The Hill Part 47

Youth be bearer Soon of hardihood; Life be fairer, Loyaller to good; Till the far lamps vanish into light, Rest in the dreamtime. Good night! Good night!"

The last Sat.u.r.day of the summer term saw the Manor c.o.c.k-house at cricket: almost a foregone conclusion, and therefore not particularly interesting to outsiders. During the morning Scaife gave his farewell "brekker"[39] at the Creameries; a banquet of the Olympians to which John received an invitation. He accepted because Desmond made a point of his so doing; but he was quite aware that beneath the veneer of the Demon's genial smile lay implacable hatred and resentment. The breakfast in itself struck John as ostentatious. Scaife's father sent quails, _a la Lucullus_, and other delicacies. Throughout the meal the talk was of the coming war. At that time most of the Conservative papers pooh-poohed the possibility of an appeal to arms, but Scaife's father, admittedly a great authority on South African affairs, had told his son a fight was inevitable. More, he and his friends were already preparing to raise a regiment of mounted infantry. At breakfast Scaife announced this piece of news, and added that in the event of hostilities he would join this regiment, and not try to pa.s.s into Sandhurst. And he added that any of his friends who were present, and over eighteen years of age, were cordially invited to send in their names, and that he personally would do all that was possible to secure them billets. The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Caesar Desmond was on his feet, with an eager--

"Put me down, Demon; put me down first!"

And then Scaife glanced at John, as he answered--

"Right you are, Caesar, and if things go well with us, I fancy that we shall get our commissions in regular regiments soon enough. The governor had had a hint to that effect. Let's drink success to 'Scaife's Horse.'"

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm.

During the holidays, John saw nothing of Desmond, although they wrote to each other once a week. John was reading hard with an eye to a possible scholars.h.i.+p at Oxford; Desmond was playing cricket with Scaife. Later, Desmond went to the Scaife moor in Scotland. John noted that his friend's letters were full of two things only: sport, and the ever-increasing probability of war. At the end of August John Verney, the explorer, returning to Verney Boscobel after an absence of nearly four years, began to write his now famous book on the Far East. Then John learned from his mother that his uncle had borne all the charges of his education. When he thanked him, the uncle said warmly--

"You have more than repaid me, my dear boy; not another word, please, about that. Warde tells me they expect great things of you at Oxford."

Uncle and nephew were alone, after dinner. John had noticed that the hards.h.i.+ps endured in Manchuria and Thibet had left scars upon the traveller. His hair was white, he looked an old man; one whose wanderings in wild places must perforce come soon to an end.

"Uncle," said John, "I want to chuck Oxford."

"Eh?"

"I should like to go into the Army."

"Bless my soul!"

The explorer eyed his nephew with wrinkled brow. John gave reasons; we can guess what they were. The prospect of war had set all ardent souls afire.

"I must think this over, my boy," the uncle replied presently. "I must sleep on it. Have you told your mother?"

"No; I counted upon you to persuade her."

"Um. Now tell me about Lord's! Ah! I'm sorry I missed that match."

Next day, his uncle said nothing of what lay next to John's heart, but the pair rode together over the estate. During that ride it became plain to the young man that his uncle had no intention of settling down. Once or twice, in the driest, most matter-of-fact tone, the elder spoke as if his heir were likely to inherit soon. Finally, John blurted out a protest--

"But, uncle, you are a strong man. Why do you talk as if--as if----" the boy couldn't finish the phrase.

"Tut, tut," said the uncle. "I know what I know"; and he fell into silence.

Not till the evening, after Mrs. Verney had gone to bed, did the man of many wanderings speak freely.

"John," said he, quietly, "I have a story to tell you. Years ago, your father and I fell in love with the same girl. She married the better man." He paused to fill a pipe: John saw that his uncle's fingers trembled slightly; but his voice was cool, measured, almost monotonous.

"I made my first expedition to Patagonia. When I came back you were just born; and I asked that I might be your G.o.dfather. I went to Africa after the christening. And six years later your father died. I think he had the purest and most unselfish love of the poor and helpless that I have ever known. He wore away his life in the service of the outcast and forlorn. And before he died, he expressed a wish that you should work as he did, for others, but not in precisely the same way. He knew, none better, the limitations imposed upon a parson. He prayed that you might labour in a field larger than one parish. And I promised him that I would do what I could when the time came. It has come--to-night. In my opinion, in Warde's opinion, in your dear mother's opinion, Parliament is the place for you. You will be sufficiently well off. Take all Oxford can give you, and then try for the House of Commons. Charles Desmond will make you one of his Private Secretaries. I have spoken to him. You have a great career before you."

"But if war breaks out, uncle----"

"War _will_ break out. Don't misunderstand me! If you are wanted out there, and the thing is going to be very serious, if you are wanted, you must go; but decidedly you are not wanted yet. And you are an only son; all your mother has. John, you must think of her, and you will think of her, I know."

