HUGH JOHN'S BLIGHTED HEART.
On the first evening at home Hugh John put on his new straw hat with
its becoming school ribbon of brown, white and blue, for he did not
forget that Prissy had described Cissy Carter as "such a pretty girl."
Now pretty girls are quite nice when they are jolly. What a romp he
would have, and even the stile would not be half bad.
He ran down to the landing-stage, having given his old bat and third
best fishing-rod to his brother to occupy his attention. Toady Lion
was in an unusually adoring frame of mind, chiefly owing to the new
bat with the silver inscription which Hugh John had brought home with
him. If that were Toady Lion's attitude, how would it be with the
enthusiastic Cissy Carter? She must be more than sixteen now. He liked
grown-up girls, he thought, so long as they were pretty. And Cissy was
pretty, Prissy had distinctly said so.
The white punt bumped against the landing-stage, but the brown was
gone. However, he could see it at the other side, swaying against the
new pier which Mr. Davenant Carter had built opposite to that of Windy
Standard. This was another improvement; you used to have to tie the
boat to a bush of bog-myrtle and jump into wet squashy ground. The
returned exile sculled over and tied up the punt to an iron ring.
Then with a high and joyous heart he started over the moor, taking the
well-beaten path towards Oaklands.
Suddenly, through the wood as it grew thinner and more birchy, he saw
the gleam of a white dress. Two girls were walking--no, not two girls,
Prissy and a young lady.
"Oh hang!" said Hugh John to himself, "somebody that's stopping with
the Carters. She'll go taking up all Cissy's time, and I wanted to see
such a lot of her."
The white dresses and summer hats walked composedly on.
"I tell you what," said Hugh John to himself, "I'll scoot through the
woods and give them a surprise."
And in five minutes he leaped from a bank into the road immediately
before the girls. Prissy gave a little scream, threw up her hands, and
then ran eagerly to him.
"Why, Hugh John," she cried, "have you really come? How could you
frighten us like that, you bad boy!"
And she kissed him--well, just as Prissy always did.
Meanwhile the young lady had turned partly away, and was pulling
carelessly at a leaf--as if such proceedings, if not exactly
offensive, were nevertheless highly uninteresting.
"Cissy," called Priscilla at last, "won't you come and shake hands
with Hugh John."
The girl turned slowly. She was robed in white linen belted with slim
scarlet. The dress came quite down to the tops of her dainty boots.
She held out her hand.
"How do you do--ah, Mr. Smith?" she said, with her fingers very much
extended indeed.
Hugh John gasped, and for a long moment found no word to say.
"Why, Cissy, how you've grown!" he cried at length. But observing no
gleam of fellow-feeling in his quondam comrade's eyes, he added
somewhat lamely, "I mean how do you do, Miss--Miss Carter?"
There was silence after this, as the three walked on together, Prissy
talking valiantly in order to cover the long and distressful silences.
Hugh John's usual bubbling river of speech was frozen upon his lips.
He had a thousand things to tell, a thousand thousand to ask. But now
it did not seem worth while to speak of one. Why should a young lady
like this, with tan gloves half-way to her elbows and the shiniest
shoes, with stockings of black silk striped with red, care to hear
about his wonderful bat for the three-figure score at cricket, or the
fact that he had won the golf medal by doing the round in ninety-five?
He had even thought of taking some credit (girls will suck in anything
you tell them, you know) for his place in his class, which was
seventh. But he had intended to suppress the fact that the fifth form
was not a very large one at St. Salvator's.
But now he suddenly became conscious that these trivialities could not
possibly interest a young lady who talked about the Hunt Ball in some
such fashion as this: "He is _such_ a nice partner, don't you know! He
dances--oh, like an angel, and the floor was--well, just perfection!"
Hugh John did not catch the name of this paragon; but he hated the
beast anyhow. He did not know that Cissy was only bragging about her
bat, and cracking up her score at golf.
"Have you seen 'The White Lady of Avenel' at the Sobriety Theatre, Mr.
Smith?" she said, suddenly turning to him.
"No," grunted Hugh John, "but I've seen the Drury Lane pantomime. It
was prime!"
