HALF-CONFESSIONS
And while life was pressing adventure towards the three children down
in Barsdon, Dick and Montague were having a dull and miserable time
up in the wood.
Dick was not greatly troubled at first at the absence of the two
girls; they were probably lingering in the paddock petting Modestine.
He lay on the ground smoking, waiting for some move on the part of
the boys, for that they should have no share in the mysterious
engagement had never occurred to him. To his surprise, however,
neither of them for quite a long time showed the slightest
inclination to leave the wood. But, presently, through half-closed
eyes, he noticed a growing restlessness in Billy. There was an
anxious, troubled look on the usually sunny face, and, presently,
apparently unable to keep his anxiety to himself, he drew Montague to
the edge of the wood and a whispered consultation took place between
them. Dick sat up and watched them. Was it the girls Billy was
concerned about? Surely in that case he would have consulted with
him rather than Montague. Yet they certainly had been gone a long
time. He was about to join the two and make casual enquiries
regarding the girls' absence when Billy disappeared and Montague,
looking depressed and unhappy, re-entered the wood. Now what was to
be done? Should he question Montague or wait for further
developments? And why should Montague wear that air of depression?
And then again, what was he doing with that neat little bundle of
wood; why was he cutting it into such short lengths? Apparently the
boy had forgotten that he was not alone for, as he worked, he began
to talk to himself.
"Hope Billy remembers the tacks if he finds the girls. Wish I'd got
'em now, so I could go down to the Flower Show and sell to the people
as they came out. Oh dear, I'm feeling rather lonely; wish _I_ could
have gone to find Mavis, but Billy said stay here. Wonder if they'll
meet those ruffians who stole the money? P'raps Billy'll take it
from them again--then we _shall_ be rich!"
Dick was not near enough to catch all the rumblings, but he had heard
enough to arouse his curiosity and some anxiety. He thought it high
time to recall himself to Montague's memory.
"Hullo, old chap, what are you doing?" he enquired, rising and
sauntering towards him.
"Just making picture frames," Montague replied.
"Picture frames?" Dick repeated. "Won't they be rather in the way on
your travels?"
"They're not going on our travels." Then an idea came to Montague.
Why not ask Mr. Frampton to buy some? Billy wouldn't let them borrow
money from him, but to sell something to him was surely different.
"Do you want to buy some?" he asked. "When they're finished, I mean.
I can't tack them together till Mavis----"
"Yes?" said Dick. "'Till Mavis----'?"
"Oh, nothing!" Montague replied uncomfortably.
"Look here, old chap," Dick said, seating himself on a log near the
boy, "I've not yet heard the full story of yours and Billy's battered
faces. I wish you'd tell me all about it. Did anything happen
to--well, to make it necessary for you to sell picture-frames?"
Montague, wishing fervently that the others were there to support
him, eyed Dick dubiously, but made no reply.
"Don't you trust me?" asked Dick.
Montague nodded.
"Yes, but Billy said----"
"Yes--what did Billy say?"
"Oh, nothing, 'cept that you'd p'raps make us go back if you knew,
an' if you didn't do that we'd be sponging on you. But it's all
right now--least, it will be when Mavis comes back. I--I wish she'd
come--I _wish_ we hadn't let her!"
Montague paused. He was wishing with all his heart that he had not
promised Billy to stay in the wood. They ought to have gone
together; the anxiety of waiting was becoming almost unendurable, and
he would have given much to have been able to share his fears with
Dick. Supposing something had happened to little Mavis? Oh, it was
terrible to be left behind!
Dick slowly filled his pipe, thinking hard while he pressed the
tobacco into the bowl, and glancing from time to time at Montague's
troubled face.
"Look here, old chap," Dick began, "you're worried about them, I
know. Now, suppose we give them another quarter-of-an-hour, and then
if they haven't returned I think you had better tell me where they
have gone and we will talk the matter over together and see what can
be done. I'm worried, too, you know," he added.
"Are you fond of them?" Montague asked. "Would you mind if anything
happened to them?"
"I should mind very much indeed," Dick replied, "if anything happened
to any of you four youngsters--but it isn't going to! Now, is it a
bargain?" He pulled out his watch and looked at Montague
questioningly.
"Yes, if I needn't tell you what Billy wouldn't like me to tell you."
