"I know this," said the General sullenly, "they were in quite as big a funk as I was!"
"Then why didn"t they run in, and ask to be hidden too?" inquired Hilary.
"Why? Because they didn"t dare!" retorted Tinling, boldly.
"You know," he remarked to Cecily, as they were going down together through the warm darkness, "it"s not fair of your uncle to play these tricks on fellows."
"Perhaps it isn"t quite," said Cecily, impartially; "but then he didn"t _begin_, did he?"
"Ahoy!" shouted Uncle Lambert, as they neared the stockade, and he was answered by a ringing cheer from the fortress.
"Come on--we ain"t afraid of you! Don"t skulk there--see what you"ll get!" And a volley of peas, corks, and small shot flew about their ears.
Lambert Jolliffe ran forward: "Hi, stop that! spare our lives!" he cried, laughing. "Jack, you young rascal, put down that confounded popgun--can"t you see we"re not Red Indians?"
"What, is it you, uncle?" said Guy, in a rather crestfallen tone. "Where are the Red Indians then?"
"They had to go up to town to see their dentist. But do you mean to say you haven"t opened my envelope after all?"
"I thought you told us it was only in case we got frightened?" said Jack.
"What does the General say to _that_?" cried Lambert--but Clarence Tinling was nowhere to be found. He had slipped off to his bedroom, and the next morning he announced at breakfast that he "thought his people would be wanting him at home."
So the army was disbanded, for there was a general disarmament, and on the afternoon after Tinling"s departure the entire Jolliffe family engaged in a grand cricket match, when lazy Uncle Lambert came out unexpectedly strong as an overhand bowler.
_SHUT OUT_
It is towards the end of an afternoon in December, and Wilfred Rolleston is walking along a crowded London street with his face turned westward.
A few moments ago and he was scarcely conscious of where he was or where he meant to go: he was walking on mechanically in a heavy stupor, through which there stole a haunting sense of degradation and despair that tortured him dully. And suddenly, as if by magic, this has vanished: he seems to himself to have waked from a miserable day dream to the buoyant consciousness of youth and hope. Temperaments which are subject to fits of heavy and causeless depression have their compensations sometimes in the reaction which follows; the infesting cares, as in Longfellow"s poem, "fold their tents, like the Arabs, and as silently steal away," and with their retreat comes an exquisite exhilaration which more equable dispositions can never experience.
Is this so with Rolleston now? He only knows that the cloud has lifted from his brain, and that in the clear sunshine which bursts upon him now he can look his sorrows in the face and know that there is nothing so terrible in them after all.
It is true that he is not happy at the big City day school which he has just left. How should he be? He is dull and crabbed and uncouth, and knows too well that he is an object of general dislike; no one there cares to a.s.sociate with him, and he makes no attempt to overcome their prejudices, being perfectly aware that they are different from him, and hating them for it, but hating himself, perhaps, the most.
And though all his evenings are spent at home there is little rest for him even there, for the work for the next day must be prepared; and he sits over it till late, sometimes with desperate efforts to master the difficulties, but more often staring at the page before him with eyes that are almost wilfully vacant.
All this has been and is enough in itself to account for the gloomy state into which he had sunk. But--and how could he have forgotten it?--it is over for the present.
To-night he will not have to sit up struggling with the tasks which will only cover him with fresh disgrace on the morrow; for a whole month he need not think of them, nor of the cla.s.ses in which the hand of everyone is against him. For the holidays have begun; to-day has been the last of the term. Is there no reason for joy and thankfulness in that? What a fool he has been to let those black thoughts gain such a hold over him!
Slowly, more as if it had all happened a long time ago instead of quite recently, the incidents of the morning come back to him, vivid and clear once more--morning chapel and the Doctor"s sermon, and afterwards the pretence of work and relaxed discipline in the cla.s.s rooms, when the results of the examinations had been read out, with the names of the boys who had gained prizes and their remove to the form above. He had come out last of course, but no one expected anything else from him; a laugh had gone round the desks when his humble total closed the list, and he had joined in it to show them he didn"t care. And then the cla.s.s had been dismissed, and there had been friendly good-byes, arrangements for walking home in company or for meeting during the holidays--for all but him; he had gone out alone--and the dull blankness had come over him from which he has only just recovered.
But, for the present at all events, he has got rid of it completely; he is going home, where at least he is not despised, where he will find a sanctuary from gibes and jostlings and impositions; and the longer he thinks of this the higher his spirits rise, and he steps briskly, with a kind of exultation, until the people he pa.s.ses in the streets turn and look at him, struck by his expression. "They can see how jolly I"m feeling," he thinks with a smile.
The dusk is falling, and the shops he pa.s.ses are brilliant with lights and decorations, but he does not stop to look at any of them; his mind is busy with settling how he shall employ himself on this the first evening of his liberty, the first for so long on which he could feel his own master.
At first he decides to read. Is there not some book he had begun and meant to finish, so many days ago now that he has even forgotten what it was all about, and only remembers that it was exciting?
And yet, he thinks, he won"t read to-night--not on the very first night of the holidays. Quite lately--yesterday or the day before--his mother had spoken to him, gently but very seriously, about what she called the morose and savage fits which would bring misery upon him if he did not set himself earnestly to overcome them.
And there were times, he knew, when it seemed as if a demon possessed him and drove him to wound even those who loved him and whom he loved--times when their affection only roused in him some hideous spirit of sullen contradiction.
