Scissors

BOOK II

WEST

CHAPTER I

The guard's whistle sounded shrilly, and in John's ears it seemed to be cutting through his life as he stood on the platform at Sedley and felt his hand held in his father's farewell grasp. The last carriage door had been slammed, the perspiring porters mopped their brows under the hot September sun, the train drew back a little with a hissing of steam and a rasping of brakes, then slowly crawled forward. John ever afterwards carried a distinct impression of his father as he saw him that afternoon leaning out of the carriage window. The tanned face, the clear grey eyes and clean-cut features all stamped themselves upon his memory. The ring in his father's voice as he said—

"Good-bye, John—you'll soon settle down,"—then the long pause, the last look into his eyes, and the tightened hand. These impressions burnt themselves upon the boy's brain, and, somewhat overwhelmed with the pain of it all, he stood watching the train dwindle down the line. It drew out of sight, first the long length of carriage windows, then the shortened perspective, until the back of the guard's van covered the train, finally the lamps, the two buffers, and a coiled up gas connection—and a long stretch of shining steel rails that converged to a point. He wanted to run along that iron way, to catch that train, to get away from this terrible desolation creeping over him. He stood, lonely and miserable, in a crowd of shouting boys and porters struggling with luggage. Just outside the station, beyond the white palings where the ticket collector stood, was a waggonette packed with boys of all ages. John looked at them curiously. They were to be his companions, to form his life in the coming years.

In Amasia he had looked forward to mingling with boys of his own age and race, but now their noisy behaviour and boisterous good humour repelled him. He thought how much preferable was Ali with his quiet oriental manner. There was also another disconcerting experience which depressed him—his new clothes irritated him. He had worn trousers for a week now and hated them. His waistcoat was like a chain round his chest and he wanted to tear the vile Eton collar from his throat in rage. He longed for his loose open shirt, his easy shorts and socks. There were other clothes packed away in that white wooden box, with black iron flanges. John stared at his initials, black-lettered on the front—"J.N.D."—did they belong to him? Somehow they seemed to shout at him, to possess him, and the "N" in the middle grew and swelled until it dwarfed its companions. John was terribly afraid of that "N". Why hadn't the porter stuck the luggage label over it? He recalled what that awful boy, at the house where his father went to dine one day, had said, when he told him his name.

"Narcissus! Good Lord, you will get ragged!"

"Ragged—what's that?" he had asked.

"Oh—knocked about—chivied." And then, in a friendly tone, "You'd better keep that name quiet."

John must have stood thinking on the platform for a considerable time. It was almost empty. He would walk back to the school. His housemaster's wife had asked him to have tea with her. He instinctively liked Mrs. Fletcher. She was motherly and there was such a pleasant ring in her voice, also she was beautiful and probably young. Her cheeks were very fresh, as if she had walked in the wind all day, and John liked the style in which she did her hair. Fletcher too had attracted him, though he had not been able to notice him much, for his father had talked to him about Eastern affairs.

When John reached the school, he tapped on his housemaster's study door and entered. He was in no genial mood, but full of warlike thoughts. Mrs. Fletcher smiled at him as he entered and motioned for him to sit by her side. There were other boys in the room, seven or eight, all laughing and talking with Mr. Fletcher, and John wondered whether he would ever be on such familiar terms with the master as these boys were. There was something about the book-lined study which pleased John—it had such a homely look and Mr. Fletcher seemed all the more attractive because of his study. The books, portraits and pictures were interesting, the chairs were very comfortable, and Mrs. Fletcher gave attention to John. Soon he was laughing at something she had said which amused him immensely, and he laughed as only a boy can laugh. Mr. Fletcher turned from the group about him and looked across at John.

"Now I wonder what I am missing, Dean?" he said. "Come here. This is Mason—Rogers, Russell, Thomson, and Vernley." He indicated the boys with a sweep of his hand, and John surveyed his new schoolfellows. One boy attracted him, a heavily-built fellow with carefully brushed hair that was thick and shiny. John saw that he was strong, so strong that he looked ungainly in his suit, which tightened with every movement, but what attracted John was Vernley's smile, it was so good natured, and warm, like sunshine. He was pleased when Mr. Fletcher added—

"Vernley is in your dormitory, Dean." Then turning to the boy, "You must take charge of Dean until he finds his way about. Now you'd better get along, all you. Don't forget to see the Matron about your things, and chapel's at seven-thirty."

John followed the boys out into the corridor. He shivered as he closed the study door. On this side of it he was in the school and it looked so depressingly barren after the cosy study. He watched the other boys with envy as they walked down the corridor to the Matron's room. Vernley was among them, and seemed to have forgotten the master's injunction, but at the Matron's door he waited for John.

"Come along, our boxes are up in the dorm,—yours has been put next to mine—I'll show you the way up."

Putting his arm in John's he led the way, talking as they went. To John it was a novel experience. He had never talked to another English boy in this free manner, and the friendliness with which Vernley had taken his arm gave him a slight thrill. It was pleasant to be noticed like this, and already he liked his companion. There was something so placid and solid about him which appealed to John. There was nothing Eastern about this boy, he talked without reserve and his clear brown eyes seemed like those of a young animal rather than a human being.

Vernley sat down on John's bed and explained the various contrivances in the room. It was a long well-lit chamber with eight beds on either side, bordered by two long strips of carpet. The middle of the floor was bare.

"It's jolly cold too," said Vernley, "when you stand on it with the wind blowing over you."

"Stand on it, why?"

"Oh, it's Lindon's fad—he's a physical culture crank, he's prefect here. He makes us all strip night and morning and has us squirming on our backs with our legs in the air,—but he's quite a decent chap. You'll get on with him well."

"Why?"

"Oh, you look so splendidly fit—he's simply mad on fitness. He spends half his time torturing me to get my fat down."

"But you're strong," said John admiringly.

"Oh, yes, but it is not strength he believes in—it's what he calls form, the Greek ideal—he's always talking about some Greek johnny, and he's rather like one himself. What's the J.N. for?" Vernley broke off abruptly and stared at the box.

"John Narcissus—"

"Narcissus!"