Montague himself would have been quite ready to confess the whole
adventure from the very beginning to Dick, feeling sure that the
friend who had stood by him so often in the dreadful aunt-days that
were already beginning to fade into the remote past, would
understand. And, after all, if he insisted on a return, as far as
he, Montague, was concerned, it would not greatly matter. Nothing
would induce him to return to Riversham, but the children had offered
to share their home with him, and he was secretly awaiting with eager
interest the day when he should be initiated into the delights of
their beloved Nestcombe. The grown-ups? Well, he would tolerate
them for the children's sake; yes, even the aunt, since Mavis loved
her. Nevertheless, though practically any place would be home for
him if the children were there, for Billy's sake he hoped he would
not be led to tell Mr. Frampton too much. Billy cared so
tremendously about this adventure (that he was the leader Montague
had recognized from the beginning), and because Billy had been such a
good chum to him, because, moreover, he was beginning to care for him
as he had never yet cared for another boy he wanted to stand loyally
by his friend and not let him down.
He spent the next fifteen minutes wondering just how little he could
tell Dick and hoping against hope that the children would turn up and
relieve him of the necessity of saying anything at all. But the
fifteen minutes dragged slowly by and they did not come.
"Now," said Dick, glancing at his watch, "the time is up, so let's
see what can be done. Tell me--are they in Barsdon?"
"Yes."
"That's all right--then we haven't far to go. Why didn't you go with
them?"
"I dunno. I _wanted_ to. It was just Mavis and Nancy really who
were to go, and Billy and me were to wait here, only Billy got
worried and wished he'd not let Mavis--not let them go and I wished
it too, and I wanted to go and fetch them back, and just do the
picture-frames, but Billy said no, she was his sister, and he would
go and find her and would I wait here 'case they came back another
way."
"Yes--but what _is_ it that Mavis went to do?"
"Well, to run in a race at the Flower Show!"
Dick showed his astonishment.
"Run in a race at the Flower Show?" he repeated.
"Yes, for seven-and-sixpence," Montague growled, "'cos nearly all our
money was stolen."
Dick began to see daylight, but he looked down at Montague gravely.
"And you boys allowed little Mavis to do that rather than treat me as
a comrade?"
Montague said nothing, but he felt horribly ashamed, and very, very
unhappy. He began to realize that as he knew Mr. Frampton so much
better than the others he ought to have persuaded them to trust him.
Very miserably he looked up at Dick.
"It's--it's not exactly _you_--it's your grown-upness, I b'lieve."
Ah, yes, that indeed was it. Dick knew it, and, for the first time
in his twenty-one years, hated this barrier he had regarded hitherto
as something very wonderful and very desirable. Yet--twenty-one--was
it so far from the world of childhood? And what exactly was the
barrier; how could it be defined? He had roughed it with them, had
shared their picnics, had, he thought, dropped his "grown-upness"
entirely. They were fond of him, there was no doubt of that, just as
they were of Montague, yet, because of a nameless barrier, they had
left him out in the cold, while the penniless boy (for Dick was sure
Montague was not worth more than a few pence when he joined the
adventurers) they had taken into their entire comradeship. It was
impossible, of course, to be either hurt or angry, nevertheless, Dick
regretted deeply that these care-free irresponsible little
adventurers should think it necessary to shut him out.
"That's it!" he thought. "Irresponsible! The irresponsibility of
childhood--these little people knew instinctively that one loses it
when manhood comes." Dick suddenly felt very lonely and sighed for
that lost boyhood that he had cast off so willingly.
Well, no use wasting time over vain regrets, something must be done
immediately. He must run down. to Barsdon in the car; probably,
after all, the children were merely waiting for Mavis to receive the
prize.
"Wait here for me, Mont, in case I should miss them. And if I find
them we'll all go to the Show together this evening."
Montague looked round at the silent wood and the loneliness smote him
to the heart.
"You won't be _very_ long, will you?"
"No. If I don't see them soon I'll come back for you and we'll
search together. Make a fire and get the kettle boiling," he added,
thinking the time would drag less if the boy were occupied, "and
don't worry, old chap. I'll find them, or we'll find them together."
For a moment their eyes met, and through the chilling loneliness in
the boy's heart there swept a sudden surge of affection and gratitude
and trust.
