Scissors

CHAPTER V

John had been invited to spend the first half of his Easter holidays at Marsh's. The second half was to be taken with the Vernleys. John wondered whether his acceptance of Marsh's invitation would hurt Vernley, but Marsh included Bobbie in the invitation. Vernley, however, was unable to accept; he was spending part of his time with an aunt in the north of Scotland. So they parted at Sedley Station, and two hours later John was being driven in from Loughboro towards Marsh's home. The gardener with a trap had met the boys at the station and they had about an hour's drive before they turned off the main road which intersected the village of Renstone. On the right was the Vicarage, standing back from the little street; on the left, across the road, stood the church, with its square tower, and near by, the Hall. Marsh's father was the Vicar of Renstone and Marsh had been born in the Vicarage. As the trap turned off the street, they entered through two wide gates which completely shut off the Vicarage from the village. Inside the gates there was a small courtyard, in the centre of which stood a great holly bush. The yard was closed in by the back of the house and in the middle was the main entrance porch with a wing of the domestic building. When John entered the porch and the door opened, he gave a cry of delight. He looked right through a small hall on the opposite side where wide low windows with small leaded panes overlooked two long lawns. A gravel path led down the centre to a line of magnificent elms that bordered the far edge of the garden, and through the elms John caught a vista of the country with the white main road, along which they had come, stretching away to the horizon.

John's admiration of the Vicarage was cut short by the entrance of a lady. She wore a large straw hat, and a pair of washleather gloves. In her hand was a basket full of clippings. She placed the basket on the settee and coming forward kissed Marsh, then turning to the boy standing shyly in the shadow of the door, said,

"This is John—of whom I have heard so much? How d'you do? We are so glad to see you."

After his momentary shyness, John found himself looking into the face of a fair little woman with kind eyes. She also examined John closely, noticed the shy flush on his face, the darkness of his eyes and the slim grace of his regular features and carriage. They immediately liked one another. John was at home again. She was one of those women who are mothers to whatever humanity seeks their love. So John looked long at her and knew that he had found a friend. He contrasted her with Mrs. Vernley, whom he also liked. But Mrs. Vernley was a woman of the world, determined, a lover of fashion. Mrs. Marsh was quite of a different order. John felt she was one who would understand sympathetically when others would judge harshly. She was the kind of woman to whom he would rather come if he had a confession to make.

He noticed how very frail she was, almost like a saint who had fasted. Her white hair, loosely fastened, seemed as a halo while she stood there in the dim hall with the sunlight behind rimming her head with light. Her hand was so thin that John could feel all the bones in it and her flesh was almost transparent.

Meanwhile Marsh had superintended their boxes.

"Come up to our room, Scissors!" he cried, and John followed him up an old oak staircase, along a narrow corridor that ran the whole length of the house, overlooking the courtyard on one side. Their room was at the end, and the beauty of it made John's heart leap up. It had two low casement windows, bordered with creeper drooping to the lawns below. Their two beds faced the windows; the dressing table, mantelpiece and writing desk were decorated with fresh bunches of violets. The perfume pervaded the room and mingled with the delightful smell of clean linen, which John had come to distinguish as a 'country house smell.'

"What a jolly room!" cried John.

Marsh seemed pleased at his approbation. "Not a bit like a parson's hole, is it?" he commented. "This room is modern—that's a copy of a Cezanne; that's a real Pizarro—you won't find on these walls any woolly legend 'God is Love,' or a dead aunt's knitting in five colours—'Blessed are the meek.' I ejected all those long ago."

"But what does your governor say?"

"Nothing—he merely smiles. I am the cuckoo's egg in the family nest."

John was a little shocked. He felt uneasy when Marsh talked in this strain. It was not that Marsh wanted to shock, but John was in an alien country, which his friend evidently knew well. Every day John was discovering some thing new about himself until his mind was in a condition of fear. Marsh was so splendidly cool about everything. When John asked him questions, he showed no surprise, or superiority, but explained and amplified from familiarity with his theme. Marsh dismissed certain things as "rotten," others he characterised as "smuggy." John always had a feeling that Marsh knew much more than he said. His knowledge of books, for instance, was extraordinary. John was discovering new books every day of his life, but he no sooner announced a fresh treasure than Marsh knew all about it, had read it long ago and could supplement the knowledge with personal information concerning the author and other books he had written. He was at home in French literature or English, which John accounted for later when he found that Mrs. Marsh had spent her youth in a French convent school. This discovery was made at tea-time in the study, a delightfully cosy room full of books and loose papers, and magazines, with big chairs in which you sank low and all the cushions gradually deflated as though the breath had been crushed out of them. Marsh talked to his mother in French, greatly to John's admiration.

"You mustn't mind Teddie talking French to me," said Mrs. Marsh, as she handed him a tea cup. "He thinks it is such a treat for me, as indeed it is, and Teddie is greatly afraid that I might forget how to speak French."

"I wish I could follow it all, Mrs. Marsh—you speak French so frenchily," said John, munching toast. He loved her already; there was something so comfortable about her.

"Well, you see I was sent to a French school when quite a little girl.

"Jolly good thing for me, Mater, wasn't it?" cried Marsh, linking his arm through his mother's.

"Why, dear?"

"'Cause I shouldn't have been here if you hadn't fallen in love with a red-haired young curate on a walking tour through Provence!"

Mrs. Marsh laughed.

"You naughty boy—what would your father say if he knew you called him a red-haired curate—his hair was golden then."

"That's the usual story—if a man has red hair they say it's golden; if a girl, they call it auburn."

"My mother had au-red hair," said John flushing. Mrs. Marsh looked quickly at the boy at her side, mingling her love with admiration of his courage.

"Sorry, Scissors—but it can't have been red, for you haven't a freckle. He's jolly good-looking, isn't he, Mother?"

John coloured; further confusion was checked by the abrupt opening of the door. A clerical collar told him that it was Mr. Marsh. After the formal introduction John was able to study the Reverend George Marsh while the latter questioned his son.

