Suddenly the two friends grew still in mind and body. A sound had petrified them. A faint but unmistakable panting and snuffling and crackling of bramble. Then there was a crunching of dry twigs. Harris’s face, briefly blossoming in the long grass, was ashy with expectation.
Little Adelaide, deep in her blind sleep, chuckled and dreamed she was about to be fed again . . .
It was coming, it was coming! The vixen—the vixen with full dugs!
Chapter Two
YOUNG, pretty and in yellow muslin, Tizzy Alexander, daughter of the fiery Major who taught Arithmetic, was in a condition of terrified excitement. Her heart was thumping half out of her bodice and she kept clutching at her scarf to hide it. She must have been mad to have put herself in Ralph Bunnion’s way but wild curiosity had at last overpowered her. Ralph Bunnion—cricketer, horseman and hero of the school. What was he like—this terrible, handsome, heartless breaker of hearts? Tall, fashionable and, so far as could be judged from the ends of them, clean-limbed.
The use of this last expression had given her a brief feeling of maturity but it had gone when she’d stolen glance after glance at Dr. Bunnion’s dashing and notorious son. It was said he’d once fought a duel—and everyone knew he drank prodigious quantities of claret at the Old Ship Inn with three young men almost as famous as himself.
Oh, Tizzy, why ain’t you back in the school, safe with your ma and pa? She shook her head. In her heart of hearts she knew she’d always have regretted it. She knew that, if she missed this chance, she’d have dreamed and wondered all her life long what it would have been like to have been swept off her feet by a Ralph Bunnion. Only once in a lifetime did such an adventure befall a young girl.
With a start she felt his hand on her arm and she realized they’d walked all the way from the school to the beginning of the Downs. All her instincts bade her fly back home; but she could not. The sun was dropping down and warning shadows were pooling in the rough, tufted ground like treacherous black pits. Tizzy—Tizzy! When will it begin? Oh, Tizzy, what a little fool you are! Thus her fears and hopes raced hand in hand.
He was talking to her, had been for some time, but she’d been too engrossed in her own confused sensations to know what he’d been saying. All she’d noticed was that, as he laughed, his teeth flashed like bayonets.
Lord! He was handsome! He wore a mouse-colored coat with smart tails and a waistcoat embroidered with a design of love-lies-bleeding.
“D’you know,” he said, laughing gently, “the last time I walked this way was with poor Maggie Hemp?”
“Oh dear,” said Tizzy. “I saw her only yesterday in Bartholomew’s. I didn’t know aught was amiss—”
“Then—then she’s not—not drowned?”
“Oh no—”
“Thank God!” breathed Ralph fervently. “I say thank God for that!”
“I never knew,” began Tizzy, when Ralph shook his head as if the subject was painful to him. But in a little while he overcame his distress and admitted to Tizzy that Maggie Hemp had threatened to throw herself off Black Rock and into the pounding sea.
“Why?” asked Tizzy. Ralph glanced at her a shade coldly.
“Who knows the secrets of a woman’s heart?” he wondered aloud; and then went on to explain that Lizzy Cooper had come between them. He believed it possible that Maggie’s affections were more deeply engaged than he’d supposed, and it distressed him very much. He wished such things wouldn’t keep happening to him for he was, by nature, retiring and shy. “As I was saying to Dolly Packer, only last night at the Assembly Rooms, she shouldn’t set her heart on me . . .”
“And poor—poor Miss Cooper?” whispered Tizzy, in deeper waters than ever she’d supposed. Ralph sighed, shrugged his broad shoulders and tightened his grip on her arm. Tizzy moaned inwardly and saw herself poised on some cruel eminence with the wind blowing her pretty ringlets, crying, “Ralph!” as she leaped to a popular oblivion.
“You women!” said the hapless Ralph, laughing ruefully. “We men don’t stand a chance!”
Imperceptibly their pace had quickened. Ahead lay a dangerously romantic-looking hedge of brambles that crowned a scooped-out bed of turf. Such mysterious trysting places had often figured in Tizzy’s dreams—such lovers’ couches of green with leafy curtains to shut out the eyes of the world.
