defaced books, ink mysteriously spilt or strangely adulterated, and,
though I could never trace them to any definite hand, they seemed too
systematic to be quite accidental; still I made no sign, and hoped thus
to disarm my persecutor--if persecutor there were.
As for my companions, I knew that in no case would they take the trouble
to interfere in my behalf; they had held aloof from the first, the
general opinion (which I now perceive was not unjust) being that 'I
deserved all I got.'
And my estrangement from Marjory grew wider and wider; she never spoke
to me now when we sat near one another at the drawing-class; if she
looked at me it was by stealth, and with a glance that I thought
sometimes was contemptuously pitiful, and sometimes half fancied
betrayed a willingness to return to the old comradeship.
But I nursed my stupid, sullen pride, though my heart ached with it at
times. For I had now come to love Marjory devotedly, with a love that,
though I was a boy and she was a child, was as genuine as any I am ever
likely to feel again.
The chance of seeing her now and then, of hearing her speak--though it
was not to me--gave me the one interest in my life, which, but for her,
I could hardly have borne. But this love of mine was a very far-off and
disinterested worship after all. I could not imagine myself ever
speaking of it to her, or picture her as accepting it. Marjory was too
thorough a child to be vulgarised in that way, even in thought.
The others were healthy, matter-of-fact youths, to whom Marjory was an
ordinary girl, and who certainly did not indulge in any strained
sentiment respecting her; it was left for me to idealise her; but of
that, at least, I cannot feel ashamed, or believe that it did me
anything but good.
And the days went on, until it wanted but a fortnight to Christmas, and
most of us were thinking of the coming holidays, and preparing with a
not unpleasant excitement for the examinations, which were all that
barred the way to them now. I was to spend my Christmas with my uncle
and cousins, who would by that time be able to receive me; but I felt no
very pleasurable anticipations, for my cousins were all boys, and from
boys I thought I knew what to expect.
One afternoon Ormsby came to me with the request that I would execute a
trifling commission for him in the adjoining village; he himself, he
said, was confined to bounds, but he had a shilling he wanted to lay out
at a small fancy-shop we were allowed to patronise, and he considered me
the best person to be entrusted with that coin. I was simply to spend
the money on anything I thought best, for he had entire confidence, he
gave me to understand, in my taste and judgment. I think I suspected a
design of some sort, but I did not dare to refuse, and then his manner
to some extent disarmed me.
I took the shilling, therefore, with which I bought some article--I
forget what--and got back to the school at dusk. The boys had all gone
down to tea except Ormsby, who was waiting for me up in the empty
schoolroom.
'Well?' he said, and I displayed my purchase, only to find that I had
fallen into a trap.
When I think how easily I was the dupe of that not too subtle artifice,
which was only half malicious, I could smile, if I did not know how it
ended.
'How much was that?' he asked contemptuously, 'twopence-halfpenny? Well,
if you choose to give a shilling for it, I'm not going to pay, that's
all. So just give me back my shilling!'
Now, as my weekly allowance consisted of threepence, which was
confiscated for some time in advance (as I think he knew), to provide
fines for my mysteriously-stained dictionaries, this was out of the
question, as I represented.
'Then go back to the shop and change it,' said he; 'I won't have that
thing!'
'Tell me what you would like instead, and I will,' I stipulated, not
unreasonably.
He laughed; his little scheme was working so admirably. 'That's not the
bargain,' he said; 'you're bound to get me something I like. I'm not
obliged to tell you what it is.'
But even I was driven to protest against such flagrant unfairness. 'I
didn't know you meant that,' I said, 'or I'm sure I shouldn't have gone.
I went to oblige _you_, Ormsby.'
'No, you didn't,' he said, 'you went because I told you. And you'll go
again.'
'Not unless you tell me what I'm to get,' I said.
'I tell you what I believe,' he said; 'you never spent the whole
shilling at all on that; you bought something for yourself with the
rest, you young swindler! No wonder you won't go back to the shop.'
This was, of course, a mere taunt flung out by his inventive fancy; but
as he persisted in it, and threatened exposure and a variety of
consequences, I became alarmed, for I had little doubt that, innocent as
I was, I could be made very uncomfortable by accusations which would
find willing hearers.