The next moment he was sorry he had said it. But the truth slipped out
before he knew. For so little was Hugh John used to the society of
grown-up big girls, that he did not know any better than to tell them
the truth.
"Ah, yes!" commented Cissy Carter condescendingly, "I used quite to
like going to pantomimes when I was a child!"
A slight and elegant young man, with a curling moustache turned up at
the ends, came towards them down the bank. He had grey-and-white
striped trousers on, a dark cutaway coat, and a smart straw hat set on
the back of his head. He wore gloves and walked with a pretty cane.
Hugh John loathed him on sight.
"Good-evening, Courtenay," said Cissy familiarly, "this is my friend,
Prissy Smith, of whom you have heard me speak; and this is her brother
just home from school!"
("What a beast! I hate him! Calls that a moustache, I daresay. Ha, ha!
he should just see Ashwell Major's. And I can lick Ashwell Major with
one hand!")
"Aw," said the young man with the cane, superciliously stroking his
maligned upper lip, "the preparatory school, I daresay--Lord, was at
one once myself--beastly hole!"
("I don't doubt it, you look it," was Hugh John's mental note.) Aloud
he said, "Saint Salvator's is a ripping place. We beat Glen Fetto by
an innings and ninety-one!"
Mr. Courtenay Carling took no notice. He was talking earnestly and
confidentially to his cousin. Hugh John had had enough of this.
"Come on, Priss," he said roughly, "let's go home."
Prissy was nothing loath. She was just aching to get him by himself,
so that she might begin to burn incense at his manly shrine. She had
had stacks of it ready, and the match laid for weeks and weeks.
"Good-night," said Cissy frigidly. Hugh John took hold of her dainty
gloved fingers as gingerly as if each had been a stinging nettle, and
dropped them as quickly. Mr. Courtenay Carling paused in his
conversation just long enough to say over his shoulder,
"Ah--ta-ta--got lots of pets to run round and see, I s'pose--rabbits
and guinea-pigs; used to keep 'em myself, you know, beastly things,
ta-ta!"
And with Cissy by his side he moved off, alternately twirling his
moustache and glancing approvingly down at her. Cissy on her part
never once looked round, but kept poking her parasol into the plants
at the side of the road, as determinedly as if it had been the old
pike manufactured by the exiled king O'Donowitch. Such treatment could
not have been at all good for such a miracle of silk and lace and
cane; but somehow its owner did not seem to mind.
"What an awful brute!" burst out Hugh John, as soon as Prissy and he
were clear.
"Oh, how _can_ you say so!" said Prissy, much surprised; "why, every
one thinks him so nice. He has such lots of money, and is going to
stand for Parliament--that is, if his uncle would only die, or have
something happen to him!"
Her brother snorted, as if to convey his contempt for "everybody's"
opinion on such a matter; but Prissy was too happy to care for aught
save the fact that once more her dear Hugh John was safe at home.
"Do you know," she said lovingly, "I could not sleep last night for
thinking of your coming! It is so splendid. There's the loveliest lot
of roses being planted in the new potting house, and I've got a pearl
necklace to show you--such a beauty--and----"
Thus she rattled on, joyously ticking off all the things she had to
show him. She ran a little ahead to look at him, then ran as quickly
back to hug him. "Oh, you dear!" she exclaimed. And all the while the
heart of the former valiant soldier sank deep and ever deeper into the
split-new cricketing shoes he had been so proud of when he sallied
forth to meet Cissy Carter by the stile.
"Come on," she cried presently, picking up her skirts. "I'm so excited
I don't know what to do. I can't keep quiet. I believe I can race you
yet, for all you're so big and have won a silver cricket bat. How I
shall love to see it! Come on, Hugh John, I'll race you to the gipsy
camp for a pound of candy!"
But Hugh John did not want to race. He did not want _not_ to race. He
did not want ever to do anything any more--only to fade away and die.
His heart was cold and dead within him. He felt that he would never
know happiness again. But he could not bear to disappoint Prissy the
first night. Besides, he could easily enough beat her--he was sure of
that. So he smiled indulgently and nodded acquiescence. He had not
told her that he had won the school mile handicap from scratch.