"Yes—it's Greek too," John smiled, and Vernley laughed. John noticed that he had teeth like an animal's—white and strong.

"Well—they'll call you 'Cissy' for short."

"Oh, please don't tell them—I hate it," he said, looking at Vernley imploringly.

"Very well—then it'll be Scissors—that's more cutting!"

"I don't mind that—what's your name?"

"What do you think—there's only one name for all persons like myself—Tubby—isn't it a libel?"

"Yes—you're not too fat. I think you're—" John hesitated,

"Well, what—let's hear."

"You're quite—splendid."

Vernley laughed again in his fascinating way.

"Thanks—I can return that compliment."

John flushed. He was glad Vernley had laughed like that.

"That's strange, you know—saying that," added Vernley.

"Why?"

"Because most fellows never think about appearances—I always do, and you do. I loathe ugliness. Lindon's always preaching on that text. You'll hear him later, 'the good and the beautiful' that's his pet phrase. He's beautiful enough, but he isn't good."

"Why?—does he swear?"

"Good lord, yes—we all do, there's worse things than that." He stooped down and took a book out of the box at the foot of his bed. Then he glanced at a watch on his wrist.

"Glory!" he exclaimed, "it's a quarter past seven. Come along or we'll be late." He hurried out, John following. He wished Vernley had gone on talking, he interested him in Lindon. What was it Lindon did? Perhaps he drank secretly, or cribbed, or—John hurried on, his head filled with speculations. He was looking forward to seeing the terrible Lindon.

CHAPTER II

I

John's first week at Sedley passed with amazing rapidity. It was all new to him, and enjoyable also. The masters were such a decent set of fellows, and already John had formed a strong alliance with Vernley. He had had tremendous good luck in this. Vernley was in his second year and entitled to a study. A small room at the end of the corridor was vacant, but it was only large enough for two boys. All the other studies had four occupants, save fellows in the fifth and sixth forms who had attained to the dignity of separate rooms. When Vernley discovered that he was the odd man out with a study of his own, he went straightaway to Mr. Fletcher and asked permission for John to share it, which was readily granted. He and John entered into partnership. So far the alliance had been a great success.

It was the Wednesday half-holiday and John had just had his first game of football. Exhilarated by the exercise and the novelty of it all, he had changed from his muddy shorts and red and white shirt, wallowed in the bath, and now sat stiff and tired in a wicker chair, holding toast to the fire, while Vernley got out the tea cups. Tea was the one meal they had in private, and both boys gloried in it.

John, burning the toast furiously, sniffed with delight.

"I say Verny—toast is the incense of the appetite—isn't it good?" and he sniffed long and loud. Vernley looked at him. John's curiously turned nostrils always fascinated him, they were just like the faun's in the drawing class.

"You ought to be called Bunny, not Scissors," he said, pouring hot water into the teapot.

"Why?" asked John turning round in the chair.

"Damn!—watch that toast, it'll be black! Why, because you twitch your nose like a rabbit. That's enough, don't toast any more."

There was a long break in the conversation, filled with the noise of crunching.

"I shall have to go in a minute—I forgot to fill Lindon's kettle," said John.

"Hang Lindon—he's always running you about. I knew he would. He doesn't like your being here."

"Don't talk rot—he's been jolly decent to me, he was coaching me all this afternoon. He's going to give me an hour at racquets to-morrow," said John, defending Lindon stoutly; then seeing that he had hurt Vernley—

"I say, Verny—don't be jealous—only it is decent of him. Why don't you like him?"

He looked at Vernley, who shifted uneasily and kicked the fender.

"I never said I didn't like him," he answered.

"But I know you don't—what's the reason?"

"Well—it's because you're such a kid, Scissors."

"Thanks, you're a year older—but that's no reason."

"P'raps not—but I knew Lindon would go for you—I said so the first night."

"To-day's the first time he's taken any notice of me."

"Is it?—he's watched you like a cat for a week. You don't know Lindon—I do."

"Then why are you so mysterious about him?"

Vernley got up and cut himself a piece of cake.

"Have a piece, Scissors?"

"Thanks."

"Look here, Scissors, you've said I'm jealous—well I am, but not for the reason you think. You're only a kid and a green one at that. I'm a year older, which isn't much, but I've been at school five years, in a prep, and here, and I know who's who. Lindon's a clever chap, captain of the first eleven, our best bat and all that—but keep clear of him."

Vernley would say no more after that. John went out and filled Lindon's kettle and returned. His forced manner made Vernley watch him curiously; John was evidently upset.

"What is the matter," he asked John, abruptly.

"Nothing."

"That's a lie, Scissors—try again."

John flushed deeply—"Well, nothing much," he confessed.

"Has Lindon said anything?"

"Yes."

"About me?"

John was silent.

"I guessed so," said Vernley bitterly, "and you believe him?"

"No—I don't—and I don't understand,—and I don't want to understand."

"But, Scissors, if—in the past," added Vernley. He looked anxiously at John, who had picked up Punch and was looking through it.

"Well—the past is the past, that's all. I say, Verny, listen to this," he said, reading from the paper. He had dismissed the subject, and Vernley sat and listened, looking at his friend with a doglike affection.

II

John enjoyed the Saturday evenings when they all gathered in Mr. Fletcher's study. They sat wherever they liked, on the floor, the lounge, or in the windows, while Fletcher talked and his wife poured out the coffee. Fletcher was a man of ideas and of sufficient strength of mind to carry them out. He was never so happy as when, pipe in mouth, he debated with six or eight boys at a time. It was a time-honoured custom for the boys of his house to come in each Saturday evening to talk over the school matches or any other topic that presented itself. There was no attempt to make the conversation "improving." Sometimes, led by a question, Fletcher would tell them about his travels in Greece and Italy, illustrating them with snapshots in his albums, or perhaps Mrs. Fletcher or one of the boys would sing. The repertoire was in no way restricted. Occasionally Vernley had to be forcibly deposed from the piano stool after an orgy of music-hall ditties or waltz tunes, and any outburst of ragging was quickly suppressed. The boys were not compelled to enter into any conversation. They could take down the books and read if they wished and sometimes complete silence reigned until Fletcher stood up, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and said "Time, boys."

