TOM MAKES EXCUSE
The girls of the Compton Schools attended the church of St.
Matthew-on-the-Hill, which stood on the high ground above the Sowerbrook
valley. A grey, weather-worn structure it was, the tower of which had
been used as a lighthouse in the days of long ago. It was a small place,
too, and for that reason the boys always went to the camp church, a
spacious but very ugly building, which crowned the hill just above their
school.
To both girls and boys it was a distinct grievance that they were
compelled to go to different churches; but St. Matthew-on-the-Hill was
too small to contain them all, and the military authorities looked
askance at the girls, so what could not be cured had to be endured.
The one good thing which resulted from this was that brothers and
sisters were always together for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoons.
If the weather was fine they went for walks together; if it was wet they
were in the drawing-room or the conservatories of the girls’ school.
That first Sunday, Dorothy was waiting for Tom. She was out on the broad
gravel path which stretched along in front of the conservatory, for the
girls had told her that the boys always came in by the little bridge
over the brook at the end of the grounds, and she did not want to lose a
minute of the time she could have with her brother.
She had imagined he would be in a tearing hurry to reach her, and she
felt downright flat, after waiting for nearly half an hour, to see him
strolling up the lawn at the slowest of walks, in company with a
lumpy-looking boy whose face was liberally adorned with strips of
sticking-plaster.
“Hullo, Dorothy, are you all on your own?” demanded Tom, looking
distinctly bored; then he jerked his thumb in the direction of his
companion, saying in a casual fashion, “Here is Bobby Felmore, the chap
I licked the other day. Did you hear about it?”
“Yes, I heard,” she answered, and then hesitated, not quite sure what to
say. It would be a bit embarrassing, and not quite kind, to congratulate
Tom on his victory, with the beaten one standing close by, so it seemed
safest to say nothing.
“It was a bit rotten to be licked by a kid like Tom, don’t you think,
Miss Sedgewick?” asked Bobby with a grin. “The fact was, he is such a
little chap that I was afraid to take him seriously, and that was how he
got his chance at me.”
“Hear him!” cried Tom with ringing scorn. “But he is ignorant yet; when
he is a bit older and wiser he will understand that a lump of pudding
hasn’t any sort of chance against muscle guided by science. Besides, he
had to be walloped in the cause of chivalry and right.”
“You young ass!” exploded Bobby, and he looked so threatening that
Dorothy butted in, fearing they would start mauling each other there and
then.
“I think it is just horrid to fight,” she said crisply. “It is a
low-down and brutish habit. Are you going to walk, Tom, or shall we sit
in the conservatory and talk? It is nearly three o’clock, so we have not
very much time.”
“I’m not particular,” said Tom with a yawn. “Where are all the others?
If we go for a walk we have just got to mooch along on our own; but if
we stay in the grounds or the conservatory we can be with the others,
don’t you see?”
“Just as you please.” Dorothy could not help her tone being a trifle
sharp. It was a real disappointment to her that Tom did not want to have
her alone for a little while.
“Very well, then, let us go down to that bench by the sundial. Rhoda
Fleming is there, and the Fletchers; we had a look in at them, and a bit
of a pow-wow as we came up.” Tom turned eagerly back as he spoke, and
Dorothy walked in silence by his side, while Bobby Felmore went on into
the house in search of Blanche, who had a cold, and was keeping to the
house.
So that was why Tom was nearly half an hour late in arriving! Dorothy
was piqued and resentful; but having her share of common sense, she did
not start ragging him—indeed, she was so quiet, and withal pensive,
that Tom’s conscience began to bother him, and he even started to make
excuse for himself.
“You see, Rhoda and I are great friends—downright pals, so to
speak—and, of course, if we went for a walk she would not be able to
come too.” He was apologetic in manner as well as speech, and he slipped
his arm round her waist with a great demonstration of affection as they
went slowly across the lawn.
It was because he was so dear and loving in his manner that Dorothy
suddenly forgot to be discreet, and was only concerned to warn him of
the kind of girl she knew Rhoda to be.
“Oh, Tom, dear old boy, I wish you would not be pals with Rhoda,” she
burst out impulsively. “I don’t think you know what sort of girl she is,
and, anyhow, she——”
Dorothy came to a sudden halt in her hurried little speech as Tom faced
round upon her with fury in his face.
“You had better stop talking rot of that kind.” There was an actual
snarl in his tone, and his eyes were red with anger. “Girls are always
unfair to each other, but I thought you were above a meanness of that
sort.”
Dorothy’s temper flared—what a silly kid he was to be so wrapped up in
a girl. She fairly snapped at him in her irritation.
“If you were not so young, so unutterably green, you would be willing to
listen to reason, and to hear the truth. Since you won’t, then you must
take the consequences, I suppose.”
“Don’t be in a wax, old girl.” He gave her an affectionate squeeze as he
spoke, which had the effect of entirely disarming her anger against him.
“I am not in a wax; oh, I was, but it has gone now.” She smiled up into
his face as she spoke, deciding that come what might she could not risk
losing his love by trying to point out to him what sort of a girl Rhoda
was.
