THE SECOND DAY
MISS CHARTERIS TAKES CONTROL
The Boy arrived in flannels, his racket under his arm. He came in, asusual, through the little green gate in the red-brick fruit-wall at thebottom of the garden. From the first, he had taken this privilege,which as a matter of fact had never been accorded to anybody.
The Professor always entered by the front door, placed his umbrella inthe stand, wet or shine; left his goloshes on the mat: hung up his capand gown, and followed Jenkins into the drawing-room. Though he hadcalled regularly, twice a week, during the last dozen years--first onhis old friend and tutor, Professor Charteris; after his death, on hiswidow and daughter; and, when Miss Charteris was left alone, on herselfonly--he never failed to knock and ring; nor did he ever enterunannounced.
The Boy had dashed in at the garden gate on the occasion of his secondvisit, and appeared to consider that he had thus created a precedentwhich should always be followed.
Once, and once only--on her thirtieth birthday--the Professor hadbrought Miss Charteris a bouquet; but, being very absent-minded, hedeposited the bouquet on the mat, and advanced into the drawing-roomcarrying his goloshes in his left hand. Having shaken hands with hisright, he vaguely presented the goloshes. Miss Charteris, never at aloss where her friends were concerned, took the Professor's goloshesfrom his hand, carried them out into the hall, found the bouquet on themat, and saved the situation by putting the flowers in water, andthanking the Professor with somewhat more hilarity than the ordinarypresentation of a bouquet would have called forth.
But to return to the second day. The Boy arrived in flannels, and teawas a merry meal. The Boy wanted particulars concerning the marriage,which had taken place a year or so before, between Martha--maid ofthirty years' standing, now acting as cook-housekeeper to MissCharteris--and Jenkins, the butler. The Boy wanted to know whichproposed, Jenkins or Martha; in what terms they announced the fact oftheir engagement, to Miss Charteris; whether Jenkins ever "bucked upand looked like a bridegroom," and whether Martha wore orange-blossomand a wedding veil. He extorted the admission that Christobel had beenpresent at the wedding, and insisted on a detailed account; over which,when given at last, he slapped his knee so often, and went into suchpeals of laughter, that Miss Charteris glanced anxiously towards thekitchen and pantry windows, which unfortunately looked out on thegarden.
The Boy expatiated on his enthusiastic admiration for Martha; but atthe same time was jolly well certain he would have bolted when it cameto "I, Martha, take thee, Jenkins," had he stood in the latter's shoes.Miss Charteris did not dare admit, that as a matter of fact thesentence had been: "I, Martha, take thee, Noah." That the meek Jenkinsshould possess so historical and patriarchal a name, would completelyhave finished the Boy, who was already taking considerable risks bycombining much laughter with an unusually large number of explosivebuns.
The Boy would have it, that, excepting in the role of bride andsubsequent conjugal owner and disciplinarian, Martha was perfect.
Miss Charteris admitted Martha's unrivalled excellence as a cook, hereconomy in management, and fidelity of heart. But Martha had a temper.Also, though undoubtedly a superficial fault, yet trying to theartistic eye of Miss Charteris, Martha's hair was apt to be dishevelledand untidy.
"It _is_ a bit wispy," admitted the Boy, reluctantly. "Why don't youtell her so?"
Miss Charteris smiled. "Boy dear, I daren't! It would be as much asmy place is worth, to make a personal observation to Martha!"
"I'll tell her for you, if you like," said the Boy, coolly.
"If you do," warned Miss Charteris, "it will be the very last remarkyou will ever make in Martha's kitchen, Boy."
"Oh, there are _ways of telling_," said the Boy, airily; and pinched anexplosive bun.
After tea they took their rackets and strolled down the lawn, pausing amoment while she chose him a buttonhole. The tie was orange on thissecond day, and she gathered the opening bud of a William AllenRichardson rose. She smiled into its golden heart as she pinned it inhis white flannel coat. Somehow it brought a flash of remembrance ofthe golden heart of Little Boy Blue, who could not bear that any oneshould be past praying for, or that even a scarecrow should seem lonely.
They crossed the lane and entered the paddock; tightened the net on thetennis-court; chose out half a dozen brand-new balls, and settled downto fast and furious singles.
Miss Charteris played as well as she had ever played in her life; butthe Boy was off his service, and she beat him six to four. Next time,he pulled off 'games all,' but lost the set; then was beaten, three tosix.
Miss Charteris was glowing with the exercise, and the consciousness ofbeing in great form.
"Boy dear!" she called, as she played the winning stroke of the thirdset, "I'm afraid you're lazy to-day!"
The Boy walked up to the net, and looked at her through his racket.
"I'm not lazy," he said; "but I'm on the wrong side of Jordan. Thissort of thing is waste of time. I want to go over, and start marching."
"Don't be absurd, Boy. I prefer _this_ side Jordan, thank you; and youshall stay here until you beat me."
The Boy won the next set.
* * * * *
It was deliciously cool and quiet under the mulberry-tree.