He stood there enjoying my perplexity and idly twisting a piece of
string round and round his fingers. At length he said, 'Well, I don't
want to be hard on you. You may go and change this for me even now, if
you like. I'll give you three minutes to think it over, and you can come
down into the playground when I sing out, and tell me what you mean to
do. And you had better be sharp in coming, too, or it will be the worse
for you.'
He took his cap, and presently I heard him going down the steps to the
playground. I would have given worlds to go and join the rest at tea,
but I did not dare, and remained in the schoolroom, which was dim just
then, for the gas was lowered; and while I stood there by the fireplace,
trembling in the cold air which stole in through the door Ormsby had
left open, Marjory came in by the other one, and was going straight to
her father's desk, when she saw me.
Her first impulse seemed to be to take no notice, but something in my
face or attitude made her alter her mind and come straight to me,
holding out her hand.
'Cameron,' she said, 'shall we be friends again?'
'Yes, Marjory,' I said; I could not have said any more just then.
'You look so miserable, I couldn't bear it any longer,' she said, 'so I
_had_ to make it up. You know, I was only pretending crossness, Cameron,
all the time, because I really thought it was best. But it doesn't seem
to have done you much good, and I did promise to take care of you. What
is it? Ormsby again?'
'Yes,' I said, and told her the story of the commission.
'Oh, you stupid boy!' she cried, 'couldn't you see he only wanted to
pick a quarrel? And if you change it now, he'll make you change it
again, and the next time, and the next after that--I know he will!'
Here Ormsby's voice shouted from below, 'Now then, you, Cameron, time's
up!'
'What is he doing down there?' asked Marjory, and her indignation rose
higher when she heard.
'Now, Cameron, be brave; go down and tell him once for all he may just
keep what he has, and be thankful. Whatever it is, it's good enough for
_him_, I'm sure!'
But I still hung back. 'It's no use, Marjory, he'll tell everyone I
cheated him--he says he will!'
'That he shall not!' she cried; 'I won't have it, I'll go myself, and
tell him what I think of him, and make him stop treating you like this.'
Some faint glimmer of manliness made me ashamed to allow her thus to
fight my battles. 'No, Marjory, not you!' I said; 'I will go: I'll say
what you want me to say!'
But it was too late. I saw her for just a second at the door, my
impetuous, generous little Marjory, as she flung back her pretty hair in
a certain spirited way she had, and nodded to me encouragingly.
And then--I can hardly think of it calmly even now--there came a sharp
scream, and the sound of a fall, and, after that, silence.
Sick with fear, I rushed to the head of the steps, and looked down into
the brown gloom.
'Keep where you are for a minute!' I heard Ormsby cry out. 'It's all
right--she's not hurt; now you can come down.'
I was down in another instant, at the foot of the stairs, where, in a
patch of faint light that fell from the door above, lay Marjory, with
Ormsby bending over her insensible form.
'She's dead!' I cried in my terror, as I saw her white face.
'I tell you she's all right,' said he, impatiently; 'there's nothing to
make a fuss about. She slipped coming down and cut her forehead--that's
all.'
'Marjory, speak to me--don't look like that; tell me you're not much
hurt!' I implored her; but she only moaned a little, and her eyes
remained fast shut.
'It's no use worrying her now, you know,' said Ormsby, more gently.
'Just help me to get her round to the kitchen door, and tell somebody.'
We carried her there between us, and, amidst a scene of terrible
confusion and distress, Marjory, still insensible, was carried into the
library, and a man sent off in hot haste for the surgeon.
A little later Ormsby and I were sent for to the study, where Dr.
Dering, whose face was white and drawn as I had never seen it before,
questioned us closely as to our knowledge of the accident.
Ormsby could only say that he was out in the playground, when he saw
somebody descending the steps, and heard a fall, after which he ran up
and found Marjory.
'I sent her into the schoolroom to bring my paper-knife,' said the
Doctor; 'if I had but gone myself--! But why should she have gone
outside on a frosty night like this?'
'Oh, Dr. Dering!' I broke out, 'I'm afraid--I'm afraid she went for me!'
I saw Ormsby's face as I spoke, and there was a look upon it which made
me pity him.
'And you sent my poor child out on your errand, Cameron! Could you not
have done it yourself?'
'I wish I had!' I exclaimed; 'oh, I wish I had! I tried to stop her,
and then--and then it was too late. Please tell me, sir, is she badly
hurt?'
