The Loom of Youth Part 35

"Jolly rotten luck," said Lovelace, "and I was certain for a bat for making my fifty, too."

"Do you think so?" said Tester. "You know, they don't play to a finish in England. You are thinking of Australian rules."

Commemoration came and went, with its tea-parties, parasols, calf-bound books, sermons and cricket match. The term drew to its close.

"This is the best term I have ever had," said Gordon. "By Jove, we have had some good days."

Yet, of all things, that which remained clearest in his memory was one day early in the term, when he and Lovelace were recovering from chicken-pox. The school had gone for a field day to Salisbury, and they were left behind with Archie Fletcher, who had been ragging Jenks, and had been kept back for punishment, and a quant.i.ty of small fry. No work was done. In the morning they all had to go into the big schoolroom and hear Claremont read _Lycidas_ and parts of _Comus_.

Claremont read remarkably well, and Gordon, in an atmosphere of genial tolerance and good humour, was able to get a clearer insight into the real soul of the pedant of the Lower Fifth. For, shorn of his trappings, Claremont was "a dear old fellow." Among books he had found the lasting friendship and consolation that among his colleagues he had sought in vain. And as he read _Comus_, in many ways the most truly poetical poem in the English language, Gordon realised how sensitively Claremont's heart was wrought upon by every breath of beauty.

The afternoon they had to themselves. A net was put up on the field, and for an hour or so they beat about, regardless of science and footwork. A relaxation was a good thing now and again. Then they went back to the studies, and in the absence of its owner laid hold of the games study.

They had the run of it now, and, with an enormous basket of strawberries before them, played tunes on the gramophone and roared the chorus. As the evening fell, and the lights began to wake, Gordon and Archie stole down to the fried fish shop, strictly out of bounds, and returned with an unsavoury, but none the less palatable, parcel of fried fish and chips.

It was a glorious day; they enjoyed all Fernhurst's privileges with its restrictions removed, and when the notes of _Land of Hope and Glory_ proclaimed that the corps was marching up Cheap Street, they considered the return to realities to be almost an intrusion on their isolated peace.

In the last week of the term the Colts played Downside, and Gordon was still young enough to play for them. "The Bull" went with them, and could not have been kinder. He walked round the ground with Gordon in the interval, as if there had been never any cause of quarrel between them at all. They talked of books as well as cricket; and though "the Bull's" G.o.ds were not Gordon's, there was real sympathy between them for an hour. On the way back in the train, Gordon wondered whether, after all, he had not been right at the beginning, when he promised to curb his personality, and merge it into "the Bull's." What good was there in going his own way, in fighting for what he thought right? Buller always had had his own way, and things had gone on all right. Why should he try and alter things? Having realised "the Bull's" faults, should he not make allowance for them, seeing that his virtues so outnumbered his failings? He was certainly intolerant of any other opinions but his own; but then so was Ferrers, whom Gordon worshipped on the other side of idolatry. The pity was that Ferrers was intolerant of the things he hated, while Buller was intolerant of the things he admired. It was all very difficult. For the moment he did not feel ready to come to any decision. He was too happy to trouble himself. "Sufficient for the day were the day's evil things." Let the future reveal itself. He would see how things turned out.

The concert came, with its _Valete_ of many memories. The school songs were howled out; hands crossed and swung in _Auld Lang Syne_; the _Carmen_ nearly brought the roof down. Lying back in bed, Gordon saw little to regret in the school year that was just ending. Considering he had been second in the batting averages, he thought they might have given him his "Firsts"; but it did not matter very much. There was heaps of time. Three years of fulfilment. Half his school life was over. The threads of his youth had been unravelled at last; and in the coming year they would be woven upon the wonderful loom of youth, with its bright colours, its sunshine and its laughter. As the spring morn flings aside its winter raiment, so he had put off the garb of his wandering adolescence. He was prepared for whatever might come. But he was certain that it was only happiness that was waiting for him. Three years of success in which would be mingled the real poetry of existence. He would not write his poetry on paper; he would write it, as Herod had written it, in every action of his life. His innings was just about to begin.

BOOK IV: THE WEAVING

"Alba Ligustra cadunt; vaccinia nigra leguntur."

VERGIL.

"Life like an army I could hear advance Halting at fewer, fewer intervals."

HAROLD MONRO.

CHAPTER I: THE TWILIGHT OF THE G.o.dS

It is good to dream; but "Man proposes: G.o.d in His time disposes," and Gordon's dream was scattered at its dawn. Hardly a week later a great nation forgot its greatness, and Europe trembled on the brink of war.

During those days of awful suspense, when it was uncertain whether England would enter into the contest or not, Gordon could hardly keep still with nervous excitement. When on the Sunday before Bank Holiday J.L. Garvin poured out his warning to the Liberal Government, it seemed for a moment as if they were going to back out.

On the Tuesday Gordon went to the Oval; Lovelace major was playing against Surrey. In the Strand he ran into Ferrers.

