(II)
Frank lay a long time awake in the dark that night, holding tight in his hand Jenny's letter, written to him in June. The bill he had not even troubled to open.
For the letter said exactly and perfectly just all those things which he most wished to hear, in the manner in which he wished to hear them. It laughed at him gently and kindly; it called him an extraordinarily silly boy; it said that his leaving Cambridge, and, above all, his manner of leaving it—Frank had added a postscript describing his adventure with the saddle and the policeman—were precisely what the writer would have expected of him; it made delightful and humorous reflections upon the need of Frank's turning over a new leaf—there was quite a page of good advice; and finally it gave him a charming description—just not over the line of due respect—of his father's manner of receiving the news, with extracts from some of the choicest remarks made upon that notable occasion. It occupied four closely-written pages, and if there were, running underneath it all, just the faintest taint of strain and anxiety, loyally concealed—well—that made the letter no less pleasant.
I have not said a great deal about what Jenny meant to Frank, just because he said so very little about her himself. She was, in fact, almost the only element in his variegated life upon which he had not been in the habit of pouring out torrential comments and reflections. His father and Archie were not at all spared in his conversation with his most intimate friends; in fact, he had been known, more than once, in a very select circle at Cambridge, to have conducted imaginary dialogues between those two on himself as their subject, and he could imitate with remarkable fidelity his Cousin Dick over a billiard-table. But he practically never mentioned Jenny; he had not even a photograph of her on his mantelpiece. And it very soon became known among his friends, when the news of his engagement leaked out through Jack, that it was not to be spoken of in his presence. He had preserved the same reticence, it may be remembered, about his religion.
And so Frank at last fell asleep on a little iron bedstead, just remembering that it was quite possible he might have another letter from her to-morrow, if Jack had performed his commission immediately. But he hardly expected to hear till Tuesday.
Gertie was up soon after five next morning to get breakfast for her men, since the Major had announced that he would go with Frank to see whether possibly there might not be a job for him too; and as soon as they had gone, very properly went to sleep again on the bed in the sitting-room.
Gertie had a strenuous time of it, in spite of the Major's frequently expressed opinion that women had no idea what work was. For, first, there was the almost unending labor of providing food and cooking it as well as possible; there was almost a standing engagement of mending and washing clothes; there were numerous arguments to be conducted, on terms of comparative equality, if possible, with landladies or farmers' wives—Gertie always wore a brass wedding-ring and showed it sometimes a little ostentatiously; and, finally, when the company was on the march, it was only fair that she should carry the heavier half of the luggage, in order to compensate for her life of luxury and ease at other times. Gertie, then, was usually dog-tired, and slept whenever she could get a chance.
It was nearly eight o'clock before she was awakened again by sharp knocking on her door; and on opening it, found the landlady' standing there, examining a letter with great attention. (It had already been held up to the light against the kitchen window.)
"For one of your folks, isn't it, Mrs.—er—" Gertie took it. It was written on excellent paper, and directed in a man's handwriting to Mr. Gregory:
"Thank you, Mrs.—er—" said Gertie.
Then she went back into her room, put the letter carefully away in the drawer of the table and set about her household business.
About eleven o'clock she stepped out for a little refreshment. She had, of course, a small private exchequer of her own, amounting usually to only a few pence, of which the Major knew nothing. This did not strike her as at all unfair; she only wondered gently sometimes at masculine innocence in not recognizing that such an arrangement was perfectly certain. She got into conversation with some elder ladies, who also had stepped out for refreshment, and had occasion, at a certain point, to lay her wedding-ring on the bar-counter for exhibition. So it was not until a little after twelve that she remembered the time and fled. She was not expecting her men home to dinner; in fact, she had wrapped up provisions for them in fragments of the Major's Sporting Times before they had left; but it was safer to be at home. One never knew.
As she came into the room, for an instant her heart leaped into her mouth, but it was only Frank.
"Whatever's the matter?" she said.
"Turned off," said Frank shortly. He was sitting gloomily at the table with his hands in his pockets.
"Turned off?"
He nodded.
"What's up?"
"'Tecs," said Frank.
Gertie's mouth opened a little.
"One of them saw me going in and wired for instructions. He had seen the case in the police-news and thought I answered to the description. Then he came back at eleven and told the governor."
"And—"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"And George?"
"Oh! he's all right," said Frank a little bitterly. "There's nothing against him. Got any dinner, Gertie? I can't pay for it ... oh, yes, I can; here's half a day." (He chucked ninepence upon the table; the sixpence rolled off again, but he made no movement to pick it up.)
Gertie looked at him a moment.
"Well—" she began emphatically, then she stooped to pick up the sixpence.
Frank sighed.
"Oh! don't begin all that—there's a good girl. I've said it all myself—quite adequately, I assure you."
Gertie's mouth opened again. She laid the sixpence on the table.
"I mean, there's nothing to be said," explained Frank. "The point is—what's to be done?"
Gertie had no suggestions. She began to scrape out the frying-pan in which the herrings had been cooked last night.
"There's a letter for you," she said suddenly.
Frank sat up.
"Where?"
"In the drawer there—by your hand. Frankie...."
Frank tore at the handle and it came off. He uttered a short exclamation. Then, with infinite craft he fitted the handle in again, wrapped in yet one more scrap of the Sporting Times, and drew out the drawer. His face fell abruptly as he saw the handwriting.
"That can wait," he muttered, and chucked the letter face downwards on to the table.
"Frankie," said the girl again, still intent on her frying-pan.
"Well?"
"It's all my fault," she said in a low voice.
"Your fault! How do you make that out?"
"If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have taken the tin from George, and...."
"Oh, Lord!" said Frank, "if we once begin on that!... And if it hadn't been for George, he wouldn't have taken the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie Cooper, there wouldn't have been the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie's father's sister, she wouldn't have gone out with it. It's all Maggie's father's sister's fault, my dear! It's nothing to do with you."
The words were brisk enough, but the manner was very heavy. It was like repeating a lesson learned in childhood.
"That's all right," began Gertie again, "but—"
"My dear girl, I shall be annoyed if you go back to all that. Why can't you let it alone? The point is, What's to happen? I can't go on sponging on you and the Major."
Gertie flushed under her tan.
"If you ever leave us," she said, "I'll—"
"Well?"
"I'll ... I'll never leave George."
Frank was puzzled for a moment. It seemed a non sequitur.
"Do you mean—"
"I've got me eyes," said Gertie emphatically, "and I know what you're thinking, though you don't say much. And I've been thinking, too."
Frank felt a faint warmth rise in his own heart. "You mean you've been thinking over what I said the other day?"
Gertie bent lower over her frying-pan and scraped harder than ever.
"Do stop that confounded row one second!" shouted Frank.
The noise stopped abruptly. Gertie glanced up and down again. Then she began again, more gently.
"That's better," said Frank.... "Well, I hope you have," he went on paternally. "You're a good girl, Gertie, and you know better. Go on thinking about it, and tell me when you've made up your mind. When'll dinner be ready?"
"Half an hour," said Gertie.
"Well, I'll go out for a bit and look round."
He took up the letter carelessly and went out.