The Hill Part 29

"Just what he _will_ do," Caesar told John.

"And the best thing that could happen," John said bluntly. "If you don't cut loose now, it will be much worse next term."

"Rot," Desmond had replied. "I'm paying the usual bill for learning a difficult game. That's how the Demon puts it. But I've a turn for bridge, and now I can hold my own. I'm better than Beaumont-Greene, and quite as good as Lovell. The Demon, of course, is in another cla.s.s."

"And therefore he oughtn't to play with you. It's robbery."

"Now you're talking bosh."

The Eton and Harrow match ended in another draw. Time and Scaife's fielding saved Harrow from defeat. The fact of a draw had significance.

A draw spelled compromise. John had indulged in a superst.i.tious fancy common enough to persons older than he. "If Harrow wins," he put it to himself, "Caesar will triumph; if Eton wins, Caesar will lose." When the match proved a draw, John drew the conclusion that his pal would "funk"

telling the truth; an apprehension presently confirmed.

"I didn't tell the governor," said Caesar, when John and he met. "My eldest brother, Hugo, is coming home, and I shall screw it out of him.

He's a good sort, and he's going to marry a girl who is simply rolling.

He'll fork out, I know he will. I feel awfully cheery."

"I don't," said John.

He had good reason to fear that Caesar and he were drifting apart. Now he worked by himself. And his voice had broken. A small thing this, but John was sensible that his singing voice touched corners in Caesar's soul to which his speaking voice never penetrated. More, Caesar and he had agreed to differ upon points of conscience other than card-playing. And every point of conscientious difference increases the distance between true friends in geometrical progression. Poor Jonathan!

But we have his grateful testimony that Warde stood by him. And Warde made him see life at Harrow (and beyond) in a new light. Warde, indeed, decomposed the light into primary colours, a sort of experiment in moral chemistry, and not without fascination for an intelligent boy.

Sometimes, it became difficult to follow Warde--members of the Alpine Club said that often it was impossible--because he jumped where others crawled. And he clipped words, phrases, thoughts so uncommonly short.

"You're beginning to see, Verney, eh? Scales crumbling away, my boy. And strong suns.h.i.+ne hurts the eyes--at first. Black spots are dancing before you. I know the little devils."

Or again--

"This remove will wipe a bit more off the debt, won't it? Ha, ha! I've made you reckon up what you owe Mrs. Verney. But there are others----"

"I'm awfully grateful to you, sir."

"Never mind me."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"New Testament; Matthew; twenty-fifth chapter--I forget verse.[30] Look it up. Christ answers your question. Make life easier and happier for some of the new boys. Pa.s.s on grat.i.tude. Set it a-rolling. See?"

John had appet.i.te for such talk, but Warde never gave much of it--half a dozen sentences, a smile, a nod of the head, a keen look, and a striding off elsewhere. But when John repeated what Warde had said to Caesar, that young gentleman looked uneasy.

"Warde means well," he said; "and he's doing wonders with the Manor, but I hope he's not going to make a sort of tin parson of you?"

"As if he could!" said John.

"You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan."

"No, no."

"I say--yes."

"Caesar," said John, in desperation, "perhaps we _are_ sliding apart, but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. And think what it means to--me.

You've heaps of friends, and I never was first, I know that. You can do without me, but I can't do without you."

"Dear old Jonathan." Caesar held out his hand, smiling.

"I'm a jealous a.s.s, Caesar. And, as for calling me a parson," he laughed scornfully, "why, I'd sooner walk with you, even if you were the worst sinner in the world, than with any saint that ever lived."

The feeling in John's voice drove Caesar's gay smile from his face. Did he realize, possibly, for the first time, that if John and he remained friends, he might drag John down? Suddenly his face brightened.

"Jonathan," he said gravely, "to please you, I'll not touch a card again this term, and we'll have such good times these last three weeks that you'll forget the rest of it."

"And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?"

The Manor played in the c.o.c.k-house match at cricket, being but barely beaten by Damer's. Everybody admitted that this glorious state of affairs was due to Warde's coaching of the weaker members of the Eleven.

Scaife fielded brilliantly, and John, watching him, said to himself that at such times the Demon was irresistible. Warde invited the Eleven to dinner, and spoke of nothing but football, much to every one's amus.e.m.e.nt.

"He's right," said the Caterpillar; "we're not c.o.c.k-house at cricket this year, but we may be at footer."

John spent his holidays abroad with his mother, and when the School rea.s.sembled, he found himself in the First Fifth _alone_. With satisfaction he reflected that this was Lovell's last term, and Beaumont-Greene's, too. Warde said a few words at first lock-up.

"We are going to be c.o.c.k-house at footer, I hope," he began, "and next term Scaife will show the School what he can do at racquets; but I want more. I'm a glutton. How about work, eh? Lot o' slacking last term. Is it honest? You fellows cost your people a deal of money. And it's well spent, if, _if_ you tackle everything in school life as you tackled Mr.

Damer's last July. That's all."

"He's giving you what he gave me," said John.

"Good fellow, Warde," observed the Caterpillar; "in his room every night after prayers to mug up his form work."

"What?" Murmurs of incredulity.

"Fact, 'pon my word. And he never refuses a 'con' to a fellow who wants it."

"He's paid for it," sneered Scaife.

The other boys nodded; enthusiasm was chilled. Yes, of course Warde was paid for it. John caught Scaife's eye.

"You don't believe that he's in love with his job, as he told us?"

"Skittles--that!"

John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw.

"Skittles, is it?" he echoed. The other boys turned to listen. "Do you think he'd take a better paid billet?"

Scaife laughed derisively. "Of course he would, like a shot. But he's not likely to get the chance."

"He has just been offered the Head Masters.h.i.+p of Wellborough. It's worth about four thousand a year."

"Pooh! who told you that?"