There was one particular pleasure to which John always looked forward—that was Lindon's playing. There was a magic quality in it which held them spellbound; even Vernley admitted that Lindon knew his way about on the piano. The pianist would sit down in front of the keyboard, wait for the preparatory hush which he commanded as a brilliant performer, run his fingers up and down the keys once or twice as if making their acquaintance, and then begin. Sometimes it was Beethoven he played. John never forgot the thrill that ran down his spine when he heard the Pathetique for the first time. Its great soulful chords crashed through him, echoing along his brain like thunder in a valley.

But on this particular evening, Lindon was in a more festive mood. He had won glory on the field that afternoon; his swiftness, his quick decision had brought victory to his house, and some of the seriousness which usually invested his manner was forgotten. It was the last Saturday night of term. The examinations were nearly over. The holiday spirit already made the school restive. So Lindon was in good spirits. He chose Chopin, and sent the melodies rippling from beneath his wonderful fingers.

John, completely fascinated, stood leaning on the flat top of the grand, it being his duty to turn over the music when the demi-god nodded. Lindon started off with the Valse Brilliante in four flats. It was hackneyed, but not so to John who listened while the magic movement seemed to lift him up with ecstasy. Then the pianist played Op. 64—he seemed scarcely to touch the keys, for they whirred just like the wind blowing through a leafy tree. It was the speed, the superb vivacity of it all that entranced John. Now they were butterflies dancing rapturously, now a spinning wheel. Here was something that reached an eloquence beyond words, a joy greater than anything he had ever known. When Lindon ceased, John's eyes were sparkling with intense delight. The pianist, seeing his pleasure, laughed lightly. The applause he did not appear to notice; it was John's boyish approval which he looked for and found at the conclusion of each piece.

How long Lindon sat at the keyboard John had no idea. His ecstasy was suddenly shattered by the performer who said,

"Only one more, Scissors, then you can sit down."

And this time it was something that stirred John until he felt he must cry out. It was the exquisite pain of it. As he watched Lindon he was strangely attracted; the latter was no longer smiling. He sat with compressed lips and stern eyes. The slender hands flew over the thundering bass and swept like a whirlwind into the treble. The player's hair, shaken with the energy of his execution had fallen over his brow. There was something fierce about Lindon as he sat there, something that made John draw in his breath with half fear and wonder. He had never seen this Lindon before. The gracious, laughing young hero whom he worshipped had changed into a being capable of great passion, and perhaps cruelty.

It was the Drum Polonaise which Lindon played. It began like the slow murmur of thunder, and then it broke into a wild ecstatic music like the mad flight of a thousand horses across a prairie. John wondered how so much sound and furious activity could be torn out of that piano, and the player's frenzy almost terrified him as he turned the music, but his fear suddenly changed to a feeling of dread and helplessness. The second movement had begun with its monotonous bass. John listened, breathless; it was the sound of that drum which enthralled him. It grew in intensity and passion, it called, called, called with a horrible fascination. John looked at Lindon, but the latter seemed oblivious of all but the page before him. The sound swelled up and smote on John's ears like a flood of waters; a curious numbness stole over him—the drum seemed nearer now, it was soothing, he would know nothing soon, already feeling had left him, he—

Lindon was the first to jump up as John swayed and fell in a heap on the floor. He sprang from the stool and lifted up the insensible lad. Fletcher and his wife were pending over John when he opened his eyes again. Where was he? He did not quite know, yet he was very tired. Then he heard some one call "Scissors!" and looking up again saw Lindon bending over him, with anxious face. He was safe; he could feel the rigid muscles of his arms as he held him. He let his head sink with a sigh.

"I think it's the air, sir, we're rather warm in here," said Lindon to Fletcher.

"Carry him into the hall, Lindon—you boys stop here."

"Let me take him," said Mrs. Fletcher, all the mother nature of her sounding in her voice.

"It's all right, Mrs. Fletcher, I can carry him. I think the porch would be the best place. The cold air will bring him round."

Lindon lifted John like a baby and went out into the porch followed by Fletcher and his wife. He deposited his burden in a wicker chair.

"Don't wait, sir, I'll bring him in in a bit—look, he's all right now." John sat up and looked at the anxious trio.

"Better?" asked Fletcher, cheerfully.

"Yes, sir—I'm awfully sorry," replied John.

"Don't worry, my boy—you've played too hard to-day. Now sit here a bit with Lindon. Ah, here we are!"

Mrs. Fletcher had returned with rugs and wrapped the boy round with them.

When Fletcher and his wife had gone, John and Lindon sat in silence.

Lindon could see Dean's face in the dim light and his eyes were still very bright as he looked up at the sky.

"Scissors," said Lindon quietly, "why did you faint?"

"I don't know, Lindon—you frightened me, I think."

"Am I so terrible?" the question was asked jokingly but not without an undercurrent of feeling.

"No—but you fascinate me—you have done since the first. It's only when you are playing that I really seem to see you properly."

Lindon gave a short laugh. "What a queer little beggar you are—I suppose the East is in your blood. I hope Vernley hasn't been playing on your imagination too much—he talks about me?"

"No, he doesn't," said John shortly, "and you shouldn't ask me—I'm his friend."

"I'm sorry, Scissors—it is caddish, only—" he broke off and looked out into the night. John sat in silence and waited. He knew Lindon wanted to say something. Presently he spoke.

"You see, Scissors, I don't want anything to upset our—well, we get on fairly well, don't we? Somehow you've made me feel—oh, I'm talking rot."

"I suppose you've seen how I watched you," said John, "—I simply couldn't hide it—I'm a little fool I know."

"That's what made it all so difficult. It's not easy being a god," responded Lindon. "You've put me on a pedestal—and I want to keep on it." They talked more easily after that.

CHAPTER III

I

It had been arranged that John should spend the Christmas and Easter holidays with his housemaster. Fletcher had a cottage in Wales where he went at the end of each term to repair his shattered constitution. There, he dressed in a most amazing assortment of tweeds, smoked endlessly, loved to sit in village bars and listen to village gossip, and tramped over the mountains with inexhaustible energy.

