Chapter Twenty Four.
“Small and Early” in the Sanatorium.
My recovery was far too rapid to please me. I never had such a jolly time in all my life. My mother was in and out all day; there were no lessons. I was allowed to summon any chum I liked to my bedside. I was receiving messages daily from masters and seniors, and, best of all, I had nothing the matter with me except, a strong disinclination to exert myself, and an occasional headache or dizziness when I sat up.
I had come up to Low Heath that term with the honest determination to “lie low.” I little expected, however, that I should find myself quite so literally adhering to my resolution.
My one trouble was that all this time I had not seen Tempest. I did not like to send for him, in case he should not appreciate the compliment. And he, as I guessed, would not care to come of his own accord for the uncomfortable ceremony of receiving my thanks. My mother told me he had often asked about me; but when she asked him to come and see me he had replied,—“I’ll see him as soon as he gets about again.” When she inquired about his hand he had replied airily that it was all right, and he was only keeping it in the sling to get it right for the Sports. “But,” said my mother, “I wish he would let the doctor see it, or give up running till it is well.”
“But,” said I, “he’s a chance of winning off Redwood.” This argument, which in ninety-nine cases out of one hundred in Low Heath would have been absolutely conclusive, failed to impress my mother in the least. She attached no importance to “winning off Redwood” compared with a boy’s health, and obdurately protested that if she were Tempest’s mother she would not allow him to think of running.
It was only my agitated appeals to her not to interpose that prevented her speaking to Dr England about the matter, and so knocking the race on the head altogether.
I took it as a compliment to myself that the Sports had been put off a fortnight in consequence of the fire. That warm event had so upset everything and monopolised so much attention that Low Heath would not have come up to scratch at all on the day originally fixed. And whereas the new date permitted of my being present to assist—though, alas! not to compete—in the day’s proceedings, I felt specially satisfied with the alteration.
I had naturally heard a good deal of Philosophical gossip during my convalescence. On my last evening in hospital especially, there was quite a symposium.
My mother, in an innocent moment, had remarked, “I should so like to have one or two of your friends to tea, sonny, before I go home. The doctor says it will not do you any harm—and we can have them in here, as you are the only invalid in hospital.”
“That’ll be ten, with you and me,” said I.
“Do you want quite so many?” asked she, beginning to get a little concerned.
“Must have the lot or none,” said I decisively. “We can cut out Rackstraw and Walsh, if you like—they’re paupers.”
“Oh, Tommy!” said the dear, tender-hearted one, “if they are not as well off as—”
“Oh, that’s not it. They can shell out as well as anybody; only they got on our club for nothing on condition of towing the boats, cleaning up, and that sort of thing.”
“At any rate, let us have them,” said my mother.
“All serene. Will you write the invitations? I say, mother, do you mind writing as well as you can? Our chaps are rather particular, you know, and I wouldn’t like them to snuff up at you.”
My poor dear mother began, I think, to repent of her hospitable offer, but decided to go through with it now.
So she got eight nice little sheets of scented invitation note, with envelopes to match, and wrote,—
“Mrs Jones requests the pleasure of Mr Alfred James Remington Trimble’s company to tea in the Sanatorium parlour this evening at 6 p.m.;” and so on, in each case.
My suggestion to add “R.S.V.P.” and “Evening dress de rigueur” she thought it best to decline. But her kind leniency was thrown away, for within half an hour eight notes dropped in upon us, couched in the politest phraseology.
Here was Langrish’s, for instance:—
“Everard Langrish, Esquire, begs to thank Mrs Jones for asking him to tea at six sharp, when he will be very pleased to fall in with her wishes and be of service in any other way her better feelings may dictate.”
Langrish told me afterwards he cribbed this last sentence out of a story he had read in a weekly newspaper. He rather fancied it was “on the spot.”
Trimble’s was less romantic:—
“Dear Madam,—I accept with thanks. Sarah gets rather outside sometimes, but we do what we can for him. Till then,—
“I am yours affectionately,—
“A.J.R. Trimble.”
Warminster’s was, no doubt, meant to be impressive:—“The President of the Philosophical Conversation Club presents his compliments to Mrs Jones, and desires to inform her of his intention to wait upon her at the hour named in her letter. He trusts that Mrs Jones is in good health, and that her ailing child will be spared to her a little longer. Having several matters to attend to, the President of the Philosophical Conversation Club must now abruptly terminate, namely, Percy Algernon Warminster.”
