by Ian Hay
CHAPTER TWELVE.
CILLY; OR THE WORLD WELL LOST.
"Stiffy," bellowed the new curate ferociously, "what the--I mean, whyon earth can't you keep that right foot steady? You edge off to legevery time. If you get a straight ball, stand up to it! If you get aleg-ball, turn round and have a slap at it! But for Heaven's sakedon't go running _away_! Especially from things like pats of butter!"
"Awfully sorry, Mr Blunt!" gasped Stiffy abjectly, as another pat ofbutter sang past his ear. "It's the rotten way I've been brought up!I've never had any decent coaching before. Ough!... No, it didn't hurta bit, really! I shall be all right in a minute." He hopped round in aconstricted circle, apologetically caressing his stomach.
They were in the paddock behind the Rectory orchard. The ReverendGodfrey Blunt, a ruddy young man of cheerful countenance and ingenuousdisposition, had rolled out an extremely fiery wicket; and within theencompassing net--Daphne's last birthday present--Stephen BlasiusVereker, impaled frog-wise upon the handle of his bat, and dividedbetween a blind instinct of self-preservation and a desire not toappear ungrateful for favours received, was frantically endeavouringto dodge the deliveries of the church militant as they bumped past hishead and ricochetted off his ribs.
"That's better," said Mr Blunt, as his pupil succeeded for the firsttime in arresting the course of a fast long-hop with his bat insteadof his person. "But don't play back to yorkers."
"All right!" said Stiffy dutifully. "I didn't know," he added in allsincerity, "that it was a yorker, or I wouldn't have done it. Oh, Isay, well bowled! I don't think anybody could have stopped that one.It never touched the ground at all!"
Stiffy turned round and surveyed his prostrate wickets admiringly. Hewas an encouraging person to bowl to.
"No, it was a pretty hot one," admitted the curate modestly. "I thinkI shall have to be going now," he added, mopping his brow. "Parishwork, and a sermon to write, worse luck! I think I have just time fora short knock, though. Bowl away, Stiffy!"
He took his stand at the wicket, and after three blind andcharacteristic swipes succeeded in lifting a half-volley of Stiffy'sinto the adjacent orchard. When the bowler, deeply gratified with aperformance of which he felt himself to be an unworthy but necessaryadjunct, returned ten minutes later from a successful search for theball, he found his hero hastily donning the old tweed jacket andspeckled straw hat which he kept for wear with his cricket flannels.
"Hallo! Off?" cried Stiffy regretfully.
"Yes; I'm afraid so," replied Mr Blunt. He was gazing anxiouslythrough a gap in the hedge which commanded the Rectory garden-gate."This is my busy day. So long, old man!"
He vaulted the fence, and set off down the road at a vigorous andbusinesslike trot. But after a hundred yards or so he halted, andlooked round him with an air which can only be described as furtive.Before him the road, white and dusty, continued officiously on its wayto the village and duty. Along the right-hand side thereof ran a neatrail-fence, skirting the confines of Tinkler's Den. The landscapeappeared deserted. All nature drowsed in the hot afternoon sun.
Mr Blunt, who was a muscular young Christian, took a running jump ofsome four feet six, cleared the topmost rail, and landed neatly on thegrassy slope which ran down towards the Den.
"Now then, Sunny Jim!" remarked a reproving voice above his head,"_pas si beaucoup de cela!_"
However sound our nervous systems may be, we are all of us liable tobe startled at times. Mr Blunt was undoubtedly startled on theoccasion, and being young and only very recently ordained, signifiedthe same in the usual manner.
When he looked up into the tree where Nicky was reclining, thatvirtuous damsel's fingers were in her ears.
"Mr Blunt," she remarked, "I am both surprised and shocked."
"Veronica Vereker," replied Mr Blunt, turning and shaking his fist ashe retreated down the slope towards Tinkler's Den, "next time I gethold of you I will wring your little neck!"
Miss Veronica Vereker kissed the tips of her fingers to him.
"We will now join," she proclaimed, in a voice surprisinglyreminiscent of the throaty tenor which Mr Blunt reserved for hisecclesiastical performances, "in singing Hymn number two hundred andthirty-three; during which those who desire to leave the church arerecommended to do so, as it is _my--turn--to--preach--the--sermon_!"
But by this time the foe, running rapidly, was out of earshot.
Half-an-hour later Stiffy, who was a gregarious animal, went in searchof his younger sister, whom he discovered, recently returned from hersylvan skirmish with the curate, laboriously climbing into a hammockin the orchard.
"Nicky, will you come and play cricket?" he asked politely.
"I suppose that means will I come and bowl to you?" replied Nicky.
"No. You can bat if you like."
"Well, I won't do either," said Nicky agreeably.
