Эдвард Бенсон
David Blaize

“I always mean it to do something rum,” he said, “but of course it doesn’t always come off, and sometimes it does just the opposite. That’s such awful fun. It’s all silly tosh, my bowling, you know. Comes off in house-matches sometimes, but any school team would hit me over the moon.”

This perfectly sincere view of his own performance was not shared by Humphreys, the captain of the school eleven who had twice been one of David’s victims, and to whom this opinion was expressed.

“But the one you bowled me with in the first innings,” said that much-injured young man, “came round my legs and took the middle-stump, blast you. Didn’t you mean that?”

David put his head on one side, considering.

“Yes, I think I did,” he said. “It was rather a good ball for me. I thought it might do something of the sort. Every one gets a good ball in sometimes if they go on long enough.”

“Well, I wish you would keep them for school-matches,” said Humphreys. “And second innings you had me with a roaring full-pitch, ninety-five miles an hour. I thought it was only eighty-five, and so I missed it by ten miles.”

David laughed.

“Sorry. It was rather a fast one,” he said. “I thought it had got you in the tummy. Jolly glad it was only your wicket.”

“So’m I,” remarked Humphreys. “Come and bathe.”

Since then, every day had added to the pace of the ground, and this Sunday afternoon, as David strolled down with Bags, he looked at the turf with extreme content.

“Just my luck all over,” he said, “that it should be getting into the state that suits me best for Old Boys’ match. Lord, what a pity I said that! I shan’t be able to send down a decent ball now. But I should love to bowl Frank. Bags, I do think about cricket so tremendously in the summer half. I lie awake making plans.”

He took a short run and brought his arm over his shoulder in a complicated fashion.

“Why shouldn’t I bring my arm up overhand like that,” he said, “and turn my wrist over underhand? You might say that the ball would simply fly up gently in the air and fall at my feet. But something might be done with it. You can usually do something with anything if you give your mind to it.”

“Like you with Jev,” remarked Bags.

“Oh, that’s only Adams’s rot.”

He broke off and focused his blue eyes on a group of figures coming up the field towards them.

“Lord, here’s Mother Gray and Violet coming,” he said. “I say, is my tie straight? Who’s the man with them?”

“Don’t know. Friend of theirs probably.”

“Clever fellow! Hope they’ll ask me to tea.”

David had been carrying his straw hat in his hand, but put it on, in order to have the joy of taking it off to them.

“Same man who was in chapel this morning with them,” said Bags in an undertone.

“Was he? Didn’t see him. Lord, doesn’t she look ripping?”

There is always some slight discomfort attached to a meeting which is seen, while yet a long way off, to be coming, a difficulty in knowing the right moment to cease being absorbed in the landscape or in intelligent conversation with your friend, and to become conscious of it in proper time to apply a suitable smile of recognition to the face. David, with his tingling heart, managed it with wonderful ill-success. He put on a brilliant smile long before it could be seen at all, and, feeling as if his cheeks would crack, took it completely off again. Then he tried to talk to Bags in a natural manner, and pointed to nothing at all away to the right. Then he proceeded to talk to Bags again much too long, and did not look up till the adorable one was but a couple of yards off. On came the smile of recognition again, and he took off his hat and dropped it. And, alas for the hope of being asked to tea, when he picked up his hat again, the vision had already gone by, and it was only the most instantaneous return of his smile that he reaped from all those muddled manœuvres. So on they went, Bags with face red from suppressed giggles.

“What are you laughing at, you ass?” asked David in an indignant whisper. “I don’t see anything funny.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were the funny man.”

“What did I do!” demanded David.

“First you grinned an awful grin miles too soon,” said Bags. “Then you looked as grave as a judge with indigestion. Then, miles too late, you gave another awful grin and dropped your hat. Sorry you didn’t get your tea, but it was too funny for anything.”

David was radically incapable of ill-humour for more than a few seconds at a time, and grinned in a less awful manner.

“I never felt such a silly fool,” he said. “And I’m not sure I like that man. What do you suppose they were talking about so interestedly?”

