CHAPTER II

I

A busy year, a year filled with little successes, trials and triumphs, and John, taller and a little quieter, perhaps too quiet for a healthy lad of eighteen. He had achieved his object by winning the Mansell Exhibition, not of great value, it was true, but £50 would help and the real value of success lay in the fact that his father would know he had worked since they had parted. In June, Vernley and he had gone to Cambridge for the King's College entrance examination. It had not troubled either of them greatly, although Vernley, with an unshaken belief in his own stupidity, swore he had been ploughed. Their glimpse of Cambridge filled them with dreams of a golden age. They stayed on for a couple of days after the examination and made visits and excursions. Vernley's cousin was at Trinity and had a large bare room, reached by a winding staircase that looked on to the Backs, with a vista of bridges and elm-tree walks.

The day after their return to Sedley, Mr. Fletcher sent for John. It was late in the evening when young Jones came to his study with the summons, and John was just finishing a game of chess with Marsh. Vernley sat in the window trying to read "Henry Esmond" in the sunset light. The Triumvirate, as they were called, had recently moved into this large room in the corner of the quadrangle. It was regarded as the lap of luxury by the small boys who saw with envious eyes its easy chairs, the cretonne curtains and the piano which Marsh had imported.

"Shan't be long," said John going out. What could Fletcher want him for? Perhaps a house matter--he was a prefect now. He tapped at the green baize door, pushed it open, then crossed the small hall of the Fletcher household, and knocked again at the study door. Mr. Fletcher bade him enter.

"Oh--Dean, I want to see you--come in--sit down. It's about a matter--a--" he hesitated. Why did the man fumble so, and fidget with the blotter on his desk? The room was almost dark, he could hardly see the master's face. Suddenly Mr. Fletcher got up and walked across the room to the fireplace where he stood for a moment with his back to John. Then abruptly he turned.

"Dean--I hardly know what to say--how to tell you--I'm--I'm--you must be brave, my dear lad, but I know you will be--you will be," he repeated. John just stared at him. What had happened--and was he to blame in any way?

"What's the matter, sir?" he asked.

Fletcher drew near and put his hand on John's shoulder.

"I have sad news, John. Your father--"

John started to his feet; why had Mr. Fletcher's hand trembled so?

"There's nothing wrong, sir?" he asked, his heart sinking within him, for he knew now something was wrong.

"No, not wrong, Dean--but everything that could be brave, and like him. My poor boy, your father is dead--there--there, it is terrible for you, I know." Mr. Fletcher pressed him down on to his seat again.

"Dead!" said John,--"not--not dead, sir?" he pleaded, raising his hand as if to ward off a blow.

"This letter has just come, Dean, by express post."

John took it, and the master crossed the room to the electric switch.

"I'd rather it was dark, sir,--I think I can see it," said John.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Fletcher, and with an aching heart he watched the boy go to the window and peer over the letter. It seemed an eternity before John turned and spoke.

"There--there seems no hope, sir--the company has none," he said in an expressionless voice.

"No, Dean, I fear not--it is terrible."

"Yes," echoed John.

Why did the boy stand there so silent, so emotionless, with the letter in his hand? Anything was better than this unnatural calm. Did he realise yet?

"Dad--died fighting," said John, jerkily.

"Yes--to the last, they say. He defended them magnificently--you have that to remember. These massacres are terrible, terrible--I--" he paused. Still John stood there. Mr. Fletcher had expected an outburst, had prepared himself for it; and here they stood in the dark facing each other, silent; nothing but the ticking of the clock sounding in the abyss of these tense moments. The entrance of Mrs. Fletcher was welcome. She moved to John's side, saying nothing, but he felt her sympathy.

Then, folding up the letter, "Thank you, sir. I will go now," he said.

"Yes, Dean--if you would like to stay here--we can--"

"Thank you, sir, but I'll go--I'm--I'm all right, sir," he replied, moving towards the door. Mrs. Fletcher, saw his drawn face. He was so pitifully brave. He had reached the door now, was turning the handle. He hesitated a moment, they saw him pause and turn, then swiftly he moved towards them, flung himself face down on the couch, buried his face in the cushions, and sobbed like a child.