They started, and Hugh John began to run scientifically, as he had
been taught to do at school, keeping a little behind Prissy, ready to
spurt at the last and win by a neck. Doubtless this would have
answered splendidly, only that Prissy ran so fast. She did not know
anything about scientific sprinting, but she could run like the wind.
So by the time they reached the Partan Burn she had completely
outclassed Hugh John. With her skirts held high in her hand over she
flew like a bird; but her brother, jumping the least bit too soon,
went splash into the shallows, sending the water ten feet into the
air.
Like a shot Prissy was back, and reached a hand down to the vanquished
scientific athlete.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Hugh John," she said; "I ought to have told you it
had been widened. Don't let's race any more. I think I must have
started too soon, and you'd have beaten me anyway. Here's the gipsy
camp."
The world-weary exile looked about him. He had thought that at least
it might be some manly pleasure to see Billy Blythe once more, and try
a round with the Bounding Brothers. After all, what did it matter
about girls? He had a twelve-bladed knife in his pocket which he
intended for Billy, and he knew a trick of boxing--a feint with the
right, and then an upward blow with the left, which he knew would
interest his friend.
But the tents were gone. The place where they had stood was green and
unencumbered. Only an aged crone or two moved slowly about among the
small thatched cottages. To one of these Hugh John addressed himself.
"Eh, master--Billy Blythe--why, he be 'listed for a sodger--a
corp'ral they say he be, and may be sergeant by this time, shouldn't
wonder. Eh, dearie, and the Boundin' Brothers--oh! ye mean the
joompin' lads. They're off wi' a circus in Ireland. Nowt left but me
and my owd mon! Thank ye, sir, you be a gentleman born, as anybody can
see without the crossin' o' the hand."
Sadly Hugh John moved away, a still more blighted being. He left
Prissy at the white lodge-gate in order that she might go home to meet
Mr. Picton Smith on his return from the county town, where he had been
judging the horses at an agricultural show. He would take a walk
through the town, he said to himself, and perhaps he might meet some
of his old enemies. He felt that above everything he would enjoy a
sharp tussle. After all what save valour was worth living for? Wait
till he was a soldier, and came back in uniform with a sword by his
side and the scar of a wound on his forehead--would Cissy Carter
despise him then? He would show her! In the meantime he had learned
certain tricks of fence which he would rather like to prove on the
countenances of his former foes.
So with renewed hope in his heart he took his way through the town of
Edam. The lamps were just being lighted, and Hugh John lounged along
through the early dusk with his hands in his pockets, looking out for
a cause of offence. Presently he came upon a brilliantly lighted
building, into which young men and women were entering singly and in
pairs.
A hanging lamp shone down upon a noticeboard. He had nothing better
to do. He stopped and read--
+--------------------------------------------------------+
| Edam Mutual Improvement Society. |
| _SEASON_ 18-- |
| |
| _Hon. President._--Rev. Mr. BURNHAM. |
| _Hon. Vice-President._--Mr. N. DONNAN. |
| _Hon. Sec. and Treasurer._--Mr. NATHANIEL CUTHBERTSON. |
| DEBATE TO-NIGHT. |
| |
| _Subject._--"Is the Pen mightier than the Sword?" |
| _Affirmative._--Mr. N. DONNAN. |
| _Negative._--Mr. BURNHAM. |
| -------------------- |
| ALL ARE CORDIALLY INVITED. |
| _Bring your Hymn-books._ |
+--------------------------------------------------------+
Hugh John did not accept the invitation, perhaps because he had no
hymn-book. He only waited outside to hear Mr. N. Donnan's opening
sentence. It ran thus: "All ages of the world's history have borne
testimony to the fact that peace is preferable to war, right to might,
and the sweet still voice of Reason to the savage compulsions of
brutal Force."
"Oh, hang!" ejaculated Hugh John, doubling his fist; "did you ever
hear such rot? I wish I could jolly well fetch Nipper Donnan one on
the nob!"