Her heart fluttered and she looked, half yearningly, back along the way they’d come. With a pang she saw the humdrum little town far below. It looked for all the world as though it had slipped down the green hillsides and come to rest at the edge of the wide swallowing sea for the greater convenience of Ralph Bunnion’s unhappy loves.
“You snare us and trap us with your charms,” said Ralph, laughing bitterly now. Tizzy waited, nervously hopeful of discovering which of her charms was proving the deadliest. But it was not to be. Instead she learned to her dismay that Ralph was as clay in women’s hands. Somehow or another they always seemed to be attracted to him. He didn’t know why, but wondered if there might be some sort of shining about him.
He paused and eyed her with an air of weary expectancy. Tizzy blushed and looked hurriedly down at her black shoes popping in and out of her daffodil gown and carrying her onward to her fate. Ralph laughed, frowning this time, and admitted that his mysterious attractiveness was really quite unwelcome. There were times, even, when he dreaded it and envied his friends who might go anywhere without so much as a single admiring look.
Could she, Tizzy, understand how wretched it was that every time he stood up to dance at the Old Ship Assembly Rooms everyone fell back to watch? Yes, he was a fine dancer; but then so were many others. Yes, he was a brilliant cricketer; but so were several others. Yes, he was a remarkable horseman; but there were others almost as good. So what was it?
He felt so—so foolish about it all. More often than not he longed to be at home with a good book; but it was never to be. What was it about him, he demanded of Tizzy. Was he—here he laughed incredulously—was he really so outrageously handsome?
“No—no!” breathed Tizzy, confused and grateful to have been brought into the conversation.
Ralph glared at her. He’d underplayed his hand and been too modest. It was a weakness of his. He kicked a lump of chalk, laughed fiercely and said, “Dolly Packer once said I was like a Greek statue . . .”
Tizzy looked up. The dark and secret hedge of bramble was almost upon them. She thought of the soft green bed it screened but, to her surprise, she felt nothing of the terrified expectancy with which she’d set out. Perhaps she was being swept off her feet without knowing it? She sighed. Was life always such a disappointment? Was she never to learn that her eyes were like mysterious twilit pools and her lips a pair of kissing cherries? Was she never to share those high, sweet passions with which the lovers of old led each other up the mountains of bliss?
“Dolly said my profile was extraordinarily Greek . . .” He presented this aspect of himself for Tizzy’s admiration. Unluckily Tizzy was still brooding on life’s disappointments, and her expression was touched with something very like boredom. Fatally offended, the handsome Ralph felt one of his rages coming on. As through a veil of red, he saw Tizzy just ahead of him. She was picking her way round the bramble hedge to the very edge of the soft, grassy couch. Angry, lustful thoughts inflamed him. He would teach her what it meant to be out with Ralph Bunnion. There was a terrible look in his eyes, and with a savage laugh he launched himself at Tizzy, meaning to seize her and bear her to the amorous ground.
At the selfsame moment Tizzy saw, of all amazing things, a tiny human baby, lying all alone, asleep in the grass. She cried out, “Lord save us! A baby!” and rushed to gather it up.
Thus it happened that, with nothing in the way to halt him, Ralph Bunnion, still laughing savagely, flew a goodish way across the declivity before coming down and striking the ground with his face. He gave a sharp, loud cry of pain, but Tizzy urgently begged him to be quiet as the baby was sleeping.
Tiny Adelaide dreamed of d
eliciously frightening storms and thunder; then she chuckled as she fancied herself to be borne up and floating in a sea of milk . . . gently, gently towards some crisp, entrancing shore . . .
“The shame of it,” murmured Tizzy Alexander, walking with the greatest care and tenderness as she bore her precious burden. “To leave such a sweet thing to die! Lord, what’s the world coming to? What can have come over the mother to part with her darling soft morsel?”
Ralph Bunnion did not answer. He was not interested. He followed after Tizzy with a handkerchief pressed to his face. He had suffered severe scratches and bruises and his nose would not stop bleeding. He feared it might have been put out of shape. He had heard of such things. He was consumed with hatred for Tizzy and the infant in her arms.