Mrs. Fletcher sat down beside him, and motioned to her husband to go. He went out silently, leaving them in the dark room.

"Oh, Mrs. Fletcher--my dear Dad! My dear Dad!"

Mrs. Fletcher put her hand on the bowed head and stroked his hair. There was nothing to say; she sat there, simply, her sympathy tending him, until the storm passed.

II

John never forgot the details of those three days that followed. First there was the anxiety of his father's fate. That he was dead he knew beyond hope, but there was a lack of details, of the manner and the circumstances. The letter from Messrs. Agnew & Cust merely quoted the cable they had received stating the death of his father at Amasia defending some Armenians who had taken refuge in his house during a massacre. That was all, and three days elapsed before they wrote again, enclosing another cable which said that his father had been shot through the head, had died instantaneously, while fighting his way out, with his servants, to effect a juncture with a relief detachment from the American hospital at Marsovan, where his body had been conveyed and buried. John wondered whether his father lay in that cemetery where, on a memorable day he had seen him crying over the grave of his mother.

During those days of waiting, John realised, more deeply then before, the meaning of friendship. Vernley and Marsh were always with him. They said little, for what could they say? They knew that John had rather they did not touch upon the knowledge so heavy on their hearts, and sometimes their watchfulness, their eagerness to serve him brought him to a point of open breakdown. For his own sake John went on with his form work. It was a slight distraction from the anxiety of the days that must pass before a letter could come from Asia Minor. One night, about a week after the receipt of the news, Vernley and Marsh sat in their study doing their preparation. John had been sent for by Mr. Fletcher, and had been absent some time. Vernley looked at his watch.

"Shall I get supper?" he asked--"Are you finishing?"

"Yes," replied Marsh, closing his Euripides. "I say, what a miserable devil old Euripides was; he's always talking about death. A good job some of his plays were burnt at Alexandria---there were ninety of 'em. I hate thinking about death."

"And just now--with poor old Scissors," added Vernley.

"By the way, Bobbie," said Marsh, flinging one leg over the arm of his chair, "what's Scissors going to do? I don't like asking him."

"Do--how do you mean?"

"His future--you see there's the money question. I don't know much about his affairs--but Cambridge means money--and I don't know whether his governor had any--he seemed too jolly for money-making."

"Oh, he'll have left some--and there's the Exhibition," said Vernley. Money matters were always easily dismissed in his presence. "He'll be all right, I expect."

"Well--we've got to see."

"But it's no business of ours."

"It is," retorted Marsh.

"It is?" asked Vernley.

"Yes--supposing there is no money?"

Vernley had never supposed such a thing. He was silent a moment, thinking.

"You mean--he must go to Cambridge with us?"

"Of course--and that's three hundred a year."

"Three hundred?" said Vernley. He had never realised that so much was being spent on him. Then quietly, "Well--if old Scissors is stuck, we'll find it somehow."

"That's what I'm driving at. Three years at three hundred a year is nine hundred pounds--and that's college expenses only. It'll mean a thousand all told."

"That's nothing--my guvnor'll never miss it. He'd do anything for Scissors," said Vernley, cutting the cheese. "He'd adopt him and depose me to-morrow."

"And there's my governor--he'd want to come in," said Marsh.

"Well, there you are, that's settled!" Vernley took a large slice of cucumber. He disposed of money problems just as easily.

"But it's not settled, my child. You've forgotten the chief person in the settlement--there's Scissors."

"Well?"

"You can take a mule to the water, but you can't make him drink--suppose he wouldn't be helped?"

"Oh--he would!--he'd be quite decent about it--he'd know it would please us. But I don't think we need worry. He's sure to have some money and there's his relations."

"From all I've heard of his relations--we've a better chance," commented Marsh. "I suppose you guessed why Scissors refused the captaincy of the beagles last winter?"

