Part 39 (1/2)

”Perhaps he isn't. I haven't taken much interest in him.”

”I see.”

Gordon returned to his book. Five minutes later he began again.

”Is Morcombe fairly high in form?”

”Not very. Why this sudden interest?”

”Nothing.”

Foster looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

”What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?” said Gordon.

”Oh, nothing.”

Gordon looked fierce, and returned once more to the history of Michael Fane.

Two nights later Gordon came into his study to find Morcombe sitting with Foster, preparing some con.

”Hope you don't mind me bringing this lad in,” said Foster, ”I am in great difficulties with some con.”

Gordon grunted, and proceeded to bury himself in _The Pot of Basil_.

”I say, Caruthers,” broke in Foster. ”You might help us with this Vergil? It's got us licked. Here you are: look, 'Fortunate Senex----'”

Gordon went through the familiar pa.s.sage with comparative ease.

”There now, you see,” said Foster, ”there's some use in these Sixth Form slackers after all. By the way, what did you think of Claremont's sermon last night?”

Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, at times, amusing.

Gordon unaccountably found himself trying to appear at his best.

”You know,” he was saying, ”I do get so sick of these masters who go about with the theory of 'G.o.d's in his heaven, all's right with the world,' and in war-time, too! With all these men falling, and no advance being made from day to day.”

”Yes,” said Morcombe; ”I agree with the 'much good, but much less good than ill' philosophy.”

Gordon was surprised out of himself.

”I shouldn't have thought you had read the _Shrops.h.i.+re Lad_.”

”We are not all Philistines, you know.”

Thus began a friends.h.i.+p entirely different from any Gordon had known before. He did not know what his real sentiments were; he did not even attempt to a.n.a.lyse them. He only knew that when he was with Morcombe he was indescribably happy. There was something in him so natural, so unaffected, so sensitive to beauty. After this Morcombe came up to Gordon's study nearly every evening, and usually Foster left them alone together, and went off in search of Collins.

Indeed this friends.h.i.+p, coupled with his admiration for Ferrers, was all that kept Gordon from wild excesses during the dark December days and the drear opening weeks of the Easter term. During the long morning hours, when Gordon was supposed to be reading history, more than once there came over him a wish to plunge himself into the feverish waters of pleasure, and forget for a while the doubts and disappointments that overhung everything in his life. At times he would sit in the big window-seat, when the school was changing cla.s.s-rooms, and as he saw the sea of faces of those, some big, some small, who had drifted with the stream, and had soon forgotten early resolutions and principles in the conveniently broadminded atmosphere of a certain side of Public School life, he realised how easily he could slip into that life and be engulfed. No one would mind; his position would be the same; no one would think worse of him. Unless, of course, he was caught. Then probably everyone would turn round upon him; that was the one unforgivable sin--to be found out. But it was rarely that anyone was caught; and the descent was so easy. In his excitement he might perhaps forget a little.

And then, perhaps, Ferrers would come rus.h.i.+ng up to his study, aglow with health and clean, fresh existence. And he would talk of books and poetry, and life and systems, and Gordon would realise the ugliness of his own misgivings when set beside the n.o.ble idealism of art. Ferrers was not a preacher; he never lectured anyone. He believed in setting boys high ideals. ”We needs must love the highest when we see it.” And during these months his influence on Gordon was tremendous.

Then, when the long evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in the games study, his face flushed with the glow of the leaping fire, talking of Keats and Sh.e.l.ley, himself a poem, Gordon used to wonder how he could ever have wished to dabble in ugly things, out of his cowardice to face the truth. Those evenings were, in fact, the brightest of his Fernhurst days; their happiness was unsubstantial, inexplicable, incomprehensible, but none the less a real happiness.

They vanished, however; and the day would begin again, with the lonely hours of morning school, when Gordon realised once more the emptiness of his position, and how hopelessly he had failed to do any of the things he had set out to do.