He was a tall man of striking appearance. His hair, although almost white, was thick, and a great wave of it lay over his brow. He had a tanned healthy face and laughing eyes. A smile was never long absent from his face, which was handsome in a broad-featured way. John noticed how large and strong were his hands. He had been a great cricketer in his day, and the athlete still lingered in his frame. He would have been recognised as an English country gentleman in any community, and his geniality was blended with an exquisite courtesy. Of the parson there was not a trace, and when afterwards he appeared without a clerical collar, there was no indication whatever that he was anything but a full-blooded English gentleman fond of his horse and his pipe.

He was at least ten years older than his wife, whom he called the "Skipper," greatly surprising and afterwards amusing John. He evidently troubled himself about nothing. If Marsh wanted anything, he was always told by the Vicar, "Ask the Skipper," or "Does the Skipper know?" On Saturday afternoon there was what Marsh assured John was the weekly tragi-comedy. He confessed he had not composed his sermon for the following day, and, like a penitent boy, was locked in his study with the threat that he should have no dinner until the sermon was completed. He must have been either a man of quick inspiration or short patience, for half an hour later as John walked by the study window he saw the vicar, pipe in mouth, stretched in his wicker chair, reading the Nation which he waved joyously at John as though to say, "See! I defy the Skipper!"

Later, John discovered that the Vicar was a rebel at heart. He read the Nation religiously, and had an intense enthusiasm for the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who was saying rude things about persons who kept pheasants, greatly to the vicar's delight, who knew how angry it would make the new tenant of Renstone Hall, who stood for King, the Conservative party, a covert full of pheasants and a house full of servants. Teddie, partly from perversity, and partly because he felt the lordship of youth, was a conservative, like his mother, and they had fierce arguments, in which the Vicar bravely kept his flag flying, despite assaults on either flank.

John's sympathies were with the Vicar. The Chancellor had the gift of phrase and epithet which he admired, and had also excelled in. He supported him therefore because that politician's brilliance delighted him. The Vicar was delighted. He ragged Teddie unmercifully, and commented gaily on the pleasure he derived from seeing that the new race at Sedley was enlightened, a playful thrust at his son's assumption of seniority in his attitude towards John in political discussions. John loved those tea-times when argument grew merry. It was all so good-humoured, the Vicar bantering his son and wife with great joy, they in their turn exposing his "democracy" by stories of a "brother" of the soil who had imposed upon him again and again.

John loved these debates. He felt he was one of the family, and after the bleakness of schooldays this comfort and intimacy were something to be treasured. His admiration of Mrs. Marsh grew daily. She was so clever that John no longer wondered at Teddie's amazing ability in all things. She could paint well, and had read deeply and widely; was an authority on Bartolozzi engravings and made beautiful jewellery as a hobby. In the evenings after dinner, they always had an hour's music in the drawing-room—an unique apartment decorated in black and white, with silver fittings and massive candelabra, holding twenty candles—"with enough dripping to make saute potatoes," commented Teddie. The corner of the drawing room was filled by a superbly-toned Beckstein grand, which Mrs. Marsh played with consummate skill.

She had studied at Vienna under Leschetiscky and her interpretation of Liszt and Brahms held John spellbound. Her rendering was quite unlike Lindon's. He played con fuoco. She caressed the piano so that it sang as though its heart was filled with grief. When she played Debussy and Ravel, it was as though the wind were making the aspens shake and glimmer in the sunlight. There was a series of delicate currents of sound which followed one another like the reflections of rippling water on the sides of a boat, and one floated down the stream with all the senses quiescent yet acute.

When the music ended and it was time for bed, for they retired early, there was the ceremony of blowing out the candles. Mrs. Marsh, Teddie and John joined hands round the candelabra and a fierce competition ensued. In the small hall they parted. The Vicar went off to his study, where he sat reading until one or two in the morning. His lamp threw a long strip of light across the lawn long after the boys had fallen asleep. On the first night, after Mrs. Marsh had kissed her son on the brow and said "Good night," she turned and half held out her hand to John, then with one of those sudden impulses, which endeared her to him, she asked,

"I wonder if my new boy is too big?" and smiling, she pressed John's head towards her and kissed him on the brow, then turned and went upstairs. John stood still for half a minute. He hoped the light was too dim for his friend to see, for his eyes were blurred. It was silly to be so frightfully sensitive, but kindness like this always upset him. It increased his sense of loneliness and loss and yet it made him happier.

Upstairs in their bedroom, John threw open a window and leaned out into the night. The air was warm, and a full moon hung low over the elm trees at the bottom of the garden, throwing their long shadows across the lawns. The distant woods, black and distinct, were silhouetted on the hills; there was a great silence over everything. The moon would look just like that peering over the gorge at Amasia. He wondered what his father was doing at that moment, and whether he knew how happy he was. Probably he was smoking his last cigarette on the verandah, watching the stream as it ran and flashed along its stony bed; perhaps the night was not silent like this, but full of the droning of the saz. And Ali?—he would be fast asleep, tired after a long day in the sun. Dear old Ali, how he longed to have him with him, to show him this wonderful English house, and have him hear Teddie talk—how he would stare at Teddie!

"I say, Scissors, how long are you going to hang out of that window?" It was Marsh, tooth-brush in hand, already in his pyjamas. "I'll bet I know your thoughts."

"You don't."

"I do—you're thinking about another place the moon hangs over and what everybody's doing there."

"How did you know?"

Marsh laughed delightedly at the confirmation of his guess. "Easy—when you turned just now you'd got the East in your eyes."

"The East—what do you mean?"

"Well, you look a bit Eastern at times. I thought so the first time I saw you, but you looked very much so just now, just as I imagine Lindon saw you."

"Lindon—" John gulped at the name—"saw me? What did he tell you?"

"Oh, he was telling us one day how you fainted when he played the Drum Polonaise—and how queer you looked at him just before you went. By the way, I don't think I ever told you Lindon lives near here."

The days slipped by at the Vicarage. Indeed, there was so little to do and yet they were so industriously idle that the day was over before all that was planned had been accomplished. John had been at the Vicarage just a week, when, one sunshiny Saturday morning, the trap came round to the door, with its well-groomed pony and shining harness, at which Marsh had laboured for an hour the previous evening with a bottle of polish—and the promise of half a crown. Mrs. Marsh and John and Teddie got in, the latter taking the reins, and they clattered merrily out of the courtyard, down the village street, where the little boys gaped, and the women in the doors curtseyed, out on to the highway stretching away beneath an avenue of over-reaching elms. They were bound for the market town of Loughboro, on a shopping expedition.