"He wanted to work for his Exhibition."

"It wasn't that--really--he couldn't afford it."

"How do you know?"

"I heard him making discreet enquiries as to how much it would cost--and old Scissors wanted it awfully."

"I never knew that--I wouldn't have been captain had I known."

"That's why I didn't tell you," Marsh explained, "but it shows you that Scissors gets pressed. If he only--"

"Ssh," whispered Vernley as the door handle rattled. John entered. He looked worried and carried a letter.

"News?" asked Marsh eagerly.

"No--only a letter from the firm--about a job," said John.

"A job?" queried Vernley.

"Yes--they've offered me a junior clerkship at £80 a year in case I need it." He did not add that the wording had cut him to the quick with its "in excess of the customary figure at which our junior clerks begin, but in view of probable necessitous circumstances," etc.

"But you're going up to Cambridge with us!" cried Marsh.

"Of course, or we don't go," added Vernley.

"I don't know," said John, sitting down wearily. "It depends,--I may not be able. I don't know yet how I'm--"

"If it's a matter of--" began Marsh, when a warning look from Vernley cut him short.

"You're sure to hear soon, Scissors--I shouldn't worry yet," said Vernley. "We're all going up together, we've always said so. You know if you only think hard enough it always is so."

"Sounds like the mater and the Higher Thought circle," commented Marsh, wondering what plan Vernley had suddenly conceived when he sent that warning signal.

"Well--anyhow, I could eat something," said John, putting the letter in his pocket.

"Righto!--draw up!" said Vernley, passing the bread and cheese. "Oh--I've written home to say that you'll spend the holidays with us."

"He won't--at least he'll spend part with me," corrected Marsh.

"Thanks--but I can't make any plans, you see I don't know what's going to happen yet."

"But you must go somewhere, Scissors," cried Vernley lightly. The moment he had said it, and saw the dumb pain in John's eyes he would have torn his tongue out to retrieve the careless remark. "Scissors, I don't mean it that way--you know I don't!" he added desperately.

"No, I know you don't," agreed John, swallowing hard, and trying to look steadily back. They ate their supper in silence. Even Marsh's forced gaiety failed.

The weeks leading to the end of the term went swiftly. Bit by bit the news dribbled through, news of how his father had been killed--this in a letter from the doctor at the American Mission. His father had been buried next to his mother at Marsovan, under the same almond tree whose blossom John could still picture in his mind, so deeply was the first impression etched. Then later came Mr. Glass from his father's company, somewhat surprised and hurt at John's refusal of the clerkship. His father had been insured for £500. There was that, and a small balance at the bank, not more than £600 in all. Was he wise in refusing the opening, which would lead, in years to come, to a very good position? John looked at Mr. Glass, with his bald head, large stomach and expressionless face, and the result of success did not appeal to him. Mr. Glass prepared to depart.

"Well, you may think better of it, my boy. Your father would have wished it, I know. I don't see what more we can do for you--but there, if you do change your mind and need us, we are there, remember."

Clumsily done, but well meant, and John realising this, thanked him and shook the hand extended towards him. After Mr. Glass had gone Fletcher looked at John.

"I suppose you intend going up to King's?" he said. "I think you will pull through all right with care."

"No, sir, I feel I ought to begin doing what must be done--earn my living. Six hundred pounds is not much, and I shouldn't feel happy knowing that I was using it up."

"But Cambridge may lead to opportunities--a Fellowship--at least a degree, which is useful. At the worst you can become a--a schoolmaster." He smiled apologetically for the joke against himself.

"And meanwhile, sir, make expensive friends and acquire expensive tastes? Why shouldn't I do the last thing first, and learn whether I have the inclination."

"The last?" queried Mr. Fletcher.

"Yes, sir, I thought of getting a junior mastership--if I could. A year would not matter greatly. If I failed at that--then I would go up to Cambridge--it would not be too late."

"No, but you are wasting a year."