The ending seemed to me decidedly weak compared with the rest. I will only give one more—that of Coxhead:—
“Dear Mrs Jones, I’ll come to tea;
At six o’clock you shall me see.
I’m sorry Sarah’s been laid up
And drinks his physic from a cup.
Unless unto the contrary I hear.
My Eton suit I think I’ll wear.
And now ‘farewell,’ as great John Knox said.
Yours truly, Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead.”
This effusion struck me as rather like cheek; but my mother seemed to like it.
As evening approached I began to grow very nervous, and have to confess that my mother was the cause of my concern. I was so afraid she was not properly impressed with the gravity of the occasion—that perhaps she would not be dressed at her best—or that the tea might not be up to the mark—or that for any cause the fellows should consider they had been “done.” I’m sure I wearied the life out of her by my inquiries as to the nature of the jam, as to whether the cake would go round twice, whether any of the teacups were cracked, whether the nine chairs ranged round the little room were all sound on their legs, who would open the door to let them in, whether my mother would mind not proposing juvenile games like table-turning, or clumps, and whether when the time came for them to go she would mind not looking at her watch or yawning, for fear they should think it a hint.
All which points the dear soul faithfully promised should be borne in mind and attended to, with a little quiet banter at my expense, which helped to remind me that, after all, one’s mother may be trusted not to disgrace a fellow, if left to herself.
In due time she presented herself in her Sunday dress, looking very pretty and smart—quite creditable, in fact. The tea also, as it appeared laid out on the sideboard—I had urged, by the way, that it should be served in party style, and not partaken of round a table—looked a well-found meal for the most exacting of Philosophers. I myself reposed in state in bed, arrayed in my Eton jacket and best collar and choker. The fire in the hearth was both cheerful and adequate, and the knowledge that the Sanatorium maid was downstairs in her cap and clean apron, to show the young gentlemen up, finally relieved my anxiety.
In due time there was a ring, and a sound of the funereal tramp of eighteen feet on the staircase, and I knew that Mrs Jones’s party had begun.
They all trooped in together, looking very grave and shy, and spick and span in their full-dress, and evidently on their good behaviour. My mother shook hands with each in unexceptionable style, repeating his name as I announced it from the bed, and expressing her pleasure at making his acquaintance.
The sight of me propped up on my pillows, somewhat pale still, and as shy as themselves, seemed to impress them a good deal, and added to the funereal character of the entertainment. A long pause ensued, broken only by the entrance of the maid with the teapot, and Langrish’s remark to Trimble that it was a fine day.
Then my mother had the wit to observe that she hoped it would be equally fine on the day of the Sports, and she was so sorry she would miss them, as she understood Mr Sharpe’s house was likely to win a good many of the events, and of course her sympathies were entirely that way.
This went down beautifully, and drew from Coxhead the remark,—
“It’s a pity Sar—I mean Jones iv.—is out of it. He might have got the Quarter-mile.”
“Are the names down yet?” I asked.
“Yes. We stuck them down to-day,” said Langrish.
“Any one else in for the Senior Mile?”
“No; only Tempest and Redwood.”
Another pause—everybody evidently meditating what my mother would like to hear next.
My mother meanwhile moved to the sideboard and began to pour out tea.
“Do you take cream and sugar?” she said, with a pleasant smile, to Langrish. How relieved I was she did not call him “Everard” or “dear!”
“Yes, please—can I pass round?” he replied.
It was admirable. I had been in terror lest he would have collared the first cup and stuck to it.
“Thank you, if you will, please. I see they are beginning to get your old house ready for rebuilding.”
“It won’t be ready this term, though,” said Warminster; “it will take—a slice of cake, thanks.”
“No sugar for me, thanks,” said Coxhead. “I wonder if Jarman will have to pay for it?”
“Does your mater take cream and sugar?” said Purkis to me, in an aside.
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Langrish, “because he didn’t do it on purpose, you know.”
“Thank you very much. Do you mind putting it down there? And won’t you sit down?” said my mother, setting the example.
“I expect he’d better give up smoking, as he’s always setting things on fire,” ventured I. “Mother knows about the guy last term, don’t you, mother?”
“Yes, indeed,” said she, with a laugh, which won over the Philosophers in a body. “That was a lucky escape for everybody. I was horrified.”
“Well, old Sar—I mean Jones iv.—”
“I think he understands his nickname better than his real name,” said my clever parent.