"There's nothing worth buying there," said Marsh, "which is the reason for the Mater's regular visit. She drags me round in the trap while she looks in every window. There's nothing to see and less to do."

"There's the Theatre, dear."

"What a show! 'East Lynne' by the celebrated London company or 'The Girl at the Cross Roads' preceded by the one act comedy, 'Sarah in the Soup.'"

"You should not run the place down—you will spoil John's anticipations."

They passed a couple of ragged men, bronzed and unshaven, who stood still while the trap passed.

"That's the ideal life," exclaimed Marsh, flicking the pony. "Nothing to do and no desire to do it. They remind me of Davies' lines—he was a tramp too—

What is this life if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?

This road's punctuated with these leisured gentlemen—that's another attraction of Loughboro—there's a fine workhouse. The Governor goes to preach there once a month, and always comes away regretting he's not an inmate—it fits in with his idea of the democratic communal life. But he always drinks sherry when he gets home—to kill the taste I suppose."

There were now signs of the approaching town. Cottages became more frequent, and then villas, pathetically attempting to keep on good relations with the country by burdening their windows with flower boxes and their square little front gardens with shrubs. Two gasometers loomed up in the distance, long monotonous buildings with tall chimneys suggesting some kind of industry. Then with a turn, they were trotting down the streets of the town itself. They pulled up under the Town Hall clock which projected itself over a market place greatly animated with booths and wandering groups of buyers, gossipers and gapers. Mrs. Marsh disappeared in a chemist's shop, where she exchanged her library books, and presently she emerged laden with three novels, the English Review, the Nineteenth Century and The Tatler. These were deposited in the trap, whereupon she walked on again and disappeared in a dairy shop. Marsh flicked the pony and the trap jogged on, halting again outside the shop.

"This is how we progress on a shopping expedition. I follow the mater all round the market place while everybody comes to the shop doors, stares at me, asks, 'Do you know who that is?' until a wiseacre says, 'That's the parson's son—him what preaches at the workhouse.' Last summer I came down here in shorts and socks and the sight paralysed the market place; they had never seen so much male leg before. I shall bring my 'topper' home next term. It'll have a raging success."

For three quarters of an hour they slowly worked round the sides of the market place, while the trap got fuller and fuller and Mrs. Marsh redder and redder. John was busy carrying parcels from the shop to the trap.

"Thank heaven a market square has only four sides!" cried Marsh, as John deposited a two gallon jar of cider in the well of the trap.

"There's more to follow!" cried Scissors, darting back to the shop. He emerged a few minutes later, his arms full of small parcels with Mrs. Marsh following behind. He was so intent upon balancing his precariously held pile that he did not notice a youth and a girl who stood aside to let them pass, but as he turned to hand the things to Marsh he caught a glimpse and his heart gave a great thump as he coloured in confusion. Marsh noticed John's sudden uneasiness and turned in his seat.

"Lindon!" he cried. "What luck—how are you?"

It was Lindon—cool, immaculate. He raised his to Mrs. Marsh, with the alert manner that distinguished him. The girl at his side was obviously his sister. She had the same straight nose and keen eyes. Her fresh beauty made John stare at her. All that fascinated him in Lindon was there with the added grace of girlhood.

"Good morning, Mr. Lindon—good morning, Miss Lindon. You are shopping too, I suppose," said Mrs. Marsh genially; then noticing John nervously drawing back—"You know John, I think?"

"Rather," interrupted Marsh. "John's his fag."

Lindon laughed. "I'm afraid he knows me only too well." He turned to his sister. "This is Scissors—John Dean, Mabel." John raised his cap and took the proffered hand.

"How d'you do," she asked, "I've heard so much of you from Henry."

Then Lindon had spoken of him!—he had called him Scissors! A hundred thoughts raced through John's head. Had he forgiven—or was this mere politeness? He had talked about him to his sister, but perhaps that was before this miserable affair happened. He must speak to Lindon somehow before they parted, and say how sorry he was. The eye, he was relieved to see, showed no signs of his attack. In his imagination he had come to think of it as quite closed up.

Mabel Lindon looked at the boy who stood so silent before her. Possibly he was tongued-tied, certainly he was flushed, or was it his colour? He was very attractive, she thought, and his embarrassment flattered her.

"Will you not come over to see us?" she asked him. John was in a dilemma. Lindon was busily talking to Marsh and his mother, he had not heard the invitation. John waited, hoping he would hear and re-inforce it.

"I'm leaving here on Tuesday—so I'm sorry I shall be unable, thank you."

"Oh, that is a pity, for we are leaving next month, we are going to live in Worcestershire, and it is a shame, for we have such a wonderful garden and pond—you would love it."

"I'm sure I should."

They were saying good-bye now. He shook hands with Miss Lindon. Mrs. Marsh had got into the trap. John was about to follow, when Lindon spoke.

"Having a good time, Scissors?" he asked, in a friendly voice. John stammered with joy and relief. It was Pax.

"Awfully, thanks Lindon," he muttered. The reins had been jerked, the trap began to move. Miss Lindon walked on. Lindon raised his cap. "Good-bye!" he called to them. It was now or never.

"Please Lindon—I—I'm awfully sorry I was such a cad to you—and will you forgive me? I—I—"

"That's all right, Scissors," said Lindon, shaking John's hand. "I like fire in a kid. Are you coming over to see us?" he asked.

"I'm sorry I can't—-I go on Tuesday—"

"Well—you must come to stay next hols. Good-bye!" and with a smile he was gone. All John's hero worship swelled up within him. How splendidly Lindon had dismissed the beastly affair! John hurried after the trap and clambered in. Marsh smiled at him with perfect understanding, and John felt how good was life. All the way back to the Vicarage his heart was singing within him. At the Vicarage door, as he carried in the parcels, he could not help whistling. Marsh took his arm.

"That storm over?" he asked, sympathetically.

John could not answer, but he nodded. They walked into the house.

CHAPTER VI

I

The following Tuesday John said good-bye to the Marshs and left for "The Croft" to spend the remainder of his Easter holidays with the Vernleys. Mrs. Marsh and Teddie drove him to the station, and, as the train left and he leaned out of the window to wave farewell, he knew that once more he had found true friends and a house where his return would be welcome. At dusk he had arrived in the village station nearest to "The Croft," where he found Bobbie and his brother Tod waiting for him on the platform.