"Come on, sir I am just off to the Oval to see Lovelace's brother bat.

Great fellow! Captain of the House my first term."

"Right you are. Come on. There's a bus!"

For hours, or what seemed like hours, two painfully correct professionals pottered about, scoring by ones and twos. Gordon longed for them to get out. A catch was missed in the slips.

"Surrey are the worst slip-fielding side in England," announced Gordon fiercely. The Oval crowd, always so ferociously partisan, moved round him uneasily.

At last a roar went up, as. .h.i.tch knocked the leg stump flying out of the ground. Then Lovelace came in. He looked just as he had looked on the green Fernhurst sward, only perhaps a little broader. He was wearing the magenta and black of the School House scarf. He was an amateur of the R.E. Foster type--wrist shots past cover, and an honest off-drive.

A change came over the play at once. In his first over he hit two fours.

There was a stir round the ground. His personality was as strong as ever.

A boy ran on the field with a telegram for him.

"I bet that means he has got to join his regiment," said Gordon, "and it also means we are going to fight."

Lovelace shoved the telegram into his pocket, and went on batting just as if nothing had happened, just as if he did not realise that this was his last innings for a very long time. He hit all round the wicket.

At last a brilliant piece of stumping sent him back to the pavilion amid a roar of cheering.

"My word, Mr Ferrers, there goes the finest man Fernhurst has turned out since I have been there. And, my word, it will be a long time before we turn out another like him. There will be nothing to see now he has gone."

They wandered out into the Kennington Road, excited, feverish. They had lunch at Gatti's, went into _Potash and Perlmutter_, and came out after the first act.

"This is no time for German Jews," said Ferrers, "let's try the Hippodrome."

It was an expensive day. They rushed from one thing to another. The strain was intolerable. After supper they went to the West End Cinema, and there, just before closing-time, a film, in which everyone was falling into a dirty duck-pond for no ostensible reason, was suddenly stopped, and there appeared across the screen the flaming notice:

ENGLAND HAS DECLARED WAR ON GERMANY

G.o.d SAVE THE KING!

There was dead silence for a moment. Then cheer upon cheer convulsed the house. The band struck up the National Anthem. The sequel to the tragedy of the duck-pond was never known.

"Glorious! Glorious!" said Ferrers, as they staggered out into the cool night air. "A war is what we want. It will wake us up from sleeping; stir us into life; inflame our literature. There's a real chance now of sweeping away the old outworn traditions. In a great fire they will all be burnt. Then we can build afresh. I wish I could go and fight. d.a.m.n my heart! To think of all the running it stood at Oxford; and then suddenly to give way. My doctor always tells me to be careful. If I could go, by G.o.d, I would have my shot at the b.l.o.o.d.y Germans; but still I'll do something at Fernhurst. Stoics, you know; Army cla.s.s English. How old are you? Sixteen! We shall have you for two years yet. This war is going to save England and everything! Glorious!"

The flaring lights of Leicester Square, the tawdry brilliance of Piccadilly seemed to burst into one volcano of red splendour; a thousand cannons spitting flame; a thousand eyes bright with love of England. The swaying Tube swept Gordon home in a state of subconscious delirium to the starlit calm of Hampstead.

Throughout the long summer holidays this feeling of rejoicing sustained Gordon's heart. He saw an age rising out of these purging fires that would rival the Elizabethan. He saw a second Marlowe and a second Webster. His soul was aflame with hope. He had no doubt as to the result. Even the long retreat from Mons, with its bitter list of casualties, failed to terrorise him. Half the holidays he spent in Wychtown, a little Somersetshire village, and his enthusiasm at one time took the form of buying bundles of newspapers, which he distributed at the cottages, so as to keep everyone in touch with the state of affairs.

At one time he thought of going round discussing the war with some of the villagers; but he soon abandoned this project. He began with an aged man who had fought at Majuba.

"Well, Mr Cavendish, and what do you think of the war this morning."

"Lor' bless you, things beant what they were in my young days. At Majuba, now, we did things a bit different-like. But these 'ere Germans, now, they be getting on right well. Be they for us?"

After this Gordon decided that the natural simplicity of the yokel was proof against anything he might have to say. He pitied electioneering agents.

A week before the beginning of term he received two letters. The first was from Lovelace, who had got a nomination to Sandhurst, and would not return to school next term. The other was from Hunter, saying that he had won a commission in the Dorsets.

"_Well, Caruthers, old fellow_," he added, "_this means that you will be captain of the House. I had greatly looked forward to being captain myself, and had thought out a good many new ideas. But of course all that has got to go now, and I don't intend to try and pa.s.s off my theories on you; you'll probably have many more than I had, and a good deal better ones. All I can say is that I wish the very best of luck to you and to the House. I have no doubt you'll do jolly well. Good luck._"

Gordon sat silent for a long while. Sorrow at losing Lovelace strove with the joy of reaching his heart's desire so soon. Finally all other emotions were lost in the overflowing sense of relief that his days of waiting for achievement were over.