'How can I tell?' he said harshly; 'there, I can't speak of this just
yet: go, both of you.'
There was little work done at evening preparation that night; the whole
school was buzzing with curiosity and speculation, as we heard doors
opening and shutting around, and the wheels of the doctor's gig as it
rolled up the chestnut avenue.
I sat with my hands shielding my eyes and ears, engaged to all
appearance with the books before me, while my restless thoughts were
employed in making earnest resolutions for the future.
At last I saw my cowardice in its true light, and felt impatient to tell
Marjory that I did so, to prove to her that I had really reformed; but
when would an opportunity come? I might not see her again for days,
perhaps not at all till after the holidays; but I would not let myself
dwell upon such a contingency as that, and, to banish it, tried to
picture what Marjory would say, and how she would look, when I was
allowed to see her again.
After evening prayers, read by one of the assistant-masters, for the
Doctor did not appear again, we were enjoined to go up to our bedrooms
with as little noise as possible, and we had been in bed some time
before Sutcliffe, the old butler, came up as usual to put out the
lights.
On this occasion he was assailed by a fire of eager whispers from every
door: 'Sutcliffe, hi! old Sutty, how is she?' but he did not seem to
hear, until a cry louder than the rest brought him to our room.
'For God's sake, gentlemen, don't!' he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he
turned out the light; 'they'll hear you downstairs.'
'But how is she? do you know--better?'
'Ay,' he said, 'she's better. She'll be over her trouble soon, will Miss
Marjory!'
A low murmur of delight ran round the room, which the butler tried to
check in vain.
'Don't!' he said again, 'wait--wait till morning.... Go to sleep quiet
now, and I'll come up first thing and tell you.'
He had no sooner turned his back than the general relief broke out
irrepressibly; Ormsby being especially demonstrative. 'Didn't I tell you
fellows so?' he said triumphantly; 'as if it was likely a plucky girl
like Marjory would mind a little cut like that. She'll be all right in
the morning, you see!'
But this confidence jarred upon me, who could not pretend to share it,
until I was unable to restrain the torturing anxiety I felt.
'You're wrong--all of you!' I cried, 'I'm sure she's not better. Didn't
you hear how Sutcliffe said it? She's _worse_--she may even be dying!'
I met with the usual treatment of a prophet of evil. 'You young muff,' I
was told on all sides, 'who asked your opinion? Who are you, to know
better than anyone else?'
Ormsby attacked me hotly for trying to excite a groundless alarm, and I
was recommended to hold my tongue and go to sleep.
I said no more, but I could not sleep; the others dropped off one by
one, Ormsby being the last; but I lay awake listening and thinking,
until the dread and suspense grew past bearing. I _must_ know the truth.
I would go down and find the Doctor, and beg him to tell me; he might be
angry and punish me--but that would be nothing in comparison with the
relief of knowing my fear was unfounded.
Stealthily I slipped out of bed, stole through the dim room to the door,
and down the old staircase, which creaked under my bare feet. The dog in
the yard howled as I passed the big window, through which the stars were
sparkling frostily in the keen blue sky. Outside the room in which
Marjory lay, I listened, but could hear nothing. At least she was
sleeping, then, and, relieved already, I went on down to the hall.
The big clock on a table there was ticking solemnly, like a slow
footfall; the lamp was alight, so the Doctor must be still up. With a
heart that beat loudly I went to his study door and lifted my hand to
knock, when from within rose a sound at which the current of my blood
stopped and ran backwards--the terrible, heartbroken grief of a grown
man.
Boy as I was, I felt that an agony like that was sacred; besides, I
knew the worst then.
I dragged myself upstairs again, cold to the bones, with a brain that
was frozen too. My one desire was to reach my bed, cover my face, and
let the tears flow; though, when I did regain it, no tears and no
thoughts came. I lay there and shivered for some time, with a stony,
stunned sensation, and then I slept--as if Marjory were well.
The next morning the bell under the cupola did not clang, and Sutcliffe
came up with the direction that we were to go down very quietly, and not
to draw up the window-blinds; and then we all knew what had happened
during the night.
There was a very genuine grief, though none knew Marjory as I had known
her; the more emotional wept, the older ones indulged in little
semi-pious conventional comments, oddly foreign to their usual tone;
all--even the most thoughtless--felt the same hush and awe overtake
them.