“What should we do with it, Mr. Bunnion? We can’t just let it go on the parish. Perhaps it could go to the Foundlings? But wouldn’t that be a shame? It’s such a darling. And—and finding it so. I get a queer shivering that we were meant to come on it as we did . . . as if it’s something special like Moses in the bulrushes or—or Perseus in his ark. Maybe it’s going to grow up into a saint or a hero or something. Oh, Mr. Bunnion! D’you think we could keep it? It wouldn’t be no trouble. We could give it every love and care and Pa could teach it Arithmetic . . .”
Thus Tizzy prattled on, her motherly feelings shining in her flushed and sweet young face. All the benefits of love, affection and learning could be lavished on the mysterious infant. Nothing would be denied it . . .
A little way behind her stalked Ralph Bunnion, his face—and particularly his nose—blazing with pain. Dimly he thought of revenging himself on Tizzy, but was too upset to determine on how. Vague images of dark figures overwhelming her filled his dazed brain. He shifted the handkerchief and discovered that the blood still flowed. He hoped he’d not lost too much; and above all he hoped he’d not stained his father’s best cravat which he happened to be wearing. More and more passionate grew his hatred of Tizzy Alexander . . .
A little way behind him, taking skillful advantage of every bush and sheltering hollow, crept Bostock and Harris, awed beyond measure by the fate that had overtaken Adelaide. Though Bostock had been deeply moved by Miss Alexander’s tenderness and the wonderful prospect she’d held out for the infant, he knew it wouldn’t be right to let Adelaide go. He peered towards Harris whose face was of a terrible whiteness. So Bostock held his peace till he should be told what to do. Harris would think of something. Harris was nobody’s fool . . .
Thus thought Bostock as he followed Harris who followed the famous Ralph Bunnion who followed Tizzy Alexander and Adelaide in strange procession towards Dr. Bunnion’s Academy . . .
Chapter Three
MR. BRETT, despised even by the cook for never flaring up like the lively Major Alexander and bearing every humiliation as if his very life depended on staying at Dr. Bunnion’s, sat at dinner next to the fat boarder whose name was Sorley. Though there were two other boarders at ninety pounds per annum each, Sorley came first in the headmaster’s estimation. He was the son of a baronet at Cuckfield and Dr. Bunnion had hopes concerning a sister of Sorley’s and his own son, the ever-popular Ralph. But he was a sensible man and kept these hopes to himself, and only assisted them by throwing in Sorley’s way any little advantage or courtesy that might be reported back to Cuckfield. Naturally he looked to his staff to do the same. In his heart of hearts he considered his ambitions not unreasonable; Sorley, in common with the rest of the school, looked up to the handsome Ralph as to a prince . . . and surely must have talked of him at home.
“Here, boy,” said Major Alexander, leaning across the table and thoughtfully helping Sorley to more mutton pie. “We must look after you, eh?”
Mr. Brett, who was sitting next to Sorley and so might have performed the same action more easily, bit his lip. As usual, his thoughts had been elsewhere so Major Alexander benefited by a smile from Dr. Bunnion while he received a look of contempt from the doctor’s stately wife. Mr. Brett lowered his eyes and wondered if life was worth living.
It was then that there came an agitated knocking on the door. It was a rapid and urgent sound; the door seemed to tremble and before Dr. Bunnion could speak, it burst open.
At the same moment two faces of supernatural terror appeared at the window, then vanished like spectral dreams, blown by the wind. No one in the room had seen them nor felt the stare of their wild eyes. They had made no sound nor even misted the glass with their breath. They had not dared to breathe.
But in that instant Bostock and Harris had seen Harris’s infant sister in Miss Alexander’s arms being presented at Dr. Bunnion’s dining table like an extra course. Ralph Bunnion was not with her; she and Adelaide stood alone before the astonished company. Harris thought madly of tapping on the window and coming out with: “Please can we have our baby back?” but natural dread of the unlucky affair being told to his father killed the idea stone dead. If there was any hope at all—for him, for Bostock and for little Adelaide—it rested in the god of boys and infants, to whom Harris unscientifically prayed.