“Can’t say; run back and ask them,” said Bags. “I thought he looked rather a decent chap. Awfully good-looking too; a bit like Maddox.”

David gave a snort of disdain.

“Like your grandmother,” he observed in a withering manner.

“Which one? I’ve got two.”

David took hold of Bags by the shoulders, and ran him down the bit of steep hill to the gate.

“The ugliest,” he said. “And the fattest. And the beastliest. I say, though, it was rather a sell for me.”

“Complete suck,” said Bags.

There are exactly as many ways of falling in love as there are different natures in the world, and since every one, boy or man or girl or woman, falls in love off the same carpet, so to speak, on which he transacts the other affairs of life, it followed that David’s first excursion into the enchanted country was made with enthusiasm and gaiety and innocence, and with that forgetfulness of himself that characterised his other ways and works. That he was in love at all, any grown-up man, who was so unfortunate as to forget what it was like to be a boy, would probably have denied, calling his feelings calf-love at the most, but no boy, unless he was a shrivelled old man, could doubt for a moment the genuineness of David’s emotion. It seriously threatened for the next few weeks to dethrone the dominant passion inspired by cricket, and, since that absolutely refused to vacate the supreme throne, love squeezed itself in and sat beside it, so that if David lay awake on Sunday pondering over fresh wiles in the matter of his googlies, on Monday the googlies would not enter his head at all, except as shadows, and he would devote the whole of his insomnia (which perhaps lasted half an hour) to the contemplation of the adorable Violet. At such times he would give vent to a sound between a sigh and a groan, and Jevons from the next bed would ask if he had tummy-ache. Then David would say savagely, “No, you little ass, go to sleep”; and add in a minute or two, “Thanks for asking, Jev.”

At this high level his adoration remained for a whole month. Occasionally, as during the two days of the Old Boys’ match, he would be more absorbed in cricket while Violet looked on from the throne of his heart, even as she looked on from the balcony of the pavilion; but on the day succeeding the glorious discomfiture of the Old Boys, cricket, as an active principle in his mind, lapsed into a state of quiescence, while Violet became volcanic again. He did not want anything from her (though the thought of kissing her, a wild flight of impossible fancy, sent his heart into his mouth); he only wanted that she should be she and he an adorer: he could have given no further account of it than that. All his other friends, Frank and his own sister, and Bags and Plugs, were on a different plane. He loved Margery, he loved Frank, he esteemed and relied on Bags, but none gave him any tremor, any sense of excitement. But for Violet, his boyish heart was full of a sweet tumult and confusion, whenever the enchantress came within eyeshot.

Meantime the strange young man who had roused David’s suspicions on Sunday afternoon continued staying with the Grays, but his presence was accounted for, since, to David’s great relief, he proved to be a cousin. He proved also, which was satisfactory, to be a man who played cricket occasionally for his county, and thus had a claim to respect, and took part in a match against the masters, playing for them. On that occasion he proceeded to hit David’s bowling to all parts of the compass with the utmost ease and enjoyment, a feat that raised him in the bowler’s estimation. Eventually David got him out with a ball about which Mr. Leonard Gray knew absolutely nothing, but he had been treated with wonderful contempt first. And as Gray retired he nodded in a friendly manner.

“Glad you didn’t send that ball down sooner, Blaize,” he said.

Then, with the suddenness of a thunderbolt, the end came. Bags brought the fateful news, while David was ecstatically employed on a model flying-machine which Frank had given him.

“Did you ever see anything so ripping!” he shouted. “Frank sent it me this morning. It flew the whole length of hall just now. Wait till I wind it up again.”

David picked up the beloved machine and began winding it.

“What’s up!” he said looking at Bags. “Anything beastly happened? Nothing wrong in the house, is there!”

“Oh, David, I’m so sorry,” said Bags.

David let go of the winder and the propeller whirred and pulled as the wheels ran round.

“Well, get on,” he said.

“She’s engaged to that cousin,” said Bags. “Banns were given out yesterday at the parish church. Plugs told me; his people were down and he went with them to church instead of chapel.”

David felt the world topple round him. He sat down and turned very red in the face.

“Oh” was all he said.