"What shall we do, then?" pursued Stiffy, with unimpaired _bonhomie_.
"Personally, I am going to remain in this hammock," replied the lady."I recommend you, dear, to go and put your head in a bucket. _Good_afternoon! Sorry you can't stop."
"I wonder if Cilly would play," mused Stiffy.
"Cilly? I don't think! She is gloating over her clothes in herbedroom. If you and I, my lad," continued Veronica reflectively, "weregoing to be presented at Court next week, I wonder if we should makesuch unholy shows of ourselves for days beforehand."
"I know her boxes are all packed," pursued Stiffy hopefully, "becauseI went and sat on the lids myself after lunch. Perhaps she will comeout for half-an-hour before tea. Dad and Tony won't be back fromTilney till seven, so they are no good."
"Well, run along, little man," said Nicky, closing her eyes. "I'm fedup with you."
Stiffy departed obediently, and for ten minutes his younger sisterreclined in her hammock, her sinful little soul purged for the momentof evil intent against any man. When next she opened her eyes Stiffywas standing disconsolately before her.
"Go away," said Nicky faintly. "We have no empty bottles orrabbit-skins at present. If you call round about Monday we shall beemptying the dustbin----"
"Cilly's not there," said Stiffy. "Keziah thinks she has gone out fora walk. She saw her strolling down towards the Den half-an-hour ago."
"_The Den?_" Nicky's eyes suddenly unclosed to their full radius. "Myche-ild! So _that's_ the game! _That_ was why the pale young curatewas jumping fences. Ha, _ha_! Stiffy, would you like some fun?"
Stiffy, mystified but docile, assented.
"We are going," announced Nicky, rolling gracefully out of thehammock, "to stalk a brace of true lovers."
"What--Mr Blunt and Cilly? Do you mean----? Are they really keen oneach other?" inquired the unobservant male amazedly.
"_Are_ they? My lad, it has been written all over them for weeks! I'mnot certain, though," continued the experienced Nicky, "that the poordears are aware of it themselves yet. But to-day is Cilly's last formonths, so----"
"Do you mean they are down in the Den together?" demanded Stiffy.
"I do."
"But--Mr Blunt has gone off to do parish work. He told me so himself."
"Parish work my foot!" commented Nicky simply. "Come on! Let's go andmark down their trail! We can pretend to be Red Indians, if you like,"she added speciously.
But the sportsmanlike Stiffy hung back.
"Let's play cricket instead," he said hesitatingly.
"Not me! Come on!"
"Nicky," said Stiffy, searching his hand, so to speak, for trumps,"Preston is killing a pig this afternoon at four o'clock. I've justremembered. He promised not to begin till I came. We shall just be intime. Hurry up!"
"I am going," said Nicky firmly, "to stalk that couple. Are youcoming?"
"No. It's not playing the game," said Stiffy bravely.
Nicky, uneasily conscious that he spoke the truth, smiled witheringly.
"All right, milksop!" she said. "I shall go by myself. You can go andhold the pig's hand."
So they departed o
n their several errands.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Cilly and the curate sat side by side beneath a gnarled andvenerable oak in Tinkler's Den.
... "Then your name is called out," continued Cilly raptly, "and yougive one last squiggle to your train and go forward and curtsey--to_all_ the Royalties in turn, I think, but I'm not quite sure aboutthat part yet--and then you pass along out of the way, and somebodypicks up your train and throws it over your shoulder, and you findyourself in another room, and it's all over. Won't it be heavenly?"
"Splendid!" replied Mr Blunt, without enthusiasm.
"After that," continued Cilly, "my sister is going to take me simplyeverywhere. And I am to meet lots of nice people. It's too late forHenley and Ascot and that sort of thing this summer, but I am to havethem all next year. Later on, we are going to Scotland. I'm not at alla lucky girl, am I?"
It was one of those questions to which, despite its form, anexperienced Latin grammarian would have unhesitatingly prefixed theparticle _nonne_. But the Reverend Godfrey Blunt merely replied in ahollow voice--
"What price me?"
Cilly, startled, turned and regarded his hot but honest face, and thenlowered her gaze hastily to the region of her own toes.
The Reverend Godfrey was a fine upstanding young man, with merry greyeyes; and there was a cheerful and boisterous _bonhomie_ about hisconversation which the exigencies of his calling had not yet intonedout of him. No one had ever considered him brilliant, for his strengthlay in character rather than intellect. He was a perfect specimen ofthat unromantic but priceless type with which our public schools anduniversities never fail to meet the insatiable demands of a voraciousEmpire. The assistant-commissioner, the company officer, the juniorform-master, the slum-curate--these are they that propel the ship ofState. Up above upon the quarter-deck, looking portentously wise andoccasionally quarrelling for the possession of the helm, you maybehold their superiors--the Cabinet Minister, the Prelate, theGeneralissimo. But our friends remain below the water-line, unheeded,uncredited, and see to it that the wheels go round. They expect nothanks, and they are not disappointed. The ship goes forward, and thatis all they care about. Of such is the British Empire.