"Hello, Scissors!" shouted Tod, as the train drew in, "We've a surprise for you. Where's the luggage—give me that, I'll carry it."

"How's the great Marsh?" asked Vernley. "As supercilious as ever?"

"Yes—in great form, he sends his love and recommends Mother Wingate's syrup for fatuous persons," answered John.

"Cheek!" retorted Vernley, "and by Jove—don't you think I'm getting thin—Tod's had me out on the under track every morning at six. I'm going to pull off the 'half' and mile race next term."

John looked at him critically, and although Vernley was as delightfully substantial as ever, he had not the heart to disappoint him.

"He's wasting away like our Narcissus," said Tod, banging his way through the narrow booking hall. "Look, my son, isn't she a beauty!"

He pointed to a racing car drawn up outside the station. John noticed its long rectangular bonnet, the beautiful gleam and hidden strength of the thing, admiration showing in his eyes.

"It's mine!—the Governor's twenty-first birthday present! She was first in the trials at Brooklands last week," said Tod, dropping the bag in.

"We're going on a tour next hols—all round this giddy old island," cried Vernley. "There'll be a fringe of dead dogs and defunct old ladies around these shores, that never did and never will stand under the foot of the—how's the thing go?"

"—proud conqueror," added John. "She is a lovely thing—what's her name?"

"Haven't decided yet. I've voted for the 'Silver Slayer.' Tod suggests 'The Gleam.'"

"The Governor says '[OE]dipus Rex' would be more appropriate," added Tod, his brown hands on the steering wheel.

"Why?"

"Because of the murders at the cross roads that'll be committed. Ready?"

There was a preparatory purr of the engine, then a delightful roaring hum, and they glided forwards, imperceptibly gathering speed. The chill wind whipped John's face. He looked joyously at Vernley seated beside him and noted the disdainful pose of lordship. Vernley's utter contempt for a display of feeling always amused John. The villages tore by, fowls screeched, and flew with fluttered feathers into the hedge bottoms; they roared up the hills and ran silently down into the valleys. Half an hour later they had turned in at the familiar drive and, pulled up at the stone porch. Inside the hall Mrs. Vernley came to meet John.

"Here you are at last—we are so glad to see you, John."

"Thank you—it's good to be here, Mrs. Vernley." The dogs, as if welcoming an old friend, bounded forwards.

"Down, Tiger—down, Ruff—down, sir!" yelled Vernley, and they cowered and wagged their tails, beating a tattoo on the parquet floor.

In the library, gleaming with a rosy fire, its light shining on the silver tea service, John found Mr. Vernley.

"Hullo, my boy! well, how are you? I hear we've found a great orator at last!"

John smiled, then halted as he saw some one standing at Mr. Vernley's side.

"Ribble," said Vernley turning to him, "this is our rising hope." Then to John, "This is Mr. Ribble—you'll be great friends I'm sure, though I don't know which side of him you'll like the better. Mr. Ribble has written some very clever books, and he's in the Cabinet, so that politicians say he's a good author and a bad politician, and authors say he's a good politician and a bad author."

"And my wife says I should have been a nonconformist divine. How d'you do, John; we must hear some of these famous flights of oratory."

"He's the real stuff, sir," said Vernley enthusiastically.—"Doesn't half work 'em, makes the 'gods' boil over!"

"This empire, this realm upon which the sun has never looked—no, that's not it, sir—I'm no orator," said Tod. "Let's have tea, Mother. By Jove, Governor, you should have heard her sing up Carshott Hill—did it on top, lots in hand. When she's tuned up she'll take a houseside."

"Lord! You've done nothing but tune up since you had her," cried Bobbie.

"Now boys, sit down, tea's ready," said Mrs. Vernley, pouring out. John hoped every moment that Muriel would come in. He was disappointed when she was not in the hall to meet him, and his heart sank when he did not find her in the library. Perhaps she had gone out for a walk. He did not want to ask, for Vernley might think he had come simply to see her. It was not so, of course. He was glad to be with Vernley again, but he could not help looking forward to seeing Muriel, of whom he had been thinking through all those weeks at school. The talk at the tea-table was chiefly political. Mr. Vernley was discussing a coming election with Ribble, whom John thought was the most picturesque old man he had ever seen. He had long curly white hair, his eyes were surrounded by good-humoured wrinkles, and he beamed through his spectacles. The mouth was thin and compressed and had a ghost of a smile always hovering about it John wondered where he had seen such a face before, and then suddenly remembered a portrait of Thackeray in Mr. Fletcher's study. There was a slight resemblance, and Mr. Ribble's character seemed to John to be somewhat Thackerayish, for John was now half through "The Newcomes," after a delighted discovery of "Pendennis" and "Henry Esmond."

"Steer has just published a fine book," Mr. Ribble was saying. "I think that little poem on Muriel is masterly."

John was alert immediately, and Vernley, eating cake and drinking tea at the same moment, contrary to all laws, noticed John's interest.

"When's Muriel coming home, Mother?" he asked.

"I read you her letter this morning—to-morrow. You'll have to drive the trap to the station to meet her in the afternoon."

"Why can't we motor?"

"I'm going to Brooklands in the morning," said Tod, "and I'm taking Brown—so you'll have to drive the buggy."

"Oh, bother—I hate the old thing!"

But John would have ridden to Paradise in it if such a passenger as Muriel had awaited him. To-morrow! He looked at Vernley, and it occurred to him that his question had been what Mr. Fletcher, in debates, had called a leading one. Vernley had never shown much interest in John's affair, but he was not so unobservant as the latter thought.

When the boys were changing for dinner that evening, and while John was struggling with a bow, his glance fell upon a silver frame standing on the dressing table. It contained a beautiful portrait of Muriel who laughed at him out of the frame. John looked long at it, and finally he realised that the photograph had been placed there for his delight. It was on his dressing table and not on Vernley's. Only one person could have placed it there.

"I say, Bobbie," said John, through the open door leading to his friend's room.

"What?" asked Vernley, standing with one leg in his black trousers, the other kicking its way through.

