CHAPTER II

I

John's first week at Sedley passed with amazing rapidity. It was all new to him, and enjoyable also. The masters were such a decent set of fellows, and already John had formed a strong alliance with Vernley. He had had tremendous good luck in this. Vernley was in his second year and entitled to a study. A small room at the end of the corridor was vacant, but it was only large enough for two boys. All the other studies had four occupants, save fellows in the fifth and sixth forms who had attained to the dignity of separate rooms. When Vernley discovered that he was the odd man out with a study of his own, he went straightaway to Mr. Fletcher and asked permission for John to share it, which was readily granted. He and John entered into partnership. So far the alliance had been a great success.

It was the Wednesday half-holiday and John had just had his first game of football. Exhilarated by the exercise and the novelty of it all, he had changed from his muddy shorts and red and white shirt, wallowed in the bath, and now sat stiff and tired in a wicker chair, holding toast to the fire, while Vernley got out the tea cups. Tea was the one meal they had in private, and both boys gloried in it.

John, burning the toast furiously, sniffed with delight.

"I say Verny--toast is the incense of the appetite--isn't it good?" and he sniffed long and loud. Vernley looked at him. John's curiously turned nostrils always fascinated him, they were just like the faun's in the drawing class.

"You ought to be called Bunny, not Scissors," he said, pouring hot water into the teapot.

"Why?" asked John turning round in the chair.

"Damn!--watch that toast, it'll be black! Why, because you twitch your nose like a rabbit. That's enough, don't toast any more."

There was a long break in the conversation, filled with the noise of crunching.

"I shall have to go in a minute--I forgot to fill Lindon's kettle," said John.

"Hang Lindon--he's always running you about. I knew he would. He doesn't like your being here."

"Don't talk rot--he's been jolly decent to me, he was coaching me all this afternoon. He's going to give me an hour at racquets to-morrow," said John, defending Lindon stoutly; then seeing that he had hurt Vernley--

"I say, Verny--don't be jealous--only it is decent of him. Why don't you like him?"

He looked at Vernley, who shifted uneasily and kicked the fender.

"I never said I didn't like him," he answered.

"But I know you don't--what's the reason?"

"Well--it's because you're such a kid, Scissors."

"Thanks, you're a year older--but that's no reason."

"P'raps not--but I knew Lindon would go for you--I said so the first night."

"To-day's the first time he's taken any notice of me."

"Is it?--he's watched you like a cat for a week. You don't know Lindon--I do."

"Then why are you so mysterious about him?"

Vernley got up and cut himself a piece of cake.

"Have a piece, Scissors?"

"Thanks."

"Look here, Scissors, you've said I'm jealous--well I am, but not for the reason you think. You're only a kid and a green one at that. I'm a year older, which isn't much, but I've been at school five years, in a prep, and here, and I know who's who. Lindon's a clever chap, captain of the first eleven, our best bat and all that--but keep clear of him."

Vernley would say no more after that. John went out and filled Lindon's kettle and returned. His forced manner made Vernley watch him curiously; John was evidently upset.

"What is the matter," he asked John, abruptly.

"Nothing."

"That's a lie, Scissors--try again."

John flushed deeply--"Well, nothing much," he confessed.

"Has Lindon said anything?"

"Yes."

"About me?"

John was silent.

"I guessed so," said Vernley bitterly, "and you believe him?"

"No--I don't--and I don't understand,--and I don't want to understand."

"But, Scissors, if--in the past," added Vernley. He looked anxiously at John, who had picked up Punch and was looking through it.

"Well--the past is the past, that's all. I say, Verny, listen to this," he said, reading from the paper. He had dismissed the subject, and Vernley sat and listened, looking at his friend with a doglike affection.

II

John enjoyed the Saturday evenings when they all gathered in Mr. Fletcher's study. They sat wherever they liked, on the floor, the lounge, or in the windows, while Fletcher talked and his wife poured out the coffee. Fletcher was a man of ideas and of sufficient strength of mind to carry them out. He was never so happy as when, pipe in mouth, he debated with six or eight boys at a time. It was a time-honoured custom for the boys of his house to come in each Saturday evening to talk over the school matches or any other topic that presented itself. There was no attempt to make the conversation "improving." Sometimes, led by a question, Fletcher would tell them about his travels in Greece and Italy, illustrating them with snapshots in his albums, or perhaps Mrs. Fletcher or one of the boys would sing. The repertoire was in no way restricted. Occasionally Vernley had to be forcibly deposed from the piano stool after an orgy of music-hall ditties or waltz tunes, and any outburst of ragging was quickly suppressed. The boys were not compelled to enter into any conversation. They could take down the books and read if they wished and sometimes complete silence reigned until Fletcher stood up, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and said "Time, boys."

There was one particular pleasure to which John always looked forward--that was Lindon's playing. There was a magic quality in it which held them spellbound; even Vernley admitted that Lindon knew his way about on the piano. The pianist would sit down in front of the keyboard, wait for the preparatory hush which he commanded as a brilliant performer, run his fingers up and down the keys once or twice as if making their acquaintance, and then begin. Sometimes it was Beethoven he played. John never forgot the thrill that ran down his spine when he heard the _Pathetique_ for the first time. Its great soulful chords crashed through him, echoing along his brain like thunder in a valley.