The Reverend Godfrey Blunt was one of this nameless host. At school hehad scraped into the Sixth by a hair's-breadth; at the University hehad secured a degree of purely nominal value. He had been an unheroicmember of his House eleven; thereafter he had excoriated his personuncomplainingly and unsuccessfully upon a fixed seat for the space ofthree years, not because he expected to make bumps or obtain his Blue,but because his College second crew had need of him. Since then he hadworked for five years in a parish in Bermondsey, at a stipend of onehundred pounds a-year; and only the doctor's ultimatum had prevailedon him to try country work for a change. His spelling was shaky, histheology would have made Pusey turn in his grave, and his sermonswould have bored his own mother. But he was a man.
Cilly, whom we left bashfully contemplating her shoe-buckles under anoak-tree, was conscious of a new, sudden, and disturbing thrill. Younggirls are said seldom to reflect and never to reason. They have noneed. They have methods of their own of arriving at the root of thematter. Cilly realised in a flash that if a proper man was the objectof her proposed journey through the great and enticing world beforeher, she need never set out at all. Something answering to thatdescription was sitting beside her, sighing like a furnace. Her faceflamed.
"What did you say?" she inquired unsteadily.
"I said 'What price me?'" reiterated the curate mournfully.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean----" he spoke hesitatingly, like a man picking his words froman overwhelming crowd of applicants--"well, I mean this. You and Ihave seen a lot of each other since I came here. You have been awfullygood to me, and I have got into the way of bringing you my littletroubles, and turning to you generally if I felt dismal or humpy.(There _are_ more joyful spots, you know, to spend one's leisure hoursin than Mrs Tice's first-floor-front.) And now--now you are going awayfrom me, to meet all sorts of attractive people and have the time ofyour life. You will have a fearful lot of attention paid to you. Nineout of ten men you meet will fall in love with you----"
"Oh! nonsense!" said Cilly feebly.
"But I _know_ it," persisted Blunt. "I simply can't conceive any manbeing able to do anything else. Do you know----" the words stuck inhis throat for a moment and then came with a rush--"do you know thatyou are the most adorable girl on God's earth? I love you! I love you!_There_--I've said it! I had meant to say a lot more first--work up toit by degrees, you know--but it has carried me away of its own accord.I love you--dear, _dear_ Cilly!"
There was a long stillness. All nature seemed to be watching withbated breath for the next step. Only above their heads the branches ofthe oak-tree crackled gently. Cilly's head swam. Something new andtremulous was stirring within her. She closed her eyes, lest the spellshould be broken by the sight of some mundane external object. Apurely hypothetical fairy prince, composed of equal parts of Peer ofthe Realm, Lifeguardsman, Mr Sandow, Lord Byron, and the Bishop ofLondon, whom she had cherished in the inmost sanctuary of her heartever since she had reached the age at which a girl begins to dreamabout young men, suddenly rocked upon his pedestal. Then she openedher eyes again, and contemplated the homely features of the ReverendGodfrey Blunt.
Not that they appeared homely any longer. Never had a man's faceundergone such a transformation in so short a time. To her shy eyes hehad grown positively handsome. Cilly felt her whole being suddenlydrawn towards this goodly youth. The composite paragon enshrined inher heart gave a final lurch and then fell headlong, to liedismembered and disregarded, Dagon-like, at the foot of his ownpedestal.
... Slowly their hands met, and they gazed upon one another long andrapturously. How long, they did not know. There was no need to takecount of time. They seemed to be sitting together all alone on theedge of the universe, with eternity before them. The next step wasobvious enough; they both realised what it must be: but they did nothurry. They sat on, this happy pair, waiting for inspiration.
It came--straight from above their heads.
"Kiss her, you fool!" commanded a hoarse and frenzied voice far up thetree.
Crackle! Crash! _Bump!_
And Nicky, overestimating in her enthusiasm the supporting power of anoutlying branch, tumbled, headlong but undamaged, a medley of arms andlegs and blue pinafore, right at their feet.
A few hours later Daphne, preceded by a rather incoherent telegram,drove up to the Rectory in the station fly.
She was met at the door by Cilly, and the two, as if by one impulse,fell into each other's arms.
"Daphne, _dear_ Daph," murmured the impetuous Cilly, "I am thehappiest girl in all the world."
"And I," said Daphne simply, "am the most miserable."