I could not cry; I felt nothing, except a dull rage at my own
insensibility. Marjory was dead--and I had no tears.
Morning school was a mere pretence that day; we dreaded, for almost the
first time, to see the Doctor's face, but he did not show himself, and
the arrangements necessary for the breaking-up of the school were made
by the matron.
Some, including Ormsby and myself, could not be taken in for some days,
during which we had to remain at the school: days of shadow and
monotony, with occasional ghastly outbreaks of the high spirits which
nothing could repress, even in that house of mourning.
But the time passed at last, until it was the evening of the day on
which Marjory had been left to her last sleep.
The poor father and mother had been unable to stay in the house now that
it no longer covered even what had been their child; and the only two,
besides the matron and a couple of servants who still remained there,
were Ormsby and I, who were both to leave on the following morning.
I would rather have been alone just then with anyone but Ormsby, though
he had never since that fatal night taken the slightest notice of me; he
looked worn and haggard to a degree that made me sure he must have cared
more for Marjory than I could have imagined, and yet he would break at
times into a feverish gaiety which surprised and repelled me.
He was in one of these latter moods that evening, as we sat, as far
apart as possible, in the empty, firelit schoolroom.
'Now, Cameron,' he said, as he came up to me and struck me boisterously
on the shoulder, 'wake up, man! I've been in the blues long enough. We
can't go on moping always, on the night before the holidays, too! Do
something to make yourself sociable--talk, can't you?'
'No, I can't,' I said; and, breaking from him, went to one of the
windows and looked vacantly out into blackness, which reflected the long
room, with its dingy greenish maps, and the desks and forms glistening
in the fire-beams.
The ice-bound state in which I had been so long was slowly passing away,
now that the scene by the little grave that raw, cheerless morning had
brought home remorselessly the truth that Marjory was indeed gone--lost
to me for ever.
I could see now what she had been to me; how she had made my great
loneliness endurable; how, with her innocent, fearless nature, she had
tried to rouse me from spiritless and unmanly dejection. And I could
never hope to please her now by proving that I had learnt the lesson;
she had gone from me to some world infinitely removed, in which I was
forgotten, and my pitiful trials and struggles could be nothing to her
any more!
I was once more alone, and this second bereavement revived in all its
crushing desolation the first bitter loss which it so closely followed.
So, as I stood there at the window, my unnatural calm could hold out no
longer; the long-frozen tears thawed, and I could weep for the first
time since Marjory died.
But I was not allowed to sorrow undisturbed; I felt a rough grasp on my
arm, as Ormsby asked me angrily, 'What's the matter now?'
'Oh, Marjory, come to me!' I could only cry; 'I can't bear it! I can't!
I can't!'
'Stop that, do you hear?' he said savagely, 'I won't have it! Who are
you to cry about her, when--but for _you_----'
He got no farther; the bitter truth in such a taunt, coming from him,
stung me to ungovernable rage. I turned and struck him full in the
mouth, which I cut open with my clenched hand.
His eyes became all pupil. 'You shall pay me for that!' he said through
his teeth; and, forcing me against a desk, he caught up a large T-square
which lay near; he was far the stronger, and I felt myself powerless in
his grasp. Passion and pain had made him beside himself for the moment,
and he did not know how formidable a weapon the heavily-weighted
instrument might become in his hand.
I shut my eyes: I think I rather hoped he would kill me, and then
perhaps I might go where Marjory was. I did not cry for help, and it
would have been useless if I had done so, for the schoolroom was a long
way from the kitchen and offices of that rambling old house.
But before the expected blow was dealt I felt his grasp relax, and heard
the instrument fall with a sudden clatter on the floor. 'Look,' he
whispered, in a voice I did not recognise, '_look there_!'
And when I opened my eyes, I saw Marjory standing between us!
She looked just as I had always seen her: I suppose that even the
after-life could not make Marjory look purer, or more lovely than she
was on earth. My first feeling was a wild conviction that it had all
been some strange mistake--that Marjory was not dead.
'Marjory, Marjory!' I cried in my joy, 'is it really you? You have come
back, after all, and it is not true!'
She looked at us both without speaking for a moment; her dear brown eyes
had lost their old childish sparkle, and were calm and serious as if
with a deeper knowledge.
Ormsby had cowered back to the opposite wall, covering his face. 'Go
away!' he gasped. 'Cameron--_you_ ask her to go. She--she liked you....