“Old Sarah,” said Langrish, getting rapidly at his ease, “let us in for that. You see (cake up, please), it was this way—”
And he launched forth into an account of that famous adventure, into which the company one by one cut, at my expense, of course, and highly to the diversion of my mother.
Meanwhile the teapot was kept busy, and the jam went its rounds—some of it on to Coxhead’s shirt-front—and by the end of it all the Philosophers found themselves comfortably at home.
“I say,” said I, when a break came, “how’s the club getting on? Anything fresh?”
Langrish glanced round at my mother.
“I’ve got the minute-book,” he said, “would she—”
“Oh, do!” said she. “Is it an account of your meetings? I would like to hear it immensely. Debating societies are such capital things, I think.”
“It’s a bit down on Sarah, though,” said the secretary, dubiously.
“Why, I wasn’t there,” said I.
“Weren’t you? that’s all.”
“Let’s hear it,” said my mother, “I dare say he deserves it.”
I forgave the dear traitress for giving me away like this, for I felt sure the minutes would save our evening.
“You see,” said Trimble, “we try to keep it fair, so it’s down on some of the others too. But Sarah gets it a little the hottest.”
“I’m used to getting things hot by now,” said I; “forge ahead, and sit where I can shy the pillow at you.”
Whereupon Langrish moved his chair to a conspicuous place, and read,—
“‘A meeting of the Ph.C.C. was held in dormitory on February 1, at 9 p.m.’”
“Why, that’s when the fire was,” said Trimble.
“Shut—I mean what’s that got to do with it?” retorted the secretary.
“Well?” said my mother, taking a stitch or two at her needlework.
“‘Owing to the side put on by the ex-president, who was lately, kicked out for being a howling cad, and because he was down in form order—’”
“What a cram!” I interposed; “I was on the second desk, and should have had you down weeks ago if I hadn’t been laid up.”
“Ha, ha, I like that—you! Did your mater ever hear about corpore being the ablative masculine, eh?”
“No, I never heard about that,” said my mother.
“All right—Sarah will tell you—where was I, oh—down in form order, though he’s not quite such a crock as Coxhead, who is champion dunce in Low Heath—”
“Me?” exclaimed Coxhead, warm with tea and indignation.
“There you are,” said Langrish, “anybody but a champion dunce would have said ‘I.’ You ask Sarah’s mater if they wouldn’t.”
“Well, you, if you like,” said Coxhead; “what about it—”
“Look here, how can I read the minutes when—here we are—‘crock as Coxhead, who is champion dunce in Low Heath.’”
“What happened then?” said my mother, looking a little mixed.
“‘He was shunted to an outside berth, and was out of it.’”
“I rather think I was in it,” said I; “never mind.”
“Oh, if you think so, all right. The minutes say you were out of it. ‘He’d not begun to snore many minutes with deafening effect, when, as might be expected, Jarman set fire to the show to stop the noise.’”
“Do you think that’s why he did it, really?” asked Warminster.
“Look here, young Warminster. I don’t think, I—”
“Pity you don’t now and then,” remarked the newly-elected president.
Langrish looked hard at his colleague, and then glanced at my mother, whose face was bent over her work. Whereupon the secretary threw the minute-book at the president’s head, and observed,—
“Look out, Warminster; hand up that book, can’t you—it’s not yours.”
My mother looked up, and Warminster meekly surrendered the book.
“‘—Stop the noise. The club then adjourned, all except Sarah, who hung on, contrary to the rules, and is hereby fined 2 shillings 6 pence.’”
“Oh, I say,” protested I, “that’s rather rough, isn’t it?”
“‘But,’” proceeded Langrish, “‘owing to his mother coming up to buy him off, he is hereby let off with a fie— I mean a warning.’”
“Thank you so much,” said my mother, gratefully.
“‘When we thought he was pretty well warmed up, we sent Tempest in to fish him out, which he accordingly did, and is hereby elected honorary porter to the club, and is backed to win the Mile.’”
“That’s the least he deserves, surely,” said my mother, with feeling.
“‘Sarah, owing to this unprincipled conduct, has been suspended for a month, and the club hereby hopes some day not far off to see him sus—’ no, that’s wrong—I mean—”
“Hung,” suggested Trimble, in an audible whisper.
“Order—turn him out for saying hung, instead of hanged,” said the president.