"You an' the Prior," he muttered, "an' my guardian aren't like
ordinary grown-ups. I s'pose men are better'n women. I'm _glad_
you're my friend."
Dick, as he drove rapidly down the lane to Barsdon felt absurdly
happy at the boy's confidence. Need there be an insurmountable
barrier, he wondered?
"Well, at least we're necessary to them sometimes," he thought, "and
that is something."
He was just about to make enquiries as to where the Flower Show was
being held when, hurrying along the village street towards him he
caught sight of three well-known little figures.
"Mr. Frampton!"
Again Dick forgave these troublesome little people the anxiety they
had caused him because of that unmistakable ring of gladness in their
voices. Again he felt an absurd happiness when they scrambled into
the car as though it were their right.
"Where's Monty?" Mavis asked, as Dick turned the car in the direction
of the wood.
"Keeping his promise to Billy." Dick spoke somewhat shortly, for he
wanted them to realize something of Montague's loneliness without
them. "We began to think, you know, that our comrades had deserted
us."
"Oh, but we couldn't do that!" Nancy exclaimed impulsively. "We
_couldn't_ come sooner--Monty will understand when we explain. And
you----" She paused and looked questioningly at Billy. If only she
might tell Mr. Frampton _some_ part of the doings of the
afternoon--it was hateful to be so secretive. To her delight and
surprise Billy nodded consent, and turning again to Dick she began to
tell him of Billy's rescue of Nonie.
"I didn't mean that part," Billy broke in. "I meant about us having
the money stolen. We _couldn't_ tell you yesterday, Mr. Frampton,
and a little while ago we thought we'd _have_ to tell you, 'cos it
seemed to be the end of our travels. But it isn't the end after all
and yet--oh, well, we just hate not telling you, 'cos we're all kind
of chums together, aren't we?"
Very, very slowly Dick drove up the stoney lane, his heart thrilling
with happiness as between them (Billy and Mavis who were in the back
hanging over the seat) they told the full story of the fight and the
lost purse, their shame at having only dry bread to offer him,
Mavis's suggestion that she should enter for the race and even (with
Mavis's consent) her encounter with the girl from Nestcombe.
Not quite all the story was told in the car. It was a shout of joy
from Montague that interrupted the narrative. Poor, poor Monty, how
sorry they were to have left him so long; how glad they were to see
him again. Oh, it was good to be with these two dear comrades again.
And tea was waiting for them? How nice of Mr. Frampton and Monty to
have waited for them; they didn't deserve it and yet--and yet, oh, it
was not at all easy, they were beginning to find, to know what was
the right thing to do. Mr. Frampton and Montague had been worried
about them, yes, and lonely, too--this they found out from Monty
when, after tea, they were all sitting together quietly near the
bower. And they were their comrades, both of them and--and should
one hurt one's comrades? But then, it was unthinkingly. Yet again,
_why_ not have trusted Mr. Frampton? Wasn't it somehow different
between a little band of friends, between out-of-doors comrades? How
sorry he seemed that they had not trusted him--yes, there was _his_
point of view.
"I'm sorry," Billy said, "I--I wish we'd told you."
"And, oh, we were so unhappy about Mavis," Nancy added. "That was
why Billy left you and Monty alone. But we ought to have told you."
She was silent for a moment, then suddenly she asked Dick a question.
"What is 'obligations'?" she demanded. "Do you have them towards
people--people you like?"
"Yes," Dick replied, wondering what was coming, "sometimes."
Nancy's eyes glowed.
"Oh, do you know," she continued, "I'm just beginning to _feel_ that
word--it's getting inside me, and I can hear a song in it. _Some_
words, you know, dance inside me like music--pretty words, I mean,
but I never thought 'obligations' would! I thought it was a cold,
ugly grown-up word, but it isn't. It's thrilly and--and chummy!
I--I can't explain it better than that. _Do_ you understand?"
Yes, Dick understood well enough. How dear these children were, how
grateful he was to them for this comradeship they were extending to
him. The invisible barrier still was there, they still had not made
full confession, nevertheless Dick was convinced that as far as it
was possible for them to take a "grown-up" into their childhood's
world, they had taken him and he was satisfied.
"And yet," he thought, as he sat watching them, "though 'obligations'
has become a living word for Nancy, none of them has even yet
realized their obligations to their own people. I wonder when they
will?"