I never meant it. Tell her I never meant to do it!'
I could not understand such terror at the sight of Marjory, even if she
had been what he thought her; but there was a reason in his case.
'You were going to hurt Cameron,' said Marjory, at length, and her voice
sounded sad and grave and far-away.
'I don't care, Marjory,' I cried, 'not now you are here!'
She motioned me back: 'You must not come nearer,' she said. 'I cannot
stay long, and I must speak to Ormsby. Ormsby, have you told anyone?'
'No,' he said, shaking all over, 'it could do no good.... I thought I
needn't.'
'Tell _him_,' said Marjory.
'Must I? Oh, no, no!' he groaned, 'don't make me do that!'
'You must,' she answered, and he turned to me with a sullen fear.
'It was like this,' he began; 'that night, when I was waiting for you
down there--I had some string, and it struck me, all in a moment, that
it would be fun to trip you up. I didn't mean to hurt you--only frighten
you. I fastened the string across a little way from the bottom. And
then'--he had to moisten his lips before he could go on--'then _she_
came down, and I tried to catch her--and couldn't--no, I couldn't!'
'Is that all?' asked Marjory, as he stopped short.
'I cut the string and hid it before you came. Now you know, and you may
tell if you like!'
'Cameron, you will never tell, will you--as long as he lives?' said
Marjory. 'You must promise.'
I was horrified by what I had heard; but her eyes were upon me, and I
promised.
'And you, Ormsby, promise me to be kinder to him after this.'
He could not speak; but he made a sign of assent.
'And now,' said Marjory, 'shake hands with him and forgive him.'
But I revolted: 'No, Marjory, I can't; not now--when I know this!'
'Cameron, dear,' she said, 'you won't let me go away sorry, will you?
and I must go so soon. For my sake, when I wish it so!'
I went to Ormsby, and took his cold, passive hand. 'I do forgive him,
Marjory,' I said.
She smiled brightly at us both. 'And you won't forget, either of you?'
she said. 'And, Douglas, you will be brave, and take your own part now.
Good-bye, good-bye.'
I tried to reach her. 'Don't leave me; take me with you, Marjory--dear,
dear Marjory, don't go!' But there was only firelit space where she had
stood, though the sound of her pleading, pathetic voice was still in the
air.
Ormsby remained for a few minutes leaning against a desk, with his face
buried in his arms, and I heard him struggling with his sobs. At last he
rose, and left the room without a word.
But I stayed there where I had last seen Marjory, till the fire died
down, and the hour was late, for I was glad to be alone with the new and
solemn joy that had come to me. For she had not forgotten me where she
was; I had been allowed to see her once more, and it might even be that
I should see her again. And I resolved then that when she came she
should find me more worthy of her.
* * * * *
From that night my character seemed to enter upon a new phase, and when
I returned to school it was to begin my second term under better
auspices.
My cousins had welcomed me cordially among them, and as I mastered the
lesson of give and take, of respecting one's self in respecting others,
which I needed to learn, my early difficulties vanished with the
weakness that had produced them.
By Ormsby I was never again molested; in word and deed, he was true to
the promise exacted from him during that last strange scene. At first,
he avoided me as being too painfully connected with the past; but by
degrees, as he recognised that his secret was safe in my keeping, we
grew to understand one another better, although it would be too much to
say that we ever became intimate.
After he went to Sandhurst I lost sight of him, and only a few months
since the news of his death in the Soudan, where he fell gallantly, made
me sorrowfully aware that we should never meet again.
I had a lingering fancy that Marjory might appear to me once more, but I
have long since given up all hope of that in this life, and for what may
come after I am content to wait.
But the charge my child-friend had undertaken was completed on the night
she was allowed to return to earth and determine the crisis of two
lives; there is nothing now to call the bright and gracious little
spirit back, for her influence will remain always.
_Spottiswoode & Co. Printers, New-street Square, London_.
* * * * *
WORKS BY F. ANSTEY.
* * * * *
SECOND EDITION. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
THE TALKING HORSE;
AND OTHER TALES.
+From THE DAILY CHRONICLE.+--'Full of quaintnesses, fun about dogs and
boys, and with now and then a graver touch.... Stories which no one but
the author of "Vice Versa" could have produced.'
* * * * *
FOURTH EDITION. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
THE GIANT'S ROBE.