John spent the first fortnight with the Fletchers, after which he went on to Vernley's people, who sent him a cordial invitation to their home in Essex. It was there that John first became acquainted with the amazing possibilities of life.

The Vernleys lived in a rambling old house with long corridors in which John could lose himself. Indeed, everything was on the spacious side, with that heavy, solid prosperity stamped on it which somehow fitted the Vernleys and all of John's preconceptions of them. Mr. Vernley was a broad-shouldered man with a shock of black hair and a tremendous voice. Mrs. Vernley was stout and tall, talked rather loudly and made a draught whenever she moved, but she radiated kindliness. The family, too, was on the large scale, for John found himself being introduced to a crowd of brothers and sisters who varied from being wonderfully beautiful to uncompromisingly ugly.

There was Kitty, aged twenty-two, a big-boned woman, who talked horses all day long; then Alice two years her junior, the musical genius of the family. Vernley had great faith in his sister's future as a singer because she was so fat. Tod, twenty, and in the first flush of glory at Balliol, was the Vernley Adonis. He had the good looks that wonderful health and spirits bestow. His cheeks were tanned, his laugh cheery, and when he didn't sing or talk, he whistled. Vernley said that sitting near Tod was like being near a radiator, he warmed you like an animal. With great cheerfulness, Tod offered to teach the two boys how to box. He took them up into a dim roomy attic, stripped them, tied the gloves on to their hands, and made them pound away at each other while he bellowed his encouragement. At the end of half an hour, the two boys being utterly exhausted, he just tucked them under his arms, walked down to the bathroom and turned the cold water tap on them as if they had been two mice he had wished to drown. They emerged from their first boxing lesson with a black eye each. In addition John had a swollen nose and Vernley a cut lip. When they both appeared at tea-time, the family yelled with delight, save Mrs. Vernley, whose motherly instinct forbade further boxing lessons.

And here it was that the amazing complexity of life first dawned upon John's consciousness. Mr. Vernley was a member of Parliament and he brought his friends on week-end visits to "The Croft." John looked at these persons with considerable awe. They were all doing, or going to do something big. Among them was Chadburn, quiet, unassuming, strictly conscientious, with a fine face and a courteous manner.

John walked with him through the woods one Sunday morning, and at the end of half an hour, fell in love with him; all that night he had visions of himself as a private secretary. It would be glorious to be near him each day, to go in on a thick-carpeted floor with a sheaf of papers and say, "Will you sign these, sir?" or, "A deputation wishes to see you, sir," or "Your speech is in your bag, sir," and his hero would say, "Thank you, Dean; I shall be back to-morrow—take cuttings from the Times and Telegraph," Perhaps he could accompany his chief to a big meeting and see him sway the crowd, hear him cheered in the packed hall and he would want to get up, and say, "That is my chief—I am his secretary." John went to bed that Sunday with life revealing a wonderful vista before him, for as he had passed through the lounge where the men sat smoking, he had heard Chadburn say, "That boy's as intelligent as he's handsome." As the two boys undressed, Vernley noticed his friend's elation.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.

"Oh, ripping! It's glorious here, Vernley—I don't know how to thank you," which sent the devoted Vernley to bed equally happy.

There were two other incidents of that holiday that stood out in his memory for many years. The first dawn of adolescence stirred in him, disquieting, but wonderful. Muriel awakened him, Muriel the vivacious, sixteen, home from school in Belgium, the prettiest of the Vernley girls and just ready to fall in love for the simple adventure of it. They liked each other at sight; she admired his slim grace, the brown healthiness of his skin, the fine ring in his laughter; he, her elusive charm and tomboyish air. Her quick, witty chatter in English or French was music to the enchanted John; and she rode her horse like a princess.

Each morning, after breakfast, three or four mounts were brought round from the stables, the groom waiting until the riding party was ready. Sometimes Vernley and Kitty made up the quartette, with John and Muriel. John sat his horse superbly, the legacy of Amasian days, with the result that he and Muriel were often far in advance of the other couple, for Vernley rolled on his seat like a sack, and Kitty acted as whipper-in.

One morning, after a breathless gallop, John and Muriel found themselves alone together on the white road running through a little copse of birch trees. The girth of Muriel's saddle had slackened, and John helped her to dismount and tightened it. Then slipping their reins over their arms, they walked the horses on to the soft turf bordering the road. On a barren bough a robin began to sing cheerfully. Muriel gave a little cry of delight, and as John looked at her, his flesh thrilled with her laughter. She was flushed, with her fair hair falling over two pink ears, and as she turned to him with her beautiful eyes, she caught him in the act of open admiration. Muriel looked away, pretending she had not noticed.

"Shall we mount and get on?" she said awkwardly. She placed one foot in the stirrup, and John placed his hand under the other to help her into the saddle. It was the first time he had ever touched her and a queer self-consciousness caused him to bungle, for she failed to gain the saddle. The horse moved, and Muriel fell back into his arms. It was an accident which John took as a gift from the gods. He gave an awkward little laugh as he looked down into her timid eyes and she tried to hide her face on his shoulder. The soft brushing of her hair on his cheek gave him courage; holding her in his strong young arms, he raised her face with one hand and saw the laughter in her eyes. Then deliberately he kissed her lips, her soft wavy hair falling over his brow, her arms pressed tight and warm around his neck. It was a moment's delight, with no passion in it—only youth discovering youth and thrilled with the wonder of it.

Almost gravely John helped her into the saddle, and they started off at a canter. The wind whipped their faces, the superb vitality of the horses seemed to flow through their bodies. Ahead lay the wooded country and the chimneys of "The Croft." John remembered that white strip of road, the birch-tree copse and the laughter in Muriel's eyes evermore. In the years that followed he was to love, but it was never quite the same, there was more intelligence in it, more consciousness, more passion, but not the quick edge of sharp surprise.