Then Bags came a step closer.

“I say, David,” he said shyly, “if you only knew how I hate anything that hurts you. I should like to kill that chap.”

And his plain, rather goat-like face glowed with that which had so long inspired him, namely, his affection for David, that shy, silent passion of friendship.

David spun the propeller once or twice.

“Well, he’s a jolly lucky chap,” he said at length.

Then he looked at Bags and saw in his eyes just that blind devotion that you can see in a dog’s eyes, if you understand dogs. He got up, and put a hand on Bags’s shoulder.

“It’s ripping of you to care, Bags,” he said. “I’m no end grateful… Hell!”

CHAPTER XVI

The school was assembled at evening chapel on the last Sunday of this summer term. To-morrow would be prize-giving, with all its attendant festivities, down to concert in the evening and another house-supper – perhaps – at Adams’s in celebration of their again having won the house cricket-cup. On Tuesday the school would break up, to meet again in large numbers on Friday for the match at Lord’s.

Just now the hymn after the third collect had been sung, but after that, instead of the chaplain continuing to read the prayers, the Head did so. Next him in his pew was Frank. And before the prayer for all sorts and conditions of men, there was a short pause and the silence became tense, for every one present guessed what was coming. Then the quiet, slow voice began again.

“Your prayers are requested for your friend David Blaize,” it said, “who is lying dangerously ill.”

Then the three remaining prayers were said, but before the final hymn was given out, there came another pause, and the Head rose. He spoke more intimately now.

“You will all want to know what news I have to give you,” he said, “so before we finish the service I will tell you. I saw David Blaize just before chapel. He was quite conscious and not frightened at all. He knew quite well, for his father had told him, that he was in extreme danger. I only saw him for a minute, but I said we were going to pray for him this evening, as we have done. Perhaps you would like to hear what he said to me.”

The Head paused a moment, began once, and then mastered his voice better.

“He said, ‘Thanks awfully, sir. That’ll do me good.’ ”

A little rustle and stir went round chapel, and all that any one had known of David came and stood quite close to him. Bags, sitting at the end of the seat of the sixth form, leaned forward, putting his head on his hands. Frank, who had come down an hour before, just looked at the Head, waiting.

Then the Head spoke again.

“I have told you this on purpose,” he said, “to show you how he faces death, if it is that God wishes him to face. Also to show you that, as he still hopes to live, we must hope it with him in all the power that prayer gives us. But he faces death with all the – the gay courage with which he faced that which has brought him into peril of it. There are many of you who loved him, and I am among them, and we must be level with him in our courage. Now we will sing the hymn, ‘Lead us, Heavenly Father, lead us.’ ”

The whole school, of course, knew what had happened. Two days before a young horse harnessed to a light cart, and frightened by a traction-engine, had bolted straight down the steep High Street at Marchester, full at its lower end with the crowded traffic of market-day, and the driver had been pitched off the box, so that it galloped on, unchecked and mad with fright. At the moment, David, with a bag of macaroons which he had just bought, came out of school-shop; throwing the parcel to Bags, who was with him, he had shouted out, “Catch hold, and don’t eat any,” and had rushed straight out into the road, taking a header, so to speak, at the horse. He had got hold of a rein, and then, still holding it, had been jerked off his feet, and the wheel of the cart had gone over him. But the horse was checked, and when they picked the boy up they found that the rein was still wrapped round his wrist.

There were severe internal injuries, not necessarily fatal, but, until several days had elapsed, every minute was critical with danger. Up till this morning all had gone well, but a few hours ago there had been disquieting symptoms, with fever and restlessness and signs of exhaustion. He had been conscious all day, and was no longer in great pain, but it was feared that nervous shock consequent on internal injury might overcome the splendid powers of rallying which he had shown at first. His father and Margery had come down the day before, but to-day they had scarcely seen him, since the utmost quiet was necessary. And an hour ago he had been told that he was in great danger. It was to this that the Head had referred.

