Part 13

He spoke almost with authority. With every moment Wilbraham felt some new little emotion of change and development too quick for him to master. Harry had been the most docile of pupils. Never once since his first dealings with him as a young child had he had to exercise authority against desires or inclinations of his. True, he had held the reins lightly, and never given him a rebuke or a direction that had mood instead of reason behind it; but it had sometimes crossed his mind that the boy was too docile, and that his sense of responsibility and self-mastery might be sapped if he was brought up to give unquestioning obedience to the directions of his elders. He had mentioned this fear to Lady Brent, and her answer to it had been of the kind that he had received once or twice before in his consultations with her, from which his confidence in her ultimate wisdom had been so firmly fixed. The same doubt, it seemed, had crossed her own mind. It was to be met by allowing Harry the fullest possible trust and freedom. If at any time he overstepped the freedom it was not to be treated as a fault. He was to be told why it was not advisable for him to do this or that, and the decision left to him. Once or twice this had happened, and once he had stuck out for his own will. It was when his nocturnal rambles had been discovered by chance, shortly after that night upon which Grant had seen him out in the park. Lady Brent, with calm and admirable self-restraint, had said: "Very well, Harry. After all, I don't know that there's any harm in it. If I had known of it a year ago I might have stopped it; but now you're old enough to do as you like in that sort of way."

No one observing the boy, Wilbraham had thought, could say that he was molly-coddled into submission. Few boys of his age had such freedom granted to them, or carried a more gallant air before the world; and the Grants, of whom he had taken counsel, as representing the views of the world more closely than he in his retirement could do, had supported him.

And yet, there had been the feeling that Harry was extraordinarily easy to manage--too amiably submissive, almost, to the guidance of his elders, and Wilbraham himself particularly.

But now--! Wilbraham mentally shook himself. Was he receiving instructions from Harry--and almost inclined to accept them submissively?

The little spurt to his pride took him a trifle farther than he had wished to go. "I don't think it's a matter for me to decide on, apart from your grandmother," he said.

Harry turned a surprised face on him. "No, it's for me to decide on," he said. "By and by I shall tell Granny--of course. But I don't in the least know when it will be. There's nothing to show yet."

The phrase struck Wilbraham oddly. Harry had used it once or twice to him before. "One has to decide upon things with one's brain," he said, "and out of one's experience--important things that may affect one's life. They can't be left to impulse."

"The two go together, I suppose," said Harry, almost with indifference.

It was one of those little speeches upon which Viola would hang as containing the quintessence of wisdom. She might not have understood this speech, but Wilbraham did, and it affected him profoundly. Here was that rarest of characters--one who had never played with his impulses, to give them scope beyond the guidance of his reason. He could trust his impulses because their springs were controlled.

"Shall we go on?" said Harry, rising.

Wilbraham rose too, slowly, after a pause of reflection, and they walked on. Viola's name was not mentioned again between them.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*DILEMMA*

Wilbraham walked up and down in a retired part of the garden where no one was likely to disturb him. Sometimes, because he had walked rather farther that afternoon already than was his custom, he sat down on a garden seat at the end of the alley where he was. But only his body was at rest; his mind was eagerly searching for the right course. If only it were as straight and as easy to tread as this soft turfed walk between the uncompromising green walls, with the evening sun flooding the narrow space and warming even the sombre tones of the yew to some leniency!

He did not know where Harry was. He had left him when they had reached the house. For all he could tell, he might have gone straight back to Viola; there was an hour yet before dinner. But he would hardly have come right back to the Castle with him, to talk chiefly about the war, if he had meant to do that, and he had let drop something which showed that he had no intention of staying out during the dinner hour. Perhaps he would go to her afterwards, as he must have done on occasions before. It did not much matter. He had claimed the right to go to her when he pleased, and Wilbraham had not controverted it. His authority seemed to have come to a very sudden end, he thought with a wry smile.

There remained Lady Brent's authority. Should he invoke it? That was what he had to decide for himself before he left this garden alley, the retired scene of his cogitations.

Harry had extracted no promise from him. That pleased him, as it had pleased Grant when he had acted in the same way over his secret midnight roaming. They had been justified in their treatment of him to that extent. He would be ashamed of nothing that he had done, not even to the extent of asking that it should be kept secret where he had shown that secrecy was what he wanted--and expected.

That made it all the more difficult for Wilbraham. He would seem to be breaking a promise if he told Lady Brent, though he had given no promise. He would at least be setting himself against Harry in a matter which Harry had claimed the right to decide for himself. He wanted to be very sure that the boy was wrong in his decision before he did that.