II

John's Christmas at "The Croft" was his first experience of life at an English country house, and he saw there how money and leisure could make existence almost ideally tranquil. He learned too, the patrician order of things. Hitherto, humanity for him had only been classed in nationalities. He had recognised, of course, that mankind itself was divided into the rich and poor, those who did what they wished, and those who laboured as they must. But he now saw that Society was more subtly divided; it had its rigorous caste systems, and he was living in the strictest caste of all. The county type that he met at "The Croft" was something distinct. It spoke very definitely of humanity as "the masses." Clearly they were a slightly inferior people, to whom a duty must be performed. They had to be kept in their places, taught to recognise superiority and to render homage without servility; in return for this recognition they were rewarded with the influence and interest of those who controlled their lives.

Down in the village John found that, as the guest of the Vernleys, he was somebody. The villagers touched their caps to him, the postmistress was effusively polite. All this seemed strange at first to John, for accustomed to the deference of the Moslem before all Englishmen, he had conceived a socialistic idea of the position and powers of all who spoke his native tongue. After a time he grew accustomed to the patrician attitude. It was so easy to assume the air of command, to know that servants, even English ones, were there to serve, and that one could be perfectly polite to them and forfeit no respect or authority.

He admired the young squire manner of his friend Vernley—the way in which he obtained all he wanted. The whole country-side was his, the farmhouses all gladly opened their doors at his approach. The name of Vernley was powerful. The next thing John realised was that the name was loved. The Vernleys had lived on the land for generations, and their knowledge of every family on the estate was unique. They knew the hereditary tendencies of Farmer Jenkins' children, the constitutional inclination of the Wichsteeds to bronchitis, the wanderlust that was in the blood of all the Wilkinsons' younger sons. John's friend too was intimate with all the village boys. He played cricket with them, called them by their Christian names, and assumed leadership in their midst without any rivalry or jealousy.

This was new and strange to John; but it all seemed part of the landscape. The village people were the natural possessions of the Vernleys, just as much as the fine old copper beeches in their drive, or the splendidly level lawn and flower-bordered terraces. It had always been so, and there was no reason why it should ever change. The village church, with its tombs of dead Vernleys also showed that their religion was a family affair, looked after by the vicar who held his living by appointment of a Vernley.

Comfort too was so visible in that home. There were solidarity and security in those massive oak doors under the stone portico. The heavy carpets sank richly under the feet; one felt majestic ascending the broad staircase with its crest-panelled pillars. The bedrooms with the blues, reds, and greens of carpets and eiderdowns and couches had a solemn splendour, particularly after the coldness of a school dormitory. It gave John a peculiar sense of pleasure to watch the maid in the morning enter his room with the hot water. The copper water can gleamed as the felt cover with its monogram came off. The curtains as they were drawn, fell back in heavy beautiful folds, and his bed was a massive thing built to endure for generations.

John revelled in all these things so new in his life and he looked at Vernley closely when that young gentleman expressed no particular delight, no pride of proprietorship. John, of course, was careful not to show his ecstasy. He accepted everything without comment, but secretly he exulted. Life was going to be pleasant enough with such splendid traditions and beautiful houses. He would spend his days visiting friends; he would find such a house himself, and entertain large parties. The wine should stand richly in beautiful glasses, as it did on the Vernleys' table at night time, discreetly lit with shaded candles in the silver candelabra. He would find servants as well trained, a butler as majestic, and the stables at the back of his house should be filled with superb horses, flawlessly groomed.

Dreaming in this manner one night as he lay in bed, he suddenly started with a recollection that his home had once been like the Vernleys. He had seen photographs of "Fourways," and heard his father speak of Tom the groom—a splendid beater or loader. With a thrill of discovery John recalled his inheritance; it explained so much, his joy in these surroundings, the feeling that somehow he was at home again among the Vernleys. This was no new life; it was the old life, the one his father had known.

And then John realised how much he had lost. The mention of family misfortune had formerly conveyed nothing to him. He had been quite happy in his home at Amasia. There was nothing wanting, and he had often wondered at his father's ceaseless recollections of "Fourways." Now he realised all that the change to that hard, bright, lonely life in Amasia had meant, and the fuller knowledge clouded the boy's happiness. He would build up the family fortune again and take his father back to "Fourways." So thinking, he fell asleep to dream of his father greeting Tom who came to welcome him back, and somehow in that dream he mingled—but he was not alone. There was Muriel with him, flushed with riding, her cheeks whipped with the wind, her eyes bright with happiness, and her hand, soft and warm, holding his as he helped her down from the saddle.

John awoke in the morning to the sound of bells. It was Christmas Day, and springing out of bed he ran to the window that overlooked the drive opposite the church gate. The bells were clamouring merrily and he could see the villagers making their way to the early morning service. Picking up his towel he rushed off to the bathroom, shouted loudly at the shock of the cold shower, dressed quickly and ran downstairs just as the breakfast gong sounded. In the dining room the family was busy opening presents. There were three for him, one from Vernley and two from his host and hostess. With boyish impulse he went up and kissed Mrs. Vernley delightedly. Life was good!

CHAPTER IV

I

On Christmas eve John had noticed another guest at dinner, but he had no opportunity of studying the person, who was addressed as Mr. Steer. The next morning after breakfast, there was a walking party to Holdfast Covert, about three miles, whence a fine view of the surrounding country was obtainable. John asked Vernley all about the stranger, for he was attracted to him by his manner.

"The Governor's frightfully keen on Steer," said Vernley. "He's a poet and quite well-known—at least I think so. There's always a mild sensation in the district when Steer's down here."

"Have you read his books?"

"No, I've seen them of course—they're always prominent in the drawing-room when he comes here. He's not like most of those writing people who everlastingly talk about themselves, and he's a sportsman. He'll start love-thirty with any one on the tennis court and beat 'em."

It was on the way back from the covert that John had his first conversation with Steer. The boy had fallen behind to tie up a shoe lace, and the poet was hacking away at a wand he had cut out of the thicket.

"What are you making, sir?" asked John, overtaking him.

"A whistle—can you make one?"

"No—I'm not very handy with a pocket knife."

"Well, there you are—that's a sycamore pipe which you can play—like the Idle Shepherd Boys," said Steer, giving the stick to John.