"You're a jolly decent sort—being here, you know—and in this room again—and the—photograph—thanks awfully, old man."

"Thought you were a bit keen, you know—she's not at all bad for a sister, is she?"

"Rather not!" said John ecstatically, giving his bow a confirmatory pull.

That evening John knew Mr. Ribble much more intimately, for while one of Vernley's sisters was accompanying the aspiring prima donna, John was led off by the politician into the conservatory. The boy began asking questions about the House of Commons and Mr. Ribble had a great fund of stories. John learned of Mr. Balfour's aloof manner, Mr. Churchill's imperturbable genius, Mr. Lloyd George's subtlety, Mr. Asquith's classic weight and Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman's personal charm; then he wished to know all about Mr. Austen Chamberlain and the hereditary monocle, whether Mr. John Burn's mother really had been a washerwoman, and what tactics were legitimate in catching the Speaker's eye. Leaving these personalities, the conversation changed to political economy and John found himself on new ground and in a world of unknown names.

John felt flattered by the fact that Mr. Ribble took it for granted that he knew these persons and subjects, but the politician was deliberately whetting the boy's appetite and trying to lead him into a channel of serious study. John Stuart Mill, Walter Bagehot, Edmund Burke, Karl Marx, together with such queer names as Spinoza, Kant, Schlegel, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, all rolled off Mr. Ribble's tongue. He was now in the realm of Philosophy, and John, for the first time in his life, heard of Comte and Positivism, of Darwin and the Origin of Species, of Huxley and Russell Wallace. Mr. Ribble talked and John listened, experiencing the wonderful thrill as when Mr. Steer had shown him the world of poetry.

"I think you had better start with Ruskin's 'Unto This Last,'" said Mr. Ribble when John asked where he should begin. "He's easy to read and somewhat superficial. You'll find that philosophy and political economy are closely related—half brothers in fact, and Ruskin believes their parents were Social Morality and Private Duty."

Before going to bed that night, John had found a copy of "Unto This Last" which he took up to bed. The two boys often read before going to sleep, and Vernley was engrossed in "Kim" so that he did not see what absorbed John, until growing sleepy, he closed his book and came into John's room with its light still burning.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Ruskin," replied John, deep in the book.

"Golly—what on earth are you reading that piffle for—what's the book?"

"Unto This Last."

"Holy Moses—you're the queerest mixture I've ever known. Last hols it was "Whose dwelling is—"

—"The light of setting suns"—began John—
"And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that—"

A pillow landed on John's head. It was returned with redoubled energy. Vernley made a grand attack, John defending with a bolster. There was a frantic scuffle, the bed groaned, the electric light swung furiously, Vernley's pyjama coat was torn down the back and John was soon without a blanket or a sheet on his bed. Suddenly they were buried in a snowstorm of feathers that floated all over the room; the pillow case had split; it called for an armistice. John and Vernley subsided on the bed, silently watching the feather-laden atmosphere.

"Lord! what a mess!"

"We always seem to be smashing something in this room," said John ruefully—"last time it was the wash basin."

"It's that infernal Wordsworth—there'll be nothing left now Ruskin's on the scene too."

"Well—you shouldn't interrupt."

"Do you think I'm going to lie still while you pour out that bosh?"

"It isn't bosh—Mr. Ribble says—"

"Ribble's an old fool—'a nonconformist crank swaddled in the longclothes of infantile ignorance'—that's what the Governor's opponent called him last election."

The feathers had now settled.

"What a mess!" said Vernley surveying the room. "I've got an idea! Open the door, Scissors!" Vernley threw open the two big windows and the draught thus created swept the feathers out on to the landing. The two boys followed and peered over the banisters as the white cloud slowly settled down into the hall below. At that moment the drawing-room door opened.

"Father!—Just look at this—wherever—" came Mrs. Vernley's voice in amazement.

"Shut the door, Scissors!" They rushed into the room, switched off the light and waited breathlessly. All was quiet again.

"If you go on reading every author you're told about, there'll be nothing left in this house," said Vernley, "and I don't agree, of course, about that libel on old Ribble—he's a decent old boy. Good night, Scissors."

II

The next afternoon Vernley and John harnessed the pony and were on their way to the station to meet Muriel. Spring was in the air. The hedgerows were beginning to burst into leaf, and the birds singing in the lanes filled the country-side with hope. John's heart too was singing. It was so good to be driving through the sunlit lanes with a crisp air blowing in their faces, the friendly jog-trot of the pony beating upon their ears. He looked at Vernley, the imperturbable Vernley, who was flicking the pony's haunches with his whip. There was something comfortably solid about him. He represented tradition and the continuance of a settled conception of life. John had no difficulty in planning Vernley's future; unlike his own, it depended upon no caprice of Fate. He would go up to Oxford, travel, and then settle down to the life of a country gentleman. He would grow stout and red-cheeked, marry a healthy, unimaginative wife and be the father of a crowd of noisy, well-developed children. The hunt, a seat on the bench, June in London and August on the moors—that would be Vernley's life. And he would not bother his head about political or religious faiths. He would probably be a Conservative, despite his father, who was a family renegade, and a Churchman. Conservative, because caution and security were better than haste and revolution, and the world on the whole was a jolly old place despite Socialists and other disgruntled reformers. A Churchman, because he knew so little about religion, and a respectable ready-made creed, tried and found suitable as an accommodating policy of living was the safest and easiest to adopt. Had he been born in Constantinople he would have been a Mohammedan, in Bombay a Buddhist, in Hongkong a Confucian, and in Paris a Catholic. And whichever creed environment had caused him to accept, he would have been a credit to it, faithfully observing its tenets, a respectable, unthinking, clean-living fellow.

Vernley looked at John as the station came into sight; the far-away expression was in his face, a curious detachment that often puzzled Vernley. Sometimes John seemed to have left his body in another world. It was uncanny and he remembered that Marsh, referring to this habit, had called it "the Eastern touch," though what that quite meant Vernley did not know.

"The train's signalled," said Vernley. "We shall just get there in time. I wonder whether Muriel is bringing her friend back, she said she might—a topping girl."

"I hope not—I don't want any one monopolising Muriel," said John boldly.

"That's all right—I shall look after her friend—so don't you worry."