He feels softened now somehow, and has a new longing for the love he has so often harshly repulsed. He _will_ overcome this sulkiness of his; he will begin this very evening; as soon as he gets home he will tell his mother that he is sorry, that he does love her really, only that when these fits come on him he hardly knows what he says or does.
And she will forgive him, only too gladly; and his mind will be quite at ease again. No, not quite; there is still something he must do before that: he has a vague recollection of a long-standing coolness between himself and his younger brother, Lionel. They never have got on very well together; Lionel is so different--much cleverer even already, for one thing; better looking too, and better tempered. Whatever they quarrelled about Wilfred is very sure that he was the offender; Lionel never begins that kind of thing. But he will put himself in the right at once, and ask Lionel to make friends again; he will consent readily enough--he always does.
And then he has a bright idea: he will take his brother some little present to prove that he really wishes to behave decently for the future. What shall he buy?
He finds himself near a large toy shop at the time, and in the window are displayed several regiments of brightly coloured tin warriors--the very thing! Lionel is still young enough to delight in them.
Feeling in his pockets, Rolleston discovers more loose silver than he had thought he possessed, and so he goes into the shop and asks for one of the boxes of soldiers. He is served by one of two neatly dressed female a.s.sistants, who stare and giggle at one another at his first words, finding it odd, perhaps, that a fellow of his age should buy toys--as if, he thinks indignantly, they couldn"t see that it was not for _himself_ he wanted the things.
But he goes on, feeling happier after his purchase. They will see now that he is not so bad after all. It is long since he has felt such a craving to be thought well of by somebody.
A little farther on he comes to a row of people, mostly women and tradesmen"s boys, standing on the curb stone opposite a man who is seated in a little wooden box on wheels drawn up close to the pavement.
He is paralytic and blind, with a pinched white face framed in an old-fashioned fur cap with big ear lappets; he seems to be preaching or reading, and Rolleston stops idly enough to listen for a few moments, the women making room for him with alacrity, and the boys staring curiously round at the new arrival with a grin.
He hardly pays much attention to this; he is listening to the poem which the man in the box is reciting with a nasal and metallic snuffle in his voice:
There"s a harp _and_ a crown, For you and _for_ me, Hanging on the boughs Of that Christmas tree!
He hears, and then hurries on again, repeating the stanza mechanically to himself, without seeing anything particularly ludicrous about it. The words have reminded him of that Christmas party at the Gordons", next door. Did not Ethel Gordon ask him particularly to come, and did he not refuse her sullenly? What a brute he was to treat her like that! If she were to ask him again, he thinks he would not say no, though he does hate parties.
Ethel is a dear girl, and never seems to think him good-for-nothing, as most people do. Perhaps it is sham though--no, he can"t think that when he remembers how patiently and kindly she has borne with his senseless fits of temper and tried to laugh away his gloom.
Not every girl as pretty as Ethel is would care to notice him, and persist in it in spite of everything; yet he has sulked with her of late. Was it because she had favoured Lionel? He is ashamed to think that this may have been the reason.
Never mind, that is all over now; he will start clear with everybody. He will ask Ethel, too, to forgive him. Is there nothing he can do to please her? Yes some time ago she had asked him to draw something for her. (He detests drawing lessons, but he has rather a taste for drawing things out of his own head.) He had told her, not too civilly, that he had work enough without doing drawings for girls. He will paint her something to-night as a surprise; he will begin as soon as tea is cleared away; it will be more sociable than reading a book.
And then already he sees a vision of the warm little panelled room, and himself getting out his colour-box and sitting down to paint by lamp-light--for any light does for his kind of colouring--while his mother sits opposite and Lionel watches the picture growing under his hand.
What shall he draw? He gets quite absorbed in thinking over this; his own tastes run in a gory direction, but perhaps Ethel, being a girl, may not care for battles or desperate duels. A compromise strikes him; he will draw a pirate ship: that will be first rate, with the black flag flying on the mainmast, and the pirate captain on the p.o.o.p scouring the ocean with a big gla.s.s in search of merchantmen; all about the deck and rigging he can put the crew, with red caps, and belts stuck full of pistols and daggers.
And on the right there shall be a bit of the pirate island, with a mast and another black flag--he knows he will enjoy picking out the skull and cross-bones in thick Chinese white--and then, if there is room, he will add a cannon, and perhaps a palm tree. A pirate island always has palm trees.
He is so full of this projected picture of his that he is quite surprised to find that he is very near the square where he lives; but here, just in front of him, at the end of the narrow lane, is the public-house with the coach and four engraved on the ground gla.s.s of the lower part of the window, and above it the bottles full of coloured water.
And here is the greengrocer"s. How long is it since it was a barber"s?--surely a very little time. And there is the bootmaker"s, with its outside display of dangling shoes, and the row of naked gas jets blown to pale blue specks and whistling red tongues by turns as a gust sweeps across them.
This is his home, this little dingy, old-fashioned red-brick house at an angle of the square, with a small paved s.p.a.ce railed in before it. He pushes open the old gate with the iron arch above, where an oil-lamp used to hang, and hurries up to the door with the heavy sh.e.l.l-shaped porch, impatient to get to the warmth and light which await him within.
The bell has got out of order, for only a faint jangle comes from below as he rings; he waits a little and then pulls the handle again, more sharply this time, and still no one comes.