"On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn,—

I suppose you know that?"

John confessed his ignorance, but he liked the sound of it and wanted to hear more.

"God bless me," said Steer, "you mean to say that you've not heard of Wordsworth? I thought every boy out of a nursery had been brought up on 'We are Seven' and 'The Idle Shepherd Boys.'"

"I've never heard of Mr. Wordsworth," said John naïvely,—"do tell me about him."

"Oh, he's quite dead now—he was what is called a Lake poet—he lived at the English Lakes, Grasmere and Rydal to be precise, where there was a group of these poets and essayists—Coleridge, Southey, De Quincey, Christopher North—names you've probably heard. 'The Idle Shepherd Boys' was a favourite poem when I was a lad. I remember reciting it to my mother for a penny. She used to give me a penny for every new poem I learned. I remember how she laughed when I pronounced 'vapours'—'vappers.' The first stanza runs—

The valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never, never ending song,
To welcome in the May.
The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;
Or through the glittering vapours dart
In very wantonness of heart."

"Oh, how jolly! Do go on please!" shouted John eagerly, and his new friend recited the whole poem. The joy on the boy's face greatly amused him.

"You've evidently got a taste for verse, John—but there's much better stuff than that. Wordsworth was a philosopher, he wrote splendid things like—

Love had he known in huts where poor men lie;
    His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
    The sleep that is among the lonely hills."

These words fell upon John's ears as music. It was a spell upon him, something that took him into a realm of wonderful sounds and visions. On that walk home, he plied the poet with questions, and Keats, Shelley, Browning and Byron became more than mere names. He learned how they had lived, of Byron's picturesque, turbulent career; of Shelley's passion for reform; of Keats' struggle against disease and the burning ardour for the glory that was Greece. And then Steer told him of living men who were writing. "But don't meet them if you can help," he advised. "You should never meet authors of the books you admire—they have conserved their best moments in a few pages, and they cannot live up to your expectations—and authors, too, are not the pleasantest of mankind. There is sufficient egotism in a room full of them to lift St. Paul's to the top of Everest."

"But you're a poet yourself, Mr. Steer—and you're not at all objectionable!" said John laughingly.

"Perhaps that's why I'm such a bad one," answered Steer. They had now overtaken the others and Vernley, looking round, noticed John's excited manner.

"Whatever's stirred you up, Scissors?" he asked. "You look as if you'd found a gold mine!"

"Mr. Steer's been telling me about the poets. Oh, Verney, I'd no idea they were such a ripping set. Have you got a Wordsworth at home?"

"Yes—but you haven't come here to read that stuff—you'll have to read it when you get at your 'remove'—a horrible old man, always grousing about some 'divine, far-off event'—no, that's Tennyson. How does it run? I've got it—

                        a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns
And the round ocean and the living air—"

"That's beautiful, it's—" exclaimed John.

"I call it utter tosh. Parse and analyse. Subject; there isn't one, predicate; find it if you can; object—Good Lord, why don't these fellows write sense? Whoever saw a round ocean?"

"But that isn't what he meant—you mustn't take it pictorially."

"Bravo, John, you've got the sense of it," interjected Steer. "Bobbie's attempted to analyse it,—that's fatal."

Vernley stared at John curiously for a moment, amazed at his friend's enthusiasm, then—

"You are a rum beggar, Scissors; I believe you'd like to write stuff like that yourself."

"Perhaps he will—alas," sighed Steer.

"Why do you say 'alas'?" asked John. "You're not at all sad, you're quite jolly and—"

"You can play tennis, sir," added Vernley in a consolatory voice.

II

For the remainder of the day, John's head was full of poetry. He had found a copy of Wordsworth in the library, and after lunch, when every one disappeared for a nap, he stole up to his bedroom, successfully evading Vernley, who, he knew, would cover him with derision if detected. Fortunately Vernley had gone across to the vicarage with a message, and he was detained there with lemonade and mince pies for a whole hour. In that time John read through "The Idle Shepherd Boys" and "Lucy Gray." He then attempted "The Excursion" and found it altogether too much for him, save one jolly bit—

"He loved; from a swarm of rosy boys
Singled me out, as he in sport would say,
For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years,"

which ministered to his egotism, and helped him to build up visions of long walks with Mr. Steer, in which he saw down into the soul of a poet. He had given up "The Excursion" in despair, but later, turning over the pages, he recognised the lines Vernley had quoted. Like an old friend they seemed. He had just finished the "Lines composed about Tintern Abbey," when Vernley, or Bobbie as the household called him, burst in, searching for him.

"Scissors, I've been all over the house—what are you doing?"

"Reading." John closed the book and half hid it behind him, but Vernley was too sharp and made a grab. One look, and the secret was out.

"Scissors! I've a good mind to scrag you."

"If you can—but isn't it ripping—

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air—

—it's like eating caramels."

"If you say it again, I will scrag you!"

"Whose dwelling is the light—" began John provocatively.

Vernley leapt upon him and they went down together, John underneath.

"Say it again, Scissors!" cried Vernley, holding John's head firmly to the floor. John wriggled and tried to shift the hand over his mouth.

"Whose dwelling is the—" he managed to get out before he was choked. There was a wild scrimmage which ended with a great crash. They had cannoned into the washstand, and the jug and basin lay in a thousand fragments.

"Golly!—what a mess!" commented Vernley from where he lay, surveying the ruins.

"Will your mater be angry?" asked John nervously.

"No—she's used to having things smashed—it's a family failing. I've made a mess of your collar, you'll have to put a clean one on. Old Crimp's coming to tea, I've just been to the vicarage. He's a dreadful old bore—but he's got a ripping kid. I can't think how he did it."

"Did what?" asked John naïvely.

Vernley looked a him for a moment, and then went scarlet. "Scissors," he said, taking his arm, "you are a bit of an angel—"

"Whose dwelling—" began John derisively.

"Shut up!—do you want to smash the looking glass next? Get your collar on—there's the gong for tea."

