Sir Harry: A Love Story

by Archibald Marshall

THE END OF THE SUMMER

It was a golden day in September, which is perhaps the most beautiful of all English months, though touched with a gentle melancholy that may be either soothing or saddening, according to circumstances. Regarded as the time for taking up a new spell of work or duty after the relaxation of summer holiday, it is a delightful month, especially when the surroundings in which the work is to be done are such as existed at Royd. The Grant family had returned from the seaside and the Vicar-novelist was positively revelling in his enjoyment of home, and declaring that the best day of a holiday was its last. He had acquired a splendid idea for a novel which should excel all previous novels of his by many degrees, and put into the shade a large number of novels by other writers who had hitherto enjoyed a success in advance of his own. He had sat down to write the first chapter on the morning after their arrival at the Vicarage, and felt to the full the restful charm of his clean, comfortable room, with all his books and conveniences around him, and the garden outside in the full coloured glow of its autumn profusion.

Jane and Pobbles had resumed their studies under the guidance of Miss Minster, and if they were without the experience of satisfaction on that account which their father enjoyed, there was yet satisfaction to be gained from returning to the society of Harry, to whom they had an enormous amount of information to impart.

Harry had also begun work again. The next three months were to be strenuous ones for him, with many hours to be spent with Wilbraham and many more with an army coach who had been called in to supplement Wilbraham's deficiencies. This was Mr. Hamerton, an obscure man of middle age, who hated coaching embryo subalterns, hated the society of women, and enjoyed life only when in the embrace of the purest of pure mathematics. He was probably the most serenely happy of all the inhabitants of Royd Castle at this time. His hours with Harry were strictly defined, and his pupil, though not an enthusiast in mathematics as he would have liked him to be, showed intelligence and application. The house was not always full of fresh people with whom he had to begin all over again, and he was not expected to spend valuable hours in desultory and desolating conversation with the ladies of the house itself, whom he met only at meal-times. He had most of his time to himself in the large quiet house, which he seldom quitted, and Harry had given up to him his room in the tower, from the top of which he could observe the stars through a telescope of more respectable dimensions than it was customary to find in a country house. Mr. Hamerton, retiring to the absolute seclusion of his room, and the hours of undisturbed study or astronomical contemplation so happily accorded him, would rub his hands with furtive glee over his good fortune in having obtained such employment as this; and the relief to all other members of the household in having him out of the way was unspeakable.

Harry was with the children in the log cabin. They had been home a fortnight, but this was the first time that they had succeeded in drawing Harry there, though they had raced up to it themselves at the first possible moment after their return.

It was Saturday afternoon. They had had a picnic tea, with the "billy" boiled on a fire made of sticks outside, and everything in orthodox backwoods fashion. Jane and Pobbles had looked forward to it enormously, but somehow it had not been quite the success that they had anticipated, though Harry had made himself very busy with the preparations, and on the outside everything had seemed to be as it had been before they went away. Now he and Jane were sitting on the bench outside the cabin, while Pobbles had reluctantly retired to fulfil a half-hour's engagement with Miss Minster, consequent upon some scholastic failure on his part earlier in the week.

The two of them had been talking, as they had been wont to talk, playing with the idea of such a life as this as a real life and not a make-believe. But the virtue had gone out of such play for Harry. Even now, as he did his best to respond to Jane and not to let her see that his heart was no longer in any game, he was thinking of the last time he had sat where he was sitting now, with Viola, and talked in something of the same way, but with how different a meaning behind the talk!

The talk died down. In Jane's sensitive little soul was the knowledge that Harry's heart was not in it. She looked up at him and saw his eyes fixed on something beyond the green and russet of the trees in front of them, and caught the look of yearning in his face.

"Aren't you happy, Harry?" she asked. "I'll go away and not bother you, if you'd like me to."

He turned quickly to her, full of compunction that he should have failed her after all. He had been so determined that the children should see no difference in him. Why, indeed, should there be any towards them? He had looked forward to their return after Viola had gone away. His affection for them, because of their childhood, was in some ways nearer to his love for Viola than other affections of his life; they would console him for the loss of her. And they had done so; but his longing for her was so great, and no consolation was of much avail to ease it.