They pulled up just as the train ran into the station. Vernley sat still in the trap.

"I must mind the pony,—you go in, Scissors!"

Dear old Vernley, thought John, what a tactician he was! So leaping out, he went on to the platform just as Muriel descended from the carriage. There was one glad look of recognition and then a momentary shyness fell over them. Muriel had brought her friend whom she introduced with embarrassment. John, scarlet in the face, pretended to be frantically busy with the luggage, which filled the trap. Homewards turned, the pony trotted smartly. John sat opposite Muriel and kept looking at her furtively. She was beautiful. He wanted to touch her soft flesh, and press back the little strand of hair that fluttered over her ear and across the cheek. He noticed the full redness of her lips, and the wonderful beauty of her long eyelashes. The sight of her filled John with a kind of ecstasy bordering on intoxication. He was infinitely more in love with her than on the previous occasion. The absence of three months had glorified her in his imagination, but now he saw that reality transcended his most extravagant dreams of her physical perfection. He was fifteen and this first flush of love left him breathless with wonder. He did not want to talk; it was enough to sit near her, to hear her voice, to watch the elfin grace of her movements, to see her eyes shine, and the whiteness of her small teeth when she laughed. Had some one told him he was in love, he would have denied it. He was more a worshipper than a lover. This revelation of the woman, as he saw it in Muriel, was like sunrise on a new world; he was so lost in wonder that familiarity became impossible. He was filled with awe, in which ran fear, the fear that she could not always be there, that one morning he would get up and find her changed, an ordinary being, moving on the old earth as he had always known it. But this afternoon was his time of ecstasy—the friendly trotting of the pony, Bobbie talking away to Polly, and himself sitting there with Muriel near him while the birds sang in the hedgerows, and the sunset clouds in the west reddened behind a black fringe of trees.

"Polly," said Vernley, "you may think so, but my friend is not really dumb—in fact John is a fearful talker at times."

He laughed at John.

"You've got the field, so I've retired," retorted John. "And I'm waiting for Muriel to tell me what she's been doing all the holidays."

Muriel responded to this invitation, and, the ice broken, they were soon engrossed in each other. At the top of Carshott Hill, Vernley pulled up. He was enjoying himself with Polly, who was sensible, and to his great relief didn't giggle.

"I say, Scissors, shall we go round by Carshott? It is two miles out of the way, but we shall be in time for dinner."

"Oh yes," cried Muriel. "It's such a glorious afternoon."

"I'm not a bit hungry," said John tactfully; any excuse for the prolongation of the drive. So they turned off to Carshott. It was dark when they arrived at "The Croft" gates and turned up the drive, so dark that John had been able to hold Muriel's hand in his and interlace his strong fingers with her slender ones, and he was so overjoyed that he failed to notice that Vernley had done similarly.

Greetings over in the hall, they hurried off to dress for dinner. The boys had a hot bath, and John sat on the side while Vernley lathered himself.

"Polly's a very pretty girl," said John, rubbing hard with the towel.

"Of course!" cried Vernley, banging the sponge on his head, then spluttering, "and Muriel?—-well I suppose you've hardly noticed her yet," he added satirically—"it was so jolly dark—but I know she has soft hands."

John coloured, rubbing his head so that Vernley should not see.

"I say, Scissors! I'll bet you I know what Muriel's going to wear to-night."

"What?"

"That white dress with the blue insertion."

John remembered it. It was all fluffy, and she looked like a fairy in a cloud. He had admired her in it and told her so.

"How do you know?"

"Why, in honour of the occasion, of course. I called it the froth and frolic dress, but probably Muriel calls it mode-a-la-Scissors."

"You are an ass!" said John.

"I am your friend," retorted Vernley. "By their companions ye shall know them."

"Are you coming out of that bath—the dressing bell went half an hour ago!"

"I'm getting boiled all over—I want to look my freshest to-night. You are not the only knight on the war-path; and I've got a deadly rival."

"Who's that?"

"Tod," said Vernley. "Personally I fear nothing from him—he's harmless, but he's got a car, and that is usually a winner."

"You are a cynic," said John.

"I've had experience—I've been thrown over for a tennis racquet. You don't know women, my boy."

"Being elderly, I suppose you know all about them."

"Almost, but there's one thing always puzzles me, Scissors, I always wonder how much these girls confide in one another and giggle at us for being such asses."

"I don't think Muriel would," said John seriously.

"Angel!" murmured Vernley, kissing the sponge ecstatically.

III

Mr. Ribble did not come down to breakfast the next morning. He was reviewing a book for the Nation and kept in his room. John saw breakfast go in to him and wondered if ever the day would come that he would be so important as to have breakfast sent up to his room. He went to the window and sat there for a time enjoying the early morning scene, the light on the distant hills, the sharp sound of a passing cart down in the lane, and stray noises from the stable yard. Then he watched the country postman cycle up the drive, his fresh healthy face perspiring, a heavy mailbag on his shoulders. John got up and went out into the hall and received the letters, which he spread out on the table in neat order. There were fifteen for Mr. Vernley, six for Mr. Ribble—John paused lovingly over these. How splendid they looked!

"The Rt. Hon. Ellerton Ribble, M.P."

and as he looked the magic letters changed into—

"The Rt. Hon. John N. Dean, M.P."

Day-dreaming he did not see that Mrs. Vernley had entered the hall and was looking at him.

"Disappointed, John?" she asked. "I am always disappointed when I get no letters. I like receiving them, but detest answering them."

"Good morning, Mrs. Vernley! No—I was just thinking how splendid Mr. Ribble's address looks."

"Wondering when your own will be like it?" asked Mrs. Vernley, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder. She detected the pleasure her little guess gave him.

"Well, if Muriel has anything to do with it," she added, "you'll be the youngest Cabinet minister in history."

"Muriel?" asked John.

"Yes, last night she gave Mr. Ribble the worst cross-questioning he has had for many a long hour. I believe she has planned your whole career, but I hope, John," said Mrs. Vernley, opening her letters, "that you are not going to waste yourself in politics. It is the most futile life a man can lead. I never knew a member of Parliament who wasn't a harassed mass of vanity. Their lives are made wretched by pulling wires for a thousand societies that threaten to extract a dozen votes at their next election. They are the prey of the parsons, charity organisations and vested interests—"

"But surely Mr. Vernley—" began John.