He loved and admired Harry at that moment more than he had ever done. He had a clearer vision than ever before of the boy's clean finely-tempered nature. He felt himself rebuked by it, and what thoughts he spared for himself, as apart from his duty towards Harry and towards Lady Brent, worked rather sadly upon the conviction of his own weakness.

He had kept silent about his previous visit to Bastian only partly because of his wish to judge further for himself before he gave or withheld the suggested invitation to the Castle. He remembered now the pleasure with which he had set out that afternoon to go to the cottage, and knew that its chief source was the anticipation of drinking with Bastian--drinking just the amount and no more to give him the slight exhilaration that he had gained the day before. Bastian had offered him nothing to drink except tea. Viola's presence in the little parlour had made the scene of the previous afternoon look ugly in the memory of it. He was very glad now that it had been so. It would have been too painful to have the burden of that secret upon him while deciding what he should do with Harry's secret. Lady Brent would certainly have looked upon it as a fall, whatever view he might encourage himself to take of it.

But surely, weak as he was, he had had something to do with making Harry, who was of so much finer clay, what he had grown into. He had pointed him to noble things, fed his mind upon fine utterance of fine thoughts, opened the door for him to all the rich stores of wisdom laid up from the past. Yes, he had done that, though he had had small profit of it for himself. He was consoled by the thought that Harry could not be what he was if any breath of his own unworthiness had touched him.

He threw off the discomfort. He would act now for Harry's good, as he had always acted. There had been nothing wrong in him there.

He threw off, also, not without some impatience, the influence of Harry's assuredness. If it was to be accepted that the boy could do no wrong according to his lights--which really seemed to be what it was coming to--it was not the less necessary to judge the situation by lights which did not shine upon him, the glimmer of which, indeed, had been deliberately curtained from him.

The love of a boy and a girl! Oh, it was a touching thing, when they were a boy and a girl like Harry and Viola. Wilbraham rejected then and there any suggestion that might have come from his dinted experience that Viola was not Harry's mate in innocence and purity. He had seen her for himself. All that he knew of her father, all that he did not know of her origin and upbringing, could go by the board. His heart spoke for her, his sentiment went out to her. He was a poor, weak, self-indulgent creature, he told himself, but he did recognize goodness and purity when he saw it. Besides, what else could have attracted Harry? He was doubly armed there.

But Lady Brent wouldn't see it like that. The outside resemblances between what had happened to Harry's father and what was now happening to Harry would be too strong for her. She would think that all for which she had worked and sacrificed herself through long years would be destroyed if Harry was caught in the snares of love at this early age. She would put her spoke in. She would use all the wisdom of which she was capable--and she had shown great wisdom in the past--in putting a stop to it; but at least she would try to put a stop to it.

And then what would happen? Wilbraham saw a sharp contest between her and Harry, and, with the deeper vision that had come to him of the boy's character, he felt it to be extremely doubtful whether Lady Brent would win. There would be a state of open conflict, and Harry would be more firmly fixed in his courses than before.

Boy and girl attachments--they faded out. It was absurd to suppose that at seventeen Harry could have any idea of marriage, however much he and Viola might have played with the overwhelming bliss of some day being always together. He was not as his father had been; he would marry, when the time came for him to do so, with a full sense of his responsibility. And Viola was not like Harry's mother. No, the danger of a hasty secret marriage could be ruled out; it was an affront to both of them to think of it.

Harry would go his way, and Viola would go hers. Their ways lay naturally very far apart. They might write to each other for a time, and they might see one another occasionally; but what would it matter? At the end of four years, when Harry would be twenty-one, it was most probable that this almost childish love passage would be forgotten, or exist only as a fragrant memory.

Wilbraham divined in himself at this point a faint regret at the thought of this beautiful boy and girl ceasing to love one another. Viola had made a deep impression upon him.

At any rate, there was no harm in it. Probably there was even good in it. Harry would soon be leaving home, to plunge straight into a world for which Wilbraham had sometimes thought that his training had been a dangerous preparation. With this innocent early love of his to accompany him, he would be armed against many of the temptations to which sheltered youth does succumb when the shelter has at last been withdrawn.

Wilbraham felt a sense of relief at having come to these conclusions. He was sure they were right. Harry had conquered. He should be left free to sun himself in the glamour of his boy's courtship. How pretty it was to think of them billing and cooing like two young turtle-doves in their leafy fastnesses! Wilbraham's lettered thoughts flew to Theocritus, and he murmured soft Greek words to himself, but decided that there would be a delicacy about the wooing of these children that could not be matched in Sicilian idylls. He rose from his seat and made his way towards the house. He had decided. He would leave them alone.

But as he dressed for dinner in a leisurely way, lingering often at his window to enjoy the scents and sounds of the garden dusk, the thought of Lady Brent once more occurred to him and his face grew thoughtful again.

