YOUTHFUL UNREST.
Easter was very early that year, about as early as Easter can be, and
there was in Jock's mind a disturbing consciousness of the holidays, and
the manner in which he was likely to spend them, which no doubt
interfered to a certain extent with his work. He ought to have been
first in the competition for a certain school prize, and he was not. It
was carried off to the disappointment of Jock's house, and, indeed, of
the greater part of the school, by a King's scholar, which was the fate
of most of the prizes. Mr. Derwentwater was deeply cast down by this
disappointment. He expressed himself on the subject indeed with all the
fine feeling for which he was distinguished. "The loss of a
distinction," he said, "is not in itself a matter to disturb us; but I
own I should be sorry to think that you were failing at all in that
intellectual energy which has already placed you so often at the head of
the lists--that, my dear fellow, I should unfeignedly regret; but not a
mere prize, which is nothing." This was a very handsome way of speaking
of it; but that MTutor was disappointed there could be no doubt. To Jock
himself it gave a keen momentary pang to see his own name only third in
that beadroll of honour; but so it was. The holidays had all that to
answer for; the holidays, or rather what they were to bring. When he
thought of the Hall and the company there, Jock felt a certain high tide
in his veins, an awakening of interest and anticipation which he did not
understand. He did not say to himself that he was going to be happy. He
only looked forward with an eager heart, with a sense of something to
come, which was different from the routine of ordinary life. MTutor
after many hindrances and hesitations was at last going to accept the
invitation of Sir Tom, and accompany his pupil. This Jock had looked
forward to as the greatest of pleasures. But somehow he did not feel so
happy about it now. He did not seem to himself to want Mr. Derwentwater.
In some ways, indeed, he had become impatient of Mr. Derwentwater. Since
that visit to the theatre, involuntarily without any cause for it, there
had commenced to be moments in which MTutor was tedious. This sacrilege
was unconscious, and never yet had been put into words; but still the
feeling was there; and the beginning of any such revolution in the soul
must be accompanied with many uneasinesses. Jock was on the stroke, so
to speak, of seventeen. He was old for his age, yet he had been almost
childish too in his devotion to his books, and the subjects of his
school life. The last year had introduced many new thoughts to his mind
by restoring him to the partial society of his sister and her house; but
into these new subjects he had carried the devotion of his studious
habits and the enthusiasm of his discipleship, transferring himself
bodily with all his traditions into the new atmosphere. But a change
somehow had begun in him, he could not tell how. He was stirred beyond
the lines of his former being--sentiments, confusions of spirit quite
new to him, were vaguely fermenting, he could not tell how; and school
work, and prizes, and all the emulations of sixth form had somehow tamed
and paled. The colour seemed to have gone out of them. And the library
of MTutor, that paradise of thought, that home of conversation, where so
many fine things used to be said--that too had palled upon the boy's
uneasy soul. He felt as if he should prefer to leave everything behind
him,--books and compositions and talk, and even MTutor himself. Such a
state of mind is sure to occur some time or other in a boy's
experiences; but in this case it was too early, and Mr. Derwentwater,
who was very deeply devoted to his pupils, was much exercised on the
subject. He had lost Jock's confidence, he thought. How had he lost his
confidence? was it that some other less wholesome influence was coming
in? Thus there were feelings of discomfort between them, hesitations as
to what to say, instinctive avoidance of some subjects, concealed
allusions to others. It might even be said that in a very refined and
superior way, such as was alone possible to such a man, Mr. Derwentwater
occasionally talked at Jock. He talked of the pain and grief of seeing a
young heart closed to you which once had been open, and of the poignant
disappointment which arises in an elder spirit when its spiritual
child--its disciple--gets beyond its leading. Jock, occupied with his
own thoughts, only partially understood.
It was in this state of mind that they set out together, amid all the
bustle of breaking up, to pay their promised visit. Jock, who up to this
moment had hated London, and looked with alarm upon society, had eagerly
accepted his tutor's proposal that after the ten days which they were to
spend at the Hall they should go to Normandy together for the rest of
the holidays, which was an arrangement very pleasant in anticipation.
But by this time neither of the two was at all anxious to carry it out.
Mr. Derwentwater had begun to talk of the expediency of giving a little
attention to one's own country. "We are just as foolish as the ignorant
masses," he said, "though we think ourselves so wise. Why not Devonshire
instead of Normandy? it is finer in natural scenery. Why not London
instead of Paris? there is no spell in mere going, as the ignorant say
'abroad.'" When you come to think of it, in just the same proportion as
one is superior to the common round of gaping British tourists, by going
on a walking tour in Normandy, one is superior to the walkers in
Normandy by choosing Devonshire.
These remarks were preliminary to the intention of giving up the plan
altogether, and by the time they set out it was tacitly understood that
this was to be the case. It was to be given up--not for Devonshire. The
pair of friends had become two--they were to do each what was good in
his own eyes. Jock would remain "at home," whether that home meant the
Hall or Park Lane, and Mr. Derwentwater, after his week's visit, should
go on--where seemed to him good.