But on this particular evening, Lindon was in a more festive mood. He had won glory on the field that afternoon; his swiftness, his quick decision had brought victory to his house, and some of the seriousness which usually invested his manner was forgotten. It was the last Saturday night of term. The examinations were nearly over. The holiday spirit already made the school restive. So Lindon was in good spirits. He chose Chopin, and sent the melodies rippling from beneath his wonderful fingers.

John, completely fascinated, stood leaning on the flat top of the grand, it being his duty to turn over the music when the demi-god nodded. Lindon started off with the _Valse Brilliante_ in four flats. It was hackneyed, but not so to John who listened while the magic movement seemed to lift him up with ecstasy. Then the pianist played _Op._ 64--he seemed scarcely to touch the keys, for they whirred just like the wind blowing through a leafy tree. It was the speed, the superb vivacity of it all that entranced John. Now they were butterflies dancing rapturously, now a spinning wheel. Here was something that reached an eloquence beyond words, a joy greater than anything he had ever known. When Lindon ceased, John's eyes were sparkling with intense delight. The pianist, seeing his pleasure, laughed lightly. The applause he did not appear to notice; it was John's boyish approval which he looked for and found at the conclusion of each piece.

How long Lindon sat at the keyboard John had no idea. His ecstasy was suddenly shattered by the performer who said,

"Only one more, Scissors, then you can sit down."

And this time it was something that stirred John until he felt he must cry out. It was the exquisite pain of it. As he watched Lindon he was strangely attracted; the latter was no longer smiling. He sat with compressed lips and stern eyes. The slender hands flew over the thundering bass and swept like a whirlwind into the treble. The player's hair, shaken with the energy of his execution had fallen over his brow. There was something fierce about Lindon as he sat there, something that made John draw in his breath with half fear and wonder. He had never seen this Lindon before. The gracious, laughing young hero whom he worshipped had changed into a being capable of great passion, and perhaps cruelty.

It was the _Drum Polonaise_ which Lindon played. It began like the slow murmur of thunder, and then it broke into a wild ecstatic music like the mad flight of a thousand horses across a prairie. John wondered how so much sound and furious activity could be torn out of that piano, and the player's frenzy almost terrified him as he turned the music, but his fear suddenly changed to a feeling of dread and helplessness. The second movement had begun with its monotonous bass. John listened, breathless; it was the sound of that drum which enthralled him. It grew in intensity and passion, it called, called, called with a horrible fascination. John looked at Lindon, but the latter seemed oblivious of all but the page before him. The sound swelled up and smote on John's ears like a flood of waters; a curious numbness stole over him--the drum seemed nearer now, it was soothing, he would know nothing soon, already feeling had left him, he--

Lindon was the first to jump up as John swayed and fell in a heap on the floor. He sprang from the stool and lifted up the insensible lad. Fletcher and his wife were pending over John when he opened his eyes again. Where was he? He did not quite know, yet he was very tired. Then he heard some one call "Scissors!" and looking up again saw Lindon bending over him, with anxious face. He was safe; he could feel the rigid muscles of his arms as he held him. He let his head sink with a sigh.

"I think it's the air, sir, we're rather warm in here," said Lindon to Fletcher.

"Carry him into the hall, Lindon--you boys stop here."

"Let me take him," said Mrs. Fletcher, all the mother nature of her sounding in her voice.

"It's all right, Mrs. Fletcher, I can carry him. I think the porch would be the best place. The cold air will bring him round."

Lindon lifted John like a baby and went out into the porch followed by Fletcher and his wife. He deposited his burden in a wicker chair.

"Don't wait, sir, I'll bring him in in a bit--look, he's all right now." John sat up and looked at the anxious trio.

"Better?" asked Fletcher, cheerfully.

"Yes, sir--I'm awfully sorry," replied John.

"Don't worry, my boy--you've played too hard to-day. Now sit here a bit with Lindon. Ah, here we are!"

Mrs. Fletcher had returned with rugs and wrapped the boy round with them.

When Fletcher and his wife had gone, John and Lindon sat in silence.

Lindon could see Dean's face in the dim light and his eyes were still very bright as he looked up at the sky.

"Scissors," said Lindon quietly, "why did you faint?"

"I don't know, Lindon--you frightened me, I think."

"Am I so terrible?" the question was asked jokingly but not without an undercurrent of feeling.

"No--but you fascinate me--you have done since the first. It's only when you are playing that I really seem to see you properly."

Lindon gave a short laugh. "What a queer little beggar you are--I suppose the East is in your blood. I hope Vernley hasn't been playing on your imagination too much--he talks about me?"

"No, he doesn't," said John shortly, "and you shouldn't ask me--I'm his friend."

"I'm sorry, Scissors--it is caddish, only--" he broke off and looked out into the night. John sat in silence and waited. He knew Lindon wanted to say something. Presently he spoke.

"You see, Scissors, I don't want anything to upset our--well, we get on fairly well, don't we? Somehow you've made me feel--oh, I'm talking rot."

"I suppose you've seen how I watched you," said John, "--I simply couldn't hide it--I'm a little fool I know."

"That's what made it all so difficult. It's not easy being a god," responded Lindon. "You've put me on a pedestal--and I want to keep on it." They talked more easily after that.