The September afternoon was very sunny and warm, and the group of girls
on the broad wooden bench by the sundial were lazily enjoying the
brightness and the heat as Dorothy and Tom came slowly along the path
between the flower-beds at the lower end of the lawn.
Rhoda Fleming was there, Joan and Delia Fletcher, and Grace Boldrey, a
Fourth Form kid who was Delia’s chum. They all made room for Dorothy and
Tom, as if they had expected them to come.
Dorothy found herself sitting between the two Fletchers, while Rhoda
monopolized Tom, and the Sunday afternoon time, which she had looked
forward to as being like a bit of home, resolved itself into an ordeal
of more or less patiently bearing the quips and thrusts of Rhoda, who
appeared to take a malicious pleasure in making her as uncomfortable as
possible.
The affair of Professor Plimsoll’s lecture was dragged out and talked
about from the point of view of Rhoda, who, perching herself on the
lower step of the sundial, pretended she was Dorothy, standing up beside
the professor, and repeating to him his own lecture.
Rhoda had a real gift of mimicry: the others rocked with laughter, and
Dorothy, although she smarted under the lash of Rhoda’s tongue, joined
in the laugh against herself, because it seemed the least embarrassing
thing to do.
She felt very sore a little later when Tom, in the momentary absence of
Rhoda, said to her, “It was silly of you to make such an exhibition of
yourself at the lecture. No one cares for a prig. I should have thought
you would have found that out long ago.”
“I could not help myself—I had to do as I was told; and, at least, I
owe my place in the Sixth to having been able to remember.” Dorothy was
keeping her temper under control now, although of choice she would have
reached up and slapped Tom in the face for daring to take such a
critical and dictatorial tone with her.
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Every one to his taste, of course; myself,
I would rather have waited until I was fit for the Sixth, than have got
there by a fluke. You will find it precious hard work to keep your end
up. For my own part, I would rather have been in the Upper Fifth until I
was able to take my remove with credit.”
“Why, Tom, if I had been put into the Upper Fifth I should have stood no
chance of the Mutton Bone,” cried Dorothy in a shocked tone.
Tom smiled in a superior and really aggravating fashion. “Going in for
that, are you? Well, your folly be on your own head; you are more fond
of the wooden spoon than I should be. For myself, I never attempt
anything I’m not likely to achieve. You don’t catch yours truly laying
himself open to ridicule; but every one to his taste. Seeing that Rhoda
has come back to school for another year, it goes without saying that
she will win the Mutton Bone. She is no end clever, and you won’t have
much chance against her.”
“I am going to have a try, anyhow,” said Dorothy in a dogged tone; and
at that moment Rhoda and Joan Fletcher came back, and the chances of any
homey talk between brother and sister were over for that afternoon.
Rhoda and Tom started arguing about a certain horse that was to run at
Ilkestone the following week, and Dorothy, sitting listening to Joan
Fletcher’s thin voice prosing on about the merits of knife pleated
frocks, wondered what her father would have said if he could have heard
Tom discussing the points of racehorses as if he had served an
apprenticeship in a training stable.
Later on, when she walked with him to the little gate at the end of the
grounds, where the bridge went over the brook and the field path which
led to the boys’ school, Tom began to make excuses for himself for the
depth of his knowledge on racing matters.
“A fellow has to keep his eyes open, and to remember what he hears, or
he would get left at every turn, you know,” he said, and again he slid
his arm about his sister’s waist.
“I don’t think father and mother would approve of your keeping your eyes
so wide open about horse-racing and that sort of thing.”
Dorothy spoke in a rather troubled fashion. It was really difficult for
her to lecture Tom for his good when he had his arm round her in that
taking fashion.
“Oh, naturally the governor and mums are more than a trifle stodgy in
their outlook. It is a sign of advancing years.” He laughed
light-heartedly as he spoke, then plunged into talk about football plans
and his own chances of getting a good position in his team.
They lingered at the bridge until the other boys who had been visiting
at the girls’ school came pouring along the path at a run. Then the
first bell sounded for tea, and Dorothy had to scuttle back through the
grounds at racing speed, for she would only have five minutes in which
to put herself tidy for tea.
“Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” asked Hazel, who had been out with
Margaret.
“It was good to be with Tom for a time,” Dorothy answered, hesitated,
and then went on in a hurried fashion, “It would have been nicer, of
course, if we had been alone together, or with you and Margaret, but Tom
elected to spend the time with Rhoda and Joan Fletcher, and—and, well,
it was not all honey and roses.”
“I can’t think what the silly boy can see in Rhoda,” said Hazel
severely. “I never cared much for her myself, and the way in which she
has snubbed Margaret is insufferable. I am thankful that Dora Selwyn is
head girl, and not Rhoda; it would be awful if she set the pace for the
whole school.”
“Dora Selwyn looks nice, but she is rather unapproachable,” said Dorothy
in a rather dubious tone.
Hazel laughed. “Don’t you know the secret of that?” she asked. “Dora is
about the shyest girl alive, and her stand-offishness is nothing in the
world but sheer funk. You try making friends with her, and you will be
fairly amazed at the result.”