One week later that bubbling effervescence which had been the outward and visible sign of the school’s unrest had very largely subsided. Harleyans were once more going in dignity about their ways.
At morning prayers those who knew best the temper of the school looked out over the sea of faces, all of which seemed calmly set as if in resignation.
It was true that there had been a couple of friendly matches between houses, but real enthusiasm was lacking. There was over all that hard fact that however well a fellow played he could not win his colours. There were not going to be any colours. This hit the rising and ambitious youngsters badly.
Roe himself had kept discreetly quiet.
The Head had made no further mention of the matter, except to cause it to be known that his own son was Harley’s official Rugger captain.
And through this time of fasting, watching the lean year that had been his dread as it came upon the school and gripped it, Rouse bore himself blithely, true to himself, his sorrow hidden under a mask of gaiety that only deceived the few.
One day Bobbie Carr received a letter, and the next day he went forth into the open country and, striking the footpath that led from the school into the woods, branched away from it and came upon a stile. Upon this stile he settled himself to wait.
136He had not to wait long, and this was fortunate, because he was continually looking about him in fear lest somebody should come upon him waiting there.
At last, looking over the open fields, he saw a distant figure coming towards him along the trodden pathway, and he knew it at a glance. He jumped up and waved, saw the answering gesture and started forward; then suddenly remembered and stopped and looked round dubiously. He was best hidden from prying eyes in the corner where he had waited, and so he drew back under the trees and possessed himself in patience until at last the man had come and he could grip him by the hands.
“Father,” said he.
The man drew him affectionately against the stile, and leaned there in real content for a while before he spoke.
“It’s a roundabout way from the station,” he said at last. “Still, I know the country. It’s a good meeting-place.”
He paused. There was clearly something else upon his mind—something that had made him come; something that Bobbie had read between the lines of his letter. He asked at last quietly enough:
“You’ve kept the secret, Bobbie? Nobody’s found out? Nobody knows?”
For the fraction of a second Bobbie hesitated. Then he spared his father the truth that need not necessarily be told, and shook his head.
“I’ve told no one, of course.”
The man seemed honestly relieved. He began to ask questions about school and the new life; the conversation opened on to a wider field. Time passed.
It must have been an hour later that his father at last held out both hands, said good-bye abruptly and turned away. Bobbie watched him as he went slowly back along the pathway, and for the first time 137since he had been at school he was conscious of a kind of home-sickness. His father was so evidently lonely.
He did not turn until the figure on the pathway had passed out of sight, and then he did so regretfully and started back to school. And as he went his father’s warning drummed in his head: “Just this once and then, I think, never again. But until it is over you must promise me that not even your best friend here shall know your secret. You can’t understand as I can what they would say of you here if they knew. And I may not be able to keep my right name out of the papers.”
Those had been his father’s final words. And all the way back to the school he kept remembering them.
Outside Morley’s Coles met him. He was carrying a handful of belongings and he wore a cunning smile upon his countenance.
“Carr,” said he, “I have something to say to you.”
“Yes,” said Bobbie.
“I’m leaving Morley’s.” He paused. “It’s the Head,” he explained. “For some reason or other he wants me in Seymour’s. There’s no help for it. I’ll have to go. It’s an order.”
He gazed into the distance. Bobbie’s heart beat quickly with delight. To lose Coles would be an unprecedented joy. It was a stroke of luck upon which he had never reckoned. He turned to Coles with shining eyes and seemed about to thank him cordially for going.
Coles looked down upon him with calculated craft.
“Don’t be under any misapprehension,” said he. “I have explained to the Head exactly how things are—and you—are going too.”
Bobbie gaped.
138“What? Explained to him? What have you explained?”
“That I know your family, and that you are rather specially entrusted to my care. I have told him how anxious I am to have you under my wing, and so—he has at last consented to you coming too.”
After a minute’s utter silence he spoke again.
“You don’t seem overjoyed?”
Still Bobbie did not answer.
He was wondering how he would get on without Henry Hope at his side, and what Henry would say about him going without a word of protest.
“Anyway,” said the persecutor, “don’t forget our bargain. If there should be any talk of you staying behind, if they should ask you, you’ll know what to say, won’t you?” He waited a moment, looking at Bobbie straightly. “Won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Bobbie at last. “I suppose so.”
It was evening.
Over a study table Terence and Rouse faced one another. Rouse had his chin resting in one hand, and his expression was that of a young man wrestling with a mighty problem.
“You see,” said he, “Seymour’s have challenged us to a friendly.”
“Who really issued the challenge?”
“That,” admitted Rouse............