Paul gently withdrew his hand and ran to the house. He met Sedgefield,
and sent him for the nurse, while he hurried back to Hibbert.
The little fellow was still lying back in the chair. A wren had perched
itself lovingly upon his shoulder, but Hibbert knew nothing of its
presence. He was fast asleep--in the long, last sleep that knows no
waking.