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.
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 dread4 as it came upon the school and gripped it, Rouse bore himself blithely5, 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 forth6 into the open country and, striking the footpath7 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 dubiously8. He was best hidden from prying9 eyes in the corner where he had waited, and so he drew back under the trees and possessed10 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 spoke11.
“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 abruptly12 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 belongings13 and he wore a cunning smile upon his countenance14.
“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 unprecedented15 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.”
138“What? Explained to him? What have you explained?”
“That I know your family, and that you are rather specially17 entrusted18 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 persecutor19, “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 mighty20 problem.
“You see,” said he, “Seymour’s have challenged us to a friendly.”
“Who really issued the challenge?”
“That,” admitted Rouse, “I don’t quite know. It appears to have originated from Mr Seymour himself, and to have been received by Mr Morley—probably in a parchment envelope handed up on a silver salver.”
“Never mind,” said Terence. “Let’s play them.”
“Oh yes, we’ll play them. Only I’m trying to reason out what’s in the wind. You see, Roe is in Seymour’s.”
“True. I’d forgotten that.”
139“And the chances are that if he wants to captain the side the other fellows in Seymour’s will have something to say about it.”
“I suppose they want to play us because we’re the strongest house and they rather fancy their weight.”
“One would imagine that was the idea. Only neither Betteridge nor Saville seems to know much about it.”
Rouse suddenly leaned forward.
“Nick,” said he, “there’s villainy afoot.”
“Villainy?”
“Yes. I don’t know what that means. It’s a phrase of Henry’s concoction21. We might get hold of a cheap dictionary and get an interpretation22 of the words.... Anyway, that’s what he says—and it’s impossible to listen to Henry for long without coming to the conclusion that there’s something in what he says.”
“What is the villainy?”
“Henry is now out on the trail trying to find out. But his judgment23 arises from a variety of facts and certain suspicions.”
He paused and for a while there was silence.
“As a matter of fact,” said Terence, at last, “there’s something on your mind, old top, and you may as well tell me what it is.”
“Well, it’s this. Supposing the chaps get tired of all this? Supposing an agitator26 or two start moving about amongst them, saying: ‘Hang it all, what does it matter to you or me who the captain is? Let’s get our footer’? Supposing the masters get on to them and say: ‘Your schooldays are the happiest time of your life and they will never come again. Why starve yourselves of all that makes them most worth while just because of a silly prejudice?’ 140You see what I mean? Supposing they give in?”
“Well, supposing they do?”
“Nothing,” said Rouse, in a small voice; “only it would make me look rather a fool.”
“Also,” said Terence, “in the light of all they’ve said it would show that they hadn’t got much respect for the traditions of the school. You still don’t understand the temper of the school in the least or you wouldn’t talk like that. Why on earth should they give in?”
“Because,” said Rouse, “it’s my belief that there’s somebody at work trying to make them. Why,” he demanded, after a moment’s pause, “are the Head and his abominable27 son so suspiciously quiet? Nearly three weeks of term have gone. Why are they making no attempt to bring the chaps to heel as promised? Soon the headmasters of other schools and the parents of some of the fellows here will be writing to the Head to ask why we are not playing footer. I tell you they’re sitting quiet because they’re waiting for something to happen. I believe Henry’s right. There’s villainy afoot.”
He glared at Terence challengingly.
In the following silence there came the sound of footsteps in the passage and both looked up. The footsteps were stopping at the study door. There came a knock.
“Come in,” said Rouse.
They turned in their chairs to see who came. There was a second’s dramatic wait. Then the door moved open and the visitor came in. He looked at them over the tops of his spectacles and made slowly for the table, and reaching it, he stood there looking first at one and then at the other.
“What is it, Henry?” asked Rouse.
“It’s this,” said Henry. “All that I told you is true. This evening Coles is moving into Seymour’s. 141He says that it’s an order from the Head.” He stopped and watched the effect of this news upon them. And then he said: “All Coles’ friends are in Seymour’s. Of course you know that.”
Still they made no comment. They were only looking at each other significantly.
Henry made ready to drop his bomb.
“That’s enough,” said he. “It makes a lot of things clear to me. But it’s not all. I told you Coles had a hold over that kid Carr. Well, Carr’s going over to Seymour’s with him—and he’s very nearly blubbing about it. That’s all.”
Rouse had struck the table with his fist. The mystery of the challenge was at last transparent28 to him.
“But ... Carr?” said Terence. “Why? Why Carr? Why’s he going?”
“Because,” said Henry, “Coles says that he was put in his care by Carr’s own people, and the Head believes him.”
“Well, what’s Coles going for himself? What’s the idea? Why is it?”
Henry drew himself up. His eyes were blazing behind the round windows of his spectacles. He clenched29 his hands.
“What’s he going for?” said he. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff. He’s going to join hands with the enemy. He knows that he hasn’t a chance here, in the very house where Rouse is loved most, and so he’s going. Coles has got something up his sleeve.”
“Henry,” said Terence, “you may be right. I believe you are. But there’s one thing you don’t know.”
“What?” said Henry, as if unable to believe the accusation30.
“This. If Coles is reckoning on playing upon the feelings of the chaps who want their Rugger, then Smythe has got something up his sleeve that’ll knock Coles silly.”
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1
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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2
roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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3
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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4
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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5
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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6
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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7
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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9
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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10
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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11
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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13
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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14
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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16
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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17
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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18
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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21
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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22
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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23
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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24
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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26
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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27
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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28
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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29
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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