"Yes, sir, but I want--oh, I feel I must work it all out. I'm afraid you don't understand, sir," added John lamely.

"I think I do--this has altered your whole life, or at least you feel so--nothing really does affect our lives to anything like the extent we imagine it does. Experience proves that we are always ourselves. As for a mastership--it is not easy without a degree. I have a friend at a scholastic agency. If you wish I will write to him--that is, if you want to take this step. Personally, I advise you to--no, I won't advise you, John--you must decide for yourself."

Two weeks after that conversation, John was glad of the step he had taken. The insurance company had refused to pay the claim; the policy did not provide for the contingency in which Mr. Dean lost his life. John's capital now was £132. Mr. Fletcher's friend had obtained for him a junior mastership at a preparatory school in Hampshire.

"Sixty pounds a year, Dean, not much, but still you're a beginner--it will give you time to think," said Mr. Fletcher, handing him the letter. John wrote accepting the offer. There were vigorous protests from Vernley and Marsh. At the end of the term, after a terrible wrenching from the school, his friends, the Fletchers, and all the beloved corners and places and daily events of four happy years, he went down with Vernley to his home. The latter still believed that John would accompany him to King's. Marsh had gone home with the same belief. Vernley's faith was based on the ability of his father to bring John round to common sense. There was a talk one afternoon in the library that brought a lump into John's throat, and a mist into his eyes, as he listened to the self-effacing generosity and kindly plans of the big, bluff man sitting in front of him. But he remained true to his decision. Mr. Vernley mopped his brow, hot with the attempt to suggest, as delicately as possible, a way out, and afraid all the time of hurting the boy's feelings. John thanked him in a voice that trembled.

"Well, well, John, you're an obstinate boy, but I won't worry you. You can do me a great favour by keeping an eye on Bobbie, and you won't--and I'll owe you a grudge all my life. But if you do want to give me real pleasure--then come to me whenever you will--I won't say more than that. You understand, my boy, don't you?" and with that he placed a kindly hand on the lad's shoulder. "And--'pon my word, I admire your grit--you're the right stuff!"

Dismay, blank dismay, was written on Vernley's face when he heard of the result. It was no use appealing to John--the latter had heard him to the limit of his patience. Vernley went to Muriel. She could act when others failed. To his amazement she did not agree.

"Scissors is quite right. You can say what you like, or put it how you like, but it's charity, and John would know it, and you would know--and it might make a difference. I think you're blind."

"But why?" cried Vernley, plaintively.

"John refuses to be helped simply because he thinks so much of us--he's not going to jeopardise his friendship by indebtedness or reasonable gratitude. But you men never can see these things. Only a woman understands."

"Rot!" said Vernley, but he began to understand. That night he wrote to Marsh. "I shouldn't mention it any more, Scissors can't be shaken--the Governor's failed, and if your Governor tried he might suspect a plot and throw us all over. Perhaps we'll have a chance later. School teaching's a hell of a life." True to his advice, Marsh dropped his own scheme, in which his father had concurred. When John arrived to spend September at the Vicarage the choice John had made was not opposed. They had a jolly holiday, jolly in so far as John, with the momentous events of the last two months in his mind, could be light-hearted. Often he looked into the future and sometimes was seized by despair at its hopelessness. It was not the task confronting him. Earning a living was the common lot of men, and the one in which they found most happiness. It was his loneliness, the apparent futility of his life. He was alone. That was the awful thought. This great, passionate world, and of all its millions, not one inseparably bound to him, to rise or fall with his success or failure! Ungenerous, perhaps, this thought. He had friends, such friends too! But the possession of friendship meant independence; he was not going to be behind and be pulled along in the race of life. They should have no cause to be sorry for him; rather would he have them eager to know him, to cherish his friendship the more for the success that he brought with it. He was of a class that found it easier to do a favour than receive one. He spent his life seeking, not a way out, but a way through. He was now braced for the contest, and the sternness of it exhilarated him with the freshness of a morning sea. He was diving from a great height of sunlit friendship into the cold sea of life.