The conviction in his quiet voice communicated itself to his nephew.

There was a pause of nearly a minute; and then John answered, in a voice curiously like his uncle's--

"All right."

Verney senior held out his hand. "I knew you would say that," he murmured.

On the 18th of September, when John returned to the Hill, the country had just learned that the proposals of the Imperial Government to accept the note of August 19th (provided it were not enc.u.mbered by conditions which would nullify the intention to give substantial representation to the Uitlanders) had not been accepted. That this meant war, none, least of all a schoolboy, doubted. Desmond could talk of nothing else. He told John that his father had promised to let him leave Harrow before the end of the term, if war were declared. The Demon, so John was informed, had made already preparations. He was taking out his three polo ponies, and had hopes of being appointed Galloper to a certain General. Scaife's Horse was being organized, but in any case would not take the field before several months had elapsed; the Demon intended to be on the spot when the first shot was fired.

To all this gunpowder-talk John listened with envious ears and a curious sinking of the heart. He had looked forward to having Desmond to himself; and lo! his friend was seven thousand miles away--on the veldt, not on the Hill.

"You are not keen," said Desmond.

On the day of the Goose Match, Sat.u.r.day, September 30th, Scaife came down to Harrow to take leave of his friends. Already, John noted an extraordinary difference in his manner and appearance. He treated John to a slightly patronizing smile, called him Jonathan, asked if he could be of service to him, and posed most successfully as a sort of sucking Alexander.

That he absorbed Desmond's eyes and mind was indisputable. Everything outside South Africa, and in particular the Hill and all things thereon, dwindled into insignificance. Scaife made Desmond a present of the very best maps obtainable, and nailed them on the wall above the mantelpiece, pulling down a fine engraving which John had given to Desmond about a year before. Desmond uttered no protest. The engraving was bundled out of sight behind a sofa.

And after Scaife's departure, Desmond talked of him continually, and always with enthusiasm. Warde added a note or two to the chorus.

"This is an opportunity for Scaife," he told John. "He may distinguish himself very greatly, and the discipline of the camp will trans.m.u.te the bad metal into gold. War is an alchemist."

Upon the 11th of October war was declared.

After that, Desmond became as one possessed. He went about saying that he pitied his father profoundly because he was a civilian and a non-combatant. Warde wrote to Charles Desmond: "If you mean to send Harry out, send him at once. He's fretting himself to fiddle-strings, doing no work, and causing others to do no work also."

Sir William Symons' victory and death followed, and then the mortifying retreat of General Yule. Upon the 30th day of the month eight hundred and fifty officers and men were isolated and captured. Who does not remember the wave of pa.s.sionate incredulity that swept across the kingdom when the evil tidings flashed over-seas? But Buller and his staff were on the _Dunottar Castle_, and all Harrovians believed devoutly that within a month of landing the Commander-in-Chief would drive the invaders back and conquer the Transvaal.

Day after day, Desmond importuned his father. The "fun" would be over, he pointed out, before he got there--and so on. At last word came. A billet had been obtained. Desmond received a long envelope from the War Office. He showed it to all his friends, old and young. Duff junior--Caesar's f.a.g--became so excited that he asked Warde for permission to enlist as a drummer-boy. The School cheered Caesar at four Bill.

And then came the parting.

Caesar was to join the Headquarters' Staff as soon as possible. He spent the last hours with John, but his mind, naturally enough, was concentrated upon his kit. He chattered endlessly of saddlery, revolvers, sleeping bags, and Zeiss gla.s.ses. John packed his portmanteau. And on the morrow the friends parted at the station without a word beyond--

"Good-bye, old Jonathan. Wish you were coming."

"Good-bye, Caesar. Good luck!"

And then the shrill whistle, the inexorable rolling of the wheels, the bright, eager face leaning far out of the window, the waved handkerchief, the last words: "So long!" and John's reply, "So long!"

John saw the face fade; the wheels of the vanis.h.i.+ng train seemed to have rolled over his heart; the scream of the engine was the scream of anguish from himself. He left the station and ran to the Tower. There, after the first indescribable moments, some kindly spirit touched him.

He became whole. But he had ceased to be a boy. Alone upon the tower he prayed for his friend, prayed fervently that it might be well with him, now and for ever--Amen.

When he returned to the Manor, however, peace seemed to forsake him. The horrible gap, ever-widening, between himself and Desmond might, indeed, be bridged by prayer, but not by the shouts of boys and the turmoil of a Public School.

During the rest of the term he worked furiously. Desmond was now on the high seas, whither John followed him at night and on Sundays. Warde, guessing, perhaps, what was pa.s.sing in John's heart, talked much of Desmond, always hopefully. From Warde, John learned that Charles Desmond had tried to dissuade his favourite son from becoming a soldier.

"He wanted him to go into Parliament," said Warde.