The Boy was quite subdued--for him. He seemed inclined to do hismarching in silence, on this second day.
Miss Charteris felt her mental balance restored. She held the reinsto-day, and began considering how to deal wisely with the Boy. So muchdepended upon how she managed him.
At length she said: "Boy, when you were at Trinity, I often used to seeyou. I knew you were my Little Boy Blue of all those years ago. Iused to feel inclined to send for you, talk to you for your good, andurge you to set to, and do great things; but I remembered the stone,and the bucket; and I did not want to let myself in for a thirdsnubbing."
The Boy smiled. "Did you think me a lazy beggar?" he asked. "I wasn'treally, you know. I did quite a good deal of all kinds of things. ButI didn't want to get played out. I wanted to do things all the rest ofmy life. Fellows who grind at college and come out Senior Wranglers,begin and end there. You don't hear of 'em again."
"I see," said Miss Charteris, amusement in her eyes. "So you felt itwisest to avoid being Senior Wrangler?"
"Just so," said the Boy. "I was content with a fairly respectable B.A.and I hope you saw me take it. How rotten it is, going up in a bunch,all hanging on to an old chap's fingers."
"Boy, Boy! I know all about you! You wasted golden opportunities; youdeclined to use your excellent abilities; you gave the authorities ananxious time. You were so disgracefully popular, that everybodythought your example the finest thing to follow, and you were more orless responsible for every lark and row which took place during yourtime."
The Boy did not smile. He looked at her, with a quaint, innocentseriousness, which made her feel almost uncomfortable.
"Dear," he said, "I had plenty of money, and heaps of friends, and Iwanted to have a good time. Also I wanted all the other fellows tohave a good time; and I enjoyed getting the better of all the oldfogies who had forgotten what youth was like--if they'd ever known it.And I had no mother to ask me questions, and no sisters to turn up atmy rooms unexpectedly. But I can tell you this, Christobel. I hope tobe married soon; and I hope to marry a woman so sweet and noble andpure, that her very presence tests a man's every thought, feeling, andmemory. And I can honestly look into your dear eyes and say: My wifewill be welcome to know every detail of every prank I ever played inCambridge; nor is there a thing in those three years I need feelashamed of her knowing. There! Will that do?"
Miss Charteris threw out a deprecatory hand. "Oh, Boy dear!" she said."I never doubted that. My Little Boy Blue, don't I know you? But Icannot let you talk as if you owe me any explanations. How curious tothink I saw you so often during those years, yet we never actually met."
The Boy smiled. "Yes,"
he said, "we were all awfully proud of you, youknow. What was it you took at Girton?"
Miss Charteris mentioned, modestly, the highest honours in classics asyet taken by a woman. The Boy had often heard it before. But helistened with bated breath.
"Yes," he said, "we were awfully proud of it, because of your tennis,and because of you being--well, just _you_. If you had been around-shouldered little person in a placket, we should have taken itdifferently. We always called you 'The Goddess,' because of yoursplendid walk. Did you know?"
"No, Boy, I did not know; but I confess to feeling immensely flattered.Only, take a friend's advice, and avoid conversational allusions toplackets, because you are obviously ignorant of the meaning of theword. And now, tell me? Having successfully escaped so serious adrawback to future greatness as becoming Senior Wrangler, on whatdefinite enterprise have you embarked?"
"Flying," said the Boy, sitting forward in his chair. "I am going tobreak every record. I am going to fly higher, farther, faster, thanany man has ever flown before. This week, if I had not stayed onhere--you know originally I came up only for the 'May week'--I was tohave done a Channel flight. Ah, you don't know what it means, to ownthree flying-machines, all of different make, and each the best of itskind! You feel you own the world! And then to climb into your seatand go whirling away, with the wonderful hum in your ears, masteringthe air--the hitherto invincible air. May I tell you what I am goingto do for my next fly? Start from the high ground between Dover andFolkestone; fly over the Channel; circle round Boulogne Cathedral--youremember the high dome, rising out of the old town surrounded by theramparts? Then back across the Channel, and to ground again atFolkestone; all in one flight; and I hope to do it in record time, ifwinds are right."
"And if winds are wrong, Boy? If you rush out and take the horridrisks of the cross-currents you told us about? If something happens toyour propeller, and you fall headlong into the sea?"
"Oh, it's all U P then," said the Boy, lightly. "But one never expectsthat sort of thing to happen; and when it does, all is over so quicklythat there is no time for anticipation. Beside, there must bepioneers. Every good life given, advances the cause."
Christobel Charteris looked at him. His was not the terrible,unmistakable, relentless face of the bird-man. He was brilliant withenthusiasm, but it was the enthusiasm of the sportsman, keen to excel;of Young England, dauntless, fearless, eager to break records. Thespirit of the true bird-man had not, as yet, entered into her LittleBoy Blue.
She pressed her hand upon her bosom. It ached still.