Hadn't he rather left her out of account? If the decision had been so easy to come to, and seemed so right now it was made, wouldn't she be quite as capable of making it as he had been?

Well, perhaps! And whether she arrived at the same conclusion or not, one thing was quite certain--that she would be vastly annoyed with Wilbraham if she knew that he had taken it upon himself to decide without consultation with her.

But his doubts were soon dissipated. He had decided for Harry, and was with him now. It might be rather painful at some future time to face her offended surprise, but, after all, he was a man and she was a woman. And Harry had proved himself a man already. They would only be in the same boat. Wilbraham smiled to himself, put on his coat and went down to dinner.

He had had some idea of giving Harry a word to indicate that his secret was safe, but there was no opportunity before they went in to dinner, and afterwards he was glad that he had not done so. For Harry did not even give him a look of inquiry. He chatted and laughed and seemed to be in a mood of quite unburdened high spirits. So had Viola been, but Viola had not known that Wilbraham had discovered their secret, and Harry did. Wilbraham was pleased to think that Harry's evident absence of anxiety was the result of his trust in him. He had surprised his secret and he would respect it. What could he do otherwise? Wilbraham was confirmed in his decision to leave Lady Brent out of knowledge of it, but could not forbear an exercise of imagination as he glanced at her and wondered what she would do if the truth were suddenly blurted out to her.

A remarkable woman, certainly! She provided another little surprise that evening when for the first time she seemed to contemplate the continuance of the war for such a time as would involve Harry in it. It might be that it would take a year or even more to bring it to a conclusion. Lord Kitchener was said to have prophesied three years, which was impossible to believe; but the South African War had lasted for two, when everybody thought it would be over in a few weeks. It might be that officers would be wanted more quickly than they could be turned out in normal times, and that Harry's Sandhurst training would be speeded up. They must bear that in mind.

The prospect did not seem to cause her any dismay, or if it did she concealed it. But poor Mrs. Brent raised a wail of protest. Surely they couldn't take boys of eighteen, as Harry would only be in a year's time. It would be wicked--unheard of.

"Not unheard of," said Lady Brent. "And not wicked either. For our own sakes we should wish Harry kept out of it; but if he were of an age when others went we should wish him to go. However, let us hope that there will be no necessity."

"I don't think I hope that," said Harry. "I don't want the war to last, because I think war is a horrible thing. All the same, I wish I were fighting in this one."

Wilbraham controverted the opinion that war was a horrible thing. Nations were apt to get lazy and selfish over long periods of peace, and wanted rousing out of themselves, just as sluggish human bodies did. War was a tonic and a cleanser.

"Perhaps it is, for those who can fight, with a great idea behind them," said Harry. "For all the rest I think it's beastly. At any rate, an Englishman could fight in this war and know he was doing the right thing. I wish I were a year older now."

Mrs. Brent breathed a deep sigh and looked at him hungrily. It was of no use her saying anything. If Harry's fighting or not fighting should come to be decided on, she would have no voice in the decision. She looked anxiously at Lady Brent, who only said: "Fortunately, the matter isn't in our hands."

"People of my age are enlisting," said Harry, shortly.

Lady Brent took this up at once. Perhaps she had already thought of it. "It is a fine thing for a young man to do," she said. "But for those who have shown their willingness to fight through generations there is an even higher duty, which is to lead. And you cannot lead without the proper training."

Harry did not reply, and the subject was dropped. But to Wilbraham, with his senses more acute from what he had learned of him, came a glimpse into still other chambers of his mind. His silence was not that of one who had received an answer which settled a doubtful point. In this, as in other matters, he would take his own way, but the way was not yet clear to him, and he would not talk about it beforehand.

It had come of late to be Harry's habit to stay with Wilbraham after the women had left the table, while he drank his coffee and smoked a cigarette. He had done it at first on occasions, but now seldom went away with his mother and grandmother. It was a habit that marked his growing manhood, but he could still have left him without remark if he had wished to do so. If he should leave him to-night, Wilbraham thought it would be a sign that he did not wish to talk to him again on the subject of which both their minds were full.

But he came back again after opening the door for his mother and grandmother.

How young and fair and slender he was, thought Wilbraham, and he moved lightly across the great hall and took his seat, as of right, in his chair of dignity. Nothing but a beautiful boy, after all, too young as yet by years to take upon himself any large responsibilities, and yet the much older man waited instinctively on him for an indication of the new relationship that was to exist between them.

The servants came in with the coffee, and until they had left the room again nothing was said. Harry looked thoughtful, and graver than usual.

When they were once more alone he said: "I want you to do something for me, and I don't want Granny to know--nor, of course, mother. It's for you to say whether you'll do it or not, but I want you to promise in any case not to let them know that I've asked you."