“And what, miss, were you doing on the Downs with Mr. Bunnion?” Major Alexander, being an ex-officer of Engineers, had a fiery and explosive sense of honor which he was inclined to lay like mines under friends and enemies alike. Generally no great harm was done owing to the Major’s natural deviousness. He tunneled too far and explosives were apt to go off at too great a distance from the events that had provoked them; thus his fury often seemed more the result of brooding on some unworthy trifle than the instant anger of an honorable man.
But this time he’d exploded his mine with military speed and success. Instantly Adelaide was forgotten and Tizzy’s tender pleadings on the baby’s behalf were blown to smithereens.
“Well, miss?”
The Major was standing. He was a short, square, formidable man with flashing eyes. Tizzy went very red and Mrs. Alexander, a German lady, shrugged her shoulders and muttered something in her native tongue.
“I—I—” stammered Tizzy, guiltily recalling the dreams with which she’d set out. “That is, Pa, we was walking—”
“Indeed, miss?” said Major Alexander in a low, shaking voice. “Alone—with Mr. Bunnion? I rather fancy you are lying to me. I rather fancy he has—compromised you, miss. As I see it, this is a matter of honor.”
The word honor was delivered like a sword thrust, and Ralph’s father felt a warning stab at his heart.
“My dear Major,” began Dr. Bunnion, hurriedly attempting to calm his touchy Arithmetic master, “even allowing for your—um—impulsive—er—nature, there’s really no need . . . a trifle, really—”
“A trifle?” The Major clenched his fists. “My daughter’s honor a trifle?”
“My dear sir—I didn’t mean that. You misunderstand me. I would never dream of implying such a thing.” The headmaster spoke with almost trembling sincerity. He was a man who valued discretion above all and the conversation was becoming painful to him. “Miss Alexander herself has said they were just walking. She brings no charge—no charge at all. And I assure you, sir, my boy Ralph is the soul of gentility. To my knowledge he has never harmed a fly. I beg of you, sir, most earnestly, to—to control yourself, if you’ll forgive the expression. Of course I respect your feelings, but I am certain, quite, quite certain that you are mistaken . . . indeed, damned nonsense!”
This last remark had been quite unintentional, but the headmaster was deeply agitated. He kept glancing at Sorley as if wondering how much of the scene would be reported to Cuckfield.
“Fetch my son,” said Mrs. Bunnion coldly, “and put an end to this at once. Whatever that girl” (here she glanced contemptuously at the scarlet Tizzy) “may say, my son will tell the truth. Rest assured of that, Major Alexander. Mr. Bunnion will tell you your odious suspicions are as absurd as they are insulting.”
Dr. Bunnion, while wishing his wife had not spoken out so plainly, none the less agreed that Ralph ought to defend himself and
put an end to the wretched scene. So he was sent for . . .
Unluckily, Ralph—after congratulating himself on having reached his room without being seen—had not yet restored his dapper appearance. Such was the unexpectedness of the summons that he’d scarcely time to remove his damaged coat and his father’s cravat before presenting himself to the company in his fatal waistcoat with its design of love-lies-bleeding, and with a similar design, executed in blood, on his brow and nose.
Mr. Brett’s lips twisted in a bitter smile.
“I see my child defended herself,” said Major Alexander harshly. There could be no reasonable doubt that the young man’s injuries had been inflicted by the desperate and outraged nails of the Major’s daughter. “I rather fancy I am entitled to—satisfaction.”
At once there was a terrible silence in the room. The scene which had, at the very worst, been disagreeable and awkward, took on an edge of steel. Dr. Bunnion stared aghast at his son and the smoldering Major and seemed to see phantom bullet holes in their breasts—and all his dreams and ambitions sinking in a sea of scandalous blood.
“My God,” he whispered. “You—you cannot mean a—a duel?”
Now Major Alexander had not meant a duel. Nothing had been further from his thoughts. He had meant to say “compensation” but thought it sounded too mercenary and so had said “satisfaction” instead. He was as shocked as anybody by the turn affairs had taken; he frowned uneasily at the athletic Ralph who did not look the sort of opponent to be trifled with. There was an unpleasantly fearless look about him that the Major could not help disliking; and in a moment his worst fears were realized. Ralph, conscious of the adoring eyes of the three boarders fixed upon him, drew himself up and said coolly, “I am at your service, sir.”
The Complete Bostock and Harris Page 2