There was a considerable party gathered in the inner drawing-room when
Jock and his companion presented themselves there. The scene was very
different from that to which Jock had been accustomed, when the
tea-table was a sort of fireside adjunct to the warmth and brightness
centred there. Now the windows were full of a clear yellow sky, shining
a little shrilly after rain, and promising in its too-clear and watery
brightness more rain to come; and many people were about, some standing
up against the light, some lounging in the comfortable chairs, some
talking together in groups, some hanging about Lucy and her tea service.
Lucy said, "Oh, is it you, Jock?" and kissed him, with a look of
pleasure; but she had not run out to meet him as of old. Lucy, indeed,
was changed, perhaps more evidently changed than any member of the
family. She was far more self-possessed than she had ever been before.
She did not now turn to her husband with that pretty look, half-smiling,
half-wistful, to know how she had got through her domestic duties. There
was a slight air of hurry and embarrassment about her eyes. The season
had not begun, and she could not have been overdone by her social
duties; but something had aged and changed her. Some old acquaintances
came forward and shook hands with Jock; and Sir Tom, when he saw who it
was, detached himself from the person he was talking to, and came
forward and gave him a sufficiently cordial welcome. The person with
whom he was talking was the Contessa. She was in her old place in the
room, the comfortable sofa which she had taken from Lady Randolph, and
where Sir Tom, leaning upon the mantelpiece, as an Englishman loves to
do, could talk to her in the easiest of attitudes. Jock, though he was
not discerning, thought that Sir Tom looked aged and changed too. The
people in general had a tired afternoon sort of look about them. They
were not like people exulting to get out of town, and out of darkness
and winter weather to the fresh air and April skies. Perhaps, however,
this effect was produced by the fact that looking for one special person
in the assembly Jock had not found her. He had never cared who was there
before. Except Lucy, the whole world was much the same to him. To talk
to her now and then, but by preference alone, when he could have her to
himself and nobody else was by, and then to escape to the library, had
been the height of his desire. Now he no longer thought of the library,
or even, save in a secondary way, of Lucy. He looked about for some one
else. There was the Contessa, sure enough, with one man on the sofa by
her side and another seated in front of her, and Sir Tom against the
mantelpiece lounging and talking. She was enchanting them all with her
rapid talk, with the pretty, swift movements of her hands, her
expressive looks and ways. But there was no shadow of Bice about the
room. Jock looked at once behind the table, where she had been always
visible when the Contessa was present. But Bice was not there. There was
not a trace of her among the people whom Jock neither knew nor cared to
know. But everything went on cheerfully, notwithstanding this omission,
which nobody but Jock seemed to remark. Ladies chattered softly as they
sipped their tea, men standing over them telling anecdotes of this
person and that, with runs of soft laughter here and there. Lucy at the
tea-table was the only one who was at all isolated. She was bending over
her cups and saucers, supplying now one and now another, listening to a
chance remark here and there, giving an abstracted smile to the person
who might chance to be next to her. What was she thinking of? Not of
Jock, who had only got a smile a little more animated than the others.
Mr. Derwentwater did not know anybody in this company. He stood on the
outskirts of it, with that look of mingled conciliation and defiance
which is natural to a man who feels himself overlooked. He was more
disappointed even than Jock, for he had anticipated a great deal of
attention, and not to find himself nobody in a fashionable crowd.
Things did not mend even at dinner. Then the people were more easily
identified in their evening clothes, exposing themselves steadily to all
observers on either side of the table; but they did not seem more
interesting. There were two or three political men, friends of Sir Tom,
and some of a very different type who were attached to the
Contessa--indeed, the party consisted chiefly of men, with a few ladies
thrown in. The ladies were not much more attractive. One of them, a Lady
Anastasia something, was one of the most inveterate of gossip
collectors, a lady who not only provided piquant tales for home
consumption, but served them up to the general public afterwards in a
newspaper--the only representatives of ordinary womankind being a mother
and two daughters, who had no particular qualities, and who duly
occupied a certain amount of space, without giving anything in return.
But Bice was not visible. She who had been so little noticed, yet so far
from insignificant, where was she? Could it be that the Contessa had
left her behind, or that Lucy had objected to her, or that she was ill,
or that--Jock did not know what to think. The company was a strange one.
Those sedate, political friends of Sir Tom found themselves with a
little dismay in the society of the lady who wrote for what she called
the Press, and the gentlemen from the clubs. One of the guests was the
young Marquis Montjoie, who had quite lately come into his title and the
world. He had been at school with Jock a few years before, and he
recognised Mr. Derwentwater with a curious mixture of awe and contempt.
"Hallo!" he had cried when he perceived him first, and he had whispered
something to the Contessa which made her laugh also. All this Jock
remarked vaguely in his uneasiness and disappointment. What was the good
of coming home, he said to himself, if---- What was the use of having so
looked forward to the holidays and lost that prize, and disappointed
everybody, if---- There rose such a ferment in Jock's veins as had never
been there before. When the ladies left the room after dinner it was he
that opened the door for them, and as Lucy looked up with a smile into
her brother's face she met from him a scowl which took away her breath.