Those days at "The Croft" went all too swiftly, and the morning came when the two boys lifted their trunks into the car and were whirled down the drive to the station. John left feeling that the end of life had come. He had been among friends and had felt almost as if he had been to his own home—the kind of home of which he had dreamed. Mrs. Vernley had mothered him, and John's secret pleasure at being petted had been expressed in many little acts of devotion.

"What a lovable boy he is!" she said to her husband as she watched the car recede down the drive.

"Yes, and sharp too. They may well call him 'Scissors'—that boy will cut his way through," replied Mr. Vernley. "Where's Muriel? I thought she was going to the station with them?"

Mrs. Vernley looked intently at her husband, but his face told her nothing. Ten minutes before she had hurried a sobbing Muriel off to her bedroom, where she was now going to lecture her on the absurdity of falling in love at sixteen, but as she secretly sympathised with her daughter she did not say anything to her husband. Upstairs in the bedroom she found Muriel with watery eyes, standing by the window, and screwing up a miniature handkerchief. Mrs. Vernley looked at her and decided that further words would bring a deluge. So she talked about everything but the thing in both their minds, and the only allusion to John's departure was when she said,

"Now, Muriel, wash your face. Miss Lane will be here for the music lesson in a few minutes."

It was then that Muriel found courage to make her confession.

"I gave him a photograph, Mother—I hope you don't mind?"

"Well, it's a little immodest for you to be presenting your photograph so freely."

"He asked me for it, Mother."

"Oh,—but really, you children are very absurd! I shall dread Bobbie bringing friends home with him if it means you are going to have red eyes every time. But there—you'll get over it," she said kindly, as she stooped and kissed her. "Now come along, dear, I'm afraid you haven't done much practising for Miss Lane."

The subject was never alluded to again, but Mr. Vernley the following morning almost provoked another flood of tears.

"You'll miss John, Muriel," he said genially at breakfast. "No more morning gallops together—you looked quite a loving pair on horseback." There was silence, then looking from Muriel to her mother, a glance told him everything.

"Why, bless me!—you don't mean to tell me—"

Muriel had dropped her eggspoon in a desperate search for a handkerchief. "My dear child!" cried Mr. Vernley, pinching her ear, "I'd no idea young Master Scissors had made such a conquest. The young beggar, I'll teach him to upset my daughter." He laughed good-heartedly, saw Muriel force a smile through her tears, and then diplomatically prevented further observation by spreading out the Times.

III

The two boys in the train were very silent. Vernley immersed in a copy of "The Hill." John sat staring out of the window. But it was not the swiftly passing fields that engaged his attention, for at that moment he was exercising what Mr. Steer, in the explanation of Wordsworth's poem, had called "the inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude." John's thoughts were not at all blissful. He was feeling quite blue. The end of a glorious holiday had come, and having what another poet had called "the passion of the past," he was reluctantly taking stock of his memories. He had found delightful friends. There were Mr. and Mrs. Vernley; he could never feel quite lonely in England now. They represented home for John, being people who could understand and sympathise. There was Mr. Chadburn who had talked to him quite seriously. John had found a great friend in Mr. Steer. They had had wonderful walks together, when John had been taken into a new world that awaited his discovery. Steer had invited him to call at his house when he was in London. He wondered whether Mrs. Steer would be just as delightful.

Then his thoughts turned to Muriel. She would be having her music lesson from Miss Lane now. He had made her tell him all she was going to do that day. After the music lesson she was going to visit the stables. He saw her walking round the wing of the house, he saw her small hand press the catch on the wicket gate, and her short graceful steps as she crossed the cobbled stable-yard to the corner where the horses were stabled. He knew exactly how she would lift the iron bar out of its socket, swing back the half-door, call "Bess!" and then stroke the white patch running from between the eyes down to the nose. He could even smell the stable, with that delightful manure and horsey aroma.

He could see the deftness with which she slipped the bridle over Bess's head, and the firm way in which she led her out of the stable, for she insisted on attending to Bess herself, and with a sharp movement she would be in the saddle at his side, level with and laughing into his face, and their horses would walk clattering across the cobbles, before breaking into a canter in the lane. He knew every inch of that lane, just where the horses would gallop, and where they would walk. He remembered the crest of the hill, with its pattern below of fields and farmhouses and stacks; with the dim blue clumps of leafless trees, and the barren telegraph poles, carrying the singing wires across the valley towards the railway siding. Half a mile over that crest was the copse where the robin sang as he kissed her that wonderful morning when they had ridden ahead of the others.

And now he was being carried away from all that happiness! He was going back to bare noisy rooms, to a crowd of boys and worried masters. Would such times as he had had ever come again? His hand at that moment rested on something hard in his pocket. It was Muriel's photograph which she had given him before breakfast. He had looked at it hurriedly then, in its tissue cover. Now he wanted to take it out and feast his eyes upon it. He looked up; Vernley was chewing butterscotch and still immersed in his book. He did not want the old lady sitting near to see him gazing at the photograph, so he got up and went into the adjoining lavatory. There he bolted the door and pulled out the precious packet.

Slipping the photograph from its paper cover, he saw it was a small cabinet in sepia by Neame, New Bond Street, of Muriel in her riding coat and cap. As he pulled it out something dropped to the floor. It was a small piece of tissue paper. He was disappointed, for he thought it was a note. Then seeing its shape, he knew it contained something, which, after unwrapping, proved to be a strand of hair. John immediately kissed it with all the sentiment of fifteen. He was about to wrap it up again, when he had an inspiration. It was another pledge of love and should be placed with Ali's gift. John pulled out the chain with its moonstone pendant, which he faithfully wore, and tied the strand of hair around the link. Then, putting the photograph back into his pocket, he returned to the carriage.

The platform was crowded when they arrived at Sedley and there was a fierce fight for seats in the brake. John found himself separated from Vernley, but half an hour later, as he was going towards Mrs. Fletcher's room, he was caught by the arm.

"I say, Scissors, what do you think?" asked Vernley excitedly. "We've got a new study! Maitland told me, and I didn't believe him, but it's on the list. There's another fellow in with us—what a nuisance! I don't know who he is."

"What's his name?"

