On the afternoon of the day following he sat in the smoking-room with a prayer book in his hand, and a frown on his forehead, reading the Marriage Service.The book had been effectively designed for not spoiling the figure when carried in a pocket.But this did not matter, for even if he could have read the words, he would not have known what they meant, seeing that he was thinking how he could make a certain petition to a certain person sitting just behind at a large bureau with a sliding top, examining artificial flies.
He fixed at last upon this form:
"Gordy!" (Why Gordy no one quite knew now--whether because his name was George, or by way of corruption from Guardian.) "When Cis is gone it'll be rather awful, won't it?""Not a bit."
Mr.Heatherley was a man of perhaps sixty-four, if indeed guardians have ages, and like a doctor rather than a squire; his face square and puffy, his eyes always half-closed, and his curly mouth using bluntly a voice of that refined coarseness peculiar to people of old family.
"But it will, you know!"
"Well, supposin' it is?"
"I only wondered if you'd mind asking Mr.and Mrs.Stormer to come here for a little--they were awfully kind to me out there.""Strange man and woman! My dear fellow!""Mr.Stormer likes fishing."
"Does he? And what does she like?"
Very grateful that his back was turned, the boy said:
"I don't know--anything--she's awfully nice.""Ah! Pretty?"
He answered faintly:
"I don't know what YOU call pretty, Gordy."He felt, rather than saw, his guardian scrutinizing him with those half-closed eyes under their gouty lids.
"All right; do as you like.Have 'em here and have done with it, by all means."Did his heart jump? Not quite; but it felt warm and happy, and he said:
"Thanks awfully, Gordy.It's most frightfully decent of you," and turned again to the Marriage Service.He could make out some of it.In places it seemed to him fine, and in other places queer.
About obeying, for instance.If you loved anybody, it seemed rotten to expect them to obey you.If you loved them and they loved you, there couldn't ever be any question of obeying, because you would both do the things always of your own accord.And if they didn't love you, or you them, then--oh! then it would be simply too disgusting for anything, to go on living with a person you didn't love or who didn't love you.But of course SHE didn't love his tutor.Had she once? Those bright doubting eyes, that studiously satiric mouth came very clearly up before him.You could not love them; and yet--he was really very decent.A feeling as of pity, almost of affection, rose in him for his remote tutor.
It was queer to feel so, since the last time they had talked together out there, on the terrace, he had not felt at all like that.
The noise of the bureau top sliding down aroused him; Mr.
Heatherley was closing in the remains of the artificial flies.
That meant he would be going out to fish.And the moment he heard the door shut, Mark sprang up, slid back the bureau top, and began to write his letter.It was hard work.
"DEAR MRS.STORMER, "My guardian wishes me to beg you and Mr.Stormer to pay us a visit as soon as you come back from the Tyrol.Please tell Mr.Stormer that only the very best fishermen--like him--can catch our trout;the rest catch our trees.This is me catching our trees (here followed a sketch).My sister is going to be married to-morrow, and it will be disgusting afterwards unless you come.So do come, please.And with my very best greetings, "I am, "Your humble servant, "M.LENNAN."When he had stamped this production and dropped it in the letter-box, he had the oddest feeling, as if he had been let out of school; a desire to rush about, to frolic.What should he do?
Cis, of course, would be busy--they were all busy about the wedding.He would go and saddle Bolero, and jump him in the park;or should he go down along the river and watch the jays? Both seemed lonely occupations.And he stood in the window--dejected.
At the age of five, walking with his nurse, he had been overheard remarking: "Nurse, I want to eat a biscuit--ALL THE WAY I want to eat a biscuit!" and it was still rather so with him perhaps--all the way he wanted to eat a biscuit.He bethought him then of his modelling, and went out to the little empty greenhouse where he kept his masterpieces.They seemed to him now quite horrible--and two of them, the sheep and the turkey, he marked out for summary destruction.The idea occurred to him that he might try and model that hawk escaping with the little rabbit; but when he tried, no nice feeling came, and flinging the things down he went out.He ran along the unweeded path to the tennis ground--lawn tennis was then just coming in.The grass looked very rough.But then, everything about that little manor house was left rather wild and anyhow; why, nobody quite knew, and nobody seemed to mind.He stood there scrutinizing the condition of the ground.A sound of humming came to his ears.He got up on the wall.There was Sylvia sitting in the field, making a wreath of honeysuckle.He stood very quiet and listened.She looked pretty--lost in her tune.
Then he slid down off the wall, and said gently:
"Hallo!"
She looked round at him, her eyes very wide open.
"Your voice is jolly, Sylvia!"
"Oh, no!"
"It is.Come and climb a tree!"
"Where?"
"In the park, of course."
They were some time selecting the tree, many being too easy for him, and many too hard for her; but one was found at last, an oak of great age, and frequented by rooks.Then, insisting that she must be roped to him, he departed to the house for some blind-cord.
The climb began at four o'clock--named by him the ascent of the Cimone della Pala.He led the momentous expedition, taking a hitch of the blind-cord round a branch before he permitted her to move.