"One's husband is always excepted from general criticism, John. My husband is such a bad member of Parliament because he is such a good husband."

"The world has to be ruled, Mrs. Vernley."

"I do not deny it, but why presume that Parliament rules Britain? I'm quite sure it doesn't, any more than Congress rules the United States or the Chamber rules France. There's the gong. I wonder how many of us will appear at breakfast!"

In the breakfast room they found Tod and Muriel, and a minute later Vernley came in and took his seat.

"Let's see—this morning? Ah! it's plaice and sausage," he cried. "Lift the covers, Mother."

Sausage and plaice duly appeared.

"We have a Scotch cook with the mind of a mathematician," said Tod. "Wednesday, bacon and eggs."

"Friday—kedgeree!" added Vernley.

"Saturday—grilled ham!" supplemented Muriel.

"Sunday—two eggs," contributed Alice.

"Monday—" began Tod.

He was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Vernley.

"I suppose you children are reciting the food calendar as usual?"

"Yes, Dad,—it's your turn," cried Vernley. "Monday—?"

"Monday—liver and bacon!"

"Really," commented Mrs. Vernley, "if cook heard the way you make fun of her infinite variety—"

"She might give us sausage twice a week which would please me!" said Tod. "By the way, Mother, is Mrs. Graham coming to-day?"

"Yes, I want you to meet the 11.15, she will arrive by that."

"Let's all go!" cried Vernley. "Jove, she's a stunner, Scissors!"

"Bobbie dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Vernley, "you mustn't talk of Mrs. Graham like that!"

"Why not, Mother? I told her she was a stunner once and she pinked with delight."

"I don't know where you boys pick up all your slang," said Mr. Vernley.

"We get so many M.P.s in the house, pater," suggested Tod. "Will you play me a round of golf? I did four and seven in bogie yesterday."

"When?"

"This afternoon—three o'clock," said Tod.

"Remember, dear, we have Mr. Crimp coming to tea," urged Mrs. Vernley.

"Then I'll play you, Tod," Mr. Vernley said decisively. "My dear, why do you ask that man?"

"Because, being a tactful wife, I know he is worth two hundred votes to you."

"He turns my tea sour," complained Tod. "The pater and I will stay out to tea."

"That's not fair," cried Muriel. "It means I shall have to talk to Mr. Crimp."

"On foreign stamps," murmured Bobbie. "He'll love Scissors—don't look so glum, Scissors—you look quite crimpled up!"

Tod's aim was unerring; the tea cosy ruffled Vernley's well-plastered hair.

"Stop! I won't have my breakfast service smashed!" cried Mrs. Vernley in alarm, but protest was useless. The cosy flew back with redoubled vigour. Its flight was unimpeded by its destined objective, for Tod ducked. It went over his head. Polly who had sat very quiet all through breakfast, received it on her empty plate where it ousted an egg cup with a clatter, and the familiar sound of a crash followed as it broke into a dozen pieces.

"You awful children!" cried Mrs. Vernley.

"Never mind, Mum," said Tod, bending and kissing her. "You know you're proud of your bouncing offspring."

IV

It was no exaggeration to say that the arrival of Mrs. Graham was an event in John's life. Ever afterwards he could recall vividly the first sharp impression of that bright Easter morning when he stood on the country station platform. His impression was always clear, even in its detail. Recalling her advent and attempting analysis, he was never sure whether his first surprise was caused by beauty, by dress or by aroma. There was something distinctive in the perfume Mrs. Graham used. Only once afterwards did he encounter it, in the foyer of a Paris theatre, when it brought back in swift vision the English Easter morning, and the graceful lady extending her hand to him as he stood, cap in hand, admiring every line of her figure.

True, on the way to the station, above the purr of the car, he had heard the ecstatic praise of Tod, and the no less fervent admiration of Bobbie. But their tribute, faithful and generous, omitted the something that caught John in the mesh. Was it her voice, so rich with its quality, a speaking voice that gave such distinction to all she said, that made a trivial comment noteworthy? Was it her beauty?—that Romney-like picture of colour and contour, the shapely nose, the lovely arched lips, the delicate rose-bloom of her cheeks and the dark, quick vivacity of her eyes? Or was it her ornaments, the grace and style of their choice and use? No earrings ever hung like hers; they seemed to gather beauty from the lobes they decorated. The string of pearls that nestled about her throat, shapely as a swan's neck, in its sheen seemed to derive lustre from the sweetness of her flesh. Was it those all-expressive hands, that tapered so fascinatingly with nails that exhibited the charm of nature and art? Something perhaps of all these, yet something which, without all these, would make her a woman of memorable beauty.

Her dress was elegant, noteworthy, but women had dressed so a hundred times and achieved nothing distinctive. John had seen features as perfect, hands as lovely—but here was something not wholly extraneous. He knew now why she was always called, "the beautiful Mrs. Graham"; why, to this woman of thirty-five, clung the air of a tragedy queen; why, since that dread period of newspaper notoriety, she had never been allowed to relapse into obscurity, but was photographed and paragraphed. Would her sin ever find full expiation?

Sin! How absurd that word seemed. Was there such a thing in the presence of such perfection? John gazed at her as she sat at his side in the car, talking to Bobbie, while Tod drove. She was alluded to as a "notorious" woman, and as John thought of it, he almost laughed aloud; what chance had all the dull, dingy, respectable women at the side of this empress of life? John, of course, did not know the details of the divorce case which had made her, for six weeks, the most discussed woman in the world. The young peer who had ruined his life and hers, and who, strangely enough, had found all the sympathy while she took all the blame, who had declared himself powerless in her presence. Perhaps so, but if so, why so contemptible in that power, why the ready surrender of her character, the confession of impotence? She was unfaithful, a married experienced woman of thirty-five, and he a young boy of twenty-one. But whose was the sacrifice? She should have known better, said the world, she corrupted a boy. But if his was the ardour, if the passion of first love and the lyrical song of youth were laid at her feet, how could she resist, she a grown woman, who saw youth lapsing like a spent wave on the shore of Life, one whose elderly husband could not guess the tumult of nature beating at the doors of her heart, about to close on summer for ever?