Adams’s house was nearer to where the accident happened than the school sanatorium, and he had been moved there since every extra yard was extra danger, and for two days now a strange silence, as of life in a dream, had lain over it. There had been no need for Adams to tell them not to make any noise or disturbance, for the boys crept about like mice, and no voice was raised. It seemed impossible that this should have happened to anybody, most of all that it should have happened to David. And yet in the room at the end of the passage, just beyond the baize door into Adams’s private part of the house, he was lying now, midway between life and death, horribly tired, but not afraid.

Maddox waited for the Head to disrobe after service was over, just outside the chapel. The school and then the masters passed by him, but he only nodded at one and another, and still waited. At last the Head came out into the red twilight after sunset.

“Glad you waited for me, Maddox,” he said. “I didn’t know you were down till just before chapel.”

“Is there anything more to tell than what you told us all sir?” he asked.

The Head took his arm.

“No, my dear fellow,” he said. “It’s not hopeless, you know. They don’t say that.”

“Would they allow me to see him, sir? He needn’t know I did. I could just look at him without his seeing me.”

“You must ask the doctor about that. You got down this afternoon only?”

“Yes sir. I only heard this morning.”

They walked on in silence a little way as far as the iron gate into the quadrangle. Then Maddox spoke again.

“He’s the best chap in the world, sir,” he said. “He saved me, you know. Just saved me.”

The Head pressed his arm.

“Ah, that’s between you and David,” he said. “It’s not for me to hear. But I know you love him, which is the only point. Please God, you’ll have him with you many years yet. And if not, Frank, you mustn’t be bitter, or think that it’s a cruel ordinance that takes him away. God takes him, and we must give, even as David gave himself when he just jumped at that horse. Do you think he would have withheld himself if he had known what the result would have been? Not a bit of it; he would have done it just the same; we both know that. His life was his, and, like the brick he is, he chose to risk it.”

They walked on in silence half across the quiet quadrangle.

“Will you come and sup with us?” asked the Head presently. “I can give you a bed, too, if you like.”

“Oh, thanks awfully, sir,” said Frank, “but I think I’ll go down to the house. Mr. Adams will put me up somehow. Or I shall sit up. I should like to be down there.”

The Head nodded.

“I see,” he said. “I quite understand. Good night then.”

Maddox went out of schoolyard, and down the road to his old house. The afterglow of sunset was fading fast, the road showed grey between black hedgerows, and as he crossed the stream, the reflection of a big star wavered on the quiet, flowing water. The whole place was intensely familiar to him, part of his blood, part of his intimate life, and, passing the fives-court, he remembered how, on a wet day not yet three years ago, he had given David and Bags elementary instruction in squash, and had walked down this same road afterwards, waiting for David to come in with a parcel for him. Now that friend of his heart lay between life and death in the house of which the lights already shone between the elm-trees. He tried to realise, and again shrank from realising, what the loss would mean to him. He had a hundred friends alive and well, but he could not measure David by any of them. He was just David..

There was no fresh news when he got to the house: he saw David’s father and sister for a minute only, but was not allowed to go in to see him. After that he went into the boys’ part of the house, and found that Bags was waiting up also, by permission, in the double prefects’ study which he shared with David. Maddox knew it well: it was the one he had managed to procure for himself alone the year that David came to the school and fagged for him.

Bags was full of quiet politeness. He gave Maddox the sofa, and, since the rest of the house had gone to bed, suggested that he might smoke if he wished.

“Adams won’t mind,” he said. “It’s jolly of you to come and keep me company. You know – ”

And then Bags could not speak any more at once.

“Thanks, I won’t smoke,” said Maddox. “You were with David at his private school too, weren’t you?”

“Yes, two years,” said Bags.

“And been pals ever since. Same as me. Both of us David’s friends, I mean.”

Bags forgot to be shy of this great Cambridge cricket-blue.

“You should have seen David,” he said, jerking out the words. “He went bang for that horse, like taking a header. I – I ought to have done it, you know. I got out of school-shop just in front of him and stood staring.”

“Oh, my God, why didn’t you?” said Maddox suddenly.

“I know, it was rotten of me,” he said. “But David was so damned quick about it, you know. He just chucked a bag of macaroons at me, and simply jumped. And then the wheel went over him, and he was dragged along with the rein round his wrist.”