“Shut up, can’t you?” said the secretary, “can’t you let me finish the sentence? ‘—See him sus—susceptible of better emotions.’”
“Hear, hear,” said the club, breathing again to see the corner turned.
“I hope that’s not all,” said my mother.
“That’s as far as we’ve got; but we’ll let him down easy in the next,” said Langrish.
“The next will have the account of the Sports, I suppose,” said my mother.
“If our men win,” said Warminster. “We’re bound to win the High Jump if Langrish keeps on his form; he did 4 feet 1 and a half inches this afternoon.”
“You needn’t talk—you’re all right for the 100 Yards,” said the modest Langrish; “there’s no one in, except young Brown of the day cads, who can touch you; and he’s sure to go a mucker on the day.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said I. “Dicky Brown doesn’t go muckers if he can help it.”
“There you are—backing the town cads now. I move, and Mrs Jones seconds, that Sarah be, and is hereby, kic—I mean sat upon by the club.”
“Oh, don’t, please,” said my mother, “the bed is not strong enough.”
“All right—it’s lucky for Sarah. If you were half a chap you’d see we didn’t lose the Quarter-mile. Rackstraw will have a look in at it, but it’ll puzzle him to beat Flitwick. Walsh is going to cut out for him. So we may just do it; but it’ll be a go—eh, paupers?”
Rackstraw and Walsh both protested there would be no difficulty about it if only the track was in good order, and their wind held out, and Flitwick muddled his start, and finished a yard or two behind. We were all prepared to stake the glory of Sharpe’s on these trifling conditions.
Presently the preparation bell began to toll, and the party broke up with a cordiality and cheerfulness which contrasted strangely with the solemnity with which it had begun. My mother was politely requested to become an honorary member of the club, and as politely consented, expressing a hope that she might meet with its honourable members many times again.
When they had gone she told me how much she had enjoyed the evening, and how she liked every one of them, and hoped they wouldn’t think her rude to have laughed now and then, but really, she said, not being used to it, she could not help it.
Next day she left, and, dismally enough, I made the first use of my liberty to accompany her in the fly to the station. She talked to me, as only she could, about the future, and the spirit in which she thought I would take up once more the work of the term and the thankfulness which she the widow, and I the orphan, could not help feeling to the Heavenly Father, who had saved us both from such peril and sorrow in the past. She urged me to show my gratitude for my escape, by seeking to follow more closely in the footsteps of that Saviour to whom she had so often taught me to look for help and guidance, and at the same time she urged me to pray for the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Her goodness only made my sorrow at parting the greater; and more than any time since I had entered Low Heath, the pangs of home-sickness fell upon me as I saw her into her carriage.
Just before the train started I felt my heart beat suddenly, and the blood rush to my cheeks, as I saw a figure, with one hand in a sling, running up the platform, looking into one carriage after another.
“Mother, here’s Tempest!”
Next moment he saw us, and ran up.
“I heard you were going by this train,” said he, “and I thought I would like to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye, my dear boy, and God bless you once more!”
“The youngster’s all right again, I see,” said he, putting his hand on my arm. “I’ll see he takes care of himself—good-bye.”
And the train steamed off, leaving us two on the platform.
“I hope your hand’s not awfully bad,” said I, breaking a silence of nearly three months in the only way which occurred for the moment.
“Rather not. We’d better cab it back—you’re not up to walking yet.”
“Thanks awfully, Tempest, for saving—”
“Look here, don’t let’s get on to that,” said he.
“I say,” said I, “I was afraid you believed what Crofter said, and thought—”
“You were an ass, Tommy—you always were—I ought to have remembered it. Of course I never believed a word Crofter said—I saw his game. But I was idiot enough to get riled at you for giving yourself away to him. I’m sorry. Now let’s forget it. After all, it was the best thing for me that all that row about my bills came out when it did. You did me a better turn than you meant to do. Just like you—if you try to do things the right way, it’s all up with everybody. But if you do them your own way, they manage to come round somehow.”
“But Crofter’s done you out of the captaincy.”
“So much the better—I didn’t deserve it. I’ll get it back some day perhaps, and work it better. Come in to me to tea. Redwood’s coming, and old Dicky, too.”
“But you’re against Redwood for the Mile,” said I.
“That’s no reason why I shouldn’t give him a cup of tea, is it, you young mule?”
The way he said it, and the grip of his hand on my arm, satisfied me that all was square once more between me and my dear old Dux.