THAT MISCHIEVOUS CUPID.
“For boys say, Love me or I die.”
University examinations are not things to be postponed with polite
little notes like inconvenient balls or picnics. And, given the
early days of December, and a young man who steadfastly refused to
acknowledge this fact, what use was it even to trouble to scan the
lists?
Of course Philip was plucked.
In October he had brought down his father’s wrath upon him by failing
to get through in a class examination; and any one who had had
experience of the Captain’s would have thought that would have been
quite enough to make him take a good place at the end of his second
year.
But, as I said, his name was conspicuous by its absence.
“Oh, Philip!” Nell said, an accent of reproach on the first syllable;
“and even that stupid Burton boy is through.”
“Oh, Pip!” said Meg. “What _will_ father say?”
It was the day the lists were out at the university, and Philip had
just communicated the agreeable intelligence to his sisters in the
midst of his third pipe after dinner.
And the strange part was, he did not seem to care twopence—the orthodox
measure of indifference.
He lolled back on the lounge, and made fantastic figures with the smoke
from his pipe; he did not even seem to hear what the girls were saying.
And when he came out of his father’s study, after a _mauvais quart
d’heure_ of unusual elasticity, there was not a trace of repentance
on his face, nothing but obstinacy in his eyes, and lips all pursed
up for a careless whistle when the distance from the room should be
respectable enough.
But later on in the evening Meg caught a glimpse of his face when he
thought he was quite unobserved, and its restless, unhappy look gave
her a curious feeling of surprise and anxiety.
She remembered all at once that she had quite forgotten of late to take
an interest in this eldest brother of hers.
The “time o’ day” that it was just now in her life made it excusable,
perhaps. She had a latchkey to a little heaven of her own, where she
might retreat whenever earth grew troublous or commonplace; sometimes
she stayed there too long and grew forgetful. And though she had taken
Poppet as her special charge, and formed endless resolutions as to her
future treatment of poor, prodigal Bunty, she had let Pip slip away.
He was from home so much was the excuse she made to herself now—at
lectures most of the day, and no one knew where in the evening; how
could she be all she should to him? She had kept a sisterly eye on his
clothes, darned all manner of sweet little dreams into the heels and
toes of his socks, and even embroidered him a ’varsity cap so that he
should not be jealous of the one she had worked for Alan.
But there she had stopped, and it struck her suddenly to-night that
this big, tall fellow with the manly shoulders and boyish, unhappy face
was almost as a stranger to her.
Where had all his fun, his schoolboy teasings, his high spirits and
absurdities, gone to? Surely it was only yesterday he used to pull
their hair and slaughter their dolls and come for three servings of
pudding!
She gazed at him with great earnestness as he sat motionless at the
table, looking, not at the book before him, but straight opposite at
the wall where Poppet had spilt the ink; and it came to her with a
strange pang of pain that Pip, dear old madcap, merry Pip, was a man.
All the young light had gone from his eyes; they were graver, sterner
than the boy’s eyes, and yet full of a troubled unrest. Then his mouth
was firmer, and it was not only the soft, dark line of an incipient
moustache that made it seem so; the careless laughter lines around it
no longer showed, his very lips seemed to have grown straighter.
But even as Meg watched, all her heart in her eyes, those same lips
unclosed, and a half tremulous curve of pain appeared at each corner
and made them look very boyish again. He put up his hand and pushed his
crisp hair away from his forehead with a weary gesture. She could look
no longer.
She went up to the table and slipped an arm round his shoulder.
“Dear old fellow,” she said; “oh, I am so sorry about the exam.”
“The exam.!” he repeated. “Oh, you needn’t bother, old girl; I don’t
care. What’s an exam. fifty years hence?”
His lips were under his own control again.
The girl’s arm went from his shoulder to his neck. “Dear Pip, I wish
you’d tell me things sometimes; don’t shunt me altogether because
I’m only your sister. Pip, couldn’t you tell me? I _know_ you’re in
trouble; couldn’t I help a bit? Dear old fellow, there’s nothing I
wouldn’t do.” Such an earnest, loving voice it was.
But he freed his neck, and put her away almost roughly.
“Help me!” he said bitterly; “you’re the last in the world who would.
Yes, I’m in trouble, perhaps; but it’s a trouble you girls and Esther
would do your best to increase.”
Meg’s eyes filled, but she would not be repulsed. “Try me,” she said.
“Is it gambling, Pip? Are you in need of money? Is it debts? Have you
done anything you daren’t tell father?” She put her arm round his
shoulder again; but he stood up hastily and pushed her aside.
