Part 35 (2/2)
At last a roar went up, as. .h.i.tch knocked the leg stump flying out of the ground. Then Lovelace came in. He looked just as he had looked on the green Fernhurst sward, only perhaps a little broader. He was wearing the magenta and black of the School House scarf. He was an amateur of the R.E. Foster type--wrist shots past cover, and an honest off-drive.
A change came over the play at once. In his first over he hit two fours.
There was a stir round the ground. His personality was as strong as ever.
A boy ran on the field with a telegram for him.
”I bet that means he has got to join his regiment,” said Gordon, ”and it also means we are going to fight.”
Lovelace shoved the telegram into his pocket, and went on batting just as if nothing had happened, just as if he did not realise that this was his last innings for a very long time. He hit all round the wicket.
At last a brilliant piece of stumping sent him back to the pavilion amid a roar of cheering.
”My word, Mr Ferrers, there goes the finest man Fernhurst has turned out since I have been there. And, my word, it will be a long time before we turn out another like him. There will be nothing to see now he has gone.”
They wandered out into the Kennington Road, excited, feverish. They had lunch at Gatti's, went into _Potash and Perlmutter_, and came out after the first act.
”This is no time for German Jews,” said Ferrers, ”let's try the Hippodrome.”
It was an expensive day. They rushed from one thing to another. The strain was intolerable. After supper they went to the West End Cinema, and there, just before closing-time, a film, in which everyone was falling into a dirty duck-pond for no ostensible reason, was suddenly stopped, and there appeared across the screen the flaming notice:
ENGLAND HAS DECLARED WAR ON GERMANY
G.o.d SAVE THE KING!
There was dead silence for a moment. Then cheer upon cheer convulsed the house. The band struck up the National Anthem. The sequel to the tragedy of the duck-pond was never known.
”Glorious! Glorious!” said Ferrers, as they staggered out into the cool night air. ”A war is what we want. It will wake us up from sleeping; stir us into life; inflame our literature. There's a real chance now of sweeping away the old outworn traditions. In a great fire they will all be burnt. Then we can build afresh. I wish I could go and fight. d.a.m.n my heart! To think of all the running it stood at Oxford; and then suddenly to give way. My doctor always tells me to be careful. If I could go, by G.o.d, I would have my shot at the b.l.o.o.d.y Germans; but still I'll do something at Fernhurst. Stoics, you know; Army cla.s.s English. How old are you? Sixteen! We shall have you for two years yet. This war is going to save England and everything! Glorious!”
The flaring lights of Leicester Square, the tawdry brilliance of Piccadilly seemed to burst into one volcano of red splendour; a thousand cannons spitting flame; a thousand eyes bright with love of England. The swaying Tube swept Gordon home in a state of subconscious delirium to the starlit calm of Hampstead.
Throughout the long summer holidays this feeling of rejoicing sustained Gordon's heart. He saw an age rising out of these purging fires that would rival the Elizabethan. He saw a second Marlowe and a second Webster. His soul was aflame with hope. He had no doubt as to the result. Even the long retreat from Mons, with its bitter list of casualties, failed to terrorise him. Half the holidays he spent in Wychtown, a little Somersets.h.i.+re village, and his enthusiasm at one time took the form of buying bundles of newspapers, which he distributed at the cottages, so as to keep everyone in touch with the state of affairs.
At one time he thought of going round discussing the war with some of the villagers; but he soon abandoned this project. He began with an aged man who had fought at Majuba.
”Well, Mr Cavendish, and what do you think of the war this morning.”
”Lor' bless you, things beant what they were in my young days. At Majuba, now, we did things a bit different-like. But these 'ere Germans, now, they be getting on right well. Be they for us?”
After this Gordon decided that the natural simplicity of the yokel was proof against anything he might have to say. He pitied electioneering agents.
A week before the beginning of term he received two letters. The first was from Lovelace, who had got a nomination to Sandhurst, and would not return to school next term. The other was from Hunter, saying that he had won a commission in the Dorsets.
”_Well, Caruthers, old fellow_,” he added, ”_this means that you will be captain of the House. I had greatly looked forward to being captain myself, and had thought out a good many new ideas. But of course all that has got to go now, and I don't intend to try and pa.s.s off my theories on you; you'll probably have many more than I had, and a good deal better ones. All I can say is that I wish the very best of luck to you and to the House. I have no doubt you'll do jolly well. Good luck._”
Gordon sat silent for a long while. Sorrow at losing Lovelace strove with the joy of reaching his heart's desire so soon. Finally all other emotions were lost in the overflowing sense of relief that his days of waiting for achievement were over.
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