Bags gave one awful sniff and pointed to a white paper parcel that protruded from the cupboard where tea things were kept.

“There they are,” he said. “He told me not to eat any. Last thing he said. And.. and I want to see him again so frightfully, just to see him you know. What a ripper! He didn’t know how I liked him. You did too. Same boat, isn’t it?”

Bags had no pretence of fortitude left, and mopped his eyes.

“Damn that horse,” he said. “Who’d have cared if it had killed the whole High Street, so long as David didn’t put his carcase in the light, silly – silly idiot. But – but a fellow just loves him the more for it. I keep thinking over day after day of these last five years. Do you remember when he was swished?”

Maddox nodded.

“Yes; jolly well deserved it too. And he was so sick with me afterwards when I told him so. But we made it up. David said he was sorry. Silly fool! As if he ever did anything to a pal he could be sorry for.”

Bags caught his breath.

“Don’t know what there was about him,” he said, “but there he was. Just David, you know. And he liked you most awfully. I used to get damned jealous. Sorry if you mind.”

The two sat there together while the warm night with many stars wheeled overhead above the sleeping house, talking occasionally, but for the most part in silence. Adams, who also was sitting up, came in from time to time to see them, and they would sit all three together. From the sick-room came no determining news: David was conscious and awake, and they had given him all the morphia that they dared. His temperature had not risen further, but he was very much exhausted; the question was how his strength would hold out unless he got to sleep. This Adams told them, and perhaps they talked for a little of David, recalling some incident of past days. Then Adams would leave them again to go back to David’s father and sister.

But not long after midnight he came in again, having only just gone out.

“David has suddenly asked if you were here, Frank,” he said. “He wants to see you, and the doctor thinks you had better go to him. He is getting very restless, and perhaps you may be able to quiet him. That’s what they want you to do. You can trust yourself?”

Frank got up.

“Yes, sir; I know I can,” he said.

The room where he lay was lit by a lamp that was shaded from the bed, and near the head of it was standing the doctor, who nodded to Frank as he came in, and beckoned him to the bed, putting a chair for him by the side of it.

“David, old chap, here I am,” he said.

David turned his tired eyes to him.

“Oh, I say, that’s ripping,” he said faintly. “But I can’t see you very well. Mayn’t there be a bit more light?”

The doctor quietly tilted the shade round the lamp, so that the light fell on Frank’s face.

“Will that do?” said Frank.

“Yes, rather. I wanted to see you awfully. I wondered if you would come. I thought perhaps you would when you knew. Frank, am I going to die?”

Frank pulled the chair a little closer, and bent over him.

“No,” he said. “You’re going to do nothing of the sort. We can’t get on without you possibly, so you’ve got to get well. See?”

The doctor came close to Frank and whispered to him.

“Tell him he must go to sleep,” he said, and stepped back again out of sight.

“And to get well,” continued Frank, “you’ve got to go to sleep and bring your strength back. David, don’t you remember our two beds at the end of dormitory? Well, think yourself back in yours with me in the one next you, and imagine it’s time to go to sleep. It’s quite easy you know. Imagine it’s that jolly evening after our house-match last year, when you were so tired you fell asleep without undressing.”

“Yes, I remember,” said David.

He was silent a little, but his eyes were still wide.

“I say, would it bore you awfully to hold my hand,” he said. “You’re so strong and fit and quiet. I might get some. I don’t know. Am I talking rot?”

“No, not a bit. There!”

Frank fitted his hand into David’s, which lay like a sick child within it.

“Yes, ripping,” said he, a little drowsily. “Sure it’s not an awful bore?”

“It’s a frightful bore,” said Frank.

David smiled.

“You didn’t get a rise out of me,” he said.

“Shall have another try before long,” said Frank. “Comfortable?”

“Rather.”

David lay for some ten minutes still wide-eyed, but quiet. Then his eyelids fluttered, closed and opened again.

“Awfully comfortable,” he said. “I wanted just you to tell me what to do. I did so want you to come.”