"Boy dear," she said, softly. "Has it ever struck you that, if youmarry, your wife--whoever she might be--would most probably want you togive up flying? I cannot imagine a woman being able to bear that a manwho was her _all_, should do these things."
The Boy never turned a hair! He did not bound in his seat. He did noteven look at her.
"Why, of course, dear," he said, "if you wished it, I should give upflying, like a shot, and sell my aeroplanes. I know plenty of chapswho would like to buy them to-morrow. And I'll tell you what we woulddo. We'd buy the biggest, most powerful motor-car we could get, andwe'd tear all over the country, exceeding the speed-limit, and doingeverything jolly we could think of. That would be every bit as good asflying, if--if we did it together. I say, Christobel--do you know howto make a sentence of 'together'? Just three words: _to get her_!That's what 'together' spells for me now."
Miss Charteris smiled. "You might have taken honours in spelling, Boy.And I am not the sort of person who enjoys exceeding speed-limits.Also I am afraid I have a troublesome habit of always wanting to stopand see all there is to see."
But the Boy was infinitely accommodating. "Oh, we wouldn't exceed thespeed-limit--much. And we would stop everywhere, and see everything.You should breakfast in London; lunch at the Old White Horse, Mr.Pickwick's inn at Ipswich; have tea at the Maid's Head, beneath theshadow of Norwich Cathedral, where you could wash your hands in QueenElizabeth's fusty old bedroom--what a lot of bedrooms Queen Elizabethslept in, and made them all fusty--and have time to show me Little BoyBlue's breakwater at Dovercourt, before dinner. There's nothing likemotoring!"
"It sounds interesting, certainly," said Miss Charteris.
"And then," continued the Boy, in a calm business-like voice, "it'sless expensive than flying. You run through fifty thousand a year inno time with aeroplanes. And of course we should want to open both myplaces. I'm awfully glad I didn't let the tenants in the old homerenew their lease. As it is, they turn out in three months. Oh, Isay, Christobel, I do believe it is a setting worthy of you. Have youever seen it? The great hall, the old pictures, the oak staircase--Ionce rode down it on my rocking-horse and came to utter smash. Andoutside--the park, the lake, the beech avenue, the rose-garden, thepeacocks. And a funny little old village belongs to us. Think how thepeople must want looking after. I believe you would like it all--Ireally believe you would! And think, ah, just think what it would beto me, to see my own splendid wife, queen over everything in my dearjolly old home! Hullo!--Hark to all the clocks! What is thatstriking? Seven? Oh, I say! I'm dining with the Master to-night. Imust rush off, and change. Though I was such a bad lot, they all seemquite pleased to see me again. Really they do! Have I stayed toolong? ... Sure? ... May I come to-morrow? ... You _are_ most awfullygood to me. Good-bye."
And the Boy was gone. He had held her hand, in a firm, strong clasp, asecond longer than the conventional handshake; his clear eyes, exactlyon a level with hers, had looked at her gravely, wistfully, tenderly;and he was gone.
She walked slowly up the lawn. She must write a few letters beforepost time; then dress for her solitary dinner.
She felt a little flat; quite without cause. What could have been moresatisfactory, in every way, than the Boy's visit; in spite of hisabsurd castles in the air? These must be tactfully demolishedto-morrow. To-day, it was wisest just to let him talk.
Poor Little Boy Blue! Instead of the walls of Jericho falling, his owncastles in the air would come tumbling about his ears. Poor Little BoyBlue!
She felt she had been completely mistress of the situation to-day,holding it exactly as she wished it to be. There was no need to fearthe remaining days.
And when the seven days were over--what then? ... She certainly feltvery flat this evening. How suddenly the Boy had gone! There wasstill so much she wanted to say to him.... And to-morrow was theProfessor's afternoon. Mercifully, he never stayed later than fouro'clock. It was to be hoped the Boy would not turn up early! Butthere was never any knowing what the Boy would do.
She smiled as she mounted the flight of stone steps, and passed intothe house.
* * * * *
And, outside the postern gate, the Boy threw up his cap, and caught it;then started off and sprinted a hundred yards; then, turning aside,leapt a five-barred gate, and made off across the fields. When hepulled up at last, in his own bedroom, he had just time to tub, shave,and wrestle with his evening clothes. He communed with himself in thefew moments of enforced stillness, while he mastered his tie.
"That was all right," he said. "I jolly well worked _that_ all right!There was nothing to frighten her to-day--not a thing. Dear lips!They never trembled once; and no more turning faint. And, my Goody,how she lectured me! I wonder who's been telling her what. I know whyshe did it too. She wanted to feel quite sure she was bossing theshow. And so she was, bless her! But I marched round! Yes, I jollywell marched round.... Oh, I say! Can't you stop where I put you?"This, to his tie.
Then, with _her_ golden rose in his button-hole, fastened by _the_ pinfrom his flannel coat, off went the Boy to dine with the Master of hiscollege.
* * * * *
"_And the evening and the morning were the second day._"
* * * * *
Through the Postern Gate: A Romance in Seven Days Page 2