“It’s nothing you can help, Meg. No, it’s none of those things. As to
telling you, I’d sooner cut my tongue out! There, I didn’t mean to hurt
you,” for Meg’s lips had trembled; “but oh, it would be impossible for
you to understand. Why, you’d be the first to be against me.” He went
over to the door, and picked up his straw hat from the side-table on
the way.
Meg followed him. “Sha’n’t you _ever_ tell me?” she said. “Not
to-night, perhaps, as you don’t want to, but another time Pip; indeed,
you shouldn’t be disappointed in me. Just promise you’ll tell me
another time.”
“You’ll know before the month’s out,” he said, and laughed half wildly
as he closed the door behind him.
As a matter of fact, a trivial accident happened, and she knew before
the next day was out.
They were having afternoon tea down near the river, and it being
Sunday afternoon and pleasantly cool, the Captain had strolled down
with Esther, and was seated on the grass leisurely examining some
letters that had come by the Saturday afternoon’s post and been
laid aside. There was a bill amongst them that he had had no part
in making, a tailor’s bill, with what seemed to him superfluous
blazers, flannels, and such things, down. On ordinary occasions he
would only have grumbled moderately and as a matter of duty, for Pip
was not particularly extravagant. But to-day, with his son’s recent
failure fresh in his mind, he felt he could be explosive with perfect
justice. So he despatched Peter up to the house to request Pip’s
immediate presence. Pip was on the point of going out, and came with a
half-aggrieved, half-aggressive look on his face.
But before there was time for even the preliminaries of warfare, Essie
created a diversion by tumbling out of the moored boat in which she and
Poppet were sitting into the deep, clear water of the river.
Pip’s coat was off before any one had even time to scream, he flung
it into Meg’s lap right over the teacups, and was swimming out to the
little dark bobbing head in less time than it takes to write it.
Nellie and Poppet had screamed, a strange, strangled cry had broken
from Esther’s lips, and the Captain had put his arm round her and said,
“Don’t be foolish, she’s quite safe,” in a sharp voice; but his face
was white under its bronze,—this little saucy-faced baby daughter of
his had crept closer to his heart than any of his other children.
Of course she was quite safe. Here was Pip scrambling up the bank
again, and holding her up in his arms, a little dripping figure in a
white frock and pinafore, one foot quite bare, the other with only the
sock on.
Such gurgling little sobs of fright and relief she gave, such leaps and
shudders of joy and terror, as they carried her up to the house wrapped
in her father’s coat.
But now she was safe and unhurt Meg did not follow the rest of the
family into the bedroom with her. Instead she went into her own,
and sank down on the ottoman at the bed foot, white to the lips and
trembling like an old, old woman,—not on Essie’s account, the danger
had been so short-lived, but in that breathless moment something
terrible had come to her knowledge.
[Illustration: “A LITTLE DRIPPING FIGURE IN A WHITE FROCK AND
PINAFORE.”]
I told you Pip had thrown his coat to her over the tea-things; it had
fallen on her lap with a jerk, and the contents of one pocket had been
precipitated on to the tray.
A tobacco pouch, a fountain pen, and a pipe she had replaced hastily. A
letter had fallen face upwards—even in the confusion she had seen it
was addressed to “Miss Mabelle Jones,” in her brother’s bold writing.
But the thing that had taken all the colour and life from her face, she
had not put back in the pocket at all, when Pip had taken the coat. She
held it at the present time in her tightly shut, trembling hand, and
every minute the horror in her eyes deepened. Then she said, “Pip!” in
a low, wailing voice, and opened her hand and looked again at the thing.
The tissue paper was still there, and on its whiteness, shining bravely
up into the wild eyes above it, lay a little gold wedding-ring.
There was a step outside her door—Pip’s step; he had been to his room
to change to dry things, and was coming back. For a minute he stopped,
and Meg went paler than ever; then he went on, along the passage and
down the staircase.
She could hear him in the lower hall,—could he be going out again? She
started to her feet as the door banged, and went hastily over to the
window. No; he had his old tennis cap on, and was going very slowly
across the grass towards the river, his eyes searching the ground. He
had evidently missed it already, and surmised it had fallen from the
pocket, either as he carried his coat to the house or when he flung it
to Meg. She gave him just time to get down to the water, and then, with
the small, terrible thing tightly held in her hand, she went almost
blindly down the stairs and over the grass after him.
He was kneeling down just beside the tea-things, groping about in the
long grass.
“Have you lost anything?” Meg asked, in a voice that seemed to have no
connection with herself, so faint and far away it sounded.
“Er—only the stem of my pipe,” Pip said, a dull flush on his forehead.
He overturned a cup, spilt the milk into the biscuit barrel, and said
something under his breath.
“Is this what you have lost, Pip?”