David’s eyelids dropped again, and the doctor came round to Maddox’s side.

“Sit quite still,” he whispered, “and don’t speak to him again.”

“Sure it doesn’t bore you?” asked David once more.

Again there was silence, and the two, the friend and the doctor, remained absolutely still for some five minutes. Then from the bed came a long sigh. David’s head rolled a little sideways on the pillow, and after that came the quiet, regular breathing. Then the doctor whispered once more to Maddox.

“You may have to sit like that with your arm out for hours,” he said. “We’ll try to make you comfortable presently. Can you manage it?”

“Why, yes,” said he.

The doctor quietly left the room, but came back soon after with pillows, and, as well as he could, propped up Maddox’s outstretched arm. Then he spoke to the nurse who was to sit up, and came back to the bed and looked at David a moment, listening to his regular breathing.

“I’m going to get a bit of sleep now,” he whispered to Frank, “but I’m afraid you won’t. You must stop just as you are. If he lets go of your hand you must still sit there in case he wakes and asks for you. If he says anything, answer him as if he was in his dormitory, and you in the bed next him. You’re in charge.”

It was a couple of hours before David moved. Then he turned a little in bed.

“Frank,” he said.

“Oh, shut up and go to sleep,” said Frank. “’Tisn’t morning.”

“Right oh!” said David.

All sensation had gone from Maddox’s arm; it was quite numb up to the shoulder, and it was only with his eyes that, presently after, he knew that David had let his hand slip from his own. Then very gently he withdrew it, and it fell helplessly on to his knees.

David slept on through the hour before dawn when the flame of vitality burns dim and the dying loose their hold on life, until through the curtains the pale light of morning looked in, dimming the lamp-light. Outside the twitter of birds began, and the hushed sounds of life stole about within the house, and the nurse moved quietly to and fro in the room, setting things in order for the day. She brought Frank a cup of tea and some bread and butter, and he ate and drank without moving from the bedside. Before long the doctor paid his promised visit, but there was nothing for him to do, now that sleep had come to David. The immediate necessity was fulfilled, and beyond that there was no need to look at present. Only Hope, the little white flame which had burned so dim and had come so near to being quenched the evening before, shone more bravely.

All that morning Maddox sat by David’s bed as he slept. It was he who had brought to him, through the tie of their love and David’s instinctive obedience to his suggestion, the sleep that had been so imperative a need, and the sunny morning grew broad and hot as he dozed sometimes, but oftener watched, filled with a huge and humble exultation of happiness that he had been able to help David. And when David woke, as he did, a little after noon, it was the best of all. For even while his eyes were yet scarcely unclosed, he spoke just one word – Frank’s name, still sleepily.

“Oh, go to sleep,” said Frank, just as he had said it twelve hours before. “No early school.”

But this time David reasserted himself a little.

“’Course not,” he said. “But I’ve slept ages and – and I want something to eat.”

The beaming nurse stepped to the bedside.

“I’ll bring you some beef-tea in a minute,” she said. “Lie quite still.”

David turned his head.

“Why, it’s quite morning,” he said.

“Absolutely,” said Frank.

“And I’ve slept ever since you told me we were in dormitory together,” he said. “How long ago was that?”

“Oh, about twelve hours,” said Frank.

“And you’ve sat here all the time?”

“Think so.”

“Oh, I say! And just because you thought I might want you.”

David’s eyes were bright and untired again: there was life shining behind them, young life that may still be feeble as the snowdrops raising their frail heads above the ground on some sunny morning of February are feeble. But they answer to the beckoning of spring, not, like late autumn blossoms, feeling the chill of the winter that approaches.

Frank leaned over him.

“Yes, I thought you might want me,” he said; “but also I couldn’t go away. I wanted you.”

David smiled at him.

“I was pretty bad yesterday, wasn’t I?” he asked.

“Yes, pretty bad.”

“I knew I must be, because I didn’t care what happened. I do to-day. I’m going to get better.”

“Of course you are,” said Frank, “and here’s your food.”

“Lord, it smells good,” said David. “Do be quick, nurse.”

So there was house-supper at Adams’s that night.