Wilbraham was slightly huffed. "I don't know why you should want to extract a promise of secrecy beforehand," he said. "You didn't this evening, but I've thought it over and decided to keep to myself what I found out."

Harry looked puzzled for a moment, and then smiled. "I hoped you would," he said, "for now I shall be able to talk to you about her."

"Thanks," said Wilbraham, drily. "I'm glad I'm going to get some reward."

Harry laughed. "A young man in love is supposed to be rather a bore, isn't he?" he said. "I seem to remember having read so, but people in love haven't interested me much so far. Well, but of course that was for you to decide--whether you'd keep it to yourself or not. You might not have thought it right to do so; I couldn't tell. But this is something quite different--not about Viola, you know. I want you to find out something for me, and I don't want Granny to know yet that I'm thinking about it. You may think she ought to know."

"I suppose it's something about the war," said Wilbraham, with the memory before him of Harry's silence after that speech of Lady Brent's at dinner.

"I shan't tell you what it is unless it's only between you and me," said Harry. "I've a right to my own thoughts."

"Very well, then, I promise."

"I want you to find out for me exactly what chances there are of my being able to get a commission without going through the regular Sandhurst training. I don't think I want to wait for that if there are other ways."

Wilbraham considered this. "You're only seventeen," he said.

"Nearly eighteen," said Harry, "and a fine-grown boy for my age."

"Why shouldn't you want your grandmother to know? You heard what she said just now. If things are going to be altered so that training is cut short, she's quite ready for you to take advantage of that."

"Ah, yes. She couldn't help it, you see. But I think she'd do what she could to stop me doing anything that could be helped. I want to know if there is any other way before I say anything to her at all. I know so little about it. But supposing I could get my commission quicker by enlisting, for instance."

"Oh, my dear boy, you wouldn't want to do that. You heard what she said. She was quite right there. I believe the men of your family have been soldiers for as long as the men of any family."

"That's just why I want to be one, now there's some sense in soldiering, and as quickly as possible."

"Yes, but as an officer. We're not so hard pressed yet that we want to cut grindstones with razors. It would be waste of material for you to enlist."

"Not if it led more quickly to being an officer. That's what I should do it for. I know it has been done. People did it in the South African War."

"Well, yes. But that was in order to go and fight--at once. You're not ready for that yet. You won't be eighteen till December. They wouldn't take you anyhow, unless you concealed your age, which, of course, you wouldn't do--couldn't do, either, because you're known. Besides, your grandmother, who is your legal guardian, could stop you. Why hurry things? You'll be at Sandhurst in a few months' time. Then if there's any way to hurry things up you can find it out for yourself. I don't want to act against your grandmother in this, Harry. I don't think it's fair to her."

"Well, perhaps it wouldn't be quite fair to you to ask you to do it," said Harry, with his engaging smile; "at least, not if nothing could come out of it. I suppose you're quite sure that they wouldn't take me till I was eighteen."

"Oh, yes. The proclamations say so. You can see it for yourself."

"Oh, well, then," said the boy, rising from his seat, "I suppose there's nothing to be done just yet. I only wanted to be quite sure that I wasn't leaving anything undone that I could do. I don't think Granny takes quite the same view, you know. Anyhow, there's nothing to bother her or mother for some months to come. I think mother will be waiting for me."

He passed Wilbraham, still sitting at the table, and put his hand on his shoulder. "I shall see her to-morrow," he said, in a low voice. He laughed a boyish laugh of sheer happiness and ran out of the hall.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THE END OF THE SUMMER*

It was a golden day in September, which is perhaps the most beautiful of all English months, though touched with a gentle melancholy that may be either soothing or saddening, according to circumstances. Regarded as the time for taking up a new spell of work or duty after the relaxation of summer holiday, it is a delightful month, especially when the surroundings in which the work is to be done are such as existed at Royd. The Grant family had returned from the seaside and the Vicar-novelist was positively revelling in his enjoyment of home, and declaring that the best day of a holiday was its last. He had acquired a splendid idea for a novel which should excel all previous novels of his by many degrees, and put into the shade a large number of novels by other writers who had hitherto enjoyed a success in advance of his own. He had sat down to write the first chapter on the morning after their arrival at the Vicarage, and felt to the full the restful charm of his clean, comfortable room, with all his books and conveniences around him, and the garden outside in the full coloured glow of its autumn profusion.

Jane and Pobbles had resumed their studies under the guidance of Miss Minster, and if they were without the experience of satisfaction on that account which their father enjoyed, there was yet satisfaction to be gained from returning to the society of Harry, to whom they had an enormous amount of information to impart.