The tide in Mrs. Tarleton rose once more; on Monday she was able to
sit up, and Cecil took Lee for a walk; but returned betimes, having
received a brief parental admonition that if he did not, he’d be caned.
After that, they explored Market Street every afternoon, and on Sunday
trotted off to church together.
On the following afternoon, as Lee was walking down the hill from
school, she saw an excited group of boys in the street, before the
side entrance of Mrs. Hayne’s boarding-house. As she approached, she
inferred that two were fighting, as some eight or ten others were
cheering and betting.
Lee raised herself on tiptoe and looked over the shoulder of a short
boy. The belligerents were Bertie Reynolds and Cecil Maundrell. Her
first impulse was to scream--an impulse which she quickly repressed.
Her second was to cheer Cecil. This she also repressed, remembering
that she was a girl, or, as her mother would have put it, a Southerner.
She mounted a box and watched the battle, her hands clenched, her
eyes blazing, her heart sick; for her Cecil was getting the worst of
it. He looked as sturdy as a little oak, and he planted his blows
scientifically; but his antagonist was twice his size, lean and wiry,
and full of nervous fire. Moreover, the surrounding influences were
all for the American: Cecil was not only English, but he had snubbed
these boys of Mrs. Hayne’s boarding-house for three consecutive weeks.
Vengeance had been in the air for some time.
The boys fought like young savages. Their faces made Lee shudder and
ponder. But that impression passed, for there was worse to come. Cecil
got a huge lump over his right eye. Cecil got a damaged nose. Cecil’s
immaculate shirt turned an angry scarlet. Cecil got a blow under his
jaw, and went down.
Then was Lee’s opportunity. She leaped from the box, straight into the
ring--which was giving unearthly cat-calls--and took Cecil’s head in
her arms.
“You just help me carry him inside, you horrid, hateful bully,” she
commanded young Reynolds. “Take his feet--there!”
The national instinct prompted obedience, and Cecil was safely
deposited on the lower step of the side entrance, Reynolds retiring in
haste before the concentrated fury in Lee’s eyes and teeth and nails.
She gathered Cecil into her bosom, and wept bitterly.
“I say!” murmured the wounded hero. “Don’t cry! I’m all right. I’ve got
a beastly headache, that’s all.”
“Those loathsome boys!” sobbed Lee.
“Well, they know I can fight, if I didn’t beat.” But his voice was
thick, and there was no pride about him anywhere.
Lee’s tears finished, and were succeeded by curiosity.
“What did you fight about?” she asked, drying her eyes on her
ensanguined pinafore.
“They all said the United States licked England twice, and I said it
didn’t. They said I didn’t know history, and I--well, I told them they
were liars, and that Reynolds offered to fight for the crowd, and we
fought.”
“Don’t get excited,” said Lee soothingly. “Do you think you can walk up
to your room? You’ll feel better if you lie down, and I can do a lot of
things for you.”
He got to his feet, climbed wearily to his room, and flung himself
on the bed. Lee was in her element. She sponged him off, and fetched
ice, and bound up his damaged face. She felt his nose to see if it was
broken. It was swelling rapidly, and he shrieked as she prodded it.
Lee wished that she did not feel a disposition to laugh, but her hero
certainly looked funny. When she had bound two compresses about his
face--his upper lip was also cut--she closed the inside blinds, and sat
down beside the bed. It was her duty to go to her mother, but she was
loath to leave her comrade.
“Lee,” said a stifled voice, “pull off my boots.”
Lee rose, hesitated a moment, then removed the boots, and threw his
jacket over his feet. She walked to the window, peered through the
slats, then returned to the bed.
“The United States did lick England,” she said.
Cecil was on his elbow in an instant.
“It did not,” he cried hoarsely. “If you were a boy I’d thrash you.”
“I finished United States history last term. We licked you in the
Revolution and in 1812.”
Cecil was erect on the edge of his bed, glaring at her out of his
attenuated eye, over the rising sun of his nose. “I tell you you
didn’t,” he growled. And his bandages slipped, and his wounds bled.
Lee flung her arms about him in an agony of remorse and pushed him back
among the pillows.
“I’m just horrid,” she sobbed; “I don’t know why I said that.” And once
more she bathed and bound him.
“Lee,” whispered a weary voice. “Say that you didn’t lick us.”
Lee gave him a little hug. “Of course not,” she said, as to a sick
child; “of course not.”