"Marsh—Maitland says he's a new kid, tons of money and a motor bike. He was at Eton and has come here for some reason. It looks queer—we don't want Eton's cast-offs."

"I beg your pardon," said a quiet voice. The boys turned to find themselves surveyed by a calm young gentleman. He smiled at them in a superior way.

"My name is Marsh—of whom you speak. If my presence is offensive to your secluded domain, I'll remove myself."

"Pompous ass," thought John. Vernley stared at him.

"Well, we are friends y' see," said Vernley at last.

"So I perceive," murmured the tall youth, looking at Vernley, who had his arm in John's. There might have been something offensive in the fact, and the stranger impressed this upon them. Vernley drew his arm away.

"Do you always perceive things?" asked John sarcastically.

"When they are worth it," retorted Marsh. "When I've finished unpacking, I'll speak to you again. So long," and he turned and walked down the corridor, with deliberate dignity.

"Well I'm snubbed," said Vernley. "Does Fletcher think we'll put up with that piece of skin and grief!"

"He'll speak to us again!—when he has finished unpacking! Bobbie, we are dismissed!" cried John.

Their next encounter with Marsh was more genial. They found him sitting in the new study. When John and Vernley opened the door they stood on the threshold and gasped. It was an amazing spectacle they beheld. Two lounge chairs covered with chintz were placed on each side of the fireplace. A blue cloth covered the table on which lay a shallow black bowl. In the bowl was water on which floated, in careless design, a dozen narcissi dropped in by the hand of Marsh. The window was draped in chintz and in the far recess was a magnificent bookcase. It towered up to the ceiling and was crammed with sumptuous books in highly-coloured leather bindings. There were four pictures on the walls, of a mysterious nature; those sallow-faced maidens and thin-legged youths in red hose, John learned later, were from the hand of Botticelli. A lady with a curious smirk occupied the place of honour over the fireplace. When John asked Marsh if it was his mother, the boy exclaimed sadly, "Alas, no!" and going to the bookshelf read from a volume a long analysis of the lady's smile written by a person called Pater in prose which, to John, seemed a long time getting to the point.

After the reading was finished and Marsh had pronounced it to be "luscious," he invited them to sit down, which was singular, since it was their study,—but he was a person who evidently took command. Appreciating comfort, and a little proud of the envy their study would arouse in others, they settled down amicably.

At the end of the month, they were inseparable. The trio became famous. Vernley was the athlete, Marsh the scholar, and John—that amazing discovery was made by John almost by accident. It filled his dreams for a whole term.

It was in the school debating society that John made his great discovery. Mr. Fletcher was in the chair. The meeting was in the lecture theatre with its tiers of seats climbing up to the back windows, in one of which John sat listening. There was a mock government in office, trying to introduce a bill for compulsory military training. The debate was opened by the captain of the Officers' Training Corps, a man John disliked intensely, mainly because he had prominent teeth that were not prolonged on parallel lines. John had attended three meetings of the society, but had not spoken. The small boys sat silent in the presence of the sixth form gods. John would not have spoken on this occasion except for an accident. He was sitting on the window seat, jammed in between two other boys, who, in the course of an attack upon each other's head, ejected John from his position. He fell with an amazing noise on the hollow boarding, and the Speaker, looking up, caught John's eye. The boy had no intention of speaking but Mr. Fletcher evidently misconstrued his action, and very kindly paused to give John his opportunity. So there was nothing else for him to do but to open his mouth. He stammered for half a minute, uttered a witticism and provoked a laugh, which encouraged him to proceed to a superb piece of youthful cynicism. The house gasped, but liked the sensation; the leader of the debate sat amazed at the junior's audacity.

But John had tasted blood. He felt the flattery of the attention he was commanding. He grew bolder. A few of Marsh's grandiloquent phrases came into his head, odd readings from those leather-bound books pointed his arguments gracefully, his ear for a choice phrase kept his listeners intent. At the end of ten minutes John sat down abruptly. There was a great silence. He had made a fool of himself, he thought, and was blushing with shame when the tide of applause caught him. It seemed to rock the theatre. He was being applauded, the whole theatre was applauding him! He was no longer a nonentity, but somebody! It dazed him a little. For the next half hour he heard his name mentioned in the debate. When they all trooped out of the theatre, he was smiled at, and patted on the back. The crowning moment came when Mr. Fletcher looked at him closely through his spectacles and said—

"I hardly like to approve of your audacity, Dean, but I am pleased that my house has such an eloquent representative. I'm afraid the bitterness of your spirit suggests a misspent youth and the convictions of a Labour leader." And with a good-natured smile, in which John detected whole-hearted approval, Fletcher passed on.

A fortnight later, John was the leader of the Opposition. It was an unheard-of thing for a junior boy to sit on the front bench, but John had broken all traditions. He was aided by Marsh who loved to be diplomatic. Marsh carried on an insidious campaign against all who opposed John's nomination. He held tea-parties at which he collected his forces. He despatched his lieutenants to the fields, the five courts, the common room, the quadrangles, the armoury and the tuck shop. Vernley brought round the athletic vote—"the blockhead squirearchy," Marsh called it, and the fifth and sixth form 'bloods' were bribed by the thoughtful loan of French novels.

"Scissors," announced March on the momentous day of the election, "you should be eternally grateful to the French scribes. Anatole France, Flaubert, Maupassant and Daudet—these have won the day. Thanks to the lasciviousness of Madame Bovary and the voluptuousness of Sappho, the full-blooded gods of Upper School will nod in your favour. I have seduced them with questionable literature. I have undermined their morals and pandered to their secret viciousness. In grateful recollection of the delicious nights I have given them, they are your henchmen to-day. I have suffered in the cause. This morning, the Censor, in the heavy shape of Fletcher, produced his warrant and searched my shelves. His disgusting taste has been satiated. Look—'A Rebours,' 'Thaïs' and 'Sappho' have been abducted. Those bleeding gaps are the memorials of my enthusiasm in the cause. In your hours of triumph, O Scissors, forget not the hand that raised you to your dizzy eminence. Let me whisper in your ear, and remind you, as the Cæsars of old, of the fickleness of Fate."