Meg’s voice came in almost a whisper, with a note of great yearning
in it,—oh, if only he would laugh, and give a ridiculously simple
explanation of it all! She hardly dared to look at his face for fear of
what she should find there; her hand, outstretched to him with the gold
circle on its palm, trembled like a leaf.
The scarlet leaped up into his face as if he had been a girl; his very
brow and neck and ears were deeply dyed. He snatched the ring from the
little soft palm, and held it in his own closed hand; his eyes were
like coals on fire.
But Meg faced him quietly; all her courage gathered in her hands now
the need had come.
“You were going to marry the little dressmaker, Philip,” she said.
He told her a lie, two or three lies; then he abused her violently for
her interference and prying; then, kneeling as he was, he put both his
arms round her waist and prayed her, if she had any love for him, not
to try to ruin the happiness of his life.
Oh the young, wild, passionate face, the imploring words! It almost
broke Meg’s heart to see him. Such a boy again,—oh, surely not a man
now,—not twenty yet, and so headstrong. She felt years and years older
than he—felt almost as if she were his mother, and he a child begging
to play with the fire.
Strange wisdom came to her. She neither railed nor mocked, reproached
nor wept. “And after you are married, what then, Pip?” she said, her
voice quite even. “Fifty pounds a year won’t go very far; and I suppose
father will stop even that.”
He flung back his head with its crisp waves and curls, the light came
into his eyes.
“I can work,” he said, and smiled proudly.
Meg looked merely thoughtful.
“Of course you can,” she said; “but of course you will get a bare
nothing at first. And, Pip, excuse me saying it, aren’t you rather
selfish? _You_ might be able to rough it; but wouldn’t it be very hard
on her? Dear Pip, haven’t you too much pride to ask any woman in the
world to be your wife, and not have a penny to offer her or a house to
take her to?”
This was a new view of the case to Pip. It had certainly not occurred
to him it was hard on _her_; all the sacrifice had seemed on his side,
and he had rejoiced to make it.
“She doesn’t mind; she knows I’d have to begin from the beginning,” he
said, half sulkily.
“But wouldn’t she rather wait? There is every chance of a bright future
before you, as you know, Pip, with all the influence father has. Pip, I
am sure she would rather wait and come to you when you are able to take
her proudly before every one, than marry you now and make you sink into
a fifth-rate clerk for the rest of your life.”
She held her head on one side argumentatively; the colour was beginning
to creep back into her cheeks.
As for Pip, he was both surprised and sobered at her moderation.
She had not said a word against the girl he loved, she had not been
contemptuous; she was only laying before him, clearly and rationally,
what he had seen and refused to see himself.
The conversation spread itself out over hours; dusk was beginning to
fall before they turned to go in again. It would take half this book to
narrate everything that was said, but in the end the victory was to Meg.
When it came to the crisis she had been very firm.
Unless he would promise her, before God and before heaven, before their
dead mother and all he held holy, not to marry the girl secretly, she
should immediately inform his father, who, until he was of age, could
make the thing impossible.
If, on the other hand, he would go back to his old life and work with
all his will, as it was only right and just he should do, and if at the
end of two years he was just as much in love with her as ever, and if
there was nothing against her but her lowly position, then she, Meg,
would withdraw her opposition, and even do all she could to help him
forward. She felt safe.
“Think how much better you will know each other by then,” she said
cheerfully, as they walked back to the house, both feeling they had
been near a volcano’s edge. “Why, how long have you known her, Pip?”
And his answer was the least bit shamefaced.
“Three months—nearly four, at least.”
He had the unpleasant feeling of having been conquered; but deep in his
secret heart there was relief; that it had been taken out of his hands.
He had known he was making shipwreck of his life, known he was bringing
bitter trouble upon his family by this hot haste; but Mabel (with two
l’s and an e) had been so insistent about an immediate marriage, and he
so deeply in love and fearful of losing her, that he had felt the world
was well lost.
And what Meg said was very true. It would be more manly of him to work
first, and take a wife when he had something to keep her on.
His Spanish castles raised themselves rapidly against the early evening
sky. He would work for two or three years as never man worked yet, and
marry “Mabelle” at the end of that time; then he would take her to
England that she might grow a little more educated and polished (oh,
Pip, Pip!), and then bring her back and present her proudly to Esther
and his father and sisters.
His face looked quite young and bright again by the time they reached
the front door.
“You’re a well-meaning little thing, Meg,” he said, and kissed her
patronisingly; it was not in nature that he should feel quite proper
gratitude.
Meg drew a series of long breaths of relief as she took off her hat
upstairs and smoothed her hair for tea.
“Oh, _who_ would have brothers?” she asked her image in the glass; but
it only looked back at her and smiled mournfully.