And he sauntered on till he came to the burying-ground of Edam's
ancient abbey. He wandered aimlessly up the short avenue, stood at the
gate a while, then kicked it open and went in. He clambered about
among the graves, stumbling over the grassy mounds till he came to
the tombs of his ancestors. At least they were not quite his
ancestors, but the principle was the same. "There's nothing exclusive
about me. I'll adopt them," said Hugh John to himself, as many another
distinguished person had done before him. They were in fact the tombs
of the Lorraines, the ancient possessors and original architects of
the Castle of Windy Standard, which he had spilt his best blood to
defend. Well, it was to attack. But no matter.
He sat down and looked at the defaced and battered tombs in silence.
Mighty thoughts coursed through his brain. His heart was filled full
to the brim with the sadness of mortality. Tears of hopeless
resignation stood in his eyes. It was the end, the solemn end of all.
Soon he, too, like them, would be lying low and quiet. He began to be
conscious of a general fatal weakness of the system, a hollowness of
the chest (or stomach), which showed that the end was near.
Ah, they would be sorry then--_she_ would be sorry! And after morning
service in church, they would come and stand by his grave and
say--_she_ would say, "He was young, but he lived nobly, though, alas!
there was none to appreciate him. Ah, would that he were again alive!"
Then they (she) would weep, yes, weep bitterly, and fling themselves
(herself) upon the cold, cold ground. But all in vain. He (Hugh John
Picton Smith, late hero) would lie still in death under that green sod
and never say a word. No, not even if he could. Like Brer Fox, he
would lie low. At this point Hugh John was so moved that he put his
face down into his hands and sobbed.
A heavy clod of earth whizzed through the air and impacted itself with
a thud upon the mourner's cheek, filling his ear with mud and sand,
and informing him at the same instant that it carried a stone
concealed somewhere about its person.
For though Nipper Donnan was now Vice-President of a Mutual
Improvement Association, and at that moment spreading himself in a
peroration upon the advantages of universal goody-goodiness, he had,
happily for society and Hugh John, left exceedingly capable
successors. The eternal Smoutchy was still very much alive, and still
an amateur of clods in the town of Edam.
That sod worked a complete and sudden cure in Hugh John.
He rose like a shot. Few and short were the prayers he said, but what
these petitions lacked in length they made up for in fervency. He
pursued his assailant down the Mill Brae, clamoured after him round
the Town-yards, finally cornered him at the Spital Port, punched his
head soundly--and felt better.
So that night the unfortunate young martyr to the flouts and scorns of
love, instead of occupying a clay-cold bier with his (adopted)
ancestors in Edam Abbey graveyard, ate an excellent supper in the new
house of Windy Standard, with three helpings of round-of-beef and
vegetables to match. Then with an empty heart, but a full stomach, he
betook himself upstairs to his room, where presently Toady Lion came
to worship, and Prissy dropped in to see that all was well. She had
spread prettily worked covers of pink silk over his brushes and combs,
an arrangement which the hero contemplated with disgust.
He seized them, gathered them into a knot, and flung them into a
corner.
"Oh, Hugh John!" cried Prissy, "how could you? And they took such a
long time to do!"
And there were the premonitions of April showers in the sensitive
barometer of Priscilla's eyes.
The brother was touched--as much, that is, as it is in the nature of a
brother to be. But in the interests of discipline he could not give
way too completely.
"All right, Prissy," he said, "it was no end good of you. But really,
you know, a fellow couldn't be expected to put up with these things.
Why, they'd stick in your nails and tangle up all your traps so that
you'd wish you were dead ten times a day, or else they'd make you say
'Hang!' and things."
"Very well," said Prissy, with sweetest resignation, "then I will take
them for myself, but I did think you would have liked them!"
"Did you, Priss--you are a good sort!" said Hugh John, patting his
sister on the cheek.
His sister felt that after such a demonstration of affection from him
there was little left to live for.
"Good-night, you dear," she said; "I'll wake you in the morning, and
have your bath ready for you at eight."
"Good old girl!" said Hugh John tolerantly, and went to bed, glad that
he had been so nice to Prissy about the brush-covers. Such a little
makes a girl happy, you know.
Perhaps, all things being considered, it was for the good of our
hero's soul at this time that Cissy Carter was on hand to take some of
the conceit out of him.