Seven hundred years ago, such love was romance; not even the dagger of Giovanni had been needed to draw, with its blood, the tears and sympathy of lovers of all ages for Paolo and Francesca. But Francesca in the twentieth century must stand in the witness box for legal luminaries to torture, must hear every nameless act given the label of lust, and finally, hear Paolo fling the insult of age and cunning into her face, and plead the ignorance of youth.

And then, when the whole dreadful nightmare was over, another reappearance in a hopeless battle for her child; then peace again, while the world whispers of the disappearance from society of the beautiful Mrs. Graham. But Life would not leave her alone; five years might have brought some healing to a heart that asked forgetfulness. The suicide of the young Earl, with a last love declaration, set the world by the ears again. So he loved her to the last! She laughed almost. He had died for his love of her, said the world. Women envied her the compliment of his suicide. He might have loved her sufficiently to live, she reflected, and once more passed through a nightmare of picture papers; herself as a bride, bathing at Ostend; herself in the box; extracts from the trial; her tears in the last scene, then—God in heaven!—her boy at school, not in the first school he had had to leave, but another, which he would now have to leave. And through it all, as if to excite envy and scandal by obstinacy, her beauty grew, and she remained "the beautiful Mrs. Graham."

But it was not an aura of tragedy that fascinated John. He had not exchanged a dozen words when he recognised what he had heard, with mirth, the school porter call "quality." In the first place her voice—that was a revelation. What a wonderful instrument the human voice was! When she spoke her words were invested with alluring music; then also there was a hint of—no, not worldliness—of—

"Bond Street, Rumpelmeyer's—cum Papier Poudre," supplied Tod a few days later, alluding to the same hint. She was one of those women of whom one asked inwardly—was that rouge, was that carmine, did she pencil? and you were never sure. If so, it was wonderfully done and fascinating. If not, she was amazingly perfect and unbelievable. But you never knew for sure. Of her powder, she made no secret. No beautiful woman ever does, for it is an embroidery which beauty only can justify.

And as John sat there he experienced a cheap sensation. That it was cheap he knew, and despised himself for it. She was a divorced woman—notorious even. Were not the Vernleys bold? Then a hot flush of shame leapt to his face at the meanness of the thought—he was like the rest.

His sudden colouring was noticed by Mrs. Graham, who, unaware of its cause, thought the handsome lad at her side was shy. She began to talk to him and by the time they reached "The Croft," she had made a fervent disciple. At lunch he sat between her and Muriel, and felt an uncomfortable twinge of his conscience. Had Muriel felt neglected? But she would understand how fascinating it was to talk to Mrs. Graham, or rather, to hear her talk, for she seemed to have been everywhere. Big-game shooting in Africa, the wonder of Lake Louise, the views from Mons Pilatus, the charm of Copenhagen and other diversions of the Tivoli; the house-fringed shores of the Little Belt, the crowded Hohestrasse of a Sunday evening in Cologne, the colour and gelati of the Piazza San Marco, the brightness of Unter den Linden on a June morning, the approach to the Brandenburg Gate, Le Touquet and its golf, the winter sports at Murren—the little glimpses of all these lighted her conversation.

She had dined at most of the Embassies in Europe; delightful little anecdotes, pointed with the witty brevity of a French phrase, scintillated in her talk. Yes, she had met "Anatole France," and told a story of his courtly grumpiness; she had crossed the Atlantic with Paderewski, who had played for her his "Romance," on the evening of its composition, played it in the lonely drawing-room while passengers were at dinner, with such elegance, delicacy of touch and strength of tone. Had she read "Mr. Polly?" asked John. That reminded her immediately; they saw Mr. Wells in a Kent house writing all the morning, playing hockey all the afternoon, and always the busy little man in a blue serge suit, pouring out a medley of history, theology, romance and hard-headed business talk. There was a flashlight of Rodin in his palatial studio. "Madame has beautiful hands—they must be immortalised," and one saw the robust personality of Roosevelt at a small dinner party at the Plaza, New York, with a later snapshot of him speechmaking from the platform of a Pullman at a wayside station in Indiana. "A lovable man—he made that speech just to enable fifty country school children to say in after life that they had heard the President."

What a luncheon hour, with Tod cross-questioning, Muriel laughing, Vernley dumb, Mr. Vernley corroborating and Mrs. Vernley beseeching her guest to get something to eat; and whenever a break in the conversation came, Mr. Ribble restarted the flow of anecdote with a query or a scholarly footnote. John would have wished that luncheon hour to last for ever, but before they had risen from the table Tod had slipped away and a few minutes later the car was purring in the drive.

"Come along, sir," he called as they rose.

"Not yet, not yet, Tod," protested Mr. Vernley.

"Yes, now—if you go upstairs for a nap, there'll be no golf this afternoon. Mrs. Graham is coming too."

"But Tod, I have no clubs," protested Mrs. Graham.

"I have—the car's waiting now. Are you coming, Mr. Ribble?"

"No thank you, my boy—I am still ink-bound. Muriel has promised me a nice cup of tea in the study at four o'clock, and we have Mr. Crimp coming, I believe."

"That's why we're going."

"Tod, dear!" protested his mother. "How rude you are!"

"I loathe the fellow!"

"And you have no reason, dear."

"Loathing," said Mrs. Graham, "is perhaps the safest of all feelings, it relies more on instinct than intellect."

"And what are you children going to do?" asked Mr. Vernley.

"Children, pater!" protested Bobbie.

"We are having a double on the lawn. Thomson says it will be quite good playing to-day. He cut it this morning," said Muriel.

"Well, when we return, if you've any steam left in you, Mrs. Graham and I will take on the winners."

"Good!" cried Bobbie. "Come on, Scissors, let's change." In his room, Vernley found John a pair of flannel trousers. There was nine inches to spare round the waist, and a serious gap above the ankles.

"If I had known I was going to look ridiculous," said John "I shouldn't have played—" He pulled out the top of the trousers. "'The expanse of spirit in a waist of shame,' that's what I look like."

"Don't be rude, Scissors—you know my figure fills you with envy. Jove, I do hate playing this game with women. Those kids have no idea how to use a racquet. They'll just stand and squeak every time they miss a ball by a yard, and you're expected to say 'Hard luck.'"