Why did he scowl at Lucy? and why think that in all his life he had
never seen so dull a company before? Their good things after dinner were
odious to his ears; and to think, that even MTutor should be able to
laugh at such miserable jokes and take an interest in such small talk!
That fellow Montjoie, above all, was intolerable to Jock. He had been
quite low down in the school when he left, a being of no account, a
creature called by opprobrious names, and not worthy to tie the shoes of
a member of Sixth Form. But when he rattled loudly on about nothing at
all, even Sir Tom did not refuse to listen. What was Montjoie doing
here? When the gentlemen streamed into the drawing-room, a procession of
black coats, Jock, who came last, could not help being aware that he was
scowling at everybody. He met the eyes of one of those inoffensive
little girls in blue, and made her jump, looking at her as if he would
eat her. And all the evening through he kept prowling about with his
hands in his pockets, now looking at the books in the shelves, now
frowning at Lucy, who could not think what was the matter with her
brother. Was Jock ill? What had happened to him? The young ladies in
blue sang an innocent little duet, and Jock stared at the Contessa,
wondering if she was going to sing, and if the door would open and the
slim figure in the black frock come in as by a signal and place herself
at the piano. But the Contessa only laughed behind her fan, and made a
little pretence at applause when the music ceased, having talked all
through it, she and the gentlemen about her, of whom Montjoie was one
and the loudest. No, she was not going to sing. When the door opened it
was only to admit the servants with their trays and the tea which nobody
wanted. What was the use of looking forward to the holidays if---- Mr.
Derwentwater, perhaps, had similar thoughts. He came up to Jock behind
the backs of the other people, and put an uneasy question to him.
"I thought you said that Madame di Forno-Populo sang?"
"She used to," said Jock laconically.
"The music here does not seem of a high class," said MTutor. "I hope she
will sing. Italians, though their music is sensuous, generally know
something about the art."
To this Jock made no reply, but hunched his shoulders a little higher,
and dug his hands down deeper into his pockets.
"By the way, is the--young lady who was with Madame di Forno-Populo
here no longer?" said MTutor in a sort of accidental manner, as if that
had for the first time occurred to him. He raised his eyes to Jock's
face, which was foolish, and they both reddened in spite of themselves;
Mr. Derwentwater with sudden confusion, and Jock with angry dismay.
"Not that I know of," said the boy. "I haven't heard anything." Then he
went on hurriedly: "No more than I know what Montjoie's doing here.
What's he been asked here for I wonder? He can't amuse anybody much."
These words, however, were contradicted practically as soon as they were
said by a peal of laughter which rose from the Contessa's little corner,
all caused as it was evident by some pleasantry of Montjoie's.
"It seems that he does, though," said Mr. Derwentwater; and then he
added with a smile, "We are novices in society, you and I. We do best in
our own class; not to know that Montjoie will be in the very front of
society, the admired of all admirers at least for a season or two! Isn't
he a favourite of fortune, the best _parti_, a golden youth in every
sense of the word----"
"Why, he was a scug!" cried Jock, with illimitable disdain. This
mysterious and terrible monosyllable was applied at school to a youth
hopelessly low down and destitute of any personal advantages to
counterbalance his inferiority. Jock launched it at the Marquis,
evidently now in a very different situation, as if it had been a stone.
"Hush!" said MTutor blandly. "You will meet a great many such in
society, and they will think themselves quite as good as you."
Then the mother of the young ladies in blue approached and disturbed
this _tete-a-tete_.
"I think you were talking of Lord Montjoie," she said. "I hear he is so
clever; there are some comic songs he sings, which, I am told, are quite
irresistible. Mr. Trevor, don't you think you could induce him to sing
one?--as you were at school with him, and are a sort of son of the
house?"
At this Jock glowered with eyes that were alarming to see under the deep
cover of his eyebrows, and MTutor laughed out. "We had not so exalted an
opinion of Montjoie," he said; and then, with a politic diversion of
which he was proud, "Would not your daughters favour us again? A comic
song in the present state of our feelings would be more than we could
bear."
"What a clever fellow he is after all!" said Jock to himself admiringly,
"how he can manage people and say the right thing at the right moment! I
dare say Lucy will tell me if I ask her," he said, quite irrelevantly,
as the lady, well pleased to hear her daughters appreciated, sailed
away. There was something in the complete sympathy of Mr. Derwentwater's
mind, even though it irritated, which touched him. He put the question
point blank to Lucy when he found an opportunity of speaking to her. "I
say, Lucy, where is Bice? You have got all the old fogeys about the
place, and she is not here," the boy said.
"Is that why you are glooming upon everybody so?" said the unfeeling
Lucy. "You cannot call your friend Lord Montjoie an old fogey, Jock. He
says you were such friends at school."
"I--friends!" cried Jock with disdain. "Why, he was nothing but a scug."
Thus Lucy, too, avoided the question; but it was not because she had any
real reluctance to speak of Bice, though this was what Jock could not
know.